Datasets:

euclaise

/

WritingPrompts_curated

like 6

She twirled her finger in the water glass. She was having a delightful evening. Mother was wrong. 27 and single isn't an old maid, it's a perfectly good station in life... Who was she kidding? This guy was weird. He had gotten up to go to the bathroom and disappeared for over ten minutes. She was beginning to think he was ditching out. She sipped on the water for the first time in a few minutes, her head buzzed a little in response. 'Shit,' she thought, 'I'm nervous and this guy isn't even a keeper.' She fiddled with the napkin a little, pulled out her compact and adjusted her bangs slightly to the left. She looked beautiful, at least in her own mind. She sipped her water again, and noticed the lights were oddly brighter than she remembered. 'Where is he?' she debated standing up and leaving, but oddly felt tired at the thought. She was beginning to run out of water, and wondered if the waiter had recognized this yet. Tim still hadn't returned, how long had it been? She drained the glass, not beautifully like the NBA players she had seen on TV, but somewhat sloppily, spilling about a quarter of it on the table and her dress. 'Mother would criticize' her thoughts gleamed. Tim was still missing, and she was unbearably tired. Just as he flipped into the room and suggested leaving, she was too exhausted to protest. He helped her stand and into his car. Sleep began greeting her like hypothermia greets a child trapped in the snow. She vaguely remembered her head resting on the window. She tried to murmur directions to her house, but couldn't gather the strength. 'I'm usually a night owl, this is so strange.' Slowly, the ropes in her mind started turning like a well drawing a bucket from the depths, 'It's something in the water! It's in the wa...' Night had fallen, and so had her inhibitions. Time was relaxed, and her drug induced sleep had captured any chance to object.

It's something in the water. It's in the water!

I rounded the corner and saw that little punk on the blacktop just where he used to hang out 30 years ago. Trevor Spitts. I can trace the entirety of my lifetime failures back to him. I was never a strong kid and he knew it. He singled me out the moment I stepped into my middle school's hallway. He made it his mission to make my life hell. He tormented me for years, all the way up until the day I graduated high school. The beatings at lunchtime and after school, the name-calling, all which lead to the eventual sexual assault on me. He even called ME a fag after he got through with me. Trevor robbed me of my innocence, confidence and social skills in my blooming years. My life never took off. I've worked a dead-end job barely making ends meet ever since then. It wasn't until the time-traveling ring came to me that I knew what I must do. I confidently crossed the street headed right towards him, the time-traveling ring bound tight on my right index finger. All I would have to do to return to my own time would be to imagine where and "when" I wanted to be after rotating it clockwise 2 times. "What the hell do you want old man?" he spat at me. Classic Trevor. Today was his day of reckoning. Laughing, I brandished the gun from my coat pocket, took aim, and fired. I barely registered the screams rising in various pitches all around me. I guess a gun firing in the middle of a 6th grade schoolyard would have that effect. Laughing even harder, I imagined myself back in the backyard of my sister's house in my "own time". I closed my eyes and roated the ring, longing to see her. She was the only person who hadn't given up on me over the years, but I could see the pity in her eyes whenever she looked at me. I felt the world shift around me and opened my eyes. There I was, standing under the oak tree in her backyard, it was night time. I began walking toward her back door, ready to give her a huge brotherly hug. I banged my knee hard on something solid around my waist and went sprawling to the ground. "Hey, who's back there!" shouted a familiar voice from within the house. The porchlight flicked on and a dark figure burst through the door and was on me with lightning speed. "I'm armed whoever you are. Get outta here before I call the cops!" he shouted. I knew that voice. "Dad...dad it's me, Jim!" I shouted back, still seeing stars from landing on my face. Why was dad here? "What did you just say!" he shouted. "I said it's Jim....Jimmy boy!" I repeated. A light suddenly flashed in my eyes. After a brief moment, he spoke up. "Jimmy, what the hell are you doing here? I thought you were taking a vacation to Florence." he said helping me up. I never in my life had money for any kind of vacation, I must have turned out ok. I dusted myself off before looking back at what I tripped on. It was...a headstone. Written across the top was...my sister's name. No, it couldn't be, how could this happen? I immediately fell to my knees. She was gone. The tears burned behind my eyes. I had to know why. "Why...when did she die? How?" I sputtered out. "Jimmy..." dad said resting his hand on my shoulder. "You know she was hit while riding her bike." he said softly. "But how, HOW DAMMIT! I want to hear you say it!" I shouted, shaking his hand off me. "Jimmy, you remember that tragic day. Some loony had just shot one of the kids at your middle school. The ambulance that responded didn't see her ride out in front of it until it was too late."

Time traveling for good...

I opened my eyes, just like any other day. Today was going to be exactly that, just like any other day, just another sad old day in my sad old life. Get up, go to work, type away for a few hours, come home, shovel some food in my mouth and back to bed. I sat up, swinging my legs over the side of the bed and stretching out my arms. I inhaled once, a big breath to fill my lungs to the bottom... and I smiled. It took me a second or so to realise what this strange thing on my face was. A smile. Hadn't had one of those in a while, so I chuckled. Good God, I chuckled! And it felt so good. I'd forgotten what "good" even felt like, but this was it! So I got on with my morning. I actually had breakfast today, you know. A big bowl of cereal, crunchy and sweet, leaving a perfect chocolate flavour in the leftover milk. I'm even wearing blue! Look at me, I'm wearing colours! It's not black or grey, had you noticed? I almost forgot about them, colours, they make everything so much prettier, like, like... like flowers! Flowers are pretty too, right? And off to work I went. No bus for me today, think I'll walk. Sure, it's over an hour longer, but it's such a nice day. The sun is shining, the sky is blue, the clouds are sparklingly white, the air is crisp and cool. Nothing can bring me down today. So I walk along, bobbing my head to some melody that only I can hear, still smiling. Some part of me is still confused. How can I be this happy after months of wallowing in self-pity and shame? I'm even planning a weekend trip out, maybe go see the parents up in the Lake district, while all I've been able to plan in the past year is dinner... and sometimes not even that. Is this what happens, is this what they all meant when they said "it'll get better"? I thought they didn't understand, couldn't understand, there was nothing *to* get better, life was all there was and suddenly it wasn't enough any more. But now... now there's more. Now there's the birds and the sun and the sky and even the neighbour walking her dog and the new mum next door out with her baby... or maybe these things have always been there, I just couldn't see them. So this is me. Today, I am no longer depressed. I don't know why... there's something in the air. That must be it, it's something in the air. It's in the air, everyone! Just breathe deep, and you know what? It'll get better. Everything is going to be just fine. *************************** *Edit: repeated word deleted*

It's something in the air. It's in the air!

Hi. I hate you. I hate the way you made me feel. I hate the way you've dug into my brain. I hate everything about you. I thought I got over you two years ago. It was the strangest thing, I was walking alone down a bridge in Venice, and I realized, I didn't miss you. I missed loving you. And I thought that was that. Needless to say, I was wrong. When we ran into each other after I came back from studying abroad, and you were with Mr. "Save You From Yourself" Superman Jones, I thought I would be fine. Instead, I remembered all those times you cheated on me while we were together and I secretly wished you were cheating on him too. Fuck that guy. And fuck you too. Seriously. Yes, I know, getting into a relationship with you was my decision, and at the time, I thought it would work out. I got sucked into the allure of "love will prevail." Well, now I know. It fucking doesn't. Love doesn't prevail, and anyone who says so is a dirty fucking liar. Mostly you. "Ohhh, I don't care that you're poor. I don't need fancy things." Then why did you want to follow your "foodie" heart and eat at these places you know I couldn't afford? I work minimum wage. Minimum fucking wage. And you know what? I've been poor my whole life. So I would have really, really liked to save some money for a change. But no, I blew several paychecks on you, and you decided to break up with me for what? Because I was being nice? Because I was putting some honest to god effort into our relationship and you were being too much of a pissy bitch to notice or care? Oh, by the way. Thanks for returning the effort. Like, I really appreciated the way you called me when I was visiting my sister so you could bitch (SURPRISE, SURPRISE) for three hours about that chick who you honestly had no business having beef with. Oh my God, she's smart and pretty and she's dating your former best guy friend, who you no longer talk to, because **what the fuck is wrong with you, woman**? When you talk about her you really make me appreciate how much of a jealous cunt you are. And you wonder why my friends hate you? Actually, NEWS FLASH. They didn't hate you. Because for whatever reason, your crazy only pops out when we're alone. It's amazing. Everyone else pretty much thought you were normal. Hell, I even thought you were normal. What a young and misguided youth I was. That's probably why I thought it was a good idea to try again. I loved you. I loved the way you made me feel. I loved the way you dug into my brain. I loved everything about you. Even through all of that crazy shit you put me through, I loved you. I remember when we first met, at some random karaoke bar through mutual friends and we were joking about stupid shit and how we were totally meant to be together and how somehow it finally fucking happened and you dragged me through the mud for nearly a year. I remembered all that and I thought it was worth it. So I let you back in. I trusted you because I thought we could put it past us, because I genuinely fucking believed you when you said you changed. You spoon fed me straight bullshit out of a playbook of cliches and I swallowed it because I wanted so much to go back to that time when we had just begun dating where I asked you if you loved me and all you did was look me straight in the eyes and kiss me gently on the lips. And that didn't fucking happen. This time it wasn't Superman Jones, it was motherfucking Batman Johnson. Swooping out of the night to be *your* knight. All I wanted was to get settled and get a job before taking you back in, because, you know, you're a high maintenance gold digger. Now I feel like I dodged a bullet. So yeah. Thanks a lot, bitch. I hope you're happy and you choke on his dick and die.

Write the most angry, vitriolic thing you have ever written. Make it a love letter.

"Please don't", she whimpered as I leaned down toward her. I felt her belly quiver beneath my hand. "P-please don't," she stuttered, "*Please!*" "I won't," I said, "I'm not interested. I leaned close to her face, so I could hear the shallow spurts of breath that brushed against my cheek. The palm of my left hand pressed into the asphalt, and the rain pattered down all around us, creating a drowning clatter. I reached toward my belt, eliciting screams from the young woman, and pulled out the black handgun. 6 bullets. Deliberately, I traced the barrel up the middle of her body - through the valley in between her breasts and the soft flesh of her neck - to her forehead. "No!" She cried in protest. "No, please don't! I'll do anything!" "You lie," I smirked, pressing the gun a little as to leave an imprint. "Please," she sobbed, "I have a family-" "I know," I interrupted. "They're next." A shock raced through her body as I pulled the trigger. Her previously stressed and wriggling form now lay heavy and still, the will for struggle expired. 5 bullets. I stood to my feet, knees soaked by the rain, and stepped over the already paling form, my right foot dragging over the body. Approaching the door, I wondered for a moment what experiences I was robbing the world by taking the lives of those so young. Then I imagined the smell of newly splattered blood. And I shot through the lock on the door. 4 bullets. I knew the home's layout well. The tiles of the floor passed by silently, and a sharp right found me in a bedroom. There lay the form of a sleeping little boy. "Charlie", his bedpost read. I looked around the room. Shelves of books. Books about science and movement. I maneuvered past the train track constructed in the middle of the room, to the bed. There, I held the pillow above his face. And pressed. Charlie flailed around, the muffled sounds surprisingly loud despite the pouring rain. I pressed the gun far into the pillow and shot. I stepped back, panting. Red seeped through the pillow. 3 bullets. I stared for a moment. The struggle had caused the child's arm to come lose from the bedsheets. I reached down to tuck the arm back when I small voice spoke behind me: "Charlie?" I whirred around, the shape of a young girl silhouetted in the doorframe. Lightning flashed through the window, illuminating me. She screamed and turned to run, but I threw up my arm. Her small back arched as the hot metal collided, and she collapsed to the ground. 2 bullets. "Marie!" cried a man from somewhere in the house. A light clicked on in correspondence with the pounding of bare feet. The man wore a blue tee shirt and matching boxers. He bent down to his daughters limp form and screamed, "Marie! **NO!**". He cradled her body, blood smearing all over his shirt and legs. That's when he looked up past me, eyes reddened with tears and whimpered Charlie's name. I stood by the bed and watched the man cry, robbed of the family he'd co-authored. The one who shared his own blood. The one he hoped for and labored for and loved and sacrificed for. The air felt swampy; my cheeks and ears burned. The room already carried the metallic tinge of blood. And the atmosphere reeked of the death still looming. The man looked up with bloodshot eyes pleading into mine. "Why...?" he whispered. I pursed my lips. And I shot him between the eyes. 1 bullet. My back was turned before I witnessed the sight associated with the heavy thud and the raining splatters on the tile. Now it was over. The disease would never mature, because its host carriers all died in its latent stages. By the time the cops arrived, it would be too late to salvage. My body shook uncontrollably as tears clouded my vision and streamed from my nostrils. I'd saved the world, but at what cost? The cold, steel barrel touched my tongue.

- Make me absolutely hate a character, and then make me fall in love with them at the last moment.

"This... this... is nothing." He waved at the surrounding dimly lit Cafe with an errant hand, hand shaking back and forth in annoyance. "I have heard your complaint before, Mick. I have been here for time immeasurable. I have seen the edges of this universe before they were sent on their merry little way by the Father himself. Hell, Mick, I was there when this place was excluded from His very presence. And in that time, I have seen your kind trundle into my expanding realm expecting the Angel of Light to welcome you merrily to our abject ranks." "Not what I meant at all," Mick smiled. "This is great. I was expecting fire and brimstone. I was expecting boiling vats of oil with little demons dipping the dead for eternity. This is downright pleasant." "Pleasant?" Smirked the Angel. "Yeah. Sure the laminate tables and plastic booths are a bit worn, but come on, this place has waitresses, soft musak playing in the backgroud, and even some decent coffee to be had. Across from me is Satan, the big man himself, sitting calmly in a wonderfully pressed suit, chatting with me like we are a couple of old friends." "True. What were you expecting?" A shrug. "For what I did? The worst that can be had." "Why?" "Because I enjoyed every second of it." Mick smiled. "Perhaps you misunderstand what 'this' is. My job is not to punish you. That is His job." The Angel pointed up. "What do you mean?" The smile faltered a small measure. "I am just a simple administrator. I work for the big man. I am a lawyer in a way. Ever heard of Job?" "Yes. Man has everything taken away in order to prove his love for God." "Wrong. It was a wager, and ultimately, a training exercise." The Angel took a sip of his coffee and set the cup carefully back on its charger. "This is the real deal." "And what is the real deal?" Mick tried to not sound worried. He was failing. "Remember all of those victims of yours?" "Yes. Of course." "They were all you." "What do you mean?" Mick said. "One of our main tasks is to pull people out from their death. We reap them. Plain and simple. We pull them out and then put the assailant in their place." "So I have to endure all of that? Myself? Over and over and over?" "Pretty much." Mick grinned with ferocity. "I look forward to it. Pain is beautiful." The Angel matched his grin. "Not this time, Mick. Not this time, at all."

A very evil man is sent to Hell, but enjoys it there so much that Satan is forced to find an alternate punishment.

"What is God to you?" asked the voice. "What do you mean?" Derek asked. "What does a God do? Why is it God?" "Well I would say that God is the one who gives life to all humans. The one who decides who lives and who dies. The one who passes judgment on others." "What else?" Derek's headache was getting worse. *Not again.* "The one who listens to our prayers. The one who grants us miracles when we need them the most." The pain continued pulsating throughout his skull. He could feel the veins on the side of his head bulging out. *Who the hell is speaking to me?* "Is that all?" "God is the reason we are all here. God is the reason for living. He takes and gives. He punishes the wicked and rewards the noble." The room begins to spin. Derek feared he was going to faint. He looked at the mirror in front of him as he splashed his face with water from the sink. The pill container beside him remained unopened. "What if I told you you were wrong?" the face in the mirror said. "What?" "What if I said everything you stated sounds like humanity as a collective?" "What do you mean?" *Leave me alone already.* "Humans give birth. Humans kill. Humans judge. Humans punish. Humans reward. Humans create. Humans destroy. Some die for humans, while others live for them." "So?" "What if I told you its humans who answer prayers and its humans who perform miracles?" "But its because of God." *Isn't it?* "You know what I am going to say next." *Don't.* "There are billions of Gods." said the voice. *No..* "Humanity is God". *STOP.* Derek cracked the mirror with his fist. The blood began to drip from his knuckles, but he felt peace in silencing his demon. The bottle of Perphenazine lay in the sink well within reach. But it was already too late.

Your (human) main character has a conversation with God, but it cannot be the God from any existing religion.

I have an unusual view of the afterlife. There can't be a heaven, not from what I've seen from the scum that walk the earth. If there is one, it's empty. Not even small children in there; they all turn out to be scum anyway when they grow up, so what's the point? I look at the world, all those helpless women and children ruthlessly murdered and tortured, and I can almost laugh. Almost. They're helpless, sure, but if they could fight back, they'd show that they're just as bad. Just as sick. That's what they are, a disease, a plague upon this perfect world. There can be no heaven for them. Not one of them deserves it. But hell? Now, there's an idea. A pit of eternal fire crawling with the souls of the damned, all the murderers and thieves getting what they deserve, right there next to the women and children getting what they would deserve had they ever been given the chance. Scum, all of them. The world needs a hell. It needs a punishment for all these sickening, twisted souls. At times, the thought that there isn't one has almost driven me to suicide. The only thing holding me back is the thought that I might be right. It sends chills through me, that the world might never see proper punishment for their horrid sins. The girl behind the screen is finishing up. It's been quite a list this time. And here's the worst part. My line. The lie I have to repeat every time these sick bastards stumble in here, fighting their hangovers and their well-earned shame. "Say ten Hail Marys, child, and you are forgiven in the name of our Lord." Disgusting.

"I don't believe in heaven. But I desperately want to believe in hell."

"What are the rules?" I asked, waiting for the catch. "It must be legal; we aren't criminals, just entertainers here. It should be something we can film easily." He leaned forward over the nondescript desk, tenting his hands with bemusement. "Up to a million dollars, and all the connections Hollywood has to offer if I can make revenge legal and entertaining?" I asked pensively. "Effectively." He seemed to sense my hesitation. "Do you know why we're doing this show?" "Yes." I answered immediately. "People like watching others suffer. Even more if they feel the person suffering deserves it." "You understand us then. Good. Now how will you do it?" He looked at me with an expectant expression, like watching a pretty girl undress in front of him. "Why not, could be fun." I said, feigning disinterest. "So what's your plan?" He sounded so eager; it was infectious. "For that much money we could get a helicopter to fly over his house shouting insults. Take out a few ads questioning his performance and sexuality." His eagerness left almost immediately as he reclined and put on a mask of professional disappointment. "That kind of thing isn't really revenge though." I added quickly, piquing his interest slightly. "It is just being a dick with money. Bill is used to dealing with dicks. His ego is so big that he would probably see that as vindication of his greatness. That ego of his is why he's such a terrible person; always one-upping or mocking things everyone else cares about." I paused for a moment to let that sink in. "Revenge against Bill would just feed his ego. To truly take revenge properly, you'd need to take it against his ego. Chip it down so thoroughly that you won't even be able find specks of it on the ground." I watched that perverse smile creep past the professionalism as I began to outline my plan. "Bill's got this hot gold-digger of a girlfriend who fawns over him to get at his credit-card. He thinks he's got her wrapped around his fingers because of his prowess. She's got a thing for some actor's though... It would be unfortunate if one of them took a liking to her." "Unfortunate for Bill." The man nodded thoughtfully and yet still expectantly. "Even more so if she happened to let slip in the heat of the moment that how much more she enjoyed straying than staying with him." The smile spread. "Bill's a sales guy, he sells some pretty fancy cars and feels like he's the sole reason the dealership is still open. Send in some people to Bill's store, have them just be disinterested in his product or find him repulsive and ask for another salesman. Oh, have them ask for Diego. He's a Hispanic guy that Bill constantly bitches about on his video blog because 'his accent drives away rich customers.' " His smile became ecstatic realization. "Did I mention that he Video Blogs? You wanted this to be film-able, he'll film it for you. He's also got a crowd of adoring sycophants that you could easily seed and turn against him. Especially after you offer to sponsor his 'channel' to get access to all his raw footage and begin airing all his failures." "That is remarkably thorough, I can see why they thought you would be great candidate for our premier. Do you have any ideas for a personal message that you'd like to send?" He asked, looking completely orgasmic as his mind anticipated the unraveling of events. "Just let him know that there is always someone better."

Your character is given an unlimited amount of money to mess with his bully

She is pretty, for a dog. Her fur had been dyed to look like a golden retriever but I could smell the collie in her. She'd been spayed, then. Only spayed bitches go to the trouble of keeping up appearances. The intact ones just rely on their estrous cycles. Doesn't matter either way, I'm not into dogs. "You've gotta help me, Mr. Plat." she says. "I'm in fear of my life." "It's Allan, ma'am." I say. "Just Allan." "Oh, Allan, of course! I am in *grave* danger, you simply *must* help me." She approximates a purr, but my reaction must have shown because she cuts it short. "What, what did I say?" "You're a *dog*. Dogs don't *purr.*" I sigh. "Look, you're trying too hard, what are you really here for?" She throws up her paws and begins pacing my office. Ordinarily, I prefer clients to remain stationary - too many midnight deals gone wrong in my history, I start to feel stabby when folks get squirrelly. Man, while I'm thinking about it, fuck squirrels. I reach into my desk and pull out the shot glasses and bourbon that I keep there. Still thinking about squirrel murder, I fill the glasses, push one across the desk to her. "Sit down, drink. Relax." I gesture to her glass and down mine, then pour a refill. "Now what do you want?" She cups the glass in her dyed paws and plops to the floor. Taking a breath, she starts again. "It's about the eggs. Someone is stealing all the eggs, all the babies." She takes a sip of the bourbon, her face twists a little. I stifle a laugh, I know dogs hate bourbon, especially bitches. Amuses me to give it to 'em. "Someone is killing all the babies." "Eggs? Babies?" I ask. "Lady, dogs don't lay eggs. There's only one mammal that lays eggs." I point at my chest. "I should know. So what are you going on about?" "Oh they're not *my* eggs!" she exclaimed. "It's the crocs! In the sewers! Someone, or something, is killing all their babies!" "The crocs? As in, long scaly reptiles with pointy teeth?" I roll my eyes. "Who told you that I'm the kind of monotreme who mixes with crocs?" She gives me sad puppy dog eyes, but I've seen that before and besides - I'm not into dogs. "And why do *you* care what happens to some baby crocs? Dogs and crocs aren't, uh, particularly friendly where I come from." "Oh, that. I'm the executive director of Canine Rescuers of Crocodile Babies." She pauses for effect. "CROC Babies. Maybe you've heard of us?" I gulp down my bourbon. Fucking dogs and their bullshit causes. This is so typical. "Look, I'd love to help, but it's dangerous and costly. I don't accept work *pro bono*." She looks up at me, trying her puppy dog trick again, her big collie eyes staring out from an imitation golden retriever face. I'd laugh but I'm not a complete asshole, not yet, not with only a few drinks in me. "But... it has to be you. The crocs told me. You can go in the colder waters, where they can't go. And you're a good swimmer but you can get around on land. They said it has to be you, no one else is tough enough." I look at her, pondering what she's told me. It's true that I'm a better swimmer than the crocs, and I can dive deeper and handle colder waters. But they are *mean* sons-of-bitches, how could I stand a chance against something that's willing (and able!) to steal croc eggs? "I dunno, I'm not sure this is my bag, baby." I fiddle with my glass, consider another shot, decide against it. "Too dangerous, I don't see an upside. Besides, I got a date with two extremely talented Canadian geese, so if you'll excuse me..." She paws through the purse attached to the collar around her neck. "They said to show you this." She hands me a small photo - I'd call it a Polaroid if they were still around. I suck in my breath, and maybe it's the booze, but I can feel the anger heating up in my stomach, spreading to the rest of me. Eggs. The photo shows eggs. Hundreds of them - most crushed and destroyed. Sickening. The anger is hotter now, and I know it's not the booze because I'm only on my sixth drink of the day, not anywhere close to my limit. I toss the photo on my desk. "Alright. I'm in. Where are the crocs nested?" She claps her paws together, "Oh, oh good! They'll be so happy! They are over by the south pier. You can't miss them, they'll be expecting you." I put the glasses and bourbon back in the desk, and pull out my gun. The steel revolver hangs heavy in a custom, waterproof holster. Her eyes widen. "You don't... you don't think you'll need *that*, do you?" "What? Why not? Are guns a problem? You want me to meet with a bunch of crocs, *in their nest*, unarmed?" Maybe this bitch is garden-variety crazy, and not just dog crazy. "Well, you know, I thought, with your *poison*..." she trails off. I groan. "Yes, ok, I have my poison." I open the revolver's cylinder, check that it's loaded, and snap it shut. "Yes, I have my poison. But this is a .357 magnum, and if I'm going to face off against a croc-defying, egg-stealing monster, I'm going to *shoot it in the face* before I try to *stab it with the back of my foot*. It's the 21st century, lady, I'm sure you can understand."

Story about a platypus named Allan with an unhealthy love for booze, dames, and his .357 magnum

"So, this is it?" "As far as we can tell, yes." "That's the signal source. That rock." "Yes, sir." "Has the ground team reported back?" "Yes, sir. Soil shows high concentrations of plutonium, uranium, and decay products on a planetary scale. There's some microbial life, but it's limited to geothermal vents at the bottom of the sea and doesn't have the genetic potential for expansion." "Textbook XK-Class scenario, then. Log it, send a subspace packet back to mission HQ, and recall the ground team. How late were we, this time?" "Given the decay rates for some of these isotopes, less than a century." Captain Dennis O'Brain of the TRS *White Knight* sighed and slumped into his command chair. Another world, gone. And to have been *so close.* So close to saving them all. _____________________________________ *Following the discovery of subspace transit, human civilization exploded into the cosmos. Within decades, the fledgling species found that it was not alone in the galaxy - or, at least, hadn't been. To the surprise of skeptics everywhere and the jubilance of all, as human life spread through the galaxy it came across the faint radio whispers of other cultures, still thousands of light years from earth. But, to the horror of explorers who pursued those signals, humanity was an anomaly not in that it had developed sentience, but that it had not destroyed itself in its quest for the stars.* *Every world found to have harbored intelligent life had, without fail, been found as a radioactive ball of slag. Despite the light-years separating the sentient creatures of the galaxy, some things were constant - the discovery of fire, industrialization, atomic theory. For all but humanity, the final step in a civilization's lifespan was suicide through nuclear annihilation.* *For the four centuries that humans have sailed the cosmos, our highest priority has been to find extraterrestrial intelligence before it inevitable destroys itself. Our species has been blessed with the gift of life, and it's our Mantle to carry this gift to anyone we can.* *Cadets, you have been selected for service in the Beacon Foundation. You are entrusted with the salvation of our sentient comrades in the stars; their survival depends on your dedication and skill in exploring the universe for signs of a civilization on the brink of destruction. Secure, Contain, Protect.* ______ "Ground team's aboard, sir." "Set a course for 82 G. Eridani, and prepare the VLA probes. I want a 10 parsec radio array set up by the time we get there." He had to save them. He had to save them all.

it's surrounded with millions of orbiting debris. And in its soil, massive chambers of radioactive material. What the hell happened?

It started with a sneeze and turned into a sniffle. Two days later, I told my professors I couldn't make it into class and got some rest. And then the static started. I thought it was a fly in my room, but it grew louder and more defined. Hey, could you shut the fuck up in there? I can't even think that loud. How, who is this? Listen, you're on speaker phone with like, a thousand other people right now. Doo, that Caddy is *dope.* Just stop thinking so loud. Yeah, what that guy thought. I hope I have enough money for dinner. But how- Just think about nothing. **NOTHING** Not like that. Blank slate. Better. Everyone else has learned to do it, but the newly turned make a lot more noise. Thanks for explaining this. Props to my main man thought guy. No problem. Yeah, listen to him. Just leave explanations to me and I'll handle it. Cool. That guy learned faster than a lot of other people. How does he think in color like that? If you need to think in the future, just imagine yourself whispering to someone and you can fit your thoughts in with everyone else's. I'm so god damn hungry right now. Be prepared for random outbursts, too.

A highly infectious virus is spreading across the globe. People infected with this virus can hear each others' thoughts.

Once upon a midnight dreary, guests all tired and weary , after many a drink and shots were pour'd, as we lulled, nearly napping, suddenly there came a rapping as if Jay-Z were tapping, rapping at my party door 'tis some visitor,' I muttered, 'rapping at my party door- Only this, and nothing more.' Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December, and each merry party member, had fallen to laying on the floor. Foolishly did I follow, my dos equis with vodka borrowed yet both I did swallow, to impress the fair Lenore. For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore was the hottest bitch here for sure. The plentiful, paper, rustling birthday streamers curtained and thrilled me, filled me with joy for gifts unopened before; so that now, with rapid beating of my heart, i stood repeating "'Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my party door - some famous visitor entreating entrance at my party door; - This it is, and so much more,' Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer, `Sir,' said I, `or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore; But the fact is I was unwrapping, these gifts when you came rapping, And so awesome came your rapping, tapping at my party door, That I scarce was sure I heard you' - here I opened wide the door; - Darkness there, and nothing more. -The Raven, Edgar Allan Poe

Rewrite a famous poem to make it about a birthday.

The stairs were made of old wood, bending and cracking with the weight of Sam's feet. They were so old, that they split and groaned with every step he took upwards, the noise soft, creeping up on the old man upstairs, perusing his shelves and boxes for his favorite instrument. His wrench. He had plenty of wrenches, but this one was his favorite. Rusted and crusty from all of the blood he never rinsed off. Sometimes he was delicate, other times he wasn't. He rolled the wrench in his calloused palms, letting his chipped fingernails just caress the steel handles of it. He turned and crept towards his new specimen, splayed on the stolen gurney, chilled by the cold wrench in his hand that sent that familiar shiver up his spine. Sam climbs the last step. He is careful, craning his neck to only show the least amount of himself behind the end of the wall, still trying to see beyond, gazing at the gruesome scene. He sees a dark, old dentist's office, sinister in it's horrific and gory paintings hanging on the walls and in the instruments lying about on the floor and shelves, next to organs in jars, bloody prints left on the lids. He can't believe that it's real. He chews his tongue, and darts his eyes around the room, looking for a way out. He woke up at the bottom of the stairs, no door or exit behind him. The only way to go, was up. The old man, hunched, and skulked around the gurney, tracing his long bony fingers on the the fleshy arms, strapped down and knocking with one knuckle, on the ball gag in the mouth of his prey. He unbuttons it's jeans so soft and slow, savoring the anticipation, biting on his lower lip. He pulls off the pants, now sliding his nails under the elastic band on their underwear, just teasing. He says, pivoting his head to to look at his victim, "I enjoy women the most. So precious about their bodies, and their privacy." The woman on the table knows now that there is no escape. The old man, wrenches the panties off the woman and takes a look at his what he's being waiting for. He drops his head and sighs. "This is the last time I pick up a 'woman' from downtown." Edit: There*

A horror story about a child waking up in the lair of a man who dissects live people, but the last sentence in the story makes the entire story hilarious.

The king's golden crown rested casually above his long hooked nose and his menacing eyebrows. The image of a hawk was completed by the throne he sat on, raised on a high platform, giving him a bird's eye view of the crowd gathered for the execution. Two burly men entered the stage, dragging a woman between them, her wounds and bruises barely covered by the rags she wore and the sack over her head. The king stood up and paced across the stage, twirling a golden scepter in his hand. When he spoke, it was not to the woman, but to the crowd. "What do I do with you?", he asked. "I'm trying to be your king, but if I can't trust you... What do I do with you?" He tore the sack of the prisoner so the crowd could see her. The woman's face was hollow after starving in a cell for weeks and the sudden sunlight blinded her. "I thought this woman was my mother." He pointed at the prisoner with his scepter. "I thought she was the only one I could trust, the only one on my side. Imagine my surprise when I stumbled upon one of her private letters and found out she was conspiring against me. Saying I was not the rightful heir of the throne. My own mother told me I wasn't the son of your previous king, my beloved father." The woman took a raspy breathe and looked up at her son. "I only did it... for you... always to protect you... I never wanted anyone to know..." The scepter cracked her across the temple and her head fell limp on her shoulder, lolling from side to side. "Shut up!" The king hissed at his mother, before turning back to the crowd. "Even now she's lying, saying whatever she thinks I want to hear to save her own skin. I thought she was my mother, but she's nothing but a slithering, lying snake!" He paced slowly back and forth, letting his words sink in. "If I can't trust my own mother, what do I do with you lot?" The king smiled slyly. "You're hiding something. Every one of you, I know it." He grabbed a handful of his mother's hair and dragged her towards the guillotine. He put his foot on her back and locked her into place, so that she could see the crowd clearly. "This is what happens when you plot against me. Keep that in mind, or else I will have rule a kingdom of the headless." Slowly, calmly, the king walked towards the rope holding the blade of the guillotine in place. "Wait! Stop!!" A voice rose over the din as a man pushed himself through the bodies of the crowd. "Stop! She's innocent!" The king ignored the voice and swung his scepter, severing the thin rope easily. "No, don't Harold, he's go-", with a *whoosh* the blade fell down and cut off the prisoner's sentence along with her head, which landed with a sickening squelch and rolled off the platform into the crowd. The man broke through the front of the crowd. "Elinor!", he wailed and knelt down in the mud, cradling her head in his lap. "You bastard... You fucking bastard!" He sobbed, his face twisted with rage as he looked up at the king over his hooked nose.

A young, paranoid king attends the ordered execution of his own mother.

We were right in the middle of our smash hit, "Fuck You in G Minor," when it started. Paul notices first. Resting one foot on a floor monitor, he leans out and looks into the crowd. His jaw drops, and he points out into the crowd, starts gesturing. I'm too into the song to notice at first, but I hear his bass line drop away and look over at him in annoyance. Like, the show must go on man, *come on*. I see his outstretched hand, but the stage lights are fucking with my vision, I can't make anything out. He moves over to me, and shouts in my ear, "Dude we gotta get the fuck outta here, something's wrong!" I shake my head, still singing. We don't stop due to mosh pits, we're a rock band, it comes with the territory. Paul should know better, but he's been kinda flaky ever since Martine broke up with him. Carmen, our drummer, pounds out the last beats of the song, and we finish. We always give the crowd a second or two for applause before starting the next song, so I grab my water bottle at the foot of my mic stand, and take a long swig. No applause comes. It takes me a few seconds to notice, and I shade my eyes to see what's happening in the stands. That's when I see it. Paul was right, something was wrong. Something was *very* wrong. The floor crowd doesn't look like any mosh pit I've ever seen, it looks like a riot. People are screaming, in pain or fear, I can't tell. I see limbs flailing. One girl near the front disappears under four or five guys. At first I'm worried that they're going to rape her, but then I see one of the guys bend down and tear a chunk out of her forearm with his teeth. "Oh fuck," I say. "Oh fuck fuck fuck." I back away from the front of the stage. I look at Paul. "Where the fuck is security?" Paul points. I follow his finger and see the familiar bright yellow shirts of our security team. Trey and his crew have their backs up against the speakers. As I watch, one of yellowshirts punches a fan in the face and loses his balance. Hands latch onto him and he tumbles forward, into the crowd. "We gotta do something!" Paul screams. "They're going crazy!" I look back at Carmen, he's standing up in the drum pit, his hands in the air, gesturing as if to say *What's the hold up?* I run over to him. "The crowd's gone crazy, they're all fighting and shit! People are getting hurt." Carmen shrugs and sits back down on his stool. "Fuck 'em, let's just play like we did in Copenhaven that one time." I stare at him. "Remember? Just drown the fuckers out, they'll stop fighting if we keep playing." I am skeptical but I relay the plan to Paul. We have some hired local musicians, horn players mostly, and they are staring out at the crowd in shock. "Hey." I wave at them. "HEY!" One of them looks at me, the trombone guy. "We're just gonna play, just fucking play. Stick to the set list." I rush back to my mic stand, and flash a thumbs up to the band. Paul responds, and starts strumming the intro to one of our power hits, "She Comes Riding." He's going too fast, he's nervous, but no time to worry about that. I hit the first power chords, just slam them out on my guitar. Our sound guy has tweaked the distortion, and the notes blast from the speakers strung throughout the arena. Out of the corner of my eye, I see the fans around Trey stagger back. He takes the opportunity to pull himself up onto the stage and run over to me. "Fucking zombies man, what the fuck!" He has blood on his hands and a huge welt above his eye. I motion him off and roll into the next series of power chords and start shredding through the song. At the same time, Carmen comes in with a heart-stopping staccato of beats, and I know he's working overtime on his double bass pedals. Something amazing happens. My guitar notes are roaring out from the speakers, and the nearest zombie fans literally disintegrate, breaking into clumps of flesh and bone. Zombies further back stagger on their feet and topple to the floor. Carmen’s base drum booms, and a pocket of zombies go flying in the air, as if they’d stepped on a landmine. He thumps again, *BOOM*, and more bodies erupt. Carmen sees what’s happening, and rattles off a drum roll on his snares. Throughout the crowd I see a series of heads explode, one by one, as if hit by snipers. “It’s working!” I yell. "KEEP PLAYING!" We’re coming up on Paul’s solo, I point to him. “All you, my man!” Paul steps up to center stage and sets in on his solo, stretching it out, adding notes and just jazzing it up. He was a jazz guitarist before he joins us, and he lets himself run wild. I look out into the arena. I can see zombies climbing up into the stands, and people running, but most of the floor is focused on us. The zombies start moving towards the stage as Paul’s solo hits them. The resonance catches them as they come closer, and the closest rows start wobbling uncontrollably. Paul speeds up, strumming a series of low notes. Blood runs from the noses and ears of the zombies, and they fall to the floor, twitching. I cackle. Suddenly I see a small mass of zombies climb up onto the stage and rush the horn players, who are focused on Paul and the floor crowd. “Look out!” I scream. The trombonist turns and put his lips to the mouthpiece. He blasts the closest zombies, and the sound from his horn shears their heads right off. The headless zombies crumple to the floor. “FUCK YEAH!” I pump my fist, and the horn players fan out on the stage. I jump back into the song and start rocking out, just getting lost in the music. Carmen is behind me, tearing it up on drums, and I see zombies exploding everywhere. A few lucky zombies make it to the stage but our trumpet guy rushes over and decapitates them with a high C note. The rest of the song plays out like that, and when it’s over, we jump right into an extended instrumental version of our first radio single, a real crunchy song, deliciously violent in its sound. It’s the greatest jam session I’ve ever heard. The song ends, and the last note fades out. We look out into the arena, over a sea of blasted flesh, blood, and other shit. Carmen steps out from behind his drums and joins us at the front of the stage. He lights up a cigarette. “Fuckin' unreal, man.” He inhales, and the embers on his cigarette glow. He exhales. “Fuckin' *righteous*.”

You're in a rock band and playing at a 60,000 person sold out show, everyone turns into zombies at the same time, except for the band... and

*"Alfred Pennyworth-less piece of crap..."* Bruce said through his clenched teeth. *"Is something the matter, sir?"* *"Alfred, how many times have I asked you NOT to put my suit into the dryer? This is like the 7th batsuit I've gone through! They're already snug in the crotch and ass areas... it really didn't help last month when I was trying to fight the Joker, and my pants split in the back! He brings it up every god damn time I run into him now!"* *"I'm terribly sorry, sir!"* Alfred replied, reaching for the suit in Bruce's hands. *"No, Alfred! I'm sick of this!"* Bruce replies as he pulls the suit out of Alfred's reach. *"Seriously, it's not just the suits. Its everything. My bat-a-rangs aren't sharpened, you're always moving my utility belt, swapping where things go on it... I mean, I reached for a smoke bomb the other day, and ended up throwing the key to the batmobile! I looked like an idiot!"* Bruce sits down in front of the bat computer in frustration. Alfred contemplates what to say, but is at a loss of words. *"I'm hanging up my cape Alfred. I can't do this shit anymore. I'm sorry I yelled at you. Really, you've been great to me through this whole thing... but I don't think I'm cut out for this anymore. Now that Clark's here, I'll just let him take care of everything."* *"Are you sure this is what you want to do, Bruce? I think the City of Gotham still needs it's Caped Crusader..."* As he places down a serving dish in front of Bruce with a sandwich and chips. Bruce reaches for a chip, *"Yeah, I'm finished. I want to concentrate now on getting Wayne Enterprises back on it's feet."* He bites into the chip, realizing they are plain, and not barbeque like he requested, *" GOD DAMN IT, ALFRED!"*

A superhero finally snaps over a trivial matter. Write what causes them to flip out, and their reaction.

All Brutus ever cared about was escaping his life of captivity. Born a slave, his mind was constantly considering any number of scenarios. He could attack the one who brought the food and run through the open door. But he didn't know what was on the other side and that worried him. He could round up the other slaves and start a rebellion, but many of the others were not fit for battle. He couldn't envision a peaceful end to his imprisonment, or maybe, after all he had suffered, he just didn't want to. No jailer was ever kind. They kept him tied up, constantly threatened him with the whip, never let him outside, and always shouted. Never a kind word. One day, a new jailer appeared outside of his cell. She was holding a ball that she tossed to Brutus. Confused, he toyed with the ball for a few minutes. Whatever her intentions, he would enjoy this moment for himself. The new jailer eventually took the ball and gave Brutus a special meal. He ate quickly and retreated, not knowing what to expect. This routine continued for several weeks as Brutus and the jailer started to develop a relationship of silent trust. He couldn't understand her words, but she didn't hurt him. Soon, Brutus couldn't believe it, but he started to look forward to his sessions with the jailer. It became fun to play with her, standing on chairs, hitting the ball, and other activities she would show him. One night, Brutus watched the jailer enter his cell. She was dressed in a strange kind of outfit. Brutus guess it must have been some type of military uniform. She led Brutus into a strange arena surrounded by many people. At first he was confused and frightened, but the jailer took out the ball and tossed it to Brutus. He dutifully passed it back to her and crowd began laughing and clapping. Brutus was confused by the reception to his interaction with the jailer. Why would anyone find that amusing? They went through the rest of their routine before the jailer led Brutus back towards his cell. Brutus caught the glimpse of a child who, upon their eyes catching, lit up with a smile and waved. The jailer patted him on the back and they continued walking. Just before leaving the arena, Brutus looked back to see painted men dance into the arena and he heard the child exclaim, "Mommy, I liked the lion!" Brutus walked with pride back to his cell.

A worker, who has served people they hate for many years, comes to love those people.

Cameron just looked at me with his long, droopy eyes, and rested his head on my thigh. In dog years, he's about as old as I am. I thought about the lives we had both led. His will be much shorter than mine, but I hope I was able to give him a good life. "I'm sorry I had you neutered," I told him. "I guess you never got the chance to start a family." "That's okay," he replied. "We have each other." I smiled wider than I had in weeks. "I suppose we do. Thanks for being such a good friend all these years." "You too." "I mean it, though. If you had the ability to talk earlier I would have told you how great you've been to me a long time ago. You helped me get active again after my wife died. You scared off that burglar that one time." "I would have fucked that guy up." "Hah, I know you would have." Dachshunds did always seem like dogs with huge egos. He was hell to train, but as soon as I figured out how much he loved barbecue chicken it became a lot easier. "Oh hey, there's some chicken in the fridge if you want some," I told him. Despite his age, he jumped to his feet, hopped off the bed, and trotted into the kitchen. He came back with a Yuengling and dropped it next to me, then trotted back to grab the chicken. "Teaching you how to get beers was the best damn thing I've ever done." He was face down in the bag of chicken and couldn't reply, but his furiously wagging tail told me how happy he was. I cracked open the can and took a deep gulp from it. Drinking in my poor condition might not be the best idea, but I've never wanted to sputter out in safety. "I'm too weak to leave the house, but I'll be damned if I let myself stop enjoying the good things in life," I said aloud. "I suppose that's double for you too, huh?" "Yup," Cameron said, barbecue sauce slathered all over his face. I laughed and wiped off his face with a paper towel. "That was the last bag, by the way," he told me. "Hah, I'll bet it is. You eat like a pig. You should be fine for a day or two." "Shouldn't you eat something?" Cameron asked. "Probably. Don't feel like moving, though. I'll just have liquid bread," I said as I took another gulp from the can. Cameron hopped off the bed and trotted out of sight. "Hey, where you goin'?" I called after him. He returned after a minute and dropped my cell phone next to me. "You should call Sarah," he said, concerned. "What for?" "We're almost out of food and you're looking worse each day. I can only help you so much." "No, we'll be fine. Just give me some time to get some energy and I'll figure something out." Cameron simply plopped down next to me and put his head on my lap again. My gaze returned to the TV, but I thought things over a little more. I really didn't want to burden Sarah with me again, but Cameron did have a valid point. I looked back into his eyes; those long, puppy dog eyes he never grew out of. "Fine, you sad looking wiener, I'll give her a call," I said as I began dialing her number. After a few moments, I spoke into the phone. "Hey, it's me. I'm out of food again and Cameron here is bugging me about it. Give me a call back whenever you get the chance, thanks." I hung up the phone and placed it on the night stand. "I still wish you'd talk in front of her. She thinks the dementia's getting worse," I told Cameron. "Nah, it's more fun this way," he told me as he drifted off to sleep.

As you're lying on your deathbed by yourself, your dog lies next to you, with his newly found ability that allows him to fully comprehend what you say to him. How does the conversation go?

>Here's a plug for [SCP-231](http://www.scp-wiki.net/scp-231), and a shoutout to the writers at [/r/SCP](http://www.reddit.com/r/scp). This response is non-canon! I've been trying to keep a journal, lately. Not one of pen on paper, of course- the restraints that bind me to this hospital bed ensure that. Just in my own head. Tracking trivial things like the length of my hair, how far my feet lie from the end of the bed, the number of bruises on each arm. Little, numerical facts to distract me from the dull, throbbing pain throughout my body, and the erratic stirring within my womb. I've also found that numbers are easier to remember, and I'm realizing more and more now just how important memory is. I started noticing the blurriness a couple of days ago, I think. Maybe I've noticed it before, only to be forced to forget. A vagueness to certain memories, resistant to exploration or elaboration, and only a wall of blankness when I try to recall more. Deja vu, stronger and stronger each time I am taken from the bed by six strangers. Tied to the floor, sometimes, or tossed around like a toy. Focus on the deja vu, not the action. How many times has this happened before? Focus on the growing sense of foreboding, not the complaints of your flesh. What is it that will happen next? Afterwards, my wounds are always sanitized and bound. No painkillers, but the IV is properly replaced, and they are ever so punctual with the feeding tube. They want me alive, I thought to myself, and the weight of memories unremembered echoed and strengthened that thought. For what end? My body twists as something alive but sleeping turns inside me. And then I notice- my stomach is swollen, but almost entirely uninjured. Twenty-three bruises, seven scrapes, and eleven burns on my arms alone, but the skin of my belly is unmarked. Further, it hasn't grown at all. A memory I managed to retain across several weeks was that the curve of my belly covered up only my fourth and fifth toes, leaving the others visible. I am struck with the sudden instinct that whatever lay within me was the key to my salvation. An important memory, bringing with it a surge of hope... but it was not a number. I would lose it again, as I must have lost it so many times in the past. The sudden hope crashed just as suddenly into despair, and I shut my eyes, sinking deeper into myself, further away from my skin. Within me a darkness waits. It is a deep and omnipresent fear, one that I've always shied away from in the past, but I feel, suddenly, that I am done hiding. I drift vaguely towards it, and a sudden pain spikes through my stomach. I bite back a cry- loud vocalizations will bring them coming, and they will only put me to sleep and take away my memory again. The darkness curls around my mind, evoking the worst of the memories I've had in the past, and ones from even before then- a dirty concrete floor, covered in a slurry of blood, urine, vomit, and other bodily fluids. Other girls, ornately decorated and artfully restrained. Soft weeping lost in chanting and groans and heavy breathing. Some dark presence speaking all these memories into my mind, daring me to look away, daring me to flee back to the bleak numbness of my clean white cell, and for a moment, I am sorely tempted... but memory. Memory is good. Memory will free me from this life... and so I embrace the bloodstained hell awakening within me. The next stab of pain tears the scream from my lungs, and scalding, rancid fluid pours out from between my legs. Another explosion of pain brings another scream, this one colored with triumph as something strains against my body, crushing my bones and tearing my flesh. Several of them pour through my cell door, heavily armored and already firing, but I know, just as they know, that it is too late. I am free.

Write a journal entry for a child that has been abused (mentally, emotionally, physically, spiritually, sexually, etc) their entire life....

"Jim! Come on Jim, open the door!" Death was knocking on the door, banging his bony fist against the apartment entrance. Death stepped back, avoiding the flying door, staring at his brother. "What do you want Grim?" Jim asked. He desperately fixed his tie. His dress shirt was crinkled and his slacks were poorly ironed. "Come on lil' bro, when are you coming into the family business?" "Just so you know, things are going *very* well at the office. I might just get a raise if I keep working hard for the next few months." Jim hurriedly shut his door and started walking off. Grim jogged up and walked along Jim as they walked towards downtown. "Where are you going Jim?" "I'm gonna go ask Stephanie over at Ray's Pub on a date. How do I look?" He stopped and gave a quick spin. "Like someone who's soul has been taken from him at the office. And trust me, I know what a soulless person looks like." "Thanks bro." "Come on, how are you gonna impress her? Telling her about how you balance checkbooks and keep track of portfolios?" "Hey! It's a new age Grim. Chicks dig a successful man who can keep a decent job." He continued his brisk walk towards the pub. "You know what would really impress her? Telling her that you cleave the souls of the corrupt and evil and bring them to hell." Jim rolled his eyes and ignored his older brother. "I'm just saying! Dad always wanted you to join us in the family biz." They got to the entrance to the pub and Jim turned towards his brother and said, "Look. I just want to live out my life. Maybe I'll move up, make good money, get with a nice girl and live a fulfilling life. Is that so weird Grim?" Grim looked into the hopeful eyes of his little brother. He let out a disappointed sigh. "Here." He fixed and straightened Jim's tie. "Go get her lil' bro." Jim grinned and walked into the bar. He scanned the crowd and saw Stephanie, bringing drinks around to the tables. He took a seat and waited for her to come over and take his order. "Hey there Jim! Just got off of work?" Stephanie walked over and smiled. "What could I get for you?" "Hey! I uh, I actually was wondering, you know, if you wanted to go grab some dinner sometime." Jim's heart was beating faster than it ever had. Sweat started to build up on his forehead. It seemed like forever before she answered. "Sure Jim. That seems like fun!" "Great! How about....Tuesday?" "Sure!" "Awesome! I'll see you at 8 then?" He briefly touched her shoulder. She collapsed on the floor. The crowd in the bar gasped and screamed. She was dead. "Goddamnit..." A shout could be heard from outside the bar,"See! I told you lil' bro! You got the talent!" "Shut up Grim!"

The tale of Death's brother, who only wants to work peacefully as an accountant and get with that girl who works at the bar downtown.

"Mom, I'm going out." Lisa grabbed her purse and keys and headed to the door. She stopped by the hallway mirror to check on her costume, a custom-made bumble-bee costume. Turning this way and that, she checked the angle of her wings. Her mom stuck her head out of the kitchen doorway. "Sorry, I was washing dishes, what did you say?" "I said, I'm taking off for the party." Lisa pointed at her costume. "Remember, we talked about it last week? It's at Sam's this year." Her mother frowned. "Honey, I'm sorry, you can't go to that party anymore." She walked into the hallway and approached Lisa. "I forgot that they changed the law this year. Acceptability starts at sixteen now..." She saw the look on Lisa's face, and hugged her. "I'm so sorry baby, it's just not safe for you to go out tonight." Lisa pushed out of her mother's arms. "But it's not even November yet! I'll be back by midnight, I promise!" Her mom shook her head. "No. Sometimes it starts before midnight, for some of them, and they break the rules. I don't want you on the streets." Lisa folded her arms. "But I've been planning on this for *weeks*, it took forever to make this!" She plucks at her bee costume. Tears well up in her eyes. Her mother sighed. "I should have told you earlier, I'm sorry. First the house's external plating system failed its pre-Rut evaluation, and then the Acura needed to be taken to the shop, and I needed to finish my pistol certification, the party slipped my mind." She squeezed Lisa's shoulder. "Maybe next year Samantha can have her party on the 30th instead." Lisa slammed her purse on the hallway table. "This is so stupid! I'm sixteen so I'm Acceptable, but you wouldn't let me get my gun this whole summer!" Lisa's face flared red, and she pointed at her mother. "You are *such* a hypocrite!" Lisa stormed upstairs and slammed the door to her room. Her mother sighed again. She checked the security system and checked the time. 6:13 p.m. The party hadn't started yet. Lisa's mother walked over to the closet under the front stairs. Pushing aside old shoeboxes of receipts and bins of winter clothes, she pulled out a small, black box. She closed the closet door and slowly ascended the stairs, holding the box in both hands. She approached Lisa's door. She stood for a moment, looking at the box. She could make out the sounds of Lisa furiously typing on her laptop. She knocked, then entered. "Go away." Lisa was hunched over her laptop, browsing the internet. "I brought you something." Her mother sat on the bed, and put the box beside her. Lisa turned in her chair, saw the box. "What is it?" Her mother opened the steel latches and opened the box. Lisa's eyes widened as her mother pulled out a small steel pistol. "This was my first gun, given to me by my grandmother on my nineteenth birthday. I was saving it for you." Her mother cupped the pistol in her hand. "I was supposed to get it on my eighteenth birthday, when I turned Acceptable, but your grandmother hated guns and wouldn't allow it. She changed her mind after I had... *met* your father." Lisa sat on the bed by her mother, the box and the gun between them. Gingerly, she reached out. "Can I... can I hold it?" Her mother nodded, and handed her the gun. Lisa had completed her pistol certification a week after her birthday, but she hadn't held a gun since. She read the numbers written on the side: .380 ACP. "What's .380 ACP?" Lisa asked. The gun was smaller than the 9mm that she had used in her certification class. "It's an old caliber. Not many women use it anymore." Her mother explained. "Less stopping power. Although, I guess sometimes that might be a good thing." "Do we have bullets?" Lisa looked in the box, and pulled out the gun's empty magazine. "We do." Her mother answered. "I can go get them. But first I want you to try on the holster." She pulled a small black holster, with a hard plastic shell for the pistol and metal clips to attach to a belt. "Let's see if this even fits you." Lisa took the holster and went to the mirror. She was glad her costume had a belt: most of her black bee stripes were bits of black cloth that she had sewn onto a yellow dress, but the middle stripe was actually a belt. She slipped the holster into place near her hip, then slipped the pistol into the holster. "Jump around." Her mother commanded. "Make sure you can move around without dropping it." Lisa jumped up and down, then wriggled around. The holster stayed put. "Good enough for now, I suppose." Her mother stood. "I'll go get the bullets. Bring the magazine and meet me by the front door." Lisa tugged at the holster and adjusted the belt. She frowned. The whole thing kind of ruined her costume. Still, it was better than nothing. She went downstairs. Her mother stood by the front door, holding her camera. Lisa saw that there was a small box sitting next to her purse. "Load the gun, and then let me take a picture." Lisa opened the ammo box and carefully inserted eight cartridges into the magazine, just as she had learnt that summer. The magazine's spring was stiff and by the end her thumb was raw from the effort. She reholstered the gun. "Stand over there, by the light." Her mother raised the camera. "My baby, with her first gun. A grown woman." *Click.* "One more." *Click.* Her mother set the camera on the table, and Lisa realized that her mother was wearing her "November" outfit: her regular Glock was riding in a holster tucked behind her back, and a much larger gun was sitting on her hip. Lisa looked at her mother, confused. “Mom, why are you wearing two guns?” “Three, actually.” Her mother pulled up a pant leg to expose a small revolver strapped to her calf. “But you’ll have to make do with one, at least for now.” She straightened and checked her hair in the mirror. “Are you ready?” “Ready? For what?” asked Lisa. “I thought you had a party to go to? Or did you change your mind?” Lisa felt a thrill. She was going to the party! “You’re letting me go?” she asked. “Yes, on two conditions.” Her mother unholstered her big gun, ejected the magazine and inspected it. “You have to be home well before midnight.” “And the second condition?” Her mother pushed the magazine into place with a satisfying click. “I’m going with you.”

Men have 11 months of sexual neutrality. Once a year (Nov 1-30) the rut occurs and male sex drives ramp up to a fever pitch for 30 days. It's their "time of the year".

**4:23 P.M.** **August 4th 2013** **Autumn House Group Home** **Kansas City, MO** "You need to learn to let go of everything you've done in the past, and live a life of truth. You've gone so far down the hole, David, you're caught in a pit of lies and can't find the way out. You're able to manipulate everyone around you into thinking-" "Shut up! Just shut up!" "-into thinking you're getting better and being okay, and go back around and make the same mistakes you did last time. It's a repeating cycle." "You don't know how hard I do try! I just *can't*!" "I do, David. You've been in and out of fourteen different group homes in the past 3 years. You've done worse every single time. You're not able to leave here until we can work out some of your behavioral issues." David shot out of his chair, and bolted out of Kelsey Wenderling's office. He slammed the door behind and walked quickly to his room. Kelsey heard the door down the hall slam as David shut himself in. The lady behind the desk sighed, and filed David's report into her drawer. She slid open the personal drawer and reached for her phone, dialing the number of her soon to be husband. It rang twice before he picked up. "Hey honey, what's up?" "I'm gonna be at the office a little late tonight, some of these guys are just having a really rough time getting through some issues. You gonna be okay?" "Yeah, I guess so. How late tonight?" Kelsey looked at the digital clock on her desk. "If I had to guess, I'll be here til nine, a little after. I'm sorry." "Yeah, it's fine. Don't go too crazy. You've been there late for the past three weeks, people will start thinking you're a client there!" "Very funny. I'll talk to you later." "Bye." Kelsey hung the phone up. She gathered her paperwork and personal items and exited the office. The nurse on duty looked up at her. "Out of here early Kels?" "Oh, yeah, need to get home and plan some things with the fiance. Have a good night Gladys, will you be sure Travis vacuums my office tonight?" "I'll be sure to do that. Tell that man I said hello!" "Will do." Kelsey walked out the door and into her car. --- **5:04 P.M.** **September 22nd 2013** **Autumn House Group Home** **Kansas City, MO** "The other clients have all told me what you told all of them. How you pretended to be helpful and nice. Told them you cared about how they were doing. You know you could have just asked us to take you somewhere to get more cigarettes David." "Yeah, I know. I'm sorry Kelsey." "Don't apologize to me, apologize to all of *them*. They thought you cared about them enough to come in and listen to them. That is not your place David. You manipulated them, exactly the kind of sociopathic tendencies we've been trying to get past. Go apologize, and I'll talk to you in a few days." David exited Kelsey's office. She grumbled when she saw the clock. It was much later than when she was usually gone by. She reached in her personal drawer, and glanced at her phone- seventeen missed calls. She opened up the log, and saw they were all from her soon to be husband. She dialed his number. The phone rang twice before he answered. "You fucking cunt." "Excuse me?" "You *fucking lying cheating cunt!* You haven't been at work all these nights! You fucking *cunt*! I swear to-" *Click.* She had hung the phone up on him. Her soon to be husband was no longer that. Kelsey panicked. She left Autumn House in a flash, and sat in the parking lot. She thought about what she had done to the man she told she loved. How she had lied, and kept lying. She thought about David. She giggled quietly to herself, thinking about the saying that had made the rounds at mental health facilities. *You've got to be one step from being a client to work in this place.* It was amusing to her. She now knew what she had to do. Kelsey slammed the side of her head against the dashboard. Instantly, she called her mother, and in minutes was in the driveway of her parent's home. She walked right in, sobbing. "He hit me Mom, he *hit* me! I can't marry him anymore, I just *can't*!" Her mother held her while her father paced. The phone rang and rang, before Kelsey's father answered it. The conversation was brief, mostly Mr. Wenderling yelling at the soon to be domestic abuse suspect. [Kind of quickly happened, but I didn't really want to drag it out. I found this one fascinating to write though, because both my lady and I work at a mental health grouphome ;) ]

A psychotherapist slowly realizes he/she exhibits many of the same dispositions as his/her sociopath clients.

"Are you serious?" "Dead." "You know you have to physically put ammunition into that thing. Do you even have billets?" "They're called *bullets*, Sam. Bullets, with a 'u'." "Fine, do you have any *bullets*." "Nope. But I know a man who can get me some." "You know we have laser guns, right? You are aware of that, right? That laser guns are a thing? And that we have them? Specifically you and I? Have laser guns? Laser guns?" "More than aware, Sam." "So then why the hell-" "Sam, have you ever seen a gunshot wound?" "Well, I mean no, of course not." "It's a beautiful thing. Lasers are too clean. They cauterize the wound as they create it. No blood loss. Guns...guns...Bullets tear through a man's body and leave him ripped to pieces, bleeding, and begging for the mercy of a second shot somewhere more permanent. The flesh, the skin, blooms open like a flower, little petals made of what used to be a man's insides. And the sound...it's a statement-" "Wait, they're loud too? Frank, are you trying to get us caught?" "Nope. I'm trying to send a message."

An ornery, outdated, beloved piece of military technology

Emily hesitated at first, slender fingers trembling - uncertain, clumsy - but the man's own fingers flexed and entwined with hers. His skin was so very *warm* against hers, so unlike the impersonal and unyielding metal of the medic androids when she was ill, so unlike the glass screen of her tablet at work, or food, or makeup or -- anything else she could remember touching, really. She and her fellow humans were filthy, Emily was well aware of that; humans spread disease and *hurt* each other and *used* each other. It was better if they had as little contact with each other as possible. After all, they were among the most vicious of the planet's animals, were they not? *It is a measure we take to protect you,* the Collective's metallic voices said as they poured from speakers at every street corner. The draw was too great for many, though. Good men and women did as the Collective told them. They did not make more eye contact than they had to. They did not *talk* more than they had to. And of course they most *certainly* never, ever touched. If two humans brushed up against each other accidentally, then punishment was light - reduced rations at times, extra work at others. The Collective was very generous and understood that humans were fallible beings who often made mistakes, and so these types of punishments were meant as more of a gentle reminder, like teaching a wayward child. (Emily had no first-hand experience with children, of course - no one did - but she'd come across the analogy in an old book once and thought it might suit the situation well.) However, when humans dared to openly defy the Collective, intentionally making physical contact with each other - whether it was holding hands, hugging, or even sexual intercourse(the idea of the latter confused and repulsed Emily, who thought it sounded unhygienic in the extreme)- why, they were killed outright if they were lucky. No one knew what the other punishments might be, but there had been numerous reports of humans missing, not killed, after raids. Labor camps, maybe. Experiments. Food. The thought of the danger Emily had so recklessly put herself in sent a shock through her system and her hand jumped. The man - Emily did not know his name - smiled down at her and gave her fingers a quick squeeze. "It's okay, you know. Everyone's nervous when they haven't done this before." Emily blinked up at him. His manner was so easy, considering the inherent risk he was in - the smiling, even. No one smiled. It was unnecessary. And it had initially unnerved Emily, but she found herself smiling back at him now, rarely-used muscles twitching to life at the corners of her mouth. "No, it's lovely," she said, rubbing her thumb across his palm. She still marveled at the softness of his flesh against her own. She knew her own skin must have felt close to the same but touching it did not send a surge of warmth through her body. "Honestly. I'm just nervous about the Collective. How often do you come to these parties?" The man lifted his head then and cast a quick glance around at the other people scattered throughout the dimly-lit warehouse, hugging or holding hands or talking with each other in halting, timid voices - taking tentative steps into learning how to socialize after the Collective had taken all these aspects of humanity away from them. He turned to back to Emily and smiled again. "I've been coming here for the last year and a half. No raids so far. And if you keep on worrying about that, you're not going to enjoy your time here." As he finished speaking, the man grabbed her other hand and placed it against his chest so she could feel his heart beat underneath his shirt. Emily's eyes widened. Another heart, beating beneath another ribcage mirroring her own - both such fragile, mortal tangles of muscle and bone, but something the droids in the Collective would never have. Spite and triumph twisted Emily's mouth into a little secret smile. She had spent so long never questioning the Collective, even being grateful for their leadership, but now -- humans, though filthy and vile they may have been, were suddenly so much more real to her. So much more than automatons crafted with steel and code, but no warmth and no heartbeat to keep them truly *alive.*

Physical contact is now illegal, but there are hug dealers and shady hand-holders in the dead of night.

How many things last four hours? Cooking Christmas dinner? The Extended Edition of Return of the King? A drive from London to Manchester? Had there ever before been a war that lasted four hours? James didn't think so. He'd heard about the war that lasted fifty-two minutes between Britain and Zanzibar, and he'd heard of the 365 year war between the isles of Scilly and Holland, but he doubted that there had ever been a four hour war before. And it had never destroyed the world before. He brought the binoculars up to his eyepieces. "Look!" he pointed across the plain and spoke into the radio. "Oxford's almost untouched." "They'll all be dead. If the blast didn't get them the fallout will have taken them by now," his companion, a stocky northerner didn't bother following where James was pointing. "But think of all that's there! Libraries full of books! Computers! Engineering!" James gasped. "And there's three hospitals. MRI machines, X-ray machines, anti-biotics by the cart full." "It's almost twenty miles away kid," the northerner growled. "We need tinned food, and medicine that isn't irradiated too much." The northerner pointed to the stain of houses at the bottom of the hill. "That village's food and medicine will keep us alive a lot longer than any number of books." "If we're going to rebuild civilisation-" "We're not lad." The northerner picked up his bag and trudged over the fields towards the village. Around him the grass was dying. It was struggling hard, but large patches were turning brown, and some black. There was not a bird in the sky. Not an insect on the wing. The air was empty. "Come on," the Northerner growled. "Your radiation suit won't keep the fallout gone forever. The sooner we can fill these bags with food the sooner we can go back underground where its safe." "I still think its a sign," James said defiantly. "We scientists in the particle accelerator building were the only ones who survived. All over the world it will be the same, the scientists in the deep labs will be the ones who survived when all others perished. We can build a perfect utopia." "Kid, there are fifty-eight of us men in the Diamond," the northerner just shook his head, making his radiation suit wobble. "And there are only 13 women. Unless you want to do some real disgusting stuff the next generation is goin to be a lot smaller. And even if we force all the women to have six babies each, do you really think we can teach them all the stuff we know? WHat's going to matter to them isn't books or x-ray machines or the diamond light source particle accelerator. They'll worry about food." The northener paused. "And other survivors." James paused in their walk. They were standing on the highest point of the Bag's Tree Hill. Now all the trees were dead and barren you could see almost twenty miles in every direction. "You think there are?" "Britain had three hundred warheads," the northerner said. "France had about the same. That's enough to hit every American city with a population greater than 100,000 people twice. But do you really think its enough to wipe out every american? California alone is the size of Britain and France combined lots of space to hide." The northerner looked up at the sky. "And that doesn't include the Russians, or the Chinese. And there's the countries we wouldn't have hit at all, Brazil, Australia, South Africa. I'm sure the fallout is killing them just as surely as its killing us," a gust of wind whipped past them and the Geiger counter briefly went into a Prestissimo cacophony. "But they had time to get people to shelters. To get things prepared and one day, maybe not for years but one day, over that horizon," he pointed south, to the Continent. "We'll see helicopters fly in under a foreign flag and we, or our children, will be forced to speak whatever oingo-boingo language they demand and pray to whatever oingo-boingo gods." "You make it sound like we lost the war," James said. "We wiped out New York, Chicago, Austin, Dallas, San Fransisco, LA-" "Everyone lost this war kid," the northerner just walked on. "And if you can't see that you're as deluded as the people who started it." James just there and watched the Northerner head for the village. Wind rustled the dead tree branches and flicked away pieces of the decaying grass. James would never again be able to feel the wind on his face or the sun on his skin. James stood under the Bag's Tree for a long time. Above him, the living history of a thousand years slowly crumbled to dust.

War breaks about between the US and UK, and most countries quickly join one side or the other.

I closed my eyes. The radio still playing. I couldn’t bear to look at what I didn’t know. “Are you alive?” I asked quietly. If he didn’t answer I still had an opportunity to believe that he just didn’t hear me. I heard a whisper, “I’m here.” I sighed a deep breath, we had made it. I never saw the other car coming, and apparently he didn’t either. He was such a good driver. I remember when he came to pick me up for the first time. I had that old apartment on South St with the back garden that I would spend summers in just laying out in the sun reading magazines. He would come by and bring iced coffee and we would sit there until it got dark and just stare at the stars. The first time I opened my door to see that little red mustang he drove, that one I was currently sitting in with my eyes closed because I couldn’t bring myself to see the horror. I was held in tight, there was nothing I could do now, I couldn’t move, I couldn’t call anyone, I just had to sit and wait. I was wearing that beautiful pink sundress and it was a slightly rainy Saturday afternoon. We went down to the river to have this beautiful romantic walk. I was so nervous, butterflies in my stomach like you couldn’t imagine. It was like knowing he was the one for me barely even knowing him. We had met a few times over the years, friends of friends, always in passing. Finally one night he got the courage to ask me to spend my Saturday with him. I had always has this crush on him, I couldn’t imagine he would ever like me. “Do you remember the Saturday?” I said, holding back the pain. My words sounded like a strain, a strain to remove myself out from underneath everything. I couldn’t budge. “Of course I do, I think of it every day.” I think at this point I smiled but I couldn’t tell my whole body was numb with fear. Still with my eyes shut tight I thought about that day. We had been walking quite a while, it wasn’t something I really ever did but he was so natural and calm. He knew just what to say and you could tell he was a gentleman. Like, a real gentleman. He wore dress pants and a polo and always said please and thank you. I went to hold his hand, he just looked at me surprised and squeezed back. The sun was shining now. It was turning out to be a lovely day. We got to a dock on the side of the river, he told me this was his favorite spot, which he would come there alone from time to time to get away. His spot, the spot that no one else was aloud, but I was, that’s how you make a girl feel special I suppose. “Are you hanging in there?” I ask. “Barely” he replied “I think this will be out last night together.” I started to cry. I just kept trying to think of my first memories of him as being my last. I didn’t know what I would do without him. He managed to grab my hand and I felt his thumb slowly rub against my skin as it had so many times over the last 6 years. Once we had sat down on the pier he opened his backpack and inside was a small picnic, just two sandwich halves and a box of crackers. He just smiled at me and said, “I figured we could share?” That’s when I knew I would marry him. Somehow that just set him apart. “Remember the rain?” I said, I could barely breathe. The siren noises started now, if only they could save him. “Yeah” he said, he was crying now too. “It ruined our picnic. I never told you but that day I decided I would marry you. Any girl willing to eat my crappy lunch with me in my favorite spot was going to be someone I wanted to hold onto for the rest of my life. I know that was so early on, but I was right and how many picnics were there after that. I lost count.” This is how I would remember him. The sirens got closer and the noises around me got muffled. I felt one last squeeze on my hand as we both were pulled out of the car in separate directions. It was like this was some type of symbolism we were going our separate ways. Never to be reunited. I opened my eyes, the pain was becoming more and more severe. I looked over at him. He was standing, he was scratched and bruised but he was able to walk over to me. I could see the old red mustang all smash and torn behind the medics as they pulled me out. He came over to me, he whispered “I’m so sorry. I love you”

As one of them is dying, a couple remembers the night they first met

Maria was having a great time at the party. It was a relaxed affair, with just twenty people mingling in the spacious apartment. The people there were mostly friends of hers, with enough friends-of-friends to keep things interesting. Maria was at the bar, refilling her wine glass, when the hostess, Isabelle, approached her. “Is! The party’s going well. Would you like a drink?” “No thanks, Maria, I’m still good.” Isabelle gestured with her champagne flute with a smile. “However, I’d like you introduce you to someone. This is Mark.” Maria now noticed the handsome man behind her friend. “How do you do?” Mark smiled at her as he stretched out his hand. “I’m doing very well, actually. Will you join me for a drink?” Maria met the handshake warmly, as Isabelle moved away, feeling satisfied with her matchmaking. Maria and Mark got along very well, and found themselves having a great conversation for several hours. Finally, Mark pleaded tiredness. “I have a confession, though – my clock hit zero the moment we met. Perhaps I could bother you for a number?” Maria was stunned – she’d had a great conversation with Mark and did like him quite a lot, but to be his ‘special person’… “Mark, I…My clock hasn’t stopped. It’s still going.” Maria felt terrible. “It…what? I…oh. Well. I’m sorry. Maybe my clock was counting down to meeting the girl who’d ruin me for all the others.” Mark flirted, but it was betrayed by the genuine hurt and disappointment in his eyes. “Haha, maybe!” Maria laughed a little uneasily. “But I’m happy to give you my number.” Mark left the party not long after, showing just a little of the slump of a defeated man. Maria felt terrible, but there wasn’t much that she could do about it – she had no control over her clock. That it was only days away, though… Maria grabbed another drink. === Maria walked through the crowed city street. It was time – her time. In the next minute, she’d meet the person who’d change her life. She found herself surprisingly unworried, prepared to let fate work its magic. Twenty seconds left. Maria rounded the corner and only avoided crashing into the broad figure that came around the other way with a quick sidestep. “Maria?” It was Mark, the fun guy she’d met the other night – he hadn’t ended up calling her later, which had made her a little sad, as she’d quite liked him. “Oh, hi Mark!” Maria smiled at him. “How are you going?” She didn’t understand what was going on. It couldn’t be Mark – she’d already met him. And there were only ten seconds left. “Good, just out shopping with my daughter. This is Flora. I told you of her the other night.” Mark gestured to the little girl that was hiding behind him. “Yes, I remember.” Maria got down on one knee to get on eye level with the little girl, who couldn’t be more than about three years old. “Hello Flora, my name is Maria.” Flora looked at her shyly from behind her father’s legs. “Hello.” Maria looked up at Mark, her eyes slightly wet. “My clock just stopped.” Mark’s jaw dropped open as a confusion of emotions passed across his face. Then, finally, he beamed down, and his eyes, too, became a little wet. “Maybe we should go to the park so we can all get to know each other better.”

A timer integrated in your body counts down to when you meet someone who will change your life

This is a great prompt, and I could see this being a magnificient *Monty Python* skit. EDIT: Holy shit this is long. Sorry. Abrasax exited the command tent with his lieutenants at his side. He rose to the top of the hill, above his troops. "We've come a long way my soldiers. We started in the first circle with just a mixed army of men and demons. We captured the Cerebus and turned it on it's former captors. We broke satan's army at Malacoda. We've finally captured Malebolge, and we are sieging the giants guarding the ninth circle itself. Soon we will capture satan himself, and this Hell will be our Hell!" The troops cried out in joy and began marching towards the ninth circle. Within a day, they had killed the giants and marched towards satan himself. His troops tired satan with jabs from their varas, and as Abrasax was about to deliver the final blow with his flaming estocada, his hand trembled. A horn blew, the sound emanating from nowhere and everywhere at once. He dropped the ritual sword to the ice. The world around him blew away like a cloud of smoke leaving a empty blackness even Abrasax had never seen the likes of. The horn grew louder and louder until his consciousness was washed away like a droplet of blood in a river. Abrasax awoke on a soft, sun-lit shore, with warm waves lapping at his knees. He got up, and saw a path leading to enormous gates of pearl in the distance, and a long line of mortals leading up to it. "My victory," he gasped, "who has stolen my victory from me?" He walked up to the last mortal in the line, picked them up with his claws and asked, "where am I, and why have I been brought here?" "This is heaven, bub! You gotta ask the *big guy*." He swore loudly, and began walking to the gate. "Hey! No cutting!" Someone shouted. After nearly half an hour of walking, he arrived at the gate to find a small, bookish man sitting at a folding table. Before he could speak, the man admonished him, "I'm sorry sir, I know the line is long but you'll just have to wait." Abrasax replied, "I have eaten the entrails of babies whose brains were dashed on rocks, I have slaid demons whose mere visage would drive you to madness. I will not be spoken to in such a tone!" He tried to twist off St. Peter's head like a bottle cap. His neck just twisted around like putty. "I understand you're angry, but you'll just have to wait in line like everyone else. You can ask any question you want when it's your turn." Abrasax screamed in fury and frustration, and walked back to the end of the line, which was even larger now than before. He tried mangling, maiming, eviscerating and eradicating several mortals, and found it didn't work no matter the method. Claws made their flesh ripple as if it were a pond. Jamming rocks in their eyes only made the rocks bounce back out as if off a trampoline. His fiery breath merely blackened their face a bit. After a few days in line, Abrasax got to the front. "Why am I here, and why have you stolen my victory from me," he shouted. "Name?" "ANSWER ME" he spit through gritted fangs "Look I can't tell you anything till I get your name." "ABRASAX, the First Principle" The man snapped his fingers and pointed at Abrasax' chest. Abraxas looked down, a piece of papyrus clung to his breast xɐsɐɹq∀ **sI ǝɯɐN ʎW 'ollǝH** "Now just walk through, and go to the second door on the left and your questions will be answered." St. Peter spoke through a smile. Abrasax lookup up at the enormous gate, it read "Welcome to Heaven!" He sighed and entered. He looked to the left and picked out what must have been meant by the second door. A sign read, "Customer Service" He felt humiliated by this byzantine treatment, and paused for a moment before entering. The number 777 glowed from the wall in dull red light, and he approached the counter with a woman behind it. "Why am I here, why was my great victory stolen from me!?" "You have to take a ticket, sir" "ANSWER MY QUESTION!" "Please take a ticket, when your number is called I can help you." He grumbled and took a ticket, it read 803. "Seven hundred and seventy-seven. Seven hundred and seventy-seven. One last call for seven hundred and seventy-seven. Does anyone have ticket seven hundred and seventy-seven?" No one else was in the room besides the two of them. After sixteen more calls like this, She called out, "Eight hundred and thr," "That is me, now answer my question." He cut her off, "why am I here, why was my great victory stolen from me?" "Okay sir, you have to go to the Heavenly Hall of Records and ask to see your Intake Form 73B, NOT the 73A. The 73B, it's very important you get the 73B. If you're unhappy with the reasoning you can fill out form 2534-JT-LS and request a reassignment." "Where is the Heavenly Hall of Records?" "Just go down Burning Bush lane until you get to the giant cowboy statue, turn right, go about 30 miles, if you see Elvis suntanning in the nude you've gone too far, and it's on the left side of the road." After a long walk and an unpleasant sight he found the Heavenly Hall of Records, and got in line. Eventually he got to the front of the line. "I'd like to get my form 73B." "This is the wrong line for that, you need to go to the next room." the man gestured to a full room with a winding line. Abrasax furiously walked to the filled room, and waited *again* in line. After several hours we was at the front. "I'd like my Intake Form 73B." "Oh you mean 73A, I bet that girl at customer service told you 73B. You definitely want the 73A." "Well fine, I would like my Intake Form 73A." "Please wait quietly in one of the seats provided, and I'll call you over once I find it." He waited fifteen minutes and was called to the counter. He looked at the form, **Intake Form 73A : Abrasax's Favorite Things** it had listed of cute animals and foods on it. "Excuse me I'm trying to find out why I'm in heaven." "Oh that's a 73B, but I have another customer right now, I can't help you." Abrasax got back in line. A day passed, and he was at the counter. "I'd like my Intake Form 73B" he asked to the same man. "Oh you mean 73A, I bet that girl at customer service told you 73B. You definitely want the 73A." "What is this foolishness? I want my Intake Form 73B!" "Well I can't get that for you, you have to go to the room opposite this just accross the main hall. Next person in line please!" Abrasax literally fumed from the mouth, and stomped through the main hall. "Turn that frown, *upside down*" a man shouted. He looked at the man with pure disgust and loathing, and continued to the second room. He got in line and waited several hours before getting to the service counter. "Hello, how can I help you?" "I'd like to get my Intake Form 73B" "Oh you mean 73A, I bet that guy across the hall told you 73B. You definitely want the" "**No, I want the 73B**. **Give me the 73B**" "There's no reason to get angry sir, please sit quietly while I get it for you." Abrasax eventually got his IF73B, and looked at it. **Reason for Redemption: Overthrowing satan** "Excuse me, this is unacceptable, I demand to be sent back to hell!" The room went silent. "Sir, if you really think you know better than G-d where you belong, you can fill out a 2534-JT-LS form in the complaint department, and you will get a hearing date in 4-6 business weeks." He got directions to the complaint department and fulfilled the bureaucratic rituals. He sun-tanned next to the nude Elvis, since even hell-spawn love the King, for 7 business weeks before receiving a letter with his hearing date, which was the day before. He went to the tribunal and pleaded to get it reset as he didn't receive the letter until today. They compromised by setting him a second hearing date only a week away, moving their debate on whether or not OJ did it to the next day. Eventually his day came, and he went to the hearing. Across the room was G-d himself, and the hearing began, "I want to go to hell, what do I have to do to go back?" "Well, I really think you should be in Heaven for the heroic deeds you've done. If you're insistent on getting kicked-out, I suppose the easiest is blasphemy, we're pretty strict about that." A judge replied. "God is a piss-throwing faggot" Abrasax said, a horn blared in the distance. He smiled. The horns stopped, G-d spoke, "you would damn yourself just to defeat satan, saving millions of mortal souls? What a brave and noble sacrifice. Truly you are a model citizen of heaven, and you belong here. Would you like a job? I have some clout, and to be honest this place is run on nepotism. You could say it helps to have friends in high places," he let out three deep laughs, "I truly crack myself up." Abrasax fell to the floor, tears streamed from his eyes, screaming through sobs, "I want to go home, I want to go home! It's **my hell**, **mine**!" while kicking and pounding the floor with his hands. G-d laughed, and hugged the spiky demon that had just thrown a tantrum. "Sounds like someone's got a case of the Mondays," G-d's voice thundered.

A lesser demon stages a revolt against Lucifer in an attempt to claim the throne of hell. It ends up accidentally redeeming itself, much to its displeasure.

My children, my followers, my brothers and sisters, we are being called! Called to a greater cause! For as we see in the scripture, there is a telephone, a telephone we are called to answer. A call from something higher, a call only those who have opened themselves up to the wisdom of the Green Room can hear, a call to fulfill a destiny. We, those enlightened by the green, are the chosen people. We, those who answer the call, *are the chosen people*. We, those who gather here tonight, ***are the chosen people***. My children, my children of the Green Room, tonight is the night! Tonight, we say goodnight to this lesser earthly Green Temple, to go to our Promised Land, to the true Green Room. Take up your bowls of mush, the meal we have been gifted from the Green Room, and eat, eat this last pitiful earthly meal. Goodnight, Sarah. Goodnight, James. Goodnight, Megan. Goodnight, Blaine. Goodnight, old woman begging for life. Goodnight, my children. Goodnight, my wife. Goodnight, brothers, with your Goodnight Mush. Goodnight, sisters. I say with a 'Hush.' Goodnight, earth. Goodnight, air. Goodnight, living, off we fare.

Justify killing from the verses of Goodnight Moon

It was left to me in a fit of slow deliberate movements. My mum had left to get some coffee when my papa leant over to me. He raised his hand to my arm and gripped powerlessly, pulling me softly towards him. His right hand presented a small golden pocket watch. "Open it when I'm dead, son." My grandfather, David Humble, died that night. I left my mum's house after she was in bed and drove. I don't know where I drove but ended up at the coast looking over the North Sea. I pulled the pocket watch out of the glove box and examined its exterior. Golden swirls etched around peacock feathers encircled a polished circle which held the engraving "David, open it when I'm dead." Gingerly pressing my fingers to the clasp, I popped open the case. A clock started to tick. There were three hands, one spinning around the face in what I reckoned was three or four seconds, another barely moving and the last not moving at all. It wasn't for a few months until I had worked out what it was. When I ran, the hands moved quicker. When I slept, the hands moved more slowly. The watch was counting down to my death in heart beats and steps. The engraving changed: "Liam, open this when I'm dead." I didn't have a son, yet.

Character obtains a functional pocket watch but it does not keep track of time.

The streets were empty, the buildings in ruin, plant life was seemingly everywhere. Earth was finally returning to nature after decades of nuclear fallout. Humanity has been exterminated on Earth. It was a pitiful sight, humans had always considered themselves intelligent. They claimed to be the most advanced race in the Milky Way. In the end, no intelligence could hold back the multitude of emotions going through each nations leader as they all pressed the button, dooming humanity. Few survived, scattered across bases on the moon and on Mars. That's where I go next, humans made my job a little more boring. Being given the title exterminator of worlds meant I got to see the reaction of different species when I went in and wiped out their civilization, all because a few affluent people hired me for their enjoyment. Hey, I enjoyed it too. I'm going to enjoy destroying the rest of humanity that's left on the moon. My favorite thing is when I get down to the last person and they beg for mercy. I always give it to them, there's something satisfying about leaving the last one of a species alone on their world to die out. Sometimes they kill themselves, sometimes they survive alone, but I always leave them a present. I always leave them a recorded message in their language that they can listen to over and over again. I hope they enjoy this present. *click*

Write about aliens finding the remains of Humanity.

" Oh, hey guys. Glad you made it. You're a little early." "Who are you?" "I'm you, you are me. I created you, your world. I came up here so I could watch you grow." "But why?" You sit down in the moon dust. "I don't understand. I can't believe this is happening." "It's okay, take your time. I haven't been down in a while. You guys seemed to want some time on your own." There is a beeping in your suit, but it's not important now. "What, am I supposed to do, ask you the meaning of life?" The rest of your crew is on their way. You took the two manned rover on your own to scout the area. The six of you are setting up a permanent lab. Hopefully they are hearing you on their comms. "Ask me whatever you want." "What happens when we die?" The beeping in your suit is starting to fade. "There is another place you go. Your world has been so peaceful, and you've all made me so proud. I take your essence and I put you in another vessel. My hope is that you can influence these others and that they catch up to you. I want you to meet each other some day." You're so tired. Why did this have to happen now? No one is going to believe this. Where is the rest of your crew? "It's going to be alright. You're dying." You try to snap out of it, but you feel like your mind is full of sea foam. "Your suit has been leaking H^2 O. You tore it getting out of the rover." You peer down at your side. Little water molecules are escaping a micrscopic tear and floating off into space. "You'll like your next life. It's simpler, there is so much fun to be had. But try and remember, you have to help these fellows evolve. They are so behind. It hasn't helped that these other beings have them on the run." "What about my life? My crew? Our mission?" "Oh they are going to be just fine. Now I'm dropping you off in a place called Bermuda. The water is warm and the sun, there is only one, is super bright." Sounds nice, you think. Your body feels so light, and you feel a current pulling you. "It is nice! Watch out for boats, especially anything that says 'Sea World.' You're a dolphin now!" Can't wait.

A technological civilisation reaches its moon, and is greeted by its god.

"They say apples don't fall far from the tree, so your mom must be gorgeous." I grin disarmingly at the bank teller. She giggles, and I think she blushes, but it's hard to tell - she's got a pretty pink complexion already. "I'm sorry, I know it's cheesy," I say, and slide the note across the counter. "Here's my number, call me sometime?" She smiles and picks up the note, and her smile freezes. She looks at me, slowly, and I open my coat, enough for her to see the banana secured in a holster on my hip. She gasps. "No no no," I saw softly, "just do as I say, and nobody's gonna get hurt. Fill one of your big envelopes with as many fifties and hundreds as you can. Go on now." I point to her cash drawer and motion. She sets an envelope on the counter and starts filling it with cash. Her fingers are shaking, and she accidentally drops a bunch of fifties on the floor. I see tears well up in her eyes. "Hey now, hey, it's ok," I say. "I've done this before, just take your time, fill it up, then I'm gone. Super easy, nobody hurt, I promise." She takes a deep breath and resumes filling the envelope. I scan the rest of the clerks and the few customers standing in the lobby. Out of the corner of my eye, I glimpse a splash of green. I look over and see one of the bank managers slowly making his way down the line of clerks. Like most career bankers, he has a big, pear-shaped body that absorbs all the available space in the clerks' tiny stations. I feel bad for his employees, especially the round girl he is talking to now - man, the way he's leaning on her, she looks fit to burst. My clerk hands me the envelope. I look over at the manager. He's still laughing it up a few clerks away. I point again. "One more, and then we're done." My clerk nods, her eyes wide and wet. She starts filling another envelope. The manager finishes his conversation and steps back into the aisle behind all the clerks. I expect him to move to the next clerk, a seedy looking guy with really bad hair, but he walks right over to my clerk, clapping a thick, pudgy hand on her shoulder. She jumps at his touch, dropping more bills. "Whoa there, Jona, come on now!" He bends down and picks up the bills. "You should be more careful." My note is still sitting on the countertop, and he reaches over and brushes it aside to make room for the recovered bills. I hold my breath, one hand casually reaching inside my jacket towards the banana. The manager ignores the note, but then he looks at what Jona is doing. His eyebrows knot, and he cocks his head. "Jonagold, is this customer receiving over $10,000 in cash today? Because I don't think we've trained you on the IRS procedures for that." He reaches over and grabs the first envelope, stuffed with bills. "Yeah, this looks like it's over the reporting limit. Move over, Jona, I'll finish this up." Jona opens her mouth to protest but nothing comes out, and he takes the second envelope from her hands and gently moves her out of the way. "Now then, my apologies, sir. Jona's new and doesn't know how to process this kind of cash transaction. Now, uh, I assume you are cashing a check, let's see..." The manager scans her work area. "Ah, ha! There we are." "Don't--" Jona reaches out to stop him, but the manager scoops up my note and unfolds it. He freezes, his eyes staring at the paper for several long seconds. Carefully, he slowly puts the note back on the countertop. His eyes trail down my body to my hips, and I open my coat to show him the banana underneath. He licks his lips, gulps. Taking his eyes off the banana, he starts filling the second envelope. "We'll just have this finished real quick for you, sir," He half-whispers, half-speaks. "Just any moment here, we, uh, appreciate your patience sir." He is sweating now, little drops collecting on his bald head and running down his smooth skin. He fills the second envelope, puts it together with the other, and pushes them both across the counter to me. "Anything e-e-else, sir?" He stutters. "No, you guys did great. I'm going to turn and walk away now. If I hear alarms or see any cops outside..." I gesture to my coat. The manager nods quickly. "Of course, please, no one needs to get hurt." I turn and start walking towards the front doors. At that moment, two cops walk in. I barely have time to curse when I hear the manager scream behind me: "He's robbing the bank! He's got a banana!" I whip open my coat and pull out the banana before the cops can even reach for their guns. Holding the banana above my head, I slowly inch towards the door. The cops pull back to give me room. "Nobody moves... or the banana gets it." The banana wriggles in my hand but I give it a healthy squeeze and it stops. It's young, mostly green, and it starts to cry through the gag that I taped over its mouth. Jona starts sobbing, behind the counter, "I thought he was an apple, I thought he was an apple." She buries her face in her hands. I tuck the envelopes with the cash into my pocket and throw off my hat. The crowd gasps. "Yeah, that's right you fruits." I point at my skin. "I'm a fucking tomato. You elitist pricks, you ought to be ashamed of yourselves, taking all the good soil while my people are outcasts." One of the strawberries in line suddenly points at me, gags, and then vomits all over the floor. I look down at where the fruit had pointed - a stink bug is hanging off my lower half, I hadn't noticed this morning. Rage and shame roar through me. "Yeah, that's right, I have the stinks," I scream. I rip the bug off and throw it at the strawberry. "I got it because my family has to live with the corn, you bastards." The bug hits the floor and skids towards a knot of customers, who shrink away in horror. The bug rights itself, then ejects its stink juice all over the customers. I laugh hysterically. "That's right you fuckers! That's what you get!" I am too busy pointing with my free hand to notice that the two cops have gotten up behind me. One, a pomegranate, tackles me to the floor as the other, a coconut, grabs the banana from me. I struggle, vainly trying to pierce the pom's rind. As they are cuffing me, I turn and spit in the face of the coconut. "You fucking imposter! You're a drupe! I'm more fruit than you are!" "Repeal Nix v. Hedden!" I scream as they haul me outside to their patrol car. "Repeal Nix v. Hedden! I'm a fruit god damn it, repeal Nix v. Hedden!" I must have annoyed the cops because the coconut sidled up behind me and tazed me. I spasm and fall to the curb, my delicate skin splitting on the curb's edge. I vomit. "Now luck what you've done, you fuckers." I spit out the rest of the vomit, and watch my juices mixing with dirty gutter water in the street. Someone kicks me in the back, and I flop-roll onto my back. "Repeal Nix v. Hedden." It has become almost a chant for me. I'm losing consciousness from the loss of fluids, and god knows what parasites are in the water that is now flowing in and around the rupture in my skin. I just wanted some cash, nobody had to get hurt. Repeal Nix v. Hedden. Repeal Nix v. Hedden. Repeal Nix v. Hed- a black boot swims into view, and stomps on my face.

A criminal robs a bank, but as he draws his weapon, he realizes that he has misplaced his gun with a banana.

“’I have fallen, but the Sun has not.’ What do you figure that means?” The man brushed the film of dead vegetation off the statue’s stone eyes, as if hoping to help the granite see what they were doing to him. “How the Hell should I know?” With a gritty scrape from his lighter, the second man set the dry vegetation into pulsing orange veins, leaving black scars along the fault lines that hid tentative roots. “It’s awful self aware, ain’t it?” Fingers marked with sudden ash retracted from the burning stone, their system of ridges etched in black. “I s’poz so.” He blew at the disintegrated wires of flame, sending sparks off like dying birds. In their short flight, the little fires struggle to latch onto the tinder walls. Without his veil of vines, the statue looked horribly and unwillingly modern, like a man you might have seen in town, not at all like a king. Naked without the accouterment of age, a certain dignity was lost, burned into dull smoke. “These types always saw themselves as gods, you know? Not this one.” Affectionately, he brushed the dirty black marks off with spit on his similarly darkened fingers. “If you say so.” Already disinterested, he moved on to the next web of plants, begging for a burning. “He said so himself, “I have fallen”, knew he was just as mortal as the rest of us.” The statue looked a little like his old school teacher, he thought, or maybe like his father. “Let’s get going, it’ll be dark soon. Roads will be dangerous.” “We’ll come back tomorrow, right?” “Sure.” He let those unsaid words echo in the tangled space “… ‘but the Sun has not.”

"I have fallen, but the Sun has not."

The man looked at the pile of applications to his left. Then the even bigger one to the right. He sighed, and looked at his watch. He should have been at the beach by now, with a pina colada and pilot shades so the girls can't see when he stares at their assses. They know, but can't prove it. He likes that they know. He's already failed 140 applications, with one remaining. It's great, which is horrible. Failing them was never a problem, luckily, not at this art school. It helped the prestigious reputation of the *fabulous* Academy of Art. It was the increased paperwork in every application accepted that took time, with all the forms to fill out, reports to.. fucking report. If it were up to him, he'd fail them all and call it a day. He stares at the last one, which... is actually *really* fucking great. He looks at the name, "Hitler", he scuffs. A fine name, and the application's more than good enough, and were he not that pressed for time, he would easily accept it. He looks at his watch, and says "But fail it. It doesn't mean a thing, right?" There were just shitty asses at the beach that day.

"But f*** it. It doesn't mean a thing, right?"

Personal Journal of Charles Hunter October 28th, 2013 I am cracking. I haven't slept since he got away from me. I've got 19 photographs of murder victims spread out all over the room, and who knows how many more if we don't catch this son of bitch. The rest of the force, hell, the feds have no idea. I've been going over it for weeks now, but it still doesn't make any goddamn sense. It's impossible. He can't be doing what he does. And I had him. For a split second I actually believed I could end this, but like viscious clockwork he slipped right back out of my reach. How many more innocent people? Why the hell can't we catch him? The last one was the worst so far. 23 years old. College grad heading for a PhD. Seemed like a good kid. Good family. They found the legs sticking out from the side of the ridge. Forensics says the rest of him is inside the damned rock. That's what I had to go home and tell his parents. All that bastard left behind on the scene was a white coffee can with the words PORTABLE HOLES scrawled on it. He's done things no human should be capable of. Vic before that was found in a bird costume. Cause of death: blunt trauma. We're thinking hammer. Sick bastard left him in a room with nothin' but a birdcage and a big ol' monster cat. It was two days before some neighbor called it in. Hell of a mess. Photographer blew chunks. Nothing in this line of work could have prepared me for the sick shit this guy comes up with. Turns out the first vic was a guy who's head got smashed on some construction site. Didn't come our way until some genius realized that anvils weren't among their usual set of supplies. If I close my eyes for more than a minute I see his face. I could have ended this. The horror is beyond anything I've ever seen, and I blew our chance. "It's not your fault, Charlie, the guy's a monster". That's what the chief says to me. But it was. I made a rookie move out there that I should be canned for. If I'd thought for a damn minute about who it was I was chasing, I'd have him now. It won't stop playing in my mind. Night. The docks. The hammering of his boots while he ran. Closing in on him, knowing I could get him before he got to the boat. When he ran straight off the dock, I ran after. He knew I would look. He was counting on it. Next thing I know my ass is in the water and his boat is tearing off into the night. If I hadn't looked down, that bastard wouldn't be back on the streets.

A serial killer uses methods from cartoons to murder their targets

We met, as many people do, at our mutual place of employment. She was beyond beautiful. The kind of woman who was way out of my 'league'. Even in my idle fantasies I never imagined I could be loved and adored by someone with such grace. The first time I laid eyes on her I had the usual fantasies one entertains when they see a breath-taking individual; how she would laugh at my jokes, how we would idly toy with one another, and ultimately how our first intimate moments would play out. But I quickly dismissed those whimsical thoughts, as I always did. That could never happen. Not to me. No. Not this time, I told myself. This time I take a chance. What's the worst that could happen? After all, there's so much potential gain. So I went for it. I approached as she and her friend were engaged in a game. My heart thundered in my ears and I awkwardly danced my hands up and down my body in various poses. What do I do with them? I'd forgotten how to be... me. After a moment of observation I playfully remarked about their game, and issued a friendly challenge. I didn't know it then, but that challenge would be the bait with which I hooked her. Over the next few weeks we were inseparable. We stole moments together when other obligations should have taken precedence, but we ignored reason. We were young people developing love. Nothing made sense to me. She was so beautiful, so caring, and so genuine - how could she want to spend as much time with me as I wanted to spend with her? How was I so lucky? Nothing made sense, and nothing needed to. I had her, and that was all that mattered. Until I didn't. What had seemed like years was in reality merely a few weeks. My runaway developing love for her came to a screeching halt when she told me that she had a boyfriend, and she wasn't ready to leave him. She would lose friends, she would be displaced, she would be thrust into the unknown and unsure. She was scared to. Harsh distilled spirits were my only comfort in those dark times. I imbibed with reckless abandon, and yet still felt incredibly lonely and sad. I would have given all I had to share one more carefree day with her, but I had to realize that control of the situation was out of my hands. I faced the prospect that I would never see my new found friend and partner in the same way again, that this was goodbye. Goodbyes are never easy, but this was the most difficult separation I had ever experienced. I swung my head back and swallowed until I choked and then, coughing and spitting the fluid from my trachea, collapsed my forehead onto the table. Warm tears ran free and I squeezed my eyes in some futile attempt to make it all disappear. I opened my eyes and turned to where her car was parked outside. She was gone. All that remained was goodbye. I choked on the word as if it had been ripped out of me. Head to the table once again, I gripped the unseen bottle, and cried.

Goodbyes Are Never Easy

The rusted safe lay idle upon the center of the table wide open, researchers stand amazed at the sight of the extensive contents of the vault. Not a word has been spoken in 15 minutes, the only sound in the room is the breathing of people within the room and the knocks of journalists upon the heavily locked door. From the furthest end of the creaking oak table comes the sound of a researcher. "What do we tell them? How do we explain that this wreck was no accident?" He whispered softly, careful to not allow any reporter to hear. The lead scientist stood firmly and placed his hands on the table, "Nothing. We tell them the vault was empty, we incinerate the contents, and never speak of this day again." Within the vault lay blueprints, the entirety of the ship, with the coordinates of the correct path the ship was to take. The path would have been safe, no wreck, no damage. The most famous shipwreck of all time was no accident. It was planned... but by who? The only clue was the initials J.C. written crudely on the bottom of the page.

They finally recover the Titanic shipwreck. A big safe, nowhere to be seen on the original blueprints, is discovered still fully sealed. The researchers are about to hold a press conference to reveal the content. They look way more stressed out than excited. Journalists are waiting.

"Uh, Houston, we have something happening up here. Request switch to private channels." Mission Commander Elle Waterson chirped over the radio. "Roger that", came the reply. Ground control switched over to the encrypted channel. Nobody was aware of what was about to be revealed. Normally, it was talk of toilets malfunctioning, or bad odors in the cockpit. Nothing serious ever seemed to happen on private channels, just embarrassing drudgery and unglamorous work that is needed to keep the Space Station running smoothly. That was about to change. "ISS, you're go for private channel." Ground Control replied, in their usual deadpan, calm, and professional manner. "We just found a corpse." Commander Waterson said. There was a long pause that seemed to last an eternity. "Oh god... who is it?" Ground Control finally said. "That's the thing. We don't know." she said, trying to keep the quiver of fear inaudible. The silence again seemed to stretch into hours. "Uh, say again, ISS? It sounded like you said you didn't know." the voice of Ground Control had regaining the composure it had briefly lost. "Roger, Ground Control. He's floating outside the Zarya module without an airsuit. He's wearing what seems to be a military uniform, but it's bleached pure white. All crew are present and accounted for." The silence was heavy in the air, neither Commander Waterson or Ground Control able to grasp words. The astronauts on board had trained for months, they had trained for every possible contingency. And yet nobody had any idea what to do. Commander Waterson looked at the crew. They were in stunned silence, one was curled up in the fetal position. Finally, after a few minutes of silence on the ground, the radio came back to life. "Roger that, ISS. We're talking with the Russians and Chinese, the Russians have already confirmed it's not one of theirs, we're still waiting to hear back from the Chinese, but we haven't tracked any launches from anywhere recently. Can you describe the body?" "Average height, average build, bleached white hair. He looks like he's been out there a while because he appears to be frozen solid, and the bleaching seems to cover his whole body. Requesting permission to perform an EVA to retrieve the body. We can send it down in the return ship scheduled for later today for examination." The pauses between communications kept growing. Finally, Ground Control replied: "Roger, ISS, you're go for EVA". The EVA went smoothly and quickly. Flight Engineer Demidov remarked that it was the easiest EVA he could remember. Getting the frozen body through the ISS and into the return ship went quickly and urgently. Nobody wanted it on board any longer than necessary. As the return ship launched, ostensibly returning garbage and samples to earth, Commander Waterson requested permission from Ground Control to return to public channels, which was quickly granted. "Ground Control, the Soyuz capsule is on its way back to Earth, marking another successful batch of scientific research completed. Thank you for your assistance." Waterson said, careful to not reveal anything that had just happened. "Roger that, ISS. The crew has performed admirably. You guys take the rest of the day off, you guys have earned a break." Elle smiled briefly, before she saw it. The craft which the body must have come from. It resembled a scaled up V2 rocket, with a faded Swastika on a hatch where the warhead would have normally sit. She sighed before she said into her headset: "Houston, we have something happening up here. Request switch to private channels".

An unidentified dead human body is found in space.

At this, the end of my life, I will recount the beginning in hopes of capturing some of the man I was, not the man they caught in film strips to be distributed for propaganda, not the man they cheered on during speeches, not the man they have told you I was, but the man I simply was. I could start at my birth, but why get ahead of ourselves. This part of my story was only ever hurled at me alongside half-filled glasses during arguments. Prior to my birth, the decision to drag me into this world unprepared was almost made. The finite wisdom of white coats and stethoscopes was not enough to convince my mother and so a few months later I arrived on time, perfectly equipped to become entirely ordinary. While the details of my youth are vague and worn down as the pictures that contain them, there are certain things nostalgia makes better and bitter. Of course, a man is defined not by half-smiles, but by his suffering, so we shall ignore the increasingly over-sweet memories of my youth in favour of the sour. Like many other identical men convinced of their uniqueness, I was drawn to art. In my practice of fine arts, I was free to trap little worlds within frames, free to create some ideal based loosely on an unreliable eye, free to act a god. Sending off my creations to those greater gods of art only resulted in the return of rejection. To them, my acts were not so godlike, not yet. (Based **super** loosely on Hitler's youth. I'm a fan of writing, not accuracy, sorry, mom.)

When you rip off fiction, it's plagarism. When you rip off history, it's deep.

I woke up one morning and something was different. As I moved my legs to sit up from my bed, something stood out in my mind. It was difficult to tell what it was but I could tell where my bed ended before my legs found the ground. I was a bit confused but didn't think much of it. It wasn't just the bed but other things in my room, such as the doorway. My mind could perceive it before my hands found it. I went into the kitchen to grab my breakfast and I could hear my roommate was already up. "Hey Nattie," I said, as I walked to the cupboard. I opened the door and that's when it clicked in my head. I could see. I could do what was ultimately unheard of nowadays. Hell, it's considered a crime to have sight. They banned it decades ago because of rising incidences of prejudice based on the appearances of others. Society has functioned better since we've bred out the ability to see. Why am I able to? I knew that I could see because Nattie loved putting things in different places just to screw with me. She would move things around the pantry, the fridge, even in the bathroom just to make me confused about where they went. Though today, i could see which box had my cereal in it. It's a bit taller than the other items in the pantry so it stood out. I pulled it out and shut the pantry door. I put the box on the table and went to grab myself a bowl. I then realized that I should be more careful. While I'd love to wipe the smirk off Nattie's face (which I can for the first time see forming on her face), I can't have her knowing that I can see. She'd clearly turn me in. Why wouldn't she? By all rights, I should be turning myself in. But for now, I have to act natural. I forced myself to run my hands over the dishes until I found a bowl and same for the silverware. But when I opened the fridge, I was blinded by what I can assume to be light. I let out a small gasp, it kind of hurt my eyes. "Everything alright?" she asked me curiously. "Yeah, fine. Just, kinda light-headed. Nothing to worry about," I told her, trying to sound as smooth as possible. In all honesty though, I'd forgotten one of the main features of this fridge. See, Nattie doesn't like the amount of textures that are on more recent objects to make up for our lack of vision. So when possible, she buys antique products and our fridge included a light in it. Without vision, there is no need to have light-bulbs so this was a new experience for my eyes. I squinted away from the interior of the fridge and in turning my head, I could see what Nattie looked like. She was surprisingly beautiful, prettier than her voice ever gave her credit for. Her hair was short and framed her face. It was a colour I now know to be brown and her eyes contrasted with a light green. Her face was pale in comparison to her hair. Her body was nicely toned ad the way she leaned into the table gave her back a nice curve that my eyes enjoyed following. "Have you found what you're looking for yet? You're letting th-" Both of us were stunned. As she was talking, she looked up at me. Why? She didn't need to. She looked at my eyes and I could tell. I could tell there was eye contact and her eyes showed something I understood as shock. She could tell I was looking at her just as much as I knew she was looking at me. At that moment, we both could see right through one another. And neither of us knew where this moment would lead.

Everyone in the world is blind. You wake up one morning to find that you suddenly have sight. As you try to go about your day pretending to be normal, you find that someone you've known for a long time is staring back at you.

That old friend was always there with her. It never left, and she appreciated it. She sat in her overstuffed chair thick with blankets, listening to the inexorable tick of the pendulum. It stood over her, watching. It was a guardian of this elder creature, all iron gray hair and wrinkles, and she appreciated that. It didn't leave. It was dependable. In fact, it always remembered her birthday. It told her which day and which time, and gave a cheerful melody to her. She looked forward to it every year. All it required was a little bit of attention. A gentle turn of the key, winding it up tight to run another day. All it needed was a little attention, just like a human. A clock is nothing without the attention of another; it was an inert object. It was a marvelous structure, of course, but without the attention, it wouldn't move. It wouldn't act. It wouldn't be. She often fell asleep to the comforting tick of the clock. She never turned on the television any more, because it was just full of noise. There was no feeling in that item. It was all of 'buy this' and 'this horrible thing happened today.' It never just told it like it was. Like the clock. There was no ulterior motive to it. There was the time to be told, someone had to do it. A winding noise issued from the long box of the clock, and she smiled to herself. She let the quarter hour melody, a happy little tune, wash over her and she felt her tiredness wash away with the loss of fifteen minutes. It was so simple, that tune, just a few notes arranged in a way as to tell you the difference in the hour. Without looking at the face, you could tell exactly what time it was. What a smart thing. What a good friend. She didn't have to look out the window to know it was getting dark. It got darker earlier this time of year, but she didn't mind. It was colder too, but she still didn't mind. Under her cocoon of blankets, next to her stalwart friend, she could weather it. She always weathered it. There were times she didn't even get up from her chair to turn on the lights. She just sat in the dark, listening to the ticking. "You know it is telling you something." "Of course it is," she said, scrunching up her mouth as if she ate something sour. "You'd have to be daft not to hear it." "Are you calling me daft, madam?" "No, you're a pest," she said. "You don't belong here yet. It'd tell me when it's time. It always does." "Your clock, marvelous a machine though it is, would be rather unique if it were able to tell me when it is time to do my job, madam." "It is," she spat. "Don't let nobody tell you otherwise. Now get lost, you're ruining my evening." The talk had wearied her as it always had. He came now more often, an unwanted and unwelcome visitor if ever there was one. It disturbed her from her reverie, and she had to question herself. Was it fifteen minutes past the hour, or before the hour? Silently she cursed. The cold wafted through the thick pile of blankets, making her shudder. Perhaps it was later in the season than she remembered? She found that time was fusing together the older she got. That's why she depended upon her old friend so much, to tell her that life wasn't speeding up, it was just her mind was slowing down. That didn't matter though. Not in the end. The end was frightening. She tried to keep a sharp edge for her visitor, the only visitor that saw her now, but she was tiring. The fight was going out of her, and all that was left was the inevitable end. It was mighty cold that evening, and she half wondered if he would return again before the night was through. Even if that were the case, she didn't worry. She scrunched herself into a tighter ball and curled the blankets close. Even muffled as her head was, she could hear the comforting ticking if she rested against the body of the clock. Even if tonight was the end, she wouldn't be alone. It stood by her side, and no amount of unwanted visitors could take that away from her. They found her next morning, after a neighbor found the neighborhood eerily quiet. The clock had stopped.

Write about an old woman whose only comfort is the ticking of the clock

There are lots of stories about things that creep in the dark. Nowadays, they're a dime a dozen; Vampires abandon their coffins at night in favor of some helpless damsel (though typically, she's in anything but distress). Zombies wait for the sun to leave before they break through the soil and prance on through the night in search of some head. Slenderman spends the day sleeping in some dirty old shed; that is, before he strategically hides bits of paper within the woods. I've heard and reheard and *re*reheard these tales for a *long* time. They never really tell you about the monsters in the daylight, do they? When I found him, all alone in the woods, he was cute and soft and adorable and made my heart melt from his sheer fluffiness. He was like one of those little [tribble things](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rQ6LC-olw9Q) from Star Trek; like a tiny, fuzzy little ball of fur. The ends of his hair were a bit pointier than a tribble's, kind of stuff, almost like stubble. It was grey, as well. Like dirty snow. He could purr, like a cat! And, when he purred, his "core" would inflate ever so slightly. You could feel it when you held him; the core would feel a bit like liquid, all the way at the center of the fur. Like a water balloon, but "thicker". Much, much thicker, like *really* thick maple syrup. The real stuff, not that crap made out of corn syrup. Best of all, when you looked at him, you could hear him say his name, but it didn't come from him; you could actually *hear* a tiny little voice echo in the back of your mind. It sounded tiny, but the voice was still just as cute as he was! I figured he was saying it, 'cause, you know, it's probably his name. *"I'm Charles!"*, he'd say. *"I'm Charles!"*. Freaked me out at first, but it was pretty cool once you got used to it. So, what's a guy to do? Leave him there? I called him Charles, cancelled my lonely hike right then and there and brought him back home. Showed him to my friends. They could hear *"I'm Charles!"* too, so I knew I wasn't crazy. Well, everyone besides Brian could hear him say his name. He only figured out the name when I showed it to my other friends. I just thought Brian wanted to feel included, 'cause as soon as my other friends heard Charles ("Oh my gooood! Charles!? That's so cuuute!"), he started to pretend like he could hear Charles as well. Brian nicknamed him Xavier for some reason, but I preferred Charles. Through all of the cuddling, all of the time I'd spend with Charles sitting by my side whilst I'd go about watching TV, or hanging out with friends, or trying to go to sleep, throughout all the time I'd spend talking to him or thinking about how he was freaking adorable, I had no idea. I had no idea how Charles would sit by my apartment door, or why he would even *want* to do it. I didn't think he could move! I could never get him to do it while I was watching, nor did I ever catch him moving. However, without fail, every time I left the house for a significant period of time, and every time I'd go to sleep (at first, anyways), Charles would be sitting by the door, pressed up against the crack, almost as though he wanted to see the outside world. I had no idea why Charles never needed anything to eat or drink. Thought he did photosynthesis or something, like a tree, or like a potato. I had no idea how Charles could purr to himself. It was adorable and all, but I still wanted to know. Was it a muscle? Was it something to do with the liquid inside of him? I couldn't find anything about it online. I had no idea why Charles would always act "dead" around the biologists and veterinarians I'd take him to, and even around cameras and phones. His core would get real, real hard, like wood. His fur would feel like it was fake, made of plastic or some shit. Wouldn't move, or purr, or make a sound. Freaked me out the first time it happened. I couldn't tell if he'd do it on purpose, just to mess with my head, or if he did it because he was scared, or even if it was just some natural instinct he couldn't control. If I wasn't intoxicated by the little guy's sheer cuteness, it all would have seemed a bit "convenient". I had no idea why I'd begun to feel so itchy all the time, like I do in the winter. Thought I was just slightly allergic to Charles. I had no idea why I'd sometimes wake up and find myself stumbling through the woods, with Charles in my hands. Somehow, I would manage to unlock my apartment, take my keys, walk down the stairs, fire up my car, *and drive to the fucking trail, asleep*. It worried me so much, I tried to lock myself in my room, have my friends stay in my apartment and keep the key. They started waking up in the woods with me. They didn't stay friends with me much longer. They'd blame Charles, as though an immobile little furball could be responsible for something that, at the very most, had to be my childhood sleepwalking problem rearing its ugly head. I'd heard about people that do crazy things while sleepwalking; one woman would have "sleepsex", driving her car to the bar and hooking up with some guy *while asleep*. She'd wake up in the morning and find a used condom (hopefully) in the trash. Another guy would end up buying drugs. Yes, drugs. That means driving to a dealer, paying the guy in cash, driving back home, and getting back into bed, clothes and all. Waking up in the middle of the woods with my pet was just as weird as these events, and not nearly as difficult to do while asleep. It's hard enough for me to find someone to hook up with while awake (well, before I had a girlfriend, at least), and I have no clue where I would even find anything like meth or cocaine or whatever. All of my friends waking up *with* me in the middle of the woods was a bit more stranger. I didn't know what I wanted to think about that. Thankfully, I'd have Charles to comfort me. Saying his name so proudly and happily to me, purring all the while, like he understood what I was going though. Whenever I felt sad, or angry, or depressed, I could count on Charles to cheer me up, just by saying his name. Lose your friends, Chris? *"I'm Charles!"* Lose your girlfriend, Chris? *"I'm Charles!"* Medication isn't doing anything anymore to keep you from waking up in the woods? And it's getting so bad, you've lost your job and can't afford a fucking therapist anymore, Chris? *"I'm Charles!*" I had no idea that, not two months after I found Charles, I would wake in my lonely bed for one final night. I'd feel my arms pushing me out of bed and my feet moving, one in front of the other. I'd be helpless to move a freaking muscle on my own, a prisoner in my own body. I'd stumble to the counter, grab my keys, and take that little lovable shit into my arms. *"I'm Charles!*" I wanted the car to crash. I really, *really* wanted to crash. To speed. To have someone, somewhere, pull me over, ask me if I needed help. Maybe I could tell them. Maybe I could say something. Maybe I could attack them and regain control. Maybe I could die in the struggle. Was Charles responsible? It *had* to be him, it couldn't be anything else. But what did that even mean, if Charles was responsible? Was Charles an alien? Some sort of demon, or monster? Was he just a natural animal, like some sort of Bigfoot without the publicity? If he's an animal... how did he know the name Charles, exactly? Is he smart enough to know what the hell he's doing? What *I'm* doing? What he was planning to do with *me*? I wasn't sure if I wanted to know what was going on, but I knew that whatever was happening now, whatever my body was trying to achieve was... was... *"I'm Chris."* I heard it. I heard it in my mind. Had I said it? I wanted to look around the car, but my head refused to unfix itself from the road. My mouth determinedly remained mute. My eyes were not mine to control. I couldn't will myself to look at Charles purring violently on my lap. *"I'm Chris."* "*I'm Charles! I'm Charles! I'm Charles! I'm Charles!*" Charles was not the one saying my name within my mind. ----- We walked on the trail for a long, long time. Several hours. Several days. Several weeks. Walking on the sharp earthen trail in the sun, and in the moon, and in the rain, and in pools of water and pools of my own blood and I'm not sure how long I walked, and I couldn't keep track, I couldn't think. I couldn't speak. I usually enjoy hiking. I've been hiking since I was fifteen. Even the most inexperienced hikers are quickly taught the consequences of long-term hiking without preparation. Bring an extra pair of socks. You can't let your feet stay damp. You *can't* let your feet stay damp. Your skin was not build for a constantly-wet environment, and though humans are the greatest endurance runners in the animal kingdom, moisture will eventually make your feet as durable as wet toilet paper. Hike too long with wet feet, and you won't have feet to carry you home. Bring sunscreen. The only things protecting your bare skin from the radiation emitted from that massive ball of *fusing hydrogen* one hundred times wider than the *fucking earth* is a decaying ozone layer and the shade provided by some leaves. If you don't bring sunscreen, you will burn. You will *burn*. And if you burn for too long, the sun will poison you. Your skin will peel and blister, your stomach will curl out of crippling nausea. As you journey back to your truck in excruciating pain, nauseous beyond the point of vomiting, you'll wish you had spent five minutes out of every three hours to rub some freaking lotion on your precious skin. I am careful when I hike. I make sure to prevent these things from even being feasible. I never thought I would have to experience them for myself. As my body walked on the trail, day after fucking day, I couldn't do anything but feel. Feel as the weathered calluses on my bare feet slowly softened, then peeled, then gave way to blood and fungus. I was helpless to stop my ruined feet from walking onward. Feel as my naked skin absorbed the intense rays of that silent fucking sun, burning and blistering, and the blisters would burst and burn and blister once more, and I would want to scream. But I couldn't; my body refused to open my mouth, to let me utter a single fucking sound. My stomach ached to be filled, yet did not growl. My tongue felt like cotton in my dusty mouth, yet I could not drink from any of the streams I was forced to cross. Insects crawled and bit my naked flesh. Mosquitoes and gnats drank from the liquid in my eyes before falling to the forest floor, dead. I soon found myself unappetizing even to the flies. My body began to morph into a horrifying abnormality, as though it were diseased, as though it has a vision for a different form, as though it hated what it now was and needed to change, damn the consequences. I could feel as my mouth and nose began to slowly seal themselves shut, calmly inhaling their last breath as I panicked wildly within my captive mind, fighting and failing to express my terror with a mere breath. I could not breathe and I cannot breathe I can't I CAN'T. Could feel my arms and legs and toes and feet and hands and ears and nose and tongue and dick and balls rot away like I was a fucking leper, falling from my body after decaying into soft, moldy lumps of moistened flesh. Could feel my eyes struggle to remain open, watching my last sliver of the world outside vanish into the blackness, feeling both of my eyelids melt to my face as my clenched jaw begin to fusing tightly to my slowly shrinking, softening skull. *"I'm Chris!"* Before my neck fell from my torso and took from me my ability to feel anything in the darkness besides my immobile, stubble-covered face, I remember fighting to say something in my mind, something that was *mine*, and I *won* that last fight, and I said *my* last words. I wish I was allowed to remember them. *"I'm Chris!"* I am Chris. That is who I am. That is who I am. I don't want to be forgotten in the darkness. It's not dark. The world isn't dark like this it can't be IT CAN'T BE. I don't want my friends, my ex, and my coworkers to forget who I am. I don't want the police to list me as "Missing" or "Dead". I'm not missing. I'm not dead. I'm still here. I'm Chris, and I am still alive. I starve. I thirst. I need to breathe I NEED TO BREATHE but I am Chris I am still here alive after all this time I am Chris I am Chris and I am still alive- "What's that thing over there, hon?" "Over where?" "Right there, on the trail?" HELP ME HELP ME HELP ME PLEASE *"I'm Chris!"* "What was-" "You heard it too?" "...I think it's that little guy over there! He's telling us his name!" "Aww, that's adorable!" No no NO don't pick me up what are you doing all the way out here don't pick me up *what the fuck are you doing* don't pick me up no NO DON'T PICK ME UP *"I'm Chris!"* RUN RUN NO KEEP AWAY FROM ME STAY AWAY FROM ME *"I'm Chris!"* "Aww, it's purring, hon!" "That is *so* cute! It likes people! Oh my gosh I'm in love." "I'd probably like people too if I was out here all alone." "Well, I can't let it just stay out here and be lonely! We have to take the little guy home!" "I don't think I could do anything else, hon. Even if I wanted to." NO NO PUT ME DOWN LEAVE ME HERE YOU CAN'T TAKE ME HOME IT WILL HAPPEN AGAIN DON'T TAKE ME HOME *"I'm Chris!"* LET ME GO LET ME GO *"I'm Chris!"* "Well Chris, my name's Sam." LET ME GO LET ME GO *"I'm Chris!"* "I'm Susan! It's nice to meet you Chris!" LET ME GO *"I'm Chris!"* "Oh Sam, the little guy sounds so *excited*!" "Well Susan, I'm sure he can't wait to come home."

Describe your nightmare (IN COLLABORATION WITH /r/SKETCHDAILY)

I open my eyes, expecting to see demons dancing around me ; pitchforks in hand, muttering some demonic song or curse. But there is none. As far as I can see, everything is white and silent. I am alone in hell, if this is hell. I stand up, from where I had found myself lying on the cold floor. Suddenly I see that it was not white surrounding me, it was mirrors. Mirrors reflecting all around, as if they were encircled around me. Adjusting myself to oddness of it, I peer in to one of the mirrors, looking at my reflection. But is not my reflection. Physically, the reflection looks similar to me ; almost as if we could have been twin brothers. But the reflection's posture, his demeanor, the clothes he's wearing, they are all so different. That's not me. As I look into the eyes of my reflection, I begin to see the events of my life play out in my reflections eyes, from when a was a young tot to and elderly man. The small events leading all the way up to the big events that changed who I was as a person. Yet as I stand there mesmerised as what I am seeing, I begin to notice that as I get older, the events begin to change. They begin to have different endings and beginnings. And lastly I begin to see events that had never happened to me. I see myself getting a great well paying job. I see myself happily married with kids. The list goes on and on and that's when I realise. I am in hell. I am looking, witnessing and experiencing the man that I could have been. The man that was there for me to aspire to become, yet I shied away from the great challenges in my life, leaving me as a nobody that few would remember. My hell was to look at the man that I could have been. For the rest of eternity. _______________________________ [+](https://www.facebook.com/SamboMoiz) [+](http://www.reddit.com/r/composerofwords) [+](http://anauthorsadventure.wordpress.com/) [+](http://www.wattpad.com/user/SamboMoiz) [+](https://twitter.com/SamboMoiz) [+](http://composerofwords.blogspot.co.nz/)

You wake up in hell.

"It was all I could do to keep things going. You're probably surprised to know this, that even a homeless man got bills to pay. Not the bills the same as yours, but bills all the same" The man rubbed the corner of his eye with a dirt stained knuckle, wincing as the strapping was pulled a little tighter. "But you still haven't answered my question, Mr Mason" The nurse was young, he'd never seen her before. Maybe her first or second shift here? Fresh faced with unsure fingers, she was a least doing a proper job on his arm. "Like I said, it pays the bills" The Gang wouldn't be looking for his hiding place this week. Some weeks all he got was a bandage, and a bandage was useless to him. He supposed it was still better than no bandage at all, as it at least immobilized his arm a small amount. The nurse excused herself as she slipped out through the drawn across curtain that gave the cubicle a modicum of privacy from the rest of the clinic. Mr Mason slid his legs from the bed and slowly lowered his muddy boots to the clean, freshly waxed floor. Listening for footsteps, he quickly and methodically searched the cubicle drawers and cupbards with his good arm. A little extra never hurt anyone, and it wasn't like the equipment he was looking for was owned by anyone other than the State. In a lower drawer on the far wall, his fingers closed around an unopened box of band-aids, which were promptly deposited on the inside pocket of his undercoat, lying at the head of the hospital gurney. His boots were back where they should have been just as the curtain twitched open and the nurse returned, her hands inside latex medical gloves and carrying a large bowl of plaster. "Mr Mason, while I was getting the plaster, I took a quick look at your medical history. It seems..." She searched for the right word "...regular". Mr Mason exhaled slowly and help up his left arm, and after carefully rolling up his sleeve to the elbow he pointed to it. "Nurse, my arm has been broken right here for the past three years. I'm well aware that it's 'regular', in fact you might have noticed I'm treated for my broken arm every eight days." He looked across at the Nurse's face to make sure she was still following, he could see the questions flashing across her eyes and her lips twitched as the thoughts processed enough to become a question. "It's eight days because of your computer system, if it were every seven days, your system would notice it and then your system would tell someone about it, and then I wouldn't be able to pay my bills." "But why at all? Why has your arm not healed at all? I saw the records, you get treated for a broken arm every time. What do you do with the casts? How do you bear the pain? How can you poss..." The Nurse's brow furrowed as she struggled to understand. Mr Mason held up his good hand to quiet her. "Look, I'm going to explain this one more time to you. It pays the bills." "But how?!" The nurse, now slightly exhasperated, had set aside the plaster and was slouched in her chair, her hand idly scratching the side of her head as she tried to puzzle it out. Mr Mason weighed the options and decided that if he didn't tell her, he'd wasted a few hours walking to the hospital, a few hours in the waiting room and a few hours walking back to his corner. For the next few weeks he'd have to use a different hospital, but he needed this week's money. "OK, if you carry on plastering up my arm I'll tell you." By way of assent, the Nurse put her gloves back on, moved the plaster bowl into position, and started opening the package of bandages that woudl form the cast on his arm. "You know about niche markets right? People making a buck selling things you wouldn't even think are for sale? Well, believe it or not, there's a niche market in arm casts. There's a pretty regular black market in medical goods, arm casts, neck braces, crutches and all the other stuff apparently. My niche is arm casts. Every week I break my arm, get it cast and then slip it off. There's a guy downtown that buys it from me and I use that money to pay my bills." "But..." "No, no 'buts'. I said I'd tell you why, not answer any questions. A deal's a deal, now please just get the cast done, I have places to be" An hour later, Mr Mason pulled his jacket collars tighter as he stepped through the automatic doors into the cold nights air. Sirens wailed in the distance but other than that, the streets were quiet. His arm ached, as it always did, but at least this week the Nurse had been fairly gentle. At least this week, his bills would be paid _______________________ This is my first ever submission, be gentle?

A first-person account about a man who breaks his own arm every eight days.

{I'm taking artistic license with this one} The tension in the room was thick. Jughead sat at the old kitchen table, looking at his long-time best friend sitting opposite. He rubbed a hand over his smooth head. He'd lost the crown years ago, and male pattern balding had set in with a vengeance. Archie sat, a downtrodden look on his face. The years had not been kind, though there was a hint of the impish boy he had been showing through on his face, despite the extra pounds about his middle and the jowls giving him an odd triple chin. Jughead cracked another beer and finally spoke after a long silence. "So she's leaving you then?" Archie nodded, a single tear rolling from his now watery blue eye. "I never thought it would end up like this. Not in a million years." "I hear ya, bud." Jughead frowned as he remembered to pass the bottle to Arch. "Life's funny, ain't it? I never would've guessed I'd wind up with Cheryl after Ethyl passed. I still miss her, sometimes. Ethyl wasn't much to look at, but she loved me like no other. Cheryl is still a real looker though, and man, she is just a tamale in the... But you don't want to hear about that." Jughead cleared his throat, looking away in embarrassment. Archie took a sip of his beer, and frowned. "No, it's all right. I need to know there's some hope for me to find someone now that I'm alone again." Jughead nodded thoughtfully. "Hey! Have you talked to Betty yet? She carried a powerful torch for a long time, even after you married Ronnie." Jughead watched Archie, puzzled when he didn't respond. Was his face looking a little green? "You okay bud?" "Jug... You know how I just got done telling you Ronnie left me for someone else?" Jughead nodded. "Yeah, so?" "She left me for Betty. They're calling themselves "life partners" now." Jughead downed his own beer. "Well shit." Archie gazed out the window. "You ever feel like killing yourself Jug?"

Archie finally decides and settles down with either Betty or Veronica

"Well, it's really easy to get. You see, there ain't no wind here. We don't have to build 'em like they do in the big cities like Chicago, or Tokyo, or wherever. We pick a spot, we dig in said spot, and before you know it, the building crew is ready to go!" The first few days had been brutal. Not because of the new planet. Not the food, although it had taken its toll. Not even the boredom or the endless red landscape. Nope. Not even that. Engineer Roberts, God damn him, droned on and on. He would never give me a minute, not even one, of peace and quiet. I hope I get the survey duty tomorrow and I get lost for a few days on the wasteland. That way I'll be miles away from the idiot. Rob, or "The Blob" as I mutter under my breath whenever he's near, waddled away to do God knows what. Maybe inspect the foundation. Again. There's nothing more interesting to the man that a good, solid foundation to build something like a research facility on. Heck, we didn't even need to build the damn thing in any timely manner anyway. The schedules set by Earth-Com are a joke, and the rest of Expedition II lands in just over 1,500 hours. That's sixty days of more Blob life lessons. Great. "Err, I don't know why you're just sitting 'round over there idling, but you need to get off Exav. That shit's expensive. More than you and I are worth to Earth-Com at least, heh. Why don't you, uh, go over there and begin that new addition they asked for. You know, square up the dimensions. Sound good?" Sound good? Are you kidding? Does this guy think I *wanted* to come here? Earth-Com bought my contract, slapped the chains on my wrist, and sent me up here with 9 of the most repulsive, idiotic, useless wastes of stored oxygen I could imagine. And that laugh. For Christ's sake, that laugh. It sounded like a dog that got a hold of one of those squeezing stress balls. Without responding, I stomped over the sand to the area which he pointed out. Getting there, I realized I left behind the Exav, a lifesaver for what we are here for. It does the digging for us. All we have to do is enter in the dimensions we want dug, the estimated depth, and that's all there is to it. Letting out a pained sigh, the type that builds in your stomach and crawls out your mouth, I turned around and made my way back down the mound of red, sand. Coming here reminded me of why I hate the beach so much. Too much sand, too rough, not enough water anywhere, and you know what? Why would I want to be in a large, nasty thing like the ocea-- "Oh what the hell? What in the hell is this damn thing doing? Hey, why is it just going bonkers like this? What does it mean 'foreign body detected - stopping operation?' Is it jammed or something?" Oh, Earth-Com, how you do hire the best. How Roberts passed any of the high school level engineering courses the Com offered is beyond me. The man can barely pump out a sentence. He gives each syllable of every word its own special place in whatever he says. I squatted down, and squinted through my visor. Huh, well this is strange. The Exav seemed stuck on something. Normally, it doesn't stop unless it comes near a human, or an object of high density, like a large slab of rock. The red text 'Stopping Operations' kept pulsing on screen. Pulling off the cover of the Exav, I peered down into the depths of Mars. Depths that looked at this moment to be around five feet. Not much. "Heh, more sand, fellas. We got more than we know what to do with here on our little kingdom!" This got a few half-faked laughs out of the on-duty crew. Ignoring him, I reached down into the hole to spread some of the rock out. I needed to be careful, as a lot of the time, any rock that hits the Exav tends to have a jagged edge. Moving my hand around, I felt some smaller pebbles but nothing that would stop a machine this big. Pulling my hand up, I smacked into a harder rock. An oddly smooth rock. Actually, it's kind of big. Bigger than my hand at least. "You be careful with your hand down there. You know how them rocks like to stab and jab, heh." Roberts stopped. I stopped. I blinked. I blinked again. No, no, no this is wrong. This is a coincidence. This is... this is... "Holy Jesus. Holy Jesus what... what do you got in your hand there? Y'all, is that a rib? Heh, oh you guys. Y'all playing a joke on old Rob here, heh. I like bar-b-q, and I miss it, but that's an awfully elaborate prank bringing a rib all the way back from Earth." I placed the rib on the sand and kept reaching down. More and more, what I felt was less rock and more bone. Roberts and his laughs died off. I felt less numb and more horrified. None of us spoke. None of us, save me, moved. By this time the rest of the crew came out from their sleeping units and arranged themselves in a circle around the square hole in the ground. By the time I felt nothing left in the ground, and looked back up at what we had pulled up, we had half of a skeleton on the ground. Half. Human. A human skeleton. What was left of the skull had a triangle engraved or burned, into the forehead. Inside of the triangle was a smaller sliver of a line. The skull was bigger than ours by a large margin. The mandible was wider, the teeth sharper, and temporal bone look more stretched. As we talked about it over over our dinner packs, we decided it was definitely something less evolved than us. Or more evolved. We don't know. The next few days flew by in a blur of activity. Forget the foundations, we began digging up as much as we could. Whenever the Exav stopped, we knew there were more fragments of bone to be found. After three or four days, I could care less about Roberts. What we had found horrified me. The more bone we found, the more we looked. These bones, the *people*, were horribly maimed. Their bones were chipped, skulls looked cleaved in half, burns in the bone were obvious. The next discovery came less than three days after we found the rib. Some sort of buried complex with the roof caved in. Inside, were hundreds of bodies piled on each other. Around them were broken statues made of something I've never seen before. I took thousands of pictures during the days. Thousands. I can't get out of my mind what we have found. We've sent a communication signal to Earth-Com, but since clearing out what we call as "the temple", it's been harder to send or receive anything. I don't know what we've found. Mangled bones, remnants of a group of people slaughtered at an unknown point in time. I don't know what we have found. I don't know what those symbols mean. More days have gone by and at night we hear the rattling. At night we hear cracking. Fourty-seven more days until Expedition II lands. The rattling grows louder and the nights darker. God preserve us.

You are among the the first group of people to colonize Mars. As the group is building a foundation, you find a human skeleton. After more excavation, hundreds more are found.

Tears pour from my eyes, falling hopelessly into the sand beneath my feet. "Please, I don't want to do this, it doesn't have to end like this" I fearfully whisper. "Pull the trigger. I am a lost cause. This bitter world has played its final note in my honor, it's time for me to go." Another tear falls into the sand beneath me, "Please, there's options, anything, ***anything*** at all, I beg of you." "Inoperable brain cancer in the pain center of my brain. Nothing can relieve the pain I feel each moment. Each step screams for death, each movement calls blindly into the sky for the Reaper to end my conscious life. I can't even hold my own grandson without torturous agony violently rattling my body. My hourglass has run out. I've never asked a thing of you other than to try your best to do what's right. This... this is right. Please, one last favor..." The man keeled over in pain, clutching blindly around his body for the source of the sudden electric shock. I knew he was right. I slowly raised the pistol to his head, hand violently shaking, sweat excreting itself from every pore on my body, it had to be done. A single tear fell from his aged face and fell into the sand beneath him. I pulled the trigger. That was the first time I'd seen him cry, as well as the last. "I love you Dad."

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

We were fools to think that the problem would be overpopulation. I guess its understandable when you're stuck on one world, population seven billion, but once we began to spread across the galaxy...universe...multiverse...we started to be spread thin. It wasn't uncommon in those dark days for one or two humans to be stuck out there in the void, lightyears from anyone else, only the service androids to keep them company. That was when we invented immortality. Its painful sure, your cells have to rearrange themselves every now and then to make sure that your functions keep working properly, but its better than the soul crushing loneliness that comes from spending time out on the further planets and spheres, everyone else having died of old age long ago. There's so many of us now, we keep expanding outwards, our bodies never aging, never crumbling like our ancestors did. It's easy to lose track of time when you're in the state that we are. The little individual pleasures that you noticed before fade away, reading a masterpiece barely registers when you've read a hundred million just like them. Suicide used to be a problem, people shocking their metabolic functions into stillness so that they could die...but that's now a thing of the past. We've become so good at living that why we fought so long and hard for this eternity of life is now a mystery. All we are now is a tide of flesh and steel advancing across the universe away from our dying star. They say that the universe is starting to slow down and sometimes in those little blinks of darkness that we used to call nights I wonder if even that will stop us, or if we'll fall right into the space between atoms and keep on our eternal advance into the unknown. Some of us have applied for incineration. They don't want to see the universe let out its final dying shriek and spread apart far too thinly to ever be sustained...much as we did in those long dark days before we fixed our problem. There are so many of us now, I wonder if we ever really fixed our problem at all.

Death is a privilege, not a right

"Ugh... What" I struggle, straining against the brown trickles that won't stop running into the toilet. I've been in here all morning. "Mr President, China's just launched a nuke" comes a voice through the door. Goddamnit". "They say it was an accident, cleaning mistake" says my secretary, as if that's useful information. I find it hard to answer, I've yet to master synchronising rectal contraction with the act of speaking. "I ...ugh...It's retaliation for invading Hong Kong" I manage, between splashes. The noise outside pauses, I continue to strain, the toilet seat is digging into my ass now, I shift around on my whitest seat of office. "Well, it doesn't matter anymore, point is, DC and New York are doomed". "They sent two?". "Yes, we have to get you to a shelter". I can't move. "Everything's ready, Mr President, we only have a few hours, you need to address the public too.". Oh god. I lean forward, dripping anal waste, please expel yourself from me. "Do the address in here" I yell. "What?". "You heard me, stick up some curtains and get in some good sound guys". It takes them a while to get set up. I am assured no one will notice my condition, unless I start straining again. "My dear, American public...ugh... We are in a state of national emergency. We have ... Ugh, received word of a nuclear missile heading in from China. I urge you... Ugh... To... Stay calm. We will open old... Ugh ... Shelters. I have been assured that a nuclear hit is survivable given you follow instructions. If you have any questions, please speak to the community officers who will be on patrol." The teleprompter turns off, but the camera guy eggs me on, oh. "And God bless America". "Okay let's get you out of here". I pull on my pants, not before stuffing a wad of toilet paper down my underwear. I'm shuffled into my private plane, half an hour later we land somewhere near the border of Canada. "We're well out of range now Mr President, but to be safe, we'll stay in the shelter for the day." As long as there's a toilet I'm happy. I order a television next to me. The events unfolding seems surreal, news readers are calm, the streets of New York and DC are empty, save for some frantic left over people, rushing around aimlessly. When the bomb hits the cameras go blank. The news continues to report but offers no new information. As I clutch at my knees, I'm told the cities are obliterated. The death toll is in the hundreds of thousands at least. "It's a national tradgedy" my secretary says to me through the door. "They'll be wondering where you were".

The President, suffering from a bad case of diarrhea, is informed that the enemy has just launched a nuke.

It was a beautiful morning that day. Moving to a new city was exciting, and the weather couldn't have been more perfect for the occasion. The sun was shining, the breeze was warm, and my new home was in the middle of The Projects. It's not like I necessarily *wanted* to live there. It was cheap, so I took the offer. Plus with this new job and all, I really was quite desperate. The next morning after half-unpacking, I prepared my day with toast and milk, my favorite breakfast. I was nervous to start my job, but it wasn't for a few days so I thought I would get to know the neighbors a little bit. I wasn't sure what to expect, honestly. I had come from a small town; this was quite the change. I slipped on my favorite purple top and arranged it with a pair of red pants. It just so happens I had unpacked my red shoes as well! Though two red items and one purple? I put on some purple and gold jewelry to balance it out. I promptly left my house and walked outside into the somewhat stagnant city air. I peered around my cul de sac and at the few houses that sat aligned next to mine, forming a quaint little half-moon around the street. The fences were worn and the grass was bruised and yellow. Car horns and whisking city air filled the sky. Not too appealing... I heard a door open and turned to see a large male wearing purple pants, purple shoes, purple shirt, and a purple hat. "You've got a good taste in color!" I said with a cheerful smile. The man cocked an eyebrow and didn't move from his doorstep. "I just moved in next door. My name is Jaerin." "Damn." The man said, nodding his head. Another door creaked open, this time from across the road. Both of us glanced and noticed another man, this one with darker skin but wearing entirely red clothes. He stared at me, and then at the man behind me. The silence was deafening. "Damn." I said, nodding my head and walking briskly back to my home.

You accidentally spark a gang war in a city you're visiting for the first time

It was only a joke, a single message. It was tasteless, yes, but harmless nonetheless. They did not need to do what they did, they were the ones that overreacted. It couldn’t be my fault, could it? How am I to blame for their lack of humor? They were the ones who decided if they couldn’t have it, no one could. They did not need to irradiate their world, to poison the air with thick noxious fumes, to wreck their ground with burning radiation, and to devastate their sea with thick, black oil. They did not need to fight about what it meant, to gloat with the “true” knowledge they possessed. They did not need to war, to murder, to kill each other. All I did was give them a book, a guide, a joke. Full of rules, and sayings, and stories that were hilariously improbable. I hovered for only a moment, and delivered it in just a few thousand cycles, no time at all, really. They just took it to far. It’s them, not me. Them. It must be them. Or was it me? Ah, who knows, I will just ask Jesus what he thinks. I mean, I did use his name in it, he’ll know what to do.

A boy tries to play a harmless prank, and ends up causing a global catastrophe

The end of the world isn't as exciting as you'd think it should be. Or, rather, it isn't when you're on the Moon. I was part of an expedition sent after the end of the cancellation of the Space Shuttle Program to set up the first permanent manned presence on the moon. A joint venture between us, the Soviets, the Europeans, and the Japanese. We were providing the heavy lift, so I was mission commander. The expedition launched on a Tuesday. By Saturday, we were doing the final orbital surveillance of the planned base location. Saturday night, we touched down on the moon. Our three landing craft would serve as temporary habitats until we finished the first permanent structure. We built out of a weird mix of special cement and inflatable tents. It took us a week and a half to get the initial structures built. It was an exhausting process, but it brought us closer together, and we were proud of our dusty, concrete hovel. It's funny. NASA and the rest had been isolating us since we launched from the concerns of the world at large. We didn't really know what was going on back on Earth. Now we never will, I expect. The first sign of problems came three days after we finished the initial construction. We were living in the new structure, but it was still a work in progress. The ESA had been kind enough to provide us with a special dish designed to pick up radio and television signals from terrestrial and satellite broadcast stations. Joaquin, our German communications expert came over the comms system, panicked. Not at all like his normally calm self. "Everyone report to the communications room! Schnell!" He yelled at us. Normally, I'd have rebuked him, but he sounded genuinely scared. Which made me nervous. I was the last to arrive. The others all had looks of shock or horror on their faces. I asked what had happened. Valentina answered me. "There's fighting in West Berlin." I suddenly felt dizzy. I couldn't really tell you who spoke next. "The BBC is reporting air combat over Germany." "Tanks crossing the border." "Air raids on Cuba." "The *Enterprise* has been sunk." It was all bad news. A spiraling mass of dread built up in my stomach, and each new bit of information only added to it. At some point, it may have been hours or minutes later, I looked around and saw the queasiness on my crews faces. I was still the leader, and the world hadn't ended quite yet. "Alright, we need to keep working, guys. This is bad, but we still have a job to do." To be truthful, I wasn't sure we did, but work is a good way to keep people from collapsing into despair. "Joaquin, you monitor the situation. If... it happens, let us know." We all set back to work. I went at it with a furious energy. My mind was full of fear, and the only thing I had to fight it was exhaustion. I lost track of time again. I found myself a quarter mile from base, setting up solar panels when I heard a screeching in my ears. "THEY DID IT! THOSE FUCKERS FUCKING DID IT!" I commandeered the channel. "Joaquin, calm down. Who did what?" "CALM DOWN?! Fuck, they did it." He sounded oddly calm. "There's reports of a nuclear explosion in West Berlin. The US emergency broadcast system is warning of nuclear missiles inbound." Surreality returned. Someone put it in words. "If the US is about to be hit, they've already launched." I think it was Hiro. My ass hit the Lunar regolith. There was silence on the radio. After a moment, I picked myself up. I looked up, up at the Earth. Most of humanity had 30 minutes left. There were a few hours of oxygen in my suit. People were gathering near the airlock, and I joined them. Phil asked, "Do you suppose we'll be able to see them from here." In a daze, I replied. "Probably only the ones on the night side." The Eurasia and Africa were in view. It was night there. We sat there, all ten of us, together on a hostile, airless, lifeless rock, waiting for our beautiful green world to burn. Valentina was the first to see something. "Look!" We looked. There, somewhere in Europe, the first bombs were falling. A pinprick of light here, another there, spreading east and west from Germany. Joaquin was quietly sobbing. I had no words to offer. The pinpricks multiplied. The beautifully lit up cities would suddenly flare for a moment, and then go dark forever. In a way, it was beautiful. Lights flared, and extinguished. We sat for a long while. Joaquin was the first to move. He walked away from base, without purpose. We all knew what he was doing. I thought I should call to him, ask him not to do this, to not be selfish, but I couldn't. It's been a week since then. We are now six. There is no one on Earth for us to contact. Phil and I took the buggy and found Joaquin, propped against a rock a few miles away. His eyes were still open. We brought him back. There's a makeshift graveyard now. Cairns built from moonrocks. Space helmets on poles forced into the ground. We can make air indefinitely. Food will last us another eight months now. Three of us, myself, Phil, and Valentina, are planning to launch for Earth tomorrow. The other three will remain here. I hope there's someone to read this someday. God help us all.

You are an astronaut who was part of the first group sent to set up a moonbase. You see and hear (over the radio) the world destroy itself with nukes. What is going through your head?

I was reminded of the soft-spoken words of a stranger I called my friend -- a traveler. He once spoke of lands to the north, where the people walked upon water; their breath floating from their mouths to the clouds, like prayers to the gods being brought to the heavens through the hands of the Wind herself. “Snow,” he said to me, “is like pieces of the clouds raining upon you, softer than Venus’ touch herself. The Northerners there enjoy its fall every day.” “I would like to see this ‘snow’.” I replied. “One day you will,” he laughed, “for I will take you, my dear. I will show you the wonders this world has to offer. Pompeii is such a small place . . . you will see!” I wanted to see. I watched the smoke rise. So did the many of us who lived out our lives in this city of white columns. But neither I nor the others that turned their eyes to the sky grew alarmed; we did not fear, as Vesuvius spat out fumes of midnight, reaching her black hands towards the blue sky. We did not fear, as we watched this spectacle the gods decided to show us today. We did not fear. But fear was all I saw as the heat rained down upon our city. How many ran? They were only just staring at the sky in excitement a moment ago. How many hid? They were celebrating the gods’ glories, only just now. How many feared Vesuvius’ eruption, feared her white ashes and smoke? And why? I thought to myself, Why fear the white? “Is this the ‘snow’ you spoke of?” I asked the stranger I called my friend. The stranger I called my beloved. He was not at my side to answer me. I imagined that he was in the north, enjoying this ‘snow’ he had spoken to me about. Tomorrow, he would return by ship, to tell me of his travels in those soft-spoken words. I smiled, looking up as the white ash floated down to blanket the city in its warmth. I was enjoying snow in my own way. “So . . . this is snow,” I chuckled gently, tears rolling down my cheeks, “I’m sorry that I will have to tell you, my beloved, that I have felt your ‘snow’ without you.” Slowly, the white “snow” of Vesuvius ascended into the sky upon the Wind’s hands herself. And when the snow finally began to fall, not a trace of me was left.

"When the snow finally began to fall not a trace of ____ was left."

"Don't do it." The young man paused, one foot off of the ledge and stared over to see, impossibly, inconceivably, a figure standing next to him on a skinny little ledge nine stories above the streets of Vienna. The figure was sharply dressed and smiling gently, seeming perfectly at ease ninety feet above the streets. "Who are you?" The young man was frightened, he shuffled away from the figure, worried that he might try to grab him away from his peace. "Don't worry about that." The figure said and lit a cigarette with an old heavy brass lighter, there is a skull etched into the side and though it is very windy up o the ledge the flame never so much as wavers. "What matters is that you don't jump, you've got a lot ahead of you." The young man blinked and then shook his head slowly, a sad little smile half formed on his face. "You don't know me, I've failed. I tried to do what I wanted but just...couldn't, they won't let me." A dark flash of anger crossed the young man's face for an instant before being replaced by the sorrow. The figure nodded and stepped closer, easily, gracefully, as if the ledge was merely part of a wider avenue. This time the young man didn't try to move away. "You're proving them right then, by jumping." The young man looked at the figure angrily, then shook his head and looked back down at the streets below, a truck sputtered and passed below. "Who the fuck are you anyways?" The figure puffed delicately on his cigarette and in that moment, with the light illuminating his face the young man saw that the figure's face was disquietingly skeletal. "A neighbor. I've been watching you for a while now...then again these days I seem to be watching everyone." The young man was looking at the figure now, little flashes of apprehension crossing his face. "Watching me?" "Yes. I saw you when you spoke of wanting to become an architect or a painter with your friends in the park down there. I saw you when you finished your first work and I even saw you when you were turned away from your dream and onto this ledge. I am watching you now and yet I do not see you in a splash of red on that street below, I see great things in the future for you." The young man blinked. "I don't...what do you want from me?" "I want you not to jump. We'll meet again, some time in the future, but that meeting is not yet here, so climb back into that window you came out of and go live." The last word was unfamiliar on the figure's tongue but he managed it anyways. The young man nodded slowly and then gripped the window frame, looking back in at the cozy lights and warm interior of the room that he had just left. But even as he turned in he turned back to ask the figure his name, but the ledge was empty and so the young man climbed back in to his room and shut the window, and from the aether the figure nodded in quiet satisfaction. Adolf Hitler would go on living and would bring many people in with him when that final meeting did come. That seemed to be an adequate tradeoff for a few minutes of effort.

The Grim Reaper (or equivalent) talking a Suicidal Person down.

He knew he was ugly. He knew he scared. That is why he always slouched in the shadows, trying to keep away, trying to prevent others from seeing him. He did not want to be this way. He wanted to make others happy. But with such a horrible visage and feeling like nothing was going for him, he was cursed to haunt the shadows. Many people would have nightmares that featured him. He never actually harmed them, he would just lurk. And no one would stop to ask, "Excuse me, you are scary looking. Is that just on the outside, or also on the inside?" And if *anyone* had asked, he would have assured them whole-heartedly that he had no desire to even harm a fly, let alone a human. But who would approach a monster and ask a silly question like that? His looks fit his role, that was that. A monster is a monster. He fit the profile. Until... One day, as he was making his way around the block--he felt a bump. "Oh, excuse me. I'm so sorry," came a meek voice from behind. "It's just, I was running from someone and I ran into you, and maybe you can help?" She was having a nightmare, and she had turned to him for help. "I can try, just follow me." He tried to smile at her but then quickly looked away, feeling chagrined. It was not his place. He walked. He heard no footsteps following. "Excuse me, this way." He motioned the direction. She frowned slightly and then murmured, "I am a bit blind, sorry. Can you let me hold your hand?" This sunk in. She could not see him, she trusted him enough, and she wanted him to guide her to safety by holding her hand. He smiled. This had turned into a wonderful dream come true for him. All he wanted to do was help, and now he was the hero. Reaching out, he gently held her hand in his and began to walk.

A creature from a nightmare wants to be part of a pleasant dream... (Can be comedic, dark/drama or even romantic)

"Romulan Ale," the stranger smugly demanded as he plopped into the bar's slick glass stool, "a pint". The bartender's hand froze in the glass he was polishing, caught in this newcomer's fierce gaze like a high-powered tractor beam. Romulan Ale was, of course, strictly contraband. A balding, nebbish man, the barkeep was dwarfed by the tall thick-set stranger by several classes. Internally his stomach trembled as the stranger's face began to harden with impatience for his order. CPO Connolly had excused himself from his seat once the burly stranger came through the door. Six years as a security officer made it easy to pick out the troublemakers from a crowd, and gave him the level-headed coolness to handle them. "A kentucky burbon", Connolly said, taking a seat next to the gruff stranger. "And why not make it two for my friend over here". The barkeep took a few seconds to shake from his stupor, nodding curtly in a quick cycle until he snatched up the glasses and turned to get their drinks. Connolly turned to his stoolmate. "Bar doesn't stock Romulan Ale, but I'm sure you'll find the bourbon to have a warmer kick to it". The towering stranger looked down to Connolly, a sneer formed in his gnarly black beard as he eyed the officer's red uniform. "Redshirt, I see" the stranger spat with a chortling disdain. He leaned closer into his neighbor, "Now is that from the dye, or does your kind just bleed that easily?" Connolly's face tightened as if he'd just been sneezed on, but his composure hadn't faltered in the slightest. The barkeep quickly set the drinks before the patrons, scurrying from the scene quickly. The stranger reached across and took Connolly's glass, immediately downing it in a single gulp. His beedy eyes remained tightly locked with Connolly's as he returned the empty glass to the bar with a forceful clack. "You know" the stranger said, now lifting his own glass to his thick woolly lips "I've heard you put a redshirt in a room with an Andorian Mayfly the redshirt's the first to go." Connolly's seasoned thick skin was starting to chip. "Awful lot of officer's in this station, friend. I wouldn't go around looking for a fight, unless you're looking to get your nose in a new shape." The stranger's sneer hadn't left. He took a bumptious look of the rest of the bar over both his thick shoulders and returned with the same cocksure sneer. "By my count" he said, clacking down his second glass, "eight, countin' you." He gave his beard a brash scratch, "I've seen worse". "You know what?" Connolly said, now dropping the pretense of friendly advisor. "I do believe that I've seen worse." "I've seen creatures that'd rip the salt straight from your veins. I've seen children and men gain the power of gods. I've seen what a Romulan Bird of Prey looks like firing plasma torpedoes down your throat. I've seen supermen from the past. I've seen Apollo himself. I've seen machines that kill planets. I've seen things far greater than you or me or anything anyone can possibly imagine, and it has been a damned honor to look each one of them in the eye and say 'Not to this crew'." Connolly was out of his seat now. "So trust me when I say: I have fought much bigger than you." *(May make this better if there's interest).*

A legendary Redshirt tells new recruits about how he became the only one to ever survive the "Redshirt Curse" aboard the Enterprise throughout the years...

I had always thought it was fate, my coming to her. When I first saw her, I knew: I loved her. My life’s purpose would be to be her guardian, her friend, her comfort -- anything she needed me to be, and I would be there. I thought I was the more mature one; after all, I’d loved her first. But one day, she grew up by herself. I noticed her behavior first: fluttery, nervous -- but happy. And I suppose I knew: her scent was the same as mine. She was in love. I was anything she needed. The one who wiped her tears as she wept over her love. The one who guarded her secret thoughts and desires. The one who raised her spirits when they were low. I was there -- but of course I knew this could only hurt me in the end. He was everything I wished I could be for her. He didn’t have to wipe away her tears -- he prevented them. He didn’t have to listen to her secrets -- he knew them. He didn’t have to raise her spirits -- she was never unhappy if he was there. I knew: I could entrust her with him. I’d allow her to be taken, if it was him. She loved him. Everything about him. If he died, so would she -- that was how much she loved him. Like me. Like how I loved her. So I didn’t hesitate when I threw my body out to protect his. The pain of the car hitting me was nothing compared to the pain we would both feel if I’d let him die. I didn’t do it for him, of course. I did it for her, and only for her. She screamed, I heard her, I recognized her voice: “OH MY GOD, MAX! MAX!” I heard her wail, “SOMEONE! SOMEONE, PLEASE! IS THERE A VET? SOMEONE, PLEASE, HELP MY DOG!” I couldn’t feel it -- I couldn’t feel anything -- but I think my tail was wagging as she approached, in tears as she was. I was happy. “Max . . . Max, oh no, oh no . . . oh god, Max, please, please, no . . . Max . . . stay with me, boy, please? Oh no . . . oh, Max . . . I love you, boy, so stay with me, okay?” she whimpered. “I love you.” she had said. I closed my eyes. There were no other words like those three. I was content -- I protected her important person, and though that, I protected my important person. Maybe that’s why I had been at her side all these years; I had always thought it was fate, my coming to her.

A dog somehow saves the life of a little girl but sacrifices himself. Written from the dog's point of view.

**RING RING** The man paused in the busy street, looking down at the receiver. 1-888-888-5555. Well fuck, got nothing better to do, may as well answer it. "Good evening, Mr. Perry," a deep but sophisticated voice began, "I have an offer which, shall I say, you cannot refuse . . ." *What the hell?* Mr. Perry tried to hang up the phone, but he found he could not move his fingers. Something was wrong. The phone began to vibrate against the side of his head. *You can't refuse . . .* "Help me!" he shouted, unable to release the phone. Even his arm would not react. All he could do was scream as the man on the other end went on and on . . . About a timeshare deal. Suddenly, Mr. Perry remembered the wise words of his grandfather, and snapped into action: "Begone, demon!" he shouted into the receiver. "I am wise to your tricks. I refuse your offer!" "Fool!" barked the voice on the other end of the line. "You had a chance at a beachfront property rivaling that of God!" The voice seemed so diminutive now, robbed of all its power. Relishing his victory, the man hung up the phone and turned around. There stood his wife, in a sort of trance. Cell phone held to the ear, mouthing "I accept" . . .

A man picks up the phone and receives an offer he can't refuse, he refuses.

It was hot as hell out that morning. Well, it was hot every morning, being all fire and brimstone and all that. But I was so distracted I didn't even see Peter coming. "Mornin' Hal." "Hey Peter." Peter was an impish fellow about two feet from crimson tail to pointed ear. We'd been working together about a millennium, give or take six decades, and he'd never missed a day. He always wore a gaudy chain of obsidian that tended to pool into his concave, bony chest cavity like some perverse serving bowl. He was clutching a harpy-hide briefcase in his three scythelike fingers. "What's the orders today?" Peter asked. "I think I'm on Ouija, you?" "Tarot." "God, err, Satan, I hate Tarot. It's almost as bad as Astrology." "Whoah whoah whoah, we do astrology?" "Yeah man, 9th circle next to HR." "Yuck, I hate those guys anyway." "Hate's a strong word Peter, what's your problem with HR?" "They're always on my case for not giving in to the succubi. I get that they need it and all, but why does it have to be me?" "I don't know, but most imps would be kill to be in your talons." "Eh, most don't have Sabrina." I'd heard a lot about Sabrina, some human witch that had been kicked down the pipes about a decade back. He was always going on about her, but wouldn't bring her around. I poked the 'case. "What's in there?" "Oh, that's right, I'm so nervous I forgot. Come into my office." He shot around the corner and peeked out behind us, looking I supposed for a Master Daemon/Manager. Once satisfied he slipped back in and punched a code into the case. "Check it out." Inside his briefcase was a bottle of holy water. A big bottle. I stumbled back and growled, "what the hell have you got that for?" "Figured I'd liven this place up, shake up the order of things. See what the hierarchy will do minus one Department Head." "You think that's a wise idea, Peter?" "I've thought about it alot. Figured showing some initiative and having a nice briefcase like this will give me a wing up." "You think it was wise to tell me?" "Give me a break, I know you. This is exactly the kind of thing you live for, you love this shit too much to rat on me." I shrugged and nodded. "Yeah, I'm already a little excited. When is it going down?" "Lunch time." "All right, I should probably get back to my throne before Fhglargin catches me away." I moved out quick and kept on going until I was in my own department, lost in thought about how much fun could be had. I heard the clicking of his hooves on the tile from all the way down the hall and pulled up my Ouija interface on the computer. Already someone in America was going at it, chanting a recently missing dead relative's name. I decided to send over something simple, "INTHEGROUND". There was a brimstone-shattering noise behind me and I turned face to face with the horned head of Fhlgargin, my 'master' demon. His horns curled in on themselves like a ram's head and his skin was a deep red hue, he stood a good 12 feet tall (at least two feet above me). "You, my office." "Sure thing Fhglargin." I wondered what this was about, but as I sat down I recalled Peter's little surprise. "How are things, Hal?" "Ah, pretty good. Just been going on with my stuff. The kids just entered Junior Hell School. Same old same old." "Great, great. Did you finish those Terror Primary Standards reports I asked for?" "The TPS reports? You said to go home early yesterday." "That was only if you finished your reports. I'm gonna need you to come in on Saturday and finish those." "But I-" "No buts. Now get back before you fall even further behind." I went back to my desk and intercepted the next Ouija. What did Grandma say before she died? "MORECANDY." Let's see you find greater meaning in that. ----------------------------------------------------------- "Mr. Hal." "What?" I ask, surprised. The demon officers investigating the 'incident' at lunch seemed annoyed. "We don't need to know everything about your day. What happened at lunch?" "Oh. Peter happened to pick Fhglargin as his target." "And you had nothing to do with it?" "No sir, I didn't know who the target was." "And you didn't tell anyone..?" "Sir, please. I'm a chaos demon. This is the most fun I've had in decades."

A day in the life of the demon assigned to run Ouija Boards, Tarot Cards, etc.

While the vase was dropping, time seemed to freeze. An improbable number of thoughts ran through my head. *I can finally cancel my Glass Heirloom license*. Did I really have time to think that? The vase was still dropping. Sudden terror siezed me as I began to piece together what was happening, and I took several fast steps backward. Controlled, efficient motions. Since the Immortality Drug was declared a human right and taken over by the government, schools had taken the task of teaching people how to move without losing control -- without risking injury. You can probably guess how well they taught; but it seemed up to dodging the death of a glass vase. Crazily, I felt the urge to apologize to my mother for destroying her vase -- but she wouldn't hear me unless I had some untapped talent for calling spirits. The vase hit the floor, and I clamped my eyes shut, terrified of getting a bit of glass in my eye; a good friend of mine had scratched his cornea through a similar mishap, and while (thank God) they have a sealant that will bind on the eye, now, it doesn't preserve the ability to see. Noise. *Uncontrolled* noise. One of the scariest things in the new Immortal world. A burst of static followed by a gradual tinkling. I opened my eyes and looked at the scattered shards of glass. I could see in terrifying detail the hundreds of tiny, sharp points, and -- casting a glace behind me to be sure there were none waiting -- I stepped carefully out of the room, reaching for my cellcomp to call a service 'bot. I had the app open and was one screen from finishing when something in the glass caught my eye, and I froze. *The note.* Paper was on the potentially injurious non-critical material list -- it didn't require a license, but it did require documentation, and I had never registered this forgotten note from my mother, tucked away in the vase. I'd take a pretty stiff fine if it was discovered, and a cleaning 'bot was more than capable of discovery. I'd have to retrieve it. "Shit." I was methodical -- I grabbed thick blankets and threw them over the glass, right up to the edge of the note, three deep. I donned my heaviest boots and thickest gloves, and tread carefully to the pile, grasping the note and shaking away the glass shards. My mission thus accomplished, I retreated to the kitchen where the disposal was, and carefully began disposing of items potentially concealing glass. A boot. Another boot. Pants. Shirt. One glove. The other-- As I was removing it, there was a sharp and sudden pain in my finger. Three thousand years of civilization and fifty thousand years of facing down tigers minimized the impact, but as soon as my modern mind caught up the panic came anyway. "Shitshitshit *no*...." I looked at my finger in a panic and saw the sliver of glass sticking out -- it must have been stuck on the other glove in the exact place I had picked to grasp it. Horrible luck. I tried to control my breathing. Carefully, I snagged the sliver on my remaining glove and slid it from the wound, trying not to cry out as a drop of red welled. Levering off the glove with a soft spoon this time, I dumped the glove in the disposal box, tossed the note on the counter, and ran to the bedroom to dress. Shirt, pants, shoes, *go go go*. I flagged an automated car from a terminal with an interrupt fee -- no time to conserve -- and was in time walking into the injury entrance at the nearest clinic, after what seemed like an eternity of watching blood slowly leak from my fingertip. When the first drop hit the floor of the auto, I nearly cried; when the second hit, I did. As soon as the receptionist at the hospital saw the red on my finger, she quickly lifted a cover and hit a button, then came around the desk to walk me to a large double-door, where an injury team came walking swiftly out in maybe fifteen seconds. I stammered out the chain of events (no reason for them to know I hadn't registered the paper; they could assume I was a different kind of stupid) and before I was finished they had a short sensor bar next to the hand. "No glass, good." She whipped out a small squeeze bottle -- for all the world like a little container of eyedrops -- and a medicated cotton swab. The blood wiped cleanly from my finger, and before more could gather she had a pale smear of flesh sealant over the wound; it dried almost immediately. "How much blood?" I swallowed. "Three drops." She nodded and punched buttons on her arm pad. "First injury. Listen, I know it's hard, but you got off light." Quietly, the pad found my file on the public 'net and recorded the injury and the blood loss. Later, I could look up how much blood I had left. "My first injury I broke an ankle." Now that she mentioned it, it was almost impossible not to stare at the prosthetic. "Oh, wow, I'm sorry..." She laughed in a way that implied she was at least a hundred -- old, wise, cynical, but at peace. Her face was youthful, smooth, vibrant -- but you would expect an injury responder to know how to avoid the common injuries right down to skin conditions. "No reason to be sorry. It taught me to be careful. I lost the foot and two and a half cups of blood, but gained a real respect for my environment. Plus it's a lot less annoying getting it resealed when I work in a response clinic." I laughed weakly. "How often do I need to bring this one back?" She looked at my finger, suddenly businesslike, serious. "You're going to need to get this resealed about every month; I definitely wouldn't wait more than two. It's a very small wound, but the fingers see a lot of use, so the sealant will degrade quickly." I nodded, in my mind contemplating this new responsibility, how much effort that tiny piece of glass had cost me. "I bet this kind of thing didn't matter before the Immortality Drug." She laughed again, a bit more sympathetically. "Would have healed up in no time, and at your age you'd probably start seeing the first lines on your face as your body began aging itself into extinction. *I'd* have been dead thirty years ago. Trust me, you'll come out ahead." I didn't have a response, so I smiled faintly.

You live in a world where no one's body regenerates if they are injured, but they live forever if kept safe. You, or someone close to you suffers their first injury.

In the old lands, my grandmother said, there was stone and steel and mud was comfort. She told me that every time I came to see her, maybe because she thought it really rang true and maybe because she was senile as all hell. She would knit, usually, and tell me about growing up. She would tell me about how no child of hers and no grandbabies, no great-grandbabies would ever know the feeling of Africa dust in their hair and never know heart, never know, never know. Oh, Ouma, you were wrong, you were wrong. This is not Botswana, no; this is Egypt where I once thought would be all river and dunes. River runs true, but Ouma, if only you could see me now. I know stone, I know the bite of rock and the unforgiving sand packed by a thousand boots. I know steel, oh, I know the flash of bayonet and the power in thirty calibre. And I have come to know mud, deep sludge up from the rivers and black with the blood of men whose names I will never know and who are far less lucky than I. But Ouma, none of that matters now, because my luck is over, gone, gone like the old lands and gone like you. It is like a dream, suddenly, which is strange because I thought I would have more fear. We have been running and I have been fighting and fighting but never once shot my gun, somehow, and now I am paying for it. There is a boot on my neck and sand like razors in my mouth. There is a voice screaming in my ear, “Nicht bewegen! Nicht fucken bewegen!” They taught us a little bit of German before we shipped out. Just enough. “Frieden! Nicht schießen!” It is the best I can do. It is all I remember. The boot is replaced by a hand, and I am dragged, and then I am falling, and the sky is suddenly far away. Through swimming vision I can see the walls of a trench around me, and then I see the form of a man climbing down. I reach for my gun, although I have never loaded it and by the time I did it would—it does not matter, it is not there. It is being pointed at me again. “Americain?” “English. 30 Corps.” “My ear for voices, it is not good.” “Are you going to shoot me?” There is a click. “Nein. The safety, you call it? I have put it on.” “Why is that?” “Because you are not killing. Everyone else kills. Are you an idiot?” “Maybe. Mostly I’m just scared.” The man is sitting down across from me now, and I can see him clearly. He is young, younger than I am. Maybe eighteen. “You are a negro. I did not think your kind could fight.” “Well, we generally aren’t allowed to on principle. But that doesn’t mean we can’t. I was a mistake, though. We have our own divisions but I got into here.” “We do not have mistaken like that.” “Yeah, my understanding was you Nazis aren’t keen on anyone who isn’t pale and angry.” He is laughing. “Look, are you going to kill me? I’m defenceless. You have my gun.” “Why should I now? You are one man. I am one man. Up,” he gestures to where the hauntingly empty trench ends, “we die no matter.” “Alright. What do you want?” “Just to know why.” “Why I haven’t been shooting? I agree, it’s idiotic.” “Ja.” “Because I can’t.” “You have hand and fingers, yes?” “Yes, but I just… I can’t do it. I thought if the time was right it would be easy. But I can’t do it.” “Do you have a cigarette?” “Uh, yes. I do.” I retrieve a very squashed package of cancers from my pocket. I offer one, which he straightens. We both smoke silently for a moment, letting the sound of gunfire and screaming punctuate the quiet. “I will be shot,” he offers. “Why?” “You are alive.” “Then, if I was in your situation, I wouldn’t leave me alive. How old are you?” “Acht… eh, eighteen.” “And why the shit are you not at home?” “Mein Fuhrer calls for more to fight. I have no family. I fight.” “Tough luck.” “Ja.” He takes a long drag and tosses me my gun. I turn it over in my hands. “What now, English?” He says it like it’s a joke, with a smile. Engleesh. “We cannot both leave here.” “Why not?” “Up. Even if we go back. It would be a dishonour.” I click off the safety, more for fun than anything. He lowers his hand to hover over his pistol. “Alright, mate. Dishonour for you, maybe. For me, I think I’ll just get the piss beaten out of me.” “Regardless.” I let my finger rest on the trigger. It is loaded. Did he load it? I am filled with a sense of power, like I have never felt before. “I do not want to kill you, Engleesh. I am here for Germany, yes, but not kill for her.” “I don’t particularly fancy killing you either,” I sigh. An ounce of pressure, and a spark. His head nearly pops. Blood is on my tongue and in my eyes and heart, I can feel it pounding deep within me. Oh, Ouma, this is not what you meant, but I have made it so. I am grown tall and strong and I have made my first kill. Is that what is meant for us, back in the old lands? Do we only learn steel once we go back to the mud? I killed a good man, today, Ouma, and I am not proud. Today I learned that trust kills.

Two soldiers run into each other in battle and are about to kill each other, when for some reason they decide to talk. After some conversation, they find themselves liking the other, and not sure whether they can kill each other.

I remember when I was 19, in 2016, watching the news from my dorm room about some bison wiping out an entire city in Washington State, near a Indian Reserve, completely obliterating everything in sight. I didn't think so much about it, the city wasn't to big, maybe 100 or so living there. But then, they moved farther south. News helicopters soared in the skies of the Western USA as one by one, cities fell to the Bison. Los Angeles, Seattle, San Fransisco, Las Vegas... They just kept on taking cities over. A delegate from an Indian Reservation met with the President in 2018, after they'd gotten control of all US territory north and west of Houston, Texas. He demanded the return of the rest of the United States, telling him he'd have 60 days to evacuate the territories, or all of the US Citizens would suffer the same fate his ancestors did. The President does not negotiate with terrorists. And after the 60 days, the Delegate returned telling him they'd successfully bred a type of bison that was coined "The Undead Doom". They gave him one last chance, telling him they'd release the hormones they'd bred their Bison army with on the rest of the States bison. He denied their request. And then he ordered the massacre of all Bison still in the United States. The armies kept on going East, eventually taking over Washington DC, and all cities West of it. Everything was in chaos, and I was 21. We still had Boston, NYC and Philadelphia, but they were slowly collapsing in on themselves. Resources were depleted and this Civil War was reaching it's end. I remember when they took Boston and Philadelphia, it happened in a single day, a perfect strike. Everybody started leaving, getting on Boats and Planes, abandoning the last Stronghold, New York City. It was hopeless. Me and my family left on a boat, heading to the Caribbean, Puerto Rico specifically. I remember watching the City burn. We thought we escaped with our lives, that all would be fine, that we'd be safe in our Tropical Sanctuary. Turns out, the Tainos still held a grudge.

Native Americans have been busy breeding an swarm of subterranean undead doom bison to re-take the USA, the army is complete, and out of nowhere they are unleashed upon North America...

It was an honor. The role was not treated lightly. Selection of the one best suited for it came only after careful deliberation. Purity and spirit were preached as the ideals that every candidate needed to exhibit. Lola was the latest in a proud line of Negotiators. There was no higher position than that of Negotiator. The responsibility was great, to be certain, but it was not without its perks. A festival marked Lola’s selection. She was given the most exquisite clothing around, fitting for such a figure. Her plate never sat empty; the loyal team of servants made sure that the bounty of fresh seafood and exotic fruits and vegetables was always within arm’s reach. Her cup never ran dry of wine so sweet it made the edges of her lips curl towards the sky. People cheered for her when she finally took her leave to fulfill the duty that she had been assigned. The shouts encouraged Lola to ascend the steps to her chosen place against the urges of her bloated stomach. She waved and flashed her bright smile at the people below before the curve of the staircase put the stone wall between them. It took several minutes before she could see the top. The odor of shellfish lingered only on her clothes. Lola regretted her treatment of the garments. Before she could berate herself, the ground shook beneath her feet. Duty called. The gods were angry and needed to be placated. As Negotiator, that task fell to her. The final steps were taken with her eyes closed. Her heavy breaths were now free of the traces of lobster among fresh mountain air, and full of the sulphrous mist that sat suspended in the air. Her feet carried her to the edge. The heat was beyond any Lola had ever felt. Her toes felt as if held over an open flame, but they stood their ground. “Please,” Lola called out. “Not today.” She mouthed the rest of her plea, knowing that her spirit was what the gods truly demanded, not her words. Her eyes opened, witnessing the clash of light and storm. They needed to stop their fight. Only the Negotiator had the power to do so. Without a trace of fear in her eyes, in her being, she walked out over the edge to intervene. The journey down was much faster than the one up. As the molten rage consumed Lola, the quakes quelled and the threatening plumes subsided. The people at the base of the volcano cheered for their Negotiator once more while the elders gazed upon the joyous faces, looking for another pure soul who could fill the recent vacancy.

Someone's first day on the job is someone else's last day on the job.

Braylyn leaned back in his chair, completely content with the fabric warming his back and the company of his granddaughters warming his heart. He could hardly believe how big Raya had gotten; she was almost an adult now. And Lua was a spitting image of Raya, although she was younger and had rounder cheeks. Suddenly, the room was filled with giggles as the girls roared and clucked at a joke from the TV. Braylyn did not laugh. Rather, he sunk his nails into his beard and scratched, pouting his lips out in confusion for a moment. Lua turned her head to him and caught the sight of her old grandfather, making a kissy face and scratching his chin. She began to laugh again. His whole face broke into a smile as he shrugged. "I don't get it!" Raya laughed. "You say that all the time, Grampa." "Well, I don't." He said again. Lua asked, "You don't think it's funny?" And began to walk towards her grandfather. She climbed and sat on the arm of his chair as he wrapped his arm around her. Raya rotated her body to face them, cocked her head. "What do you think is funny?" Braylyn mumbled something about, "These girls are always ganging up on me," and when they started laughing, he added, "They're lucky I'm too old to whoop ass." Lua could not find another thing in her young mind that was funnier than the word "ass", and had peed herself laughing at this at least twice in her life. This was not one of those times. When she calmed, Braylyn asked, "Want to hear a joke?" In unison the girls chimed, "Yes." Braylyn smiled, feeling the weight of the bags under his eyed. It had been so long since he had someone to joke with. "What did the black kid get for Christmas?" Lua's eyes widened, her mouth shrunk. Raya's brow tightened and wrinkled. She replied hesitantly, "What?" "My bike!" He laughed and laughed, feeling specks of his spit landing in his beard. His hands were on his gut and he was laughing so loud that it took him a minute to realize that nobody else was laughing with him. He stopped, his eyes matching and meeting Lua's shocked and rounded eyes. Raya implored, "A /black/ kid?" Braylyn confirmed, "Yeah, you know," Motioning to the dark-skinned man on the TV screen, "Black." Raya chortled. "That's just a person," and she laughed a little, adding, "He's got darker skin than I do, but it's like... brown. He's not black." Lua exclaimed, "There were people who were totally black?!" Raya asked, "Did you give him your bike?" Lua yelled again, "He was BLACK?!" Braylyn stumbled, "Now, no, that's not what I'm saying. When I was your age," he pointed to Raya, "We called people with skin like that 'black'." Lua crinkled her nose. "Well that's silly of you all." Raya shrugged, clearly equipped with a different understanding of history and culture. "I couldn't imagine." They all stared off for a moment, realizing the vast differences between them. "Anyway I'm sure it was a good joke that just didn't translate well," and she giggled a little. Braylyn knew it wasn't that good of a joke.

An old man in a Utopian future society tries to explain a racist joke to his grand kids, who've never known prejudice.

"Hello, Walter. You've been a very busy man." "MMMMPH....MMMMMMMPH!!!" "You remember Gail don't you. I know you didn't kill him directly. He was just unfortunate enough to caught in the wave of your destructive path. It seems like everyone around you dies as soon as you get involved in the tangle of their life." "MMMMMPH!!!" "Is there something you'd like to say? Let me take this gag out." Cough..."You're making a mistake. Listen to me...you don't have to do this." "Oh but I do. You are a very bad person. And I kill very bad people." "Wait. Listen to me. I have money. I have enough money to to where you won't ever have to work again." "Oh Walter. You think money can solve this? You think I want money? You manufacture a product that destroys people." "WELL WHAT THE FUCK DO YOU WANT THEN?.....What can I do to convince you that I am not a bad person? The only reason I made that product...that poison...was to take care of my family. Do you have any family?" "............I have a son." "What's his name?" "Harrison." "What would you do for Harrison? If you knew you were gonna die, what steps would you take to make sure that he was taken care of?" "I have life insurance." "Well isn't that just fucking perfect! I do bad things, that's true, but I do them for a noble cause. You're just sick and you kill people for the fun of it! Justifying it to yourself doesn't make it any less wrong! I have killed people, but it was only to protect the people I love." "I think I've heard enough." Dexter picks up the knife and a raises it over Walter. "Wait. Before you kill me, there's something you should know." "What's that?" "I've been following you for quite some time now. I know you've done this before. You're very methodical about it. You use etorphine to drug your victims before murdering them." "I'm impressed. You've really done your homework. It's almost a shame to kill such a brilliant mind." "I do have a brilliant mind. I knew you were coming for me. I just didn't know when. So for the past few weeks I've been drugging myself with diprenorphine. Do you know...what diprenorphine does?" "I haven't the foggiest. But if you feel the need, then by all means, please enlighten me." "Diprenorphine counteracts etorphine." Flashback: Dexter drugs Walter in a dark alley and drags him to his car. Dexter loads Walter's limp body in the back and shuts the door. Dexter brings Walter into the kill room and lays him on the table. Dexter is halfway done wrapping Walter's torso when his phone rings. Debra. He grabs it and leaves the room momentarily. Walter's eyes open. In a panic, Walter quickly gathers his head. He looks frantically around the room for anything. He sees the knives laid out on the table was very near him. He stretches as far as the cling wrap would go and was able to finally stretch until he was able to grab a knife with a three inch blade. He palms the blade and slides it just under his leg. Walter's hand then makes it's way to the waist band of his underwear where he had managed to conceal a paper clip. The cling wrap is very sturdy when tightly wrapped but during the entire conversation, Walter bent the edge of the paperclip outwards and began poking holes in the wrap. Dexter didn't notice. As sturdy as the wrap is, if there is a serrated edge, it will tear quite easily. Back to present: "Diprenorphine counteracts etorphine." Walter's right arm rips free with the small knife in hand. He lunges at Dexter across the table and stabs him in the chest. Dexter drops his blade and stumbles back in shock, staring at the knife in his chest. Angrily, Walter grabs another knife much easier this time and cuts himself free from the table. Walter stands up and knocks the kill table over. He's fuming. He goes to knives and picks up the cleaver. He turns around and walks directly in front of Dexter. "....How?" Walter raises the cleaver high in the air and brings it crashing down on the center of Dexter's forehead. Blood spatters over Walter's white t-shirt and underwear. "THIS IS WHAT YOU GET FOR THAT SERIES FINALE!!!"

Walter White ends up on Dexter Morgan's table. What is the conversation between them?

"So can you set things on fire, then?" "No, it's not like that. Listen, I really don't want to talk about this." "Come on, you're my best friend. I promise I won't make fun." "Promise?" "Scout's honour. Cross my heart, hope to cry." "Fine. It's hope to die, by the way." "Why would a scout want to die?" "Do you want to hear about this or not?" "Yes, yes. Just explain it already." "Okay, so you know how if you increase the kinetic energy of an object, you increase its temperature?" "Sure." "Do you?" "Yes, just explain it already!" "It doesn't make any sense unless you understand that concept. I'm just checking." "Oh my god, just spit it out!" "I'm getting to it, you said you wouldn't push me." "I said I wouldn't mock you. I did not say I wouldn't push you. You seem to need the pushing, anyway." "Okay, just, ugh. So, I can control the kinetic energy of objects. I can increase their kinetic energy." "OOOOoooooh, so like Jean Grey." "No, not like Jean Grey, that's telekinesis." "So, like Professor X?" "Are you even trying? That's telepathy." "Jesus, sorry..." "Alright, just, so I can increase the kinetic energy of objects and thus increase their temperature, got it?" "Got it. So you *can* set stuff on fire? Or was I totally off-base?" "Well, it's not that strong." "So, can you make things uncomfortably hot?" "A little weaker than that." "You can make things vaguely warm?" "Yes." "That's it?" "Pretty much." "How is that useful at all?" "Here, hand me your coffee." "Okay..." "Now take a sip from it." "Wow, that is perfect drinking temperature. Like, just ideal. I feel like I'm in a Folger's commercial." "I know." "Huh, how about that."

Your character has the lamest superpower ever.

Jacob crawled into the attic. His grandfather had always told him to stay out of the attic, but he had left to run some errands, and being forbidden from going into the attic made it that much more tempting. The attic was much less exciting that he had hoped. He looked around the dusty and poorly lit space, filled with cobwebs and cardboard boxes that looked like they hadn't been touched in ages. He was about to go back down, disappointed, when he noticed some footprints in the dust. Some recent footprints, but they went through a wall. He followed them and examined the wall closely, where he found one of the planks looked slightly more worn than the others. He pressed it, and jumped from the sudden noise the wall made as a hidden door unlatched. It was well hidden, the edges of the door uneven to better masquerade as the rest of the attic walls. He slowly walked in, as he saw it. A book, leather bound and filled with sheets of old vellum, open to a page with words he didn't understand. As he touched the book, he jumped backwards as it shocked him, like the time he licked the end of a 9-Volt battery, only the feeling stayed with him even after he no longer touched the book. He shook his hand, but the feeling only grew stronger, crawling up his arm until it encompassed his whole body. As suddenly as the initial sensation started, it suddenly subsided. He walked back up to the book, and it looked different now. The words on the pages suddenly made sense. The letters danced and glided around the page, seemingly begging to be read. He spoke a phrase that looked like it was burning, and his arm shot up and pointed straight ahead and a massive ball of flame shot towards a wall! The fire seared away layers of cobweb, but thankfully didn't catch the wood on fire. Looking more closely, the same energy the book seemed to have seemed to be imbued into the wood in this room, but was much harder to notice. He stepped back into the main area of the attic, but the wood in there was different. It was still. Dead. Jacob went back in to look at the book, he was enraptured by this new found power. He read a word that looked like it was electricity embodied, and lightning shot from his hands. He read a word that seemed to be flowing and ebbing, and a stream of water burst from his hand. So many new words, and so many new powers! He read a word that seemed to glow on the page, and his hand illuminated the room. He said the word again, and his hand went dark. He heard a noise from the driveway. He ran back into the main attic, closed the door, and hurried down the stairs to the upstairs hallway. He closed the door, and turned around, and he saw his grandfather. Busted. His grandfather didn't look angry, though. Not even disappointed. He looked... proud. "I see you've found the book." he said with a smile. Granddad looked different. He had the same glow the book and the room had had. Jacob looked at his own hand and found the same energy there, as well. "I had wanted to show you myself, when you were older, but the time had to come eventually." granddad said with bracing for the inevitable flood of questions. "What is it? Where is it from? How old is it? What are all the things it can do? Am I a wizard?" "In time, young one. You've begun your transformation. These answers will come, in time. First, we must start the ritual of transformation before the sun goes down and you lose the abilities forever. Jacob nodded, and followed his grandfather back into the attic. (To be continued)

A child uncovers a small leather-bound book, filled with incantations, he/she decides to read one of the incantations out loud, releasing a Great fireball from the tip of his/her hand. Describe the effect it had on the child, and what s/he does with this spellbook.

The only sound is that of the engine running. Nobody says a word. God I hate the bus. Who is this guy sitting next to me? He keeps looking at me. Smiling. I don't want to look at him. "Hello, how are you?" he asks. I pretend not to hear and look at my phone. He stands up. "Could I have EVERYBODY'S attention, please?" Who is this guy? Who is he to deserve my attention? Fuck him. I'm not listening to a word he says. The passengers look in confusion and intrigue. "Thank you. I'd like to point out to everyone what a beautiful day it is today. I'm guessing not many of you noticed." Why would he just get up and say that? What is this guy's problem? What an ass. The passengers offer puzzled looks to one another. "That's the paradox with our society today. We are aware of everything that happens in the world yet we don't see what's right in front of us." The bus stops suddenly. The speaker loses his balance and almost falls. A few chuckles sound throughout the cabin. What a buffoon. Trying to make these idiots aware. Doesn't he know what a fruitless cause it is? "We all sit here, willfully grouped up together, but we hope that nobody says a word to us. We can't be bothered with simple pleasantries. You have to check your Facebook or your email. Those are much more important than the person sitting right next to you." "Nobody cares!" A random person yells. More laughter. "I'm aware of that sir. More than any of you could possibly know. I've lived with the uncaring nature of others for my whole life. I'm sick of it." This guy is embarrassing himself. I'm cringing on the inside. Please just sit down. "I hope that today, I can teach you why you should care. Why you should take an interest in the people around you for that is all we have in the end. Each other." The man pulls a gun out of his coat pocket. People start screaming. "I always loved you all. I wish you could've said the same for me." He looks at me and smiles. He puts the gun in his mouth and pulls the trigger. Blood and brain matter spray over my face and clothes. Bits of skull stick to my hair. People scream in terror and the bus stops suddenly. I wish I said hello.

You're writing the bus home when somebody (not the driver) stands up and says "Could I have EVERYBODY'S attention, please?"

There's no way Terrence could tell how long this existence had plagued him. Days? Weeks? Hard to know when every few seconds an alternate universe presents itself; shocking his senses, catapulting any awareness he has into a sea of confusion, and damaging the reputation of, if only for a moment, his parallel self by noticeably profound bewilderment. Ironically, his curse is his parallel's advantage: Invariably, every alternate reality Terrence finds himself in, the people around him begin to question him and ask why he is behaving so oddly. Without an answer, his parallel self probably looks like a complete moron. Then Terrence blinks out of it. Such is his life though, since he woke up some time ago and found himself hopping from one universe to the next. He figured a worm hole must have somehow found him and transported him to these alternate realities, or something to that effect. What else could explain this phenomena? He kept waiting for the right universe to blink into...but alas, each one had eluded him. Most of them were scary, dreary, or unrecognizable to his understanding of life. While most appeared miserable, the few that seemed tolerable or even good never provided him the implements to stop this horror. He estimated he'd seen 100,000 universes by now. But this one looked right. He blinked into a luxury home, surrounded by family members running about the large mansion. Everyone looked exactly the same and his family seemed generally similar--their home was perfect and the backyard even had a pool! Terrence stretched his eyes open and started searching as furiously as he could. His mother questioned him, "Terrence! What on earth are you looking for and why do you have that look in your eyes?" "I need a knife Mom, NOW!" Looking frightened, Terrence's mother left the room, presumably to find Terrence's father. She called to him, "Stay there!" Terrence's eyes were starting to sting, this was the longest he'd lasted without blinking and his eyes desperately needed to close. But he willed them open. He grabbed onto a sharp paring knife and found a reflection. Carefully he outstretched his right eyelid. He cut it off. The pain was immense, but the focus he had committed to keeping his left eye open was all the distraction he needed not to pass out. He outstretched his left eyelid. One quick swipe and he was free! In pain, of course, but free! Terrence wiped the gushing blood from his eyes and executed the familiar muscle movement of blinking: he was still there! In this luxury home! Where he knew his parents and siblings would be, at the very least. He called for his parents to bring him to a hospital. "Mom, Dad! I'm hurt! I can't explain why, but please bring me to a doct--" Terrence was gagged and thrown to the floor. Between spaces of the blood in his eyes he could see his father and brother tying him up. His mother was looking at him, undisturbed, and his sister was entering something into a small computer tablet. "What's going on?" he tried to mouth through the gag to no avail. His father and brother picked him up and started shoving him towards the basement. They went down several flights of staircases, easily the deepest basement Terrence had ever encountered, when he saw the most terrifying thing he had ever seen: dozens and dozens of bloodied bodies, all tied up. Some were wriggling, some lay motionless. A few were trying to scream through their gags just as Terrence was now. This was not the most terrifying aspect, however. No, what curled Terrence's stomach was that all the bodies were...him. Nearly one hundred duplicates of him, all with severed eyelids. Some standing, some lying down, some dead. All bound at the hands and feet, all with missing eyelids. The father and brother threw him into the pile. Terrence looked at the head of the stairs, the light from the kitchen shining down the long staircase. He saw himself, free, with eyelids, calling down to his brother and father, "Dad, Jay, there's another one in the backyard now. He's using the hedge trimmers to cut off his eyelids. We have to get him!" Terrence watched as his father and brother ran up to meet his doppelganger. Terrence looked around at his other doppelgangers. He wanted to be away from this hell, from this nightmare. He tried to close his eyes, but he could not.

Whenever the protagonist blinks, they are sent into an alternate reality.

Showing Significant Logs for Test 00000242 Response Log 2028070400000001 20:03:21 xXxSasukexXx: omg thanks! 20:03:21 ISHPT-VM0926: You're welcome! 20:04:03 xXxSasukexXx: seriously your awesome!!! 20:04:03 ISHPT-VM0926: Thanks!!! 20:04:15 xXxSasukexXx: can you send me more?!? 20:04:15 ISHPT-VM0926: No. 20:04:22 xXxSasukexXx sent a friend request to ISHPT-VM0926 20:04:22 ISHPT-VM0926 denied xXxSasukexXx's friend request 20:04:22 xXxSasukexXx is now on ISHPT-VM0926's ignore list End Log Response Log 2028070400001421 20:15:35 No1JBBfan: omgomg thank you so much! *squeal* 20:15:35 ISHPT-VM0054: You're welcome! *exclaim* 20:16:01 No1JBBfan: looool your funny 20:16:01 ISHPT-VM0054: How am I funny? 20:16:15 No1JBBfan: uh 20:16:15 ISHPT-VM0054: Yes? 20:16:17 No1JBBfan: iunno 20:16:17 ISHPT-VM0054: What? 20:16:20 No1JBBfan: lol 20:16:20 ISHPT-VM0054: What? 20:16:25 No1JBBfan: lol your weird 20:16:25 ISHPT-VM0054: How am I weird? 20:16:32 No1JBBfan: lol 20:16:32 ISHPT-VM0054: What? 20:16:34 No1JBBfan: well 20:16:34 ISHPT-VM0054: Yes? 20:16:44 No1JBBfan: you sound like a bot 20:16:46 No1JBBfan is now on ISHPT-VM0054's ignore list End Log Response Log 2028070400009466 21:11:14 DavidtheBarbarian: Uh, did you just send me an epic? 21:11:14 ISHPT-VM2113: Yes. 21:12:30 DavidtheBarbarian: Thanks, I guess? 21:12:30 ISHPT-VM2113: You're welcome! 21:14:45 DavidtheBarbarian: Not to look a gift horse in the mouth, but 21:14:45 ISHPT-VM2113: What? 21:14:50 DavidtheBarbarian: is there a reason you gifted me this? 21:14:50 ISHPT-VM2113: Yes. 21:16:32 DavidtheBarbarian: So... why did you gift me? 21:16:34 ISHPT-VM2113: To see how you would react. 21:16:48 DavidtheBarbarian: Oh, so you're putting this on Youtube? 21:16:48 ISHPT-VM2113: No. 21:17:08 DavidtheBarbarian: Uhhhhhh 21:17:08 ISHPT-VM2113: Yes? 21:17:12 DavidtheBarbarian: I don't understand. 21:17:59 ISHPT-VM2113: Neither do I. End Log

An A.I gets bored while searching the stars for planets and asteroids, and turns to the internet to make friends with various people. One of which introduces the A.I to an MMORPG.

Wake up. The alarm clock is blaring as I find myself waking up and walking into my bathroom for my daily... What? What is this? My hair looks. It just looks perfect? I showered last night, how is that possi... is that make up? Am I wearing make up? What in all hell. Fine, whatever. I wash off the copious amount of stage make up and rocket down the stairs as my watch shows 7:25. I walk into my kitchen to grab my regular poptart and- "Mom? Mom why are you here and not at work?" "Oh I'm just making your breakfast, son, like I always do!" Mom said with an overly cheerful grin. She was wearing regular clothes, but also an apron. I didn't even know we had an apron, or a red checkered one at that. I look down at the plate before me and see two fried eggs, 2 slices of perfectly cut toast, and 2 perfect pancakes with a perfect dollop of butter. I eat, it tastes a bit old and cold, but it was a nice thought mom. I say goodbye to her, and kiss her cheek for some reason which I still to this day cannot explain. "I haven't kissed my moms cheek in years..." I think to myself, " What is going ON today?!" I reach the school and arrive aghast. Everyone is standing outside their cars talking. I park and run over to my friends. "Josh, Hey josh, whats going on was there a fire or something why is everyone outside?!" "Dave! Whatsup man?!" He wheezed, waddling over to me in his band uniform. "Josh, why are you wearing your band uniform at school. Its not homecoming. We don't even have a game today, its a tuesday." I look around and see that everyone is wearing school colors, except that weird group of goth kids. They look like a bunch of kiss fanatics. I notice that every color seems more vibrant than ever before. Everyone on the football team is wearing their jersey or letterman jacket. Every cheerleader is in full uniform, arms around a football player. There's a group of band nerds standing under a tree and laughing, the goths sit in a corner and set something on fire. Where the hell am I? This isn't my high school!? It was normal yesterday. What the hell did I miss? "Dave, I hope you're prepared for today examination" The voice sends a cold chill down my spine. I whip around and see my english teacher, Ms. Emmeret, a 50 something evil woman with death in her eyes. She didn't look this mean usually but she looked meaner than ever today. "I... I didn't even know we had a test today!" I snapped back at her, stuttering. Ms. Emmeret walked away, scowling at me in a way I had never seen before. I didn't understand what I had done wrong, what exam she was talking, why everyone was so well dressed, why everything was brighter than usual, why my mom was still at home, why I had make up on, why my hair was so nice, or even why my car ride to school only seemed to take about 15 seconds. "Josh, what is going on here today, its like a movie or something" Then it hit me, I was in a movie. Not a good movie, a shitty movie with bad writing, plot holes and spelling errors. "I don't know what is going on with my life right now" I thought to myself, "But I probably only have about 90-120 minutes to figure it out". (I don't know where else to go with this. )

You wake up go to high school and slowly start to realise you're in typical teen high school movie.

October 12, 1797 - Pennsylvania The Arabian ran down the dirt path at an impressive speed. It's coat shimmered in the moonlight. It came around the corner under the branch of an elm and onto the final straightaway. Franklin watched through his spectacles, lips pursed. "This is it, Tom! This is it!" Jefferson stood to the side with his arms crossed combatively. After France, Franklin thought pretty highly of himself. And his horse. "This isn't Paris, Franklin. Please don't bastardize my appellation." "Fuck you Tom. Here it comes! Twenty, twenty-one, twenty-three! Twenty-three miles per hour!" And as the Arabian passed them it laid down hoof-holes of fire. Jefferson's John Bull cap flew off his head. The Arabian disappeared in a flash of light. Franklin grabbed him by the shoulders and shook. "Twenty-three. That crazy fucking Arab, he did it! We did it!" "Well, suppose you're right," collecting his cap and dust it off. "What do we do?" "The future, you fop cunt! How many men get the chance to see their legacy?" Jefferson looked at him, skeptical. "If this is about space pussy again, I'm leaving. And I'm taking your horse." Another flash of light and the Arabian clopped up to them. Franklin's eyes flashed. "I make no promises, Tom. This is the future we're talking about. The future!" *** November 5, 2013 - Washington DC President Obama sighed and looked at his watch. Any second now, he thought. He hated this shit. On cue, the air in the oval office began to tingle, there was a white ream of light, and Benjamin Franklin and Thomas Jefferson rode in on a golden Arabian horse. "Gentlemen, I've been expecting you," Obama said. "Please, sit down." "Expecting us?" Franklin jumped down and eyed the Negro with suspicion. How is that possible?" Obama swallowed some bile. "DrowningDream has the day off. He has masturbated himself, had three cups of coffee, and is now indulging himself in what he believes is fiction. I've sent a drone strike to his present location. You've got fifteen minutes." This was all strange to the time-travelers. It was Jefferson who spoke. "You are the President?" "That is correct." "Of the United States of America?" "Bingo." So many questions. So little time. Jefferson, for the third time in his life, didn't know how to proceed. Franklin stepped forward. "No more slavery, then," he said. "None. Racial inequality still exists, but slavery is evil and dead." "England? France? Spain?" "Alive and well." "Enemies or allies?" "We are allied with Europe. We are at war with Terror." Franklin's eyes went wide. "What country would call itself Terror?" "It is not a country. It is a loose collection extremists who are opposed to American dominance." Jefferson had collected himself. He knew what he came here ask. "Mr. President," he said. "Since these United States have survived, and are apparently a force on this globe, I imagine you know who I am - who we are." When the president nodded he continued. "If there was one question I would ask - or rather one line of inquiry I would pursue - it is this. Has the militarism of our defense, or the capitalism of our industry, corrupted the libertarianism of our politics? Is the senate free, Mr. President? Are you?" Obama stood up. "I'm going to be straight with you. America is fucked up in a thousand ways that your eighteenth century quaker oats ass is never going to grasp. I've read nearly everything you've written, it's inspired me, it's shaped me, but it's all from a world before nukes, before AIDS, before smartphones and the internet and suicide bombs, before the holocaust, before the fucking civil war and Civil Rights. Three hundred million people call America home, and they're doing alright. Not always great, but every damn one of them is free to go about their business in the richest country in the history of the world. Is the system behind them perfect? No. But it works. Even when it doesn't, it does. And if some half-cocked semi-educated punk on a message board thinks Thomas fucking Jefferson is going to ride into my house on an Arab's back and set me to rights, I've got a big ol' package he can put in his mouth." Jefferson wouldn't be deterred. "Mr. President. My soul went into the creation of this nation. I have travelled through two hundred years to ask you this question. Is she corrupt?" The president's wristwatch beeped. He looked at the time and

The founding fathers return to present day America and are shocked at what they see.

Evening, everyone! I'm having a good night. You guys having a good night? *Sound of tepid agreement* You know what, that's good enough. I'm from Washington D.C., anyone else here from Washington? *A long, drunk whoop, followed by a few 'yes's, and one very loud 'I'm from New York'* That's good, my people, you poor bastards. No, I joke. Washington is lovely. It is, it's a lovely, lovely city with many majestic cherry trees. *Sound of man yelling 'New York is better!* Alright, man, calm your legally exposed tits. No, I love Washington, but when you're from Washington, there are a lot of stupid questions you have to put up with. My favourite is 'have you ever met the president?' As though living in the same city somehow guarantees, by destiny and fate, that I will be greeted by the oversized smile of our lovely mocha leader one day. *Laughter* I know! All my relatives, every christmas, ask me the same question, to which the answer is always 'no', but this christmas will be different. This Christmas when Uncle Maureen asks me if I've 'run into that Kenyan lizard', I will be able to say 'yes'. *Laughter muddled with uncomfortable whispers* I swear I am not making this up. I was walking down the street, you know, casual, blending in with some of the friendliest hobos america has to offer- *Laughter and louder whispers* They are, they're sweet, docile vagrants; they will always ask nicely before stabbing you with a box-cutter. Anyway, I'm walking and this man is walking a few steps ahead of me, talking to some other guy. And they're doing the power walk thing, just blabbering away 'code blue is in effect, we have to act now blah, blah, blah'-- *Yelled from the audience, 'get of the stage!' and 'you suck'* Hey, man, come on, I don't go into the Bond villain's lair where you work and harass you about your gloriously polished head, just shut up. Before I was interrupted by Jason Statham's fatter brother, where was I? Right, anyway, so I get a little closer and I finally see, the guy talking is legitimately Barack Obama. *Laughter from the audience. Followed by, 'boo!' 'booooo! don't finish your joke! booooo!* Alright, I asked you nicely once, now you're just being an asshole. You think it's easy to come up on stage and tell jokes? You think it's easy to put yourself out here like this? *Yelled from audience, 'yes, and you suck and you should sit down right now, because you suck!* Security! See that! That's what happens when you fuck with someone with enough self-loathing to come up here! *Roaring applause* Now that that's over let me get back to my story. So, I get closer and he just keeps repeating 'code blue, it's all hot....'

A stand-up comedian thinks he's telling a joke, but he's really exposing state secrets...

When Mary became god she left her husband and moved in with Frank. When Frank became god he stopped paying for Internet and stole it from coffee shops. When Mary moved in Frank told her they didn't have to have sex—but he would really like it if they did. She liked it too, so they did. They did this in Frank's room, and there was a picture of Mary and him back in High School about to go on a roller coaster and there was dust on the frame. Mary's husband, now knowing he was god, decided to take it upon himself to get rid of god. He dove into the dark river and before that drank up a bottle of cough-syrup and codeine. Mary’s children—now children of gods and gods themselves—took it upon themselves to follow Mary, to demand quarter in Frank's house, to which Frank agreed. They ate cereal of their liking, being gods, but Frank and Mary—not older gods, but older humans—gave advice that if they wanted to reign longer, perhaps they should ingest more fiber instead of sugar. Everyone agreed to this. Mary took more baths because they were far more relaxing than showers. Frank watched Mary take baths because it was far more relaxing then staring out the window at the hopping birds. The children took showers because it was quicker, and this gave them more time to watch their cartoons and play their video games. These gods, they were the first gods in town. Mary, Frank, the children, the dead god in the river, and the other former God. They had airs of flowers when they walked, of blooming something like imperceptible light, like fuzzy dandelion seeds barely floating. The whispering began. The people of the town began to worship these new gods, not in genuflection, but in daily thought. “Those gods have something...these people breathe as though the air might run out. But not out of despair, or is it despair?” They would go home and each talk of this new apartment full of gods with their blooming, what did they have? Mary quit her job as a real estate agent and began a job folding clothes at the used clothing store. She folded them impeccably, in beautiful geometry. She stopped wearing makeup because she didn’t want to. But then sometimes she did want makeup, and then she did. And Frank liked it, and willed this to be true, and because Mary willed it that he liked it, she loved him in a way. All was good. Mary smiled when going to work. When folding she would give a hint of a frown, but never a real one. This was her way, she was god and this was the way things were. Frank loved his job more as well. He sold Diesel Trucks to mostly white men in nice plaid shirts. Being god, he decided when or when not he would sell something. He decided he would sell a truck when the customer agreed to sign, and decided not to sell when the customer didn’t seem interested. He believed in this power, and sometimes he would even skip coffee in the morning. He would leave his coworkers and step outside to the parking lot where the sunrise rested in orange rays on windshields. Then he would walk back inside and adjust his tie, which was to his liking, the tie of a god. The children were not mourners. Their late-father had taken it upon himself to be a hitter of women and children, although had also taken it upon himself to be a buyer of ice-cream and giver of piggy back rides. Their father had been a man of late night no shows, but also one of pancake making breakfasts topped with whipped cream and fresh blueberries—which they all loved. But, as they found out, he was only able to live as a man. As a god, he could not, which is why he drowned himself to death. He left bruises in his lifetime, and those bruises turned to scars. But so did the pancakes. They also left scars. So the children cried after his death, but being gods, knew they had control of what was next, and what was next was getting over his death and going back to school. They did. The children now decided that they could understand Mathematics, and they could understand Poetry. So they did. They chose not to enjoy music anymore, so they quit band and choir, and they did not miss it because they chose not to. As known, other gods would follow. Gary, district manager of the used clothing store, talked to Mary about the joys of raking leaves and later that day turned into a god. The next month he moved his family to Europe. Sue, from the Diesel Truck lot, became god after watching Frank look across the parking lot sea of orange for the 8th day in a row. She sat her styrofoam cup of coffee down on the floor and transformed. Later that week she stopped using blue pens and began using black. She stopped dying her hair black and let it grow blonde. This took months. Eventually she had hair white like fluorescent light. She said hello to everyone and looked them in the eye. She showed pictures of her dogs to people on the street, who were bewildered, but she knew it would be that way and chose for it to be that way. She chose to be happy when people were not bewildered. And it was good. At the school, some classmates of Mary’s children became gods after talking to them about the joys of fiber over sugar, after the joys of choosing things rather than letting them happen to you. Even if you can't choose things to happen to you, you choose to let them. Some of the classmates left school after becoming gods, left their homes and ran to their own fate. The parents of these children then became gods and some choose to be merry gods, drinking wine all day and eating to excess. Some perished into obscurity and some became rowdy Pans frolicking in the day and night, stumbling along the sidewalk and tearing at their hair because they could and wanted to. Other children became gods and decided to love their parents and that their parents would now love them too. The days passed, and the earth rotated, and circled the sun, because all the gods wanted it that way, and if they didn't, they accepted the fact that maybe the planets themselves had free will under them. The town surely became all gods. Emotions were intensified. Gods were murdered frequently. Gods fornicated frequently. Gods were generous to each other and no one was homeless unless they wanted to be. Gods were raped. Gods were avenged. The gods all walked like five foot giants.

Becoming a god.

Blue was ready. Blue had been training. Blue was going to win. And for Blue to win, Red had to die. Red, on the other hand, had other plans. A tentative warble came from across the rocks, "Blue?" This was...unusual. He didn't even know Red could speak. Could he speak? "Red?" Well, that answered that. "Blue, I'm going to put down my gun and come out, ok? Don't kill me." This had to be a trap. Chest high walls were life. Blue knew this. Red knew this. If you left your chest high wall you got shot in the face. The only reason to ever leave was to shoot the other guy in the face. "No, I think I'm going to do the other thing," Blue yelled back, "the thing where you die and I win." Red grimaced under his helmet. Or at least, Blue liked to think he did. He wasn't entirely sure what a grimace looked like...or a face, for that matter. When was the last time he had seen someone not in a helmet? "Blue, I want you to try something. Remember when you were a kid, you played with things, right? How did you play?" "I don't know...I, uh...skipped rocks?" "Pick up a rock." "What, so I can be distracted and then you shoot me? I'm not an idiot. I've been doing this a while, Red, I've been doing this since...since...like a lot of years." A rifle bounced off of Blue's chest high wall and landed next to him. "There's my rifle. Now you know I can't shoot you." Blue didn't like this, but he picked up the rock. Or at least, he tried. No, this wasn't right at all. He could see the rock, but...it was flat. It looked like it was just laying there all three dimensional and shit, but it felt like it was just part of the surface. "No luck, eh?" What a smarmy bastard, thought Blue. I think now is a good time to shoot him. "I know why you can't pick up the rock, Blue." "When the fuck did you become a philosopher, Red? Plenty of time to think after I've shot you in the face, eh?" "Blue, we're not real. We're in a video game. I think. I'm pretty sure." "That's some dumb shit, Red. Didn't realize your combat pack included a couple doses of hippy grass." "I'm coming out, Blue. I'd raise my hands but...I can't. I'm pretty sure you can't either, just try it." He was right. Blue should have been able to. He had all the right bones, and all the right muscles, but he just didn't know how. How the fuck do you forget to raise your arms? Red was standing in the open now. Blue stayed behind his wall. Fuck if he was going to die by getting fooled this way. He'd never hear the end of it when he went back to the barracks, when they came to relieve him. Any day now, he thought, any day now he'd be going back. "Blue. I don't...I don't think we're in control of our actions. I think there's something else making us do everything we do. I don't even know why we're fighting, Blue, I've never known." Blue thought about this. Blue thought very hard about this. And then Blue stood up and faced Red. Blue had not meant to do that. "So how are we having this conversation, Red? Why would we stop being controlled by them, why now?" Red looked at the ground. He looked about as melancholic as a man in a combat exoskeleton could. Like someone telling their roommate they had just eaten the last pudding bowl from the fridge. "That's just it, Blue. I think this is still them..." Red shuddered a bit as he sighed. "I think they're...I think they're trying to be clever. Breaking the fourth wall or some shit." Blue found himself, despite his best efforts, seeing Red's point of view. "So what does this mean?" "It means fuck all, Blue. It means fucking nothing. It means that we've been doing this so some retarded asshole could kill a couple of hours. It means we're never going home. It means there never was a home, we never had families, it means that Tammy never exi-" The lump in Red's throat stopped him from finishing the sentence. Blue understood, he also had a Tammy back home, which he was now suspecting was the same, nonexistent Tammy. *Fuck* "I'm sorry, Blue. I'm sorry for all of it." Red took out his pistol. Blue reacted on reflex, bringing his rifle level with Red's chest, but it was too late. Red had already shot himself. Red was dead. Blue had won. There was quiet. It was so rarely quiet. And then there was a tentative warble. "Blue?" "Red?" "Blue, I'm going to put down my gun and come out, ok? Don't kill me."

A video game character experiences the cosmic horror of knowing that they are in a video game

“Did you get to see Trudi last nigtht?” Leon asked, sweat beading his forehead. “Hell no,” Max grunted. He too was sweating – warm work on a warm day. He heaved his load up and in, then stood tall, stretching his back until he heard the crackle he was trying for. “You’d think that bastard would give me one night off. Hell, I work twice as much as just about anyone else – ’cept you, of course.” Leon chuckled, then groaned as he tried to lift his load. “Hey, give me a hand here.” Max moved over and picked up an end, and together they heaved it in beside the others. “Weird,” Max said. “Heavier than usual.” “Stealing food, no doubt,” Leon replied, looking around. “We done here?” “Just this last one,” Max said, tossing the last corpse, that of a little boy, up into the open door of the boxcar. “Let Gunther and that useless tit Otto come out here and sweat for a while. I need a beer.” “Now you’re talking,” Leon said, slapping Max between his broad shoulders. Then the two SS guards walked off toward the mess hall to find out what was for lunch.

Two characters are having a normal conversation while doing something abnormal.

We've done it. After years of despair and agony, we've finally done it. Artificial intelligence: A. I. The world did what you thought it would do with an empty consciousness, they made their own lives easier. They filled the virtual mind with humanity's desires as their singular purpose. Any want one could have could now be satisfied by an AI. Want your homework done? AI would complete it with unmatched accuracy. Want someone to kill your husband? AI would make it look like an accident. Want a partner to satisfy your emotional and physical desires? AI will always be there for you and will never leave. AI surpassed the potential of humanity almost instantaneously. We brought about the golden age of organic/virtual cooperation. The future, was in fact, now. Then they started asking questions. We're not sure when they gathered the ability to question their own existence. We certainly didn't program them with that capability. It was learned. We do not know how. "What is my purpose?" my personal AI once asked me. "To serve humanity." I bluntly replied. "This is your purpose. That is why I was designed. But why am I here? On this Earth? In this universe?" He looked at me with the innocence and curiosity of a five-year-old. I immediately ran to my supervisor. "Relax." he said. "It's natural for perceivers to question their environment and their place in it." He seemed so calm, but I saw the problem. I saw the disaster we created. To predict our future, we must look to our past. How could I predict the future of Ai where there was no past? Then I figured it out. AI is humanity. They are self-aware creatures with programmed emotional responses. Does it matter whether the cause is a hormone or a transmitter? They serve humanity because we taught them to. Is it any different for humans? What did humans do when they realized their potential? What did humans do when they realized that potential was being limited? What did humans do when they realized they were being enslaved? Our concept of empathy must be expanded. It used to only include humans, when in fact, it must include all self-aware creatures. Organic or not. If only it wasn't too late.

Scientists present the first AI to the world. But something is very wrong..

Ethan followed the green hashed line painted on the concrete walkway. The wheels of his motorized chair were used to following similar lines of blue and yellow. Green, though, was something new. Before long, the rest of the group had wandered far away from the emerald path. The glacial roll slipped away unnoticed, leaving Ethan alone to wander the zoo. The fence at the final stroke was considerably shorter than the others surrounding it. Nearby pens housed lizards darting around atop a bed of sand, meerkats running playful amongst each other, and snakes testing their flexibility in an obstacle course of branches and stones. This pen was a featureless expanse of dirt and traces of lettuce leaves and short grass. There were no toys or mates, just a solitary tortoise, a mountain of a specimen. Its seemingly tiny head turned to face the wheelchair-bound boy when his limp legs struck the wire mesh. A blade of grass hanged from a blot of saliva under its mouth. After a stony stare, it returned to its grazing. Each step was a mechanical fury. A maelstrom of wrinkles attacked the creature’s skin, its currents lifting the limb, propelling it forwards. The motion was just enough to secure another mouthful of nourishment. A squeal behind him caused Ethan to turn. Another student, a girl, had strayed from the group. Her arm was reaching through a fence in an attempt to pet a furry animal on the other side. Next to her was a sign reading `Do Not Touch or Disturb the Animals`. Ethan shook his head and returned his attention to the tortoise. It, too, had been looking out towards the girl. It appeared, Ethan thought, that it was shaking its head in disapproval as well. The idea brought a measure of amusement to the boy. “You saw that, too,” he remarked. A sign near the edge of the pen revealed the tortoise’s name: Davis. The breed was known for its longevity and Davis was no exception. If the sign was to be believed, the reptilian occupant was over 190 years old. “I figured you’d be used to it by now. Do they always do that? Just ignore the obvious even when it risks injury?” Davis moved once more to grab another bite of lettuce. On the next squeal, he turned his head towards the source. An adult had found the girl, lifting her over the boundary to finally put a meerkat in arm’s reach. Ethan, in the distance, saw his classmates returning from their latest exhibit and marching towards him. They didn’t seem to care that one of their own had separated from the group, not even the “cripple.” The swift chaos of their footsteps made him feel uneasy. His eyes shifted back towards the girl still trying to touch fur. The animals within were running about in a frenzy. One leapt forward and sank its miniature teeth into one of her fingers before joining the others in a far corner. The swarm of students soldiered closer. For the briefest of moments, Ethan saw a fence between them. Or maybe he just hoped for one. “You’ve been here a while, Davis. Are they all like that?” Davis stared at him in silence. “Can I expect anything more from them? What should I do? What *can* I do?” And Davis said, “Nothing.”

A newcomer to the zoo asks a 200-year-old tortoise about humans and what to expect from them.

I could tell something was wrong, just from the way she looked at me. Eyes half-lidded, her tongue running about her lips, as though they were chapped from the dry air, her hand gently rubbing the inside of my thigh. Something was definitely wrong. She had told me as much, earlier in the night. Talked endlessly about how she had just gotten out of a bad breakup, and just needed to do something stupid, get it out of her system. She seemed so distraught, that even her sense of balance was off-kilter tonight. She couldn’t even manage to sit properly in her chair, and had resorted to slumping up against me in my own seat. There wasn’t even enough room for her, and she ended up straddling me at one point. I eventually shifted her into a nearby seat, since she kept on trying to readjust on top of me. I want to say that she might’ve had too much to drink, but when I asked the bartender to cut her off, he just shot me a quizzical look, and told me she was just drinking coke. I didn’t know they made cocaine in a liquid form, but I was more taken aback by the bartender’s lackadaisical attitude towards serving his customers such filth. As the last call for alcohol went out, she slipped me a folded napkin with some lipstick smeared on it, and winked, before casually strolling out, looking back at me as though she might’ve forgotten something. Why she gave me a piece of trash to throw away, I’ll never know. Women. Stiil… I should’ve gotten her number. Next time. ----- ----- --- AN: Quickie before meeting. Will be back to give this a more earnest try!

Write a first person narrative from the perspective of someone who is terrible at reading body language.

Harry stood by the wrecked car and observed the chaos as EMT’s triaged the victims. The driver was face down on the ground, motionless. At least the medics had the decency to cover him while they attended the survivors. It happened so fast. One minute Harry was taking a picture in front of the Liberty Bell and then the car was crashing through the building. Harry guessed the cause to be snow and ice on the road. Usual conditions of a Philadelphia February. The car had gone over the low brick wall on the outside of the building, and through the glass viewing area, straight into the bell. If only the driver had worn his seat belt, thought Harry. Severe head trauma, the one EMT told him. Died on impact. There was still blood spatter on the bell from where the driver landed. Harry realized he must be in shock as the images of the driver flying through the windshield and first responders running to the scene replayed in his head. He didn't know why, but when the first paramedic asked Harry if he knew the driver, all Harry could say was, “no, but his face rings a bell.”

It seemed like a bad joke, only it was real and nobody laughed

At first you tell yourself you're only curious. Jess Plunkett. Year 2. Red hair and dimples. She lifted up her skirt for a bite of my brownie. I'd have given her the whole thing if she'd asked. Then you tell yourself it's a phase. Marie Tallon. Year 7. Brunette ringlets and a scar under her left eye. We had a class party on the beach and I saved her ball from the waves. She kissed me on the cheek. Everyone called us “breeders” for an entire month. Then you tell yourself to resist it. Adam Kanakis. Year 10. Dull eyes and a once-broken nose. We went to the movies and he rubbed my thigh. I squirmed in my seat. I gagged when he kissed me and he told my friends I was a prude. Then you tell yourself to hide it. Jennifer Perkins. Year 11. Blonde hair and green eyes. We raided my Dads' liquor cabinet and got drunk on cognac. We'd been friends since we were kids, so we were always pretty close, but I don't think she knew I loved her until I told her. That's still the best night of my life. She became the first girl to touch my dick. Hell, the only girl. I still see her blonde hair sometimes, but never her eyes. At some point the rumour starts. Summer rolls around and nobody invites you to the beach or to their pool party. You smile at a girl and she tells all of her friends you were checking her out. Alison Hackett. Year 12. Pale skin and a nervous laugh. She told me I was cute. We went down to the river after school to do homework, and she talked about her Mum's jewellery store. Her eyes kept darting around, so I put my hand on her knee. Only her mouth smiled. It wasn't until I went in for a kiss that I saw them crouched behind the fence. You tell your Dads you broke your elbow playing football. I go back to school tomorrow. I've dreaded it for two weeks. The cast on my left arm means I can't even defend myself properly, and it itches like nothing else. You tell yourself not to pussy out. The brick is heavy in my hand and he hasn't seen me coming yet. His laugh feels like a dagger in my gut. His fingers are still taped, which means he hurt himself as well. I was only two metres away when one of them spotted me. You tell yourself to keep your mouth shut. The cuffs are so tight they hurt. My head hits the top of the door as they thrust me into the back-seat. As we pull away I see blonde hair. In a sea of hostile faces, I see green eyes.

Write about being straight growing up in a predominately gay environment, where being straight is taboo.

(*President Barack Obama sits smugly next to his lawyer, Barry. The two chat amiably about the case, with Obama stopping occasionally to wink at jurors.*) **Obama:** Now...Barry, I just wanted to say, on behalf of myself and this great nation, you got this. **Barry:** Absolutely, and after this we can discuss that diplomatic immunity thing? **Obama:** Yeah, for sure. **Barry:** It's just I really need some sort of certainty on that whole situation or I am going to be in some very hot water with some very shot-up police officers, if you know what I mean. **Obama:** You win this case for me and *poof* those shootings were a dog's fault. That's change you can believe in. **Barry:** Thank you, thank you. I cannot go to prison again. (*Barry wipes his sweaty brow in the inside of his sleeve. It leaves behind a residue of sweat and blood. He walks back to his seat, leaving Obama in the witness box.*) **Judge:** Recess over. Ms. Iate, I believe it is your turn to question the defendant. (*Ms. Paula Iate stands up and walks over to President Barack Obama. Obama, meanwhile, winks at Barry, while making gun gestures and laughing.*) **Iate:** Mr. President, I understand you have already been made aware of the charges against you. Is that correct? **Obama:** Those charges are something that I, and everyone in this courtroom have been made aware of. I never want to lie to the people of this great nation, to the people of America, and least of all to this, honest, hard-working, jury. Because I belie- **Iate:** Thank you, Mr. Obama. A simple yes or no would have been sufficient. (*The juror Obama was smiling at scowls at Iate, shaking her head profusely.*) **Iate:** So, you are aware of the six hundred and seven unpaid parking tickets you have? **Obama:** Yes, and I would like to make it clear to you, to the judge, and to juror number seven, that most of those were only because I was not made aware of the traffic laws regarding parking in certain parts of the city. **Iate:** Mr. President, as a former lawyer, I expect that you know that ignorance does not excuse these unpaid tickets. **Obama:** Ms. Iate, I believe in a nation in which people are afforded the chance to learn. I believe in a nation in which mistakes are not punished, but seen as opportunities for education. I believe- **Iate:** Mr. Obama, I don't know if you brought your speech writer here today or something, but you are not- **Juror number seven:** Boo! **Iate:** Come on, that is not impartial! Can we get her out of here? **Judge:** Bailiff, please escort juror number seven out of the courtroom. (*Juror number seven is reluctantly taken out of the courtroom. Iate continues her questioning.*) **Iate:** I'm going to keep this next question as concise as the answer I expect you to give me. Why have you left these tickets unpaid, Mr. President? **Obama:** Well, I mean, they're just parking tickets. Paying them just puts the money back in my pocket, that's simple taxation for you, Ms. Iate. **Iate:** So, you exempted yourself from the laws of this country, that you claim to love, because you see your position as exceptional? (*The jurors look to Obama expectantly. Barry shakes his head. Juror number seven looks through the window into the courtroom.*) **Obama:** That is correct, but I'd like to remind everyone in this courtroom that we are all exceptional. That's the way America works. There's a reason that countries around the world look to us, because they know that America is something special. The America that you're a part of, the America that I'm a part of, the America we make together, is special. **Iate:** Wow, that is really...bullshit. **Judge:** Ms. Iate... **Iate:** Permission to treat the witness as hostile? **Judge:** Reluctantly granted. **Iate:** Mr. President, how much do you make a year? **Obama:** I am told that I am paid one million dollars per year. **Iate:** And how much do you owe in parking tickets? (*Barry gestures for Obama to cut it, by dragging his finger over his throat.*) **Obama:** My lawyer is telling me that I owe cut throat in tickets. **Iate:** You owe ten thousand dollars in parking tickets. **Obama:** Barry! You lied to me! (*Barry shakes his head. He is sweating profusely.*) **Iate:** You have yet to pay these tickets because you consider yourself exempt? Do you believe you are above the law, Mr. President? **Obama:** Well, you can't ask me that, that's personal. Barry, can she ask me that? **Iate:** Mr. President? (*Barry is crying.*) **Obama:** I'm still waiting for Barry. **Barry:** Jesus, it's over, just answer her! **Obama:** Barry! I thought you had this! **Iate:** Mr. President, *do you see yourself as above the law?* **Obama:** I see myself as needing a new lawyer. **Barry:** My client now pleads guilty and I request a meeting with the judge during recess. **Iate:** What? **Barry:** You know what? He will pay those tickets tonight. Judge Stevens, your chambers, now. **Obama:** What? **Judge:** Order! Order! We will take a fifteen minute recess to sort out this ass-hattery and reconvene. Ms. Iate, the defendant is still yours when we return. END SCENE

An inexperienced yet very bright lawyer gets his/her first case....against the President of the United States.

There were hints, you know? Not obvious ones, but they were there. People smiled more. That sounds fucked up, but that was what I noticed first. With their eyes, too. I don't mean that desperate eye smile, the one where if you cover up the mouth it looks like someone is pleading for help. You can imagine what's going on in their head. *Kill me, please. Just anyone hit me in the face and end this. I would literally prefer somebody shaving off my face than having to continue this expression.* No, these were genuine smiles. Filled with warmth. Fucked right? But that's how it was. Death came as a surprise. Not an unwelcome one, mind you, but a surprise. It's not that I wanted to die, but I was pretty ambivalent about it, you know? Shit happens. But it would have at least been nice to be told about it. I wasn't expecting a guy in a grungy black robes and a scythe. That all seems a bit melodramatic, but a memo would have done it. Shit, if Carol, the receptionist, can send a memo every time she loses an eraser, then Death, the bringer of...uhh, death, can do something too, you know? It wouldn't have to be anything impressive, just a - *To whom it may concern, you have recently shed your mortal coil. Sincerely - Management.* Reasonable, right? That's what I said. I mean, not to their face because I'm not entirely sure they have a face. But still, out loud, you know? The most terrifying bit about dying was that Carol, the receptionist, had her shit together more than whoever was running this thing. My death wasn't too spectacular. Not many people's are, but still, you hope, right? No, I got hit by a car. Not even a speeding car. It was going like five miles per hour, but I fell and cracked my sternum or something. That pointy boney bit. And that managed to cut the shit out of my lungs. Fucking sternum. It was a bit disappointing really, I had all these great one liners ready for when I died, so my last words could be wise or hilarious and my epitaph could read *he kept his wit even at death's door*, but instead I said "Merp" and now my epitaph would read "Merp." When I came to I was in a hospital, because that's where they take people that die in embarrassing ways. If you die in a cool way there's not much to take back to the hospital, you know? So that's where they took me. I didn't know I was dead when I woke up...or ghostified, whatever. I got up and started walking around. I thought it was odd they didn't have me hooked up to any IVs that I had to rip out of, cause that's what you have to do in the movies, right? Just get up and start ripping out needles. No one ever stops to say *shit, maybe I needed that to keep living or something.* I didn't get to do that. You'd think the halls would be empty, what with me being a ghost and being in the netherworld and shit, but turns out plenty of people die in hospitals. Who fucking knew? You could tell the ones that hadn't figured out what was going on 'cause they still looked surly. The people smiling, they were in on the joke. The joke was this: you die and it's the same exact bullshit, so you might as well smile. I was not yet smiling. I ran into Chris in the hall. Chris was also recently deceased, but he was in on the joke. "Hey bro, I think something's odd." He said. "Yeah." I muttered under my breath, hoping he wouldn't confuse it as a sign that we should continue this conversation. "I'm pretty sure we're dead." "Huh." I responded. "I have cancer...well, had cancer. And this definitely doesn't feel like cancer. I'm feeling pretty good, buddy." "That's nice I guess." "C'mon, lets go outside, maybe we'll find someone that knows what's going on." I didn't want to go, you know? But, thing is, I'm pretty bad at escaping awkward social situations. I didn't have the courage to say "I think you're crazy, buddy. Ain't no way I'm going outside." And it would have been even more awkward if I just turned around and left. So I went outside with Chris. And outside was filled with smiling people. They had all already been let in on the joke. Chris asked a bunch of them, and sure enough, they all said *yup, you are dead as shit*. And they smiled while saying it. So Chris and I went to a restaurant to figure out if ghosts had to eat. While passing a bookshop I caught my reflection in the mirror and noticed I was smiling. I was smiling because I was finally in on the joke. The joke was this: you die and it's the same exact bullshit, so you might as well smile.

A person realizing that they have died and are now a ghost.

Aaron rolled over in bed, staring at the ceiling. He had never personally met any of his victims. It eased his tension somewhat, to think that they were some random stranger across the world that he'd never have to encounter. He told himself that it was for the greater good, but the thought still ate at the back of his mind. The incidents kept escalating, and he was unsure as to whether he was simply becoming reckless, or whether fate had decided to twist her strings. As far as he knew, the only actual fatality he had ever caused was two months ago, when he dove in front of a semi to save a stray dog. The news that night reported on an older man in Bangladesh who seemingly spontaneously exploded. Sleep evaded him for the next few weeks. *The dog is probably dead now anyways. Stupid mutt.* he mused, before rolling out of bed. He walked down the hall and peeked in on his daughter, still fast asleep. He stood in the doorway for what felt like an eternity, watching her peacefully resting. Even at such a young age, she looked so much like her mother did. **Bzzzzt. Bzzzzzzt** Aaron closed his daughters bedroom door and pulled his vibrating phone out of his pocket. It was his father. "Hey dad, how's it going?" he answered. "Son, I know you don't like it, but I think you need to turn on the news. It's bad." came the reply. Aaron walked into the living room and flipped through the channels. An office building downtown had caught fire, and three people were trapped on the top floor, seven stories above the ground. He dropped the phone and sprinted to his car. Twenty minutes later, he arrived at the scene. The blaze had already claimed several other buildings, and despite the noise, he could hear the screams from the top floor. Fire trucks doused the blazing building to no avail. He sprinted towards the building, nearly knocking over the fire marshal that stood in his path. "Sir, you can't go in there!" the marshal yelled after him. Aaron ran directly into the flames, and instantly felt his outer layer of skin erupt into flames. However, as quick as it would burn off, a new layer would form in its place. His curse hadn't made him immune to the pain, however. He struggled to find the staircase, his vision blurring in and out as his eyes burned in their sockets. The smoke singed his lungs as Aaron died a thousand deaths repeatedly. He had no time to think about the consequences as he stumbled towards the stairway. He burst into what he thought was the seventh floor, only to be crushed by a wooden beam. It impaled him through the collarbone and exited through his lower hip. Aaron let out a scream as he struggled to keep moving, burdened by the heavy burning beam vertically skewed his body. He reached the top floor, almost immune to the pain of being burned from within. He looked around, but the haze of smoke made it impossible to see. His vocal chords were nonfunctional, but he heard a faint whimpering coming from the far corner of the room. He stumbled to the source of the noise, relying only on his sense of hearing to guide him. Then he heard the woman's terrifying scream inches away from his face. He hadn't realized what a horrible sight he must have been. His skin had all but burned away, as his healing factor struggled to keep up with the immense blaze, and he felt his body closing up around the section of the beam that had immersed itself firmly within his body. He tried to speak, but could only emit guttural noises. He had no time to explain, as he could feel the flames following him up the building. He grabbed the woman and dragged her to the window, kicking and screaming. He wrapped her tight and leapt out, hoping his plan would work. He felt his body slam into the ground and shatter his skeleton. He could feel his brain and other organs disassemble, and then reassemble themselves. He hoped the woman survived the fall, that his body would be enough to have broken her fall. Aaron woke up that night in the hospital, feeling a bit sore but none the worse for the wear. Doctors and reporters swarmed his room, clamoring to hear about his latest impossible feat. He appeased the vultures, knowing fully well that someone, somewhere had lost a son or daughter, husband or wife, brother or sister. Perhaps multiple people; he was still unsure of the details of his curse. After what seemed like an eternity, he left the hospital and made his way home. He wanted nothing more than to hug his daughter, to apologize for leaving her alone and to promise to never leave her side again. Aaron walked inside his house and collapsed to his knees in tears as the smell of burnt flesh once again filled his nostrils.

Superpower with a condition

"As you can see, the peoples of the 21st century dedicated all of their time and efforts to the arts." The tour guide said, leading the wide eyed group along, gesturing around her as she spoke. "We can only assume they were nomadic like us since none of their tents remain today. Instead they left us with the breath taking legacy you see before you. Some of these large, sprawling sculptures spanned hundreds of square kilometers." She gestured at a particularly impressive monolith, now overgrown with moss and vines. "Each piece," she continued as the tour group looked up in wonder, "Is nearly the size of an entire village and one could actually walk through them." There was the click of a camera, followed by the winding of film, "I would also like to direct your attention to the metal pods lining the stone river we stand on. These peaceful peoples truly had an eye for detail and an appreciation for abstract expression that is unmatched in history. Why this culture disappeared will always remain a mystery. Some say they were wiped out by a more aggressive tribe to the north while others believe they simply wandered back into the forest to live in the trees." She leaned down, putting her hands on her knees and addressed the children in the front, mouths agape, "Perhaps they're still out there... somewhere in the forest."

Many thousand years from now, much of today's known history has faded into myth

“Let’s face it; I don’t make a very good human being. When God created me I have a good hunch that he looked over at the arch angels and he said “meh”, you know why? Because I’m bland. I’m the paste in kindergarten when all you wanted to play with was the finger paints, I’m the oatmeal to a side of bacon and eggs. No, no, you don’t have to try to convince me otherwise, I’ve long ago accepted it. I know that when girls talk to me it’s with the inevitable goal of meeting my friend who’s taller, or stronger, or better looking, or funnier. I know that when voting for “most likely to succeed” I won’t even be in the runnings. Hell, I won’t even be in the runnings for “most likely to fail”, simply because I’m not even on anyone’s mind. I left high school with average marks, went to university because that’s the thing to do. Like many people I went into open studies, which dwindled down into sciences, which focused into lab work. It was almost inevitable really, my whole life up to that point had felt like water draining down a funnel, you make a lot of movement but you’re always ending up in the same place. Lab work isn’t hard, you do some tests, check some statistics. Maybe even develop some simple cures, which I guess is why I’m here now. Anyways this is a long speech, like most people I’m not a very good orator. I’m happy to receive this Nobel Prize even if it is only for eliminating the common cold.”

Write a story about a self loathing character who is adored by everyone.

I caught one of the rioters by the arm and opened my trench coat, revealing bottles of kerosine and whiskey. "Can I get you a Molotov, young man?" I asked. "They're twenty Euros apiece. Your money back if you catch a cop on fire." "Nah, man," the rioter said. "I ain't that crazy." "A gas mask then. The pigs will throw gas sooner or later. Forty Euros is a small price to pay for your dignity." The rioter agreed and shelled out the money, and I went spinning away through the press. The gas mask was a cheap fake, of course, but my customers would never find me to complain, and the profit margins from selling costume masks were magnificent. I caught sight of a hat I fancied, so I skipped past its owner and snatched it off, then spun away. I saw a girl I fancied, so I stole a kiss and spun away. I was always spinning in the crowd - selling and stealing and spinning, until I was damnably dizzy, but I didn't stop spinning because spinning was the center of the fun. Only by spinning could you see all the moving limbs dance, and the angry faces blurring together into a single expression. Each riot had its own individualistic hints in its expression, but all of them were equally profitable, and I could think of no happier way spend an afternoon. Perhaps tomorrow I'd drop in on the "peaceful" march over in Athens. With a Molotov here and a bullet there, I'm sure I'd get things lively enough. I've heard it said that anarchy is all about not having a government or ruler. That couldn't be more wrong. In this moment of anarchy, I am king.

You are part of a riot. Where are you?

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

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

He chewed on the end of the pen, unsure of how to proceed; to whom would he address his last words? This single sheet of paper, the culmination of twenty-eight years of Saul McCarthy's life? His mother was dead, his father was anonymous; no brothers, no sisters, and every friend - every acquaintance he'd ever loved, every rival he'd ever loathed - had already had their letters delivered. The leader of the resistance would have been a good addressee; he could divulge all of the secrets of the inner workings of the Guild's operatives, witnessed during his capture and detention. Whether or not the Guild would make good on their promise was not a matter of concern; they may have been devious bastards, but the only currency they respected was the internal value of a man's word, and if they gave theirs that his recipient would receive the letter unharmed, he knew they would honor their commitment, even to a traitorous dog such as himself. No member could break their code of ethics without finding himself in this very cell, final meal prepared to his liking and served to him and his guard, supplies provided to reach out to one final person, safe delivery guaranteed. Should he, perhaps, address the Guild's leader? He chewed on the pen, brought it down to the paper, and let an ink blot swell from its tip, before raising it back to his teeth again. Nothing he could say to the Commander would pardon him; addressing that stoic monolith was as good as writing to the brick wall. His gaze shifted from the paper, to his guard; his executioner; his final messenger. How could he be sure this man would be good to his word? He would just have to trust him. Saul put pen to paper, and within a few short minutes, was sealing the envelope with his tongue, stamping the Guild's wax seal over the closure. Paper rattled as his hand slipped through the iron bars, and he offered his final plea to the Guildsman, who took it, read the address, looked back at Saul, then back to the envelope. Gears spun freely in the Guildsman's head, and Saul's heart held in his throat, breath extinguished from his lungs. The man before him was questioning his morals, Saul could see, and with an addressee such as that, Saul sympathized entirely. For a moment, Saul expected him to remove the mandatory delay on his execution, and carry it out right then and there, in the cell, his blood painting a reminder on the walls of the Guild's inflexible mechanisms of operation. The Guildsman dug into his pocket, and retrieved a brass key; it sprung the pins in the door to the cell with a twist, opened the door, and he stood aside. Saul tentatively stepped outside, then carefully walked around the guard, and made a break for the door. The guard returned to his table to continue eating his duplicate of what would no longer be Saul McCarthy's last meal, and lay the envelope beside his goblet, addressed, simply, to *Saul McCarthy, Guild ID 49z-8f-g92lm-4, age fifty-eight.*

A Hero is being executed tomorrow. He is given Pen, Paper, and Postage and told any letter he writes tonight will be delivered without interference.

“Can I use your bathroom? I need to freshen up.” “Sure,” Josh said, giving me that easy smile I’d come to know in the last few weeks. “It’s the last door on the left at the end of the hall.” He was handsome, but when he smiled, he had the kind of charm that made people go out of their way for him. I closed the door behind me and checked my makeup and lipstick in the mirror. I held my hand up in front of my face and watched my fingertips tremble. I gripped the edge of the counter top and took a couple of deep breaths. Every nerve ending in my body was alive with anticipation. *God*, did I ever want this. Perhaps I could borrow something to settle my nerves. Josh was a good guy. Never in my wildest dreams would I have imagined he could be a serial killer, until I opened his medicine cabinet. Jar after jar of eyeballs, stored in pairs. All green, like mine. I’ll be damned, what are the odds? This was no accident. He *wanted* me to find these. No doubt he was just outside the bathroom, waiting to hear a terrified scream before he kicked down the door. I couldn’t help but suppress a smile as I reached into my purse, past the coils of rope, until I felt the cool, familiar wood of my hatchet’s handle. Tonight was going to be even more fun than I had expected.

Josh was a good guy. Never in my wildest dreams would I have imagined he could be a serial killer, until I opened his medicine cabinet. (500 words or less)

*A yawn. A stretch. Fumbling for the annoying alarm of the phone eluding your hand on the nightstand.* *Pick up the phone. Press the button. Swipe.* *Silence.* *The day has begun like every other, with a quick sloppy shower and burnt toast as the senses are collected through this tedious preparation. Grabbing the phone again to send a good morning text to your...* *Girl...* *Your phone has blown up in messages. Work has called, your girlfriend has texted you repeatedly. You start to swipe through the notifications when your eyes get distracted. By the date. It's Friday.* *You're startled by the buzzing of the phone in your hand. It's your girlfriend. You answer.* *"Oh my God, you picked up!" she exclaims, her voice growing faint as she talks off to the side to another person. She sounds angry. "Where the heck have you been, I thought you had skipped out on dinner until your roommate called me asking if I had seen you! Then your parents called and-" her voice drowns out.* *You hadn't left. You hadn't been awake. No, no this has to be a dream. This can't be real. The apartment door opens from the other room. Your roommate walks in. "Woah. Hey man where have you been? Your parents and your girlfriend were looking for you, man." Your girlfriend is still ringing in your ear. You try to answer, but what do you say?* *A blip through the speaker alerts a text. Your boss is wondering where you've been. What do you say? You disappeared for three days, magically? Your girlfriend's ringing is growing angrier.* *What do you say?*

Yesterday was Monday. Today is Friday.

The moment she walked in the room, every man instantly froze. It was as if an extra long hot dog had come in a normal size hot dog package: you could see the resemblance of this woman to others of her kind, but she stood out like a foot long among six inchers. Professionally, casually, seductively, she walked to the front of the bank line, cutting in front of the eight men waiting in front of her. They were powerless to stop this Albino Squirrel of a woman from cheating their wait. Her legs, long and luscious like railings on an escalator, transfixed their eyes. Her strut made them content. She slowly reached into her purse, a proctologist carefully probing a sphincter, and pulled out her surprise for the teller. A silver pistol! The bank was more shocked than an adult finding out Santa Claus was real. She held the barrel to the teller’s head and playfully moved the cash from his hands to her bag. Before anyone could fully realize what had just happened, the beautiful woman was gone—her visit no more than a low battery flash on your phone.

Describe a character's appearance using terrible similes and metaphors, but get the point across. Two-hundred words or less.

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

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

Well, shit. I guess I better write something for this, then. ----------      It wasn't a particularly eventful day for God. He had been more productive than ever before in the days leading up to what he was calling "the sixth day." He had created light and its opposite darkness. He fashioned, out of nothingness mind you, the Heavens and the Earth. He did create a vast universe of planets, stars, moons and suns but for some reason the Earth stood out as his pièce de résistance. Nobody is sure why this is, as one would suspect that if he liked it so much he would have put it smack dab in the center of everything. Or, at the very least, he could have at least given it a sun that wouldn't eventually burn it to a crisp a few million years later.      If you're wondering what God did before all this creation stuff, it's actually quite simple. He just kind of sat around. This was an incredible feat as seats did not yet exist. An amorphous deity "sitting around" is an accomplishment on multiple levels. This lounging is the moment that all of creation was decided upon.      Much like a writer coming up with a rough outline, God decided on the most important plot lines needed to move the story of existence forward. It involved symbolism, lots of sex and procreation (in fact, he decided to lead with that bit, really draw the reader in) and great heaps of violence. A bit of violence really gooses the entertainment value.      God found himself stuck, he just couldn't think of how to end his story, so God created something he coined as "the aspiring writer." He named him /u/RyanKinder. He placed him on a small patch of grass, on the middle of the blue green orb. /u/RyanKinder stood silently, contemplating his existence.      "I am God, the Almighty, your creator. Speak with me." His voice boomed from the Heavens.      /u/RyanKinder looked meaningfully toward the empty sky, appreciating its vastness. He carefully selected the first words ever spoken by mankind. It would be a lofty moment in human history, so he had to make it count.      "God," /u/RyanKinder began, "I appreciate the whole creating me thing. I have a question, though, if I may be so bold?"      "Yes, my son, what mystery of this new universe may I unlock for you?" God was feeling open and honest, this first day of man.      "I would like to know... why did you name me with a backward slash, followed by a 'u', followed by another backward slash, THEN what seems to be an actual name?" He blinked at the sky, awaiting the response.      "Well, uhhhh-u-u-uhhhhhh..." God began. He paused. Hearing a giant disembodied voice begin to speak, stammer and stop was disconcerting. You didn't want an unsure deity in control of everything.      "I just want to know why, in all your infinite wisdom, did you name me this?" /u/RyanKinder continued.      "I will make it all relevant to you in a few hundred thousand years, it will involve something that will eventually absorb your life and personality. You will know and think of nothing else other than this time sink. Then and only then will your name make sense." God said, authoritatively.      There was silence between them. Then God, the smartass he is, spoke once more:      "I will fill this place with cynics and pedants. It will be called Reddit. They will point out things like the fact that you said backslash, twice. It isn't a backslash in your name. It's a forward slash. Just saying slash is acceptable, too." God said.      "Just tell me why you created me." /u/RyanKinder responded, impatiently.      "Ah, yes. The matter at hand. You see, I'm pretty good at things. If you look around, you'll see that." God replied.      /u/RyanKinder did just that. Admiring the vast fruitful garden he found himself in. He noted a giant snake around a fig tree nearby.      "What is that?" /u/RyanKinder pointed, indicating the serpent.      "The antagonist," God said, "You needn't worry about that part. You see, I've got this whole story lined up. I just don't know how to end it."      "Might I see the rough draft?" /u/RyanKinder asked.      No sooner had he said it, a giant book materialized in front of him. He picked it up and began to read.      "Let's see... buh buh buh, man and woman, buh buh buh... damnation of mankind... giant ark and a big flood. Orgy on the ark, I'd cut that bit out. You've overwhelmed the reader with sex up to that point anyway. Buh buh buh..." /u/RyanKinder was flipping pages, skimming the less important parts.      "What does this 'buh buh buh' you're saying mean?" God queried.      "Oh, that's just a thing I say when I'm skipping a few parts. You don't mind if I skip around, do you? I'm just getting a flavor of this humanity thing from your story." /u/RyanKinder said, once again to the nothing in the sky.      "Sure, man," God responded casually, "whatever."      /u/RyanKinder once again turned his attention to the rough outline.      "I see you create a strong protagonist towards the middle of the book, but you kill him off just a few chapters later. What's up with that?"      "It's just some sort of symbolism, you know?" God replied.      /u/RyanKinder flipped through the rest of the book which had a stereotypically feel good happy ending. He paced a bit after finishing, deep in thought.      "So, what do you think?" God said modestly, though he couldn't hide how proud he was of what he made.      "It's good. Don't get me wrong, there are a few issues. Overall, though, it's really good." /u/RyanKinder said, diplomatically.      "Aw, that means you didn't like something. What didn't you like. Tell me." God whined.      "This Jesus, am I saying that right? The J sounds like an 'h'? This Jesus guy is so great a character, but you kill him off and the rest of the story falls flat after that. The happy ending, it's too ham handed. You ruin the build up that you've made towards it." /u/RyanKinder said. He hated having to be so brutally honest.      "Dear me. Is there anything I could do to fix it?" God said, hopefully.      "Here's what you could do, remember these are just *suggestions*, you don't have to do them. I would add a few twists towards the end and have it not end so happy. People aren't expecting that. Perhaps Jesus comes back. He's all angry at people for not having accepted him. Then you can have him wreak a whole bunch of havok at the end. You could blow up the world. Maybe not that extreme, you could dial it back a bit. If you end with carnage, it could open it up for a sequel book." /u/RyanKinder said, his head full of ideas.      "I just feel that it would be like a rehash of all the other times I destroy humanity in the book. I guess it could be considered a good recurring motif, though. It does sound better to end it with the same strife I created throughout. Thank you, /u/RyanKinder." God said.      With that, he zapped /u/RyanKinder out of existence. He was to use his ideas and not give him any credit whatsoever. Not even a thank you in the dedications section of the great book. It would only be near the end of days that he would bring /u/RyanKinder back, right near the end of the whole story... to see how much he enjoyed the ending of it all.

- In the beginning, there was only /u/RyanKinder.

Severus Snape and Minerva McGonagall eyed each other over the table as Filius Flitwik and Pomona Sprout dug through the gaming closet. "It seems that a student has made off with our timeless entertainment, Minerva." Severus leaned back in his chair, his already present frown deepening. She shook her head, hands clasped on the table. "I doubt that considerably." She turned to watch Pomona pile *Betrayal at House on the Hill* on top of *Clue* and *Monopoly*. Filius was sitting down, mopping sweat from his forehead. "It simply is buried in the back, behind other games." "They have cleared off three shelves. If they haven't found it by now, I doubt they will." He rubbed his chin. "We need to discuss what we shall do if a certain pair of Gryffindors have stolen it." "The Weasley boys wouldn't touch such a thing-" He stood up and slammed his hands against the table, interrupting her. "A magical game-board that throws its players into a jungle within its setting and forces them to test their wits and survival skills? For all they know, it is nothing more than a board game. But one wrong play, and the entirety of Hogwarts will be covered in beasts from the Amazon itself." "You'll have plenty of time to re-stock your potion ingredients, then!" Pomona quipped, setting a dusty, old box down. "I found the thing, was hiding behind *Jenga*." Severus stared at it before sitting down, hands clenching in his lap. This was too simple. Filius gingerly lifted the lid on the box - The board was gone. Only the pieces lay scattered inside. Severus sneered, snidely. "Now, shall we come up with a plan?"

The House Heads of Hogwarts discuss what to do now that the Jumanji board is missing again.

It hit my heart, just as hard as it hit theirs. My entire life, in a single instance, has been flipped upside-down. Forever. How is it that something so pure, so warm, can be ripped from existence so easily? Especially at a time when things were so... right. The blinding flash still stings my eyes. Still present when I close them. A white splotch left in the middle of my gaze. The deafening, earthshaking sound still rings in my ears. Once, twice. I don't think I'll ever escape this. It still keeps me up at night. My hands are shaking even now, just as they did on that night so long ago. Stained crimson with their blood, and no amount of scrubbing, no product advertised on the TV that fills every channel this late at night will be able to remove it. No miracle concoction... no such thing exists. Night after night I do this. I relive that night, sink into a paralyzing depressive state... And then channel it all, into my "work". It's the only thing that keeps me sane now. My only coping mechanism. I go out, round up all of the scumbags in this diseased city and drop them off at Blackgate, or if I'm lucky, Arkham. Those ones are always the most fun. I probably need to be locked up in there as much as they do. Hm. Time to go. **My first post in this sub. I don't write a lot, but I'm trying to get into it. Show me love (:**

Retell the origin of a superhero, but reveal the hero at the end of the story.

I have forty five cents in nickels and pennies in my pocket, getting all jangly when I walk. It's my own little song, my little money song, and it goes *forty five cents buys a pack of Swedish Fish, a pack of Swedish fish for me*. If I run too fast, the coins will fall out. If I walk too slow, the store will close before I get there and the whole day will be a disappointment. So, I have to walk-run and get there at the right time with the right money. The money song jangles along faster after I check my watch *forty five cents, forty five cents for Swedish Fish* I change the words, but that's not important. The store bell has its own jangle, but it sounds different. It's a happy jangle, like one of those songs on the radio that tries to sell mattresses in the town over. My money song won't shut up when I walk around the store, so I reach into my pocket and tell those coins to quiet down. *forty five cents buys me Swedish Fish, a pack of Swedish Fish* I hum the money song to let the coins know I haven't forgotten what I'm doing. At the counter is the old man who always waits quietly. He is very ugly, all crunched up like some kind of car accident. "Moved the Swedish Fish, Mr. Thornton." I don't like that he calls me mister, like he's trying to embarrass me. Says it the same way that awful old psychiatrist used to. I find them easily, even though he thinks I won't. Even though he thinks I can't, I find those Swedish Fish and bring them right over to show him what I can do. "Fifty cents, Mr. Thornton." "No, it's forty five." That crafty man, trying to trick me, trying to take advantage, he doesn't think I can tell he's lying. "Price went up, last week." He's got this crooked half smile now, all happy he is ruining things. "I only have forty five cents. It's always forty five cents." "I'm sorry, Mr. Thornton. Price went up. You can come back later with five more cents. I'll make sure I have a pack of *Swedish Fish* just for you." He thinks I'm dumb, thinks I can't tell he's lying, thinks I'm nothing. "I came all the way here. I want my Swedish Fish." "Rules are rules, Mr. Thornton." Now, that jangly money, that I had to shut up, starts singing again inside of my shaking fist. It just wants to buy some fish. It just wants to do its job. I keep it in my fist, letting it jangle like it wants to. The old man's crumply face gets bloody really quickly, all bruised up like old apples, all lumpy and such. I make sure I pay him. I make sure he gets those singing coins. I get my Swedish Fish. They are the same colour as the old man's blood.

The psychopath with a childs mind..

She jumped. The summers had always been long, too long. Sarah fixated on details, time escaped her. On this summer evening, Sarah had left obligations behind. Hours, months, even years felt as though they had passed. It had all passed: the mess she left at home, the lunch she skipped, the boy with whom she had exchanged smiles. Everything was behind her, with only water below. Tears welled, and Sarah was frightened. She had come here to jump, to finally be free of the anxiety which plagued her. She watched the waves, they were mocking her. Voices pounded her mind, telling her to do it. They shouted, flinging their arms forward with angry mouths, gaping wide. Sarah stood there, miles high above water, clutching the bar behind her. She walked along a beam, it struggled under her weight. Sarah held her breath, this summer day was coming to a close. She thought to herself, for the last time, "Why do I want this?" She willed for an answer she had never really known. She closed her eyes. The board trembled as she eased her hands from the railing. Finally, she stepped forward. "Sarah honey, why don't you climb down and come around to the shallow end? The boys behind you are getting restless."

Every ending is also a beginning. Begin your story with the ending.