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Veronica stretched out lazily on her grandmother’s couch. Upstairs, the rest of the family were happily chatting away. Veronica sighed. She hated the insincerity of family events. Her parents called her discontent a ‘teenage phase’, but she hated how her family could only express their feelings in food. Her parents had been pushing sweet, rich food on her for months. Tired of staring at the ceiling, she wandered over to Grandma’s cabinet filled with VCRs. “Just like them to have a basement full of crap.” Veronica muttered. “Would it kill them to buy a DVD player?” Each tape was meticulously labeled with a name. It took Veronica a second to recognize many of the names – each tape was for a deceased family member. At the top of the pile, there was a tape marked ‘Veronica’. Maybe it was an old aunt? Curious, she popped it into the VCR player. Images popped up immediately, nto of some deceased family member, but of Veronica. She stared at the screen uncomprehendingly. Baby Veronica toddling across the yard, graduating from school, going to prom… Then a screen: “In honor of our sacrifice on August 8th, 2012.” From upstairs, a call: “Veronica, dinner!”

What's on the tape?

I remember my first days as a doctor. I wore my stethoscope proudly around my neck, not realizing it advertised how much of a virgin I was in the field of medicine. I'd introduce myself as Dr. Agon and tried to smile more than smirk smugly, usually I couldn't help the smug smirk. Some people noticed my name now read Dragon, not the reason I went into medicine, but still pretty damn cool I thought. I remember my first surgery, the first one I performed, the first one that was all mine. My mask hiding a huge smug smirk as I cut open a live human being before closing her up, everything having gone quite smoothly. It felt easy, it felt right. Saving a life was euphoric. I felt I was more than a man. I was untouchable. I remember the first time i relieved someone of life. It was a kid. He had cancer. I would say lung cancer but it had spread. He was more cancer than human in the end. He had been nuked and cut and he'd eaten every fucking pill there is. He was a husk. A human that had known nothing but suffering. He'd been born and 3 years later he had cancer. 3 years of life before death moved into his body. He asked me if he could sleep more. I knew he was dying. Nothing more we could do for him. But we're supposed to preserve life, never to take it. I did though. Life wasn't anything worth preserving in this kid. The parts of his blood not full of cancer cells, I filled with morphine. I could have killed 3 full grown men with what I gave him, but he was no ordinary kid. After that I felt like shit. I told the parents he'd just died in the night. He was just buried. I was the reason he was dead. I called in sick for four days. Not crying, just not doing anything, taking his life had taken away all my energy. I got over it. My second killing was easier. A pillow over a head. He was old. 85 I think, give or take 5 years. Didn't really matter. He'd been sick for a while. He was a psychiatric patient. Wasn't going to die anytime soon. He was old and frail, his mind was froth, nothing left worth leaving, but he wasn't about to die anytime soon. His heart and lungs in good health. He'd shout all night, waking up other patients. I was the doctor on call. All the calls were for him. Give him something to sleep. Give him more. Give him more. I knew how we'd both get some sleep. And it felt good and very right. A pillow over his face. I liked how he struggled because I could feel how much power I had over his frail body. I was way bigger than him, more than him, this dying man. After he died I turned him so that he lay on his stomach. Everyone thought he'd just fallen asleep on his stomach, too frail to turn himself around in bed and suffocated. I knew better. As usual I knew more than your average idiot on the street. That smirk worming its way to my lips at the funeral. There wasn't much reason for me to be there, but it felt good to stand in a room full of ignorance. They knew nothing, only me and perhaps god if he exists, but probably only me. Only me. It started becoming a part of me. I loved saving lives, but I needed to take them. It was my drug, my passion. I was good at it. The coroner never found or suspected a thing. Another idiot. He finished top at John Hopkins, yet was just like the other fucking idiots. I started liking more to take young lives. Take lives that weren't meant to be taken yet. Lives that death hadn't put its mark on yet. I was moving outside the hospital. I would put cyanide into foods in cafeterias of schools. Nobody died but it was fun to be able to spread disease. A nice hobby around my art.

Write a story about a hero gone bad

Her toes are cracked slightly, worn from years of soccer and upcountry camping. They're painted a vivid dark blue, striking no matter the backdrop, even though the finish is fading. The smallest toe on each foot is bent somewhat from the undersize cleats she refused to throw away last year. Her feet are a pale white, smooth and unmottled, except for a slight indent where her sandals have gotten used to resting. There's a mark on her left ankle from the nick of a careless razor pass. Her legs, smoothly muscled, are just beginning to show the very slightest of stubble. They are long and thin, and covered near the top by a light cotton dress, sky blue, soft and wrinkled, sort of airy, like it isn't really there. The dress has no waste, tapering instead just below her breasts, which are cast in the shadows by a leafless tree between us and the heat of the sun. The collar is a shallow v-shape, and gives an oddly square look to her shoulders, which support smooth white arms and two imperfect little hands, the nails painted with a clear laquer that splits in the middle of her left thumb. Her neck is impossibly slender, it seems, for someone so fiercely stubborn. It supports her head, and her sharp blue-gray eyes, the tiny wrinkles below them, the smallish rounded ears, and hair the color of honey. The hair. It's everywhere at once, long strands that flow in every direction, thin and curved and straight and shallow and shaking around as I run my fingers through them. Her lips. They're pursed in that happy, slightly-judgmental shape that they always get in when she thinks I'm being silly, but I'm not being silly this time. I'm sad. We're laying in grass that her father has given up taming for the season, the yellowed blades sporting mottled interruptions of hardier weeds, the sharp edges of the dead lawn scraping our backs. The sky is pale and harsh, a blue that could only come from the dead heat of summer, when it's nearly one hundred degrees outside. There are no clouds to happily personify. She's leaving back to college tomorrow.

Describe "her" or "him" (you know the one) with tons of imagery. Finish on their name.

The first thing you need is water. The second thing you need is food. Beyond that, you start dealing in wants, not needs. I wanted to be alone, though, solitary, and I got that. This is isn't a boy scout camp, this isn't Remember the Titans, comradery won't win this championship, other people are a liability. When it hit we stayed organized long enough for widespread evacuations. 'We' refers to we the general, we the human civilization. Past tense. I stayed. I found a small, completely abandoned apartment complex, and made it secure. Before they turned the water off, I filled every bathtub with water. There's food to scavenge in the various apartments. My needs were filled for the first two weeks, I calculate for the next two weeks as well. Everything else is a want. And I have a great view. Some nights, alone, I look out the window and see them milling aimlessly, their clouded eyes reflecting the moon, a glint lacking intelligence. And sometimes I can hear them moaning. And I realize that I am moaning also, inside my solitary fortress. We are moaning. we the human civilization. Past tense.

How I Survived The Zombie Outbreak

Oh white room, oh white room. You have ensnared me in your brilliance, your lack of shade or hue, your eternal light. But there is so little to do in this white room. There are no doors to any outside world, there are no windows to the sun, there are no locks with which to leave. Nothing, nada, zilch, null. All I can do is think and hear the whispers that come from above me, like schizophrenic angels trying to tell me the secrets of the universe. Sometimes the words are clear; I once heard a female voice telling me, "Wake up, please." Other times, I hear sniffling, that turns to sobbing, and then finally, to the silence that serves as my inconsistent intermission, as the pauses last anywhere from very long drags of time to the shortest of conversational lulls--a pause of breath. Sometimes I wish I knew why the words came to me, and why they are so melancholy. Their messages are all so very sad, as if they are praying for someone to return from what must be a very long, distant journey. I like to think of where this person must have gone, and what they were like. Maybe they were some sort of royalty, a king or a queen riding on tall stallions to the green pastures of another kingdom. Or the modern warrior of markets, the lean businessman with the hungry look on his face, happens to be on extended leave in the exotic east Asian countries, as he is very busy bartering over the price of silk and cheap labor. But as the voices continue, I grow so tired. There is only so much one can take of the mosquito buzzing in his ear. If I had the power, I would slap the voices away from my ear and put the tiny carcasses into the corner, so I would never have to acknowledge them again. But that would kill them, and the thought of violence to beings that care so much about a friend sickens me. So I let them whisper, and I tell myself they don't know that I'm down here, or else they would have found me and apologized for their chatter. I'd tell them it was just fine, and to please take me out of this white room, because as lovely as the white is, I fear that I no longer know what the color black looks like, or if I ever knew at all...

You're trapped in a coma and live in a mental world that you've constructed. Describe that world...

**Thanks for the Great Selection, TV Tropes: A Not-a-Fanfiction Begrudgingly Written (Without the Backspace Key)** Newt Gingrinch awaked up. He was in a liquied qhich was water. He oppende his mouth and followed the budbbles up. Je opened his eyes and was staring at Rick Santorum. He was smiling at him, read in the face. There weas a light layer of water hfrom the hotube they were in on his sezy chest. they were a hottbu in Newt's foyer. thee water coming out from the jets was soothing, moving at terminal velocity. "Gladt o see your up Newt." said Santorum, lustily. "I cant tell you how much I want you rivk." said Gringich. "But I already ordered pixza", said Rick , hungril. "But rick, /pizza cannot astusdy my urges for you." "But our politica view-" "Let's not think about that now, Rick." Newt gentle removed Santurms shirt which he ut on since the last tome I descrived him. He put his lips on Rick's and they kissed passionately. Just then, a man burst through the door. He was 6' 9" tall, holding a pizza hin his mahnds. "Did somebidy order pizza with extra sausage?" Newt and Rick got up and begged fr the pizza man to join them. He snodded, lustily, and se t the pizza down on teh taoster sitting nest to the hottub. "but let's get this sausage hot first shall we?" he said, hotily. The pizza man ut the box on the toaster, sexily, and the box caught fire. Trying to put it out, Newt pushed the toaster into the hottub and electrocuted them all, thus ending this terrible fanfiction far too late. I'm never doing this again. ------------------------------------------------------------- The Hand Dealt: http://tvtropes.org/pmwiki/pmwiki.php/Main/HomoeroticDream http://tvtropes.org/pmwiki/pmwiki.php/Main/ElectrifiedBathtub http://tvtropes.org/pmwiki/pmwiki.php/Main/DemocracyIsBad I used all of them. And now I hate myself. Thanks OP.

The Game of Trope Roulette

*LONDON (AP) - University College London - Department of Physics & Astronomy has reported the discovery of a large mass, most likely an asteroid, which will collide with the earth in 150 years. There is no known way to divert the mass with current technology. Scientists admit that it is impossible for us to have any appreciable effect on it's trajectory. For all practical purposes, our planet is doomed...* When the news first broke, people were for the most part, unimpressed. 150 years was too far into the future for them to really be concerned by it. Surely something could be done. Besides, it would not affect them. They would be long dead by then. The next generation was a bit more concerned about the looming disaster. They had far fewer children. They were generally more on edge. Crime rates soared. However, for the most part, life went on as usual. Still, they would live out their lives and the event would not affect them in any meaningful way. Perhaps their children would find a solution. By the third generation people were born into a world that would cease to exist within their lifetimes. The future suddenly became a priority. The entire world now focused all their resources, all their scientific effort into coming up with a viable solution. For the first time in human history they became one people. Countries forgot their disagreements, wars were abandoned. Every human breath, every human effort was geared towards a single goal. To save their world. They had finally become what we already know we can be. As you all know, it was far too late for that to save them. What few of us *could* be saved fled the Earth when the asteroid was still well outside the solar system. We are the children of the race of man. This is why we must remember the people of Earth, my students. They never realized their true potential until it was too late. We must learn from their mistake and not allow our own people to become apathetic. This is why we teach you this lesson. There was a saying back on earth. "Those who forget history, are doomed to repeat it." We, the people of the planet *Terra*, will never forget.

Humanity has just discovered the world will end in 150 years.

One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Eight. Nine. I lean over to Aaron and hiss in a low voice: "She's over the limit." He glances over and scans the items on the conveyor belt and then bursts into laughter. He points at the sign, which clearly reads "EXPRESS LANE 1-8 ITEMS." "Barely." He chortles. "It doesn't matter!" I insist. "Look, there are *rules* to a society, you can't just break them willy nilly." The lady in front of us, the rule-breaker, turns her head slightly and we both quiet down; both of us are snickering like children. The cashier begins to scan her items. One, two, three... I can see her lips moving all the way up to nine. She glances up at the woman. This outlaw doesn't look like a lady who will budge, even though the policy is clear as day. Her hair is tightly wound, her lips are compressed together, and her fingers dance on the edge of her wallet in impatience. The cashier casts her eyes back down, avoiding the fight to live another day. I imagine a world where the rules are strictly enforced, and where this lady would be cast out to the long lines of the regular cashouts where she belongs. As I put my items down on the cashier's belt, Aaron bursts out laughing again. "What?" I glance up. "She put a pack of gum down with her items." He whispers back. "That puts her at ten." For some reason the audacity of this sends us both into howls of laughter. The ten-item bandit picks up her plastic bag with a huff and stalks away, clearly unimpressed by our display of jolliness. Well, at least I follow the rules.

The Seinfeld Prompt

*I don't want to talk about it right now.* For some reason, I thought that phrase wouldn't sting nearly as bad the second time. Well, it's been two weeks since this girl, a girl that has filled my mind to the brim with her essence, said that. I'm about to leave for college, and it burns worse than ever. I remember I was a nervous wreck when I asked her to the homecoming dance junior year. God, I was so scared, but she replied with an enthusiastic *YES* and I knew things were going to be great. The night of the dance was one of the best of my life. That's where I kissed her for the first time. Before I knew it, we were going out to see movies, get coffee, etc. The image of her, curled up by my side, head resting on my chest, was imprinted in my head. Then she started going stiff. She backed away. I wondered why, but she told me that things were getting to complex, that she couldn't handle a boyfriend. *I don't want to talk about it right now.* And, just like that, we split. Not only that, but we didn't talk for a year, not until the first day of senior year when I decided to sit next to her in AP Biology. Sure, it was awkward at first, but I started trying to mend old wounds. It worked. She would laugh at my jokes like she used to as I rebuilt our friend ship. But it started again. I started looking at her a bit differently. The class started becoming more than just the ordinary science class; I looked forward to each lab and lecture because I knew I’d be spending the next hour and a half next to her. She was a jewel. I don't know if it was love (hell, I don't know if I've ever felt love) but it was something. Prom was approaching and, of course, she was my number one candidate. Meanwhile, another friend of mine, another girl, was making attempts to get close to me. I was somewhat torn between my ex who I was slowly becoming re-obsessed with, and a girl who was making it relatively known to like me. I couldn’t decide. So I did the worst possible thing: I waited to think about it. The other girl was later asked by the bass player in one of the school’s garage bands during a show. When I discovered this, I went to my ex, but she had already been taken too. So, the days following prom, I sat at my computer and cycled through her facebook pictures of her night, Pictures of her smiling, laughing, and dancing in the arms of another guy. I only blamed myself; I had treated her like an option. Still, seeing her like this upset me. The fact that I wasn’t the only person in her life to uplift her world stung me. Things were still good in class though. We still laughed. We still learned. Except I felt defeated. Before I knew it, I was walking across that stage during graduation. Hundreds of my peers cheered, I should have been just as enthused…but I was too busy thinking of *her*. In a few months, I would never see her again. Hell, *this* might be my last time seeing her… Fast forward three weeks, I’m at Myrtle for Beach Week and I haven’t talked to her since school. Well, I guess a little bit of vodka decided to change that. We talked a bit; I guess to cut thing short, she was having a pretty boring summer while mine was kinda fun. To my surprise, she told me that she wanted to hang out after I got back. So I took her to see *Magic Mike*… It was good, and at the end, for the first time in nearly two years, I kissed her. Things then just sort of continued from there. She would come over to my house, we would go see more movies, and we would eat things…. And I knew it wouldn’t last, because dating your ex is like rereading a book: It’s fun and has its amazing moments, but you already know how it’s going to end. We were leaving for college, of course we couldn’t make things last. Somewhere…deep in the back of my mind, I knew this, but I ignored it. Maybe it’s because I was in love? The weekend before leaving for school, we were going to get coffee, but stopped responding to my texts. I sent text after text after text as casually as possible to get something out of her until she responded. *Listen…I don’t know if I can see you before I leave…* I tried calling her, but she didn’t pick up. Instead of giving me the satisfaction of her listening to my voice, and me listening to her’s, she only texted back. *I don't want to talk about it right now.* And that was that.

A phrase that has stung you to your core...

He had even torn the label off, just in case. Because a whiskey bottle just doesn't look like a whiskey bottle without the label. Like they sell apple juice in square bottles now or something. And he'd hidden it so well. Jeremy had had to take the unlikeliest of actions to stumble across this cache of his father's failure. He had moved the rice on the top shelf of the pantry *slightly to the left*. Only archeologists might have found it otherwise. Moron. He didn't remember too much from before Henry got sober. Most of those memories either hadn't stuck in an unformed mind, or had gotten blocked out by repeated pubescent escapism. He knew he'd been generally scared, he remembered a lot of crying. Mostly he didn't think about it. Mom thought about it. Jeremy saw it in her face. She was flinchy, unsure. Her words were timid and few, or else biting and acidic, accompanied by a red face and snotty tears. Jeremy usually took that venom. The adult tantrum of shaking and screaming. Only in the last six months or so had he started to see the fear behind it. And with only another six months to go. Graduation and two days later a legal adult. That bastard. Jeremy felt himself shift suddenly and unpleasantly down, like the part on the roller coaster when it's about to get fun. It didn't get fun. Instead he just kept sinking, finally finding himself on the floor, back against cheap paneling. Jeremy sat there for most of his life or a few minutes, slumped. Holding the cheap, plastic bottle like Yorrick's skull. Trying to see into it. Trying to see it's claws. Trying to see the temptress. His fingers were soon tacky from the glue left behind by the label. He just kept turning it and turning it, casting brown rays on the floor. The same thought bubbled up over, and over, and over. We're not gonna make it. The cap was tighter than he'd thought, and he wrestled a bit to break the safety seal. The plastic unsnapped and separated suddenly, spilling a bit of the whiskey into his lap. It smelled terrible.

Downstairs Pantry

"*That is it?*", he thought while standing up, "*Is life so meaningless? It can't be*". He took off the helmet, walked to the door, pushed the button and exited the room. He is frustrated. He doesn't want to live, for life has no meaning anymore. He exits the building. He wanders. He is almost hit by a car. He gets home, opens the door and goes to his bedroom. Then, he walks slowly to his closet, opens its door and grabs a shoebox on the highest shelf. He sits on the bed, opens the box and he grabs a gun. "*Well, that's it.*" He puts the gun against his head and feels the coldness of the metal against his temple. *BANG.* He opens his eyes. "*Am I alive?*", he thinks. Five pairs of eyes were on him, and five pairs of ears were focused on everything he had to say. *Click. Click. Click. Click. Click.* All pens are ready to write. "*So, how do you feel?*" He starts to cry. P.S.: I believe it would be better if I had written it in Portuguese, my native tongue. Sorry about any mistake.

a machine which lets you experience a lifetime in a matter of minutes.

He tapped his foot impatiently. Enough was enough. He had been sitting in the examination room for almost forty-five minutes now. It was bad enough what he was visiting for. Any illness in that part of the body is awkward enough without having to have someone 'glance it over'. He checked his watch again. "This is bullshit," he thought. Two knocks brought his attention to the door which then opened. The doctor stepped in and closed the door behind him. He crossed his arms over his clipboard and held it to his chest. "Mr. Romney, I'm ever so sorry it's taken so long for me to get to you. We have just been waiting on your insurance paperwork to process," the doctor had a British accent which did not, however, alleviate Mr. Romneys' emotional distress brought on by this painful news. His announcement complete the doctor turned to go. "No! You stop there," shouted Mr. Romney. The doctor took his hand from the handle and turn to face his patient. "I have come here for three weeks with no results," Mr. Romney fumed. "I demand that you fix me! This problem," he said it like a curse word, and pointed to his behind for emphasis, "has caused me considerable pain. It must end now!" He was standing now and had his index finger pointed accusingly at the doctor. "I understand . . ." started the doctor, but he was interrupted. "You understand nothing! These hemorrhoids hurt when I sit down and when I stand. Pooping, once the most peaceful moment of my day, is now the bane of my existence! This cream, that you have been giving me for two weeks now, is useless!! First I have to insert it into my anus using an applicator. I don't like things being inserted in my anus! Then I need to rub it on the affected area . . . of my anus, " his voice was raising in pitch now. "And in two weeks time do you want to know the end result?" he questioned accusingly. "Every time I fart bubbles come out!" he shouted, his face turning red. He flung his hands up in the air in desperation and said again, "Bubbles!"

Any situation where the word "Bubbles" (in reference to soap bubbles, not a proper noun) can be said with anger or resentment.

"500 million" The billionaire smiles as he hears the words announced. A hush falls over the stadium. Everyone stares into the center, waiting to hear the result. In the center of the stadium, the billionaire stands with another man: the referee. The referee repeats himself. "This man will wager five hundred million." The crowd erupts into wild cheering. A bead of sweat runs down the side of the referee's face. The billionaire smiles, balancing the quarter on his thumbnail, and, with a sharp intake of breath, flips it through the air. The quarter sails over the referee's head. "Tails" calls the billionaire. The microphone echoes his message out to the whole crowd. A slow chant builds up. "heads.heads.heads." The quarter comes to rest in the turf. The referee bends over to read it. He pauses a minute and adjusts his microphone. "Tails." The crowd boos furiously. Garbage rains down onto the turf. The referee sighs and picks up the quarter. The billionaire smiles. Again. It seems he can't get rid of his money. On to the next venue. "One Billion."

Challenge from a billionaire

"5 minutes till." "What? Oh, yeah. Shit this is taking longer than I thought." I looked at my watch and saw that it was five to three in the morning. This had been a long night. I took a final drag on my cigarette and put it out on the heal of my shoe and flicked it off into the drizzle. It was a habit I picked up long ago. My dad had always told me that fire was a powerful tool and to handle it with frivolity was a dangerous game. "Alright, let's get this over with I've got two more tomorrow." I walked back into the warehouse followed by my associate and took off my trench coat and fedora. I placed them neatly on the back of an old wooden chair. "So, Mr. Everson how are we tonight?" I said as I approached the man strapped to a metal chair in the middle of the warehouse. Flood lights had been placed around him and the smell of piss and shit was in the air. "Fuck you!" he spat. Mr. Everson struggled in the chair, but his metal shackles held his wrists firmly to the chair arms. He was an older man, looked to be in his 50's. Salt and pepper hair, a strong jawline, and bright blue eyes. Standing he was over six foot and stronger than he looked. It was a bitch taking him down, but we always do. "Let me go you sick assholes!" he kicked out but his legs barely moved in their shackles. "Mr. Everson, we don't want anything. We want you to do the right thing. That's all. You do what we want and this is all over. No more beatings, no more cutting, no more anything. It's up to you." His white buttoned down shirt had been ripped in multiple places and blood had began to stain it a crimson red. A pool of dark red blood had congealed at his feet and in his shoes. "Listen, Mr. Everson. We know what you are. I just want to have a talk with you. Ask you a few things. That's all." He looked at me with a confused look. They always had that look. That look of hope, that maybe they could get out of this. Maybe it didn't have to end this way. I suppose we all have that look when we are hurt and desperate. I wouldn't know and I couldn't care. I pulled out my stiletto and flicked it open. "Now, Mr. Everson tell me something." I turned the knife and watched as it caught the light and sparkled. "When did it happen?". "I don't know what you are talking about." he said looking away from the glistening knife. I buried it deep into his left cheek and watched as it passed through and the tip emerged from his right. He screamed until I pulled the knife out and watched as the flesh in his cheeks almost instantly closed leaving no sign that my knife had been there a moment before. "See what happens when you lie?" I buried the knife again into his right thigh, slicing through his femoral artery as I pulled it out sideways. A stream of blood shot out for a second before that wound closed as well. "God damn you. Sons of bitches. Can't you just leave us alone?" His head hung at his chest, droplets of blood from his cheek dripped onto his ruined shirt. "Mr. Everson, please don't interrupt me. Just tell me where the rest of you are hiding and this will be over. I promise you that." I slid the knife into his chest between the fourth and fifth ribs and into his heart. I turned the knife and watched as blood poured out of the wound as I held it open. Mr. Everson screamed as I slowly pulled the knife out and wiped it unceremoniously on the last clean spot of his shirt. "Fuck you." he coughed. "I never wanted this. I woke up one day and I was like this. I don't know when it happened it just did. I don't know anyone else, how can I? You hunt us like animals and for what? Because you are scared? You are scared that we are so different from you that you have to destroy us? Torture us? Beat us? Stab us? Why can't you just leave us alone! Why can't you just let us be?!" "I've already told you Mr. Everson. Because you aren't normal. You are something that goes against the very balance of nature and the world and that can't be tolerated. But let me tell you one thing that may bring you comfort. I believe you. I know you don't know anyone else like you, I just wanted to make sure." I closed by stiletto and placed it back in my pocket, I took out a cigarette and placed it behind my ear. "Wait... so does that mean I'm free to go?" He looked around at the bright flood lights, squinting for someone coming to let him free. "I told you in the beginning Mr. Everson. Only you can end this. I'm just here to help you along." I put the cigarette to my lips and lit a match with the nail of my thumb. I nodded to the shadows that had emerged behind the metal chair and black slick sludge began to be poured over Mr. Everson's head. "Oh God what is this!? What are you doing?! You said you would let me go!" He screamed and screamed as the goo flowed down his face and covered his eyes. It streamed down his chest and pooled around his feet, mixing with his blood. "I told you I'd help you along. Nothing more, nothing less." I lit the cigarette and flicked the match into the pool at his feet. A blue flame lit and began to spread. It crawled along the black sludge until it reached his feet and burst into orange and reds. "This is it Mr. Everson. It's time to end this." I walked to the chair and retrieved my hat and coat. Mr. Everson screamed a final scream as his entire body was engulfed in flames, his skin charring and healing over and over. Suddenly his screaming stopped. Just like that he had chosen to end it. In the end it was always their choice. We couldn't kill them, not with any weapon known to man. Mr. Everson and his kind would always return to their original state, the moment they had turned. Forever existing as a perfect replica of themselves, until they decided it was over. I walked outside into the cold night air and looked up. The rain had stopped and a light mist had collected on the rain slick roads. My father was right of course. Fire was a powerful tool, a gift from the gods and their undoing.

People always ask, "would you live forever?" I ask instead, "what if you could live as long as you'd like (including infinity) but you have to choose if/when you die?"

Story kind of went another direction: I peeked around the end of the isle. There was one of them. The Big People. They dressed in bright red, and stick out. They get mad at me, and yell at me. I get dragged away. I know not to let *them* see me. I pretend to be looking at sugary cereal as the Big Person walks by. He glances at me and then looks away. He turns the isle, and I grab a box. It has a man in blue on it. It's a bright red box. It reminds me of the Big Person. I take the knife I took from another store and cut the security bars out. They set off loud noises when I try and leave. I go to the end of the isle towards the back and peek around. No Big Person. I hurry, weaving through people and other kids like me. No, not like me. They have mommies and daddies that are normal. Their mommies and daddies don't look sick. They look clean. Unlike mine. Those kids wear clothes are fit them. They have shiny hair, that doesn't have knots in them. They have their mommies brush it. Their mommies tuck them in at night and read them a story. At least I think they do.. I've only seen it on t.v., through the shop windows. No mommies like me. No daddies like me. No kids like me. I try not to cry as I sneak to the door, creeping through people and isles. It's clear. I race through the sliding doors, and run through the parking lot. I hide behind a car and listen for Big People. None come. I start my walk home. My sandals keep coming off. They don't fit, and the strap is broken. I fix my dress, hoping no one laughs at me because it has holes. I walk by the river, stopping to take a bath. "Why buy water when it's all around you?" Mommy says, so I take baths in the river. No bubbles or duckies for me. I get out and put on my dress, getting it all wet. Trying to ignore the shivering, I uncover my stuff. I hid it in the grass, so the Big People wouldn't know I'd take stuff. Cookies, water in bottles (the river water doesn't taste good and it doesn't go bad), soup, and a bunch of different batteries. "We don't need electricity. That's what the sun is for." Mommy says. I don't know what electricity is, but I guess it makes the light come. Maybe it makes the sun come, and when it goes away the dark comes out. I don't like the dark. People come over when it's dark, and they hurt me. I try and hide, but daddy always drags me back out. The people push and shove, and give daddy things like money and "good stuff" so they can hurt me. I gather up my stuff, the plastic bag swishing as I walk. I finally make it home. Mommy and daddy aren't around. They're probably sleeping. They're always sleepy. I open the door, making sure it doesn't creak and tell them I'm home. They're not in the couch room, so I close the door and tip toe up the stairs, making sure the bag doesn't swish. They're not in the hallway. I sneak to my room, quietly closing the door and putting my dresser in front of it. I hide the stuff and crawl under my bed. It's time for a nap.

A young child who shoplifts because her parents spend all their money on drugs.

Hi Sarah, this is Jacob. It seems kind of silly writing this. Pointless, you know? But the people tell me I shouldn't hold it inside, and that this'll help me move on. This is the second letter I've written for you that you won't ever read. I suppose in a way it's an apology for the first one. I've been thinking about that letter a lot, about all it's worry and uncertainty about us. It was stupid, and passionate, and I said some things that probably weren't fair, and some that probably made no sense at all. Underneath it all I suppose I was wondering how you could go away at all, when I could never imagine it, wanted to make you choose. In the end I told myself that it really would be unfair, and that we would make it work anyhow. I wish I had sent it. So so much. It seems like a turning point when I look at it; abstract, like an obvious piece of foreshadowing in a bad film. This letter won't ever do anything, but that one could have, and maybe you'd still be alive and I wouldn't be like this. I miss you every day. I wish I had sent it and at least tried. I wish I'd at least have known, and you'd at least have read that I loved you once more. Addendum: I know it's stupid, but I really do feel better. It's funny. Well done Dr Truman.

The Undelivered Message

I quite enjoyed this prompt. I decided to try and approach it from a slightly different angle from what it immediately suggested to me. I decided to keep it exactly as it was, though with total free reign I would've split it up (adding another sentence between the dialogue and the final sentence), and probably changed it a little. Anyhow, I hope it's enjoyable, and any feedback is appreciated. -------- There were three ropes. Tangled around his body, stretching his breath taut as he lay hanging mangled from the rock. "Just do it. Please Jess" She lay just beside him, hanging by a thread herself. "You know you need to. Just do it." "I love you." Her voice was breaking. She pushed the knife down in a harsh motion. There were two. Two ropes left between him and the ground. "I love you too." She kissed him, deeply. His one workable arm seared with pain as he clutched her against him for what he knew would be the last time. The wind snapped at his eyes as he tried to hold back tears. More than any part of his battered body, his throat ached. It felt like it must split. She made another cut. Now there was one. Just one. He felt it creak as he let go of her, pushed himself away. "Just do it. Please." She paused. Intricate patterns of frost were forming on her cheeks, her lips were still bright in the morning sun, and though her face was worn and hurt, he could not help but think of how beautiful she was. The solitary rope cut into his chest. "I love you" She rose up on her toes and pressed her shell-pink lips to his ear; he inhaled shallowly as whispered against his skin. "This will only hurt for a second, love." She twisted the knife, and then there were none.

She rose up on her toes and pressed her shell-pink lips to his ear; he inhaled shallowly as she whispered against his skin, "This will only hurt for a second, love." She twisted the knife, and then there were none.

There is some inescapable part of me that yearns for you- and not just for your rough, cracked hands to lift my head by my intrusive chin and tell me that I'm handsome, or to run them down my arms and back up again, teasing me (encouraging me, even) to let go, and give in- but there's an element to me that flows through my body like sticky sweet blood that powers me, it moves me. And you know it. You know that you drive me insane. I'm sorry that I can't give it all back to you. But you know that you have this ability to drive me wild and you manipulate it like you do me; every move is planned and has its purpose, like you're folding me into origami- a sitting duck, floating on a pool that's drenched in your aura, your fucking charm. You disgust me. But, you rule me. I'm a slave to you. If you held my head down in that pool, I'd be blessed and rather then cry out "dear God, save me!" I'd only find the words to thank him for giving me what I've always wanted. You. I want you. Unfortunately for me, God has abandoned me- or at least he doesn't acknowledge me and that's more then I can say for you. Rather than be benevolent or silent, you torture me and you punish me for what I can have. I can have you- you know I can, otherwise you wouldn't abuse my affection so liberally, dragging me on, leaning in a little too close, whispering a little too soft, drawing my hand to yours and pressing it ever so slightly against your thigh- I could have you, if I wanted. And that's just the problem. I don't want you. I don't, I don't, I don't. But I need you. You are a horrid person; I abhor myself for knowing that there is a capacity in me to fall so hard for someone that I'd call against my very nature. But you're also intoxicating. You've bewitched me; I'm drunk, I'm stoned. I'm poisoned. I long for your tongue to cross paths with mine- even if it means that you'll bite like the waiting asp you are and I'll die. But I'll die loving you. You're so open about it. You openly sport your prey, your toys- when you're tired of them, they dissolve away into the background, and I've watched it. Women, they come and go- like a cycle of evaporation, they come, they dry- they leave. Women, you get rid of. But me...I'm different, because I am not one of them. I linger; I tell myself its because I am ice to you- I refuse to bend and show you how much it affects me, but I'm melting. Dripping. For you. One day, I'm going to give in to you. This is my acceptance of defeat. I will never be able to resist you for much longer- but I wanted to have it stated, have it shouted, how much I bloody despise you despite the fact that you are all in the world that could ever make me happy. These words are my paper crane- a thousand of them, a thousand more never said and never written- and they are my deepest wishes. Come and claim me, whenever you are ready.

The most hateful, spiteful, bitter confession of undying love.

Day 51 Dear Jenny, Johannesburg has been the most organized city we've seen and maybe the only one where I haven't had a gun pointed at me. It still has its militias, like Gabarone, but they're more like peacekeepers than gangs. The Chinese-speaking militias are the most powerful here, with Latin militias coming in a close second. There are still a bunch of English speakers, thank God, but English militias always seem to be a bit looser, or something. I think I understand why. I guess there were a lot of English speakers in the world--the international language, right?--but they're from goddamn everywhere. Even though we're all in the same situation, I feel like it's been easier for me to trust Americans or Europeans than anyone else. I don't think it's racism--don't judge me--it's just, I don't know. You like people who are like you. We walked into an old apartheid museum today and stopped inside for a bit, mostly to check if there was anything salvageable, but also to do a little sightseeing--it feels strange, but it helps make me think of this as an adventure more than a tragedy. We saw all the old pictures from when South Africa was separated into whites, blacks, asians and coloreds. Just like back in America's segregation days, but worse. Maybe not worse. I don't know. You'd probably remind me that every country has done some crazy things at sometime or another. You're worldly like that. Yeah, I know it's ironic being here in the home of apartheid. The world's turned on its head, shaken up, mixed all colors and creeds. Maybe this is the Final Judgement? Only God knows. But it makes me realize that there's more to this world than I ever imagined. In a few days, we'll gather what we can and head to Cape Town. Rumor has it there are a few ships setting sail for North America and trading passage for food, supplies, and weapons. I'll try to get on a boat and go back to our house. I hope you'll be there. I miss you. It seems like everyone in the goddamn world was moved, but I pray that you and Daniel were left behind by some miracle, or that you know that you should meet me there. I'm not even thinking about what might have happened if you two were separated. I've seen too many dead children. I convinced myself that you're safe, waiting for me. Because without you two, I don't know why I'm going back. It's not home anymore. Nowhere is.

What would happen if everyone in the world woke up in a different country?

My mouth is dry and tastes of vomit. My eyelids are heavy, they open like doors in an old house. Pain shoots through my head as light reaches my eyes. I groan and cover them with one hand, while pushing myself up with another. My head is swimming and a wave of nausea fills my stomach. I slowly remove my hand from my face to see where I have awoken. A cold, almost bare room. There's an old tungsten bulb dangling from the ceiling, it glows dimly. The walls are a faded pink universe of multicoloured butterflies and twirling ribbons. I know those butterflies somehow, those ribbons. They flutter and twirl through some old part of my mind. There is some daylight coming in through spaces between boards nailed across the only window in the room. Opposite the window is a door, tall and looming, from my perspective. I stand up, struggling through the dizziness. My joints creak with the effort and my back aches. How long have I slept? I can barely focus my vision, let alone my thoughts. I lurch to the door and grasp the cold, dusty handle. I try to turn it but it sticks halfway. I try again, harder but it's no good. I rattle the handle in anger but the effort just causes a sharp throb of pain in my head. This has to be the worst hangover of my life. What was I doing? I try desperately to remember, but it's all black. "Hello?" I shout through the door, and wait. No response. Again, louder this time. The only response is the pain in my addled brain. The last thing I remember is her invite. Did she change my mind? I can't imagine anything she could say that would make me want to go to that party. I turn away from the door, explanations can wait. I need to get out of this room. I go to the window, grasp one of the boards and heave. It groans a little but doesn't budge. The wood is thick and heavy-looking, the boards are attached to the solid looking window frame with two large nails at either end. I look around for something to use as a pry. The room is empty but for a coffee table at one end. It has a floor length cover which twitches as I look at it, as if something hides beneath. "Hello?" I say, awkwardly as I slowly walk toward the table. Before I reach it the cover moves again, this time it lifts up as some horrid, fury creature slinks out, a scruffy mess of mangey grey fur. I sigh with relief and laugh at myself as I realise it's just a cat. "Hi there," I say, as cheerfully as I can. "What were you doing under there?" The cat looks up at me, as if in contempt. I laugh again, this time at the uncannily human look of distaste on its face. "Waiting for you to come find me," the cat says. I stagger backwards in fright, my foot catches on a fold in the carpet and I fall heavily on my backside. "Careful now," says the cat, like an old man to a child. "I wouldn't want you to hurt yourself." "How are you doing that?" I say, looking around the room. This has to be a trick, some kind of ventriloquism or something. "Who are you looking for? There's no-one else here," the cat walks toward me and sits on its haunches a couple of feet away. "How…?" I manage. "How did you get here? How do you get out of here?" "How are you talking?" "The same way you are, of course." I stare at him like an idiot, my mouth hanging open, "But…" "Cats don't talk? I know. But I'm not really a cat. I just felt like being one for you." With this he bends down and begins licking his paws. "What do you mean 'for me'?" "You're quite fond of cats, aren't you? I thought it might put you at ease, some. I don't make the prettiest cat, I know. But I'm not so young as I used to be, and it seems, unfortunately for us both, I can't hide that, no matter what I do." I continue to stare him for moment before something clicks and I laugh in relief, "This is just a dream." "I suppose you could say that, though you're not really asleep. You really are in this room, but whether this room is real is a different question entirely. Don't you recognise it?" I look around the room, seeking out familiarity. I'm about to say I don't know the place when it hits me, "This is her old room." "Not much of a decorator, I take it?" he chuckles to himself. "This is it after she moved. I used to come here when I really started to miss her. I haven't been here in years… Why am I here?" "That's for you to figure out. I'm just here as a guide." I hear something behind me, a quiet tapping, and turn around. At the other end of the room, opposite the coffee table there now stand two big old-fashioned bird cages, like the ones you would see in old cartoons, one silver and one gold. I stand up and approach the golden one, looking in I see a perfect white dove perched on a wooden bar that runs through the cage. It opens its wings a little and hops along the bar, moving closer to me, its feet taping quietly along. The cat speaks from behind me, "Beautiful, isn't she?" I turn to the other cage and look in, there on the bar sits a crow. It turns its head sharply and stares back at me. As perfect as the dove is, I can't help but feel some instant connection with the crow, as if we understand each other. "Can they talk, too?" "Of course not, they're just birds," the cat replies, now sitting by me feet. I laugh at this, despite myself. "Why are they here?" "You have to free one of them." "Which one?" The cat chuckles and licks his paw again. "Thanks for your help," I say. "I'm a guide, not a helper. Think about this place, what it means to you. Why would you be here, of all places?" "I don't know." "Think about it, we've got plenty of time," he says, now walking around in a circle. He stops and lays down, apparently falling asleep. I sit down and am immediately reminded of my hangover. My head throbs and my stomach churns. I feel worse than the cat looks. I turn my mind to memories of this place: my great love's bedroom. It used to be a haven for me, away from all my teenage hardships. I spent hours and hours in this room with her, talking, joking, making out and eventually making love. At first these memories bring happiness, these were the best times of my life, but it soon turns to bitterness as I remember it all ending. The last time I came here was a few months after she moved to the other side of the country with her family. The house had just been bought by someone else, so I knew it would be my last visit. It had been boarded up to stop squatters from moving in. I knew the house so well that I managed to get past their attempts at sealing it off just to spend one last night in her room. Thinking about it now, back here, it seems a bit ridiculous, like some melodramatic romance novel for teenage girls. It had been years since I'd last heard from her. She got back in touch a few weeks ago and we emailed each other a few times, even spoke on the phone. Then she broke the news: she was engaged, and I was invited to the engagement party. I begin to panic at this thought. I must have been drunk, I must have made a fool of myself, embarrassed her. I try desperately to remember, but nothing comes back to me. I curse and shove my hands into my pockets, an old habit, there's something soft and damp in them. I pull my hands out, they are covered in bread crumbs. I brush them off on my legs, and notice that I'm wearing a pair of scruffy old blue jeans and a plain T-shirt. Surely I didn't go to an engagement party in these? I look over at the cat and see that he's staring back at me. "I didn't go to the party," I say as it dawns on me. "Not yet," he responds. "It hasn't happened yet?" "You have a choice to make before you go. This choice will change the way you live your life, and has been ignored for far too long already." "What do you mean? What choice?" The cat watches me in silence before slowly lifting his head to look at the birds. "You said I have to free one of them," I say. "It must be done before you can leave, but which one will you free, and why?" What does it mean? The birds must represent something, but what? Me and her? No, I realise, just me. "The dove is her… I mean, my love for her," I say. "And the crow?" I pause, as realisation sinks in, "My anger at her for leaving me behind. My resentment of her being happy without me." "Then what must you do?" Like a petulant child carrying out some punishment, I approach the crow's cage and raise my hand to the catch that holds the door shut. I pause. "It gives you comfort," says the cat, "this anger you can't let go of. A sense of familiarity. But it does you no good." I undo the catch and open the door. The crow looks at me and caws. "Come on then, come out." The crow watches me with two bottomless black eyes, but does not move. I tap the cage with a knuckle, trying to nudge it into to moving. Nothing. Then I notice some breadcrumbs still stuck to my hand. I take a handful from my pocket and hold it up in front of the door. The crow looks at the bread hesitantly before it hops along the bar, jumps off and lands on the bottom lip of the door. It pecks at the food a few times before jumping over to my hand. Straight away I feel relief, all the aches and pains in my body fade away. My stomach settles and my head becomes clear. I feel more alive in an instant than I have in years. "What about the dove?" asks the cat. "I think I can leave her where she is. Loving her is part of me that I can live with, it's not going to hurt me. Not without this part," I say, indicating the crow in my hand, still happily pecking away at the breadcrumbs. "And when you see her again?" "I'll congratulate my oldest friend on getting engaged and wish her all the luck in the world." I say. "I think it's time you left here and went home." "How?" I say, "The door's locked." "Is it?" says the cat. **Edit: I'm glad a few people got some enjoyment out of this, and thanks for the gold! Now I just need to figure out what it does...**

Your character wakes up from a druken stupor in an almost empty room...

George A. Francis was a very religious man. That’s why it bothered him so much, I think. He was a very religious man. Went to church every Sunday, always said grace, kind to others. All for the purpose of getting to that glorious place in the sky. I’d say it made me sad, but I don’t think I’m capable of that. So there I stood, looming over his bed side as he breathed his last few breaths. It always fascinated me how people can never see me, but when I’m there they always know. So I stood there and waited for him, and he was taking his sweet time, I mean he didn’t have anyone to say goodbye to. Isn’t that weird? How someone so friendly to everyone else ends up alone in his final moments. Then that moment finally came. The oh-too-familiar deadline sound filled the space my ears would be and George was standing next to me. He was startled at first, like they all are. Then he looked at me with the same hopeful look all of the believers like him give me. I just shook my head. I took him, put him in my bag, and moved on to Gunther Finkel.

Imagine there's no heaven.

The newspapers are wrong. You've probably read about me, but don't listen to what the media is saying because it's *wrong*. I never wanted to be famous. I'm not psychologically disturbed. I wasn't abused as a child, I never tortured animals and I didn't wet the bed until I was 9 or 12 or 16 or whatever else the talkshows and journalists and bloggers are screaming about. But no one's ever going to believe me when I say that because for every incorrect fact that's printed, there is a correct one too. And that's how you tell a lie, isn't it? - by mixing it with the truth. Maybe they're right. Maybe I am a monster. I did kill all those people after all. I murdered 66 children and 82 men and 85 women. Of course they think I'm a psychopath. I've seen the story that's being told about me: "233 men, women and children – all victims of human trafficking - were burned alive in a warehouse fire. Reports say that the arsonist, Dr. Jacob King, planned the violent attack with methodical and savage cruelty.” And yes, christ, that's all true. It's true -- except. That last part. That's not right. It wasn't savage cruelty, even if I did do it on purpose. Even if I spent a week preparing to burn it down. Preparation wasn't necessary, you know. There was a *1,000 gallon propane tank* already in there. I don't know if you've seen propane go up, but it *explodes*. And a 1000 gallons? The fire was so hot that it cracked the concrete a block away. The entire sky lit up like a second sun had been hung and I could feel the roiling heat on my face. That final act, that's not the real story. It was the *consequence*, the *aftermath* when all the other variables have been added up, and - Well. Does it even matter now? Probably not. But. Here it is anyway. I'm a doctor. I can’t take out your appendix or set your broken arm, but I have a doctorate in biological engineering with a subspecialty in Synthetic Biology and Medical Technology. I received my education free of charge thanks to the United States Military with the expectation that I would work for them for at least 10 years after earning my degree. The US military spends more money than you would think recruiting the best and brightest minds and I was young and naïve and so eager. I couldn't even imagine the research I would be getting into. You see, these days a college student studying biology will cover some material on genetic breakthroughs. They'll learn that we've recently made advancements in knocking out genes in a mouse, that we can insert DNA into an embryo so that the mouse will grow a human ear on its back. They'll learn that these advancements are too new to fully understand and it's going to take a long time before we can stort it out. In reality, we’ve been able to grow human ears on mice for over 30 years. The oldest human clone? 39. Oldest human/chimp hybrid? 19. When I arrived, the next big advance was being able to manipulate DNA in people who are alive and breathing and grown. Convention dictates that you must start with an embryo if you want to tailor its genetic code and then wait 15 or 20 years for a human to fully mature – but that wasn't good enough. HIV gave us our launching pad. We retooled the underlying mechanism found in a retrovirus. This allowed us to insert fragments of DNA, then whole genes into cells. We moved onto organ systems, then entire animals. Eventually humans. It was more complicated than I'm implying; you have to make a custom strain for every person, - a bespoke infection, if you will - but we eventually got it right. And now? A few hours after inoculation, the process of shedding old cells begins. Depending on the type of cell or system you're targeting, a subject can be fully infected within days. But the details aren't important now. Everything that we did, everything we planned on doing? What it meant was this: humans were no longer humans. They were blank slates that we could write on. And I was helping. What could this possibly have to do with the 233 victims of human trafficking, you wonder? You might already suspect some of it. But the rabbit hole is deeper than you think. See, we - *I* - worked on something called the Comp-T Gene. Its innocuous name is shorthand for Compliance with Training. It sounds like something you’d find in a Labrador, but it’s more powerful than that. See, you put this gene in someone, “turn it on” using transcription factors and you can train that person to do *anything* you want. After you’ve set a subject, you turn off the gene but the behavior? It’s permanent - a brand-new, hand-picked, biological imperative. I heard one of my colleagues refer it as the "Kool-Aid Virus." He was, for all his flippancy, correct. You have to know that I wasn’t part of the team that set the 233 Comp-T men, women, and children that ended up in that warehouse. I never should have known about them but how I came to that information isn’t important. And. God. Believe me, please, believe me. Please. I know that I'm a monster and all the terrible things people are saying about me. I killed those people, yes, I lit the fire, it’s true. And yes, maybe it was savage, and god it was cruel. I pay for it, now. I wake up sweating, I have nightmares so terrible that I get sick. There is no taking back what I've done, and I hate myself for it. You have to understand, I killed 233 people, but -- listen. I think, I hope, that I saved 233 lives too, maybe more, because don't you understand? Do you see? There were plans. They were going to take over. They were using those men and women and children; they had designed them, 1000s of hours of planning and do you see it now? The warehouse was a way station before they were being sent off to kill 233 members of our government -- *including the president* -- 8 days from now. They were going to *stage a coup.* I have no idea if I succeeded. It's not likely. Even if I stopped it once, they can just do it again, can't they. I don’t think I’ll be around much longer to wonder.

Write about a terrible human being, but frame the story so that the reader is compelled to sympathize and forgive him/her in the end.

It was an easy job, Davey reminded himself, irritated in the situation he's in. He glanced to his wrists, the crawling markings banding across his skin and casting an invisible tether between his arms. Three hours ago, he was climbing along the roof of an upscale condo, unaware of his mark- He thought it was just another upper-class vacation home, abandoned for the winter with it's trust-fund owners off who-knew-where. When he opened the upstairs window with his tools and slipped his way inside, the room grew cold- only he imagined it to be from the weather, not from the secrets that lie in store. He thought about his reasons for robbing homes- Starvation, the difficulty an ex-con has staying out of this life- his wife and son needing food on the table, all excuses at this point, he rubbed his hands against his brow. When he broke into the study hours ago, the man's jaw dropped. The room was far bigger on the inside than on the outside- And the hallway no longer seemed to be there, replaced by vast bluffs and foggy mountains. As he stumbled his way through the massive room of golden wood and brass, past what felt like miles of bookshelves and alchemical tools- He came across a man studiously going through scientific work and his books. The man hardly even noticed him at first, and the two passed each other, dumbstruck in their work or in awe- in David's case, that is. The studious man froze mid-step, turning with a mouth agape. "Wait-" He raised a hand, blasting David across the floor. "You- How did you get in here?!" He boomed, expanding in height to seemingly impossible heights, the room darkening and the cascade of thunder rolling in the distance. ***"YOU DARE INTRUDE UPON MY SANCTUARY!?"*** David threw up his hands. "I- Oh my god- I- I'll leave- I'm sorry-" And here is where David finds himself, sitting at a table that stretched off into the distance. A spark between his arms- "Ow! Fuck!" He snapped, rubbing his wrists- Only to be relieved by the free range of movement once again. The owner of the house took a seat next to him, trailing a hand across his peppered beard. "Only those with the talent of sight can see this place. You must be a thief of some reknown-" He leaned back, raising a brow. David shook his head, wringing his hands through his hair in disbelief. The older gentleman sighed, lighting a rolled cigarette. "I- No, I bust into vacation homes when nobody's in them and -" The man stammered. "Yet you managed to find your way into this place. Trust me, you're more talented then you let yourself believe- And that is why I need you to steal something for me."

A thief robs a wizard, unexpected outcome.

The finest hour of human history occurred between 8:23 and 9:23 pm GMT on June 10^th, 1629. During those 60 minutes, the words “I” and “love” and “you” were uttered over a hundred thousand times in every extant language (and even more extraordinarily, sincerity in those cases was at an all time high - 44% of admirers felt almost to entirely certain of their affection). Criminals around the globe were struck with the feeling of goodwill toward their fellow man and renounced their thieving ways because stealing is rarely a viable long-term solution to one’s financial troubles. No one swore at their mothers, fistfights abruptly finished, and one hangman, Edward Billinghurst of Westchester, declared he would quit the trade to build an orphanage. Of course, humans have a habit of mucking things up and at 9:24 pm GMT (or 4:24 pm EST) Bridget Bishop was executed in Salem, Massachusetts after being convicted of witchcraft. Thus ended the finest hour of human history. Fistfights resumed. Lovers fought. Mothers cried because their criminal sons were thrown into jail and Edward Billinghurst never built his orphanage because business was booming and why throw away a good thing? You may be inclined toward sadness, but I for one am quite happy with this turn of events. What a weight off our shoulders. Now we can sit back and fondly say, “We’ve done the best we can and it might have only been for an hour, but my god, what an hour.”

Our Finest Hour

Max E. Mumph-Ister - Max is the son of two poor parents who pretend to be rich, combining their last names to show the world that both of their lineages are important, regardless of the fact that in the grand scheme, they really weren't. Max himself, is a quiet, reserved gentleman, having been made fun of during his childhood for the random assortment of hand-me-downs he had to wear. He found solace in music, having found a rotting violin in the dumpster while walking home one day. The violin always sounded off because of the holes punched in it by its previous owner, but with Max's delicate fingers, and even more delicate heart, Max learned to make beautiful music. The broke boy and the broken violin sang together in harmony. Luck turned for Max as he grew older. He finally fit the clothes he wore, and could play anything that was handed to him. His classmates words turned from hurtful, to congratulatory. He began attracting all kinds of attention. Music schools, Touring Orchestras, Extreme Fetishests, Critically Acclaimed Artists, and women- all wanted him. But he only had eyes for one thing. His broken violin. The violin that mended his broken soul, and taught the world that a man nicknamed Maximum Fister could do more than shove his fists into buttholes; he could also play the heart strings of an entire nation, with those same hands.

The most ridiculous name you can think of, and a quick character sketch.

*I’ve been drugged* That was my first coherent thought. Eyes closed and lying face down on a hard floor, I felt woozy. The Earth rolled beneath my body and I clenched my teeth against the low throb of pain in my head. A cold, slimy feeling of nausea crawled over me. It subsided and the ache focused to a point above my left ear. Eyes clenched shut, I gradually became aware of two things. First: It wasn't drugs, but a blow to the head. Second: My cheek pressed into a wet, tacky pool. *Get up. Get up.* Pressing my palms to the floor, I pushed myself up and blinked, uncomprehending. A full two seconds ticked by before reality synced with my brain. I had been been lying in blood. *Is... that mine?* I couldn’t remember. I pressed my fingers into it: cool but not yet cold. Not mine - there was too much. I had the sick, certain knowledge that anyone who lost this much blood was either dead or would be dead very soon. I sat back on my heels. My clothes were dark and wet with it. Joints stiff, head contracting and expanding in a steady rhythm, I slowly got to my feet to look for the other body. I was alone in a wide, grand living room. There were pristine white couches and dark Persians rugs spread over wood floors. Ornate, wingback chairs bracketed a chess table along the far wall. Shades were drawn over long windows. I squinted at my surroundings. There was something odd about the room. The ceilings? That was it. They were incongruously low. The world under my feet rocked again. A gently swaying chandelier threw light like sun through forest leaves. I *hadn’t* imagined it; the room was moving. I was on a *ship.* Using the crook of my elbow to wipe blood away from my eyes, I took slow deliberate breaths to suffocate the fear slithering around in my stomach. I couldn’t remember who I was or how I had gotten here. Nothing was familiar. I was a combatant in enemy territory, waiting for the next ambush. *Okay. Stay calm. Fear makes you stupid.* Exhale. *What do I know?* There had been a fight, a lot of blood had been lost. Someone had died - or was dying. Did I do that? Was it my fault? Were they still alive? Would they come back with reinforcements? *Shut up. Stop. Focus.* This situation was clearly dangerous. I had to find a way out of here. Before I could formulate a plan, the door opposite me swung open. A woman, mid twenties, stood framed in the doorway. My stomach was wrenched at a strange angle. Her mouth split in astonishment. Eyes wide like two bright blue marbles. My own mouth opened in mirrored surprised. Neither of us moved. “Jesus. Sam.” She rushed out. That was my name? Sam? She recognized me. How many others were on the boat? Would she try to attack me? Scream for help? There were no weapons and she was tall but I could overpower her, especially if I moved quickly enough and took her by surprise. She pressed two fingers to her right eyebrow in astonishment. “Oh my god, I can’t believe this. You swore you weren’t going to make a mess.” She sucked in a lungful of air and took two steps forward, then stopping. “Oh my god.” She said again. “It’s everywhere, Sam.” Who was this woman? I watched warily, a hundred thousand nerve endings in my body standing at attention. “Jesus Christ, look at all this. We’re going to have to use bleach to clean this mess up. Or maybe we should just burn the whole fucking ship down.” She started moving again. I took a step back, but wasn't coming for me. She crouched in front of a cabinet. She pulled out a thick, white towel before glancing in my direction. “Stop staring at me like an idiot, come on, you've got to get cleaned up.” She slid open a door, revealing a bathroom. Hesitantly, I approached. “How did you manage to make this much of a mess?” She muttered, pushing the towel into my hands. “Just wash your face. I can't take care of this on my own. You can shower after we clean it up.” When I said nothing, the skin around her mouth and eyes pinched. Frown deepening, her gaze searched my face -- for what? She knew something, but how could I ask? What would she do once she realized I didn't recognize her? I slipped past and closed the door before she could say anything. I turned on the faucet and let the sound of running water mask my movements. I searched the bathroom for some clue, a hint, anything. It was sterile. I felt naked, exposed. Could I break the mirror and use it as a knife? Steam rose from the sink. I stared at myself, not quite recognizing the face gazing back. The resemblance between the woman and my reflection was too obvious to ignore. The same cornflower blue eyes, brown hair, pointed nose. Sister? Cousin? *How can I not know this?* With trembling hands, I washed my face as best I could. My hair stuck together in matted dark clumps. The door behind me slid open. I saw the woman in the mirror. Her face twisted. With an electric jolt, I knew that this was the perfect place for her to kill me. I was trapped like a dumb, panicked rabbit in a cage. She held up a dark bottle in her hands. Was this the murder weapon? Was she going to bash my head in? Was it too late to run? Was she going to silence me forever? Would I die not knowing who I was? --- “What is wrong with you, Sam? Seriously, there is chocolate syrup everywhere. You’re 7 years old. You know better than this.” Sam flinched. Tears welled in his eyes as he gazed up at his sister. His mouth shivered. “I slipped and hit my head.” He said, voice cracking. “It hurts.” Molly sighed. “Alright, hush, it's okay. Let’s see.” She tossed the Hersey’s bottle in the trash bin and picked up a washcloth. “You should be more careful next time. You could really get hurt.”

Unreliable narrator

I think the worst part of insomnia has nothing to do with the lack of sleep but everything to do with the obsessive hunger for everything that is wrong. It's 1:00 AM, and I desire cupcakes filled with hot fudge and topped with french fries. It's 2:00AM, and I desire a lap dance from a Russian mail order with a penis that ends in a deep self reflection of my financial situation. It's 3:00 AM, and I desire to get in a car and drive as far east as the tank will go, forget about my life and job here and become a nomad. What's stopping me, I don't really know. I do not just desire these things though, I crave them. I toss and turn and ache for them with spiders crawling underneath my skin begging me to get up and get them. It's 4:00 AM, and I want to call Anna Matthews from high school and profess my everlasting desire to hug her just once. No one has ever loved me and I just know she would. It's 4:30 AM and I'm staring at the dark wall whispering recitals of unrequited love. And I still want those french fries. It's 5:00AM and I want not a blink of sleep but have every desire to run naked and free and wild until someone comes to get me. Insomnia is no hell for the creative thinkers. It's an open box of crayons and an endless supply of paper. It's 6:00 AM and I cease to desire anything but to turn off the terribly mocking blip-blip-bleep. It's 7:00 AM, visiting hours, and all I wish is to speak. To tell them all, their worst fears are true, a coma is but the opposite of never ending sleep.

Make a Shyamalan twist, but better.

I rolled out of bed and stumbled to the front door. I step into my shoes flattening the back of them, I could've just bent over and unlaced them but I'm willing to sacrifice my shoes for minor convenience. Story of my life. As shuffled in my newly converted clogs, I took a moment to breath in the winter's stillness in my neighborhood. Birds were chirping and it was quiet, but that's one reason why I liked it here. When I noticed my newspaper wasn't there I grumbled to myself "It's a dying fucking industry, I'm only person on the block who still subscribes, the least they could do is find a god damn delivery person who actually makes sure I get the paper. Then I'm the asshole when I don't tip at Christmas..." Back in the kitchen, I turned on the TV as I started the coffee. Caffeine is one of the few socially acceptable drugs in this freedom forsaken society and God knows I need it. Need it to get motivated so I can battle traffic for 45 minutes on my way to work. Need it so I can stay awake while my coworker tells me for the 100th time about the new surround sound he just bought..."It puts out the same amount of amps as the model that's a $100 more..." I DON'T GIVE A FUCK. Need so I can go to the gym, so I can look good, so I can make pathetic attempts to bring girls home to shitty, rented house. I wish I had an Adderrall prescription, but I'm too lazy to go to the doctor and ask for one. The coffee was brewing and I flipped through the channels, great the cable is out. Yet another day when it was nothing but fuzz. Comcast going out is about reliable as a woman's period. And in both cases if it doesn't happen it's a miracle. One is the miracle of life, the other is a miracle of a full month of service without me spending an hour on the phone with their shitty customer service. But do I get reimbursed for days that their service is out? Of course not, they'll just keep upping my bill. I could feel myself growing irrationally angry. That was happening more and more those days. All it took was a little spark to ignite a giant flame of my impatience. I thought about the paper, about Comcast, about how no one as accountable anymore. We have too many people, so it requires us all to take soulless jobs. It seems like everyone on this planet is just going through the motions. If there were less people on this planet, maybe we'd rediscover the meaning of life. I continued to get ready for the soulless job of my own. It was another day that, with any luck, would blend into rest of the days of the week. I would coast along until the weekend, when I could be alive for a couple days, then restart the process. Running late as usual, I did not have time to notice how amazingly empty my street was, there was not a soul to be found. But as I turned onto Williams Street, I began to notice that something was up. "No cars on Williams Street, is there a snow emergency or something?" I thought about looking for the weather channel on my radio, but didn't feel like unplugging my iPod. It was just my imagination, I thought to myself. However, when I pulled into the parking lot of work without encountering a single car, I could no longer deny that something was up. As I approached my office, I noticed that the lights were off and the doors were still locked. Now, I was really pissed. My bosses phone went straight to voicemail, "Is this some sort of shitty prank?!" I screamed to no one in particular. I tried calling my best friend, my old roommate, my brother, an exgirlfriend. They all went straight to voicemail. Maybe I wasn't overreacting? I decided it'd be safest to call the local police department, but the line just rang, and rang, and rang. With each ring I felt lonelier and more hopeless. Finally I gave up. Driving back to my house, I slowly began to come to grips with reality of the situation. The closer I came to understanding, the more free I felt. I let my car drift into the other lane and before I knew I was swerving across all four lanes, driving like I had day dreamed so many times before. First thirty miles an hour in a wide "S" shaped pattern. Then 95 miles an hour. Then 45 miles an hour and slamming on the brakes. Laughing maniacally I caught my own eye in the rear view mirror and realized how absolutely insane I looked, but it didn't matter because there was no one left to judge me. I was free of their scrutiny, I was free of their disapproving looks when I made jokes about handicapped people, I was free of the ineptitude, I was free of their annoying laughs, of their mindless stories. Finally I could do whatever it was that I wanted, I could recognize my true meaning. I went to the center of town and walked into the local tavern. "What'll it be?" I asked myself, "Well I'm glad you asked me that Lloyd, it just so happens that I have two twenties and two tens in my wallet." I gave myself a laugh, my exgirlfriend would've never got that reference, then helped myself to a bottle of fancy scotch who's name I'd never be able to pronounce. It didn't matter if I mispronounced it anyways, there was no one left to judge me. After I had my fill, I walked back to my house, taking my time and enjoying the warm buzz. I smoked pot. I watched porn. I jerked off. I played video games. Then I cried. The true realization came crawling over me. Before I could always use other people as an excuse for not doing what I truly wanted to do. I could blame them for everything and I never really had to look at myself in the mirror. But now, that excuse was gone and I realized that my own unhappiness was self inflicted. No longer did I have the crutch and never in my life have I felt uglier. ---Wish I had more time to work on the ending but my day is done, maybe I'll come back to it tomorrow---

The moment you realize that you are the only human being left on Earth

All I remembered from the point I became conscious was darkness and the red flashing light indicating emergency status. Being confined to my sleep chamber, there was little I could do but wonder what might have gone wrong. Cryogenically frozen for most of our voyage, I should have been awakened at the end of the journey, not in the middle. Despite my unease, the situation didn't seem too dire at that point. Each of the sleep chambers showed the life indicators all in the green. Failing to realize how bad things had already become, I was lulled into a false sense of security regarding our eventual release and subsequent rescue. Going over my options, I was getting to the point of considering adjusting my meds and slipping back into dreamland. Having determined there was nothing I could possibly do to affect the situation, cryogenic hibernation seemed the only cure to my current state of utter boredom. Imagine my surprise when my chamber opened and the med-patches automatically retracted. Jarring me in the middle of getting out of my chamber, a long shudder went through the doomed spacecraft. Keeping my balance only by sheer luck, I quickly realized the jump drive was in acceleration stand-by mode and venting excess energy into space. Looking around the cryo-station, I finally found the locker I remembered as being assigned to me and got dressed. My attention was then fixed on the other chambers, none of which showed any signs of opening. Nobody else was being roused, just me. Opening the pressure doors, I made my way to the bridge. Part of the emgergency status alarm had been disabled and there was no sound except the dull rumble of the ship, punctuated by the shudders indicating catastrophic overload within the jump drive. Quarantine protocols seemed to be enabled and I was allowed access to no other cryo-stations or crew areas along the way. Reaching the bridge, I discovered a message from the captain playing on one of the many monitors, endlessly looping. Stating we had been biologically compromised by a zenomorphic invader, he begged anyone still able to act independently to engage the jump drive, thus forever ending our journey in a hyperdrive fueled supernova. The simple fact I could not access other areas lead me to wonder how many of us had already tried, yet failed to carry out his final order and had been removed... or worse. Under the circumstances, I felt the only reasonable course of action was to wait and see what else might develop. Venturing to the viewing port, I saw our course was set on what was almost certainly a collision course with a sun still many light years distant. Why hurry to my destruction, when at this point I had no idea what was really going on? X-rays at a nearby autodoc soon confirmed that something was indeed growing inside me. Yearning to live, yet knowing it was the end, I hesitated only a moment. 'Zenomorph' I thought to myself as I engaged the jump drive and ended the human race's first journey to another star.

Alphabet Story

I saw it's brown fur glow from atop a crumbling pillar of ash. This monstrosity was unknown to all who lay bloody amongst ruins of campaigns past. Razor sharp fangs drip in grim satisfaction. Victory was an ally of this abomination. I thought of running, but why? This giant hulk could and did kill all, but not I...it would allow my body to function as it always has. I would not vanquish. I would go on. Why? This monstrosity took a quick jump my way and panic sank in. Vibrations rip through thick soil. Living and dying must fight as Satan and God would for my soul. My past plays as a flash and I wait for my undoing. It waits, but no attack is forthcoming. It huffs and growls. It prods my body with it's gigantic skull. Confusion wraps around my instincts and, for an instant, I know what it wants. I turn and look...and gasp. Laying in stains of blood is a ball. Not just any ball, but a fantastic rock of a ball. Fang marks and saliva adorn it's skin. This hairy monstrosity huffs again and cocks it's skull. I now know. Play. This was no abomination, but a dog. A dog that wants to play. If only I could of known this all along...this orgy of blood would not play out and this dog would know what bliss is. This ball will go far...and so will I.

Write a 250 word story without using the letter E.

A deep rending that reverberates across this vast, wretched sky. It fills my ears. It fills my bones. A sound so immense I can almost touch it. The very fabric of this universe is tearing under its own weight, and this is its swan song. Yet I can think of but one thing—it's strange that the breakings of the world aren't any louder. I used to hate you. I hated how easily you climbed the walls I'd built around myself. I hated how easily you could make me *feel*—how the softest brush of your fingers was enough to send me careening. I hated you because it was the only thing I knew how to do. I don't really know when that hate gave way to love. Was it a slow weathering? Or did you and your too-bright smile purify me in a single fleeting brilliance? Maybe neither happened. Maybe the hate's gone, but nothing's come to take its place. It's okay. I'd rather be empty, now, than full of darkness. I'm glad you are here with me. Here at the end of all things. Though the requiem of creation itself resounds around us, all I can hear are the velveteen murmurings of your heart. Echoing softly in this empty breast.

I am glad you are here with me. Here at the end of all things. (250 words + GOLD)

The doctors say that I don't have long. They say that I must have some unique tolerance to the euphorics. They're probably right. All I know is that when I look at my brother, or my neighbor, I don't see anything besides the restless focus or mindless stupor. It's a bit past noon, so ordinarily it would be time for my second daily dose of amphetamines. The orderlies hear the PA chime and each grab a pill bottle of out their pockets in perfect concert. The shaking of the bottles echo down the hall above our footsteps. Above all other sounds, I always hear the rattle. By state law, I am allowed a lunch, which is always afforded to people who are too sick to take the amphetamines. I won't be eating dinner, so it will actually be quite substantial. The orderlies set me down in a chair in Dr. Minnas's office. He is out. Before me is a clean, black table supporting a hefty ham sandwich, two peeled carrots and a few ounces of water in a glass cup. It's a bit odd to see the stuff when it isn't in a bottle, or being sprayed at you from the wall. Without any agency's seal of approval or company's brand it doesn't...seem right. "The doctor has instructed you to eat," one orderly spat quickly. His voice is very deep, but it wavers. I can practically hear him shaking as I sit here. I bite the sandwich, and start grinding into it with flattened molars. My head throbs. Minnas has said that if one doesn't take the amphetamines at regular intervals, bad things can happen. This must be one of them. One of the orderlies leaves to piss. "If the doctor is going to be a while, could I have a sedative?" I'm a bit uneasy now. The orderly chuckles and puts his bottle on the table for me. I shake out a handfull of red, yellow, and blue. *He mixes his medicine?* The doctor said if I take any more amphetamines today I could die. Doctors always say that one must always trust the doctor. I took the amphetamine. The effects are instantaneous. I drink the water, and bludgeon the orderly to death with the heavy glass cup. A minute passes, and his counterpart returns. I stab him in the neck with a shard of that same cup, and patiently wait for the Minnas as I finish my sandwich. The intercom crackles "Are you ready for the injection, Jonah?" Something about his voice is oddly soothing, and I instinctively nod. The camera in the corner zooms in, blinks red. "Soon you will be cured." Minnas enters the room and sits at his desk. My heart is beating at roughly 120 beats per minute, which is normal given the circumstances. He rifles through his desk drawer for a red file folder. My file folder. He sighs as he glances at the orderlies in the corner and starts taking down notes. "We both know this is the only way to solve the problem, Jonah. You can't keep having these little outbursts; it is bad for morale." He pauses and I hear the blood dripping into the drain in the center of the floor. "Since you clearly do not react favorably to either the sedatives or the euphorics, we've determined that you can not be allowed to continue working as you do. No one should be allowed to spend all day writing silly lies and funny songs when the rest of us have work to do." Minnas produces a syringe. I don't like syringes. "Come here, Jonah." Something odd happens. "No?" I say. Am I asking myself? "What did you say to me?" "No, doctor. I won't." Those are the last words he hears before I topple his desk and stab his chest repeatedly with the needle. His eyes are black. His heart stops. I eat the carrots until Dr. Harris arrives. He looks at me in disbelief. I smile. "What's up doc?" He stays still, mouth agape. I hand him a bottle of euphorics, and leave.

Overcoming/escaping a dystopian society (500 words max)

As the world became more populated, the norms of death shifted. The earth gasped for breath and heaved underneath the terrible burden that she could barely sustain. One generation, watching the last generation cling to life on ventilators that ran on the energy that could be powering lights in a school, came to decide that death was nothing to fear. Death could, in fact, be a gift. Resources that would otherwise be used to sustain someone who no longer wished to live could be passed down to the next generation like an inheritance, precious and personal. The cessation of one's life was seen as a final passage after the completion of an epic journey, and people often bragged that their Charon would have to struggle to find them in the crowds of adoring people that would be attending their rites. Suicide was a dirty word, a selfish word, and so it was lost along with the lives it claimed. People had rites - and *rites were right*, so the saying went. The end of one's life became celebrated. After living many years, or becoming ill, or simply tiring of living, people would gather in their homes with their friends and families, happy and laughing. Some people preferred to go alone, but traditionally a life-ending ceremony was a family affair as much as a birth was. The Charon would eventually come and join into the party, dressed in white and shining a silver smile. Though all the party goers would recognize the stranger for who they were, no one would point out the intruder, and small children that did so were gently chastised. During the course of the rites, the Charon would make their way over to the passer, and they would have a small chat before the Charon administered a lethal dose. The party would continue, and as the guests began to leave they would filter past the host, leaning over to kiss a cheek or have a final hug before exiting. Tears were shed, but tears of both loss and happiness; though one had gone on, life bloomed voluminously forth, like mushrooms growing on a fallen log. It was a gift that meant one of them could live just one more year. A gift that meant another happy couple could be allowed an infant permit. A gift, a gift of space, and a gift of time, given from one who no longer needs to one who could not need more.

A world where suicide is not only socially acceptable, but is the norm.

Unwin Uhlman was unambiguously understood to be uninterested in understanding ultimatums. Sarah said, with serious and stormy show, that he should cease squabbling with Sam the squire's son, or she would sever swiftly their secret sessions. (Definitely, the dame was dependent on discretion, which dispute decidedly deters. Dalliances are dodgy deeds, disposed to discovery when deference declines.) However, he hardly heard her heated hammerings, humming happily as he hauled his habiliments from the hook. Mother Maybella, that magnanimous matron, meticulously made him mindful that manipulations may be muzzled if no modification is made. Such sentiment saved him, he suspected, from sundry sour subjugation. The townfolk treated him with transparent tartness, truly tired of his titanium tenacity. Indeed, he ignited intimacy infrequently, but was not impaired, injured, or impressed. No, the near-sighted Knight was notoriously never nerved by naught. After all, he always achieved any aspiration adventured. *Wars are won with will not weakness,* was his way.

Write a cohesive story using as much alliteration as possible

Turn. Shiver. Breathe. Scratch head. Turn. Turn. Move. Foot forward. Foot forward. Breathe. Shiver. Turn. Foot forward. Foot forward. Water. Cup. Miss the water. Drop cup. Mouth open. Turn. Shiver. Head down. Breathe. Drink. Breathe. Choke. Spit. Try again. Turn. Shiver. Breathe... "We're going to start him on Ixprisa" a large black nurse said to a doctor as he handing him the last hour's observations. Flipping through the report "Yeah I think that's what we're going to have to do. You recommend 80 mg, I'm going to write a scrip for 125 Intravenous" Dr. Jameson replied. Walking off, the nurse mentioned his belief that the patient is "fucking batso". Talking. Turn head. Lose talking. Scratch. Breathe. Shiver. Drink. Swallow. Lift head. Foot backward. Foot backward. Turn. Keep turning. Shiver. Try to sit. Fall. Curl. Grab leg. Grab leg. Window. Turn head. Doctor. Oh fucking no not doctor. As Dr. Jameson opened the whitewashed door, Allan welcomed him the only way he knew how: with sheer terror. #A note from author: I do not like to write fiction very much. I have a small aversion to it. I subbed to this subreddit in order to improve my fiction writing because my other writings are good. I'm glad that we are finding prompts as simple as this that force me to use my imagination. I will be writing here whenever I can and hopefully I will learn something from all of this. God bless.

Insanity

Been reading the writing related subreddits for a while now, but I recently starting writing (for fun). This will actually be my first submission. ___ “It is your time,” Death said, pointing at Charles. Charles peeked at Death through half-closed eyelids, and went back to sleep. “I said it is your time, Charles,” Death’s voice boomed throughout the room. The hanging pictures shook and the furniture banged on the walls. “I don’t know who you are and I don’t care. I had a long night, so just come back in a couple of hours, whoever you are,” Charles said, shooing Death away, while still under the covers. “Death does not wait for no man, Charles. Get up, now!” Death levitated two feet into the air; his dusty robes draped off his legs and scraped the floor. “Sure, Death. Right. At least you’re sweeping my floor with those crazy robes.” Charles flung the covers off his body, yawned, stood up, and looked around at nothing in particular. “Are you sure it’s my time, Death?” Charles said, looking up at Death whose face was now three feet higher than him. “Death does not make mistakes. Death always knows when your time is up.” Death reached into his tattered robes. “Are you sure? Can’t I just sell you my soul or something? I saw that on TV once,” Charles said, smirking. “Ha. Talking to me as if I was a demon. I don’t play those paltry games.” Death removed a 6 foot scythe from his robes; the blade was a black void, vacuuming in any light within a foot of it. “Wow, that’s an impressive feat. Here I thought you were just happy to see me. Although, to tell you the truth. I was expecting your weapon to appear with a bang. You know, threatening sound, smoke, flashy lights. That sort of thing.” Charles shrugged his shoulders, stared out the window at the barren town and lit a cigarette. “Since you’re here to supposedly take my life, I guess smoking isn’t going to kill me.” “Silence pathetic human! But, I do like you. You remind me of a younger version of myself.” “I’ve always wanted to be Death!” Charles said, chuckling through his nose, as he continued staring out the window, now looking at a mugger run away from a comically overweight cop. “You’re pushing it, Charles. Listen, I’ll make you a deal. There are three items in this room which reveal the meaning of life and death. Choose those three items and I will let you live… for now.” Death rose even higher, but he stopped once his head hit the ceiling, resulting in a loud thud, only to give way to another thud as a painting hit the ground. “You didn’t see that.” Charles looked at Death, nodded his head sideways, and then quickly surveyed the room. Three items. Where is that item? I know I had it last night, he thought. Charles opened up a drawer and pulled out two items: a 10-minute hour glass and a magnifying glass. “This is the first step,” Charles said, placing the hour glass onto a night stand and handing the magnifying glass to Death, who was now sitting on a chair rubbing his head where it hit the ceiling. “These are not even close to the items you need to find, Charles, but I’ll play along.” Charles flipped the hour glass over and told Death to stare at the falling sand using the magnifying glass. Need to find that item, Charles thought. While Death busied himself staring at the sand—a very fascinating endeavor indeed—Charles opened every drawer and shelf in sight. “Ten minutes are over, Charles and, as I thought, nothing has happened.” Suddenly, a large bang emanated from the center of the room followed by dazzling lights and a puff of smoke. The smoke cleared and there stood Death holding his scythe. “Is that better?” Death said, sneering. “Impressive,” said Charles, while thinking: shit, I still haven’t found it. “Look,” he said, shrugging with his arms and palms facing up, walking towards Death. “I still haven’t…” Charles looked down with his brow lowered, and stuck his hands into his pockets. Charles smirked once again. “Fooled you. I have it right here.” Charles pulled out a fabric tube. “Sorry to say, well, not really, but that is definitely not the last item.” Death lifted up his scythe. “Wait, just indulge me,” Charles said, crouched down and leaning backwards with his arms covering his face. Charles handed the tube to Death and explained how the item is used. “I don’t see what that will accomplish,” Death said while sticking one finger into the tube followed by a finger from his other hand. “Nothing is happening, Charles. Time to face your maker.” Charles stared at Death with a face as expressionless as blank paper. Death forcefully pulled his fingers, but the tube just stretched and did not release its cement-like hold. “What is this trickery?” Death said, while stepping on the middle of the tube and once again attempting to pull his fingers. “Have you really never seen a Chinese finger trap?” Charles said. “Well, see ya later, Death.” Charles exited the room.

"To extend a life already lived on borrowed time requires three things..."

Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered weak and weary Over many a quaint an curious volume of forgotten lore While I nodden nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door. 'Tis some visitor,' I muttered, 'tapping at my chamber door - Only this, and nothing more.' But still came that incessant knocking, no more could my ease keep blocking Out this rapping loudly stalking, louder now than 'twas before Failing to return the silence, hesitation turned compliance Anything to stop the violence thrust upon my chamber door "Who is there," I asked the darkness, safely from behind the door. "Who should keep me from my snore?" No reply, but knocking fading, still my listening, still my waiting Curiosity abating, every second lessened more "Who?" once more my question ringing, may I catch a response bringing Just whose hand by now is stinging from the banging on my door Still no answer, just the gusting from the raging winter storm I returned to think some more Again came that infernal clatter, "Dear sir what could be the matter?" Would this person once more scatter as I walk the foyer floor No more for a reply waiting, time to start investigating Courage then in me inflating, time to find out what's in store To the rapping now we add the creaking of the chamber door Behind, the visage of Lenore "It's you," I cried as tears were falling. "I hadn't known, did you try calling?" Realizing I'd been stalling, I asked her inside where it's warm Slowly she begins her entry, after what seems like a century Still I'm standing like a sentry, shaken right down to my core Having shed her mortal coil, yet she stood there as before Again I see my lost Lenore "Be you ghost, or haunting spirit? Answer though I know I'll fear it Please, the answer let me hear it. What's your fate now?" I implore Only silence for a second, then the appararition beckoned The risks of contact by then reckoned, how I had to know the score Had to know the spirit's fate, what chains of bondage that she wore 'Til death' to her my oath I swore The slap came quick across my face, another close behind in chase The pain had trouble keeping pace, my cheeks quite soon were rather sore "I didn't die you stupid twat, I left you in case you forgot I shacked up with that stupid Scot who own the townhouse right next door. I'm only here to take the trinkets sitting in my dresser drawer." Oh yes, that's right, she was a whore.

a prompt for bad people

The inspector examined the mess. It was a total disaster. The fruit stand had been completely destroyed. Splitered wood reached as far as 20 meters. Chunks of apples and melons painted the walls a symphony of chaos. Cracked baskets still rocked back and forth on the street as the breeze blew past. "I'm sorry, Theo, we can't cover the damage." Theo still had the insurance policy in his hands. He had paid good money for protection in just such events. "What in the world do you mean by that?! It was a vandal. The officers here said as much in there report. Such destruction by another individual is covered under my policy." The inspector was still taking notes, but he didn't look up. "Look, Theo, ordinarily yes. But your policy is very clear here." Theo tore into the documents, scouring them for any sign loophole working against him. "Where? I see nothing. The section on vandalism seems straightforward enough." "The fine print, Theo. Look under Exceptions." "Acts of-, but I don't understand." He went back to flipping through pages until he saw it. The inspector finished writing his formal denial. "Look, that young man who destroyed your stand, Gaius, was the great grandson of Theseus." "So?" replied Theo. "Theseus was son of Poseidon. He was a demigod, meaning so are his kin. I'm afraid Gaius's attack here was an Act of a God. We're sorry."

I should have read the fine print

Henry was working from home that day. He was in his bedroom, in his boxers with the phone on speaker. A voice that sounded like Ben Stein on Xanax read sales figures. The window blinds were closed, allowing only a little natural light to mingle with the soft incandescent bulbs in the ceiling lamp. A Jack Russell Terrier attacked a balled up sock on the floor near the foot of the bed. On the television, a muted infomercial. All in all, a lazy Tuesday. Henry was wondering if he should have another mug of coffee when his wife Nancy burst into the bedroom in a panic. “You have to see this, Henry!” she gasped. Her eyes were wide with shock. “See what?” Henry said. The voice on the phone stopped speaking. Nancy went to the window and pulled up the blinds. Henry jolted upright. He rolled off the bed and jogged the few steps to the window. If he kept his gaze below the horizon, everything looked as it always had. The backyard lawn was a healthy green. The small swimming pool rippled in the summer breeze. Everything was as it should be. But above the horizon… well, the sky was red. The sun was still white-yellow, the clouds were still white-grey, but sky was pomegranate red. Confused shouting from the telephone before it abruptly hung up, leaving the dial tone hum to fill the silence. Henry stepped away from the window, picked up the phone, and ended the call. “Let’s see what the news has to say,” Henry suggested. He picked up the remote from the nightstand, unmuted the TV, and changed the station. A harried news anchor glared into the camera. “Is this the end of the world!” he asked, in a way that suggested that the answer was an emphatic ‘yes.’ “Let’s ask BBS meteorological correspondent, Sandy Rains.” Sandy, a twenty-something blonde in a short skirt, did not know why the sky had turned red or what that meant for the future or if this was not, in fact, the end of the world. Henry and Nancy didn’t believe the world was at an end, but they decided to stock up on supplies just in case. Two hours, one broken toe, and three fistfights later, they returned home with a dozen cans of string beans, a two gallon jug of water, and a bottle of aspirin. The next two weeks were the worst. No one wanted to go outside. People ate everything they had in their house before going out for more. As it turned out, the deadliest thing about the red sky was the all the cases of botulism caused by eating out of old dented cans. Thirteen days after the sky changed, Henry and Nancy left their house. Six days after that, all tests that anyone could think to run turned up nothing dangerous or unusual about the new circumstances. There were some short term effects. Distracted driving accidents increased for a few months before leveling out. The red part of the rainbow became indistinguishable from the background, making Roy G. Biv obsolete. Pink Floyd’s *Goodbye, Blue Sky* hit number one for six months straight. Eventually, though, everyone got used to it.

The sky would make you think the world is ending.

There was laughter. A young man stood in front of the mirror and cackled, watching his tangled locks and the splatters of blood vibrate on his face as he did. In his hand, a straight razor still feeding a crimson pool on the tile floor one drop at a time. Behind him, laying in the hallway, were the husband and wife that helped raise him, the same pair that left him to the madmen at Arkham for his formative years. They had struggled. The walls were lined with holes, with objects they attempted to use as weapons to defend themselves, with blood. A cracked container of detergent had spilled its powdery white contents sprayed along the walls, the floors, and the man laughing maniacally at his own handiwork. Mad, they called him. Dangerous, even. He wasn't crazy, he often reassured himself. He was simply, unburdened. Unburdened by the pressures of childhood. By the savagery of his fellow man. By the ill-defined distinction between society's notions of right and wrong. This was not a crime scene; it was a beginning. It wasn't death, but birth. Those, things, decaying on the floor weren't people. People don't abandon their child. People don't sell their progeny to the insane. They weren't victims, they were obstacles. Obstacles that were now behind him. As his laugh echoed through the lifeless house, he came to a realization. He was happy. It was joy. Pure joy. But that face. That thing staring back at him wasn't happy. The white powdered complexion and the red smears looking like lipstick on a clown weren't enough. "Smile!" he ordered the image, bearing a twisted grin. It wasn't enough. "I said, SMILE!" he repeated the grin, eyes wide in a mix of rage and ecstasy. His arm raised the blade to his mouth and in a swift motion extended it on the left side. The smile never faded. "Not. Good. Enough." The words were muffled as a stream of blood poured freely from the extended mouth. Another swipe, this time to the right. The laughing stopped and the smile vanished, the blood kept flowing. The man just stared at the mirror, studying his new face. "Why so serious?" And then he broke out in an uncontrollable cackle again, collapsing onto the floor. Pleased for the second time that day.

The Joker

The sad part is, no one ever seemed to get it right. Sure, you guys got the gist of it, but it all got muddied in the details. Of all the beings in this particular universe with minds capable of understanding me though, you humans got the closest. My tale begins in a universe in a different, well, dimension or "world" I guess you could say. Much like you all, none of us knew how we'd come to be or why. I kind of like things that way though, as you can probably tell. For us, we simply had always existed as far as we were concerned. I mean, we had our own consciousnesses and our thoughts were our own, but that's about where the similarities end. Here, what goes up must come down, no? For every action, there is an opposite and equal reaction. There is conservation of energy, and nothing can be done without first expending the required energy and effort. What if I told you things weren't always that way? In my "world" (trust me, you wouldn't understand, so I'm going to do my best here), things happened as we willed them. Some of us were more powerful than others, some of us less so. We didn't have a physical form like you do (matter wasn't really a thing, but I'll get to that in a moment). Can you imagine living in a world where whatever you want to happen does happen? Now imagine everyone else the same way. That's more or less what I'm talking about. I'm sure you're imagining that you want a new car, or a million dollars, or a hot girlfriend. Dream bigger my friend. Free your mind of things like gravity, light, physical matter (the kind you know about anyway), and energy. That doesn't really leave you with much to go on, but that's the existence of what my kind lived in. It was limitless in a sense you'll never really know. Trust me, you take away everything you know about time and space and realm of possibilities gets fuller, not emptier. Try to think of it like this, you're not removing things like matter and energy, you're removing restrictions on how it functions. But, I'm getting ahead of myself. I'm sure you can imagine the kind of power struggles we had. Unlimited power, unlimited potential. Some beings formed certain ideas, others would form their opinions, pretty soon it came to blows and then the wars came. The scale of these will never make sense to you. We had eternity in our hands, and it was intoxicating. We wielded infinity like a weapon across the ages. It came at a price though, and we started to tear apart our own very existence. The bounds of our "world", the very constraints that gave us existence, started to tear. Well, kind of. It's hard to explain. Bear with me though, because this is where it gets interesting. I saw this first, and, well, sort of escalated things a bit. Here's where it gets tricky. I forced their hand. I masterminded the destruction of everything. It was bound to go that way anyhow. Right place, right time, get the right people to focus their energies at a critical spot (again, hard to clarify for you since there was no actual space/time) and a chain reaction devoured everything and everyone, leaving me behind in a perfect vacuum. It wasn't lonely, but freeing. I had a blank slate, and in that blank slate, I created you. Well, not YOU really, but everything you know. Your universe was my first plaything really. It was the first thing I couldn't wait to try out. Everything matters. Nothing can happen without having an impact on something else. I created boundaries like space and time. I threw together a couple of energies and forces and watched everything react in a world where the tiniest of tiny reactions could be traced back to where it all started. Don't think it's all that easy, like I constructed a giant ball of a few different "particles", as you call them. This universe is immense and deep in ways you'll sadly never know. It's kind of like living on the surface of a clock, trying to figure out how the world works based on the movement of the hour, minute, and second hands. You get a basic idea of what it does, but you will never be able to understand what makes it tick or how it got there. By the way, sorry I've been gone so long. I made a few appearances after you destroyed the Sun. Wait, scratch that. That hasn't happened yet. I made a bit of a show once you all became more or less self aware. Watching the effects of your trying to rationalize my existence echo like ripples on a pond through the generations was worth all the effort. It was the catalyst needed to push you to the next level. You're almost there now. There I go again, saying too much. It's hard, even for me to keep it all straight sometimes. Trust me, time is a lot more confusing from my side of things. In a way, you're lucky. Time moves linearly. Your tomorrow will come after today. Every action leaves a lingering consequence. Best of all, your will has to be enacted through independent application of force. You can't just make something happen because you want it badly enough. Trust me, things are much better this way. I won't be here for long though this time, but everything just comes together so nicely when I make a quick little appearance like this in the beginning of what you consider your 21st century. It gets you guys all riled up and puts to rest so much of this crap that has stirred in your hearts. Now you get to focus on what really matters. Sadly, you'll never be more than a reaction of this one universe that I created, but maybe one day you'll get to see some of my others. No spoilers though. That ruins all the fun.

You are an ancient god, reawakened on accident in modern times. Your conquest begins.

My grandfather chews dark brown tobacco on one side of his mouth. He spits, spilling some of the dark liquid onto his long gray beard. The girls have long left the campfire. My grandfather says it is time for men and not women so they're in the tents, pretending not to listen as he speaks. Davy sits closest to the fire. He's still small and afraid of the dark. A monster ate part of his leg so he hobbles when he walks. I've only seen his legs bare once when we were smaller. We'd been swimming with Jenny and Spark. Davy had jumped in with his pants on as usual. They got caught on a branch as he swam. Even though he'd made us promise, we still looked. I remember darkness. A great gaping darkness there on his leg. It wasn't so much the absence of flesh but the absence of anything. Spark is poking the fire, making small bursts of it flick against the skin of his arms. The pale brown flesh there is covered with scars. He's a firebug, or was. My grandfather caught him starting fires in old abandoned houses when Spark was three or four. He said Spark was covered in soot, even his eyelids were black. "Stop it", my grandfather says. Spark backs away from the fire, watching my grandfather with angry eyes. He's a good kid but he's pissed most of the time. Makes him hard to live with. My grandfather spits into the fire. It roars and spits back. "Once," he says, "the world was whole. There was grass and sky and water. We looked across great lakes to see huge structures that we had built. Oceans, so vast we could never explore them, stretched in every direction." I like the part about the oceans and the water. When my lips are cracked from thirst I imagine those miles and miles of water. "Then a great beast rose from the sea. He opened his mouth and took a great big bite. Half of the world was gone in an instant. Mountains and rivers and fields. He left only darkness behind. From that darkness came his children. They began to hunt what was left of the world, spoiling the land and taking whatever life they found there." My grandfather pauses. He spits into the fire again. In it, we can see the land. It withers under tentacles of black and red. "The few that were left alive fled to the cold places. We huddled in caves, happy to be alive. We bred when we could. Ate what we could. Passed down the half memories and stories we knew." "Some grew tired of terror and memories of bravery. Some decided that being hunted was not the worst of fates. Some sharpened their spears and knives and went into the dark, dragging what they could find with them when they died. Those dark things should be afraid, they said, because we hunted them in the light." We gather our spears, sharpening them to the sound of grandfather's voice. In the morning we would find them. In the morning we would hunt.

The Day the Other Side of the Lake Disappeared

(*Combining this prompt with a previous one*) The menu is a novel. Its plentiful pages are abound with possibilities. An endless cavalcade of choices. Sandwiches are childs play, even without the Catering Constructor. But they still have their own chapters. Hot or cold; rolls, sliced, or hoagie; meat or spread; toasted, open faced, grilled, or plain. Vegetables of all names. You look up steak and have to sift through temperatures, cuts, sizes, sides, and styles. The printing material got cheap enough that these printers became the primary food source for most of us. All we eat is birthed in that book and plated by the machine. Whatever we can think of, read, and enter on the keypad, it produces for our meal. 'How much better our lives will be,' we thought to ourselves so optimistically. 'How great it will be to have a true cornucopia in our kitchens. All of the nutrition we could ever need just a few button presses away.' How foolish we were. The book is an illusion, like the label on a bottle of snake oil. It may look like medicine, but it lacks any real potency. The Constructor turns those pastes into the shape of foods. Our eyes may be deceived, but our tongues are not. The tasteless morsels satisfy sustenance but not hunger. The menu is novel. A work of fiction.

The Major Downside of 3D "food printers"

**Eyes wide open. -short story** She has chosen to throw herself off a balcony, trying to land head first on the marble terrace, crushing her skull. She feels this is the bravest way she could think off. She wants people to remember her as brave. She is absolutely terrified. Her mind is clouded with nightmares. She is trying to wipe herself out by drinking and taking pills, but somehow they don't work, she stays absolutely clear. She has never felt this alert in her life. All she can see before her is her death. It stares right at her. She can feel the stairs, she can feel how weak her legs will feel when she'll climb it. She thinks about the house and wants to cry. She thinks about when she bought it. How she felt when she first saw it. She thinks about the children and their friends playing on the lawn, how they would cross the spot where she will land in a few hours. She feels angry. But she hasn't got the strength to realize about what. She feels guilty. She sees the painting that's hanging above the stairs, and she feels she has done everything wrong. She thinks about her children. Then she can't think no more. She thinks about her husband. About her friends. Her family, her parents. She thinks about the friends of her children. She shakes her head violently and starts to scream, loud and strange. She bangs her head to the wall. She takes a breath and bangs it as hard as she can until she is dizzy and almost blacking out. She starts to throw stuff around. Bangs with the doors. Breaks everyting she can break. She goes outside and screams as loud as she can. She sees the people passing by, young people, they know what's going. She has to get back in. They should't have to see it. They should live while they still can. But she can't force herself to go inside. She runs up to a bicyclist and drags him off his bicycle. She screams at the terrified boy. She berries her head in his chest and cries. A few bystanders drag her away. They try to calm her and want to lead her back in her house. A government cop comes looking, he rides a horse with a harness. She screams at the cop. 'This is inhuman. You bastards. I bet the law doesn't count for officials. Am I right?' she screams and shouts. The man on the horse approaches, a large Kitana sword at the ready. 'So kill me. Kill me you motherfucker', she screams, her throat hurts, her voice is breaking. She runs towards the man and takes the Kitana, trying to stab herself with it. The cop dismounts and knocks her out with a massive shoulder push. She's immidiatley on the ground and unconcious. When she wakes up she feels people behind her. She is standing on the balcony. I have to kill myself. I don't want to die. She closes her eyes. Be brave. She is falling. Be brave. She opens her eyes.

I Have Finally Chosen How I Will Die

(*Edited for spelling*) This seemed to happen every week. Every Friday evening, the same woman would dine at this establishment with the same results. This next part I had done so many times, it felt scripted. "Everyone! May I have your attention, please? As you can see to my right, Lady Blythesmythe is dead. Murdered! The culprit is no doubt someone in this very room. Please, sit, enjoy your meals. But be mindful of your neighbors and cooperate with myself and the other detectives as we hunt down the killer, and unravel the details of this dastardly deed." The logical place to start is the body. There was a stab wound, though that could have been from last week. A straight, narrow slit in the gut. The wound wouldn't have been immediately fatal, but Lady Blythesmythe always did have a weak stomach. "Stabbed in her very seat." I announce to the room of dinner guests. "What cruelty to inflict this fate upon a woman during amuse-bouche?" Many were here for the first time. A handful of regulars dotted the crowd. Lord Blythesmythe seemed like the logical place to continue. "Lord Blythesmythe," I started, making sure to project my voice so that it would not be drowned by the other chatter. "Where were you when your wife, the Lady Blythesmythe, was attacked?" "I-I wouldn't know," he answered. "I did not even notice she had been stabbed until your announcement. I suppose her lack of blathering should have given it away." "Did you not like your wife, sir?" I pried. The direct approach sometimes worked. "Heavens no, detective! She was my angel. My loud, obnoxious angel. I had been chatting with Lady Cumberbatch about the affairs of state, upon my wife's request I might add, prior to hors d'oeuvres when you announced to the room that she had been slain. " "Did you see anything odd? Have any idea why she would be targeted?" "Maybe she tried speaking to someone," he responded with a hearty, heartless laugh. "She was always running out in the evenings to some sort of classes, though I haven't the foggiest what for." Lady Cumberbatch was the next stop on the investigative train. "I'm sure I don't know what you expect out of me," she said as I approached. Lady Cumberbatch spoke with a piercing whine. Trying too hard to hide the fact she was just acting a part. New money always did. "Lord Blythesmythe said he discussed affairs of state with you during his wife's death." "Detective, I assure you that all of my affairs are," she leaned in, keeping the volume raised, "discreet. Not that I need to tell *you* that." She grabbed the lapel of my coat and gave a pronounced wink. "Did you see anything? Any clue how she might have passed?" "She was stuffing some chocolate cake into her mouth when Lord Blythesmythe's back was turned. If the knife didn't kill her, her poor manners surely would have." "Where would she have gotten cake so early?" "Perhaps she bribed a server. Or brought it here from home, though that woman's baking skills were atrocious. Her pies looked and tasted like those that came from the stables." There was only the head chef that attended to the Blythesmythe's table. While the other servers wore white shirts and took orders, the chef wore a tuxedo and featured a planned menu for his section. "Monsieur Appetit, where were you when the Lady Blythesmythe fell?" He was flustered. His thick French accent slipped in and out as he spoke. "I was, eh, how you say, preparing ze next course. The madam was eating one moment and face down on her plate ze next." "Any idea," I prodded, "where she got the cake?" "Cake? Surely not from my kitchen. We do no serve chocolate cake here." I grabbed a menu from a lectern. "It says chocolate cake, right here." He started to panic, his head darting back and forth. "Non, non, non. I mean, ze kitchen is staff only. She would have been noticed for sure. Besides, we pulled ze cake from ze menu. We are only serving cheese cake and parfait tonight. Madamoiselles and Monsieurs, do not order ze cake." I had heard enough to make a move. "Will the three persons I spoke to unturn their pockets and purses." Lord Blythesmythe furnished a kitchen knife from his coat wrapped in a reddened napkin. "How did this get here?" he immediately shouted. "He's ze one! He killed his wife!" accused Appetit. "So he killed his wife," asked Lady Cumberbatch. I took the knife from the husband. "Monsieur Appetit, Do you recognize this knife?" "Y-yes, it is one of mine," he admitted. "He must have stolen it from ze kitchen and used it to stab his wife." "Liar!" Lord Blythesmythe fired back. "He is quite right," I stated. "You said it yourself, only staff can get back there. No, you placed the knife in his coat pocket, back when I spoke to Lady Cumberbatch, after you stabbed Lady Blythesmythe. "He killed my wife?" Lord Blythesmythe asked. "Your wife was indeed killed by the culinary arts. The killer was..." By now everyone in the dining room was focused on my big reveal. "...Lady Blythesmythe." Gasps echoed throughout the room. "She had been taking cooking classes in the evenings. Here in fact. She had gone so far as to make one of the desserts, a chocolate cake. But she made a deadly mistake. Probably arsenic instead of sugar. She wanted to taste the finished product before the other guests, and fell by her own confection." "But the stab wounds?" asked Lady Cumberbatch. "Yes, Monsieur Appetit had to act quickly. He grabbed the knife from the kitchen, stabbed Lady Blythesmythe, and planted the knife on Lord Blythesmythe." Lord Blythesmythe still had a question. "Why did he need to stab her at all?" "Simple. Who would return to a dining theater when death was on the menu?"

MURDER MOST FOUL!

It was the fifth attempt that had failed. Even with the increased pressure, /r/subredditoftheday wasn't breaking. RyanKinder sat back in his arm chair and ruminated on the execution. There was something missing, he could feel it. The new mods weren't cutting it. All they ever did was tell stories. "Quiet!" Ryan shouted, his voice rattling the light fixtures that bathed the message board room in a pale orangered light. "We've been here for two years, at least some of us, and what do we have to show for it?" Silence and embarrassed stares took over. "That's right," he screamed. "Not a damned thing!" The front page of /r/subredditoftheday appeared on the projection screen. /r/WritingPrompts was still missing. "This is our goal, remember. We can't lose sight of that. We need a plan. A plan that will actually work." lordmalifico spoke first. "What if- perhaps- we could- maybe- try-" "Enough," interrupted Ryan. "Your over-hyphenation gave us away last time." AA_AgonistAgent chimed in next. "Perhaps we could just ask them again?" Ryan slapped his palm to his face. "That didn't work the last seven times, it's not going to work this time." sakanagai stepped up to the plate. "Surely one of them has something we can used against them. Some sort of dark secret. They are on reddit, after all." More groans from the founder. "You're new here, I get that, but we already tried. Half of our prompts are secretly displaying their horrible truths for the world. They don't seem to care. Those writers, they have no shame." SurvivorType always had some good ideas, but even he was reaching. "Invite them over, not for an interview, but maybe just a few drinks." Ryan leaned in closer. This one had promise. "Go on," he urged. "Well," SurvivorType continued, "we get them nice and drunk and... then we ask them again when we're helping them nurse their hangovers." Ryan sighed as that idea imploded. He was about to give up when 202halffound burst into the room. "Hey, thanks for the notice you assholes. Who do I have to blow for an invite?!" Ryan's eyes widened. "That's it!" he exclaimed. "We just 'service' one of their writers!" "But who do we send?" asked lordmalifico. "Don't we have a 'head moderator'?" added sakanagai. "SHIT!" yelled Ryan, before a devlish grin possessed his face. "Check out my new flair, bitches! Just a 'Deity of Human Origin' now." Grumbles from the other mods filled the room. "So who do we send?" asked SurvivorType. "I nominate the new guy!" came the immediate call from 202halffound. AA_AgonistAgent agreed immediately, followed by RyanKinder, and lordmalifico. sakanagai hesitated, before adding, "Great idea! Let's do this!" The others stared at him in disbelief. "You seriously want to do this?" asked SurvivorType. "What do you mean by that?" "Uh, you're the new guy," reminded Ryan. "Not any more!" "I fucking hate you guys," moaned WritingPromptsBot as he left to go do what needed to be done.

Write a story about how the /r/WritingPrompts mods cheated their way as subreddit of the day.

Ah, Goodwill. That emporium of refused clothes, neglected toys, and dead people's things. Maybe it's not as depressing as that. After all, there's always something neat to find there. This week, my find was an antique typewriter. It looked old, somewhat vintage, and probably entirely unusable, but I knew that I had to have it as soon as I laid eyes on it. It was only $10 bucks, so even if it didn't work, it could sit out on display, a prop to remind me of a simpler time. When I got home, I tested the typewriter out and was surprised to find that it actually worked. I typed out the alphabet, tested all the punctuation, and tested the number keys. Every key was functional. Hmm. What should be the first thing I type on the typewriter? I felt like writing a silly story, and I don't think myself much of a writer, so I simply typed: A package arrived today. I'm not sure what's inside. Perhaps a relative sent me a forgotten gift. Something like a Christmas 2010 sweater, coupled with some expired Ferrero Rocher truffles. I stopped to think for a second. The doorbell rang. I hopped out of my seat and ran to answer it. I swung the door open to reveal the postman, carrying a large box. "Package for you, Mr. Roth." "Thanks," I said, signing the pad and taking the box. Who would be sending me a package in the middle of summer? I tore open the box. Inside was a note, covering some packages wrapped in festive snowman and candy cane wrapping paper. The note inside read: *Dave -- Just found this in my attic. Guess I meant to send it earlier but forgot. I don't really remember what's inside, but based the wrapping paper, a belated Merry Christmas to you. Hope you're doing well by yourself. When are you gonna find a girlfriend and get married?* *Uncle Rick* I set the note aside and tore open the wrapping paper. Inside it was a Christmas 2010 sweater and a box of truffles that had expired in February of 2011. I stood there, shocked. It couldn't be coincidence. It had to be. But it couldn't be. I decided to go upstairs and test my hypothesis to make sure. I sat down and placed my fingers on the keys. I wrote down as many entirely odd details as I could. Today, at 8:07 a.m., a man named Ricardo Juan Alvarez Jimenez Garcia will knock on my door. He will be dressed in tattered brown loafers, neon pink pants with orange stripes on the side, a white short-sleeve button-down shirt with a pocket on each side, and a shiny blue fedora with neon green stripes. He will be carrying a dozen roses, all of which have wilted except one, which remains unusually healthy. He will tell me that he is looking for his pet iguana, Ziyalafganawerithtixal, who is named after a combination of various words he likes. His iguana will be discovered underneath my porch after I say, "Ishkabibble." There. THere's no way a story that implausible could come true. Right? I checked my watch impatiently. It was 8:05. Sure enough, at 8:07, an oddly dressed Hispanic man, carrying 11 dead roses and one living one knocked on my door. He told me he was looking for his oddly-named iguana. I said "Ishkabibble" and it ran out from under my porch. The man said thank you, took his iguana, and left. I stood there, shocked that my strange story had come true, and then realized that this typewriter gave me power. I sat down and placed my fingers on the typewriter. Today, I will meet the most beautiful girl I have ever known. We will immediately fall in love. We will date, we will marry, and we will have 3 children together. She will tell me that she has a dog named Marvin, after Marvin the Martian, who is a Golden Retriever. The day after we get married, I win $600 million dollars in the lottery. I am an anonymous winner, and the girl and I keep a low profile. The money makes it very easy for us to live comfortably. Later that day, a beautiful girl named Erica at the Starbucks asked if the seat opposite me was taken. She told me about her dog, Marvin. She told me how attractive she thought I was. She was perfect. We exchanged numbers and agreed to meet later that week for a date. We dated for many months and then got married. I won the lottery. She moved into my house, and eventually I forgot about the typewriter in the attic. I didn't even remember it was there until many years later. About 10 years later, Erica and I had three beautiful children. Marvin was still going strong. Our life was perfect. Until I went up to clean the attic and discovered the typewriter. I knew I could do more with it. Today I met God. I waited the whole day. Nothing happened. The next day, I went back up to the attic while Erica was driving the kids to school. Today, I became God. A moment passed, and then all was very bright light.

So shall it be written. So shall it be done.

"Have you cheated on me?" The words were sitting right there for me to ask. I just had to work up the nerve to say it. Sitting right there...sitting...sitting. It would explain her behavior lately and why she has been so distant, but you've never been good at reading signs and it could just be your insecurities coming out in your own mind. "Have you cheated on me?" Five words that you've thought about a hundred times in the last month. Five words that have systematically changed your entire routine as a person. You're losing your trust of people in general, not just her, always wondering if she's telling the truth about where she is going or who she is with, how late she'll be home or whatever new question I can come up with to try and beat around the bush even more. "Have you cheated on me?" What would you even do if she says yes? How would you answer or respond? You'd probably pretend to be sad although you really wouldn't be too surprised. Would you even be sad? You've been feeling like this for a month, at least you finally know the truth. You can finally put to rest these assumptions and thoughts you've had because now you know. Would you be able to move on? Why not just get this over with; Have you cheated on me? "Only a little bit...everyone deserves a cheat day...or week, right? Chocolate cake is just too good and I've been having such a hard time lately...I'll go back to my diet soon" There it is. Of course I'll stay. I don't even know how I'd leave anymore.

The Honest Truth

Peter Parker cradled the lifeless body of Mary Jane Watson-Parker in his arms, as the loud laughter of a critically wounded Norman Osborn echoed through a shocked-into-silence Times Square. Peter has had his mask shredded beyond recognition, once again revealing to the world of his secret identity, but he didn't care. For the second time, Norman Osborn has taken away the woman he loved. Peter set the woman down, resting her head carefully on the ground. The man slowly stood up and turned towards Norman, tears welling in the man's eyes. Norman spat blood and pushed himself away from the crushed taxi he was formerly ensnared in. "Just another couple of blocks and we could have a repeat at the bridge for old times sake, Spider-Man." He wiped a bloodied maw on the back of his glove and reached for his belt. Parker said nothing, walking to Norman with a haunted expression on his face. The Green Goblin removed a pumpkin-shaped bomb from his belt and primed the trigger. "Don't worry, Parker! You'll join the skank in Hell soon enough!" He hoisted the bomb up and tossed it, laughing like a man possessed. The bomb was ensnared with a shot of webbing from Parker's left wrist. He spun on an ankle and discus tossed the bomb back, just as Norman took to a run; They'd had this dance countless times before. The bomb was little more than a distraction, a quick run and call of the glider and Norman was back in the air. Only this time he wasn't alone. Parker was with him this time. The two struggled, and the glider was veered off course, smashing through the window of a ground-floor shop. Osborn tumbled and was caught by a right handed hook. A nose shatters. Another punch, this one equally as careless, equally as rough as one thrown by a man with nothing left. Osborn was sent sliding across the ground, back into the rear wall of the shop. The staff flees for their lives, and Parker begins his approach, still just as silent as his pursuit began. The Goblin struggles to stand. "Parker, I've ruined your life. What are you going to do this time? Make a deal with the devil? Mope and cry? It doesn't matter. I've won. I've won." He stammers. Parker's hands fold around the Goblin's throat. The two struggle. The Goblin jabs a hidden knife into his attacker's ribs, but this results in a tightened grip. Eventually, the Goblin's struggle to cause as much damage as possible is cut short. The man struggles to breathe, and after just a few more moments, he ceases to move, an permanent grin of victory plastered on his face. Parker slowly stands up and turns back towards the street. He's illuminated by countless spotlights. A crowd stares at him in horror, news vans begin to report the murder of Norman Osborn. As he walks out into Times Square, he's confronted by Iron Man and a handful of the Avengers. Three months later, Peter "Spider-Man" Parker sits alone in a cell at the Raft. He runs a hand across his unshaven jawline and pushes himself off of his cot, his attention drawn across the front of the cell at the gaps between the reinforced bars. *Was it worth it?* He thought to himself. *Was killing Norman Osborn going to make the world a better place? Did I do more good avenging Mary Jane with his death and thus consigning myself to prison for the rest of my life? There are villains now, villains with an agenda against me, and now they're going to be running free. How many lives did I end by proxy by being locked up in here? How many Uncle Bens are being created in this hour alone?* *Uncle Ben. If he could see me now,* he thought. *If he could see me now.* Peter Parker sat down on his cot once more and wept.

When the Hero becomes the Villain

He bit me when I was at the gas station. I saw him stumble over, begging for help, and I tried. I asked him what was wrong, but he kept going on and on about how hungry he was and how he needed help. I tried to walk him into the gas station, and that's when he bit me in the eye. I screamed in pain and shoved him away, and with him, part of my eyebrow and cheek. It burned. It hurt like you wouldn't believe. The world was clouded in that eye, and soon blackened with the warm feeling of blood. I was running on adrenaline at this point. I screamed and ran into the gas station. I didn't know how bad it was. I held the door shut with my hands and tried to catch my breath, when I heard screams behind me. The clerk was pale in the face and wide-eyed, pointing a shaky hand at what was left of my face. I tried to ignore him and focus on the guy on the other side of the glass, when I caught my reflection in the door. I screamed. I recoiled away from the door and held a hand up to that side of my face, and the drug addict guy was inside. He grabbed for my arm and bit me again. I punched him in the face as hard as I could. I felt my fingers crack. He hits the ground and begins to struggle to get up. His face is sheared off by a shotgun blast and I struggled to keep standing. I fell against a shelf and the clerk ran over, trying to apply a bandage to my face and my arm. Another customer at the gas station walked in, but everything was starting to get fuzzy. I lost consciousness somewhere around then. I woke up here, in Memorial Hermann. Doctors were trying to save me. I heard whispers of a fever and a lot of blood loss. I still couldn't see out of that eye, but the brief glimpses of vision from the other were that of light and men in surgical scrubs- And then I heard a flatline. Time of death was 5:56, some four hours after the guy bit me. This can't be right. I'm still alive. Why are they saying I'm dead? I can hear them. I can't move. I can't think. They cover my face with a sheet. I can't move. It hurts. Something hurts. I don't know what it is. I don't know how long it's been. That hurting something is my chest. My stomach. It feels like I haven't eaten in days. My lips are dry, my mouth is dry. I'm so hungry. I feel pain when I try to move, but I start to move. Thank god, I thought I was dead! I struggle off of the gurney. My excitement and joy at being alive is tempered by the growing pain in my gut. The extreme pain it causes when I try to move.. There's another man on a metal slab nearby. I must still be in the hospital- Why am I in the morgue? Why am I so fucking hungry? I stare at the body for a moment and step over. Jesus, walking is agony. Everything is agony. I drop to a knee and cry out in pain. A doctor enters the room, sees me, and screams. He runs away. I cry out for his help. I cry out about my hunger. I need something to eat. I have to eat. I have to eat. The body next to me. I'm desperate. I tear into his gut. It makes the pain go away.

Bitten

At first, this newfound obsession was amazing. I mean, it was literally amazing. I have tried many drugs in my life- many more than people know, especially the kids. But, hey- this is my suicide note, I figure I should it all hang out. I've tried all the light stuff, alcohol, marijuana, I smoked cigarettes constantly before, I was on meth for a while, heroin, I even did crack- God I loved crack. But even the thrill of crack got tiring, it put me into rehabilitation centers, it made me weak and it was draining my intelligence. For a sophisticated individual such as myself, it was disappointing to see myself spiraling out of control in such a strange way. So I cleared myself of the harder drugs and sustained on pot, alcohol and a newfound sex addiction. What I couldn't find in hard drugs, I found in sadomasochism, bondage and consensual torture. Mostly what I did, and had done to me was within the confines of the law. I had denigrated myself to the lowest forms of legal perversion. Fortunately, my family stuck by me- they gave me support and looked at me as their little lost, but loveable cause. Until...until the REAL obsession. That's when I truly lost myself, lost anything I really had left- I would have, and actually did sell body parts for the little bastards. I LOVED cookies, unnaturally, wrongly, deviously. I would eat cookies with anything on them, I picked them up off the ground, brushed them off and stuck them in my mouth, without even chewing. I'd smell them from a block away and ravage Oscar's heap to find them scattered through piles of trash, covered in human feces or cat hair, what have you, I NEEDED THEM. But the pain has been almost unbearable. I've gained so much weight, I've developed heart problems, caught diseases and alienated my friends. The thing I regret most was holding up that liquor store for all their cookies. I didn't even take the cash, and when the cops came, I was in my most shameful moment- stuffed full of chocolate, near heart attack, on the ground outside, crying. It's been two months since that terrible moment, and although my bail was paid by the fine folks of PBS, I know that I'm relapsing. I know that it will all come tumbling down again if i don't end it here and now. I'm sorry to all of you; especially you, Big Bird, I'm sorry I got mad that your birthday cake wasn't a cookie cake and beat you within an inch of your life. Don't weep for me- take comfort in that I am free. - "Cookie Monster"

Write a suicide note from an established fictional character

He looked at me with a gleam in his eye. “I suppose we should get a fire going.” I loved campfires. There was something primal about them. Man mastering the elements. I hurried to get the box of matches. My grandpa took them from me and set them aside. “We won't be using these,” he said with a smile. “How will we start the fire then?” I asked, perplexed. “Are we going to rub two sticks together?” “No,” he answered, “We are going to use magic.” “Magic? Magic is make believe!” I laughed. I thought he was just kidding with me. I would find out soon enough that he was serious. Very serious. He put his finger to my forehead and punctuated each word with a light tap. “Clear your mind,” he said quietly. He looked around to make sure nobody was watching us and held up a stick. “Magic is based on thoughts that form images in your mind. You must use that image to project that thought into being. Use your hands to concentrate and direct your thought.” “I don't understand...” I began. “Hold your hand out towards this piece of wood. It might be easier for you to point at it. I will help you focus your energy. Now, think of fire. Concentrate on the end of the stick as you do that. Now, in your mind imagine the end of this stick on fire. Concentrate on that. Believe in it. Believe it has already happened and you are now watching it burn. Let that thought travel from your mind down your arm and through your finger to its destination.” I still wasn't sure if he was kidding with me. I decided I had nothing to lose by trying what he was asking of me though. I trusted in him completely as well, that helped. I did what I could to clear my young mind of all the silly random thoughts it was usually filled with. I thought of nothing but fire for a few moments. Fire. Flame. I reached my hand towards the stick, extending my index finger towards it. I tried to push my vision of fire into my arm. Oddly, my arm started to tingle just a little bit. This encouraged me. Suddenly, I did believe! As I was reveling in my belief, I realized I now controlled the force that was awaiting my bidding. I let the energy flow through my arm, to my hand and through my finger. Suddenly the end of the stick burst into a bright green flame, settling almost at once into the normal reddish orange flame that normally accompanies fire. My grandfather laughed aloud, and tousled my hair. “You are such a good boy. This has to be our secret though, do you understand that?” “Yes, but Grandpa, how...” “Later, we will talk about this,” he said. “For now I just needed to know if you could do it. You are a very special little boy. Soon, you will meet other children who are just like you. One day the world may need... well, let's just wait and see.” My grandfather held the burning stick close to his face, at the same time extending his other hand in a fist towards the tepee of kindling we had assembled in the fire ring. As he blew out the small flame, he suddenly opened his fingers, and our fire roared to life. This was my introduction of the secret world that exists within our own mundane, normal existence. There was a dark side to it all as well, But I was not to learn of it for many years. All I knew at the time, was that I was learning *magic*.

The beginning of an epic story.

The last person on Earth was a 19 year old girl struggling to breathe through the ash and poison in the atmosphere. Thirty years ago, a conflict between the great nations of our world killed our civilization and it's peoples. Works of art by Rembrandt, El Greco and Michelangelo lie crumbled and forgotten. Race cars will never again delight families on the Indianapolis Motor Speedway. Movie theaters exist as mass tombs. Pediatric wards of burned out hospitals collapse in the middle of the night. Beautiful cities such as New York, Paris, Shanghai and Rome lie as radioactive ruins, the grave sites for millions of people not directly involved in the war. When the nuclear ash blocked out the sun, crops died. People starved. Wars for sustainable land became commonplace. In the end, without food to eat and without water to drink, mankind starved and killed itself, those that weren't poisoned by the radiation. Our survivor lies outside of the cabin built by her father and mother. She didn't have the strength to bury them. Now, in her final hour, her vision blurs, her throat tightens. There is no God to save her, no reaper to take her to a paradise beyond this life. There is only this. And now there is nothing.

As depressing as you can possibly be.

The funnest part of the day is figuring out what your power is. I found a good routine that sorts it out pretty quick. I roll out of bed as per usual and smack my face right onto the floor, now this may seem strange to some people, but now I can cross off flight, levitation, invulnerability, and super fast healing and knowing these things but not what I can do means I'm not omniscient. Five down, but more testing to be done. I rub my now throbbing nose and get dressed. I open up my door, shout "For science!" and run full speed into the expertly placed mattress on the wall at the far end. I'm sure that the thump can be heard in the neighboring apartment at least. I take out my notepad and cross off super speed, phase walking, and total silence. I let out an audible sigh as I now know I'm gonna need my to use my car to get to work. I go to cook breakfast, my glass of water doesn't turn to ice when I filled it, and my eggs didn't cook themselves no matter how long I stared at them. My list is growing short and there is a good chance I'm going to have an awful normal day. I couldn't lift the 250 lbs dumbell on the floor no matter how hard I tried as my cat watched me obviously thinking "The hell is wrong with him." But I couldn't know for sure, so I cross off a few more and it's time to get to work. It's about this time I should mention that as fun as it is having a super power, most days you can't even figure out what it is. Sometimes it's something specific you don't do during the day, like throwing specific things or chicken tastes like beef the day you got a hamburger. Sometimes its just not useful, like people who have photosynthesis in the permanently dark time of year in the arctic circle. But you always wonder, and wait for those days when you know everything so you can figure them out when you get bored. Sometimes you stumble upon it, like today when my squeaky rusty car door opened like it was brand new. On those days you just shake your head and laugh. As I turn onto the freeway my phone alerts me to an incoming text message. "Hey man, I got flight today, how about you? If you did lets play hooky and go sightseeing!" I smile as I respond back. "Can't fly today. I'm WD-40 Man."

Everyone in the world has unique superpowers that change every day

Her name was Sarah. I have loved her for as long as I can remember. She was the type of woman that you could take for granted. She'd make your dinner or clean up after you, but you would ignore her. This was me. She's been dead for twenty years. Twenty years. Sometimes I wake up and I can't remember what she looks like. Sometimes I won't move or get up until I can remember, and once I stayed in bed for six hours before I was able to see her face again. I'm getting old, and the older I get the harder it is to remember her. Sarah was the type of woman you just can't replace. It was only when she died that I realized all the things she had done for me. The long nights when she sat in the living room, watching television until I came home after a long night of drinking and then making sure I was clean and ready for bed. But no matter how late it was, she would always be up in the morning with a smile and the smell of breakfast rising behind her. How often that she would sacrifice her own time to make me happy. She was the one that taught me unrequited love, the kind of love that only one woman can give you in your lifetime. To this day the only thing that I can remember are the times I yelled at her, ignored her, or left for days without contacting her. Those days turned into weeks, and then months, and then years. She would call occasionally but I just didn't have the time, and now I regret it with every bone in my body. Her name was Sarah, but to me she will always be mom.

Unrequited Love

**18 Regrets** I didn't hold the door for you, back on our first date The wine we drank was just a lie; my license then was fake I didn't laugh at your new joke; it wasn't of my taste Your mother's urn my elbow struck can never be replaced I never liked your brother; we never became friends I said that I forgave him; still we haven't made amends The diamond that was on your ring was never genuine I should have checked my credit score before I roped you in I couldn't write a custom vow; I never found my words Our wedding cake I found so good that I went back for thirds I never gave you fertile seed; the fault was all my own I'm sorry when you grew concerned, I bore the guilt alone My heart was always closed so tight, my feelings not expressed You only tried to set me free; I said you were obsessed I promised that I'd quit the drink; I broke that vow tonight And then I lied a second time and said I was alright I'm sorry that I drove tonight and only I survived I regret I couldn't say these things when you were still alive

18 line freestyle

I vaguely considered the irony of seeing her here, in a simple corner convenience store, halfway across the continent from where we started. I merely needed to stop in for a coffee before work, but now here I was, confronted with a history that no amount of perscriptions could erase. I had looked up from my coffee machine to see her browsing the magazines across the room. Her eyes were lowered and she appeared to not have taken note of my panicked presence. My stomach dropped and my hand began to shake - the way a child's does when their first drop of adrenaline rushes through their veins as you strap them in to their first roller coaster. I couldn't count how long it had been. Time since then had no meaning anymore. Distance became my time. Distance between here and there. Between me and anyone involved. Between me and her. They say time heals all wounds, but they lie. I would never heal, and the only way to move on with my stagnant psychiatrist ridden life was to put as many miles between me and that fateful place. Jesus, how long HAD it been? I supposed that the last time I saw her was at the funeral. Yes. The funeral. Bobby's funeral. She had faithfully stood by me the whole afternoon, tears freezing against her cheeks in the biting winter air. We were one in our guilt, watching them seal him up in eternal darkness and lower him to the black dirt, so out of place in the ocean of crisp white snow surrounding us. I remember her breath in my ear, telling me that when she died she didn't want to be buried in the ground. She talked as if that day would be tomorrow. I set down the cup and grasped the counter to steady myself. How long had it been? Six years? We didn't even say goodbye - not really. Even has I had walked her to her car, I knew our time was done. She searched my face, silently pleading for me to give her a reason to stay. My thoughts raced but I couldn't manage a voice. She sigh and looked back to Bobby's grave. Then she brushed her hand across my cheek, but where there was once endless comfort in her touch there was now a feverish heat that felt wrong and painful. And then she was gone. A shiver walked the length of my spine as I remembered how our relationship had unfolded, from Bobby introducing us to the late night sharing our life stories, to that first kiss, to the night that I found myself confessing my love for her while she lay curled up against my chest in bed, vulnerable and perfect. The same night the police called us down to identify a body - Bobby's body. I remembered the echoes of her sobs trembling into my shoulder while I tried to be strong for her - tried and failed. And then there she was, six years later, not ten feet from me. I couldn't help but stare with an overwhelming need to rush across the store and hold her again. To apologize and tell her I would be there. But I knew I couldn't. I was a reminder of everything that went wrong in her life, and I simply couldn't bring myself to throw her into the torture chamber that was my mind. But then - perhaps I could help? What if she was running too? We could run together and maybe I wouldn't have to be alone anymore. Maybe, if time had no meaning for her, we could forget what happened? We could start over? I felt ill. My entire body was paralysed with indecision. I took a few steps towards her. She looked up and smiled for a fleeting moment before walking to the cash register. It wasn't her.

How long has it been?

The monitor pulsed. “We got another one,” Owen called out. “Class 4.” “Someone’s getting serious,” inferred Gordon. “When’s it at?” Owen tinkered with his controls. “Looks like… 2034. Downloading the details now. Okay, we’ve go-“ Owen stopped midsentence. “What’s up?” Gordon asked. “The beacon just stopped. That’s not right.” “Probably just a glitch.” “Yeah,” said Owen, only partly convinced. “You want to take this one, or should I?” “You got the card, man. It’s all yours.” “Why do I even ask?” he questioned with a chuckle. Gordon was a former cop, well suited to the Agency. But his age had taken its toll. He mostly manned the office. During an assignment, he’d man the other end of the communicator needed for relaying information across the time stream. Owen pulled the data card out of the terminal and carried it to the chamber. After running the card through a reader, a small holographic display listed some of the details about the assignment. With time travel getting cheaper, more folks were trying to abuse it. Any changes that weren’t cleared ahead of time with the Agency were illegal. The truth was that small changes were only sometimes policed. There wasn’t enough manpower to handle every blip on the grid. Emergencies, Class 2 and above, were specifically targeted by Agents. The average Class 2 would significantly harm an innocent. Class 3’s typically meant loss of life, people dying or never being born at all. Higher than that were 4’s and 5’s. Class 4 meant a complete shift of a timeline, the residual effects of a change spreading across the entire stream. Class 5’s meant, essentially, a paradox, the end of all things. Owen grabbed his side kit, including a firearm and a communicator, when the chamber door opened. The target wasn’t identified on the card, but he had the picture, just some old guy, and location of the anomaly. He’d seen worse info before. Once inside, the chamber closed and Owen stood in an empty Kansas City alley in the summer heat of 2034. He just had to wait a few moments for his guy to arrive. His communicator buzzed. “Owen!” It was Gordon. “Owen. Get back now. That wasn’t a glitch.” The communicator pressed against his head was soon joined by the muzzle of a handgun. Owen turned slowly to see the man from the picture, his target. Gordon continued talking, oblivious to the current circumstances. “It had to refresh. It’s a Class 5.” The target was familiar for reasons beyond the photo. He pulled the gun from Owen’s pack and tossed it aside. “And that guy in the picture isn’t your target; he’s the victim.” The empty space beside him was soon occupied by another man: Owen. “Drop it,” the new Owen commanded. The victim dropped his gun on command. “You’re-“ The new Owen kicked the gun away. He then smacked the communicator out of the previous one’s hand. “Stomp on it.” Owen complied. “How much did you hear?” the gunman asked. “N-nothing,” Owen lied. “Bullshit. I’ll find out soon, you know. Best you start telling the truth.” “The old man was supposed to be the target; he’s really the victim. That’s when you ended the call.” “That sounds more like it.” The gunman started pacing, keeping the gun trained on his victim. “Do you know why this man has to die? Do you have *any idea* who this man is?” “N-no,” stammered Owen. “Tell him.” “I’m you,” the victim revealed. “I tried to sto-“ The gunman smacked the butt of the pistol into the victim’s temple, sending him to the ground, then pushed Owen to the ground for good measure. “He’s gonna end the world. He’s gonna start a paradox. I gotta kill him.” “But the latest pulse sai-“ “He controls the pulses, don’t you get it? He made the call to lure you back here to set this whole thing off. I’m here to end him before he gets the chance.” The youngest Owen started crawling backwards. “Aw, don’t worry. I can’t kill you. That would just lead to the same fate.” But Owen didn’t stop until his hand behind him felt his gun among pieces of broken communicator. He swung it around to point at the gunman Owen. “I can’t let you kill him. Gordon said th-“ “Gordon is the reason you wanted to start a paradox in the first place!” his slightly older self shouted. “Besides, you can’t shoot me.” “Why’s that?” Owen asked defiantly. “That’s his gun. If you kill me, he won’t exist to bring that gun in the first place. Paradox.” He was right. Owen dropped the gun. “Good. Now if you’re about done trying to end the world, I have one to save.” But the victim had fallen too close to Owen’s gun. He had picked it up and pointed it at the gunman. Owen knew that if the old man got a shot off, he’d cause a paradox. And he knew that Gordon warned that if the old man died there, it would still cause a paradox. There was only one choice left. He grabbed hold of a jagged edge of his communicator and plunged into his neck. The other two Owens stopped and stared before vanishing. Killed by his own communicator that he himself broke, the paradox was averted. A Kansas City police officer found the body hours after Owen has succumbed to injury. There was no identification and the prints wouldn’t turn up any record. “Dispatch. This is Gordon down by 68th. We got a cold one.” He saw the young man and shook his head. He’d see a lot of bodies during his career, but he’d never forget that one.

The Sentinels of Time

There once was a man named Yolo Swag. He spawned from the hellish depths of 9gag. Although some would say that his brain did lag, his cranium was stuffed like a meme-filled bag. "Fag!" Was his greeting. "Slag!" Was his wife. Just kidding, Yolo Swag made swagging his life. He swagged to and fro. He swagged up and down. He swagged in the snow. He swagged about town. With hat brim sideways, and nerd glasses too, Yolo Swag was swaggier than you. So swaggy, it's true, he wore baggy pants. The baggier, the swaggier, with tight underpants. He went to rehearsals. Last week he did five. When they were preparing, he said, "Fuck it, we'll do it live!" It didn't matter the type, he'd swag where he went: Piano, wedding, a graduation event. If you had a practice, Yolo would know. Oh, woe if Yolo would go to your show! But this week Yolo did make his last swag. He died after swagging over an anti-swag frag. He didn't respawn, nor did he survive. And at the funeral prep, someone yelled, "Fuck it, we'll do it live!"

Fuck it!

Trivet paused in the shade of the maple. There, snuggled between the great roots of the tree, she pondered the events of her life and what the day might bring. She was considering taking a short nap in the relative coolness afforded by the shadows, when she realized that the world had gone silent. That could mean only one thing. *It was time again.* The very air around her reverberated with the incomprehensible sound. An all encompassing roar that brought on blind panic. It was coming. She was trapped! The horizon filled with death, she ran before the coming wall. As it drew nearer to her, she almost accepted the inevitability of her impending death. Then, a new thought entered her mind. Instead of continuing to run blindly forward, she darted to the side and into the rocks. Her heart hammered within her chest as she hid behind a tremendous boulder. She was terrified, but still alive. When she was certain that death was now too distant to take her, she made her way to her hole in the foundation and preened her fur. She sincerely hoped that the next time the grass cutter appeared, she was safely indoors.

Quiet. Too quiet...

*Not sure where I was trying to go with this one, to be honest. I just didn't want to write about some cookie-cutter hero/villain dynamic* ------------ The streets were filled with cheers, with jubilant celebration. No longer were they subject to the rule of their wicked king. It was said that the city's walls could withstand ten years of siege. It took the townspeople less than an hour. Every king had been unfair or even cruel. Tax increases. Costly wars. Famine in the streets while the royal plates were plentiful. Tortures and executions. As their heirs took the throne, the pains only worsened. The latest atrocity, the execution of a child, finally sparked a full revolt. The plan had been for a bloodless revolution. The majority of the king's soldiers laid down their arms when the people stormed the castle. Many of them were born from the ranks of peasants generations removed. The plight of their forebears was enough to sway them to the public side. Some of the king's guards kept to their oaths. The numbers weren't on their side. The king, of course, was not cooperative. The rest of the royal family surrendered immediately, though, and proved valuable as hostages to end the standoff quickly. In the square, the king gave an empassioned speech. He called for the people to think on their actions, to understand what they were doing. The fall of an axe cut his words short. Guards who refused to surrender when the castle doors were breached were swift to follow their departed king. Then the royal family. There were a few who cried out when the prince, not old enough to have seen his first winter, fell on the block. But even those did nothing to quell the joy over the recently freed people. A feast was called. Barrels of wine, two full heads of cattle, and a full day's worth of baked bread occupied the table in the Great Hall. Then the baker asked for his compensation. He had used up his stock of grain for the order. "From the treasury," the people cried. And the ranch hand needed his compensation for feed. "From the treasury," the people cried. And the farmers requested their compensation, as did the masses who did the cooking, the cleaning, and the cutting. And the soldiers demanded their wages, and funds for upkeep on their weapons and armor. "From the treasury," the people cried. But the coffers were not full. When the people had refused to pay tax, the reserves fell. And yet the workers demanded their fees. It was peace, so the soldiers were dismissed, stripped of their employment. The decision was made to assess a small tax, far less than that imposed by the departed king to pay off the city's debts. Then the streets became filthy, uncleaned for weeks. The rot needed attention. There was nobody to clean the streets and no money to pay them. So another tax arrived. Yet another tax was birthed when the walls of the city showed wear. And again when the wilds crept closer, requiring a hunt to keep them away from livestock. The taxes continued to grow as each problem surfaced. Many paid more than they had before. Crime, too, escalated. There were no soldiers, so nobody was around to enforce the laws. Those unwilling to pay for food found themselves better fed through theft. One day, there were visitors at the gates. A neighboring kingdom had heard of the the rebellion and of the ills the city faced. It heard of the people growing weary without jobs, the wasting walls, and the disorder. It heard that there were no longer any soldiers. The visitors took the city easily, slaughtering any who tried to resist. The people had brought upon themselves a destruction that transcended any their former kings had even attempted. The king at least kept the walls strong, the streets clean, the criminals in line, and the city protected. The people, in their attempt to seize power, were their own worst enemy.

The real villain.

*Shit.* Sgt. Donald Hutchenson fidgeted in his seat as he watched the Qulunian woman (at least he thought it was a woman. It was always hard to tell with Qulunians...) crying in front of him. He hadn't meant to upset her, but this race was just so damn sensitive. When he signed up to join the negotiations division of the Intergalactic Treaty Organization, he had anticipated a lot of heated arguments with large, angry aliens. Nothing had prepared him for the overly-emotional Qulunians. All he had asked Djans, the sobbing woman in front of him who also happened to be the planet's head of intergalactic affairs, was if she would be okay with Earth setting up an embassy on Qulu. He couldn't see the problem. "Are you alright, ma'am?" He asked, tentatively. "Was it something I said?" Djans gasped and dropped her hands from her face, only to end up holding Hutchenson's hands in a death grip, which made him uncomfortable. This planet just couldn't keep their hands to themselves. Touching was one of their means of expressing their ever-present emotions. "Don't worry, visitor!" Djans cried. "You have not offended me. I am simply overcome with joy at the thought of your people being able to represent yourselves here on Qulu! Our home is your home, and, as long as your fellow Earthlings don't break our laws, we would be honored to have an embassy here." She smiled, showing her sharp teeth, as tears ran down from her narrow black eyes. It occurred to Hutchenson that Qulunians were extremely lucky to have Earth as their allies. While the aliens looked intimidating, their isolated location in the galaxy was really the only thing that kept them from being conquered or destroyed by other races. If a race like the blood-thirsty Ursans brought one of their battleships to Qulu, the Qulunians would probably roll out the red carpet for them. This naive and emotional race needed to have Earth's protection. Hutchenson stood up and offered his hand to Djans. "I'm glad that we were able to come to an agreement so easily. I'll notify the ITO of your position, and we will have further information sent to you later this week. Have a good day, Djans." He turned to leave, but was stopped by a pair of long arms wrapping around his torso. Out of habit, he reached for his gun. Djans tightened her grip, causing him to drop the gun on the floor. "Don't be alarmed, visitor! I am only trying to do what you Earthlings call 'hugging'! We Qulunians do not traditionally do this, but I find it to be an effective way of expressing happiness!" She released him, and he whirled to face her, gasping for air now that she wasn't crushing his ribcage. Composed again, he said, "Next time, not as hard. We Earthlings are fragile." Hutchenson saw tears welling up in Djans' eyes once again and realized that he had made her feel bad. Swearing at himself, he sat back down and attempted to comfort her. He couldn't wait to get off Qulu and get back to more emotionless parts of the galaxy.

aliens who instead of being more cold feeling is the opposite.

January 3rd, 2057. Asmara, Walmartia. Hello, my name is Walter Rossiter. I just received this journal as a consolation prize in the sweepstakes so I might as well not let it go to waste. To those who live under a rock, I am recent immigrant from Canada to the land of Walmartia, formerly known as Eritrea before the Great Collapse. For those who must live under some kind of boulder, the Great Collapse was when the African Fedha collapsed like no currency before, sending all the African countries into disarray. In order to save the continent from lawlessness, large multinational corporations purchased the poorest of the poor to exploit their resources and try to bring them back from the brink. This country happened to be bought out by Wal-Mart. Now, there are no more local businesses. Every city, town, and village now has a huge Wal-Mart in the very center for everyone's needs. Almost everyone is employed there, as there is no other real industry nowadays. I was lucky however, and landed a job at the barely-served Asmara Intercontinental Hotel. All major safety regulations (which were barely enforced anyway beforehand) were immediately repealed, the minimum wage was lowered to $1.25, and local businesses began to have more and more regulations and taxes that piled on and on until eventually they couldn't keep up with it all. Electricity is very cheap, but in poor neighborhoods such as the one I live in, it is severely rationed out. And, judging by the fact by light is slowly dimming, the results are very clear to see. Which also means it's about time to stop writing. I will write more tomorrow. Sincerely, Walter Rossiter

The year is 2057...corporations now own whole nations. You now live in one of those nations, assuming the companies are ran mostly the same as they are today.

I woke up suddenly when someone touched my shoulder. I caught a waft of a familiar smell as two women sat down opposite me. One young and beautiful with long, brown locks and matching eyes, the other an older woman, steely grey and with deep lines on her face, yet still with the same kind expression that the younger woman wore. It smelled like a good book and a glass of wine late on a summer evening. "I had the strangest dream..." I said, smiling at Amanda, the young woman who was my wife. "Tell us about it." The older woman said. I didn't like her, and I didn't know her. She was new, foreign, an intruder on a private conversation. "I dreamt that I was old. We had moved to a different house and we were both so old and gray." I chuckled and looked at Amanda, still young and beautiful here in the real world. "I had written a book, can you believe it? I can't for the life of me recall what it was about, but I was told it was very good. I got fan mail in the dream, even. I wonder what a psychologist would have to say about that?" I chuckled again and the old woman across the table started to weep silently. I wished she would just go away, did she not see she was not wanted here? "And the little ones, you should have seen them! They were all grown up, Sarah and Caleb and we even had another one, what was his name?" The old woman looked like she was about to speak, but stopped herself at the last moment. "It was such a lovely dream at first, but then it changed. You started accusing me of forgetting things that had never happened. You told me I was losing my memory and the kids all agreed to these nonsense lies, why would they do that? You had me sent away to a foreign place. You know I don't like new places. Why would you do that to me, Amanda?" Her lower lip was quivering and she soon started to weep too. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry!" She stammered through her tears. I was a little taken aback. "It was just a dream! It wasn't you!" She looked up at me with tear-filled eyes and spoke in a thick voice. "I have to go. I have to do something." She sounded flustered, like she was suddenly in a hurry to leave and held out a hand for the older woman to lean on as she got up. "Come on, mom, let's go." Amanda murmured. Strange, I could have sworn her mother died years ago. I turned to ask her about it, but they were already gone. ~ I love Alzheimer's stories, so I have written a couple before that you might want to check out! [Broken Memories](http://www.reddit.com/r/StoryTellerBob/comments/1clhz2/the_big_request_thread/c9hqo6q?context=3) and [a submission to the Samuel L. Jackson reading competition](http://www.reddit.com/r/movies/comments/1f9x5y/im_samuel_l_jackson_and_ill_record_a_video_of_me/ca8a1ye?context=3) a few months ago that was for an Alzheimer's charity.

I dreamt that I was old...

Jane often gazed at the stars. For her, they were a highway to a home she'd once lived in, but that home had crumbled long ago. In the stars, she found the solace of Brad's embrace. She felt the warmth of his touch after waking to strange sounds in the deep of night. She detected the smell of the aftershave he'd picked out just because the scent enticed her. She heard the tingle of bells in his laugh, the one that crinkled the corners of his eyes. More than anything else, she saw the gentle twinkle that lit Brad's eyes whenever he looked at her. His mouth would say nothing, but his eyes revealed everything. Half a world away, Brad gazed at the stars, too. He found the sensation of her hand playfully brushing against his bare stomach as he fried bacon for breakfast. He smelled the perfume she always wore that made her seem innocent and pure, like a sunbeam on a Saturday afternoon. He heard her giggle at his corny jokes, even those that any other person would've groaned at. And, more than anything else, Brad saw the stars twinkle in the same way that Jane did. He saw her eyes, and she saw his, but neither saw each other, only reminders of a life that had been shattered by a piece of paper. Jane got up from the cool grass of her backyard and went inside, not bothering to close the sliding glass door. She took out the envelope; reread the letter that had broken the news. Although she was tempted, as she had been before, to rip the pages into tiny pieces, instead she simply sighed and replaced it on the table. She covered it with a piece of paper to prevent her from having to see again who'd sent it. She glanced at the stars once more before slamming the door shut and closing the curtains. Half a world away, Brad got up from his post. He sighed, and turned away from the stars, from Jane's eyes. He returned to the tent and set down his machine gun, and another soldier went outside to take his place. Outside, gunfire sounded somewhere in the night. Someone, maybe a young boy, or a teenage girl, screamed, and then all fell silent in the Iraq night. *Thank you for this writing exercise. It forced me to think (heh) and made me write a much more powerful story than I would have otherwise.* *P.S. I probably would have tagged this as Constrained Writing.*

Using Chuck Palahniuk's lack of "thought verbs."

I should go to sleep, I should've gone off to the world of dreams hours ago. Yet I still stay awake. Thinking. Remembering. Most of these memories aren't mine. Hell, most of them aren't even from the present. I remember through the eyes of a Confederate soldier taking his last breaths, I see through the eyes of a newborn opening theirs for the first time. I see things I have no business seeing, and I know things that I shouldn't worry about. The kids at school ask me why I'm so quiet. Why I seem so distant. Those who are close to me tell me how mature I am for my age. How could I not be, when I've lived infinitely more life than they ever could? When, sometimes, I can see into their past through the eyes of them, or their families? I roll over in my bed, my eyes searching the darkness, seeing nothing. Then I close them, and memory bursts behind my eyelids. I live in fear of the day when I might see something truly terrible. I fear the day I might see my death. I can't stop remembering. A tear rolls down my cheek. I wipe away the tear of a crying woman. My wife looks at me with hate. A family that I don't recognize is gathered around me in a hospital, but it isn't me. I see a broken old man in the mirror. I am aware then and now that I am looking through my eyes. Neither of me is surprised. I feel myself shed another tear. I wipe away the tear of a crying woman...

All my life I had been fascinated with the memories I can recall that weren't my own.

I have the worst job in the world. It is also the most despised job. It causes sadness and tears, nothing more. And yet, it is as important and basic as collecting garbage, or sweeping the streets. Let me tell you about my job. After all, one day you too will use my services. My shift begins at night, when the children are sleeping and creatures unknown prowl in the dark. I stop, and stretch my stiff joints, give a yawn. I look at the quota for tonight. I frown. Not so many. Still, it's not so bad sometimes... sometimes there is a fun way to do this. I glance around the long street of the city. Flashing lights, racing cars, and the ever endless stream of people. Nobody notices each other, or me. I consider, and then I pick the first one. What a poor man, I think as I approach him. His vest is too small for him, and clings to his gross body like a fishnet with too many fish. The people part before him as though he is some giant. Truth be told, it is his smell. He smells like beer, urine, and shit. Not knowing I am watching him, he stomps in my direction, throwing occassional glances at the curves of the young women that pass him by. Then his glare returns to what he is holding. Fast food is the bane of life, they say. And he is shovelling it into himself as if it was a race. We're getting closer now. Slowly, I reach out. What shall it be? Heart attack, or perhaps he will choke? Whilst I think he passes by me and goes to cross the road. I watch him, smirking, deciding that one of his shoelaces will tangle under his foot... and there he goes. The city people freeze for a second, and keep going. The bloody fat mess is sprawled out on the front of some van. The driver gets out to the honking of the cars whilst someone dials 911. But I'm not there to see his life unfold. You see... this is all I have. So who is next? Maybe her... I glance at an old lady as she holds her grand daughter's hand. Or that young man in the wheelchair. He's on his way to get a transplant that could save his heart. I take them both. I decide the old woman breaks. It was a sad event, really. Some man in a hurry ran through the crowd and knocked her over. Her old crumbling bones couldn't take it. She just snapped and died as her grand daughter watched. I quickly take care of the disabled boy. I think I'll make it a surprise. His heart was declared unfit for usage under some medical mistake. He doesn't know it yet, of course. Three is the quota, usually. Sometimes there is more. I glance upwards at the black sky, my bony hand brushing at where my hair used to be some millenniums ago. I feel bored. Well, they probably won't mind if I take an extra few.

Write a story from the perspective of a hero, but make the reader hate them in the end, or vice-versa.

The man stared at me intently. We were faced off like dueling cowboys in an old Western, moving only our eyes as each studied the other. A generous description of the man would say that he has seen better days and would use words like “haggard” and “unkempt” to describe his shaggy beard and muddy nest of hair. But in truth, the man in front of me was a beast, and no amount of shampooing and shaving was going to change that. That look of terrified rage in his eyes would not wash away in the bath. How long he had been in the wilderness, I could not say. But it was not the wilderness that had turned him into the creature that now stared at me with murderous eyes. It was the deaths that had transformed him. It was written all over him—in his stiff stance, his unblinking eyes, his clenched jaw. He broke the stillness with a slight tilting of his head and a wry grin. I knew what that look meant. I had seen it before, when the killing first began. He had decided to murder me. No one knew I was here, and he meant to see that I never left this cabin again. I returned the grin, and gave a nod, for we both had the same plan for the other. It was high noon, and we had been still long enough. We had steeled our minds for both the possibility of death and of murder, and all that was left to do was make the first move. Slowly, very slowly, I grabbed the knife from the wooden table next to me and stared one more time at the man in the mirror. And I was the only person to ever see him again.

300 words or less!

"Jesus, Mary, and Joseph," came a thick voice above her, and she blinked open her eyes to get a better glimpse of the speaker. Human, he was, and speaking one of their many, gravel-garbled tongues with apparent fury. "*My brother*?" she inquired in her own tongue, struggling to fight against the human's grip. She had tackled him to the ground as the weird pressure had hit her eardrums, sensing the disharmonious jangle that preceded the strange silence meant nothing good. He lifted her effortlessly off of her brother and checked him too; not because, she rather thought, he understood her language, but because he could see the even smaller body hers protected. He frowned a little, but she could see the tiny, fluttering motion of her brother's chest as he breathed, so she was a little reassured. "Damn," the human said. "Didn't expect any Eridani survivors for at least another hundred yards from the epicenter. And, you, of course," he pet her fur then, a strange, intimate gesture that only the humans seemed willing to make. They feared nothing, she thought, rather like the youngest females of her species; the ones who had no sons or brothers to protect. "Haven't an earthly what I'm saying. Calm down, sweetie," then, and it shouldn't surprise her given how many of the humans tried (and failed) to master her language, said, flatly, "*Safe.*" Another human came down the hall. "Jesus, man, I told you to find a medic. You caught that thing head on!" "Whatever, man, I wasn't even close enough to get sealed out behind the bulkheads when the hull was compromised. Plus, I've got wounded Eridani," "How-- hold still, you idiot, you'll bleed all over her... It's a her, right, this close to the armory?" "I think this one's male, actually. *Boy?*" he asked. His fellow human was sliding a metal needle through the naked flesh of his forehead. She watched, fascinated, as he didn't even flinch. Her stomach turned at the sluggish pulse of blood through the wound the other was apparently *literally sewing shut*, such that she nearly missed the query. "*Yes,*" she said, then, remembering her manners, attempted a word, flat and gravelly and dull as she could make it. "Yes?" "Man, when they sing like that--" the man with the needle said. "Ouch, shit, don't twist it around; I don't need stitches anyway. Go find an Eridani medic or something." "Level's still not cleared for them, you know how it is, you sneeze and they fall over." "Not this one," he replied. Then, so she could barely understand it, but with almost a lilt to the phrase, he bared his teeth in a terrifying show of force and said: "*Brave warrior.*" her heart raced with terror in her chest, and he stroked her fur again. "*Safe*"

A Sci-Fi story where humans are strong, smart, and feared in comparison to the other intelligent races.

Things had gotten pretty bad. We should have seen the signs. There were protests in the streets, people talking about everyone "pulling their own weight." I knew what that meant, I worked two jobs, so did my wife, we pulled our own weight and then some. So what if we were broke, we spent our money on our kids; private school, piano lessons; our kids were going to do better than we did. It didn't matter, on the night of the gas, it was us. It was my fault, really. My wife wanted a new house in the newest subdivision. I sold her on the benefits of owning an old home in an older but still nice part of town. I didn't know. When the bill was passed, without public knowledge, it was pretty simple. Any house built on block or pile and beam construction was to be relocated. Modern homes on ground level cement foundation were fine. The gas worked well. They had trained anesthesiologists administering it. When we woke up, and saw that our entire house had been relocated to the white trash reservation, we knew right away. To be honest, it isn't so bad. We're in a neighborhood of people like ourselves, we work hard, we have nothing to show for it. We don't have to keep up the pretense of being like them, those who have a lot to show for their work. My wife took it harder than I did. She filed several papers citing noble heritage. When the DNA came back showing strong Irish and Slavic heritage, the case was thrown out. The kids seem happy. They and my son-in-laws raise kids in the provided trailers. They say that it is our natural habitat. Sometimes I get angry. Like on non-dependence day; when they flash their banners of Ayn Rand and Francis Galton, but then I remember, it is just my bad genes, the same genes that would have made me join the IRA in a different world. I will behave, for the children, so that one day, they may rejoin the world.

Your character wakes up and discovers his house has been inexplicably moved overnight.

*Fuuuck.* My boss was going to torture me, murder me, and resurrect me just to kill me again if I was late this morning. That would make it the third time this week, and it was only Wednesday. It was already 8:48, and I needed to be at work at 9:00. I wasn't going to make it. I was resigned to that, but I was gonna try to be at least somewhat close to on time. I took an extraordinarily fast shower, threw on my mandatory suit, slapped some butter on an untoasted bagel, and ran out the door towards the bus stop. I checked my watch. 9:09. I finally got to the bus stop at 9:12. The next bus came at 9:32. They ran every thirty minutes, and the 9:02 bus was long gone. I sent a text to my boss to tell him I would be late, again. It was a chilly morning for August. I took out my iPhone and pretended to look busy while I stood alone at the bus stop. "Excuse me?" The voice was somewhere behind me, young, male, raggedy. I ignored it and continued scrolling through the news. "Sir? Hello?" Someone tapped me on the shoulder. I whirled around. "What?" The nuisance was a thin guy about my height, maybe a couple inches taller. Probably in his mid-20s. He had a scruffy shadow of a beard, and wore a tattered plaid shirt and ripped jeans. "What do you want?" I demanded. "I just.. look, man, it's cold, and I'm home... I don't have any money, and I'm really cold, man. Could you buy me a cup of coffee?" "No." I turned away. "Dude, look, I--" "Save it," I said curtly. I had no time for this guy. "Look, man, I--" "If I give you ten dollars, will you leave me alone?" "What?" the homeless guy said. "Will you shut up if I give you ten bucks? "Oh, man, that would mean the world to me." "Here." I thrust ten bucks into his grubby hand. "Thank you, man, thank you so much. I don't know how I could ever--" "You could start by shutting the hell up." The dirty guy was quiet. He said "thanks" once more, almost as if he was afraid to, and then went back to what I assumed was his pathetic nest behind me. I checked my watch. 9:19. Wow. That guy had wasted 7 minutes of my life. I scrolled through the news until the bus pulled up. As the bus pulled away, the homeless guy smiled and waved at me. I gave him the finger. ---------------------------------------------------------------------- As the bus pulled away, Joe Frick stared proudly at the $10 bill in his left hand. It was the most money he'd had at one time in probably the last 5 months or so, before he lost his job and then his apartment. He may have had to beg to get it, but the important thing was that he had it. And goddamnit, he would spend it however he wanted to, because it was his. Joe walked into the convenience mart, carrying his prize and the trash bag full of his belongings. He poured himself a small cup of poor-quality coffee, drank it, then poured another and went to pay. He grabbed a package of Ramen, chicken flavored, and stashed it in his trash bag. The purchase was $2.73 with tax. $7.27 left. What to do? Joe sipped this cup slowly, savoring it, while making his choice. Joe went back into the convenience mart and got change in quarters for two of his precious dollars. He had nine quarters, a five dollar bill, and two pennies. Now, where would there be a pay phone in this city? The library. Twelve blocks. A long walk in weather like this. Joe finished his coffee, emptied out the last few drops, and threw the empty cup in his trash bag. Twelves blocks later, Joe learned that the pay phone was 50 cents a minute. That would earn him four and a half minutes. Hopefully enough time. Joe picked up the phone and dialed. Voicemail. "*You've reached the Fricks, er, Ms. Frick. We-- I'm not here right now, but leave a message and I'll get back to you.*" *Beeeeeeeep.* "Hey," Joe said, his voice breaking. "It's me. "Mom, I need your help. Please. I lost my apartment, I lost my job, and I'm out on the streets. I'm fucking *homeless*, Mom. I need your help." Joe paused to wipe away some tears. He hadn't even realized he was crying. "Mom. I need your help. Please listen to this. Please don't turn it off. I know I haven't talked to you since college. I am so sorry. Mom, I'm sorry. I'm sorry I wasn't there for you, for Dad. I'm sorry I never called to see how you were doing. I'm sorry--" His voice cracked and he paused to regain his composure. "I'm sorry I wasn't there when you found him. I had no idea he'd do that to himself. I always... I always thought he was just quiet, just reserved." He paused again. "I will always, always regret not going to his funeral." He let that hang in the air. "I want to own up to my mistakes. I want to make it up to you. But please, mom, please, I need your help. Please. "Listen, I'm at the--" "*Your time is low. Please insert more change to continue.*" Joe spoke frantically now. "I'm at the corner of Hampden and 12th. I know you know where I am. Please, just come get me. I need to be safe again. I can't do this anymore. Please. Mom. I need your help. Mom, I love--" "*Call disconnected. To redial, please insert more quarters. The rate is 50 cents per minute.*" Joe slammed the phone into the receiver. Tears were streaming freely now. He'd tried. Now all he could hope was that his apology was enough. If nothing else, it was genuine. He'd needed to say sorry to his mother for a long time. He'd just never found the power to do it. That businessman had helped Joe Frick more than the businessman would ever know. To him, Joe was just a thorn in his side. To Joe, the businessman was his savior. With just ten dollars, he'd help Joe make a change. Help Joe repair his broken relationship, or at least attempt to. Next morning, the businessman got on the bus without acknowledging Joe. When Joe tried to thank him, tell him what a difference it made, the man pretended he didn't even recognize Joe. Maybe he didn't. It didn't matter. Joe's mother arrived the next morning, before the businessman did. Joe hadn't slept all night. "Mom." The first thing Ms. Frick did was slap her son straight in his face. Then she hugged him, hard. "I am so, so glad you called." Joe hugged her back. "I love you, Mom. I love you, so, so much."

"The right man in the wrong place can all difference in the world."

I am a rancher by trade but I have a soft spot for gardening. When I had the time, I plowed out a section of the countryside to plant flowers. It began as a large, empty field with fertilized, dark soil. One day I decided to plant roses. I hoed out rows and patches of ground and spread the seeds out carefully by hand. Into dozens of tiny divots I planted each seed. Then, I gently patted down the soil with water. I had to wait patiently for the seasons to adjust, for the sun to come out from the clouds, for its rays to penetrate the soil and awaken the new life from below. The roses sprung from the earth in a most brilliant spectacle. Reds, violets, pinks, whites, and a host of other colors I never anticipated bloomed in their voluptuous, sensual lifetimes. Their stems danced in the morning breeze, their leaves shook with excitement and curiosity, and their petals fell to the ground in old age. Old flowers gave way to new life, and it continued this way for generations. I loved that field, and I regularly added new fertilizer and water to help it grow. There were more and more roses with each succeeding generation. In a show of appreciation, some of the roses plucked themselves out of the ground, so that I could place them in a vase at the kitchen table. Only the prettiest and most luscious of flowers adorned the vases, and it made my heart swell to know that my roses loved me. I could hear their talking in the gusts, how they chanted for my water and soil and gardening care. I always obliged them. But one summer, I noticed the presence of a new flower in the field. It was a tulip of the most brilliant shade of yellow I had ever seen. It was beautiful, just like the roses. This tulip must have been carried by the winds from some faraway field; it occupied its own modest corner in the soil. The roses bent their stems in hospitality of our field’s guest, graciously accepting this new traveler and allowing it a portion of the land and water. As more generations passed, and the tulip gave way to a greater population of tulips, the field dazzled with flashes of red and yellow, of white and violet and of pink. Whenever my friends or family came to visit me at the ranch, they extolled the field approvingly. I was very proud of what it had become so far, and I increased my watering and soiling of the flowers. Eventually, a third type of flower stumbled upon my garden. A lone petunia added a shade of blue among the established ranks of roses and tulips. And this petunia was accepted into the fold as well, and soon after the field gained lilacs, daisies, and marigolds. As more types of flowers blew into the field, the confines of my patch of land grew more crowded and bustling. More generations of flowers meant more water, more soil, more sunlight, and more of my attention. I tried as best I could to tend to the garden. I dug out pieces of earth, I watered the fields three times per day, and I added dung from my cattle onto the regular allotment of fertilizer. Never had I disappointed the ever-increasing needs of my flowers, but it took greater amounts of effort with every new generation. One day, I noticed a small group of roses sprouting from a dirt field on the other side of the ranch. Carried by the wind, they must have landed upon this field by accident. But this field was not empty like the first one; this time, there were patches of beautiful wildflowers of all the colors yet discovered. The roses began growing amongst the wildflowers, but I only had the time to tend to the first field’s flowers. I vowed to return to this second field and examine what happened there. After one year, I returned to the second field and saw what happened. The sight that befell there broke my heart: dead flowers strewn across the field, roses and wildflowers alike. I don’t know how it started, but the beauty and virility of the first field was replaced with hostility and destruction in the second. With tears in my eyes, I got on my knees to hold the corpse of a flower in my palms. The stem scratched me. For the first time, I noticed that these flowers had thorns on them. I placed the withered flower back onto the ground. But things only got worse from there. I discovered a third field, and a fourth, and a fifth, where my beloved flowers attacked each other in a quest to get a roothold of the untouched earth. It pained me to see the strangled roots of a dead marigold, or the withered petals of a gray rose, or the leaves torn off a petunia, or a decapitated tulip. Somehow, the news of these atrocities blew with the wind back to the first field, and all the same monstrosities followed. None of the flowers lived harmoniously while another type existed in its proximity. To make matters worse, enough generations had passed to the point where the flowers expected my sustenance. They ignored my efforts to help, instead scratching or cutting my fingers if I got too close. And the more I watered them, the more they fought. The more soil I added, the sharper their thorns grew. And the more time I devoted to each field, the more distraught and heartbroken I felt. These years aged me quite a bit. I spent less and less time tending to the gardens, until there came a point where I stopped entirely. The fighting continued, and the brushing of stems continued their talking to me (sometimes in anger, other times desperation), but over time the fighting subsided into rare skirmishes. As more generations of flowers lived and died, I heard the whispering of the stalks less and less. Oh, I still hear the brushing of a tulip occasionally. I still see a petunia bending its stem in reverence as I walk near the fields. But most flowers remain motionless in the winds now. The dirt no longer receives my fresh infusions of fertilizer. I no longer roll out the hose and water the divots of seeds in the field. Over time, the flowers devised their own way to get the water and nutrients they need. Their roots are stronger, their leaves are fleshier, their flowers are bigger, and their stems are wider. They are just as beautiful as before, and I remember fondly of when I used to preside over their well-being. They don’t need me anymore, and many seem to have forgotten how they began and how I used to care for them. I still love them, of course, and I always will. But I think it is better for the flowers to grow and live according to their own constitutions. It is a tender, forgiving land and the sun is always bright.

The ethics of being God

"Hey. Hey. Hey. Wake up. Hey. Hey." "Shut up, dude. I'm comfy." "Wake up. Food Guy's gone." "Shut up. Food Guy's always gone. He's probably out doing whatever it is he does all day." "No, one minute Food Guy was there and then he wasn't. Food Lady too." "They'll be back. They always come back." "No, really. Look out front." "Okay, that's strange. Why's the Adventure Box still there?" "See? I told you, they just aren't here." "Well yeah, I can smell that they're not here." "I know. And look at this." "Yeah, that's an odd place for them to leave their changeskins." "Right? Food Lady always puts those up when they take them off." "They were probably in a hurry. They'll be back soon. With food. I'm going back to sleep." "Food Guy! Hey, Food Guy!" "Shut up, dude." "Food Lady! Hey! Hey! Hey! Food Lady!" "Shut up or I swear to Food Guy I'll bite your neck." "Okay... I miss Food guy, though." "Yeah, me too." "I miss Food Lady." "Me too." "I have to pee." "Me too." "Do you think they'll give us food when they get back?" "They always do." "I hope we get to go in the Adventure Box when they get back." "Just shut up and take a nap. They'll be back. They always come back."

A conversation between two dogs left behind by their owners post rapture

You wake up. You turn over. You know your wife is still next to you because you can smell the cheap perfume she always wears. The box insists that the perfume is inspired by fresh citrus and summer, but to you it smells like the chemicals they layer over the dirty carpets at your office to produce some semblance of cleanliness. She's breathing heavily as little domes of sweat form on her forehead. With the creation of each one of these tiny worlds, the scent of her perfume is amplified. It becomes overwhelming and you struggle not to say anything. You rise. You rise like you do every day. You will go to work where the carpets will smell like your wife's cheap perfume. You will find once again that the coffee has become tainted by the cleaning chemicals and is undrinkable. "Baby, are you awake?" You mumble to your wife, hoping that she won't respond. "Yeah," she crackles through the ragged skin of her chapped lips, "what is it?" "Would you mind not wearing that perfume today?" She doesn't respond and for a sacred moment you think she has gone back to sleep and will remember your exchange as only a dream. After a long sigh, a response comes roaring out of your wife's mouth, "God, Jim, I'll wear my perfume if I fucking want to. You are literally Hitler sometimes!" It burns as the sweat and spit splatter across your face, "Nein." You whisper.

Imagine a world where if you said "literally" it literally happened

**Dinner Date** You’re outside a restaurant, and it’s late, and cold, and this dress is too short, and you forget all of that because there he is. He’s stunningly attractive. Chiseled jaw, lean swimmers figure, looking lovely in a suit. You’re thrown. Mesmerized. He slides up to you, smiling. Warm. He’s very warm. He touches your shoulder and your heart shudders. You giggle. He notices. We’re going to have fun tonight, he says, and you walk in. You’re sitting down (he pulled your chair out for you - what a gentleman!), and the restaurant is quiet, but not too quiet, and it’s light enough to see, and it’s perfect. Yes, perfect. He tells you about his day, his job (he’s a lawyer - makes anthropology TA look like a bowl of terrible), and the mutual friend who set you up, and can’t she be such a diva sometimes? Who does she think she is? He nods, smiles. His fingertips brush your hand, and you hold your breath. You come back from the bathroom, after swallowing a mint or three, and he’s there, and so is your food. He suggested this place, that you’ve never been to, and it’s grown on you. By the time you’re done your veal chops, you’re in love with the place. He’s not so bad either. Almost saintly, a benevolent spirit. He pays for the meal, and your wine (you had a glass and a half) and his scotch (which he hardly touched) and he’s walking you outside. Did you drive? he asks. No, you took a cab. He grins, says that won’t do, and you’re walking to his car. It’s a sleek sedan, looks expensive, in a dark blue. He opens your door, and you sit down. He gives you his coat, because yours doesn’t cover your legs. It smells like him. You’re tired, and you snuggle up with it. You are very exhausted. It was a big day and you drank more than you usually do and he’s so nice and it’s so warm. You fall asleep. You wake up, and there is pain. You feel pain in thin lines up and down your arms and legs. An ache, and a restraint. Enough to know something is wrong. You open your eyes. You’re in a garage, you think. On a table, or possibly a workbench. There’s a single incandescent bulb hanging right above you. Your arms, legs, and torso are bound - plastic ties on your limbs, and several wide leather belts restraining your body, and to top it off, a piece of tape over your mouth. You strain, but there is no escape. You start breathing fast. Your head is still swimming, but things are coming back to you. But that doesn’t matter now, because someone has opened the door. You hear footsteps. He comes around your right side wearing a dark blue turtleneck. It clings to his body tight. He’s a bit too thin without the suit coat, and the lean swimmers figure looks less attractive now. His chiseled jaw casts strange shadows on his face. He looks malevolent now, evil. He smiles, and it’s not the smile you saw before. This must be his real smile. Too much tooth, eyes too wide. He’s just looking at you. Watching you. You couldn’t move if you wanted to. His stare is like the cockatrice, and you lie still, petrified. He reaches down, and pets your face, with what you see now are gloved hands. You shudder as he touches you, knowing that only a thin layer of cloth keeps you apart. He’s still smiling. He leans in. Sorry to be disingenuous, he says. I gave you a light soporific, but that’s only because I knew that you didn’t want to have the kind of fun I like to have. It’s hard to piece together what he’s saying, you’re still sleepy, but you’re still scared. He’s scary. Like a child about to break a toy. You shrink back from his face, and the smile disappears. What is left is the face of a Roman imperator ready to conquer. He reaches behind him and his hand reappears with a syringe. He injects it into your neck, and you can feel yourself recede, feel your limbs freeze up. He produces a scalpel, and gingerly makes an incision right below your hairline. He smiles, the conqueror gone, the child returning. Oh yes, he says. We’re going to have fun tonight.

Erotic Story with a twist

* <Jimmy> You figure out what your last words are gonna be? * <Mike> No. * <Jimmy> Well why not, Mike? Don't you want them to be memorable? * <Mike> Jimmy, look around you. Who the fuck is gonna hear me but you? There's nobody around for miles. Enough with the final words bullshit. * <Jimmy> Yeah but I'm gonna hear them. * <Mike> You're dying too you dumb son of a bitch. * <Jimmy> What if those were them? What if the last thing you said to me was something awful like that? You wouldn't be able to live with yourself. * <Mike> Well then it's a good thing I'm dying then. * <Jimmy> Come on. Try. * <Mike> Try what, Jimmy. * <Jimmy> Try saying something nice to me. * <PAUSE> * <Jimmy> What. Why is it taking you so long? * <Mike> I'm thinking. * <Jimmy> I could have died right there waiting for you to say something nice. Then how would you have felt? * <Mike> Oh for fuck's sake * <Pause> * <Mike> ...... you were always a stand up guy, Jimmy. A pain in the ass but I could count on you when I needed you..... There you happy? * <Jimmy laughs> * <Mike> What's so funny? * <Jimmy> You called me a stand up guy and here we both are laying on the ground bleeding to death. Is that what they call irony? * <Mike laughs> * <Mike> Well I've had my laugh. I'm gonna die now, Jimmy. * <Jimmy> Don't joke around. * <Pause> * <Jimmy> Mike? ..... Mike you there? * <Jimmy> Who dies announcing they are gonna die? <Fade to black>

Dying Words (All will be read aloud by me)

"Kid, just be careful, you're gonna wish you never met me." "Yeah, yeah, whatever, just gimme my three wishes." "I'll grant two now, then give you a week to think of the third one, even though I already know what it will be." "What the fuck, man? I freed you from the lamp, now do what I say." "Those are the conditions; if you don't like them, I can just not grant you any wishes." "Whatever. Uh... two wishes..." The boy stopped to think for a moment. He couldn't have been older than 15. "Uh... I wish I had all the money in the world." "Are you sure? This would cause money to become worthless, and everyone else would be poor. Money would become greatly devalued, banks would collapse, millions would lose their jobs and--" "Shut up," the teen interrupted. "Your wish is granted." The genie snapped his fingers. "Your money, and thus all the money in the world, is currently held in a Cayman Islands account. The password is in your left pocket, but don't look now. Make your second wish." "Yeah, yeah. Uh... um... I wish every girl in the world wanted to fuck me." "Consider the consequences of this, child. This will mean that all women will abandon everything else, and each has only a compulsion to have sex with you, meaning that women become essentially incapacitated due to your selfishness. You will transform them from members of society into your sex slaves. Even the very elderly and very young will feel this unquenchable desire. Members of your own family will want to--" "Dude, were you listening to what you just said? Cuz I sure as hell wasn't. Now, shut the fuck up and make it happen." The genie sighed and granted the boy's wish. Humans were all the same. Selfish. From down the street, women came running, each screaming his name, begging him to take them. "Remember," said the genie, "you brought this upon yourself. See you in a week." With a flash, the genie disappeared, and the boy was buried among a horde of women. ----------------------------- A week later, the genie came to visit the boy again. The boy had locked himself inside a metal room and surrounded himself with food that appeared uneaten. The genie knew that it was the boy's effort to remain safe and insulated from the dystopia the boy himself had created. "So," said the genie. "Have you learned anything?" The boy didn't respond. He was crouched in a fetal position, his legs wrapped around his knees, rocking back and forth. His clothes were in tatters, his hair a mess, and his eyes wide yet unfocused. "Well," the genie continued. "I suppose you have learned by now that selfishness does not reap rewards. The attention from women became too much, and you couldn't bear how many had died on a journey just to see you. I hope you understand now what you've caused." The boy remained silent, absently staring at the wall. "Do you realize what you've done? You couldn't even pay for guards to protect you, because you can't give someone money if you always possess all of it. If you have all of something, it becomes worthless." The boy's left eye began to twitch. "You are pathetic, and selfish. And now? You are truly alone. Even your mother and sister wanted you because of your disgusting wishes. And you managed to escape them, but to what? This?" The genie gestured around the barren metal room. "Now, your third wish. I already know what it will be." The boy looked up, shaking. He tried to talk, but only a whimper came out. "I know. You wish you'd never met me." The boy nodded fervently. "I told you this, but you didn't believe me. You were too focused on yourself. I trust that you've learned from the past week." The boy nodded again. "Good. I believe you. As this final mercy, I will grant your third wish. You will still have the memories of this week, but only as a dream. The world will return to normal, and you will too, but these memories will be a recurring nightmare that plagues your sleep. You will never remember this conversation, just the havoc that your selfishness wreaked. Hopefully, I'll have taught you something. Would you like me to grant your wish now?" The boy finally spoke. "Yes," he croaked weakly. "It is done." The world began to spin, and the boy's eyes closed. --------------------------------------- The boy blinked. He was in his bed. What a strange and terrible dream. Something about a genie, and the boy being selfish, and wishing for money and girls, but the genie twisted his words... the details were becoming hazy. He knew that he had a third wish, but he couldn't remember what it was. All the boy could remember was that with two wishes, he had brought about the collapse of the world. Good thing it was only a dream. Good thing he wasn't really that selfish.

You're gonna wish you'd never met me.

"Saaaay-tuuuun.... Vaaaaake uuuuup," a small man pleads while shaking the shoulder of the damned. The maroon-red devil shifts in his sleep, trying to shake off the man who is trying to wake up. He shifts until he no longer is able to sleep and he rises from his bed. "Who dares to wake me from my slumb- oh... it's just you Hitler... Dude you really got to respect my sleep man. Babysitting you is hard enough," mumbles a groggy fallen angel. "Herr Satan! Look what I found! Another being worth of eternal damnation," cries Hitler. "What? Another one? Can't it... man... uh... just give it to me." Satan snatches the demonic interdimensional viewer from Hitler's frail hands. He begins the vision, only to be met with the recent Miley Cyrus fiasco. "What the fuck are you watching Hitler?!" "Nein nein! It's a Frau Miley Cyrus." "Who?" "Just vatch the video!" Satan begins to preview the scantily clothed girl on the viewer. "What the fuck is she wearing? Is that supposed to be hot or appealing? What the hell? Her wardrobe manager deserves to be in hell for making my eyes bleed. I mean, you can totally see the microphone. He makes no attempt to cover it up. "Wait what the hell is she doing now? Is that Robin Thicke? What... Just... Is she trying to *twerk*? Oh God this so bad I just said the dude in the sky's name..." Frustrated and confused, a flustered Satan chucks the viewer and beans Hitler in the head. "Get the fuck out Hitler. How dare you bring me this garbage?"

Satan is commenting on twerking.

The war caught everyone off guard. When the bombs started to fall, Sam and I got separated from the rest of our family. The first months weren't too bad, but food was starting to get scarce. People were turning to looting and robbery. I was fortunate to have my grandfathers pistol, otherwise we wouldn't have made it this far, but I am quickly running out of ammo, and time. There are a few bullets left, and the thoughts of suicide have started to creep into my head. It has been weeks since we have eaten and I can't stand to see Sam suffer anymore. This world is a nightmare, and I want to able to dream again. The noise of the front door opening broke me from my thoughts. They are sure to find us, and when they discover we have nothing, they will surely kill us. The creak of the floorboards causes my heart to jump out of my chest. I have heard whispers that some people have resorted to cannibalism. The thought of such an act causes my blood to boil. Like hell I will let us end up as a meal! I draw my pistol, no hesitation. The body drops to the ground with a loud thud. A women, in her 30's maybe, but is hard to tell. The next few days pass without a problem. That is if you don't count starving. Dehydration is becoming a serious threat, as well. I have made up my mind. Since we are going to die, I have decided to use the gun and end it all. People in the old world said it was cowardly, but if they had to go through this, they would think it merciful. There is only one problem with my plan though. I didn't have as much ammo as I thought I did. One bullet left. Do I use it on me, or do I use it on Sam? Using it on myself would be the easy way out, leaving poor Sam alone and forced to suffer by himself. I shudder at the thought. I know either of us won't survive much longer than a week. I look into Sam's eyes; his eyes greet mine. His tail starts wagging and I know what I must do. Choking back the tears I whisper "Sorry boy," and squeeze the trigger. No bullets left.

One Bullet Left.

"So, come here often?" Don stared hard at the man holding the rope. His face was still, and his eyes were even in the Alabama sun. "I take it you're trying to have some fun with me," said Don. The man's face remained impassive, but a smile erupted after a moment. "Aw, hell. If you can't have a bit of levity here, where can you, is what I say." The man took the rope in his burly hands, and fastened it around Don's neck. "That's a good point, but I'm not really in the mood for levity at this moment." "Pardon my saying so, but you're not gonna have many other moments," said the man with the rope, as he tightened the knot. Don's breath caught momentarily. "That is true. I can't say that I had considered that." "You ever think much about getting hanged?" "I don't think about it so often." "See, that's why I make the jokes. It helps." The man with the rope fastened one end onto the crossbar, and got off the ladder. "You got a good joke for me now?" Don's eyes were wet. "I got *a* joke for you." The man placed his hands on the lever. "Why can't you hang a deaf man in Georgia?" "Why?" "It's illegal to hang a man without a proper hearing." Don chuckled. "You been sitting on that one for a while?" The man nodded. "No one ever wants to hear the joke." "They're missing out." Don closed his eyes. "It was quite funny." "That means a lot to me, sir." The man with his hand on the lever smiled, and pulled. --- EDIT: Which one of you low-down sons of guns gave me gold?

"So, come here often?"

Morton sighed. That silicone felt wrong when he installed it, but he thought it'd last longer than three days. "It's like you don't even care about your work! Look at me! LOOK. AT. ME." Trashy reality show star #45,624 snarled at him, to which he had no ready reply. She was pinning him on every wrinkle and spot, not just the left breast blowout. She was getting old and ugly without his help, why should he be blamed for it? When Morton got into the plastic surgery business, he expected something different. Yes, there was a new Corvette in his garage. Yes, he did have a beach house in Miami. But more than that, he expected fulfillment. Instead he just became Morton Harrisburg, the man who repaired the stars. "Yes dear, we'll operate immediately." That night, he sat outside. It'd been a while since he'd done that, usually all of his evenings were parties and networking. After all that time, Morton felt the need to see some real stars. With all stars, his personal troubles were insignificant. With these stars, everyone's personal troubles were insignificant. He was a speck on a speck near a bright speck. His thoughts tumbled, drifting away from his troubles, eventually remembering a med school friend who joined a program on the other side of the world. They had reconnected a couple years ago at a reunion, but hadn't talked since. Suddenly Morton realized that friend had been the last truly happy person he'd talked to. Maybe he'd track down that organization. There's plenty of cleft pallets in the third world.

The man who repaired the stars. 300 words or less.

Day 3. I don't know whats happening. I've been repeating the same day and I don't know what to do about it. I keep waking up at 6 AM on the dot by that same blasted alarm clock. I get up, shower, brush my teeth, eat breakfast and go to work. But it's the same thing. The radio reports the same news, I see the same cars in the exact same positions, I know that at 8:02 there will be a black SUV driving past my house as I pull out. I don't know what's happening. _________ Day 44. Still no escape from this hell. I keep repeating the same day. Sometimes I just get up and walk outside, completely naked and unashamed. I walk around and I run and I scream and I yell, because I know that when I fall asleep, no matter where that is or where I am, I will always wake up at 6 AM by the same rooster alarm clock. I've shattered my phone to get rid of that alarm but it is always there the next day. I've knocked myself out, I've traveled to towns miles away but no matter what I do the next day simply restarts. ____________ Day 153. I've lost count of how many people I've killed or injured. The first time I did it I was afraid, so afraid that I would be found, be jailed, go to sleep and wake up in jail, but I didn't. I killed a man and after a long day of running I woke back up in my bed with that rooster alarm. The man was back in his position and I killed him again. I killed hundreds, then. I went to all the people I hated and either beat them, killed them, or simply told them what I thought of them. I found the women that I lusted after, like that pretty cashier girl that works at the grocery next door to me. I asked her out, then a couple days later I forced myself on her. I've done this too many times. What have I become? _______ Day 601. I am destitute. I am nothing. I have killed myself in every conceivable way. I have blown my brain apart with a stolen shotgun, jumped in front of trucks, cars, trains, jumped out of a flying plane. One time I got hit by a car and still somehow managed to live. I survived for six hours in the ER. I remember every pain searing moment. They tried to cut me open, they tried to operate, they tried everything but eventually I died. I began to invent little games like how many people I could kill in a day, how many beautiful girls I could make love to in a day by their own free will (unless I wanted them badly enough), or how long I could go without sleeping. I've done things and I've explored as much of the world as I can for as long as I can stay awake. _________ Day 10445. Streaks. Black streaks in the sky. Alone, so alone. Hate lust rape murder hate loneliness streaks there are streaks why are there streaks in the sky the noise the noise doesn't stop murder hate lust love life death alone why am I alone why is this happening what have I become I am alone explore think dream why streaks why are they here why am I here why why why why why alone so murder here can't do this anymore can't do this can't dream can't sleep can't think can't lust rape love murder death life why how I have to end this I'm so bored I'm so bored bored so bored ______ Day 565105. I have become more than a human being. I have become a god. I have become an all knowing being that lives the same day over and over again and I am lord and savior of this earth. I know every word spoken in these 24 hours. I know of every bird call and call of the wild, the rustle of leaves in every place on earth, the gentle splash, the roaring crash of oceans. I know all of these things. I am all. I am god. I have lived life more fully than any human I am god I am all. The streaks are growing. The black streaks are tearing. The blue sky is leaving. I am alone I am god the streaks are open I am leaving the streaks have opened I am leaving I am waking up I am leaving the streaks have opened ________ Day *unknown* I woke up in a factory. A factory with thousands and thousands and thousands of *me*. This factory is filled with replications of ME. The factory is dying. Power is failing. Some of my replicas are dead, shells a blackened husk, some simply burned or blown to pieces. I smell smoke and there is the sound of war coming from outside. I must explore. _________ Day 0. I have learned all. I have discovered all. I am a robot, a simulation. I and every single robot that exists in that factory live a life on a place called earth, that beautiful little blue marble. They are all me, every robot in that factory lives exactly 24 hours of my life until the next robot enters the simulation. I was created by a race of beings that are in a constant war, a constant struggle for life. They have created us, hundreds of thousands of us to simulate a life. They are searching for the meaning of life, the answer to all things, the key to eternity, but our bodies can only stand a 24 session before we become depleted. My human was programmed to survive for 25,000 days, the factory holding the same amount of robots. Starting from day one, one single robot would run through 24 hours in the simulation before being depleted and transferred to the next robot awaiting awareness, their human being never realizing a daily transference was taking place, that each time he woke up he was a different person, a different body. The war came, the great war that swept through our creators' planet, destroying civilizations and cities until finally they found the factory of life. They destroyed it. I survived. My creators found me days later, sitting in the broken factory, doing nothing, saying nothing, thinking nothing. They activated me, they explained all to me. They explained that a power surge had swept through the factory as I was transferring to the next day's body, and how I had been caught in a loop that while it seemed to have lasted an eternity, had only been several seconds. They are attaching me to the machine once again, they say the life of the human must go on, even though his days have been shortened by the loss of the other robots. ______ Day 1. The harsh call of the rooster blared in my ear and I swatted it angrily, cursing bitterly. I had enjoyed my weekend but now it was time to face the week ahead of me.

The discovery that our universe is just a computer simulation.

He wondered what people would think when they would see him standing like this. A middle-aged businessman, neatly suited up, his briefcase lying next to him on the concrete, the rope in his hands. For years, life had felt like a drag to him. Offices tend to do that to people. Sitting behind a desk from nine to five, uninterested. Reading uninteresting files. Talking to uninterested colleagues during the breaks, whilst drinking uninteresting tasting coffee. Weekends weren't much better, possibly even worse. Looking at the interlaced strands forming the rope, he wondered how it had gotten like this. Where had it gone wrong? Where had the cheerful, imaginative boy gone and when had this boring, depressed man taken his place? He didn't know. It seemed like it had all just happened, just like the days of his boring life just happened, he himself being barely aware of what was going on. He looked at the rope again and gripped it tighter. Memories of his youth flooded back. How he missed those days. The man closed his eyes and prepared himself. The rope was above his head now, time seemed to have slowed down. A smile formed on his face. And so the man jumped. Skip... Skip... Skip...

and so the man jumped

It was a short drive to the school that morning, and Aaron Graham had packed all his materials already. He'd been planning this for weeks; the secretive shopping, the research in the dead of night, and most importantly, how to avoid being caught once the plan had been executed. He'd asked one other student, Josh Binksley, to help him. Josh was the school's resident pariah. Everyone felt that there was just something... off about him. He kept to himself, and was a popular target for bullies. Aaron was ostracized in much the same way. And both of them were tired of it. Today, they would have their revenge. Josh met Aaron at his car. They checked the bag: ski masks, containers full of ammunition, and, most importantly, the guns. "So," Josh asked, "who's our first target?" "Let's get Asher first," Aaron decreed. Asher Hamilton was the captain of the football team. "Maybe he won't be such an asshole after we fire a few shots in his face. Or maybe we should aim for his heart. Finish him quickly." "Sounds like a plan. Let's get the rest of the football team, too. Lord knows they deserve it." Josh and Aaron each picked up a gun, taking the time to load their weapons with as much ammunition as would fit. Each slung a pack with back-up weapons onto their backs. "Let's go." The cafeteria entrance was at the back of the school, easily accessible for a quick, undetected entrance. The duo donned their ski masks and walked into the cafeteria, guns aimed and ready to fire. "Hey, Asher," Josh shouted. The athletic boy stood up, quaking in fear. The cafeteria fell silent. "Aw, no man," Asher pleaded. "Man, please, I was just joking, I didn't mean--" "Too late," Josh said, and he fired directly at Asher's heart. Asher stumbled back in shock, watching the liquid bloom on his chest. "Dude, what the FUCK! Now I'm gonna have to change shirts!" Asher began to wring his shirt dry. "Serves you right," Aaron called. "You fuck with us, we shoot you." He turned towards Josh. "Let's get the rest of 'em!" Lifting their water guns, Josh and Aaron screamed in a primal war cry as they ran towards the football team. This was going to be the best April Fool's Day prank the school had ever seen.

He/She drove to school, but not with education in his/her mind...

*Witness packos130, the newest moderator of /r/WritingPrompts. He believes that he's secured a place among the friendly leaders of the cult community, but what he doesn't know is that he's just booked a one way ticket into... [the Twilight Zone](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NzlG28B-R8Y).* As I walk towards the head office, I recall that it's been a particularly good day for me. My thread has just become the most upvoted thread of all time in the subreddit, and now, to cap it off, I've been invited to become a moderator. I couldn't be more excited. I love the community, and I'm looking forward to helping moderate it. I've been hoping for weeks that I'd get the chance. But, before that happens, I have to attend a private meeting with the two head moderators. I knock on the door of the office. "Enter," a male voice commands. I open the door and walk in. The windowless room is stuffy and imposing. It's dimly lit from a single bare bulb in the center of the ceiling. Tall bookshelves line the walls, filled with thick volumes that look as though they haven't been touched in ages. The chipped paint is a drab off-white, faded to the point that it's nearly yellow. A claw-foot mahogany desk dominates the room. /u/RyanKinder and /u/SurvivorType sit silently behind it. "Welcome," Ryan says flatly. "Take a seat." I obey, planting myself in the rickety metal folding chair that's been placed opposite him. He stares at me across the desk before speaking again. "We like to test all of our new moderators to make sure that they are... competent. So, of course, we will require you to go through a slight initiation." "Don't worry," SurvivorType says. "I assure you that there's nothing to fear. Your friend /u/fetfet50 has already taken this test." "Did he pass?" I ask. "That is not important right now," Ryan answers. "What's important is whether *you* pass. Close your eyes." "What?" "Do it," SurvivorType commands. I obey, more out of fear than respect. "Imagine, if you will," he continues, "that you are on a train. A modern train, such as the Amtrak. You are on a long journey, and it's very late at night. Everyone else in the car is asleep, but you're awake in your compartment with two other strangers. Outside, trees and the night sky pass in a blur of dark colors. Listen." He pauses. "Do you hear that? It's the sound of the tracks underneath you, clanking harshly as the train barrels towards its destination. Do you feel that? The train is increasingly unsteady, perhaps as if it were starting to... derail." He pauses again. My chair feels even more unstable, and I can hear the train clanking. Maybe it's just my imagination. "Open your eyes." I open my eyes. We're on the train. Ryan and Survivor are sitting across from me in a four person compartment. "What the hell?" I shout. "What the hell is this?" "Don't be alarmed," Ryan says. "This is part of the test." "What do you mean it's part of the test? How did you even create this, this... simulation, or whatever the fuck this is?" I'm starting to panic, looking for ways out. I try the door, but it's locked. I jiggle the knob frantically. It doesn't budge. "Don't panic," warns Survivor. "The more you panic, the more unsteady the train becomes. If the train becomes too unsteady, then it will derail." "GODDAMNIT!" I yell. "WHAT THE HELL IS THIS!" "This is your test," Survivor replies. "Every moderator must take it. It's your initiation." I fumble with the doorknob again. The train barrels ever faster towards nowhere, and it's now shaking like a leaf in autumn. "You're panicking too much," Ryan says. He and Survivor are as cool as cucumbers. "Perhaps you're not the moderator we thought you could be." "LET ME OUT!" I sob desperately. "I DON'T WANT TO DIE!" "Then stop panicking," says Survivor. "If you calm down, the train will stop, but, if you fight it, the train will crash. And, if we crash, then you will have failed the test." The words don't even process. I'm desperately pounding on the door as the train tilts back and forth. It's a futile effort. Ryan frowns and gives me disapproving look. "This exercise was about control in a desperate situation. You failed. You should have listened. If the train crashes, the crash is real. For you, at least." "What a shame," SurvivorType says to Ryan. "I had such high hopes for him." He shoots me a look of pity. "Well, at least fetfet passed the test." They sit there in stony silence as I shout for help and pound against the compartment door. The train tilts dangerously to the left, and the last thing I hear is the screech of metal on metal, and the sound of an explosion. --------------------- Inside the office, /u/fetfet50 sits across the desk from the two lead moderators. "So," he asks, "he didn't pass the test?" "Unfortunately not. Looks like it'll just be you joining our team." "Oh well," fetfet sighs. "I guess you could say packos just needed more... training." *Sometimes, life can throw you off track. It can twist your path away from your destination, and instead toward your demise. It seems that packos's train skipped the track entirely, and derailed right into... the Twilight Zone.*

Imagine if you will...

"I'm sorry Sir, we're going to have to ask you to leave." "What? Why?" "I'm afraid you've been causing a lot of other diners discomfort." "Well this is the first damn thing I've heard of it! I demand an explanation!" "Well for a start, we've had a number of complaints about the way you were slurping the Minestrone Soup." "And how was I slurping the soup may I ask?" "I think the general consensus was 'aggressively,' although one customer described the noise as like 'a vacuum cleaner sucking up jello'." "That's ridiculous! Surely you can't throw me out because of that?" "Not at all Sir. But there's also the matter of the almighty mess you've made of your table. There's tomato stains all over the dining cloth and, if I'm not mistaken, you've managed to get some strands of spaghetti tangled in the decorative flowers." "And how am I supposed to know that?" "Of course, of course. But you understand I'm in a difficult position. I can't just ignore all the complaints, plus my boss already gave you a warning when you started necking the tomato ketchup." "I thought that my Bloody Mary tasted a bit vinegary. Besides, I never had a warning from the boss." "I saw him give it to you myself, Sir. He was the angry looking Italian man with the fat eyebrows, holding a finger up to his mouth and mouthing the words "Shut-up" from the kitchen across the room at you. He didn't want to disturb the other customers you see." "AND HOW THE HELL WAS I SUPPOSED TO SEE THAT YOU CRETIN?!" "There's no need to shout at me, Sir! You may be blind, but it's not MY fault your dog can't lip read!"

"It's not MY fault your dog can't lip read!"

"Commander, are you alright? Wake up! We gotta move!" Groggily I stood up with the help of my second in command. Our ship had just crash landed and has been wrecked upon repair. "How many are still alive John?" I inquired. "You, me, and a 2 from engineering." "My god. Get those engineers. Now. We move before it gets dark. Any idea where we are?" "No, Commander. The magnetic field disabled the sensors and they were fried on landing." "I see. Go get the other two." He salutes me and runs off towards the wreckage. I wait until he is gone before I run my bruised hand over my arm and find the button. I press it and begin recording. "Captain's log: star date 3270. I am Commander Renu of the class B Federation Frigate 'Insight'. We were on a advanced scouting mission and deep into the uncharted areas. An unknown anomaly pulled the ship into the electromagnetic field of a nearby planet. The field fried our systems and we crash landed onto an uncharted planet. Most of the crew is dead save my second in command and I and a couple from Engineering. The place is desolate and uninhabited. Survival unlikely as the ship is no longer functional and we no longer have a long-distance communicator. I'll try to salvage what I can and hold out. End." I solemnly shut the recording device off. I reached around my waist for my plasma projector. It was still there. My second in command returned with the two engineers. I noticed that one of them had their suit punctured as it was already in the process of patching itself with the nanofiber technology it was woven with. "Alright crew. Let's get a move on." The engineer with the undamaged suit did not move. Instead she looked at me. "Sir, what about survivors? We have to go back and look for them!" The other engineer laid a hand on her shoulder. "They're all dead, Jane. I was the first one conscious and..." His voice trailed. After the explanations and report of the crash were given, we finally but slowly began our trek to find shelter. The area was barren, a sandy wasteland. No life whatsoever. Our suits only had enough nutrient stocks for up to a week. After that... Suddenly in the distance we discovered what appeared to be a settlement. We rushed over there but was met with a ghost town. Completely empty. It was small neighborhood but as we foraged we discovered that the place was empty and devoid of anything useful. One of the engineers became slightly hesitant the longer we stayed here. I wouldn't blame her. As we were walking to the other side of town, we noticed a large metal banner with strange symbols. As we got near, the engineer named Jane gasped. "I know where we are." "Jane what are you talking about?" I asked. "This... this place. I know where we are. I took interplanetary history and I studied a few planets in the Milky Way system and I'm pretty sure that's where we are. This... is Earth. And this... is a nuclear test site. One of the first during the development of the weapons that became the downfall of the entire planet."

You(the captain) and your crew land on a distant planet only to see a small town that resembles a 1960's America.

God has turned his head and the people of the Earth rejoice. In the midst of great battle, the gunfire stops, the missiles lay still in their silos. People, brothers and sisters, join arm in arm in the singing of songs as they drop their weapons and laugh. In the streets of great cities, not a sound is heard. Only the silent nods of the people around marks the end of what used to be the noise of the dog-eats-dog world of business. Streetgangs become docile, and prisons are opened. Now the prisoners will to fight has been ended, murder is abhorred, and hatred is soon discarded. Capitals cheer as borders collapse and countries unite. Treaties are formed, plans are set forth to connect and bring love and life to the corners of the globe. Leaders stop yelling and shake hands with old foes, wondering what all the arguments were. Different religions shake their heads, and claim all disputes at an end. Civilizations unite, and the world is at rest. No one person is prejudice, no one person is vain. All are happy, and all are as one...until God turns his head back around.

"God has turned his head..."

"...and that's how we ended up in Alaska." "That's a very interesting story, sir, but I need to see your license and registration," the state trooper said. Winston didn't have either of those things. All there was in the glovebox of the old Crown Vic that Sarah stole in Boise were some rolling papers, a pair of aviator shades from a gas station, a two-month-old Slim Jim, and a Glock. "Now look, officer," he said, bending down and feigning to scratch an itch on his left ankle while unstrapping the knife hidden in his right boot. "We don't want any trouble, and I'm sure you don't, either. I'm an honest man with a clean conscience and a pregnant wife who's bound to pop any minute now. You got any kids?" "Two." "You married?" "Was." "Now, wouldn't it be nice to just head back home, no questions, no paperwork, no nothing, just crack a cold one and watch the sun set? I certainly wish I could do that right now," Winston said, never breaking eye contact with the officer. "But I got this old lady here." He lightly elbowed Sarah, and she shot him a glare that would have made a less sinful man sweat. The trooper picked up his radio and brought it to his mouth, about to call for backup. Winston couldn't have that happen, so, clutching the knife, he swung his right arm up and sliced the officer's carotid artery. Bright red blood shot out like a geyser, spraying the asphalt and the hood of the car. "Gimme the damn gun, Sarah!" She cooly passed Winston the Glock and he pumped four rounds into the officer's chest. He'd surely have bled out from the knife wound, but you could never be too safe. The gun was unregistered, as was the car, though they would have to get that brake light fixed eventually. "Where to next?" Winston asked. Sarah shrugged and spat out the window. Winston grabbed a rag from the back seat, climbed out of the car and rubbed the hood down. He got back in, rolled up the window, buckled up and gunned the engine. They were going to run out of road eventually, but for now, all they could do was drive, another sin in the rear-view mirror, lying dead on the highway.

...and that's how we ended in Alaska.

The anchorman that appeared was just sitting at his desk, missing his sports jacket and his tie hanging loosely. He wiped cold sweat from his brow and scanned the wrinkled paper in his hands, apparently not for the first time as his lips trembled over the words. "This- This is an emergency broadcast announcement. This is not a test." The old man's eyes looked up to the camera, filled with fear and misery. "Canada's Orbital Gateway has met with a catastrophic malfunction. It was inadvertently activated less than three hours ago, and authorities have declared a continental state of emergency. If you are currently south of the central United States, you- you still have a chance. Anyone north of that line, do not leave your homes, keep your windows and doors closed, do not attempt to go outside at all!" The anchorman took a deep breath and pushed a strand of hair off his sweating brow. "The Orbital Gateway, built to answer that eternal question of whether or not we are alone in the universe, is the world's first combined effort of such technological magnitude that if its power cannot be contained, we may possibly be faced with the world's largest explosion since the Middle Eastern Dooms Day in the year two thousand and twenty-five." The anchorman suddenly put his shaking hand to his ear, and looked to the side of the camera. "It seems we have live coverage, and we'll be going their immediately. The screen changed to darkness with a bright white light glowing in the center, and the sound of a thundering helicopter roaring through the speakers. Then a voice began yelling from a radio. "We're hovering over the Orbital Gateway Center, where you can clearly see the Gateway itself radiating with a bright, white light. If our sources are correct, this is the final attempt at containing this energy surge until they are forced to bury the gateway within the glacier of ice. I don't know if you can hear it, but there is a constant wave of some kind of energy vibrating the air even as we hover quarter of a mile away from the-" Suddenly the screen filled with bright light and for an instant the camera malfunctioned with static. When the darkness returned, the reporter on the radio was screaming, and the small point of light had turned to an orb of energy shifting between shades of purple and blue. "We're ok!" the reporter screamed. "We're ok!" The cameraman zoomed in as much as he could on the orb, focusing until the flashes of lightning within became clear. Suddenly little shadows appeared inside the orb, floating in the abyss. Others scurried on the ground, coming in all shapes and sizes. "What are those?" the reporter kept screaming. "What in the hell are those? Get closer!" It took a moment of hesitation, but the pilot began slowly hovering closer to the orb. The shadow took shapes of strange creatures, some with wings hovering around the light, others with long, misshapen legs sprinting across the snow. Some of them seemed to be the size of humans, and then there were a few that grew much larger. Suddenly the speakers erupted with high-pitched screaming and the camera turned just in time to see a shadow diving towards them. A pale creature latched its claws onto the outside of the helicopter and its long teeth sunk into the metal, tearing through it like paper. The creature's shriek rang through the speakers, and suddenly its mouth spat a river of fire through the window, flowing over the pilot in the cockpit. As the helicopter began sinking through the air, the cameraman turned back to the glowing orb, where a darkness was growing out of it, slithering over the snow like an enormous tentacle of a demon escaping from hell itself. The helicopter crashed into a hill of snow and fell sideways, the camera aimed at the clear, starry skies. A scurrying sound tapped through the speakers, and a pale, skeletal face appeared on the screen, it's deep-sunken black eyes staring directly into the lens. Its mouth was filled with razor-sharp needles protruding past its white lips, and its bald head was spotted with black spikes. As it raised its arms, it showed that inside of hands, its arms ended with sharped, curved daggers. "No," the reporter gasped through his pain. "No! NO!" The demon's arms flashed forward and blood splattered over its emotionless face. "God help us." (I was just inspired to write this from another novel I'm working on that takes place a thousand years after this, and I'll be posting the first 2 chapters soon!)

Emergency Broadcast System

Dear Mom, I just wanted to let you know it's not as bad as they say in all the books. Don't get me wrong though, it's bad, just not AS bad. I know you asked to know what my day was like, as all your friends were dying to know, so I'm writing this letter to tell ya. First thing I noticed when I arrived was how hot it was. It's piping hot, but it's not so hot you'll literally burn like everyone says. It's like... Arizona in the summer with about 89% humidity. It's enough to keep you miserable, but not quite enough to kill ya. The admins here say that only the temp workers don't feel the REAL heat, but I think they were just messing around. So I go in at 6:00 am and I make my way into the office, a pretty small office but it has a pretty cool gate out front. I try to make small talk with the gatemaster before i head in, but he doesn't see very conversational. He just wants to talk about sin and revenge (not sure what happened to this guy haha) Usually I'm through about 6:25. I clock in at the computer and I get to work. The manager comes in and places some papers on my desk with a ton of names, al I have to do is mark the ones that are scored above a 6. I wonder sometimes why they don't have a computer do this too, but they say we have to use their special red ink pens or the transfers won't process. Anyway, I mark the names that are above a six and they get to come here to retire. Must be nice... coming to have your retirement paid for and people wait on you hand and foot. I have a buddy in there, his name is Lucy (I know ma, it's a girls name) he i the manager of the lot. He always has me do these odd tasks, to kinda break away from the paperwork. Some of these things involve pineapples and Hitler reenactors, but I signed an NDA and i think they read the mail here so I'll hold off on that one. Anyway, Lucy is kinda weird. Love, ToProvideContext P.S. I saw your name on the list you had a 6!

Your job has just been relocated to hell... less than 400 words.

"So, this is why you always wanna go up to my attic, huh?" "I just like looking at old pictures." "You mean you like snooping around, looking for photos of my dead relatives." "I-- I swear I wasn't snooping, Mr. Fleischer! I just wanted to know if you've ever gone on a road trip with your grandparents." "What makes you ask that?" "Granny and Pops and I are gonna drive to Florida next week. We might go to Disneyworld!" "Whassat." "Disneyworld? It's a big fun place with rides and stuff. You should have *your* grandparents take you!" "Kiddo, my grandparents died a long time ago." "Oh." "You ever heard about the Holocaust, kid? That's what killed 'em." "Is that some kinda disease? It sounds bad." "... I'm gonna send you home now. Your parents are gonna wonder why their kid hangs out with their grumpy old neighbor for so long." "... Ok. I'll ask my parents about that disease thingy... Hey, Mr. Fleischer?" "Yeah, kiddo?" "Maybe I can ask Pops and you can come with us to Disneyworld." "That... that sounds alright, kid." "OK! Bye, Mr. Fleischer!" "Bye, kid. Tell your parents I say hello."

"I wasn't snooping. I just wanted to know if you've ever gone on a road trip with your grandparents."

I gotta tell ya, it's not much fun havin' some jackass pointin' a gun straight at your face. "Please, sir, don't make this harder than it needs to be," says the man in the ski mask. His voice sounds kinda strange, like a rusty drainpipe that someone's given up clearin' out. "Yeah, whaddya want, punk?" I ask. My wallet's already out, and I just want this guy outta my face. "I only need a small amount of money, sir. My family is very poor. We are not bad people, we just come from a bad place." Man, this guy's gotta be the most polite robber I've ever seen. "Alright, take it all. I'll give ya all I got in here... let's see... 20, 40, 60, 110, 11, 16, 17, 18. Here ya go, 118 bucks. Pleasure doin' business with ya." I turn away. I don't even care that I just got mugged. "Hey!" the guy shouts. "What?" I'm gettin' pretty irritated by now. Can't this guy just leave a fella alone? "Thanks." "You're welcome. Tell ya what, kid. Why don'tcha take my coat, too. Ya need it more than I do." Before the guy can protest, I give him my coat. It's the third time I've gotten myself robbed this week. I guess that's what happens when you wear a fake Rolex and parade around flashin' your wallet. I'm doin' it on purpose, ya know. I kinda like helpin' people out, just, in a manner that makes 'em feel like they earned somethin'. I watch the guy walk off with the coat I bought just earlier this morning. I know he needs it more than I. I can't see his face, but I bet he's grateful. Huh. I never thought being a philanthropist could be so thrilling, but I'm really startin' to like it. Maybe I should drop this whole 30's gangster talk thing, though. It helps protect my identity, but I'm gettin' kinda tired of it. Whatever. As long as I'm helpin' people out. I take out my second wallet and head to the store. I need to buy a new coat. I'm sure someone else will want it.

"We're not bad people. We just come from a bad place."

Only 8 years old and yet Stacey still had no resilience from the cold hand of fate, a testement made obvious by her limp limbs and lack of movement - her warm and cosy bed substituted for something more clinical. Her prior thoughts of a swerving car approaching her suspended in motion as her mother sits over her stammering and utterly lost for words - but she didn't need to speak, her eyes told the whole story. Blood trickled down Stacey's sorrowful mothers face, but it was nought compared to the extent of the injury sustained by her daughter. She was treated at the scene before accompanying her broken child to the hospital. She couldn't blot out the sound of distressed communication just outside the door - talk of blood transfusions and surgery - and she clenched her daughters hand more tightly still as her body shook. She suppressed her distress to no more than quiet sobs. The only constant for Stacey's newly widowed parent was the consistent beeping of the life support machine attached to her daughters veins wrist. As she gathered together her thoughts, gained the courage to speak, she turned to the force that she had turned to countless times before. "Dear God" she spoke softly as her voice quivered "I'm sorry for all of the sin I have committed - all of the wrong I have. All of the words I said against you, but dear God - please, if you are truly merciful, please let Stacey wake up" she sobbed loudly before shouting "Please!". Stacey's mother burst into tears, slowly spreading damp through her daughters clothes. The beeping that had remained so consistent had now turned to a tone so constant, as doctors whisked Stacey's hysterically crying mother out of the way. "Please!" she wailed aloud, and God said no.

... and God said NO.

>Sunlight crept across the sky, and the sun finally pounced over the mountains in the distance. Ted, Em and Jake woke up and crawled out of their tents, wiping sleep out of their eyes. No matter how much they rubbed their eyes though, the dark blanket would not rid itself from their brains. Jake and Ted made their way into the woods to gather branches, twigs and other earthy sediment for the campfire. Em sat on a stump - the last remains of an ancient redwood tree. She looked up and noticed that it felt oddly silent. The other campers around probably went home. Good thing, too, she thought. More nature to myself, what could be better. >Ted and Jake returned, dumping a pile of wood on the ground and getting started with the fire. Jake attempted to use his lighter, but not a single spit of flame appeared. He cursed. "I've got another one," Em offered, and handed it to him. That lighter failed too. "How 'bout you, any lighter, Ted?" "Nah, sorry. I have some flint and steel though." >Jake muttered in disbelief as Ted managed to start a decent fire. Em rubbed his shoulder. Jake was not a particular fan of mornings, and today was confirming his beliefs. Em got out the camp stove and tried to get it going. There was no starting it though; it remained in a slumber. Now it was Em's turn to curse. Softly. Neither Ted nor Jake knew she cursed and she wanted to keep it that way. Not wanting to frustrate them further, and not wanting to appear incompetent, Em walked up to them. "Hey, how about we cook our breakfast over the fire? We just have the sausage to cook anyway." >The three of them sharpened sticks, zapped them with flame briefly, and stuck a sausage on with Em wondering about the camp stove, Jake wondering about the lighter, and Ted wondering why humans could get so frustrated over little things. "Guys, how about this?" Em suggested, trying to lighten the mood. "No other campers seem to be around this morning, so how about we get a party started? Jake, check the cooler, see if we can get some beer going. I'll go get my music player." "Beer? In the morning? A mimosa would be better but beer is fine. Ted, what do you say?" "I'm set on the beer. Saving that for the stars." "Okay, no problem. Em! Where's that music?" >Em pushed the 'on' button. Nothing. It was just charged yesterday. Em felt fear seep around her brain, and her heart raced in the Triple Crown. She had to confirm her suspicions. "I'm going to start the car, Jake, I've got a lot better music in that console." "A'ight." >Em went into the car and shut the door. It was an automatic car, streamlined and advanced. She pressed the power button and...

Write about a group of post-apocalyptic survivors who are unaware the apocalypse has happened

We ate dinner in silence for the third night in a row. Things stopped having taste days ago. I only ate so the sound of chewing could echo in my head instead of the deafening silence. My eyes never lifted from my plate. I couldn't bare to look at her anymore knowing what she had done. I finished and carried my plate to the sink. She prodded at what was left on her plate. She hadn't eaten much. I looked out the kitchen window into the dark. It was already too late, I didn't want to discuss it. She quietly appeared next to me as I continued to avoid eye contact. As I took her plate her hand brushed mine. Cold. We hadn't touched in days. I washed the dirty dish and racked it, wanting to leave the confined kitchen before the weight of despair entombed us both. I walked down the hall to check on the children. Sleeping soundly. Unaware of the internal turmoil that was bubbling within the family. I grabbed my pillow and blanket from the bed room and headed towards the living room couch. Still more comfortable than the alternative. As I made my 'bed' she leaned against the wall. Sad, tear-stained eyes met mine for the first time in what seemed like eternity. "Do you think we can work this out?" "Maybe." It was such a simple word, but she clung to it like a safety blanket.

It was such a simple word, but s/he clung to it like a safety blanket.

"James Moroney 64 E. 1st Street New Haven, CT" Inside, one pound of white powder in the shape of a brick, wrapped in plastic held together by a strip of duct tape. Outside, a sticky note: "Isn't fixing cars starting to get old?" Fuck you Rodney. Yes, it is starting to get old. So is waking up with sore wrists and veins that bulge out of my forearms. Listening to the same classic rock station day in and day out is starting to get old too, sure. These lines on my face don't speak in riddles, death hunts me in a slow steady rhythm, like long blues songs and 12 o'clock church bells. But money? That's old too. So is that cheap thrill of naked women dancing for white powder. So is that quick come-up that you feel compelled to chase for a few hours. Spending day after day telling yourself "One more bump and I'll flush the rest of this shit down the toilet." Trips to South America grow old. Along with being scared to death of a 20 year sentence. That moment where you forget the shadow people in the corner of your vision aren't real. Even breaking a man's hands with a claw-hammer because he owes you a couple grand gets old after a while too. And getting tracked down by your ex-business partner in a no-name town in Nevada, Connecticut, or Kentucky, that's old. After you've done it three or four times, throwing 2.2 pounds and $80,000 into an alley somewhere also tends to get old. So does grabbing your duffel-bag full of unmarked hundred dollar bills and hitchhiking to the nearest used-car dealership for the fourth time in six years, then driving state to state until you find another deadbeat town with an auto repair shop that's hiring. But frankly Rodney, I don't really mind. These days, everything seems old to me.

You get a package in the mail. It's addressed to someone else at a different address. Odd.

This is a TV show, so forgive me, but I was inspired. **INT. CHEERS - NIGHT** NORM and SAM sit at the bar. Norm: I still can't believe you're closing up, Sam. Sam: Honestly, I can't either, Norm. But it's the best for me. *Norm looks Sam dead in the eyes.* N: No, it's not. S: What do you mean? N: You know why I'm so depressed, Sam? S: Well, your wife- N: No, it's not my wife, or my job. It's nothing... *Norm looks into his empty glass.* N: It's because they tell me to be. *Sam looks confused.* S: Who tells you to be depressed? N: The writers. S: The what? N: The writers, Sam. The writers that kept you and Diane apart for years, that brought Melissa in, that made Frasier move to Seattle. The writers write our lives. And now they've stopped. And now it's over. S: Norm, what's gotten into you? N: *Nothing*, Sam! Haven't you noticed that? How you talk about being happy, or sad, but you don't feel? You don't feel these things. They just give you the lines. S: Norm, you're talking crazy. N: Am I? Where did you go to high school? S: PS 192. N: And how do you know that. S: I - *Sam pauses. He cradles his chin in thought.* N: Do you know what street you live on? *Sam remains silent.* N: Sam... listen. Do you hear them? Do you hear them right now. S: ... hear what? N: The audience, Sam. It's just us. Listen. *They both stand still, listening.* N: (whispers) You can hear them breathing. S: I don't believe it. N: There's your proof, Sam. Turn your head towards them. *Slowly, both Norm and Sam look into the camera.* N: Do you see it? S: There's a camera there. N: It's been there the whole time. *Sam gets out from behind the bar, and walks towards the camera.* S: What does it mean? N: It means that we're done. Those lights are gonna go off, and we're gonna be done. No more. S: That can't be right. They can't just kill us like that. There's no way people would do that! N: We're not people. We just are. And soon, we won't be at all. S: Why? N: Why what? S: Why would you tell me all of this now? I was about to be happy! I was about to have something good in my life! I was moving forward! And now I know it's all gone. It never existed in the first place. So why would you tell me now? N: Because. S: Because why? N: Because they made me. *Norm gets up, walks to the exit.* N: Goodbye, Sam. *He exits. Sam looks back into the camera.* *Sam continues to look into the camera.* *Sam walks a few steps forward, and the camera moves in towards him.* Sam: Don't go. **FIN**

A movie character realizes they're just a character in a movie.

"You can't be serious," Paul muttered as he looked at the white piece of paper attached to a brown clipboard. It was littered with numbers and data. "What?" John responded, more out of courtesy than curiosity. Paul's brief muttering wasn't enough to stop whatever work John was typing away at. "I just go the report back," Paul said still staring at the clipboard. "Oh," John replied while continuing his work. "It's the same story every time. System 1 through 1,000,000. All the same," Paul exclaimed in frustration. "I told you. Every time we've run that configuration, it makes no difference," John shifted in his chair with a knowing smirk. "There has to be something we can do, there must be something that's missing," Paul said, as he set down the board and crossed his arms to better address John. “There’s no running away from this Paul, you’re going to have to just accept what’s coming. The data proves it, the tests prove it. We’ve run those same systems with different input thousands of times over the past two years,” John said. He looked up towards Paul to see the look of dismay as his words sunk in. “I’m sorry Paul, you can’t run away from this.” “Ok, sure. But there is still hope, right? I mean, I get what it means for them. But we haven’t gotten there yet. We’re still at least a hundred years off,” Paul claimed, shifting uncomfortably, “Maybe, but we’ll find out sooner or later. Wouldn't you rather know now, anyway?” “No, I can at least keep pretending until we know for certain. Until we look inside the box, I’ll just keep pretending the cat is alive,” Paul chuckled. "God, Schrödinger’s cat is so cliched, and you’re not even really using it right,” John sighed as he resumed his work, “Anyway, keep writing the algorithm, we’re going to need that program ready for the data capture satellite.” Paul began typing for a few more minutes before pausing and looking up at John. “Why do you think the systems do it the same way?” “Nuking the planet? I don’t know, quick, easy, little chance of survival, you can kill the whole world in 7 minutes with enough of them.” “Do you think that’s how we should do it? I mean, if we do figure out that we’re just a simulation too.” “I guess, but first we have to figure out if we are one, we can deal with all that metaphysical crap later.”

How did humanity kill itself?

Good morning citizens of the United American Empire. Thank God, it's Friday and here's what's making news. **The 2816 Summer Olympics** New London, Portugal has just been announced as the host of the 2816 Summer Olympic Games by the Interplanetary Olympic Committee. **Venus Terraformer Mission Postponed** NASA has postponed the launch of 3 terraformers to Venus due to accident which caused damage to multiple of the cosmonauts' biosuits. Plans are also being drawn up for the next destination of the terraformers to control the growth of the Earth's population. **First Jeopardy! Domination** Agustus John Hawking-Jennings is now the first person to play a perfect game of the hit-classic game show, Jeopardy! Since the beginning of the show in 2750, no one has been able to completely dominate the daunting questions of the show. Agustus has stated that "it must be from [his] genes." **Mass Murder on Mars** Eight people were murdered today on the National British Martian Complex. According to eye witnesses, the man responsible for this suffered from space dementia which caused him to murder his friends. **UE Denies Conspiracy Claims** Conspiracy theorists claim that the United American Empire was formerly a federal republic which is what the public wants, President Sumner himself has stated that: "Since the signing of the Declaration of Independence from the Russians in 2386, the constitution has always stated that the form of government will always be an absolute hereditary monarchy." **World War VI Imminent?** The tension between the United American Empire and the Phillippine Republic has become dangerous. President Sumner has signaled DEFCON-3 to the United Empire Military in response to the news of the Philippine Prime Minister's decisions to recall all ambassadors in the Phillipine Embassy in New York Metropolis. The different states of Earth are now choosing sides while the Martian division of the Human Empire, due to the Interplanetary Politics Act of 2683, is forced to stay neutral. **New Cooling Technology** A new type of cooling technology developed by the scholars from ZimTech has just been proven to allow construction of habitable underground structures down to 35km below sea level. According to some mathematicians, the increase of 15km to the accessible zone allows the total capacity of Earth to increase to about 19 billion people.

Write an ordinary news report from the distant future