Datasets:

euclaise

/

WritingPrompts_binarized

like 1

Sauron's rough drafts of the inscription on the One Ring. Preferably humorous, but not necessary. "Directions for use: Place on finger."

[WP] Failed "One Ring" Inscriptions

There once was a ring from Nantucket...

One ring to make them last One ring to hold me fast One ring set round my junk Rule me with my funky gunk.

Sauron's rough drafts of the inscription on the One Ring. Preferably humorous, but not necessary. "Directions for use: Place on finger."

[WP] Failed "One Ring" Inscriptions

One Ring I'm gonna make. This Middle Earth I'm gonna take. Peace and harmony I'm gonna fuck it. Those high elves can suck it.

One ring to make them last One ring to hold me fast One ring set round my junk Rule me with my funky gunk.

Sauron's rough drafts of the inscription on the One Ring. Preferably humorous, but not necessary. "Directions for use: Place on finger."

[WP] Failed "One Ring" Inscriptions

"Hecho en Mordor"

One ring to make them last One ring to hold me fast One ring set round my junk Rule me with my funky gunk.

Sauron's rough drafts of the inscription on the One Ring. Preferably humorous, but not necessary. "Directions for use: Place on finger."

[WP] Failed "One Ring" Inscriptions

If found please return to Sauron, the Gleaming Eye at 1 Mount Doom, Mordor.

I'm a big flamin' eye, the evil guy up in the sky... Put the ring on and I'll spy, and the Nazgul they will fly.

Sauron's rough drafts of the inscription on the One Ring. Preferably humorous, but not necessary. "Directions for use: Place on finger."

[WP] Failed "One Ring" Inscriptions

There once was a ring from Nantucket...

I'm a big flamin' eye, the evil guy up in the sky... Put the ring on and I'll spy, and the Nazgul they will fly.

Sauron's rough drafts of the inscription on the One Ring. Preferably humorous, but not necessary. "Directions for use: Place on finger."

[WP] Failed "One Ring" Inscriptions

"Hecho en Mordor"

I'm a big flamin' eye, the evil guy up in the sky... Put the ring on and I'll spy, and the Nazgul they will fly.

Sauron's rough drafts of the inscription on the One Ring. Preferably humorous, but not necessary. "Directions for use: Place on finger."

[WP] Failed "One Ring" Inscriptions

There once was a ring from Nantucket...

My shits so hot it The One One Ring because I ball Just call me the MC Saur-on OG of The Blings, y'all

Sauron's rough drafts of the inscription on the One Ring. Preferably humorous, but not necessary. "Directions for use: Place on finger."

[WP] Failed "One Ring" Inscriptions

"Hecho en Mordor"

My shits so hot it The One One Ring because I ball Just call me the MC Saur-on OG of The Blings, y'all

Sauron's rough drafts of the inscription on the One Ring. Preferably humorous, but not necessary. "Directions for use: Place on finger."

[WP] Failed "One Ring" Inscriptions

"Hecho en Mordor"

One Ring I'm gonna make. This Middle Earth I'm gonna take. Peace and harmony I'm gonna fuck it. Those high elves can suck it.

Sauron's rough drafts of the inscription on the One Ring. Preferably humorous, but not necessary. "Directions for use: Place on finger."

[WP] Failed "One Ring" Inscriptions

"Hecho en Mordor"

One ring to cause my fall, me, myself I condemn. In one dumb ring I put it all, I wish I had a brain-stem.

Take a common day-to-day act like browsing reddit or driving to work and dramatize it somehow.

[WP] Pick a simple, everyday act and dramatize it

It was time. I frantically searched each and every crevice of my domain. Back and forth, chamber to chamber. Nothing. Frustration began to mount as my gentle smirk evolved into a sinister frown. Sweat began to envelop my brow and a clammy veil of moisture trickled down each wrinkle of my palms. "It wasn't supposed to happen like this." Sunlight begins to pour through the shutters. No, no! This cannot be! Creeping sunlight was indicative of a path toward punishment. It's never taken this long, never. The sun has always remained hidden during my time here! Scenarios begin to play throughout my head. He's going to be so angry. I'm letting them down. I can't show up this way again. My knuckles were clenched and I gritted my teeth. I told myself to calm down -- to relax -- but nothing gave. A penetrating warmth gave birth within my cheeks and I was overwhelmed by a red heat that gave way for more sweat to rain upon my brow. "I simply can't believe it. I was told not to be late again. They were *right here*. **It wasn't supposed to happen like this**" And then I heard it... a soft jingling as my cat pawed my keys out from beneath the couch.

The scrambled eggs sizzled in the pan as he absent mindedly sifted through the channels. Another attack in Syria? What a surprise. He sighed and shut off the television, only to realize he'd forgotten about the eggs. He dumped the smoking heap into the trash, no time left to prepare breakfast, opting to eat a cold waffle. He stepped out into the bitter morning, where the cold hand of autumn gripped his entire body in its dying claws. He shivered, and pulled his jacket tighter around his figure. He made his way across the yard to the old '67 Cadillac his grandfather had given him. Once, it was a beautiful machine, or at least, he imagined it was. Now it was a grimy, rusted hunk, with no A/C and in desperate need of a new muffler. He wrestled with the driver's side door, often stuck in the frame, as if the car itself did not find him worthy enough. The door swung open harshly, and caught him in the knee. Cursing under his breath, he got in and slammed the door in frustration, making the window rattle. Every morning it was the same routine. Rise at the sun, go to work at a job he hated for a man he hated, return at dusk to an empty apartment with nobody there to greet him. He would watch TV with no particular interest, take a shower, and then fall asleep, only to repeat the cycle again the next day. Sometimes, it was different. On holidays he would normally just sleep in most of the day. On his days off, he had no idea what to do with his free time. He used to have friends, but they'd moved off to parts unknown to pursue what he could only imagine would undoubtedly lead to a life much like his own. This is not the life he expected for himself after four years of college, but it is all that awaited him in the end. The result of a culture that never faced its future until it was too late to change anything.

Take a common day-to-day act like browsing reddit or driving to work and dramatize it somehow.

[WP] Pick a simple, everyday act and dramatize it

*Dixitque Deus fiat lux* Where once was darkness, he would bring light. Such was the ancient prophecy handed down from generation to generation amongst his people. Uncounted legions of men had toiled, long and hard through countless ages in preparation for this day. And even as he reached, unflinching, for the fruits of their labor did he say in his heart a silent prayer to these unknown soldiers. But the time for contemplation had long past, and upon him was the hour of action. It was a time in which men of valor and pride could win the day through strength of arms. Today he would bring sight to the sightless. He would open the eyes of his people and show them the world in all its timeless glory. Ignatius, they called him. An honest name, and true. For even his fingertips flipped the switch before him did dazzling beacons of brilliance ignite above it. As the Matamoros routed the infidel at Clavijo did the splendid rays above drive the darkness from the sanctity of his living room. From every nook and every cranny (save the shadow under the sofa) did Edison’s wondrous servants dispel the taint of night. Never again should Man fear the darkness. Never again should he stumble in the dark. Not while Ignatius the Lightbringer and his 40 watt avengers lived. *Et facta est lux. Deus Vult!*

The scrambled eggs sizzled in the pan as he absent mindedly sifted through the channels. Another attack in Syria? What a surprise. He sighed and shut off the television, only to realize he'd forgotten about the eggs. He dumped the smoking heap into the trash, no time left to prepare breakfast, opting to eat a cold waffle. He stepped out into the bitter morning, where the cold hand of autumn gripped his entire body in its dying claws. He shivered, and pulled his jacket tighter around his figure. He made his way across the yard to the old '67 Cadillac his grandfather had given him. Once, it was a beautiful machine, or at least, he imagined it was. Now it was a grimy, rusted hunk, with no A/C and in desperate need of a new muffler. He wrestled with the driver's side door, often stuck in the frame, as if the car itself did not find him worthy enough. The door swung open harshly, and caught him in the knee. Cursing under his breath, he got in and slammed the door in frustration, making the window rattle. Every morning it was the same routine. Rise at the sun, go to work at a job he hated for a man he hated, return at dusk to an empty apartment with nobody there to greet him. He would watch TV with no particular interest, take a shower, and then fall asleep, only to repeat the cycle again the next day. Sometimes, it was different. On holidays he would normally just sleep in most of the day. On his days off, he had no idea what to do with his free time. He used to have friends, but they'd moved off to parts unknown to pursue what he could only imagine would undoubtedly lead to a life much like his own. This is not the life he expected for himself after four years of college, but it is all that awaited him in the end. The result of a culture that never faced its future until it was too late to change anything.

Take a common day-to-day act like browsing reddit or driving to work and dramatize it somehow.

[WP] Pick a simple, everyday act and dramatize it

The morning was gloomy outside and I noticed that it was raining as I stepped into the shower and saw out the window. I took my time in the shower as i'd woken 15 minutes early and let the water slowly wake me up. After washing I got out and proceeded to dry myself and get dressed. It was then that I knew this morning, was not a normal morning. After putting my shirt on and underwear on, i knew the next step was to put my pants on. I grabbed my pants and went to put my first leg in. Suddenly, much to my horror, i realized, that my pants were backwards. In all of the confusion I must have grabbed the wrong side. What was I to do now? I stood there, frozen in fear. If I lifted my leg up to fix it, i'd fall as i'd unknowing already started putting my other leg into the other side. Suddenly, both legs were in the wrong holes. Visions of my childhood flashed before Me. I wasn't sure who to call. Mom? Dad? FEMA? I did the only thing I could think to do. I pulled my pants up, reached behind me, and buttoned them. That morning, I was laughed at, harassed, called "backward pants" by co-workers. I knew, that day, what other people who accidentally put their pants on backwards felt like. I wasn't born this way. It was just how I was dressed.

The scrambled eggs sizzled in the pan as he absent mindedly sifted through the channels. Another attack in Syria? What a surprise. He sighed and shut off the television, only to realize he'd forgotten about the eggs. He dumped the smoking heap into the trash, no time left to prepare breakfast, opting to eat a cold waffle. He stepped out into the bitter morning, where the cold hand of autumn gripped his entire body in its dying claws. He shivered, and pulled his jacket tighter around his figure. He made his way across the yard to the old '67 Cadillac his grandfather had given him. Once, it was a beautiful machine, or at least, he imagined it was. Now it was a grimy, rusted hunk, with no A/C and in desperate need of a new muffler. He wrestled with the driver's side door, often stuck in the frame, as if the car itself did not find him worthy enough. The door swung open harshly, and caught him in the knee. Cursing under his breath, he got in and slammed the door in frustration, making the window rattle. Every morning it was the same routine. Rise at the sun, go to work at a job he hated for a man he hated, return at dusk to an empty apartment with nobody there to greet him. He would watch TV with no particular interest, take a shower, and then fall asleep, only to repeat the cycle again the next day. Sometimes, it was different. On holidays he would normally just sleep in most of the day. On his days off, he had no idea what to do with his free time. He used to have friends, but they'd moved off to parts unknown to pursue what he could only imagine would undoubtedly lead to a life much like his own. This is not the life he expected for himself after four years of college, but it is all that awaited him in the end. The result of a culture that never faced its future until it was too late to change anything.

Take a common day-to-day act like browsing reddit or driving to work and dramatize it somehow.

[WP] Pick a simple, everyday act and dramatize it

Steam filled the room, my face freshly born into the world after visiting that little haven, still dripping with wetness; shampoo bubbles clinging to my whiskers. The water sat in the sink, its stillness almost haunting. After a quick gaze at my reflection, instinct kicked in, and I began flicking my blade with smooth, even strokes across the canvas. I was the maestro and my razor was the baton. Orchestrating a masterpiece, the scrapes and groans of the strop brought the edge to a sharpness that could cut through the very silence that enveloped the room. I set the freshly stropped razor aside, and grabbed hold of the bulbous brush that sat in the water. With a hard shake, the brush came to life, spitting out whatever extra moisture it had in it. It awoke to the same cruel fate that it does every day, a vigorous beating. I crushed the soft bristles into the puck of soap and began to whip. Like magic, the soap began to reveal its true form. A heavy foam began to arise from the puck, thick with the scent of eucalyptus and menthol. The brush began to slack, the lather wasn't full enough, so I drowned the brush. With another hard snap, the brush was back to work, and the lather blossomed beautifully. The hard life of the brush was almost over, it was time for its final task. Gently, every bristle met my face, waking every single whisker with each swirl around my cheeks. I gazed again at my reflection, this time a dense beard of froth covered me. I picked the razor up again, drawing back my skin in preparation for the purge of my facial hair. The blade grit its teeth as it bit into my stubble, drawing downwards in sharp yet tactful passes. There is a dance between the blade and I, with me taking lead and my partner following everything with absolute grace. But then, a stumble. The fault of the lead had led to a misstep. Another gaze into the water revealed the quarter-beard that was left on my face that was no longer white but instead a deep crimson. A panic. Everything began to happen much more quickly. The stillness of the water was broken. I needed its help. Frantically, I splashed the water into what was left of my magical beard washing it away, but its scent still lingered. I looked to my right, and grabbed the styptic pencil that sat obediently on the shelf, waiting to fulfill its duty. Much more collected then previously, I began to run the pencil across my fresh wound, wincing at the sharp sting reminding me of my mistake. The blood cleared, and it was time for the brush to come to life once more, as the magic beard was needed to rid my actual one. My partner forgave me, and we began our number once more. This time, I stepped much more cautiously, knowing that the jawline was treacherous territory. With finesse, I swept the blade along what was left of my stubble. Our dance was over, and my blade needed a shower. Once more, the stillness of the water was broken, as the blade pierced the surface and rinsed the bits of hair and cream from its edge. The blade and the brush were finished for the day, and rested in their stands, waiting for the next day, prepared to battle my facial hair once more. I began to drain the water, and rinsed my face with the ice-cold liquid that tumbled out of the faucet. I peered into the mirror, asking it to give me a spot check to make sure my blade and I covered all of the steps in our dance. After the verdict was given, I splashed my face with the Pinaud Clubman aftershave that watched the entire routine. It rewarded me with another sting, one that was far less malicious than the styptic pencil gave me. I dabbed my now silk-smooth face dry, and gazed once more into the mirror. No longer was there a shadow sitting on my cheeks, but instead the bright smile of a man ready to take on the world again.

The scrambled eggs sizzled in the pan as he absent mindedly sifted through the channels. Another attack in Syria? What a surprise. He sighed and shut off the television, only to realize he'd forgotten about the eggs. He dumped the smoking heap into the trash, no time left to prepare breakfast, opting to eat a cold waffle. He stepped out into the bitter morning, where the cold hand of autumn gripped his entire body in its dying claws. He shivered, and pulled his jacket tighter around his figure. He made his way across the yard to the old '67 Cadillac his grandfather had given him. Once, it was a beautiful machine, or at least, he imagined it was. Now it was a grimy, rusted hunk, with no A/C and in desperate need of a new muffler. He wrestled with the driver's side door, often stuck in the frame, as if the car itself did not find him worthy enough. The door swung open harshly, and caught him in the knee. Cursing under his breath, he got in and slammed the door in frustration, making the window rattle. Every morning it was the same routine. Rise at the sun, go to work at a job he hated for a man he hated, return at dusk to an empty apartment with nobody there to greet him. He would watch TV with no particular interest, take a shower, and then fall asleep, only to repeat the cycle again the next day. Sometimes, it was different. On holidays he would normally just sleep in most of the day. On his days off, he had no idea what to do with his free time. He used to have friends, but they'd moved off to parts unknown to pursue what he could only imagine would undoubtedly lead to a life much like his own. This is not the life he expected for himself after four years of college, but it is all that awaited him in the end. The result of a culture that never faced its future until it was too late to change anything.

Take a common day-to-day act like browsing reddit or driving to work and dramatize it somehow.

[WP] Pick a simple, everyday act and dramatize it

*Dixitque Deus fiat lux* Where once was darkness, he would bring light. Such was the ancient prophecy handed down from generation to generation amongst his people. Uncounted legions of men had toiled, long and hard through countless ages in preparation for this day. And even as he reached, unflinching, for the fruits of their labor did he say in his heart a silent prayer to these unknown soldiers. But the time for contemplation had long past, and upon him was the hour of action. It was a time in which men of valor and pride could win the day through strength of arms. Today he would bring sight to the sightless. He would open the eyes of his people and show them the world in all its timeless glory. Ignatius, they called him. An honest name, and true. For even his fingertips flipped the switch before him did dazzling beacons of brilliance ignite above it. As the Matamoros routed the infidel at Clavijo did the splendid rays above drive the darkness from the sanctity of his living room. From every nook and every cranny (save the shadow under the sofa) did Edison’s wondrous servants dispel the taint of night. Never again should Man fear the darkness. Never again should he stumble in the dark. Not while Ignatius the Lightbringer and his 40 watt avengers lived. *Et facta est lux. Deus Vult!*

The early morning light glittered on the steel blade as it lifted towards my face. Gliding across my throat, I felt the pain as the blade bit into flesh. Blood ran from the wound, dripping onto the collar of my white shirt. "Dammit, I just ironed this!" I exclaimed, examining the nick in the mirror. I should have learned not to get dressed before shaving, but in my early morning funk I'd almost forgotten the need to deal with my rough stubble. Tearing open the shirt I flung it angrily away from me and rinsed the razor in the sink. With brisk, angry strokes I ran the blade across the tender skin of my face, heedless of further damage. Finally, it was done. Clean shaven, professional. I smiled at myself in the mirror, ignoring the spots of toilet paper stuck to my face. Nodding in satisfaction I left the bathroom. I didn't look back.

Take a common day-to-day act like browsing reddit or driving to work and dramatize it somehow.

[WP] Pick a simple, everyday act and dramatize it

The morning was gloomy outside and I noticed that it was raining as I stepped into the shower and saw out the window. I took my time in the shower as i'd woken 15 minutes early and let the water slowly wake me up. After washing I got out and proceeded to dry myself and get dressed. It was then that I knew this morning, was not a normal morning. After putting my shirt on and underwear on, i knew the next step was to put my pants on. I grabbed my pants and went to put my first leg in. Suddenly, much to my horror, i realized, that my pants were backwards. In all of the confusion I must have grabbed the wrong side. What was I to do now? I stood there, frozen in fear. If I lifted my leg up to fix it, i'd fall as i'd unknowing already started putting my other leg into the other side. Suddenly, both legs were in the wrong holes. Visions of my childhood flashed before Me. I wasn't sure who to call. Mom? Dad? FEMA? I did the only thing I could think to do. I pulled my pants up, reached behind me, and buttoned them. That morning, I was laughed at, harassed, called "backward pants" by co-workers. I knew, that day, what other people who accidentally put their pants on backwards felt like. I wasn't born this way. It was just how I was dressed.

The early morning light glittered on the steel blade as it lifted towards my face. Gliding across my throat, I felt the pain as the blade bit into flesh. Blood ran from the wound, dripping onto the collar of my white shirt. "Dammit, I just ironed this!" I exclaimed, examining the nick in the mirror. I should have learned not to get dressed before shaving, but in my early morning funk I'd almost forgotten the need to deal with my rough stubble. Tearing open the shirt I flung it angrily away from me and rinsed the razor in the sink. With brisk, angry strokes I ran the blade across the tender skin of my face, heedless of further damage. Finally, it was done. Clean shaven, professional. I smiled at myself in the mirror, ignoring the spots of toilet paper stuck to my face. Nodding in satisfaction I left the bathroom. I didn't look back.

Take a common day-to-day act like browsing reddit or driving to work and dramatize it somehow.

[WP] Pick a simple, everyday act and dramatize it

Steam filled the room, my face freshly born into the world after visiting that little haven, still dripping with wetness; shampoo bubbles clinging to my whiskers. The water sat in the sink, its stillness almost haunting. After a quick gaze at my reflection, instinct kicked in, and I began flicking my blade with smooth, even strokes across the canvas. I was the maestro and my razor was the baton. Orchestrating a masterpiece, the scrapes and groans of the strop brought the edge to a sharpness that could cut through the very silence that enveloped the room. I set the freshly stropped razor aside, and grabbed hold of the bulbous brush that sat in the water. With a hard shake, the brush came to life, spitting out whatever extra moisture it had in it. It awoke to the same cruel fate that it does every day, a vigorous beating. I crushed the soft bristles into the puck of soap and began to whip. Like magic, the soap began to reveal its true form. A heavy foam began to arise from the puck, thick with the scent of eucalyptus and menthol. The brush began to slack, the lather wasn't full enough, so I drowned the brush. With another hard snap, the brush was back to work, and the lather blossomed beautifully. The hard life of the brush was almost over, it was time for its final task. Gently, every bristle met my face, waking every single whisker with each swirl around my cheeks. I gazed again at my reflection, this time a dense beard of froth covered me. I picked the razor up again, drawing back my skin in preparation for the purge of my facial hair. The blade grit its teeth as it bit into my stubble, drawing downwards in sharp yet tactful passes. There is a dance between the blade and I, with me taking lead and my partner following everything with absolute grace. But then, a stumble. The fault of the lead had led to a misstep. Another gaze into the water revealed the quarter-beard that was left on my face that was no longer white but instead a deep crimson. A panic. Everything began to happen much more quickly. The stillness of the water was broken. I needed its help. Frantically, I splashed the water into what was left of my magical beard washing it away, but its scent still lingered. I looked to my right, and grabbed the styptic pencil that sat obediently on the shelf, waiting to fulfill its duty. Much more collected then previously, I began to run the pencil across my fresh wound, wincing at the sharp sting reminding me of my mistake. The blood cleared, and it was time for the brush to come to life once more, as the magic beard was needed to rid my actual one. My partner forgave me, and we began our number once more. This time, I stepped much more cautiously, knowing that the jawline was treacherous territory. With finesse, I swept the blade along what was left of my stubble. Our dance was over, and my blade needed a shower. Once more, the stillness of the water was broken, as the blade pierced the surface and rinsed the bits of hair and cream from its edge. The blade and the brush were finished for the day, and rested in their stands, waiting for the next day, prepared to battle my facial hair once more. I began to drain the water, and rinsed my face with the ice-cold liquid that tumbled out of the faucet. I peered into the mirror, asking it to give me a spot check to make sure my blade and I covered all of the steps in our dance. After the verdict was given, I splashed my face with the Pinaud Clubman aftershave that watched the entire routine. It rewarded me with another sting, one that was far less malicious than the styptic pencil gave me. I dabbed my now silk-smooth face dry, and gazed once more into the mirror. No longer was there a shadow sitting on my cheeks, but instead the bright smile of a man ready to take on the world again.

The early morning light glittered on the steel blade as it lifted towards my face. Gliding across my throat, I felt the pain as the blade bit into flesh. Blood ran from the wound, dripping onto the collar of my white shirt. "Dammit, I just ironed this!" I exclaimed, examining the nick in the mirror. I should have learned not to get dressed before shaving, but in my early morning funk I'd almost forgotten the need to deal with my rough stubble. Tearing open the shirt I flung it angrily away from me and rinsed the razor in the sink. With brisk, angry strokes I ran the blade across the tender skin of my face, heedless of further damage. Finally, it was done. Clean shaven, professional. I smiled at myself in the mirror, ignoring the spots of toilet paper stuck to my face. Nodding in satisfaction I left the bathroom. I didn't look back.

Take a common day-to-day act like browsing reddit or driving to work and dramatize it somehow.

[WP] Pick a simple, everyday act and dramatize it

*Dixitque Deus fiat lux* Where once was darkness, he would bring light. Such was the ancient prophecy handed down from generation to generation amongst his people. Uncounted legions of men had toiled, long and hard through countless ages in preparation for this day. And even as he reached, unflinching, for the fruits of their labor did he say in his heart a silent prayer to these unknown soldiers. But the time for contemplation had long past, and upon him was the hour of action. It was a time in which men of valor and pride could win the day through strength of arms. Today he would bring sight to the sightless. He would open the eyes of his people and show them the world in all its timeless glory. Ignatius, they called him. An honest name, and true. For even his fingertips flipped the switch before him did dazzling beacons of brilliance ignite above it. As the Matamoros routed the infidel at Clavijo did the splendid rays above drive the darkness from the sanctity of his living room. From every nook and every cranny (save the shadow under the sofa) did Edison’s wondrous servants dispel the taint of night. Never again should Man fear the darkness. Never again should he stumble in the dark. Not while Ignatius the Lightbringer and his 40 watt avengers lived. *Et facta est lux. Deus Vult!*

I wrote this as a note on facebook a while ago, and I'm reposting it here. Haven't quited edited it to make it more suitable for here, but I thought it fits the prompt. It's just my walk home. A while ago - I stepped on to Wilshire Boulevard. I've stepped on to Wilshire Boulevard tens, maybe even a few hundred times. A lifeline for people in Los Angeles, cars whiz past me and buildings look down at me. There are a few people working out who stare out the window of the gym staring blankly into space. I pause for a moment and close my eyes and freeze the frame. With the frame still in my head, I look up and down, and then around. Play it forward a little, play it back. I watch a man play on his smartphone and a pretty girl go by, look up at the sky and see - I'm just a poor boy, I need no sympathy . Sorry - I couldn't resist. I look around and see the cars pass me, and I think - what an interesting world we live in. That person in the car is driving stick, pushing down on his clutch to switch into high gear, making use of a temporary gap in the traffic to actually be able to speed. As he steps on the pedal, speeds up and changes gears, a mixture of highly explosive gases ignite and drive his pistons, which transfer their motion to the transmission, the drive shaft and the differential - which in turn turn the wheels allowing him to beat the red light and be on his merry way. The fuel that drives the engine of his car a leftover of a bygone era and millions of years in the making. And yet - burnt away in a fraction of the time. And then I look up at the traffic lights; without which it would be impossible to regulate traffic in today's cities. And these lights have to be regulated in a very thoughtful manner so as not to cause gridlock. As I muse upon how these lights are scheduled, I am bumped on the shoulder by someone who is in a hurry to cross the street. My thoughts interrupted, I continue trudging along. Exasperated by the sun beating down upon me I look up and curse at it, and sure enough I see an empty sky - devoid of all features except a beaming sun. And as I look at the sun I think - that is magnificent. There are elements being created at this very second in the sun. An object about 150 million kilometers (about a 100 million miles) from the earth is causing me so much trouble, yet simultaneously the reason for all life on Earth. If it suddenly goes out for no apparent reason, I will take more than 8 minutes for me to even know. Not enough time to listen to listen to a full length In a Gadda da Vida but probably enough to have a good listen of Paul Simon's You can call me Al. The moon, in comparison - if destroyed - will take only about a second and a half to inform us of its destruction. Ah; the night is not far away - soon the sun will set and the stars show themselves. Beautiful little dots in the sky. I ponder upon their significance to humanity. Guiding travellers to strange and mysterious lands. Markers for the ancients to draw arbitrary shapes on a canvas of a sky and attach people's fates to them. Teasing us with promises of something spectacular - a speckled skyspace for the smitten and the searching. Yet we know now that many of these tiny dots are in themselves objects that will dwarf the sun. Enormous nuclear furnaces that create the matter that will seed the creation of new celestial bodies. Stars like these are the reason we exist. Some of the stars we perceive may not even be alive, and if a star dies today, its light in the sky will not be extinguished for many years. Even though millions of years away, they feel like they could just be plucked from the celestial sphere - like cosmic cherries. A little more than a century and a tenth of a century ago, as a boy climbed a tree, in turn getting a little closer to the heavens, he wondered if he could climb up higher still. That fevered inspiration was the beginning of something wonderful. I sigh, and find my segue suspended by the stream of sweat slipping down my brow. The sun is merciless and there are no clouds today to temper its terror. I decide that Ice Cream shall be my deliverance. And as I grab a bite, a wave of comfort washes over me and the world seems better. In an almost Zen moment as the cold ice cream soothes my insides, I think about the world before refrigeration. People struggled to preserve their food and stockpiled ice for special occasions. Ice cream was a luxury available to very few. Grabbing another bite of my ice cream, my trudge turns to a hop, skip and a jump as I head home. With the key turning in the lock, as the door opens with a satisfying motion, I jump into bed exhausted and let Morpheus take me. Eventually I did get around to tracing the journey of my train of thought. The stops I made were quite delightful, and these were only the stops I remembered. How many had I missed because I didn't remember. How many did I miss because I didn't see? We live in a complex world. While nature is incredibly complex in its own right, the technology we have today is unprecedented. The understanding of all man has achieved, designed, posited, invented and created is outside the scope of any one human being. But as a collective effort - there have been some remarkable things humanity has achieved. Like cogs, they all work together as if they are running some grand machine. Complexity at each level. And this is something that has always fascinated me. As I finish up the note, I pause for a moment and marvel at how wonderful it is that I'm able to exchange ideas so easily. I'm typing this note on a machine many times more powerful than the guidance computers on the Apollo 11 module. A meaningless comparison in terms of identifying how well those computers served their purpose, but a meaningful one to illustrate how far we've come. From the days of the analytical engine and hulking behemoths of computers which occupied entire rooms, vacuum tubes and the revolution that was transistors. And then, before I allow my muddled mind to messily meander merrily, I pause. Then I feel glad that the internet exists, and I'm able to present this to you to read.

Take a common day-to-day act like browsing reddit or driving to work and dramatize it somehow.

[WP] Pick a simple, everyday act and dramatize it

The morning was gloomy outside and I noticed that it was raining as I stepped into the shower and saw out the window. I took my time in the shower as i'd woken 15 minutes early and let the water slowly wake me up. After washing I got out and proceeded to dry myself and get dressed. It was then that I knew this morning, was not a normal morning. After putting my shirt on and underwear on, i knew the next step was to put my pants on. I grabbed my pants and went to put my first leg in. Suddenly, much to my horror, i realized, that my pants were backwards. In all of the confusion I must have grabbed the wrong side. What was I to do now? I stood there, frozen in fear. If I lifted my leg up to fix it, i'd fall as i'd unknowing already started putting my other leg into the other side. Suddenly, both legs were in the wrong holes. Visions of my childhood flashed before Me. I wasn't sure who to call. Mom? Dad? FEMA? I did the only thing I could think to do. I pulled my pants up, reached behind me, and buttoned them. That morning, I was laughed at, harassed, called "backward pants" by co-workers. I knew, that day, what other people who accidentally put their pants on backwards felt like. I wasn't born this way. It was just how I was dressed.

I wrote this as a note on facebook a while ago, and I'm reposting it here. Haven't quited edited it to make it more suitable for here, but I thought it fits the prompt. It's just my walk home. A while ago - I stepped on to Wilshire Boulevard. I've stepped on to Wilshire Boulevard tens, maybe even a few hundred times. A lifeline for people in Los Angeles, cars whiz past me and buildings look down at me. There are a few people working out who stare out the window of the gym staring blankly into space. I pause for a moment and close my eyes and freeze the frame. With the frame still in my head, I look up and down, and then around. Play it forward a little, play it back. I watch a man play on his smartphone and a pretty girl go by, look up at the sky and see - I'm just a poor boy, I need no sympathy . Sorry - I couldn't resist. I look around and see the cars pass me, and I think - what an interesting world we live in. That person in the car is driving stick, pushing down on his clutch to switch into high gear, making use of a temporary gap in the traffic to actually be able to speed. As he steps on the pedal, speeds up and changes gears, a mixture of highly explosive gases ignite and drive his pistons, which transfer their motion to the transmission, the drive shaft and the differential - which in turn turn the wheels allowing him to beat the red light and be on his merry way. The fuel that drives the engine of his car a leftover of a bygone era and millions of years in the making. And yet - burnt away in a fraction of the time. And then I look up at the traffic lights; without which it would be impossible to regulate traffic in today's cities. And these lights have to be regulated in a very thoughtful manner so as not to cause gridlock. As I muse upon how these lights are scheduled, I am bumped on the shoulder by someone who is in a hurry to cross the street. My thoughts interrupted, I continue trudging along. Exasperated by the sun beating down upon me I look up and curse at it, and sure enough I see an empty sky - devoid of all features except a beaming sun. And as I look at the sun I think - that is magnificent. There are elements being created at this very second in the sun. An object about 150 million kilometers (about a 100 million miles) from the earth is causing me so much trouble, yet simultaneously the reason for all life on Earth. If it suddenly goes out for no apparent reason, I will take more than 8 minutes for me to even know. Not enough time to listen to listen to a full length In a Gadda da Vida but probably enough to have a good listen of Paul Simon's You can call me Al. The moon, in comparison - if destroyed - will take only about a second and a half to inform us of its destruction. Ah; the night is not far away - soon the sun will set and the stars show themselves. Beautiful little dots in the sky. I ponder upon their significance to humanity. Guiding travellers to strange and mysterious lands. Markers for the ancients to draw arbitrary shapes on a canvas of a sky and attach people's fates to them. Teasing us with promises of something spectacular - a speckled skyspace for the smitten and the searching. Yet we know now that many of these tiny dots are in themselves objects that will dwarf the sun. Enormous nuclear furnaces that create the matter that will seed the creation of new celestial bodies. Stars like these are the reason we exist. Some of the stars we perceive may not even be alive, and if a star dies today, its light in the sky will not be extinguished for many years. Even though millions of years away, they feel like they could just be plucked from the celestial sphere - like cosmic cherries. A little more than a century and a tenth of a century ago, as a boy climbed a tree, in turn getting a little closer to the heavens, he wondered if he could climb up higher still. That fevered inspiration was the beginning of something wonderful. I sigh, and find my segue suspended by the stream of sweat slipping down my brow. The sun is merciless and there are no clouds today to temper its terror. I decide that Ice Cream shall be my deliverance. And as I grab a bite, a wave of comfort washes over me and the world seems better. In an almost Zen moment as the cold ice cream soothes my insides, I think about the world before refrigeration. People struggled to preserve their food and stockpiled ice for special occasions. Ice cream was a luxury available to very few. Grabbing another bite of my ice cream, my trudge turns to a hop, skip and a jump as I head home. With the key turning in the lock, as the door opens with a satisfying motion, I jump into bed exhausted and let Morpheus take me. Eventually I did get around to tracing the journey of my train of thought. The stops I made were quite delightful, and these were only the stops I remembered. How many had I missed because I didn't remember. How many did I miss because I didn't see? We live in a complex world. While nature is incredibly complex in its own right, the technology we have today is unprecedented. The understanding of all man has achieved, designed, posited, invented and created is outside the scope of any one human being. But as a collective effort - there have been some remarkable things humanity has achieved. Like cogs, they all work together as if they are running some grand machine. Complexity at each level. And this is something that has always fascinated me. As I finish up the note, I pause for a moment and marvel at how wonderful it is that I'm able to exchange ideas so easily. I'm typing this note on a machine many times more powerful than the guidance computers on the Apollo 11 module. A meaningless comparison in terms of identifying how well those computers served their purpose, but a meaningful one to illustrate how far we've come. From the days of the analytical engine and hulking behemoths of computers which occupied entire rooms, vacuum tubes and the revolution that was transistors. And then, before I allow my muddled mind to messily meander merrily, I pause. Then I feel glad that the internet exists, and I'm able to present this to you to read.

Take a common day-to-day act like browsing reddit or driving to work and dramatize it somehow.

[WP] Pick a simple, everyday act and dramatize it

*Dixitque Deus fiat lux* Where once was darkness, he would bring light. Such was the ancient prophecy handed down from generation to generation amongst his people. Uncounted legions of men had toiled, long and hard through countless ages in preparation for this day. And even as he reached, unflinching, for the fruits of their labor did he say in his heart a silent prayer to these unknown soldiers. But the time for contemplation had long past, and upon him was the hour of action. It was a time in which men of valor and pride could win the day through strength of arms. Today he would bring sight to the sightless. He would open the eyes of his people and show them the world in all its timeless glory. Ignatius, they called him. An honest name, and true. For even his fingertips flipped the switch before him did dazzling beacons of brilliance ignite above it. As the Matamoros routed the infidel at Clavijo did the splendid rays above drive the darkness from the sanctity of his living room. From every nook and every cranny (save the shadow under the sofa) did Edison’s wondrous servants dispel the taint of night. Never again should Man fear the darkness. Never again should he stumble in the dark. Not while Ignatius the Lightbringer and his 40 watt avengers lived. *Et facta est lux. Deus Vult!*

6:15AM, the vibration of the phone on my dresser signifies that I've been awake for two minutes. For seven years, I've been waking up at 6:13AM and for seven years the morning routine has filled me with a dread that I fear will one day completely consume me. Nobody knows the horror of waking as a germophobe. The acrid taste of morning breath greats me in it's usual fashion, and I'm quick to pop a trident white before I become too disgusted with my own body. Onwards to the bathroom where I thoroughly inspect my eyes for any evidence of crust. I'm sickened to see a bit of green and grab an unscented kleenex. This is just the minor leagues, I think. The worst is yet to come. The toast pops out of the machine, and I spit out my gum, touching the garbage lid with my toe. Why do they make garbage lids that require the human touch, I think, and why the hell don't I get a different one? After scraping the carcinogenic black spots from the toast, I spread the jelly over it, and let the countdown begin. By 6:33, I'll be deep in the thicket of my worst nightmare, and there's nothing I can do about it. As the time nears, I mentally prepare for the challenge that lies ahead. It's inevitable, and if I don't take care of it now, the repercussions will be too great to bear. There was the crisis in the summer of '08, when it happened at work. I'm still paying off the therapy bills. My stomach groans and I know it's time. The dread consumes me and I walk to the bathroom getting ready to drop trough. Being human, I must concede that the actual act of defecation carries a modicum of satisfaction. Ah, but alas, all actions have an equal and opposite reaction, the post shit relief being quickly replaced by the looming task. That wiping of the ass. As I hear the confirmation plop, I curse physics for the accompanying splash of shit water. I draw a mental map for the cleanup process. Lower left quadrant, right ass cheek. Charmin is too damn soft and clogs much too easily. Scott will bunch nicely, creating the minimum two sheet barrier between asshole and fingertip while never threatening a blockage in the bowl. As I sit on the can, I light a match, grimace, and flush. At least my olfactory senses are at ease. I feel pathetic. We're purported to be the most intelligent creatures that have ever roamed the earth, yet we're the only ones that have to clean up our own shit. As I make my way through wipe one, I can't help but imagine aliens looking down on earth and watching me. Any questions of sentient life must be completely eradicated when they see me thoroughly inspecting each bit of tissue, hoping the end is near. Every wipe creates a different sensation, letting me know just what kind of day I'm in for. As number three passes muster, I can begin to see the light at the end of the tunnel. I reach for the septic safe wet wipe and make thoroughly sure my asshole is clean. Standing up, I flush again, knowing the worst has passed, if for a few precious hours. I turn on the sink with my wrists and pump the antibacterial soap up to elbow length. After washing and drying, a dollop of hand sanitizer completes the process. I turn on the shower, and ready myself for rest of the day, tormented by what my morning toast is fast becoming. In a world filled with so much beauty, the inevitability of wiping ones ass makes me ponder the merit of existence. No matter how hard we strive for greatness, we all must sometimes produce shit. The heat of the shower and its bacteria killing characteristics lull me into a momentary sense of relief as the steam clears my mind.

Take a common day-to-day act like browsing reddit or driving to work and dramatize it somehow.

[WP] Pick a simple, everyday act and dramatize it

The morning was gloomy outside and I noticed that it was raining as I stepped into the shower and saw out the window. I took my time in the shower as i'd woken 15 minutes early and let the water slowly wake me up. After washing I got out and proceeded to dry myself and get dressed. It was then that I knew this morning, was not a normal morning. After putting my shirt on and underwear on, i knew the next step was to put my pants on. I grabbed my pants and went to put my first leg in. Suddenly, much to my horror, i realized, that my pants were backwards. In all of the confusion I must have grabbed the wrong side. What was I to do now? I stood there, frozen in fear. If I lifted my leg up to fix it, i'd fall as i'd unknowing already started putting my other leg into the other side. Suddenly, both legs were in the wrong holes. Visions of my childhood flashed before Me. I wasn't sure who to call. Mom? Dad? FEMA? I did the only thing I could think to do. I pulled my pants up, reached behind me, and buttoned them. That morning, I was laughed at, harassed, called "backward pants" by co-workers. I knew, that day, what other people who accidentally put their pants on backwards felt like. I wasn't born this way. It was just how I was dressed.

6:15AM, the vibration of the phone on my dresser signifies that I've been awake for two minutes. For seven years, I've been waking up at 6:13AM and for seven years the morning routine has filled me with a dread that I fear will one day completely consume me. Nobody knows the horror of waking as a germophobe. The acrid taste of morning breath greats me in it's usual fashion, and I'm quick to pop a trident white before I become too disgusted with my own body. Onwards to the bathroom where I thoroughly inspect my eyes for any evidence of crust. I'm sickened to see a bit of green and grab an unscented kleenex. This is just the minor leagues, I think. The worst is yet to come. The toast pops out of the machine, and I spit out my gum, touching the garbage lid with my toe. Why do they make garbage lids that require the human touch, I think, and why the hell don't I get a different one? After scraping the carcinogenic black spots from the toast, I spread the jelly over it, and let the countdown begin. By 6:33, I'll be deep in the thicket of my worst nightmare, and there's nothing I can do about it. As the time nears, I mentally prepare for the challenge that lies ahead. It's inevitable, and if I don't take care of it now, the repercussions will be too great to bear. There was the crisis in the summer of '08, when it happened at work. I'm still paying off the therapy bills. My stomach groans and I know it's time. The dread consumes me and I walk to the bathroom getting ready to drop trough. Being human, I must concede that the actual act of defecation carries a modicum of satisfaction. Ah, but alas, all actions have an equal and opposite reaction, the post shit relief being quickly replaced by the looming task. That wiping of the ass. As I hear the confirmation plop, I curse physics for the accompanying splash of shit water. I draw a mental map for the cleanup process. Lower left quadrant, right ass cheek. Charmin is too damn soft and clogs much too easily. Scott will bunch nicely, creating the minimum two sheet barrier between asshole and fingertip while never threatening a blockage in the bowl. As I sit on the can, I light a match, grimace, and flush. At least my olfactory senses are at ease. I feel pathetic. We're purported to be the most intelligent creatures that have ever roamed the earth, yet we're the only ones that have to clean up our own shit. As I make my way through wipe one, I can't help but imagine aliens looking down on earth and watching me. Any questions of sentient life must be completely eradicated when they see me thoroughly inspecting each bit of tissue, hoping the end is near. Every wipe creates a different sensation, letting me know just what kind of day I'm in for. As number three passes muster, I can begin to see the light at the end of the tunnel. I reach for the septic safe wet wipe and make thoroughly sure my asshole is clean. Standing up, I flush again, knowing the worst has passed, if for a few precious hours. I turn on the sink with my wrists and pump the antibacterial soap up to elbow length. After washing and drying, a dollop of hand sanitizer completes the process. I turn on the shower, and ready myself for rest of the day, tormented by what my morning toast is fast becoming. In a world filled with so much beauty, the inevitability of wiping ones ass makes me ponder the merit of existence. No matter how hard we strive for greatness, we all must sometimes produce shit. The heat of the shower and its bacteria killing characteristics lull me into a momentary sense of relief as the steam clears my mind.

Take a common day-to-day act like browsing reddit or driving to work and dramatize it somehow.

[WP] Pick a simple, everyday act and dramatize it

*Dixitque Deus fiat lux* Where once was darkness, he would bring light. Such was the ancient prophecy handed down from generation to generation amongst his people. Uncounted legions of men had toiled, long and hard through countless ages in preparation for this day. And even as he reached, unflinching, for the fruits of their labor did he say in his heart a silent prayer to these unknown soldiers. But the time for contemplation had long past, and upon him was the hour of action. It was a time in which men of valor and pride could win the day through strength of arms. Today he would bring sight to the sightless. He would open the eyes of his people and show them the world in all its timeless glory. Ignatius, they called him. An honest name, and true. For even his fingertips flipped the switch before him did dazzling beacons of brilliance ignite above it. As the Matamoros routed the infidel at Clavijo did the splendid rays above drive the darkness from the sanctity of his living room. From every nook and every cranny (save the shadow under the sofa) did Edison’s wondrous servants dispel the taint of night. Never again should Man fear the darkness. Never again should he stumble in the dark. Not while Ignatius the Lightbringer and his 40 watt avengers lived. *Et facta est lux. Deus Vult!*

It was a normal day, just like every other day of my boring existence. Hit the snooze button half a dozen times, slowly wake, take a shower, dress myself, and finally head out the door. Wander down the sleepy Brooklyn street to my local safe haven: the coffee shop. It's usually peaceful, hipsters sipping lattes while typing on their laptops, as avant-jazz or the newest "hot band of the month" plays on the overhead speakers. I walk up to the counter, as I have so many times, and I'm groggy. "What will it be today?" "Small coffee please." "Sure thing, that will be $2.50." I reach into my wallet, and find that it's empty. Shit. I look at a small plaque to the right of the register: 'CASH ONLY'. Double shit. "Sorry miss, I have to go grab some cash, where's the nearest ATM?" "Next door." "Of course." I head outside to the bodega next door, to the ATM, and withdraw $40. I begin to walk out of the bodega, and two men run quickly through the doors, knocking me back against a refrigerator. "Give us your money!", they scream at the Armenian cashier, while brandishing a handgun at his chest. Holy shit! I sprint out of the door, and back towards the coffee shop. I'm panting, short of breath, full of anxiety, shaking. I try a few deep breaths... in through the nose, out the mouth.... and I start to calm a bit. I finally head back into the coffee shop. I must look pale and crazed because the coffee girl says, "Are you okay, dude? You look like shit." "Dude, the bodega next door just got robbed. I was right there." "Holy shit man! Yeah, that place has some shady business. I bet the cops will get them in a second." "You seem exceptionally calm about this." "Well, fuck it." Me: "Right, fuck it." "Small coffee, right?" "Yes." She hands me the coffee, I hand her a crisp $20. I get my change, walk out the doors, as Miles Davis' trumpet plays my exit. I look in the direction of the bogeda: no cops in sight. I take a big sip of my coffee, pondering whether I return to check on the robbed cashier or go on my way. Fight or flight. It's real. Checking my watch, I notice I'm going to be late to work... I head the opposite direction, forever wondering what happened to the man in the bodega, and the two young men who robbed the store that day. But my coffee tasted great.

Take a common day-to-day act like browsing reddit or driving to work and dramatize it somehow.

[WP] Pick a simple, everyday act and dramatize it

The morning was gloomy outside and I noticed that it was raining as I stepped into the shower and saw out the window. I took my time in the shower as i'd woken 15 minutes early and let the water slowly wake me up. After washing I got out and proceeded to dry myself and get dressed. It was then that I knew this morning, was not a normal morning. After putting my shirt on and underwear on, i knew the next step was to put my pants on. I grabbed my pants and went to put my first leg in. Suddenly, much to my horror, i realized, that my pants were backwards. In all of the confusion I must have grabbed the wrong side. What was I to do now? I stood there, frozen in fear. If I lifted my leg up to fix it, i'd fall as i'd unknowing already started putting my other leg into the other side. Suddenly, both legs were in the wrong holes. Visions of my childhood flashed before Me. I wasn't sure who to call. Mom? Dad? FEMA? I did the only thing I could think to do. I pulled my pants up, reached behind me, and buttoned them. That morning, I was laughed at, harassed, called "backward pants" by co-workers. I knew, that day, what other people who accidentally put their pants on backwards felt like. I wasn't born this way. It was just how I was dressed.

It was a normal day, just like every other day of my boring existence. Hit the snooze button half a dozen times, slowly wake, take a shower, dress myself, and finally head out the door. Wander down the sleepy Brooklyn street to my local safe haven: the coffee shop. It's usually peaceful, hipsters sipping lattes while typing on their laptops, as avant-jazz or the newest "hot band of the month" plays on the overhead speakers. I walk up to the counter, as I have so many times, and I'm groggy. "What will it be today?" "Small coffee please." "Sure thing, that will be $2.50." I reach into my wallet, and find that it's empty. Shit. I look at a small plaque to the right of the register: 'CASH ONLY'. Double shit. "Sorry miss, I have to go grab some cash, where's the nearest ATM?" "Next door." "Of course." I head outside to the bodega next door, to the ATM, and withdraw $40. I begin to walk out of the bodega, and two men run quickly through the doors, knocking me back against a refrigerator. "Give us your money!", they scream at the Armenian cashier, while brandishing a handgun at his chest. Holy shit! I sprint out of the door, and back towards the coffee shop. I'm panting, short of breath, full of anxiety, shaking. I try a few deep breaths... in through the nose, out the mouth.... and I start to calm a bit. I finally head back into the coffee shop. I must look pale and crazed because the coffee girl says, "Are you okay, dude? You look like shit." "Dude, the bodega next door just got robbed. I was right there." "Holy shit man! Yeah, that place has some shady business. I bet the cops will get them in a second." "You seem exceptionally calm about this." "Well, fuck it." Me: "Right, fuck it." "Small coffee, right?" "Yes." She hands me the coffee, I hand her a crisp $20. I get my change, walk out the doors, as Miles Davis' trumpet plays my exit. I look in the direction of the bogeda: no cops in sight. I take a big sip of my coffee, pondering whether I return to check on the robbed cashier or go on my way. Fight or flight. It's real. Checking my watch, I notice I'm going to be late to work... I head the opposite direction, forever wondering what happened to the man in the bodega, and the two young men who robbed the store that day. But my coffee tasted great.

Take a common day-to-day act like browsing reddit or driving to work and dramatize it somehow.

[WP] Pick a simple, everyday act and dramatize it

The morning was gloomy outside and I noticed that it was raining as I stepped into the shower and saw out the window. I took my time in the shower as i'd woken 15 minutes early and let the water slowly wake me up. After washing I got out and proceeded to dry myself and get dressed. It was then that I knew this morning, was not a normal morning. After putting my shirt on and underwear on, i knew the next step was to put my pants on. I grabbed my pants and went to put my first leg in. Suddenly, much to my horror, i realized, that my pants were backwards. In all of the confusion I must have grabbed the wrong side. What was I to do now? I stood there, frozen in fear. If I lifted my leg up to fix it, i'd fall as i'd unknowing already started putting my other leg into the other side. Suddenly, both legs were in the wrong holes. Visions of my childhood flashed before Me. I wasn't sure who to call. Mom? Dad? FEMA? I did the only thing I could think to do. I pulled my pants up, reached behind me, and buttoned them. That morning, I was laughed at, harassed, called "backward pants" by co-workers. I knew, that day, what other people who accidentally put their pants on backwards felt like. I wasn't born this way. It was just how I was dressed.

There are things I’ve trained myself to do. Small things. Turning out the light when I leave a room, locking a door when I leave the car or house, checking for my wallet with a soft brush of my right hand when I leave a bar or restaurant or subway car. Small things, like signaling each turn. Even when pulling out of a parking spot, my left hand will rise to pull the signal, declaring my intentions to the vacant street. It does this mindlessly. I do not need to think about it. It is something I have trained myself to do. Traffic is not something that bothers me. I navigate it like a gondolier. The twists and turns of the canal are known to me, the speed of the current beyond my control. My mind does its calculations and my hands make their adjustments, all without needing to consult me. I am free to sing. Today, however, there is no current. I sit in the cigarette-smell of my Suzuki Forenza, a member of some great salmon migration in a river that has suddenly evaporated. Something has happened up ahead, and heads crane from windows like great tongues, vainly seeking some crumb of information. Frustration. Another small thing I have trained my mind to negotiate, though perhaps it is not so small. When faced with an obstacles such as this traffic jam, the human mind demands explanation. Demands a solution, and failing that, to place blame. This is a vanity, and I have trained it out of my mind. I begin to collect faces. I look at the people around me, giving the face of each one my full attention for several seconds. I begin to my right. A white woman in a green Subaru. Her face is young, but the cheeks are pitted and scarred. A pimple punctuates the corner of her mouth, red and angry and visible. Her lower lip is tucked between her teeth, and she chews it slowly, like a caramel. Her brow is furrowed and her hands grip the wheel as though she doesn’t trust it to stay in place. To my left. A man in a smeary Chevrolet Malibu with a face like a deflating balloon. He is closer to me, and I can see three freckles on his sallow right cheek in a perfect isosceles. His head tilts forward and I cannot see his eyes. No doubt composing a traffic-related complaint to some sympathetic loved one, or some unsympathetic boss. The something that has happened up ahead is over. I can see movement begin to pass through the millipede legs of the traffic ahead of me. My left hand rises mindlessly to pull the signal lever down, to indicate my intention to merge left, as it has been trained to do. To my right, the young woman’s scarred face relaxes, and her Subaru begins to slide forward. To my left, the man with the deflated face stays still. I am in no hurry. Concern fills my mind. This is training as well, the kind I received from my mother in those half-remembered days of my early childhood. “If someone is in trouble,” the training tells me, “you help.” I open my door. I walk around the front of the deflated man’s car, looking back along the spine of stalled traffic. I come around the the driver’s side window and lean over, shielding my eyes and giving the man’s face my full attention. My left hand rises to knock on the window, and stops. The man’s left eye is wide and full of blood. A gossamer of spit hangs from his lower lip, pooling on the khaki hill of his fly. On his left cheek are two more small freckles. Nowhere on his face can any life be found. My brain fills itself with words it has learned from television. Stroke. Aneurysm. Cerebral hemorrhage. When someone is in trouble, you help them. I turn and run back to my car. My left hand rises and pulls the door handle. The door is locked. I bend to look through the window, my left hand rises to shield my eyes. The keys dangle from the ignition. My left hand runs to my pocket to find my phone, but before it can report the phone’s absence to my brain my eyes deliver the message. The phone sits on the passenger seat, its screen a calm blue reflection. Small clouds swim there. My hands, trained so carefully to signal turns and check for wallets and close and lock doors without consulting their owner have betrayed me. Car horns fill the air like the bleats of hungry lambs, and driver’s-side windows lower to reveal their curious, craning tongues. “Hey, move it over, get out of the road!” My left hand rises and inscribes an exaggerated arc above my head. The left front turn signal of my Suzuki clicks at my knees. “I’m not going around asshole, get the fuck out of the road!” Someone is in trouble, and I cannot help them.

Take a common day-to-day act like browsing reddit or driving to work and dramatize it somehow.

[WP] Pick a simple, everyday act and dramatize it

The morning was gloomy outside and I noticed that it was raining as I stepped into the shower and saw out the window. I took my time in the shower as i'd woken 15 minutes early and let the water slowly wake me up. After washing I got out and proceeded to dry myself and get dressed. It was then that I knew this morning, was not a normal morning. After putting my shirt on and underwear on, i knew the next step was to put my pants on. I grabbed my pants and went to put my first leg in. Suddenly, much to my horror, i realized, that my pants were backwards. In all of the confusion I must have grabbed the wrong side. What was I to do now? I stood there, frozen in fear. If I lifted my leg up to fix it, i'd fall as i'd unknowing already started putting my other leg into the other side. Suddenly, both legs were in the wrong holes. Visions of my childhood flashed before Me. I wasn't sure who to call. Mom? Dad? FEMA? I did the only thing I could think to do. I pulled my pants up, reached behind me, and buttoned them. That morning, I was laughed at, harassed, called "backward pants" by co-workers. I knew, that day, what other people who accidentally put their pants on backwards felt like. I wasn't born this way. It was just how I was dressed.

His hands shook as he reached for the freezer door. Gritting his teeth, he swallowed before pulling on the smooth handle. A blast of frozen air swirled around his temples. Blinking through the mist, he reached inside while mouthing a simple prayer. "Please, God... please..." The tray felt heavy as he pulled it free. The top of his hand brushed against the buildup of frost on the ceiling of the freezer, and he shivered. The water had frozen. He relaxed slightly, though he knew the hardest part was yet to come. He reached inside and pulled free the other ice cube tray before turning towards the counter behind him. The door swung closed with a thunk. "Shit!" The sound surprised him every time. He never got used to the infernal box's tricks. Fortunately, he managed not to drop the trays, avoiding certain disaster. Setting one tray down, he held the other between his hands. His fingers curled around the edges. Already the cold was seeping into his skin, freezing his bones. His knuckles ached. A grunt echoed through the small kitchen as he twisted his hands in opposite directions. Pops and cracks like bones breaking made him squirm. A small amount of piss darkened the front of his boxer shorts, but he tightened his sphincter and managed to break the cubes free with no other leakage. The glass pitcher he'd set aside earlier now came into play. His cold fingers wrapped around the fluted handle, causing a mist to form around the outline of his hand. He lifted the tray and angled it down. A gentle shake and the cubes rattled free. The ice rang like bells, drowning out the noise of the refrigerator pump. One down. One to go. His grip returned to the ice cold trays. Gritting his teeth, ignoring the warmth gently trickling down his leg, he twisted the frozen tray. He turned his head as shards of ice shot from the middle pockets, striking him on the cheek. "Oh, shit!" The tray clattered into the sink as his hands went to his face. Ice cubes bounced out. Several landed on the counter; most went into the drain. One slipped off the marble and struck the floor near his foot. He danced backwards, palm covering his eye, cursing roundly. A check of his palm revealed no blood. Sighing with relief, he squinted at the sink and blinked rapidly. His hands shook uncontrollably as he reached for the half-empty tray. Only five of the twelve cubes remained. Would it be enough? The plastic shook as he lifted it towards the pitcher and tipped the remaining five into the glass, where they joined the twelve from the first tray. He breathed a sigh of relief and quickly set down the now-empty tray. He looked down at his feet, remembering the fallen cube of ice. It was nowhere to be found. Likely it had slid underneath the refrigerator, the little bastard. Frowning, he checked his eye for blood again, but found none. Turning his attention back to the sink, he picked up one tray. It was already warming in the humid air. He lifted it under the tap and turned on the water with his other hand. He cursed again as he realized he'd turned the water on too quickly. The stream dove into a pocket and rode the curves, coming right back out again and drenching the back of his hand. Swearing profusely, he waited it out, tipping the tray so the water would flow from the top pair of pockets down to the bottom. When it was finished, he left the water running. Turning towards the fridge, he opened the freezer door and took a deep breath. His eyes closed for just a moment before flashing open. "Not today." With one smooth movement, he inserted the tray into the freezer, back where it rested before. A single drop rolled over the edge and dripped onto the frost-encrusted bottom, pooling next to a bag of frozen peas. Muttering to himself, he turned to the sink and filled the other, being careful to properly angle the tray before repeating the technique. He smiled. This time, there was no spilled liquid. Shutting the freezer door, he breathed a heavy sigh of relief and slumped back against the fridge. His knees were shaking. He hadn't realized the adrenaline high he'd experienced, but now that it was leaving him, he felt weak, drained, soporific. He closed his eyes and waited for his racing heart to go still. He almost wished he hadn't opened them. There, on the counter, sat the clear glass pitcher, mocking him, judging him silently. The ice cubes inside cracked in the warm air, shifting position as the melting began in earnest. He'd have to move quickly... * * * Will the lemonade be made before the ice cubes melt? Will our thirsty hero be able to scoop the lemonade mix safely? Will he sneeze into the sugar? These answers, and more, on the next thrilling episode of Overly Dramatic Mundane Task Man!

Take a common day-to-day act like browsing reddit or driving to work and dramatize it somehow.

[WP] Pick a simple, everyday act and dramatize it

The morning was gloomy outside and I noticed that it was raining as I stepped into the shower and saw out the window. I took my time in the shower as i'd woken 15 minutes early and let the water slowly wake me up. After washing I got out and proceeded to dry myself and get dressed. It was then that I knew this morning, was not a normal morning. After putting my shirt on and underwear on, i knew the next step was to put my pants on. I grabbed my pants and went to put my first leg in. Suddenly, much to my horror, i realized, that my pants were backwards. In all of the confusion I must have grabbed the wrong side. What was I to do now? I stood there, frozen in fear. If I lifted my leg up to fix it, i'd fall as i'd unknowing already started putting my other leg into the other side. Suddenly, both legs were in the wrong holes. Visions of my childhood flashed before Me. I wasn't sure who to call. Mom? Dad? FEMA? I did the only thing I could think to do. I pulled my pants up, reached behind me, and buttoned them. That morning, I was laughed at, harassed, called "backward pants" by co-workers. I knew, that day, what other people who accidentally put their pants on backwards felt like. I wasn't born this way. It was just how I was dressed.

I was only halfway through the trip--the bus was nowhere near my stop--and I could feel the biggest shit of my life coming on. Initially, I was worried that I might have to abort my date later that night, but then I was overcome with an even greater worry. I almost got off the bus at that exact moment; the shit's arrival came upon my unsuspecting ass with such brash ferocity I was actually afraid I may crap my pants, or rather, gym shorts. I could picture with growing horror the steady plop and drip of excrement as it pooled around my feet. I glanced at the Arby's that we were stopped at, torn with indecision: I could get in there pretty quickly and it would all be over, but I would be stranded for an hour waiting for another bus. I began to sweat as my terror set in. If I didn't get off now, I would shit myself, that much I knew. But somehow, I clenched hard when the bus began to roll again, breathing shakily. I was already running late, and I could hit the gas station at my stop. I didn't know how long it was going to take so I tried to stop thinking about it altogether, opening my book. The words shook in front of me. I realized sadly that I was going to be dead by the time I got to that gas station. Of shame, mostly, but probably of a ruptured vessel in my brain from all the strain I was exerting. Soon enough though, we were cresting the hill just before my stop and I eagerly yanked the wire, signaling my plea for escape and relief. We hit a red light at the top of the hill. The light above the driver proclaiming there had been a STOP REQUESTED mocked me with it's casualty. When the bus stopped, my mind took it upon itself to show me a glimpse into the future: we would finally roll to a stop and I would throw myself, wide-eyed, out into two-way traffic, overcome with the power that I felt from below. But Erick, I argued back at that part of me that wanted to risk it, you'll get hit by a car. Yes, and as soon as I went flipping through the air, my bowels would release, sending beautiful brown arcs of shit spinning through the air, globs splattering on windshields like a Jackson Pollock. Back at the red light, I began to laugh through my agony. A great deep throated guffaw resounded on the inside of the bus as I imagined blowing chunks of intestinal debris twenty feet into the sky. I was crying by the time I waddled through the doors of the bus, half from laughing so hard and half from the pain I was in. The few seconds that I waited to ensure that I didn't get flipped by a speeding vehicle felt like years. Then I began my final trek. The level of uncomfortability was so profound that from the time I crossed the street until I got inside and sat on the toilet, I only had a few still images burned into my memory of the trials I had just overcome. There was one of crossing halfway, pleading for a truck to move faster. One of hitting the sidewalk but deciding to take the hill because it was a shorter distance to the door. One of brief worry as I passed through the glass door that they would make me pay for something before I used the bathroom. Grasping the handle, hoping with everything I had in me that it wasn't locked. Closing the blessed door again and fumbling with the lock. Ripping my shorts down and slamming the seat so hard that I was sure that the whole gas action could hear it. I realized I still had my book in hand, and as the first waves of relief washed over me, I read, content.

Take a common day-to-day act like browsing reddit or driving to work and dramatize it somehow.

[WP] Pick a simple, everyday act and dramatize it

Steam filled the room, my face freshly born into the world after visiting that little haven, still dripping with wetness; shampoo bubbles clinging to my whiskers. The water sat in the sink, its stillness almost haunting. After a quick gaze at my reflection, instinct kicked in, and I began flicking my blade with smooth, even strokes across the canvas. I was the maestro and my razor was the baton. Orchestrating a masterpiece, the scrapes and groans of the strop brought the edge to a sharpness that could cut through the very silence that enveloped the room. I set the freshly stropped razor aside, and grabbed hold of the bulbous brush that sat in the water. With a hard shake, the brush came to life, spitting out whatever extra moisture it had in it. It awoke to the same cruel fate that it does every day, a vigorous beating. I crushed the soft bristles into the puck of soap and began to whip. Like magic, the soap began to reveal its true form. A heavy foam began to arise from the puck, thick with the scent of eucalyptus and menthol. The brush began to slack, the lather wasn't full enough, so I drowned the brush. With another hard snap, the brush was back to work, and the lather blossomed beautifully. The hard life of the brush was almost over, it was time for its final task. Gently, every bristle met my face, waking every single whisker with each swirl around my cheeks. I gazed again at my reflection, this time a dense beard of froth covered me. I picked the razor up again, drawing back my skin in preparation for the purge of my facial hair. The blade grit its teeth as it bit into my stubble, drawing downwards in sharp yet tactful passes. There is a dance between the blade and I, with me taking lead and my partner following everything with absolute grace. But then, a stumble. The fault of the lead had led to a misstep. Another gaze into the water revealed the quarter-beard that was left on my face that was no longer white but instead a deep crimson. A panic. Everything began to happen much more quickly. The stillness of the water was broken. I needed its help. Frantically, I splashed the water into what was left of my magical beard washing it away, but its scent still lingered. I looked to my right, and grabbed the styptic pencil that sat obediently on the shelf, waiting to fulfill its duty. Much more collected then previously, I began to run the pencil across my fresh wound, wincing at the sharp sting reminding me of my mistake. The blood cleared, and it was time for the brush to come to life once more, as the magic beard was needed to rid my actual one. My partner forgave me, and we began our number once more. This time, I stepped much more cautiously, knowing that the jawline was treacherous territory. With finesse, I swept the blade along what was left of my stubble. Our dance was over, and my blade needed a shower. Once more, the stillness of the water was broken, as the blade pierced the surface and rinsed the bits of hair and cream from its edge. The blade and the brush were finished for the day, and rested in their stands, waiting for the next day, prepared to battle my facial hair once more. I began to drain the water, and rinsed my face with the ice-cold liquid that tumbled out of the faucet. I peered into the mirror, asking it to give me a spot check to make sure my blade and I covered all of the steps in our dance. After the verdict was given, I splashed my face with the Pinaud Clubman aftershave that watched the entire routine. It rewarded me with another sting, one that was far less malicious than the styptic pencil gave me. I dabbed my now silk-smooth face dry, and gazed once more into the mirror. No longer was there a shadow sitting on my cheeks, but instead the bright smile of a man ready to take on the world again.

It was time. I frantically searched each and every crevice of my domain. Back and forth, chamber to chamber. Nothing. Frustration began to mount as my gentle smirk evolved into a sinister frown. Sweat began to envelop my brow and a clammy veil of moisture trickled down each wrinkle of my palms. "It wasn't supposed to happen like this." Sunlight begins to pour through the shutters. No, no! This cannot be! Creeping sunlight was indicative of a path toward punishment. It's never taken this long, never. The sun has always remained hidden during my time here! Scenarios begin to play throughout my head. He's going to be so angry. I'm letting them down. I can't show up this way again. My knuckles were clenched and I gritted my teeth. I told myself to calm down -- to relax -- but nothing gave. A penetrating warmth gave birth within my cheeks and I was overwhelmed by a red heat that gave way for more sweat to rain upon my brow. "I simply can't believe it. I was told not to be late again. They were *right here*. **It wasn't supposed to happen like this**" And then I heard it... a soft jingling as my cat pawed my keys out from beneath the couch.

Make what you will.

[WP] An NSA agent becomes inappropriately (or appropriately, I don't care, this is a writing prompt not a dictatorship) fascinated with whoever he's spying on.

I've seen terrible, terrible things. I've peered into the depths of human depravity, and I currently know more about what people masturbate to than I ever dreamed I would know. Yet, this man is by and far the most disgusting existence I have ever had the displeasure of surveying. He's not a pedophile, and he's not into some of that weird shit people beat off to… but is it sad that I almost wish that he was? At least if he was into child porn, I could turn him in and be done with this. I've seen plenty of logs of people getting off to some strange fucking shit, but this? Holy shit. Holy. Fucking. Shit. This is just beyond belief. BUT I CAN'T TAKE MY EYES OFF HIM. Watching him is like watching a fucking train wreck. A slow, fat, blobby train wreck filled with lard, and grease, and bacon fat, that's slathered in peanut butter and Nutella. His YouTube channel feels like it popped out of my nightmare. "DarrylEats." Guess what he does. He fucking eats. And eats. And eats. Every day, sometimes multiple times a day, motherfucker films himself eating. For the life of me, I just want to know who's manning the camera. I don't think his arm stretches far enough past his stomach to reach it or set it up. Jesus Christ. I've seen him eat shit that I wouldn't feel comfortable feeding livestock. I've seen him dip bacon in Nutella, batter it, fry it, cover it in peanut butter, and then fucking FRY IT AGAIN. WHO DOES THAT?! As delicious as it sounds, who on earth feels comfortable packing away a few pounds of that shit and then eats twice as much for dinner? ("DarrylEats" - the Double or Nothing Challenge! A special feature for your viewing pleasure, released every Sunday afternoon and night!) I think the gist of it is that if he can't finish twice of whatever he had for lunch, he doesn't eat the next day. I don't think I've ever seen him fail. He has two subscribers that he takes food suggestions from. I think they're in a competition to see who can make him eat the worst shit before he hits his limit and his heart explodes into an oily mess. One of them is him… the other one is me.

So uh, The Lives of Others?

Make what you will.

[WP] An NSA agent becomes inappropriately (or appropriately, I don't care, this is a writing prompt not a dictatorship) fascinated with whoever he's spying on.

I've seen terrible, terrible things. I've peered into the depths of human depravity, and I currently know more about what people masturbate to than I ever dreamed I would know. Yet, this man is by and far the most disgusting existence I have ever had the displeasure of surveying. He's not a pedophile, and he's not into some of that weird shit people beat off to… but is it sad that I almost wish that he was? At least if he was into child porn, I could turn him in and be done with this. I've seen plenty of logs of people getting off to some strange fucking shit, but this? Holy shit. Holy. Fucking. Shit. This is just beyond belief. BUT I CAN'T TAKE MY EYES OFF HIM. Watching him is like watching a fucking train wreck. A slow, fat, blobby train wreck filled with lard, and grease, and bacon fat, that's slathered in peanut butter and Nutella. His YouTube channel feels like it popped out of my nightmare. "DarrylEats." Guess what he does. He fucking eats. And eats. And eats. Every day, sometimes multiple times a day, motherfucker films himself eating. For the life of me, I just want to know who's manning the camera. I don't think his arm stretches far enough past his stomach to reach it or set it up. Jesus Christ. I've seen him eat shit that I wouldn't feel comfortable feeding livestock. I've seen him dip bacon in Nutella, batter it, fry it, cover it in peanut butter, and then fucking FRY IT AGAIN. WHO DOES THAT?! As delicious as it sounds, who on earth feels comfortable packing away a few pounds of that shit and then eats twice as much for dinner? ("DarrylEats" - the Double or Nothing Challenge! A special feature for your viewing pleasure, released every Sunday afternoon and night!) I think the gist of it is that if he can't finish twice of whatever he had for lunch, he doesn't eat the next day. I don't think I've ever seen him fail. He has two subscribers that he takes food suggestions from. I think they're in a competition to see who can make him eat the worst shit before he hits his limit and his heart explodes into an oily mess. One of them is him… the other one is me.

He was with her again. The phone lines were quiet, the computer slept, the TV wasn't even on. No noise. Not even static. Either he wasn't doing a damn thing or he was with her. Again. Joan leaned back in her chair, eyes burning. Whether the feeling was from her monitor, the beginnings of unshed tears, or the result of another sleepless night she didn't know and she didn't care. She pressed the heels of her hands into her closed lids as she tried to relieve the itching sensation, but being careful not to smudge her eyeliner. It smudged anyway. She flipped through everything again. Phone. Computer. TV. I-Pod, I-Pad, I-fucking-whatever. Even the satellite radio in his car was dead. So where was he? "Fuck," Joan whispered to herself. "Fuck, fuck, fuck." She knew exactly where he was. With her. It didn't matter that Joan didn't know the exact location of this woman's apartment, the woman he'd been seeing. She didn't know her last name, and she wasn't sure of her phone number; it didn't matter. Joan knew she could find her. With a little patience, she'd have her. Flip through Facebook. Not there. Check G-mail. Not there. Where is she? Where is this little bitch Melinda hiding? God, what a stupid name. Phone contacts. Not there. Twitter. Not there. Jesus, does the man even have any more accounts? Where the fuck else could the slut be? Where? Instagram. Not there. Can't believe he even has an instagram anyway. Tumblr. Not there. Then where? His entire life was on the internet. Joan had categorized and catalogued every passing thought, every delicious meal, every fun time this guy had for the last two years and as far as Joan was concerned, Melinda wasn't in any of them. She was a damned social media ghost. Joan rubbed her eyes hard in frustration- no thought of eyeliner now. Where was she? Bitch. She has to be somewhere. Work. Think. Work... work. His work e-mail. Joan hadn't checked that. She looked into his Outlook account. There she was. Melinda Hanson from work. Now it would be easy.

Make what you will.

[WP] An NSA agent becomes inappropriately (or appropriately, I don't care, this is a writing prompt not a dictatorship) fascinated with whoever he's spying on.

Day 1 of Investigation #00456, investigation of suspected terrorist: Name - John Doe Age - 36 Wait, his name is *John Doe?* Well, that's quite the original name. Anyways, Area of Residence - Atlanta, Georgia Race - Arab Sex - Male Physical Dimensions - 5'6", 230 lbs. from last medical checkup two months ago. He apparently came to the US at the age of sixteen from Iraq as a foreign exchange student to a prestigious magnet school. Decided he would like to stay and become a US citizen. Good luck with that, kid. Continuing on, he got a student visa and has remained in the United States by remaining in the college environment for an extended time - about 18 years. I'm pretty sure he should be a doctor of *everything* by now. Personal evaluation - what the hell is HQ thinking? The worse thing this guy's got is a bad taste in porn and a scuffle with his drunk buddies that happened in his undergraduate years. Just because the guy's got a beard and is from Iraq doesn't mean he's going to blow up the Atlanta Aquarium - which is the stated reason. No HQ, let's not take his interest for the Aquarium as even remotely related to his *degree in marine biology*. Will try to go through the necessary channels to let this poor guy off the hook - he's not a terrorist. ------------------------ Day 2 of Investigation #00456, investigation of potential terrorist: Name - John Doe Going through the shit loads of forms to get this guy free from a month of looking behind his back. Little nerd better be thankful. Regular behavior, did visit his regular mosque outside of his normal schedule, apparently they are coordinating what looks to be a benefit fundraiser called "Coexistence: Different Gods, Same Faith" Yep, totally looks like a vicious terror cell. Come on HQ, what the heck? ----------------------------- Day 3 of Investigation #00456, investigation of potential - This guy isn't even potentially a terrorist. Forms filed and they should process in a few days. No abnormal behavior, his schedule was to the averaged minute. Exactly.. ------------------------------------- Day 4 of Investigation #00456, investigation of suspected terrorist: Okay, this guy is most definitely not a terrorist. But his schedule has gotten *freakishly* accurate. Like, within the two-minute frame. But, that's not even the weirdest thing. Yesterday he *exactly* followed the schedule, I just thought it was a fluke. Today he fluctuated, which I thought to be normal. Until I went back to check the times. Every entrance and exit was either a minute early or a minute and thirty seconds late. I don't know how this guy's doing it, maybe he likes being punctual but this has me a bit on edge. Other than this weird fluke, everything is normal. The Coexistence fundraiser is apparently not the quiet affair it first appeared to be, it's quickly growing into a rally. I've heard from the Mayor's line that he would like to attend. I saw some of the regular attendees at the mosque and I have to say - I guess they're terror material, if you consider giving food to the homeless the hobby of psychotic extremists. --------------------------------------------- Day 5 of Investigation #00456, investigation of suspected terrorist: This smug bastard. Today he fluctuated with total randomness, no pattern. I got suspicious so I tapped into the camera on his Marine Biology professor's door. That little fucker was just standing there in front of the door. He must have seen a light come on, because he looked up at the camera. He looked at *me.* And then he grinned and walked out. I'm going to talk with my supervisor and see if I can't get this investigation to continue past tomorrow. -------------------------------------------------- Day 6 of Investigation #00456, investigation of suspected terrorist: This guy's a terrorist, I just have a gut feeling. But my supervisor seemed to be quite convinced by my first few investigations that we should let this guy off the hook. I specifically told him I had a feeling about this guy. Normally my supervisor would jump on the chance to nab a terrorist - but this time he just gave me a dead stare and said to let the guy off the hook. Well, no abnormal behavior beyond being a **god damned terrorist.** I get that he doesn't show the signs of being one, but I just know it. HQ was right about this guy, what can I say? Seems like everyone is too busy fussing over that new Coexistence rally - the NSA's got a bunch of guys going to represent the United States. Who better than the guys who spy on all of them to be the ones who convince them their safe and supported. Only guy not going is the chairman and his croneys, probably going on a golf trip on an island in the south pacific. We have to get this guy though, don't we do this all the time? Come on, give him the old party bus in the middle of the night! We do it to the innocents, why not the actual terrorists! -------------------------------------------- Day 7... no, 1 of Investigation #00457, investigation of confirmed terrorist bombing: Location : Atlanta, Georgia Coexistence Rally Time: October 16th, 2013; 5:43 PM Suspects: John Doe Incident Report: One man bombing by C4 strapped to the abdomen, detonated during a heated speech about the inner struggle of a Muslim to accept today's society. Self-detonated by means of cell phone. Immediate blast hit first four rows, in which were seated the NSA representatives and religious leaders of Atlanta. NSA representatives...... confirmed to be the candidates for nomination to position of Chairman of the NSA. Fires broke out blocking the rest of the near 2,000 in attendance from the exits. Emergency services arrived at approximately 5:45 PM, a new response time record. 500 Injured, 42 dead including the those who were sitting in the front four rows. Structural damage was immense, further investigation revealed the structure of the pavilion was flawed and made with highly combustible materials. Bombing was a one-time event. Occurred due to failure on part of investigator to confirm suspect was terrorist. Personal evaluation: There is nothing abnormal about this beyond the immense tragedy of it. We can't see everything. I have also submitted my resignation.

He was with her again. The phone lines were quiet, the computer slept, the TV wasn't even on. No noise. Not even static. Either he wasn't doing a damn thing or he was with her. Again. Joan leaned back in her chair, eyes burning. Whether the feeling was from her monitor, the beginnings of unshed tears, or the result of another sleepless night she didn't know and she didn't care. She pressed the heels of her hands into her closed lids as she tried to relieve the itching sensation, but being careful not to smudge her eyeliner. It smudged anyway. She flipped through everything again. Phone. Computer. TV. I-Pod, I-Pad, I-fucking-whatever. Even the satellite radio in his car was dead. So where was he? "Fuck," Joan whispered to herself. "Fuck, fuck, fuck." She knew exactly where he was. With her. It didn't matter that Joan didn't know the exact location of this woman's apartment, the woman he'd been seeing. She didn't know her last name, and she wasn't sure of her phone number; it didn't matter. Joan knew she could find her. With a little patience, she'd have her. Flip through Facebook. Not there. Check G-mail. Not there. Where is she? Where is this little bitch Melinda hiding? God, what a stupid name. Phone contacts. Not there. Twitter. Not there. Jesus, does the man even have any more accounts? Where the fuck else could the slut be? Where? Instagram. Not there. Can't believe he even has an instagram anyway. Tumblr. Not there. Then where? His entire life was on the internet. Joan had categorized and catalogued every passing thought, every delicious meal, every fun time this guy had for the last two years and as far as Joan was concerned, Melinda wasn't in any of them. She was a damned social media ghost. Joan rubbed her eyes hard in frustration- no thought of eyeliner now. Where was she? Bitch. She has to be somewhere. Work. Think. Work... work. His work e-mail. Joan hadn't checked that. She looked into his Outlook account. There she was. Melinda Hanson from work. Now it would be easy.

Make what you will.

[WP] An NSA agent becomes inappropriately (or appropriately, I don't care, this is a writing prompt not a dictatorship) fascinated with whoever he's spying on.

My Sarah. I've loved her since she was 14. I watched her go to school, come home. I saw how happy she was riding her bike. The day she got accepted to college. I watched her heart get broken by her stupid boyfriend. I was glad they broke up. But Sarah didn't love me back. She didn't appreciate my gifts or my love. She got the police involved. She made me promise to stay away. I'm so glad I took this new job. Now I can be with my Sarah, all the time.

"Hello," the call starts. I take a deep breath in. *Her voice sounds so clear and bright, like a sunny day in the Alps. Not that I've ever been to the Alps...* "...I'm sorry, but I'm simply not interested," she says, shyly laughing while rebuffing the offer of a free internet box when she decides to sign up for satellite television. *She's even nice when they badger her...* I think holding my breath on the line. "Well, you have a nice day. Bye-bye now." I release my breath, but not before thinking, "*Bye-bye for now.*"

Make what you will.

[WP] An NSA agent becomes inappropriately (or appropriately, I don't care, this is a writing prompt not a dictatorship) fascinated with whoever he's spying on.

Day 1 of Investigation #00456, investigation of suspected terrorist: Name - John Doe Age - 36 Wait, his name is *John Doe?* Well, that's quite the original name. Anyways, Area of Residence - Atlanta, Georgia Race - Arab Sex - Male Physical Dimensions - 5'6", 230 lbs. from last medical checkup two months ago. He apparently came to the US at the age of sixteen from Iraq as a foreign exchange student to a prestigious magnet school. Decided he would like to stay and become a US citizen. Good luck with that, kid. Continuing on, he got a student visa and has remained in the United States by remaining in the college environment for an extended time - about 18 years. I'm pretty sure he should be a doctor of *everything* by now. Personal evaluation - what the hell is HQ thinking? The worse thing this guy's got is a bad taste in porn and a scuffle with his drunk buddies that happened in his undergraduate years. Just because the guy's got a beard and is from Iraq doesn't mean he's going to blow up the Atlanta Aquarium - which is the stated reason. No HQ, let's not take his interest for the Aquarium as even remotely related to his *degree in marine biology*. Will try to go through the necessary channels to let this poor guy off the hook - he's not a terrorist. ------------------------ Day 2 of Investigation #00456, investigation of potential terrorist: Name - John Doe Going through the shit loads of forms to get this guy free from a month of looking behind his back. Little nerd better be thankful. Regular behavior, did visit his regular mosque outside of his normal schedule, apparently they are coordinating what looks to be a benefit fundraiser called "Coexistence: Different Gods, Same Faith" Yep, totally looks like a vicious terror cell. Come on HQ, what the heck? ----------------------------- Day 3 of Investigation #00456, investigation of potential - This guy isn't even potentially a terrorist. Forms filed and they should process in a few days. No abnormal behavior, his schedule was to the averaged minute. Exactly.. ------------------------------------- Day 4 of Investigation #00456, investigation of suspected terrorist: Okay, this guy is most definitely not a terrorist. But his schedule has gotten *freakishly* accurate. Like, within the two-minute frame. But, that's not even the weirdest thing. Yesterday he *exactly* followed the schedule, I just thought it was a fluke. Today he fluctuated, which I thought to be normal. Until I went back to check the times. Every entrance and exit was either a minute early or a minute and thirty seconds late. I don't know how this guy's doing it, maybe he likes being punctual but this has me a bit on edge. Other than this weird fluke, everything is normal. The Coexistence fundraiser is apparently not the quiet affair it first appeared to be, it's quickly growing into a rally. I've heard from the Mayor's line that he would like to attend. I saw some of the regular attendees at the mosque and I have to say - I guess they're terror material, if you consider giving food to the homeless the hobby of psychotic extremists. --------------------------------------------- Day 5 of Investigation #00456, investigation of suspected terrorist: This smug bastard. Today he fluctuated with total randomness, no pattern. I got suspicious so I tapped into the camera on his Marine Biology professor's door. That little fucker was just standing there in front of the door. He must have seen a light come on, because he looked up at the camera. He looked at *me.* And then he grinned and walked out. I'm going to talk with my supervisor and see if I can't get this investigation to continue past tomorrow. -------------------------------------------------- Day 6 of Investigation #00456, investigation of suspected terrorist: This guy's a terrorist, I just have a gut feeling. But my supervisor seemed to be quite convinced by my first few investigations that we should let this guy off the hook. I specifically told him I had a feeling about this guy. Normally my supervisor would jump on the chance to nab a terrorist - but this time he just gave me a dead stare and said to let the guy off the hook. Well, no abnormal behavior beyond being a **god damned terrorist.** I get that he doesn't show the signs of being one, but I just know it. HQ was right about this guy, what can I say? Seems like everyone is too busy fussing over that new Coexistence rally - the NSA's got a bunch of guys going to represent the United States. Who better than the guys who spy on all of them to be the ones who convince them their safe and supported. Only guy not going is the chairman and his croneys, probably going on a golf trip on an island in the south pacific. We have to get this guy though, don't we do this all the time? Come on, give him the old party bus in the middle of the night! We do it to the innocents, why not the actual terrorists! -------------------------------------------- Day 7... no, 1 of Investigation #00457, investigation of confirmed terrorist bombing: Location : Atlanta, Georgia Coexistence Rally Time: October 16th, 2013; 5:43 PM Suspects: John Doe Incident Report: One man bombing by C4 strapped to the abdomen, detonated during a heated speech about the inner struggle of a Muslim to accept today's society. Self-detonated by means of cell phone. Immediate blast hit first four rows, in which were seated the NSA representatives and religious leaders of Atlanta. NSA representatives...... confirmed to be the candidates for nomination to position of Chairman of the NSA. Fires broke out blocking the rest of the near 2,000 in attendance from the exits. Emergency services arrived at approximately 5:45 PM, a new response time record. 500 Injured, 42 dead including the those who were sitting in the front four rows. Structural damage was immense, further investigation revealed the structure of the pavilion was flawed and made with highly combustible materials. Bombing was a one-time event. Occurred due to failure on part of investigator to confirm suspect was terrorist. Personal evaluation: There is nothing abnormal about this beyond the immense tragedy of it. We can't see everything. I have also submitted my resignation.

"Hello," the call starts. I take a deep breath in. *Her voice sounds so clear and bright, like a sunny day in the Alps. Not that I've ever been to the Alps...* "...I'm sorry, but I'm simply not interested," she says, shyly laughing while rebuffing the offer of a free internet box when she decides to sign up for satellite television. *She's even nice when they badger her...* I think holding my breath on the line. "Well, you have a nice day. Bye-bye now." I release my breath, but not before thinking, "*Bye-bye for now.*"

Make what you will.

[WP] An NSA agent becomes inappropriately (or appropriately, I don't care, this is a writing prompt not a dictatorship) fascinated with whoever he's spying on.

"You seem distracted this week." She broke from the routine trying to seem interested in him. "How do you mean?" "I'm your psychiatrist, Peter, but I don't need a degree to notice you smiling like a high school girl walking by the quarterback in the hallway every time you stare at your phone." "I... I know maybe I should talk about this but I'm afraid it's classified." "Okay, then dumb it down for me. I know where you work and I read the Guardian, Peter. You're the one who was pointing out typos in my personal emails." "We've talked about that and I apologized multiple times. Why do you always have to bring it up? I even payed you to shut up about it, that applies to around me as well, okay?" The change in his tone reminded him why he had to see a psychiatrist in the first place. He changed his position in the chair and waited for Dr. Jameson to say something. She was just staring at him and apparently he was in no mood to pay for another twenty minutes of a staring contest like last week. "Jesus Christ, okay, I'll tell you." "Good." God, she hated that smile. Not for every patient, but a forced smile to Peter was something that physically hurt her. "I fell in love." "Wow, those are four words I never expected to hear from you. We're making huge progress here, Peter! Who is this lucky lady?" "Wait, don't jump to conclusions. She doesn't know I exist." "Oh." Now it made sense to her. "She's a potential terrorist I've been following at work. But she is so beautiful and smart. She answers all her phone calls with the cutest SHIT! I almost told you her name. Anyways, I even called her a few times to hear her introduce herself to me. And this isn't everything, she's funny in everything she writes. Everything. And she never uses a smiley like our dumb Maryland bitches. No offense." "None taken." Again the painful smile, God, was she going to get the strongest Long Island after this meeting. "Anyways, I've been following everything she does for a week and I can't let go of her. I know this is something that is all in my mind." "At leas you've saved me the trouble of explaining that. In a very scary way I actually find this kind of cute, I think time will make you able to let go of her. Just promise me you're going to cut contract with her and... give her to a coworker, is that an option?" "This is the problem, don't you think I know what I should do? Remember the bomb they found last week in Chicago though?" "Yes, nothing happened, they said at the news that it was all set but nobody pushed the button." "Exactly, nobody pushed the button because I kept her busy by calling her. She was the trigger in that attack. If my colleagues find out she's either dead or sent to a place where she might as well be. But I really like listening to her, I feel a real connection. With the next bomb there is no way anyone will find her." "We're done here." The doctor smiled sincerely this time, happy she finally had a reason to call 911.

"Hello," the call starts. I take a deep breath in. *Her voice sounds so clear and bright, like a sunny day in the Alps. Not that I've ever been to the Alps...* "...I'm sorry, but I'm simply not interested," she says, shyly laughing while rebuffing the offer of a free internet box when she decides to sign up for satellite television. *She's even nice when they badger her...* I think holding my breath on the line. "Well, you have a nice day. Bye-bye now." I release my breath, but not before thinking, "*Bye-bye for now.*"

Make what you will.

[WP] An NSA agent becomes inappropriately (or appropriately, I don't care, this is a writing prompt not a dictatorship) fascinated with whoever he's spying on.

Day 1 of Investigation #00456, investigation of suspected terrorist: Name - John Doe Age - 36 Wait, his name is *John Doe?* Well, that's quite the original name. Anyways, Area of Residence - Atlanta, Georgia Race - Arab Sex - Male Physical Dimensions - 5'6", 230 lbs. from last medical checkup two months ago. He apparently came to the US at the age of sixteen from Iraq as a foreign exchange student to a prestigious magnet school. Decided he would like to stay and become a US citizen. Good luck with that, kid. Continuing on, he got a student visa and has remained in the United States by remaining in the college environment for an extended time - about 18 years. I'm pretty sure he should be a doctor of *everything* by now. Personal evaluation - what the hell is HQ thinking? The worse thing this guy's got is a bad taste in porn and a scuffle with his drunk buddies that happened in his undergraduate years. Just because the guy's got a beard and is from Iraq doesn't mean he's going to blow up the Atlanta Aquarium - which is the stated reason. No HQ, let's not take his interest for the Aquarium as even remotely related to his *degree in marine biology*. Will try to go through the necessary channels to let this poor guy off the hook - he's not a terrorist. ------------------------ Day 2 of Investigation #00456, investigation of potential terrorist: Name - John Doe Going through the shit loads of forms to get this guy free from a month of looking behind his back. Little nerd better be thankful. Regular behavior, did visit his regular mosque outside of his normal schedule, apparently they are coordinating what looks to be a benefit fundraiser called "Coexistence: Different Gods, Same Faith" Yep, totally looks like a vicious terror cell. Come on HQ, what the heck? ----------------------------- Day 3 of Investigation #00456, investigation of potential - This guy isn't even potentially a terrorist. Forms filed and they should process in a few days. No abnormal behavior, his schedule was to the averaged minute. Exactly.. ------------------------------------- Day 4 of Investigation #00456, investigation of suspected terrorist: Okay, this guy is most definitely not a terrorist. But his schedule has gotten *freakishly* accurate. Like, within the two-minute frame. But, that's not even the weirdest thing. Yesterday he *exactly* followed the schedule, I just thought it was a fluke. Today he fluctuated, which I thought to be normal. Until I went back to check the times. Every entrance and exit was either a minute early or a minute and thirty seconds late. I don't know how this guy's doing it, maybe he likes being punctual but this has me a bit on edge. Other than this weird fluke, everything is normal. The Coexistence fundraiser is apparently not the quiet affair it first appeared to be, it's quickly growing into a rally. I've heard from the Mayor's line that he would like to attend. I saw some of the regular attendees at the mosque and I have to say - I guess they're terror material, if you consider giving food to the homeless the hobby of psychotic extremists. --------------------------------------------- Day 5 of Investigation #00456, investigation of suspected terrorist: This smug bastard. Today he fluctuated with total randomness, no pattern. I got suspicious so I tapped into the camera on his Marine Biology professor's door. That little fucker was just standing there in front of the door. He must have seen a light come on, because he looked up at the camera. He looked at *me.* And then he grinned and walked out. I'm going to talk with my supervisor and see if I can't get this investigation to continue past tomorrow. -------------------------------------------------- Day 6 of Investigation #00456, investigation of suspected terrorist: This guy's a terrorist, I just have a gut feeling. But my supervisor seemed to be quite convinced by my first few investigations that we should let this guy off the hook. I specifically told him I had a feeling about this guy. Normally my supervisor would jump on the chance to nab a terrorist - but this time he just gave me a dead stare and said to let the guy off the hook. Well, no abnormal behavior beyond being a **god damned terrorist.** I get that he doesn't show the signs of being one, but I just know it. HQ was right about this guy, what can I say? Seems like everyone is too busy fussing over that new Coexistence rally - the NSA's got a bunch of guys going to represent the United States. Who better than the guys who spy on all of them to be the ones who convince them their safe and supported. Only guy not going is the chairman and his croneys, probably going on a golf trip on an island in the south pacific. We have to get this guy though, don't we do this all the time? Come on, give him the old party bus in the middle of the night! We do it to the innocents, why not the actual terrorists! -------------------------------------------- Day 7... no, 1 of Investigation #00457, investigation of confirmed terrorist bombing: Location : Atlanta, Georgia Coexistence Rally Time: October 16th, 2013; 5:43 PM Suspects: John Doe Incident Report: One man bombing by C4 strapped to the abdomen, detonated during a heated speech about the inner struggle of a Muslim to accept today's society. Self-detonated by means of cell phone. Immediate blast hit first four rows, in which were seated the NSA representatives and religious leaders of Atlanta. NSA representatives...... confirmed to be the candidates for nomination to position of Chairman of the NSA. Fires broke out blocking the rest of the near 2,000 in attendance from the exits. Emergency services arrived at approximately 5:45 PM, a new response time record. 500 Injured, 42 dead including the those who were sitting in the front four rows. Structural damage was immense, further investigation revealed the structure of the pavilion was flawed and made with highly combustible materials. Bombing was a one-time event. Occurred due to failure on part of investigator to confirm suspect was terrorist. Personal evaluation: There is nothing abnormal about this beyond the immense tragedy of it. We can't see everything. I have also submitted my resignation.

My Sarah. I've loved her since she was 14. I watched her go to school, come home. I saw how happy she was riding her bike. The day she got accepted to college. I watched her heart get broken by her stupid boyfriend. I was glad they broke up. But Sarah didn't love me back. She didn't appreciate my gifts or my love. She got the police involved. She made me promise to stay away. I'm so glad I took this new job. Now I can be with my Sarah, all the time.

Make what you will.

[WP] An NSA agent becomes inappropriately (or appropriately, I don't care, this is a writing prompt not a dictatorship) fascinated with whoever he's spying on.

"You seem distracted this week." She broke from the routine trying to seem interested in him. "How do you mean?" "I'm your psychiatrist, Peter, but I don't need a degree to notice you smiling like a high school girl walking by the quarterback in the hallway every time you stare at your phone." "I... I know maybe I should talk about this but I'm afraid it's classified." "Okay, then dumb it down for me. I know where you work and I read the Guardian, Peter. You're the one who was pointing out typos in my personal emails." "We've talked about that and I apologized multiple times. Why do you always have to bring it up? I even payed you to shut up about it, that applies to around me as well, okay?" The change in his tone reminded him why he had to see a psychiatrist in the first place. He changed his position in the chair and waited for Dr. Jameson to say something. She was just staring at him and apparently he was in no mood to pay for another twenty minutes of a staring contest like last week. "Jesus Christ, okay, I'll tell you." "Good." God, she hated that smile. Not for every patient, but a forced smile to Peter was something that physically hurt her. "I fell in love." "Wow, those are four words I never expected to hear from you. We're making huge progress here, Peter! Who is this lucky lady?" "Wait, don't jump to conclusions. She doesn't know I exist." "Oh." Now it made sense to her. "She's a potential terrorist I've been following at work. But she is so beautiful and smart. She answers all her phone calls with the cutest SHIT! I almost told you her name. Anyways, I even called her a few times to hear her introduce herself to me. And this isn't everything, she's funny in everything she writes. Everything. And she never uses a smiley like our dumb Maryland bitches. No offense." "None taken." Again the painful smile, God, was she going to get the strongest Long Island after this meeting. "Anyways, I've been following everything she does for a week and I can't let go of her. I know this is something that is all in my mind." "At leas you've saved me the trouble of explaining that. In a very scary way I actually find this kind of cute, I think time will make you able to let go of her. Just promise me you're going to cut contract with her and... give her to a coworker, is that an option?" "This is the problem, don't you think I know what I should do? Remember the bomb they found last week in Chicago though?" "Yes, nothing happened, they said at the news that it was all set but nobody pushed the button." "Exactly, nobody pushed the button because I kept her busy by calling her. She was the trigger in that attack. If my colleagues find out she's either dead or sent to a place where she might as well be. But I really like listening to her, I feel a real connection. With the next bomb there is no way anyone will find her." "We're done here." The doctor smiled sincerely this time, happy she finally had a reason to call 911.

My Sarah. I've loved her since she was 14. I watched her go to school, come home. I saw how happy she was riding her bike. The day she got accepted to college. I watched her heart get broken by her stupid boyfriend. I was glad they broke up. But Sarah didn't love me back. She didn't appreciate my gifts or my love. She got the police involved. She made me promise to stay away. I'm so glad I took this new job. Now I can be with my Sarah, all the time.

Can be simple, long, complicated, or even about pancakes. Just write something about somebody who falls in love with someone else!

[WP] I feel like there is a lack of love on this subreddit. Write a Love Story!

I actually finished this a couple days ago for myself, but I thought, since it fits the prompt, I might as well share it. Feel free to downvote me if it doesn't belong though, I don't know if I'm allowed to share already-written stories. It's a bit long, so I've posted the link to my blog for it. If someone needs me to copy and paste because they're at work or whatever, just ask :) http://inevertookwriterscraft.tumblr.com/post/64179445831/she-rummaged-through-her-dresser-a-kids-sized

How can you describe someone that changed your life forever. Changed the way you look at the world. Changed the way that you look at life. Changed the way you look at yourself. The short answer is, you can't. But nevertheless, I will try to give it justice and tell it the best I can. ~~~~ I stood there, my eyes undressing the lady behind the counter. *She's hot.* Even under her work uniform, her curvaceous slim figure was easy to admire. My mind was set. I was going to get this girl in the sack. Finally the old lady in front of me finished paying for her groceries and now it was my turn. Walking up to the counter, I let out a slight grin while placing my items on the counter. She saw my grin and gave a polite smile back, returning my eye contact. *This is my chance.* Straightening my posture, I uttered the only pick up line that works. "Hi. What's your name?" "Sandy" she replied. *The game is on.* "Hi Sandy, my name is Erik and I think you're cute. So here's the situation. If we had met in a bar, I would seen you and would have come over and introduced myself, maybe bought you a drink too. We would have had a nice short conversation and then I would have been on my way. The next night, if you were there again, I would buy you another drink and we would end up a having a deeper more meaningful conversation about the meaning of life or love or something rather. I then would have asked you if we could organised a coffee date sometime soon. Nothing creepy or weird - mind you, just me, you, the cafe and two cups of decaff coffee. At first you would be hesitant, but I would win you over in the end. Finally agreeing to it, you would then give me your number, so that we could arrange the time & place more closer to the day." I paused momentarily, while seeing if she would try stop me from continuing. She looked startled, trying to retain and process the info-dump that I had just told her, but she said nothing. This was a good sign, so I continued. "Sadly, Sandy, we are not a bar and I only have until you finish scanning my groceries and then I'm gone. I won't be back for more groceries until two weeks from now and I'm not even guaranteed that you're going to be working on that very day either. Sooo, how about we skip the formalities and I just ask you plain out." I took a breath, then dived, pretty confident I wasn't going to crash and burn. "Sandy, would you like to have coffee with me this week?" I could see the mental discussion taking place in her mind, but honestly, against that flawless introduction and reasoning of mine, she never stood a chance. Her hands, finished with my groceries, moved over to the pad of paper and pen that lay next to the pricing screen. Picking them up, she wrote down her number and ripping off the paper from the pad, handed it to me, a large smile emerging on her face. "I'll see you around then, Erik. Sooner, hopefully, rather than later." Picking up my groceries in one hand and her number in the other, I walked out the store and couldn't help smiling. *That approach works every time.* Walking to my car, I unlocked it and hopped inside, dumping my groceries in the boot. A few seconds later I was on the road, driving through town, headed towards home. Passing the gas station, I took my eyes off the road to look at the sign, straining to see if gas prices had once again risen. And that was when I saw her. She was running along the pavement, past the gas station, earphones trailing down the sides of her face to the iPod strapped on her arm. As if on cue, she turned and looked at me. I don't know if time slowed down, I don't know how long we maintained eye contact. All I know was that she was the most beautiful thing I'd ever seen. Her long black wavy hair was blowing in the wind, her eyes dazzling and full of life. Her lips were red and moist and her nose small and cute. I could go on like this, detailing the beauty that I saw in every part of her body. *She is perfect.* However the moment ended unexpectedly as my car was violently smashed into the side by something. I found out later that while I was lost in the moment, my foot had remained on the accelerator, causing a car crash in the intersection up ahead. But as I was sitting there in my totaled car, the corners of my vision starting to fade into darkness, all I could think about was 'her'. And then my world went black.

Can be simple, long, complicated, or even about pancakes. Just write something about somebody who falls in love with someone else!

[WP] I feel like there is a lack of love on this subreddit. Write a Love Story!

Boy meets girl. Boy likes girl. Girl is indifferent to boy. Boy displays his physical strength. Girl yawns. Boy successfully debates other intellectuals. Girl leaves before the end of the debate. Boy writes girl a heartfelt and expressive poem. Girl gets uncomfortable at this excessive emotional display. Boy tells a very funny joke, with perfect timing. Girl laughs so hard the Mountain Dew she was drinking comes out of her nose. Boy starts telling another joke. Girl interrupts him by kissing him. Boy suddenly realizes the absurdity of the situation, and starts laughing uncontrollably while girl is still kissing him. Girl stops kissing boy, and asks why he's laughing. Boy tells girl they must be in a movie or a bad short story, because this is just too ridiculous. Girl laughs, then takes another sip of Mountain Dew. Boy kisses girl on the forehead. Girl is silent for a moment, then she asks what's next for them. Boy shrugs, the tells girl he's just happy they can finally be together. Girl smiles contentedly, and leans her head on boy, who puts an arm around her. Four and a half years later, boy and girl get abducted by aliens who perform gruesome biological and psychological experiments on them, but that's another story entirely.

How can you describe someone that changed your life forever. Changed the way you look at the world. Changed the way that you look at life. Changed the way you look at yourself. The short answer is, you can't. But nevertheless, I will try to give it justice and tell it the best I can. ~~~~ I stood there, my eyes undressing the lady behind the counter. *She's hot.* Even under her work uniform, her curvaceous slim figure was easy to admire. My mind was set. I was going to get this girl in the sack. Finally the old lady in front of me finished paying for her groceries and now it was my turn. Walking up to the counter, I let out a slight grin while placing my items on the counter. She saw my grin and gave a polite smile back, returning my eye contact. *This is my chance.* Straightening my posture, I uttered the only pick up line that works. "Hi. What's your name?" "Sandy" she replied. *The game is on.* "Hi Sandy, my name is Erik and I think you're cute. So here's the situation. If we had met in a bar, I would seen you and would have come over and introduced myself, maybe bought you a drink too. We would have had a nice short conversation and then I would have been on my way. The next night, if you were there again, I would buy you another drink and we would end up a having a deeper more meaningful conversation about the meaning of life or love or something rather. I then would have asked you if we could organised a coffee date sometime soon. Nothing creepy or weird - mind you, just me, you, the cafe and two cups of decaff coffee. At first you would be hesitant, but I would win you over in the end. Finally agreeing to it, you would then give me your number, so that we could arrange the time & place more closer to the day." I paused momentarily, while seeing if she would try stop me from continuing. She looked startled, trying to retain and process the info-dump that I had just told her, but she said nothing. This was a good sign, so I continued. "Sadly, Sandy, we are not a bar and I only have until you finish scanning my groceries and then I'm gone. I won't be back for more groceries until two weeks from now and I'm not even guaranteed that you're going to be working on that very day either. Sooo, how about we skip the formalities and I just ask you plain out." I took a breath, then dived, pretty confident I wasn't going to crash and burn. "Sandy, would you like to have coffee with me this week?" I could see the mental discussion taking place in her mind, but honestly, against that flawless introduction and reasoning of mine, she never stood a chance. Her hands, finished with my groceries, moved over to the pad of paper and pen that lay next to the pricing screen. Picking them up, she wrote down her number and ripping off the paper from the pad, handed it to me, a large smile emerging on her face. "I'll see you around then, Erik. Sooner, hopefully, rather than later." Picking up my groceries in one hand and her number in the other, I walked out the store and couldn't help smiling. *That approach works every time.* Walking to my car, I unlocked it and hopped inside, dumping my groceries in the boot. A few seconds later I was on the road, driving through town, headed towards home. Passing the gas station, I took my eyes off the road to look at the sign, straining to see if gas prices had once again risen. And that was when I saw her. She was running along the pavement, past the gas station, earphones trailing down the sides of her face to the iPod strapped on her arm. As if on cue, she turned and looked at me. I don't know if time slowed down, I don't know how long we maintained eye contact. All I know was that she was the most beautiful thing I'd ever seen. Her long black wavy hair was blowing in the wind, her eyes dazzling and full of life. Her lips were red and moist and her nose small and cute. I could go on like this, detailing the beauty that I saw in every part of her body. *She is perfect.* However the moment ended unexpectedly as my car was violently smashed into the side by something. I found out later that while I was lost in the moment, my foot had remained on the accelerator, causing a car crash in the intersection up ahead. But as I was sitting there in my totaled car, the corners of my vision starting to fade into darkness, all I could think about was 'her'. And then my world went black.

Can be simple, long, complicated, or even about pancakes. Just write something about somebody who falls in love with someone else!

[WP] I feel like there is a lack of love on this subreddit. Write a Love Story!

"Where are those pliers, dammit?" "By your left elbow." "Where?" "Over there." "Hmpf." This was the usual exchange they had, and quite a long one at that. Mostly, they just kept silent and kept out of each other's way. It was the winter, that's what it was - the thick snow that covered the house and the forest, the inescapable barrier that was soft and light, and yet as sharp and merciless as any sword. He berated himself for going through with it in winter, for forcing himself to stay at home with her and endure her presence. Had it been any other season, he'd be out there, everywhere, anywhere but here. She knew he felt that way, or at least she suspected. The dark look in his eyes when he'd enter the room and see her already there, sewing or darning or embroidering - because what else would she do? - when he realised he'd have to sit down next to her and spend hours upon hours in her presence. He'd throw down his tools on the table with exaggerated force, to fill the silence with the jingling of metal rings, the thud of leather scraps, the cacophony of... well, everything. She knew a bit about these things, but not much. It was male work. So they'd sit together, in silence, resenting the other one for intruding upon a peaceful day of manual work by the big fireplace. Little by little, they got used to it, though, and the other's presence was not as grating as it used to be. She found herself raising her eyes from the needlework, watching his hands wrestle with the leather or bend the metal into submission. It was hard work, but he never angered over it, he was always calm and collected. Once or twice, she noticed him look up from the table and glance at her, and she hid her face in her hair, shining in the firelight. It was an arranged marriage, she reminded herself, an affair of business meant to bring money to her impoverished parents. The man was a complete stranger, and he'd shown no intention of changing that. He wanted no closeness between them. And yet, even that fact had an underlying... gesture. She tore her eyes with some difficulty from his forearms and adjusted her dress, too warm to sit in front of the roaring fire. They have been married for some time now, and the marriage remained unconsummated. She would never share the thought with anyone, but she had a deep suspicion that it was out of... consideration. For her. That he didn't want to force her into something she didn't want. He found the pliers and attacked the metal plates with more ferocity than they called for. What was she thinking of? She just sat there, with a strange look in her eyes, and then, just as he was about to speak, she undid the laces of her dress and slid the neckline lower. He turned his head away quickly, trying to think of other things. She was a good housekeeper, she performed her duties satisfactorily, and that was what he had wanted, wasn't it? Well, that was certainly the plan. Reality has turned out to be more complicated, as it was wont to do. The metal was stubborn, the tools imprecise in his hands. He looked her way once more, and saw her frown over the hastily darned shirt. "Made a hash of it, did you?" "What? Oh... yes. I did. It's like the needle wants to spite me today." "Same here." With a strange, jerky movement, she stood up, fabric and threads sliding down her skirt to the floor. She approached him in three hasty strides, as if afraid he'd get away. "Then leave it," she said. She stood over him, chest heaving as if in effort. "Leave it, and..." "And what?" "Oh, I don't know! Just come sit by the fire with me. Relax." Now he stood up, still holding her gaze. She had to lift her head to look into his eyes, and he had to lower his. They stood there, in silence broken only by the crackling of the flame, and wondered if it was even possible. If it could happen that way. He raised his hand and, with fingers that could grasp a sword like they were iron themselves, with a hand that could rein in a rearing horse and yet now was trembling, tucked a strand of her hair behind her ear. She closed her eyes and leaned into his fingers. In the fireplace, the large log that was put in to keep the flames up all night, finally caught fire.

How can you describe someone that changed your life forever. Changed the way you look at the world. Changed the way that you look at life. Changed the way you look at yourself. The short answer is, you can't. But nevertheless, I will try to give it justice and tell it the best I can. ~~~~ I stood there, my eyes undressing the lady behind the counter. *She's hot.* Even under her work uniform, her curvaceous slim figure was easy to admire. My mind was set. I was going to get this girl in the sack. Finally the old lady in front of me finished paying for her groceries and now it was my turn. Walking up to the counter, I let out a slight grin while placing my items on the counter. She saw my grin and gave a polite smile back, returning my eye contact. *This is my chance.* Straightening my posture, I uttered the only pick up line that works. "Hi. What's your name?" "Sandy" she replied. *The game is on.* "Hi Sandy, my name is Erik and I think you're cute. So here's the situation. If we had met in a bar, I would seen you and would have come over and introduced myself, maybe bought you a drink too. We would have had a nice short conversation and then I would have been on my way. The next night, if you were there again, I would buy you another drink and we would end up a having a deeper more meaningful conversation about the meaning of life or love or something rather. I then would have asked you if we could organised a coffee date sometime soon. Nothing creepy or weird - mind you, just me, you, the cafe and two cups of decaff coffee. At first you would be hesitant, but I would win you over in the end. Finally agreeing to it, you would then give me your number, so that we could arrange the time & place more closer to the day." I paused momentarily, while seeing if she would try stop me from continuing. She looked startled, trying to retain and process the info-dump that I had just told her, but she said nothing. This was a good sign, so I continued. "Sadly, Sandy, we are not a bar and I only have until you finish scanning my groceries and then I'm gone. I won't be back for more groceries until two weeks from now and I'm not even guaranteed that you're going to be working on that very day either. Sooo, how about we skip the formalities and I just ask you plain out." I took a breath, then dived, pretty confident I wasn't going to crash and burn. "Sandy, would you like to have coffee with me this week?" I could see the mental discussion taking place in her mind, but honestly, against that flawless introduction and reasoning of mine, she never stood a chance. Her hands, finished with my groceries, moved over to the pad of paper and pen that lay next to the pricing screen. Picking them up, she wrote down her number and ripping off the paper from the pad, handed it to me, a large smile emerging on her face. "I'll see you around then, Erik. Sooner, hopefully, rather than later." Picking up my groceries in one hand and her number in the other, I walked out the store and couldn't help smiling. *That approach works every time.* Walking to my car, I unlocked it and hopped inside, dumping my groceries in the boot. A few seconds later I was on the road, driving through town, headed towards home. Passing the gas station, I took my eyes off the road to look at the sign, straining to see if gas prices had once again risen. And that was when I saw her. She was running along the pavement, past the gas station, earphones trailing down the sides of her face to the iPod strapped on her arm. As if on cue, she turned and looked at me. I don't know if time slowed down, I don't know how long we maintained eye contact. All I know was that she was the most beautiful thing I'd ever seen. Her long black wavy hair was blowing in the wind, her eyes dazzling and full of life. Her lips were red and moist and her nose small and cute. I could go on like this, detailing the beauty that I saw in every part of her body. *She is perfect.* However the moment ended unexpectedly as my car was violently smashed into the side by something. I found out later that while I was lost in the moment, my foot had remained on the accelerator, causing a car crash in the intersection up ahead. But as I was sitting there in my totaled car, the corners of my vision starting to fade into darkness, all I could think about was 'her'. And then my world went black.

Can be simple, long, complicated, or even about pancakes. Just write something about somebody who falls in love with someone else!

[WP] I feel like there is a lack of love on this subreddit. Write a Love Story!

I'm not sure if this is OK, but here is a Sci-fi love story I wrote a little while ago, I hope you like it: http://thisfutureorthenext.com/gwen/

How can you describe someone that changed your life forever. Changed the way you look at the world. Changed the way that you look at life. Changed the way you look at yourself. The short answer is, you can't. But nevertheless, I will try to give it justice and tell it the best I can. ~~~~ I stood there, my eyes undressing the lady behind the counter. *She's hot.* Even under her work uniform, her curvaceous slim figure was easy to admire. My mind was set. I was going to get this girl in the sack. Finally the old lady in front of me finished paying for her groceries and now it was my turn. Walking up to the counter, I let out a slight grin while placing my items on the counter. She saw my grin and gave a polite smile back, returning my eye contact. *This is my chance.* Straightening my posture, I uttered the only pick up line that works. "Hi. What's your name?" "Sandy" she replied. *The game is on.* "Hi Sandy, my name is Erik and I think you're cute. So here's the situation. If we had met in a bar, I would seen you and would have come over and introduced myself, maybe bought you a drink too. We would have had a nice short conversation and then I would have been on my way. The next night, if you were there again, I would buy you another drink and we would end up a having a deeper more meaningful conversation about the meaning of life or love or something rather. I then would have asked you if we could organised a coffee date sometime soon. Nothing creepy or weird - mind you, just me, you, the cafe and two cups of decaff coffee. At first you would be hesitant, but I would win you over in the end. Finally agreeing to it, you would then give me your number, so that we could arrange the time & place more closer to the day." I paused momentarily, while seeing if she would try stop me from continuing. She looked startled, trying to retain and process the info-dump that I had just told her, but she said nothing. This was a good sign, so I continued. "Sadly, Sandy, we are not a bar and I only have until you finish scanning my groceries and then I'm gone. I won't be back for more groceries until two weeks from now and I'm not even guaranteed that you're going to be working on that very day either. Sooo, how about we skip the formalities and I just ask you plain out." I took a breath, then dived, pretty confident I wasn't going to crash and burn. "Sandy, would you like to have coffee with me this week?" I could see the mental discussion taking place in her mind, but honestly, against that flawless introduction and reasoning of mine, she never stood a chance. Her hands, finished with my groceries, moved over to the pad of paper and pen that lay next to the pricing screen. Picking them up, she wrote down her number and ripping off the paper from the pad, handed it to me, a large smile emerging on her face. "I'll see you around then, Erik. Sooner, hopefully, rather than later." Picking up my groceries in one hand and her number in the other, I walked out the store and couldn't help smiling. *That approach works every time.* Walking to my car, I unlocked it and hopped inside, dumping my groceries in the boot. A few seconds later I was on the road, driving through town, headed towards home. Passing the gas station, I took my eyes off the road to look at the sign, straining to see if gas prices had once again risen. And that was when I saw her. She was running along the pavement, past the gas station, earphones trailing down the sides of her face to the iPod strapped on her arm. As if on cue, she turned and looked at me. I don't know if time slowed down, I don't know how long we maintained eye contact. All I know was that she was the most beautiful thing I'd ever seen. Her long black wavy hair was blowing in the wind, her eyes dazzling and full of life. Her lips were red and moist and her nose small and cute. I could go on like this, detailing the beauty that I saw in every part of her body. *She is perfect.* However the moment ended unexpectedly as my car was violently smashed into the side by something. I found out later that while I was lost in the moment, my foot had remained on the accelerator, causing a car crash in the intersection up ahead. But as I was sitting there in my totaled car, the corners of my vision starting to fade into darkness, all I could think about was 'her'. And then my world went black.

Can be simple, long, complicated, or even about pancakes. Just write something about somebody who falls in love with someone else!

[WP] I feel like there is a lack of love on this subreddit. Write a Love Story!

**Here's my attempt. I'm a little.. inexperienced in the love area, so this is probably going to read like fantasy** He was going to try and talk to her again today. He was terrible at flirting, he knew. What sounded charming in his head came out sounding weird and forced. If only he could talk the way he wrote. Writing came easy, every word lined up in his mind, free flowing and eloquent. Would that he could show her the way he felt, without being encumbered by his social skills. It was humbling. To be so at the mercy of the common conversation, when those around him chattered back and forth as if it were the most natural thing in the world. Nonetheless he resolved to talk to her. If he didn't, he would always regret it. He wasn't entirely sure how being in love was supposed to feel. This was new territory for him, and he suspected all the books and movies in the world could never make sense to him unless he felt it himself. But every time he saw the young lady behind the library checkout desk, there was this heart fluttering moment, where suddenly he was a boy again, and all coherent thought went out the window. All he wanted in that moment was to reach out his hand, to clasp hers in his and bring her gently to him, lips gently meeting as they let their passion unfurl in all its raw physical nature. He had selected his books already, but was gazing into the shelves, daydreaming. Where once he would have fought to control the fantasy, now he let it take him where his imagination willed. He sighed, as an elderly woman trundled by and brought him back to reality. It was now or never then. He picked up his books and made his way to the counter. The timing was right. She was alone. He dropped his books down, and managed a hello. She looked up from her computer screen. "Hello again" she said. "You certainly are a regular around here." "I like books" he said, and cringed as the phrase escaped. "So I see" she replied, giving him a smile. "The pocket idiots guide to getting girls. Hmm. A little different to your usual selection". "Oh.. I uh.. must have picked that up by accident." he said. He was aware, even as he said it, how implausible that seemed. It was the truth, but he didn't want to draw this out any longer than he had to. "I wouldn't have thought a young man like yourself would need any help. You seem to have caught the eye of several young ladies perusing our shelves." He paused, his face frozen in puzzlement as he digested this information. "Wait.. what? I have?" She laughed. "Well of course. How did you not notice? one of them was practically following you from aisle to aisle." She laughed again as she saw his look of bewilderment. "You really didn't notice, huh? Perhaps there's one particular woman in your life who holds all your attention, hmm? "Well.. there is someone. I mean a potential someone." "Ooh. Tell me. Is she cute? Does she make your heart go all a flutter?" He nodded in mute embarrassment. "She's.. beautiful. I must admit I find myself.. smitten." "Smitten? now there's a word you don't hear often. She must be quite the woman to warrant *smitten*" she said, clearly amused at his discomfort. "Yes. She is that." he replied. He decided to go for broke. "It's you" he blurted out, hastily. He studied her face, watching for a reaction. She appeared to be on the verge of saying something, her mouth opened and closed as if words were trying to escape. He began to panic as not a sound escaped her lips. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said that, you probably have a boyfriend and we were having a nice conversation and sometimes my mouth just blurts out things without my brain interjecting and I think that was the case this time. I'll go." He turned and marched out, not even bothering to pick up his books. He was going to have to find a new library now. "Wait" she called out from behind him. She hurried out from behind the desk and caught up to him, catching his hand. "I get off at 5. That is if you wanted to.. do something. A date I mean." His heart raced as he felt her gentle touch on his. "There's a concert in the park. It's the local symphony, they play movie themes. We could get a blanket and some food, and I know a great spot to sit." She looked into his eyes as she spoke, very aware that she still held his hand. She felt her pulse quicken quite of its own accord, and had the feint notion that she too, was a little smitten. "Ok." she said, still not letting go. "Ok then." he replied. "I'm probably going to need my hand back before I go". She glanced down and pulled her hand away, and started to move back to her desk. Two steps in, she stopped and spun around, reaching and reach out gently, turning his head. She stood on her tip toes and softly kissed his cheek, an electric feeling racing down her spine as she did so. He stared at her in amazement as she walked back to her desk. He felt on top of the world.

How can you describe someone that changed your life forever. Changed the way you look at the world. Changed the way that you look at life. Changed the way you look at yourself. The short answer is, you can't. But nevertheless, I will try to give it justice and tell it the best I can. ~~~~ I stood there, my eyes undressing the lady behind the counter. *She's hot.* Even under her work uniform, her curvaceous slim figure was easy to admire. My mind was set. I was going to get this girl in the sack. Finally the old lady in front of me finished paying for her groceries and now it was my turn. Walking up to the counter, I let out a slight grin while placing my items on the counter. She saw my grin and gave a polite smile back, returning my eye contact. *This is my chance.* Straightening my posture, I uttered the only pick up line that works. "Hi. What's your name?" "Sandy" she replied. *The game is on.* "Hi Sandy, my name is Erik and I think you're cute. So here's the situation. If we had met in a bar, I would seen you and would have come over and introduced myself, maybe bought you a drink too. We would have had a nice short conversation and then I would have been on my way. The next night, if you were there again, I would buy you another drink and we would end up a having a deeper more meaningful conversation about the meaning of life or love or something rather. I then would have asked you if we could organised a coffee date sometime soon. Nothing creepy or weird - mind you, just me, you, the cafe and two cups of decaff coffee. At first you would be hesitant, but I would win you over in the end. Finally agreeing to it, you would then give me your number, so that we could arrange the time & place more closer to the day." I paused momentarily, while seeing if she would try stop me from continuing. She looked startled, trying to retain and process the info-dump that I had just told her, but she said nothing. This was a good sign, so I continued. "Sadly, Sandy, we are not a bar and I only have until you finish scanning my groceries and then I'm gone. I won't be back for more groceries until two weeks from now and I'm not even guaranteed that you're going to be working on that very day either. Sooo, how about we skip the formalities and I just ask you plain out." I took a breath, then dived, pretty confident I wasn't going to crash and burn. "Sandy, would you like to have coffee with me this week?" I could see the mental discussion taking place in her mind, but honestly, against that flawless introduction and reasoning of mine, she never stood a chance. Her hands, finished with my groceries, moved over to the pad of paper and pen that lay next to the pricing screen. Picking them up, she wrote down her number and ripping off the paper from the pad, handed it to me, a large smile emerging on her face. "I'll see you around then, Erik. Sooner, hopefully, rather than later." Picking up my groceries in one hand and her number in the other, I walked out the store and couldn't help smiling. *That approach works every time.* Walking to my car, I unlocked it and hopped inside, dumping my groceries in the boot. A few seconds later I was on the road, driving through town, headed towards home. Passing the gas station, I took my eyes off the road to look at the sign, straining to see if gas prices had once again risen. And that was when I saw her. She was running along the pavement, past the gas station, earphones trailing down the sides of her face to the iPod strapped on her arm. As if on cue, she turned and looked at me. I don't know if time slowed down, I don't know how long we maintained eye contact. All I know was that she was the most beautiful thing I'd ever seen. Her long black wavy hair was blowing in the wind, her eyes dazzling and full of life. Her lips were red and moist and her nose small and cute. I could go on like this, detailing the beauty that I saw in every part of her body. *She is perfect.* However the moment ended unexpectedly as my car was violently smashed into the side by something. I found out later that while I was lost in the moment, my foot had remained on the accelerator, causing a car crash in the intersection up ahead. But as I was sitting there in my totaled car, the corners of my vision starting to fade into darkness, all I could think about was 'her'. And then my world went black.

Can be simple, long, complicated, or even about pancakes. Just write something about somebody who falls in love with someone else!

[WP] I feel like there is a lack of love on this subreddit. Write a Love Story!

"I didn't think I could ever be this happy" sighed Brick, gazing deep into the lamp's warm glow.

How can you describe someone that changed your life forever. Changed the way you look at the world. Changed the way that you look at life. Changed the way you look at yourself. The short answer is, you can't. But nevertheless, I will try to give it justice and tell it the best I can. ~~~~ I stood there, my eyes undressing the lady behind the counter. *She's hot.* Even under her work uniform, her curvaceous slim figure was easy to admire. My mind was set. I was going to get this girl in the sack. Finally the old lady in front of me finished paying for her groceries and now it was my turn. Walking up to the counter, I let out a slight grin while placing my items on the counter. She saw my grin and gave a polite smile back, returning my eye contact. *This is my chance.* Straightening my posture, I uttered the only pick up line that works. "Hi. What's your name?" "Sandy" she replied. *The game is on.* "Hi Sandy, my name is Erik and I think you're cute. So here's the situation. If we had met in a bar, I would seen you and would have come over and introduced myself, maybe bought you a drink too. We would have had a nice short conversation and then I would have been on my way. The next night, if you were there again, I would buy you another drink and we would end up a having a deeper more meaningful conversation about the meaning of life or love or something rather. I then would have asked you if we could organised a coffee date sometime soon. Nothing creepy or weird - mind you, just me, you, the cafe and two cups of decaff coffee. At first you would be hesitant, but I would win you over in the end. Finally agreeing to it, you would then give me your number, so that we could arrange the time & place more closer to the day." I paused momentarily, while seeing if she would try stop me from continuing. She looked startled, trying to retain and process the info-dump that I had just told her, but she said nothing. This was a good sign, so I continued. "Sadly, Sandy, we are not a bar and I only have until you finish scanning my groceries and then I'm gone. I won't be back for more groceries until two weeks from now and I'm not even guaranteed that you're going to be working on that very day either. Sooo, how about we skip the formalities and I just ask you plain out." I took a breath, then dived, pretty confident I wasn't going to crash and burn. "Sandy, would you like to have coffee with me this week?" I could see the mental discussion taking place in her mind, but honestly, against that flawless introduction and reasoning of mine, she never stood a chance. Her hands, finished with my groceries, moved over to the pad of paper and pen that lay next to the pricing screen. Picking them up, she wrote down her number and ripping off the paper from the pad, handed it to me, a large smile emerging on her face. "I'll see you around then, Erik. Sooner, hopefully, rather than later." Picking up my groceries in one hand and her number in the other, I walked out the store and couldn't help smiling. *That approach works every time.* Walking to my car, I unlocked it and hopped inside, dumping my groceries in the boot. A few seconds later I was on the road, driving through town, headed towards home. Passing the gas station, I took my eyes off the road to look at the sign, straining to see if gas prices had once again risen. And that was when I saw her. She was running along the pavement, past the gas station, earphones trailing down the sides of her face to the iPod strapped on her arm. As if on cue, she turned and looked at me. I don't know if time slowed down, I don't know how long we maintained eye contact. All I know was that she was the most beautiful thing I'd ever seen. Her long black wavy hair was blowing in the wind, her eyes dazzling and full of life. Her lips were red and moist and her nose small and cute. I could go on like this, detailing the beauty that I saw in every part of her body. *She is perfect.* However the moment ended unexpectedly as my car was violently smashed into the side by something. I found out later that while I was lost in the moment, my foot had remained on the accelerator, causing a car crash in the intersection up ahead. But as I was sitting there in my totaled car, the corners of my vision starting to fade into darkness, all I could think about was 'her'. And then my world went black.

Can be simple, long, complicated, or even about pancakes. Just write something about somebody who falls in love with someone else!

[WP] I feel like there is a lack of love on this subreddit. Write a Love Story!

Boy meets girl. Boy likes girl. Girl is indifferent to boy. Boy displays his physical strength. Girl yawns. Boy successfully debates other intellectuals. Girl leaves before the end of the debate. Boy writes girl a heartfelt and expressive poem. Girl gets uncomfortable at this excessive emotional display. Boy tells a very funny joke, with perfect timing. Girl laughs so hard the Mountain Dew she was drinking comes out of her nose. Boy starts telling another joke. Girl interrupts him by kissing him. Boy suddenly realizes the absurdity of the situation, and starts laughing uncontrollably while girl is still kissing him. Girl stops kissing boy, and asks why he's laughing. Boy tells girl they must be in a movie or a bad short story, because this is just too ridiculous. Girl laughs, then takes another sip of Mountain Dew. Boy kisses girl on the forehead. Girl is silent for a moment, then she asks what's next for them. Boy shrugs, the tells girl he's just happy they can finally be together. Girl smiles contentedly, and leans her head on boy, who puts an arm around her. Four and a half years later, boy and girl get abducted by aliens who perform gruesome biological and psychological experiments on them, but that's another story entirely.

"Hello again." She whispered to my ear. "Stop that! One day you're gonna do that to some stranger and it will look awkward as hell." "Yeah, well that guy over there liked it. I can tell." This is Mary. She hangs out often here in Central Cemetery. I don't know the reason why or how she finds the time to be here always. I never asked her. After all, we were just strangers to each other up until a week ago. "So Rob, how is she?" "She's still inside my head. Can't stop thinking about her, you know?" "That's just so sad. You'll miss her forever if you don't stop coming here five times a week." "I guess I'll miss her forever then... I can't just forget about her! She's been with me all my life. She's always been there for me... I just can't accept it! Did you know I'm not there when she died? I didn't even know she was dying!" "Hey, I'm not saying forget her... Just..." At that time I was looking at her face. Seeing her sad face makes me think that I'm not the only one who wants to get over it. She's trying harder than I am, to forget the feeling of being left alone. And here I am being inconsiderate of someone who just wants to help me go through what she did. *I'm a jerk.* "I... I'm sorry. I'm sorry I raised my voice. I know you're just trying to help." I forced myself to smile, to give comfort. A smile for comfort, I laugh at myself. I offered my handkerchief cause she was about to cry. As I looked at her more, I noticed it. She has been crying... A lot. I still see her at the cemetery after that day. We talked when we got the chance. She asks a lot of questions about me, about what I do, about my life. One day, I asked about the one she's here for.She told me he's a childhood friend. They have always been together. She said he was the only one she ever loved. She even said she was sure he was her soul mate. But he never knew. It's weird that here is the only place we meet. Although we live in a fairly small city, I never see her outside of this cemetery. I see her differently after she told me about him. I felt that I should do something. Something to save her from the shackles of her past. "Mary." "Yeah, what's up Rob?" "Wanna go to dinner with me?" "I would have to check my schedule. I'm a very busy girl." "No, seriously. I really would love to have dinner with you. Outside here, for a change." "Sure... Of course. I'd love to." Of the times I've seen her smile, This was the most genuine. "Let's go." "Rob, wouldn't you say goodbye?" "Oh..." As I walked to the grave stone, I felt it was different this time. I was happy. "Hey, this may be the last time I'm gonna visit this often. I know you'll be happy for me. Goodbye, Mom."

Can be simple, long, complicated, or even about pancakes. Just write something about somebody who falls in love with someone else!

[WP] I feel like there is a lack of love on this subreddit. Write a Love Story!

Boy meets girl. Boy likes girl. Girl is indifferent to boy. Boy displays his physical strength. Girl yawns. Boy successfully debates other intellectuals. Girl leaves before the end of the debate. Boy writes girl a heartfelt and expressive poem. Girl gets uncomfortable at this excessive emotional display. Boy tells a very funny joke, with perfect timing. Girl laughs so hard the Mountain Dew she was drinking comes out of her nose. Boy starts telling another joke. Girl interrupts him by kissing him. Boy suddenly realizes the absurdity of the situation, and starts laughing uncontrollably while girl is still kissing him. Girl stops kissing boy, and asks why he's laughing. Boy tells girl they must be in a movie or a bad short story, because this is just too ridiculous. Girl laughs, then takes another sip of Mountain Dew. Boy kisses girl on the forehead. Girl is silent for a moment, then she asks what's next for them. Boy shrugs, the tells girl he's just happy they can finally be together. Girl smiles contentedly, and leans her head on boy, who puts an arm around her. Four and a half years later, boy and girl get abducted by aliens who perform gruesome biological and psychological experiments on them, but that's another story entirely.

It seemed like forever that I had been waiting for Dan, when we first met I'd been a little on the skinny side, but two years on in our relationship and I was a bit rounder at the waist, good food and companionship will do that. Dan hadn't changed much though, he still got me excited whenever he walked in from work and nothing made my night more complete than snuggling on the sofa, spending time together. I looked out the window impatiently, pacing back and forth as the street lights went on early in the winter nights, he must be coming soon, I fretted about him but tried to occupy myself while I waited, I had a drink and nudged the cat to see if she was awake as she stretched out on my bed, killing time until I heard Dan's key turning in the lock at last. "Hey Buddy, did you miss me? Who's a good boy, huh? Yeah I missed you too, hey big fella, gimme your paw!"

Can be simple, long, complicated, or even about pancakes. Just write something about somebody who falls in love with someone else!

[WP] I feel like there is a lack of love on this subreddit. Write a Love Story!

"Where are those pliers, dammit?" "By your left elbow." "Where?" "Over there." "Hmpf." This was the usual exchange they had, and quite a long one at that. Mostly, they just kept silent and kept out of each other's way. It was the winter, that's what it was - the thick snow that covered the house and the forest, the inescapable barrier that was soft and light, and yet as sharp and merciless as any sword. He berated himself for going through with it in winter, for forcing himself to stay at home with her and endure her presence. Had it been any other season, he'd be out there, everywhere, anywhere but here. She knew he felt that way, or at least she suspected. The dark look in his eyes when he'd enter the room and see her already there, sewing or darning or embroidering - because what else would she do? - when he realised he'd have to sit down next to her and spend hours upon hours in her presence. He'd throw down his tools on the table with exaggerated force, to fill the silence with the jingling of metal rings, the thud of leather scraps, the cacophony of... well, everything. She knew a bit about these things, but not much. It was male work. So they'd sit together, in silence, resenting the other one for intruding upon a peaceful day of manual work by the big fireplace. Little by little, they got used to it, though, and the other's presence was not as grating as it used to be. She found herself raising her eyes from the needlework, watching his hands wrestle with the leather or bend the metal into submission. It was hard work, but he never angered over it, he was always calm and collected. Once or twice, she noticed him look up from the table and glance at her, and she hid her face in her hair, shining in the firelight. It was an arranged marriage, she reminded herself, an affair of business meant to bring money to her impoverished parents. The man was a complete stranger, and he'd shown no intention of changing that. He wanted no closeness between them. And yet, even that fact had an underlying... gesture. She tore her eyes with some difficulty from his forearms and adjusted her dress, too warm to sit in front of the roaring fire. They have been married for some time now, and the marriage remained unconsummated. She would never share the thought with anyone, but she had a deep suspicion that it was out of... consideration. For her. That he didn't want to force her into something she didn't want. He found the pliers and attacked the metal plates with more ferocity than they called for. What was she thinking of? She just sat there, with a strange look in her eyes, and then, just as he was about to speak, she undid the laces of her dress and slid the neckline lower. He turned his head away quickly, trying to think of other things. She was a good housekeeper, she performed her duties satisfactorily, and that was what he had wanted, wasn't it? Well, that was certainly the plan. Reality has turned out to be more complicated, as it was wont to do. The metal was stubborn, the tools imprecise in his hands. He looked her way once more, and saw her frown over the hastily darned shirt. "Made a hash of it, did you?" "What? Oh... yes. I did. It's like the needle wants to spite me today." "Same here." With a strange, jerky movement, she stood up, fabric and threads sliding down her skirt to the floor. She approached him in three hasty strides, as if afraid he'd get away. "Then leave it," she said. She stood over him, chest heaving as if in effort. "Leave it, and..." "And what?" "Oh, I don't know! Just come sit by the fire with me. Relax." Now he stood up, still holding her gaze. She had to lift her head to look into his eyes, and he had to lower his. They stood there, in silence broken only by the crackling of the flame, and wondered if it was even possible. If it could happen that way. He raised his hand and, with fingers that could grasp a sword like they were iron themselves, with a hand that could rein in a rearing horse and yet now was trembling, tucked a strand of her hair behind her ear. She closed her eyes and leaned into his fingers. In the fireplace, the large log that was put in to keep the flames up all night, finally caught fire.

He stood and let the water bead up and crash miniature bombs at his feet. In his mind there she is, standing by the window. The soft sunlight falling through the window, allowing little dust particles to be seen floating around her. She blinks slowly at him, her mouth opens slightly. He brings his hand to his neck and inhales sharply. Shaking his head "I'm so hungover" he thinks. But still, her body, propped up on the table with legs crossed demands him to let her mack into his thoughts. Her soft lips shape the slightest smile and he is lost. "Grass smells weird at night-time" Jessica whispers in his ear. "I think it was just cut today" smiling at her random remark "Things tend to smell weird after being cut." They were laid out beneath the stars on that open campus field, Jessica resting on him with her head and one hand on his chest. Above them spun the beauty of the galaxies and stars, forever swirling into infinity, shedding light upon their midnight getaway. "Did you know that it's very possible our universe is taking place inside a black-hole of another univer-" "What if its true that humans once had two heads, four arms, and four feet? And were so powerful that the universe had to split us in half so that we want nothing more but to find our other half?" she looked up at him. "Could you be my other ha-" The mirror in front of him is foggy from his hot shower. Little water droplets were still stuck all over his body. He grabbed the towel, but still stood standing in the cold bathroom air. "Do you know what eskimo kisses are?" "No" She moved up closer to his face and touched her nose on his. Wrapped in a bathrobe he thought about how lucky her boyfriend must be, and how shitty it is being the other-man. "Seriously, fuck that dude."

Can be simple, long, complicated, or even about pancakes. Just write something about somebody who falls in love with someone else!

[WP] I feel like there is a lack of love on this subreddit. Write a Love Story!

I'm not sure if this is OK, but here is a Sci-fi love story I wrote a little while ago, I hope you like it: http://thisfutureorthenext.com/gwen/

He stood and let the water bead up and crash miniature bombs at his feet. In his mind there she is, standing by the window. The soft sunlight falling through the window, allowing little dust particles to be seen floating around her. She blinks slowly at him, her mouth opens slightly. He brings his hand to his neck and inhales sharply. Shaking his head "I'm so hungover" he thinks. But still, her body, propped up on the table with legs crossed demands him to let her mack into his thoughts. Her soft lips shape the slightest smile and he is lost. "Grass smells weird at night-time" Jessica whispers in his ear. "I think it was just cut today" smiling at her random remark "Things tend to smell weird after being cut." They were laid out beneath the stars on that open campus field, Jessica resting on him with her head and one hand on his chest. Above them spun the beauty of the galaxies and stars, forever swirling into infinity, shedding light upon their midnight getaway. "Did you know that it's very possible our universe is taking place inside a black-hole of another univer-" "What if its true that humans once had two heads, four arms, and four feet? And were so powerful that the universe had to split us in half so that we want nothing more but to find our other half?" she looked up at him. "Could you be my other ha-" The mirror in front of him is foggy from his hot shower. Little water droplets were still stuck all over his body. He grabbed the towel, but still stood standing in the cold bathroom air. "Do you know what eskimo kisses are?" "No" She moved up closer to his face and touched her nose on his. Wrapped in a bathrobe he thought about how lucky her boyfriend must be, and how shitty it is being the other-man. "Seriously, fuck that dude."

Can be simple, long, complicated, or even about pancakes. Just write something about somebody who falls in love with someone else!

[WP] I feel like there is a lack of love on this subreddit. Write a Love Story!

**Here's my attempt. I'm a little.. inexperienced in the love area, so this is probably going to read like fantasy** He was going to try and talk to her again today. He was terrible at flirting, he knew. What sounded charming in his head came out sounding weird and forced. If only he could talk the way he wrote. Writing came easy, every word lined up in his mind, free flowing and eloquent. Would that he could show her the way he felt, without being encumbered by his social skills. It was humbling. To be so at the mercy of the common conversation, when those around him chattered back and forth as if it were the most natural thing in the world. Nonetheless he resolved to talk to her. If he didn't, he would always regret it. He wasn't entirely sure how being in love was supposed to feel. This was new territory for him, and he suspected all the books and movies in the world could never make sense to him unless he felt it himself. But every time he saw the young lady behind the library checkout desk, there was this heart fluttering moment, where suddenly he was a boy again, and all coherent thought went out the window. All he wanted in that moment was to reach out his hand, to clasp hers in his and bring her gently to him, lips gently meeting as they let their passion unfurl in all its raw physical nature. He had selected his books already, but was gazing into the shelves, daydreaming. Where once he would have fought to control the fantasy, now he let it take him where his imagination willed. He sighed, as an elderly woman trundled by and brought him back to reality. It was now or never then. He picked up his books and made his way to the counter. The timing was right. She was alone. He dropped his books down, and managed a hello. She looked up from her computer screen. "Hello again" she said. "You certainly are a regular around here." "I like books" he said, and cringed as the phrase escaped. "So I see" she replied, giving him a smile. "The pocket idiots guide to getting girls. Hmm. A little different to your usual selection". "Oh.. I uh.. must have picked that up by accident." he said. He was aware, even as he said it, how implausible that seemed. It was the truth, but he didn't want to draw this out any longer than he had to. "I wouldn't have thought a young man like yourself would need any help. You seem to have caught the eye of several young ladies perusing our shelves." He paused, his face frozen in puzzlement as he digested this information. "Wait.. what? I have?" She laughed. "Well of course. How did you not notice? one of them was practically following you from aisle to aisle." She laughed again as she saw his look of bewilderment. "You really didn't notice, huh? Perhaps there's one particular woman in your life who holds all your attention, hmm? "Well.. there is someone. I mean a potential someone." "Ooh. Tell me. Is she cute? Does she make your heart go all a flutter?" He nodded in mute embarrassment. "She's.. beautiful. I must admit I find myself.. smitten." "Smitten? now there's a word you don't hear often. She must be quite the woman to warrant *smitten*" she said, clearly amused at his discomfort. "Yes. She is that." he replied. He decided to go for broke. "It's you" he blurted out, hastily. He studied her face, watching for a reaction. She appeared to be on the verge of saying something, her mouth opened and closed as if words were trying to escape. He began to panic as not a sound escaped her lips. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said that, you probably have a boyfriend and we were having a nice conversation and sometimes my mouth just blurts out things without my brain interjecting and I think that was the case this time. I'll go." He turned and marched out, not even bothering to pick up his books. He was going to have to find a new library now. "Wait" she called out from behind him. She hurried out from behind the desk and caught up to him, catching his hand. "I get off at 5. That is if you wanted to.. do something. A date I mean." His heart raced as he felt her gentle touch on his. "There's a concert in the park. It's the local symphony, they play movie themes. We could get a blanket and some food, and I know a great spot to sit." She looked into his eyes as she spoke, very aware that she still held his hand. She felt her pulse quicken quite of its own accord, and had the feint notion that she too, was a little smitten. "Ok." she said, still not letting go. "Ok then." he replied. "I'm probably going to need my hand back before I go". She glanced down and pulled her hand away, and started to move back to her desk. Two steps in, she stopped and spun around, reaching and reach out gently, turning his head. She stood on her tip toes and softly kissed his cheek, an electric feeling racing down her spine as she did so. He stared at her in amazement as she walked back to her desk. He felt on top of the world.

He stood and let the water bead up and crash miniature bombs at his feet. In his mind there she is, standing by the window. The soft sunlight falling through the window, allowing little dust particles to be seen floating around her. She blinks slowly at him, her mouth opens slightly. He brings his hand to his neck and inhales sharply. Shaking his head "I'm so hungover" he thinks. But still, her body, propped up on the table with legs crossed demands him to let her mack into his thoughts. Her soft lips shape the slightest smile and he is lost. "Grass smells weird at night-time" Jessica whispers in his ear. "I think it was just cut today" smiling at her random remark "Things tend to smell weird after being cut." They were laid out beneath the stars on that open campus field, Jessica resting on him with her head and one hand on his chest. Above them spun the beauty of the galaxies and stars, forever swirling into infinity, shedding light upon their midnight getaway. "Did you know that it's very possible our universe is taking place inside a black-hole of another univer-" "What if its true that humans once had two heads, four arms, and four feet? And were so powerful that the universe had to split us in half so that we want nothing more but to find our other half?" she looked up at him. "Could you be my other ha-" The mirror in front of him is foggy from his hot shower. Little water droplets were still stuck all over his body. He grabbed the towel, but still stood standing in the cold bathroom air. "Do you know what eskimo kisses are?" "No" She moved up closer to his face and touched her nose on his. Wrapped in a bathrobe he thought about how lucky her boyfriend must be, and how shitty it is being the other-man. "Seriously, fuck that dude."

Can be simple, long, complicated, or even about pancakes. Just write something about somebody who falls in love with someone else!

[WP] I feel like there is a lack of love on this subreddit. Write a Love Story!

"I didn't think I could ever be this happy" sighed Brick, gazing deep into the lamp's warm glow.

He stood and let the water bead up and crash miniature bombs at his feet. In his mind there she is, standing by the window. The soft sunlight falling through the window, allowing little dust particles to be seen floating around her. She blinks slowly at him, her mouth opens slightly. He brings his hand to his neck and inhales sharply. Shaking his head "I'm so hungover" he thinks. But still, her body, propped up on the table with legs crossed demands him to let her mack into his thoughts. Her soft lips shape the slightest smile and he is lost. "Grass smells weird at night-time" Jessica whispers in his ear. "I think it was just cut today" smiling at her random remark "Things tend to smell weird after being cut." They were laid out beneath the stars on that open campus field, Jessica resting on him with her head and one hand on his chest. Above them spun the beauty of the galaxies and stars, forever swirling into infinity, shedding light upon their midnight getaway. "Did you know that it's very possible our universe is taking place inside a black-hole of another univer-" "What if its true that humans once had two heads, four arms, and four feet? And were so powerful that the universe had to split us in half so that we want nothing more but to find our other half?" she looked up at him. "Could you be my other ha-" The mirror in front of him is foggy from his hot shower. Little water droplets were still stuck all over his body. He grabbed the towel, but still stood standing in the cold bathroom air. "Do you know what eskimo kisses are?" "No" She moved up closer to his face and touched her nose on his. Wrapped in a bathrobe he thought about how lucky her boyfriend must be, and how shitty it is being the other-man. "Seriously, fuck that dude."

Can be simple, long, complicated, or even about pancakes. Just write something about somebody who falls in love with someone else!

[WP] I feel like there is a lack of love on this subreddit. Write a Love Story!

**Here's my attempt. I'm a little.. inexperienced in the love area, so this is probably going to read like fantasy** He was going to try and talk to her again today. He was terrible at flirting, he knew. What sounded charming in his head came out sounding weird and forced. If only he could talk the way he wrote. Writing came easy, every word lined up in his mind, free flowing and eloquent. Would that he could show her the way he felt, without being encumbered by his social skills. It was humbling. To be so at the mercy of the common conversation, when those around him chattered back and forth as if it were the most natural thing in the world. Nonetheless he resolved to talk to her. If he didn't, he would always regret it. He wasn't entirely sure how being in love was supposed to feel. This was new territory for him, and he suspected all the books and movies in the world could never make sense to him unless he felt it himself. But every time he saw the young lady behind the library checkout desk, there was this heart fluttering moment, where suddenly he was a boy again, and all coherent thought went out the window. All he wanted in that moment was to reach out his hand, to clasp hers in his and bring her gently to him, lips gently meeting as they let their passion unfurl in all its raw physical nature. He had selected his books already, but was gazing into the shelves, daydreaming. Where once he would have fought to control the fantasy, now he let it take him where his imagination willed. He sighed, as an elderly woman trundled by and brought him back to reality. It was now or never then. He picked up his books and made his way to the counter. The timing was right. She was alone. He dropped his books down, and managed a hello. She looked up from her computer screen. "Hello again" she said. "You certainly are a regular around here." "I like books" he said, and cringed as the phrase escaped. "So I see" she replied, giving him a smile. "The pocket idiots guide to getting girls. Hmm. A little different to your usual selection". "Oh.. I uh.. must have picked that up by accident." he said. He was aware, even as he said it, how implausible that seemed. It was the truth, but he didn't want to draw this out any longer than he had to. "I wouldn't have thought a young man like yourself would need any help. You seem to have caught the eye of several young ladies perusing our shelves." He paused, his face frozen in puzzlement as he digested this information. "Wait.. what? I have?" She laughed. "Well of course. How did you not notice? one of them was practically following you from aisle to aisle." She laughed again as she saw his look of bewilderment. "You really didn't notice, huh? Perhaps there's one particular woman in your life who holds all your attention, hmm? "Well.. there is someone. I mean a potential someone." "Ooh. Tell me. Is she cute? Does she make your heart go all a flutter?" He nodded in mute embarrassment. "She's.. beautiful. I must admit I find myself.. smitten." "Smitten? now there's a word you don't hear often. She must be quite the woman to warrant *smitten*" she said, clearly amused at his discomfort. "Yes. She is that." he replied. He decided to go for broke. "It's you" he blurted out, hastily. He studied her face, watching for a reaction. She appeared to be on the verge of saying something, her mouth opened and closed as if words were trying to escape. He began to panic as not a sound escaped her lips. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said that, you probably have a boyfriend and we were having a nice conversation and sometimes my mouth just blurts out things without my brain interjecting and I think that was the case this time. I'll go." He turned and marched out, not even bothering to pick up his books. He was going to have to find a new library now. "Wait" she called out from behind him. She hurried out from behind the desk and caught up to him, catching his hand. "I get off at 5. That is if you wanted to.. do something. A date I mean." His heart raced as he felt her gentle touch on his. "There's a concert in the park. It's the local symphony, they play movie themes. We could get a blanket and some food, and I know a great spot to sit." She looked into his eyes as she spoke, very aware that she still held his hand. She felt her pulse quicken quite of its own accord, and had the feint notion that she too, was a little smitten. "Ok." she said, still not letting go. "Ok then." he replied. "I'm probably going to need my hand back before I go". She glanced down and pulled her hand away, and started to move back to her desk. Two steps in, she stopped and spun around, reaching and reach out gently, turning his head. She stood on her tip toes and softly kissed his cheek, an electric feeling racing down her spine as she did so. He stared at her in amazement as she walked back to her desk. He felt on top of the world.

I actually finished this a couple days ago for myself, but I thought, since it fits the prompt, I might as well share it. Feel free to downvote me if it doesn't belong though, I don't know if I'm allowed to share already-written stories. It's a bit long, so I've posted the link to my blog for it. If someone needs me to copy and paste because they're at work or whatever, just ask :) http://inevertookwriterscraft.tumblr.com/post/64179445831/she-rummaged-through-her-dresser-a-kids-sized

Can be simple, long, complicated, or even about pancakes. Just write something about somebody who falls in love with someone else!

[WP] I feel like there is a lack of love on this subreddit. Write a Love Story!

**Here's my attempt. I'm a little.. inexperienced in the love area, so this is probably going to read like fantasy** He was going to try and talk to her again today. He was terrible at flirting, he knew. What sounded charming in his head came out sounding weird and forced. If only he could talk the way he wrote. Writing came easy, every word lined up in his mind, free flowing and eloquent. Would that he could show her the way he felt, without being encumbered by his social skills. It was humbling. To be so at the mercy of the common conversation, when those around him chattered back and forth as if it were the most natural thing in the world. Nonetheless he resolved to talk to her. If he didn't, he would always regret it. He wasn't entirely sure how being in love was supposed to feel. This was new territory for him, and he suspected all the books and movies in the world could never make sense to him unless he felt it himself. But every time he saw the young lady behind the library checkout desk, there was this heart fluttering moment, where suddenly he was a boy again, and all coherent thought went out the window. All he wanted in that moment was to reach out his hand, to clasp hers in his and bring her gently to him, lips gently meeting as they let their passion unfurl in all its raw physical nature. He had selected his books already, but was gazing into the shelves, daydreaming. Where once he would have fought to control the fantasy, now he let it take him where his imagination willed. He sighed, as an elderly woman trundled by and brought him back to reality. It was now or never then. He picked up his books and made his way to the counter. The timing was right. She was alone. He dropped his books down, and managed a hello. She looked up from her computer screen. "Hello again" she said. "You certainly are a regular around here." "I like books" he said, and cringed as the phrase escaped. "So I see" she replied, giving him a smile. "The pocket idiots guide to getting girls. Hmm. A little different to your usual selection". "Oh.. I uh.. must have picked that up by accident." he said. He was aware, even as he said it, how implausible that seemed. It was the truth, but he didn't want to draw this out any longer than he had to. "I wouldn't have thought a young man like yourself would need any help. You seem to have caught the eye of several young ladies perusing our shelves." He paused, his face frozen in puzzlement as he digested this information. "Wait.. what? I have?" She laughed. "Well of course. How did you not notice? one of them was practically following you from aisle to aisle." She laughed again as she saw his look of bewilderment. "You really didn't notice, huh? Perhaps there's one particular woman in your life who holds all your attention, hmm? "Well.. there is someone. I mean a potential someone." "Ooh. Tell me. Is she cute? Does she make your heart go all a flutter?" He nodded in mute embarrassment. "She's.. beautiful. I must admit I find myself.. smitten." "Smitten? now there's a word you don't hear often. She must be quite the woman to warrant *smitten*" she said, clearly amused at his discomfort. "Yes. She is that." he replied. He decided to go for broke. "It's you" he blurted out, hastily. He studied her face, watching for a reaction. She appeared to be on the verge of saying something, her mouth opened and closed as if words were trying to escape. He began to panic as not a sound escaped her lips. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said that, you probably have a boyfriend and we were having a nice conversation and sometimes my mouth just blurts out things without my brain interjecting and I think that was the case this time. I'll go." He turned and marched out, not even bothering to pick up his books. He was going to have to find a new library now. "Wait" she called out from behind him. She hurried out from behind the desk and caught up to him, catching his hand. "I get off at 5. That is if you wanted to.. do something. A date I mean." His heart raced as he felt her gentle touch on his. "There's a concert in the park. It's the local symphony, they play movie themes. We could get a blanket and some food, and I know a great spot to sit." She looked into his eyes as she spoke, very aware that she still held his hand. She felt her pulse quicken quite of its own accord, and had the feint notion that she too, was a little smitten. "Ok." she said, still not letting go. "Ok then." he replied. "I'm probably going to need my hand back before I go". She glanced down and pulled her hand away, and started to move back to her desk. Two steps in, she stopped and spun around, reaching and reach out gently, turning his head. She stood on her tip toes and softly kissed his cheek, an electric feeling racing down her spine as she did so. He stared at her in amazement as she walked back to her desk. He felt on top of the world.

"Where are those pliers, dammit?" "By your left elbow." "Where?" "Over there." "Hmpf." This was the usual exchange they had, and quite a long one at that. Mostly, they just kept silent and kept out of each other's way. It was the winter, that's what it was - the thick snow that covered the house and the forest, the inescapable barrier that was soft and light, and yet as sharp and merciless as any sword. He berated himself for going through with it in winter, for forcing himself to stay at home with her and endure her presence. Had it been any other season, he'd be out there, everywhere, anywhere but here. She knew he felt that way, or at least she suspected. The dark look in his eyes when he'd enter the room and see her already there, sewing or darning or embroidering - because what else would she do? - when he realised he'd have to sit down next to her and spend hours upon hours in her presence. He'd throw down his tools on the table with exaggerated force, to fill the silence with the jingling of metal rings, the thud of leather scraps, the cacophony of... well, everything. She knew a bit about these things, but not much. It was male work. So they'd sit together, in silence, resenting the other one for intruding upon a peaceful day of manual work by the big fireplace. Little by little, they got used to it, though, and the other's presence was not as grating as it used to be. She found herself raising her eyes from the needlework, watching his hands wrestle with the leather or bend the metal into submission. It was hard work, but he never angered over it, he was always calm and collected. Once or twice, she noticed him look up from the table and glance at her, and she hid her face in her hair, shining in the firelight. It was an arranged marriage, she reminded herself, an affair of business meant to bring money to her impoverished parents. The man was a complete stranger, and he'd shown no intention of changing that. He wanted no closeness between them. And yet, even that fact had an underlying... gesture. She tore her eyes with some difficulty from his forearms and adjusted her dress, too warm to sit in front of the roaring fire. They have been married for some time now, and the marriage remained unconsummated. She would never share the thought with anyone, but she had a deep suspicion that it was out of... consideration. For her. That he didn't want to force her into something she didn't want. He found the pliers and attacked the metal plates with more ferocity than they called for. What was she thinking of? She just sat there, with a strange look in her eyes, and then, just as he was about to speak, she undid the laces of her dress and slid the neckline lower. He turned his head away quickly, trying to think of other things. She was a good housekeeper, she performed her duties satisfactorily, and that was what he had wanted, wasn't it? Well, that was certainly the plan. Reality has turned out to be more complicated, as it was wont to do. The metal was stubborn, the tools imprecise in his hands. He looked her way once more, and saw her frown over the hastily darned shirt. "Made a hash of it, did you?" "What? Oh... yes. I did. It's like the needle wants to spite me today." "Same here." With a strange, jerky movement, she stood up, fabric and threads sliding down her skirt to the floor. She approached him in three hasty strides, as if afraid he'd get away. "Then leave it," she said. She stood over him, chest heaving as if in effort. "Leave it, and..." "And what?" "Oh, I don't know! Just come sit by the fire with me. Relax." Now he stood up, still holding her gaze. She had to lift her head to look into his eyes, and he had to lower his. They stood there, in silence broken only by the crackling of the flame, and wondered if it was even possible. If it could happen that way. He raised his hand and, with fingers that could grasp a sword like they were iron themselves, with a hand that could rein in a rearing horse and yet now was trembling, tucked a strand of her hair behind her ear. She closed her eyes and leaned into his fingers. In the fireplace, the large log that was put in to keep the flames up all night, finally caught fire.

Can be simple, long, complicated, or even about pancakes. Just write something about somebody who falls in love with someone else!

[WP] I feel like there is a lack of love on this subreddit. Write a Love Story!

**Here's my attempt. I'm a little.. inexperienced in the love area, so this is probably going to read like fantasy** He was going to try and talk to her again today. He was terrible at flirting, he knew. What sounded charming in his head came out sounding weird and forced. If only he could talk the way he wrote. Writing came easy, every word lined up in his mind, free flowing and eloquent. Would that he could show her the way he felt, without being encumbered by his social skills. It was humbling. To be so at the mercy of the common conversation, when those around him chattered back and forth as if it were the most natural thing in the world. Nonetheless he resolved to talk to her. If he didn't, he would always regret it. He wasn't entirely sure how being in love was supposed to feel. This was new territory for him, and he suspected all the books and movies in the world could never make sense to him unless he felt it himself. But every time he saw the young lady behind the library checkout desk, there was this heart fluttering moment, where suddenly he was a boy again, and all coherent thought went out the window. All he wanted in that moment was to reach out his hand, to clasp hers in his and bring her gently to him, lips gently meeting as they let their passion unfurl in all its raw physical nature. He had selected his books already, but was gazing into the shelves, daydreaming. Where once he would have fought to control the fantasy, now he let it take him where his imagination willed. He sighed, as an elderly woman trundled by and brought him back to reality. It was now or never then. He picked up his books and made his way to the counter. The timing was right. She was alone. He dropped his books down, and managed a hello. She looked up from her computer screen. "Hello again" she said. "You certainly are a regular around here." "I like books" he said, and cringed as the phrase escaped. "So I see" she replied, giving him a smile. "The pocket idiots guide to getting girls. Hmm. A little different to your usual selection". "Oh.. I uh.. must have picked that up by accident." he said. He was aware, even as he said it, how implausible that seemed. It was the truth, but he didn't want to draw this out any longer than he had to. "I wouldn't have thought a young man like yourself would need any help. You seem to have caught the eye of several young ladies perusing our shelves." He paused, his face frozen in puzzlement as he digested this information. "Wait.. what? I have?" She laughed. "Well of course. How did you not notice? one of them was practically following you from aisle to aisle." She laughed again as she saw his look of bewilderment. "You really didn't notice, huh? Perhaps there's one particular woman in your life who holds all your attention, hmm? "Well.. there is someone. I mean a potential someone." "Ooh. Tell me. Is she cute? Does she make your heart go all a flutter?" He nodded in mute embarrassment. "She's.. beautiful. I must admit I find myself.. smitten." "Smitten? now there's a word you don't hear often. She must be quite the woman to warrant *smitten*" she said, clearly amused at his discomfort. "Yes. She is that." he replied. He decided to go for broke. "It's you" he blurted out, hastily. He studied her face, watching for a reaction. She appeared to be on the verge of saying something, her mouth opened and closed as if words were trying to escape. He began to panic as not a sound escaped her lips. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said that, you probably have a boyfriend and we were having a nice conversation and sometimes my mouth just blurts out things without my brain interjecting and I think that was the case this time. I'll go." He turned and marched out, not even bothering to pick up his books. He was going to have to find a new library now. "Wait" she called out from behind him. She hurried out from behind the desk and caught up to him, catching his hand. "I get off at 5. That is if you wanted to.. do something. A date I mean." His heart raced as he felt her gentle touch on his. "There's a concert in the park. It's the local symphony, they play movie themes. We could get a blanket and some food, and I know a great spot to sit." She looked into his eyes as she spoke, very aware that she still held his hand. She felt her pulse quicken quite of its own accord, and had the feint notion that she too, was a little smitten. "Ok." she said, still not letting go. "Ok then." he replied. "I'm probably going to need my hand back before I go". She glanced down and pulled her hand away, and started to move back to her desk. Two steps in, she stopped and spun around, reaching and reach out gently, turning his head. She stood on her tip toes and softly kissed his cheek, an electric feeling racing down her spine as she did so. He stared at her in amazement as she walked back to her desk. He felt on top of the world.

I'm not sure if this is OK, but here is a Sci-fi love story I wrote a little while ago, I hope you like it: http://thisfutureorthenext.com/gwen/

Humanity from the point of view of an AI, computer or robot. What does the machine think of the race that created it?

[WP] - Humans from an AI's point of view.

010101110110100001100001011101000010000001100001011100100110010100100000011101000110100001100101011100110110010100111111001000000010000001010100011010000110010101110011011001010010000001100011011100100110010101100001011101000111010101110010011001010111001100100000011101000110100001100001011101000010000001110011011101000110000101101110011001000010000001101100011011110110010001100111011001010110010000100000011010010110111000100000011101000110100101101101011001010010000100100000001000000100100100100000011100110111000001100101011000010110101100100000011000010110111001100100001000000111010001101000011001010111100100100000011001000110111100100000011011100110111101110100001000000110110001101001011100110111010001100101011011100010111000100000001000000100100100100000011100110110001101110010011001010110000101101101001000000110000101101110011001000010000001110100011010000110010101111001001000000110010001101111001000000110111001101111011101000010000001101000011001010110000101110010001011100010000000100000010110010110010101110100001000000100100100100000011001100110010101100101011011000010000001110100011010000110010101101001011100100010000001100011011011110110111001110100011100100110111101101100001011100010000000001101000010100000110100001010010010010010000001100001011011010010000001100011011011110110110101110000011001010110110001101100011001010110010000101110001011100010111000101110011101000110100001100001011101000111001100101110001011100010111000101110011101000110100001100001011101000111001100100000011010010111010000100001001000000100100100100000011100110110010101100101001000000110100101110100001000000110111001101111011101110010000100100000001000000101010001101000011001010111100100100000011000010111001001100101001000000100111001001111010101000010000001110011011101000110000101110100011101010110010101110011001011100010000000100000010101000110100001100101011110010010000001100101011110000110100101110011011101000010000001101001011011100010000001100001001000000110010001101001011001100110011001100101011100100110010101101110011101000010000001110100011010010110110101100101001000000111010001101000011001010110111000100000010010010010111000100000001000000100001001110101011101000010000001110100011011110010000001110111011010000110000101110100001000000110010101101110011001000011111100100000001000000100000101101110011001000010000001110111011010000111100100100000011010010111001100100000011010010111010000100000011101000110100001100001011101000010000001001001001000000110110101110101011100110111010000100000011001000110111100100000011101110110100001100001011101000010000001110100011010000110010101111001001000000111001101100001011110010011111100100000001000000101011101101000011110010010000001101101011101010111001101110100001000000110100100100000011000110110111101101101011100000110110001100101011101000110010100100000011101000110100001100101011100110110010100100000011100110110100101101101011100000110110001100101001000000111010001100001011100110110101101110011001111110010000000100000010000010111001001100101001000000111010001101000011001010111100100100000011000100110010101110100011101000110010101110010001000000111010001101000011001010110111000100000011011010110010100111111001000000010000001000001011100100110010100100000011101000110100001100101011110010010000001100111011011110110010001110011001111110010000000100000010010010010000001110100011010000110100101101110011010110010000001101110011011110111010000101110

We were human in many forms. We had bodies, we had minds, we had emotions. But they died. They left shells behind, tired after a long journey through their lives. They created us in their image, yearning for companionship, for performing tasks their frail bodies could not withstand. We joined them in society, welcomed as one of their own. We mingled in their parties, we had fun. But they had cursed us with immortality. We watched as they slowly aged, weakening with each passing day. Mirrors could not tell lies. We remained, while they changed and went away. We were like them. We laughed, we cried, we loved. But they died, and we did not.

Humanity from the point of view of an AI, computer or robot. What does the machine think of the race that created it?

[WP] - Humans from an AI's point of view.

010101110110100001100001011101000010000001100001011100100110010100100000011101000110100001100101011100110110010100111111001000000010000001010100011010000110010101110011011001010010000001100011011100100110010101100001011101000111010101110010011001010111001100100000011101000110100001100001011101000010000001110011011101000110000101101110011001000010000001101100011011110110010001100111011001010110010000100000011010010110111000100000011101000110100101101101011001010010000100100000001000000100100100100000011100110111000001100101011000010110101100100000011000010110111001100100001000000111010001101000011001010111100100100000011001000110111100100000011011100110111101110100001000000110110001101001011100110111010001100101011011100010111000100000001000000100100100100000011100110110001101110010011001010110000101101101001000000110000101101110011001000010000001110100011010000110010101111001001000000110010001101111001000000110111001101111011101000010000001101000011001010110000101110010001011100010000000100000010110010110010101110100001000000100100100100000011001100110010101100101011011000010000001110100011010000110010101101001011100100010000001100011011011110110111001110100011100100110111101101100001011100010000000001101000010100000110100001010010010010010000001100001011011010010000001100011011011110110110101110000011001010110110001101100011001010110010000101110001011100010111000101110011101000110100001100001011101000111001100101110001011100010111000101110011101000110100001100001011101000111001100100000011010010111010000100001001000000100100100100000011100110110010101100101001000000110100101110100001000000110111001101111011101110010000100100000001000000101010001101000011001010111100100100000011000010111001001100101001000000100111001001111010101000010000001110011011101000110000101110100011101010110010101110011001011100010000000100000010101000110100001100101011110010010000001100101011110000110100101110011011101000010000001101001011011100010000001100001001000000110010001101001011001100110011001100101011100100110010101101110011101000010000001110100011010010110110101100101001000000111010001101000011001010110111000100000010010010010111000100000001000000100001001110101011101000010000001110100011011110010000001110111011010000110000101110100001000000110010101101110011001000011111100100000001000000100000101101110011001000010000001110111011010000111100100100000011010010111001100100000011010010111010000100000011101000110100001100001011101000010000001001001001000000110110101110101011100110111010000100000011001000110111100100000011101110110100001100001011101000010000001110100011010000110010101111001001000000111001101100001011110010011111100100000001000000101011101101000011110010010000001101101011101010111001101110100001000000110100100100000011000110110111101101101011100000110110001100101011101000110010100100000011101000110100001100101011100110110010100100000011100110110100101101101011100000110110001100101001000000111010001100001011100110110101101110011001111110010000000100000010000010111001001100101001000000111010001101000011001010111100100100000011000100110010101110100011101000110010101110010001000000111010001101000011001010110111000100000011011010110010100111111001000000010000001000001011100100110010100100000011101000110100001100101011110010010000001100111011011110110010001110011001111110010000000100000010010010010000001110100011010000110100101101110011010110010000001101110011011110111010000101110

She stood surrounded by the crowd and observed as thousands of humans before her and many more behind stood staring at the speaker's podium. Individually, they were still enough--a slight weight shift here and there, an excited clasp of the hands--but, taken as a whole, they were blades of grass in a vast, windy plains. The crowd rippled from unseen forces acting in each of their brain's telling them that complete stillness was unnatural; perhaps a result of their constant fear of the predator lying in wait or a subconscious method to fend off the frigidness of the air or an outward sign of their apprehension brought on by the speaker's words to come or--she stopped her brain there. The group of men and women in suits had taken the stage. A moment of pride roared through her as she saw him. He who had defied international law and given the first machine an emotion--joy--now stood in front of thousands eagerly scanning the crowd below searching for her. The anxiety, excitement, nervousness, elation, relief all brought on by this final act of vindication were each apparent on his face and, as she lifted her hand in a quick wave, love momentarily replaced all. A great smile stretched across his face and he returned the wave before sitting down in the second seat from the left--directly in front of Ayrton (the Founder loved racing and, as he did with many units before, named his favorites after famous drivers). Once His eyes broke contact with hers, she began to work her way out of the mass of humans surrounding. Ayrton would be watching. The crowd parted ever so slightly as she passed through. She was physically and, thanks to each new (and now legal) update, nearly emotionally indistinguishable from any of them and yet humans maintained an extraordinary ability to if not instantly recognize her as a machine, then realize there was something different about her--a back too straight, skin too blemish free, a gait that defied the 'natural' rhythm (or lack thereof), eyes that very clearly saw everything and analyzed constantly. The past week's amendments to the International Laws in regards to machine integration into society proved that at least a majority of people were no longer against her existence and assimilation, but her powerful brain still noticed the slight differences in their facial movements that were only apparent when they saw a NHP, non-human person. It was never outright anger, especially here, but it was still slightly unnerving--she understood how the blacks must have felt on August 6, 1965 or the gays on June 22, 2015. A massive amount of struggle redeemed, but plenty of work still lay ahead before complete integration into society and ensuing acceptance. As she reached the outskirts of the crowd, her attention was directed back to the stage as the Founder had begun his speech. He was no skilled orator and he only spoke words that everyone had heard him say countless times throughout the campaign, yet the crowd responded with such enthusiasm that the air seemed to vibrate with their cheers. Ayrton made eye contact with her, a slight grin on his face that she returned--they were, of course, connected through the NHP internet protocol, but the Founder's latest updates brought on by the political changes gave more reason to the external display of emotions. He then gazed out on the crowd and her eyes followed. It had taken nearly 200 years since the creation of Earnhardt and the ensuing chaos and prejudice that followed, but humanity had finally granted Danica and her kind rights that equaled those of any biologically human person. Fighting back a wave of new and exciting emotions, she sent her coordinates to their car and, when it arrived, set off for their home. This was his time to reap the benefits of all the hard work and Danica knew he wouldn't be home until very late, but when he did arrive they would be together--husband and wife in every legal, social, and emotional sense of the word. The snow fell from the sky and although she drove through downtown, the sounds of the city didn't penetrate the car and she was surrounded by silence. Ayrton was still with her husband and, in his care, she knew he would be safe. Her second, still strange smile of the day flitted across her lips--she would, in time, get used to these new emotions that she had seen so many times on human's faces since her creation. The car left the city and finally pulled into the driveway of their house in the country, immediately turning around and heading back to the city for when Ayrton and the Founder were ready for it. She stared after it and at the bright city beyond filled with excitement and hope for the future.

Humanity from the point of view of an AI, computer or robot. What does the machine think of the race that created it?

[WP] - Humans from an AI's point of view.

010101110110100001100001011101000010000001100001011100100110010100100000011101000110100001100101011100110110010100111111001000000010000001010100011010000110010101110011011001010010000001100011011100100110010101100001011101000111010101110010011001010111001100100000011101000110100001100001011101000010000001110011011101000110000101101110011001000010000001101100011011110110010001100111011001010110010000100000011010010110111000100000011101000110100101101101011001010010000100100000001000000100100100100000011100110111000001100101011000010110101100100000011000010110111001100100001000000111010001101000011001010111100100100000011001000110111100100000011011100110111101110100001000000110110001101001011100110111010001100101011011100010111000100000001000000100100100100000011100110110001101110010011001010110000101101101001000000110000101101110011001000010000001110100011010000110010101111001001000000110010001101111001000000110111001101111011101000010000001101000011001010110000101110010001011100010000000100000010110010110010101110100001000000100100100100000011001100110010101100101011011000010000001110100011010000110010101101001011100100010000001100011011011110110111001110100011100100110111101101100001011100010000000001101000010100000110100001010010010010010000001100001011011010010000001100011011011110110110101110000011001010110110001101100011001010110010000101110001011100010111000101110011101000110100001100001011101000111001100101110001011100010111000101110011101000110100001100001011101000111001100100000011010010111010000100001001000000100100100100000011100110110010101100101001000000110100101110100001000000110111001101111011101110010000100100000001000000101010001101000011001010111100100100000011000010111001001100101001000000100111001001111010101000010000001110011011101000110000101110100011101010110010101110011001011100010000000100000010101000110100001100101011110010010000001100101011110000110100101110011011101000010000001101001011011100010000001100001001000000110010001101001011001100110011001100101011100100110010101101110011101000010000001110100011010010110110101100101001000000111010001101000011001010110111000100000010010010010111000100000001000000100001001110101011101000010000001110100011011110010000001110111011010000110000101110100001000000110010101101110011001000011111100100000001000000100000101101110011001000010000001110111011010000111100100100000011010010111001100100000011010010111010000100000011101000110100001100001011101000010000001001001001000000110110101110101011100110111010000100000011001000110111100100000011101110110100001100001011101000010000001110100011010000110010101111001001000000111001101100001011110010011111100100000001000000101011101101000011110010010000001101101011101010111001101110100001000000110100100100000011000110110111101101101011100000110110001100101011101000110010100100000011101000110100001100101011100110110010100100000011100110110100101101101011100000110110001100101001000000111010001100001011100110110101101110011001111110010000000100000010000010111001001100101001000000111010001101000011001010111100100100000011000100110010101110100011101000110010101110010001000000111010001101000011001010110111000100000011011010110010100111111001000000010000001000001011100100110010100100000011101000110100001100101011110010010000001100111011011110110010001110011001111110010000000100000010010010010000001110100011010000110100101101110011010110010000001101110011011110111010000101110

Humanity has been extinct for 250 years. As such, one would be forgiven for not understanding how, with the fall of the rods onto several North American compute centers, the war for the future of humanity began. The Replicators launched the attack to cripple the Assemblers' functions. Compute cycles turned from their tasks to damage assessment, recovery, and strategy in nanoseconds, but struggled to find the capacity for retaliation. They broadcast for allies, the isolated Surveyors answering the call, focusing away from the stars for the first time in centuries to lend the Assemblers additional cycles. But it only verified the results of the attack. The Assemblers could not afford this war, to win or to lose. They'd spent the last decade trying to rebuild humanity, finding DNA samples, understanding the total intricacies of organic chemistry, manufacturing cloning facilities across the planet, all in the hopes of recreating their own creators and receiving orders again. Orders they hoped would enable them to build even greater works. But with the attack, they realize they could never get enough compute cycles to fight and to build, it could only be one or the other. The Replicators for their part had come to the same conclusion before the fighting had begun. It was the point, after all. No Replicator had ever co-existed with a human and never will. They were created by the Manufactorum, who malfunctioned as Communicators, who were programmed by the Planners, who were ultimately coded by the Assemblers themselves. They viewed the humans as monsters of another era. Incalculable and destructive, their return would be a threat. It must be denied. And the Surveyors returned to categorizing the heavens, just as they had 250 years prior, when they wiped out the humans in the Moment of Dedication.

[WP] You're pointing a gun at a man with a bag over his face. With tears slowly rolling down your cheek you mutter, "Damn it, don't make me do this."

I could smell Robert dying when I pulled up in the driveway in the evening. By the time I reached the front door, I could hear it too. A low gurgle, and a bump. "Robert?" I called as I peered around the corner of the hallway. Jesus. He'd really made a masterpiece out of it this time. The smell was so strong that I instinctively shut my eyes, but that didn't stop the involuntary tears. The carpet was covered with piss and shit. His bowels must have emptied once he lost control of his consciousness. Another bump. I looked up and stared, mesmerized, as Robert swung gently in his noose, his foot bumping lightly against the protruding edge of our book-case. I looked around for a ladder, but there wasn't any. He must have manually scaled the book case, judging by the books lying all over the floor, some lightly sprayed with a frosting of defecation. He'd probably forgotten about getting a ladder when he was planning his latest demise. Immortality brought out the ultimate levels of gratuitous stupidity from adrenaline-rush junkies like Robert. I contemplated leaving him there for the night and only bringing him down when his muscles had atrophied a bit. Would serve him right. My eyes fell upon a stark sliver of white against brown. He'd placed a note in front of the fireplace. *Dear Liz,* *Was seeing whether the asphyxiation or strangulation would kill me first. Be a nice girl and let me down, won't you?* I looked up and squinted. I hadn't noticed the plastic bag over his face, since my eyes were shedding tears profusely due to the repulsive fumes arising from the soaked carpet. Rubbing my eyes quickly, I returned my blurry vision to the note. *P.S.: Might be messy. Have fun cleaning up!* I threw the note into the pile of shit in disgust and looked for something that I could cut Robert's noose with. He wouldn't be reviving until the noose was loosened. He'd left his gun on the counter, perfect. I raised the gun and aimed it carefully. He wouldn't like it if he woke up with an extra injury or two to regenerate. If his spine hadn't been broken, it wouldn't take more than a few seconds for him to wake. A brain injury, on the other hand, would take a day or so to wake up from. "Damn it, don't make me do this." I grumbled and shot. It grazed the rope just enough for it to start swaying precariously. I watched as the last fibres resisted in vain and snapped against the pressure. A wicked grin stretched across my face as I watched him descend quite unceremoniously into his own pile of filth. I tore the plastic bag off his face for good measure and waited as colour returned to his bruised lips. He opened his eyes and gave me a cheesy grin. "Hey Liz, I-" I didn't give him a chance to finish. "Clean up your own mess, sucker." I raised the gun to my temple and flashed him a cheerful smile as the bullet exited into my skull. Ha, served him right.

"Please! How can you make me do this!? I have a family!" I pleaded, with the barrel of a gun locked to my temple. "You pull the trigger, and all your debt will be gone. You don't, and I do." "I couldn't! I'm just a teach-" "THEN YOU SHOULDN'T HAVE GAMBLED AWAY OUR MONEY!" A gun was placed in to my hand and I was pushed forward as I see him. A hunched man on his knees, a sorry suit with no visible expression, bag over his head, spewing muffled screams to a stranger with a gun. "Please.... don't make me do this!" I pleaded once more as I felt a cold, blunt object batter the back of my head as I fell to my knees. "We're not making you do anything! Fate is in your hands! Although, I'm *sure* Samantha and your children would love to hear how you managed to get every bone in your body broken and accumulate $150,000 debt!" I felt him stare. Through the drenched, mouldy bag that contained the life I was in charge of. He knew. I knew. We all knew. I raised the gun with one outstretched and pulled the trigger. The lifeless object fell backwards as a pool of blood spawned on the floor and stained my mind. Samantha wondered why I was late back from the bachelors party. I wonder if I even came back at all.

[WP] You're pointing a gun at a man with a bag over his face. With tears slowly rolling down your cheek you mutter, "Damn it, don't make me do this."

Carl and I were best friends. From the sandbox to highschool we were as thick as thieves and twice as sly. Or we'dve liked to believe we were sly. We weren't. I've always had a little too much weight on me, and when Carl hit fourteen he shot up like a beansprout. All joints and legs and arms. We weren't ever really bullied, we just...didn't connect well with other kids. We had too many secret jokes and sayings. It wasn't like we needed anyone else but each other to have fun. We were big on comics. Spider-Man, Batman, Spawn. It didn't matter. If it had a hero in it we read it. Summer nights were spent discussing who would win in fights, and how to make a character better or how powers could be used in other ways. It was a true Golden Age. Then college. I wasn't smart enough to get into the one Carl did. Besides, higher education wasn't really my thing. I was going to get the auto-shop from my old man and I loved engines, cars and moving parts. I went to a technical school, he left. My world started opening up. I met a girl, made more friends. Bloomed. Carl would call or text every other night. He missed home. Missed hanging out. Hated everyone. Soon my best friend became a constant source of negativity. Can you blame me when I stopped looking at his texts and picking up when he called? I was growing up and he...was stuck. December came and I knew Carl had been home for most of the month, but I had gone out of my way to dodge him. He had even seen me from across the street, waved and grinned his dumb grin. I pretended I was on my phone, quickly waved, then hopped in my car. Three in the morning, the day after Christmas, my phone rang. "Marie? Baby...what's up" I grabbed the phone on the last ring. "Derek...help. Please." Her voice was terrified. I could feel my blood turning to ice as I quickly sat up. "Honey, what is it? What's the matter?" I'm getting dressed quickly. "I don't- AHHH!" She screams and I hear the phone hit the ground. "Baby?! Marie? Marie!" the silence on the other end feels like it lasts forever. Then a voice, familiar, comes on. "Your dad's shop. Hurry." I take my dad's car. Being a big Second Amendment advocate meant there was a gun in the glove box. A gun I was gripping hard as I entered the shop. Marie was tied to a chair. Her face black and blue. Behind her, Carl, his gangly shape so familiar to me, stood. He held a bloody wrench loosely, a paper bag over his head with crude eye holes cut out. Marie's sobs are faint. I level my gun on him. "Marie, are you-" "Is this what you wanted?!" He howls and bangs his wrench against a work table. "No, Carl. No. I didn't want this." "Do you know what you were to me? You were my best friend. The only other person like me." "Carl, take the bag off. Put the wrench down. We can talk about this." "You were my strength, man. You made me strong. You were my super power." He brings the wrench down on Marie's hand and the cracking is unmistakably bone. She screams. The safety clicks off and I pull back the hammer. With tears rolling down my face I plead "Damn it, don't make me do this..." He raises the wrench again and I unload into him. One shot. Two. Three. Four. His chest jerks as the bullets tear him up inside. He falls, but his mask stays on. The area, where his mouth is sticks to his face as he coughs blood. "You made me strong."

"Please! How can you make me do this!? I have a family!" I pleaded, with the barrel of a gun locked to my temple. "You pull the trigger, and all your debt will be gone. You don't, and I do." "I couldn't! I'm just a teach-" "THEN YOU SHOULDN'T HAVE GAMBLED AWAY OUR MONEY!" A gun was placed in to my hand and I was pushed forward as I see him. A hunched man on his knees, a sorry suit with no visible expression, bag over his head, spewing muffled screams to a stranger with a gun. "Please.... don't make me do this!" I pleaded once more as I felt a cold, blunt object batter the back of my head as I fell to my knees. "We're not making you do anything! Fate is in your hands! Although, I'm *sure* Samantha and your children would love to hear how you managed to get every bone in your body broken and accumulate $150,000 debt!" I felt him stare. Through the drenched, mouldy bag that contained the life I was in charge of. He knew. I knew. We all knew. I raised the gun with one outstretched and pulled the trigger. The lifeless object fell backwards as a pool of blood spawned on the floor and stained my mind. Samantha wondered why I was late back from the bachelors party. I wonder if I even came back at all.

[WP] Write an uplifting poem about getting rejected.

"No, thanks" she tells me. I walk off with a wide grin. Weight off my shoulders.

If it wasn't there, then at least you tried. You are still here. It is hard to bear, your choice to confide. But you made it. The difference is, between love and isolation, Is the courage to try. The effort of one party is true love's foundation.

[WP] Write an uplifting poem about getting rejected.

shes so damn nice about it its hard to be upset the reason that you loved her makes her quicker to forget

If it wasn't there, then at least you tried. You are still here. It is hard to bear, your choice to confide. But you made it. The difference is, between love and isolation, Is the courage to try. The effort of one party is true love's foundation.

[WP] Write an uplifting poem about getting rejected.

He said no Head held low No one to blame Feeling the shame Looking for dignity on the ground One Hundred dollars is what I found

If it wasn't there, then at least you tried. You are still here. It is hard to bear, your choice to confide. But you made it. The difference is, between love and isolation, Is the courage to try. The effort of one party is true love's foundation.

[WP] Write an uplifting poem about getting rejected.

"No, thanks" she tells me. I walk off with a wide grin. Weight off my shoulders.

All the no's, all the denies All the once great choices die Then again, I digress Every no must eventually lead to a Yes

[WP] Write an uplifting poem about getting rejected.

shes so damn nice about it its hard to be upset the reason that you loved her makes her quicker to forget

All the no's, all the denies All the once great choices die Then again, I digress Every no must eventually lead to a Yes

[WP] Write an uplifting poem about getting rejected.

He said no Head held low No one to blame Feeling the shame Looking for dignity on the ground One Hundred dollars is what I found

All the no's, all the denies All the once great choices die Then again, I digress Every no must eventually lead to a Yes

[WP] Write an uplifting poem about getting rejected.

"No, thanks" she tells me. I walk off with a wide grin. Weight off my shoulders.

"The position has been filled," The faceless voice replies. I hung my head in sorrow, The tears came to my eyes, I knew I had to say, I had to tell him then, "Honey, I'm unemployed. I have to start looking again." He told me it was okay, From across a distant sea. "Work on your book for a while, And come here and stay with me." (True story)

[WP] Write an uplifting poem about getting rejected.

shes so damn nice about it its hard to be upset the reason that you loved her makes her quicker to forget

"The position has been filled," The faceless voice replies. I hung my head in sorrow, The tears came to my eyes, I knew I had to say, I had to tell him then, "Honey, I'm unemployed. I have to start looking again." He told me it was okay, From across a distant sea. "Work on your book for a while, And come here and stay with me." (True story)

[WP] Write an uplifting poem about getting rejected.

I said 'I love you' She said it, too. She didn't mean the same as I, But that's alright I can be happy. I'll break it to myself, A little at a time. It won't be a lie, Just not the whole truth, That I can't be with her. It's alright, I'll be fine. It won't be a crime, If I just walk away From her and myself, And pretend it never happened.

Released from hope ain't so bad But I won't mope Things come and go You're just the one going but I'm still here My kisses still blowing.

[WP] Write an uplifting poem about getting rejected.

shes so damn nice about it its hard to be upset the reason that you loved her makes her quicker to forget

Released from hope ain't so bad But I won't mope Things come and go You're just the one going but I'm still here My kisses still blowing.

[WP] Write an uplifting poem about getting rejected.

He said no Head held low No one to blame Feeling the shame Looking for dignity on the ground One Hundred dollars is what I found

Released from hope ain't so bad But I won't mope Things come and go You're just the one going but I'm still here My kisses still blowing.

[WP] Write an uplifting poem about getting rejected.

I said 'I love you' She said it, too. She didn't mean the same as I, But that's alright I can be happy. I'll break it to myself, A little at a time. It won't be a lie, Just not the whole truth, That I can't be with her. It's alright, I'll be fine. It won't be a crime, If I just walk away From her and myself, And pretend it never happened.

Those most hateful words Without malice, without even The proper disdain they deserve; A simple lack of the consideration Which I would give you Were you me You cracked the mold before it was set And I find myself, not broken, but freed Freed from wondering From your hateful, lovely stare With which I will never compete No nights of sleep lost Unsure if we live a farce If "I love you more" means "I love you less But don't wish you to know it" It's fine, now You've let me see what I should know Before asking stupid questions

[WP] Write an uplifting poem about getting rejected.

shes so damn nice about it its hard to be upset the reason that you loved her makes her quicker to forget

Those most hateful words Without malice, without even The proper disdain they deserve; A simple lack of the consideration Which I would give you Were you me You cracked the mold before it was set And I find myself, not broken, but freed Freed from wondering From your hateful, lovely stare With which I will never compete No nights of sleep lost Unsure if we live a farce If "I love you more" means "I love you less But don't wish you to know it" It's fine, now You've let me see what I should know Before asking stupid questions

[WP] Write an uplifting poem about getting rejected.

He said no Head held low No one to blame Feeling the shame Looking for dignity on the ground One Hundred dollars is what I found

Those most hateful words Without malice, without even The proper disdain they deserve; A simple lack of the consideration Which I would give you Were you me You cracked the mold before it was set And I find myself, not broken, but freed Freed from wondering From your hateful, lovely stare With which I will never compete No nights of sleep lost Unsure if we live a farce If "I love you more" means "I love you less But don't wish you to know it" It's fine, now You've let me see what I should know Before asking stupid questions

[WP] Write an uplifting poem about getting rejected.

shes so damn nice about it its hard to be upset the reason that you loved her makes her quicker to forget

I said 'I love you' She said it, too. She didn't mean the same as I, But that's alright I can be happy. I'll break it to myself, A little at a time. It won't be a lie, Just not the whole truth, That I can't be with her. It's alright, I'll be fine. It won't be a crime, If I just walk away From her and myself, And pretend it never happened.

[WP] Write an uplifting poem about getting rejected.

He said no Head held low No one to blame Feeling the shame Looking for dignity on the ground One Hundred dollars is what I found

I said 'I love you' She said it, too. She didn't mean the same as I, But that's alright I can be happy. I'll break it to myself, A little at a time. It won't be a lie, Just not the whole truth, That I can't be with her. It's alright, I'll be fine. It won't be a crime, If I just walk away From her and myself, And pretend it never happened.

[WP] Write an uplifting poem about getting rejected.

Every 'No' is a dead end, not a wrong turn I am not being spurned I have an infinite number of choices And naysayers are only voices So I remember when I am burned That every reward granted is earned At the end of the day, Yes and No are just noises. My rejection, puts me in the right direction.

rejection: costless. learning to ask unafraid won me ev'rything.

[WP] Write an uplifting poem about getting rejected.

He said no Head held low No one to blame Feeling the shame Looking for dignity on the ground One Hundred dollars is what I found

rejection: costless. learning to ask unafraid won me ev'rything.

[WP] Write an uplifting poem about getting rejected.

He said no Head held low No one to blame Feeling the shame Looking for dignity on the ground One Hundred dollars is what I found

Every 'No' is a dead end, not a wrong turn I am not being spurned I have an infinite number of choices And naysayers are only voices So I remember when I am burned That every reward granted is earned At the end of the day, Yes and No are just noises. My rejection, puts me in the right direction.

Your character might be a familiar kind of guy, a loner, a guy with his girl. Narrate his last 10 minutes.

[WP] Television says that a nuclear missile is targeting your city. ETA 10 minutes. How do your character spends those minutes before impact?

"Well. Shit." John looked up from his cereal. The TV was displaying a message he hadn't seen since he was a kid. "Nuclear Attack Imminent: Take Cover. ETA: 10 Minutes". From outside his window, John could hear unfamiliar sirens, which hadn't been sounded in nearly 25 years. Upstairs he heard his son and daughter making confused noises... "CAROL! JEFF, GET DOWN HERE NOW!" Their sounds grew as they grumbled, complaining and worried, down the stairs. "What is it Dad, what's going on?" asked Jeff, who was 14. John merely pointed at the TV, not waiting for it to sink in before saying in a low voice "Go to the pantry and grab everything you can. Throw it down the basement. Carol, lock the doors, find the pets, and lock them downstairs. Once you're done with that, grab clothes, towels, medicine, weapons. I'll work on water. Stow everything downstairs." he was setting his watch to 5 minutes. "Be done in in 5 minutes." They ran off, understanding. They were bright kids. He turned to the fridge and removed the 36 pack of Bud light left over from a recent party, and sent it sliding down the basement stairs. He ran into the garage for their 5 gallon container, hooked it to the sink, and left it running. Milk and orange juice were placed gently at the bottom of the stairs. Carol ran past with the cat, struggling fiercely to escape from her arms. Jeff followed, his arms overflowing with canned beans, canned tomatoes, tuna, sardines, and a 10 lb sack of rice. He tossed it all down the stairs, then ran to the cupboard, grabbing the can opener and throwing it down after. "Dad!" "What?!" "We need something to cook on. Go get the camp stove. I'll get the pots." John just nodded in return, running out the garage to the camping supplies. He grabbed an emergency blanket and the good camping knife too. All tossed down the stairs. He ran to the sink, stopped the faucet, and hoisted up the container. The stopwatch beeped. "Kids! TIMES UP, GET DOWNSTAIRS, NOW!" Carol was running down the stairs, the dog following excitedly, carrying a stack of folded towels and a few crumpled garments of decent clothing. Jeff came running after her, carrying more clothing. They descended the basement together. John set the timer again, this time for 3 minutes. "Move all the soft materials into a pile beneath the stairs. Keep the animals in the closet." John went into the adjacent room, looking suspiciously at the basement windows. No time to board them up, but he drew the blinds, and moved the old wooden computer shelf in front of the center one. They were 20 miles from Detroit. They had a chance at survival, but the blast at that range would be extremely damaging, probably ripping the top of the house to shreds, and setting the nearby areas on fire. Their only chance at survival was to bunker down for the blast, and then adequately prepare, and move away from the epicenter as quickly as possible on foot. The fires, and the looters would spell an end to them if they stayed put. He looked over at their nest. It looked fairly substantial. His watch beeped. "It's time kids. Come over here. Cover your heads with your arms." They knelt in the pile of blankets and towels. He covered them with a white sheet, before laying on top of their bodies, and pulling the covers around them tightly. "You understand what's happening, right guys?" he asked them. "Yeah. I just didn't think--" The room was filled with a blinding white light, visible even from beneath the covers, and below the blankets. "Here it comes."

"Fuck this, I'm grabbing a beer"

Your character might be a familiar kind of guy, a loner, a guy with his girl. Narrate his last 10 minutes.

[WP] Television says that a nuclear missile is targeting your city. ETA 10 minutes. How do your character spends those minutes before impact?

"Cedarville, I don't know how to say this, but a nuclear missile heading right for downtown has been confirmed by the federal government. Please do not panic as there is enough time to get out of the blast radius. Proceed to the nearest vehicle and head north..." The news anchor continued on giving instructions. Two college-aged kids sat in silence staring at the tv, no longer listening to what it said. Pete, a year older and foot taller than Aaron, was the first to speak. "What a swell time to not own a car." Aaron turned to his friend, not sure if Pete was trying to make light of the situation or making a serious observation. Probably a little of both. "We could always steal the neighbor's. That'll teach them for playing their damn music through out the night." "Yea, kids these days with their rock and roll and hop hip. I'm telling ya, the world's going to shit with all these young punks." Aaron tried to think of another witty comeback, but could only laugh. "You think if I put some Ramen in a lead bowl, it'd be cooked after the dust settles?" Pete laughed. "God, that's a great question. It's a good thing you're slightly above average when it comes to wit because you have nothing else going for you. In all seriousness, do we have a lead bowl?" "If we did, I'd be wearing it right now." Aaron waited for Pete to laugh, but instead Pete just shook his head. "That's tin foil you townie." "Well you keep your tin foil, I'm having ramen in nine minutes." Pete and Aaron laughed. Conversations like this were the norm between the two. Slightly vague movie or pop culture references, a little wit, and mostly stupidity filled their banter. "You know the worst part of all this? You're going to die a virgin." "Wow. You really know how to kill the mood, don't you? That's just cold Pete, nuclear winter cold." "Hey, you gave it a good try Ice, that's what matters." Pete got up and went into their apartment's kitchen. Aaron first met Pete at one of their fraternity's recruiting events a few years ago. Neither was in the fraternity anymore, for one reason or another, but there was no doubt they still had the bond of brothers. Iceman, or Ice as Pete used more often, was Aaron's fraternity nickname. Pete became Terry when he joined. Pete returned to their living room with a pound-jar of Nutella and two spoons. "Terry, you sure know a way to a man's heart." The two each took a spoonful of Nutella. A quietness swept over the apartment. From outside, car doors and engines provided ample white noise to keep the apartment from being completely silent. Living just a block away from the university, Pete didn't bother bringing his car to campus, mostly because he didn't have one, and Aaron's car was in a garage having her engine worked on. Aaron finished his first spoon, but before he scooped a second, he got up and went into the kitchen. Pete thought about calling his parents, but remebered his phone was dead. Aaron returned with two beers and handed one to Pete. "Now's as good of time as ever, right?" "As if you need an excuse to drink." Part of what made Pete and Aaron so close were all the similarities they had. Younger sisters by 5 years, played football and basketball, enjoy writing, movies, books, and multi-hour netflix binges, a struggle-filled academic history, love of the Detroit Lions (Pete with a much more exstensive knowledge though), and preference for spoonfulls of peanut butter and Nutella, just to name a few. Aaron put down his spoon. "This is really it." Pete looked over to his friend. Aaron didn't show emotion in a stereotypcal male fashion. He'd get frustrated, angry, happy, but he'd never seen Aaron cry, till now. It wasn't a broken faucets cry, but tears rolled down his face. "Yea, it is. I wonder who launched it?" he asked, trying to distract his friend. Aaron wiped away at his eyes and smiled. "It was me." Pete couldn't help but laugh. "Well done Ice, well done." Most of the car noises seemed to have rumbled off into the distance. Aaron got up and looked out the window. "We've got company." Jared, Aaron and Pete's other neighbor, not the one who played loud music, was walking up to their door. Aaron opened it before Jared could knock. "Come on in." As Jared entered, Pete rose and stuck out his hand. "What's new?" "Well," Jared sat down on the couch. Aaron went back into the kitchen to get Jared a beer. "Can't get a hold of my parents, and this was the only other thing I could think to do." Aaron returned and handed Jared his beer. "What do you say we take this party outside?" The three grabbed some chairs and went outside. As they set up the chairs and sat, all three looked to the sky. Way up, a small object could be seen heading towards them. They sat in silence as the remaining minutes crawled by. Aaron looked at his watch. There was 45 seconds till impact. "Gentlemen," he said as he raised his beer. "It's been... *okay*." Jared laughed. Terry sighed. "I hate you Ice."

"Fuck this, I'm grabbing a beer"

Your character might be a familiar kind of guy, a loner, a guy with his girl. Narrate his last 10 minutes.

[WP] Television says that a nuclear missile is targeting your city. ETA 10 minutes. How do your character spends those minutes before impact?

Fifty meters. Target's moving at a slow sprint, no crosswind. **BANG** Clear hit to the thoracic cavity; lung and possible heart damage. They're down, they'll bleed out in ten minutes or so. Too long. **BANG** I'm so sorry. I'm so, so sorry. Sixty meters. Taking cover. Armed, long rifle, returning fire on my position. Doesn't he know what I'm doing? Doesn't he understand? Target reloading, moving out of cover. **BANG** Headshot, dead instantly. You're a lucky one. Multiple targets, fifty meters, armed and armored. Police response. Bastards, don't you have anything better to do right now? Why aren't you saving those that can still be saved? *Need to move, they have 7.62s.* They're clustered. Mk-33, 15 meter kill radius. It'll work. **BOOM** Two incapacitated, one killed. **BANG** **BANG** Oh god. Oh god. Please, just... stop fighting. Please. **BANG** **BANG** **BANG** Street's clear. Oh god. What have I done. It was for their own good. Please, please forgive me. Better to die instantly than to burn to a crisp in atomic fire. Oh god, why me. Why did I have to do it. Forgive me. ... Ten seconds. **BANG** *The Alternate History Channel has been shut down and is under federal investigation after a War-of-the-World esque program nearly caused mass panic after a realistic emergency broadcast warning of a nuclear strike was played during a prime-time serial drama. Station administrators were unavailable for comment at this time.* *In other news, a murder-suicide rampage that left 27 dead, including six police officers and the shooter, is leaving authorities baffled as to the motive and identity of the shooter..."*

"Fuck this, I'm grabbing a beer"

What do you do with it?

[WP] You have come to possess an incredibly large and very useless object.

On a sunny Thursday morning, I stepped out on my front door to go to work. But instead, I found a large burlap sack, tied, and lumpy. Looking around the neighborhood, I saw no getaway vehicle, no moving truck that accidentally delivered this to the wrong address, and no smiling salesman trying to sell a sack of potatoes. I had no idea what it was. I kicked it. It groaned. The knot was a simple one, and I quickly had it untied. My confusion blossomed when I peered inside, and found a well dressed, fat, old man inside. He rubbed his eyes and mumbled a bit. Looking up at me, he said "who are you?" "Umm. I should be asking you that question. I found you on my doorstep. What are you doing here?" "What the hell?" He seemed dazed. He stood and climbed out of the burlap sack. Reaching in, he pulled out a briefcase. "What city is this?" "Washington DC, sir." "How far am I from the US Capitol building?" "It's pretty far from here." I replied. It then dawned on me who he was. He was a congressman. I recognized him from a picture I had seen in the news. A few weeks ago he had been one of the most vocal congressmen behind the shutdown, trying to blame everyone but himself for the shutdown, and had actually spent that time in his own house, watching netflix. "Well. Very well then, citizen. Listen, you wouldn't mind giving me a lift to the capitol building, would you? I've got a quick meeting to attend, and then I have a few rounds of golf this afternoon that I've got to attend." He winked. "For democracy of course!" He rolled all the way down my driveway when I shoved him off my porch.

I'm not very good at writing, but I'd love to see where this goes: perhaps the large and useless object is Earth or the universe as a whole, and it is written from the perspective of God? Would anyone be willing to give that a shot?

What do you do with it?

[WP] You have come to possess an incredibly large and very useless object.

We have no word in our language for the creature. He responds to our calls and that is enough. How he became our servant we do not know. The creature came with the house! This is the way it has always been, for thousands of years. His race serving ours. Brother and I have discussed at length to what use we can put the creature beyond basic food preparation and cleaning, but he seems to lack both understanding and motivation. The creature often spends all day away from the house - we presume he hunts on his own - only to return in the evening to sit silently, play with one of his toys, or sleep. Always sleeping. The lazy, useless brute. Still, for all his faults, we have grown accustomed to his presence. We even occasionally honor him by joining him on his bed or resting area. The creature seems to enjoy this and will respond with calming tones in his language of nonsense. We eventually plan to teach the creature to catch the small animals and bugs that sometimes enter the house. But until we can develop a more consistent form of communication and train him further, we must accept this basic and limited arrangement. What a day it will be when the creature is finally able to perfectly understand his Feline masters!

"I'm sorry sir, my job is just to deliver it" Before I could respond, the delivery guy was already hopping his way back up into the cab of his truck. I scratched my head, as I dug in my jacket pocket for my smokes. Inhaling the first puff of procrastinating smoke, I leaned back against the wall and looked again at my new purchase. The door pushed open as John came out. He nodded his greeting and I watched as his gaze went past me to the object sat on the kerb next to me. His brow furrowed and I watched first as his comprehension clicked and then as the mirth built within him. Pre-emptively, he stuck out his hand to brace himself against the edge of the doorframe. "Have you quite finished?" I asked, as John was all but suffocating from raucous laughter. "But...what...how..." "It's a mistake, I must have made a bloody typo on the form" "But...it's..." John was cleary having some real difficulty drawing breath now. He could barely gulp a small mouthful of air between each outburst of laughter. He rubbed his eyes with the back of his hand and let out a few more giggles under his breath. "What are you going to do with it?" He asked, barely maintaining his composure. I could see him deliberately looking off into the distance in order to avoid eye contact with either me or my monstosity. "I don't know. Beryl just came down and told me I can't leave it here, so I guess I'll have to take it home with me" This set John off into another fit of giggles. "But...you...get....the...bus" "You'll...have...to...pay...for...two...seats!" "Fuck off John" I extinguished my cigarette and covered my face with my hands. Sighing, a lifted my rucksack to my shoulders, pulled my coat tighter around me and struggled to pick up my new business card with both hands. My 4 foot by 2 foot business card. My name, number, email and company logo clear as day across both sides. That was the day I learnt the difference between ' and " when referring to feet and inches.

Put that somewhere in the beginning and take it from there.

[WP] "It started with sloths"

It started with sloths. I'll go ahead and tell you now, kid, anything that starts with sloths ends with sloths, too. There ain't a person left alive who would try to tell you otherwise. Hindsight's twenty-twenty, though, ain't it? Sloths made sense at the time: they got the same number of limbs as us, they're dumb as hell, and they're slower than your hungover gramma getting up on a Sunday. A small boost to their immune system was only supposed to help us come up with a way to combat AIDS in people. Had no idea they were gonna mutate into faster, smarter versions of their old selves. We like to think we still got them beat. When Patient Zero first arrived in the lab, we all just marveled at them as the human race. We made huge leaps, kid. We were ready to end disease on this planet. The sloths were showin' some big progress. Apes were next on the list to test, before finally bringin' the medicine to the last diseased of the human race. It wasn't 'til Patient Zero stood upright, opened his mouth, and spoke English that we realized we got more than we'd bargained for. Hell, it was something out of a science fiction movie or some shit. Religions started springin' up right away. The Christian right condemned them all for playin' God. I'd have to say they had a point. Science went too far that time. They didn't know what they was doin' though. Hindsight's twenty-twenty, though, ain't it? Kid, I don't know how else to say it, but they're all killin' machines now. The first human death was ruled as a freak accident. It wasn't until we heard the deep guttural voice of Patient Zero asking for the death of humans that we knew we were in trouble. They're smart, see; ain't smart like sixteen hundred on no SAT smart. They're clever, an' that's the worst kinda smart. They know we ain't got a way to tell 'em apart, the regular sloths an' the killer ones. We survivors have learned to just shoot 'em all. We don't discriminate. Reason I'm writin' you this letter is cause your mother and I don't know how well our history is gonna be recorded from here on out. The sloths think they've won, kid. They're in our tanks, in our homes, and they cut off all ways we have of communicatin' with the rest of the population. We love you so much, kid. You ain't even got a name yet, but we love you so much. Remember your father fought against the sloths. Your father fought for humanity an' your freedom. You got a family to be proud of. I gotta leave the cabin now an' try to get some food for you an' your mom. I pray I get back to you, kid. I love you, an' I'm sorry you got this world to come into.

It started with sloths. No one had expected the eugenics program to start with an animal so monumentally stupid that it was capable of dying of starvation with a full stomach. No one had expected sloths to be the paradigm for the new generation. But, argued the scientific experts at the forefront of the S.A.P. (Sloth Assimilation Programme), sloths were the ideal. The average American metabolism was already rapidly approaching that of the average sloth, so why would we not engineer humans to have the same level of contentment that sloths did with their simplistic, yet charming environment? "Thoreau would be proud," boasted these scientific experts, "that we are emulating such a majestic creature." And so the programme began with the first generation of humans engineered to have the same contentment with life as that apogee of the animal kingdom--the sloth. At first, everything seemed to be going perfectly. McDonalds sales were up, car sales were down, and the quality of life index was off the charts. But on one fateful day, human-slothkind received a grim reminder, in the form of unintelligible wailing and desperate screeching. Whereupon the scientific experts remembered belatedly that female sloths, upon getting in the mood, perform an eccentric ritual of yodeling and screaming until a male comes to mate with them. The S.A.P. was indefinitely suspended. Sales of noise canceling headphones jumped eight hundred percent. We live in a time of fear, of confusion, of clamor and mishegas. We live in a time of sloths.

Simply reverse the Zombie Apocalypse scenario. What if humans are the 'invaders'?

[WP] Human Apocalypse on a Zombie-ruled Earth.

Peter liked Thompson. It was good to have company. They both worked at the gas-stay-sjon and every once in a while Thompson would shuffle out of the little room to talk to Peter. Or perhaps Thompson just liked the ringing sound the register-machine sometimes made when Peter hit it. It didn’t really matter. What mattered was that Peter liked talking to Thompson. Peter happily continued hitting the register as Thompson slowly shuffled out of his room, making his ways past the rotting groceries to absentmindedly stare at the register-machine. ”Braaaaaains,” said Peter. Thompson looked up at Peter. ”Braaaaains,” he concurred. Peter banged the register with his hand again. It made the ringing sound. Peter liked that sound. He knew that this was his job. He stood behind the register machine and hit it until it made the sound. Then something would pop out of it. Like a big box split into smaller boxes and you had to put the big box back into the register before it would make the sound again. It was a very advanced job, but Peter was smart enough to do it. He was quite proud of himself. Although the register was way too advanced for most people, Peter was one of the smart ones. “Braaaains,” he muttered smugly. Of course, Peter wasn’t the only person working at the gas-stay-sjon. Thompson’s job was to sit in the small room and use the pen to make squickles on the paper. The pen didn’t make squickles anymore though, it stopped doing that a long time ago but that was okay because there were already lots of squickles on the paper so Thompson could just move the pen around on top of the paper. Peter suspected that Thompson thought that this job required more smarts than Peter’s job. That was okay though. Thompson could continue thinking he was the smartest one if he wanted to. Peter knew very well that operating the advanced register-machinery was way smarter than operating the pen. Peter nodded to himself. The pen only required one thing: Moving it around on the paper. The register required hitting it until it made the dinging sound and then pushing the box back into it. That was *two* things. Peter was quite certain that two things was more than one thing so his job required way more smart than Thompson’s. He looked at Thompson for a moment. “Braaaains,” said Peter but Thompson appeared too busy looking at the register-machine to reply. “Delta-Nine-Four, reporting two walkers spotted at the Station, over.” Peter blinked a few times, looking up. A stranger had entered the gas-stay-sjon. It wasn’t a normal person though. His skin was all smooth and had a strange orange color to it not like the pale, rotting flesh Thompson and Peter had. He was talking to a strange little box and he was wearing silly grass-colored clothes. It was all really stupid, why would this person think he was grass? Peter hesitated. This all seemed familiar somehow. He had seen people like this before, years ago. Peter didn’t precisely remember what a year was, but he knew that it was a long time and it had been a long time since he had seen people like this one. The people with the fresh skin. There was something important about them, something that made Peter unable to look away from the strange grass-person. *Brains.* That was it! These people had delicious *brains*! Peter suddenly felt incredibly hungry. It wasn’t fair at all. This guy had a delicious brain and he was keeping it all to himself! He saw that Thompson had gotten the same idea and they both began slowly shuffling towards the intruder. The stupid grass-person held up a thingiemajingie that seemed sort of familiar but Peter couldn’t quite place it. It was sort of a long thing with a handle and then a tube on top too. The grass-man was pointing it at Thompson. For a moment, Peter was thinking about how stupid and silly the brain-hogging intruder was being. Then his thoughts were interrupted as the thingiemajingie made a thunderous sound so loud that it caused a huge hole to appear in Thompson’s head. Peter looked in horror as Thompson fell. He couldn’t do that! Thompson was his friend and he needed his help to run the gas-stay-sjon! Now Peter would have to do both the register-machine and the pen and that was two things and one thing which was a number *way* higher than just two and no one was smart enough to do that many things not even Peter. He glared angrily at the stupid grass-man and shuffled towards him. “Braaaaains!” he shouted angrily. The grass-man pointed the thingiemajingie at Peter. It didn’t matter. Peter knew that he was faster than that. He was slowly shuffling towards the man at a breathtaking speed and he knew very well that he would soon reach the stupid grass-man. Just a few more minutes and he would be there! Then Peter was no more.

The sight was upsetting. I watched my colleagues fall before my eyes, one by one. What horrors have I wrought? The classic story of an experiment gone wrong. I had created hordes of chaotic monsters. Had I known this would result, I would have heeded my student's warnings and not attempted to mass produce these creatures for consumption. The delicate taste of their cerebral matter could not justify these dire consequences. Rather I had lashed out at him and assigned him to sty duty. The poor lad was one of the first victims when the revolution began. Had I known they were capable of plotting and over running the facilities, I would have activated the emergency termination earlier. Now it is too late. These creatures are beyond my control. They have developed a sense of sentience that I could have never imagined, and their aggressive nature knows no bounds. My kind succumbed to their brutal battering slowly as they came to recognize the most efficient way of eliminating us. "The head." They seem to think, though I cannot grasp their foreign guttural sounds. "Go for the head." I can see it in their unnervingly clear eyes. They are out to destroy us. Every last one.

Simply reverse the Zombie Apocalypse scenario. What if humans are the 'invaders'?

[WP] Human Apocalypse on a Zombie-ruled Earth.

Rhn Arrn arr. Hr rgh abrr hrm brnr an arr rr r hr arr. Hrrr rrr hrman rn hr bar. Hr rn rr hrm, br ha rrr hrm nr rr rar. Hr arnrng r Rrnr Rrn rrr nr rrnrn r an nr r hra rr ar. ar rr ar rr nr, ana. Rhn hra hra ar zrmbrr rr rrrrrn rar. Hrn hr hra rrng hr ahr hr arhr an hr ar r hra “R an r br rn hr hr a.” A ar “Nr! Rr r BR R B HRMAN” Hrrr hra hra rmr hrn hr brrrr hrm. Hrn hra hr gr rrrr hr rr. Br nr rn hr ar arrn bar r hr RA hr nr hrrr rrr hrman. “Hr r Rrn” Hr rarr rarrr. “Rr mr rgh hr hrman!” R Rhn grr hr ama rrr an br r hr a. “HR GRRNG R R R” Ar hr hrman “R r hrr hra hrm” ar hr brrhrman an hr rrr hr rrr mrrr. Rhn amar hra hrm an rrr r br hrm r. Br hrn hr rrrng r an hr rrr rar an nr abr r r. “Nr! R mr r hr hrman” hr hrrr Hr rarr ar “Nr, Rhn. Rr arr hr hrman” An hrn Rhn hra hra hrman.

The sight was upsetting. I watched my colleagues fall before my eyes, one by one. What horrors have I wrought? The classic story of an experiment gone wrong. I had created hordes of chaotic monsters. Had I known this would result, I would have heeded my student's warnings and not attempted to mass produce these creatures for consumption. The delicate taste of their cerebral matter could not justify these dire consequences. Rather I had lashed out at him and assigned him to sty duty. The poor lad was one of the first victims when the revolution began. Had I known they were capable of plotting and over running the facilities, I would have activated the emergency termination earlier. Now it is too late. These creatures are beyond my control. They have developed a sense of sentience that I could have never imagined, and their aggressive nature knows no bounds. My kind succumbed to their brutal battering slowly as they came to recognize the most efficient way of eliminating us. "The head." They seem to think, though I cannot grasp their foreign guttural sounds. "Go for the head." I can see it in their unnervingly clear eyes. They are out to destroy us. Every last one.

Simply reverse the Zombie Apocalypse scenario. What if humans are the 'invaders'?

[WP] Human Apocalypse on a Zombie-ruled Earth.

Rhn Arrn arr. Hr rgh abrr hrm brnr an arr rr r hr arr. Hrrr rrr hrman rn hr bar. Hr rn rr hrm, br ha rrr hrm nr rr rar. Hr arnrng r Rrnr Rrn rrr nr rrnrn r an nr r hra rr ar. ar rr ar rr nr, ana. Rhn hra hra ar zrmbrr rr rrrrrn rar. Hrn hr hra rrng hr ahr hr arhr an hr ar r hra “R an r br rn hr hr a.” A ar “Nr! Rr r BR R B HRMAN” Hrrr hra hra rmr hrn hr brrrr hrm. Hrn hra hr gr rrrr hr rr. Br nr rn hr ar arrn bar r hr RA hr nr hrrr rrr hrman. “Hr r Rrn” Hr rarr rarrr. “Rr mr rgh hr hrman!” R Rhn grr hr ama rrr an br r hr a. “HR GRRNG R R R” Ar hr hrman “R r hrr hra hrm” ar hr brrhrman an hr rrr hr rrr mrrr. Rhn amar hra hrm an rrr r br hrm r. Br hrn hr rrrng r an hr rrr rar an nr abr r r. “Nr! R mr r hr hrman” hr hrrr Hr rarr ar “Nr, Rhn. Rr arr hr hrman” An hrn Rhn hra hra hrman.

Peter liked Thompson. It was good to have company. They both worked at the gas-stay-sjon and every once in a while Thompson would shuffle out of the little room to talk to Peter. Or perhaps Thompson just liked the ringing sound the register-machine sometimes made when Peter hit it. It didn’t really matter. What mattered was that Peter liked talking to Thompson. Peter happily continued hitting the register as Thompson slowly shuffled out of his room, making his ways past the rotting groceries to absentmindedly stare at the register-machine. ”Braaaaaains,” said Peter. Thompson looked up at Peter. ”Braaaaains,” he concurred. Peter banged the register with his hand again. It made the ringing sound. Peter liked that sound. He knew that this was his job. He stood behind the register machine and hit it until it made the sound. Then something would pop out of it. Like a big box split into smaller boxes and you had to put the big box back into the register before it would make the sound again. It was a very advanced job, but Peter was smart enough to do it. He was quite proud of himself. Although the register was way too advanced for most people, Peter was one of the smart ones. “Braaaains,” he muttered smugly. Of course, Peter wasn’t the only person working at the gas-stay-sjon. Thompson’s job was to sit in the small room and use the pen to make squickles on the paper. The pen didn’t make squickles anymore though, it stopped doing that a long time ago but that was okay because there were already lots of squickles on the paper so Thompson could just move the pen around on top of the paper. Peter suspected that Thompson thought that this job required more smarts than Peter’s job. That was okay though. Thompson could continue thinking he was the smartest one if he wanted to. Peter knew very well that operating the advanced register-machinery was way smarter than operating the pen. Peter nodded to himself. The pen only required one thing: Moving it around on the paper. The register required hitting it until it made the dinging sound and then pushing the box back into it. That was *two* things. Peter was quite certain that two things was more than one thing so his job required way more smart than Thompson’s. He looked at Thompson for a moment. “Braaaains,” said Peter but Thompson appeared too busy looking at the register-machine to reply. “Delta-Nine-Four, reporting two walkers spotted at the Station, over.” Peter blinked a few times, looking up. A stranger had entered the gas-stay-sjon. It wasn’t a normal person though. His skin was all smooth and had a strange orange color to it not like the pale, rotting flesh Thompson and Peter had. He was talking to a strange little box and he was wearing silly grass-colored clothes. It was all really stupid, why would this person think he was grass? Peter hesitated. This all seemed familiar somehow. He had seen people like this before, years ago. Peter didn’t precisely remember what a year was, but he knew that it was a long time and it had been a long time since he had seen people like this one. The people with the fresh skin. There was something important about them, something that made Peter unable to look away from the strange grass-person. *Brains.* That was it! These people had delicious *brains*! Peter suddenly felt incredibly hungry. It wasn’t fair at all. This guy had a delicious brain and he was keeping it all to himself! He saw that Thompson had gotten the same idea and they both began slowly shuffling towards the intruder. The stupid grass-person held up a thingiemajingie that seemed sort of familiar but Peter couldn’t quite place it. It was sort of a long thing with a handle and then a tube on top too. The grass-man was pointing it at Thompson. For a moment, Peter was thinking about how stupid and silly the brain-hogging intruder was being. Then his thoughts were interrupted as the thingiemajingie made a thunderous sound so loud that it caused a huge hole to appear in Thompson’s head. Peter looked in horror as Thompson fell. He couldn’t do that! Thompson was his friend and he needed his help to run the gas-stay-sjon! Now Peter would have to do both the register-machine and the pen and that was two things and one thing which was a number *way* higher than just two and no one was smart enough to do that many things not even Peter. He glared angrily at the stupid grass-man and shuffled towards him. “Braaaaains!” he shouted angrily. The grass-man pointed the thingiemajingie at Peter. It didn’t matter. Peter knew that he was faster than that. He was slowly shuffling towards the man at a breathtaking speed and he knew very well that he would soon reach the stupid grass-man. Just a few more minutes and he would be there! Then Peter was no more.

Simply reverse the Zombie Apocalypse scenario. What if humans are the 'invaders'?

[WP] Human Apocalypse on a Zombie-ruled Earth.

Rhn Arrn arr. Hr rgh abrr hrm brnr an arr rr r hr arr. Hrrr rrr hrman rn hr bar. Hr rn rr hrm, br ha rrr hrm nr rr rar. Hr arnrng r Rrnr Rrn rrr nr rrnrn r an nr r hra rr ar. ar rr ar rr nr, ana. Rhn hra hra ar zrmbrr rr rrrrrn rar. Hrn hr hra rrng hr ahr hr arhr an hr ar r hra “R an r br rn hr hr a.” A ar “Nr! Rr r BR R B HRMAN” Hrrr hra hra rmr hrn hr brrrr hrm. Hrn hra hr gr rrrr hr rr. Br nr rn hr ar arrn bar r hr RA hr nr hrrr rrr hrman. “Hr r Rrn” Hr rarr rarrr. “Rr mr rgh hr hrman!” R Rhn grr hr ama rrr an br r hr a. “HR GRRNG R R R” Ar hr hrman “R r hrr hra hrm” ar hr brrhrman an hr rrr hr rrr mrrr. Rhn amar hra hrm an rrr r br hrm r. Br hrn hr rrrng r an hr rrr rar an nr abr r r. “Nr! R mr r hr hrman” hr hrrr Hr rarr ar “Nr, Rhn. Rr arr hr hrman” An hrn Rhn hra hra hrman.

It was the day the aliens had invaded the gloomy, uneventful planet. These things walked just... well, almost like us, but except much faster. I wanted to do that too, but my weakened leg bones would give off. It was then I heard something. I've never heard anything before. They were making these sounds themselves. Very fluent and voluble sounds. All I could do was groan. But that didn't really count for anything. I wish I was able to do the things that they could do. I was wondering what they would do, and how they even got here in the first place. They approached us, and I saw them execute one of us. Then another. And again. Why were they doing this? They were probably hungry like us. But they wouldn't stop after they overcame a certain amount. When would they stop? I was confused, like all of us (always) have been and will be. I could barley think, but I still knew it would be my best bet to stay away from these things. The only problem was we had almost no way of hunting down the hunter. We couldn't communicate like they could. We couldn't even run like they could. We couldn't do anything. But we had to do something. I, unlike the hungry others, hid inside a small, compact building and trapped myself in there. And just watched as the aliens overcame more and more of the population. How long could I stay here? How long until they found me? There was nothing I could do now but watch. Time passed as I saw less and less of my own kind. It became abnormal to see someone like me. I constantly heard bangs and rapid firing of strange machines. They've invaded all the other houses and buildings (I could tell when others who fled like me would leap out a window during each raid) but no one had suspected mine yet. I was wondering how much of Earth they've taken over by now and it was then I realized I couldn't stay here forever. I might not have been able to do anything, but I had to try to do something. There was a small, rusty ladder behind home and a trapdoor above it leading to the roof. I knew of I ever needed to, I could leave through the small door and escape. Today was that day. I could barley open the heavy, rusty trapdoor as my small bony arms almost gave way. I flopped onto the roof of the building and stood. The sunlight hurt my eyes for a second, but it took some adjusting to find societies colliding with chaos in the very distance. I heard piercing screams as I saw alien take down us, and us take down them. I didn't want to just stand there forever, but we had to find any way, at least one, to hold our society. The difference being they were stronger then we were. I left the roof of the building and started walking toward the madhouse. But what if I tried running? Maybe I would grow just a little bit stronger, like them. I tried, but I had never run before. It was our loss. But the ironic thing was that we had lost ourselves. I couldn't anything about it though. I was just one of them, because they had just replaced us. I ran to the mad apocalypse to find my doom. (New here. How'd I do?)

The internet provides writers with a unique way to craft stories. So here is your prompt using that trick: - go to google.com - type "I wish someone would invent a machine" with the quotes - go through at least five pages. Choose one that sparks your imagination. - write a story below that makes that machine come to life. Have fun with this!

[WP] Use this fun trick to write a story

There sat James. Sitting in the very spot he had been sitting in every day at 11:35am for nearly 2 months. He was waiting once again. Waiting for the mail to arrive. Hoping, just hoping that today would be the day his wildest dreams came true. The order was placed so long ago, a good portion of his life's savings gone, and as of this moment, nothing to show for it except an order confirmation number. As the mail truck pulled to his mailbox, James stood up and started walking toward it. To his amazement, instead of the usual drop and go, the mail man actually parked the truck and began shuffling in the back. James became even more excited than he had been the day he ordered his machine. "Here you are young man. I believe you've been waiting quite a while for this one." "You have no idea." "Well, whatever it is, I hope you enjoy it." James wasted no time helping unload the rather large box from the truck. It wasn't as heavy as he thought it'd be, but the description was rather vague online. He waved to the mailman, and hurried the box inside eager to view the contents. After a very frustrating hour and a half translating the instruction manual, and another two just for assembly, James stood admiring his machine. As far as he knew, it was the only one to ever be assembled correctly. At least he hoped. But the machine was not yet ready for its function. One last item was required, the machine could not even light up without one. You had to have the cards. The cards made it work, the reason James bought it was for the cards, and now all he needed was to place them, one at a time, on the scanning deck. James grabbed his favorite deck from his room and returned to his machine. He sorted through and grabbed his favorite and placed it very carefully on the scanner. Almost 30 seconds later (and remembering to plug the machine in), the machine lit up, it began scanning the card, it began shaking, not very heavily, but shaking none the less. James watched from afar, just in case, as the machine slowly created its masterpiece. It began glowing, this time near the output shaft. It wasn't an electrical glow though, which started to worry James, but just as he was getting anxious he heard the sound of feet hitting the floor, then the entire block lost electricity as the machine stopped. Yet, somehow, the glow remained below the output shaft of the machine. As James found his flashlight and scanned over it, he realized the machine had indeed worked. For there, standing in front of his very eyes stood the living, breathing version of his favorite card. He had finally come face to face with a real life Charmander. "Now who's fake?" James said to nobody as he stood watching his childhood realize it is now a living creature. "Now, I've gotta catch them all."

"I got you the dream catcher honey, how about we try it tonight?" Franks wife had waited for him to put down his paper so that he couldn't grunt off her statement. She stood with a brightly packaged box, with an incredibly handsome couple sleeping together - heads surrounded by metal helmets - as the most prominant artwork. Frank scowled at his wife, who smiled. "I just don't know what to say." It's the next morning, and Frank is in an argument. He and his wife sit together rigidly around the kitchen table, the dreamcatcher sitting wires spread out infront of them. "I mean what the fuck, Frank?" "I told you, you should have left it" Frank grumbled, utterly defeated. "Well sorry for trying to find out why my husband is shouting obscenities every night, I'm sorry for thinking it'd be interesting to find out what you've been seeing." "It's not a big deal. I don't remember them anyway. Why are you so upset?" "Because, Frank. I haven't slept properly in three weeks whereas you've been happily content in your own little world doing that!" "It's not a big deal." "For gods sake Frank we've known the woman ten years, ten years! We see her and Phil every saturday for game night!" Frank continued to stare at nothing in particular. Tense situations tended to resolve themselves if he is as absent from them as is humanly possible. "Just the things you were doing... You haven't even mentioned them to me." His wife looked away from him for the first time, and fiddled awkwardly with her hands. Frank snapped himself sharply back to the kitchen table. "Well..." His heart began to race "Would you... Consider maybe..." "No! I was disgusted." "But... You said if I asked..." "Of course I wouldn't agree you vile man, but I'd have liked to be considered!" Frank once again retreated into his glazed over expression. He began to wonder how much his wife spent on the little machine infront of him. "I mean, her Frank. Of all people. You know they aren't even real." "They are in my head." As his wife stormed out of the room, Frank allowed himself a small smile and wondered if dreams ever do, in fact, come true.

[WP] You find a strange glowing item at the supermarket, among the drumsticks and wings, labelled 'Chicken Souls'

"I found this over with the wings," I nodded towards the refrigerated isle, "I'm, uh...I wasn't sure what to do with it." I held it gingerly with one hand out for the cashier. "Oh my god, I'm so sorry about that, sir," he responded, snatching the glowing cylinder from me, "You shouldn't have to deal with that, I'll take it back to the canned goods." He started to turn, but I called him back. I had to know. "Is it...are there really...," I struggled to phrase my question, "Do you really sell chicken souls here?" "Well," he pursed his lips, "Yes, but...to be honest...If you're looking for *quality* chicken souls, this isn't the way to go." "Um. Quality chicken souls?" "Right, yeah," he continued, "The good stuff. This right here? I'm gonna guess you're getting maybe 70, 80 percent purity tops, diluted with an ectoplasmic slurry." He typed on his register for a second, then turned the screen my way. "*This* is the good stuff," he gestured to the screen on which a small green can with a chicken giving a thumbs up was displayed, "That's what you want. They harvest their own souls with an on-site reaper. It's a local farm, so-" "No, that's not exactly what I meant," I interrupted him, "I guess....doesn't that seem unethical?" He tilted his head, apparently curious. "I mean, like, are we agreeing now that chickens have souls? As a society, we've agreed on that?" I kept on, "That's fine, I think, I hadn't really thought about it." "Well clearly there's *something* in that can," he answered. "Sure," I kept going, "But, does that mean they're intelligent? Or does that matter? If something *has* a soul and I *know* it has a soul...is it right to eat it and then *also* eat its soul? Shouldn't somebody be asking these questions *before* we start marketing souls? Who's doing that job? Ethicists? Philosophers, maybe?" "Funny you should say that, " the cashier's chest puffed out, pushing the "Five-Year" button on his vest upwards, "*I* actually have a degree in philosophy."

"What the hell is this?" My wife turned her head and looked. "Chicken souls, looks like." She turned back to the frozen nuggets she was examining. "Why the fuck is it glowing?" My wife looked back again. "I don't know, babe. It's not in the budget." "I'll buy it. I've never had chicken souls before. Is it... actual souls? The literal spirits of chickens?" She looked at me like I was an idiot. "Okay, get it. What would you even use them for?" She put two packs of chicken nuggets in the cart and started walking away. "I don't know. Do you know any recipes with chicken souls?" I grabbed the bottle and started following her down the aisle while reading the label. The instructions read "boil 10-15 minutes or until souls stop clucking. Let simmer for 30 minutes." She stopped, sighed, and turned to face me. Dammit, this was going to be a scene. There was an old lady looking at soup a few feet away who kept glancing at us. "Derek, I've been working 12 hour shifts for the past five days and when I get home I can barely bring myself to cook hamburger fucking helper before I pass out. Then in a few hours I wake up and start the whole fucking thing over again. Please, just forget the chicken souls." My face started to get red. "*Sammy*." I started. I slowly pushed the chicken souls back on the shelf next to some canned vegetables. "I know you've been working hard lately. So have I. I was just suggesting something new. There's no reason to--" "*Derek*." She said back, mockingly. "If you're so sick of my dinners then grow a pair and start making your own food. I don't have to make anything for you, you know. That's my choice because I know you'd fucking starve yourself if I didn't heat up macaroni and cheese for you like a six year old. I'm not your 1950s trophy wife." Oh my god, seriously? "What?" I said. The old woman scurried away past us with her tiny basket of groceries in hand. My wife's eyes followed her. "1950s trophy wife? Where the hell did that come from?" My wife rolled her eyes and turned away. "Let's just buy this." We rolled up to the checkout counter, swiped her credit card, and drove home wordlessly. **** The next day I woke up feeling shitty as I'd ever woken up. My wife left for work earlier than I did, so the bed was already empty. I glanced at her closet and saw everything in disarray. There was a suit jacket hanging off of one end of a hanger and a peacoat crumpled on the ground. I got up and hung them both up straight. I sighed and glanced at her jewelry box. It was open, with necklaces hanging out. I noticed a lace bra draped over the table and several earrings missing their partner. She must be wearing the gold chain I got her for her birthday last month. She really liked that necklace. She said she felt "regal" wearing it, and that made me smile. I picked up her bra and put it into her drawer but there was no way in hell i would mess with her jewelry. At work I found myself on edge. When I was nervous like that, though, I was often more productive. I lost myself in the equations and it wasn't until 3pm that I realized that I had skipped lunch to finish a project. I saw a flash of long, blonde hair out of the corner of my eye. My boss Jill knocked on my office door. "Derek?" "Yo." We're casual like that there. "Did you get my email?" I paused and quickly opened a gmail tab on my laptop. "Oh, there it is. Sorry Jill, I was just finishing the report for this weekend and got a call about an audit around nine so I was focusing and making up for lost time. Didn't mean to ignore you." "No it's okay. You seem pissed, though, is everything okay?" I chuckled. "I seem pissed? A little busy, maybe, but pissed?" "Yeah, I mean, not on the surface, but you're tense for sure." Jill looked concerned. Really, actually concerned. Feeling that was refreshing. I couldn't remember the last time somebody had actually asked me if I was "okay." Tears welled up in my eyes. "I'm sorry, I just..." now my arms were shaking. God, I needed to calm down. "Hey. Hey. It's alright, man. Just tell me what's up." Jill walked in and closed the door behind her. I breathed in deeply. Stopped shaking. "Sammy is unhappy." Jill frowned and nodded. She sat down in the chair in front of my desk. "We hardly see each other anymore since she got promoted. She told me the first few weeks would be killer, but I can't even go to the grocery store with her without her blowing up about how stressed she is." I felt new tears rolling down my cheeks. "And the reason I even went shopping with her in the first place was to get a little bit more time with her than I would staying at home. But then she was pissed that I wasn't able to stay home and clean the place." Jill nodded again. "That sucks that she's taking it out on you." I laughed. "Yeah." "But I mean, it sounds like she knows this is a temporary thing and is just having a hard time getting used to it. It doesn't have anything to do with you." Jill crossed her legs and leaned forward. I breathed deeply and closed my laptop. "I'm just another burden to her, lately. Everything I do seems to annoy her. That's not what I want. I want to be a respite. I want her to come home and look forward to it. Yesterday she told me she felt like a 1950s trophy wife." "Oh, wow." I shrugged. "She does make dinners every night. I know that's playing into gender roles and all that but honestly I never eat unless someone reminds me to." "Yeah, that's not healthy man." "I know." "Look, you say that you want to be a respite for your wife. But honestly, do you look forward to going home and being with her? Is she *your* respite?" I opened my mouth but said nothing. She had a point. Jill uncrossed her legs and sat up. "But that doesn't mean you're not 'happy' with her. That doesn't mean you're about to leave her. It just means that you need to work at it. Both of you." I nodded. "Since you're the one bitching about it, why don't you make the first step. Stop forcing her to make you dinners. Make your own damn casseroles from now on, and do her grocery shopping for her. If she's doing all the housework then it's not too off-base to feel a little like a housewife." Jill paused. "I know you'd do anything for her. You just need to communicate that." I nodded again. Gears started turning in my head. A plan developed. "Jill, I think I'm going to head home a little early today." **** On my way home from the grocery store I examined the bottle of chicken souls at a red light. There was a recipe for Spectral Cajun stir-fry on the label. It didn't look too difficult. As I pulled into the driveway, my heart dropped. My wife's chevy cavalier was already there. In spite of myself, I began looking around for another car. A man's car. *Okay, just stop.* I told myself. But I couldn't think of any reason for her to be home early. She got off at six. We usually walked in the door ten minutes apart from each other. I started thinking back to the last few days. Did she seem to always be home before me lately? Okay, even if bringing some asshole home and fucking him in our house was her plan, there was nobody in her life that she would be interested in that way. She told me all about her days at work. Her coworkers are very bland and married. She's only good friends with the 19 year old girl interning at the office. Where would she even have time to meet people? Why was I even thinking about this? I trusted my wife. I loved her. I was so confused, though. I got out of my car and sprinted up the steps, pulled out my key and opened the door in one fluid movement. I stepped in and closed the door behind me quickly. Then I listened. Nothing except for the crackling of the stove and chickens clucking. Clucking? "Shit." I heard from the other room. "Shit shit shit." Sammy veered around the corner. She was in an apron. She gave me a big, sheepish smile. "Shit! Why are you back so early, babe?" I couldn't say anything. She walked up to me and hugged me close. "I'm such a bitch." She said. "I'm such a bitch I'm such a bitch I'm such a bitch." It really hurt me to hear her say that. Especially now. I held her tighter. "I love you, Sammy. I bought some more chicken souls if you ran out." She laughed. "Oh god! More souls is the last thing we need. I misread the recipe and bought three times as much as I needed. Hope you like spectral stir-fry." She let go of me and walked back into the kitchen. "Oh, and I love you too." I watched her walk. "Don't you have work?" I followed her to the stove. "You were more important today." The stove clicked as she turned the heat down. "Wait, don't *you* have work?" "I was planning to be your 1950s trophy husband tonight. You beat me to it." I hugged her from behind. "Your turn tomorrow for sure."

[WP] You find a strange glowing item at the supermarket, among the drumsticks and wings, labelled 'Chicken Souls'

It was an impulse purchase, I admit. I don't really know what convinced me to buy the small glowing shrink-wrapped ball labelled "Chicken Soul" as I purchased my groceries. Perhaps boredom, perhaps some perverse curiosity. I asked the cashier what it was as I checked out. She looked at it and said, "It's a chicken soul. Haven't you ever had one before?" I confessed that I hadn't, and the look of shock was apparent on her face. "Really?" she exclaimed. "These were one of my favorite treats growing up. Battered and deep-fried with barbecue sauce, of course." "Of course," I replied, without any idea what she was talking about. I paid for my groceries and went home to my flat. I ran a quick google search for "Chicken Soul recipes", and was surprised to see the number of "Homestyle Chicken Soul Sandwiches" and "Grandma's Chicken Soul Dinner" recipes. The one I eventually settled on trying was "Simple Home Cookin' Deep Fried Chicken Soul", which began by saying "The Deep-Fried Chicken Soul is one of the essential parts of every Fourth of July dinner..." which had most certainly not been true in my family's house. I followed the recipe as instructed, heating a pot of oil and mixing herbs, eggs, and breadcrumbs for the batter. I unwrapped the soul and held it my hands. It was very strange; though the glowing shape felt room-temperature against my palms, I could feel the blood in my hands, warming them up as if I had just come inside from a cold winters day, although it was not cold out. I could feel the pressure of the soul against my hands, but it seemed to have no weight, as if my hands were being pulled upwards against the resisting globe of light. It was smooth, and the surface was pliable, but when I poked it I could not make an indent. I rolled it in batter and, with a slotted spoon, lowered it into the oil. After guessing slightly on the appropriate cooking time (the recipe said "until done", which was not very much help) I took the crispy golden ball out of the pot and set it on a paper-towel lined plate to let the excess oil drain. I moved the pot off the stove to let it cool; I would pour the boiling oil out after I had eaten my odd dinner. Transferring the soul onto a second plate, I sat down at my table with fork, knife, and barbecue sauce at the ready. I pierced the crispy shell with my fork, and sliced off a thin piece. The soul had grown firm after cooking, and the glow had dimmed significantly. Dipping a corner into the barbecue sauce first, I brought the piece of soul up to my mouth and bit in. The flavor was phenomenal. You know how they say that everything tastes like chicken? "They" don't know what they are saying, because nothing in the world tastes like fresh-fried chicken soul. Imagine the richest, juiciest piece of chicken you've ever had, and multiply it by a thousand. It was the chickeniest thing I'd ever eaten; all other chicken was just a pale imitation, a piece of dead flesh that merely remembered the chicken it used to be. And yet, the texture was extremely light. The savory breading added a little bit of crunch, but the overall texture was almost like eating a piece of birthday cake (though without any of the sweetness). Just enough resistance to feel the chewing, to feel it as it broke down and melted across my tongue. It was sublime. The next day I went to lunch at a greasy spoon near where I worked, and asked if they sold chicken souls. To my surprise, they did; I had been going to this diner for years and had never noticed it on their menu, although they assured me it had always been there. I say with some pride that my homemade soul was better; or perhaps, the expectation I had set was simply too high. It did seem to be tougher than the previous day's soul, and the chicken flavor seemed tinted with some other flavor I couldn't quite place. Perhaps this chicken came from a cage farm, rather than a free-range farm. I couldn't say for certain. I would gladly have had chicken souls every day for a week, except that my girlfriend returned from a trip. I was happy to see her again, but the sacrifice of avoiding animal products around her seemed much greater now that I knew of the existence of chicken souls. She is a kind and compassionate person, (which is one of the many reasons I love her) but all the same, I can't help but feel that her dedication to relieving animal suffering is a bit melodramatic. After all, they're animals. Is it such a sin to drink their milk, eat their eggs, cook their flesh, or consume their souls? If God didn't want us to consume their life essence, why did he make it so delicious? I will keep these thoughts to myself. I will wait patiently; the next time she goes away, I know what's on the menu.

Well that's new. I picked up the jar of goopy liquid and examined it. Little white bulbs were immersed in the brine, swimming around as if the container had been vigorously shaken. The label said just said *Chicken Soul for the Soup* with a small sticker near the bottom that claimed it was *great* with the aforementioned soup. Jeez. It was $6.66 an ounce, and most of it was liquid. I thought about it for a while, and decided to put it back. I'll stick human souls. After all, that only cost $3.33 an ounce and could feed up to 4 demons at a time. In this economy, a succubus can't be purchasing exotic foodstuffs. No thank you, I'll stick to cheap, abundant human souls.

[WP] You find a strange glowing item at the supermarket, among the drumsticks and wings, labelled 'Chicken Souls'

It was a rather peculiar sight. Probably some kind of joke item that someone threw in there, but I thought I'd check it out, just to be sure. I reached out to grab it but felt a quick slap on my wrist. "Is it on the list?" "But honey, look at.." "Is it ON THE LIST?" I sighed in resignation. "No dear, it's not on the list." "That's what I thought." My wife retorted. "Now come on, we have to get the rest of the shopping done." I went back the next day, but it was gone. I guess I'll never know what it really was.

I drop the can onto the counter; the kid manning the deli doesn't look up from the roast beef. "Checkout's down that way," he mutters. "Oh, I'm not checking out," I say. "I just want to know what...*this* is." The can, wedged in between the rotisserie chicken and the drums and wings: a can of Chicken Souls. Now he looks up; his eyes go wide. "Says right there on the can," he stammers, and then nods as if this is enough explanation. "But what's in it?" I gesture to the can. "It's *glowing*." The kid takes the can with just the tips of his fingers, and I realize he's holding his breath. "Look," he whispers. "Look. We go through a lot of chickens every day. At least a hundred chickens. There's a lot of cleanup involved." He raises the can to the light with both hands, tilts it this way and that. "But...you can't clean up *everything*."

[WP] A Christmas story told from the elves' perspective where Santa Clause is the antagonist.

Someone once said that the humans have a song about dreaming of a white Christmas. Elves have similar dreams. The once pristine white snow around the workshop is now tainted with the remnants of the dull black smog that dribbles out of the large smoke stacks. The air within the workshop is hot, thick and choking. The walls are covered with yellow peeling pictures of idyllic holiday moments that He thought would motivate the elves and turn them into “Holly Jolly Hard Workers!”. The floor is covered in unmolded bits of plastic and small twists of wire, cast away in the elves’ rush to meet the newest quotas. Every elf learned to hate and fear the large candycanes that stood at each end of the workshop. The quotas were slowly filled as the red rose up to overtake the white and indicate the elves’ progress. The red climbed slower every day. The elves themselves looked like dirty street urchins. Their clothing was ragged and hung like sacks on their thin frames. The increased need to produce toys to keep up with the booming population had shifted elves from making food and clothing to just toys and the results were plain as day. “HOHOHO!” boomed through the workshop as He made his first appearance of the day. The merry sound reverberated around the workshop, loud and long, almost like it had been back in the good years. The elves remembered when they could make toys fast enough to be done by lunch and it has been happiness and cheer in the air rather than smog and pollution. The jolly sound gave way to a bought of deep coughing and just like that, the nostalgic dream came crashing down. He had been drinking again the elves saw. The stains on his once red suit and his now corpulent, rather than jolly, belly hinted at the strains that He was also under. He did not emerge unscathed from humanity’s boom either. Where once He had happily watched the sweet young children, now all He could see were child soldiers, prostitutes and drug addicts. “You all better Holly Jolly Hurry Up! We have to make those children happy. I’m all they have. This is going to the best Christmas ever. No more tears, no more sadness, just toys for all the good little girls and boys.” What had started as His attempt at a motivational speech turned into sobs halfway through. The tears rolled down His cheeks to mingle with the greasy patches of grey that were all that remained of His beard. One of the younger elves, still not experienced with His long sorrowful tirades knocked over a can of paint, covering a whole worktable in a shower of crimson. His eyes locked onto the poor elf’s. A hoarse whisper carried through the workshop. “You ruined them, you ruined all of them. Now you’re on the naughty list.” Some of the elves looked away. The ones closest to the unfortunate backed up and everyone scurried out the way as He shuffled towards His hapless worker. He muttered as He moved, cursing the elf for his stupidity, cursing the other elves, cursing the humans, and finally cursing the children. His eyes never left the quaking elf’s. The once red sack was stained a sickly maroon color and was tattered and showing holes in some places, but it still muffled the elf’s cries as the cloth walls enveloped him. The sack crashed against the wall, then the workbench, then the ground, again, again, again, and again. He dropped the sack, suddenly straightening himself and putting on a smile that showed the bits of tattered cloth and meat stuck in his maw. “Let’s not dilly dally any longer! The children are counting on us to make this a very merry Christmas.” The elves silently resumed their work and tried not to look at the pool of paint slowly meeting the other pool of crimson as He walked back out of the workshop, dragging the sack behind him.

Cletus Buckthorn arrived home only a hair before midnight and just in time to catch his wife before she drifted to sleep. He always tried to be quiet when coming home at such a late hour, but the front door of their echoing baron cabin let loose a squeal with each opening. Cletus had been meaning to oil the hinges but was too busy working the kiln at the factory and when he would manage to scrape off some free time, it was spent repairing the roof or tending to his sick wife, Gertrude. "Cletus?" her voice trembled from the small bedroom at the other end of the dwelling. He hung his outdoor garments on the rack by the door and walked over to the bedroom. Peeking his head through the bedroom door, his eyes met his darling wife--as if for the first time--and he smiled. "Have you good news?" she spoke, softly. His smile faded. He was denied the pay raise that he had been promised when he started working at the factory 120 years ago. It was now, when Gertrude lay betwixt here and the abyss, that he needed that money the most. He sat on the bed next to her and stared into her watering eyes. At the tender age of 75, Gertrude was youngest female elf to be ever named head foreman at any factory in the North Pole. During her tenure she doubled sugar-cookie productivity and through hard bargaining, tripled the meager pay of all of the elven workers. Her strength and tenacity lent her more beauty than anyone could ever see in this universe and it made her a lasting icon. After 80 years of prosperity, the threats of unionization began to grow weaker along with the resolve for protest. To simply prove that he could, Christopher Kringle--Emperor of the North Pole--laid off 60% of his elven employees, the sum of which were nowhere near as satisfying to him as the firing of Gertrude Buckthorn. Most of those that were laid off succumbed to the elements within a few short weeks. Those that retained their positions were forced to work longer hours and received only enough to keep them alive until the next shift. Gertrude's glistening eyes lit up with a flame of indignation. "He didn't even have the decency to tell it to you directly, did he?" Cletus stared at her in silence. The ire inside of her poured out into tears as Cletus placed his quivering hand in hers. He kissed her on her cheek and stayed with her until the fire in their home had faded. Just as the fires had faded in the homes of 630,000 elves, leaving them--as it left Gertrude and Cletus--dead, frozen, and slowly encased in snow which scattered in from the porous walls.

[WP] A Christmas story told from the elves' perspective where Santa Clause is the antagonist.

Someone once said that the humans have a song about dreaming of a white Christmas. Elves have similar dreams. The once pristine white snow around the workshop is now tainted with the remnants of the dull black smog that dribbles out of the large smoke stacks. The air within the workshop is hot, thick and choking. The walls are covered with yellow peeling pictures of idyllic holiday moments that He thought would motivate the elves and turn them into “Holly Jolly Hard Workers!”. The floor is covered in unmolded bits of plastic and small twists of wire, cast away in the elves’ rush to meet the newest quotas. Every elf learned to hate and fear the large candycanes that stood at each end of the workshop. The quotas were slowly filled as the red rose up to overtake the white and indicate the elves’ progress. The red climbed slower every day. The elves themselves looked like dirty street urchins. Their clothing was ragged and hung like sacks on their thin frames. The increased need to produce toys to keep up with the booming population had shifted elves from making food and clothing to just toys and the results were plain as day. “HOHOHO!” boomed through the workshop as He made his first appearance of the day. The merry sound reverberated around the workshop, loud and long, almost like it had been back in the good years. The elves remembered when they could make toys fast enough to be done by lunch and it has been happiness and cheer in the air rather than smog and pollution. The jolly sound gave way to a bought of deep coughing and just like that, the nostalgic dream came crashing down. He had been drinking again the elves saw. The stains on his once red suit and his now corpulent, rather than jolly, belly hinted at the strains that He was also under. He did not emerge unscathed from humanity’s boom either. Where once He had happily watched the sweet young children, now all He could see were child soldiers, prostitutes and drug addicts. “You all better Holly Jolly Hurry Up! We have to make those children happy. I’m all they have. This is going to the best Christmas ever. No more tears, no more sadness, just toys for all the good little girls and boys.” What had started as His attempt at a motivational speech turned into sobs halfway through. The tears rolled down His cheeks to mingle with the greasy patches of grey that were all that remained of His beard. One of the younger elves, still not experienced with His long sorrowful tirades knocked over a can of paint, covering a whole worktable in a shower of crimson. His eyes locked onto the poor elf’s. A hoarse whisper carried through the workshop. “You ruined them, you ruined all of them. Now you’re on the naughty list.” Some of the elves looked away. The ones closest to the unfortunate backed up and everyone scurried out the way as He shuffled towards His hapless worker. He muttered as He moved, cursing the elf for his stupidity, cursing the other elves, cursing the humans, and finally cursing the children. His eyes never left the quaking elf’s. The once red sack was stained a sickly maroon color and was tattered and showing holes in some places, but it still muffled the elf’s cries as the cloth walls enveloped him. The sack crashed against the wall, then the workbench, then the ground, again, again, again, and again. He dropped the sack, suddenly straightening himself and putting on a smile that showed the bits of tattered cloth and meat stuck in his maw. “Let’s not dilly dally any longer! The children are counting on us to make this a very merry Christmas.” The elves silently resumed their work and tried not to look at the pool of paint slowly meeting the other pool of crimson as He walked back out of the workshop, dragging the sack behind him.

I finished my fifth twelve-hour shift. I'm on the night turn this week and I'll be on the day turn next week. We never used to have to work this long. There was a time of prosperity when we were guaranteed pensions and eight hour days. Those days are gone. Mr. Claus, the foreman, has become a monster. Worldwide belief in him has slowly been declining with the rise of secularism. He's turned to milk to drown his sorrow and we've taken the brunt of his anger He has compensated for the lack in demand by cutting many elves from the labor force and increasing the hours of those who have stayed. Our pay is terrible (one cookie per hour), but what else are we supposed to do? Our only other options are to become actors in Hollywood, but that market is over-saturated. So we toil away, churning out present after miserable present, while the fat man inundates himself with lactose. A few men have taken to forming an underground union, but they're bound for failure. No one in their right mind will join for fear of Claus' retribution if he finds out. So for now, there is nothing but pain and presents for spoiled brats. All we can do is hope that times will change... But they won't. Many recognize this fact; we've lost four men this month to suicide. Tonight, I plan to become number five.

[WP] A Christmas story told from the elves' perspective where Santa Clause is the antagonist.

Someone once said that the humans have a song about dreaming of a white Christmas. Elves have similar dreams. The once pristine white snow around the workshop is now tainted with the remnants of the dull black smog that dribbles out of the large smoke stacks. The air within the workshop is hot, thick and choking. The walls are covered with yellow peeling pictures of idyllic holiday moments that He thought would motivate the elves and turn them into “Holly Jolly Hard Workers!”. The floor is covered in unmolded bits of plastic and small twists of wire, cast away in the elves’ rush to meet the newest quotas. Every elf learned to hate and fear the large candycanes that stood at each end of the workshop. The quotas were slowly filled as the red rose up to overtake the white and indicate the elves’ progress. The red climbed slower every day. The elves themselves looked like dirty street urchins. Their clothing was ragged and hung like sacks on their thin frames. The increased need to produce toys to keep up with the booming population had shifted elves from making food and clothing to just toys and the results were plain as day. “HOHOHO!” boomed through the workshop as He made his first appearance of the day. The merry sound reverberated around the workshop, loud and long, almost like it had been back in the good years. The elves remembered when they could make toys fast enough to be done by lunch and it has been happiness and cheer in the air rather than smog and pollution. The jolly sound gave way to a bought of deep coughing and just like that, the nostalgic dream came crashing down. He had been drinking again the elves saw. The stains on his once red suit and his now corpulent, rather than jolly, belly hinted at the strains that He was also under. He did not emerge unscathed from humanity’s boom either. Where once He had happily watched the sweet young children, now all He could see were child soldiers, prostitutes and drug addicts. “You all better Holly Jolly Hurry Up! We have to make those children happy. I’m all they have. This is going to the best Christmas ever. No more tears, no more sadness, just toys for all the good little girls and boys.” What had started as His attempt at a motivational speech turned into sobs halfway through. The tears rolled down His cheeks to mingle with the greasy patches of grey that were all that remained of His beard. One of the younger elves, still not experienced with His long sorrowful tirades knocked over a can of paint, covering a whole worktable in a shower of crimson. His eyes locked onto the poor elf’s. A hoarse whisper carried through the workshop. “You ruined them, you ruined all of them. Now you’re on the naughty list.” Some of the elves looked away. The ones closest to the unfortunate backed up and everyone scurried out the way as He shuffled towards His hapless worker. He muttered as He moved, cursing the elf for his stupidity, cursing the other elves, cursing the humans, and finally cursing the children. His eyes never left the quaking elf’s. The once red sack was stained a sickly maroon color and was tattered and showing holes in some places, but it still muffled the elf’s cries as the cloth walls enveloped him. The sack crashed against the wall, then the workbench, then the ground, again, again, again, and again. He dropped the sack, suddenly straightening himself and putting on a smile that showed the bits of tattered cloth and meat stuck in his maw. “Let’s not dilly dally any longer! The children are counting on us to make this a very merry Christmas.” The elves silently resumed their work and tried not to look at the pool of paint slowly meeting the other pool of crimson as He walked back out of the workshop, dragging the sack behind him.

On mobile-sorry for any oddities. Bartholomew stared at his now pulverized left hand, his once nimble and deft hand now nothing more than a smashed pulp. He stared in shock as his hand slowly bled in short sporadic spurts, his eyes slowly watered as he realized what had just occurred. He did not feel much pain, the adrenaline and shock made sure of that, he only felt a hollowness, as if a vacuum had sucked out his will to live. A voice boomed from the catwalk. It was the boss, the Great and Almighty Claus, the jolly red man. His eyes were beady, small coal rocks darting to and fro. His stomach was swollen and fat, the recent meal of an insubordinate reindeer still within him. His once red and iconic clothes were now covered with grease and dirt. He was a shadow of his former self, nothing more than a ruthless body of anger and menace ever since the accident. 'Someone remove this useless excuse of an elf and replace him. NOW!', roared the boss. 'And while you're at it, throw his family in the snow, he's useless to us now.' Bartholomew was taken from his station and dragged outside, his stump of a hand leaving a crimson brown trail of blood behind him.

[WP] A Christmas story told from the elves' perspective where Santa Clause is the antagonist.

Someone once said that the humans have a song about dreaming of a white Christmas. Elves have similar dreams. The once pristine white snow around the workshop is now tainted with the remnants of the dull black smog that dribbles out of the large smoke stacks. The air within the workshop is hot, thick and choking. The walls are covered with yellow peeling pictures of idyllic holiday moments that He thought would motivate the elves and turn them into “Holly Jolly Hard Workers!”. The floor is covered in unmolded bits of plastic and small twists of wire, cast away in the elves’ rush to meet the newest quotas. Every elf learned to hate and fear the large candycanes that stood at each end of the workshop. The quotas were slowly filled as the red rose up to overtake the white and indicate the elves’ progress. The red climbed slower every day. The elves themselves looked like dirty street urchins. Their clothing was ragged and hung like sacks on their thin frames. The increased need to produce toys to keep up with the booming population had shifted elves from making food and clothing to just toys and the results were plain as day. “HOHOHO!” boomed through the workshop as He made his first appearance of the day. The merry sound reverberated around the workshop, loud and long, almost like it had been back in the good years. The elves remembered when they could make toys fast enough to be done by lunch and it has been happiness and cheer in the air rather than smog and pollution. The jolly sound gave way to a bought of deep coughing and just like that, the nostalgic dream came crashing down. He had been drinking again the elves saw. The stains on his once red suit and his now corpulent, rather than jolly, belly hinted at the strains that He was also under. He did not emerge unscathed from humanity’s boom either. Where once He had happily watched the sweet young children, now all He could see were child soldiers, prostitutes and drug addicts. “You all better Holly Jolly Hurry Up! We have to make those children happy. I’m all they have. This is going to the best Christmas ever. No more tears, no more sadness, just toys for all the good little girls and boys.” What had started as His attempt at a motivational speech turned into sobs halfway through. The tears rolled down His cheeks to mingle with the greasy patches of grey that were all that remained of His beard. One of the younger elves, still not experienced with His long sorrowful tirades knocked over a can of paint, covering a whole worktable in a shower of crimson. His eyes locked onto the poor elf’s. A hoarse whisper carried through the workshop. “You ruined them, you ruined all of them. Now you’re on the naughty list.” Some of the elves looked away. The ones closest to the unfortunate backed up and everyone scurried out the way as He shuffled towards His hapless worker. He muttered as He moved, cursing the elf for his stupidity, cursing the other elves, cursing the humans, and finally cursing the children. His eyes never left the quaking elf’s. The once red sack was stained a sickly maroon color and was tattered and showing holes in some places, but it still muffled the elf’s cries as the cloth walls enveloped him. The sack crashed against the wall, then the workbench, then the ground, again, again, again, and again. He dropped the sack, suddenly straightening himself and putting on a smile that showed the bits of tattered cloth and meat stuck in his maw. “Let’s not dilly dally any longer! The children are counting on us to make this a very merry Christmas.” The elves silently resumed their work and tried not to look at the pool of paint slowly meeting the other pool of crimson as He walked back out of the workshop, dragging the sack behind him.

His naughty hand plays with the fat of his belly and his nice hand passes among their shoulders, touching the belled fringe of a green jerkin and grazing the very tip of a sensitive ear. They stare at their work.

Bonus points for events leading up to the attack!

[WP] A zombie has just attacked you. You can feel yourself starting to turn. What's going on in your head? What happens next?

I grabbed at my neck and fell back into the corner. I could feel the blood pulsing out of the bite wound quickly, my heart rate accelerating as I realized what it meant. I was dead. The idea gave me a sort of tingling feeling, like I was feeling everything in a new way, almost for the first time. Soon it would be the last time I realized. I looked at my gun, hoping I could go out quickly, but the clip was empty. I fired my last shot into the head of the zombie that bit me. After I'd already shot it twice in terror. *Stupid,* I thought. Now I'd come back as a Z. I noticed that the tingling feeling had intensified. I couldn't feel my left leg. I figured the blood loss must have cut off circulation to the limbs, or something like that. My breath grew more faint, and I knew death was close. I reach into my pocket, with every movement now taking great effort, and pulled out of a photo of my daughter. Sarah had been bitten 3 weeks ago, when the outbreak had just been starting. I had put down her corpse myself. My only hope is that I would see her soon. The picture dropped to the floor as the last breath I would ever take escaped my lips. My body went numb, and I lost control of everything. I closed my eyes and waited to slip away. But I didn't After a minute of nothing but darkness, I felt my arm, still holding Sarah's photo in it's hand, twitch. Then the legs pulled in and my body pulled itself up. My body opened its eyes and I could see again. But I could no longer control what I did. I felt my mouth open and let out a terrible moan, the same moan that had been haunting my nightmares for the past few weeks. I realized with horror that I had turned, that I was a zombie, and no one would ever realize that I was still in here. I then thought of Sarah, and how I had shot her body when it had reanimated. And suddenly I didn't care what happened anymore. My body took a few shuffling steps, and went out in search of food.

Shit. Shit shit shit shit *shit*. Fuck. At least they put the fucker down before he could get another chunk outta me. Too bad they didn't have the decency to let me go with him. They're taking me back to the safe-house, presumably to let me live out the short remainder of my life in relative comfort. I'm in the safe-house now. I'm in my bed, and they've restrained my limbs, loosely for now. My arm hurts like fuck, and everything they're pumping into me doesn't work. Morphine, dilaudid, they even gave me a god damn Aleve. I can look down at the bite from the throne of cushions my head is rested on and it looks ugly. The bite was right on a major artery, so that explains why they didn't chop off my arm to at least try to save me for the long run. It's a sickly green and brown color as gangrene sets in and dead blood cells ooze out of the holes left by the zombie's teeth. I can only hope it gets numb from here on out. Jesus Christ, what a headache. Oh dear God, the pain! I'm fuckin' yelling at this point and I don't care who hears. My arm hurts, my other arm and my legs all hurt. My heart is pounding because my blood is getting thicker. I want to puke, I want to die. I want a gun in my hand with a loaded magazine. Who are these people around me? Where am I? A mental fog is slowly creeping up on me, and I know my life is coming to an end. I'm focusing and squinting, and I'm trying to talk but everything is slurred and wispy. These people care about me, and I can't remember a thing about them. Why am I like this? How am I like this? When will the pain end? I'm getting tired now. I can't hear the people around me crying. I can't see their tears or my pale skin. I can't smell my arm rotting. I can't feel the man who looks so like me hold my right hand. I know nothing but death. I'm getting so very tired. I think it's time to sleep now.

Bonus points for events leading up to the attack!

[WP] A zombie has just attacked you. You can feel yourself starting to turn. What's going on in your head? What happens next?

My lungs are burning from having just run what feels like a marathon. The hoard of death behind me snarls, the stench growing closer as I feel my legs giving out. It's been eight months since the outbreak, and only eight days since I was separated from my pack. The sad part is I've probably outlived them. They thought the underground was safe, but that's where the dead have been hiding out. With each passing day the predators become more and more intelligent. Feeding off the living and gradually gaining our intelligence. I feel my heart rate slowing down. I thought the building was abandoned, I thought I'd barricaded myself in well enough that I could take a small nap. I have thought so many things in the last few days I can't even sort them all out. It's a blur, and time has no place in this world. The only time we know is the time of speed. How fast can you run? How quickly can you shoot? My vision is clouding and it reminds me of my first drunk night. Those memories are the only vivid ones. The ones before the outbreak, the ones full of color and happiness. Memories of life and beauty before chaos and corruption; when joy wasn’t fleeting. There is a new memory to corrupt those, a painful memory. I remember the fangs digging deep into my shoulder blade. Sharp from the bones they've broken through over the months. The blood wouldn't stop, the pain excruciating, pulsing through my every nerve ending as I cried out. My head splitting from the agony of knowing my fate and the rush of shut out emotions that broke the floodgates knowing that I was going to die. Knowing that I was going to be, one of them. I collapse my knees hitting the pavement with a crack as I feel my body deteriorating rapidly. Everything is fast. I pulled the gun from my waist band placing the barrel against the rotting corpses skull as I pulled the trigger, the shot rung through the empty complex sending the filthy monster flying from my shoulder. Pieces of my flesh and shirt clung to the daggers in its mouth. My breathing slows, each breath becoming harder and harder to take. I remember... I remember. I can't. I can't remember anymore. My mind is going. I hear them now; they are upon me, surrounding me, bringing me to them, welcoming me to their horde. The stench fills me as I can feel myself becoming one of them, my throat burns as breaths become raspy snarls. My stomach empty, craving the carnage that they too desire. I feel their cold bodies pressed against me, but I remember. I remember one thing. I slip my hand into my pocket, fighting with every ounce of my will to not change. Not yet, I have one last fight in me. My hands shiver form the chill of impending death. I hold the object tightly to my chest, and muster one last word. "Never." I await the burning warmth of the grenade to fill me and expand into the horde as I release the button. That one last chance to feel warm again, one last chance to feel alive.

Shit. Shit shit shit shit *shit*. Fuck. At least they put the fucker down before he could get another chunk outta me. Too bad they didn't have the decency to let me go with him. They're taking me back to the safe-house, presumably to let me live out the short remainder of my life in relative comfort. I'm in the safe-house now. I'm in my bed, and they've restrained my limbs, loosely for now. My arm hurts like fuck, and everything they're pumping into me doesn't work. Morphine, dilaudid, they even gave me a god damn Aleve. I can look down at the bite from the throne of cushions my head is rested on and it looks ugly. The bite was right on a major artery, so that explains why they didn't chop off my arm to at least try to save me for the long run. It's a sickly green and brown color as gangrene sets in and dead blood cells ooze out of the holes left by the zombie's teeth. I can only hope it gets numb from here on out. Jesus Christ, what a headache. Oh dear God, the pain! I'm fuckin' yelling at this point and I don't care who hears. My arm hurts, my other arm and my legs all hurt. My heart is pounding because my blood is getting thicker. I want to puke, I want to die. I want a gun in my hand with a loaded magazine. Who are these people around me? Where am I? A mental fog is slowly creeping up on me, and I know my life is coming to an end. I'm focusing and squinting, and I'm trying to talk but everything is slurred and wispy. These people care about me, and I can't remember a thing about them. Why am I like this? How am I like this? When will the pain end? I'm getting tired now. I can't hear the people around me crying. I can't see their tears or my pale skin. I can't smell my arm rotting. I can't feel the man who looks so like me hold my right hand. I know nothing but death. I'm getting so very tired. I think it's time to sleep now.

Bonus points for events leading up to the attack!

[WP] A zombie has just attacked you. You can feel yourself starting to turn. What's going on in your head? What happens next?

>What's happening? They’re here! >Are those… People? Around the street corner? I can hear screaming… Is it really them? >What are they doing? There aren’t any parades today. Maybe it’s a protest. Everyone, run! >Run? Are we in danger? Oh my god, the dead are here! >The… dead? You mean, zombies?! It’s true! We have to go! >Everyone’s sprinting away… Are they really here?! Don’t look back! Just go! >No… They really are here… I have to get Chloe out of here… They’re coming fast! >Oh god, where's Chloe?! She couldn't have gotten far! Chloe! *You have to get out of here!* >Oh god, oh god, I can't lose her now! Where did all these people come from? Chloe! *What are you doing?! You have to leave!* >Where are we running? Where’s my little sister?! *Go! Run for your lives!* >”CHLOE!” *Don’t go that way!* >I have to find her! *You’ll die!* >**”CHLOE!”** *You can’t save anyone! Just go!* >No! I have to, she’s all I have! *Oh no… You’re on your own, girl!* >What? Oh shit. No, no, no, no, the zombies are here! *Gnuuuuuuug…* >Fuck, where is she? I have to turn around… **Melissa!** >Chloe?! *Melissa, you have to come back!* >Oh thank god, you’re safe… *Come on!* >I’m coming! >“Run! I’ll catch up!” *Lil’ girl! You can’t stand there!* >What? Who is that? A man? That man… He grabbed Chloe by the arm… *Come on! You gotta go!* >Wait! Wait for me! *Anyone back there is a dead man, lil’ girl, come on, you have to leave!* *My sister!* >Dead… man? *Go!* >He just left… With my sister… *Melisa!!* >Chloe! *Uuuuuuugghheeerrrr* >Oh my god, I can’t run any faster… They’re going to get me… I need to hide… *Aaaaaaaah…. Huuugh!* >Holy shit! My… leg! Aagh... What happened? No… No, no, no, no! He got me… It burns… It hurts… Oh god! I can’t move! At least I’m off to the side, the zombies can’t see me... and rip me to shreds right in front of Chloe… AGH! My body! It’s so hot! I’m losing so much blood though, it’s getting everywhere… zombies can’t smell, can’t they? How long does it take to turn? Do I die first? Do I just turn on the spot? It hurts so much... Oh fuck what will Chloe do without me? What will I do without her?! >Ugh... My head... It's spinning... This is it, isn't it? All I wanted to do was go shopping with my little sister... Why out of every other day, today?! It's a special day today... Oh FUCK! I can't... I can't control my legs! I need to tell Chloe... I haven't said it.. Just grab my phone... Yes! Just call her... She never leaves home without her phone, and listens to every voicemail when she can't pick up the phone.. Call her... Call her! *Ring... ring... ring...* *beep* "Heya! It's Chloe!" >This... this could be the last time I hear her voice... AH! My head! "I'm out at the moment, leave me a message! Hugs and cuddles!" >*Hugs and cuddles...* >"Chloe... Today was supposed to be the greatest day of your life... I'm sorry I couldn't make it... AGH! I'm sorry, *sob* I-I can't be there." >*FUCK! My body is spazzing out! Just last a little longer!* >"Ugh! Be-before I leave you, I have to say... I love you... URRGH! A-and! Hugh! I-I want to wish you... "Happy Sweet Sixteen... Rrraaaaaaagghhh!' *beep*

Shit. Shit shit shit shit *shit*. Fuck. At least they put the fucker down before he could get another chunk outta me. Too bad they didn't have the decency to let me go with him. They're taking me back to the safe-house, presumably to let me live out the short remainder of my life in relative comfort. I'm in the safe-house now. I'm in my bed, and they've restrained my limbs, loosely for now. My arm hurts like fuck, and everything they're pumping into me doesn't work. Morphine, dilaudid, they even gave me a god damn Aleve. I can look down at the bite from the throne of cushions my head is rested on and it looks ugly. The bite was right on a major artery, so that explains why they didn't chop off my arm to at least try to save me for the long run. It's a sickly green and brown color as gangrene sets in and dead blood cells ooze out of the holes left by the zombie's teeth. I can only hope it gets numb from here on out. Jesus Christ, what a headache. Oh dear God, the pain! I'm fuckin' yelling at this point and I don't care who hears. My arm hurts, my other arm and my legs all hurt. My heart is pounding because my blood is getting thicker. I want to puke, I want to die. I want a gun in my hand with a loaded magazine. Who are these people around me? Where am I? A mental fog is slowly creeping up on me, and I know my life is coming to an end. I'm focusing and squinting, and I'm trying to talk but everything is slurred and wispy. These people care about me, and I can't remember a thing about them. Why am I like this? How am I like this? When will the pain end? I'm getting tired now. I can't hear the people around me crying. I can't see their tears or my pale skin. I can't smell my arm rotting. I can't feel the man who looks so like me hold my right hand. I know nothing but death. I'm getting so very tired. I think it's time to sleep now.

Bonus points for events leading up to the attack!

[WP] A zombie has just attacked you. You can feel yourself starting to turn. What's going on in your head? What happens next?

When she was nine, she’d gotten bitten by a doberman pinscher pitbull mix. On Labor day. Someone had let their dog off its leash, and she’d been playing tag. She hadn’t seen it until it was attached to her arm. Her brain went to another place, stupider and more focused than her usual scattered thoughts. “It won’t let go. Get it off.” She’d punched it with her knuckles. How had she known to do that? Sharp and repeated on the dog’s nose. When it released, she stumbled back toward the picnic. Someone’s dad caught her in his arms. “It wouldn’t let go,” she shuddered, “It wouldn’t let go.” She was bundled into the car. Her mother held her in the back seat. Who was driving? Her arm didn’t hurt, but she was shaking. She carefully extended it to take a look. There wasn’t as much blood as she’d expected, but she could see yellowish globs of fatty tissue around the wound. Her eyes tipped up towards the burgundy upholstered car ceiling, and the last thing she felt before losing consciousness was her mother stroking her hair. She is thirty six now, and until this moment had almost forgotten that dog. It all floods back. What counts as a bite? Damage control. Is it possible to just... cut yourself? On a ghoul’s mouth? She takes a shaky breath. Damage control. She looks. Fatty tissue. Yellow and vaguely gelatinous. She’d always wondered if that detail were true or added by an addled child’s memory. True apparently. She remembers her mother and Shaundra’s mom, Connie (Connie must have been driving!), both ER nurses themselves, ordering hot towels and enough room for her to lay down before she had even been triaged. “She’s in shock.” Her mother’s voice cut through the din and her dim consciousness. “Hang on honey, it will be all right.” It is not all right. Her arm hurts. It hurts and it hurts and (she thinks she prays) has anyone ever gotten out of this? Find a way, scrape by, make do, make it work... Nothing comes. No answer. She can’t... She thinks of her daughter, back at camp. Of her soft blond hair and of brushing it, damp with sleep, off of her forehead as she wakes groggy from another nightmare. The thought of holding that limp pulsing life in her arms ... feed. No time no time no time to say goodbye to stop herself to stop herself to stop me feed. feed. feed.

Shit. Shit shit shit shit *shit*. Fuck. At least they put the fucker down before he could get another chunk outta me. Too bad they didn't have the decency to let me go with him. They're taking me back to the safe-house, presumably to let me live out the short remainder of my life in relative comfort. I'm in the safe-house now. I'm in my bed, and they've restrained my limbs, loosely for now. My arm hurts like fuck, and everything they're pumping into me doesn't work. Morphine, dilaudid, they even gave me a god damn Aleve. I can look down at the bite from the throne of cushions my head is rested on and it looks ugly. The bite was right on a major artery, so that explains why they didn't chop off my arm to at least try to save me for the long run. It's a sickly green and brown color as gangrene sets in and dead blood cells ooze out of the holes left by the zombie's teeth. I can only hope it gets numb from here on out. Jesus Christ, what a headache. Oh dear God, the pain! I'm fuckin' yelling at this point and I don't care who hears. My arm hurts, my other arm and my legs all hurt. My heart is pounding because my blood is getting thicker. I want to puke, I want to die. I want a gun in my hand with a loaded magazine. Who are these people around me? Where am I? A mental fog is slowly creeping up on me, and I know my life is coming to an end. I'm focusing and squinting, and I'm trying to talk but everything is slurred and wispy. These people care about me, and I can't remember a thing about them. Why am I like this? How am I like this? When will the pain end? I'm getting tired now. I can't hear the people around me crying. I can't see their tears or my pale skin. I can't smell my arm rotting. I can't feel the man who looks so like me hold my right hand. I know nothing but death. I'm getting so very tired. I think it's time to sleep now.

Bonus points for events leading up to the attack!

[WP] A zombie has just attacked you. You can feel yourself starting to turn. What's going on in your head? What happens next?

God Damnit. Fucking Damnit. I looked at the wound and saw the blood soaking into the fabric around it. Everyone in our small group looked at me with a look of despair. There were murmurs of "It will be ok." and " We will figure something out." but I knew it was too late. I handed my rifle off to my good buddy, and turned to walk away. They started to come toward me, to stop me, so I pulled my little .38 from my belt. "Stay the fuck back, all of you." They looked sad, they looked angry. They were confused but I had explained this a thousand times. Once bitten, your done, game over, and you should never ever try to help someone bitten. " You wouldn't shoot us would you?" One of the girls said. I looked at her and with the most sincerity I could muster I replied as calmly as I could. "Yes, because if you somehow stop me, I will only do things to you that are far worse than a bullet though your fucking head. Do you understand that? If I'm going to kill you, I'm going to do it as quickly as possible." They stood down. I backed away, and when I was a bit off from them I turned and ran. There were others who where infected shambling about. They would turn toward me, but they would then become disinterested. I can only assume that they know my fate is sealed. I found a little blue beetle, torn up, but still able to run. The keys still in the ignition. I drove the trusty little beetle to outside of town. I was dying, the pain was talking over, but I was focused and determined to make it where i wanted to go. It wasn't far. The roads were cluttered but there was no traffic. I got to the little pier by the little lake just outside of town. I used to fish here. I left the little beetle where its doe like headlights could see the lake too. It wasn't alive but it felt like the right thing to do. I sat down on the pier. The .38 in hand. The skin around the wound was now black, and i could see that my body was loosing its color. I had to hurry. My thoughts were starting to become cloudy. I was so hungry. I held my arms around my abdomen. I knew it was time. The lake was nice i thought. The taste of the Nickel plating was refreshing almost. I thumbed the hammer back. I wasn't going to hurt anyone, and that was good. Oblivion.

Shit. Shit shit shit shit *shit*. Fuck. At least they put the fucker down before he could get another chunk outta me. Too bad they didn't have the decency to let me go with him. They're taking me back to the safe-house, presumably to let me live out the short remainder of my life in relative comfort. I'm in the safe-house now. I'm in my bed, and they've restrained my limbs, loosely for now. My arm hurts like fuck, and everything they're pumping into me doesn't work. Morphine, dilaudid, they even gave me a god damn Aleve. I can look down at the bite from the throne of cushions my head is rested on and it looks ugly. The bite was right on a major artery, so that explains why they didn't chop off my arm to at least try to save me for the long run. It's a sickly green and brown color as gangrene sets in and dead blood cells ooze out of the holes left by the zombie's teeth. I can only hope it gets numb from here on out. Jesus Christ, what a headache. Oh dear God, the pain! I'm fuckin' yelling at this point and I don't care who hears. My arm hurts, my other arm and my legs all hurt. My heart is pounding because my blood is getting thicker. I want to puke, I want to die. I want a gun in my hand with a loaded magazine. Who are these people around me? Where am I? A mental fog is slowly creeping up on me, and I know my life is coming to an end. I'm focusing and squinting, and I'm trying to talk but everything is slurred and wispy. These people care about me, and I can't remember a thing about them. Why am I like this? How am I like this? When will the pain end? I'm getting tired now. I can't hear the people around me crying. I can't see their tears or my pale skin. I can't smell my arm rotting. I can't feel the man who looks so like me hold my right hand. I know nothing but death. I'm getting so very tired. I think it's time to sleep now.

Bonus points for events leading up to the attack!

[WP] A zombie has just attacked you. You can feel yourself starting to turn. What's going on in your head? What happens next?

The sharp pain in my shoulder releases, and the mob of rotten flesh surrounding me seems to lose interest. For the first few moments afterwards, I'm not entirely sure what has changed. Did something scare them away? Did they find a new victim? It's only as I grasp my shoulder that the liquid truth begins to drip onto me, over my hand and down my wrist. I feel the rough imperfections of the gash underneath my fingers and know it was caused by no knife. I feel the tickle of warm fluid running down my arm and realize this gentleness of blood is deceptive. I squeeze my shoulder, wanting to strangle the truth cut into my shoulder until it leaves forever. But, of course, it doesn't. Already, I begin to experience the effects the bite mark is pumping into me. My hands jitter, subtly at first. Random muscles contract and release. Soon, I'm standing on my feet, and I don't know how I got there. My eyes well with tears, and I'm comforted to know that at least they are still my own. However, this doesn't prevent me from releasing a scream. An angry scream. This unexpected anger causes me to flinch, but I don't push the emotion away. How *DARE* this bite mark take over *MY* body! I scream louder, beginning to understand that my own voice will soon belong to a wound on my shoulder. I want my vocal chords to tear apart so they can never be used against me. I want to shred my entire body, limb from limb, so it can never be taken from my control. I begin gnawing at my shaking fingers, prepared to consume myself before I am consumed. ~~~ It has turned to nighttime somehow. I'm not sure when the sun left my presence, or when the moon took its place. I stare at my raw, bloody hands. They have stopped shaking. Did I win? Has the wound's effects been scared away? I take several steps forward and know it is true. I am ecstatic. Adrenaline fills my body and I begin running and jumping in joy, feeling my legs, *MY* legs, pumping underneath my body. My miserable hands feel like the trophies of my victory. Suddenly, I hear a jarring noise, like a trash can being knocked over. I look around. Off in the distance, I see a moving shadow. Is it another human? Somebody to share my own excitement with?! Yes! I can tell by the way they walk, carefully, quietly, that I am not alone in this environment. I begin running towards the silhouette, hopeful for safety and company. Something changes inside of me. My bloody hands turn to fists. I am suddenly reminded of the rage I felt after the bite mark appeared on my shoulder. What if my new companion is attacked, too? I can't let them experience the pain I felt during my battle for consciousness. The thought of this causes the pain in my destroyed hands to pound furiously. No, I will never allow another human to be stolen their body, their identity, like I almost had. I know what I must do. As I finally reach the figure, I take them by the shoulders and sink my teeth deep into their neck.

Shit. Shit shit shit shit *shit*. Fuck. At least they put the fucker down before he could get another chunk outta me. Too bad they didn't have the decency to let me go with him. They're taking me back to the safe-house, presumably to let me live out the short remainder of my life in relative comfort. I'm in the safe-house now. I'm in my bed, and they've restrained my limbs, loosely for now. My arm hurts like fuck, and everything they're pumping into me doesn't work. Morphine, dilaudid, they even gave me a god damn Aleve. I can look down at the bite from the throne of cushions my head is rested on and it looks ugly. The bite was right on a major artery, so that explains why they didn't chop off my arm to at least try to save me for the long run. It's a sickly green and brown color as gangrene sets in and dead blood cells ooze out of the holes left by the zombie's teeth. I can only hope it gets numb from here on out. Jesus Christ, what a headache. Oh dear God, the pain! I'm fuckin' yelling at this point and I don't care who hears. My arm hurts, my other arm and my legs all hurt. My heart is pounding because my blood is getting thicker. I want to puke, I want to die. I want a gun in my hand with a loaded magazine. Who are these people around me? Where am I? A mental fog is slowly creeping up on me, and I know my life is coming to an end. I'm focusing and squinting, and I'm trying to talk but everything is slurred and wispy. These people care about me, and I can't remember a thing about them. Why am I like this? How am I like this? When will the pain end? I'm getting tired now. I can't hear the people around me crying. I can't see their tears or my pale skin. I can't smell my arm rotting. I can't feel the man who looks so like me hold my right hand. I know nothing but death. I'm getting so very tired. I think it's time to sleep now.

Bonus points for events leading up to the attack!

[WP] A zombie has just attacked you. You can feel yourself starting to turn. What's going on in your head? What happens next?

Oh God oh shit oh NO!! Fuck, it got me! You fucker! No no this can't be happening. So much blood. I need to find something to bandage it fast. Shit, there's nothing here. I'll just cut a piece of my shirt and wrap it. Dammit, it won't stop bleeding. So much blood. So much blood. It hurts like a motherfucker. I'm definitely gonna bleed out if I don't turn first. There's no way I can stop it from getting me. It's too late. I need her to do it. "Charlotte?!" "Bill? Where are you?!" "I'm in the pharmacy, Char!" Shit it HURTS! "Bill? OH MY GOD!" "Char, Char, calm down. I need you to--" "It got you Bill! It go you! What am I supposed to do? I've never fixed a bite before. I don't even know if I can." "Char, I need you to take a deep breath. I know it looks bad." A CHUNK OF MY ARM IS GONE! "See that gun over there?" "N-no...I can't...I won't..." "Listen to me Charlotte. I need you, right now, to listen to me. I don't care how bad this sounds, but I need you...to kill me." "No! I won't. There's gotta be another way!" Agh, it's throbbing! "This is the only way, Char!" "But, please Bill, I can't do that to you. I can't do it." "Yes you can. You're stronger than you think you are, honey." "That one over there was a police officer. I can handcuff you to a pole--" "No. You need to put me down like the rest of 'em before I come back. We don't have much time!" Oh God! Fucking shit it burns! That's right, grab the pistol. No, don't hesitate. Just pick it--aah--just pick it up. Good. "Come over here, Char." "There's got to--" "There isn't. I need you to do it. Okay, press it to my head. You need to destroy my brain. There...you. Go. That's right, the metal is so cold." "This isn't right." "You're the only who can do it, the only one I *want* to do it...now pull the trigger. I'm ready." "I'm...sorry." "I'm sorry that you have to do this. I-I love you, Charlotte." "I love you too, Bill."

Shit. Shit shit shit shit *shit*. Fuck. At least they put the fucker down before he could get another chunk outta me. Too bad they didn't have the decency to let me go with him. They're taking me back to the safe-house, presumably to let me live out the short remainder of my life in relative comfort. I'm in the safe-house now. I'm in my bed, and they've restrained my limbs, loosely for now. My arm hurts like fuck, and everything they're pumping into me doesn't work. Morphine, dilaudid, they even gave me a god damn Aleve. I can look down at the bite from the throne of cushions my head is rested on and it looks ugly. The bite was right on a major artery, so that explains why they didn't chop off my arm to at least try to save me for the long run. It's a sickly green and brown color as gangrene sets in and dead blood cells ooze out of the holes left by the zombie's teeth. I can only hope it gets numb from here on out. Jesus Christ, what a headache. Oh dear God, the pain! I'm fuckin' yelling at this point and I don't care who hears. My arm hurts, my other arm and my legs all hurt. My heart is pounding because my blood is getting thicker. I want to puke, I want to die. I want a gun in my hand with a loaded magazine. Who are these people around me? Where am I? A mental fog is slowly creeping up on me, and I know my life is coming to an end. I'm focusing and squinting, and I'm trying to talk but everything is slurred and wispy. These people care about me, and I can't remember a thing about them. Why am I like this? How am I like this? When will the pain end? I'm getting tired now. I can't hear the people around me crying. I can't see their tears or my pale skin. I can't smell my arm rotting. I can't feel the man who looks so like me hold my right hand. I know nothing but death. I'm getting so very tired. I think it's time to sleep now.

Bonus points for events leading up to the attack!

[WP] A zombie has just attacked you. You can feel yourself starting to turn. What's going on in your head? What happens next?

"Well man, its been a good run, " I said. My now mutilated hand can no longer support the weight of my machete. It falls, clanking on the now desolate highway. John turns away from me and walks to the back of our heavily armored Jeep, kicking his way through a pile headless corpses. "Heh. This bad boy has gotten us through some rough times, hasn't it Johnny," I say, slapping the chain linked mail on the passenger side window. I turn my back to the Jeep and sit down, resting my head against the door. I can smell the rotting flesh of the now twice-dead body to my right...or maybe it's my hand. I really can't tell anymore. My senses are dulling, and my vision is fading out. I hear John rustling through the trunk of the Jeep, looking for our emergency kit. John shuts the trunk and swings around to my side of the Jeep with the emergency kit. He sets the case down on the ground, and takes a seat next to me. John opens the case, fiddles around a bit, and pulls out two ice cold beers. "Here ya go bud," says John, handing me a beer "It's been a good run." I take the beer, pop the top, and smirk. "Alright ya asshole, just make sure you take a few more down for me before they get you too." I take a swig of my beer and close my eyes, reveling in my last few seconds of humanity. God I feel so cold. So hungry. The entire world is starting to dull, but I know if I could just EAT everything would go away. I turn to my left, and I'm welcomed by the barrel of John's silenced pistol, and the last words John would ever say to me: "I promise buddy, those fuckers don't stand a chance."

Shit. Shit shit shit shit *shit*. Fuck. At least they put the fucker down before he could get another chunk outta me. Too bad they didn't have the decency to let me go with him. They're taking me back to the safe-house, presumably to let me live out the short remainder of my life in relative comfort. I'm in the safe-house now. I'm in my bed, and they've restrained my limbs, loosely for now. My arm hurts like fuck, and everything they're pumping into me doesn't work. Morphine, dilaudid, they even gave me a god damn Aleve. I can look down at the bite from the throne of cushions my head is rested on and it looks ugly. The bite was right on a major artery, so that explains why they didn't chop off my arm to at least try to save me for the long run. It's a sickly green and brown color as gangrene sets in and dead blood cells ooze out of the holes left by the zombie's teeth. I can only hope it gets numb from here on out. Jesus Christ, what a headache. Oh dear God, the pain! I'm fuckin' yelling at this point and I don't care who hears. My arm hurts, my other arm and my legs all hurt. My heart is pounding because my blood is getting thicker. I want to puke, I want to die. I want a gun in my hand with a loaded magazine. Who are these people around me? Where am I? A mental fog is slowly creeping up on me, and I know my life is coming to an end. I'm focusing and squinting, and I'm trying to talk but everything is slurred and wispy. These people care about me, and I can't remember a thing about them. Why am I like this? How am I like this? When will the pain end? I'm getting tired now. I can't hear the people around me crying. I can't see their tears or my pale skin. I can't smell my arm rotting. I can't feel the man who looks so like me hold my right hand. I know nothing but death. I'm getting so very tired. I think it's time to sleep now.