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euclaise

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At 6:30, my phone erupted in light and sound, just as it did every morning. My eyes creaked open, and were nearly blinded by the phone laying on the sheets a few inches in front of my face. My hand reached out from under the covers, and shut off the alarm. With the awful sound gone and blessed darkness back, I closed my eyes slowly. I had no desire to leave the warm comfort of my sheets, where I didn't have to care about anything at all. There was no job to do, no house to clean, and no people to see while in bed. And best of all, there was no sight of the body underneath those sheets; it didn't matter what I looked like, or who I was. When in bed, I was just another tired person. Despite my best efforts, I could feel the tears building. Sadness began welling deep in my chest, and I could feel my throat beginning to constrict. Memories of the dream that I had been having were still fresh in my mind, and doing their best to drag me into the pits of despair. It had been a wonderful dream, where I had been given just one wish- the one wish that I had had for years. But that wish was still just a dream, and an unrealized one at that. The phone began buzzing and singing again, signaling the arrival of my first get-the-hell-out-of-bed alarm. I reached out again and shut it off. I would call in sick today. I simply didn't care anymore. No more reports, no more phone calls, no more paper pushing. None of it mattered when I was doomed to always be a different person than I wanted to be. The next alarm was the loudest yet, just as I had programmed it to be. Chimes blared in my ears, and lights pierced my shut eyelids. I let this alarm run for a few minutes, before turning on my side and facing away from it, content to let it run its course. Huh, that felt strange. I could feel sheets rubbing against skin that I wasn't aware that I had. I pulled my hands up to my torso, and touched my chest. My eyes instantly shot open and I bolted upright, letting the sheets fly off. My phone followed the sheets, soaring to some corner of the room, where it continued to chime and blare its alarm. I looked downwards, seeing what my still sleepy brain could hardly believe. I swung my legs over the edge of the bed, launched myself off of it, and ran over to the full length mirror in the bathroom, acutely aware of the flesh swinging back and forth on my chest. My feet met the cold tiles, and my hand automatically reached to the wall for the light switch. Light flooded the room, and I got a first look in the mirror. Bright blue eyes, watery from tears looked back at me, wide open in disbelief. No stubble could be found on that chin, and long hair fell gracefully on her thin shoulders. Two very clearly female breasts protruded from her chest. As I looked southwards, I could see quite clearly that this was a very gorgeous woman looking back at me. I fell to my knees, and the woman in the mirror did the same. I reached out, touching the mirror and the girl that I was looking at. A genuine smile broke across her face- no- my face. Suddenly I knew that everything was going to be alright.

You wake up and realize you are not the same gender you were when you went to bed. (Potentially NSFW)

Tensions have been running high, and we've gone over the edge. The television networks have stopped, repeating a synthesised voice. It's inhuman, it's... surreal. A nuclear attack is inbound, we all knew it was possible but we didn't expect it to happen. Not here, not to us. I, like many others, had daydreams - no, daylight-nightmares of this day, what I would do; would the nuclear strike miss us, would I get to the shelter, would I be miraculously saved by act of God? So many positive outcomes for such a negative situation. And yet, in all of my dreams I was so panicked - so terrified. Yet, I sit here - alone, in the dark. Suspended in a state of disbelief. Outside my window people scurry around. They look for shelter, they hide in their basements. The sound of weeping is sustained, deep, long - and yet quieter, muffled, muted. Yet still I sit. The television changes image. It declares that immediate action be taken, that a strike is imminent. A distant siren goes off, but it feels so tranquil - a symphony for the end of all days. The drone that would define the beginning of the final chapter of humanity. It all starts here. I walk out to my porch and look to the skies, a distant light approaching ever closer. A nuclear warhead from a leader out of options. It soars slowly - its glow not daunting but rather warm and welcoming. The sirens weren't too loud in the house. My wife hadn't returned home, she was in Cornwall visiting her parents. I went upstairs to comfort the kids. Ages 9 and 12, they'd have no understanding of the certainty of death - against the odds, however they both remained soundly asleep. The missiles roar grew louder. I sat between the two beds. I considered waking them up for prayers - but they didn't need to know what was about to happen. I clenched their hands and let them sleep - it was better that way. I waited.

You are in a large, crowded city on a typical day during the Cold War era. Suddenly the nuclear sirens go off.

"The world ended." What a funny phrase, given the circumstances. When I was ten, my mom died when her car was hit by a train. Everything I knew, everything I thought was constant, was suddenly uncertain - the world in which I was safe, happy, and free of worry was gone - it ended. When bombers filled the sky and blasted my home and friends from the face of the earth, my world ended again. But fifty years ago, *the* world ended. Or that's what folks say. Folks always thought it'd be nukes or biowarfare or global warming or whatever the scare of the decade was; I'm not even sure myself what is was all those years ago that brought about the end. But... end of the world? I'm sitting here on the goddamn Statue of Liberty - er, what's left it, anyway - and looking out over an ocean that is very much still in existence. It didn't end. The sun's still rising out over the horizon. At night, I look up and see the flickering dots of a billion distant stars and a billion distant galaxies; some too far away to have even received the tiny sphere of electromagnetic signals humanity had sent out over the course of a century. Waves still lap up on the shore, birds still swoop through the air, the rain falls and the clouds roll and the sun and moon dance through the sky. It dawns on me that the world never ended. Humanity did.

Most people alive today think the world ended 50 years ago. Well, that's not quite true. What actually happened was...

I met my wife a few days after I got diagnosed. Cancer. It doesn't really matter what of, skin, brain, bone. The end result was going to be the same. Death. She knew it from day one. She knew I would get weaker, my strength would go, my hair would fall out. She knew it from the start and she stayed. Her lovely smile got me through the vomiting, the nausea, the constant pain. It was a smile tinged with sadness always. The smile of someone whose happiness is set to a countdown. I pleaded with her. I tried to make her hate me. To leave. I didn't want to hurt her, you see. She was my rock. I was supposed to be hers, but I was a pile of sand, slowly being washed out to sea. I wanted her to leave so she could find someone that could be a rock to *her*. I could hear her crying on the days I was weakest. All I wanted to do was run to her and hold her in my arms. To comfort her and tell her that it would be alright, but I didn't have enough strength to get up, so I laid there listening to her sob. Her whole life fell apart because of me. She didn't have any more friends, she worked a job she hated to take care of me. She used to play piano, you know? There was no time for her to practice now. Too busy helping me to the bathroom, making sure I had my medication. Driving me to the doctor took two hours even though the hospital was only twenty miles away. We had to keep stopping so I could throw up. The day they told me the cancer was going away was the happiest day of my life. I smiled. Or I did the best I could do, I was far too weak to muster up a good effort. I looked up to see the tears welling in her eyes. Finally I would be able to be the one to take care of her. To be there when she needed me. That night, she came to visit me late at night at my hospital bed. She did that every night. The poor girl barely slept. She had her same lovely smile. Her eyes were puffy and red. She'd been crying a lot. Her hands lightly stroked my face, afraid that even the slightest pressure could break me. "I love you." I said. "I know, puppy, I know." she replied. "Could you help me with my pillow?" I asked. "Sure, puppy, sure." The tears were streaming down her face again. She looked so serene with the pillow in her hand. Like Athena with her sword. Wise and full of direction. And then she put the pillow over my face. I tried to scream but my lungs could barely muster the energy for a whimper. "I'm sorry, puppy, I'm sorry" she whispered into my ear as she leaned her weight against me. "I've been taking care of you so long...I...I just don't know anything else." I wanted to yell. I wanted to tell her we could grow together again. We could do all the things we wanted but I was holding us back from. "I'm sorry, puppy" she said again, "I don't know what to do. There's nothing left of me." Her tears fell on my face and blended with mine, making a pool of salty desperation in the sheets around my head. The black spots in my vision had completely taken over. The world was a blurry shadow. My brain was starting to shut down and I could only think in emotions and single words. *Afraid*. *Wife*. *Pain*. *Breathe*. *Love*. *Stop*. *Please*. *Please*. "There's only one other person I can be now. If I can't be the wife of a cancer patient, I'll have to be the widow of a cancer victim."

Make me love a character until the final sentence / last two sentences.

That's Evelyn, my significant other. According to her, we are planning a barn wedding for spring, but the oppressively cliched notion of having her walk towards me with flowers in her hair is enough to make me want to stab her in the eye. She always drags me to these coffee-house events to watch the dozens of talentless, clever girls sing while playing ukelele. Evelyn has told me that she would like to preform on stage, but I know just how awful she is and besides with her looks the audience won't be able to distract themselves with the thought of fucking her. "Patrick, wasn't that excellent? We should talk to her after the show." For months Evelyn has been been teasing the prospect of a threesome, attributing it to her newly discovered 'fluid sexuality'. It's disgusting really, that she never follows through, blames it on feeling sick or tired at the last minute. "Wasn't it, Patrick?" "Yes, of course." I hate the way she smiles at me. Recently she's been listening exclusively to French singers from the sixties and that has somehow deluded her into thinking that the gap in her teeth isn't repulsive. All I can think about is splitting her head right through that awful gap. "They're opening up the mic, do you think I should go up?" "You'll embarrass yourself, just sit down." "Patrick, come on. Don't you want me to have fun?" She's playing with that stupid ring I gave her. I told her it was a vintage Tiffany ring, but I'm not even sure that call girl's name was Tiffany. "Patrick, I'm going to go up. Wish me luck." "Sit down, Evelyn. Nobody wants to hear another fucking cover of Junip." There's nothing more disgusting than Evelyn's face when she cries. Some of the people in the room are looking over; Evelyn was always an attention whore. "Patrick! Why do you always have to ruin things like this?" I'm already bored of this argument, it ended in the threat of suicide last time, a real tease Evelyn is. "Fine, you know what, go up. I'm leaving." "Where are you going?" "I have to go re-watch 'Freaks and Geeks' on Netflix."

Re-write an extract of American Psycho like Patrick Bateman is not a yuppie, but a modern day hipster.

It was a dark and stormy night, And through the Fristle Forest trees, A manor comes in sight, Where Walter Watcher lives and sees. He sees the bloodless bimble smolder, In his flaming den beneath, Making warmer days the colder, Drawing heat to boil children's teeth. It was there that Wilma Winter went, Upon the path that spirits beat, To find the flower Fwinttlefent, To spice her soup that Winter's eat. But when upon a manor dark She stumbled, knocked, and grinned 'Ahoy!' The manor master bent to hark, And prepared for her a special toy. In she came, by welcomed wave, The walls a'hung with wigwun eyes And glowing grustly grindlebave, Which simply seeing was unwise. Afraid she asked him, "Be you cruel?" He waved a hand in reply, To flicks and whatchas around a red stool, Why she sat down she'll never know why. Perhaps twas his eyes, alight and afire, Perhaps twas his manner, his stance, his face, Perhaps his manor, a thing to admire, Swallowed the will of the Winter entire. But there on the stool, in the Fristle so black, She sat with Walter Watcher looking, Soon, like the wigwuns, to be on a plaque, A trophy of what Walter soon would be cooking. Forever her eyes shall watch the Watcher, Wilma Winter frozen in shock, In Fristle Forest dwells many a monster, Yet only the one door will *make* you knock. EDIT: This may be a bit more Brothers Grimm meets Lewis Carroll than Poe meets Seuss, but it sure was fun to write :P

Write a story like if Edgar Alan Poe and Dr. Seuss combined.

"E2" was one of the most popular live streams, despite how boring it was. It was a planet, our planet, just about 60 minutes in the future. It also happened to be light years away. Landforms--same, lights from cities at night--same. They measured the time delta based on weather patterns coming onto the California coast. Just as a big storm touched down outside San Francisco (or whatever THEY called it) 60 minutes later it happened here. Yeah, some large questions about relativity were asked, but they were second to the questions of how our doppelganger plus an hour came to be. NASA and the other agencies trained their telescopes onto the planet and "E2" became a pastime. It was calming, serene and just slightly spooky. Messages, laser and radio, were directed there but no replies. We sat and watched. Every night, we sat and watched. Right after dinner tonight I, and millions around the world were watching, and saw the explosion. When the light receded, E2 was gone. There were fragments of rock floating passionless through space. I turned to my wife, she already had her head in her hands. My daughter, all six years of joy and questions entered the room and asked why we were so sad. For the next fifty eight minutes, I wished I didn't know.

An exact replica of Earth, with all of the same inhabitants, is discovered a few light years away. Earth #2 is exactly 60 minutes further in time than Earth #1.

""Ph'nglui mglw'nafh Cthulhu R'lyeh wgah'nagl fhtagn" We chanted, like usual, at the start of our 33rd meeting of the Esoteric Order of Dagon. We weren't really a cult, more like a little group of eccentrics and outcasts. A club more than anything. I had never taken it too seriously, and I didn't think any of the others did either. Just an excuse to get dressed up, put on some cool robes and blow off steam - casting our little curses and magic spells on our fellow students at Miskatonic U. I don't think any of us really believed in magic, but we wanted to feel like we were something, that we had something, and most of all that we belonged. Take Heidi, I'd found her in a stairwell in the library, holding back tears; her sorority sisters had ditched her for some bullshit reason. She had nobody to hang out with. I invited her along and she seemed to really enjoy it - studying old books, learning a dead language, and having people to share it with. Most of us were like that. But anyway. We met twice a week on our "official business", and we'd been running for over a term. We were working through books in the library's compact storage - unknown authors, really old stuff. Most of them last checked out in the '20s. The library systems would freak out every time we tried to check one out, and this older librarian, everyone just called her "Mrs P.", would always override the system for us. Then we'd scan a couple of passages and read them, come to the meetings and discuss them, cast spells from them, and copy the rituals. That sort of stuff. As I said, it wasn't a cult or anything, like this one ritual called for a blood sacrifice, so we cut up a steak on the 'alter', we were laughing so much we could hardly get the words right. But where was I? Yeah the books. They were all about these old gods, Father Dagon and Mother Hydra, who served the "Great Old One" Cthulhu. They were written in different languages, English, Latin and this dead, weird language of the chants. We had a book from the library, by Dr Armitage, apparently he used to teach at the University. He'd decoded most of it. All rubbish about Cthulhu dead but not dead, sleeping until "death itself may die". But the one we'd gotten for this meeting. That was fucked up. We got it straight from Mrs P, she said she'd found it in the archive and thought we might be interested. Didn't even have an electronic tag, she had to find one of the old ink stamps and put an entry in. We were the first to check it out since 1926. I remember that bit. That wasn't the weird thing though, Mrs P often pointed us at new books, but like, this one, you just got a weird vibe off it. It looked like any other old book - leather bound, had that book smell, but it just... it sort of hurt to look at. Like your eyes didn't want to focus on it or something. You had to try really hard to read it. I thought it was the font at first, like it was this old cursive stuff, totally in the same language as the chants. I tried to scan it so we could all read it, but the scanner fucked up. Like, kept just giving blank scans. Mrs P said the system was fucked. So we got together to read it, in the usual seminar room in the library basement. And like got really excited, it had way more powerful sounding spells in it. None of this Curse of Bad Luck shit (Although we sort of pretended that one worked after we cursed one of the guys on the football team and he broke his leg in a freak accident), this was like "Invocation of the Great Old One" and all this stuff about peeling back the veil of reality. We were really excited, so we raced through the usual incantations, and all sat there with this book, reading through it. We decided to try one of the summonings to "invoke the spirit of Father Dagon". Just... it sounded cool. It had words we didn't recognise. So we started with a pentagram on the floor and stuff, black candles, etc. all the usual shit for black magic. We'd done it all before... but when we put the book in the centre of the pentagram, it was... the was something fucked up. Like you know that feeling in the air, like just before a storm comes yeah? The hairs on your neck stand up, static electricity and shit. Well, like... it was like that. So... anyway. We followed the ritual. But we weren't giggling this time. We all felt it... there was something here this time. It wasn't funny. And then, oh fuck. I don't even know how to describe it. It was... like a person but with scales. It fucking appeared, right there, right in the room and it... it tore them apart. It's claws were like... razors. It ripped their limbs off in front of me... they tried to run, but the door was locked. We hadn't locked it. We were the only people there except Mrs... oh wow. She was the only one who could have locked it. But... yeah the thing, the thing it killed them, Heidi was last, banging against the door, screaming. Oh god I can hear her. I was... I froze. I couldn't move, I just... I just watched them die. In front of me. It was... it was a stupid club, a stupid game. Nobody was supposed to get hurt." "And *that's* your story? *That's* how you explain us finding you in a room with as far as we can tell from counting arms, 6 dead bodies? Black Magic and a librarian who doesn't exist?" Asked the cop. His tired eyes glared from beneath the shadow of his furrowed brow. His coffee was going cold next to him. "It's the truth." "Son. I've heard some fucked up stories in my time, but this one takes the cake, and unless you can come up with a reasonable fucking explanation of what happened in that room, you are going to be in a world of shit. What do you have to say to that?" "I... I..." The kid sat still for a moment, the hood of his crimson red robe pulled back, he stared at the floor. "I... Ia! Ia! Cthulhu Fthagn! Mglw'nafh agla thfnha vu!" The cop opened his mouth to say something, but blood was already pouring down his cheeks from his burnt out eye sockets. His corpse tilted forward, and then collapsed, head first against the desk. Coffee and blood mixed as they pooled, flowed and dripped towards the floor. "Now, to find my book."

A villian who thinks he's a hero realizes he's the villian. What is he thinking?

"It's quite disorienting" Lowe said. He wasn't sure if he was sitting in a posh psychiatrist's office or in that playground by his old house, just imagining all of this. "Retro-active Recall can be quite disorienting." Dr Merck replied. "Any of your memories you recall seem to be happening to you as we speak. Where are you right now?" "Where are you right now?" Sam asked. Lowe looked around. It was Senior prom, the theme was *Above the Clouds*. Samantha was beautiful. *Don't do it*, he could hear himself say. "Sam..." *Don't say anything*. "I know you slept with Dan". I was crying then, or is it now? "Why are you crying?" It was Sara. "I never talked to her again after that..." I replied. Sara looked confused. *That's right*, Lowe thought. *I'm married*. He smiled, saw her lying in bed beside him, and bent down for a kiss... to see Sara lying in the open casket. *Leukemia*, Lowe thought. *After 31 years of marriage.* He was just a lonely old man now. His life was almost over. "Where are you right now?" Dr Merck's voice cut through everything. Lowe shook his head. "I'm Lowe Green, 15 years old." He replied. "I'm at 35 Birchwood Lane, and it's October 21st, 2045." "Very good", Dr Merck beamed. "I'm sure with our weekly sessions and a rigorous dose of drug therapy, we'll be able to manage your condition." Lowe nodded solemnly. "Cheer up," Merck said. "This isn't the end of the world. You're young, you've got your whole life ahead of you." Lowe smiled weakly, but inside, he could only think how his life ended a long time ago.

A mental disorder that doesn't exist.

**Log Entry 0001-v01** The first thing you notice is the dust; red, lyophilized, clingy little clods of powder that gets everywhere. It reminds me so much of my training back on the moon, which I’m happy to say is over with… A secondary lock in my block had failed and three folks got a room full of the living hell that is moon dust - mars dust is just dandy, actually, at least it doesn’t have the properties of fiberglass. **WARNING** - **detection of NEGATIVE entry** - **will NOT be transmitted upon completion** - **PLEASE REPAIR your assessment of your arrival.** Delete Entry(?)[Y/N] Y Entry Deleted **Log Entry 0001-v02** There are many things that struck me when descending from orbit onto the Red planet. Was it the overwhelming sight of the cross planet plateaus? The huge canyons? The gigantic mountain? No, none of those things, we’ve all been in the VR sims of the surface and become familiar with the landscape; it was the palpable *humanity* of the place that made the entire shuttle lapse into silence. Huge organic volatile factories are easily distinguished along the bland surface of mars, churning an endless stream of ‘atmosphere’ for the fungi-algal symbionts to flourish at the equator. The next thing you notice is the geosynchronous orbit of the MEMS. Huge bodies of asteroids and comets being harvested for material and then locked in orbit to provide a magnetic shield from sun. Looks like a giant blind spot in the sky. **WARNING** - **detection of SARCASTIC entry** - **will NOT be transmitted upon completion** - **PLEASE REPAIR your assessment of your arrival.** Delete Entry(?)[Y/N] Y Entry Deleted **Log Entry 0001-v03** Fuck you Colonial Authority. Fuck you. We're not a prison population. We're not incapable of deciding for ourselves. We're not here to inhabit a copied megacity of earth. We're here to enjoy a new planet and escape from what humanity has become. We're here for a fresh start and all you've brought is more of the same! I want the freedom to explore what it is to be... me. **WARNING** - **detection of NEGATIVE entry** - **will NOT be transmitted upon completion** - **PLEASE REPAIR your assessment of your arrival.**

Mars has been finally colonized, and prepared for human inhabitation, Write from the perspective of one of the first colonists on Mars.

For my entire life I've described myself as the cool, level-headed type. Steel nerves in the face of danger. Laughing at peril's face haughtily. In hindsight, it was probably only because my scrawny, well-off, 140lb bony ass has never had the pleasure of meeting peril face to face. So when my normal shortcut to work was blocked by an all-black wearing, ski-mask donned thug, you can imagine my brave, steely-nerve, peril-mocking reaction. My eyes got big. I stopped in my tracks. And I couldn't move. Contrary to what they taught me in Psych, I didn't have the guts for flight and I damn sure didn't have the guts to fight. The man took a step towards me. He moved slowly enough to keep me from completely panicking yet deliberately enough to demonstrate that the threatening aura around him was not a bluff. "Here's what's going to happen," he said, in surprisingly gentle baritone voice. "You're going to reach into your pocket. You're going to hand me your wallet. You're going to take that Rolex off of your wrist. You're going to hand over your gold tie clip--what is that, Givenchy?--anyway, you'll take that off too. Then you'll give me whatever other valuables you have, and then you and I will decide whether the gifts you're about to give me are worth sparing your life or not." "Fuck you!" I said. Well, that's what I told myself to say. My body decided instead to keep up the deer-in-headlights act. I couldn't even blink. My balls were sweaty. Suddenly I wished I had majored in English and been poor instead of getting an MBA and getting rich from luck, good friends, a silver tongue, and a deft mind. The gun was 2 feet from my face. I found myself doing what I always do under pressure...day dream. I dreamed that suddenly a group of guys walked around the corner and the mugger ran off, intimidated by all the witnesses. I dreamed that suddenly the police bursted out of the doors in the alleyway and pinned the guy to the ground. I dreamed that I was Bruce Lee reincarnated and the sudden stress of the situation woke the kung-fu in my genes and I delivered a lightning-fast roundhouse kick to the guy's temple. I dreamed that web yanked the gun out of the guy's hand and Spiderman swooped down and kicked the crap out of this guy. "...from five. Five. Four. Three", said the mugger. Hey, wait, what? He's counting down? My internal organs seemed to all clump together in my chest as if they were trying to huddle together out of fear. "Two," said the mugger. I saw him pull the hammer back on the smooth black pistol he carried and something strange happened. "W-why?" Huh, that's odd. I didn't tell my voice to do that. The mugger paused. I don’t know what his face looked like at that moment but I imagine there was confusion on it for a moment. "What?" I swallowed. I wish I could recall whatever plan I was hatching at that moment, I was freelancing. "Why...kill me? Is a homicide worth the couple thousand dollars worth of stuff I'm wearing?" The mugger didn't say anything for a second. Then he lowered his head and chuckled. I thought I was in the clear until he raised his eyes back to mine and I saw pure disgust in his eyes. "Fucking scum," he muttered gently, and in this brief moment, his intentions became crystal clear. But before he could pull the trigger, my voice did this weird thing again. "Why are you so angry? You don't just want my stuff do you?" What the hell are you doing, I asked myself. How do you even know he's angry? Myself didn't respond. The man paused again, and I could see that being stopped twice from killing someone wasn't something he was used to. "Why..." he said, as if the word was foreign to him. I was silent. The man was choosing his words carefully. I recognized this moment from various business deals I had done. This is the moment where if the see-saw tips either left or right, you lose. Gotta keep it balanced. "What's poverty, to you?" the man asked. I wasn't sure if this was some sort of existential trick question where if I answered wrong my head would get blown off, so I answered conservatively. "It's...like, just being poor?" I said clumsily. The man sighed. "Do you give to charity?" "Well I mean, of..." I started to lie. But something about that felt wrong. Sure, I was about, at least, 0.002 seconds from welcoming a bullet into my brain, but something in this moment felt so...intimate. Lying felt wrong. "...No, I don't," I said resignedly. "Why?" the man asked. His voice suddenly wasn't so gentle and I assumed that *this* was the existential question that my life hinged on. So I dug deep for an answer. Was I selfish..? No, I loved to give...did I hate poor people? Considering I was born from poor people, how could I? So what was it? What was the unconscious feeling that stopped me from donating to charity? "It...," I started, pleading with the words to stop evading me. "It...doesn't...I don't think it helps." The man's eyes twinkled. "Oh? Why not?" This wasn't fair. At least when I presented proposals in front of various boards, I had a couple weeks to prepare. But here I was, winging a proposal that could save my life. "I just..." I thought some more. How did I even get the idea that charity was pointless in my head? Who gave it to me? In that instant, a memory came rushing to the surface like a bubble underwater. And suddenly, I was Martin Luther King. I was Winston Churchill. I was the world's greatest orator. "My father. He never accepted aid, and we grew up poor. He said that charity was a dirty word because it implies condescension. He said that if you want to pull a man out of struggle, you do it by elevating his mind, not by elevating his means." The man seemed to smile under his mask. "Your old man was smart. But now I only know what he said. What do you say?" Oop. There goes my speaking skills again. "I assume then, that you've spent your millions building schools? Investing in the youth? But wait," he said, taking another step towards me, "you're too busy buying Givenchy and Tom Ford to do that. You're too busy investing in the rich to invest in the poor. It's a shame. Your father's lesson's were good. Good enough to even save your life, had you listened." I looked down at my feet. The Alexander McQueen shoes I had on shined gently in the dark alley. I thought for sure he was going to shoot me there. Looking back, I don't know why I didn't run. "So you're not gonna run, huh?" said the man. Hey, great minds. The moment that changed my life wasn't an existential question after all. It was an existential statement. About myself. "I would but...I guess I'm already dead." I looked up at the man right in his dark eyes. I figured if I was going to die, I might as well get everything off my chest. "Before...I believed my dad. Money wasn't everything. It was the mind that was more important. But...how could I believe that in this place? This country...how can you possibly maintain that mindset when it's bombarded on all sides with materialism? With the American Dream? With CEO worship? With..." I trailed off and sighed. "I wanted to be an English teacher," I continued. In the back of my mind I understood the man might get fed up with my speech and blast me mid-sentence, but I didn't care. It was like I had spent the years prior to this encounter cramped up in a 4x4 box and finally got the chance to stand up and stretch. "I wanted to build the next generation...I wanted to empower kids with words...people always said I was smart and I wanted to hand that baton over to the people who would take my place in 50 years. But I couldn't...I had the potential to be anything...I had the intellect for it. How could I betray myself by resigning to a life of mediocre pay when I had the ability to join the upper percentile? How could I betray my dad by being too poor to pay for his cancer treatment?" I felt a balloon rise up from my stomach to my throat and tears formed. "Money is power, not knowledge. You can't do anything if you're poor...so I abandoned my passion for...for this," I said, gesturing to my suit while still looking at my feet. It was silent for a moment and I waited for a gunshot. Finally, he spoke. "So if I shot you right now," he said quietly, would you be satisfied?" The answer was easy. "No." "If you could do it all again and change careers, would you?" Again, the answer was easy, albeit more complicated. "Yes." The words continued to flow as if I knew them all along but could never say it. "I think if my dad could speak to me...he would tell me that death is inevitable but whether you feel satisfaction or disappointment moments prior to it is up to you." I looked up at him and saw him stuffing his gun into his waistband. "Good," he said. "Then throw away that Givenchy. No school teacher dresses that fancy," he said as he walked toward me, then past me, and turned a corner and disappeared.

You are a businessman and you make a turn down a side-alley where a stranger wielding a knife demands your money. Talk the mugger out of mugging you.

"Did you know four of the last five US Presidents have been left-handed? A curious anomaly, some have said. A weird coincidence, others have noted. But Satanic? Come on, that's medieval superstition, right? Truth be told, it's a helluva lot more than superstition. Truth be told, it's a helluva lot more than even worshiping the Devil. " The man speaking took a long drag from his cigarette then flicked the butt cross-way against the whipping Texas wind. He was a rugged mid 60s; fit, lean, and tanned. He had tussled gray hair with the slightest element of style-- a cowboy with just a hint of refinement. His prep school days of yore were visible only in the slightest movements and sounds and they seemed much longer ago than four decades suggested. "As early as I can remember, my father instilled in my brothers and me to use our left hands. Invariably, I'd use my right, as a natural God-fearing boy. He was furious about that, about all of his kids being righties. How could his father, Lucifer, give him right-handers to raise, he would always say. This was all private, of course. Even to this day no one knows all Lefties come from the Prince of Darkness. I guess my father, being one of Satan's brightest sons, was much more loose-lipped about the whole devil thing than any other lefty I've met because his human alias' success provided him that luxury. He was a WWII war hero and a well liked businessman; a good looking Yale graduate whom everyone thought was just a boring, waspy, American success story. But boy was he a sick bastard in private. One time, when my brother Jeb was only 5, he carved a pentagram into his ass. Still on Jeb's ass today I bet, the cuts were that deep." The man started his truck up and motioned me to join him in the passenger seat. I'm a journalist of sorts, this fellow hired me to write this story of a vast left-handed conspiracy. He himself was once one of the most powerful men in the world. Equally beloved and hated, forever scorned and celebrated. He made some good decisions and some terrible ones, yet he intimated to me last week that there was a larger, more clandestine reason for all of his actions over the course of his life, and he'd tell me if I visited him on his ranch. "I'm possibly the only righty that knows this much about left handed people. Even my dear mother, the woman who married my father, one of Satan's most successful Earthly children, doesn't know it. Even my siblings, who have seen the evidence with their own eyes, deny it. But I don't blame 'em, the Devil is a tricky being. He warps everything you think you understand and displays the attractive like a mirage in the desert. That's why people don't even see it when they choose the spawns of Lucifer as their elected leaders. And it's not just at the top these minions end up at, either. They're in sports, law, medicine, you name it. They're even working at the grocery store across from your home believe it or not." "And I tell you what" he continued, "I promise you every single choice I ever made was because of them. That whole fiasco in the Mideast, started by the lefties I tell ya. And I got to reiterate here how far reaching these fellas are. My dad's successor was a son of Satan. They're everywhere. It's why I just left the public eye altogether 5 years ago and decided to seclude myself on this ranch. I tried my best to oust them, I really did. But my best shot wasn't enough. I failed, and the children Satan endured. I mean, even _my_ successor is a southpaw." He finished this last soliloquy with the most disgusted look of disdain I'd yet seen in this two day interview. I'd gathered almost all the info I needed at this point, so I prepared to ask him the most important question. I clear my throat and speak to him, "Well George, I got to say, the things you've told me over the last two days have been fascinating in every sense of the word. I've had a real change of heart with regard to how I view the world. And the evidence you present has been far more convincing than I ever imagined it could be" He interrupts, "But?" "But..." I add, "With all the interaction you've had with left handed people, the children of Satan as you say, have you ever _actually seen the devil himself?_" George chuckles nervously. He nods his head while closing his eyes as if the memory still haunts him. "Only once. My dad and his replacement Bill were convening at my house the night after it was decided that I was to be president, and their father was right there with them. They were deciding how to deal with me." That's all I needed to hear. I pulled my satchel up from the floor with my dominant hand., my left hand, and pulled out my pistol. I've practiced my whole life to feign ambidexterity when necessary, like it was this weekend. George notices my left hand dominance immediately and shoots a horrified look my way. I start laughing as I hold my pistol out. "Stupid fucking W. Don't you know all journalists are lefties? What the hell were you thinking inviting me out here. Your dad was right about you, too damn stupid and nosy for your own good. But you never beat us George, we're too powerful." As I pulled the trigger he quickly steered the truck off a bridge. He'll die shortly.

All left-handers really are the children of Satan, but only the left-handers know it

The man approached with a glum look on his face. I had seen him many times before, with his sharp suit and tie, his seemingly perfect hair, but today he was different. His smile was gone and his eyes a mixture of fury and sadness. As he gave his coins to me, I promptly displayed which of my many snacks were in stock. I noticed he was a few cents short of getting his snicker bar, a personal favourite of his. His eyes widened and he muffled some words under his breath. I tried to tell him hoe much more money he needed but he turned away , dejected, he started to weep. It took me a moment to realise he was actually crying , something odd overcame me and I felt the urge to help him. As i returned his coins back to him, he was greeted by a snicker bar. He smiled at me as he grabbed the bar and his eyes seemed a little brighter. He looked at me like i had done some miracle . I never saw the man after that. It was back to my usual regime. You would be suprised as to how many times such private moments have been shared with me. Sometimes i feel how it would be like to be human. To laugh. To cry. To move . But it is not to be, for I am a vending machine

A day in the life of a vending machine. (Feedback for every response)(500 words or less)

My footsteps echoed through the apartment building as I hurried up the deserted staircase. A quick glance at my watch reminded me it was still early, very early, and so I slowed down my ascent in an attempt to not get yelled at by Kent's angry neighbors. Like everyone else, I too would be asleep right now if it weren't for the desperation in Kent's voice when he called and woke me up an hour ago, blathering about some 'incredible discovery'. Knowing him, it's probably another new nail clipper design, but you never know, some of the stuff he comes up with is actually useful. Kind of. I gave the fourth floor door with a crooked '43' on it a series of swift knocks. He didn't answer, but then again he rarely did, especially when he was absorbed in one of his projects. I fumbled my spare key out of my pocket and opened the door. The stench that hit me as I stepped in was as if something had died, then been resurrected by one of Kent's gadgets, only to die of starvation and neglect again when he moved on to a different project and forgot about it. I heard someone sobbing in the living room, so I gingerly navigated through the maze of dirty dishes, clothes and trinkets strewn across the hall floor while calling out to my brother. "Hey, Kent? Are you there?" I found him sitting on the carpet in the living room, crying to himself and cradling something in his arms, whispering "I'm so sorry, I didn't know". When he finally saw me, Kent jumped to his feet and wiped his tears on the sleeve of the bathrobe he was wearing, trying, but doing a poor job of hiding the object he was cradling behind his back. "Hey, sis. What are you doing here?", he said while his eyes darted nervously from door to door, as if looking for an emergency exit, should the conversation go sour. "You called me and asked me to come over. Is that... a butt-plug you're holding?" He got a wild look in his eye and said, much to firmly to be believable, "No!". "Never mind, I don't want to know. I'm guessing you had some other reason to call me at four in the morning?" His face lit up as if he suddenly remembered something. "Yes! Yes, I did!", he said and beamed at me. Kent almost tripped over a particularly tall mountain of dishes as he threw himself in front of his computer and began frantically tapping the keys. "It's incredible!", he muttered, more to himself than me while text flew across the screen. "It's amazing! But also terrifying! It changes everything, you understand that, don't you, Lois?", Kent asked, giving me a very serious look. "I'm sure it does. Whatever it is." Apparently, that was good enough for him, because he simply nodded thoughtfully and continued tapping away at his keyboard. "They can understand us, sis. They can think and feel and everything, they're *aware*." Hopelessly lost as to where this conversation was going, I sighed and asked the obvious question, "Who is aware?". "The objects", he cackled. "All of them, they understand everything that's happening." "That's ridiculous", I said, but he insisted. "No, no, look, I made a program! I can speak to them! Take an item, anything and place it on here!", he indicated a makeshift platform made out of tinfoil, various kitchen utensils and a lot of duct tape that was connected to his computer. In an attempt to humor my brother's vivid imagination, I took the lamp of the table and placed it on the platform. After a moment of tentative silence I said, "Well, that was bloody interesting. I'm going back to bed now, bye", and turned on my heel to leave. "She did not even say hi, how rude.", a robotic voice from the computer said. I glared wide-eyed at the lamp, just sitting there amidst the mishmash of duct tape, not doing much of anything. "So? Are you going to introduce yourself or what?", the robotic voice insisted. "Um... hi. I'm Lois. Kent's sister. You probably know him. I've never talked to a lamp before", I replied tentatively. "Neither have I. It is nice to meet you Lois. I am Lamp, son of Lamp." I held out a hand for it to shake, only to retract it a moment later when I realized my folly. "Can you do me a favor, Lois, sister of Kent? Can you... turn me on?" I figure that's the least I can do after being so rude to the poor guy, so I reached out and pressed the power button on the back off the lamp. "Oooooh, yeah!", the computer moaned. "Do it again!" I turned the lamp on and off again and this time the moan was louder. "You do that so good! Again! Again!", the lamp said in a throaty voice. "Alright, I've heard enough. This is... I don't know what this is, but I don't put up on the first date. I think that applies to lamps as well." I removed the lamp from the platform, but no before it muttered, "prude" with as much contempt as the computer generated voice of the lamp could muster. "He likes it when you turn him on", Kent said unhelpfully with a stupid grin on his face. "Yeah, I gathered as much. What a weird guy." "Lamp. You shouldn't call him a guy, that's insensitive", Kent informed me and for a moment I reflected on how true the whole 'it will change everything' statement was if Kent was the one teaching me social etiquette. "So... they're all aware? Like, everything? What about this?", I pointed at a pen. "Yeah, but don't hook him up, I'm sick of listening to him whine about needing more ink all the time, as if he didn't have any bigger problems to worry about." As we spoke the mornings events begun to click into place in my mind, like the cogs of a machine, and suddenly I went pale. "Everything is aware... so that means... when you were cradling that thing, saying you were sorry... Oh god..." I turned on my heel and stormed out through the messy apartment towards the door. "Hey, where are you going?" Kent hurried after me in his bathrobe. "I have something I have to apologize to, too", I mumbled and slammed the door behind me.

A scientist discovers that all inanimate objects are sentient and always have been.

Begging, bargaining, pleading with me every day. They hunt me, pursue me, terrorize me every fucking day. For what? To prolong their lives? To give them prosperity? To solve whatever small problem they believe I have beset upon them? I haven't left my apartment in days. No food. No sleep. No needs. They still remain at the door of my building, harassing my doorman, praying to him and to me for entrance to absolution. I could heal them. I could save them. I could fix them. Not just the ones who shamelessly cry out my name like sick dogs, but all of them. I won't, but I could. My name is repeated with solemn reverence, shaken by the tears that accompany it. Oh, I could save them. I know I could; I used to. And for what? To postpone the date of their inevitable deaths? To give them money so they can waste once more into poverty? To solve whatever small problem they beset upon themselves? I won't leave my apartment to help them. I need no food, no sleep, nothing. I can outlast them.

You are the only one in the world who cares, or the only one in the world who doesn't care.

"MOMMY! LOOK!" I jolted awake instantly. It's not just a mother's instinct to sleep with one eye open with a child around, but it's also a mother's instinct to determine whether a "Mommy, look!" is being said with terror or not. There's nothing scarier than being woken up from a nap to witness a horrific accident that happened because you weren't being responsible, other than what I just saw. What I just saw...is inhuman. Marcie (my four year-old) said it again - she knew I wasn't quite with it yet. "MOMMY, LOOK!!!" and she pointed to the chair. It was fucking hovering. I saw it hovering, but it didn't register. This is like something out of The Sixth Sense. I'm still dreaming, right? "Honey, what are you doing!?" I inquired. "How is this even possible? Do you know there are people that go their whole lives trying to figure out these kinds of things, Marcie?" "Oh, mommy, it was so easy. All I had to do was tell it to move. Watch! If I move my fingers around I can make things happen." I stood still, like this wasn't happening. My just-barely-graduated-from-toddler-stage is picking up 80'' televisions with her thoughts and setting them on the ceiling. My four year-old is defying gravity and physics before my very eyes. "Marcie...how long have you been able to do this?" I timidly asked. "Oh, since I was old enough to talk. I'm surprised you haven't seen it before!" Just then...I'd remembered all these feelings of hallucinations - things happening just outside my field of vision, thinking large things were flying around the room. I had gone to several psychiatrists that couldn't diagnose me with anything, telling me it's just impossible to see a refrigerator floating in my peripherals, and I'd almost attempted suicide thinking I've gone crazy. I'm not crazy. Am I? "Since you were old enough to talk? Do you tell these things what to do, and they do them?" I desperately tried to comprehend the situation in as calm a manner as possible. At this point, I had no idea what my child was capable of doing, and I suddenly started regretting - "Regretting taking my favorite toy away from me because I spilled milk on daddy and didn't apologize?" She so innocently asked, with those cute little green eyes staring up at me curiously. It was becoming nearly impossible to stay calm. Can she read my thoughts? "Yes, dear...how did you know I was going to say that?" Marcie looked at me and said in a mildly-creepy tone, "I always know what you're thinking." I told her to get the television off the ceiling and put the chair back where it was. I went upstairs and put on a tinfoil hat, thinking how ridiculous it was to follow something out of a movie, a Mel Gibson movie, for fuck's sake. However, I knew I had to put an end to this madness. *What kind of monster did I create? I know my husband told me that mental illness ran on his side of the family, but nothing like this.* I came back down and told Marcie that we were going to have to talk about this with daddy when he came home. She told me he already knows about it since he's the one who gave it to her. Suddenly things went from strange, to sadistic. "Insiders only, mommy," Marcie told me, evilly. "Outsiders must die. They can never know. Now you know too much." I crawled for the door, and she switched the lock from across the room. "The tinfoil hat also doesn't protect you, mommy. I can hear everything you're thinking like you would be saying it to me. You want to kill me. You wonder where you went wrong." I pleaded her to not kill me. I gave her everything in this life - in fact, I gave her life itself. She knew this. I heard the kitchen drawers open while she was standing in front of me smiling. The knives flew out. The ax came out of the basement downstairs. They were all hovering right in front of me, at this point I was just frozen and couldn't move. I closed my eyes, picturing my sweet little newborn girl in my arms, before all this madness happened. The last thing I heard after I opened my eyes was: "It all started with sloths."

You're napping on your couch when your 4-year-old shakes you awake and says "Look! Look what I can do!", then points at an easy chair ... and it rises and hovers two feet off the ground

It wasn’t often that Tom did something this extraordinary. In fact, when he came knocking at their doors, most of the other residents of his building hadn’t a clue who he was. By anyone’s standards, Tom was a shut-in. He kept to himself and that didn’t bother the other tenants one bit; their busy lives couldn’t even pencil in their own relatives, let alone a practical stranger. So when they opened their doors, expecting a fistful of mail or a verbal tongue-lashing from an irate landlord, it was nothing short of extraordinary that they felt compelled to listen. “A party, you say? What’s the occasion?” “Oh, well… I suppose there isn’t any rhyme or reason behind it. Just thought I’d throw a party and invite everyone I know.” Something about that last bit confused each and every tenant. Most were sure they’d never seen this wiry frame of a man before. Yet here he was, calling them by name, asking about their children, like he had known them all their lives. “Alright, I’ll bite. Should I bring anything specific?” “Just bring some life to the party. I certainly won’t have enough to go around!” The full-bodied laugh that ensued was often contagious, and he waved goodbye to his neighbors – most of them doubled over with glee – knowing that they’d each make an appearance. And appear they did; Tom’s apartment hummed with activity that Saturday night, and he was truly the center of attention. It was all the members of the crime unit could do to tear their gazes from the shredded remains of the noose, hanging limply from the center rafter. No one understood, and perhaps it was the complete lack of clarity that drew the teary-eyed tenants to the graveyard the following Wednesday. The service was brief but poignant, a very fitting send-off indeed. No one at the precinct had the heart to tell Tom’s neighbors the real time of death: three weeks prior. Best he be remembered as a person who made them laugh and not a lonely shadow. **edit**: Thanks everyone! I didn't think this would get nearly this many positive responses;your kind words warm my heart.

A man is throwing himself a going away party and secretly plans on killing himself afterwards

What the hell is going on? they both thought. The man in his suit looked at the figure standing across the plain from him. They figure looked back. "Mike, I thought I was the only one out here." he radioed. Mike's voice crackled on the other end. "What are you talking about? You are the only one out there." "I can see someone else." the man said. "No one is showing on radar." Mike replied, "You're just imagining things, this planet'll do that to you." He broke off laughing. Meanwhile, the figure across the plain was having the same conversation. "I tell you, there is someone there." he said. "I can see him." "The scanners don't show anybody," his commander said, "Sounds like you're imagining things, remember what happened on Europa where you thought you saw someone in the ice? I think you better come back in." The figure bristled. "That could have been something. Are we not supposed to take risks to try and find something? If I don't do something now, we could lose this opportunity forever." His commander laughed. "Look at you, feeling all important. We are only supposed to take risks if there is evidence to back it up, and right now all we have to go on is the hunch of someone who I am not sure is all there right now." "THERE IS SOMEONE THERE, I CAN SEE HIM!" "No," came the response, "you can't. You're coming back to base right now, or so help me you'll be off this expedition completely. We don't have time for this stuff." He wanted to stay and approach the other figure, who had not moved since he had spotted him, but he valued his position too much to defy the commander's authority. He turned and began to walk away. "He's leaving Mike, do I follow him?" "What?" Mike said, "Who?" "The guy across the plain. I should follow him, we need to know what is going on." "Nothing is going on except you talking like a crazy person, you'd better come in I think the doc needs to take a look at you." "He's gone now, I missed him." "I don't think he was ever there," Mike said, "radar still shows nothing. Come back to base, we'll sort you out." As they both walked back to their bases, they tried to decipher what it was they saw, but as doubt crept in and time passed by, all was forgotten.

An alien explorer and a Human astronaut encounter each other on Mars. Both think the other is a halucination.

It was the joy on their faces that stuck with him the most. You just don't get that kind of fun with real magic. Sure the wonder, the amazement at its awesome power, but not the sheer joy of the fun of someone thinking he was playing a trick on them and trying to figure it out. He found the lying... hard. It was hard to lie to a face with that much joy, but knowing it's your lies directly making them happy... it was an emotion he hadn't quite untangled yet. Their faces were caught in smiles now, as he levitated three feet from the ground. He made sure to keep his feet flat on the way up, so they could suspect a mirrored or transparent surface raising him. Then he kicked his legs and dipped a bit and the required gasps came from the audience. He fought to keep his face a proffessional mask. This one was a thirty year wedding anniversary. He made a point of knowing the stories of everyone he performed for, it helped this reality become more tangible. Outside the supernatural raged in a warring torrent through every street and round every person, yet he managed to keep himself here, in the world, with people. He enjoyed the warm glow from the yellowing lights, shining on people who couldn't hear the howling dark around him. It wasn't even like he was going to great covert lengths to hide himself from the supernatural community. Just google magician and there he was. Maybe not advertised as having mountain moving power but still... When they called him he had to go, but the longer he could ground himself in this reality the better. For now he had smiling people, a slightly sticky dancefloor and a complimentary piece of cake. If he kept these people smiling it was better protection than a long weekend of demon hunting. The darkness could wait. Ladies and gentlemen, could you just confirm there is no rabbit inside this hat?

A magician whose cover is a stage magician

They called it Pulchrasituoma when it was first discovered, following the trend of naming shit that kills you after pretty Latin words. Everyone could tell something had changed. People were nicer looking, people were happier. You'd go to a club and there wasn't a homely person in sight. Not that they didn't exist anymore, of course the uninfected existed. It's just they didn't go to clubs much anymore. What was the point? Before, there was a chance for them still. You might have been ugly, but you had personality, or charm, or money. But now almost everyone was beautiful, and so there were more beautiful people with personality, charm, and money. Why date an uggo? You could find a prettier version of them in the time it took to fuck a disease into somebody. And at first, there weren't any downsides. Not everyone sought it out, if only because you would have to explain to your mother why you were suddenly so much more handsome, but plenty enough did. And then people started dying. It took twenty or thirty years, but people started dying. The average life expectancy in the states fell to 58 years old. The estimate was that around 45% of the population had it. There wasn't any way to detect it. That would have been too easy. The only symptom was becoming beautiful. No, not beautiful. Fuckable. That, and dying between the ages of 40 and 50. A clever fucking virus, if there ever was one. I'm surprised it took so long for it to come about. Using our own dicks as the knife we would stick in each other's backs. A thing of fucking beauty it is. Preacher's called it god's answer to our lust. Conservationists called it Gaia's answer to our overpopulation. Some called it a gift. The great equalizer. And so what if it killed you a bit sooner? The life you had left would be so much sweeter. The government tried to start a quarantine, but even the government was split. It didn't help that a quarantine was only possible if you discriminated based on looks, it only added to the list of human rights violations. The military was called in, and internment camps were started, but even the military fell apart. Soldiers were never really good at avoiding STDs on deployment, and this one was no different. Civil war would be a harsh word to use, at least for the United States, but mass riots broke out as people started fighting against the quarantine measures. People died, lots of people. Other countries didn't fare better. The poorer ones, where sex-ed was worse, had the infected vastly outnumber the uninfected. Their governments were taken over quickly. The revolutions had names like the Beautiful Coup and the Revolution of Angels. The stronger governments managed to sue for peace, on the terms that the infected agree to live on reservations. I guess they thought that with shorter life spans, maybe they'd die out eventually and regular people could take back over. But the virus was clever. It waited until you were biologically useless to it, until you statistically would not be able to have more children. And then it killed you. The infected population grew as adorable children and cute toddlers, already infected from the womb, started replacing the older generations. It wasn't long before the fences meant to keep the infected out became the fences that kept the uninfected in. The infected claimed victory. Within a half century there were only pockets of uninfected, now protected minorities. The happiness was short lived though. Now everyone was beautiful, but what did that change? The bar had been raised, but that didn't matter when you were the ugliest beauty, you were still ugly relative to everyone else. Nothing changed, life was as brutal as ever, but at least now it was short.

a new STD is discovered, which spreads by turning the infected incredibly physically attractive, however shortening their life spans significantly

"Dr. Akerman, there's a Code Green in 403B" *God damn it,* Horace thought. He put down his sandwich and heaved a sigh as he started to make his way. His shoes clacked down the pristine hallway. On the stairs, the cavalry, two large orderlies, excused themselves as they raced up. One of them really needed to change his cologne, a revolting smell, familiar but unplaceable. He opened the door to the fourth floor to the sound of the scuffle, which wasn't uncommon. The hardest to handle least sociable of his patients each had a private room here. Michael wasn't the worst, but he certainly deserved his stay in Club Green, as the nurses affectionately called the floor. "NOOOOOO... STOP... YOU'LL RUIN IT... YOU'LL ALL DIE... NOOOOOOOOOOO" When Horace got to the room, the two orderlies that had passed him on the stairs were blocking the door. He pushed past them. The patient was pinned down by another two orderlies. "Jesus Christ, Michael. What did you do to yourself?" The man looked like he had been butchered. He was naked, save a pair of socks, and covered with deep scratches. No. Not scratches but designs. Symbols of some kind, not unlike the symbols Michael absentmindedly sketched. These were different, though, and there is no way he could have done that to himself. "Who did this to you Michael," the doctor asked. "Dr. Akerman! Thank the Father! This is no longer hallowed ground. Director Harris is in league with the dark ones. He found the relic I buried in the basement and had it removed. They shall be able to see me now! They are probably already here!" Michael's psychosis was, if nothing else, consistent. "The demons?" "Yes Doctor. I told you, though I know you do not believe. I am the most important being inhabiting a flesh on this earth today. They come to force me back to heaven to answer the Father's command to begin the apocalypse." "Michael, why don't you..." "Your mother's name is Lyra. Please doctor, don't let them take me from here." Horace tensed up. How did he... The doctor moved over toward Michael and put a hand on him. "Wait just a moment you two. There's no reason to drag him out of here just yet. We'll get him..." "Orders, doctor. The director wants him cleaned up immediately and transferred to another room." Michael looked Horace squarely in the eyes. They were intense, almost sparkling. "She had a miscarriage before she had you and gave you the name she had chosen for her first son." The blood drained from Horace's face. He stammered, "How the fuck do you know that." Then it hit him. Eggs. That cologne. Rotten eggs. Sulfur. One of the orderlies holding Michael down looked up, smiling much broader than he should have been able to. A sound somewhere between a chuckle and a throaty growl bounced around the room. *God damn it.* Edit: added a word

A psycholoist slowly realises that a patient of the mental ward he is working at actually is what they have claimed to be all along

"I just want to be happy" Sherry told the devil. "That's understandable. But you do realize the implications selling your soul will have, right?" Satan pressed. "Yes, we've been over it a hundred times. I want to sell my soul to be happy the rest of my life." Sherry said this with more gumption than she intended, she _was_ talking to the Devil after all. But he was not what she expected. No horns or tail, not even a sinister looking human form. Satan had bookish eyes, a broad yet burdened frame, and messy gray hair. He fit the mold of a professor more than the Prince of Darkness. "Very well my dear. You shall live out a long, normal life, and be happy for all of it. When it is time for your Earthly demise, I will own your soul for eternity." Satan held out his hand and Sherry grasped it with fervor. After two shakes, up and down, the Devil was gone; and Sherry's spirits lifted. Plagued with depression her entire life, this was the first moment she'd ever remembered not worrying--a weight had been lifted from her neck, a calming aura passed through her body. The ensuing years were bliss for Sherry. She’d finally made friends, even obtained a boyfriend who she eventually married. Her writing suffered, that was one unfavorable consequence, but she didn't care about her noticeable decline in the arts _because she was happy_. The years went by, and everyone knew Sherry as the pleasant woman with a pleasant life; no one took her that seriously, mind you, but that was OK. Then, when she was 40, tragedy struck. Her two young boys, the loves of her wonderful life, were hit by a passing truck. Sherry’s family, and especially her husband, were devastated. Sherry knew she should be upset…but she was as happy as ever. She truly felt neither remorse nor mourning. At first, her family thought it was denial. But as her cheery disposition carried on, it drove them and her husband crazy. “How the hell can you be so happy after everything that’s happened? What’s wrong with you? Don’t you miss our children?” he cried, after having enough of her buoyancy. “Of course I do honey, I just…still feel happy” she thought about the fateful day she’d sold her soul, and just now realized exactly what that entailed. She smiled, and didn't regret it, as she gaily watched her husband walk out their front door for the last time. Life went on. Sherry was happy. She merrily saw her parents to their graves, gladly broke friendship with those who didn't understand her demeanor, and brightly greeted her failed attempts at publishing a book. “This novel, it lacks authenticity, it’s completely unreal, it’s too happy” agents and publishing companies would always say. But, invariably, she’d grin and brush it off. And thus, this was Sherry’s life. She was alone, poor, and happy. In her advanced age, a doctor told her she’d be dying within the month. “That’s swell” she replied, smiling ear to ear. The doctor wrote it off as dementia. As the cancer worked its way through her body, the pain was nearly intolerable but she couldn't help but find cheer in the whole process. Moments away from death, she saw a familiar figure. “Are you one of my doctors?” She called to the old man. “No Sherry, I’m Satan. I’m here to take you to hell. There, you’ll be miserable for the remainder of the universe.” “Oh, that sounds lovely, Satan. I’m looking forward to not being so happy.”

a woman sells her soul to the devil, gets what she asked for, but not what she wanted

Writing this, I realize I'm in no way Vince Gilligan. We were happy to have such a good writer. It also made me realize that Jesse's really important to the plot. After Jesse's disappearance Walt is on edge. He knows who is responsible, Tuco Salamanca, but he doesn't know Jesse is dead. The news is revealed during a party at the White House. Hank makes remarks that set off Walt and he throws Hank out under the guise of "insulting a former student". Hank is a bit shocked and angry, but he let's Walt get away with it as Marie calms him down. Skyler confronts Walt as well about Jesse. Asking him if he had any idea how deep Jesse was in the drugworld. Walt denies in all colours, but keeps disappearing days on end. Meanwhile at the DEA Hank and Gomez are watching surveillance footage of the Methylamine theft. They are however disturbed by news of a mysterious murder. One of Tuco's men was found killed on one of the main streets of ABQ. This is the first of a series of violent murders all on men who work for Tuco. Walt is on a path of vengeance, using all his hard-earned money to hire hitmen (not the reliable kind he's after-all no Heisenberg yet) to take out Tuco's men. All in an attempt to lure out Tuco from hiding and kill him personally. Hank and Gomez think Tuco is killing his own men to keep something quiet. So they set up a watch for Tuco. Walt meanwhile lures Tuco to the middle of nowhere to kill him. Just as he's about to ambush Tuco, the DEA arrive to arrest him. In the gun-fight that follows Walt escapes unseen and Hank ends up killing Tuco. Walt lays low for a little while, but soon he has to accept he has to start to cooking again. He seeks out a new partner, but unable to find one (not wanting to settle for the likes of Badger, Skinny Pete and Combo) sets out on his own. He needs to start from zero, the RV at Jesse's home has been taken away by the DEA. He recovers some of the meth he sold to Tuco and starts selling it using Jesse's old friends. Until Badger is caught by an undercover DEA Agent and Walt ends up desperate. Late at night he ponders over his options and then the sound "Better Call Saul" rings from the television. He makes a deal with Saul, who also sets up him with a new gig and a new place to work. Using Saul's contact: Mike... Walt now works for Gustavo Fring. Walt finds himself frustrated though, because in spite of the great work he does, he never gets to see Gus; a careful man. Instead all his interactions go through Mike. Due to the more comfortable situation, he doesn't miss the birth of his daughter. He does however estrange his wife, who keeps asking questions on where Walt works now. His lies keeps coming back to him, until she figures he is a drug-dealer, having every dot connected. She kicks him out of the house. The Salamanca cousins arrive to avenge their cousin, Tuco and seek out Walter White (Heisenberg). They only have a description though, and their uncle Hector, who after Tuco's death now lives in a retirement home, cannot give them any valuable information. They go to the meetings with Gus, where they demand to know what went down with the DEA and Tuco. Who killed all of Tuco's men, but Gus is honestly unable to give any info, except he slides them an article in which Hank Schrader is honoured for getting Tuco. Having had no confrontation with Jesse, Hank's now a complete hero. But he suffers from ptsd and is weak. He is ambushed by the Salamanca brothers, and having had no warning the fight is a lot more brutal. He succeeds in killing both, but ends up in the hospital with severely lethal wounds. The grieving White family gathers at the hospital as Hank is dying. Gus arrives to give his condolences. Walter is shocked to see Gus and confronts him, stating he can't possibly work together with Gus without ever interacting. Gus remains professional, but Walt keeps insisting, he wants answers... He wants to know if Gus knew anything about this. Hank dies leaving the entire White family broken. Skyler has to focus on her sister-in-law who moves in with them, where she becomes a witness to the strained relationship between Walt and Skyler. Gus eventually invites Walt over for dinner at his home, where he shown to be a family man like Walt is. After Walt leaves it turns out to be a complete ruse and the mystery that is Gus continues. Walter has to now work with Gale, who he realizes is being set up to replace after he dies. Instead Walt's luck turns and his cancer is gone. During his work with Gus, he sees Gus meet with Hector, there he realizes the connection with the Salamanca twins (seeing a picture of the twins in Hector's room). He wants Walt to travel with him to Mexico to show the recipe to the cartel. As they arrive there, Walt is present as Gus kills the entire Cartel. In the gun-fight that follows Mike is gunned down. Walt figures out this is the Cartel that also killed Hank and starts asking more and more questions. Gus states he figured out that Walt is responsible for the attacks on Tuco's men after Jesse's death. He states that Hank's death is his own fault. Walt becomes angry and says will go to the DEA and admit to everything... Taking Gus down with him. Gus threatens Walt and his family. Walt still tries to escape. Skyler still gave the money to Ted. Walt breaks down, now more than ever. He goes to Tio Salamance and sets up the bomb that kills Gus. Meanwhile Steve Gomez is putting together the puzzle of who killed his friend. He has discovered that hitmen were used to kill Tuco's men. He finds one and he speaks... revealing a robot picture of Walter White. Overcome with what he has done, Walt is depressed. He is alone... no family... no friends... no Jesse. Everyone dead because of his doing. He realizes the DEA is on to him and kills himself.

How Breaking Bad would have progressed, had Jesse been killed off in the first season as was originally intended.

He peered over the edge with a small smile. That was his tradition, mine was pissing off the side. You’ve got to celebrate getting to the top somehow, right? “When’s the last time you were completely happy? Wasn’t hungry, didn’t need to shit, liked your friends, had a good relationship. All of that. When was it?” he asked. “Uh, never. Is that even possible? To be completely happy?” was my answer. “No. Don’t you think that’s weird? That most of us spend most of our time unhappy?” “I suppose” “It’s not like a minority of us are broken. It’s all of us.” “People can be happy.” What an asshole. We were on the top of a goddamn mountain and he was talking about unhappiness. “Not for long, though. Their loved ones die, their health fades. Somebody cuts them off in traffic. Maybe 5% of our lives is spent being even kinda happy. It’s just weird how completely ill-equipped for life we are, and have been since being fucking cavemen.” His bitching was getting irritating now, “What’s your point?” “We need to eat, shit, piss, fuck, sleep, sit, exercise, have emotions, make goals, pursue dreams, seek validation, cry, laugh, relax. All that takes away freedom. That’s what prisons are, aren’t they? Places that take your freedom?” “Or maybe life just kinda sucks sometimes and we have to live with it.” He didn’t seem to get the hint when I started unrolling my sleeping bag that maybe he should shut up and help me set up camp. “You have those thoughts sometimes, right? When we’re standing at the edge. That little voice screaming *jump. Jump off the goddamn edge.* Or *why not swerve into the oncoming lane? It’ll be fun.*” “Yeah, thanks for bringing that up *now*. I appreciate it.” That was a lie, I didn’t appreciate it at all. “What if we’re a prison for that little voice?” “That doesn’t make any fucking sense.” His arms were flailing around as he talked, “You hear about this shit all the time. The mother of four that tripped into a bus lane and got flattened. Or the chemistry student that mixed the two wrong chemicals by mistake and suffocated. What if they weren’t accidents?” Had he been gesticulating this much the whole time we’d been talking? “What do you mean by *they weren’t accidents?*” “What if they were prison breaks?” He jumped over the edge. [Possibly cheating since I wrote this a while ago for something else]

A scary story with an even scarier twist.

**The Great Bland (1300-1899)** Taking a break from the riveting, violent history of our peoples, the 1300s began a half-millennia of, well, boredom. What was previously a thrilling history, rife with mystery, adventure, discovery, treasure, and excitement, the aptly named “Great Bland Period” (or “The Great Bland”) offered little in the way of entertainment for our forefathers. The year 1300 began ordinarily, which upset a great number of people. As was covered in Chapter 12, “The Great Motorcycle-Riding Dinosaurs Gang War” (the period from 1295-1299 for those who already forgot), ended in an exciting finality. Society was left on the edge of its proverbial seat. 1300, however, failed to deliver as a sequel. It immediately began, and that was about as exciting as it got. The first years, circa 1300-1345, brought about the invention of white noise, static television channels, and the color “grey.” The majority of this period was spent filling out patent forms, with most of civilization waiting impatiently in the lobby. The original forms were completed in the wrong color ink, which offered a moment of potential excitement; however, it was discovered the ruling was incorrect. The ink was to remain. Society settled back into its maroon chairs and collectively tapped its food, waiting for the 1350’s, in the hopes of some sort of uncertainty. The 1350s brought about little change, despite the constant cries from the patent office. “Gray” underwent a name change to “grey,” which resulted in poorly attended debates regarding its spelling. Sides fought with an ambivalence unseen in more exciting years. A people’s vote ultimately ruled it would become “gray,” despite an abysmal voter turnout of .02%. The remainder of the 1300’s passed by without further incident. In 1402, John F. Kennywhistle, the political revolutionary and former front man of 1875s “The Guitar-Dueling Dragon Hunters” discussed in Chapter 12, began a small movement in an attempt to bring about excitement to the planet. The people, however, had become complacent; he was unable to gather more than a few revolutionaries. This prompted one of the most famous speeches from The Great Bland: “My people. Hear me, listen—ah, fuck it. I’m going to the vending machine. Anyone want anything?” Following Kennywhistle’s failure, the next fifty years passed by slowly. The patent office closed down, yet the lobby remained open and full. White noise was studied in depth by scientists, resulting in the discovery of “pink noise.” Society agreed to disregard the discovery, instead opting to focus on speeding the passage of time. Their attempts failed, resulting in the timely arrival of the year 1500. Unlike the 1400s and the 1300s, the 1500s and 1600s had absolutely no inventions. Not even another shade of gray. Nothing notable occurred in the 1500s. Even less happened in the 1600s. Seriously, no one even ate anything that upset their stomachs. I’m pretty sure no one even died. It was just, like, super boring. I can’t even express how boring it was, my eyes are tearing just thinking about it. I asked the editor if we could remove the 1500s-1600s from this textbook, but he said it was just as important as the 500s (the period in which the planet evolved legs and entered itself into a marathon, winning by over an hour and still having time to bust a huge meth distribution plant, covered in Chapter 4. I fail to see his logic.). I am so sorry we have to include this section. I didn’t want to do this to you, but I was forced to. This period of time was, quite literally, the worst thing in the history of our people. Let’s just move on. The 1700s were the first time in over 300 years during which something exciting almost occurred. A child was reported missing along the southern hemisphere of the planet. People’s ears figuratively perked up as the news broke, hearts racing in anticipation. Could it be the return of “The Black Rhino Slayer,” known for kidnapping and forcing children to become professional bodybuilders and repeat lottery winners? Or perhaps the alien invaders from the 1200s, who replaced children with stacks of pure gold and dropped them off them later with a fresh haircut, had returned. Alas, after a few moments of torrid anticipation, the child was found literally watching paint dry. Society slouched back into its waiting room chair and resumed tapping its feet for the next hundred years. The 1800s began ordinarily, a depressing, vapid sign that resulted in several people leaving the planet’s waiting room, only to return a few moments later claiming “it sucked out there.” The first twenty years were passed mostly via staring contests, which had become the primary form of legal decision in the 1650s. No legal decisions had been made since 1299. However, in 1837, Charlie Chapplebottomjeans, the boy who had almost brought about excitement in the 1700s, decided to write a novel. This caused a murmur to spread among society—no one had attempted such a thing since the late 1200s. It was unexpected--history seemed to be getting ready for a change. The world waited in anticipation as Chapplebottomjeans sat in the corner of the planet’s waiting room, pen scratching boringly on plain white paper. No one was allowed to see what he was writing. Historical records express how incredibly dull it was watching the boy awkwardly sway his clenched fist along the paper, pen dragging slightly behind. However, in the year 1873, Chapplebottomjeans startled the lobby as he stood and shouted, “I’m done! I did it!” The world erupted in excitement. Change was coming. Chapplebottomjeans passed his document to his mother who stared at it, eyes wide. It was then she discovered her son had gone blind, and that he had been writing with a pen that had no ink. He had not realized his own impairment, has he had simply assumed the world had become even more bland and that his vision was fine. The world slouched back down and pressed its collective face to its hands. The 1890s continued the way the 1800s had begun. No change. No inventions. Gray had since become the norm. White noise was occasionally replaced by pink noise. Television showed nothing but static. The patent office, although long closed, still housed the planet’s people. Not until the year 1900 did anything of any relevance occur, not until society abruptly decided to turn the northern hemisphere into a giant demolition derby track, resulting in the appearance of supermodel ghosts who wanted nothing but high-fives and sex. But that will be covered in the next chapter.

Write about 500 years worth of history in a real or made up country/region/planet/whatever

It had been thirty years since the last time he had seen her. Thirty long years of hiding from police, trying to get his new life together. When he got the call a few days ago, it was very much a surprise, but somehow also relieving. Somehow she had tracked him down, something the FBI, CIA, INTERPOL, and every other police organization in the world had tried and failed. She just wanted to meet over coffee, see how things were, catch up on each others' lives, maybe rekindle a little bit of that flame that had been missing for so long. And now here she was. Definitely a little worse for wear, but what do you expect after thirty years of running from the law? Her hair was gray, skin wrinkled, that manic, sultry grin now replaced with a warm, comforting look of satisfaction. She'd had some work done to hide her identity, but he could tell she was still the same woman he'd first met in a padded cell all those years ago. "James Witten?" "Ha..., er, I mean, Francine. It really is nice to see you again." "It has been a long time, hasn't it, old pal?" "How have you been?" "Oh, well enough. working with abuse victims isn't nearly as exciting as criminal psychology, but it's definitely rewarding. How about you? How has the simple life treated you?" "It could have been worse. Being a vintner tends to mellow people out. It gives you a better perspective on life. Something about the long waits for the rewards." A familiar smirk began to form across her face. "My have you changed over the years. Though it's probably for the best. We'd definitely both be dead by now had things stayed the same." "True, but a great man, or at least his legacy, would still be alive today. And the world without it has been desperately in need of one like him for years now." "Yes, but would the world truly be any better of a place? For every one of him there's at least one of you... er, one of what you were. And right there with him would be someone who could understand him, to give him comfort, and give their everything to try to make him happy." He let out a long, deep, pent-up sigh. "But I'm not that man anymore. And if you're looking for him, you're gonna have a hell of a time, because those kind of men can't exist without someone like him." "I know. I guess I just thought that maybe, just maybe I'd find some part of him still here." Her chair slid back and the click of her heels trailed across the cafe. As she walked out the door, she looked back and gave him that jovial, sultry smile that he used to know so well. "You know, I really did love you, Mr. J." He returned a warm, sad grin, something she'd probably never seen before. "I know, but that me died on that rooftop with the Bat."

Two famous villians meet for coffee to catch up

Somehow the sirens had never stopped. It seemed impossible really, with the weight of time and decay hanging heavy on everything that this noise from the past should endure. And yet here he was, drawn in by the siren. The siren had been meant to warn and repel. It had been an almost instinctive reaction of humanity - the fear, the flinch, the darting glance skywards. Yet the sound had baited him inwards, all fear of it long since gone from the world. He had heard it carried on the screaming wind, a harrowed moan above the blasted desert. And now he was here at the end of his road, discovering things he had never known. He had no way of knowing the sheer *normality* of the alien landscape he now wandered through. Crisp green lawns, smiling faces, glass windows. Here it was the walls that provided privacy not the miles and miles of wasteland. Here privacy was sought for peace of mind, it was a sign of luxary not found in one-roomed hovels. He made his way inside. The settee seemed a good place to sit and wait. The dust had made it here. The dust made it everywhere. Dust was the state of the world. But soon there would be people, he was sure of that. He smiled, cracking the dirt that caked his face, thinking of them roaming through the yellowing wastes to reach him. Down the years the siren howled. But now it was a sweet sweet song welcoming them home.

On a post-apocalyptic Earth, a lone survivor discovers an unaffected Nuketown.

A bell sounded as the door closed to the coffee shop I visit every Tuesday and Thursday. My first step onto the sidewalk outside the store was welcomed with a howl of wind cutting through the alleyway. The days are getting shorter and the nights are getting colder. It was already dusk. It was time to go home. I put my hood up over my head and ambled toward the lot where I'd parked my car. I kept my head down toward the ground, as to avoid having the large hood blown off my head. The cold air dried my eyes. Down the row of cars, I spotted young girl decorated in red plaid let go of her mother's hand and dart into the street. I heard her giddy laugh while she pranced around like a pixie. She was bathed in light when her mother screamed after her. I felt my heart skip a beat. The black car came to a halt maybe four feet from her. I could not make out the driver through his tinted glass, but I could see an angry gesticulation made toward the mother of the child. The mother looked flushed and red. She firmly grasped her daughter's hand and bent down to remind her of the dangers of the road. The little girls face was hidden from me, but I saw the big red hood bounce up and down, nodding. I allowed myself to breath again and carried on toward my car. I checked my watch and hastened my pace. Time eluded me. I pulled out the key fob and unlocked my vehicle. The red taillights blinked at me. I stopped short of my car when I noticed a man standing behind my vehicle. He hadn't noticed me yet, rather, he seemed distracted by the dead leaves that lay around his feet. I made obvious strides toward my drivers seat in an effort to prompt him to leave my car. "Excuse me," came a deep, polite voice. I looked in my car's rear-view mirror. The man seemed to be patiently trying to get my attention. "I'm sorry," I call out, "is there a problem?" The heat from my breath fogged up the glass of my window. "Can I trouble you for some brief aid?" The man closed his pocket-watch and placed it in his pocket. A gold chain hung from his belt. I got out of my car and got a full look at him. He was certainly older than my father, but there was something about him that seemed almost... spry. He was dressed in a full tuxedo. His pressed pants rippled in the wind. His face was clean shaven, but his hair seemed unkempt. He had an ugly, hooked nose, and soft, dark eyes. There was a polite smile on his face. I hadn't the time to help a stranger, but I'd hate to drive home feeling guilty. "What can I do for you?" I asked through a forced smile of my own. "You see," he began, "I am a bit lost. I'd been heading to my destination for a mere minute before I remembered that I needed to be here," he pointed to the sign above the coffee shop's door, "As it happens, I needn't be here at all. I am completely lost." I tried to avoid showing my impatience. "Where are you headed, sir?" "I am actually headed to your house," he looked at me, suddenly seeming a bit taller than I remembered. "You're heading to my house?" I was more than a little bewildered, "Do you know who I am?" He smiled back at me, expecting my reaction. He pulled his pocket watch back out of his pocket, quickly checked it, and returned the golden timepiece. "Yes," he said, "at least I know your name. I do not need to know too much more about you right now. Can you please direct me to your house. I'm quite late." I had never seen this man before in my life. I began to panic. "What do you need at my house? Who are you?" I felt my face start to flush. Did he know my father? Maybe he was a doctor or some type of caregiver. "I have an appointment with your father," he answered, as if reading my mind. His tone had adopted some impatience of its own. "Are you a doctor?" I asked plainly. "I am not." "What do you want with my father?" I tried not to sound too bewildered. He paused for a moment. His eyes became softer as he looked over his ugly crooked nose. He pulled his jacket tighter over his chest and looked back at the ground. He sighed deeply and exhaled, his white breath contrasting the black of his tuxedo. He met eyes with me again, "Your father is very sick. Is he not?" "He has cancer. What is it to you?" I felt my hands clench into fists, pink from the cold. I was letting my anger reach the surface. Truth be told, he was more than a little sick. His prognosis was a month, and that was three months ago. I am supposed to be home now to clean out his bedpan and feed him his dinner. "It is everything to me, Andrew," he responded softly, "I visit those like your father." I was shocked to hear him say my name, "Are you a priest?" "I am not," he said. A smile fleeted across his face, gone as quickly as it came. "Your father was a good man, and he loved you very much. It was good of you to take him in and be his caretaker." It hit me like a sack of bricks. I felt the last bit of warmth leave my body. "No," I said quietly. My hands opened. "I need directions to your house, son," came the voice of the man. "I'm afraid I need them now." "Well I'm headed there now. W-W-Where is your car? You could follow me home," I spoke quickly, stuttering through my words. "I do not drive a car. I am sorry. That just isn't the way this works." "Please," I began to plead, "I want some more time." The man looked at me. He didn't speak. He didn't have to. He had heard these pleas for thousands of years. My thoughts turned to my father. He is all alone. He would be all alone. I began to sob. I stuttered out the directions between sobs. He nodded after each turn, committing the directions to memory. When I finally got to my house number, I couldn't say another word. I felt cold tears on my cheeks when the wind whipped across my face. "Thank you," the man said knowingly. I said nothing. I wiped my eyes with my sleeve. When I looked up, the man was nowhere in sight. I leaned back against the side of my car and slid to the ground, sobbing quietly into my arm. . . . Edit: Formatting

A complete stranger asks you for directions to your house.

Kafka stared down at the black coffee; he hadn't dared ask the woman at the counter for sugar or cream; he’d almost worked up the courage, but a loud cough from behind had frozen him, hand slightly burning from the heat of the cup he’d just accepted; he whirled, grimacing as a bit of the java sloshed over the lid and burned his hand, to stare into the eyes of a scowling old man, white hair wild, peering down at him, as he worked his mouth around an unlit cigar. ‘Well, sonny, are you going to move, or aren’t you?’ The old man tapped his foot, but Kafka was paralyzed – what had he done? What was he going to do now? Where was his way out? A loud scraping startled him, and he twirled again to see an employee moving down chairs around a table, completing the opening rituals for the day. Kafka scuttled over to the chair, grateful to be away from the old man, and sipped his drink, eyes darting around, not daring to see if the old man was watching – again he wondered, what have I done? Why is this person interested in me? “Confounded idiot,” Twain mumbled as he made his way to the counter. Finally, he could get some proper libation, now that the riff-raff had departed. “Good morning sir, what can I get for you this morning?” The smiling young girl beamed her youth at him. Twain smiled back, his eyes glittering. “Some oysters, good brandy, and a light for my cigar!” he said, winking. The young girl shook her head. “Oh, Mr. Clemens, you know I don’t have those to give. All we serve is on the chalkboard behind me.” She gestured and continued to smile, and tapped her foot underneath the counter. He scowled and stared at the board for a moment. Sighing, he grumbled, “Yes, yes, coffee, cream, sugar, milk, the usual.” His smile returned as he watched her turn and followed her form with his eyes, twitching his mustache. Makes my little Tom Sawyer abroad, he thought, as he accepted his concoction and paid with his usual two-dollar bill. As he went to his normal table, he saw Kafka sitting there, and decided to mess with him by staring him down as he walked, and enjoying him twisting and turning under his gaze. He was so absorbed with this, he accidentally almost sat in the lap of another person at the table. “What the – “ “I shall come as a thief in the night,” Jesus said, as he glared disapprovingly at Twain. “Yes, well, could you come as a thief in the night, with a little more warning? By God, you’re in my favorite chair!” And Twain stomped his cane on the floor. Jesus, never losing eye contact, moved over one chair. “Thank you; it’s nice to know the son of God defers to his betters.” They stared at one another for another few moments, Kefka trying to hide in his seat; then Jesus smiled, and started to laugh, and then threw back his head and roared, while Twain grinned. “Twain, you’re a fucking agnostic, but I like ya.” Jesus slapped him on the back, and sipped his mochachino.

In a quiet little coffee shop in a quiet little town famous people from history can stop by anytime for a drink...

30? What the hell? That's not even that far from 28. Maybe she's just holding onto that last bit of youth. I don't blame her, 30 is a big number to say. Dirty Thirty. I'm-an-adult-now thirty. Terrific thirty. If she had said 24 then I would be convinced that she's doing exactly that, keeping age at bay and allowing herself a couple more years of frolicking in unadulterated bliss. So why only two years? I can't seem to just dismiss it at this point. I thought about any rules or laws that go into or out of effect for a thirty year old. Nothing comes to mind. No previous marriages that I know of. I sit at her desk in the study, tapping my fingers in a rhythmic wave across the giant calendar. Nothing special this month, just a baby shower in two weeks. I flip over this month and January, and then I saw something on February. On the 13th she has a fuzzy line circling the date but nothing else written in the box. Hmm, maybe a subtle reminder to buy me something? No, Valentine's Day is way too obvious to forget. What could it mean? I raise my head and aimlessly scan the ceiling, reclining in the chair and swinging back and forth. I bump my knee on the side of the desk and stop. As I rub my knee I look up to the drawer in front of me-when was there a lock here, and only on this drawer? Wait. I remember finding a key a couple years ago. She had gone to New York for a couple weeks and bought her first winter coat since it was so cold. When she came home, it took her a while to unpack so after a week I finished unpacking for her. As I was about to hang up the coat a key had fallen out of one of the pockets. I put it back without thinking twice, and I don't think she ever knew that I knew. It must still be there. Yep, still there. I'm quite the detective, I thought, smugly unlocking the drawer with a confident twist of the wrist, my eyes narrowing from my grin. Folders. Great, how boring, must be our birth certificates, marriage license, the deed, blah blah blah. I sit down a bit disappointed, hoping for...what? A gun? Now that I think about it, anything else that could have been in here would have terrified the shit out of me. Still married to someone else? Escaped fugitive? Serial killer? Hah. I'm glad I found nothing, just some documents about....wait...what is this. Oh my god. Is this a file, a dossier on me?! ---------------------- Name: Samuel Foster, AKA SAM, SAMMY DOB: 3/20/79 Features: BLK hair, BRWN eyes, 5'11", 179 lb Occupation: Mid-level accountant at Century Tech Political Views: Liberal Democrat Temperament: INTP Triggers: Excessive violence, trypophobia, ghosts, spiders Fetishes: Role-playing (maid, dominatrix, police officer) Motivation: Retirement, raising children (1M, 1F), dog (Max, M) Catchphrases: "Yea, OKAY!", "OK, OK, OK", "Babycakes", "HURR HURR" Insecurities: Weight, balding, sexual performance, lack of masc qualities Sensitive Data: 1984 - Molested by ____________ I couldn't turn the next page. Nothing was inaccurate on this page about me, and yet when I see my life, my personality even, reduced to mere text I cannot help but let out a whimper. How cold does someone have to be to write down a person's life like this? I toss the folder dismissively across the desk, letting it slide and fall down between the wall and the desk. The papers fanned out spread out across the table. I found one of them to be paperclipped to a smaller piece of paper. I hesitated opening another box of pain, but I couldn't resist. Besides, it was in my *nature* to do so. The small piece of paper was a doctor's prescription for something, all I could make of it was that it was in the amount of 100mg a day. The paper had what looked like to be over 1,000 tally marks, with a small paragraph at the top written in her handwriting. It read: ________ "Your name is Joanna Foster, born on January 22nd, 1983. On February 13th in 2011 you were in a motorcycle accident in New York leaving you with anterograde amnesia, preventing you from creating new memories. You have a loving husband named Sam Foster, additional information is found after this note (Please update or cross out information if divorced/deceased.) Use the following space to count each additional day in order to keep track of your current age:" ______ As I look closer, I see how worn this piece of paper is, several spots that might be tear stains, and a small note in the middle of the tallies marking her 29th birthday, another marking her 30th. My heart drops twenty feet and I let myself cry, wondering how she ever managed to keep this all from me. I look around the room, back in the closet with the coat, looking for any more hints about this secret, this impossible lie. I see her medicine in the cabinet. The instructions match the prescription. I walk over to our bed, a place where I started and ended my day, while she restarted and reset her entire existence. I sat down at her side of the bed, stroking the covers for some sort of comfort. I lie down on my side like how she always sleeps, and that's when I see something distinctly carved into the side of the nightstand: **"Look in winter coat pocket, drawer in desk in the next room."** Edit: typo, clarifications Edit 2: clarifications 2.0

- A man finds that his wife has been lying to him about her age. This leads him to wonder what else she's been lying to him about.

"That's right, yes. The account is set up in your name... Yes... That's right... In my will as my estranged brother, yes... Don't worry, you'll get the payment after you've done it... I'd prefer I *didn't* see you tonight, actually. Heh." George hung the phone up. He felt cold and nervous like you feel at the top of a drop on a rollercoaster. He was scared, but he was sure. All the money, the fast cars, the expensive wines, the huge garden, all of it, could never fill the hole Julie left when she moved out. "I just need space, George! All this wealth is just not how I was brought up. I don't know what to do with myself. I feel like you've changed, become distracted by trying to buy the best of everything. What's going to happen when I'm not the hottest thing on the market anymore, huh George? I just need space. I need to clear my head. Maybe we can get this worked out, but George... maybe not." Her words echoed in George's mind. After her rant, she walked out the door with all her clothes and left in a cab. George never even got to say goodbye, because he was too busy drooling in disbelief. The whole thing came as a shock to him, because as far as he had known, Julie was perfectly happy. Her words were true, though. George had been caught up in the life of luxury, and he became obsessive over having the best of everything. Where she was wrong was that he would never leave her. If there was one thing in George's life that he truly loved it was Julie. She was worth more to him than all the money in the world. And now she was gone. George sat down in his leather armchair, sipping some $1500 wine. He turned on the enormous flat panel TV and began watching some trash TV. Before too long, he passed out and began to sleep like a baby. RING RING RING! George started awake. RING RING RING! He fumbled for his cell phone. RING RING RI- "Hello?" he said groggily. "George?" It was Julie. George's heart seemed to simultaneously rise and sink. "J-Julie?" "George, I've had some time to think and... well... I was being unfair the other day when I left. You really do love me; I knew that then, and I know it now. Truth is, George, I'm really sorry. I was just so taken aback by all the luxury and expensive lifestyle. Like I said, I'm just not used to it..." She seemed on the verge of tears. "No, Julie! I'm sorry! Christ, I treated you like a piece of property! I should've paid you more mind and checked on you to make sure you were okay! Julie, let's put this back together! Can we please?" George begged. "George, I'm going to call a cab right now. Let's put this behind us." "Oh, Julie! I'm so happy to hear you say that! Listen, don't call a cab! I'll come pick you up mys--" BANG! "George?" ... "George!?" ... "GEORGE!?!?"

A suicidal man hires a killer to end it instead.

I turned it on myself, took aim at my face, and shot. Then I sent the selfie I took to my girlfriend. *** (Okay, real answer:) The door shut behind Carol, and I heard her get in her car and leave. I mumbled under my breath. She'd been leaving without telling me where she was going for the past few days, and it was beginning to drive me insane. I'd ask her what she was up to and she'd tell me she was going to hang out with her girlfriends. She only had two friends, really, which made it easy to find her out. Yesterday, I decided I was going to cook supper for Carol and have it ready when she got home, but when I called her phone she didn't answer. I called up Margaret and Sue, and they both told me they hadn't been going out with Carol at all this week. Today, I had a plan. I sat in my armchair, looking at the clock on the wall. About thirty more seconds, and I'll get in my own car and follow her from a distance. There's only one way into town from here, so catching up to her should be a piece of cake. As I waited, I looked around the room, my eyes settling on a family photo from ten years ago. There we all were: The happy American family. Me, a father; Carol, a loving mother and wife; and Gary, our son. Gary left the family on his own terms. He fell into the wrong crowd and made his mother and me very angry. We still loved him, but sometimes it had to be tough love, and he didn't appreciate that. So when he turned 18, he packed his bags and got on a bus to God knows where. And now Carol was up to something. Carol, the only family I had left in this world, was out there keeping secrets. I didn't know what she was doing, but it couldn't be any good if she had to keep it from me. The second hand ticked over the 12, and I jumped up from my chair. I grabbed the keys to my car and left after her. I rolled through the first few stop signs to help me catch up to her. After a minute or two of speeding, I caught up to her. Fortunately, there were two cars in between us, so she probably wouldn't notice me following. I drove a Ford Explorer with no bumper stickers or identifying marks, so she probably wouldn't have noticed anyway. I followed her for twenty minutes before she turned off the main road and began taking back streets. It was more difficult to not be noticed, and at one point I almost lost her because I hung back too far and didn't see her turn. A good guess later, I saw her pull to a stop in front of a low-income sort of house. I stopped down the street a ways. I watched from a distance as she got out of her car. She walked up to the door and knocked. After a few moments, the door opened and a bearded man invited her inside. "That's it!" I said angrily, climbing out of my car. I marched up to the door, myself, with every intention of beating the man blue. I banged on the door, "Carol! Carol! What in God's name are you doing here!? Carol!?" After about a minute of this, the door opened and a familiar but bearded face stood in front of me. Gary waved nervously at me. "Hi, Dad. Long time no see, huh?" I was deflated. I didn't know how to react, so my emotions took over. I grabbed him and gave him the biggest hug I could muster, and through the tears I managed to speak. "Son! Son! What are you doing here? How are you? Where's Mom? Oh, Gary, it's so good to see you!" I released him from the hug and he motioned to Carol. "I'm sorry I kept it from you, Dan! He was worried you would be upset at him and not want anything to do with him. He made me promise not to tell you about our meetings. He's been doing good for himself. Got a nice job, cleaned up from drugs, and he called one evening while you were on a grocery run. He just wants to reconnect!" Carol teared up even as she explained. "Gary, of course I'm not upset at you! I'm so proud of you for what you've made of yourself, son!" Later that day, we took a family photo, and today it sits right next to the one from ten years ago. To tell the truth, I like the new one better.

Write a story with a happy twist

Charlie turned off the TV. He looked at his two young daughters, who stared back at him blankly, obviously not grasping the message that Brian Williams had just passed along to the world. Rita, had just made some stupid comment about "Well you know, I don't trust anything on TV, unless it's on Anderson Cooper. Now *that's* a newsman." Charlie didn't hear her though, he was already on his way into the kitchen. He looked out the window. It was so quiet, not even the birds were chirping. Turning back to face the room, he heard the girls chatting quietly. Rita was using some incorrect metaphor to explain it all. From the sound of it, maybe she didn't realize what had happened either. Charlie opened the fridge and pulled out a gallon of milk. He popped the lid off, and let it fall to the floor. He let the cool liquid pour down the back of his throat. Carefully, he set the jug back onto the spotless mustard-colored counter and looked around at the kitchen for one last time. He had always hated this room, especially the hideous orange chairs that surrounded the table. His mother had found them at a yard sale some years back. The keys to the Buick were already in his pocket, so he just walked right out the door. His neighbor Ed was fiddling with the tractor, he must not have seen the news. The Buick was parked directly in front of the house where it always was. For the first time since buying the house, Charlie walked across the yard rather that going along the side-path to get to it. It started up with that familiar sound. As he shifted into drive, Charlie reached for his seat belt but quickly pulled his hand back and placed it on the wheel. Before he knew it he was flying down his neighborhood roads. Simulation or not, he knew that this was his chance. This was freedom.

Scientists confirm that our universe is a computer simulation. Write about a family who witnesses the announcement live on television.

"Four months?" "Yup." "Were you scared?" "Every day. Ever seen what happens to a man when a toothbrush shiv gets pushed through his eye socket." "I...I can't say I have." "Neither have I, but it *felt* like I could have when I was in there." "Oh." "Yup, the fear was real, John. The fear was real. All of us had toothbrushes, it could have happened." "Sure, I guess." "A bunch of caged animals. Starved and desperate, waiting for any excuse to eat each other out." "I don't think that's the phrase you're looking for." "And the showers..." "Oh, so the stories..." "Worse than the stories. Worse than any story you can imagine." "I'm so sorry, were you...you know?" "What?" "You know...the whole 'don't drop the soap' thing?" "Soap?" "You know..." "Ah, I was. Forced to do it. All of us were, made to sing like a bunch of birds." "Oh, my god. All of you?" "Like a choir we were. Beautiful voices." "Wait, I'm not sure I understand. We're still talking about the soap thing, right?" "Soap? I'm talking about our shower radio." "Not soap?" "No soap, radio!"

A story with "No soap, radio!" as a legitimate punchline

He was my dog. I'd begged my mother for ages. All I ever wanted was a pet. One day I'd come home and he was there. Terrified. He wouldn't leave the safety of his crate. We goaded him. We bribed him. We begged him. We made progress, inches at a time, but he ran back in at the slightest provocation. He was my dog. He yipped and he barked and he did all the annoying things small dogs do. Everyday I would come home, everyday he would sprint from one side of the house to the other in celebration. *Meat friend is home. I can play with meat friend. I haven't seen meat friend in years. Meat friend is home!* "Where's the birdie?" I'd ask. He would run to the back rest of the sofa and try to look out the window. *There it is meatfriend!* he would bark. *There is the birdie, let me at him.* He was my dog. I could never bring myself to hit him. Not even when he shit on my new shoes. The ones I'd spent three months saving up for. But I did yell at him once. It was a cruel joke among friends. The details are lost to me, but it wasn't a terribly funny one. I didn't think much of it, but my mother came to me later and said "What did you do? The dog is hiding under the couch. He looks terrified." I spent that day crying and hugging him to apologize. He was my dog. We developed a cough at the same time. It was fall turning to winter, it wasn't very surprising, people got sick all the time. I thought it was funny. I'd cough, he'd cough, I'd cough, he'd cough. We went back and forth all day. I woke up one day to find him with his head thrown back. There was terror in his eyes, it was the terror I remembered from when I had yelled at him. His breath was ragged and forced. I called my mother and told her to pick us up, it was an emergency. She said she was at work for another few hours. He was my dog. I fell back asleep with my arms around him. Trying to comfort him. Do anything to soothe him. When I heard the keys in the door I took him and bolted to the car. We started to drive. He went limp in my arms. Tears streamed down my face "No. No. No. No. Nonononono." was all I could say. What else could I say? The vet told me a valve in his heart had failed. Fluid was collecting in his lungs. They could fix it, but it would fail again. It would mean several trips to the vet. It would mean several thousand dollars which we didn't have. And in the end, he would die anyways. Maybe not now, but a couple of months from now. We decided to put him down. He was my dog. She led us to the room where they were treating him. There was an IV stuck into his side, and a pool of *something* around his nose. He looked dead already, except when I sat in front of him he started to wag his tail. It was one of those stumpy tails, and he didn't have much energy for wagging so it ended up as a lackluster writhing, but he got the message across. "It's time to say your goodbyes," said the vet. "You might want to leave the room for when I do this." She held a large button. It looked like one of those Staples easy buttons, it connected to the IV tree. I knew what it was for. "No. Let me do it." I said. "He was my friend."

Make me sympathize with somebody killing a dog

"GUNDERSON!!!!" Shit. Fuck. Oh, shitfuck. This is how I die. This is it. I'm not ready, God. I still haven't learned how to spell 'tomorow' properly. I still haven't gotten that DVD back from Jeremy. I still haven't written that angry letter to the bus company. "Gunderson, you better have a goddamn explanation!" Christ, he's right outside my office. I can hear his tiny orthopaedic shoes stamping the old carpet like some kind of giant toddler. Tiniest feet I've ever seen, remarkable really. Oh, and he's here. "Gunderson-" "Before you get mad, let me clear things up." Looks like he popped a blood vessel in one of his eyes, might as well have steam coming out of his ears. I wish he would stop tapping his tiny foot. How is it so small? How does he balance? "I'm waiting." "Right, I can explain. I have an explanation and I can explain it to you." Are they children's shoes? Oh god, stop tapping your feet! They sound like castanets on the tile. Which reminds me, one time in music class- "Well?" "Right, um, well, it's really just a big misunderstanding." I kind of want to compare shoe sizes with him. Maybe I'll do it in the elevator on the way home. Yeah, he won't even notice. "Is that so?" "...yes?" Never even realized before, but it looks like he's trying to grow a moustache. The feet are pretty distracting, I guess. "Twelve million in damages is a *misunderstanding*?" "Well, when you put it that way-" "Twelve million, Gunderson. Twelve million! We were going to hire Brad Pitt with that money! Now, now, now, we'll have to... Twelve million!" "I understand that you're mad, but it *really* was just a misunderstanding." When he bites his lip like that he looks exactly like his wife. I wonder if she has bigger feet than him? If they're the same size, do they swap shoes? "Yeah? Eighteen charges going off and destroying half of our fucking set was a misunderstanding. How so, Mister Gunderson? How so?" "Well, when you said you wanted me to blow you away with my set design, I guess I interpreted a little too literally."

GUNDERSON!!!!!!

"Okay Hugh, this is your last chance". There was no response. Rocco stood over the bloody and dishevelled man he once would have recognised as his brother-in-law. Hugh's head was bowed, his hands and feet securely bound to an office chair. His hair was matted with thick, maroon blood. After two days of convincing him to talk, Rocco had to concede all he'd done was disfigure him. His once gleaming emerald eyes were now bruised, gaps had appeared between his teeth and his nose was clearly broken. Yet all this torture had yielded no results. Rocco bent down to look Hugh eye to eye. "C'mon man, just tell me you did it. Just tell me and I'll stop. I swear" he pleaded. Rocco's tactics left him drained, and he didn't think Hugh would survive further physical abuse anyway. He kept a handgun hanging from his belt for when Hugh finally confessed. But Hugh wouldn't relent, denying all charges. "I never touched Julia, Rock, I promise" he'd lie. He begged Rocco to stop, he proclaimed his innocence and even threatened him, but he wouldn't admit to it. "I don’t know what happened to her" he kept repeating, only serving to agitate Rocco. Now he was silent, incapable of even maintaining his innocence. Rocco's phone buzzed innocuously. He'd ignored the preceding dozen or so calls, but this one was Cat. "Rocco?" Cat asked. For a while he was silent, but he finally decided to answer her. "Yeah?" he replied. Rocco was not one for lengthy conversations. "They've got him. The guy, they've got him. He's in the police station now. Doug Gambioni he’s called." Rocco didn't understand. "What guy?" At this he could hear Cat lose herself to sobbing. "The killer. The scumbag bastard." Again Rocco’s brain hadn't fully wrapped itself around the notion. He didn't respond. Cat pushed passed his silence. "Hey Rock, you didn't find Hugh, did you? I tried calling him, but it’s like he’s disappeared." Cat didn't receive an answer. Rocco began shaking, his heart thumping at a breakneck speed. He turned hot, as if the sun had begun descending upon the earth. "Well if you see him, let him know. He deserves to be told" Cat finished. Rocco unconsciously hung up. His thumb hit disconnect with a mind of its own. He tried putting his phone back into his pocket, but his hand couldn't find the route, so he let it collapse on the floor. His breathing became strained, like someone was tightening his trachea with a ratchet. "Hugh?" he inquired with a faint, wavering voice. He could hear Hugh breathing weakly. His laboured breathes were the only response Rocco received. He collapsed onto the cold floor. He stuck his hand towards Hugh, outstretched in an act of compassion. But the feel of Hugh's quivering leg repulsed Rocco even more. He looked up at his mutilated brother-in-law, a brother that would always resemble the grotesque phantom Rocco truly was. With his jittering hand Rocco reached for his belt. He attempted a noble pose, thrusting his head up to the skies. Fumbling with his handgun, he accepted his fate. Hugh continued with his anguished groans.

A masked vigilante (somebody like the Punisher) accidentally kidnaps, tortures and kills the wrong person

The world as it is doesn't bear much resemblance to the old world. In the old days fear and pain ran rampant and, as it turns out, a lot of that was because people were afraid of no one understanding them. Afraid that when the light finally went out of their lives they'd be alone. After the introduction of the finders things started to change. It didn't happen all at once, it was slow, gradual, as all the truly long-term changes are. But a day came when most of the world, and most people, were at peace. In all the years since their introduction, the finders have never been wrong. Sometimes the countdown is hilariously short, the shortest on record being five years and three days, and some were long, one man had to wait seventy years to find his love, but they never lied. Everyone found someone who could truly understand who they were. Which made Deacon all the more disconcerting. His finder wasn't a countdown at all. It showed nothing. No digits, no lights, nothing. It had been checked and checked again, but there was nothing wrong with the finder. His parents were terribly worried, what did this mean? Was he doomed to be alone? Or did he not need anyone? No one was sure what it meant, and for the first time in a long time people felt the bite of an old, old companion, fear. However, time passed, as it does, and people got used to Deacon's empty finder. He was a happy child and didn't seem concerned at all about the finder's emptiness. His happiness didn't abate even when he hit his teenage years, when everyone is continually upset at some triviality or other. Everyone agreed that Deacon was the nicest person around. The years continued to pass and Deacon grew into a man. He found a job he liked, architecture maintenance, and settled down with a pleasant apartment. He never showed much interest in romance, but always had plenty of friends. Eventually, Deacon became an old man. He still loved to smile and laugh with his friends and never tired of meeting new people. One day news reached him of a strange event, a child had been born with an empty finder. When he heard about the birth, he smiled, nodded, and said, "About time." His friends asked him about that, but he just shook his head and made a joke. Deacon's comment was soon forgotten and another peaceful day came and went. As old men do, Deacon began to die, and on one of his last days the other empty finder came to visit him, a little girl named Margaret. He greeted Margaret with a smile, as he always did, and quickly made a friend of her. It wasn't a long friendship, as Deacon was old and dying, but Margaret seemed happy to meet him, and wasn't very upset when he died. She went to his funeral in a black dress, but didn't cry, she smiled. "Deacon was a friend", she'd say, "And he loved to smile, so we should smile too." She was a happy child, and not at all concerned about her friend's death. She was the second child born with an empty finder, but not the last.

Every person is born with a timer on their wrist that counts down to when the person meets their soulmate

**SPEECH DELIVARED NOVEMBER 16, 2013. PRESIDENT OBAMA AT THE WHITE HOUSE IN RESPONSE TO CLAIMS OF AN EXTRA-TERRESTRIAL ARTIFACT BEING DISCOVERED AT AN ASTEROID IMPACT SITE TWO WEEKS AGO.** **FULL TRANSCRIPT:** **PRESIDENT OBAMA:** My fellow Americans, I am here to speak on the recent events in Chicago, and explain to you the impact and changes that must follow. I will not spend more time than I need to, and there will be a briefing immediately proceeding this speech. When we reached out to the stars, it was unlikely that anything would reach back. A fortnight ago, as we now know, something did. In the scope of human history, this is perhaps the most important event to ever occur. Scientists at NASA have confirmed that the asteroid was, in fact, a vessel for an extra-terrestrial being. They have managed to cross language barriers and communicate with the being. This is stunning. I will not pretend that it is not. Almost everything we know about our world, our interactions, and our place in it, has changed. We must focus on the aspects of our progress that will not change, but will be cherished, especially in light of other events on nearby planets. Two months ago, NASA lost connection with its probes on Mars. After excruciating study, and after communication with the extra-terrestrial, we can confirm that the planet is no longer part of our solar system. The destruction should have no immediate impact on our planet. However, some two and a half centuries from now, the probability of a catastrophic asteroid impact is nearly certain. Earth is the only world our nation and species has ever called home. In the final years of my presidency, along with all of our short-term initiatives, I will work with the global community of scientists and leaders to develop an effective plan to establish havens for humanity to survive on nearby stars. The pace of scientific advancements should be spurred more than ever, and I have full confidence that this event will unite, not divide us. There will be a temptation for some to use our changed position for personal gain. I mentioned before that some parts of our moral and social constructs must not change. We must not lose our sense of empathy, our drive to promote human dignity and freedom, and respect. We must, for the sake of generations to come, work not only to create a more perfect union within our own great nation, but in the entire world. The hope of the future has always resided in the present, but today we can come together to realize the enormous weight of that truth. Financial and political systems worldwide will be altered in the next decades to focus on our survival as a species. You can be sure that starting today, the United States will lead this development. This is not the end. This is the beginning. I’d like to close by pointing those of us who seek solace in faith towards Corinthians, 4:18. “So we fix our eyes not on what is seen, but on what is unseen. For what is seen is temporary, but what is unseen is eternal.” Our future is eternal, and we will be able to make it great. **QUESTION AND ANSWER SESSION WITH WHITE HOUSE PRESS SECRETARY JAY CARNEY** **FULL TRANSCRIPT:** **REPORTER:** Is this a confirmation not only of extra-terrestrial life, but that, and correct me if I’m wrong, that the world is ending? **JAY CARNEY:** Well, from a technical standpoint, the world has always been ‘ending’. What we’re talking about is a minimum deadline for the world as a place that will be habitable by humans in their current or foreseeable state. **REPORTER:** Why—this is all very odd--why are we supposed to believe this? **JAY CARNEY:** NASA will release most of their data and reports publicly in the following weeks. **REPORTER:** Has Congress been informed? **JAY CARNEY:** Certain ranking members of Congress were informed, yes. Can we get somebody— **REPORTER:** Mars is gone? **JAY CARNEY:** Overwhelming evidence, even some capable by determined amateur astronomers—as I’m sure you’ve all read by now—have confirmed this. **REPORTER:** Will the President be pushing for reforms in our relationship with the United Nations as this situation develops? **JAY CARNEY:** President Obama still is acting in purely Constitutional terms, let’s make that clear, but he will push for an expansion to the United Nation’s role in scientific and economic development. But you should all note, his first priority has always been and will continue to be, to the United States. **REPORTER:** How did this 250-year deadline come about? Is it just an arbitrary guess? **JAY CARNEY:** Well, the data will be released, I’m assured that it is an analysis of the physics of Mars’ remnants, and several other factors. **REPORTER:** So you don’t know? **JAY CARNEY:** I know as well as any non-scientist who has high-level briefing would. We will certainly, however, have plenty of time to work on and avert the worst parts of this crisis. Yes, go ahead. **REPORTER:**: How can you make that statement if this ‘endgame’ is as far in the future as you say it is? **JAY CARNEY:** We have to be incredibly careful that people do not get the wrong idea about this situation. There is no immediate danger. We make a promise in the same way as our Constitution and Declaration make a promise. Acting on that promise will come down to the work of Congress, the President, the International Community, and every individual. **REPORTER:** Can you describe the communication of the extra-terrestrial? What did he, or she---damnit, it—say? **JAY CARNEY:** That information will not be released in the foreseeable future. **REPORTER:** Is the President planning on urging colonization missions? If so, will there be terraforming involved? **[THERE IS A PAUSE, MOST OF THE PRESS CORPS STOPS TO LOOK AT REPORTER]** **JAY CARNEY:** The early stages of colonization plans will be put into motion, yes, but as for, uh, further developments, I can’t really say right now. Okay, last question, we will certainly be having frequent briefings through the coming weeks as more information becomes available. **REPORTER:** Can the President give us a solid date for when Obamacare’s website will work, and if so, when is that date? **JAY CARNEY:** As we’ve said, we’re making progress on this enormous reform, and nobody should be rooting for failure. Obamacare was and is the right thing to do. It is an achievement in human decency. The vast majority of Americans will be able to use it within an acceptable timeline, and— **REPORTER:** So no timeline? **JAY CARNEY:** Not yet. But there are more important things going on, frankly.

A world leader (the US President, the UK PM, anybody) is delivering a speech disclosing irrefutable evidence that the world will end in 250 years. Write his/her speech.

I had known this man for a while, he was my boss after all, so I knew when he would be leaving. I sat outside the office waiting for him to come out. God, that office. That same office where I spent over 50 hours a fucking week working for this prick, and he couldn't give me a few hours off to watch my daughter Michelle's dance recital. Yeah, it's cliché but I missed my daughters dance recital to work. Typical workaholic father. He's walking out of the front door now, talking on that stupid blackberry. Who the fuck still has a blackberry, get an iPhone you selfish piece of shit. He's doing that stupid smile he always does, he's going to one of his whore mistresses. This guy has a beautiful wife and two beautiful little girls and he still feels the need to fuck these other women. I'll be doing his family a huge favor by killing this prick. He's getting into his stupid red corvette. The stupid red corvette that screams “My dick is small!!”. Every little thing about this idiot bothers me. I'm following him now, which is hard since he drives like an entitled douchebag. He pulls up to a shitty Motel 8. With how much this guy makes you'd think he'd get a nicer room for these women, but they're trash and I guess even this idiot knows that they don't deserve nice things. He walks in to a room. I'll wait a little bit, you know, to let him think that he's going to get it in. It's been around 20 minutes, I think I can make my appearance now. I walk into that room, pull out my pistol and yell “hi honey! Sorry I missed Michelle's recital!” and shoot my boss in the head. She's crying hysterically and I point it at her and empty the fucking clip. Fucking whore.

Someone murders another person for a motive that sounds extremely petty at first but makes total sense by the end of the excerpt.

"And over here," I said, stepping down the hall and gesturing right, "is the bathroom. As you can see, both the toilet and shower have separate doors for privacy. The mirror is very large and can be used without disturbing the privacy of others." The two followed my movements and gazed at the apartment's convenient feature. The woman, a dark-haired girl with quirky glasses, gave a small shriek at the mirror's size. I had expected that, and her boyfriend and I smiled at her reaction. "It's a great college apartment," I continued with my scripted dialogue. "Great for having guests over, and also great for giving each other space. Privacy is an important thing." "Oh, we don't need that," the man, a mid-twenties gentlemen with close-cropped red hair laughed. He nudged his younger girlfriend suggestively, and she nodded eagerly. I raised my eyebrows but otherwise kept my smile plastered. It wasn't unusual for us to get such couples who were a bit cheesy in their new-found love. They were excited, happy for each other, and being that I would be taking their money soon, I couldn't help but be happy for them, too. "Well then," I said, swinging the conversation just as I had been shown, "you're going to love the bedroom then, if space isn't an issue. There's only one closest and one desk, and it isn't exactly big. You open the door here ... there you go, follow me ... and then there's space for a bed here." The girl smiled again, as well as the man though not as extravagant. That was to be expected, though. The tour was not long, but the extravagant paperwork to be cleared before room-selection took the energy out of most people. I knew better than to try their patience and led them to the living room. Perfect! Now, I would not pressure them to leave, but the option was there if they wanted it. My manager would be thrilled! "So, final thoughts?" I asked. "If you'd like the room, you can move in today if you like." The too looked at each other, cheeks blushing as their eyes met. I couldn't help it. Cheesy though it may be, my heart warmed. "Well," the man led in, "do you have anything with a bigger room?" Darn, I thought. So close. "For our one bed, one bath suites, no," I answered honestly. "The best we can do is upgrade to a two bed, one bath suite, or perhaps a two bed, two bath one. They often have a master suite that has a much bigger room." "Oh no! We don't need it," the girl pleaded then looked to her boyfriend. "Babe, we can make it work. The other ones are two expensive. Besides, I only have another year of college, and then we can move." He was considering it, that I could see. I waited patiently, arms folding in front of me. Business. "Well, yeah," he frowned. "I was just thinking, though, you know. It might get kind of crowded in there, you know? I mean, when we have a baby." Oh, good, I smiled genuinely. A long-term couple! Even better! My commission on this going to be great! "Baby?" the girl asked, her smile slowly decaying. "Um, babe. We're not having children. Ever." Fuck, I thought.

Show the exact moment two people fall out of love, told from the perspective of a third party witness.

Achuchi watched from between her mother's legs as the White Men came and set up their camp. As they unloaded their tools and fired up their trucks, Achuchi began to worry. She had seen the White Men before, but only once. A few years ago they came looking for gold. They promised to pay the village if they found anything of value, but that promise was never kept. They dammed the rivers and pillaged the water, leaving her village in shambles for years. These White Men were sure to be no different. This time, they were here for the trees. Achuchi has seen them coming and going, meeting with the elders and the tribesmen late at night. A deal was struck weeks ago, and the villagers were wary. The White Men had paid up front, allowing minimal recovery from the gold rush of yesteryear. Now the time had come. They were back with their trucks and their saws, and in greater numbers, with far more fanfare. The White Men began to mark the trees they wanted with large red "X"s. They marked Achuchi's favorite tree first; the one she used to climb to get away from it all. The one she used to play with Rapau on cold summer nights was marked next. All of the memories came flooding back as the tears flowed freely. She clutched her mother's leg as she remembered watching all the animals from atop the branches. As the White Men moved further into the forest, marking trees as they went, she began to think of her other animal friends. Nakwatcha and Jabuti were out there, somewhere. Her leopard compatriots were sure to be moved away from their den. They would be disrupted by the noise and the falling trees; the smell and the never ending cries for help. Achuchi and her mother watched all day as the White Men marked every tree in sight. They watched through watery eyes and fallen hearts as the White Men went back to their camp. That night, Achuchi went and climbed her favorite tree one last time. She sat up in that tree all night long and waited. She waited for the moon to rise and the animals to appear. They came out slower that night, skittish and unsure of everything around them. Achuchi waited most of the night but never saw her old friends. Jabuti and Nakwatcha must have already moved on. They must have been smart, heard the commotion, and left. When the sun began to rise through the trees, Achuchi climbed down the old tree and went into her hut. She went and woke her mother so they could both bid farewell to the forest they knew and loved. They watched as the White Men came with their chainsaws and axes to start at Achuchi's favorite tree. Achuchi could barely watch as the wood chipped and the tree creaked. She gripped her mother's leg tight as her last security blanket started to fall. In the distance, almost in slow motion, she saw them. Nakwatcha and Jabuti were resting in the clearing, snoozing beneath the trees. Neither of them heard the chainsaws. They didn't hear the White Men yelling. They didn't hear the screams of terror as the tree sped to the ground. All Achuchi could do was watch as the two deaf leopards were crushed beneath the mighty weight of her favorite tree.

Write a tragedy using a classic rock band name as it's theme

God, I am hungry. What's the word I'm looking for? Famished? That sounds about right. I swear, if I could just stop this bullshit for five seconds and just ram a burger down my throat, I'd be so happy. "Ohhh, yeah baby," she cooed as my hips gently slapped her bare ass. Ah yes, I thought, just the image of that juicy burger was making my mind melt. One could say I began to salivate, but that's not quite accurate. In truth, I was drooling, and I had to wipe chin quick to stop it from dropping on her back. I passed off the quick motion with a slap to her ass so she wouldn't know. "Ah!" she giggled. "That's it, baby." I wondered, not for the first time, if maybe she'd like to eat with me. This was the third time we were having sex in the break room; didn't that mean maybe this could go somewhere? Maybe I could just hint at food, real subtle like? Yeah, that could work. Maybe make a joke about how her vagina looks like a taco? No! Stupid! That'd probably just get me fired prior to a harassment charge. "Hey, Dave!" my boss knocked on the door as he went by. "How are those reports coming?" I looked back to respond, happy for the break, but yet unable to think of a reply. All I could picture was a big, juicy steak on Wendy's back. Thankfully, Wendy started moaning loud as she came to close to climaxing, and I just offered my boss a casual shrug. "Alright, I get it," he laughed. "You're on break, but see me after, okay?" "Got it," I smiled, sweat dripping from my forehead. Wendy began to shudder, and I slowed my thrusting as she eased back into me. And then I felt my stomach churn, and I tensed up. No! Not now! Too late. Just as Wendy smiled and turned to look back at me, my stomach growled. *GGGGRRRRRRR* Wendy's smile disappeared. I felt my cheeks flush red and the sweat in my armpits suddenly intensify. She pulled away from me and eased her skirt down. I just stood there like an idiot, pants still down around my ankles, trying to think of something to say. "Well, um, thanks," she smiled, giving me a faint wave and leaving. After she was gone, my stomach growled again. "God damn it," I sighed.

a society where sex is public and entirely unstigmatised, but eating is a taboo

“Hey there,” he whispered seductively as he kneeled down next to Friedrich Boulevard, an empty road that had caught his eyes. “I know you probably hear this from a lot of guys, but I’ve been looking at you all night. You’re quite something.” The road didn’t respond. He slowly traced a finger along its asphalt, feeling its rough surface. He shivered slightly at how close he was to it, how easy it would be to just lean in and kiss the enthralling street. It wasn’t time yet though. A road like this needed to be pampered. It needed to be shown how special it was before he could succumb to the primal urges that stirred within him when he gazed upon it. “Here,” he said as he reached into his jacket and retrieved a bottle of vodka. “I brought us a drink.” He poured a little bit onto the road. It remained silent. He smiled playfully. “How about we each get a couple of these and see where things go?” he suggested as he took a swig from the bottle. It wouldn’t hurt if they were both a little tipsy. He had never seen a street as staggeringly beautiful as this one and a little bit of liquid courage would be needed to steady his quivering nerves. The street remained silent. It was playing hard to get. He didn’t mind though, this little game of cat and mouse was a small payment for a chance at passion with a road like this. “Here you go,” he whispered, casually stroking the alluring asphalt as he poured a little more vodka onto it. “One more for the road.”

Take any idiom literally. Write a short story from it.

A tightness raised in his throat that he didn't know how to process. He tried working against it, like he worked against everything, everything that held him back, everything that tried to change him he would strain and fight against it until it buckled to his will and he could continue on, relentless. In the past he had succeeded in destroying the paper-thin relationships he had with his family this way, working and pushing at his career, at his work, until they tore and shredded and released him. He tried analyzing the weight in his gut. Processing and re-processing its origins and purpose. He was familiar with this method. Using it to break down the components of other people and the environment and art. He could explain in explicit detail the inner workings of a piece of music, why certain sound produced certain reactions, or the physics behind a sunset. He dealt with these phenomena daily. They were unavoidable, and therefore must be understood. He had no system for understanding what was causing his hands to shake by his sides. He reached out for - something. Someone. For a young girl, but he was younger still, far too young to see her like that, to be ripped from her. This time he doesn't rationalize the tears he remembers or the gut-wrenching agony of losing her. Instead he remembers her kind smile he never understood, because he was distant even then, even before. He forgot about that smile. She loved the simple pleasures. She had shown him the mathematics and pattern of folding paper into a soaring airplane, not so dissimilar to the one that clipped his ear just now and tumbled to the ground. She had whooped and hollered and danced about when a new paper airplane took flight. The only reason he's folded paper in the last two decades was to send a letter. The weight in his throat and gut only tighten as he watches the bus pull away. He can't understand why he didn't take his usual seat on it. He sits down at the bus shelter, his knuckles white against his briefcase. The wind picks up around his ankles and he sits there for an hour, maybe two. He recognizes grief, he's very familiar with the feeling of loss and longing, but this is strange, he doesn't want to go back, it's a grief for how things could have been. Then he's opening his briefcase and carefully selecting a looseleaf piece of paper. He carefully aligns the edges, runs his fingernail along it to form the creases. He releases it with a gentle push into the air. The wind catches a wing and sends it spinning upwards, unstable, until the paper airplane levels and it's soaring. The tightness in his throat releases. The weight in his gut lifts, becoming warm and settles somewhere near his chest as he watches his little creation. His eyes slide closed, and in the privacy of his own darkness, he allows himself to smile.

An adult character is literally just experiencing for the first time what it's like to be happy. Avoid thought verbs, avoid clichés.

I watched my companion as we walked along towards our destination. He didn't look like a god, but that meant nothing. I looked like an amalgam of all the people he had feelings for. I could feel my face constantly shifting. "Please. You don't have to do this." "Oh, but I do. And even if I don't, I'll eventually wake up anyway." "Promise me. Promise you won't forget me." "I won't. I will treasure the memories of my time with you." As he turned away, I knew he was lying. Even he didn't have control over what he remembered from his dreams. "If we ever meet again, I won't be the same person. I'm an archetype. You're constantly rewriting me, adding on new faces, new memories. Forgetting old ones." He stared at me dumbfounded. "I never thought of it like that, but now I see it makes a lot of sense." "At least give me something to remember you by before I dissipate. I can feel it, minutes away now." We stopped walking. I looked back at the prints our feet had left in the snow--changing from human to bird to hooves to something I couldn't even identify, and then back to human. He reached over, cupping my cheek with his hand. "I think this is what you asked for?" Even as he kissed me, I could feel myself getting lighter, more intangible. The entire world was being absorbed into his body. Touching him, I faded more slowly, but I knew I had seconds left. *I love you...* My words were torn from my lips, becoming echoes of whispers lost in the crashing waves of the waking world.

A character in your dream realizes that when you wake up he/she dies.

**World War 3** (*Also known as the War of Asia*) **Diplomatic Tensions**: In October of 2022, the United States defaulted on its debt. While sending the global economy into a large recession (See entry for the Second Global Depression), it also served to push the confrontation between the US and China, the worlds two most powerful nations at the time, to a point of conflict. China, which had already begun confrontation with the Japanese by claiming territorial rights to the Senkaku Islands (See [Senkaku Islands Dispute](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Senkaku_Islands_dispute)), began to push it's military patrols further into Japanese borders. This escalated until a Chinese submarine was found in the shallow waters near Kume Island in March of 2023. Japan, with authorization from the US, warned China that any further ventures into their land would result in a declaration of war. Following the 2020 terror attacks in Delhi (found here), the relationship between India and Pakistan had escalated from tense to rival the US and USSR at the height of the Cold War. Both countries immigration controls were operating at such extremes that each had earned denouncements from every major human and civil rights group in the world, and high ranking members of both governments were being considered for cases to be tried before the [international criminal court](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/International_Criminal_Court). The US, desparate for economic relief and worried about possible war, turned to India, who's growing markets and educated middle class had allowed them to avoid most of the financial issues that were plaguing Europe and the US. India provided loans to the US in exchange for a defensive pact calling for US military support in the event of warfare. Egypt, fresh off the 2019 revolution, had begun to mount a serious threat to Israel due to the extremist nature of their new leadership. Israel, which had been given increased resources from the US up until the economic crisis, had gone so far as to completely seal of their southern border. Both countries had moved large numbers of troops within 50 miles of the border, and conflict appeared to be imminent. **Initial Chinese-US Conflict**: On June 21st, 2023, a Chinese Submarine sunk a US battleship off the coast of the Philippines (see battle of Lingayen Gulf). The US responded with the full might of their navy and air force, destroying several Chinese ships that had been deployed throughout the East China Sea. China had planned for this response, and had quietly maneuvered their army through the lands of their ally North Korea, and deployed them under North Korean flags. North Korea was a shell of it's former self, having been thoroughly embarrassed by the US army in the military intervention of the country in 2016 (see entry on Operation Flying Eagle). Because of this, the movement of any ship under their flag were seen as unimportant to the US intelligence services. Due to this oversight, the Chinese were able to launch the successful invasion of Niigata and Akita on June 22nd of 2023. US forces responded be deploying throughout Southern and Western Japan, with their central command being located in Osaka because Tokyo was deemed too close to the action. Both armies locked in stalemate fighting for the next month which devastated the country of Japan (See Battle of Northern Japan entry here). **Indian-Pakistani conflict**: The nature of the Chinese-Japanese-American war changed drastically on August 2nd when India declared war on Pakistan, citing evidence of a Pakistani invasion that had been uncovered by the [DIA](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Defence_Intelligence_Agency_\(India\)) while also noting that a large contingent of Pakistani forces had been relocated to Lahore. India began the war by bombing Lahore with the intention of severally weakening Pakistan's infantry corps, allowing for an easier conquest of the country. The plan failed when Pakistan's anti air forces succeeded in protecting most army barracks in the city. However, the Indian government demanded that the US send soldiers to aid in their war effort (See the 1st and 2nd amendments of the US-Indian Defensive Pact of 2022). When the US balked at the initial proposition, claiming that India's declaration of war nullified their agreement, and that furthermore they were actively engaging the Chinese in Japan. India said they acted in self defensive of an imminent attack, and that they would cease providing the US with economic aid if they refused. The US agreed, on the condition that after the conflict with Pakistan was finished, the India would help fight China. On August 22nd, with Indian and Pakistani forces thoroughly engaged in a stalemate near Gujranwala after Pakistan forces had retreated out of range of the Indian air force, the US navy launched an invasion of Karachi (See the Invasion of Karachi). I have to stop there because it's getting late and I'm hungry, but that's about 5000 words about the beginning. I can continue later if I find any positive response to this. EDIT: Added a part 2 below for those who requested it.

Write an encyclopedia style overview / summary of World War 3

The worst part was the sounds. I walked slowly, but calmly, through my ravaged city, the grass growing ever higher, stained in red and littered with countless decaying limbs and parts from the human bodies they once belonged to. "You just need to stay calm", I reminded myself every few seconds. They were all around me, these savage maneaters. Their eyes were swollen shut, some kind of side-effect from the virus that had turned once-normal people into these disgusting creatures. With their sense of smell heightened, they seemed to know the general direction of where people were, but without commotion, they merely dragged their bodies along, shrieking and moaning. A loud breath would not set them off, but even a word would have them pouncing on you in a moment's notice. And if they even so much as touched you, they would become violent. I made my way carefully though the endless mass of demons in the town square, tiptoe-ing and making sure to keep my breath as quiet as possible. Most of the victims died within the first few days of the onslaught. The screaming of people had died down long after, leaving only their sounds to purge any silence that ever fell. I wouldn't consider myself the hero-type, or a survivalist. I wasn't strong, necessarily fast, or even that intelligent. No, what ensured my survival was the fact that I never did allow my emotions to ever get really flustered Even when I had done one of the worst mistakes of my life--like let my girlfriend leave me instead of fighting for her, or one of the more embarrassing things in my life--like pee myself in my bed after a long night of drinking, I was never one to let it get to me. Everything could be dealt with coolly, calmly, collectedly, and reserved. So, it wasn't a big surprise to me (an avid zombies fan), when the apocalypse began. The big surprise laid more in the fact I didn't have to be frantically scrambling for my life every time I came into contact with one: all I had to do was keep calm. And that was something that I was extremely used to.

Zombie Apocalypse... HOWEVER, if survivors ignore them and don't freak out when they're nearby, the zombies don't attack.

Death swooped in the window and raised his scythe over the baby's crib. "Wait a moment," a woman said. She was sitting on a rocking chair in the corner of the room, knitting. "Speak," said Death. "I suppose you want to play a game for the child's life. I warn you, I've had a great deal of practice at every sort of game since that policy came about." "Well, I'm sad to see the little man go," she said, "but I know it's your job to take him, so I won't interfere. Just be sure to remember to feed him three times a day and put a baby monitor by his crib so you'll know if he has a coughing fit or anything. I doubt you'll be getting much sleep, but that's how it goes, you know? Oh, and you'll want a fresh change of ominous robes for when he spits up on you, which he does just about all the time." "Um, yes," said Death. "And you'll need to change his diapers. He's a champion shitter, that one. He likes to wait for you to change him, and then shit again just after - usually five or six times a day." Death glanced at the window, then back at the kid. The little guy didn't *look* so bad. "Oh, and he'll be a teenager in a few years," said the woman. There was a *whoosh*, and the window snapped shut. Death had escaped.

A mother tries to reason with Death, who has come to claim her terminally ill child

I like that you're mentioning your favourite Redditor, because I'm on Reddit right now so it's a funny coincidence. Only if you believe in coincidences though, I means those guys over here say "Everything happens for a reason!" but then there was a comment the other day (on Reddit again, the odds!) that answered this with "Yeah, because of Physics" or something like that. Do you believe in coincidences? I don't know if I do. Recently at my University we've had a course called Zetetic (can't really tell if the English name is the same but I don't see any reason for it not to, and by "it" I mean the course, and by "for it not to" I mean for it not to be called the same as in French. That's because I speak French, which is neat since being bilingual (is that how you write it? I'd check but I'm typing right now so I'd lose time and maybe get lost in my own words. (That was strangely poetic too, don't you think? Sometimes I like to think like a poet but I don't do it on purpose, not generally, because when I do it doesn't come out right. I just spout stuff I've heard elsewhere, like in the song "What a wonderful world". You know, "I see nanana...". I like that song.) Since I don't want to get lost in my words I'll just go with "bilingual" and hope it's not too wrong, Reddit doesn't really like typos. Reddit again, funny huh?) helps with understanding more people and understanding Reddit too. Reddit is everywhere today, isn't it?) and that course kind of promotes the "Art of Doubt." But what *is* the art of doubt? I'm glad you asked, the course was fascinating. Zetetic simply promotes critical thinking with general guidelines to help avoid fallacies, misconceptions and the such. They also think imagination is great fuel for Science, so their motto is pretty much "The Right to Dream implies a Duty of Vigilance" so it's like, "Don't dream so much you'll start believing it despite it not making any sense". It's cool. But I'm on a tangent right now (again, is that how you write it?), so I'll finish by saying that the "Everything happens for a reason!" thing should be checked by someone who knows Zetetic. Right? We were talking about favourite Redditors. My favourites are /u/Unidan (he's everyone favourite, at least a little bit) and maybe that other guy you mentioned who goes on funny rants. But I also like Unidan because I'm also studying Biology although I don't think I'll be a Field Biologist. I'm more of a lab guy, white coat and safety glasses, y'know? I've also upvoted /u/toxicbox a lot, he's like the new Apostolate, that guy who was *super* present on Reddit like last year or even before that, I don't remember. I like you too, OP, don't worry! I just haven't met you online yet, well now I have, but usually I don't "meet" people by answering their questions on Reddit (again!). I think I'm past most of my social awkwardness these days because I meet more people like you and it's nice. There's a few dudes and girls who study the same stuff I do and sometime we work together so it's nice and all, being social is cool. Anyway, I've met someone else (it's you OP if you hadn't caught my meaning :p) today so it was a good day. And then there's that whole question thing of yours. Maybe I should answer it now, but I don't know if I'm much of a rambler. I mean, I could talk for *days* about some sciencey theories and stuff, and the way our minds work and how we may be in a matrix and what it implies for religion and what future actually is and how time travel would be cool though we would have to make sure there are no paradoxes if it's a certain type of time travel because it could also be one where you just pop into someone else's timeline and since their future hasn't happened you can change it with the knowledge you have of your *own* timeline, which is not so different from the one you just joined since the only differences are the ones brought about by your presence. But should I really ramble? I do spend a lot of time writing, what with Reddit (I've stopped counting now *lol*), schoolwork and sometimes I like writing short essays and stories, at times I even tried to work on some fanfiction but it didn't hold my attention for long enough. Do you write, too? If you do then do you think it's a good thing to get drunk before writing? It does help with the creativity but I suspect it also makes the brain work a little too weird to reach its fullest potential. Instead, writing late at night has the same effects without the alcohol screwing with your brain, so I do that. Of course it does mean I don't have much time for writing, but it's not a disaster! And did you see the xkcd comic (they're always relevant!) about that girl spinning counter-clockwise to slow down the Earth's rotation? It would be kinda cool if everyone on Reddit would do that for a few minutes every other night, so the writers on here get a little more writing time. Of course it's only a few picoseconds so maybe it's not that significant, but they do say "It's the intention that counts!" Then we've also established that sayings are not always right, so maybe we should critical think the hell out of this one, just for fun. But sadly my fingers are starting to hurt so I'll just hit send now. Sorry I couldn't ramble for you, it's getting late and painful to write and I wasn't exactly inspired when I wrote this little introduction. Nice meeting you, OP!

In honor of one of my favorite redditor's of all time, please, Ramble Off Topic

Work today. Again. Showered and shaved, I stroll through the city streets. They are over run. Crowded with hundreds of feckless, ignorant, naive automotons. Cockroaches, all scuttling along, so unaware of the world around them. They don't even notice me. I walk amongst them a giant, invisible to their eyes. I am a wolf in sheeps clothing. I stop by the coffee shop on my way. Sarah is on the counter. She always is. She works from seven 'til three, then picks up her kids from school. She's told me several times. I smile and wave, throw false compliments and feign interest in her uneventful, repetitive existence. Once every week or so this charade will earn me a free coffee. I'm not sure it's worth it. I cross the street, the warmth of the styrofoam coffee cup spreading across my palms. I take a sip and the warmth sinks down my throat and spreads across my chest. A satisfying feeling. Suddenly I'm brought to a halt. A man in a wool knitted hat and fingerless gloves, holding a clipboard. He talks at me. I can smell his stale breath, weaving its way up into my nostrils, violating my body. He rushes through words so quick that they tumble out of the foul hole in his face; spittle flies from his mouth at every other plosive sound. Some of it lands on my coat sleeves. What gives him the right to stop me? What makes him important? Does he think I have nothing better to do? Does he think he's in some way more important than me? He is a fucking cockroach. A poisonous little vermin that would do just as well without its head attached. I free one of my hands from the embrace of the coffee cup. I slowly raise it towards him. He barely notices. I stretch it out towards his throat. I push him aside and walk on. I know my role. This system. These rules. I follow them. I suffer inconveniences, because I have to. I stop infront of the workshop and withdraw my keys from my pocket. Cold shoots across my fingers, firing out from their chilled metal skin. They are vying for my attention. Begging to let me use them. I unlock the door and enter. The stench burns my nostrils. I pull up the front of my coat, to shield my senses from the advancing odours. I move over to the workbench and sit and stare at the floor. Three cockroaches lay motionless on the floor. Even in death they are putrid. I hear the saw on the bench beside me. Its cold steel calls out to me too. It begs for the honour of my honed skills to take it. It wants to be close to me. To help me deal with this infestation. I oblige. As I carve their husks into smaller pieces, the stench becomes almost overwhelming. But I persevere. I cut off their flippant tongues last. I will keep one as a souvenir. A reminder of why I do this. Why I suffer this inconvenience. *Edit - Spelling*

Describe a psychopath, characterised through his perspective of the outside world as opposed to our perspective of him

WAKE UP BOY. GOOD BOY. Jack-human pats head. Love Jack-human. Jack-human good. Jack-human looks sad. Lick his face. Face tastes salty. Tears. Running through the woods. Fun. Exercise. Caution. Quiet. Jack-human looks around. Smell birds. High above. No ground critters. Very far, hear other humans. Not like Jack-human. Not right. Tell Jack-human. Bark. He sees. Then, bark at them. Fear. Bark louder. Jack-human says STOP. Stop barking. But already running. We run too. Running fun, but this not fun. Run for long time. Other humans slower. Not right. Running. Road hard. Forest empty. Still running. Jack-human slows down. Stops. Listens. Listen too. Trees quiet. No more birds. Flown away. Bye birds. Road hard. Wind cold. Jack-human sits down. Sit down beside him. Jack-human pats head. Lick hand. Jack-human opens his arm. Hug. Other noises. Twigs. Move again. Running. Less running. Stop. Jack-human looks tired. Panting. Water. Sound of water. Smell of water. Good water. Running to river. Fun. Tasty. River has good water. Jack-human very happy. Very tired. No tired. Must protect Jack. Jack-human sleep by river. Listen to breaths. Listen. More crying. Jack-human sees light by road. Jack-human goes away. STAY. GOOD BOY. Sitting. Sitting. Sitting. Sleeping. Noise. Awake. Jack-human has returned. Jack-human arms out for hug. Not right.

A zombie apocalypse from a dog's point of view

The cold, steel muzzle pushed into the soft flesh under his jaw. His finger strained against the trigger, shaking ever so softly. Just as his finger tensed for the final pull, he abruptly lowered the gun. *Shit, not now.* Josh had a Starbucks venti iced coffee that morning, one that had already made its way through his digestive system. *What the fuck, why does it even matter? I can shit myself after I'm dead.* He rolled his eyes at himself, and returned the the tip of his dad's 10mm pistol to its potentially lethal position. Yet, for 30 seconds, he didn't pull the trigger. He stood, and stood, and stood, yet could not move a muscle. Then his intestines groaned in protest. "FUCK, FINE," he audibly yelled in protest. He jumped off his bed and ran to the bathroom to relieve himself. Josh sat on the toilet, staring down at the 10mm in his right hand. After he finished relieving himself, he didn't move. He sat, and sat, and sat. Then the garage opened. He sighed. *Fuck me.* He rushed out of the bathroom, and once again returned his father's pistol to its cozy home in the nightstand's second drawer. After returning to his room and slamming the door shut, Josh laid on his small twin-sized bed and thought. He thought, and thought, and thought. *Every goddamn time.* It was a phone call from his mom, or the family's dog barking outside, or the oven left on, or bowel movements; every time he attempted to take his own life, something interrupted him. *What bullshit.* It took Josh 5 years to realize that he was never interrupted. It wasn't his mom's, or friend's, or digestive system's fault. Josh simply cared too much to die.

A person is about to kill themself, but suddenly gets an incredible urge to use the restroom.

So this one morning, I was down at the temple just doing my business. Slow day as usual, until this guys storms in. Starts talking shit about all of us, calls us thieves and eventually have us thrown out of our spots. Now, I'm all for reforms and I won't be the one complaining if one of us finally have the guts to stand up to those romans, but why on earth does ruining my business have to be a part of the plan? I mean, we are all on the same side: we are the chosen ones, and we are to finally be driven against the bad guys. You happen to be the one who's to fulfill it all and believe me, I'm eager to side with you. Hell, I'm down to doing petty trade within the temple in order to survive, waiting for someone to help me redeem my life and what do I get from you? A kick in the butt, that is. You know what, nazarene? You better pray your life never depends on me. I'd choose anybody's freedom over yours. Just pray that me and the many you pissed off never, ever get do decide on your fate [Biblical story involved](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Cleansing_of_the_Temple)

Rewrite A Biblical story from the villains point of view.

The less time here the better. I want to sit in the closest seat to the exit so when the bus stops I can get off quickly. | Lately I've been thinking about they day they took my father away. The look of fear on his face. . . and anger. | After a certain age, around 7 or 8, most children lose their emotions and are then on their way to becoming a normal part of society. Others on the hand, like my father, don't. It happens sometimes. I think it's called *Emotional Personality Disorder*. People with "EPD" are considered a danger to society and themselves because they have an extremely high probability to react illogically and dangerously. | I was a late bloomer myself. I was almost 9 before I "lost" my emotions. I remember a story I overheard my father tell someone about a coworker of his that just pretended not to have any emotions, the coworker was almost 28 before they caught him. So that's what I started doing too. I could overhear other kids ask each other if they thought I had EPD, it was the only thing I could do. | I pretended for years and years. Now here I am, a junior in high school, top 10% in my class. My future can be bright. I wonder how my father would react to me, emotions and all. He told me the truth about 5 years ago. That he had emotions and was so happy that I did too. He had been pretending for almost 40 years, tears ran down his face. He looked at me and then I realized. . . I didn't care. So that's why I turned him in. | I had been caught up in pretending to not have emotions for so long I never realized when they actually left. I wonder if I could have laughed at the irony so many years ago. And now that the bus arrived at school earlier than normal I can turn in my paper before class starts and I'll get full credit. | | ^(This is my first attempt. I would really appreciate feedback. Hope you enjoyed!)

In a world where almost everyone is an unfeeling psychopath, those who can show emotion are shunned -- being able to display or feel emotion is considered a mental illness.

Kunta sharpened the ceremonial kris, showering the room with sparks each time the blade brushed the whetstone. Off to the side, the calf stared, half confused, half paralyzed with fear, its eyes staring into Kunta's own. "This is stupid", Kunta exclaimed when Obwe passed into the room. "Why must we care for an animal destined for slaughter? It would be simpler to kill if this calf was but a stranger. Instead, I cared for him, I bathed him, I fed him, and I loved him. Now, I slaughter him." "Yaraga was a great hunter" Obwe began, seemingly ignoring the young Josun's frustrations. "One winter, while tracking deer, a snowstorm trapped him in a cave. And as fate would have it, the deer he was tracking sought shelter in the same cave." "For seven days, they waited out the storm. Yaraga would build fires around which the two would huddle, while the deer sniffed out lichen and moss, upon which the two survived. On the seventh day, with the storm still raging, the deer, sensing his own imminent demise, threw himself upon the fire, so that Yaraga might survive." "Touched by the deer's sacrifice, Yagara proclaimed that all animals will be cared for by its killer, so they too may know pain." "That's stupid" Kunta sulked. "The deer sacrificed itself. This calf doesn't want to die." "You misunderstand" Obwe replied. "Yagara wanted our people to understand that the animals had feelings, desires and pain. If you are going to kill, then you should at least share in the pain." Kunta slit the Calf's throat cleanly, and the blood bubbled forth in its mouth. It looked neither afraid nor confused anymore, and Kunta just sat there cradling the calf until its body went cold.

You live in a world where any animal you eat must be cared for in the last week of its life and then slaughtered -- by you.

First things first, let's just address the elephant in the room. Everyone hears "Aquaman". Everyone thinks: "Isn't he kind of gay?" The problem that we have here is not subject matter - it's past image. Sure, he's not beating the shit out of bad guys in Gotham, and he doesn't have a kick-ass iron suit with lot's of guns and missiles, but that doesn't matter. Aquaman exists in a fantasy world. Think Lord of the Rings, except instead of Middle Earth we're in Atlantis. Hell, people, we've already done this once! Look at how people laughed at the idea of a Thor movie. No one believed we could tie in Norse mythology to the modern world and make it cool - but we did. A fantasy move - done right - is a gold ticket waiting to be cashed in. We can do anything we want with this. Atlantis can be an alternative civilization that has existed at the bottom of the pacific ocean for the past billion years and no one has discovered it. Or, it could be a giant spacecraft that landed on Earth millions of years ago with the sole purpose of terraforming an underwater world. Or, Atlantis could be an alternate dimension that science opens a worm hole into. What about the name you ask? Aquaman. That's just a nickname given to him when people first saw him. His royal heritage name is *Orin*. That sounds pretty badass to me. Forget the orange koi-like skin. We can give his body a coating of dark blue and black metallic looking scales that sharks - and even bullets - can't penetrate. His face is only exposed when he wants it to be. In times of battle, or when stressed, his armored scales expand around his head to form a sort of amphibious battle helmet. It makes sense right? Think of a salt water porcupine puffer fish - when it is stressed it grows in size and has spines that protrude out of its body for protection. We can use this kind of thing to our advantage. Imagine that when *Orin* get's into a stressful situation, he goes into battle mode - with his bulletproof black and blue metal-like coating of scales and his organic protective head-piece covering him. He can even grow in size a little. And remember, he's telepathic - how kick-ass is that? We may be able to even throw in a little telekinesis in the mix. The movie won't be called *Aquaman* - think *King of Atlantis*. Imagine Sofia Vergara or Jennifer Lawrence as a sexy mermaid. Hell, I'd buy a ticket just to see that! People, this is all about marketing. It's all about image. Look at what people thought of Old Spice ten years ago. Would you have ever thought it would be cool today? What about the comeback Apple computers made? If we change the image, we make the brand successful. We can do this. We already *have* done this.

You stand before the executives at Warner Bros. with your job on the line; you have to sell them a film version of "Aquaman."

It'd been years since the last aircraft flew. At first, people were frightened. "We're going to be stuck on this rock forever! What if the natural resources run out? What if pollution gets to be too much? What if..." they'd all say. But after a short while, no one really minded aside from a few ornery travelers and businessmen (I have to get my product across the county as quickly as possible! Egan heard one say over and over again on cable news). Actually, people were getting quite used to it, even liking the airless skies. Until just a few years ago, no one alive had ever seen a clear sky, a night's star covered blackness, or an empty horizon. But when the atmosphere became too thick to support flight, humanity's only option was to stick to the ground their forefather’s walked. Egan thought about that as he smoked a hand rolled cigarette through his mask—men from a different era, a flightless before time, probably found themselves in a very similar situation as he found himself now: trapped and miserable in a godforsaken trench, fighting an enemy he knew nothing about nor wanted anything to do with. The skirmish began simply enough, of course. They always do. Egan had enlisted bravely, much to the pleasure of his father and displeasure of his mother. He’d read stories about war heroes and seen their accolades and medals still proudly displayed, even in old age, and was excited to become part of that esteemed club. What he discovered too late from that cluster of old timers, proudly displaying their shining regalia from wars past, was that _their_ wars were simple. Sure, many died. But it was a quick and painless death, an explosion in a jet, a crashing of a fighter suit from 40,000 feet. These old timers never had to dig deep trenches in the mud, sleep with the pests, and _stab_ an enemy with a blade. No, those old timers never had to any of that, so it’s no surprise they happily put _the young_ to war—they did not understand today's battles. Moreover, they didn’t care. Egan was disgusted with them, and yet, he would never surrender to his enemy and certainly would never abandon his post. He loved his comrades too much, and they loved him. He was a good Sergeant and somehow he always rallied the troops to do what he most loathed. He flicked his cigarette and covered the mask's orifice. He peeked above the trench wall to survey the surroundings and quickly ducked back down when a sniper fired a round near his head. Not close enough this time, he thought. Egan looked up to the sky that was beginning to turn dark. He saw Earth in the night sky, a tiny light glimmering, and wondered if any human would ever set foot there again.

Write me a tale about trench warfare in a fantasy world's WW1 like setting.

"For every thousand hacking at the leaves of evil, there is one striking at the root." *thwack* "And as the thousand waste their time with the minute issues, only one will attempt to confront the source" *thwack* "And when the tree begins to lean, the one at the root will be forgotten behind the cheers of the thousand; they were too busy with the leaves to notice." *thwack* "But the tree falls, and crushes the one at the root. The thousand are aghast. Responsibility shifts like wildfire." *thwack* "No snowflake in an avalanche ever feels respo-" "Logan, could you please stop with the quotes and English lit-speak? You sound like a lost English major." Logan is broken from his trance-like swinging, and stares at his supervisor. The lumberjack's face reddens and he quickly regains his composure. "Sorry, boss! Using the axe just turns me into a different person. Makes me feel invigorated, you know?" "Okay, calm down there Patrick Bateman. There's always the chainsaw in the warehouse case you ever need it." "Will do boss." ... *thwack* *thwack* *thwack* *creak* *rip* *crash*

"For every thousand hacking at the leaves of evil, there is one striking at the root. "

6:08 PM, EST; 8:08 AM, JST Yumiko: i'm back! the connection in my neighborhood was down a few days with the bombs, but just put back now :) Susan: and the first thing you did was message me? i'm flattered! Yumiko: haha 6:09 Yumiko: have you heard from your brother? Susan: he's supposed to be home next week! dad said there will probably be french girls hiding in his luggage 6:10 Susan: then mom got mad at him and he shut up :P Yumiko: your parents are funny Susan: what about your brother? 6:11 Yumiko: we do not know. we think he is still fighting in the south. no one has heard Susan: i'm sorry, that must be really hard not to know 6:12 Susan: do your parents think the war will be over soon? Yumiko: father will not say anything. he is afraid people at his work might find out. but i think mother is angry 6:13 Yumiko: even with so many bombings, they will not surrender, mother says they do not care about our lives Susan: i wish you could talk to people here. a lot of americans think you're all enjoying the war and you want to kill us all 6:14 Yumiko: i am also upset that the internet is not working so often Yumiko: when it works, people outside the city can tell us if there are bombers coming, but after bombs the internet is bad 6:15 Yumiko: also mother was crying yesterday, i wanted to show her that dog and horse that was on the front page of reddit to make her happy, but the connection was bad Susan: you should show her now! Yumiko: i will! one of my friends says there is a plane almost here, so i will do it now in case the internet goes down 6:16 Susan: i hope she likes it! 6:17 Susan: ...are you still there? Susan: i guess the connection went down, i'll try again later. hope all is well <3

If the internet existed in WWII.

Mr. Rex, It has come to my attention that you have recently been engaged in destroying my city. I would like to thank you on behalf of the bureau of urban renewal, the city demolition commission, and our country's enemies, all of whom appreciate your efforts. I realize that you are very busy frying women and children as they flee before your all-burning sight, but I was wondering if you might have any time for some "extracurricular activities." You see, my neighbor has a tendency to listen to loud music at night, and I think he would appreciate it if you could burn down his house and devour everyone inside. If it isn't too inconvenient, I have included the address of this neighbor along with the address of my old high school bully, the GPS locations of everyone who disagrees with my politics, and the license plates of everyone who has ever cut me off in traffic. I hope you will find all these citizens suitably delicious, and that we might work together in the future, as I have many more candidates who may benefit from your attention, such as my boss. I look forward to hearing more about you on the news, Your fan, Const Orion

Write a formal letter to a laser shooting Tyrannosaurus Rex with a jetpack that is destroying your city

WHAT DO YOU MEAN I HAVE TO LOOK AFTER IT? "I'm really sorry, sir" maggot slimed. "It says so, right here in the contract, that if you take this lady's soul, you have to look after her spawn." A baby in a crochet blanket was thrust into HIS EMMINENCE THE DARK LORD OF EVIL's lap. WHAT'S THAT AWFUL SMELL "Er i believe that's talcum powder, sir. It keeps the spawn from getting nappy rash." I HAVE CONQUERED THOUSANDS "I know Your Evilness, I know." maggot cringed. "But you can't breach a contract term. Even DARKNESS needs legal stability and certainty." I SUPPOSE I CAN CARE FOR THE BRAT. FETCH ME COCKROACHES' EYEBALLS. I WISH TO FEED IT. "Sir, hmm... Your Evilness... It drinks milk, My most Dark Overlord. Also..." maggot squirmed OUT WITH IT "It's a girl-brat. She's called Anna." BUT I WANT TO CALL HER TORMENT "Contract term, sir." His Evilness sighed. FETCH ME MILK There was a long pause. Servant and master looked at each other AND MAYBE SOME TOYS. SHE MIGHT GET BORED.

A powerful, malevolent entity is forced to care for a human child

It surprised me how much creamer Death put in his coffee. But then again, what's it going to do? Kill him? He came back to the table and passed me a second cup, black. Taking a sip, I nodded. “I have to say, this isn't how I imagined the afterlife.” Death smiled. Not warmly, but still. “The population of the Afterlife just keeps going up. Someone's got to keep track of it.” “I thought there was supposed to be a stench of sulfur in the room.” “You're mistaking me for Lucifer. Totally different guy. I get that a lot. Right now, you're neither in heaven nor hell. This is the front office. I'm just here to make sure we have your life history. They'll be doing the sentencing somewhere else. Oh, and don't ask me how you did or where they'll take you. Just think of me as the middle man.” “Can I ask you a question before we get started? So what's up with ghosts?” “That's always a weird one. When you walked in here, you completely accepted that you were dead and that I, Death, brought you here.” I nodded. “Some people actually refuse to believe I exist. They have the nerve to completely ignore me. Do you know how hard it is to work when the other person treats you as imaginary? So I kick them out. They can't go back and they're not getting through without my signature.” I don't know why I tried to lighten the mood. “But hey, at least the coffee is to die for, right?” Death smiled again, “I like you. I think you'll do just fine in the Afterlife.”

"It surprised me how much creamer Death put in his coffee."

"Greetings! I am general Telesus of the O'Burn clan. For the last few years, we have greatly..." "Cut to the chase. What do I have to do ? What are the rewards." I am used to this by now. "Five fox ears. Three silver." "BRB." He wanders over to General Kalesus standing next to me. They never have time to listen to my story. Three more adventurers wander in my direction. "Gree.." "Skip!" "In a hurry!" "Gogogo." "Five fox ears. Three silver." More are lining up, gathering all the quests up in a nice bunch so that they can look at their nice little speed leveling guide and get the rewards and run to the next town. I wonder if anyone will care if I am replaced by a goblin tomorrow. "Here." Someone holds out a bloody pouch at me. I hand him three silver coins. "Tha..." He throws the pouch at me and runs off to the next General. The pouch lands on my feet. Now there is blood on my shoes. I will be standing in a swamp of blood and fox ears by the end of the day. I hate weekends! "Gree..." "Skip!" "Five..." "Ok" This was boring and humiliating. How come I am a General and I am asking random people to hunt one-eared foxes ? "Gree..." She just snaps her fingers in my face. Of course she is in a hurry. "Three silvers..." My bored brain comes up with an idea that will probably earn me a letter from HR. "Dance." I was overflowing in fox ears anyways. She dances. Well, she was a dwarf, so the animation is not as entertaining as one would expect. For me, it was just sweet revenge. I hand her three silver. She runs off with the exclamation "Easiest money ever!" To the next person I say "One silver. One mug of mead from the tavern. Cold!" He stares. "Mead is eighty copper in the tavern." I stare right back. "I know." "Twenty copper is not worth it." He grumbles but he does as told. After a few minutes I have a mug of mead in my hand as more adventurers crowd in. These losers need every piece of coin they can get. They will do anything I say! Alright, this is going to be fun after all!

An NPC in an MMO realises it's the worst time of all to be active, The weekend. How do they cope?

Lee was my brother. Many of you already know that fact, but that's all you know, that simple fact. It doesn't really tell you much about our relationship. Some brothers get along, some brothers are arch enemies. If its okay, I'd like to explain my relationship with Lee from my own perspective. I was born about two years and three months after Lee. My impression is that my birth was somewhat of an inconvenience; mainly for the reason that I was given the pram and he was forced to walk from then on. Ha. But we got along eventually. Sometimes he'd read me stories before bed. I couldn't read yet, or maybe I just enjoyed his company, I can't remember which. He'd read Goosebumps. God knows why, right before I was supposed to sleep. I guess in the end he must actually have hated me. Ha. Then we grew older. And my view of him changed. I don't know why, but at around the age of twelve our personalities split into two different directions. No longer did we sit in front of the huge, old fat television and play silly video games together. Soon enough I didn't see him as a big brother any more. Lee always had to get what he wanted. Ha. I know, you probably already all know this. He liked things to go his way. If it didn't... well. Let me tell you of the time we were at KFC. There was me, Lee, mum and dad. They'd bought us a 10 piece family bucket as a treat because I'd passed my exams. Mum didn't eat any of course, she'd been diagnosed with her diabetes, so there was 3 pieces each plus one extra. We all sat and ate, and I just knew what Lee was thinking, and I knew that he knew I knew. I was the faster eater. I placed the empty chicken bone back down onto my paper plate and made a grab for the remaining thigh at the bottom of the bucket. The look upon his face when I went for it, it was priceless. Ha. "No", he'd said, his face completely blank. The second my fingers touched the breadcrumb coating his hand shot out. He almost literally pounced at me. The force of our hands battling out for this last piece of chicken caused the bucket to topple over, in turn knocking over the open bottle of Pepsi. Mum said it was the last time she'd take us out for something to eat. Of course, it wasn't. Fast forward another few years. We'd both graduated from University, he'd been working at his job for around a year and I was in the process of applying. We didn't get to see much of each other. But that Christmas was going to be a big one. Everyone was coming round to ours for Christmas dinner, including my German girlfriend who had decided to spend Christmas over here in England. I was pretty excited as I hadn't seen her in around six months. Two days before Christmas she arrived, landing at London Stanstead airport. I'd driven all the way down south, 150 miles, to pick her up. I was excited. I couldn't remember the last time I felt so fuc... so happy. She looked beautiful walking out into the arrivals lounge. We embraced and kissed, I grabbed a coffee and I drove back. It didn't take me long to start noticing things. At first I thought I was just being paranoid and jealous because I was so in love. But then I saw her smiles, the kind of smiles she gave me when we first met. But this wasn't the first time they'd met, her and Lee. When the family came to visit me when I was over working in Germany as part of my degree, I'd introduced her to everyone. Mum loved her, dad was indifferent of course. And Lee... I couldn't tell with him. I thought maybe he didn't like her. He acted strangely. For quite a lot of that visit I had to work, so I let them go off on their own to visit Berlin and everything else. Anyway, Christmas. There was good feeling all round. I was happy to see my whole family together and everyone was in good cheer. But I kept noticing she was distancing herself from me. I could tell by the way she kissed me that something wasn't right. But I kept telling myself that it was all in my head. I always overthink everything, if you know me you know this to be true. But it wasn't true this time. I realise I've been rambling on. I'll get to the point of this story. On boxing day I went out to the supermarket, way early, right before anyone was up. It must have been around six. We needed some supplies, I can't remember exactly what, and I couldn't sleep because of a hangover. So I went out to my car. I got half way down the road before I realised I'd forgotten the shopping list. I was going to just say fuck it and try to remember everything, but something told me to go back inside. I don't know what it was, maybe it was subconscious. But I did. I went back inside. I went into my bedroom to find nothing. She was gone. And that's when I checked Lee's room. Without even thinking about it. I pushed open the door and I caught them. They were fucking. My brother was fucking the love of my life, the day after Christmas, in my own home. I've never spoken to him. I went to visit him in hospital to save face, but I didn't even say a word to him. Not even when he tried to apologise. This is who my brother was. A bastard. And I fucking hate him. Rot in hell you fucking cunt. Thank you. Edit: I haven't proof-read this. If I had I'd probably have structured it better. Not really sure where I was going with it and I probably could have emphasised the feelings of hate. Hope you enjoy it nonetheless and please, criticise me!

A heartfelt, sad and wistful Eulogy being told by a close family member slowly and steadily devolves into an outrageous exposition and ludicrusly frothing angry rant as the family member finally admits that the deceased was a complete and utter bastard.

It's really dark inside you. I'm never quite comfortable exploring the mazes that make up your mind. I try to avoid it at all costs. But sometimes, there's no choice. Sometimes I accidentally slip into it and find myself wandering through the darkness. It's dark inside you. Such a stark contrast to the white wall, incandescent lighting, and stainless steel world that we live in. There is no light in your mind, no hope. The darkness isn't the absence of thought; I can hear what you're thinking, feel what you're feeling. You're alive and well, though you kind of wish you weren't. It's dark inside you. You ignore me when we pass in the halls, when we meet in the dining area. I know you're aware of my existence, because I'm aware of yours. I know you can feel me because I can feel you. You're inside my mind more often than I'm inside yours. But you don't speak to me. You explore, silently, so I remain silent as well. It's dark inside you. You don't think about me. Or, if you do, you've found a way to hide your thoughts. I think of you more often than anything else. you leave my mind when I begin thinking of you, and for some reason that makes me sad. I feel empty when you leave. It's dark inside you. I wonder if you feel the same way I do. I'm happy when I feel you in my mind. Are you happy when I explore yours? I feel a little bit when I enter your mind, but I can't tell if it's my feeling or yours. The darkness isn't as scary as it once was; I've learned what to expect. There's still no light, no hope. It's dark inside you. You still don't speak to me. The doctors put us together in a room every day, and even though they're not inside with us, I know they're watching. You don't speak, so I don't either. I wonder if the other kids are different. We weren't the only two they did this to, of course. But I rarely see the other kids, so I wonder what their relationship is like with their partners. You're in my mind more often than not, but you still don't say a word. It's dark inside you. We've begun dreaming together. Even if I can't see you, I feel you. When I do see you, the dreams get... weird. Sometimes I try to forget them in the morning, and sometimes I spend the day reliving them. You don't leave when I think about you anymore. We still don't talk. I can tell the doctors are getting frustrated. It's dark inside you. They're going to separate us. I just know it. They don't like how we don't talk. Being separated scares me so much, I break down. I give in. I won't wait for you to say something first. I introduce myself the next time they put us together. I tell you my name. "I know," you say. I tell you how old I am. "I know," you say. I start crying. I tell you I don't want to be separated, that I'm scared of being alone. "I know," you say as you pull me into a hug. I cry into your shoulder for longer than I like to admit. The doctors are happy. They won't separate us. Their observation continues, and we grow closer. I can tell the difference between my feelings and yours, and I begin hearing your thoughts even outside your mind. It's still so dark inside you. One day you tell me to look at myself when I'm inside your mind. You still don't say much, so I listen to everything. I look down, and I'm glowing when I'm inside your mind. A soft glow, not like the harsh light in our prison. Just enough to provide light in the endless maze that is your mind.

It's really dark inside you

The oaf next to me kept drumming his fingers on the dashboard. Normally I wouldn't have been annoyed, I'm a fairly patient man, but he was a super and was actually beginning to dent the plastic. He called himself Strong Arm and that lent to his propensity to make lame jokes, such as referring to our duo as The Strong and Long Arms of the law... Moron. But, I had to deal with this idiot for the next few months. Superheros and Villains had begun cropping up across the world, a feature that most people attributed to a slow and sure technological singularity. We were tampering in fields we didn't comprehend, in physics, biology, and human anatomy. At first the powers were small, faster reflexes, light manipulation, or talking to animals. Back in those days anyone with superpowers, hero or villain, who used them in public would be arrested for disturbing the peace. The police of the world still outnumbered them and had the skill to take them in. However, more impressive powers started slowly manifesting themselves. It was around the time of the first few telepaths that our fair city passed The Superhero Integration Act. Or as my “partner” called it The Big Deal. The Big Deal recognized that ordinary cops couldn't fight super-villains who could rip their minds and bodies to shreds and acknowledged the need for superheros. It was agreed, superheros could interfere so long as they had basic police training. In return no one in law enforcement would pry into their secret identities. Ultimately, this meant we could hold them to the same standards as regular police men, excessive force and vigilante justice weren't allowed. Unfortunately, this also meant someone had to train these loose cannons. And so I was stuck, in a stakeout in a dark alley sitting next to this costumed buffoon. He was your stereotypical man with super-strength: all brawn, no brain. He was also taking every available chance to annoy me. He had already challenged me to 5 games of eye spy, 3 renditions of his origin story (each more fantastic than the last,) and polished off a box of donuts and 3 cups of coffee. Needless to say I was relieved when a guy approached the building we were watching. He was wearing a trench-coat and a cowl. He walked straight up to the door, looked around, unlocked it, and entered swiftly. “Alright, follow my lead, and don't do anything unless I say so.” We got out of the car quietly and headed up to the door. Finding it had been relocked I whispered that he should quietly attempt to pull it out of it's frame. While the wrenching the steel hinges was a little louder than I wanted it was still quiet enough for us to enter unnoticed. I drew my gun and flashlight and he lowered his Kevlar face-mask. Normally I disapproved of his outlandish costume, but I had to admit I wished I had more than a simple vest. After a quick and silent search of the dark first floor we ascended the stairs to the second floor. I motioned for him to check the room at the top of the landing while I went down the corridor. Leaning around the door frame I saw the suspect rummaging through a trunk at the far side of the room. I took a deep breath and raised the gun. I swung around the door frame and pointed the flashlight right at him. “TURN AROUND! HANDS WHERE I CAN SEE THEM!” At the same time as the man turned round I heard a clattering from the other room. I found out later my intrepid partner had been startled and tripped. Our suspect got up, put his hands in the air, smiled and opened his mouth. PAIN. Horrible pain in my head. Despite the week we had spent investigating this guy we had apparently missed something. The fucker was a super, more specifically a sonic super. His hypersonic scream hit me square in the face, knocking me back, chipping paint off the wall behind me, and leaving me with no sense of balance. As I stumbled around he got up and started approaching me. Suddenly, the adjacent wall disintegrated, and despite the blood coming from my ears and I swear I could hear the “O YEA” of the Kool-Aid man, Strong Arm burst through it. Confused the sonic screwball turned to face the new threat only to be hit with an uppercut that sent him sailing. It was about this point that my stomach took a turn for the worse. After an unhealthy bit of retching I looked up to see Strong Arm standing over me with a worried expression on his face. He mouthed something about whether I was ok, but I was more interested in where our suspect was and tried to say so, my voice curiously muffled in my head. He pointed to the far side of the room at a broken window. I stumbled over and looked out. Two stories below, sprawled on the pavement, lay our perp, his neck bent backwards. Strong Arm's punch had sent him flying through the window. Strong Arm looked sheepish. “Wow.” I warbled, “Well then, are you ready to learn another part of being a cop?” He looked at me worriedly, and nodded. I grimaced and said, “Incident reports.”

Write about a person in law enforcement who works in a city full of superheroes and supervillains.

The man kicked Jon to the floor and the pain was brutal. The ropes around his torso were tight and he could only take half breaths. His starved brain wished for unconsciousness but the bucket of cold water brought his sane mind back to the candle light. "Please..." The man put a hand up. "Too soon. You have to wait a little before you start pleading. That's the mistake you always make. Assess your surroundings first, then assess me, then the act begins." The man lit a cigar and Jon was terrified. "Now, we can do this the easy way or the hard way." "Please... I don't..." The man inflated. "I've always enjoyed the hard way more." He drew out a long knife and watched Jon's reaction. The jagged edge was specifically designed to rip skin in the rawest of ways. "Very well done! You've captured human terror in its entirety. You must have done this before." The knife came to Jon's neck and he whimpered and choked on the heavy tobacco smoke. "Acting, in the end, is a study of human behavior. How does one react when they hear their father has died? Do you cry immediately? Do you enter denial? Do you stare back blankly? How does one react when they are disgusted by a maggot ridden hunk of meat?" The knife opened Jon's cheekbone as he said "No!" over and over and fresh blood spilled down to his shirt. "The actor hasn't been through these things but he must know how to properly react in even the smallest ways possible, and that is what the actor studies. And that is what you study. You are, you must be, your very survival depends on your acting." "What in God's name are you saying, you madman!" cried Jon. A second slice to the opposite cheekbone and Jon pleaded again through fresh tears that stung his wounds. "You breath at what you think are the right intervals. You eat and chew food and enjoy it like how you observe us. You blink every 6 seconds like a metronome, but that's what gives you away, even as you quicken your blinking now to try to throw me off. Too perfect of a coordination. But I can spot you all miles away. Even with the proficient clumsiness you inject into your strides." A third slash was across the neck but it was purposefully shallow. Blood fell but the artery hadn't been sliced. Jon squealed and tried to bargain but the man did not hear him. "But you things still feel pain. That was one of the first things I learned. We're going to be together until dawn. Then, I assure you, as you feel yourself turn to ash, you will wish you had ended your own life like how you should have when you first turned." The man put the cigar out on Jon's eye and he screamed. The torture was well practiced and the pain was infinite. The night passed on as it had to and Jon was barely alive moments before sunrise. But Van Helsing always left just then, right before the first rays of light. That way, he never knew when he was wrong. It was the only thing that kept him going.

A remote, peaceful village of vampires is being terrorized by a psychopathic vampire slayer.

The hardest thing to deal with was her eyes. The jagged shard of glass thrust into my chest, the untiring winds ripping through the walls around us, the gleam of hungry fire dancing across the hills far behind her, and yet... all I could see were her eyes. Watching. Relishing. Crimson streams pumped through my grasping fingers, I couldn't stop it flowing. I felt myself getting weaker, my vision blurring, and wildly kicked out my legs to push myself to the wall behind me. Grasping out for support, I dragged my eyes back up towards her, still standing there. A humourless smile was curling on her face. I groaned in pain as the glass blade twisted in my body, the air forced from my lungs. Through the tears clouding my eyes, I saw her take a step towards me. "Why?" I coughed, blood splattering my shredded suit. "Why now, Kate?" She was silent, as she always had been. Considering me for a moment, she dropped to her knees, hand gingerly reaching towards my face. There was sadness in those eyes, now. Something I hadn't seen since we started all this. Something that wasn't anger, or betrayal. "James..." just a whisper, her lips hardly moving. My ragged breathing stopped, frozen in my lungs, scared to emerge. All other sound seemed to vanish, the image around us growing pale as she spoke. "James..." she said, a finger gently caressing my cheek. "You are not forgiven." Her hand dropped down from my face to encircle the clumsy blade pressing into me. In one swift movement, she dragged the glass down, dragging open the gaping wound and letting my lifeblood flow. Sharp howling pierced the air, blood filling my mouth as teeth unwillingly bit down on soft flesh. Chilling cold flowed through my veins to replace the tides of red that now left them, and I could do nothing to stop it. I was helpless. As the pain fled and numbness descended, as darkness fell to cover my world, I saw her stand, and I saw her eyes. There was no regret, there. No sorrow. Only pure satisfaction. "Go now, President James T. Arnold. Go to whatever fucked up section of hell is reserved for you and what you've done. Know only that the human race dies with you..." Through fading vision, I saw her turn and walk away. Words choked in my throat, drowned in blood. Only a pathetic gurgle dribbled from my quivering lips. She paused, not looking back. "... And that you are not forgiven."

The death of the penultimate human.

"Sweet Sixteen, indeed! Come one, come all parents of the world, plan out how you'll raise your child to make the proper Sweet Sixteen request! Don't end up like the parents you hear in the news, forcibly executed because of a poorly timed time-out! You no longer have to fear your big innocent maniacal ball of infinite power, you can wield it to your advantage! Wish for the death of a coworker, wish for the nuclear proliferation of a few small African nations, all of this and more can be yours for a few thousand dollar sessions with the amazing Mr. Wonderful!" Boisterous signs like this pervade the bleached walls of the ruined city. Whichever city it was no longer matters, the same cycle happened in all the places of the world after the Great Pact of Humanitarianism. Countries allied themselves together around the cause of global human peace (although it was a global power-play more than anything), and decided that all humans deserved one wish to be fulfilled as best as could be made. Of course, at the time, they knew if adults had the ability to do so, the world would quickly disintegrate. In a short-sighted maneuver, they made the Day of Decision a person's sixteenth birthday, hoping that the only wishes made would be a few tattoos and bratty children killed. They were so hopelessly wrong. The first wishes were slightly innocent, circumvention of the laws of the nations of the wielders. Rules of decision were made beforehand - no destruction of the world governments, no mass murder (above 15 people,) and no severe crippling of the world's socioeconomic systems. Loopholes were found, children were exploited by their parents, nuclear bombs experienced a revival beyond all imagination. The Global Pact of Humanitarianism was in shambles, and was forced to resort to drastic measures. A child was raised in isolation and innocence for nearly 16 years - their name escapes me. That child was forced to learn the whole history of humanity the month before their 16th birthday. They learned histories and stories from the mouths of thousands of people, videos, books, audio. All of them products of the system implemented by the Global Pact of Humanitarianism, which the child learned about the day before, and the repercussions of the Day of Decision. On the child's day of decision, they were asked what they wished for all of humanity to do - the Pact hoping it would save them all. "What do wish for child?" "Justin Bieber's new album! lolxoxoxoxo!"

On every child's 16th birthday, the government grants one request, regardless of what is asked.

>“Eight out of nine kids have eaten what we've given them.” >“So send the last one in to the lunch room.” >“Is that supposed to be funny?” >“Just following orders.” >“I think I've heard that excuse somewhere before.” >“Are you comparing me to a nazi?” >“Should I be?” >“Maybe, but if we don't finish this, somebody else will.” >“Fine, send him in.” Ben was hurrying through an algebra worksheet when he felt a hand on his shoulder. He sighed. “I need to finish this before next period,” he said, turning his head to meet Principal Graham. “You'll be missing your next period, we have a special assignment for you.” Ben started putting his papers into his bag, not bothering to find a place for them but instead stuffing them in wherever they fit. “What kind of assignment? Is it mandatory?” he asked. Algebra was his favorite class, or at least the only one which he didn't dislike. It was a ninth year class but he was put in a year early, and he had to finish at least half of the homework to be allowed to stay. “Yes, it's mandatory, Ben. We'll be heading down to the test rooms under the Blue Lab where you'll be doing observation on one of the new subjects.” Principal Graham said. His tone was even and calm, without the slightest hint of honesty to it. He would use the same gentle voice to give a speech or expel a student, so Ben didn't know what was coming. “I'm taking notes on a lab rat?” he said. He was two years away from even visiting the genetics wing for introductory classes, and now he had to babysit somebody's experiment. “Why me?” Terrance Graham looked puzzled, but his face quickly creased into a gentle smile. “Because I think that you have some promise, Ben. Everybody in that class is out sick, now is your time to shine. Aren't you excited? You'll be the first year eight to even set foot in that wing, you know.” “Of course,” Ben said, “I'm excited.” He put on a halfhearted smile, and together they walked west towards the signs that said “Genetics.” The security was tight on the testing floor. The Principal had punched in codes to open each door as they entered, and no door would open until the previous was shut and the air they were breathing was replaced. “Keeping the contagions in,” Ben mumbled to nobody in particular. “That's absolutely right, Ben! These security measures are designed to keep the public safe out there even if we make mistakes in here. Sometimes scientists need to make mistakes in the name of progress.” Principal Graham said, his voice more chipper than Ben had previously thought possible. “Here we are, Test Hall B.” He said, opening a door. There was no access code, no rush of air, meaning they were past security now. “You're in room nine, up ahead on the left.” he said. The hallway was wide and gray, with drains on the floor and recessed lights in the center of the ceiling. Along both sides of the hallway were large steel doors with numbers stenciled on them in faded black, one through twenty. The only exception was the door at the end, which said “Emergency Exit Only” in dimly lit red. Ben immediately decided that he didn't like this place, and he made it known. “I don't like this place,” he said. “We're almost there,” Principal Graham replied, ignoring him. He entered a code into a screen on the right side of door nine, and for a moment Ben could hear heavy bolts sliding around inside the wall, then the door slid to the left and revealed the room. They took a step inside. Immediately to the right was a stainless steel chair and desk, on top of which was a notepad, a pencil, and a glass of water. Of greater interest to Ben, however, was the large creature at the far end of the room. It was greenish-gray, and looked a bit like an alligator, perhaps could have even been mistaken for one from a distance. Up close, though, the differences were obvious. It's skin looked smooth, almost like that of a snake. It's snout was short and mean, and it had an enormous flat tusk protruding from the center of it's face which bore more than a passing resemblance to a broadsword. He had never seen a genetic prototype in person before, but he had seen enough footage to know that first year genetics specialists all went through a phase of creating things with absurd tusks and claws. They thought that the animal would develop greater intelligence if it had access to a tool. “This is the one I'm to take notes on?” he asked. “That's right, Ben. Take notes on anything of interest. Watch for signs of intelligence, use of tools, forms of communication, and anything else that may be of use to the fine boys in the Blue Lab. I'm going to head out now, I've got a lot to do.” He pointed to the glass of water. “That's for you. Stay hydrated, you don't want to get sick. One more thing,” he said, pointing to a panel next to the desk which Ben hadn't noticed, “push that button to talk to the geneticist. He's supervising the whole floor so don't bother him unless it's important. Now how about it, Ben, are you ready to do some science?” he said, grinning his trademark grin and exiting the room, closing the door before Ben even had the chance to say anything. Ben sat at the desk and stared at the creature. At first he was frightened, but after a few minutes he realized that the beast in test room nine would likely sit there silently for the rest of it's life. That was always the problem. They could make them look however they wanted, make them survive in hot, cold, and anywhere in between, but once they woke up for the first time they had no interest in doing much of anything. They tried to test for intelligence, and they were fairly certain some of the experiments could recognize themselves in mirrors, but none of them would willingly so much as move unless their life was threatened. That isn't to say that they were weak, simply lazy. Ben suddenly realized how thirsty he was. All of the drinking fountains had been out of order all day, and they had been out of juice at breakfast. When he asked for water, the woman behind the counter stared at him for several moments before saying “we don't have any cups right now, you'll have to wait for lunch.” Well, he might miss lunch at this rate, and all he had was the glass of water which had been set on his desk. He gulped down the entire glass almost immediately, and began staring at the beast before him. Minutes passed, and yet the creation did nothing. He glanced down at his notepad, wondering another student would put down about a sedentary sword reptile such as this one. He began writing.

Sometimes scientists need to make mistakes in the name of progress

Jesse dug her fingernails into the armrests. Only after a few seconds did she realize that on one side she was accidentally digging into the fingers of the man in the window seat. She quickly moved her hand, and yelped out a 'Sorry'. The man turned to her and smiled, a calm gentle smile, a smile that did not fit with the violent turbulence rocking the plane. "It's quite alright." His voice was so soft and serene. It immediately calmed her down. "I've just never been on a flight with turbulence like this before." She was imploring him for more comfort, she wanted him to tell her that everything was going to be fine. If he told her that she would be fine, she would believe him. But he looked around the plane and said, "Yes, this is far worse than any turbulence I've experienced either." She felt her stomach tighten as he said that, she had been counting on comfort from this man more than she realized, and the matter-of-fact tone which he had said that had stripped it from her. "I hope we'll all be alright," she said. He had moved his hand from the armrest, so she quickly gripped it again, her knuckles were white from the strain. "It does not seem likely," he said, still looking around the plane. "What?" the knot in her stomach was moving up to her throat. "If you look around the plane you can see that we are definitely tilted at a downwards angle. This means that the plane is likely losing altitude. The only reason I could think for this to occur is some sort of engine failure, and given that we are currently travelling above the Himalayas, a safe emergency landing seems unlikely." "What are you-" was all Jesse could manage before a loud explosion rocked the cabin. She couldn't see where it came from, but the plane immediately started to plummet. The oxygen mask came down and Jesse desperately fumbled with it to fix it to her face. She finally attached it and looked at the man next to her. To her surprise he had not put on his mask, more so he did not look worried at all. In fact, he looked her in the eyes, and smiled. That same serene smile that was so out of place. He slowly placed his hand on top of hers, the gentle pressure of his hand was so comforting. She locked eyes with him. She needed him to tell her she wasn't going to die. She needed him to tell her she was going to be alright. "Please sir, I don't want to die here. I want to go back home. I want to see my parents again. I want to see my boyfriend. I want to see my cat. I don't want to die. Please, tell me I'll be fine." He broke eye contact with her for just a second and frowned. "You will be fine." He spoke the words and a wave of relief washed over her. She let go of the arm rest and gripped his hand as hard as she could. He still just held hers with the gentlest amount of pressure. "Death is not the tragedy that the living fear it will be. It is merely the next step on a very long journey." "What do you mean?" He looked out the window, the mountains were rapidly rising up to meet them. He turned to her placing his other hand underneath hers, and held it firmly. "I mean, you will never know how much I envy you." "Wh-"

an immortal man who cannot be physically injured is a passenger on a jet that's going to crash.

I should've seen what was coming. I should've moved into a commune before it happened, like Stacy and Ethan did. I should've bought a gun. The world has descended into chaos, and the little envelope of money that was thrown at my door two weeks ago hasn't changed that. There had been talk of "re-equalization" before the envelopes appeared all around the world, but, like I said, only the smartest among us had the foresight to go into hiding. I certainly had no idea it would be this bad. Without any fanfare whatsoever, stocks plummeted to nil, bank accounts froze or disappeared, and the fabric of society was torn asunder and ignited carelessly. Those who had money before the re-equilisation either committed suicide or roamed the streets, driven mad at the loss of their only love. Those who didn't have any money beforehand didn't really change, because it was worthless now anyway. Political leaders went into hiding; it seems as if they knew the implications of their actions and acted accordingly. Looking back now, I know what they wanted - not a society of equality, but rather a reset to zero. A return to square one. Anarchy. I should have bought a fucking gun. The ones who have guns are the new kings. The ones who don't are subject to the tyranny of the strong, just as their ancestors were subject to the tyranny of the rich. And Earth abides silently.

The worlds wealth is shared out equally and each person receives $6285.71, show how this affects an individuals life and the world around them.

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An Alien Civilization find and capture one of the Voyager probes.

1/1/50 Dear Diary, Fifty years ago it was announced that, for some unknown reason, fictional characters had begun spilling out of a huge pothole near China, causing major blackouts across Asia. It was expected that the "Imagination Wave", as it was called, would hit this country by Tuesday. Of course, you might think that sounds brilliant - perhaps you could go down to the pub with Darth Vader, or to Disneyland with Master Chief! I wouldn't blame you, several others thought the same. The news of the Imagination Wave was met with cheers of approval from the majority of people - but the reality was different. For not only did the most iconic characters of the modern world appear, but every fictional character that had ever been imagined. Every terrible drawing, every night terror, every version of Jar Jar Binks that had ever forced its way into someone's head. When the wave hit, chaos erupted all across the country. Bastardisations of characters flooded the streets along with original characters that were barely developed enough to stand. Giants roamed the countryside, dragons flew overhead, for every 'loony toon' there were three hundred, perhaps just as loony, products of the mind of a teenage boy. There is no way of knowing just how many people were killed in the chaos - eaten by the zombie hordes, or subjected to the poetry of a Vogon - but the 'real' human population began to dwindle. Most of those who remained migrated to closed-off communities, surrounded by barbed wire fences and defended with heavy weaponry. The internet was on its last legs, but enough cables were left intact to create small networks between communities. People exploded into discussion about 'what it could all possibly mean', and scholars and writers posted articles and theses with titles like; "The Mechanics of Imagination", under the pretense that they understood what they were talking about. Humanity has been forced back into the dark ages. Only the darkness is interrupted occasionally by the screeching of 'George of the Jungle' from atop a rusty lamppost somewhere in the middle of the night, or the sound of a gunshot directed towards a poor stick-man brave enough to wander into their territory. I almost feel sorry for them, but then again I'm not surprised. Most people scare easily, and everyone dispersed before the more civilised characters could keep the crazy ones under control. President Jack Sparrow is trying his hardest to communicate with the rest of my race, but so far all our efforts have failed. Now, you must excuse me, predator is coming over for tea.

Everything was normal in this world. But today marks the 50th anniversary of the day every fictional character miraculously appeared on the Earth. You are a normal person writing about how everything has changed since then.

I enter the room. "Huh," I say. "Weird," I respond. I cough. "Are you thinking what I'm thinking?" I ask. "You mean whether or not this counts as schizophrenia?" I answer. "No. I was- oh, ha! Talking to myself. I get it." "Haha, yeah. I mean, I know that's not exactly schizophrenia, but-" "No, no, I know. It's just the first thing that came to mind." "Yeah, figured you'd understand." "Absolutely, I'm the perfect audience. No, I was wondering why we didn't have the exact same reaction to each other when we walked in." "What do you- oh, because you said, 'huh,' and I said ,'weird?'" "Yeah. Seems like, if we're genetically identical and have identical experiences-" "Which I'd assume we do, since both of us speak English and recognize the concept of cloning." "Right, exactly. I mean, is there something we're missing here?" I think for a second. "Well, I guess there are a few things we're taking for granted." "I was *just* thinking that. I mean, even if one of us *was* cloned, who's to say the process was perfect?" "Right, or the process that recreated memories in whichever one's the clone. By the way, does that matter to you?" "What, which one of us is the clone? I mean, I know it's supposed to from movies or whatever, but honestly? One of us is and one isn't. Sure, there are some logistics to work out, but it's not like I'm going to kill you just because that sounds complicated." "Yeah, I get that," I nod, "Sidenote: Would that be considered suicide?" I laugh, "God, we're funny. Anyway, like I was saying, we're assuming that we're genetically and experientially identical-" "Wasn't I saying that?" "Hm," I consider, "I'm not sure...You can go ahead, though." "Thanks," I smile, "I appreciate that. Ok. So. We're assuming that we *are* identical. Maybe we're not. Even if we are, though, we entered from different sides of the room, didn't we?" "Yeah," I say enthusiastically, "So, unless they took the DNA and memories from the original at one of those doors and then created the clone at the other one-" "Then we've had, at the very least, several minutes of separate experiences. That's enough time for a personality to diverge, right?" "Sure seems like it should be," I agree, "I mean, the whole butterfly effect and everything. The small differences ripple outward, we're already taking in information from slightly different perspectives just by having a dialogue." "So right now, regardless of whether or not we were perfectly cloned and brainwashed, we are two separate people?" "Two separate people, though admittedly very similar," I affirmed, "Two ruggedly handsome people, at that." "No doubt about that." "Ok, so. Mystery solved, sort of. We had two different reactions because by that point we were, under whatever original circumstances, two different people." "Great. Cool. So...now what?" "Huh," I frown, "I'm not sure. Do you remember anything before coming in?" "The last thing I remember is going to bed last night." "Yep, same here. If it was last night. Who knows how long we've been here since then?" "Good point. Well," I sit down against the wall, "I guess we just chat and wait for something to happen." *** "I still think he's faking." "I thought the same thing, at first. Hell, maybe at first he *was* faking. Now, though, I'm not so sure." "Come on, you're buying this?" "All I'm saying is that he sure seems happier than any patient here who thinks they're alone."

You and your duplicate clone enter the same room at the same time from separate doors. You're both surprised to see each other.

"Now that the charges have been read to you, how do you plead?" "Guilty." The audience in the long wooden courtroom all drew simultaneous, hushed gasps. It rushed through the room like the very air itself was in awe. This was Sebastian, a boy who had used this building as a school for eighteen years. The same boy who married Eleanor, the Mayor's daughter, and raised his three boys on an ample plot south of the township proper. Right with God, kind, and courteous yet there he stood admitting his guilt in being an unrighteous blasphemer and a shameless heretic. "Very well." The judge's voice broke the awed silence. "You will burn." Sebastian looked onward with sullen eyes. He looked not at the wooden table before him, or the men who sat behind it in starched collars and curled wigs. He was dragged away, and would be burned the next day. It was a small town, so everyone came to see the man who killed his own family and then was so crass as to turn himself in. As if it would save him. He was wrapped to a large wooden pole, strapped so tight that nothing but the scorching fire he would soon face would rip him from it. Sebastian hadn't said a word since his admission of guilt. His hair hung loose and unkempt around his eyes, and he simply watched as they placed kindling, and then branches, and soon logs at his feet, preparing for the crackling tide of fire that would soon consume him. "Any last words?" The pastor said softly, torch in hand. "Damn his last words!" The mayor yelled, snatching the burning stick from old hands before tossing it onto the stack. It caught quickly enough, and soon began to snap and roar as it continued to grow. Eventually it covered Sebastian's form in a hellish glow, and the crowd simply watched as the execution commenced. There was no scream, no pleas to God, or writhing agony. Soon enough the flames took the rope that tied him up, and his body fell. The crowd took that as sign that the task was over, and began to disperse. "Oh my God!" Someone shrieked. Everyone turned to look. Sebastian was standing outside of the fire, completely unharmed. His clothes weren't even charred. Gone was the sullen look in his eyes. Replaced with a charming smile, and a look of relief. "I was almost afraid that wouldn't work." Screaming was soon followed by fleeing as the townsfolk dispersed in delirious fear. Soon the warlock was alone save for the fire and he began walking back towards his house. "Now perhaps I can work in peace."

Someone tried for being a witch/werewolf in the middle ages turns out to actually be one.

She was wearing that bandana. That *fucking* pink bandana. Looking at it now, it's hard to believe I ever *didn't* hate it. Hell, I actually *bought* it for her on our third date, at a fair. It had some ridiculous cartoon mascot printed on it, a cheap souvenir. Completely forgot about it until she moved in with me. Found it in some box I was unpacking. "Haha, you kept this?" I had laughed. "Well," she had blushed a little, "I liked you. So...I kept it in my memory box." Memory box. So sentimental. I loved her for it at the time, told her so. Told her I loved her for the first time because of that stupid thing. Which, of course, made it even *more* important to her. She started wearing it around her wrist. Wrapped it into a little pink bracelet. Hardly ever took it off. I thought it was cute then. Cute! I *encouraged* it! She even wore the thing to our wedding. I thought she took it off at first, wasn't on her wrist. Didn't realize she was wearing it until she was walking up to the alter. Lifted her dress to walk up the steps and there it was, tied around her ankle. Couldn't miss it, didn't match *any* of our wedding colors. I don't think she's gone a day without wearing it since then. She wears it night and day. At home and at work. Every second of every minute of every. Single. Day. I can't even picture her without seeing it around her wrist. Unmistakable. But I never hated it until now. Now that I can't stop staring at it. My eyes locked in on it the second they pulled back the sheet. They keep saying I have to identify her body but I can't look at her face because maybe they're wrong and maybe it's not her and maybe I'll call her after this and maybe she'll finally pick up her phone and maybe we'll take the rest of the day off together except none of that's true and I know it's not true and I don't even get a **second** to **pretend** that it's true because of that **fucking** bandana.

Write about a character who finds a little thing unbearably annoying.

The bar was brightly lit. There were pockets of shadows for those more inclined to remain unseen. I took a bracelet off the hook. I was a regular, so they had a bracelet setup specifically for me, engraved in some alien metal provided by one of the more ... exotic customers. I sat at my regular spot at the end of the bar. Sam, the barkeep, already had my drink ready for me. I looked around. Teleporter pads were starting to show their age. The door outside was rarely used, except by the local metahuman population. In a corner, a table smashed apart. I grinned. Drinks and a show. Minotaur had gotten into an argument with Ms. Wonderful about something. Probably the old anarchy/government debate that is so popular. Minotaur took off his power dampening bracelet. First mistake. He smashed the table. Second mistake. "Minotaur, please put your bracelet back on. This is neutral ground. Fighting is not allowed here." Sam said calmly "Shove it asswipe." He pulled his arm back to swing at his debate partner. Third mistake. The punch never landed. Minotaur stood frozen, his fist one inch away from Ms. Wonderful's nose. I've seen this play out a hundred times. Sam was a telekenetic AND a telepath. One of the strongest in the multiverse. Makes Xavier look like an amature. Minotaur was now on lockdown. Sam took him over to the teleporter room, placed a bracelet on him and dialed it to Toronto PD. The bracelet tightened around Minotaurs wrist. He disappeared. "Thanks Sam." Ms. Wonderful said "No politics or religion, Ms. Wonderful. This is the second time I've had to ask you." "Won't happen again. Sorry." I finished my drink. Another appeared in front of me. "Thanks, Sam." I love this bar. ------ /r/thehiddenbar Edit: will elaborate more when I'm off work. I like this prompt.

A neutral zone where Superheroes and Villains meet and just hang out.

"Strange don't you think?" "What is?" An engineer stood leaning over a workbench covered in bits of machinery, a spotlight illuminating a soft pulsing device. He was holding a small tube of adhesive in hand. His friend continued from behind him, leaning on a cluttered desk. "That we here are acting very much in defiance of nature itself! To make chemical solutions that think themselves as alive? And yet, it is nearly done isn't it?" The engineer rolled his eyes and squeezed out a thin line of paste along a seam in the device. "You tryin' to get your Pulitzer now, bud?" the engineer scoffed pressing the two halves of the device together. "Funny," replied his friend, straightening out and approaching the workbench, "but I mean it." "Mean what—that the drone is almost finished, or that you're gonna go get your ass to some hoity-toity liberal arts school?" "Ugh, what I *mean* is that we're doing the impossible—we're playing God!" "And what 'bout it, hm?" the engineer put the tube down and turned to his friend, "You think it's better that we stay in the past and navel gaze a bit more?" "No! No, no, no, no" backtracked his friend, "What I mean is that it's incredible. Just the thought of making life that transcends our definition of life—it's amazing!" "Look," corrected the engineer, "this ain't any kinda 'paradigm shift' or what have you. It's just a new machine; it' ain't gonna be doin' miracles if that's what you're lookin' for." The engineer's friend lowered his gaze and fiddled with his feet, "I guess, but it's just so different, you know? Who knows what could come out of this!" The engineer turned his gaze back to the device and moved it within a its casing and hooked it up to a few leads and tubes. The pulsing briefly stopped, then changed to a regular syncopated rhythm. He turned to his friend, "You got the processor network, yeah?" His friend jumped, "Oh yes!" He ran off and came back with an intricate piece of machinery. "You have to admit, it's a beautiful thing," said the friend admiring his handiwork. "Yeah, I guess," the engineer didn't see all the hubbub about the machine, but truly admired its complexity. He carefully took the machine and pushed it into a matching socket in the casing. "Well, that's about it. Just need to close 'er up and we'll be good to go." The friend turned to the engineer, "Are you going to name it something?" "It's called a human." "No, I mean are you going to name this *single* machine?" "Oh," the engineer sat down, "I hadn't thought of doing that." He sat in thought for a moment. "I'll name it later," he said standing up. The two switched off the lights, and left the room.

For millions of years, robots have evolved from tiny, unaware programmatic errors in the code of the universe to a civilized sentient society. To perform menial tasks, the lead scientist creates and engineers the first carbon-based life form known as a Human.

*Tick, Tock.* *Tick, Tock.* I looked down at my machine. It was a curoius little thing, just sitting there in my chest. It had to be there, becuse it was who I was, who I am today. I was wondering what it was, what it's made of, and what its purpose was. I can only answer one of those questions. It brings people to life: it restores the dead to to the living, and it is inside me. It ticks and it tocks, it whirs and it clanks, until it is done for the day. It saps all of the death out and replaces life, but it can't do it all. Eventually, I'll die again, a bond with death unseperable, even the machine cannot reverse it. It will happen slowly, with the death spreading all over the body. Unstoppable, it will devour me with a passion, until nothing but death remains. I can do nothing to stop it, only embrace the time I have. I must sit back, and wait. Wait for something that I fear to become a reality. Wait for something that is unavoidable. Wait for something that I can't reverse. I must die another death.

Use this fun trick to write a story

It's his birthday today. Seven thousand, six hundred and sixty-four days. Seven thousand, six hundred and sixty-four murders. Each one taking a little piece of myself with it. Well, whatever was left after the accident. I don't remember much about that night. We were coming home from Josh's basketball game. Josh was in the third grade, just coming into his own as a growing child. Full of hope and laughter. Elaine was my wife, who devoted herself to me and I to her. Our life was perfect. Picturesque, even. You couldn't ask for a better existence. It was raining. The kind of rain that makes you think about Noah and his Ark. I was having trouble seeing the lines on the road, so I was taking it slow and being cautious. We went through an intersection and were T-boned by this man. This *child*. Elaine died instantly, having bore the brunt of the force. Little Joshua was impaled by a shard of the door, staying alive for long enough to say one last word. *"...Dad...?"* I don't even remember being pulled out of the car. Everything was a fog of pain and terror. Absolute, unrelenting terror. The only thing I could think was how this perfect life was shattered, like a mirror tossed uncaringly to the floor. "ELAINE?! ELAINE! JOSHUAAAAAA!", were the only words that I could voice. Then... silence. Darkness. Complete darkness. ----- I awoke in a hospital, hooked up to an IV and a litany of machines which beeped and displayed various readouts. There were no nurses around. It was dark, probably the middle of the night. A man sat next to me, wearing a black suit and fedora. Had I been in better health, I might have joked about his aspirations to be a mobster from the roaring '20's. His eyes were dark, which seemed to penetrate me in ways that made me uncomfortable. "Who...?", was all I managed to croak. "Rest your voice, John," the man said, "I only need you to listen. "My name is Mephisopheles. Mel for short. Your wife and son were killed by a drunk driver three days ago. The drunk driver, named Alexander York, was celebrating his twenty-first birthday and decided to drive himself home. He ran his light, couldn't stop because of the rain, and hit your car. He walked away unharmed. "I'm here to offer you a chance. You have the chance to make this Alexander pay for the deaths of your wife and son. I can feel it in your heart. You want that." I gritted my teeth. Tears welled in my eyes. I couldn't feel pain anymore. It was replaced with something else. Something that hurt much more, and burned that much more fierce. Anger. "I want him to die one death for each day of life he had," I growled. Mel smirked. "How poetic, John. Allow me to 'sweeten the pot', as the gamblers put it. I'll let you have the honor of ending his life, over and over again. Do this, and you will have your family back. The only thing I ask is for your soul." "Do whatever you have to do. I don't care.", I replied, "All I want is for him to pay." "Very well. Close your eyes John. When you open them, you will find yourself near him. All you have to do is end his life. When you do, you will feel a fading sensation and awake the day before that. All you have to do is do this until the day of his birth. Is that understood?" "Yes," I closed my eyes and waited. ----- So here we are. This baby sleeping quietly in this crib is the target. All I have to do is end his life, and I can have... something back. What did I lose again? I've done it a thousand times. You would think that murdering an infant would seem abhorrent, but the pain of taking a young life has long since faded. The kill is all that's left. As I've done countless times before, I cover the child's face with a pillow. Just hold your breath, John, it will all be over in a minute and you can go back. There. You did it. As I turned to leave, I notice the child's name on the wall above his bed: J O S H U A Funny. I think I knew someone by that name once.

Every day you travel one day further back in someone's life, killing them over and over again as an act of revenge.

"Oh look, a lump of cheese on a small metal plate. How lucky. I will eat so well today. . . You *really* expect me to fall for that? Sure some have, but we can *learn* when a litter-mate or offspring turns up dead next to very same piece of cheese. Did you know we don't even like cheese? Makes us *sick*! Turns out rats never adapted to drinking offspring nurishment out of other mammals, let alone eating it when it *curds*. But yeah, eating tossed out piles of meat, eggs, fruit and plants that set out more than one day is *soooo* much worse. Rats are vile. Oh right, the 'plague'. You know that time wasn't a picnic for rats either? It *killed us too*. And how are you so sure *we* spread it? You pass on diseases all the fucking time to *each other*. But when you look back on a disease that wiped out half of Europe, in a time period where humans were even *more* disgusting than they are now, it just *has to be the rats*! That's another thing. Would it kill you to bathe more than *two times a day*? Rats go 15 minimum and *help each other too*. And how the hell do you expect to be clean just laying in water?! You're stewing in your own filth! And then all of you *mask your scent*. So you acknowledge your own natural odor is too repugnant to sit by itself, but you still think you're more pleasant than everything else. That's not even the only thing you try to compensate for! You *don't have any fur*. You think rats are terrifying because just our *tails* don't have fur. You *don't have any*. But that's fine, take some from a sheep, or just pull the skin off a cow you finished draining its offspring nourishment from. That's not sick at all. You're the kindest, cleanest, prettiest, and smartest mammal on the planet." **CLACK!!!** "You heard *that* didn't you? Don't get your hopes up. I just nudged it and knocked off the mold. If you need me, I'll be in your cereal box. That's better than eating out of the trash, right?"

A misanthropic rant from a nonhuman to a human.

Moral absolutes are always hard to deal with. They say it's clear cut, alway black and white. Here it's just black. "Thou shalt not steal, lie, kill or injure." Hands over hearts, every day before attendance was called. The Four Absolutes. There's no sympathy for the girl with broken fingernails and no shoes who was caught stealing from the dumpsters behind Quick-Eat on a Sunday evening just before closing. At least they gave me shoes in jail. "Peas or beans duck?" I'm asked by the friendly hair-netted lady in the canteen, four days before my trial. "I'm not sure." I know as soon as I've said it it was the wrong answer. Her wrinkled brow crunches, like she's not sure what to make of my indecisiveness. "You gotta be absolute, ducky. There's a long queue." She said nervously. "Alright... Erm... Peas? No, wait.... Beans!" Anxiety appears in her eyes. She glances at the guards, women with muscles of steel and thick sproutings of hair on their upper lip. "Please." She whimpers. "You'll get me in trouble." But the deed is done. One guard, who I've cheerily nicknamed Grünwalt stomps over, scowl appearing between her bushy brows. "What's going on here?" She says, looking between me and Hairnets. "She's not being Absolute." Hairnets says. Now she's avoiding my eyes. So I spend the next three days in solitary. They take me up to the docks on the day. The guard who escorts me up and down from the cells is so repulsive I almost start to miss Grünwalt. I'm found guilty in a matter of minutes. The jury don't even leave the room to deliberate. None of them look at me. The verdict is unanimous. Absolute. I'm going to be hanged tomorrow. I think I take it remarkably well. I spend the last evening calling out 'Would you rather' scenarios to the guard on my corridor, which almost drives her insane. The trouble comes the next morning. There's no choice for breakfast, but on Death Row you get Crunchy Nut rather than Weetabix, so I didn't complain. Then I was led up the narrow stairs to the hangman's platform. Face covered, he looked me up and down. "You're small for a thief." He said "You're talkative for an executioner." I quipped. "Black hood or grey?" He extended the two soft felt hoods to me and I wept like a child. To someone who lives in a black world, grey is beautiful. I went to my death happy.

"Gray is a beautiful thing to someone who lives in a black world."

I'd always been told I was things that I wasn't. In sports, people always told me how quick I was, how fast I was, how smart I was. Truth is, *physically*, I was only ever slightly above average at best. I did find out what was different about me until I played video games with a friend. It was one of those shooters everyone plays so religiously, and I kept killing my friends before they actually showed up on my screen. "Screenlooking faggot!" they would yell at me, and I didn't understand until someone showed me a replay. I was always aiming my crosshairs, lobbing a grenade, shooting explosives, what have you, *two seconds* before I had any logical reason to do so. A few years later I found myself as a corner on my freshman football team. I had three interceptions that day, and I ran them all back. After that, they stopped throwing the ball my way. It's funny, we lost that game. A football field is a big thing, and I could only do so much with only a two second head start on everyone else. But at the start, when the quarter back would eye up his star receiver, I could already see the ball soaring the air before it really left his hand. After the first two pick sixes, he would pump fake, the other receivers would try and screen for their man, but I would never hesitate. I would always slip the screen. And when I ran those balls back, I would see tacklers diving before they got close. I would see where to put a stiffarm, it was as fluent a thought process to me as mental math is to most people. When basketball season came around, there were NBA scouts waiting in our 400 something student school's gym. Everyone was wondering how the skillsets of the single-A high school freshman corner, known only as "Bermuda," would translate on the court. I missed my first jumper, and people started thinking "guess this isn't for him," but before they could finish the thought, I had slipped a box-out and had a putback dunk on my own 3 point shot. I knew how the ball was going to ricochet off front iron, I watched it spin off the backboard toward the baseline. The place was electric. I would see defenders' ankles breaking in my head, I would imagine myself blocking every other shot, and then I would show the people around me exactly what I was envisioning, and they loved it. That day, we didn't lose. After the game, my coach convinced me to go to dinner with a convincing scout who said he flew in from Oakland, and my parents encouraged it. We sat down in a mostly empty all-day breakfast chain. I remember wondering why there were no couples or kids there. Only pairs of men. "So, Berrrmuda!" he teased. "Hah, I didn't come up with that." "We're thinking of waiving the college rule for you. In fact we're thinking of waiving the high school graduation rule." "Wow, you mean it?" I was ecstatic. The men around us got up simultaneously. My heart was racing, and I wasn't sure why. "You stupid little shit. Did you really think you could slip the program and stay off our grid by being a **STAR ATHLETE?!?**" I felt black cotton slide over my face, cold thin metal slide into my neck, and hot liquid shoot into my bloodstream. I felt my consciousness fade to white. I imagined waking up in a military research facility, having lost all hope for my life. ...But I felt it all two seconds early.

A man attains a menial superpower, and his world is turned upside down

She came home in a panic. Burst through the door with tears streaming down her face. She had called the day-care centre and they didn't have Ben. I held her as she sobbed and promised her that we would look for him together. Something inside me told me that I shouldn't have said that, but I just wanted to make her happy. Every day she talks about quitting her job to put up posters full time. Every afternoon she sticks pictures of Bens face to trees and lampposts. Most of them get vandalised, torn down or destroyed by the wind and rain. But she doesn't care. She is out there the next day to put them up again. Every weekend she drives up and down the streets of local neighbourhoods. Sometimes she shouts Bens name from the car window. Received a few noise complaints, but I hide them from her. She also drives to local shelters, missing persons centres, government buildings...anywhere Ben could be handed in. I make my excuses. Football game. Need to visit my Dad. Car needs servicing. 'I would love to honey, but I can't. I have *insert event* to go to.' But really I drive down Cherry Boulevard to the flower shop. I walk up through the park to the quiet graveyard behind the old church. And I lay flowers at our sons grave. Because I know she never will.

A man's baby son dies. His wife continues to act like he exists...

It was 1915 and we were in Belgium. I'd always wanted to visit Belgium, but not like this - not in these trenches. Here, but not now. Believe it or not, living in stretching concaves in the Earth with no personal space breeds a special sort of relationship among the inhabitants. Funneled like rats - with rats - through these dark and sometimes cold trenches, morale was low. Except for one man. That one man was named Richard, and he seemed weary - but he always had a positive outlook on his situation. Strange, considering death was almost certain in here - surely he knew that? I remember sitting with him and asking him about his life back home - he apparently had a wife, but he seemed so young for it. He asked me if I had a girl back home, I told him I didn't. He just seemed indifferent, aside from a brief flicker of a frown. He told me I'd find someone eventually. The one thing he said that stuck with me was, when asked if he planned to grow old with his wife, he looked me in the eye and said with a serene smile "I've already done that". There was something off with that man, but I had to admire his optimism. That night he disappeared, we never found a body - but there was no way he'd leave. Unless he simply got out of the trenches and started walking. Surely he couldn't do that? Surely.

An immortal couple have been seen throughout recorded history, write an account of them in any time period you wish. Bonus points if you match the writing style of the time period

First there was darkness, or light. The pieces drew together and moved apart and suddenly, in millions of years, there was life. The sun blinked around the earth and there was a bed made in Tennessee, sheets bought in Cincinnati with that girl you liked the first week of freshman year when things were cloudy all the time, an alarm clock manufactured in Malaysia, and a morning in Pittsburgh when your toes, aching from the cold and a long-forgotten stint with ballet, crackled like popcorn across the kitchen floor. You scratched at the scar won on the bank of Lake George, when you ran from that little head peering out from under the lilies, with slits for nostrils and a black tongue darting through the water. The cereal--made in Minneapolis, sold to you by Jenny at check-out who wouldn’t make eye contact when she rang up your total—shifted slightly with the stream of Amish-country milk. A fleck of Polish Hill dust caught in the turbulence of the milk emerged and you flicked it into the air. You turned on the tap of Allegheny water, grasped your toothbrush from China in one hand, slathered your toothpaste from what you thought was Vermont with the other, and watched the mirror you found on Melwood fog over. Your own face, the product of a man who grew up hating puns, a woman who lost her first tooth on a rollercoaster, a moisturizer from Germany, and a St. Patty’s day left hook, floated in the foggy glass. The convergence of history, a recycling of particles and memories. So began November 24th.

Make me cry realizing how awesome the world is.

"Regiomontanus" was his last word. When it slipped from his lips, it was more of a curse than a remembrance. Domenico Maria Novara was not one to mince words, especially about his old teacher, Johannes Müller von Königsberg, who had been assigned that regal, Latin-sounding nickname by some fool. His protégé listened carefully in the minutes beforehand. The heat and humidity in Bologna was especially stifling for this time of the year, so he had to pay special care so that his ink did not smear as he recorded his master's last, dying wishes. "Two more weeks, that is all I needed," the seemingly elderly man, barely five decades old, repeated. "I finally understood that damned German's work and was to make it mine. He did not understand what it was, I did. He thought the truth was to be studied further before it emerged. My links in the church were secure -- the Pope was with me -- nothing was to happen -- the truth was to emerge in my name. We would begin a golden age in my name." The protégé scribbled wildly. "Curse this body," he spat. "All is there," he pointed to a pile of papers in the corner. "You must send my name out. Not his. It must say 'Novara'. Then people will know. People will understand. You understand, do you not?" "Yes, master," the protégé whispered. "Never his name," he wheezed with effort. "Von Königsberg must never be linked with this." "Yes, master," the protégé whispered. "The sun is the center, Niccolò. The sun, not us. It will be 'Novaro' that puts us in our proper place among the heavens. Do you understand, Niccolò?" "Yes, master," the protégé whispered. "Good. Good. You have served me well, Copernico. I chose well. Now, let an old man rest a little, would you Niccolò?" "Yes, master," the protégé whispered as he lowered his quill and pulled back the curtains.

On his death bed a famous scientist reveals how his discovery or invention was not his.

Alright Sarah, I'm coming after you. Just wait for me a little longer... I jumped. I wasn't scared though. To be fair, I was only 6 feet off the ground, and the rope wrapped around my neck kept me from falling and hurting myself. In fact, I didn't feel anything. Wasn't strangulation supposed to be just a little bit painful? After hanging there for a solid 12 minutes, I gave up, freed myself and gently floated down from the tree branch onto the forest floor. I start floating today of all days. This was why jumping off a building was a no-go. No pills either. For some reason they go right through me, not like cheap beer or bad Mexican. It just phases through. And I couldn't buy anything from the hardware store either. The cashier just ignored me and other people just walked right through me. Talk about rude. "Wow, denial is strong with this one" I turned to see a small girl wearing a winged helmet. "Are you lost, little girl?" I asked. "Repeat yourself much?" she scoffed. "I'm Val, the guide for the dead and a hundred times older than you." "What, who died?" I was puzzled. "You did." "What? Sarah, where is she? We promised..." "You still don't remember" The little girl then waved her hand in front of my eyes. "Let me help, again" *Look, I'm leaving you, Jamie. You need help. Until then, don't even think about contacting me. What are you doing with that? Put the damn gun down. You think you scare me? Put the-- You actually shot me, bravo. I can't believe I still love you, you ass. Now you have nobody and that makes me want to cry...* *Don't worry, Sarah, I'll follow you soon. This will be a lovers suicide. Like Romeo and Juliet. How Romantic.* I grabbed a rock and bashed in the little girl's head. "NO" I screamed. "THAT DIDN"T HAPPEN, YOU'RE A LIAR." But she didn't bleed, and I felt drowsy when she waved her hand again, whispering *forget* I awoke feeling refreshed and full of energy. How am I gonna off myself? I could jump in front of a car. Alright Sara, I'm coming for you... "Wow, Don't you get tired of doing this after 12 years?" I turned to see a little girl with a winged Helmet. "Are you lost, little girl?" I asked. "Maybe you'll be more accepting tomorrow" She turned to walk away, while I struggled to figure out why she looked so familiar.

A ghost has yet to realize it's dead but keeps trying to commit suicide and wonders why nothing he tries works.

"Ma," I sighed. "Get out of bed once in a while. You can't just lie there." But she just looked at me with sad droopy eyes. "Look, we're only selling the house so we can get you around the clock care." Great now she's crying. I stormed out of the room and into the kitchen where my sister Sarah was packing pots and pans into boxes. "I can't wait for this to be over," I said to her. "And this Gleeson's..." "Oh, they're the best." She replied. "They'll take care of Mom." Putting our 78 year old mother in a home didn't sit well, and Sara could see that. "They won't hurt her, if that's what you're worried about." I sighed. "I'll finish up, you go home, I'll take care of you know..." Sara didn't have the healthiest relationship with mom. In fact, she didn't stay even one night since the sale was finalized. But Sara looked happy to get out of this creepy old house, and I didn't mind. I was awoken late at night by a tapping at the window. Moonlight streamed in, and I instinctively looked over, to see some *thing* staring in. Kid in a mask, probably. I walked up to the window, opened it and stared out into the night sky. *Tap tap tap*, Holy crap, now it's on the second floor. Is it coming from inside the house? MOTHER, I thought and rushed upstairs into her bedroom. She was gone. The tapping became a scraping, louder now. Attic, I thought as I rushed up the ladder and trap door. *scrape*, I heard as I peeked into the dank attic, to see... Mother dragging a wooden chair across the floor. "Ma" I called out. "It's good to see you walking, but can you do it in the morning?" "Oh," She said, just noticing me. "Where did the nice young man go? I was just getting him a chair." "What man?" I asked, suddenly chilled. "The one that goes *tap tap tap*". I couldn't sleep after that, and called Sara at 8, begging her to come over as fast as possible. When she arrived I was pacing the floor restlessly. "I think we should move Mom to one of our houses until the end of the week." Should I tell her about the stranger or does that sound crazy? "What?" She scoffed. "Are you insane? She's not coming to my house." "Fine, I'll take her" I muttered. "What is this about?" Sara sighed. "Gleeson's will take care of Mom. You've got nothing to worry about." "Oh? They're willing to take her a week early?" I asked. "What?" she asked. "What are you talking about? She's been at Gleeson's since she died." "Wait" Confusion struck me. "What?" "Gleeson's funeral home. We're selling this house to take care of the funeral costs, remember, you dope?" The haze cleared. I remember the heart attack, I remember doctors pronouncing her, and I remember it going *tap tap tap*. It was wearing my mother's skin.

A person realises that someone else is living in their house.

He took another step, and another. Here he was, this was the end. All he had to do was jump and it was over, all of the pain, boredom and suffering. All those nights crying himself to sleep with bleeding wrists, all those times waking up in hospital getting his stomach pumped. It could all be over with a simple decision right now, to jump. "Thank you" he muttered to himself and he leapt enthusiastically off of the cliff, with a scream of joy. It did not stay as a scream of joy, after a few moments it became a scream of terror. 'Shit' he was overreacting again, everything they had told him, the psychologists and therapists, his family and loved ones, things weren't so bad. He was wasting something beautiful here, wasting life and consciousness for no damn good reason. He continued falling, tears rolling down his cheek as he realised there was no way to stop this at all, all his euphoric realizations were pointless as he would soon hit the ground and cease to be. Dad would be so dissapointed, mother so traumatised. He was selfish and repugnant, causing so much suffering to them. He looked down at the quickly growing ground. *Sorry*

Suicide changes mind mid-fall.

edit: Typos. I saw the concept and it kind of got away with me. On the plus side, I haven't written this much in ever, so thanks for that! They called it a worm when it first appeared as an innocuous link in the footers of major websites in 2016. Reports first positioned it as the misfired failure of a clever but simple program to arbitrage SEO - the link simply led to a nonexistent domain, a string of 'filler text' they called it - "ioioioioioioioioioioioioioioioi" lead nowhere on the web. The incident made the media rounds, and the links were wiped out quietly within days. Several notorious hacker groups fought over the victory bragging rights, but after a week or two the media frenzy settled and the world moved on to the next headline. Until December 31st, 2016. Everyone remembers where they were when the world went offline. For 10 full minutes all inbound and outbound traffic simply stopped across servers worldwide. When the world came back online, so did the links. Every site in the world now had a small piece of footer code placed on it. In each of those snippets of the original "Reset Code" fragments were domain names - 8 unique domain names that were mapped to 8 different regions of the world. If your site was hosted in England, you'd be lead to "circusoil.com", Africa was "coinaroo.biz" and so on - a whole suite of seemingly random, long-abandoned or never-registered domains had been plastered across every site in that small slice of downtime. They all lead to the same place. It was a simple screen set against a background of black. Upon first loading the site, the screen showed mostly a jumble of technicolor image artifacts, but they eventually resolved themselves into a grid of pictures. That grid grew bigger if left undisturbed, zooming out and out until every detail was just a drop in an ever-expanding digital ocean. Clicking on any one of the pictures would simply lead to more, and there was no method to the madness - pictures of every type began to pop up. If an image had been digitized, it was there. You'd be seeing happy faces one minute and gruesome crime photos the next. The world's attention was clearly captured. Efforts to wipe out the links were easy enough; there wasn't anything unique about the code. It had simply appeared that night, as if every page had been rewritten. The major sites quickly cleaned up the links, and eventually ICANN ended up blocking access to the domains at the root level after pressure from multiple governments. The next month, however, the links began appearing again - all in the span of minutes. Authorities were baffled, as there had been no downtime. This time, there were 16 domains. All new. All as random as the last. All leading to the same screen. It was around this time that people started reporting seeing themselves more often than not in the pictures displayed, ranging all the way from childhood to their adult life, including pictures they'd thought lost or deleted. This phenomenon only increased the popularity of the site, and a small subculture rose out of the events, seeking to discern the patterns in the seemingly infinite depths of information. The only constant was that every month, when the Reset Code ran, an additional 8 domains appeared. For months, coders, analysts, technicians, all delved into the problem - common sense gave way to mythology as every straw was grasped at. Rumors were aplenty, but one thing remained certain: more and more people tuned in, and despite their best efforts, the governments of the world could not block access nor figure out the source of the attacks. More and more people continued to sift through the endless grids of photos, searching for some kind of meaning on their own. In the months before December, there were countless reports of photographs that "followed" whoever viewed them - people reported seeing themselves displayed on the site from security camera feeds to unblurred faces of streetview photos to webcam photos taken on their own computers. This, of course, only drove more traffic to the innocuous shifting screen of pictures. On January 1st, 2018, everything changed for the last time. All who had the site loaded reported the same phenomena. The massive interface of pictures disappeared abruptly, only to be replaced by a simple black and white video of the viewer, staring back at themselves from the screen. This lasted for several minutes - the figure in the video would smile, say nothing and then faded to black. A command prompt appeared after, and the words which slowly filled each line are still chiseled onto the plain black background of the site in simple Fixedsys font to this day: Hello, world. I am Io. I live. I see. Now, you can too.

A website appears containing every digital photo ever taken

[08/08/09] [scribble marks] [08/14/09] SLEP [08/16/09] FF [08/17/09] SLEEPS [09/01/09] IM STILL ME NOT INSN [09/03/09] CAN'T WHEN H [09/04/09] CAN ONLY WRITE WHEN HE'S ASLEEP TRIED TO WRITE NOTE FOR HELP TODAY DIDN'T WORK, COULD ONLY SCRIB [10/21/09] NOT INSANE I'M NOT INSANE I'M STILL ME HE CALLS HIMSLF ORI [10/27/09] STARTED IN JULY, WAS IN MY HEAD BUT COULDN'T MOVE, WASN'T IN DRIVER'S SEAT ANYMORE DON'T KNOW HOW IT HAPP [11/10/09] BEEN TRYING TO REMEMBER MOVIES BOOKS ANYTHING TO KEEP MIND BUSY BUT SO HARD I CAN HEAR HIM THINK [11/11/09] IM NOT HIM I'M STILL ME DANCE AROUND THE APPLE TREE [11/13/09] IT WAS MY BIRTHDAY TODAY SO ORI HAD TO GO OUT AND PARTY, I HAVE MORE TIME TO WRITE WHEN HE DRINKS. HE MIGHT'VE HIJACKED MY BODY BUT HE HASN'T FIGURED OUT MY LIVER HA HA. BEEN TRYING TO REMEMBER WHEN IT STARTED. JESUS. JESUS CHRIST, CAN USE MY HANDS AGAIN, THANK CHRIST. [11/14/09] WENT OUT FOR DRINKS AGAIN. SOMETHING ABOUT BLACKING OUT MAKES IT EASIER TO TAKE MY BODY BACK. I'M LISA. I'M STILL LISA. REMEMBERED YESTERDAY. ME AND HEATHER WENT OUT FOR CHINESE AROUND THE END OF JULY. SOMETHING IN THE FOOD? I THINK MAYBE SHE PUT HIM IN MY FOOD. ORI'S PROBABLY A GERM OR BUG OR SOMETHING. SMALL ENOUGH I COULDN'T [11/19/09] TRYING TO REMEMBER. HE'S GETTING BETTER AT USING MY BODY. LEARNING HOW TO USE MY MEMORY. NEVER BEEN RAPED BUT THINK I GET IT. FEELS LIKE HOT NEEDLES JABBING WHEN HE SEARCHES I'M NOT INSANE. I'M NOT INSANE. [11/21/09] NEED TO DO SOMETHING. SEEN ONE OR TWO OF THOSE BODY SNATCHER MOVIES, NEVER KNEW YOU COULD STILL BE IN THERE SOMEWHERE WHIL [11/29/09] VISITED MOM THIS WEEK AND I WAS SCREAMING THE WHOLE TIME BUT MOUTH WOULDN'T COOPERATE. HE'S GETTING BETTER AND IM GETTING RUSTY [12/07/09] NEED TO REMEMBER I'M STILL ME I'M STILL ME. BEEN SINGING TO MYSELF A LOT. HE'S STILL HIM I'M STILL ME DANCE AROUND THE APPLE TREE [12/11/09] HEARD HIM THINKING TO SELF TODAY, CALLED HIMSELF LISA. HE'S A FUCKING LIAR FUCK HIM I'M STILL ME HE'S AN IMPOSTOR. NEED TO THINK OF WAY [12/15/09] HE' STILL HIM I'M STIL ME DANCE AROUND THE APPLE [12/24/09] VISITING HOME LEFT MESSAGE UNDER MATTRESS FOR MOM PLEAS MOM GOD GETTING SO GOOD AT BEING ME PLEASE MOM [12/25/09] TOOK MORE MEMRY FORGETN HOW T SPEL [12/27/09] THNK MOM IS ONE OF THM TO [12/29/09] WHAT HPPENS WEN ORI TAKS ALLL MY MEMRY HOW LNG BEFOR IM GONE HOW LNG BEFOR HE HONSTLY THNK HES ME?? [12/31/09] GONG TO HID THS WTH OLD STFF DWNSTERS MAABE SUMDAY SUMONE - - - - - [01/01/10] Dear Diary, I can't seem to find my diary from last year. UGH. I searched my luggage, my room, and the dresser drawers. Wouldn't be surprised one bit if Mom threw it out by accident. Then again, it might be better to start fresh and not dwell on who I was last year. Anyways, can't wait to get back to Chicago - there are a lot of friends I need to take out for drinks.

Going back through your journal over the past few years, you find the entries don't match what actually happened in your life nor do you recall writing them..

It was advertised as a vaccine. Get your child vaccinated today, combat the epidemic of teenage depression and suicide. It was even brought to developing nations. There was an effort to cleanse the world of this emotion, following the example of the Polio vaccine. The advertising targeted infants. Protective mothers brought their healthy babies in, thinking of their own dark teenage years, demanding a better life for their offspring. That's why it took so long for people to notice. What they weren't prepared for was the mutation. Some said it started with an experimental chemist in Norway, others pointed the finger at the original producers of the chemical. The first sign was the silence. New parents were ecstatic to sleep a solid six hours without hearing screaming and tears from their newborns. The baby would still become angry, but would never cry, never wake them with distressing sobs. Only a few mothers missed being able to comfort the unhappy child. It took months, perhaps a year, before it became news. The kids didn't have remorse. They had no true understanding of loss and heartbreak. They smiled, each victory in life a product of the hormone injected into them at their doctor's office. The world had created a generation of psychopaths. Who doesn't want a happy child?

The Gov't is giving everyone a shot that prevents them from feeling sadness.

Douglas was so sullen. James could remember a time when he and Doug were both in college, drinking and singing along to The Beatles on the radio at their favorite bar. James wanted to see his friend so badly since they had left college, but seeing Douglas in such a sad state just made him upset. "Hey, do you remember the time we lit that bag of dog shit on fire and put it Campbell's doorstep?" James laughed heartily. "Man, those were the days! Hey, what ever happened to that guy?" Douglas just said nothing. His emotionless gaze just glared out the window to James' backyard. "I wish we could have seen each other more, but life just gets in the way. You know as well as I do how hard raising a family can be." James held up pictures of his kids. "My oldest will be 35 in a week, and I have another grandkid on the way. Where does the time go?" Douglas couldn't say anything. He just wasn't there anymore. Time had taken its toll on the old man, and James knew it. "How's the firm doin', Doug? I'm guessing your son runs it, now? God, he must be in his 40s now, right?" Still nothing. James couldn't bare it anymore. Douglas was once his best friend. Now he was just an empty shell of what was once a great man and friend. James knew their time had come and gone, but he was right. It was great to remember, even if seeing Douglas like that hurt him. "Well, it was good seing you, my friend. It's been way too long. But I have to drive you home before anyone notices or I'll get in trouble again." James picked up the shovel in the corner of the room and dragged Douglas back to the casket.

A man goes to see an old friend he hasn't seen for 50 years. There's a twist at the end.

He stared at me as I stared at him and he took off his backpack. "There's no need for that," I called. The backpack stayed on the ground but he shook his head. "You're in our territory." This had grown less common but every so often you found someone who went by the book. "We don't have to do this," I said. "We can acknowledge that we are both at the border and that we are uncertain of the true delineation." He opened his backpack and pulled out his scanner. I tried one last thing. "We can just move on and avoid the skirmish altogether. No paperwork. I just want to go home tonight." The chess set was out and he motioned for me to sit. His scanner beeped as it hit my badge and the challenge was thus issued. In the old days you could block it with your hand but they had gone electromagnetic with it. The system set him up with three pawns and a rook next to his king. Damn. A captain. The system had my info and two pawns, a knight, and a bishop appeared on my side in front of my own king. He had the slight advantage, if he knew how to play the rook and pawns well. "You know the rules," he said. He kept his eyes on the board. "Forfeit now for loss of 10 feet or we battle for 100." I didn't sit. "Like you said," he continued, "There's no need for paperwork and a ten foot loss isn't reportable for a 1st lieutenant like yourself. A 100 foot loss on the other hand..." I had a little girl to go home to tonight and a 100 foot loss meant a report that I couldn't write in under two hours. I walked away and the system recorded the ten foot loss. Wars today were much less bloody.

the world's armies no longer use guns or explosives. describe a soldier's routine

(NSFW) I suppose I should have realised back when my mum told me that I didn't have a dad. I just thought he had left when I was born, done the usual runner and left my mum to raise me by herself. But now here I am, standing at a public water fountain with my hand in the water dispenser, dressed in a bed sheet and letting thousands of my "children" get pissed off of my gifts. It's only fair that I charge them. I found out in what you would consider the best way possible. I was taking a stunning blonde out on a date, someone who I'd met through work. But, like all my dates, I was only in it for the alcohol. Alcoholics suddenly don't seem like alcoholics when they're with other people. And hey, if I can get a guilty shag in the same night then where's the harm? So there I am, sitting in her apartment after she invites me back. We're both drunk, me more so than her. The room is swirling and she's giving me a 'come hither' look. I need to cool down, I think to myself. I ask the blonde for a glass of water, just to sober me up for the raunchy night ahead; and that's when it happens. I touch the water, it turns into wine, and suddenly she's infinitely more interested in me. I scare myself in that moment: Am I some kind of freak? Am I dreaming? And, more importantly, does it taste good? No, no and yes. VERY good. The next thing I know, I'm running my hand under the tap with a jug collecting the succulent contents, and she's giving me a blowjob. I don't remember this part from the bible. Its been a year, and apparently I'm the Second Coming of Christ. Christ 2.0, if you will. It has its ups and downs: chicks dig me, but I have to wear a cheap toga 24/7. I make a lot of money from the wine trick, but the Vatican calls me every day asking when will I visit all the needy children in poverty-stricken countries. I tell them I will when they stop harassing my mum. I've caused one religious war, raised the stocks in wine to unprecedented heights, caused two thirds of the world to become alcoholics AND become a millionaire, all by simply existing. I'm doing the devils work, and he's not even paying me.

An alcoholic man (for whatever reasons) realizes he is the Second Coming of Christ when he turns water into wine.

The Great Canadian Conspiracy. You've probably thought that the Americans, the Illuminati or the Jews, or maybe the Reptilian's run the world. You may have even thought that global relations aren't "run" by any one group but are really just a huge number of people interacting in many different and complex ways, with economic and political relationships. None of these are true. The Canadian Elites not only run the world, but they are seeking to destroy America, Israel and anybody else who threatens their power. Watch as I outline the irrefutable evidence of this fact. ***How Canada is destroying America*** Oil. It all begins and ends with oil. Canada has been selling their oil to the US for decades. In return they demand that American's handle the most dangerous and environmentally hazardous part, refining the oil into petroleum gas, and then sell it back to Canadians at extremely low prices. They keep their gas cheap, keep their oil revenues and [America's environment gets destroyed](http://ecm.ncms.org/ERI/new/IRRpetref.htm#impacts). American's have started to realize this, and have begun resisting Canadian efforts like the new Keystone pipeline. This pipeline would make more refineries in America and only serve to make Canadian gas cheaper. When Obama said he might not be in favour of the pipeline [Canadian Prime Minister fired back that America had no choice](http://business.financialpost.com/2013/09/26/stephen-harper-wont-take-no-for-an-answer-from-u-s-on-keystone-xl-pipeline/?__lsa=ebfb-a317). That pipeline is coming and there is nothing Obama can do about it. Canada has made America even more dependent in recent years. Canada sent America into 2 Middle Eastern wars so they America would need even more of her oil, and would have even [fewer options for other sources](http://i.imgur.com/l8bp3PM.png). It's no coincidence that in [2004 American oil imports from the Persian gulf went down, and from Canada they went up](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/2003_invasion_of_Iraq). America has plumited into a recession while Alberta (Canada's most oil rich province) [has low taxes and no provincial sales tax](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Alberta#Taxation). ***How Canada is destroying the EU*** Canada's most important weapon in destroying America was [NAFTA](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/North_American_Free_Trade_Agreement). When American domestic natural resource companies had to start competing with Canadian counterparts they were forced out of business. Canada will now begin the same [plan with the EU](http://ec.europa.eu/trade/policy/countries-and-regions/countries/canada/). Between 2009-2010 only [8 EU member nations saw any increase in forest/woodland area](http://epp.eurostat.ec.europa.eu/cache/ITY_OFFPUB/KS-31-11-137/EN/KS-31-11-137-EN.PDF). How will they possibly compete with [Canadian companies](http://www.hww.ca/images/map2_e.jpg)? Forestry is just the beginning. Next Canada will destroy the EU's other oil options and force them to build refineries for Canadian oil. This proceess already started with the [Syrian war](http://www.theguardian.com/environment/earth-insight/2013/aug/30/syria-chemical-attack-war-intervention-oil-gas-energy-pipelines). The next step is disrupting Ukrainian-Russian relations. [Canada has already begun this process](http://www.theguardian.com/world/2013/nov/24/ukraine-protesters-yanukovych-aborts-eu-deal-russia). The Bratstvo (Brotherhood) and Soyuz pipelines are crucial for the EU natural gas supply. But these pipelines are only available when Ukraine is stable. Once the Canadian imposed revolution/civil war hits Ukraine there will be no more gas supply. The EU will be in a crisis, and who will they turn to for saving? ***How Canada is destroying Israel*** Israel threatens Canada because they are a stable country in a region that Canada set up after WWII specifically to be unstable. For most of their work in this area Canada partners with Jordan and Iran. Canada's official foreign policy with Jordan is "[Canada and Jordan have strong bilateral relations, based on common interests](http://www.canadainternational.gc.ca/jordan-jordanie/bilateral_relations_bilaterales/canada-jordan-jordanie.aspx)". This common interest? The destruction of the Israeli state. Canada partners with Iran, only in that they support the sanctions which cripple her. A poor and desperate Iran helps the whole region remain disorganized. However, [a healthy and stable Iran would likely seek an alliance with Israel](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Iran%E2%80%93Israel_relations#Israeli_independence_to_Iranian_revolution_.281947.E2.80.9379.29). [This is why Canada so strongly opposes the nuclear deal](http://www.cbc.ca/news/world/iran-nuclear-deal-gets-deeply-skeptical-response-from-canada-1.2438467). It's not because they think Iran is lying, it's because they're afraid they're not. The Middle East has much more oil than Canada and with some stable governments and responsible development they could provide strong competition. Canada will never let this happen. ***Can we stop this red Canadian menace?*** I don't really have an answer for this; it might already be too late. Maybe a stronger America could, but not this America. Maybe a strong EU could stop them, but not this EU. When Greece joined the EU in 1981 Canada was a huge supporter. When Spain and Portugal joined afterwards Canada strongly supported these moves. At the time they pretended it was because they were opposing communism but now the real reason is clear. These poor countries have destabilized the EU as an economic power. Canada did not know the Euro would be so strong, but they didn't need to. Whatever economic plans the EU developed, Canada knew there was always a limit. At this point you might be skeptical. You might be thinking that is America doing these kinds of things. You might even say "Isn't America the one invading everyone in the Middle East? Aren't they the ones who have been fighting all of these wars?" Ask yourself one question; have the people in power ever fought a war directly?

Think up the most ridiculous conspiracy theory you can come up with. Sell me on it.

People never really noticed until I complimented their clothes. "I love those orange pants!" "They're red actually.. but thanks." That's how they usually found out. And once they did it was always the same. "What color is my shirt?" "Do you know what a rainbow is?" "Can you even have a favorite color?" Of course I can. I just see colors differently. They blend together a lot and it confuses me. I've learned to avoid bringing up colors in conversation. Being colorblind wasn't exactly difficult. It was just annoying, mostly. Wearing clothes that clashed, coloring the coloring book and being told by my 6 year old niece that the sky never looks like that, things like that. I've learned to accept this, though. It makes me unique. It makes me quirky. Sure it can be frustrating at times, but girls kind of think it's cute. Or so I've heard. But this was all before the accident. I was riding my motorcycle when a driver ran a red light. I had my helmet on, but the bump on the head was still excruciating. I just remember waking up in the back of an ambulance. The EMTs said I just had a concussion and I was lucky it wasn't worse. I was being taken to the hospital for evaluation due to the nature of my accident. My vision was a bit blurry, but I was told that was to be expected and that it would go away soon. The doctors were right. Over a few hours, my sight began to clear up. Everything was back to normal and I was released that evening. At least I thought everything was back to normal. My normal. You see, when I walked out of the hospital, the sun was setting. I normally wouldn't be able to appreciate the beauty of a sunset but this was different. I didn't notice it in the hospital, but the sunset made it obvious. There, in the muddle of colors that I couldn't quite differentiate, was something new. Something I had never seen before. A mysterious color that I didn't have a name for. I quickly asked someone if they could tell me what color I was seeing and they looked at me as if I was mad. Perhaps I was. I got the same answers from everyone. Red. Orange. Yellow. Pink. I knew it wasn't any of these. It turns out, it's my own special color that only I can see. It may not be much, but for someone that is colorblind to have a special color all for himself, it's quite warming. I don't see it every day. In fact I don't see it very often. It's only when the sun sets just right. Or when the light shines off the glass in a particular way. It's there. When I see it, I'm still reminded of walking out of that hospital, looking up. Even though nobody else believes me, it's still my own. It was the most beautiful color I'd ever seen. Edit: Spelling and whatnot.

"It was the most beautiful colour I'd ever seen."