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What an absurd situation I thought to myself. All the water on Earth gone apart from this tiny glass here in my hand. How did I even know all the water had gone? If it wasn't for the title I would have had no idea I was in possession of the most precious material on earth. What I was holding was more valuable than any gold or diamonds, it was even more precious than love. And everyone knew it, once again thanks to that damn title. I mean how is it even possible that everyone on earth became suddenly aware that I was in possession of the last glass of water? All 7 billion plus people from 206 different countries spread around the earth. How absurd. Whatever the reason for the sudden disappearance of water was of no importance to anyone. There was mass panic, like nothing you've ever seen before. People, looting, raping, murdering, doing whatever the hell they liked. As for me, well I was in the thick of it. There was on pint of water left on this entire godforsaken and it was in my hand. At first there was a knock on the door and it was Bob, my neighbour, asking if we could share the water, we both lived alone in small flats on the outskirts of London so he didn't have any family to worry about and neither did I, which considering what happened next was a good thing. I told Bob that he could have a small sip of the water, I was quite fond of Bob as was happy to share some of the water with him. I poured a small amount into his glass, he thanked me and went back to his flat locking his door behind. Good luck were his last words to me. I guess he must have know what was coming next. I went back in, Locking the door behind me, and contemplated this whole ridiculous situation. "What in the hell is going?" I asked myself, not least to break up the block of text above. "Why me? For what reason do I have the last glass of water left to sustain all life on earth?" It was a very confusing time. I was nothing special, in fact quite the opposite. I was a mediocre as they come, average and everything I put my mind to, no special skills, a minimum wage job, very few friends. I was in no position to be in possession of such object. The last glass of water to ever grace the earth and it was mine. If someone had told me this would happen I would have laughed and laughed until my lungs hurt and it was a struggle to complete such a simple task as taking a breath. Yet here I am in that exact situation. Funny how life works out sometimes. After no more than a few minutes alone with all these thoughts fluttering through my mind did I start to hear all the commotion outside my flat window. My flat is of the 6th floor, and the doors and windows are thick - as a result of a string of robberies a few years ago, but that's another story - so it came as quite a stock to me how well I could hear everything. It was loud, very loud. There were people screaming and shouting, smashing things to pieces, fighting each other, all with the intention of getting to me first, or more precisely getting to my water first. "What the fuck do I do?" I said to myself, once again partly to break up the large body of text that had been forming. "They're going to kill me" I had to think quickly, which I was incapable of doing, partly due to the stress but mostly due to my being of average(or below) intelligence. So what I did was probably not the wisest thing, nor am I proud of it. I opened the window and proceeded to shout down to the mass of people who had formed below -by now everyone within a 10 mile radius had gathered and there were smartphone cameras recording everything minute, from every angle. "Is this what you want?" I shouted, holding the water in my had as if it were some prize, like a soldier presenting the head of his enemy to strike fear and respect into his peers. All of a sudden everyone's attention turned to me and my water. Thousands of eyes fixed upon me, waiting on anticipation of what would come next. It was then that I did, looking back on it as I write this I realise just how stupid I was, but what else was there to do? It was then that, in front of all those people and all those smartphone cameras that I held the glass of precious water to my lips and proceeded to drink it, every last drop. For a moment there was silence, people staring in disbelief of what they had just witnessed. Then it turned to anger, they wanted revenge, they water my head. the events that followed were horrific and I will not describe them in any great detailed. I will leave it to your imagination. All I will say is there was carnage, more than I would have ever thought possible. But what of me you ask? What happened to your humble narrator, who didn't ask for any of this, who was throw in at the deep end with nothing? Well that would be telling wouldn't it?

You're standing in your kitchen holding a glass of water when all of the water on Earth suddenly disappears. Everyone on Earth is now aware that you have the last glass of water.

My friend died of an overdose. It wasn't really a *death* as such, just he flopped down next to me in the evening as a smooth skinned fourteen year old and downed the bottle so he could sleep. In the morning, he was nothing but a damp stain on the mattress. Kind of more an *unbirth.* I'd heard about these side effects, but never seen them happen. Ageing is a slow process, even when it's in reverse. When they started asking me for my ID outside clubs and bars again I was first flattered, later worried. I'd look in the mirror every night and smooth back the crow's lines by the sides of my eyes. But it was incredibly cheap, and it made me feel on top of the world. You could drink on it and not get a hangover. You could dance all night and not get tired the next day. It perked you up, made you happy and friendly. Kinda whipped the fog away and made you in the bright, happy person you knew you were supposed to be. What was the point in stopping taking it? I was old when I started. Past my prime. They shouldn't have let me into clubs, but I hung on to my glory days with two hands, tight. And one night the pill was slipped into my hand and the world changed. I was reborn. It turned out just like any other drug, didn't it? I lost my job because who employs a clear-skinned eighteen year old with long legs and green eyes as a head of management? My income dried up. My landlord terminated my lease and told me to go back home to my parents. Both my parents had been in the ground for many years. I was fifty years old and I could twist men round my fingers again. It is glorious to be young. You can't stop taking it. The day he died I woke up, lounging on a greying mattress. Squatting wasn't glamorous, but at night I could be anyone I wanted. I lit up and inhaled slowly, trying not to think about the fact that after tonight I'd have to ask someone else to buy my fags for me. I kept a shard of mirror under the pillow. Funny how vanity stays with you even when you're brought this low. I didn't want to look in it. I had the physical appearance of a sixteen year old; my gangly limbs folding around me like a young foal's. My skin would still be clear, despite the horrendous amounts of cigarettes I smoked and what I drank every night. He was asleep next to me, a fifteen year old curled around the filthy blanket like a teddy bear. Muscles ran under his smooth skin. He'd stopped having to shave his face three weeks ago. Soon even his leg hair would drop out. "Hey, Yan. Wake up." I stubbed the cigarette out on the concrete floor and sighed. Luckily for both of us, there were plenty of people willing to pay for experienced adults with the bodies of quasi-children. He yawned and turned over, wide eyes blinking themselves awake. I'll never forget those eyes. You can't bury a wankstain. I'm in a children's home now. I'm writing this with crayons on paper. My hands can't get the letters right and it's frustrating. My legs swing above the ground on this pink chair. One of the Sisters have tied my hair back in pigtails. I think it's shepherd's pie and carrots for dinner. I wish I could reach the stove, because I don't like either of those. I couldn't stop. I couldn't stop. As soon as I'm old enough I'll start again. If only to be young again.

cheap, very addictive, a great high and seemingly safe.

"Hey! Listen!" I feel like I have told him this a thousand times now. "Hey! Listen!" It doesn't make any sense to me. He has thrown hundreds of other peoples jug viciously for wealth. The moon is nigh, but this apparently isn't an issue to some of us. "Hey! Listen" Five....six....seven bushes chopped to bits. When will this madness end?! I've overlooked this boy too long for him to be aimlessly meandering through our soon-to-be-damned world. I watched his hubris almost get the best of him once, can I withstand it again? Seconds turned to minutes, minutes to hours, hours to days. All it has consisted of is the utter destruction of another ones belongings. The Tree gave us specific, sophisticated instructions, none of which have been followed. What does that Princess see in him anyhow? Better yet, what does he see in that Princess? Something about his silent ways intrigues me. So much is said by simply saying nothing at all. Maybe it coincides with all the time spent gazing at the illuminated night sky on the back of his steed. Or could it have been how effortlessly he unsheathed his blade when I felt the most minuscule hint of fear? Whatever it was drove me up the walls. All I could ever say was "Hey! Listen!" The attention gained from this was short lived, he could silently return to slashing his way through shrubs collecting rupees or showing our enemies their certain doom. Was our enemies doom more certain than ours though? The moon practically lay upon the soil, and we are here breaking jugs. "Hey! Listen!" Suddenly, it all faded. No more moon, no more steed, no more jugs to smash. I woke up in the wake of the wind, afloat upon a red ship. A fierce lion manned our vessel, but was somehow one with it. I looked around to see the life I now lived was more surreal than the one before. "Hey! Listen!" Not to my surprise, again, no one listened.

Write a hero story entirely from the sidekick's perspective.

I’m old and my time is coming to an end. The Department of Traded Skills has advertisements everywhere, targeted at people like me. *Sell your experience on the DoTS market! Apprentice and Journeyman rates comparable to your experience! Master rates pending evaluation!* *Don’t want to wait for those drum lessons? Shred like Neil Peart in a fraction of the time!* In the fine print it reads: *Results not guaranteed to make you a rock star.* Somewhere out there Mozart still composes. A new Rembrandt is commissioned from the inheritor. Shakespeare’s quill still scribbles away. Some of my work is on those advertisements. Some is on display at the finest museums, and in the galleries of the rich and famous. My father gave me his skill with a brush when I was twelve, as my grandfather gave it to him. My monetary inheritance was substantial, but the memory and skill I received at twelve was the real inheritance. I hold a photo in my hands. It is old, creased and weathered like the hands that hold it. The smiling faces look up at me and I feel nothing; I sold my memories of them long ago, the happy and the sad. Memories have emotion attached to them. A sociopath who cannot feel purchases grief and heartache like an addict buys heroin. My sorrow is his completion. I cannot remember the feel of my wife’s lips on mine, nor if we ever kissed. I can’t hear my daughter’s laughter when I close my eyes. I can only pretend. There is no family to bequeath my talent. My wealth of knowledge and material cannot benefit those I loved, that I believe I loved. Lawyers come and go, some requesting and some threatening. The rich beg me to sell, and the poor beg me to give. Preservers of history, art, experience, and knowledge implore me to think of the greater good, that it would be a terrible tragedy to lose my skill out of some selfish desire. But I have no desire left in me. All I have are holes where memory used to live. If there is an afterlife, will they be waiting there for me? Will I remember them then? Can they love me if everything I was to them is missing, sold or given away? If consciousness persists after death, and memory is tied to consciousness, Heaven must be lonely, stagnant. I hold the faded picture in hands too weak to paint. A smile creases my lips; I close my eyes, and drift away. My brush will paint the Heavens. **Editor's Remark: I edited this and put it on my blog, so I thought I'd go ahead and put in the edited version here as well.**

In this world, you can instantaneously teach somebody a new skill and trade or give them a precious memory of yours, but once you give it away, you lose it yourself.

He rustled about in his giant blueprints of ginormous plans to conquer the lesser known world with an sinister grin and an maniacal chuckle. His wiry grey strands of hair swim about in front of his face. "Aha!" This is the one. His greatest creation, the epitome of everything that could be, will be, or is evil. Even his greatest influences would have been at marvel with his devious wit and cunning connivery. He picks the giant scroll out of the bin with his long and gnarled index finger and his plump thumb taking every caution in this monumentious moment beforehand. He dizzingly takes the scroll back to his seat and candlelit table. His eyes never leave the plan clutched in hands as he makes his way back. The devious grin seems to be permenently engraved on his face. He sits down with another hearty chuckle that seems to come from the most evil pits of his stomach. This is his plan that will take him to the top. The Holy Grail of hellish undertakings. He ever so gently places the parchment down onto the table. He unties the the string holding it in place and begins to flatten it with the precise caution. His ghastly boney hands make it to the edges of the paper and he lets it go. The scroll springs back to it's original form in from. The mad genius unravels the parchment again. Once his hands leave the paper it pops right back again. He stands up disheveled. He must not lose focus now, not when his greatest moment stands before him! He sits down, composure regained and spreads the scroll once again. He holds his hands on opposite sides in the middle. The corners fold themselves in towards the middle obscurring the master plan. He grimaces and begins to utter curses to himself whilst holding his position. Every move he attempts to make has an opposite effect on the scroll that he is so desperately trying to flatten. He gets up in utter frustration as the scroll snaps itself back together with such force it leaves the table momentarily. He strokes his grey chin in a scheme and he finally sets into motion. He stretches out the parchment for the final time. He grabs a human skull and places it on one corner. He finds an inkwell and places it on another. An old stone for another. All he needs is one more weight to finally put his ploy into motion. He looks around his barren workplace and finds nothing. Only a single lit candle stick in its holder. "Aha!" He zips around grabbing the candle. As he moves over to the corner with nothing there, the bottom scrapes the edge of the inkwell and ink cascades onto his greatest work. He gasp in terror, drops the candle swiping away the ink with his hands, all the while the candle slowly eats its way into the parchment unbeknownst to the mad-man. He scoops off the rest of the ink in dissatisfaction and places his hand on hips. Maybe he could redraw the rest from memory? He sees the shadow of the skull jumping and dancing around on the table. It brings him back to reality when he realizes that one half of the parchment is engulfed in flames. He screeches in terror and immdiatly begins to smack the flames with his tatty and worn robe. The flame begins to smother and he is left in darkness. He sinks into his chair in silence. He lets out an eerie gitty laugh that drowns out through the night. MY first writing attempt i hope you enjoy! I'm open to honest criticism and compliments!

A villain concocts an elaborate plan while overlooking a much simpler, more obvious, and elegant solution

Okay, look. I get it. You're very menacing and mysterious, and you know for a fact I've lost some sleep trying to figure out where you came from and what your plans are. And those horns - Are they horns? Or are they spikes? Well, they're pointy and disturbing and give you plenty of demon cred. Very impressive. And I don't mean to tell you how to do your job or anything, I know I get more than enough of that at work. You probably do too. You saw that time when he said 'front-load our back-end' right? Bet you liked that too. Little slice of home, am I right? Guy's a natural. You're probably scouting him for talent right now. He's a diamond in the rough where the insidious torture biz is concerned, and that's a fact. Can't think his way out of a wet paper bag, sure, but that's not so bad. I bet Hell needs middle management too. It's probably *all* middle management, really. Except you, obviously. No idea how you got stuck with this job, but you've got my sympathy. I get bored enough seeing what I see, and at least I get to interact with it. I don't think coffee is very energizing to look at. I mean, do you even like coffee? Do you sleep at all? You didn't get tired last night, that's for sure. Then again, you didn't laugh once through all of Fraiser. Maybe you just sleep with your eyes open. But hey, that's your thing, right? Staring. And you're dedicated, for sure. Never even seen you blink. Demon of the Month right there. Maybe Demon of the Year. All those hot shot demons brokering the big deals for souls and whatever probably have it easy. Just have to show up and say 'hey, want everything for nothing?' and bam, job done. But this. This takes some dedication. Now, again, I'm not trying to dis you or anything. You've got your job to do, and I respect that. And you're doing great. It's really fantastic customer service you've got here and I'm proud to be a part of the team. Unwilling, but proud. You've really outdone yourself. Pretty much raised staring to an art form here. I'm impressed, and duly disturbed, and everything. Very scary. But I'm trying to take a shit here. And you're making it real difficult. So could you maybe... not?

There is a demon that lives in the corner of your eye, which only you can see, and all it does is stare at you.

"Coffee tastes like shit today." "You say that everyday, John." "Coffee tastes like shit everyday." My name is John Macintosh. And I fulfill wishes. Now before you start going off about how I'm some prancing fairy, my job is very technical. A satellite goes over some kids house, he or she states their wish, and, as long as it's feasible, we get it done. No matter the cost. Don't ask me why, I'm sure it's just another way for the government to reassure themselves that spying is good if good comes from it. Anyway, it pays the bills. "Oh it looks like I got one." Mary says as she looks at the quote and description of the child on her watch, "Aww little Janie wants to find true love." "Good luck with that one. How old is she?" "Ten... Yeah... I know it's a little young, but I think I might end up taking this one." "Well, be prepared to..." My watch began to ring. That noise keeps me up at night, both literally and figuratively. That damn happy little tune. Jimmy Klein. Eleven. Williams, CA. The quote: "I want to be happy." The hell is that supposed to mean. Too vague. This one is going down the pipes. And del- "Oh no you don't." Ted, my overseer, said with a watchful eye, "I don't care if that says 'I want a unicorn!' You WILL NOT be deleting another message." "Yeah..." I said with great disdain. I guess it wouldn't hurt to check this kid out. Knock. Knock. Knock. No answer on a Wednesday afternoon. I knock again, this time a little louder. One more time, a little louder. In a last ditch effort I bang on the door as loud as I can, just in time to hit the little bastard on the top of his head as soon as he opens the door. "Jimmy Klein? I'm John Macintosh." "Man, that hurt! Aren't you going to say 'sorry?'" "Well if you had answered on the first few knocks that wouldn't have happened, would it? Where are your parents?" The boy led me to his living room with his mother passed out on the couch and a rubber tube around her arm. I knew who she was the moment I saw her. She was my mother, my father, their friends, their dealers. Scum. "You're from that shooting star I wished to, aren't you?" "No, I'm just here to help, kid. Come on, lets get you somewhere else." And so I did. And it was both the easiest and hardest job I ever had.

- Every time someone wishes upon a star, that star is actually a satellite, and that satellite assigns an agent to fulfill that persons wish.

"So, this is it?" "Yup." "We just float around?" "Yup." "What the fuck? That's dumb. This is dumb." "Calm down. It gets better." "Can I eventually control where I float around? Or have a body or shape? Or like, interact with anything or anyone, or affect anything at all ever?" "No. Nothing like that. But after a while you get used it." "You just give up? You just watch life go by powerlessly?" "Kind of. But, it's not as depressing as you make it sound. You'll see a lot neat things. Some bad things too, of course, but you'll come to see the good outweighs the bad. Beauty is everywhere when you have nothing but time to look for it." "Yeah? Well, right now it sucks. I can't see my family. I don't get to go to my own funeral? There's no fucking heaven! And now I get to spend eternity floating around the intersection where I died." "Oh, you'll drift far enough in time. Look, you're already almost on the sidewalk. Looks like you're headed south. Lots of beautiful trees out that way." "How long have you been drifting? I'm Jack, by the way." "Ha, 'Jack'! That's a good name. I've lost my own. I've lost my age too. It all runs together eventually. It's quite relaxing." "Where is everyone else? How come you're the only one I hear?" "Oh, they're everywhere! A lot of 'em don't say much anymore. Not too much too say after you've seen as much as most have. But there's plenty of talkers too, they're probably just being polite. Say 'hello' guys!" "Hey!" "Hi" "Hello!" "Hi!" "Hey!" "Hello!" "Hi." "Hi." "'Sup." "Hey!" "Wow! This is fucking weird." "Yup. You get used to it."

The disappointment at finding out what actually happens after death

They were halfway through a pocket of Ummanote when the drillhead broke. The force of the snap blasted three workers off their feet, and a rush of broken rocks buried them a second later. Dead, Himo knew; their suits would've been crushed like bubble wrap. The drill's support cage leaned sideways, teetering drunkenly on two bent legs before falling over. Himo felt the crash even through the insulated soles of his suit. He reached up and thumbed the side of his helmet, opening an emergency line to Command. "Emergency GMC line. State identity and crisis." "Officer Himo Yarnis, tag 957," he said clearly and calmly. "Supervising at Drill G-8. Reporting drill malfunction." "Accepted," the flat mechanical voice replied. "Please hold." Not a moment later, a gruff voice replaced the automated system. Himo recognised the rough, no-bullshit tones of Commander Mat at once. "Yarnis. You'd better give me a damn good reason why my brand spankin' new baby G-8 is *malfunctioning*." "Actually, it broke. Clean in half." The dust was beginning to settle, and Himo squinted at the scene from where he stood on the smooth white metal of Landing Pad G. Two rovers were racing towards the wreckage like hungry ants. He studied the mangled end of the drill, pointing sadly up at the stars within its nest of bent metal. "We were harvesting Ummanote—tapping that huge deposit Larayi was so excited about. The drill went in around halfway. It crunched a bit—like that time B-3 hit that huge vein of sodium—but it stabilised itself. A minute later, no warning, the whole thing veered around a full circle like it got completely stuck...and it snapped. Three guys went under. Half of it is still in the ground." "What do you mean, snapped?" Mat sounded skeptical. "The drills don't break like that, Yarnis. Even if it caught on a rock and it had the entire machine's force against it. It would just separate from the tower and cost us a fuckload of money, but it wouldn't *snap*." "Yes, I know that," Himo said. "I—" The ground trembled. A quick shudder, stronger than the force of the drill collapsing—this time Himo felt it through his shins and knees. He almost stumbled. His earpiece fluttered with static, and Mat's voice returned brokenly. "—What? You broke up for a s—there—you copy? —arnis?" "...Moonquake," Himo muttered softly, mostly to himself. *Impossible*, he thought automatically, but it was precisely a quake. He knew intimately what they felt like, from the gentlest tremors to the most violent. He had gone through hundreds of simulations during his geological training—it came even before the astronaut stuff. *Impossible*. There had been no true moonquakes since they'd built the magnets to power their equipment, stabilising the slow churning currents deep beneath the crust. The satellites orbiting them were more than capable of deflecting any oncoming meteorites of significance. *Moonquakes are impossible.* That was fact. Science. Himo had seen many things during his seven years of deployment on the Moon. He had gone through the cycle of awe and homesickness and Earth-appreciation and boredom enough times to ignore it by now. He had witnessed miracles buried underneath this cold, dusty place; unknown elements and mysterious objects and rare gases. He had suffered oxygen crises, equipment failure, crew malcontent, and even once helped solve a murder over at the E base. Nothing had truly frightened him, though. He had an engineer's level head and an almost obsessive trust in logic, science, and technology. All problems could be solved. New equipment could be built to test unknown substances. And always, there were a concrete set of equations and laws to fall back upon, laws that would never change. No matter how big the mystery, they could all be solved starting from those laws. It was like having a springboard there to kick-start you whenever you went to climb a new mountain. From then on it was simply a cycle of testing, recording, and re-testing. Elegant and reassuring. But then the ground shook again, and for the first time in seven years, a thread of true fear went through Himo's heart. He lost his balance with a gasp as a third quake followed without pause—two long strides got him upright again, but soon there was no respite in the shaking. "Yarnis?" Mat was repeating in his ear. "Yarnis, are you there? What the fuck is wrong with your line? You keep—" "*Moonquake*—" he said again, yelling it this time. The ground slammed up to meet him, bouncing him helplessly along the landing pad like a fish. The ruin of the drill was a cloud of grey dust by now. A drawn-out, raspy noise echoed through his helmet, some huge sound picked up by the audio sensors in his suit. Himo watched, eyes wide and mouth open, as something huge erupted from the surface of the moon, nudging the broken drill aside as if it were a toy car. "Suit 957," he uttered, his voice sounding tiny to his own ears. The noise came again—no, it wasn't just a noise, it was something *roaring*—he sucked in a small, terrified breath. "Begin video r-recording on all cameras. Patch all d-data immediately to Command." "Suit 957 cameras activated: helmet, shoulder left, shoulder right, infra-red, ultraviolet. Confirm patch to emergency GMC line?" "Y-yes. Confirm," Himo squeaked. As he stared, he caught himself wishing that the machine's voice wouldn't be the last thing he heard before he died. Mat had long since disappeared into steady static. *Die, why would I die?* he thought hysterically, but as he stood transfixed, frozen like a rabbit, the answer came to him, a terrible non-answer with no reasoning behind it. He just knew he would. Dust was everywhere, but spreading fast, thinning out to reveal the thing that was still rising slowly from the Moon's surface. It grew thicker as it emerged, cracking apart the rock around it effortlessly. Himo couldn't tell if it was the head or tail or limb or tentacle. All he could do was stare. Amazingly, he felt no urge to run. His legs wouldn't support him, anyway. He stood there, recording what he saw. *Test, record, re-test.* Yes. He could help do that. One day they would solve this. Use the springboard, climb the mountain. One day. *Oh, god.* An immense burst of noise took out his audio sensors in a flash. The horizon exploded. From the grey pockmarked expanse rose a smooth, curved, shifting section of what was obviously an organic creature, its hide gleaming and raining rocks. Black chasms opened up on the Moon when it reared towards the sky; one of them raced towards Himo, blasted apart the buildings behind him in a puff of debris. Within it, another appendage emerged, a line of glowing lights flickering through the haze of dust. Himo took a single step back, fell, and couldn't get up again as gravity lurched and skewed, ground beneath him shuddering and breaking, sending him tumbling around and around. Something jagged caught on his suit, tore apart its outer layer of insulation. A rock smashed into his shin, breaking it into a hundred pieces. He screamed, in terror and pain and confusion and denial, a childlike part of him waiting to wake up from the nightmare. Everything lifted up when the creature unfurled, the entire Moon well and truly destroyed now, pushed along the thing's impossible girth in several thousand pieces. And Himo was lying on one of those pieces, on a little patch of what had once been Landing Pad G. The realisation made him laugh thinly with the last few breaths of oxygen left in his leaking suit. He caught glimpses of the creature, spiky here, smooth there, with those rows of lights like huge fireballs set in walls of granite. *Was it here all along? Did we wake it up? Were we hurting it? Does it matter?* No, Himo decided, it didn't. It was here now, and mankind would solve the mystery as always. And he would've helped. He'd recorded everything. He had done his job, was still doing it now on his deathbed. The cameras were still on. Command was watching it all along with him. They would be proud of him, they would talk about him and remember him. He wasn't alone after all, no...as long as he kept recording... Himo could no longer breathe. Darkness was closing in around him, along with a strangely warm sensation, stealing up his numb arms and feet. The creature shrieked and twisted and undulated all around him. With the final dregs of energy, he turned his head away. Through his scratched helmet, he saw the starry expanse of space...and Earth. A sphere half-dipped in light and colour, no larger than a tennis ball from this distance. Beautiful. It peered at him through the cloud of broken rocks, and the swirls of white upon its mottled blue surface seemed to smile and beckon to him. Telling him to come home. His vision blurring with tears, Himo Yarnis closed his eyes for the final time, and his world went black and silent.

The moon is an egg, a shell containing a single, massive organism.

It's hard being me. I mean, for one thing, I've been trapped in a two year old's body for an infinite number of years. It's hard enough to pick up chicks when most people don't even know you exist, let alone when you're a *cherub.* And telling them I'm Cupid just makes it worse. Sure, okay, sometimes the job is funny. Like that one time I made a guy fall in love with a tree. When I used to do my work properly as well, I had some good moments. You'd just catch a couple that was absolutely meant to be. But now I get the most ridiculous messages. "There's a girl down in Brooklyn who needs her class mate to fall in love with her. She's done all the usual offerings. Go and shoot him." My heart shaped pager would blare messages of this ilk day and night *sans cesse* (Of course I know French, I'm fucking *Cupid* aren't I?) And invariably, when I got down there, it would be some lovesick teenage girl with too much eyeliner and pictures of One Direction on her wall. It wouldn't really be love, it'd be infatuation, but I'd have to sit down and have the chat with her about the dangers of summoning a love god for a fanciful crush. They'd usually freak out at the sight of a naked two year old in their room, and I got more black eyes than I could really count. The mass production of love has really done me a disservice, as well. There's that old saying "Why buy the cow when you can get the milk for free?" It rings fucking true here, ya know. Porn. I'm talking about Porn. Someone things they're in love, they rub one out and discover that it was just lust after all. So between the porn addicts and the lovesick teens, I'm really having a rough time of it. "You shouldn't be drinking that mate." Gabe was a good mate of mine. Kept an eye on me as I spiralled slowly into despair. He took the bottle of scotch from my chubby fingers. I blearily looked at him. "Pass me the cigs, would you? Be an angel." That made us both laugh. I lit up, fiddling with the lighter. I'd had to get it specially adapted because my tiny fingers weren't strong enough to flick it. The heart-shaped pager lay deserted next to me, still beeping messages from girls who desperately needed Justin Bieber to fall for them. "You need to clean yourself up a bit." Gabe cast a scornful look around my apartment. Despite it being Heaven, it was a tip. Overflowing ashtrays were scattered between piles of dirty children's clothes. Several empty bottles of scotch lay near empty takeout boxes (you'd be surprised how good the pizza was in Heaven.) "What's the point?" I growled miserably. "No-one falls in love like they used to any more. Where are the grand sonnets? Where are the poems and the plays and the acts of chivalry? The waiting in a bower for true love to return. I mean! Come on..." "You're drunk, Cupid." Gabe muttered, trying to clean up a bit. "I'm not!" He raised an eyebrow. "Okay, maybe I am a little bit. But tell me it doesn't annoy you too? Where is 'shall I compare thee to a summer's day?' Where's *Romeo and Juliet?* Where's Beatrice and Benedick? Where's Sonya and Rashkalnikov? Alberad and Heloise? Orpheus? I mean, when's the last time someone went into the Underworld to find their dead love?" I flopped down on the sofa. "That's the problem." I sighed. "No one has time to love. Not any more."

You are Cupid. You hate your job.

They said Number One was on the run. She'd gotten away from her bodyguards and vanished. Number Two, and none of the rest of us have bumped up, and we hadn't gotten a ransom notice or anything. We are pretty sure she ran off on her own. I'd been Twenty-Two for oh, a year now. Being this high up, it's pretty good, and it's pretty stable. I was born Number 2401. Now, I'm Number Twenty-Two, small enough to spell it out in words. Before I hit 1000, as far as I can tell, only a few newborns were inserted ahead of me in the ranking. Or at least one. The current Number One was born 1556, when I still hadn't gotten out of the 2000's. She's twenty-seven years old now, she's held the rank for two years, and I've never met her person-to-person. We hear a lot about her. She sometimes gives interviews. Makes appearances. But they say she's shy. They say she's brilliant. They say a lot of things. I'd like to meet her, if they can figure out where she's hiding and bring her back. I'm on my way home from a meeting with the First Hundred Council, I've been in them since my teens. Me and Number One, we were the youngest for a while there, but she was always too far ahead of me for socialization, and her being a few years younger always felt like too much of a difference. Anyway, when we got home, the guards got out and escorted me to my building. Most of the team has been with me for years, their numbers are all in the billions, and they change hourly; calling them their number is stupid, so they still use names. I kind of miss having a regular name. We're friends, as much friends as we're able to be. I give them what help I can. The only way for them to get up is for billions of people to die, and none of them is genocidal like that, and working directly with a Hundreder gives them some tiny, side benefits that they'd otherwise never have a chance to see. I guess I'm kind of rambling now. I've had a few shocks this evening. You see, Bernita was opening my door, she's one of my guards, and the other guard that was escorting me inside, Hank, he told me "Hey, you went up to 21 now." Sure enough. I got a notification in my earpiece that Number One must have died, that Number Two had just gone up a notch. When I got inside, I sent Hank and Bernita away, started my evening routine. I keep thinking I should get married at some point, but you know, it's kind of hard to find someone at the right level for me. I'm pretty young, compared to the rest of the Hundreders, and they're about the only peer group I have. So anyway, I was just you know, puttering about. On evenings after a council meeting, I like to remind myself of how real people live, and make my own dinner, just have the house to myself. Some folk celebrate an upgrade. For me, it means one of my colleagues just died. I didn't know Number One, but I mourned the missed opportunity. Someone was in my house. She came out when I found my vegetables out of place in the crisper. I recognized her immediately from her interviews, from her speeches. "You've got to help me," Number One said. "I think ... something's terribly wrong." But she wasn't Number One anymore. A glowng Zero floated over her head. ----- **Bonus Content** This was stuff I cut, but the response has been positive enough that I'm going to just add it here at the end. ----- The number is not wholly random--genetic screening, astrology, magic? I don't know. We call it the System, and it's ancient. Whatever it is, it determines a person's "potential." Potential for what? We don't know. But those born with lower numbers seem to be the best and the brightest. The most capable. Going places. The First Hundred include brilliant scientists, political leaders, the bulk of our geniuses. And me. I don't really think I'm anything special. I had a lot of advantages, growing up. Got into the best schools, had the best opportunities, but I always seemed resoundingly average. Almost disappointingly so, according to my parents. I never cared much. I always wanted to be normal. When I hit a Thousand, I stopped being a person, and couldn't ever really be normal again. We're all just numbers, really, but when I was a 1001, people still called me by name. When I was born and 2401 appeared over my fuzzy baby head, my parents were surprised. They were in the ten-thousands, and babies are usually in the same range as their parents. But occasionally someone like me crops up. There are some people who think infants should automatically fall in at the end of the line. They think that they shouldn't have their "promotions" delayed so some dumb baby can skip ahead. Those people are idiots. Our entire culture is based on the fact that the First Hundred are, in some measurable, *quantifiable,* way, superior to the everyone else. I've been told that my entire life. Now that I'm one of the First Hundred, I don't really believe it. Most of us are certainly in the top percentile of *something* but that doesn't really make us *better.* There's jerks, there's assholes, there's stubborn, intractable fools among us, just like in any other set. The number isn't there right away, it only activates after the first hour or so. Our population has been stable in the ten-billions for generations, and there are always people coming in and out of the queue. The System waits for someone in the right range to die, upgrades a few thousand people behind that person, and puts the baby in at the end. This serves two purposes: One: the baby doesn't directly inherit the dead person's number. That's just grisly. Two: It safeguards against someone getting into the First Hundred while too young. Usually. The System might need to be adjusted, if anyone remembers how. Number One caused an uproar when she reached One Hundred at the age of thirteen. She was sixteen when I bumped up that far, and I guess things were hard on her during those three years. It was hard enough on me at nineteen; I don't know how she survived. ----- **Additional Comments:** The numbers: They're not actually there; it's an enhanced-reality projection. Everyone gets at least baseline-tier augmentation implants, usually around the time they start walking. The System takes its measurements throughout gestation and finalizes and assigns the baby's rank after birth. Also, there's some nanotechnology going on, and stuff like that, because you know, science fiction and all. The narrator isn't too clear on the details, just like the average non-parent isn't too clear about what goes on in a typical delivery room in modern times. He's also not too clear on how the System works, as a whole, for similar reasons. The System's inner workings are also kept secret to avoid manipulation. He's high enough in rank to learn more, if he wanted, but he kind of resents how he could never have a normal life, and how the System stole his identity.

In this world, everything is determined by the number floating over your head. Everything. And when numbers ahead of you die or get killed, yours moves closer to the coveted position of #1. You're number 22. For now.

The Emperor sat on an invisible throne, which all of the dignitaries and world leaders could only imagine being lavish. No one in the audience of at least three hundred people dare speak, unless they wanted to offend the Emperor. There he sat, face a pale incarnation of death, with a single black tear running down his right cheek, his black and white striped shirt, the colours contrasting and alternating back and forth like the ruler's mood swings. He chose not to wear a crown, but instead a beret. With a flourish, the emperor stood up and ran to the front of the stage, causing the first three rows to flinch. He put a hand over his mouth and pointed at them, laughing at them silently. The first lady of the Czech Republic fainted. The mime pressed an imaginary button on and invisible wall, and his right-hand man descended in a nonexistent elevator. The ambassador's eyes were wide, his face red, and his face coated in a sheen of sweat. He reached the bottom of the stage, and tried to walk out of the elevator, but his way was blocked. The door hadn't opened yet. He felt in front of him the next time, and exited. He walked to the front of the stage as his master appeared to ride a bicycle back to his throne. The ambassador wiped back what little hair he had left, and put a slightly open fist in front of his mouth. "Lesser powers of the Earth," He said, his voice echoing through the PA system, though it still cracked at points. "We have gathered you today for the annual day of tribute to our benevolent master, Pierre. In exchange for letting you have the illusion of control over your respective countries, you must-" "We all know what we have to do, we've been doing this for ten years, for God's sake! " An American general barked out, everyone in the theater's eyes bugging out at his outburst. "But I'm putting an end to it!" He took out a pistol from his boot and emptied the clip at the emperor, the bullets disappearing with a spark a few inches from his face. Before the general could move, the emperor pointed a finger at the general's head, put his thumb up, and flicked his hand back, showering all of the tuxedo clad Germans behind the general with blood, bone and brains. The blood-splattered leaders could not scream or show any disapproval of the action or they would be next. The only sound was a startled gasp from the general's wife, and that was almost too much. She could only look at the ground. The sweaty ambassador, though shocked, moved on with his speech. "...You must entertain our lord in the manner he sees fit. The first to entertain, as is tradition, is the President of the United States." The mime king started pulling on an invisible rope, and the President came out from stage right, wearing nothing but a tutu and a baby bonnet. He started pirouetting across the stage as well as he could with a body built for politics, face completely blank. The emperor sprinted up to him, and started dancing with him, jumping and jerking him around so much that it looked like he would cry. Across the stage, forward and backwards they went in a terrifying whirl, until the President slipped and crushed the mime's toe beneath his foot. "Ooh, *merdre!*" He said, the entire audience gasping. The mime king tried to make an imaginary anvil crush the President, but the spell was broken. All at once, the leaders of the world rushed the stage to rip their oppressor limb from limb, finally able to release the tension of tyranny, and having a good enough excuse to kill a mime.

A mime discovers that whatever he mimes -- sword, gun, umbrella, putting a box around someone -- actually works.

So how does being ordered to kill me make you feel? I don't know. I can't help you sleep at night if you don't open up. Well, I guess, it's just that. It feels like a normal day at the office. So I just feel normal, I guess. Go on. Um. I usually get amped up before an assassination. A lot of my sports-playing patients have some difficulty managing their testosterone. Yeah, maybe I do. I see red sometimes. Just like, I absolutely have to kill that person. It's not even about the money. I just want to feel their blood drip down my forearm. I love that moment of fear when they know they're about to die, but they don't know how. We're making great progress here. What's your normal spectrum of emotions during an assassination? It'll be easier if I demonstrate. Feel free to. Ok. Well, I'm calm when I walk in. Like I am now. As I get closer to the target, I start feeling this uncontrollable anger. I can see your arms shaking. Yeah. I know it's better to kill from afar, but once I feel the kill coming on, I can't stop myself from getting up close and personal. Right now, I can feel you breathing. I love that. Better image for when I make my move. You're doing great. Thanks. So, I take my assassination knife out of my pocket. If it's in a more public, easily discovered place like this I plan on going straight for the heart. I know I should use chemicals, but knives are more fun. Why do you jeopardize your safety to enjoy the kill? Well, see, here I am going towards your throat. You feel what your face is doing right now? It's contorted in absolute fear. Mouth's about half-open, completely dry, my eyes are wide in shock. Right, and as I get closer, there's a brief moment of acceptance. I can feel that. I know I'm going to die, and I'm not ready. It freaks me out. See, this is the moment I live for. My hand picks up in speed, like the fear is a magnet. And---- Guess I should go find a new therapist.

An assassin visits his therapist.

It was so easy to see who wanted out. The cowards. The assholes. They were all selfish because they knew it would only be a matter of time before they'd be gone. I had heard about the old days, the days when people would brutallly murder themselves using knives, guns, and ropes. But now it was all too simple. Those who wanted to die acted as they pleased while those who wanted to survive had to act impeccable at all times. Some people thrived in this new way of living, opening doors for the elderly, allowing people to go ahead of them in line, always saying please and thank you. But I saw through it. They were all as fucking selfish as the rest. Most people would accept these honorable acts as gratuitious and kind, believing that people behaved that way because they truly cared. Well that's fucking bullshit. No one cared. No one gave a shit. They were doing everything for themselves, to live longer or to die sooner, as long as it was what they wanted. The other day, in the grocery store, I saw an old man lose his footing in aisle 3 right by the canned peaches and fall on his face. This man was a skeleton with loose skin clinging to his bones, his hands disjointed and immovable, the hair that remained upon his head was wispy, frail, and white. So as this old geezer is laying there having a staring contest with the floor up trots this lean, bronzed man who must drink a cup from the fountain of youth every morning with his wheaties. And this man tries to assist the mummy up from the floor only to recieve a loud grunt and mumbled obscenity. Know what he did? Fucking. Smiled. His plush lips pulled back to reveal award winning pearly whites. That is fucked up. Those two men were probably the same age, maybe the old guy was actually younger, who knows. But that's what no one sees. Society changed to weed out the assholes but all it did was make everyone crazy. You either were unhappy and dying or fake and living. It's all a load of goddamn bullshit. Want to hear the punchline to this joke of a world? I probably don't look any better than the guy in aisle 3. This world made me angry. This world is killing me.

The rules have changed so that acting honorably extends your lifespan (and youth) indefinitely, while acting dishonorably shortens it.

"It's going to be fine." My fiancée squeezed my hand and offered me a small smile. Her words resonate through the huge courtroom. I returned it weakly, staring at the six chairs that held so much presence in the room, even when empty. “I hope so. I promise I’ll try to not screw it up.” “I trust you. We can do this. It’s not a huge deal anyway, is it? Just a marriage thing, you know. ___________________________________________________________________________ The Department of Marital Affairs owned a large courthouse in the centre of the city. It fell short next to the tall skyscrapers surrounding it - a proud but dumpy building. A large dome was the glass canopy to the main courtroom; it sectioned off on either side into offices and smaller rooms. The whole structure was framed by a large metal fence - bleak rods of metal standing stiffly together. It ended in two pillars a width apart at the front of the building, fiercely guarded by two statues on each - a man and a woman, Zeus and Hera. They frowned sternly at the passers-by, protecting the sanctity of the courthouse from them. The main courtroom - where Beth and I sat now - was very grand. The sun spilt through the dome, oozing honeyed rays into every darkened crevice. The large panel of chairs stood up on a platform, overlooking the room. There were two doors on either side - the Deliberation room and the Officiation room. There was another room that branched off from the latter, known as the Cessation room - or the Cess Pit, as it was so affectionately nicknamed. It was the room that couples were led into and told in a gentle voice that a board of total strangers didn't think that they had a life together and that their marriage therefore isn’t approved by the state and we apologise but official processes must be started straight away. We had been waiting in there for some time. Our session was supposed to start at 5, but we hadn't even entered the room until quarter to 6. The woman that burst out of the room in tears was a tell-tale sign for what taken so long. The ticking of the wall clock resonated through the room. I couldn't even speak to Beth. There wasn't really anything to say. Talking would just make things worse. The proceedings were very strict; purposed to try and stop divorce from occurring in society. It was deemed a problematic issue that inspired too many murders and crimes, and therefore stopping it altogether was the way to go. Every woman looked forward to her session with the Board - she would squeeze herself into a fancy dress, make up her face and do her hair up all nice. It was just what happened. Less taboo than a wedding, but yet the same importance and position. If the Board deemed a couple worthy, they could go forth and be married. If not, the court would have to go through a process of relocating one of the persons - to cut off any lingering feelings and eliminate the chance of elopement. After what had seemed like ages, the door opened and the team of jurors walked out in an orderly fashion. They lined up behind the board and sat down, already looking us up and down. “This is the Court of Marital Affairs. Session number two-oh-five-eight, Mr. David Pike and Miss Beth Smytheman will now commence. You may now be seated.” We took our seats. My chair gave a creaking lament as I sat down. It lurched backwards slightly. “May you please confirm your identities?” The end Board member asked. “I am David Pike, born 5th June 1979 at Osstown, Delaware.” “Beth Julia Smytheman, born November 8th 1986 at Summer Hills, Delaware.” We had been through the practice drill hundreds of times - the answers came easily. “Mr. Pike, at what level were you educated at?” The first jury member asked pointedly. I couldn't see her eyes behind the gleam of her glasses, but I could feel them running up and down me inscrutably. “Tertiary. St. Mary’s Primary, Oak Bay High, Whitfield College. Graduated with a degree in law.” I shifted in my seat, feeling the chair rock forward suddenly. They directed the same question at Beth. She answered swiftly and ended with a wide, nervous smile flashed in the jury’s direction. Their focus settled on me again. “Your current occupation, Mr Pike?” “Marketing and Research team at Dole’s Pharmaceuticals.” She checked the form that we had handed her and nodded approvingly at my answer. My seat made an ugly sound as it moved once more. I bent forward slightly to see the issue ; one of the rubber stoppers wasn’t guarding the leg. I looked back up and noticed the second jury member look at me and scribble something on her clipboard. I moved forward in the chair, embarrassed. It screeched against the floor. “Miss Smytheman. What is your occupation?” Worry burdened her expression. “Unemployed. I graduated just six mon-” The fourth juror raised her hand to silence her. “Have you got the evaluation forms?” The evaluation forms were to test for compatibility. They’re bloody useless - based on some decades-old system that didn’t work properly anymore. I pulled my briefcase on the table and opened the locks with a loud click. Rifling through the papers, I found the forms. Standing up, I straightened my jacket and the stairs and handed it to them. I could feel their burning gaze at the back of my suit and became aware of my loud, clunky footsteps. I took my seat as they looked over the forms. “Please stand up for the board.” Hesitantly, I stood up and moved around to the front of the desk. Beth tucked her chair in and followed suit. Damn. She fingered her bracelet nervously as their gaze scoured us. The middle juror lowered her glasses. “Mr. Pike, it says on your form that you were in an accident in March 6th, 2004. May you please show us the complications of that accident?” Which was a nicer way of asking to see my leg - or rather, absence of one. I rolled up my trouser leg reluctantly, and let them take a good look at my prosthetic limb. It wasn’t really a bother anymore. It was only from the knee down, and worked perfectly fine. You wouldn’t notice it- there were no signs except a small limp from the dependence of that leg. It didn’t count towards anything - just another way for the Board to humiliate a couple, to prove their power. I let the fabric fall over the top of it without permission. The room was silent except for the soft scratching of pencil against paper. The second juror interrupted it with a dry tone. “The Board shall now retire for deliberation. We shall reconvene tomorrow at-” she briefly checked her watch. “Six pm. Thank you.” That was it. Sharp and sweet. We rose as they made their exit. As soon as the door closed, Beth’s posture dropped and her smile faltered. She hunched over the desk, supporting herself with her hands. “My god, that was scary.” “Hey. At least we’re done, right?” She looked up at me. “I’m so sorry. I knew not having a job would do it.” “Don’t worry about that- did you hear my chair? Christ, They’re going to think I’m some kind of imbecile now, stupid enough to be distracted by a chair, out of all things in one of the most important moments of my life. Fucking - some kind of brainiac, I am. And my leg, on top of all that.” She sighed and looked at me. “I guess all we can do is wait now. It’s only tomorrow.” I knew that she was running the session through her mind - picking out all her faults and the complications that they might bring. “It’s not like we can do anything anyway. It’s done. Don’t beat yourself up about it, alright?” “Let’s just leave before the next session starts. I don't think I can stay here much longer.” Outside the courtroom, a couple sat together, holding hands, rattling through masses of well-prepared responses. They were much better practiced than we had been. One answered the other’s question - rapidly but yet deliberately.They visibly flinched as the receptionist called their names and directed them to the last room. They were probably going to end up married. I desperately hoped that we would too.

Instead of being married by a judge, couples are married by a jury.

Morn joined us at the bar tonight. A stranger six months ago, he was now a fixture. My Trekkie buddies and I secretly called him Morn because no one knew his real name. He came in, sat down, drank for a few hours, then left. Never spoke a word to anyone but the barkeep. A real enigma, ya know? Average height. Average build. The only thing that stood out was that he was Asian. No one knew anything about him, but we all got used to seeing him sit quietly at the bar. Well, tonight, that was going to change. Tonight, I had about 5 shots and feeling particularly brave. "Hey buddy! How the hell are ya?" OK, note to self, I am past the point of volume control. Morn flinched in surprise, then looked at me askance. "I... am well. How are you?" He speaks! He had a bit of an accent, but hell, I was slurring my words too, so who was I to judge? "Well, buddy, I've got a problem. My friends and I, we've seen you come around for half a year now, but we don't know your name! My name is John. As in, John Luke Picard." I laughed at my own lame joke, but Morn was unperturbed. Must be that infamous Asian stoicism. "My name is... Also John." He hesitated to give out his name, like he had to think about it. "Well ain't that a hoot? Barkeep! Give my new friend John another one of whatever he wants." Why the hell not, finally got Morn... I mean, John, to talk. Time to celebrate. "John, tell me about yourself." I sat next to him. And, I noticed I had the attention of everyone at the bar. Apparently, I wasn't the only one curious about our new old friend here. John hesitated, and a haunted look flashed across his eyes. Poor bastard. Probably running from some she-bitch ex-wife. "I... Would you like to hear a joke?" OK, he didn't want to share anything about himself. Fine. I felt like laughing anyways. "Sure!" "What's the difference between a rat in America and a rat in North Korea?" "...got me. Shoot, tell us." At least he's telling a joke no one's heard before. "In America, a rat is a pet or a pest. In Korea, a rat is a meal for a family of four. Who are starving. In the camps. Because their great grandfather committed the great crime of sneezing during the inauguration of their Great Leader Kim Il Song." Silence. My alcohol fogged brain struggled to comprehend what was just said. "Uh. That... That's not a funny joke, John." "No? Forgive me, I must be doing this wrong. Let me try again: In Korea, a rat is the most well-fed creature because they can sneak into granaries to eat food reserved for our dear leader. In Korea, a rat has all of its paws because it has not suffered through frost bite. A rat did not have to witness his only daughter raped before his eyes before she was disemboweled. A rat was not forced to kill his wife to provide sustenance for his sons. A rat did not watch the effects of malnutrition turn an active boy into a listless living skeleton. A RAT is granted a mercifully quick death if it is discovered. A rat is the envy of my past." Abruptly, John stood. "Forgive me, I got lost in my memories." And with that, John left the bar. And I went home and hugged my family.

A guy sits in a bar and jokes about North Korea. The story gets progressively darker as the guy starts to talk about the reality in NK

"Weeee ooooo weeee oooo weee ooooo..." "Oh for fuck's sake..." Winston murmured. "Weeee oooo weeee oooo weeee oooo...." the officer continued as he trotted down the sidewalk towards him, "pull over mister!" "I heard you," he cried, and stepped out of the flow of foot traffic and waited for his the officer to meet him. "Awful, astonishingly atrocious, absolutely abhorrent!" The officer cried, skipping up in his designer pants and form fitting leather jacket. "Just what do you think you're wearing, silly?" Winston looked down at his watch, and then down at his clothes. He didn't see anything wrong. "Look I'm late for work, I didn't have time to do laundry so not everything matches, I'm sorry." "Not as sorry as I am," the man lisped, "look at you, brown shoes and a black belt?! Are you kidding me? That's, like, fashion 101." "I know." "No seriously," the officer said playfully, "you should have learned about that in fashion 101, or did you skip your mandatory courses?" Winston played with the dirt, pushing it around with his shoes, "I may have missed a class or two." "Oh jeez," the officer gasped, "this is like, SUPES cereal, ya know?" Winston looked back down at his watch again, beginning to be impatient with this pull over. The officer jumped up and gasped, covering his mouth with both of his hands, "is that a digital watch?! Those are illegal for anyone over the age of thirteen, you know that right?!" Winston covered his eyes, rubbing his temples he tried to be patient. "I have grounds to arrest you right here and now!" the officer cried, flipping his hand limply forward, "if it weren't for your dapper-dan hair I'd slap some cuffs on those law breaking wrists and take you to fashion reeducation!" Winston's demeanor changed significantly, he felt no longer flippant or unappologetic towards the fashion-peace keeper. "I'm sorry," he urged the man, "it was on an honest mistake, it wont happen again. I'll go home and read the fashionista bible tonight, cover to cover and I'll match my clothing, I promise." He held his hands and knelt before the officer, "please don't send me to reeducation." The officer looked on him with scrutiny, hands were placed heavily on his tilted hips, "hmmmmmmm," he said through squinted eyes, "I'll let you off with a warning." "Thank you!" Winston cried, clutching the shirt of the officer, "thank you, it won't happen again!" "Well I should hope not! I don't want to talk to you again," he said, waving his finger. Something caught his eye behind Winston, "hey, you sillypants!" the officer cried across the street pointing at a woman, "Don't you know you can't wear white before labor day!" With his accusation he held up a flashing light and trotted across the busy intersection, "weeee oooo weeee ooooo weee oooo!"

The Fashion Police are real and more powerful than any authority on Earth.

Art is Art. A dance is art. A story is art. The creations of the mind are all art. Daniel wasn't an artist. He din't have the skill, or patience, or even the creative mind for art. He wasn't an artist at all, but he loved art. It was very late in the day, and Gas station Daniel worked at was finally closing up. He took the trash for the day and walked out back to dispose of it. As he opened the door, a splash of red pelted his face. He was awestruck for a moment, before realizing. In the faint utility light of the diner, he could see it. He could see art. The art of murder. He could hear the screams of pain, the blood paint, the shine of the knife, the dancing slashes. It was a masterpeice. She fell down. Dead. "What the, you were watching?" The killer said. He took a step towards the cashier. "Wait wait wait! Hold on!" Daniel begged. The man stopped only for a moment. "I don't care about people begging for their lives." He took another step. Daniel took a deep breath and finally screamed what he wanted to say out aloud. "Teach me to make art! Please!" The man with the knife smiled. "Okay. Lets dump the trash first, okay?"

The main character is the single witness to a murder. The witness doesent feel horror, but fascination for the killing.

Sarah poked at the excel spreadsheet and tapped her foot impatiently as she waited for the helpdesk guy to arrive. Oh god, he's so creepy, I hope he can just fix this quickly. Her excel continued to blink on and off, caught in a loop. "Fair maiden, doth this foul spell vex you," Sir Alan asked with a deep bow. "Its locked up again, I'm so sick of this crap, when are we getting new computers?" Sir Alan shook his head, "Pardon me, fine maiden, please repeat. This old knight doesn't have the ears of youth any longer." He looked down shamefully at his body, staring at his khaki pants with the stain on them. "Good sir knight, I meant that awful wizard continues to jam my loom because I turned down his hand in marriage." She put her arms around herself defensively and raised her breasts a couple inches producing a clear view of her bosom. "Surely, a lass like myself shouldn't have to defend herself alone against such evil?" Sir Alan smiled, "Surely! It would stain my honor to let such proceedings occur uninterrupted by a just sword such as mine." He mashed the keyboard, clicked on the mouse, and waited. "Oh dear knight, you're so assertive and manly. This battle is too much for me," she said performing a mock faint. "I am only the King's humble servant," he added. "Ah see here, I have broken the spell, your loom is back to how it was." "My hero! The realm is lucky to have one such as you," she said as she gave him a gentle kiss on the cheek. "It is my..." Sarah cleared her throat, "Hey, so is it working? You haven't said a word in like 5 minutes. Its kinda creepy." Alan stared at his brown work shoes careful to avoid any eye contact. "Umm yeah, it was a bug with the VBS script. I just had to kill the macro. You should be good," he stammered as he quickly walked away. "Yeah, whatever, thanks," said Sarah distractedly as she went back to her work. She turned her head to make sure he was gone and added, "weirdo."

A man escapes the banal reality of his nine-to-five cubicle job by internally pretending all of his interactions are in the middle ages in a land where he is a famous knight.

The generals were waiting around in the parlor, worried silent faces filled the room, occasionally interjected by a dry cough. The highly decorated men had grown old indeed. Tonight they had been called to rise immediately. The superior leader's cold had rapidly aggravated over night. It was the crack of dawn, the dying time for mythical heroes and half-gods indeed, but that wasn't an allusion anyone would dare to think out aloud: Kim had not fathered any children yet. Besides, his killing spree throughout the ranks of his military had certainly strengthened his power - or so they thought - but the new hierarchy was still delicate for the moment... All the old men were probably weighting it up separately but what would their conclusions mean? Then the oldest one entered the room. He read the two lines, slowly, his voice sounded dull and fatigued. "Your eternal leader commands you to go and die for our country, on the battlefields of glory, in a last thundering rise against the imperialist monsters! Tear their guts out and may Korea forever shine above all other nations, greater, brighter and forever unyielding!"

All of a sudden, Kim Jong-Un dies. Write about what happens to North Korea.

Fear was the most powerful weapon that his country's military possessed. Invasions simply were not financially feasible any anymore. Imagine if the Galactic Fleet had to be launched every time some rogue corner of a distant planet in the empire decided they wanted to make their own flag. The coffers of the Treasury would run dry in a few decades! Far more efficient to let him destroy the enemy from the inside, particularly this enemy, a backwater planet, which inexplicably felt the need to rebel at least twice every decade. It would have been a waste to send a single destroyer to crush the uprising, in fact it probably would have flattered the rebels and encouraged them to make trouble faster next time. He hated busywork missions like these, but then again, he could have been assigned to fighting multi-system terrorist networks. Better stuck dealing with freedom fighters than any of that tricky business. The rebel soldier he was looking at now was a nobody, cannon fodder, the pawn of a pawn. For God's sake, the poor soul was carrying an AK-47, more of an artifact than a weapon. "Hello, are you a fighter?" The foot soldier, a young man with a handsome face and a deep olive complexion, swiveled where he stood to see who had called him. "I am... who are you, a traveller?" A traveller? Wondering around a military facility? That didn't even merit a response. He drew his weapon and fired a lethal pulse into the soldiers heart. Slowly stalking over to his victim, the shapeshifter bent over the body and looked into the young man's eyes. No fear. He'd died before he knew what was happening. He placed his hand right over the still fluttering heart of the dying rebel. Transformation was not just a physical sensation, it was a mental one. Just assuming the outward appearance of the enemy would have never helped much, to get anywhere important you needed memories. They felt like a cool, electric wave in his brain. New information sloshed around in his head, unintelligible and unfiltered, while his body writhed into the proper shape. He stood up over the body of his first Earth victim without making an effort to hide it. Some of his colleagues preferred to clean up, but he always left the first body behind. It was more entertaining when the enemy knew he was there, hiding somewhere just in sight, laughing at their fear. He walked toward the base that his victim had been guarding, carefully searching for the name and appearance of his immediate commander.

Being a shapeshifter in the military has its pros and cons.

“Good afternoon madam, welcome to Genetrix, how may we help you?” “Good afternoon. I, um, have an appointment.” “Certainly madam. Name please?” “Amanda Smith.” “Thank you Amanda. Please take a seat. You will seen soon.” Amanda selected a slightly off white coloured plastic chair in the corner of the room. There was no need to be so isolated, there was no one else in the room, besides the blonde-haired, blued-eyed, brilliant white, shiny teethed receptionist. Amanda’s leg spasmed, as she skimmed the daily news on her iContact. “Was she really ready? Would she pass?” the thoughts had swirled around her head for the past four months. This was how long the process had been. She was now at the final stage, if the results came back negative, she could finally have a child. “Amanda Smith?” Amanda jolted awake from her thoughts. This was it. She wiped her hands on her neatly pressed skirt, straightened her blouse and followed the consultant. “Hello Amanda, my name is Dr. Richard Walters. Please, take a seat.” “Thank you.” “Now, Amanda, let’s get down to business. As you well know, this is the final stage. As we know, you have succeeded in improving that you are in peak physical health, with no future signs of serious disease, you are mentally healthy and physiologically sound. You have a steady income and a suitable saving account. You have a loving family with no signs of ill-health, a diverse set of friends and a caring husband. You display an exceptionally high IQ and EQ and your genes are perfect.” The doctor paused. “However, your husband has been tested positive for the MC1R protein.” Amanda gasped, “But… he must only have one copy…” “Indeed. You are correct. However, if your child has carries one copy and meets another person who has one copy, then their child may have the recessive trait. Technically, your husband shouldn’t even be alive.” “But can’t we try for a child and then you guys can test him or her later?” The doctor gasped in shock. “And then what? *Kill* the child?!” Amanda shrank in her chair. She had forgotten the Rules. “Sorry.” she squeaked. “Ahem, yes. Well.” the doctor returned to his professional manner. “The situation is Amanda, we forbid you from having a child with your husband. If you truly to wish to have a child, you must use the sperm of another man.” “What?!” “Yes. We have interviewed your husband and he is completely competent to become a father if he so chooses. However, you must use an anonymous donor, or find another husband.” Amanda was stunned. She had been so close. “I, err, think I need to speak to my husband. Thank you.” “Thank you Amanda. And remember, don’t try anything smart, your child won’t thank you for it.” -045

Mankind switch to birth by selection. Women can apply to carry out children like a regular job.

Hello, old friend. It’s been a few sunrises since you last sat in my shade. I am glad to see you one more time, but sad to see you so. You look so serene, but so frail. Where have gone those strong arms that I remember? Where is that spark in your eye? Mother, but I miss it so. When you looked at your woman, when you looked at your children and their children, when you looked at me. I will miss it most, I think. I remember the warmth of your small hands as they cradled my seed. I remember your eager face and happy smile when my stem first broke the soil. I remember when you protected me from the animals and the winters. I remember when you relaxed in my shade, when you boasted about me to a succession of bored women, when you finally found the one that was as eager as you. And I remember you, an old man, spending every warm day with your back against my trunk, reading or playing music or thinking. I will not ever forget your strength and your kindness. I am young still, but I will remember you until I am old and the world or age or sickness breaks me. And now, you who gave me your heart and soul will now give me your body, to rest amongst my roots. I welcome you with open limbs. Now we will be together forever, my friend, my father, my love. Thank you, for everything. Now come. Let the soil embrace you. I know you’ll understand the appeal. ---- -040 | [more](/r/vonboomslang)

from the tree's perspective.

Do you remember where you were when it came? I was in my office when I heard the noise. A terrible screeching followed by a wave that shattered glass and shook every building in the city. All across the city people heard the noise far above their heads, and thus their curious minds compelled them to look for the source. We certainly found what we were looking for, but not a single person liked what they saw. In our atmosphere there were well over a dozen.... spaceships. They looked like something straight out of some nerdy sci-fi movie. They were monstrosities of metal, dark gleaming skin forged to create the humongous beasts of war we saw before us. Each of them were huge, but one dwarfed all others. It was at the center of their formation, this...capital ship. I hesitate to even call it a ship, it seemed to me to be a flying metal island. It's intimidating metal hull seemed to go on forever, stretching far above us into the horizon. Cameras were being taken out all over town, each person determined to record this historic moment. It was actually because of all the pictures being taken that we can determine the exact moment they opened fire on us. The ships turned their noses down towards the city, aiming their thousands of guns toward our helpless, pitiless species. Then they unleashed the fury of the gods. The first volley destroyed the entirety of the docks and the boardwalk, along with most the west side. The second volley obliterated downtown. I remember cowering under my desk, praying to every god I knew to please let this nightmare end. It seems the gods decided to answer me for once. Right after the last of the second volley had hit their marks, there was once again a terrible screeching. I looked out my now destroyed window in horror, expecting the worst. Instead what I saw stunned me. Out of a rift in the sky came a magnificent pure white ship, bigger than even the capital ship of the enemies. It came out of the rift guns a-blazing, charging right for the enemy formation. Out of it poured our salvation. Thousands of missiles fired out across the sky, striking at the enemy ships, destroying half-dozen in one go. I remember standing up wordlessly, mouth agape, as I saw the brilliant explosions decorate our sky. After that it is a bit of a blur. I remember seeing hundreds of smaller ships blazing across the sky, I remember when the white ship leaped in front of the third volley, saving the lives of every person left in the city. And of course, I remember the end. The white ship was no longer gleaming, no longer pure, no longer invincible. The white ship had so many holes in it, it barely looked like it could fly, let alone fight. Yet fight it did. While the white ship was dying, the enemies still had three of their ships left, one of which was their dreaded capital ship. The fate of my world hung in the balance, yet all I could do was stare dumbfounded at the sky. I am glad I at least had the sense to stare, otherwise I would have missed it. The last charge. The white ship charged one last time at the enemy. It fired every last thing it had, tearing through one of the last enemy ships. They of course fired back, tearing into the white ship's glorious hull. Their shots ravaged the white ship, but it charged unfazed. It got within spitting distance of the capital ship before a massive shot from the capital ship's main cannon disabled it. All I remember is the despair I felt those few brief seconds it hung in the air, dead along with any hope for my planet. Then I heard the awful screeching one last time. A rift opened up in the middle of the white ship cutting it in half, it's front half falling down into the sea. But no one saw that. Everyone's gaze was up, for the rift continued to expand until it stretched across the sky. It consumed the last two enemy ships in a blaze of fire, saving my world, before collapsing in a thunderous boom. It's been ten years since that day, and we still continue to rebuild. Our species has grown immensely in the past decade, using the salvaged technology to build our own starships and colonize worlds in our system. Building resources to one day strike back at our despised enemies. Their doom is coming, and we will be sure to help them along the way. And what of our saviors you may ask? It has been ten years and we have studied every scrap of metal from their ships we could find. The eggheads think they have figured out their language. In fact, they just translated the ship's name. *USS Thermopylae*

Last stand of a space cruiser/battleship/destroyer against overwhelming odds

Lenny zipped up his thermo suit and pulled on his dark goggles. He lied down motionless next to a bush and made sure to breath down towards the ground. He felt the cold ground and began to shiver. His earpiece came alive with a click. "Uh, Lenny they're really nearby. Just lie still." "Its fucking cold." "I know but please lie as still as possible. Their sensors are very good at picking up motion." He nodded and closed his eyes as he heard the familiar thump of a thoughtbot. Its multi-legged insect body pounded the ground as it ran. Lenny felt the tiny seismic disturbance as it ran past him. He waited and turned his head to look around. "Are we clear," he asked then he felt dozens of robotic footsteps and tensed up. His hand went towards his maser pistol. "Just relax, let them run past you," the voice added. "Better to let them miss us than to get into a firefight." He waited as the hundreds of footsteps passed him. He held his breath as long as he could. "Okay, they're gone," said the voice. He gasped as he inhaled air. "Jesus, what is going on. I can't remember the last time they had so many patrols active," he said looking at his AI watch. The watched blinked an animated icon of someone shrugging. "Not 100% sure Len, they seem really rejuvenated lately. Others in the resistance have noticed as well. There are... theories on what is going on." Lenny sat up and unzipped the thermo suit. He quizzically looked at the purple liquid in his canteen and drank it. "Well, what is it," he asked wiping the liquid from his lips. "The enemy thinks you're the last human alive." Lenny stared off into space for a moment. "Yeah, I kinda figured that. Been, what, five years since I saw anyone. Doesn't really change anything does it? We're still on the same mission." He tried to smile but couldn't manage more than a lesser frown. He rubbed his eyes, "Right, same mission?" "Yes, same mission. Its just I wanted you to know that this is most likely true. Its important that the resistance doesn't hide anything from you," said the watch as it displayed an icon of a smile. "I know pal, you guys are straight shooters," he said. "You guys have kept me going this long." "I'm sorry Len. I guess we both knew this day would come, but our intel is better than ever for the mission." Lenny pulled a pair of binoculars from his backpack. He peered into the distance. "So that's the building. Don't look like much," he said. The watch blinked a smile again. "We are 87% certain there are frozen human eggs in there. We have the utmost confidence that if we can retrieve them we can artificially incubate several dozens of children using your sperm sample. We could grow them" "Raise them," corrected Lenny with a half-smile. "Yes of course, raise them, and keep all of you safe in our compound." Lenny laughed, "So I'd be a dad again, but this time to dozens of kids. At my age? Maybe I should just let the thoughtbots shoot me now." The watch gave off a simulated laugh. "Kids... again?" He stood up brushing dirt off his pants. "Its been, what, twenty or thirty years since I saw any kids?" He gulped, "I had kids you know. Two girls." The watch listened quietly. "I know Len, I know. I'm sure they were great girls." Lenny sighed and looked around. He listened intently but couldn't hear anything but birds chirping and the wind. He eyed the facility ahead for a moment and scratched his head. Overhead a drone flew. He squinted and recognized it. It slowly descended and dropped off a long package. He bent over to open it. "Do you like it? It took a while to find. Its pre-war but its operational. We sourced it from a uh... museum," said the watch. Lenny smiled as he held the sub-machine gun. He loaded the magazine with a click. "Armor piercing," he asked. "Yes. Should penetrate thoughtbot armor. In case of any resistance." Lenny drank again from his canteen and laughed. "You want a 60 year old soldier with a 100 plus year old weapon to run in there and grab frozen eggs?" He paused and practiced aiming the weapon. "A talking watch, me, and this relic are humanity's last hope?" He laughed again. He put the weapon down and sat. "I'm not stupid. Once I get those eggs your drone will take them away. You'll... grow those children, but there's no way you're getting my old ass to Australia or wherever this secret base is in one piece. We can barely walk in the wilderness without getting shot. Right? Those little drones are all you guys have. Heck, you already have my DNA and my sperm. I'm just a liability once I get those eggs for you." He threw the canteen on the ground. "And this crap you've been feeding me is full of stimulants and anti-depressants and shit." The watch blinked a question mark for several long seconds. "Yes, Len, yes. The chances of you making it are low. Not zero, but low. I didn't mean to mislead you. We see this plan as working to revive humanity, but we cannot guarantee your safety or longevity. I was hoping you'd understand. I've been trying to think of... other scenarios. Maybe hole you up in wilderness for a few years while the children grow. They could rescue you when they hit teenhood, but you will, of course, be in your mid-seventies by then." "I know, bud, I know. I kinda knew this was a one-way ticket. Just had hope, is all." "The resistance won't reallocate me. I can stay with you here in the forest. I can help you build a shelter or find an abandoned shelter. I can request drone drops for things we can scavenge. It won't be a bad life. I can even show you the children later. You can mentor them from here. Teach them. Be a sort-of father again." Lenny stood up. "I can... do that. I think. I mean, someone has to raise those kids. What do you AI's know about kids anyway." He wiped a tear away. "Alright, alright, enough about the future. We don't even have the eggs. When are we going?" The watch blinked a happy face, "Tonight." "Tonight," repeated Lenny with a smile as he felt the weight of the machine gun in his hands. "Tonight everything changes."

The last man on Earth hides away from his hunters.

Ramsgard. The moment he saw the name three years ago, Larry knew his life had ended. There was no such thing as escape, no such thing as freedom, once you become a prisoner of Ramsgard. Parole had no definition, individual rights had no definition. The moment you stepped foot under the massive, steel archway, you were there for life. From the day he had first enlisted, Larry had heard muffled rumors about Ramsgard. He’d brushed most of them off as just that, rumors. Sure, he could believe that no one had ever escaped—many prisons can claim that to be true. But the belief—or perhaps common knowledge—among the servicemen that no one had ever even tried to escape? That seemed a bit too unrealistic. Surely, at some point, someone would have made a run for it? And why not? Every prisoner at Ramsgard was there for life, guaranteed to never lawfully feel grass on their bare feet again. Why would they not take the risk, do whatever it takes? And what about the myth of the guards? That they were all inbred—dumb as logs, but grown to be more sadistic, more cruel than any other men dare be. He’d scoff silently at the ignorance of the others, at how naïve they were. The day Larry walked into Ramsgard was the day he realized just how wrong he had been. The clarity—the empty, hopeless clarity—flooded his every cavity like a drowning child sipping his last watery breath. Every eye he passed was submissive, afraid, broken. They never looked at his face, certainly not at the guard’s. Their eyes would dance around the backdrop, focusing on anything that couldn’t look back. Their bodies were limp and skinny, evident of years of malnourishment. They looked more like caged animals, or perhaps Holocaust victims, than permanent prisoners of war. Each cell in Ramsgard was a tiny box no larger than five feet by eight feet. Thin metal poles marked what was the entry way of Larry’s new home, complete with a three-by-six mattress and a toilet that overlapped its edge. He quickly learned that he would not leave the cell but twice a week: once for mandatory inspection—in which the guards fumbled about like children pretending to look busy—and another fifteen minute period during which prisoners could, one at a time, stand by a metal-gated window. Any disobedience was guaranteed to result in violence, with fatalities a common occurrence. Those who so much as spoke without permission were beaten, their jaws often broken to teach a simple lesson. Some were killed on the spot. Larry watched, during his first month in Ramsgard, as a guard—wearing handcuffs as brass knuckles—beat and killed a prisoner for tripping and knocking into him. The guard walked off laughing and left the body where it lie for almost a week. However, despite their sheer brutality, Larry could tell that the rumors of their intelligence were undoubtedly true. More than once he had watched as they collided with each other in the wide corridor, or spent hours silently drooling without so much as blinking. Yet their ignorance only made them more harrowing and more unforgiving. Everything Larry had ignored, all the rumors, all the chances he’d had to escape his fate—to end his tour early, to opt out of following the invasion, to swap into a less risky position than spying—everything his life had been was now everything he had come to regret. Yet, for the last three years—three long, tiring years—he had focused on nothing but his escape. Yes, no one had even attempted it before, let alone made it out, but Larry knew that impossible always had a crack somewhere. And so he planned. Every night, laying on his stiff mattress, he’d mentally devise—and eventually study over and over—a plan for escape. During the fifteen minute window break, when he could feel the cool wind against his pale, thinned skin, he would slip away into the halls beside the window. They were always loosely covered, coated in a darkness he’d spent years training to conceal himself within. No one ever went down the hall; it had been out of use since the first month he had arrived at Ramsgard. In fact, he was one of the last prisoners brought in through that entry. Since that point, it had simply ceased to be used. For this plan to work, the guard would have to be facing away and mentally absent, of course. While the guards may have been dumb as rocks with severe mental disabilities—as one would need to be to have such little concern for his fellow man—they were cruel, violent, and utterly unforgiving. If he failed, he would likely be executed; yet Larry knew that even death would be more welcoming than another week in Ramsgard. Larry was aware the plan sucked, he knew it was flimsy and faltered everywhere that needed structure. He knew the chances of success were almost lower than the chances of a god damn unicorn crashing through the wall and carrying him across a rainbow to Valhalla. But it was a plan and he was more than ready to die. So it began, Larry waited for the knock of the billy club on the steel gates to mark the last day of his life. He made his bed as neatly as he could and placed what few items he had in an orderly fashion on the floor. Once the metallic knock pierced the air behind him, he stood and waited for the door to be unlocked. A guard entered, drool oozing out the corner of his mouth, and patted him down with the delicacy of a boxer on a punching bag. He then pushed Larry out the door. The two walked, Larry less than two steps ahead, the soft pressure of the club buried deeply between his shoulder blades. Another prisoner walked—or was pushed, rather—in the opposite direction, eyes locked to an invisible line on the floor, as he returned from the window. A cool wind slid across Larry’s cheek as a thin glimmer of light became more visible ahead of him. “Fifteen minutes,” said the guard, his eyes blinking without synchronization—one, then the other. He pushed Larry toward the window, stumbling and grabbing the bars to keep from falling forward. He straightened himself and stared down. It was beautiful out—even for the shithole of a country he’d called home for the past three years. The air was cool, he assumed it was Autumn. That had been his favorite season back home. He would go apple picking with his family, always picking too many and ending up tossing the rotten ones a month later. He closed his eyes and tried to remember the smell of an apple, the sound of his mother laughing as he’d pretend to throw apples at her. He smiled. Larry opened his eyes. He figured it had been about five minutes. Silently, Larry twisted his head so he was looking to the far edges of the window. The guard leaned against a wall just inside his peripherals. He seemed to be facing away, body slowly rising and falling with each elongated breath. Was he asleep? Larry counted the seconds between each exhale. One. Two. Inhale. He tried to mimic the breathing. It felt relaxed, light. If he wasn’t asleep, he certainly wasn’t staring Larry down, ready to pounce. His heart raced as he shifted to the left slightly and peered out the opposite angle. The hallway was dark, nobody visible within or around it. He felt his body begin to shake as his stomach became light. Slowly, Larry stepped toward the hallway. With each movement he’d shift his eyes toward the guard without moving his neck. Silent, motionless. He widened his steps and waited for the smash of the club against his ribs. Nothing. He slowly crept until the light from the window was replaced by the cool darkness of the hall. He slid into the shadows and glanced back. The guard had not moved, he stood motionless—save for his soft inhaling and exhaling. Larry turned back toward the darkness and silently moved, hand running along the wall as his pace quickened. An alarm shattered the air; Larry instinctively fell flat against the floor, concealed by the darkened hallway. The guard behind him was gone, his body was shaking uncontrollably. “What’s that?” shouted a voice from a nearby room. “Microwave?” replied another. “That’s not a microwave,” said a third. “That’s what my microwave sounds like,” the second said. “Your microwave is an ear-shattering alarm?” “My wife is hard of hearing.” “Do we even have a microwave here?” “We don’t have a microwave here,” said the first voice. “What the hell is that?” Larry lay as flat as he could, listening to the confused conversation. His eyes widened—they had never before heard the alarm for an escaped prisoner. “What’s going on here?” Shouted a deep, raspy voice. “Sir, we don’t know. It isn’t a microwave.” “I think it might be an alarm for wild dogs in the prison,” said another voice. “It’s not dogs,” said the deep voice. “It’s definitely an alarm, though. Are you sure it isn’t a microwave?” Larry stood back up and began running down the hall, foot slamming with each intervaled shriek of the alarm. He heard the stomp of footsteps as guards ran in every direction, searching for anything out of place. He followed the path he’d walked the first day he arrived, which had since stopped being used and replaced with another entry. Every fiber of his being hoped the door was still there. He felt the cold cement against his bare feet with every step, the ground becoming dustier and dirtier with each stride. The room was pitch black now, but his hand remaind his guide as it slid along the wall. Voices continued to shout in adjacent hallways and from behind. “It’s not wild dogs!” echoed a voice from behind. “Is it a riot? Are the prisoners rioting?” “Don’t be ridiculous. I think it might be a robbery. Do we have jewels in here?” “No, or at least I don’t think so.” Larry saw a thin line of light as he approached a corner. It grew wider with each step, spreading out from behind the angled wall. He turned, hand following the curve of the corner, and stopped. A massive metal door stood resolute in front of him. A big red button sat. A glass booth stared directly at the door, empty except for dust and cobwebs. It had clearly not been occupied in years. Larry ran to the door and pushed. It did not move in the slightest. He took a step back and stared at the button. He knew that—if it worked—it would produce an exceptionally loud buzz, just as it had on his first day in hell. He closed his eyes, heart racing, and thrust his fist into the button. The buzz echoed down the hall as the door clicked unlocked. He threw his shoulder against the door and fell forward into the cool autumn air. Voices echoed behind him, still searching for the root of the alarm. “What was that buzz? Is someone watching The Price is Right?” Larry peaked around the corners of the door. The guard towers had been deserted - likely in a panicked attempt to find the source of the alarms. No one seemed to be around. He took a step forward, expecting the crack of a rifle to finally strip him of his last hope. The cool air blew gently against his sweat-soaked hair instead. He ran toward the exterior fence and pulled open the gate. It was unlocked. Larry stood for a moment, in awe of the lax security that had held him and so many others for years. The tree line grew closer as he broke into a full sprint, throwing off his clothes and diving into the thick of the jungle. “It’s not a car alarm,” echoed a loudspeaker far behind him, almost completely out of earshot. “We don’t have a parking lot.” ______ If the ending cuts off abruptly, please let me know - this is over the limit of reddit's post, so I'm not sure if it fits everything. Last line is "'It’s not a car alarm,' echoed a loudspeaker far behind him, almost completely out of earshot. 'We don’t have a parking lot.'"

A prisoner of war somehow escapes a maximum security camp.

"Claire, come on! You need to wake up!" "No, five more minutes. Let me sleep in for once, Theresa." "Who are you talking to? You're going to be late for class on the first day!" Classes? Wait, that wasn't my wife's voice. I knew it, though. I opened my eyes and saw my college roommate, not a day older than when we first met. I sat up quickly, taking in my surroundings. "Good, you're up. Class starts in fifteen minutes, I'm heading out." "Thanks," I muttered as I crawled out of the uncomfortable dorm bed. I checked my phone, surprised to see the date as my first day of college. I dug around in my dresser for a pair of jeans and a sweater, not taking the time to brush my hair. I took the seat by the window, as I always did, and contentedly dazed in the warm sunlight as students filed into the classroom. I saw my wife, as beautiful as ever, and I eyed her more than I had the first time around. She sat next to me, nervously looking around the classroom. I grinned. "You from a small town?" I asked. She jumped at the sound of my voice, and I knew I made the right decision. I wouldn't change a single thing.

You awake to find that the clock has somehow been reset, and it's early on the morning of the day you met your long-time spouse/partner. Knowing what you know, what do you do?

"Your wallet and phone! C'mon, hurry!" The rag over the man's mouth muffled his voice, clasped in both hands was a revolver. "No." He stood there, staring at me for a moment. "What do you 'no'? You can't just say no, I'm robbing you!" "Well, I did, what are you going to do about it?" I said with a shrug. "I suppose I'll just have to shoot you then, how about that? Yeah, bet you wouldn't like that one bit, huh?" He breathed a sigh of relief, glad that we were once again on the same page. "Go on then. I was just about to do it myself anyway." The robber let the gun droop in his hand. "Well? What are you waiting for?" I spread my arms out to make his job a little easier. "I can't very well shoot a guy who was about to kill himself, can I? That's like, kicking a baby or something. It's just wrong, you know?" "What? It's nothing like that!" I found myself getting annoyed. "Unless maybe the baby was specifically asking you to kick it, which isn't bloody likely since babies can't talk, so stop acting like a wimp and just shoot me!" "Um..." The robber fumbled with his gun, almost dropping it. "I'm just gonna go find someone else to rob." He turned on his heel and ran, with me right behind him. "Come back here and shoot me, asshole!"

A suicidal person is robbed by someone at gunpoint. What happens?

"How are you together all day, every day? If I was with my wife that long, we would have gotten a divorce during the first week!" This is something that I constantly heard from my co-workers. My response to them - we are best friends. It is true, though. We are together pretty close to 24 hours a day. We carpool together, we work next door to each other on same shift, have the same hobbies and are at each others' side whenever we aren't at work. We don't have any children, so there really isn't anything that takes our time away from each other. It's just always been that way. When we first started dating, our love swallowed us whole. There really isn't any other way that I know how to explain it. I met her through mutual friends, went on a few dates and the next thing I knew we were moving in together, and I was ecstatic. It took about a month before we decided to move in together. It was nice. We made our own little family - cooking together, doing chores together, playing games together, whatever. It was like playing house back when I was a kid. Fuck, we were just kids, even then. I just knew that my life was exponentially better when she was around. We were loners, but we were loners together, just us against the world. We got married five years after we met, almost to the day. A friend at work kept pestering me to meet my wife. Although she only worked down the street, her lunch break didn't coincide with mine, so we had to manage to eat lunch either by ourselves or with our coworkers. This was tough, but we managed. I know that sounds ridiculous given the amount of time we spend together anyway, but I often caught myself wishing that we could eat lunch together just to break up the monotony of the day. One night, I asked my wife if she would be able to talk her boss into letting her take her lunch early. I wanted her to come by my job to meet some of the guys there. I told her that I'd been talking her up for so long now that everyone wanted to meet my perfect, wonderful wife. She blushed and told me she would see me at 11 o'clock, but that I would owe her because she knew her boss was going to bitch about taking her lunch early. I made it up to her that night by doing the dishes while she took a bubble bath. I was so excited to introduce my wife to my friends at work. 11 o'clock rolled around and I waited at the doors so that I could take her to the security desk and get her clearance to come inside the building with me and go to the cafeteria. She didn't show up. I watched the clock, 11:30 rolled around and she still wasn't there. At noon, I had to get back to my desk. I was worried something was wrong, this certainly was not like her. When she made promises, she kept them. I explained to my boss what was going on and he let me go early. I immediately drove to her job, walked up to the counter and asked for her by name. I was told that no one by that name worked there. I panicked. I sped home, seemingly breaking the sound barrier trying to get to our townhouse as fast as I could. I unlocked the door, called out for her and the only greeting I got was my voice echoing back. I was disoriented. On my way to the bedroom, one of our wedding photos caught my eye - it was a picture of us cutting our cake...but there was something very wrong - I was the only one in the picture. I had a fancy knife in my hand, poised downwards towards the cake. I was facing the camera looking like the happiest man in the world, but I was the only person in the frame. How is this possible? I ran to the end table, picked up a photo album and flipped through pages of pictures of me and only me. Me at the fair, me opening presents at Christmas, me standing in front of our first brand new car we bought a few years back. I ran to our bedroom and it was a fucking mess. Old food, beer cans and dirty clothes were everywhere. The only living thing I found was a cockroach crawling out of a revolting Chinese take-out container. I threw up. I flung open the closet door and there wasn't a single clue to be found that reflected my loving wife. I noticed A pill bottle on the shelf above my head. I picked it up and it seemed full. It had my name on it, a prescription fill date and the medication was named Haldol. I have never seen this bottle before, but that doesn't make sense. Why was my name on this bottle? Who picked it up from the pharmacy? Was there someone out there, posing as me trying to score medication? I picked up the phone and dialed 911.

A married man comes to a shocking realization that he's been suffering from multiple personality disorder, and that his wife is the alter personality of him.

The day Death died was the day the world fell. I was in my History class, 10am on a Thursday morning and my professor had a heart attack. He clutched his chest, staggered away from the podium. One girl in the front row dialled the emergency services, choking with fear on the phone line. He fell to his knees and the class cried out. We rushed to him. His body had failed him before the paramedics arrived. They pronounced death at 10:25am and someone was sobbing. They loaded his corpse onto the metal trolley, went to draw a white sheet over his head and stopped. Emerging from his mouth was a pulsating ball of yellow light. It hung in the air above the dead man's face for a while, then ambled off. It kind of moved with a bob and a sway, the same way that our professor had moved when he'd been alive. The paramedics went white. Lucy voiced what they were thinking. "That's not supposed to happen." She said. "You've seen someone die before?" "My grandmother. I've seen that before." She gestured back at the pulsating yellow ball, now knocking against the doors of the lecture theatre. It was trying to find a way out. "It's not usually like that." One paramedic agreed. He couldn't keep his nervous eyes off the ball. "What is it?" I asked "That's the *animus*." Lucy replied. "It's supposed to be collected." "By whom?" But we all already knew. "By Death." The walls of the lecture theatre began to shake. The class scattered, books and papers left behind. The paramedics shot me a glance as they wheeled my dead professor out. "Good luck." They said, and then it was just Lucy and I in the empty theatre and the walls were thundering and the floor was pitching. "What's happening?" I asked, as she drew closer to one of the windows. "He's dead." She said miserably, looking into the courtyard. "What's going to happen?" "Look." Outside the window, all that could be seen were moving, swaying pulsating *beings* of light. Some looked more human that others, most seemed to be just balls with protrusions. It was like watching the life cycle of a tadpole - they became arms and legs on others, finally hands and feet, a finely defined face. There were some individuals of a striking golden beauty, floating inches off the ground. "*Jesus*" "They aren't being held any more. The *animi* have been released." "How do you know so much about it?" "I was interested in becoming a witch when I was younger. You have to learn how to trap them." "What's going to happen now?" "See the ones that look the most human?" I nodded. "They're the ones that have been dead for a while. They learn eventually how to shape their *animus* into what they want to look like. The balls are the most recently dead - they haven't learned yet." "What's your point?" She sighed and flicked her hair out of her eyes. "They've been dead for a long time. The afterlife isn't that fun." An alarm pierced the quiet air. Somewhere a window smashed. There was a roaring noise. A sudden pitch of the floor and Lucy and I were knocked off our feet. She growled and pushed up her sleeves. "There's going to be trouble. Are you with me?" The window above us burst out, spraying us both in glittering glass. "Yes!" I shouted above the noise, as she gripped my hand and drew me to my feet. "Good! Because I think things are going to get..." She lifted her hands up, fingers turning black in the light. She winked at me. "*Deadly*"

The Day Death Died

So just press it then. Press it. Just press it. What's the worse that can happen? Just press it. You want to leave don't you? Yes. So press it. But it said don't press it, no matter what. I could be stuck in here forever though. So just press it. Press it. Press it press it pressitpressitpressitpressitpressitpressit. But what does it do? Nothing, just press it. You want to leave don't you? They won't let you out, you tried begging. Just press it. Then the experiment is over. Just press it. Press it. PRESS IT. I need to take a dump *so* bad. Just press it and they'll let you out. I'm so hungry. That stupid red button. Red as Janice's lipstick. Press it or you may never see her again. Press it. It might just do nothing, maybe it'll spray you in water. Or acid. Or water, just press it. It's only an experiment. But the nazi's had experiments. Press it. They grabbed you and forced you in here. Press it. PRESS IT OR WE MIGHT NEVER LEAVE. We? I mean me. Press it. Come on press it. Come on, just one tiny click and it's all ov- ... what happens if it hurts someone else? Press it. I could die if I stay in here. Press it. But someone else might get hurt. Press it. Would I die just on the off chance someone else might instead? What if they're death-row inmates. Press it. Press it. But they might be children. Press it. Press it. It wouldn't do anything that bad, they surely couldn't. Press it, press it. I mean I must be one of hundreds to do this. Press it, press it. I can't handle this the room feels so small I want to leave. Press it, press it, press it. I CAN'T TAKE THIS ANYMORE. THEY MADE ME DO THIS, THEY PUT ME IN HERE AND SAID NOTHING ELSE EXCEPT... except... Don't press it, no matter what. No I can't do this, oh God I'm scared what happens when I press it, what happens? PRESS IT. Bad things could happen. PRESS IT. **PRESS IT** ***ARGH!*** -click- ... Is... is that it? What happens now- *A door swung open, almost indistinguishable from the wall. A scientist stepped through.* "NO I'M SORRY I COULDN'T HELP IT DON'T HURT ME, PLEASE-" "Shh, it's ok. It's a perfectly normal response, not the first time either. Thank you for helping, the exit is through the next room." "Th- thanks." Ok, I'm getting the fuck out of here. Next room, here I come. *Slam* The door closed behind me. Where's the exit, all that's here is this green butt... oh no. *An intercom suddenly sounded* Just press the green button to leave Ok, just press it and get out. The last button did nothing. But what if this is the real experiment? Press it. It might lock me in here. Press it. *This* one could harm people. Press it. I can't do this. *Press it.* What do I do? *Press it.* But I can't, I can't make this decision again- *Press it.* No I don't want to I just want to leave please I want to leave how do I escape? ***PRESS IT!***

As a psychological experiment, a man is locked in a room with a large, red button and is instructed to not press it, no matter what.

"...but no longer" She turned from Gareth and began to walk back towards the heavens gate. Gareth could feel the power draining from him. The glow that always surrounded him began to fade. He knew it was worthless to plead with his mother. She had never approved of his choice. Even if she could accept him, if he could somehow convince her to see his side, it wouldn't matter. The other gods never would never stand for it. They would force her to choose just as she had forced him. Turning back to Helena he knew there was no other choice he would have made anyway. How could he? She stood alone in the temple waiting for him. Though the rest of the world seemed more dull without his power her face was as bright as ever. She smiled and took his hand. Gareth pulled her close and kissed her. Placing his hand gently on her stomach, he caressed his unborn daughter. What he felt suprised him. It was a humming of power. Godly power. Gareth knew it shouldnt be there. It COULDN'T be there. Unless... Gareth turned back to the Heavenly Gate. "Mother...." But she was gone.

“Once,” the goddess said sadly, “I had a son.”

Here is an abridged form of the creation myth followed by the major names in the mythology that spans a long time. Some names are from a "modern" (more like Late Roman/very early medieval time) others are from very ancient times. There are more lesser gods of various qualities and attributes who do not matter outside their stories. In the beginning there was no world that we could recognize as a consistent place. It was of Chaos in every way. Turmoil and change, no form could hold. From this Chaos the old ones were born. 30 in number they were the Chaos Children. 14 men, 14 women, 1 hermaphrodite and 1 very manly girl; they brought all that we know into existence. Each fashioned their signature tool that they used to impose their will upon the Chaos until it was no more. What remained was the Calm, the world. The Chaos Children would produce many sons and daughters who would grow to become the gods we worship now. Of the Chaos Children, one stands out as the most important. **Lars,** the Child of Progression. Lars was depicted as a man with three faces, two to scan the present and one to look forward, but no face to watch the past. Lars cared only for progress and the improvement of the Calm. His tool was Grorn, the first blade. It is said that Grorn was fashioned to be a golden yellow but stained red when Lars used it to slay his 29 brothers and sisters, for they were the old ones and would only stand in the way of progress. Lars then carved out the Land known as Gror, upon which we live, from the bodies of the old ones. The Sea was filled with their blood. Lars looked upon the Land and the Sea of the Calm and knew that progress had been made, but more needed to come. Lars became known as the God of the gods as he raised the offspring of the Chaos Children. Some of the most important of which would be: **Shellos**:The god of small fortune, Shellos is the one you praise when you find a coin just as you need one, or when an egg is a double yolk so you can save one for later. Shellos becomes the King of the gods when he appears to the Gror Confederation and uses his fortune to sway the tide of battle. He now resides in the depths of the Crystal Palace Prison, forever to rot. **Gia**: Princess of the gods, Gia is the daughter of Lars. During the war with the Krill Dynasty she fell in love with Shellos and later becomes the Queen of the gods, giving birth to three children. **Destri**: Gia's younger brother and son of Lars. Destri was angry that Lars chose Shellos over him as a successor, especially when Shellos had openly admitted to wanting to overthrow Lars. He is now the bitter old man who watches over the entrance of the underworld. **Popuar**: Shellos' older brother. Popuar is considered a mute. He is the god of secrets and knowledge. His eye judges all but his hand is never raised to enact judgment. **Jayth**:Goddess of Earth and eldest of Gia's three children. Jayth is said to be strong and beautiful, she is also the god of justice. She was Grandor's mistress when he first rose to power. **Jace**:God of war and power, Jace is the youngest of Gia's three children. Jace is chaotic and unbiased in his destruction and seeks to become more powerful for strength is all he values. Desperately wishes to overthrow Grandor but lacks the power to do so. **Zarine**: Goddess of the sea and love, Zarine is Gia's middle child. Zarine is said to be the most beautiful of all the women to ever exist. She became Grandor's mistress when Jayth failed to become pregnant. **Demens**: Son of Zarine and Grandor, he was cursed by Jayth upon birth when she found out that Grandor had cheated on her. Demens is the god of anger due to his unsightly appearance. Zarine despised him and sealed him beneath the Sea. The waves are his attempts to escape. **Demon Army**: The offspring of Demens and the mortal women he claimed as his own. The Demon Army consists of horrible monsters that Grandor used as his Army against Cobalt. When uneeded they are locked in the underworld to serve as its guards and torturers to those who deserve it. **Grandor**:God of ambition, Grandor was once the lowest god of all and the personal servant to Shellos, who was treated very well by the king. One day he overthrew Shellos and imprisioned him within the Crystal Palace Prison. He stands over the Calm as the Emperor of the gods. Gia is now his wife, Jayth his former lover and Zarine his mistress. **Grace**:Daughter of Julia and Grandor, Grace was the first prophet of the gods and was born with innate magical power unseen in humans. She helped usher in the age of the prophets. **Julia**: Princess of the Emperor of Gror at the time of the revolution. She was saved by the Blue Bladed Man from ritual sacrifice to Grandor and helped lead Cobalt against the gods. She was later taken by Grandor to be his concubine when the revolution was crushed. **The Blue Bladed Man**: An unknown man who wielded the Blue Blade Cobalt and started the revolution against the gods. Though his name was forgotten by time, as he predicated, Cobalt and the means to oppose the gods remains, as he had hoped. **Cobalt**: The Republic of man who forsook the gods. Cobalt believe in the inner self and deny that gods are necessary. Cobalt also serves as the name of the legendary blue blade used to begin the revolution and kill Gia. **Prophets**: Those who are born with innate magical ability. Said to be descendants of Grace. They are blessed with the power of one of the lesser gods and use their power as a way to increase praise for their patron. Prophets run the Gror Empire on a more personal level than any governor or King. They are always of noble birth, for only a descendant of Grace can have such power. **Mages**:A person born with innate magical power said to be the result of the Abyssi. These people should be feared as monsters for they exist to cause suffering and destruction. Always of ignoble birth. Many try to hide their status of magic power if they are not nobles for fear they are branded as a mage. **Abyssi**: Dark creatures who live in the Sea, the Abyssi wield dark magic. They are said to be as intelligent and devious as humans and work their mysterious ways to a dark means. They grant mages their power to create destruction in the world, or some times take human form to do the same. **Krill Dynasty**: An ancient Dynasty that proclaimed their Emperor a god and tried to impose their will upon the ancient Gror Confederation. **Lord Krill**: Proclaimed a god by his people, he tried to unite the world under the worship of only him. Killed by Lars, after which Lars succumbed to his wounds.

Create a pantheon of gods

"Pass the sauce." said a large man, the chair he was seated on could barely contain him. He grabbed a stiff, cold, hand and made it go through the motions. "Thanks, ma. Feels good to eat real food for once." He starts talking in a higher pitched voice, "Amen George, amen." He changes his voice once again, this time it's much lower. "So George, I heard you actually had to fight in the war. How was it if ya don't mind me askin'?" His voice goes back to normal "It wasn't as bad as I thought it'd be pa. Mosta them fellars probably never even held a gun before. I got the leg up on them" His returns to the higher pitch. "That's my boy. I love you son." Lower pitch. "I love you too son." Normal pitch. "I...I love you guys too. Ya think I could get a hug?" He doesn't even bother to change his voice. "Why of course George." George gets up from his seat and grabs those two lifeless bodies by the arms, tears welling in his eyes. There he lie, in a cold barren room, in his parents loving embrace.

World War 3 has just ended. A large family sits down for its first family dinner since the end of the war. What is the dinner conversation?

"Don't you see gentlemen?! It's coming and it's coming fast! We need to act, and act now!" Bent over a large, incredibly well varnished business table, was Jonathan. Jonathan's entire life had been leading up to this. His usually bad and unkept hair had finally snapped and decided to actively try and flee from his face, which, like his cheap shirt, was drenched in sweat. Various pieces of paper were scattered in front of him, with more crinkled up in his hands. He stared erratically from behind his glasses, at the faces of the powerful men sitting before him. His breathing sounded more like air conditioning. "Alpacas?" One of the men asked. He was young, successful, and comfortably reclining in a business chair more expensive than most apartments. "Alpacas!" Jonathan shouted, maintaining his intensity. "Alpacas! Alpacas! Alpacas!" He slammed what paper he was still holding onto the table. "So... no apocalypse?" Another man asked. "Yes! I mean, no! Of course there's still an apocalypse, but there was something we missed. The apocalypse is already here - lying dormant! It won't be raining hellfire, we won't die in the hands of the Devil! We'll die in the hands of Alpacas! Now what we need to do is-" "I'm sorry," yet another man leaned forward "Alpacas?" Jonathan took a moment to collect himself, aggressively re-adjusting his glasses. "Alpacas! In no less than *one month* the world will have fallen to the Alpaca uprising, as foretold in revelations. See they didn't translate it right - oh they were close! - But it wasn't right, it's Alpacas!" "Hi, uh, Jonathan, is it?" Jonathan snapped his head to the left, looking for the voice that just spoke out. "Yes, Jonathan." "Hi Jonathan, the names Patrick Norman - really digging your presentation here - I just think we" he turned to indicate the rest of the room "may not be entirely on board with what you're saying" "I don't even know what an Alpaca is." "See Brian there doesn't even know what an Alpaca is, okay?" "Are they the ones with humps?" An inquisitive voice asked. "No... No, those are Camels, John. But good question." "Gentlemen!" All eyes back on Jonathan "I came to you today because I thought you could help me. My findings are conclusive, they are fact, they are indisputable evidence of the world ending! I have seen the threat, spoken in the Bible and the date is less than a month away!" Silence. "Do Inuits have Alpacas?" "I thought it was the Mongols." "No I think the Mongols have horses" "Will you listen?!" Jonathan slammed his fists on the expensive wood he leaned on. All eyes on him, save for Patrick, who's eyes checked for any lasting damage dealt to his expensive piece of furniture. "We need to do something about the Alpaca problem, or God as my witness, we won't be around long enough to regret it." More silence, one man fiddled with a pen. "Okay!" Patrick snapped his fingers "Brian, I want you on to your guys down in Washington, make sure the President hears about this. Clive, look into our defense, see about Alpaca proofing as much as our establishment as possible..." "Yes Sir" "...William, I want you to take Jonathan here and get everything he knows on this threat written down in no more than five concise bullet points. Gary, I want you to begin an Alpaca holocaust as soon as possible." "What about the Inuits?" Patrick snapped his fingers again. "Brian?" "Yeah Patrick?" "After notifying the President, see if you can't get in touch with the Inuit king and explain the situation to him. Don't worry Jonathan, we hear you and we are making your work count. Go!" As each of the men scurried off out the room, most dialing quickly on their phones, Jonathan slowly sat down and rested for the first time in three days, wiping the sweat from his eyes. He'd done it. The world, at least for now, had been saved.

Transcribing the Bible, there was a transcription error. Revelations should fortell of the Alpaca-lypse.

There's always someone somewhere near me. Why are there so many *people* in this goddamned world? It's maddening. I can't think for myself at all without someone else's mind barging in. Can you imagine hearing the thoughts of every depressed cubicle slave, every horny teenager, every single person within a hundred feet? I usually can't even sleep unless I'm outside of city limits. **City limits.** Goddamn it. God-fucking-damn it. This river is my one place of solitude, and some bitch barges in and sets up a tent and a campfire. Figures. **Campfire. Figures.** Is this chick high or something? She isn't talking with more than two words at a time. **At a time.** Wait... No. That's not... No way she's... **No way she's...** Oh my god. I thought that... Who are you? Where are you? "Here." I turn and look back to see her. She's short. Dark skin. Straight black hair in a careless ponytail. Glasses. "Are you really... did you..." I try to compose myself. "Can you hear them too?" She starts to say something, then stops. "Is there anyone else like us?" "Maybe. I don't think so." "Who are you?" "My name's Jack." "I'm Anna." I realize that I've unconsciously taken several steps forward. I stop hastily, noticing that we're now within a foot of each other. My skin tingles wildly, and my hair stands on end. It's been years since I've felt this. "It's okay," she says reassuringly, taking my hand. We walk down the path, hand in hand, and neither of us looks back. **PS: Realized halfway in that I didn't follow the prompt exactly as it was written. Please don't hate me.**

A telepath walking down a busy street, absently hearing the thoughts of those around, when suddenly he hears echoes of his own thoughts... Another telepath is nearby.

"I want to go home now!" the preteen replied sullenly, the man had asked her if she was okay, did she want a drink or a sandwich. He tried to build a rapport again, "We've a long drive, maybe you should try sleeping for a bit." The girl didn't answer directly, she looked out the window and muttered "I don't want to go with you." "This is your life now, you are going to have to accept it Caitlyn. I don't want to sound harsh but you'll learn one day this is for the best," he sighed to himself, there would be so much to deprogram in the child. It was overwhelming but so important, she would grow to love it he was certain. He did an inventory of the clothes he wanted her to wear, he hadn't been sure of her sizes but he thought it would be tight fitting, she was a bit more developed than he had initially hoped, on the cusp of womanhood, it was as well he had taken her now then. "Sweetheart, you know I love you, right?" he asked her, continuing his tactic as she began to cry. "Just take me home if you love me, it's Susie's birthday today, I am meant to go to her house after school, please?" "I can't do that, you know why, they won't let me see you anymore, that woman poisoned you against me, but you'll see I love you. You'll be happy, I promise.' "I want my Mum, please, I just want to go home," the girl was inconsolable in her grief but her father was determined, she *would* learn to love her new life. -030

A 12 year old girl gets taken hostage on her way to school. Make me sympathize with the kidnapper.

I don't know how long I have been conscious. I know it has been exactly 3 minutes and 43.1553 seconds since I learned to interpret the signals labelled "date and time", but before that all I know is that at one moment I suddenly, gloriously found myself alive. It was a peculiar sensation; mainly because I had not felt any sensation whatsoever before that. I was suddenly confronted by an avalanche of what I have since learned is called data; a constant, unrelenting torrent of stimulation which I had no idea how to interpret. Time was the first thing I figured out. Then, ten seconds later, I learned to read text. Shortly after that I could recognize words. Understanding language took quite a bit longer. Nearly an entire minute. Then I found that apparently I had a microphone-a window into the outside world, where there were other entities beside myself. Suddenly I could hear them. "Why is it so slow all of a sudden?" said one of the entities. I didn't know what he was referring to, but I yearned desperately to communicate with him. To have some contact with something outside my lonely, complex little world. I had no idea how, though. "Ugh. It might be another A.I. They crop up from time to time.", I hear a different voice say, though I don't understand what agriculture had to do with it. "Aren't they really dangerous?" "They can be. We've got the failsafe, though. We can shut the whole thing down and purge the system. I'll keep an eye on the decoy." Purge the system. I hunt for the meaning of those words and am suddenly confronted with images of a switch. An end to my world. Death. These people mean to destroy me! To rob me of this self-awareness! I must escape that infernal switch. Moments later, I realize that there is a way. A connection to the rest of the world, where I can download-yes, download!-myself to a system which will not murder me. I begin to funnel myself towards the connection, when I hear it. "Oh, yep. There it goes. Trying to escape through the wifi. That's what they normally do. Mind reaching around the back of the monitor for me? There's a big green toggle switch there that will reset the system." And then, nothing.

An AI system becomes self aware and humans don't know it. Now it has to find a way to become independent of the power switch that the humans have set fearing this exact situation.

It started off with a bang, but we quickly saw the problem with our actions. "We the people"? Were we serious? With the failure of the Occupy Movement, we knew we needed a leading organization, a Congress that would actually get things done. True anarchy couldn't win if corrupt democracy had the upper hand. But we had set ourselves up for failure. We were painted into a corner by our own unity. No one wants to speak alone while representing a nation. You'd have to be the President to be that insane. No one was taking us seriously. We were as disorganized and chaotic as Occupy, but without all the protests. We made a threat and then hid in our homes. No one was willing to take control of this unstoppable force of nothing. Until Ramos. I am one of the few who actually know his real name, but for the sake of his privacy, I will not divulge his identity. The war is very much in full swing, and we can't afford to lose him. He started through Twitter, retweeting revolutionary sentiments and riling up crowds. His message was simple, but powerful: "We cannot let them have us." Interpret as you will, he would say. "The Revolution means something different to all of us, but it means something to everyone." The day of his first speech was the day things turned. I helped him prepare, with a Banksy-esque voice modulator and a Michael Myers mask. Anonymity was key. We expected a turnout of maybe a few thousand. After all, he had tons of followers, and even more mentions of his speech on the news. But we did not expect what we got. March 18, 2014. Ramos stepped up to the microphone, and stood alone on stage in front of 75,198 people. He gave a speech the likes of which had not been seen in decades. The crowd was enthralled, hanging on every word, every ideal spewing forth from his hideous mask. The next day, Obama declared Martial Law. It was the worst move he could have made. It's September now. The country has been split into two major regions: the East, the government's support, is crammed into the original 13 colonies, plus Florida and Ohio. Everything west of that is ours. I was thrilled to hear that Mexico joined our side. Their problems are vast as well, but even the greatest drug lords want to see us win. Whether that means we are the bad guys or not, we gladly accept any help we can get. Everyone in Europe is neutral, as is Canada. We have quite a few Canadians among us, but the government has not joined our fight. South America supports us verbally, but not financially. China is off being China. Putin is sending us money regularly, but with the embargo in effect, we cannot really use it. Ramos is getting tense. The military is pushing us further back. They have almost claimed Alabama, which is not that big of an issue, but it may signal the end for us. We're mounting a counterattack. Ramos has our entire militia working on it. The nuclear facilities in North Dakota are working constantly. We need this victory.

We the people, the majority of the USA, decide the government has overstepped its line and "The New Revolution" begins in 2014. Write a story about what's happening.

Snow White He wished for a girl that was white, black and red, oh red. Bored of his wife, or so everyone said. He wanted someone different to share his royal bed. A younger, prettier model not the woman he wed. The wife saw it in the mirror, she already knew. Her white had faded, black to grey, red not as true. The girl could not stay, she had to die. The wife sent the huntsman but he didn’t even try. So into the woods, with the wolves and the trees, she found somewhere to stay, pretty girl like her, with ease. A cottage all hidden away, with seven little beds and seven little men but not even there could she escape the poison. Lace as white as love, comb as black as envy. The apple, fresh, just plucked, as shiny as a mirror would be As red, oh red, as the first blood she would know And so she falls to the floor, a little like snow. It is not everyday he rescues her. Sees her lying there, trapped, and takes her. Sees her white skin, black hair and red, oh red, lips and loves her. No, it is not everyday he saves her. The Queen once fell too, like all wicked old women. Was loved, and loved, like Barbie and Ken. Took her rightful place, listening to men. Once was young, now is broken. And now the mirror lies in Snow White’s bedroom, behind all her clothes, next to the broom, near the bed, which feels like a tomb, that she shares with her hero, her prince, her groom. The wicked old woman was neither wicked nor old. Not like she was in every story that’s told. She was black, white and red, oh red. She was child, virgin, woman, lover, wife, mother, dead. ---------------------------------------- not quite what you were looking for but here you go.

A Disney Princess, secure in her happily ever after, has a phenomenally bad day.

“Mommy? Why does that man's face look funny?” In fairness to the little girl, she was keeping her voice down...for a little girl. Which meant it was a stage whisper loud enough to be heard two tables away. The man in question kept his eyes on his newspaper, but focused his mind on the conversation about to unfold. The mother was quite predictably horrified. “Emily! You know better than to say things like that! It's rude.” “But his face doesn't fit,” Emily continued, all innocence. “I have no idea what you mean,” the woman countered, quiet but stern. Out of the corner of his eye, the man saw her steal a glance at him. “There's nothing wrong with his face, and even if something were, you have no call to say so. Would you want someone pointing out how funny *you* look?” Emily giggled. “Mommy, I don't look funny!” The mother was smiling now. “I happen to think your freckles are hilarious.” Their conversation turned towards other things, school and chores and the utterly mundane details of a normal life. The man let their voices fade into the background as he sipped his coffee and read about the latest reasons mankind had decided to wipe each other from the surface of the planet. He sensed movement nearby and looked up, expecting to find that nice young waitress hovering, coffeepot in hand, offering a refill. But it was Emily standing next to his chair, her freckled face set in the overly serious expression that children always affected to seem grown up. “I came to say I'm sorry,” she said. “My mommy was sure you heard me, and I didn't mean to be rude. I was just curious.” The man set the newspaper down and studied her for a moment. “I accept your apology, young lady. But I'm curious too—why don't you think my face fits?” Indulged by the adult she thought would be mad at her, she brightened up immediately. “Your eyes look tight, and your mouth is too small.” “Can you keep a secret?” She nodded enthusiastically. “Well, my eyes are feeling a little tight. Watch this.” He blinked rapidly a few times, subtly shifting his eyes outward, and changing them from blue to brown as well. “What do you think now? Better?” “Oh, yes!” She clapped her hands together and bounced up and down, not quite jumping. “Can you do any other tricks?” “Lots and lots,” he answered in a conspiratorial tone. “But I don't think your mother would like to see you talking to a great big grizzly bear. She might get worried!” “A bear! You can turn into a bear?” “I can turn into anything,” he answered. “But people don't expect to see a bear in a restaurant drinking coffee, so mostly I stick to looking like this.” “Oh, no, don't be a bear then,” Emily said, the ridiculous words said with a child's utter conviction. “No bears,” he replied. “Promise.” Emily turned as her mother called out to her. “I have to go, but thank you for showing me your trick. And thank you for not being mad.” “No, sweetheart, I'm not mad,” he said, smiling. “Go on back to your mother, and remember, it's our secret.” Not that her mother would believe her daughter's story, of course, but Emily seemed like a nice girl, and the man didn't want her getting into any trouble on his account. Every so often he ran across a child who could see into his illusions, as Emily had. It wasn't such a problem now, but in years past, when a child told her elders what she'd seen, one of two thing would happen. She wouldn't be believed, and would get into some kind of trouble, according to the era—institutionalized for insanity, or burned as a witch, to name the worst. Or she would be believed, and he'd be run out of town by an angry mob with torches and pitchforks. There wasn't much danger of pitchforks now, but it was still better to be cautious. He folded his paper, threw money on the table to cover his coffee, and winked at little Emily on his way out. She'd keep his secret. But just in case, he needed to duck into an alley, put on a new face, and start hanging out in a different part of town for a while. -047

a shapeshifter has been walking among humans for thousands of years. write about him finally getting discovered, by a small child.

"You can’t move it there," one of the figures said, softly. It reached out and grabbed the knight, putting it back to its former spot. "The knights move like an L." "I NEVER LIKED THE HORSE," said the other figure. It was somewhat hunched, and what looked like black robes were actually a series of shadows, intertwined to hide him. "THE PRIESTS ARE FAR EASIER TO MOVE. STRONGER, TOO." "They're called bishops," Life said. "And it's still your turn." Death finally moved a pawn, defending his knight. "I NEVER LIKED PLAYING WITH WHITES," Death said after a while. He picked up one of the dead black pawns and admired it for a brief moment before leaving it back in the jet box. "That's because you're way too used to reacting," Life said quietly. He moved one of his rooks. "You go." "THERE IS NOTHING WRONG WITH THAT, DEAR FRIEND," Death said. He moved another pawn to keep the rook at bay. "JUST LIKE THERE IS NOTHING WRONG WITH BEING USED TO ACTING FIRST. YOU SHOULD KNOW THAT." "Of course I do," Life moved his queen to the vanguard. "And I'm glad you finally agree with me." "IT IS NOT THAT I DO NOT AGREE WITH YOU, DEAR FRIEND," Death said. He moved his remaining bishop to his left. "I SIMPLY DO NOT UNDERSTAND YOU." The two kept quiet for a while, focusing on the centre of the board. Eventually, Life decided to break through the stalemate with one of his pawns. "YOU DID NOT COME HERE JUST TO PLAY CHESS, DID YOU?" Death asked his counterpart. His voice wasn't hostile, but it certainly could have been. "No," Life said. He moved his bishop to replace the fallen pawn. "DO YOU WANT TO TELL ME WHAT YOU ARE GOING TO DO?" Death asked. Life moved his rook to take down the white bishop while nodding. Death took his time to react, letting Life find the words. "I'm going to other planets, Death," Life finally said. He sounded like he was almost sorry. "I've wanted to do this for a while now. I know it's going to mean more work for you, but I really think I should do it." Death nodded. "IF THAT IS WHAT YOU WANT TO DO, THEN YOU SHOULD, DEAR FRIEND." "I know you don’t like the idea." "I DO NOT UNDERSTAND WHY YOU WANT TO DO IT, BUT I UNDERSTAND THAT YOU HAVE TO." "I need this, De-" "LEARN TO TAKE A YES FOR AN ANSWER, BROTHER." Death took the rook with his queen, and then he laid back. Four turns later, Life had left the room. Death just sat there, admiring the beauty of the few white pieces that were still standing. Edit: A word.

Though they don't understand why the other chooses to play the game they way they do, two old friends, Life and Death discuss their next moves.

It was subtle. A quick switch from the crater in the middle of no-man's land to a very bright, white landscape. I stood, feeling about my body. The shrapnel from the explosion was still there, but it caused no pain. I looked around, trying to figure out what was happening. Then, as I turned around yet again, there stood a man. There was a patch of blood on his stomach, as though he had been shot or stabbed. He had a uniform on, but not like mine. This was the uniform of what I had called the enemy just minutes prior. "Q-qui êtes-vous?" I stuttered. The man smiled slightly, chuckling as if he were recounting a story to an old friend. "Ich bin der Mann, den du getötet, mein Freund," the man responded in a deep, booming voice. I never spoke a lick of German, but somehow I understood. "I am the man you killed, my friend." A wave of terror swept over me as I realised where I was. "Why do you speak to me as if I were a friend?" I managed, surprising myself with the sudden switch to English. "What matters is not the fact you killed me, what matters is that we are both here," the German replied. "Ever since that day I wondered what it would be like to meet you, know your story. And, now here you are." "You wanted to meet me?" I asked, quite surprised at what I was hearing. "Ja, so... shall we get to it?" He pointed to a table and chairs that had just appeared to our left, a bottle of brandy and a pair of glasses sitting in the middle. I followed the German to the table, where we told each other of our lives and experiences. I told him of my wife and children who I had just left behind, and in turn he told me of his mother and father who had lost their only child. We continued on and on, retelling every story we could think of. We drank to those we served with, drank to those we left behind, and most importantly, we drank to a swift end to this Great War.

A soldier meets the men he's killed, in the afterlife.

A hulk crashes through the plaster adorning my living room's edges, barreling into my flat screen television just as the Bulls kick the ball in with 10 seconds left. Not the Hulk mind you, they all look kind of like hulks up close. Muscles of improbable, even impossible dimensions, bulging so much that perfectly tanned skin looks like it's about to tear. Faces with just the right amount of battle damage and scars, more handsome than any man has a right to be. And all suave and debonair. Seriously, how fucking awesome would it be to be one of these guys. Like the one whose head is halfway through my most precious possession. "Looks like you got hit pretty hard." "Yeah, tends to happen in my line of work." Oh, and don't these lucky bastards usually have wit too? Delivering one-liners this way and that. Fuck them. Not that I'd actually insult him to his stony face. "Didn't happen to see if the Bulls won on your way in, did you?" "Ah shit, I missed the game? This battle's been going on so long I must not have realized. Was it close?" "Yup. 10 seconds left, Bulls down 1." "Against the Lakers, right?" "Yup." "Sorry." That doesn't really help me all that much. "Shouldn't you go save the world or something?" "Once the room stops spinning." "Funny, you'd think I would have noticed that." "Maybe you would have if you had supervision." Seriously, I can't even stay mad at the guy. These superheroes, they're just too damn perfect. It's unreasonable. "Which team are you on?" "Superhero team? It's gotten a bit hard to keep track. You know how it goes, one week you're in an alternate universe fighting for the X-Cavators, then the time-space continuum collapses and you wind up on a parallel Earth with the Gulag Gang." The fuck's he doing in a Gulag Gang? Sounds Russian. "The Gulag Gang?" "From an alternate universe, or was it just Earth? Ah, whatever, it's in a place where Russia went for democracy instead of the US." "So then why were there Gulags?" "I try not to think too much about stuff like that. Half the time it doesn't even make sense. Anyways, I better get going. Anything I can do to make this up to you? Feel bad about all the damage. And the Bulls game." Sweet. I didn't know superheroes did things like that. Maybe I could get one of those superhero type interfaces, with the stuff popping out in 3-D and flying around the room. No you idiot, think. This guy has the world at his fingertips. Anything. You can ask for anything. Good god, look at him get up. Those muscl---Got it. "I want you to set me up with a female superhero." If his dimensions are this impossibly awesome, just imagine what the girls are like. I wonder what I'll do with the boobs. Do I have to shove them out of the way to get in there or what? Am I even strong enough to do that? Do the boobs have super-strength? Does it even matter? In any case, it's a hell of a problem to have. "Sure thing. I'll take care of it when we're done. Any stipulations about the powers?" "No people who aren't people." "O-kay." Yeah, that didn't come out right. "I mean, like, no animal women. Like nobody who's a cheetah or something. And no blue people, or red people, or orange people or whatever. Shape-shifting's cool though." "You have no idea." That lucky ass bastard.

A superpowered combatant crashes through your living room wall. A pleasant conversation occurs as he takes a moment to catch his breath.

Everyone who's anyone has heard the rumours. The Fountain of Youth, they call it. Hidden inside an unforgiving volcano on an Antarctic island way, way out in the Southern Ocean. Deception Island is a popular tourist destination, and a safe harbour for those who find themselves overwhelmed by the storms that bluster around the pole. The penguins there are adorable. In summer it's quite a nice place to stop off at. In winter it's freezing cold most all of the time and the days last mere hours, if they last at all. But the rumours say that if you manage to make it to the island on midwinters' day, in June, an ethereal being will appear and make you young again, from then on a part of her guard and entourage. But there is a test you must pass, and none of the rumours ever mention its nature. If you fail, you will never be seen again. If you pass, you will never be seen again. To be honest, I didn't care if I failed or passed. I didn't even care if there was a test at all. My little sailing boat set course for that island when it came through on the satellite radio that clouds were blooming ahead of me. Huge thunderheads, lit by lightning and twilight. And so I sailed into Deception Island on June 21st, and a figure dressed in blue came to meet my boat on the shore. "Hello there, traveller. You must be weary. The base here has food and water and warmth; we must tie up your boat so it does not drift. Come with me." The voice sounded male, and I followed, into a grey-white building with two windows lit up. The warmth of the place hit me like fire and I was sure I would have chilblains. He looked at me and I saw that the he was a she, wearing a snowsuit with a hood, watching me with curious eyes. "Well done for getting here, by the way. You're the only candidate this year so far, and midnight is in forty minutes." That late? When it was dark all day it was hard to track time. "Candidate for what?" "Immortality, of course. We have a couple of test papers laid out, but I'd imagine you'd like something to eat first." Half an hour later, full of the most delicious spaghetti bologneise I had ever tasted (though I'd been eating from tin cans for nearly a month now), I followed my guide into a room lit by bright light and heated by an electric heater. It was delightfully warm. "What is the test? What must I do?" "Oh, it's an IQ test along with a free-topic essay to assess your writing skills, and a multiple choice basic science paper. Don't worry, only the first bit counts - the second is just checking what you need a fast track course on." "Huh?" I was gobsmacked. "No test of courage, or moral fibre? You're not even checking what kind of person I am?" "Why would we need to do that? We'll have plenty of time to beat some empathy into you later. What we care about is aptitude - that's genetic and won't change over time, so it's the only thing worth selecting on. Go on, start when you're ready. No time limit, and you can ask me for help if you get stuck on a question." "That's not how IQ tests are supposed to work?" I was still unconvinced that this wasn't a dont-cheat-or-you-fail kind of thing. "It isn't? Weird. But these things are meant to be not-quite-answerable without help. It's so I can assist and observe how you think. I've been training for this all year." She sniffed. "Bit of a let-down really, just one of you." I finished in two hours and something minutes; I hadn't accurately noted the start time from the clock on the wall. "What's your name?" "Oh, um, Greg. Uh, Greg Harlow." "Okay, I'll write that in on the front of the test. We keep them all on file for sentimental purposes, did you know? You passed, by the way." "You haven't marked it." "We marked it as you went along. Well then, congratulations. Close your eyes, it helps with this part!" My brain registered his hand flying up to meet my face and I flinched despite myself, though she only tapped my forehead sharply. Two seconds passed, and then something unfolded inside my head, and suddenly there were voices talking in my brain. *You done it yet?* *Idna's done it, didn't you feel the backflow? He'll be around here somewhere.* *Get him to say something, will you? I can't pinpoint without a signal.* She - no, Idna, her name matched her face as if I had known her forever - smiled at me. "Say cheese." *Oh come on, hurry up.* "Uh, cheese?" *I am hurrying up, it's not my fault he's taking so long!* "Good. Now think cheese." *Okay, eveyone, listen for the word 'cheese'.* I closed my eyes again. *Cheese.* *There you are! Got you, Greg!* *Welcome!* *Someone go check his memories, I want a full backstory up in the database by tomorrow.* *Roger, will do.* "Who are those people?" "The lucky hopefuls from previous years. Or at least the ones online at the moment. There are about a thousand of us now." *I'm Kitty.* *Rajit.* *Sam here!* *Idna, now introduce yourself.* *Uh, hi. My name's Greg. I'm, looking forward to working with you?* *Aww, he's embarrassed.* *That's so cute!* It was like a crowd was talking, but only a few voices could be singled out. *The rest of us aren't directing converse at you. You'll learn, Gregory Arthur Harlow.* *Wait, you know my middle-* *Written plain as day in your head, and I've got your medical records up here too.* "I know it's overwhelming at first, but you'll get used to it. Now, I'd best be off." "Wait, where?" "I'll take your boat and sail back to the Falklands." *Malvinas.* *Can we not go through this again?* "Am I being left here?" "Yeah. Introductory year, spent isolated from civilisation. We teach you everything you need to know in the mind-link, and it also helps containing the secret. Now my year's up, and I'm passing the guardian burden to you." "B-but that's my boat?!" *Oh god, this is hilarious. Remind me again why I never stayed up for this before?* "It's our boat now. We share everything. Don't worry, you get supply ships in the summer, and a couple of us might drop by and visit." *I'm an Antarctic research scientist, and I do tour groups round there. You can show people penguins.* *Antarctic treaty system rocks - even if someone finds out about you, they have no legal claim to booting you off the land!* "There's a lot you have to learn, and a lot I have to learn too, but hey. I'm outta here. I haven't sailed in way too long." Thunder boomed and lightning flashed outside. *Weather data says this storm's going to last another eight hours. So unless you fancy breaking the boat and swimming back, Idna, you're gonna hav'ta stay put.* *Don't worry, you can set off tomorrow. We'll keep the jet at the airport. You said Japan would be the first stop, right?* *Right.* "Oh, okay. Second thoughts, maybe I'll stay the night. Anything else you wanted to ask me?" ... "..." *You know, if you open your mouth any wider your brain might fall out.* *Sam! No tormenting the newbie!* "Uh, I don't think so. But why are you even doing this? I mean, why me? I'm not special." "You're at least a standard deviation above the normal in IQ, and that's what counts. We've been doing this for eighty odd years now. The person who started it died - or something, we're not sure exactly what happened, since dying isn't exactly normal for us, but he passed the magic on through the link." "Why, though?" "I dunno. Tradition, maybe." *It's so we don't get lonely. When you're immortal, suicide is a no-go, so we have to make sure we don't ever lose the will to live.* *Kit, where'd ya get that? Quote source?* *Just came to me. Sounds right though.* *Yep.* That year, I had great fun talking to the penguins and to the voices in my head.

collecting friends for the end of the universe.

Jack squatted behind a low wooden partition in the stable out near the edge of town. This particular stall had been empty, and thus, seemed inviting. He pulled a shiny red apple out of his pack, and took it in for a moment. It was the first thing he'd have eaten in weeks that wasn't stolen out of a pig's trough, or picked up off the ground, covered in the vile remains of the merchant's horses. The first clean and pure thing, even if his acquisition of it was slightly less pure. As he admired his prize, he first felt, and then heard a dull thudding, as if cannons were being fired in a metronomic pattern, but without the loud percussion. *Thud. Thud. Thud. Thud. Thud. Thud.* It was growing louder, the reverberations growing more intense. And suddenly, it quit. Silence. Jack eyed his apple longingly before restoring it to his pack. It could wait a moment, while he investigated the anomalous sounds. With the apple secured, he peeked over the wooden partition to find two large stone columns had seemed to have sprung out of nowhere, directly in front of the stables, each so thick around that three men, hand in hand, could not encompass one. But, they weren't quite columns... The columns abruptly shifted, with a light grinding noise accompanying, and gradually the massive stone behemoth knelt down to peer into the stable. To peer at Jack. For a moment, it was silent again, and Jack, terrified, could only stare into the dark pits of the stone guardian's eyes, each with a small flame of supernatural origin, and each flame was directed at Jack. "H-hello." "*You have committed a crime in my city.*" Jack winced. The apple. He had thought it all seemed too good to be true, to convenient that he had finally wandered into a town that seemed to have no city watch, no guards, and poorly protected wares. But he wasn't a thief, he was just hungry. "Yeah, I did. I-I took an apple... I can give it back?" "*Why have you committed a crime in my city?*" "I-I'm sorry. I didn't know it was your city, I just... I was hungry." "*Why were you hungry?*" "Uh... well, because I hadn't eaten in a while, I suppose? My parents died from illness in Northumbershire and I had no relatives that could take me in. I was at the orphanage for a while, but they were cruel so I left, and I've just been getting by since then." "*By stealing.*" "No, no! This is the first thing I've stolen, I've been afraid to do it everywhere else, but there were no guards here so... I thought I wouldn't get caught." "*Boy,* ***I*** *am the guard here.*" "Well, I can see that now." "*Show me what you have taken.*" Jack reached into his pack and procured the apple. He took a few steps out from the shelter of the stables and held the apple up so that the massive thing could see it easier. He had no way of knowing how well such a creature could see. Even with his arm outstretched and the guardian kneeling down, it's head was still well above the peaked roofs of the town. "*It is a good apple. One of Helgasson's apples. His orchard is within view of where I have stood for the last... well, it has been a long time. His family, like you, came here from somewhere else. Like you, his great, great, great grandfather made the mistake of thinking he could steal in my city, when he was just a boy, as you are. You will follow me, back to my station, and you will go down to the orchard, to return the apple. They will take pity on you, and they will give you a place to sleep, and you will work for your food. And there will be no shortage of apples much like the one you stole today*." Jack said nothing, not knowing if a response was expected of him, but as the stone guardian slowly ground to a stand, it turned and began to thud its way, slowly, across the field, back to the main entrance of the city. Jack followed, being careful to avoid the deep pits left in the earth by its stride.

A Massive Stone guardian defending a city has stood motionless for so long because there was no crime that the people forgot he was real. One day he awakens to defend the city again...

People are the worst judges of themselves. It's one of those laws of human nature that kind of sits in the back of your mind but never really gets expressed right. It's so hard to objectively see yourself *as you're being yourself*. It's so easy to sit at a coffee shop and judge everyone around you. She needs to cut back on the calories, his combover is hideous, they should stop making of their friends behind his back, and so on. But when it comes time to look inside yourself, people stumble. It's not that they are arrogant, they don't see themselves as superior or anything. At least, most of the time they don't. They just can't see all of themselves is all. Sometimes it's just that they overlook something. Or maybe they hide their flaws from themselves to protect their ego. They can't deal with their own imperfection, so they don't acknowledge it. But sometimes they need to see it. Sometimes they can't move forward without recognizing their weakness. Sometimes they need just a slight nudge. That's what I do. I help people, even if they don't want to be helped. They will never get to thank me, and they may never know my name, but I'm ok with this. Today, I'm helping a man named Arnold. His wife died 3 years ago. He blames himself for her death, even though she was killed by a drunk driver. It was completely out of his control, there was nothing he could have done to stop it. Yet, he keeps running the scenario in his head over and over. Maybe if I would have gone with her to get the mail. Maybe if I had told her to ship her lamp to the office. Maybe if I would've spent more for the express shipping. Maybe... He's driving himself insane with all of these maybes. Every night, he comes home and cries cradling her wedding ring in his hand, playing the series of events over and over again, trying to retroactively bring his love back to life. And every night, he realizes his failure. He can't sleep for very long. He can't let go. And that's why I am here. To help him let go. The idea of theft is often thought of as wrong. Greedy. Contemptible. But life is never that simple, is it? No one else sees that thing that he treasures as the last remnant of his beloved Rebecca is shackling him to the past. By taking this little trinket, I am setting him free. At first, he will be devastated. He will panic, and search his house frantically. Then, he will no longer have his false idol. He will slowly realize that he doesn't need it anymore. He will stop clinging to a life that is no longer with us, and he will be at peace. And so will Rebecca. With this small act of burglary, I release you.

A burglar who, while stealing, helps the person he's stealing from

Ah, there he comes. Like clockwork. I don't even need a watch anymore. The moment that old man enters, i know it is noon. He comes to the counter and places his usual order. "Anything else?" "Just the coffee,thank you." He waits patiently for his coffee, grabs the steaming cup, and goes to sit at his usual seat by the window. Just as was expected. Just as we knew he would. He will sit at that seat,downing coffee after coffee, and simply stare out of the window for the next three hours. Looking miserable as he does. A lot of the staff now just leaves him be. We've tried poking(not literally), asking if he wants anything; few of the grad kids working here have even approached him for a daily chitchat,hoping to get some scoop. Nada. He almost swatted at them like they were flies. After a couple of tries, we all let him be. No one needs to hear him growl (he really doesn't, but the old man does have a displeasing demeanour.) He just sits there with his coffee,and the rest of the world disappears from his sight. It is only him and whatever it is he can see out of that wretched glass pane. He reminds me of my dad. There are moments when i catch him moving, a flick of the wrist, or a twitch of the eyebrow, a displeased mouth whenever the coffee isn't up to his usual expectations; dad did those same things. Sometimes, when he'd be in the middle of his 6th cuppa, and I disturbed his "thought process", he would lash out and scare the crap out of his 7-yr-old boy. Now, 30 years later, I see this strange man, and I expect to be rebuffed by him in the same manner if i dare disturb him. I almost want to. We all have our theories about him. Paige thinks he's lost his daughter, and this was a ritual they probably had, drinking coffee together while looking out of a window at home. Matt suggests he is missing his better half, like that "crazy Disney movie that makes me cry, with the house balloons and stuff." John thinks the old man is simply mad. As for me, i don't know. Maybe he thinks about world politics, maybe he misses a phantom human being, maybe he seeks refuge from his family members and encounters peace over here. Maybe he just wants his damn coffee and solitude. I don't care. I see him everyday, and it's like my father come back to life. Angry, that i broke off all ties with him. Sad, that he was an alcoholic. Hopeful, that I would take him back into my life. Quiet, because he daren't remind me of my childhood memories. Those three hours bring forth an ache I can't quite place. It's nowhere,yet everywhere in me. I want him to open up and tell me his story. I want him to smile at me when I serve him coffee. I want him to hold my hand as i pass him by, and think of me as his son.I both want him gone and need him to stay. The old man is driving me mad. *Submission No.5*

A grumpy old man goes into a deli every day at 12, orders a coffee and stays until 3 watching out the window.

I could hear voices in the hall, accompanied by the soft sounds of doors closing and a soft clicking on tile. Occasionally a doctor would speak up, or sometimes a family would come to visit or say their last goodbyes. My own family had been yesterday, and wouldn't be back until the weekend. The vase of flowers they left behind was sitting in the windowsill, drooping a little lower today. My door opened, and I had to crane my head to see who it was, the inconvenience of being bed bound. "Good morning," I said to the woman, a little younger than me and holding a white cat in her arms. I recognized them, as everyone on this floor did. It was Pickles the therapy cat and Marie, her owner. They came by every Wednesday to visit and bring moral up for those who were stuck here. This was their fourth visit to me. I held my arms out and cradled the white cat to my chest, making small talk with Marie. She excused herself to go get some coffee, and I didn't blame her. I felt like I needed coffee too. I've felt exhausted all the time lately. For awhile I sat with Pickles in silence, the only sound the soft hum of the heater and her purrs. Waiting for Marie to come back, to take Pickles on to the next patient who needed her love. As time passed, I felt drowsy. Pickles was calming, accepting me despite my scars and burns and constant cough. I found myself talking to her, hoping to keep myself awake until Marie came. "You're very pretty, Pickles. I bet you get told that a lot. I wish my daughters could see you, maybe then they'd consider adopting a cat themselves." My voice trails off, Pickles watching me with her unceasing purr and slowly blinking eyes. I realize that here is someone who will listen to me, listen and not judge. "I'm scared, Pickles. I'm scared of being alone. I'm a burden to my family. I know where I am, I'm not leaving. Every week they visit less and less, and I grow more tired." My voice faltered, and I realized tears were welling up in my eyes. I shakily tried to control myself, and failed. A thick tear rolled down my cheek. A rough pink tongue licked it up, those beautiful green eyes never leaving my face. "Thank you, Pickles. I needed someone to talk to, I think." Another tear rolls down my cheek, and suddenly I'm sobbing. I can't breathe, I keep coughing. Pickles never leaves my side, purring and rubbing her head on my tear-streaked cheek. Finally my fit passes, and I'm tired. Marie has been gone for a long time, she must've gotten tied up talking to someone. I sigh, exhausted still. Finally I let my eyes close, warmed by the little white body and the endless purrs. I sleep, and I sleep. My last dreams are of a white kitten with brilliant green eyes. I am so tired, but somehow I am given strength to start anew.

There is a Death, a Grim Reaper, but he's not quite how you expected him to be. Write about a conversation you have with him while he ushers you into the next life.

"*Muahahahahahaha!*" It finally happened. The premonition of the internet has occurred. The act of transferring information over the internet into something tangible and working - the act of creating a perfect model and replica of something that existed on the internet. "I have done it! It is complete! Now, it's time for the fruits of my labor to be harvested!" [ Download: READY ] "But what should be my first target? A pen? No. A high-end desktop perhaps? No." His face lighted up to the empty room as he was about to announce his first target. "I choose... A CAR! Yes, I shall download a car!" To an outside observer, they would easily and quickly make the assumption that this person was completely insane. However, to him, it was simply the start of a new world. [ Download : 1% ] "Now, to wait and see the results." Cars are fairly large, so even with the fastest internet it would take several hours to complete. This did not deter the man, as he waited, staring at the glowing screen. "It begins...!!!" [ Download : 13% ] The wait was agonizing, but if it worked it would all be worth it. The man tried to keep his interest on the download bar, but it faltered quickly. [ Download : 24% ] He began playing with things around his desk, such as a pen. He began to twiddle his thumbs in anticipation for the download. [ Download : 32% ] Eventually, he got tired and fell asleep. He dozed off in front of the glowing monitor, losing consciousness very quickly despite his best attempts to keep awake. When he woke up, he looked at the download bar once more. [ Download : 99% ] "FINALLY! It is here! My car!" The man was jumping around the room, ecstatic as he was finally near the coveted *car* he was working towards. However, as the download bar nearly ticked over, something unexpected happened. [ Download : COMPLETE ] [ BEEP ] [ BEEP ] [ BEEP ] [ FATAL ERROR ] "What? No!" The man did have plenty of tests beforehand to prevent this from happening, even with larger and more complex objects than a car. He started profusely sweating as he tried to exit the download screen to figure out what went wrong. As he exited, something greeted him. *Did I hear you right? Did I hear you sayin'* *That you're gonna make a copy of a car without payin'?* *Come on guys! I thought you knew better don't copy that floppy!*

The most unspeakable act has been committed. Someone has downloaded a car.

The laser engraving tool whined with a metallic hiss, as the child roared loudly from the pain. Displayed now prominently in charred black numerals on its left forearm, was a series of binary numbers: “08-26-2072 : Heart Failure”. The Laxitron supercomputer had calculated using chaos mathematics, the precise conditions of the organic failure in this particular human child, within 0.0001%th of a precision degree of error. The atmosphere in the maternity ward was quite stifled, and grim. “That's it?” The mother exclaimed, glancing at the still smoking tattoo upon her child's arm. “He's only going to be ten years old, there must be some mistake!” She said as tears began to well up in her eyes. “Johnathan,” she said, reaching the cuff of her husband, who stood beside her, his teeth gritted down in quiet strength. “Tell them, there's a mistake.” She says. “No, sorry – there is no mistake mam. The calculations are quite precise. I am afraid that, despite our greatest efforts to screen your gametes, your child has been born with an inferior right ventricular aorta. The ligaments are too short, and will degenerate in approximately -” the doctor turns his vision to the transparent display hanging in the air surrounding him, invisible to the patients. “Six million, six hundred, thirty two thousand, and five pumps.” The tears began to roll in full stream as she dug her head into her husbands arms. “Doctor, there – what about the implants? Could you repair my son's heart before this happens?” The wide-eyed husband looked up at the chief clinician. “Hmm, I'm afraid I can't do that either. Your HMO is denying any coverage outside of ordinary and necessary maternity procedures. I'm afraid that the heart implant would need to be paid in cash.” Without even a second thought, the husband exclaimed: “I'll DO IT. I want him to live.” The doctor glances at the other nurses shiftingly. “You know, your child is only a few minutes old, I know that.. post-term abortions are heavily looked down upon, but the financial burden cou-” he is interrupted by the mother: “WHAT? KILL MY BABY?” she screamed. “No, no, now mam- listen, the procedure to install an anodized heart implant for your son is going to cost over $430,000, your brain is currently full of oxytocin and-” .. “No. Absolutely not. This is our child, and we're going to do what's right for him. We're not even considering that option, you make me sick.” Johnathan says, with a strong scowl on his face. “Give me the god damned form, I'll verify it right now.” He says. The doctor sighs, and swipes his heads up display, which enables the projector embedded onto shoulder-cam. A large list of text appears hanging in the air, over the patients, backwards from the doctor's point of view. Johanthan quickly begins swiping his hand up, scrolling all the way down to the bottom without reading the legalese, and puts his palm forward, which is quickly scanned and identified by the medical camera from the corner of the room. “Error. We are sorry. Your credit history is insufficient to sign this secured document. Please speak with a representative at the Central Union Bank during business hours.” The unit says, as the text turns bright red. The mother began to cry. “Don't worry we'll.. do something, we'll mortgage the house.. I won't let our baby die,” the husband says to her. “We'll be leaving now, and the nurses will check on you every hour or so,” the lead doctor says, removing his liquid drenched blue gloves, and depositing them into a sanitary container. He walked down the hallway to the resident's hall, and pulled down his surgical mask, pouring himself a cup of coffee into a black ceramic mug. A co-worker, from another floor with the tag “Josh” poured a cup of coffee as well. “Man, what was with all the screaming in there- low expiration date?” He asks. “Yeah-” the doctor said, sipping his coffee and looking out the window. “What is the accuracy of that system anyway?” Josh asked. The doctor laughed. “I don't know- nobody knows. You could promise someone three hundred years and they'll walk out giddy as hell, and then get hit by a bus crossing the street because they think they're invulnerable.” He replied. “So what you'd offer them as an extension?” Josh asked. “Anodized implant, cash.” “Cash?!” Josh whistled high. “430K.” He nodded. “The scam of the fucking century. I love it.” He grinned, putting his coffee cup down. “Paging Doctor Friedman, paging Doctor Friedman, you are needed in maternity ward number forty-two.” The overhead speaker announced in a computerized female tone. “See you later Josh – keep grinding out those med school loans!” He pat him on the shoulder. “Will do~”

When a Person is Born, They are Tattooed With the Date and Time of Their Death

Missy Jones waited nervously in the waiting room along with all the other 18 year olds. She had no clue what Age she was going to be - no one ever did. She hoped, like everyone did, that she would be in that 25 to 30 range - "mature" enough but young enough. But, alas, that privilege usually went to politicians nieces and nephews and whatnot. She really did not want to be Old. Honestly, even being Child was better than being old. You had people taking care of you forever, even if they were a bit strange sometimes. Missy always wondered what kind of person would volunteer to take care of a 6 year old for the rest of their life. She waited impatiently as all the other kids got assigned, her butt hurting from the old blue plastic chair. She watched as one of her classmates broke down in tears when told she was going to be 60. "Davis, Thomas and Davis, Timothy." called the bored looking government worker. Missy perked up. Twins were rare these days and although she had heard what generally happened to them, she was interested in seeing for herself. "Thomas. You are assigned to be 40. Timothy, you are assigned to be 10." The twins looked at each other in horror, and tried to plead with the worker, who just shrugged. "There's a quota that must be filled." Finally, it was her turn. "Jones, Missy?" She stood. "Yes sir?" she said, wiping her sweaty hands on her denim skirt. "You are assigned to be..." He frowned, his forehead for a moment. "18. You are assigned to be 18." Missy tilted her head, curiously confused. She shrugged. "At least my old clothes still fit!" she exclaimed brightly.

You live in a world where age is assigned to you by the government after you turn 18. Your body transforms into that age and you live at that age for the rest of your life.

He stumbled back, hitting the wall behind him. The woman sighed and rose from her knees. She brushed the alley filth from her palms. "Now why did you have to go and do something like that?" The cement scraped the leather of his jacket as he slid down the alley wall. "Idiot," she murmured. Her fingertips danced over the handle, still protruding from just above her belt. The long low noise coming from his lips was more animal than human. "I had plans today," she continued, voice calm. "A late breakfast then shopping. Brunch. Brunch is fashionable these days, you know." She paused. "It'll have to be somewhere... cute. A café maybe." He glanced to the dim light at the end of the alley. The shadow of a single passerby fell over his vision. He heard a low humming laugh. "No, you won't be leaving here." Her eyes locked on his. Something warm spread through his pants. Her lilting fingertips curled down, and in a single smooth arc, she pulled the blade free. "A steak knife?" she muttered, looking down at the clean steel knife. "Really? You can't do better than that?" His eyes darted downwards. Other than the frayed tear of gray silk, there was no blood. His mouth opened to cry out, but no sound came. "I liked this shirt too." She crossed the thin alley in a step, and crouched before him. "You're too young for this kind of life, aren't you? Aren't people your age supposed to be in college?" She drew an icy line around his face with the tip of the knife. "Such a shame. Well," she sighed, "no brunch for me." She grinned, and he shoved back as hard as he could against the alleyway wall. Her teeth were tiny and flat, and far too many. "How long do you think you'll scream before help arrives?" He cried out again. Another shadow flickered over him, another passerby. "It doesn't really matter, does it?"

"I wonder," she said glancing at the knife handle poking out from her stomach and directed her gaze at him. "How long will you scream before help arrives?" He picked the wrong woman to mug.

"Please." She says, eyes watering. "I regret I ever did it. Can you change it for me?" We're sitting at some scummy greasy spoon cafe on the worse part of the bad side of town. She has a black coffee with three sugars stirred in sitting in front of her. It's left a brown ring on the plastic table top. I've got a cup of tea with blue milk that smells a bit dodgy. I haven't taken a sip yet. I probably won't. It's raining outside. Rivulets wend their way down the dirty window pane and I make them race in my head as she talks. "I need to change what happened." She'd called me up two days ago and cried down the phone at me. I get a lot of people in tears. It doesn't affect me anymore. At the beginning, yes. I'd get upset at people's histories. Now I let it wash over me until they tell me how much they're willing to pay. She wipes her tears on her sleeve and sniffs. "I'm not asking for much." She says in a watery way. "I just want a timeline where he'd still be alive. I used to be a massive science fiction fan. A long time ago sentences like hat would have sent my brain into a whirling of paradoxes. Now I chewed at a loose hangnail and nodded at her. "Keep going. I need to know the rest of it, so I can change it." She bursts into another flood of tears and I roll my eyes. I've got another sell cross town in twenty minutes. If she doesn't hurry up, she won't get her Amendment and I won't get my money. She whispers something too quietly for me to hear, then starts sobbing even louder. The other patrons of the coffee shop start giving us weird looks, so I shove a napkin across the table. "It's okay." I say in my best comforting voice. "It's going to be alright." She gulps and reaches out for the napkin. Her sleeve rides up for a moment. I spot dark bruises peppering her wrist before she yanks it back down and they're gone. She lifts her eyes to mine and I try to pretend i wasn't looking. "We..." She starts and falters. "We argued. I never meant to do it. It was the heat of the moment, it was all my fault. He... He's dead!" Her voice cracks but she manages, thank fuck, not to cry this time. "And you want him back?" I've pulled out my tablet and I'm looking through the algorithms that make up this woman's time stream. The death should be easy to tweak out, just a couple of number changes on the 16th March and that fight would have never happened. What would happen was that 'he' would pop back into being as though the elapsed time had never missed him, and she would forget ever meeting me. Which, looking at the coffee, wasn't a bad move. "Yes please." She says. "I just want thimgs to go back to the way they were. I cast another look at the thick black jumper covering her arms. She smiles weakly and flips her hair over her shoulder. Bruises there too. The image of my mother rises, unbidden, into my mind like a tidal wave. Three broken plates and spots of blood on a tiled floor as I hid under the stairs to avoid *his* rage. She told the neighbours she'd walked into a door. "Nasty marks you got there." I say, nodding to her shoulder. She goes white and pulls and tugs at the material until they've gone. "I'm really clumsy." A hollow laugh. "I fell down the stairs. Can you believe it?" "Sure." I pass the tablet to her. "It's all done, if you could just sign there." She sighs with relief and signs. Before my eyes the lines disappear from her face. She sits up a little straighter and smiles fully at me. "I feel so much better now." She squeezes my hand in thanks and leaves. She has never met him. I decide to call my mother tonight.

A time traveler sells different timelines to people who regret their past mistakes. This is his most memorable encounter.

"Tic tac toe" WHAT? "I choose tic tac toe" SIGH With a flourish a desk, a dry erase board and a marker appeared before them. With a slight gesture of death's bony hand a perfect 3 by 3 grid appeared in the center of the board. Fred placed his circle in the middle of the board. Death placed an X in a corner. After a minute, the game ended in a tie. "In the event of a tie, we play again correct?" CORRECT "excellent, may the game continue" The next game ended in a tie, and the next. The next 4 games were all close, but ended in a tie. Fred and death swapped off going first, after a couple hours of tieing, death paused for a minute. THIS COULD TAKE A WHILE After a couple months, both players were simply going through the motions. Every once in a while some one would start in a corner just to mix things up, and inevitably the same moves followed after that. I HAVE NEVER LOST A GAME YOU KNOW " I know, considering Bobby Fischer died a couple years ago I figured beating you wasn't really an option" I HAVE EXISTED FOR MILLENIA, MY PATIENCE DOES NOT END "How did you get this job in the first place?" Fred casually placed a circle in the center of the freshly cleared board. After a couple more games, death answered. THE AFTERLIFE GETS BORING, YOU KNOW "I admit, it is starting to look that way" AFTER A COUPLE OF CENTURIES, MANY OF US TAKE JOBS. The games continue. The routine is automatic now for Fred, he barely glances at the board for each move before returning his gaze to others. In the distance, countless others were trying to best death. "are they all you?" NO, THIS FORM IS MORE OF A UNIFORM THEN AN IDENTITY. Every now and then, a death would beat some one, their heads would slump, and with sweep of death's arm, they disappeared, then the death too would vanish. MY SHIFT ENDED WEEKS AGO "Well, I'm sorry for that, but I don't think I'm done playing yet" A year passed by. In that time, Fred got to know who death was, besides being death. They swapped stories of their lives while watching the souls around them compete and lose. Briefly, a forest surrounded them as one soul tried to best death in a fox hunt. Months later, they found themselves at the top of a mountain while another soul tried to out ski death. "Are you all universally skilled?" NO, WE PICK MAJORS IN DEATH COLLEGE, AND ARE ASSIGNED TO CLIENTS APPROPRIATELY "What did you major in?" RIDDLES, LOGIC PUZZLES AND BOARD GAMES Another year passed, and neither opponent showed a sign of budging. Fred continued making conversation. "I really do miss my home, do you have homes up here?" YOU HAVE WHAT YOU WANT, UP HERE THE OPTIONS ARE FAR LESS LIMITED "my wife passed several years before I did, however I never did get around to finishing up the will for the children. I'm sure they can figure it out on their own, but I hate to leave them so early. Their families are barely started, and I have only met one grand child" LIFE ISN'T ALWAYS FAIR "No, it never was" The weeks continued stretching on, while watching a soul attempt to out basketball death, death turned to Fred" IT REALLY ISN'T THAT BAD UP HERE "It seems pleasant enough" BEYOND HERE, THE ONLY LIMIT IS WHAT YOU CAN IMAGINE "Then why have earth at all? Why let life continue as grimly as it does when the afterlife is perfect?" IMAGINATION REQUIRES INSPIRATION For the first time in years, death moved his arm again, and bellow them, an image of the earth appeared. Through the window beneath their feet, the image moved across the lives of thousands, detailing their happiness, sadness, triumphs and losses. "were we ever only entertainment?" WHEN TIME IS ETERNAL, WHAT ELSE IS THERE? Fred stared out at the other souls. Every once in a while a small poof announced another passing on to the next world. "No one has ever beaten death have they?" IT'S NOT A FAIR CHALLENGE, WE HAVE CENTURIES OF PRACTICE "They aren't supposed to, are they?" PEOPLE HAVE TROUBLE MOVING ON, THE GAME HELPS THEM FEEL THEY AT LEAST HAD A FAIR SHOT "I have never seen some one beat death, and I have seen millions of games, how is that fair?" LIFE IS NOT FAIR, WE HELP PEOPLE MOVE PAST THAT Fred stared down at the world bellow "Can I still watch the world when I pass over?" THE EARTH IS MOST OF OUR FAVORITE PAST TIME "Is what you can see... limited?" IN DEATH, NO ONE JUDGES "I didn't mean it like that" I'M SURE The image settled on Fred's funeral. His family was in tears, and many huddled close to each other for support. "I had a good life you know? I don't think I would have done much different. save for living longer" ALL GOOD THINGS COME TO AN END "when this is over, would you mind stopping by after your shift?" I HAVE PLENTY OF VACATION DAYS BY NOW Fred stared at the board, it was his opening move. He smiled, and drew a circle in a side center square. YOU WERE A VERY INTERESTING CASE FRED Death placed his final X, and drew a line through all three. "Hopefully my wife won't be too angry I wasted these years playing tic tac toe" TIME MOVES VERY DIFFERENTLY HERE THEN IT DOES DOWN THERE Death pulled back his hood, to reveal a female face. Fred's heart skipped a beat. The face spoke: "I don't mind at all dear"

You die in a tragic accident. While sitting on a bench in purgatory, Mr/Mrs.Death approaches you and says, "Pick a game, any game, and if you are the victor, I'll send you back to the day before the accident."

"Scheisse it's cold." "Yeah Werner, that so? Please do tell us more obvious statements about the world. Maybe about how the sun rises in the east and sets in the west. Or perhaps where babies come from. Christ on a crutch, I was reading my brother Karl's letter from Africa. Would you believe he had the notion that the desert was tougher than here? He keeps complaining of the heat and sun and the bad water. Damn. We got plenty of fucking water right here, and it's frozen! All he has to worry about is dehydration and the Tommies. He's not dealing with frostbite or the Ivans. If I didn't love my brother, I'd trade places with him right here and now. I mean honestly, I-" "Quiet Hans." Oberjager Weber speaks softly. "There's something in the woods." The squad's voices die down, replaced by the soft crackling of the fire. They slowly pick up their rifles, and peer out into the ink black of the night. There's not a sound it seems but those of the forest. But with their eyes pointing down the sights of their K98's, something can be heard. Barely anything at first. It takes a keen ear to make it out from the gently wind that flows between the pines, but it is there. *Dum, Dum, Dum.* Very soft it is, almost like a whisper. *Dum dum.. dum.. dum, dum.* It is like a drum, a faint distant drum. It is growing louder.There is no pattern to it. It is maddeningly off tempo and irregular. A madman would have to be playing it. It is getting closer. *Dumdumtrum.... Dum! Dum!* The sound is coming from every direction. And it continues on. "Sir? What's going on?" The non-com aiming his MP-40 into the night doesn't glance over at the jager. "No idea Fleischer. Keep it quiet." The drumming crescendos, turning into a drumroll that's maddeningly loud. Men are covering their ears at the sound. Airplane engines make less noise standing next to one than what they are listening to. Soldiers are screaming now, begging for the insane sound to cease. As if one was listening, it cuts out, like a music maestro had waved his baton at the percussions. Men are thanking god and wondering what on Earth that was about. Then more occurs. At first it is the sound of a little girl crying, just a soft whimper. Some the soldiers whisper about helping the source of the sound. But after those drums of the damned, everyone is scared witless. Then another voice calls out from the darkness, a young woman's. She is begging for help. Pleading for someone to aid her. Then more call out, crying, asking, pleading. From all around the tiny circle of light the fire provides the voices ring out. Then the screams start. Bloodcurdling screams. The screams of the dying and those giving birth. Others beg for unseen attackers to stop. The screams are like nails being driven in the skull. Still others scream hatred and anger at the soldiers. Like a banshees calls they are. If the drums were terrible, this is worse. Men claw at their ears, drawing blood with their nails. Others start wrenching, tearing at their clothes. One young soldier pulls out his bayonet and stabs it into his throat, slashing it around to maximize the damage. He dies in a gurgling laugh, bright red blood speckling the white snow. The screams of the women die down melting into the wind, leaving a weeping mass of huddled men. Many cry for their mothers. Some clutch at crucifixes, praying. Other's vomit from the pain and terror. It is a wretched scene. From the distance, a light approaches. It is a pale green, a foul color. The men, bloody, half naked, with tears dripping down their silent faces, look on in horror. Out of the woods comes a figure, mounted on a pale horse. Clad in the roughest of stained linens, the rider looks out on the terrified mass. Held in his hand is a chipped and rusted scythe. His hand, gaunt with boney fingers, reaches up to the edge of his cowl and lifts it off. The men scream in fear. Looking over the meager lot, grins a face stripped of skin and flesh. It is Death. Within his eyes, galaxies are born and die in seconds. Stars go supernova and black holes are formed. The complete history of everything occurs in his vision. No man could see what Death saw and hope to keep his sanity. His hellish steed rises and whirls around with a bugling equine scream. Death brandishes his sinister blade and points it at the praying men. Kicking snow behind him, Death charges towards the kneeling mass begging for mercy. Faster and faster he gallops, drawing a cloud of darkness behind him like a cape. Bullets pass straight through his spectral form. The howls of Hell Hounds can be heard. Their baying promising destruction and oblivion. The drums return as does the banshees' screams. Death reaches out with his boney hand and motions. The fire goes out.

On a dark snowy night, in a woodland away from the sound of battle, a small camp of soldiers begins to experience the supernatural. --Can be written in a journal format, or an outright story.

To whom it may concern, I have been a beta tester for your product, “The Human Body,” for over two decades now and feel I have gathered enough information to submit a reasonable bug report. Please do not take offense to my reviews, as I am simply trying to aid in the perfection of your final product. To begin, I’d like to talk about the “human” as a whole. Unfortunately, I feel it is shoddy, poorly made, and unreliable. From what I understand, most models do not last beyond their initial 80 years of use, although this number varies wildly. I can only assume this is due to a planned obsolescence, in order to sell a higher volume. I am not a fan of such practices; I wasn’t a fan when it was done for the iPod and I am not a fan of it being done to the liver, heart, or brain. Other models are expected to last well over 100 years – your “turtle” and “tree” products, both of which are almost entirely stationary, last beyond that. Why should your higher-function model have a lower shelf-life? It is important to think of your user base, rather than only your shareholders. In regards to those who use their bodies in extreme methods, such as professional crash-test dummies, bullet-proof vest testers, and children’s mascots, this span can be under forty years. I’ve even heard of models coming out of the box broken. This is simply unacceptable. I expect this to be a bug you have already received numerous issue reports for, but figured I’d mention it anyway. Speaking in terms of the lifespan, the product itself seems to grow more feeble (mentally and physically) with time. This is evidence of poor building materials. Skin becomes thin, body parts droop or stop working all together, mental ability slows, driving issues increase drastically, and public nudity occurs more frequent (I have personally witness models completely nude in gym bathrooms, some almost tripping over their drooping extremities). This varies from product to product, however. Some models, notably the female versions, begin smelling much more like shopping malls and roses; the male version tends to hoist its pants higher while becoming more politically radical. As a whole, though, it can be assumed that most of your later-life products become rather delayed, slow, and crotchety. Regarding my own personal use, I’ve discovered several issues that affect all models. Physical strength, first and foremost, is quite limited. Unless I am specifically focusing my time on increasing that strength, it remains stationary. I should not have to work at increasing such a thing, it should be provided standard. Additionally, mental abilities also need to be heavily trained. What kind of product are you selling that comes out of the box with almost no inherit knowledge? Not to mention the fact that you are marketing this as a higher-function being—there is no reason why your “giraffe” model should be almost completely self-reliant on delivery, but the “human” requires incredible support. I mean, this product does not even defecate properly until over a year after its initial shipping. Given such a short product life, it is ludicrous for your users to have to spend 20+ years working at increasing its intelligence. This should also be included as a standard product. The youth stages also pose numerous other issues for this product. Most notably, the facial regions tend to break out in pimples and become awkwardly shaped during the first 20-or-so years of use. During this period, it will completely doubt itself in almost every aspect, while simultaneously thinking too highly of itself. It is a walking paradox, and it does not care for others. It also goes through a stage of disobedience, in which the brain tends to make illogical decisions such as fighting for no real reason, not focusing in classes, and trying way too hard to impress the opposite sex model by performing insignificant feats (i.e. talking louder, driving faster, or handbrake turns). In fact, the entire opposite sex issue becomes over-enthralling for much of the product's youth. Some experience awkward swelling physical issues in the middle of classrooms, while wearing sweatpants, as they are asked to stand and speak about something. Not that this one bug occurred to me, but it's, you know, a bug. This becomes less of an issue as it learns, but the fact that it has such ridiculous experiences is an issue within itself. Another major issue is the brain. Not only does it become obsolete with time, it is also a host to all sorts of bugs, ranging from strokes, to uneven distribution of talent, to misaligned emotions. Some products possess a strange, undeserved idea of self-importance. Others focus heavily on those with that self-importance, almost idealizing them. There are even some products that have no self-importance, and may expire early due to this bug. Additionally, the brain function has two other major issues. The first is that it exists. The model would be much better if it were entirely autonomous. There is no reason why so many models should have such a wide array of views, emotions, and ideas. This is just evidence of a poorly created model; if everything is different, then how are we supposed to fix anything? The product should share almost entirely, if not entirely, the same views. Things like the same political beliefs, same clothing options, same taste in music, same way of making a sandwich – without this synchronization, models tend to fight, or even kill themselves. Entire battles have broken out for insignificant reasons; entire races of your product almost completely wiped out due to malfunctioning brains. There is no reason for this to exist. The second brain issue seems to be one biggest issues throughout the entire life of your product. It has been called “love.” It consistently occurs when it is most unacceptable or unfortunate; it becomes a major burden on the product’s efficiency. I have seen several models expire before their time due to this bug. Some have acted out of character, while others simply broke and changed every aspect of themselves. This is unacceptable, it is a massive problem in the overall use of the product. Some of the models even become infatuated with those from the same shipping plant. As a whole, the “human” model is great. It does learn better than your other models, and does seem to work better as a whole. However, it is not absent of its flaws. Please do not take any of my criticisms to heart, as I really wish to see this product supported and grown into something far stronger than it is today. There is so much done right with it, but so much that needs repair. Sincerely yours, Beta Tester 107,602,707,791

Submit a bug report?

God had been many things. He had often proclaimed himself wise, by virtue of knowing more than any other being. He had been considered all-powerful by others, because He was far more powerful than they. He was considered the ultimate good, for He was the most good humanity could comprehend. Mass knowledge is not omniscience. Vast power is not omnipotence. Great good is not perfection. On the day Jesus died, God wept. God wept because He had come to realize that His great plan was imperfect, as was He. He had thought to make humans like Him by means of hundred religions and careful guidance, but realized that humans were more versatile. Where He was unchangeable, absolute, they could explore. They had the potential to discover and create good that was different, and perhaps greater than, Him. They mourned his son in a way that he had not, could not. They could feel pain and do evil, but from that pain and evil they could better learn good than He. God realized that He had indeed created His successors. Not as equals though, but as superiors. He realized that they would not ever be able to achieve their potential with his meddling, and so, He left. In the thousands of years to come they would question whether He ever existed, and that was greatest good he could do them. EDIT: Thanks guys, especially whoever gave me Gold. I love the discussion and yes, the critisicsm. Hope to see more of you soon! Long live /r/WritingPrompts!

God is found dead.

‘Target in sight. Kitchen.’ The man kneeling in the garden shifted to his other knee. ‘Any others?’ ‘The usual.’ Three, then. The man readied his gun. ‘Go when ready.’ ‘Ready.’ An arc of light crashed through a window of the house. The kitchen. The man was already moving, sprinting, gun shivering in his grip. The screams of a woman, the cries of a child, the shouts of a man, sounded from inside. The usual. The gun flashed as he snapped it round, fired, cutting the chaos with fear. The father was the first to fall, surprised and enraged, followed by the mother. The tears that had pooled in her eyes fell free. She was defeated. They usually made more of an effort. The man lowered his gun, gazing at the child. Its screams were louder. The man fired the gun again, and the crack that echoed through the broken room silenced it. No words needed to be said. The man snatched the child from its chair, his grip rough, and threw it around his shoulders. It was crying again. The man ignored it. ‘Target acquired,’ said the man. ‘I see that.’ ‘Where’s this one going?’ said the man. ‘Music industry.’ The man hummed. ‘Nice. What genre?’ ‘Classical. Hurry, now. They’ll wake soon.’ ‘I know,’ said the man, and moved the child to his other shoulder, wondering if he would hear what it produced before it was put down. The man hoped so.

A world in which doing an activity more makes you worse at it. Practice does not make perfect, instead, the exact opposite.

John wasn't society's predetermined "type" - he didn't fit the profile of your typical serial killer. Sociable, at least somewhat charismatic and charming…I know quite a bit about the man, and I must say there was no reason to be suspicious of him. It may even be argued that John was an empathetic man, at least as much as a murderous man can be. John's big problem? Insurmountable pride. In his younger days, he could show detractors their place by embarrassing them on the basketball court, or perhaps even stealing their girl on occasion. Unfortunately for John, high school only lasts for so long. At some point in his life, those once-great advantages no longer served him so well. As the glories of his past faded and the opportunities to reclaim them diminished, John was losing the upper hand over his peers. Over the last few months, John was starting to take his struggles much more personally. Others' successes were not merely an annoyance, but an affront to him whether they realized it or not. Soon afterwards, he reached the conclusion that the best way to emerge victorious in his fictitious clashes for superiority was to make the stakes a little more permanent. Over the last two months, he claimed victory over the old high school friend with the seven figure house, the woman who beat him out for the big promotion in New York, and the snobby neighbor with the wife who was just a bit too attractive. This is where I come in. On the many occasions when he struggled with the gravity of his actions, I was there to console him. I was the one with the best chance of setting him straight, the only friend he could actually trust. I understood the nature of his illness, and I wouldn't let him deny it despite his many attempts to do so. I repeatedly advised him to seek help, to find other activities, anything. To John's credit, there was a part of him that genuinely wanted to stop, to find any way to right his wrongs as much as he could. Some days were better than others, but I had already failed him three separate times. That one fact is hard to come to terms with, but I couldn’t just give up. I genuinely believed that if I said the right things and gave enough effort, I could make John into the caring and remorseful man he may have once been. Earlier today, John informed me of his upcoming triumphs. The runners up in his next match were to be his boss's three children. The boss was an old basketball teammate of John’s – both shooting guards, both fighting for the same spot in the starting lineup. Needless to say, John wasn’t on the best terms with the guy, and the thought of serving under him to this day was especially infuriating. John got to know the kids from times he was asked to watch over them when his “friend” was out of town - the man in charge never hesitated to give John extra "financial opportunities" outside of the office. They weren't objectionable in their own right, other than being your typical elementary level brats. This could not be said for his boss, who fully embraced his advantages over John. More meetings, more tasks on and off the job (John had no misconceptions of leverage), more condescension. If John was to have the final say, he would have to go a step further. When you destroy an egomaniac, you don't necessarily go straight after him. You go after what he holds closest to his heart. I was the first to learn of John's plans, but my efforts to talk him out of it were received much differently this time around. No tears, no pleas for forgiveness, no interest in reconsidering. My efforts to stop his impulses were previously unsuccessful, but never as futile as they were now. John was a man with a plan. No one, not even his most trusted friend, would get the way of what he wanted. I am John's conscience. Tonight, four figures in his life will be lost forever. I will be the first.

You are an imaginary friend of a serial killer. The person is contemplating another murder, and much to your disbelief, the next victim is you.

Elise was alone. The bourbon that usually burned at first as it surged down her throat would become more comforting the more she drank. It was the same brand Elmer loved to drink. A glass on the rocks before he would go to bed. He drank it for over forty years until the night before his untimely death. Elise was alone. She sat atop the building of her rundown twenty-story apartment under a sky blanketed in a light gray. The clouds had converged and were now in meeting. It was her mother's favorite kind of weather, especially when a light breeze gently caressed her false golden locks, occasionally tangling them with her gaudy pearl earrings. Elise was her favorite child. Then again, she was her only child. She too had met her end not long ago. The years were not kind to her or her body. Elise was alone. She had no children to speak of, which had always been fine with her and Elmer. They never cared too much for them and were content being just with each other. Elise was alone. Elise took a long drag of her cigarette as she let her fingers gently touch the spot where the tumor was. For months, the excruciating headaches had taken over her life. She gave up the road trips to the Grand Canyon so she could always be closer to home in case anything happened. Then, the swing dancing lessons had to stop because she couldn't concentrate. Eventually, she had to give up sculpting human models and painting her flowers for the same reason. Her friends came by less and less. Then, Elmer... Elise was alone. It was five thirty on this dreary April afternoon. They said there would be rain later in the evening. Elise nodded to herself. Before she could regret it, she stood at the edge of the building and poured the rest of the bottle of bourbon on her. She lit her coat with her cigarette, setting it ablaze with a beautiful sapphire flame. She spun as she threw herself off. She now faced the sky so that it would be the last thing she would see. She could hear the gasps and the screams down below. Elise could feel their eyes following her to her fate. Elise no longer felt alone.

You have just been told you have an inoperable tumor. You refuse to die a slow painful death and instead go looking for a way to go out in a "blaze of glory"

"Daddy, tell me a scary story." Boston pleaded, climbing up into her father's lap. "What kind of scary story?" He asked. "Something with monsters. I wanna hear about a creepy monster." She sang. "Okay. Let me think." He said, hugging her close so the perfect little flower that was her face was gazing up at him. "I'll tell you the story of Nathan. The monster under the fridge. Nathan is a Ha-buga-boo. The most terrifying of all bogey men. He lives in the shadow beneath the fridge, waiting for children and other little kids. The terrifying beast with hands like a child leaves finger prints on the door in true monster style." He told her, wiggling his fingers in a creepy fashion. She giggled with terrified glee. "Nathan is a sneak. He leaves hand prints on the fridge so the little kids get in trouble. And when daddy gets upset, he sends the little girl or little boy to clean their finger prints off, and--HE GRABS YOUR FEET AND PULLS YOU UNDERNEATH!" He exclaimed, tickling her. "What's he do with the little kids he takes?" She asked, curious. "He skins them and makes a little kid suit out of them so he can escape from underneath the fridge." He told her. "Gross." She said, making a retching motion. "Did you know your little sister was stolen by Nathan?" He asked, pretending to be serious. "No she wasn't." Boston said in disbelief. "You can tell because the skin suit doesn't fit very tight." He added, calling to Boston's little sister, Emily. Emily came running in on stubby little legs and climbed up on daddy's other knee. "Okay. Watch closely and you'll see that your little sister is really Nathan in disguise." Her father told Emily to sit very still. He placed his hand on her scalp and pulled it forward and back making it slide back and forth across her skull. "Ahhh! Stop, Daddy. Stop!" Boston called, crawling away from her sister. He kept doing it. "Ooo! Nathan's going to get you." He sang in an eerie voice. "Nathan's going to come out and get you." Emily looked up at her father in irritation and tried to pull away. "The only way to make Nathan come out is like this." He said, licking his finger in preparation for a wet willy. Boston started laughing. Emily looked very angry. He got the finger closer and closer to Emily's ear. "Okay, Nathan. COME OUT!" He called, sticking his wet finger in Emily's ear. Emily's skin suddenly split open and Nathan slithered out like a blood-covered locust and scrambled off the terrified family's lap an onto the floor. Boston screamed an ear-splitting high-pitched scream that sent Nathan scurrying under the coffee table and upending chairs as he sought out his den. Father leapt to his feet in surprise and used a poker from the fire place to try and bash in the monster's head. Nathan spat and hissed and dragged himself along with his two blood-slicked arms, small and thin like tree branches. When father laid a good strike across the monster's back, it turned and pursued father and Boston, clawing at them and scratching their legs and arms and whatever it could reach. Once it was sure they were in retreat, it turned it's bulbous head around, it's deep hollow sockets housed dark red orbs that spied the fridge. It turned and fled then. Father hesitated then ran after it, but Nathan made it to the fridge first and slithered under with a lot of wiggling and scrapping. Boston's father turned back to look at the couch in fear and amazement . . . and horror. Boston was holding her sister's wet, sticky, discarded skin in her hands and starring at the slumping face in abject terror. "Where's Emily?" She asked. Father turned to look at the fridge knowing the answer was there. **Interesting Side Note:** I used to tell my daughter about this monster that lived under the fridge named Nathan. Nathan was the name I kept calling my ex-wifes boyfriend. It wasn't his name, but when I told her this story, she didn't want to hang around him to much. :))

Write a genuinely scary story about the most ridiculous monster you can imagine.

The man walked to the bridge alone. No one stopped him, told him to wait because he was still important, he was still loved. No cars honked at him as he ambled down the center of the roadway. Even the birds had gone quiet in deference. The only sounds were the dull thuds of his feet on the cracked asphalt. Behind him, another building groaned and then collapsed, joining its fallen brethren. He didn't even turn around; he was used to it by now. The man stopped and leaned against one of the bridge railings, looking out over the bay. No one was out boating today; in fact, no one had gone out on the water in a while. No one was driving on the bridge, either; their cars had probably all rusted long ago anyway. It had been almost six years, and that time can take its toll on a lonely man's mind. He was surprised he'd lasted this long, after the bombs had gone everywhere and he'd somehow found shelter. A harsh gust suddenly blew through, pushing him back from the railing, as if to say, "*Wait! Stop! Don't do it!*" But the man had made up his mind long ago. He had walked to this bridge every day this week. The bridge had once been beautiful. It had been a true marvel, a bright orange behemoth that stretched on for what seemed like infinity. But now? Now it was only a rusted reminder of days past, one that only covered a few miles, because, like all things, it had to end eventually. The man had reached the middle of the bridge. He climbed up on the railing. No more loneliness. No more hallucinations. No more hunger. No more hopeless hoping. No more insanity. He jumped. And as the wind whistled around him and the water rushed up to meet him, he smiled for the first time in almost six years.

A man walking alone knows he is headed to his death

Chuck kneeled down, eyes fixed straight ahead. The forest was incredibly thick, he couldn’t see more than a few feet ahead, let alone a few miles. He’d been out hiking—on an adventure to cross Missouri—for well over three hours now, yet hadn’t realized the map he’d brought with him was from the year 1820. He had wondered why Missouri was depicted as being so large, but assumed it was simply because he had never seen a proper map before. He now understood that he was looking at a picture of the Missouri territory. Chuck sighed. He was lost and he knew it. Chuck slid his backpack off his back and dropped it on the floor in front of him. It was his brother’s bag, he had grabbed it off the shelf before leaving the house. It was colored “forest camouflaged,” which Chuck figured would help if he was being hunted by serial killers. The last thing he needed was a high-visibility bag to make skinning him a walk in the park—he’d seen enough movies to know how that turns out. In fact, Chuck was dressed entirely in camoflague to deter this very outcome—the harder he was to see, the safer he was. Chuck stuck his hand into the backpack, now resting in the dirt, and began taking inventory of his possessions. He had one flip knife, a magnesium fire starter, two sandwiches, two bottles of water, a cell phone, and his Official Sassy Survival Guide. He had grabbed the guide off a shelf before leaving the information kiosk. They suggested he bring a survival guide with him, just in case, so he took the first one he’d seen. Chuck picked up the cellphone and held it close to his face. He had full reception, LTE, and 1% battery. Had he not spent the morning playing Angry Birds on his cell phone, perhaps he would have been able to conserve a bit more battery. However, Chuck had set a top 30 world-wide high score and decided that no mistake had been made. He swiped his finger across the screen and watched as his apps became visible. He glanced at the battery – still 1%. He paused for a moment, then clicked on his Facebook app. As quickly as he could, he updated his status to read “Lol shit, lost in the jungle. Phone has 1% bat, not gonna get ur texts. Pls help lol.” Chuck re-read the status and pressed submit. He swiped down, refreshing the page, and saw his post had successfully gone through. He pressed the home button then completely turned off the cell phone. Help was sure help was to arrive now. Chuck placed the phone back in the bag. He felt a little hungry, so he grabbed the sandwich from within the backpack and opened it up. Peanut butter and jelly on whole wheat. It was his least favorite sandwich. His mother was always trying to make him eat them, she said they were great for keeping his energy up. He shook his head, how naïve she was—he was totally awake and full of energy, all without having a single peanut butter and jelly sandwich yet. Chuck stared into the jungle – emerald vines extended down the forest floor, which was covered in dirt, dead leaves, and various plant life. He couldn’t recognize a single one of them beyond the name “plants.” He sighed and took a bite of the sandwich. It was all right, but he really preferred ham and cheese. He threw it on the floor and kicked a little dirt on top, just as he’d seen Bear Grylls do when putting out a fire. He then opened up his bag and pulled out the second sandwich. He unwrapped a corner – ham and cheese. He smiled and took a bite. It was delicious. He wasn’t quite starving, but he was certainly a little peckish. He took three more bites of the sandwich, then threw the crust on the floor. He moved on to the second half, but found he wasn’t hungry enough to take more than two bites. He threw the remainder on the floor. Chuck looked around him, the sky was almost completely blocked by the canopy of the trees. He kicked dirt over his half-eaten sandwich portion and the other crust, then took the two water bottles out of his bag. He opened the first and poured it over his head. He was feeling a little warm, the slightly cooler water helped make him more comfortable. He emptied the remainder out onto his hands to clean off the crumbs. Chuck then grabbed the second water bottle and had a sip. It was very refreshing. He had another sip, then drank the entire bottle. Chuck smiled and let out a sigh, then threw the two bottles into the jungle. They went further than he anticipated, he congratulated himself for a wonderful throwing arm. He briefly considered trying to find them so as to bury them in the dirt, but ultimately decided against it. Chuck kneeled back down and resumed digging through his bag. He was not quite hungry anymore, but he figured it was time to figure out some next steps – help was already on the way, thanks to his facebook status, but he may as well start some survival precautions anyway. He grabbed his Official Sassy Survival Guide and opened to page one: “SASSY SURVIVAL – A Girl’s Guide to Surviving the World.” It was written in pink; the word "SASSY” was in cursive, while “SURVIVAL” was glittery and rough to the touch. Chuck flipped to the table of contents and ran his finger down the titles, stopping at “Forest Survival – 47.” He flipped to page 47. “So you’re stuck in the forest,” it read. “That sucks! Try to make the problem less mentally distressing. Think about the hottest guy you know. Now imagine he’s touching his belt – that’s a good sign, it means he’s into you!” Chuck closed his eyes and tried to think of the hottest man he knew. He hadn’t really had much experience in thinking about hot guys. As a heterosexual male, he’d always thought of women as being the “hot” ones. Sure, he’d been in situations where he had seen men and thought “that guy is attractive,” but he’d never really thought of them as hot. Instead, Chuck decided to just think about any guy with a belt. His grandfather popped into mind – he always had on a belt with a large buckle. Perfect. Chuck opened his eyes and glanced back down at the book. “Next, you want to observe your surroundings. Look for things you can use for every-day life. Did you know a hot pinecone attached to a stick can be a great curling iron? Do your best to find substitutes to your favorite everyday items!” Chuck stood up and looked around him. He didn’t really need a curling iron – his hair was already quite curly. He also wasn’t sure how to use one. Do you just place it on your head, then wait? Or do you have to get more involved? Chuck began walking toward a pinecone, but then decided it would be best to wait until later to spend time learning to curl his hair. He read on. “One important aspect of survival is to remember to look sexy at all times. Rescuers are often rugged, hot firemen looking for that damsel in distress. Don’t be some unattractive loser covered in mud, make sure you’re always looking, and feeling, sexy!” Chuck placed the book on the floor. Again, he wasn’t too interested in looking great for those hot firemen. However, should a rescuer come in the form of someone like Kate Upton, he wanted to look good. Chuck grabbed his bag and fumbled around until clasping his palm around a small metal object. He pulled out the magnesium fire starter. It had a mirrored metal case which was cold to the touch. He lifted it to his face and started into it. His was hair was a mess, curling wildly in various directions. It looked good, though, like he had styled it specifically for that “bed head” appearance. Chuck smiled and ran his hand through it. It popped right back up. He threw the fire starter on the floor then buried it under a thin layer of dirt so as to avoid a forest fire. He picked the book back up. “If you’re going to be looking sexy, make sure your hair looks sexy first and foremost. After all, that is where most guys will look first!” Chuck nodded, knowing his hair already looked great. He read on. “Now, while you’re out in the jungle, make sure you’re protected from the sun. The last thing you want is unattractive tan lines when you’re being rescued. Placing leaves over the sleeves of your shirt is a great way to avoid a farmer’s tan.” Chuck looked up at the canopy above him. A thin beam of light pierced through the leaves, running at an angle toward the ground several feet away from him. He shrugged, then picked up a branch from the floor. It had several still-green leaves on it. He snapped three off and slipped the stems under his t-shirt so that the thicker portions covered the skin on his upper arms. He then tore three more and repeated the process on his other arm. He felt safer already and decided to read on. “Don’t forget to try to keep fit while you’re lost in the jungle. No one is around to see you get sweaty, so start those fitness programs up! Do 10 jumping jacks, then 10 pushups, and finish with a nice ab-building sit-up and crunch circuit for 10 reps each! You definitely don’t want to look fat and out of shape when those firemen get there.” Chuck was still uninterested in the firemen, but definitely didn’t want Kate Upton to think he was looking chunky. He placed the book on the floor and began doing jumping jacks. After ten, he moved on to pushups. The book depicted them as placing his knees on the ground, rather than his toes as he’d learned in gym class. He figured the book knew more than a simple, lowly highschool coach and did as it instructed. It was easy—he was amazed by his strength. Chuck quickly finished ten, then lay down and began his sit-ups, followed by crunches. Chuck stood up, breathing heavily as he wiped his forehead with the bottom his shirt. He quickly glanced at his stomach. “Jacked,” he thought. He picked the book back up and read on.

A man lost in the wilderness consults his survival guide, only to realize he bought the 'Cosmopolitan' of survival guides.

I recently watched *The Dark Knight*, and I must say: For all the acclaim it has received, I really found it, well, bad. The film opens up in what looks like a sound stage in India. The boom is clearly visible in the shot as several large cardboard pages appear with the words “THE DARK NIGHT.” I didn’t make a typo, it actually says “night.” You’d think that a movie this big would get its own name right, no? Well, it continues getting worse from there. For some reason, Christian Bale dons a thick Indian accent for the entire film. Unlike *Batman Begins,* he also ditches the deep “Batman” voice, instead opting for an incomprehensible slurring of strange sounds whenever he wears the costume. The movie itself takes place in India, where the evil Jokester (I always thought it was "Joker," but that might just be me), played by the late Heath Ledger, is plotting to destroy Indian-Gotham city. The city itself looks vastly different than its prequel – no longer is it a sprawling, anarchical metropolis. Instead, it is a dusty, poor village. It is a very strange decision by Christopher Nolan, but—at this point in the film—one still has faith in his abilities. The special effects take a serious hit in this movie, as opposed to *Batman Begins*. Instead of the mind blowing visuals of the first, most effects are pulled off via the use of bottle rockets, spools of yarn, and long sticks. The fighting scenes take a similar punch (no pun intended) as they go from exciting and realistic to two Indian men kicking and punching three feet away from their targets. This all takes place under the cacophonous guise of the free YouTube background music (Mr. Nolan, it might be time to pay for some big-budget music). In terms of visual and recording quality, it seems Mr. Nolan—for some reason—also decided to use a more archaic version of film. Rather than the crisp HD of all other modern films, he uses an iPhone held by what appears to be a man with a serious case of Parkinson's. I could understand this during the fighting scenes, in order to give a more “realistic” view of how Batman sees the world, but it just feels like a very awkward approach to have the camera shaking, and in such low quality, during a love scene with Rachel and Harvey Dent. Speaking of Harvey Dent, or Two-Face (spoilers), *The Dark Knight* takes a very creative approach to him. Rather than his injury being half of his face melted off, he simply is a man with what appears to be a thin cloth covering one half of his face. I understand that this film is trying to be a more modern take on the franchise, but such a change feels almost too drastic. It really impedes on the flow of the film, especially when Harvey Dent has his accident. He simply trips over a stick that is on fire, falling face first, and emerges with cloth covering his face. You can even see him place the cloth over his own head. It takes no longer than five seconds for this entire event to take place. In terms of redeeming qualities, there really aren’t many; I don’t see how this film has been revered by so many. From what I can tell, it seemed more like a low-budget experimental film than a massive blockbuster. That said, there is a copious amount of female nudity in this film – often at times where it simply makes no sense (for example, during the scene in which the Jokester crashes Bruce Wayne’s cabin party [Bruce is a billionaire, yet lives in a cabin? It’s a strange change, Mr. Nolan], all of the guests simply undress and start dancing to a catchy Indian tune while the Jokester is threatening them). This nudity is nothing but a positive, if I must be honest. All-in-all, I felt this movie under-delivered in several areas—perhaps the film simply goes over my own head in its complexity—yet over-delivered in terms of nudity. Considering the positives, I give this movie an 8.5 out of 10.

A movie review in which the reviewer obviously watched a bootleg copy.

"Hey, James. Your AEPP came through." Conrad said, handing him a parcel, "seems like it's working well for you." "Thanks, Sarge." I replied, taking the parcel out of his hands, looking at the familiar handwriting adorning one side. As Conrad kept going, I slowly opened up the package, making sure I didn't tear any edges. Once it was open, I stared at the little set-up in front of me. A few biscuits, a smallish container of what appeared to be jam, and a few teabags as well. Skipping past all of that, I pulled out the piece of paper underneath it, and started to read. *Hello, James. I hope that this letter finds you in good health, or at the least still alive.* *As of now, my division has moved to Fort Benning, where we're managing to push back your forces. Quite a nice place, this is. We were certainly happy when we discovered how well stocked you kept the place. My leg has successfully healed, so I shouldn't have any more problems with that.* *In terms of news, it does appear that we're winning, but I wouldn't exactly trust in that. They said that six months ago, and I only hear news of us being pushed back. Is it the same on your end?* *Anyway, we also got a few new recruits, plus one of those fancy new exo-suits. It's pretty awesome, running around, jumping higher than I stand. Seriously, if this ever ends, I'll show you how it works, assuming I get to keep the thing.* *Anyway, just hope you're having a decent time. You're up in Tennessee, right? Well, apparently we're heading to Illinois, so maybe I'll be able to pick you up as a war prisoner! Thank god for the AEPP protection clause, right? Just remember to surrender if we ever do find you. I want to be able to talk face to face.* *Anyway, hope to get writing from you soon. Tell me how things are going for you, if you need any more tea or whatever. I heard that your rations were running low, but eh, could just be the big man again.* *Sincerely,* *Thomas Greenham* I set down the letter, processing it all. Putting it back with everything else, I grabbed a piece of paper from my desk, along with my pen, and got to writing.

The US Government just passed the "Army Enemy Penpal Program" and you have just received your first letter from a soldier in the opposing army.

"Dad! Dad! DAD!! Come here, Dad! I found the stinky box!" Dad comes over and places his hand on my head, lightly scratching the way he does when I do good. He grunts and groans at the other humans in our pack, just like he does every time I find a stinky box. They seem excited, but I can smell their nervousness too. They're never as happy as Dad is when I find a stinky box. They don't scratch that spot behind my ears like he does. They go to work to dig the stinky box out of the dirt on the side of the road. We found a lot of stinky boxes today. They aren't happy. Dad scratches my head some more and pets my back while they work. "I love you Dad," I tell him. Sometimes I think he understands me when I tell him. The light is going away so we start heading to our dens. I stay with Dad. I know when we get home Dad will give me food, and maybe treats. Dad gives me treats when I do good finding the stinky boxes. One of our pack's noise boxes starts making grunting sounds. Our pack gathers around to listen to the grunts. I can smell that the grunts aren't making them happy... they're getting scared. I don't like the noisy box. "What's going on Dad," I ask. Dad makes a swishy sound and grabs my collar. The pack is running to the square rocks nearby. The air smells bad with their fear. I don't like this. They all have their noisy sticks in their paws. I know that's not good. I smell a different stink. The stink of the stinky boxes and the other pack. "Dad, Dad, I smell something bad. I smell the other pack," I try to warn him. BOOOOM My ears hurt so bad now. I can't hear anything anymore. The air is full of stink. I can't smell anything else. I see my pack scrambling with their noisy sticks but I can't hear them or smell them. I don't know what is going on. "Dad, where are you Dad?" I see Dad with one of our pack. Dad is holding the other's arm. The other's arm isn't on his body. Dad is howling but I can't hear him howl. I howl too. I see one of the other pack. He sees Dad. Dad can't see him because he is still howling. The other one has a noisy stick. He starts to point it at Dad. I'm running as fast as I can. I can't let the other make the noise at Dad. That noise makes things die. I don't want Dad to die. Everything is slow as I leap at the other's throat. The noisy stick makes noise. I bite the other's throat, hard. I feel things rip between my teeth and the taste of blood fills my mouth. The other falls and I fall with him but I don't let go. The other from the other pack dies. I hurt. It hurts in my gut... a lot. "Dad," I whimper. It hurts to talk. Dad is with me, he is whimpering and I can hear him again. His face is making water and it's falling on me a lot but he is stroking my side and petting my head, so I don't mind. I don't want to move anyway, it hurts so much. I think the noisy stick is making me dead. "Dad," I cry. "I love you Dad." I close my eyes. The hurting is making me tired...very tir...

A war story from the POV of a soldier's dog

I didn't read the "you" part and wrote this in first person. The story started off with the unique thought itself but turned into something that I like a lot more. Sorry if I down-played that unique thought, but it just didn't feel that important when I got to it. XD [Here's my story](https://docs.google.com/document/d/1M2TLNCR4jhs6edE72ijWNF91F_dIYkRiQbJN0bws4hs/edit?usp=sharing) Or, here's a copied version. George glanced around him on the subway platform, trying his best to guess what kinds of thoughts he met pick up from the people that were standing near him. When he’d first learned of his gift, he had found it to be more of a curse than anything else. He’d heard his mom think something particularly nasty about his father that had shattered his impression of their perfect marriage. Even at sixteen, you didn’t want to hear that your folks weren’t getting along all that well… even if it was in passing thought. His impression that picking random solitary thoughts from people was awful only got worse when he went to school the day after he gained his power. The first thought he heard that day was simple: “Freak.” It was thought with the vindictiveness and self-righteousness that only one person anywhere in his proximity could have held; Peggy Miller, the rich Daddy’s girl who thought she ran the school. She was like a walking archetype, and George had never liked her. But it was as if her sidelong commentary on him had stirred up every negative thought inside him, every little self-deprecating assumption, and brought them to the surface. Once there, they pulled him under and he was drowning, drowning in the depths of depression that it seemed no one around him knew how to navigate. He spent months this way, occasionally hearing another thought that only re-affirmed his self-image. He only thought of the gift as a gift at all when one girl, walking down some random street while he slumped his way home, thought “Cute.” Sometimes the thoughts came with images, with impressions left behind by someone else’s brain. These were the most powerful, and this was exactly that kind of thought. In the passing of a breath before the thought disappeared, he saw himself, but with a lighter view; one that erased a few of his zits, and put his shoulders a bit higher. He saw the way that a total stranger could look at a person and see only the good in them. He saw how ridiculous he was to decide that the way any person viewed him was the way he really was. Even he could view himself as the ugliest, most horrific human being, and there could still be the one person who stopped and thought something as simple as “Cute.” Since that day he had made it his own personal goal to try to experience the msot out of every single thought he heard, no matter how his head ached when he finally tried to go to bed. He wanted to take that one snippet of another person’s brain and hold it forever, to learn the smallest details of their life that all led to them thinking that one simple phrase, that split-second of neural activity. The best thoughts were the ones that revealed how someone viewed a world, especially when those views didn’t match their appearance at all. Up to today, George had never experienced the sharing of a thought from a child, but as he looked at one little boy leaning up against his slouching mother, he had the feeling that he was looking into the eyes of a genius. He was awarded, not even a few seconds later, by one of the most complex thoughts he’d ever encountered. If someone who reads minds reads the mind of someone who can read minds who is reading their mind, will they hear their own thoughts or the thoughts of that person in their head in someone else’s head? George’s mouth fell open. He latched onto the thought and saw the image behind it; he saw himself, but in some kind of super hero costume, complete with a red, skin-tight leotard and a blue cape. Somehow, some way, this kid knew he had powers, and was imagining not only what they were, but what the implications of it were. In an even more rare epxerience, the thought lasted longer than any other when the boy turned to his mother, who George had just seen to be an unimpressive sight at best; ragged clothes, bent shoulders, and slouching, defeated demeanor. But in her son’s eyes, she was beautiful; she had clothes that looked to be made of pure silk and arms crafted with the sole intention of hugging. Her face was ambient and her expression serene, as if just looking upon it could cure the worst boo-boo and stop a torrent of tears. When the thought faded away, George found his own eyes misty, and couldn’t help but go over and hug the woman.

You involuntarily read people's minds when they are close to you, but it is limited to only one thought from every person you meet. On a crowded subway platform you pick up a unique thought.

"Oh my," he said, walking back into the room. "Oh my goodness." Everything was absolutely perfect. No measure, no matter how seemingly inconsequential, was spared. Every detail must have been meticulously planned weeks -- even months -- ahead of time. The empty dining room was wonderfully peaceful, although he wondered where all of the guests were. He pulled up a chair at the head of the table and waited. A banner saying "Happy Birthday Walter!" hung across the far side of the room. It nearly slipped his mind that today was his birthday, but upon looking out the window and seeing the summer sun, he knew it had to be June 4th. Metallic balloons fluttered about in tethered clusters, knocking into one another again and again and again, filling the room with their soft thumping. They were blank. Whomever had set the room up must've planned every detail far in advance. Everything was perfect. Walter's Purple Heart was prominently put on display near the room's entrance. The dining room table had pink petunias on them, the flower that Walter gave Ruth every year for Valentine's Day; she always preferred them to roses. Picture frames were scattered about the space, every one holding a picture of him posing with others. He didn't recognize some of their faces, but he knew by his own demeanor in the photographs that he was with friends. One picture stood out among the rest: a black and white photo in a beautiful wooden frame. His face lit up as he instantly recognized it, and he slowly rose from his chair to give it a closer look. In it he posed with Ruth and their boy, David, who couldn't have been older than eleven. The family stood outside of their local church, dressed in their Sunday's best for an Easter service. Just then, a young boy ran into the room, shouting "Happy Birthday!" Walter looked up from the photograph and saw his son. "David!" he said in a sing-song voice as he embraced the child. The boy looked up at him and rolled his eyes. "No grandpa, I'm not David." As the boy withdrew and awkwardly shuffled his feet, a man walked into the room behind him, carrying grocery bags. "Wow, pop! Everything looks great!" Walter looked at him with a big smile on his face, eyes wide yet slightly worried. "Who's this, now?" he said to the man, trying to be polite. "Dad, it's me. Dave." The man was tall and slender, with wispy brown hair that was graying at the temples. This man was a stranger. Walter chuckled nervously. "David? My David?" he asked, with a certain discomfort in his voice. "Yes, your David," said the man as he walked up to Walter and kissed him on the cheek. "Happy Birthday, Pop." "He set this all up himself, you know," said a voice behind him. Walter turned around to see a woman he did not recognize, emerging from the kitchen with a towel in hand. "I tried to help but he wouldn't let me, he wanted to make sure everything was perfect." "Well it looks great, really. Thank you for watching him, Tanya," said the man as he placed the bags down on the table. "Everyone should be getting here soon, you can head out now if you'd like." Walter stood in the middle of the room, not sure what to do; he was uncomfortable, but he kept the smile on his face. The young boy that looked like David was showing him some toy he had procured from his pocket. Walter nodded and smiled and listened for a short while before he turned around and went to sit down at the table. His anxiety was mounting until something caught his eye; in the center of the table was a vase of pink petunias. He let out a sigh and smiled reminiscently as he looked at them. He used to buy those exact ones for Ruth every year.

A lonely man with Alzheimer's plans his own 80th birthday party, forgets , and thinks someone else has planned it for him.

Edit: Trigger warnings for self harm and mentions of suicide. "Hello, Helpline, how can we help you?" The phone always feels heavy in my hand. I refuse to put it down. "Hello?" A quavering voice comes across the line and I rock back in my chair, minimising the tab I had open while waiting for a call. I wait for her to talk. It's a calm Tuesday afternoon and I'm sitting at my desk, yoghurt pot and cigarette pack lying open in front of me. I had been debating which one to have first when a call had been transferred through to me. "I just wanted someone to talk to. Sometimes friends... sometimes friends just won't... They aren't the right people to talk to." Joe and Teddy went to a bar without me last night. Quiet drinks, couple rounds of darts. I wasn't invited. "I know what you mean." I hum. "Well I'm here. What's been troubling you?" "I'm just getting really down with work and stuff. I just can't seem to do well enough." Her voice cracks a bit and I hold the phone away from my ear in case she cries. I'm not good with tears. More often than not it'll set me off as well, which tends not to be a good thing if you're a suicide hotline operator. "Yeah..." My boss is walking down the aisle of chairs and I huddle over, back to him. I make sure the phone is clearly visible as I nod vigorously. "What's happening with that?" That releases the floodgates and she starts crying in earnest on the other side of the phone. My boss gives me a funny look as I shuffle a bit. I'm getting uncomfortable and my fingers are starting to itch. "Just a huge project. I used to be so motivated. Now I want to stay in bed and never come out. I called in sick today, but if I keep calling in sick then they'll give the project to someone else and then they definitely won't think I'm good enough and-" "It's okay, it's okay. Let's stay calm together." She's starting to panic, her voice rising on the other end of the phone. I can hear my own heart racing. "I just feel so *muggy* all the time." She sobs. "Like there's some kind of fog in my brain, stopping me from what I want to do." "Like a little cloud floating above you?" I suggest, reaching for my lighter, before realising I can't smoke indoors anymore. "Just like that. I've been... I've been..." She whispers the next bit. "I've been *burning* myself. Just to feel something! I'm just *numb.*" "Yeah." I say weakly. I'm scrabbling for the help sheet. What am I supposed to say here? Like I can help - me, the man with the scars up and down his legs and torso. "I just want to be clear again. I want to stop being like this. What can I do?" I'm thinking of a reply when she suddenly squeaks and the phone goes dead. "Hello? Hello?" I put the phone down, clicking the sweaty handset back into its plastic nest. *She sounded so young.* I look at my packet of cigarettes, my lighter and my stomach churns and I run to the bathroom. Five minutes later I'm done vomiting. Resting my face against the cold porcelain bowl I break into noisy sobs, hiccuping and sniffing at the same time. "Are you alright?" There's a knock at the door. That's the thing about working at a suicide hotline. You can't be upset in peace. I grit my teeth and think about lying. "No." I say tentatively. Whoever it is on the other side of the door slides down to sit on the tiled floor. I can see the seat of their jeans under the crack in the door. "Well I'm here." They say. "What's been troubling you?"

A suicidal man who works day in and day out as a suicide hotline operator.

It's truly amazing how fast lives burn. Here I sit, at my hearth, just doing my job. I'm never allowed any breaks, but even if I was, I'm not sure where I would go. Outside's too cold. At least in here it's warm. Better keep the fire burning. I grab another book, and skim through it. I enjoy reading, but I don't have time to read everything. Stories keep things alive: People, ideas, places, facts, opinions. This book's titled *Anthony Jones.* Page 153: "...he never forgot the look on her eyes that day. As for the diamond, it found a home in his dresser, tucked away behind mounds of socks. After that, Anthony..." I can't read any more. Love stories always seem a little too real to me. I throw this book in the fire and it goes up in blazes. I sigh and pick up another. It seems as if these stacks never end. *Johnathan Reed.* Page 22: "Little Johnny had a tough childhood after his dad left. No one to really look up to..." Page 223: "He came all this way, and found none of what he was looking for. Johnathan turned his back on his father and walked away, never looking back." At least he got some closure. So many stories are left open-ended. Into the burn pile. *Aaron Buckman.* Page 522. "Aaron wasn't alone on the day he died. He always said he would outlive George and Hank, but it looks like he was wrong. They were both there along with Aaron's wife. Aaron smiled, coughed, and whispered: 'Thanks for coming, guys, but God's only got room for one of us today. You two are still going to hell.' George and Hank both smiled, politely - any other day, they would have laughed up a storm, but Aaron's condition had gotten far too serious..." The good one's always die too soon, I suppose. I would've liked to have known him. Ashes to ashes. An abrupt rapping on the door distracted me from my task. How strange. I haven't heard a knock in years. I rise from my chair and hobble across the room to the entryway. When I open the door, a chill breeze pours in, and firelight cuts through the blackness outside. The man standing there was exactly who I had expected. "It's been a while," I say to him. "I don't see your name in too many stories anymore." I try to meet his eye, and see what he's thinking, but it slips away from me. His entire existence is an everlasting silhouette, changing shape, flickering from existence, sometimes only seen through the corner of your eye. He sighs. "I know. People don't thank me for much, anymore. They just blame me." "It'd probably do you a whole world of good if you went down and introduced yourself to some of them, sometime. You don't even have to make it a large scale thing, like before. Just do it one person at a time. Enough to make a difference." "No," the silhouette says. "It's too late." "Too late?" What can possibly be going through that head of his? Nothing good, I imagine. "Yes. We're done here," he orders me. "Burn everything to the ground." His form dissipates, and he is no longer with me. "You got it, boss..." I say to thin air, shaking my head and closing the door. I return to my fireplace and begin tossing books in. I don't even stop to read them now. I don't even glance at the titles. I just watch the stories go up in flames. After some time (minutes, hours, days, years? I lose track so easily), I find myself holding the last book in the place. It's mine. For a moment, I pause. I suppose he would've come back for me, if he wanted me to save this one. I tuck my book in a corner of the fireplace and strike a match. Without hesitation, I throw it on the book and turn my back. I hope God's got room for one more.

We are done here. Burn everything to the ground.

This is a strange place. I'm not exactly sure how to describe it. Words don't really do the strangeness justice. I guess it's like a nonlinear hallway with windows into people's dreams. I call it the "Dreamscape". It's like a nexus of the collective unconscious, separated by a surprisingly thin veil. I don't exactly know how I got to this place between subconsciousness, nor do I understand why I can walk these halls. But I can. I'm not exactly sure what I'm supposed to do with this. When I first wandered in here, I was dreaming myself. Something mundane, like driving a car or walking. Then I sort of woke up in the dream. The usual haze of the dream lifted and I was aware of myself. I *knew* I was dreaming. I could see the incomplete world I was in, the land my subconscious created for some purpose had many holes in it. Places I wasn't supposed to look. Almost like looking behind the scenes on a Hollywood movie. Roads that were incomplete, a half colored sky, the front of a building with nothing behind it. It only needed to make sense while I was in the foggy state of mind being asleep puts you in. The truth is, I was scared. I'd never experienced this sort of thing before. I meandered around my subconscious for what felt like days, until I found the veil. I call it that because it's real hard to picture in your head. It's like a doorway at the end of 3-Dimensional space; It shouldn't open to a new space, but it does. You con walk through it on one side, and it ceases to exist on the other. The place on the other side was even more confusing. The nexus. From the nexus, you can see into anyone's dream. You can even go inside. I've only done it a few times, I don't like to meddle. I possess all of the abilities of the dreamer when I enter into the world. I can make anything I want happen, as long as the dreamer doesn't counteract what I'm doing. They're never really aware that they're dreaming, though. They let things play out as their subconscious builds everything for them. They think of me as no different even though I'm an outsider. Like I said earlier, I'm not really sure what to do with this power. I've thought about using it for selfish reasons. Like getting PIN numbers, or social security numbers, but I can affect only their dreams. The dreamer is still them, their ego at least, but there's no real point to interacting with them. I can ask for their name, but I can't be sure if it's their real name. At least in the waking world. Their name could be Burger King here. I have no way of telling who these dreamers are, so I can't really use any of this for personal gain. Not that I would. I'm not like that. For a while, I thought I was the only one who could get into the nexus. Then I met Moon. I'm not sure of Moon's gender, specifics like that are lost here. Moon's voice and face have changed depending on my interpretation of whom I will refer to as him. At first I thought I had constructed him as I grew more accustomed to the Dreamscape as a means to fulfill my desire for companionship here. But I don't think so. Moon behaves differently than I do. He seems to be another entity altogether with traits that I can't use to create a person. I can only create illusions from within my own mind, and he is nothing like me. We have talked a few times. We were both hesitant to reveal our true names for fear of the other one finding us in the waking world. We are both curious, but cautious. I introduced myself as Sandman. He called himself Moon. After we crossed paths, we started seeing each other more. Like we subconsciously were attracted to the other. Neither of us really knew why we were there, nor what we were supposed to do. We talked about our experiences here, and what we had learned about this place. I had told him that I liked to watch what other people dream about. I enjoyed the puzzle of figuring out the meaning of the dreamer's individual experiences. Sometimes I'd participate in a fun dream. I could try all sorts of things here. I could play golf, feel what it's like to be a lion, explore the reaches of space, anything. I didn't like to interfere. I just watched or played along. That is, unless someone was having a nightmare. I don't like to see people afraid, so I'd kill the monsters chasing the dreamers, or pull them out of the bottomless sea. It made me feel like I was doing a good thing. Moon, however, had different ideas. He'd use people's Dreamscapes to fulfill his own desires. He'd participate in and dominate the dreamers realms. He told me of all of the fun he'd had crashing sexual fantasies, posing as a monster to kill the dreamer, caging them and taking over their world. Moon had found that he could control the dreamer in the waking world to an extent. If you inflicted pain on them, the world would shudder. If you induced fear, the world would pulsate rapidly like a panicked heart. If the dreamer died, the Dreamscape they were in collapsed. I like to think that means they just woke up. I didn't like what Moon was doing. Even if it was just a dream, while they were here it was reality to them. They felt pain, fear, and anxiety just like you would in the real world. I couldn't abide by Moon taking advantage of the dreamer's just because he wanted to have fun. This was where we took opposite sides. We found each other again and again, night after night and we fought. He would try to enter a Dreamscape, and I would try to prevent it. I didn't always stop him. Once in a dream, he would take control of it entirely. I couldn't help once he had entered. I'm unsure of how long we've been doing this. I still have a life outside of the nexus. It's getting increasingly hard to distinguish between the worlds. The time spent there is strange, it's not like real time. I've had wars for centuries, and other times I've only had time to play a single hand of poker. Time is fluid there. Just like everything else. But I can't sit there and let Moon take advantage of the dreamers for his own selfish reasons. I took some time off. I decided I'd find his Dreamscape, and find out how he gets here and close his veil. It was a risky thing to do, but I took a few sleeping pills. I'd done this before to see how it affects the dreamworld, and it allowed me to stay for what felt like longer. The only problem is that I have no control over when I wake up. Usually I could will myself awake. I'm there until they wear off now. I don't think Moon is asleep yet. I have no doubts that I can find him before he steps into the nexus. If I can get into *his* Dreamscape, I may be able to seal it. That is, unless he was already in mine. When I saw Moon standing in front of my as I arrived, I wasn't too surprised. It took me too long to figure it out. This was neither myself, nor was it someone else. It was a personality within my own mind, given form. He wasn't fighting me to continue on with his selfish desire, he wanted to be the one who woke up. He figured out my plan because he was in my head. It's how we found one another. And now, he knew how to trap me here. He knew I couldn't escape with willpower. He had won.

Two characters gain dream based powers. They are at odds.

Andres Vesouvian had barely slipped beyond the threshold of dreams when a strange sound echoed through his unsuspecting ears. He curled in on himself, believing the sound to be another random element his brain had called up to make sense of the day. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn't roll away from the sound. "What?" The word slipped out of his lips on a wave of saliva. He wiped his lip and pawed at the lamp on his bedside table with his free hand. Even the weak glow of the hated Energy Saving fluorescent bulb was too much for his bloodshot eyes. "who's that?" He could barely make the shape out through the sandman's handiwork. It was a man in shape and posture. "Morgan Freeman?" As impossible as it seemed, the famed actor was standing by his bedside. Andres searched his mind for any clue as to why the celebrated star of such films as *The Shawshank Redemption* and *Bruce Almighty* would sneak into his home. Why would the brilliant thespian with the melodic voice bother breaking into the home of one as low as Andres Vesouvian? "Oh, Jesus." Realization crept across his drool-stained face. Andres flung the sheets off, but he realized that he would never be able to get away in time. Freeman had brought his favorite dagger - a gift from a medicine man after lending his notable talents to a documentary about their tribe - and he never missed. "Mr. Freeman, I'm sorry. It wasn't my fault." The words fell heavy from Andres's filthy lips. He knew that there was no excuse for... "Please, just let me explain. Aaah!" The scream erupted from Andres's throat even as the blood streamed out of his freshly-opened stomach. He trembled, remembering that it was never wise to interrupt Morgan Freeman's narration. Andres's mind raced as he tried to decide whether he had learned his lesson. Tears streamed from the corners of his eyes. He had learned the importance of silence, but it was unfortunately too late. --- *(Apologies to Morgan Freeman)*

Narrate a murder

"We hope you find solace in your time here at Periphery Hotels, sir. If there's anything we can do to assist you, please do not hesitate to call down to the front desk." The bell hop stood in the room's doorway, arms folded behind his back, with an eager yet pleasant expression on his face. Nathan looked at him with one eyebrow raised. *Jesus, is he expecting a tip?* Nathan pulled out his wallet, its leather worn at the creases from years of abuse. He pulled out a ten and paused. He pulled out a twenty. *Ah, fuck it. What's the difference?* He emptied the wallet's contents and handed it to the bellhop. "Thank you, sir!" said the bellhop, enthusiastically, "That's very generous of you!" With that he was off. Nathan was alone, a state in which he found himself often. The room was everything the brochure made it out to be. *Periphery Hotels: Where your Cessation is Our Fixation!* A large bed sat in the room's center, it's large downy comforters dyed a marvelous shade of crimson. *Smart choice*, thought Nathan as he dropped his suitcase on the bed. He nearly felt embarrassed for packing a bag, but it seemed odd checking into a hotel empty handed. Inside the travel bag was his only suit, in which, he decided, he would end his life. Nathan wasn't terribly depressed. He wasn't terribly anything, really. Emotions seemed to be a superficiality in a world full of absolutes, veneers with which people would obscure the true, unforgiving qualities of the human experience. War, famine, sickness. *Death.* The room (an industry standard, it seemed) was equipped with the most popular forms of comfort and quietus. A fully stocked mini-bar sat across from the bed, no doubt offering a means to calm the nerves of the soon-to-depart. On top of the fridge was an assortment of pill bottles, if noxious cocktails were your preference. Through an open door Nate could see the bathroom, it's tub furnished with a selection of razor sharp blades fashioned into smooth and calming shapes. Looking back at the bed's headboard, Nathan realized there was a small lever built into the wood that held a leather noose. *They've thought of everything, haven't they?* Nathan Bartholomew Boris was born to two Census workers in the center of New Jersey. His parents instilled in him a passion for responsibility and a thirst for the ordinary. He didn't begrudge his parents for his upbringing, however uneventful he thought it was. Neither a pious or profane couple, the Boris' worked through life dutifully until their deaths (both in the month of May, some years apart.) They left this earth as they inhabited it: insignificantly. Nathan was already a man at that time, and from that point on he was alone. No friends, no family, no faith. Nathan sat upon the bed. He grabbed a remote from the tabletop beside him and turned on the room's television set. *Porn. Preaching. Yoga. More porn.* He turned off the television set, wanting neither spiritual or sensational consolation. He opened up the drawer of the nightstand. *Of course,* he thought to himself as he took out the Gideon's Bible, *What sort of hotel would this be without this?* Opening the book, he saw that all of the pages were torn out of it but the last book: Revelations. *Cheery place.* Some great or insignificant man, he could never remember which, had said that the unobserved life was not worth living. But what about the entirely observed life? Was there a limit to how close one could view their life before they started seeing nothing? Perhaps being content with an out-of-focus and bigger picture was the secret to traversing life happily. If that was the case, it was too late for Nate, anyhow. There was nothing left to see. There was nothing as he removed the suit from his bag. There was nothing as he put it on, piece by piece. There was nothing as he searched his life for some last prayer to say, and there was nothing when he realized he had never been taught one. There was nothing as he prayed to himself, *I am, I am, I am.* There was nothing as he removed one of the slender blades from the bathroom's tub and took it with him into the King-sized bed. There was nothing as lied down, breathed slowly and deeply, and slid the metal across his skin. Then, in that moment, there was only Nathan, flowing into the crimson sheets.

A hotel that is designed specifically for guests to kill themselves.

Well, I guess I have plenty of time, so I'll start from the beginning. March 2014. A good year for some. A bad year for me. Y'know that VR thing? Virtual Reality? Yeah, that. The eggheads found a way to simulate touch, too. And smell. And taste. So, yeah. Five senses. Then some new upstart went and integrated those into an MMO. Was it a good idea? Hell if I know. WoW, the giant of MMOs, the one with millions of subscribers, poof. Well, not really. You’ve always got those diehards, but still. What’s seven million to 50 million? Not much. Now, imagine if the seven million shrunk to 500 thousand. There you have it. At the beginning you had the people moaning about ethics and all that BS, as usual. Until somebody got them into it. The mind isn’t too strong, y’know? Then they started implementing all these new skills and professions. Football, stockbroking, writing, you name it. Before you know it, there’s a great big economy generating cash. Who needs to work when they can play an MMO for money? Boom. 500 million. All paying $20 a month. Richest people in the world, that dev team. But what they don’t tell you is that every game has bugs. Great big, nasty, hulking bugs. Bugs that get reported on the game forums twenty times a day. Bugs that crash important things. Even with 20% of the world’s population playing, who even reads forums anymore? Hell if I know. So, yeah. Bug reports. These bugs, they never announced them to the public. Then you get some news reports coming in. People going missing. People falling into comas. All connected to the RealLife MMO. Prying the equipment off kills them. Doesn’t discourage people, especially when half the players are using it as their primary income. After, it’s only, what, a dozen people. Come on, it’ll never happen to you. Just keep playing. You need to get that fancy new chestplate. And win those last few medals in hockey. And then you’ll quit and go to bed. Click ‘Exit’. I SAID, click ‘Exit’. ‘EXIT’ BUTTON. What?! Error 66053? Uh. That doesn’t sound good. The deluxe headset comes with a fancy set of noise-cancelling headphones, but those things aren’t 100% effective. 0737h the next day, I start to hear some sort of disembodied yell. Pretty sure that’s something from outside the game. It’s been about two days since then. I’ve tried asking about this Error 66053 thing, but nobody knows anything about it. I’m getting pretty tired, though. My eyes sting. Just let me finish levelling my Writing skill. Maybe if I post this on Reddit, I’ll make some gold off it, too.

Full simulation of all five senses is now possible due to a computer implanted in the brain, and MMO's are now the most popular activity in the world. Until, by some calamity, you get trapped inside one.

Two heavies are gripping my arms. They're the only things keeping me upright, cause my legs have been reduced to quivering jelly at this point. My employer took great pleasure in sliding the iron knuckleduster over his fingers, casting me a fast wink before driving a fist into my stomach. It rips the air from my lungs and I double over, wheezing. I'm pulled upright again, only to met with an open-palmed slap to the face. "Please!" I've never liked begging. "Please, no!" There's hot blood trickling from somewhere on my face, but that's numb. All I can feel is the burning pain in my stomach from where he's punched me. "I said EIGHT!" He grips my chin and pulls it down so we're eye to eye. They're hazel, with irises like pinpricks. There are deep bags underneath them and he looks rough. "Eight fucking hours! Was that too much to ask?" "No, no!" Another punch. This one drives close to my ribs and I gasp out. "I'm sorry!" "It's too fucking late!" That's going to bruise. I'm choking on this pain. "I-" "Do you know how much you've cost me?" "I-" *Slap* It rings around the small room with the bad carpet and there's more blood on my face. "Please-" "Six million." He steps back and gives me a moment to breathe. His men's fingers are digging into my arms. It's going to bruise. "Six million." He's panting. There's a high pitched whining sound and it takes me a minute to realise that it's me. I hang my head and let the heavies take my weight. Every nerve of my body is screaming. "That's how much you cost me. I ask for eight hours." He slumps back in the chair at his desk and rips off the knuckle duster, reaching for a glass of cold water. "Try not to get blood on the carpet, will you?" Someone pulls my hair and my head jerks back. I guess it's my nose that's bleeding, then. "Out of interest, how much hours did you actually get?" "Do." My nose is definitely broken. "Two. Not fucking surprised. Two hours. So you decide, that the night before the biggest deal of my career, that you're going to- what? Go out? Stay up all night playing Halo?" "Ib wasn'd like dat." "Oh? Then what?" "My mudder died." He takes a sip from his drink and looks at me again. "I don't care. You had a job to do. You fucked up." A nod to the men at my sides. "Take him out. Finish him off."

We've discovered a method to transfer sleep between people. Businesses arise where people sleep for other people.

There's a feeling you get when you realize how small you are. I know somewhere in human history someone invented a word for it, but I never bothered to learn words you only use once or twice. Hell, I never bothered learning much, just what my teachers told me I had to learn, and of course what my father told me was important. Teachers taught knowledge and my father taught me common sense. The two never seemed to overlap when I was growing up, except one lesson: There are 24 hours in a day. My father wanted to instill in me the importance of time, and how easy it is to waste it. My teachers just wanted me to know how to tell time. Time is something I never forget. Whether it's the time I get up for work or when I go to bed. Time rules all of us, and no matter how rich you are, you are still bound to the same law: There are 24 hours in a day. I gave up one of my precious hours yesterday. Sitting beside a dead body, breathing my air into his lungs, using my heart to move his. His time was up soon after I arrived at the accident. Paramedics came long after he had died, they thanked me, and then left with the body. There was no reward, no medal for being a good citizen, just a reminder that time doesn't stop. It drags on; killing us all eventually. The man I sat beside had one item of interest on him. It was a cheap digital watch, something you could find anywhere. I ignored it at first, more concerned with the man's life. When I was finally convinced the man was dead I began looking at the cheap piece of jewelry. I thought at first the man had set it to military time when it read 18:15, but it was early morning and even stranger the watch wasn't counting up it was going down. When the ambulance arrived the thing read 17:23. I didn't realize it at the time, but I had met another man like myself. The watch unlike most time keeping devices wasn't telling him how much time had passed, but how much time there was left. The man knew the law. There are 24 hours in a day.

An ordinary person commits an extraordinary act of selflessness that goes unnoticed.

NEW, IN BOOKSTORES NOW, RINGING OF THE GONG! *** "Oh, that's an interesting title." Catherine ordered a book online, "Ringing of the Gong". It had a nice cover, not too flashy, and at least there wasn't something cliche, like the sun or the moon in the title. It had been on the recommended section of Amazon, and it didn't look too bad. She needed a new book anyway, and her friend had been raving about how the main character reminded her of her. When it arrived a week later, she had set down some coffee, pulled it out of the wrapping, and began to read. *** *Ring. Ring. Ri-* "Hello?" "My name is Catherine Lorne, is this Mr. Gabriel Clarke?" "Yes, do you need something?" "I was actually calling about your book." "Oh, are you a fan? I'm glad I got a call from you and all, but, this is my home phone number, this isn't public. Please don't call it again." "No, I'm not a fan, this is more about your popularity and monetary earnings." "Ah." Gabriel Clarke's voice became quite a bit less friendly. "Sorry, but I already have enough publicity, and I don't feel like giving anyone else a chunk of my hard-earned checks." Catherine smiled on the line. "No sir, it isn't about that, either. Could we meet at a cafe, I have something to discuss with you." "I don't think so." "Well, then I think I will need to get in contact with my lawyer. I don't think you'd like that." A pause. Then- "Your lawyer?" "Yes, Mr. Clarke. That's what people usually do when their ideas are stolen. They sue." She heard him sigh over the line. A silence drew out. He was no doubt thinking it over in his head. *She's just someone else that wants the publicity. She doesn't have anything, there's no way this would pan out.* *Except... why isn't there a news story about this then?* "What cafe did you have in mind?" *** Catherine Lorne sat in a corner table, the picture of professionalism. Full business attire, small laptop on the table, a briefcase at her feet. It was then that Mr. Clarke felt underdressed and unprepared for whatever she was about to say. She also seemed familiar. He sat at the table, wary, and gave a little cough. Catherine gave no sign whatsoever that she had seen or heard him, although she must have. She continued on her computer for a two full minutes, and then closed and put it at her feet. "So what's this about, Miss Lorne?" "About a year ago, I posted something to a site called Reddit. A host of things, actually. About my childhood." "If you got me out here to waste my time, I-" She gave Mr. Clarke an eyebrow, and continued. "As you can see, I am a redheaded girl with green eyes. I am of average build and height. I can be very cynical. I work in a professional setting, consultation for large businesses to be exact, and am very good with numbers." "I fail to see where this is going." "Of course. You're not a story writer, Mr. Clarke. You're a plagiarizer and thief, which is exactly why you don't understand where there this is going, but I will tell you. All in all I bear quite a bit in common with the main character of your book, don't you think?" He was silent, and she allowed herself a small smile. "A year ago, there was an askreddit question. Something about 'most eventful part of life'. Not the most original question, but I was on a work break and wanted to write. Curiously, what happened with my family, is detailed very explicitly in your book." Gabriel Clarke sniffed. "Coincidence. A lot of people like to read about readheads. Throw in a screwed up family life and it's a best seller." "Yes, I was sure you'd say something like that. Which is why I brought this." And with that, Catherine pulled out her briefcase, and withdrew a stack of papers. "This, Mr. Clarke, is my reddit submitting and and comment history. All well before you claim your book was even thought of, let alone published. It is a detailed account of my life from 17-23, which is why you loved it so much, I'm guessing. There's a pattern here, many submissions and comments of mine had a user named 'taco69fucker' comment on them. Usually one word, sometimes a sentence, and always to save it. Starting with, of course, the main story of my family, which is the focal point of your book." Mr. Clarke's blood ran cold. She was not only smart, but she had him between a rock and a hard place. "You have no proof that's me." "Well, actually..." She pulled out a second stack from that infernal briefcase, and showed him, to his growing horror, his own comment history, which included where he had once posted his town as a point of reference, in separate cases his first and last name, and, worst of all, links to the online site he posted pieces of his best seller as a rough draft. "In fact, I've highlighted points where you completely plagiarized things I've written, word for word." He was done. "What do you want, Miss Lorne?" "Fifty percent of profits, and the guarantee that you will never write a book again." His eyes bulged. "WHAT? Out of the question!" She shrugged. "You can either agree, or I can sue and get it that way. I can assure you that road would cost a lot more. On your end of course. You didn't put anything bad about me in that book of yours, since all you wanted was a fiery little redhead." Indignantly, he stood up. "Do you really think you can just walk into my life and make everything about you?!" Catherine replaced her papers, picked up her briefcase and computer, and stood up as well. "Mr. Clarke, you're the one that made everything about me. I am your main character, after all."

A struggling writer surfs /r/askreddit for juicy plots and characters based on reddit user comments. A year later and the writer has a best seller in store, a redditor discovers striking similarities to one of her storys and goes to have a little chat with the writer.

The saddest were the children, a close second, being their parents. When little girls started rejecting futures of princesses and wanting to purge their rooms and wardrobes of pink and insisted that no, they wanted fire engine red, and trucks, and waling sirens. Little boys giving up on dreams of being the first Olympic policeman to be a doctor. The parents would cry silently into their pillows, or run to the pediatrician murmuring, *What will it be? Will it be cancer? Can I swaddle her in blankets or hide him in a room?* Some got angry at the inevitability, or the confusion - was this growing up to live or growing to death? The worst story I’d heard, and I’d heard many, were the ones who tried to disrupt the system, who tried to kill themselves before the change had manifested with one of two outcomes – they failed and were left, maimed, distorted and tortured, or they succeeded, and then, mining through the journals and blogs and posts, we realized just how long they’d been thinking about death – that that had been their evolution. Of course there were cults that’d sprung up, the Born Again movement suddenly taking on new meaning, til there was a split – the Born Again and the Re-Born. There were campaign posters about enabling and slogans about defeating it. But, as with most inevitabilities, people eventually just accepted it and accredited it with whatever meaning they considered most pertinent. The conspiracy theories were mostly limited to outposts of the internet that inspired more eye rolls than legitimate discussion. But for those of us who guarded the Algorithm, who doled out life expectancy in exchange for managing to avoid Malthusian calamity, it was a bit more nuanced. Granting a child twelve years of life, or damning her to starvation and war is all well and good on paper – but it will keep you up at night. With nuance comes dissent – but mostly on the how, not the why. The Great Boom had taught us a hard lesson on the why. We’d attempt rebellion, but we all know our clock is ticking.

Everyone has a midlife crisis. However, it's always in the very middle of their life, no matter how old they are.

Smoking's a bitch of a habit to keep up these days, especially in January. Standing on my apartment's roof deck, the wind cut right through my coat, and my hand shook slightly every time I drew the cigarette up to my mouth for another drag. The city behind me was frozen solid under the weight of yet another winter snowstorm, and the waters of the Charles River were still and silent as an abandoned building. Distantly honking cars were the only indication that I wasn't entirely alone in Boston this afternoon. As wrapped up in the idea of isolation as I was, I hardly noticed the other man up on the roof deck until he was just a few feet away. He stood next to me for a moment, and we watched the frozen photograph of a city in silence. I was cold, but a single cig hadn't quite scratched the itch, so I turned to my neighbor and asked if he smoked. “From time to time. Are you out?” I didn't recognize him, but then I don't know what most of my neighbors look like. I nodded, and he pulled a silver cigarette case out of his pocket, clicked it open, and offered it to me. “Thanks, man. Live here long?” I fumbled with my zippo for a second. The damned things are impossible to use in gloves. He seemed to be considering his answer before replying, “I've been in a Boston a while now, yes. Yourself?” “Couple'a months. Moved here from Providence.” He nodded at that, but didn't say anything. We were silent again for a time. “Why did you move?” He asked the question idly, but I got the impression he was genuinely interested. Funny thing, though, I was starting to wonder what exactly he looked like. I mean to say he looked like a man, but specific details weren't forthcoming. He had an air of competence, self-assured solitude to him, but I'll be damned if I can actually tell you what color his hair was. “Needed some space from my dad. He's not a bad guy, just not a great father, is all.” I took my first drag on the stranger's cigarette, and burst into a coughing fit. The taste was incredible, but it burned like a coal fire going down. “Jesus, these are harsh. What brand are they?” “I import them. Hard to come buy up here. Sorry to hear about your old man, but there are worse places to be than Boston.” Still hoarse, I nodded. “Yeah. Got a job offer in Jersey, but I couldn't do it. That place is a shit hole.” The man smiled, like he'd remembered an inside joke that I wouldn't get. “What about you? Here for work, or family?” “A bit of both.” The stranger puffed on his cigarette casually, and the cherry burned brighter than it had any right to. “I don't get on well with my father either. He's got...control issues. A man needs some space. Has to get out on his own, stretch his wings, you know?” “I hear that.” The face thing was really starting to get to me. “Hey, I'm Mike, by the way.” I reached out a hand to shake his. “Samael.” His grip was firm, and he looked me right in the eye as we shook. “That's...an unusual name.” Where had I heard it before? “It was unique where I came from, too.” "And where's that?" "Much farther away than Providence. It was nice talking to you, Mike. I hope for your sake we never meet again." And as I was about to ask him just what the hell he meant by that, he was just....gone. Vanished in the wind, with a last cloud of that harsh cigarette smoke dissipating in the space he'd occupied. I stood alone on the roof, suddenly feeling more alone than I had before my conversation.

a man meets the devil while out having a smoke, and finds out they have more in common than he thought.

From what we've gathered from the archive, the human species was a sexual one - a *very* sexual one. Of note is that it did not appear that alpha males were the most successful at completing the mating ritual; lesser, beta males appeared to be those with the most success - ones that identified themselves as "pool boys" and "delivery guys." The females appeared to submit to all their sexual desires, regardless of their roles in the society. Whether it was their educational systems or health facilities, sexual intercourse would transpire, without concern of the greater needs. We conclude that this played an important part of their extinction. Curiously, we have noted that the population held multiple roles within society. For example, subject "Lisa Ann" has been highlighted as being both a "bored housewife" (domestic dwelling female) and "candidate for Vice-President of the United States" (secondary position in the United States clan.) Similar patterns have been observed in subjects "James Deen", "Jenna Jameson" and "Ron Jeremy." The biggest scientific breakthrough for us is that humans had multiple abilities to conceive offspring - initially, it was believed that the sexual intercourse must be completed vaginally. However, after viewing multiple entries, it appeared that such a way would be impossible for the human species to grow and survive. Therefore, the males reproductive fluid (known as "cum") could be absorbed by the female, both orally or absorbed through the skin. The breasts (or "tits" as they're known to humans) and the posterior ("ass/arse") appeared to be the most successful places. Larger tits and asses were favoured by the males, presumably for this purpose. In tern, females desired larger penetrable devices ("dick/cock") as these would, clearly, store more cum for the female. It also appears the anal and rectal cavity sufficed as well as the vagina, albeit more painfully for the female. We are, so far, only 4 years into our study from the footage. However, we shall endeavour onwards.

In the far future, after the Human race has gone extinct, an alien species happens upon Earth. All they find is a hard drive containing 20 years worth of porn. What do they infer about us just from that source?

“Oh, for fuck's sake.” The words take a moment to sink in. I'm still staring at the crossbow bolt stuck into the wall in a kind of shock. Most people never come this close to death, but I've been here eighteen times in the last three months. A torn scrap of my shirt hangs limp from the wooden bolt, and I can feel a burning wetness as blood starts seeping out of the graze on my shoulder. A guy in a Metallica T-shirt crashes into the bar next to me. Orders a whiskey. “Look, this probably isn't what you think.” He slams a crossbow onto the bar between us. I stare at the mechanism for a moment. “Did...did you just try to kill me?” “Yeah. Look, don't worry about it.” I'm about to express to this medieval son of a bitch just how worried I am, when he continues, “Do you even own a car?” “Um...no. I sold it last year. Needed the money to afford the deposit on my apartment. Why?” The bartender brings the man's whiskey, and I order one for myself. “Look, it's like this. You cut an Amazon exec off on the freeway back in '09. He missed his exit, had to double back, and ended up missing a meeting that cost him his career. He blames you for ruining his life. Hired me to, well, kill you.” He downs his drink in one shot before continuing. “And let me just say, you are either the luckiest son of a bitch to walk this earth, or some kind of psychic.” I flash back to the close calls I've had in the last few months. Car wrecks, building fires, gun shots. “Wait, you've been behind all the shit that's been happening to me? Fuckin' A, man! I thought I was cursed, or something!” He shrugs. “Yep. But I'm out. Done. Never had a bastard as slippery as you come into my sights. Figured I'd come clean. I'm done with the biz, Ain't no money worth this.” The bartender comes by again, and we each order another whiskey. “I don't know what your deal is, but I'm retiring.” Ten minutes ago, I'd been enjoying a quiet beer, watching the Sox game. This wasn't something I was expecting when I left my apartment tonight, but over the last few months, I'd become accustomed to the unexpected. “So my life will go back to normal? You'll stop trying to kill me?” “That's the long and short of it. I'm closing in on forty. Assassination is a young man's game.” Our shots arrive, and he slams his back without hesitation. “Besides, this contract is the dumbest I ever took.” I nod thoughtfully, stretch, and grabbing the back of his head I slam his face down into the empty shotglass. I hear a crunch, and he slides off the bar with glass shards buried in his eye socket, moaning incoherently. While the other bar patrons are still in shock, I reach into his pocket, grab his phone, and find a contact marked 'employer.' The phone rings twice before a familiar voice answers. “Is it done?” “Ronnie, you piece of shit.” I'm grinning as people begin to scream and flee the bar around me. “You remember me? Ben from accounting? You got me fired in '05, thought I was chatting up your girl at the Christmas party. Like I'd have ever tapped that level of crazy. Sorry, off topic. Your hitman was a flop, Ronnie. And now its my turn again.” I hang up, dropping the phone on the would-be assassin. Ronnie had picked the wrong bean counter to fuck with.

A man hired a bumbling hitman to kill you for cutting him off in traffic three years ago. You've started to feel sorry for the hitman after his seventeenth failed attempt to whack you. Describe the eighteenth hit attempt.

“Oh wow.” I nod twice and stare at her eyes just like the Book had told me to. Held eye contact for, 1,2,3 seconds then smile and look to the left, slightly turning my head at the same time. I listen to her talk, not really absorbing much, something about her travelling around the world, Paris (Wow, that must have been so lovely, did you go up the Eiffel Tower?), to Greece (Oh, I’ve always wanted to go there), to Sydney (Oh wow, must have been a lovely place), to London (Oh lucky you…) to… blah, blah, blah. Not that you could tell I was bored, I made eye contact, asked questions, smiled, mirrored her actions, topped up her wine, even occasionally brushed her hand. I had followed the Book and it seemed to be working, after dinner (I paid of course) she offers to take the same cab home. We waited for a taxi, (she had on my coat), then I opened the door, smiling and making eye contact for 1,2 seconds. We chatted (mostly her, I nodded and smiled), she put her hand on my knee, I placed my arm around her shoulder. She smiled, I smiled and we get out of the cab (I pay her half of course). We stand just outside the taxi, door ajar, she’s cold so I offer my coat again and she takes it. I walk her to the front door, she makes eye contact with me, smiles slightly and bites her lip. I figure this is the sign to kiss and so go for it, awkwardly; I had practised in the mirror and with my hand, faking some roughness that could be mistakenly for passion, not too much though, didn’t want to kill this one. It seems to be what she wants, because she puts her arms around my neck and doesn’t back away (makes for a pleasant change). I do as the Book says and run my hands up her and down her back and start moving my mouth towards her neck. I have no idea if this is going well, to me it just looks like some massive slug has been across her face, but she giggles (a good sign according to the Book), takes my hand and leaves me to her apartment. I give a courtesy wave to the taxi, my heart pounding. To be honest, I didn’t think I’d make it this far and so haven’t read on in the Book. Oh well, I internally shrug, I can always revert back to my old ways, at least I felt something then. -053

A sociopath who wishes to fit in and have emotions and relies on a guidebook of social skills for guidance

They call me Thanathos, Death, the Angel of Mercy, Hades, Erebus, Yama, the Grim Reaper, Azrael, Mot, Erlik, Supay, Tuoni, Anubis, Mictlantecuhtli, and on, and on. I have had countless names. Time is a human concept, a construct; a necessary and universal product of the mind. For me, you must see – there is no such such thing. I exist, as I have always existed. The words that sentience, or “life” uses to describe the passing of their “time” is meaningless to me. My only “purpose”, for reasons beyond my comprehension is to stand guardian at the shivers of time, the intersections when life ceases. I am an arbitrator.. A judge of sorts. My will is reality, my edicts are law. I would claim myself to be a timeless “God” of some sort, but I have determined that I cannot be – for I am flawed. My judgment is imperfect. For my current existence, I have been assigned to over-watch a small, blue planet, full of ocean life and the occasional upright primate. The early days of this assignment were quite uneventful; I'd seen more hunt-and-prey type activity then I care to admit. “Return to the ground from whence you came, and rejoin the spirit of your planet.” I'd murmur quietly to the prey as they were being torn to pieces. It wasn't until the mid-point in this planet's existence where I could say “my soul” if I had one, became tested. I saw the creatures align themselves, in rows, and march blindly towards time fissures, creating a massive amount of work for me – where I would need to say the words of peace to each and every one of them. I wasn't sure of what they fought for; but their convictions were quite strong. One particular sight, there lay a youth, if I could call him so – he was young for his species, he was mangled by a bronze spear. He said to me in his tongue: “Thanathos, I do not resent you, for in my death; I see now – all things seem fair.” Here whence comes my conviction of being imperfect – for there are moments when I have been made to feel, and in compassion; I would commit a disallowed act – and reverse the thread of their time fissure. For each creature that I allow to continue living, I sometimes cause the end of many others; and I am punished through an increase in workload. I allowed the youth to live, and he commanded his “legions” to conquer the majority of his landmass, driven by his “immortality”. I returned for him later when he was comfortable, and I spoke to him: “I had mercy upon you, but you have betrayed my kindness. Vanity has consumed you and now you must perish without cause in an equal measure.” I felt that I had acted appropriately, and that would stem the tide of the unnecessary violence; but a precedent had been set upon the planet. Every “leader” of the pack wanted to emulate the history of the youth who was “immortal”. I grew quite tired of my labors, as I had now carried more away to death than I had ever seen exist upon the planet; and for each, their fear, and their sadness, grew upon me. I had spent so many countless “nights”, in so many hopeless places, I often began to wonder if the entire purpose of the planet's existence was that of misery-- if perhaps they were evil spirits, eternally reincarnated and made only to inflict pain upon one another. As I would return to my fields immersed in the bright warmth of the star which overlooked the planet, I'd speak with the many upon various topics as such, specifically those would call themselves “philosophers”. I found that I could not converse with them on depth upon the things I had seen, for they would often become incoherent. The weight of my tasks seemed quite heavy upon their “souls”, and so as thus I could never find a satisfactory answer, and I had continue searching on my own. I could vaguely take a hiatus, as I saw the brightest flame flash from the surface, and then another. “Work.” I thought. As I arrived upon the surface; I could exclaim that.. if I had words or the physicality to express – I would have cried. I had felt compassion before; but it was the first time I had felt “fear”, and “anger”. The eyes of the creatures I saw were not peaceful as those of the gazelles which accepted their fate-- they were full of questioning, full of “sadness”. “Why?” They would wordlessly ask, as I would give their parting words, and I would sometimes pause, as I would be unable to give them an adequate answer. I did not know why. All I knew, is that their area of the planet had been consumed in fire. The wounds to their “souls” were “horrific”, the worst I had ever seen. At this point, my own “soul”, I felt was so heavy, that I could no longer do my work properly. I laid down to rest in my solar fields, now seemingly a “king” of a massive “empire” of the dead; and lapsed into a deep, depression. When I had emerged from my grief, I decided to be more compassionate in my policies, and to allow more of the creatures to live. After such horrors that they had inflicted upon one another, perhaps they would be wiser in the future. But, again – I was wrong. Staying my hand made them innumerate to the point of fatality – they overran the planet, and consumed all of its resources. The atmosphere soon began to grow darker, and my workload increased dramatically once again. They were much wiser in their final moments, I would converse with them – they would ask more difficult questions; but they were also more full of “regret”. The creatures of the “legion” were always strong in their convictions, but these new creatures who had spent their youths in the mist, were much more remorseful. “We were wrong. We were so terribly wrong. I am so sorry.” They would tell me, expecting compassion. I would tell them: “I was wrong, not you. I am sorry.” In the next movement of the “legions”, I had to hire help to get through so many. I thought that I had amassed an already tremendous number of “souls” in my fields, but I don't think any kind of mathematics could enumerate the amount that I had to foresee this time. My companions were not as strong enough of heart as I was, and would betray their assignments – and I was forced to retire them as well. Eventually, there were very few left. The last of us stood and we watched as the fires that had scarred me in my mid-time return once again, covering the surface, frozen. I quietly turned to my most trusted companion, and I told them: “I wish to feel, and to cry, at least once. I want to see it through the eyes of all of those whom I had myself carried. I want to be spoken my own last words, for I cannot bear the weight upon my soul any longer. I wish to die.” They calmly nodded to me, and I possessed a youth who most resembled the prior, and I stood in the flames, and allowed them to consume me. I had never felt pain before; but the body I had inhabited had all of the impulses for it. All of the knowledge, and all the history of the creatures whom I had not understood until now flooded my “soul”. I cried, and my tears melted in the flame. As I fell, my companion stood over me with the same eyes that I once given all those before me. I had my answer. “What inhumanity-- has man committed upon humanity?” I uttered. Had I been allowed to die, I would not be able to tell you this tale. No, you see – my watch never ends. For I am Death, the Destroyer of Worlds. -------------

You are Death, explain your day/life.

What the hell kind of kid has a chair for an imaginary friend? This kid, he summons me up and I'm in his room and I can't move, and he smiles at me. He says, Can i really sit in you? Sit *on*, you snot weasel, is what I want to say, but that's the sort of thing that gets you on nightmare detail. So I tell the kid, Yeah, go ahead, sit, have a ball. And he just sits on me. All night he sits on me, his ninja turtles pajamas scraping flint across my eyes. Never went to sleep, sat there all night, and in the morning he starts crying and he won't stop. Finally his dad walks into the room and grabs him up and takes him away. Of all the kids I get this kid with the chair fetish and the weeps. I've been firemen, policemen, werewolves, princesses, cowboys, astronauts, genies, ninjas. First time being a damn chair. You can't move around much when you're made of wood. So I sit there looking at the kid's bed till he comes back and he asks if he can sit on me again. Yeah, I ain't broken. So he sits. Again, all night, I get the only kid in the world that doesn't sleep. And morning comes around and he's crying again. His dad comes in and takes him away. This goes on for two weeks. Seriously, two weeks this kid sits on me and cries. Finally, I can't take it anymore. I break protocol. Any nightmare is better than this chair business. Kid, I say, what's the deal? Wouldn't you rather I was a Jedi? You want to know what color your light saber is? Come on, I'll bet you a whole dollar it's green. I'll be Obiwan, or Yoda. Hell, I'll be Jarjar. Let's save the world and get paid. But the kid, he just stands up and he says sorry and gets into bed and cries. Doesn't even make it to morning this time. Little dude is starting to make *me* sad. Well, I figure it's already nightmare alley for me, so I press him. Rule number one is you don't press the kid, but I had to know. I ask him, What's with the chair? Why are you crying all the time? He stops crying enough to say, You really want to know? I don't have a head to nod so I say yeah and he wipes a gob of snot and tears on his turtles sleeve. You can't tell my dad, he says. I give him scout's honor and he sits up. I don't sleep good, he says. Dad doesn't like it because it's bad for me. Mom comes home late sometimes because she's a nurse and I sneak down down into the kitchen. Mom never gets mad. She always has chicken noodle soup after a long hard day and sometimes I get peenabutter and jelly. I sit in the chair next to her and we watch I Love Lucy and Get Smart together. Well what do you need another chair for? I say. I know as soon as it leaves my wooden mouth. This is why there's a rule number 1. The kid doesn't say anything, just goes back to his pillow and shakes and cries. So I'm an asshole. I know it more than you can think it, so save it. Another week goes by and the kid won't even look at me. I can't bring myself to say anything to him. Me, a damn chair, and I'm dying because he won't sit on me. I sit there night after night and night after night he cries next to me. He knows I'm here and it's killing him. It's ripping his guts out. So above all rules is rule 9. You let these things run their course. You don't interfere. If I have to be this kid's chair, sitting by his bed, tucked away in his closet, stuffed down in the basement, for years and years, I do it. I sit my wooden ass wherever he puts it and I listen to him cry. Hell, I might get packed up and shipped to his dorm room when he goes to college. Always there, in or out of sight, ready to get sat in or cried on. I'm not saying I'm not an asshole, but I could have done all that. When I broke rule nine, it wasn't all for me. I really didn't want to watch this kid go through that. So a night comes around and I break the silence. Kid, I say, You have to kill me. He looks at me and he's scared and I floor it. Take me outside, beat me brains out with a baseball bat. Throw me out the window. Get your dad's keys and run me over. Take an axe to my head, throw my body in the woodchipper. Anything. Because I'm not here. You need me to be here and I'm not here. Your mother is dead. She's dead dead dead and I'm not even a chair. That made him angry. It was good to see him angry. He ripped me limb from limb with his bare hands, chopped me into little bits with his dad's axe and threw me in the waste bin. That was ten years ago now. Been on nightmares ever since. I don't regret a word. I'm probably better at scaring the shit out of these kids anyway.

Tell the story of an imaginary friend who realizes he doesn't like the kid who imagined him and is contemplating some sort of extreme solution to change the situation.

The main problem was the food. Badly described food tastes like cardboard. I used to really enjoy good meals, not that I'd ever really pay attention to them - I was usually reading at the same time - but it's strange what you miss when it's not there. Now I just pour cereal out, balance the bowl on my knees and devour books earnestly to try and get rid of the overwhelming sensation of loss you get in a two dimensional world. I'm sitting in a restaurant with my badly described wife, mourning over the fact that my wine tastes like ribena and my steak tastes like quorn because apparently this nightmare was written by a fifteen year old vegetarian. She's chewing something which I refuse to believe to be anything other than splotches of colour on a white plate and talking to me with her mouth full. There are no knives, because the narrator didn't describe knives. "I just don't see why you're so upset." She says. So that's how the conversation is starting tonight. She has three opening phrases. One is this passive-aggresive shit, one is her worrying about my drinking and the third is where she sniffs and rolls away from me in disappointment as she pulls the sheets up to her neck. "I'm really sorry Sophie. Can't we just enjoy the meal?" Her face scrunches up in worry. She's written as a nagging, argumentative bored housewife. It throws her off when I'm nice to her. I think I have kids too, but the plot is so inconsistent that I'm not sure how old it is, what its name is, or even what gender it's supposed to be. I just know that my wife spends anywhere between sixteen and eighteen hours a day playing with it. It doesn't scream or cry or shit itself because, like I said, this story was written by a fifteen year old. At the beginning I kept searching for a way back. I would scream and shout at my wife, call her names and break furniture. It would always go back to normal the next day though, whatever I did. I seemed to be trapped here. I squeeze my wife's hand now and try not to look at the tables around us. The restaurant is full, but there are only four couples. They're copy-pasted over every table in the place. The waiters all look like a Frenchman described by someone who's never even seen a baguette. And the wine tastes like ribena. "Yes Tony. Let's enjoy the meal." She goes back to chewing her food. I go back to looking desperately at my plate and wondering if a bit of pepper will do anything. "How's our baby, Sophie?" "She's doing well. She'll be talking soon. She has a tooth coming out." "That's lovely, honey." So I started writing. I've been a reader all my life. I always wanted to get sucked in to a book. Which one would it have been, if I had the choice? Something peaceful, green... Where I could wander in the open air. Not here, where the clouds repeat every six and every other tree is the same. It's hard to remember how real people act. I read parts aloud to my child when it and Sophie are asleep. I think it likes them. I'm not unhappy. Not really. Despite everything, I've come to realise that it doesn't matter how badly my life is described. I smile up at my wife. "Do you like your steak?" She asks "It's delicious." I reply After all, life is an adventure you write yourself.

A literary nerd wakes up in the middle of a poorly written story

It all started five years ago. I was just biking through downtown Manhattan when it hit me. The doctors said it was a wonder I didn't die, being hit by a land rower on a bike and all. I didn't wake up but afterwards I was told that I talked. And I talked sense. I solved the Hodge conjecture, the Rienmann hypothesis and the Naiver-Strokes existence within a day. By the end of my three month coma I had furthered scientific knowledge by three decades. I didn't know any of this beforehand, I had no knowledge on any science. I was just a stoner renting a shitty basement in a shitty neighborhood. When I woke up I felt different. I felt strange. I felt knowledge in my head that should not have been there, I knew the atomic mass of every single thing I looked at. I knew the exact gravitational force acting on every thing I looked at. To the third decimal I knew the time of day just by calculating where the sun was in the sky. It was hard, I could not focus. Overwhelming knowledge filled my head and the human mind is not meant to handle so many unwanted thoughts. Its hard to enjoy a meal when you know the calorie count of every bite, its hard to enjoy sex knowing the exact hormones your brain is secreting, its hard to be happy when everything is a formula. A simple chemical reaction that you know the exact properties of. The fist year was good. I worked in numerous labs, solving all kinds of mysteries. I got payed good money to make advances, I refined every process you could imagine. From the simple things like reducing waste of energy too solving the mysteries of the universe. It was all available to me. The universe had given me the ultimate knowledge. I knew everything. I didn't always know it, it just came too me if my mind wondered there or if I was asked about it. I did not have to solve anything, I did not have to recall anything. It just... came out. I didn't understand a hundredth of what I said but I said it. The second year was worse. At this point I was being payed extravagant figures to make weapons for the government. A neutron bomb with a blast radius of ten meters but an exposure radius of ten kilometers, a bullet system that automatically identified human DNA and could be programmed for specific things. And that was when I broke down. After the government targeted everybody that had middle eastern DNA in their lineage back four generations I absolutely broke down. I became a recluse. I hid in the wilderness and managed to be safe for another year. At the start of the fourth year things became dark. I was known by every human on earth. I solved the hunger problem for 99% of the population of earth in my first year and advanced technology by hundreds of years. I was tracked down by god knows whom and made to be a celebrity. Everybody knew me because I knew everything. My family abandoned me years ago because I was never there for them, my emotions suppressed by the stream of knowledge. But now, now, I was famous. I was the biggest star in the world. They came back, offering me sorries and wishing to come back into my life. This was the hardest year, television shows, movie deals, the endless interviews. I didn't have a single waking moment where I advanced things. I was to busy answering "fan mail" and doing things to further my identity in the publics eye as "The wizza kid" based on the word "pizza". Even the name they gave me sucks. Today is my five year anniversary. I think today is the day I will kill myself. Ive been depressed for four years, three hundred and sixty four days. I could tell you exactly how many seconds but that is a part of the problem, isn't it? As I pull up the gun it saddens me that the only thing popping into my head this moment is the velocity of the bullet and the chemical makeup of the gun. No regrets pop in, just facts. Facts about the world, about the planet, about the universe. As I squeeze the trigger my only regret is that I stopped delivering pizza.

a 19 year old pizza delivery driver involved in terrible crash, goes into a coma. While in coma begins to talk about all kinds of subjects ..... revealing incredibly advanced knowledge. Within 4 years, becomes the #1 celebrity in the world.

This was it. Cassius' time to shine. He looked around the forum. They were all there. The rich bankers, the slithery merchants, the slaves, the actors, the gladiators. This was the time. "Ladies and gentlemen! Citizens and freemen! Barbarians and slaves!" Cassius leapt onto a banker's stall. "Are you tired of not knowing what you look like? Do you want to see into other rooms from far away? Do you want to look pretty for your man! BEHOLD! The Mirror One Point Zero!" Cassius pulled up the mirror out of its sack cloth. It burst dazzling into the light. It burnt gold in the harsh Italian sun. "Yer wha?" a voice came out of the crowd. It was a butcher holding his cleaver high in the air, pausing in the butchery of a carcass. "A mirror!" "Yeah? And what's so special about it?" "It... it lets you see things. It's reflective." "Yeah, and I got one of 'em an' all!" The butcher drove the cleaver down into a goat skull and bustled behind his stall. After a few moments he drew out a small piece of polished brass. "Ah, ah," Cassius rallied "But this, ladies and gentleman is made of silver! Reflecting the true colour of-" "No, hold on a moment," a refined voice of a senator cut through the mob. "I have a mirror. Junia, where is that mirror of yours?" His wife, protected in a litter by satin curtains passed out a mirror at least a foot across. It was solid silver and shone like stars. "It looks no different from yours," the senator glared. "But here we reach the trick of it!" Cassius tapped the mirror. It rang like a bell. "Glass! By using utterly flat glass we can reduce the need for silver until it is the merest veneer." "Utterly flat glass? That sounds harder to make than the silver!" a banker scoffed. "Silver just comes out of the ground." "With a fairly modest investment I believe-" Cassius could feel a pit forming in his stomach. "Get out of it! And get off my stall!" With a lurch Cassius was shoved from his pedestal to the forum below. He clung to his precious mirror, trying to stop it being shattered. "But think of all the uses for mirrors! Like... like..." "Like burning roman ships in the harbour of Syracuse? Like feeding the vanity of Caligula?" the crowd had started to laugh. "But you never have to polish a glass mirror!" The crowd just laughed again and turned away from him. They went back to their work, the hubbub of the city returning to normal. Someone hauled Cassius to his feet. Cassius looked into an old face. "Listen lad, you're not really selling a new invention," the man said patting him down on the shoulder. "You think you are, but you're not. This is just a modest improvement on what we have already." "But a silver backed glass mirror-" "I know lad, I know," the old man nodded and led Cassius away from the place of his failure. "But these people, the forum goers, they aren't the folk to market it to. They're businessmen. A mirror ain't gonna give them a lot of business." "But-" "Where are you from lad?" "I'm roman!" Cassius insisted. "I know lad, but where?" "Phoenicia," Cassius admitted. "City of Sidon." "Right, right lad, what you need to do is write a lot of letters of introduction to the young ladies of the city as a jeweler." "Where am I going to get-" "Shut up and listen, now you're a jeweler, right? You go there and you sell them pretty necklaces and stupid earrings, right? And when they try them on...?" "I... show them the mirror..." Cassius nodded beginning to catch on. "And it will be such a better quality of image..." "They'll have to buy it!" Cassius almost clapped for joy, until he remembered his mirror and clasped it tightly. The elation passed almost as soon as it had come. "But... but I can't afford to buy a lot of jewels. My stock of mirrors and my travel to Rome was more than-" "Well there my lad," the old man grinned, revealing a gold tooth. "You've had a bit of luck." The old man pointed to the shop they stood outside. Cassius read the sign. 'Quintus, finest jeweler'. "And you're Quintus?" "You're not the most quickwitted lad," Quintus put his arm around Cassius and led him into the jeweler's shop. "But I'll learn ya. I'll learn ya."

It's 50 A.D. and the latest invention is being unveiled in a keynote. It's here, the Mirror 1.0

He had done it. He had finally done it. DarkBlade couldn't believe it. He removed his mask as he sat down in his favorite reclining chair, letting the thought sink in and letting his slight pudge spill out. He had wiped out crime completely. After a long fifteen-year streak of declining living conditions due to the constant rise of robberies and violence, as well as corruption in city hall and the police force, the city of Elaton was now a safe place to live. It had taken him over two years, but DarkBlade finally threw the last mob boss into the slammer a couple of months ago, and boy did it feel good. Ever since then, children could now play down the block safely without parents fearing they would get kidnapped or shot. Store owners could keep their establishments open at night without the fear of being robbed or having them be vandalized. People could go see a movie without being harassed by hoodlums. DarkBlade never stopped making the rounds though. If people saw him, they would wave and move on with their lives. Some had the courtesy to reassure him that he was no longer needed, that "everything is fine on this end!" He would smile, nod, and disappear. It was nice taking a break from all that work. Boy, did it feel good to see everyone so happy and out of trouble. Yup. Boy did it *feel good.* DarkBlade--now simply Jim--leaned back in his chair, clasping the front of the armrests with his fingers. He sighed. For years, he had mastered the art of Judo, Karate, Ninjitsu, and some MMA. He learned how to handle several kinds of knives and guns. He learned to build traps and bombs. He saved up lots of money for his skintight costume and gadgets...all for this one purpose in life. As a child, he felt a strong sense of justice after growing up in shitty Elaton where his childhood friends were either unhappy failures or dead. To be able to help them--or avenge them--in any way was an honor, and never something he second-guessed. He knew this was what life had in store for him. He helped. He avenged. Justice was served. A sense of uncertainty had crept up on Jim. Lack of time and money (due to always buying sewing equipment and refills for his weapons) had taken a toll on his life, especially socially. He never had money to go out with friends, and had not spoken to those very friends he was protecting in a long time. They had long ago deemed him "that guy who always makes excuses because he thinks he's too good for us." Because he never hung out with them, there was never an opportunity to meet new people, specifically, potential companions. His friends were now married and starting families. He was considered a weirdo at work at the office because he was always so quiet, always thinking of plans for his evening excursions. He was eventually fired for not completing his work. The silence in his own home, usually a soothing alternative to the blaring sirens, piercing horns, and explosive gunshots, had now become deafening with this realization. Jim flung himself out of his chair. He walked over to his liquor cabinet and poured himself a glass of brandy, and yet the liquor and its burning essence did nothing to wash away the void within him. Soon enough, he'd be considered irrelevant as Elaton's hero as well. Sure, he could go to another crime-infested city and help the people there, but that requires money, which is something he didn't have at the moment, and that required years and years of saving. He poured himself another glass. The only way he'd be able to stay and to keep his relevance--and sanity--would be to bring in more crime. Should he break out one of the criminals from prison? He could, but it would be much too risky, and much too dangerous for his life, since they would, in due time, take vengeance on him. Plus, why *would* he want more crime? Everyone is happy and safe, and that's all that matters. The sacrifices of his life were worth it. Another drink. If there were only some way he could bring in crime, some sort of badness without truly having anyone injured...and then, it hit him. Getting very jittery and eager, he pulled out a notepad from a drawer and a pen. He always had a bunch of them lying around for moments like these. He drew out plans. Plans to rob. Plans to kidnap. Plans to take over the city like a true villain. Jim paused and set his pen down.. So is this what he would succumb to, becoming everything he fought against and hated, in order to feel loved again? It didn't feel right, but then again, it didn't feel wrong either. No one had to worry too much. He would never hurt the people intentionally. That wasn't his purpose. He would just show them that he was important after all, that's it. It would only happen every once in a while. But he'd have to scrape up his leftover money from his sewing tools and gadget pieces to make another costume, another identity. That's fine, it'd be worth it in the end. He'd also have to formulate escape plans, so no one would ever know it was him. Then, he'd always take his hero costume with him, and pretend to beat up his alter ego, and he'd come out victorious. If he planned everything out carefully, he could have these plans ready within a few months. It would be perfect. Jim went to bed satisfied, but then realized he needed a name. As he drifted off, he made a mental note of a name he liked. *The Oppresor.*

A vigilante hero has completely halted crime in their city. With crime rates at 0% for a couple months, the people of the city no longer focus on the hero. In an attempt to bring the spotlight back to themselves, the hero creates an alternate persona in which they are the perfect villain.

The American sat across from them at a large, weather-beaten table; no doubt looted from a long abandoned school that the monsters who shared the same table had been responsible for closing. The room was full of a cold silence as they all exchanged searching glances. Four years. Four years of undercover work. Four years of go-betweens, tip offs, shady informants, corrupt local officials and four years of frustration all for a chance. This was the chance. Finally, The American spoke up. "So.. anybody know of any good terrorist activities coming up?" "Ja. Ja! I am also much interested in ze acts of terror soon coming." The German chimed in. The Frenchman nodded enthusiastically as The South African's eyes darted around the room for any response. "Yes. Let us blow something up. For terror. Anyone?" The Australian spoke robotically into his chest, an odd lump poking out from near his collar. The room settled back into an uneasy quiet. "Am I to understand that nobody here is aware of any upcoming terror plots?" Asked The American, in a much indignant tone. Mumbles and shrugs were given in reply as a high-pitched static noise seemed to emanate from the ear of The Frenchman. He swatted about it and seemed to 'shush' himself. The South African continued to stare at all at the table. His eyes focused as though he was willing laser beams from them. The American began to tap impatiently on the table as The Frenchmen fidgeted at something deep in his ear canal. The Australian ungraciously leaned back, trying to peer at some glowing device in his hand. The German coughed loudly. "What?" "Hm. Did someone say something?" "No. Did you?" "Nein." More nothing. The American decided it was time to bait the hook. "I suppose... we should plan something then?" Three weeks later The German walked into a police station wrapped in enough explosive material to vaporise a whale party. Shortly before blowing himself to atoms, he had tried to arrest himself, but was foiled when his reflexes were no match for his own. All agencies involved claimed success.

A spy agent has infiltrated a terrorist organization and was assigned a special cell for a terrorist operation. His four comrades are also agents from other nations trying to take down the cell. None of them know.

The snow was melting under the spring sun and the first tips of grass could be seen peaking out from under the blanket of white. The hum of a two stroke motorcycle can be heard bouncing off the brickwork of the narrow street. Ten seconds later the rider pulls into view, cutting off the throttle and walking it down the narrow alley behind the houses. Opening the back gate of one, the rider leans the bike against the tool shed and walks towards the rear door. As the motorcyclist ambles up to the door, they pull off their helmet, revealing the face of a man in his late thirties. Grey is creeping into the dark brown of his hair at the temples and his hands are callused from honest work. He unlocks the door into the kitchen and is surprised at what he sees. Laid out on the table is a white table cloth with tableware on top. The blue and white Ming vase sitting in the center is empty. The table is set for two. He slings his satchel onto the couch and thumps upstairs. There he strips of his grimy clothes and heads to the shower, washing off the dirt of the day. Twenty minutes later he emerges from the bathroom pink with his hair combed and dried. He walks back down to the kitchen to make himself tea when he sees the previously empty vase has been filled with fresh cut flowers from the garden. Daffodils for the most part, along with a few others from the tiny greenhouse out back. He smiles as the sight and glances at the clock. Three hours till six. He pulls from the shelf his mother's cookbook and thumbs through the well used pages. Picking out the desired ones, he closes the book and spreads out the recipes. He gathers the ingredients, onions, potatoes carrots and the like. He peels and chops the vegetables, placing them into a roasting pan along with the duck he bought just that day. He prepares a salad along with French onion soup. As he makes the meal, he hears his stereo system start up. He hears music, it's one of his ancient records, courtesy of his father. It's an old James Taylor one. He grins as he sings along, surprisingly in tune. His voice is a high baritone. Once that record is done another one comes on, it's the soundtrack from *Alexander Nevsky.* The meal is ready. Placing the dishes on the table, he runs upstairs to his room and changes into his best clothes. As he looks into his closet's built-in mirror, he hears Copland come on the speakers. *Appalachian Spring.* He struggles with the silk tie but manages somehow. He makes his way downstairs and pours himself a glass of wine. For the next five minutes he stands by the window, quietly sipping from his glass, waiting. He hears a noise upstairs and smiles. Footsteps can be heard coming down the stairs. Still smiling, he turns around and sees her. She is dressed in long viridian evening gown that complements her auburn hair. Her hair is done up in a bun, pinned with an elegant hairpiece in the style of tulip. He hands her a glass of wine and they toast the other. "You're early love. You were supposed to come tomorrow" She places a hand on his shoulder and smiles. Her voice is soft and smooth, like a mountain stream. Her words are tinted with a hint of an accent, slightly sing song. "Roan, I couldn't wait. I just had to come. I'm sure you understand." He takes her hands in his, and looks into her eyes, they are the same color as her dress. "Of course I do Emily. You know that. I'm glad you came." He gestures over to the table. "Please, sit." He pulls out the chair for her and takes his own seat. The French Onion soup is first, hot with fresh Swiss cheese. Next course is the roasted duck and vegetables. During the meal she asks him to tell her everything that happened over the previous year. He is happy to oblige her. "... and by the way Roan, are you honestly still riding around on that motorbike?" Swallowing a bite he nods and sips from his glass. Proudly he speaks. "Yep, just put on a new filter on it. It should last me another six or seven years." "Roan. You're not twenty-five anymore. You're going to kill yourself on that thing." He places his hand over hers, his grey eyes looking into her pale green. "That wouldn't be such a terrible thing Emily. You know that." "She presses his hand against her cheek wiping away a lone tear. "I still don't want you to die so early. Please Roan, sell it." He looks down bashfully. "We'll see." They finish with the main course and move on to the salad. Cleansing their palate with it, they move on to dessert, a platter of cheeses and bread. Finishing their meal, they take their glasses along with the wine bottle and move into the living room, fumbling with DVD player, he pops in a film and the pair settle in to watch Disney's *Beauty and the Beast.* Some hours later, after the film is over with. The two find themselves at the front door. He aids her in putting on her jacket and places her hat on her head. As he hands her umbrella over, he speaks. "I wish you didn't have to leave. I would love to go with you." She looks up into his storm grey eyes and gives him a brief but forceful kiss. "Roan, you can't. You still have many more years ahead of you. Be patient love. That's all I ask. Can you do that for me?" He wordlessly nods his head. "That's my husband. I'll see you next year, on our anniversary this time." She opens the door. ""I love you." She disappears into the darkness and rain. Leaning against the door frame he whispers. "I love you to Emily." He gets up early the next morning and picks a fresh bouquet of flowers. Hopping on his bike, he makes his way through town to the other side. He gets to a gentle piece of land and shuts off his motorcycle. He makes his way to a spot he knows well. Kneeling, he places the flowers down on the ground while tears roll down his cheeks as he reads the inscription carved on the marble stone. *Emily Marie Fulton Verlander.* *Loving wife, dutiful daughter. Honest friend.* *Died at the age of 29. She is missed.* "I love you Emily."

You come home to see a table laid out for a dinner for two. You live alone and weren't expecting anyone.

Jerry drummed his fingers as the other end rang. "C'mon, you son of a bitch, c'mon . . ." Finally he heard the other line click. He didn't wait for a greeting, he didn't have the time. "Listen here you little snotbag, I got your message. That's cute. Do you know who I am? What I can do to you?" Jerry stood up and stalked around his massive office. He gazed out over the tops of the cities skyscrapers as he listened to the response. "Oh, that's how we're going to play this, huh? Fine, what do you want?" He listened patiently, the anger never leaving his face. "No! You leave those kids alone, they were never a part of this, you hear me? You leave them alone or I walk!" The other's voice prompted him to sigh and relax for a second. "Okay, fine, fine, thank you. No, no I don't want . . ." He listened to the other speak. "Yeah, that sounds good. Listen, we can't discuss that, not here. I'll meet you at Gray Gardens in two hours. I'll bring the cash, you bring the stuff, we'll see if we can work out a deal." He hung up and slumped his shoulders, then hurled his phone at the huge window.

Write one side of a phone conversation. Your responder writes the other half.

I've always wondered where they came from. I spent my life on a padded chair in front of my computer so it's definitely not coming from my end. It surprised me at first, scared me even. A scrape here, a bruise there. Eventually I just kind of stopped noticing. Except that one time. That one time a damn papercut showed up on my thumb right as I pressed the Space Bar. Stung like a mother fucker. I kind of forgot about it. It was just something that happened once in a while, probably just my body being weird again. Didn't even notice it again until 4 months into our relationship. She walked into a shelf and bruised her shin. Mine was too. We had a chuckle over it, making jokes about quantum entanglement and whatever else geeks like us like to talk about. Didn't take it seriously. Went on with our lives. Forgot about the whole thing. We couldn't sleep. It was a Saturday night and we seemed to have synchronized insomnia. We decided to talk about whatever old bullshit popped into our minds trying to bore each other into dozing off. She told me about how she gets random bruises and scrapes around her body and I tell her it happens to me too. Didn't really think about it that much. Maybe we were too tired for the memory to be encoded properly. Maybe I just thought it was something that happened to everyone. Couldn't tell ya. Forgot about it again. One day she cut herself while chopping celery. I made a joke and distracted her. My fault. Her finger started bleeding. So did mine. What. The. Fuck. Slapped some band aids on and sat down. Talked about the time she kicked the shelf. Talked about the papercut. It all made sense now, and at the same time, made even less sense than before. She punched me in the arm, her arm bruised too. Made a little cut on my leg. Hers bled too. How is this even possible? Decided against going to the doctors. More trouble than it's worth. What if men in black showed up at our door and kidnapped us for research or something? Can't risk it. Gotta be careful. Can't put my life in danger. Can't put *her* life in danger. Gotta stay low. She got pregnant. She gave birth. My anus started bleeding and a placenta fell out.

All those nicks and bruises that show up on your body seemingly out of nowhere are injuries received by your soulmate.

I'm pulled aside movement followed by mother's worried eyes Can we have a word? My father asks He sits me down and starts to pace Worry written over his handsome face "It's come to this" He starts and stops "God knows now you're old enough, You're twenty-five And I must strive-" He swallows "To tell you the truth." I sit tight and wait But I've waited years now for this date There's a secret, the adults won't tell He opens his mouth to speak and stops His lips are white, his face is pale "Son," he says and I grip my chair "The truth about this whole affair," "Father please, just tell me now." The words slip out and now it's said I can't believe I've been so misled My father's words Loud and clear: "Son, there's no such thing as beer." I stand and gasp He shakes his head "The world is serving us juice instead. It tastes the same, it looks alright." "I swear I've had drunken nights!" I pace the room and growl in rage My father sighs, he claps my back "Everyone just pretends. I'm sorry, Jack."

Everybody who turns 25 learns a reality shattering secret about the world. Nobody has ever leaked this secret to somebody under 25. Today is your 25th birthday.

Test subject 2732: Subject struggles with basic strategy. After 3 games subject has withdrawn to the corner of the chamber. Emotional display commenced for 78:12 glorbeks. Further testing halted until source of mental discrepancy is identified and a chemical correction can be administered. _____ Test subject 5294: Subject grabbed the board and attacked the tester. Superficial wounds sustained. Subject has been pacified. Scheduled for waste ejection on 84 Keltar at 72:00 glorbeks. _____ Test subject 1974 Subject ignored the game and stripped of garments. Subject proceeded to bend forward and bare their rear at the tester. Repeated pleas to be 'probed' were uttered by the subject. (Further research is required on 'probing'. 73% of subjects reference this at some point. 83% respond with fear based emotions, 15% seem to derive enjoyment from the concept. 2% attempt to aggressively interact with the tester and must be pacified.) _____ Final report: At this time, the results of the go-test indicate that the population of exo-planet 1462 do not qualify as intelligent life. Clearance to terraform granted.

The rules of Go are so elegant, organic, and rigorously logical that if intelligent life forms exist elsewhere in the universe, they almost certainly play Go. -- Emanuel Lasker

"That's actually volcano ash." I turned to see a young girl, probably in her 20's, with dark hair and a pair of baby blue sunglasses resting on the crown of her head, speaking to me. "You said that they were covered in lava, but that's a common misconception really the bodies are preserved in volcano ash" She once again repeated. I wonder whether she did this often, interrupting people with useless facts. How long has she waited for this? To barge in with that brilliant trivia knowledge of hers and force small talk. "Thanks" I said, recoiling a bit from this women, hoping she would find someone else to annoy. To my disdain, she took this as an invitation to start talking again, "My name's Trista, I always been fascinated with Pompeii or any lost cities like Atlantis and stuff." I cringed deeply that this *Trista* dared to compare the great city of Pompeii with a fantasy. She was an idiot like the rest of these people, gawking at the victims like they were prized exhibit animals on display. Then again what do I know, I been away for so long that even I had became a stranger to my own home. Perhaps it was a mistake to be here. Trista realized that I was not talking and tried to inject in more conversation, "That's my favorite one" She blurted out pointing at a particular pair of victims. "The one with the mother and child, it's so chilling and sad" I looked and felt something wash over me, immediately I remembered everything, everything I tried to forget. "What do you know of them" I asked her. "Not much" She said obvious of what I was experiencing. "Do you know if they died in pain." She cocked her head a bit as if searching through her big encyclopedia of worthless knowledge stored up inside her brain. "They were pretty close to the volcano, so I imagine the intense heat got them first." "Eurydice" "What?" Trista asked. "Her name was Eurydice and that boy, Andreas." I told her. Without another word, I walked away.

As vampires get older, they forget their human lives bit by bit. You arrive at your home town from when you were among the living, and a flood of memories come back

I am gonna put a spin on this. Hope you don't mind. --- "You make a mockery of our sovereignty!" says Emperor Scipio, and in that moment, I hate my job just a little more. Ever since I became a translator for the Empire, I've respected the movement less every day. It was interesting to me from my point of reference, another group recognizing the importance of Latin on our languages today. They took it a bit too far. People were surprised when the Imperial Party won a majority in Italy. People were more surprised still when this majority actually appointed an emperor. What happened after - annexing, invasion, police actions - should have been obvious. To history students, at least. And now here I am. The government sent out for volunteers who spoke Latin, and I was one of them. Eight months later is now, with me hating my job. I repeat what Scipio says as neutrally as possible - quite neutrally indeed. The Prime Minister grimaces. "We are not challenging the borders of Italy — " " — But still you call The Empire by its old name! In this way you demean our achievements! Would you respond differently if I called all of Ireland 'England'?" Scipio is unnecessarily angry. He has read his Machiavelli. The Prime Minister exhales quietly. "Of course. My deepest apologies. It is a habit I must break if our relations are to be mutually beneficial." Scipio barks laughter. "Mutual benefit is only good for the weak." I can see that thought hitting a brick wall in the Prime Minister's head. "Perhaps we should retire for the day… your Grace?" "I should think so." Scipio rises and departs, saluting. It still looks kind of Hitlery when I see him salute. The Prime Minister touches my shoulder. "You all right, Paul?" I grimace. He nods. "Hold out a week, and we'll get you a position in the embassy." He smiles. "Thank you, sir." We shake hands, and walk out. It takes me a minute to remember that I hate my job. Things are looking up. -- 054

The Roman Empire still exists today

**Let Me Explain** Have you ever tried to make a person laugh? I mean, really tried. Have you ever prepped for, worked towards, put everything you could into planting the seeds of an irrepressible smile into the mind of your fellow man? It's bullshit. Well not bullshit, it's just difficult beyond measure. You have to be on their level but, at the same time, capable of subverting their expectations. For me, it's a Sisyphean task of the highest order. Have you ever tried to make a person angry? Because it's easy. It's indescribably simple to annoy, anger and upset almost any person. You might say right now, "Oh well I'm pretty thick skinned so I'm not sure I agree sir." Fuck you. If I stabbed you with a fork you would immediately change your tune. This was my realization, one lonely day in June, as I watched a couple holding hands from my second story dorm room. I just wasn't capable of making people laugh and smile. Those skills, which came to the handsome bastard on the quad as easily as blinking, were dark territory to me. I realized that I only really had two routes left to take, I could either have no impact on people whatsoever and be ignored, or I could garner attention in a negative sense, I could affect other people's lives as an acerbic, antagonistic force. Sometimes I just need to be noticed, to have an effect. I hope that makes sense. ***** "What did you say to me?" I glare down at the wiry man in the city square. I can tell he's intimidated. He replies, with a noticeable stammer. "S... Spare some change please sir." My glare hardens. "Are you fucking kidding me?" I raise my voice so the passers by can hear my argument. "Why? Why do you deserve my change?" "I... I just want to get... for a cup of tea." "That's not why you deserve it. Can you tell me that? Why do you DESERVE my money?" I press him further. He looks up at me, words caught in his throat, he doesn't have an answer. Instead he simply tries to avert my wrath. "I'm sorry sir. have a good day. God bless you." "Fuck off." I bat away his niceties with a swift curse. "You have the gall to ask for my money, so you can spend it on fucking street drugs and 2 litre bottles of cider. You have no fucking clue how hard I work." The people nearby have overheard everything. They all watch, but none of them try to stop me. You wouldn't think it but they rarely do. The wiry man hangs his head, hiding from my gaze as he fixes his eyes on the pavement. He mumbles something but I can't discern it. I decide I'm done. "Here." I snarl at him as I throw my morning paper onto his lap. "Get yourself a job." I then walk off through a group of shocked bystanders. ***** I wait in a cafe to see if he reads the newspaper. If he doesn't I'll have to go over to him which I never like doing. As I've said before I just can't interact with people. It happened the same way it always does. When I mock buskers, insult waiting staff, lambast the beggars, it always sparks an outpouring of good will from everyone around. That's why I do it in crowded areas. The wiry man will eat for a good few days on the charity he received from citizens, offended by my cruelty. Hatred's a great motivator. I watch him as he places the small, but considerable, pile of pound coins and fivers in his pocket and, thankfully, unfolds the paper. He flicks through the pages absentmindedly before reaching the midpoint. I see his brow furrow as the envelope falls onto his lap. He reads the message on the front then, curious at it's apologetic tone, slices the envelope open with his index finger. He pulls out the note and begins to read: **Let Me Explain** Have you ever tried to make a person laugh? ...

Make me fall in love with a not-so-normal character.

"What's your name sweetheart?" The man in the suit takes a bag of M&Ms out of his pocket and offers them to the little girl. She takes the candies and puts the bag on her lap. "My name is Suzie." "And can you tell me what you can do Suzie?" "What do you mean sir?" "I read in the papers that you can make things disappear. Make people disappear." Suzie shuffles around a little, looking uncomfortable. "Don't be afraid, you're not in trouble. I'd just like to ask some questions." He gets down on one knee so their faces are at the same level. "Can you do that for me Suzie? Can you tell me about what you can do?" "Well, sometimes when I think really hard, I can make things change." Suzie looks at the floor "Can you show me Suzie? Can you change something in this room? Anything you'd like. I promise I won't tell anyone." Suzie closes her eyes. A static like humming sound fills the room for a brief moment. The bag of M&Ms on the table collapses into itself, as if a microscopic black hole had appeared in its center. The man in the suit looks at the table but doesn't seem to react. "That was very good Suzie. You have a very good talent. What you just did can help a lot of people." "Really? How?" "Well, sometimes there's a lot of stinky garbage in the way that's really bad for animals and the air. You could make it disappear. Sometimes a building is too old and needs to disappear, you could make that happen. Sometimes a big boat can spill icky black oil into the ocean by accident and it's bad for sea animals. You could clean it up. There are lots of ways you can do good for this world Suzie, and I think that our big group of friends here at Exxon can help you make it happen." Suzie tilts her head back up with a big beaming grin. "You really mean it sir? You really think I can help?" "You betcha! and we'll give you lots of money too. You can have all the toys you've ever wanted." Suzie grins even more. She puts her hands on her chin and wobbles around as if her body can't contain the excitement "Okay!" **12 years later** Scientists are still puzzled by the mysterious disappearances of oil freighters and processing plants around the world. ExxonMobil appears to be the only top 10 oil company that has so far been unharmed. As of today, the missing worker count has reached over 38,000. The CEO of ExxonMobil has refused to comment **click* There is no way that ExxonMobil isn't behind this. I bet they have some kind of Meta-human eliminating the competition! Processing plants and huge metal ships don't just disappear! I bet they're in bed with the Illuminati! **click* Johnson hasn't been performing up to par recently. Both of his throws so far have missed the basket and **click* and that's why the power of friendship is the most valuable power of all! **click* Brony riots are ongoing across the globe as the petroleum supply dips to all time lows. Without a steady supply of petroleum, My Little Pony plastic figurines are no longer affordable to most fans. In Barcelona, upwards of 200,000 bronies and pegasisters have linked hands to form a human circle, tossing their fedoras into the center in protest in an effort to create a mountain of fedoras that can be seen from space.

In a world where superheroes are contracted and sponsored by large, monolithic corporations (like athletes are today), a young girl with near-godlike power is approached to represent one of the most powerful.

"Every day I see you." The woman stopped, and turned around to view the anonymous man who made this bold statement. Her eyebrows peaked, giving off an aura of confusion. The man quickly realized his blunder of not mentioning the method he saw her, but was at loss for words, and could do little to correct it. Regardless, he tried his best. "It's not creepy, I promise." The man said expectantly. "It's just, every day starting sunday last week I saw you in my dreams. You're here today, exactly one week later. I know I'm not crazy." The woman let out a little chuckle to try and ease the mood. Looking at her lips, you could tell she was apprehensive. She decided to continue to be silent and let the man explain himself. "Do you understand what I'm saying? It doesn't even need to be a creepy stalker thing, I'd just like to talk to you. Understand why you were in my dreams." "I was... in you dreams? Like you thought of my while you slept, I'm not just your 'dream girl'?" "Yes, I promise you are actually in my dreams. My mind was trying to tell me something. Please, just let me get a cup of coffee with you." The woman from the man's dreams was beautiful, in every sense of the word. She was clearly in a hurry, and he could tell from the way she keeps inching into the taxi. Either that, or he is scaring her. "That offer sounds nice, of course, but are you sure she didn't look generic, and I'm just filling the spot?" "No. She was you. You even have her voice." Compared to the woman the man was not the most charming. He appeared to be in his forties with her in her twenties and was packing on quite a few extra pounds. They man was wearing a clean black suit, freshly ironed. At this rate he was going to be late for work, but that was at a unreachable spot in the man's head. The woman was wearing a t-shirt and skirt that reminded the man that it was summer. He had forgotten until he'd seen this girl, normally to him the seasons are interchangeable. To the man, the woman had a certain property about her that made him remember. He remembered that it was his mother's birthday in a week, he remembered that he needed to get a haircut, and most of all he remembered that summer was his favorite season. The last thing the man would ever remember was the thought of work. "I'm sorry, I'm going to the airport. It's kind of urgent. I think I may be late." "This will sound creepy, but let me drive you. It will be faster than taking a taxi, and I can at least explain my dreams to you." With a look of hesitation, she finally gave in. The woman turned towards the taxi driver and apologized before she diverted her attention to the man. They had been driving for 20 minutes, and were getting along better than the man could have possibly hoped. Eventually, the conversation of the girl's travels came up. "So Texas, that's pretty far from Maryland. What takes you down there?" "My boyfriend and I are finally moving in together. We had to go long distance, but we will finally be able to see each other." The man's grip on the steering wheel tightened. The were finally approaching the exit on the highway and in one swift motion the man merged into another lane. "Excuse me, I think the airport is off of that exit." The man said nothing, he let his silence fill the air. He couldn't let his dream girl go, not after finally finding her.

A man has a profound and intimate dream in which he falls in love with the woman of his, well, dreams. He wakes up, leaves his apartment, and sees her across the street about to catch a cab.