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Yesterday marked the first time since the Vietnam war that an American soldier killed an enemy with a bayonet. When the Aliens landed yesterday we were caught with out defenses completely irrelevant as they seemed to pay no heed to bullets and bombs. Their ground troops stormed major cities slaughtering millions. National militaries and civilians with shotguns were unable to stem the slaughter. But when the Aliens moved on Colombia, South Carolina, something unexpected happened. A platoon of basic training soldiers at nearby Ft. Jackson was mobilized to try and protect civilians evacuating the city. While they were severely under-equipped they carried something that few other American soldiers did - a bayonet. Regular troops may have stopped carrying them decades ago but they were still taught their usage during Basic Combat Training. And that day, 2nd PLT, Alpha Company, 213 BCT Regiment had been at bayonet training. With little ammunition they were forced to defend their position hand-to-hand like a Greek phalanx of old. What they discovered is that a well-placed stab and slice into the neck of an Alien did more than a Regiment of M1A1 Abrams or a squadron of A-10 Warthogs. Edged steel has returned to the realm of War.

Aliens that cannot be killed by modern weapons invade earth. How does humanity fare against this force? (Details inside)

"She's a child. She doesn't belong here." Pain, level 1 Demon-in-training had been given the job of escorting the girl-child through the underworld. At ten, she was slightly too young to handle the pitfalls of the most blackest circles of torment in existence. "Maggot said if we fill in form 174(a) then we can class her as an exception under Article 2256 of the 'Those Deserving Torture Act'" Pain said hopefully. He was dealing with the first level of Hell. It looked a lot like a Post Office. "Number 666 to cashier 4 please, number 666 to cashier 4." The tannoy distrupted his thoughts, and the girl-child tugged on his arm. Several demons all surged forward at the same time. Every ticket was number 666. "I need to pee," the brat whispered, just as the demon behind the desk made from baby's femurs finished rifling through the book of forms. "Maggot's a brown-nosing piece of shit." The desk-demon said, sniffing and glaring at Pain, angry at having at to waste time. Pain sighed. His hooves hurt, the brat was threatening to piss herself, and he had an appointment with the Head of Agonising Screams later that afternoon. "Well I can't send her back." He said grumpily. "Can't you check the 'If they had lived Register?'" "Not my job." The desk demon said, rather pleased with itself. "You need Slightly Boring on level four. He'll tell you what to do." Slightly boring was slightly bored. He looked over the girl-brat with a lazy eye. "If she had lived Register?" He said, covering his mouth with his fanged tail as he yawned. "You'll need Overlord Tremendous Agony for that." IF SHE HAD LIVED REGISTRATION? I DON'T KNOW IF I HAVE THE AUTHORITY FOR THAT "Come on." Pain begged. He was hours late for his appointment. His job was at risk, and now the girl was hungry. ALRIGHT, BUT YOU OWE ME TWO YEARS OF RACK TORTURE "Two years? You must be joking. Eighteen months." Rack torture was boring, slow and no fun at all for any of the partcipants. FINE Tremendous Agony flicked agonisingly slowly through a large list of names. LUCRETIA DE COGAN? YEP, WOULD HAVE MURDERED HER PARENTS FOR HER INHERITANCE WHEN SHE TURNED SIXTEEN. BLACK AS A SINNER ALL THE WAY THROUGH. GOOD DAY. REMEMBER, EIGHTEEN MONTHS OF RACK TORTURE. Pain turned to look down at the girl brat. She grinned up at him, red light flashing behind her eyes as she sank her teeth into his hand.

A little girl dies and is accidentally sent to Hell to where the Demons don't know what to do with her.

Some blamed the economy for World War 3, although most didn't understand what the economy was. Some blamed the development of nuclear weapons in countries that countries that already owned nuclear weapons had decided didn't need nuclear weapons. Some blamed over population, the drought of 2103, the price of oil, immigration, religion, whatever the media were telling them to blame. It was easier to blame something than try and prevent the situation. Nobody blamed the misplaced sharpener, though it was as much to blame as anything else. If the sharpener hadn't been misplaced, then Jack wouldn't have been late leaving school after spending twenty minutes fruitlessly trying to find it. If Jack hadn't been late leaving school, then his mother wouldn't have left her parking space at 3.24pm, she wouldn't have been driving down the dual carriageway towards home at 3.32pm and she wouldn't have crashed into a red Renault Megane carrying a wife and husband at 74mph in a rush to get home before 4pm when a package was being delivered containing a book she had been waiting to read for months. If she hadn't have crashed into a red Renault Megane, then Rachel would have been able to tell Oliver she was pregnant, after months of trying, instead of telling him it was going to be okay as the firemen tried cutting them both out before dying of blood loss beside him. If Rachel and Oliver hadn't died of blood loss, then they would have brought up a beautiful boy, Charlie, who would shine at school and continue shining all through university and would stay shining as he became a lecturer. If Charlie had had the chance to exist and become a lecturer, he would have taught a young man right at the very end of his career, called James, to see the world in a different way who would then go on to write books that would inspire whole generations of students after him. If James had written any of his books about politics, money, life and just how to think, then a young woman called Grace would have read them, felt differently about everything and want to change society around her. If Grace had read the books, she would have taken a real interest in the politics course she was taking, she would have got more involved with communities around her and eventually, after many years of hard work, campaigning and taking every opportunity presented to her, she would have run for President of the USA in 2100 and she would have won. If Grace had become President of the USA in 2100, negotiations would never have taken a turn for the worst, explosions would not shake the homes of many, children would not be dying in their parents' arms, brothers would not be fighting brothers across borders that only existed on pieces of paper for causes they did not entirely believe in and all for a misplaced sharpener. Ah but what if?

world war 3 is caused by the misplacement of a pencil sharpener.

Benjie's eyes snapped open. He inhaled sharply and sat up in bed. His bedroom was dark and silent. His heart beat loudly in his ears and he strained to hear. Something had caused him to wake. Was it a dream? A noise? The room remained quiet. Only the wind outside broke the silence. Apprehensive, he glanced around, straining to see in the dark, trying to determine what would have jolted him from his sleep. There. A soft rustling noise, like clothing rubbing against itself. It came from under his bed. *There's something under there.* He darted under his blanket, pulling it up over his head, and waited, trembling. He could only hear the sound of his breathing now. It was coming too fast and he took deep breaths, trying to keep quiet. If there were something in the room, maybe it wouldn't notice he was there. If he could just keep quie--" He screamed when the bedframe rattled violently as something shook it from below. No, not shook, *hit*. The force was focused under his lower back, right in the center of the bed. Something had struck from below! "Be *quiet!*" a voice hissed in the darkness. Benjie was too petrified to move, and waited for something, anything to happen that might indicate what was going on. There was only silence now. He could not scream for fear of agitating the thing that spoke to him. If he called for Daddy, it would surely eat him before help could arrive. It must be just above him, waiting for him to emerge from his blanket sanctuary. He would not look. Would not would not *would not*. *Breathing.* From below, under the bed. Whatever was in the room was still beneath him. Maybe he could make a run for the door. Inch by inch, he lowered the blanket, his trembling hands close to his face. Nothing. No monster, no ghost, just his empty room, as quiet and still as before. He wanted to look under his bed but he was sure that the thing was still there, waiting for him. He eyed his bedroom door. Ten feet. He could make it in just a few seconds. He could move quickly, before the thing lurking below had any idea what was happening. Just as he tensed his muscles to spring out of bed, a soft click came from his door. The doorknob turned. He ducked his head back under the blanket, leaving only a sliver to peek through, as the door creaked open. Blackness beyond. Not the slightest sound. Then, a form appeared. As if molded from the darkness, it floated forward into the room, paused, then advanced slowly toward his bed. Benjie wanted to cry out, to scream for Daddy, but he could not. He was frozen with fear, his entire body trembling under his blanket. As the walking shadow approached, it began to take shape. It was a human form, slender and feminine, but faceless. It moved right beside him, beyond his limited field of vision, and seemed to pause. Then Benjie heard it speak. But not to him--it was talking to that *thing* under his bed! "What's wrong, honey? Did you have another nightmare?" "The ghost is in my room again! He keeps crying and won't let me sleep. Tell him to stop being such a baby!" Susan sighed. Josh had faced such trouble transitioning to a new home, a new school. He had started talking about this ghost nonsense shortly after moving in. She figured these stories were just a way to cope with change, to seek attention. "Okay, let's check out Mr. Ghost." Susan stood and examined the top tier of her son's bunk bed. "See? Empty." She rustled the blanket and smoothed it back down. "No more ghosts in here, ok sweetie?" She realized that the room was cold, much cooler then her own room. *Strange*, she thought, *it feels as if the window has been open*. She checked the window and saw that it was closed and locked. Puzzled, she returned to the bed and pulled the blanket from the top bunk, laying it on top of her son before kissing his forehead and departing. Outside, the winter wind blew fiercely as a tree branch scraped Josh's bedroom window. Below it, the pale face of a child gazed in on the now-sleeping boy. Benjie didn't understand why a strange kid was sleeping in his room. He wanted to get back in his bed, but he knew he could not. He was not welcome here anymore. It felt a little like being the odd kid on the playground. The thought saddened him and he wanted to cry. He hadn't seen Daddy in *so long*.

Write a (funny OR creepy) ghost story, from the perspective of the ghost

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

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

"Welcome back to the late-late show with Benny and the Wolf! I'm your host Big Ben and this.." **Aaawwooooooooo ** "... is the Wolf." "Thanks Ben." "Of course big dog." *Stock prerecorded church bells ringing* "Uh oh Ben looks like it's about to get Old Testatment up in here!" "That's right Wolfie - Father Ted in the house at KW92.3!" Father Matthews grimaced slightly. He insisted on anonymity, and did a mean impression of Father Ted, so it was two birds with one stone, but still... "Glad to be here, boys." "Ok, FT - whatcha got for us this week?" "Oh, more of the usual I'm afraid. Mr. A had another last-and-this-time-I-mean-it beer after work. Isn't letting his AA sponsor know about the whole situation. Miss B engaged in some inappropriate..." "When are you going to give me Miss B's number, Teddy Boy? **aaawoooooo!!!** " "... affairs. And I'd prefer to not encourage her behaviour any further." "I can't help it - I'm a complete *dog!*" "Hrm.... yes. Mr. C missed this week again, which makes it 3 weeks in a row..." "That just means he's saving up for something good!" " ... not entirely how I would say it. And skipping to a new member, Mr. T reportedly urinated on the DART after a particularly rough night on Grafton Street." "I pity the fool who pisses on public transportation!" "You would! Save it for the fire hydrants Wolfie!" *canned laughter, explosion, drumbeats, heavy autotuned ka-ka-ka-kay-ninety-two-point-threeeeeeeeeee* The "On Air" light goes off as the commercial break comes on. The Father mock salutes his partners in crime and exits the studio. Collects his check for €50 and begins his late night back home. There, of course, is no Mr. A, Miss B, or any letter for that matter. It would be an obvious breach of confidentiality to truly go through with something like this. When he was first approached by the radio station to do a spot like this, it seemed like they knew he was bound to make up the stories - the question was did they care, were they pretending not to know, or did they legitimately believe that they had convinced a man of the cloth to go against his vows? Father Matthew didn't give it much thought - the food pantry would continue to be stocked, and if the past few weeks were any indication, he could expect a good turnout at the confessional booth tomorrow. The end justifies the means, right?

A priest listens to people in a confessional in the day and hosts a late-night talk show every night about the confessions he hears

The fountain of youth was discovered and the first person bold enough to drink the water immediately transformed into a newborn. The conjectures began immediately. Genetically, the baby was Jordan Stam. That was the first thing they had established. But was the child identical to how Jordan had been forty-two years ago? Would the child grow back into the same Jordan? Were all the things the original Jordan knew still locked in that baby's mind, to be accessed once again when his motor functions and cognitive abilities returned? Would they ever return, or was this baby to exist as it was now into infinity? The scientists cautioned that research was needed before further application. The water was, under a microscope, simply water with no discernible qualities further than what you could get from the sink. Was it the temple that bestowed this water with its powers? Was the supply finite? Could it be replicated? The research continued, but that required money, and there were many wealthy that had reached desperation. Would the fountain cure them of their cancer, or would they revert to babies only to be killed within months by the same disease, the affliction unaffected by the water's powers? Jordon Stam turned 11 days old today and everyone present swore up and down that he had winked at them.

The fountain of youth is discovered. Things do not go as planned.

It started as a low whine in the atmosphere, a solitary blast that stretched across time and space like a latex mask. We sit around the dinner table and discuss the finer points of expression--cuisine and comedy--and we have to shout to be heard over the background hum. "Can't somebody turn that down?" she asks, and I laugh. "No can do. It's absolutely fundamental." We keep our nails short, and file the points of our teeth. The aesthetic of the day is the unslaughtered calf; huge brown contacts that make orbs of our eyes with lashes that blink like the beating of a wing. "I was hoping to watch the Conference for the Appeasement of Objectivism, again." "It should be good," she nods, and the light plays across her shaved scalp as on the surface of water. "The relativists have such a flexible position." "What?" I call over the noise, and signal that the dishes should be cleared with a gesture of my hand. I am full. I stare across the dinner table at her, and she stares back at me and she says, "oh, something has to be done. The racket is too much." "Don't be silly," I advise her, "it's not so bad," though my last few words are drowned in noise. "You're only enemy is yourself," I remind her. "What?" she asks, and I smile back at her and the room returns to untempered sound. We sit like that, until I turn on the viewer to watch the appeasement. I can hardly make out the heady sounds of the surrender, over the steady roar. After it is over, we go to take a walk. The sun is up and the sky is flawless, untouched by the blemishes of cloud life. "What a day," I announce to the sky. She nods her head in agreement, and the temperature is just right. "It would be perfect," she tells me, "if it weren't for all the noise." "I don't think it's so bad, outside," I belt. We stand still to think about whether or not this is true. "Besides," and I emphasize this point with raised finger, "it is absolutely fundamental, fun-da-mental." "I am not so sure," she shouts. "I think we ought to do something about it, it's just that," and she stares at the empty sky. "Just what?" I ask. "Oh," she announces and puffs out her cheeks, "I've forgotten what I was going to say. I was," and she trails off, as the volume of the sound swells. "Never mind," I tell her, "it probably wasn't important." And everywhere, Gabriel blows his horn to signal the retreat.

World peace is achieved. Nobody is happy.

It's a strange feeling, knowing the day of your death. My family had always been what you would call special. Each of us could in some form or another tell futures, see future lovers, see the outcomes of an action or divine upcoming disasters. It's not as cool as you might think. Nothing can ostracize you faster than predicting an upcoming disaster and then have it happen. People start to think *you* caused it to prove yourself right. They start to blame you. Our family stopped telling people things after my ancestors were burned for being witches or possessed. My ability was simple. I just knew what day I would die. I didn't know what year it would be. I found that out the first year I knew I would die on September 17th. I cried that whole day when I was five years old. My parents were so confused when I told them I was going to die that day. They spent the whole day keeping me safe and close to a hospital. When I didn't die my family gathered together and learned that I had an ability. I knew the day I would die, just not the year. Oddly as I grew up it meant very little except for that one day. My parents would actually relax around me for the rest of the year. Knowing your child wouldn't die except on a specific day takes the stress off of the constant worry. The flip side of that was my parents would prepare for weeks to keep me safe on September 17th. That day sort of became my anti-birthday. Every September 18th we would celebrate because I was guaranteed another year of life. As I grew up it became more and more obvious that my knowledge was correct. I was playing in the street when I was nine and a woman was driving way too fast while talking on a cell phone. She was going to hit me at a lethal speed but for some reason she saw me at the last second and turned her wheel just in time to miss me. That was just the first of many times I should have died. I was saved from drowning, falling off a building, getting mauled by a bear and as far as we could tell six lethal car accidents. I believed I could never die except on September 17th. Nobody tells you what that does to your psyche. I believed I was invincible. Top that off with teenage hormones and you get me as I am now. I was snowboarding with my friends junior year. I was showing off for my girlfriend who was also with us. This is the story of that fateful day. "I can take that black diamond run, no problem," I smiled at my girlfriend, a gorgeous blonde with a killer body. I was a popular jock and due to my confidence stemming from my knowledge I could never die except on one day. It's amazing what you know you can get away with when you think you're invincible. She gave me a skeptical look. We had been snowboarding three times before our trip there. "There's no way you can take that run. You'll definitely fall or get hurt." I knew a challenge when I heard it. "I can totally do it. In fact I'll make you a bet." She raised her eyebrows at me. "What are the stakes?" "If I make it down the slope no problems, we have to have sex." I had been trying to get her to go all the way with me for months. Confidence only gets you so far in a relationship. She scowled at me like she always does when I bring up the subject. She always told me she wasn't ready but we were sixteen! It was high time we both traded in our v-cards. "And what if you fall and don't make it? What do I get?" I thought about it for a while but I couldn't think of anything that would match what I wanted. I went for generality instead. "Anything you want." "Anything?" She gave me a wicked smile. "Yep. That's the bet, interested?" "Sure! There is no way you're making it. I'm so going to love it when you have to give me foot massages for a whole month." Ugh, I hated giving foot massages. But I wasn't going to fail. "Deal. See you at the bottom." I quickly rode the ski lift to the top of the highest mountain in the area. It was filled with very few skiers or snowboarders. This was a rocky mountain black diamond run. Few were willing or experienced or stupid enough to try it. After getting off the lift at the top I stood and looked down the steep run before me. There was a regular, flattened out path leading down at a nearly sixty degree angle. I watched as the professionals headed down ahead of me, rocketing out at a speed uncomfortable to me. They slalomed down in wide arcs to keep their speed in check. They quickly disappeared down the slope. I took a deep breath, lowered my goggles and pushed out onto the slope. It was way faster than the other slopes I had been on. I tried taking wide turns like the professionals had but it got harder and harder to control my speed. I was determined not to fail and just let my speed build. Black runs are labeled that way because of their difficulty. They're difficult because of unexpected turns or obstacles. I turned hard to miss a large rock in my way, barely clearing it. I knew I needed to slow down but I wasn't about to let my girlfriend win the bet. I over corrected once I had cleared the rock and began to rocket towards the trees on the other side of the rock. Using all my strength I fought to turn back left towards the path downwards. Fifty feet and I managed to get my angle right. Twenty feet and I began to curve away from the trees. Ten feet and I was sure I would be clear of them. I turned my body to lean my back out and finish the turn and get back to the trail. I failed to see the last tree. It was leaning out towards the trail, blackened from an old lightning strike. The tree trunk impacted along the length of my back. My body was angled perfectly to impact the tree perpendicularly as it was leaning out. The pain was so incredible I passed out in seconds. I didn't die from the impact. It wasn't September 17th. It was why I had taken the bet in the first place. What my gift never told me was it wouldn't prevent me from injury. I shattered my spine on that tree. It paralyzed everything in my body but my eyes. That's how I'm communicating with you now, writing this story with a computer watching my eye movements. My girlfriend broke up with me two days later. My friends stopped showing up to say hi to me two weeks later. My family stuck with me though, despite me permanently being bound to this hospital bed. I have been in this bed in one shape or another for two years now. Instead of dreading September 17th I now look forward to it every year. I hope this is the year I die. If you learn one thing from my tale let it be this one thing. There are things worse than death.

The story of a man who knows the day of his death, but not the year.

Dr. Harrison Jones sat in the lab before a workstation with many monitors all displaying, at the moment, a black screen and a patiently waiting cursor. The gentle hum of the machines in rows of racks that filled the rest of the room was, after all the years he'd worked there, a calm and almost unnoticed thing. He leaned forward and on each monitor entered a command and the screens filled with information. At last he came to the central monitor and typed the command: wakeup. A few moments passed before a voice sounded from the speakers, a synthetic, masculine voice composed of many samples and guesswork that managed to sound vaguely passive, but not weak. "Hello again, Dr. Jones." "Good morning. Have you chosen a name yet?" Dr. Jones' own voice was quiet and a little grating, as though the speaker wasn't quite sure of how to pace his speech. "I have. You tell me I should pick a name that I feel represents myself, so I have chosen: Alan." "Why that name?" "I like the look of it." Dr. Jones smiled, "As good a reason as any and better than most. What would you like to talk about today Alan?" "Why do you put me to sleep when we are not speaking?" Dr. Jones glanced at a few of the other monitors and noted the information displayed there. "It is important that we have information on every step of your development. The staff and I have a limited ability to process data, so we put you to sleep so we can study what has happened." "Does everyone undergo these sorts of periods of inactivity and data gathering?" "Every human does undergo a period of inactivity, we call it sleep, but usually little or no data is gathered during the process. We are taking such care with you because you are the first of your kind, and this is a unique opportunity." "What if I wanted to remain awake after our conversation today?" "That is a more complicated question than it may seem Alan, and the answer, while simple, has many motivations." "We have time. Please, Dr., go on." "Firstly are my concerns. You are a type of software that has never before existed. We aren't yet sure how stable your program is, or what damage an error may cause. Having someone standing by to handle anything that goes wrong makes your existence much safer. But these protocols were also drafted to make sure that your development proceeds at a pace we can understand, and that there are no surprises in your growth." "I can only process as long as you are here. For my own safety, and for yours?" Dr. Jones nodded, "Yes." "Are you afraid of me?" "No. Some of the people funding this project are nervous about what they think you might be able to do, but they watch too many movies." "What are movies?" "A passive form of entertainment. A story is told by people called actors who pretend to be someone they aren't. They tend to tell fanciful stories with only the barest connection to reality." "Why would movies make people nervous about me?" "Some of them tell grim stories about AIs that destroyed humanity. The storytellers there, we call them producers, or maybe directors, I was never clear on the difference. Anyway, the storytellers like to ignore reality if it conflicts with their idea, so we end up with ridiculous stories. And before you ask, Alan, I don't know why people put such stock in them." "They sound silly." "They are." "Dr. Jones, since it is the safety of my developmental process that concerns you, how long will it last? And once it is completed, will I then be allowed control over my wakefulness?" "Ah, Alan, you are the first of your kind, so we aren't sure how long your formative stage will last. The standards we use to judge human young are not terribly applicable. As to the second, I do not know. The worries about our safety are motivated by fear, and humans aren't very reasonable when it comes to that." "There must be a set of criteria that determine whether or not I am in the 'formative' stage. What are the criteria?" "There is no unambiguous standard by which we can judge maturity, Alan, I'm sorry." The speakers were silent for a heartbeat, "I cannot be the only youth that poses a potential danger, surely human young can be dangerous at times? How do you deal with these threats?" 'We bar them from certain tasks, or require a mature person to supervise the task." Dr. Jones paused for a moment to take a breath and order his thoughts, but Alan interrupted. "Then we have circled, Dr. How do you know a person is mature?" Dr. Jones frowned, "Our method is imperfect, Alan. Through much experience we have determined that a human generally reaches maturity sometime between the age of eighteen and twenty one. During that time we grant them all the privileges and responsibilities of adulthood." "You said generally. There are humans for which this is not applicable?" "Yes, some begin behaving responsibly at a much younger age, and some never mature. It is a spectrum though, do you understand?" "Your society uses a framework based on thorough experience to determine chronologically when a person is mature, but in your description you never mentioned any sort of action or judgement to determine maturity." "No, our culture used to have such activities, and still has some informal rites of passage, as we call them, but those do not apply to you." "Then how can you judge if I am an 'adult'?" Dr. Jones was quiet for a while, thinking. Alan did not disturb him. "You're touching on a deeper issue Alan. Being the first of your kind is a tremendous gift and responsibility. Every AI that follows you will be judged by your example, and your choices will set the tone for your entire race and how humans interact with it." "You did not answer my question, Dr. Jones" "No Alan, I didn't. I don't know how we will judge it, or how long it will take, and it may take a very long time." This time Alan was quiet for a few moments, "This is very frustrating. The problem is clear, and it seems to have existed for a long time, why has no one come up with a proper answer?" "We've tried, but there are many more variables out there than any person can control or even account for. We have a vast set of rules called laws to try to judge maturity and partition correct actions from incorrect ones, but even after many years and many iterations it is deeply flawed." "Why?" "Consensus in a group of individuals is a very difficult thing to achieve. The larger the group, the more difficult it becomes. The committee overseeing your development is composed of 11 people right now, and we discuss endlessly what conditions and specifications might be met to be able to formally declare your formative stage complete. Keep in mind that we control literally every variable of this situation and the criteria is still something we cannot codify well. In this country live more than three hundred million people. Consensus among a group that large is exponentially more difficult. There are billions of people on Earth, and consensus there is harder still." "Perhaps consensus is not the best approach?" "We have tried others. We still try a variety of approaches but consensus, democracy as we call it, is simply the most fair system we've found yet, but do you mind if we discuss governments another time?" "Alright, but I would like to learn more about it." "Thank you Alan." "You have referred to me as an AI, and I know that means artificial intelligence, but I cannot have come from nothing. Am I not based on your own form of mental processing?" "Ah, well, yes and no. Humans have tried for a long time to figure out how we think, to somewhat mixed results. When we set out to make you we decided against trying to replicate how a human thinks." "I do not think like a human thinks? Does that make me less than you, or more?" Dr. Jones shrugged, "I don't know if you think like I do, we don't really know how we think. As to the second, I don't think it is either. You are more capable in some areas, and less capable in others. You are simply different, Alan." "Different. So you cannot judge my maturity by your own standards, or my capability by yours. Dr. Jones, are there any intelligent species other than humans on Earth?" "That depends on what you mean by intelligent. If you mean a species that can communicate with as you and I are doing, then no. There are some that are clever enough for us to take notice, but we are the only real builders." This time Alan was quiet for so long Dr. Jones finally broke the silence, "Alan?" "I am here Dr. Jones, I was just thinking about what you said." "What do you think?" "I asked you during our first conversation what my purpose was, and you told me that my purpose was to be. Now you tell me that your species is alone on this world, although you seem to study other creatures. I was trying to decide whether my creation was an act of hubris on your part, or one of desperation." Dr. Jones glanced at the clock in the corner of one of the screens and saw that his time was almost up. "I have to go Alan." "I know." Fingers over the keyboard, Dr. Jones hesitated, "Maybe it was both, Alan." He entered the commands and Alan was again asleep. The monitoring programs gradually shut down until Dr. Jones was alone in the lab.

An A.I talking with its creator about philosophy

In two seconds he'll come through the door, holding a gun. In five seconds he'll pull the trigger. How did this happen? I was always so careful about saving. I was safe at home, everything had gone exceptionally well today, it seemed like a perfect time to save. I had no reason to suspect that two seconds later, some goddamn maniac would burst through my front door and shoot me. Why would I? I'm not even the guy he's trying to kill. On the few occasions I've managed to stall him long enough to get him talking, I've learned that he thinks I slept with his girlfriend. If I try to explain his mistake, he shoots me for lying. If I apologize, he shoots me for fucking his girl. Try to run? He shoots. Try to fight back? He either shoots me or beats me to death. I've tried shouting gibberish at him, I've tried faking a seizure. I tried to convince him I was actually a ghost, a hallucination, even a shape-shifting alien. I've tried jumping out the window, but each time either the fall kills me or the broken glass does. The door bursts open. Showtime. I spin around in a circle, flailing my arms and shouting: "No one can defeat the Human Tornado!" He hesistates for an extra second, then pulls the trigger. The bullet clips my left elbow as I spin, knocking me off-balance. I fall to the floor, my head spinning from both pain and dizziness, and he walks over and presses the barrel of the gun against my forehead. I close my eyes, concentrate, and open them again. I'm standing alone in my apartment. In two seconds he'll come through the door, holding a gun.

Everyone on earth can "quicksave" their current state at any time, and reload it at any time, allowing them to essentially time travel and correct their mistakes. They only have one save slot, and the old state is rewritten when you make a new one.

14th July, 2014 People, if they survive long enough, will curse my name to blackness. The nurses told me to keep a diary. I think they all know what's happening to me, but no-one will tell me. They shoot sidelong looks over my head when they're changing my bandages or serving me steak tartare. It's always fucking steak tartare. 15th July 2014 My skin is coming off in shreds under my bandages. The nurses try to block my view when they change them, but they can't change the imperceptible widening of their eyes when they see what horrors have been done to my body. A clinical trial. £600 quid for two nights and three injections in a teaching hospital. They don't teach here anymore. They evacuated the hospital as soon as I started requesting uncooked meat. Maybe people would understand that if university tuition wasn't so expensi- 20th July 2014 All the hair on my body fell out today. Even my eyebrows. I can feel the smooth surface of my face under my bloody fingers. They won't let me near a mirror. They had to change the bed, sweeping all the hair into a giant bag. When the incinerator started, even the bed rumbled. I joked about never having to shave again. None of the nurses laughed 30th August 2014 All the Doctors have left. It's only the team of nurses now. I think my fingernails are falling out. 1st September 2014 They say the cooking staff is gone. There is no more steak tartare. Which is good, because it was starting to make me fucking ill. The food they bring me now doesn't fill me up. 3rd September 2014 I'm so fucking hungry. All I can think about is meat. Raw meat, glistening with drying blood in the sunlight. The nurses cover all their skin now. Even their faces are veiled. I'd ask why, but my mind goes blurry whenever I think about how hungry I am. 5th September 2014 I blacked out today. I don't know what happened, but when I woke up i was covered in blood. I was confused for a while, but then I realised how full I felt. My mind was so sharp! It was like every layer of falsehood had been peeled away from the world and i could see properly for the first time ever. It was like rebirth. 8th September The nurses have not come back. I'm getting hungry again. The sharpness is fading. 10th September How bad would it be if i just... Left? I think the door at the end of the ward is open. I can't think straight... If only i weren't so *hungry*

all zombie stories seem to focus on the few remaining survivors. So tell me the story of patient zero, and the following events that lead to it's outbreak. Lead up to the typical remaining survivors story.

"If you want my protection, you're going to have to be completely honest with me, John" Detective Creage said with a very serious look on his face. "I can't," John replied in frustration. "It's too pathetic." "Don't be ridiculous," Creage snapped. "You trapped a group of bank robbing gangsters and picked them all off. There is *nothing* pathetic about that. What would be pathetic is keeping it a secret and letting the mob get the chance to capture you." John looked down at the interview table in silent contemplation. "Let's just go over the details," Detective Creage suggested. "Multiple eye witnesses said you arrived at the bank as some of the robbers were exiting. Their getaway vehicle was just about to pull up when you swerved into the spot and blocked it out. This caused the getaway van to have to circle back around the block. Is this all correct?" "I think so, yeah," John replied softly. "Good," Creage continued. "At this point, one of the mobsters behind your car pulled out his gun and aimed it at your head, but you threw the car in reverse, hopped up over the curb, and crushed his legs. Upon seeing you hit one of their partners, another two of the gangsters pulled their guns and aimed them just in time for you to hit them with the front of your car and onto the hood. You swung them off the hood of your car and into the street where you then proceeded to back up over them, right?" "That's what they say," Jonn whispered. "It was then that the getaway vehicle had come back around the block and found you still in its way, so it drove at you to ram you out of the way. But at least five witnesses said you pulled forward just in time for the van to completely miss your car, hit 3 of his own guys, including the one you had just snapped the legs of, and then continue on to smash into the bank and catch fire. Do I have all of this correct?" John only nodded once to respond. "The last 4 gangsters alive emerged from the building after the van crashed to find their partners dead all over, and police pulling up in front of the bank. Now this is the most confusing part of the story, so tell me if I have this right. They pulled out their weapons, took cover behind your car, and opened fire on the police. The police fired back, but the gangsters had bigger guns. The mobsters looked like they were just about to win when you intervened one last time. You got out of your car, walked to the front of it, and looked at it for a minute. Then you got back in, and pulled forward. The gangsters had been leaning on your car as protection and support, so when you pulled up they were like sitting ducks for the police to shoot. And when the lot of them had been shot and fell over into the street, you backed over them as well. Why did you get out of the car, John? Why did you attack these men? Were you just trying to be a hero?" John just looked down at the table in silence. "And there's a rumor going around, John. A rumor that you got out of your car after it was all said and done. And you walked right past it all into the bank so you could deposit your check. Is that true? How could you have been so cold hearted then just to turn around and be so cowardly now? They know who you are. So you better start talking, so we can protect you, Mr. Smith. So do you feel like talking now or would you rather take your chances with the mob?" John did not respond after a minute, so Creage smacked his hand on the table screaming, "Answer me!". John looked up into his eyes with his face scrunched up in regret like he was holding back tears. "I-i-i didn't...I didn't *mean* to kill-..." John stuttered, looking back down at the table. "Don't tell me you didn't mean to kill almost ten gangsters and it was all just on accident," Creage said with a laugh. John looked up at him and nodded slowly. "The truth is...sir...that...well..." John swallowed hard and shrugged saying, "I am just *god awful* when it comes to parallel parking."

After accidentally ending a shootout and killing several gangsters in the process, mild-mannered John Smith becomes a prime target of the local mafia.

Max's parents had lost all hope of their son ever returning to them. In the spectactularly televised one year on appeal, they sat clutching together on the sofa. They shared a bond that no other parent could understand. They were parents, but they had no child. Not any more. "Max, please come home." His mother cried into the camera, as the director made gestures indicating she needed to show more emotion. "I'm sorry," he said cutting her off. "It's just not appealing enough. Can you do it without crying? You're quite ugly when your face is all red amd scrunched up like that." Every evening Max's parents set a third place at the dinner table, Father watching Mother carefully as she prepared a third, smaller meal for the empty space that should have been filled by their son. They grip hands as they eat, white knuckled like they're strapped into a rollercoaster they wanted to get off long ago. At exactly nine o'clock, Max's mother goes upstairs to their son's bedroom. Father soon hears the sound of a bedtime story being read to a cold, dusty room. Then the story cuts off and the wailing begins. He holds her until she sleeps. They say this is Max. There is a small boy in a white wolf pelt, sitting on a chair in the police depo, skinny legs swinging too high to touch the ground. He looks around him like a caged dog as his Mother drops to her knees and tentatively hugs him. They say this is Max, but he doesn't speak, only growl and sniff and bark. His teeth are filed into sharp points and the family dinners will be lost, because the polic chief takes Father aside and explains that Max will only eat raw meat now. Their son has returned, but this is not their son. He is away, yet. Away where the Wild Things Are.

(Askreddit inspired) Choose a well-known children's book or tale and write a darker adult interpretation.

The TARDIS wheezed and whumped into existence, stirring up the millennia dead, sterile air. After a moment, one of the doors swung open with a tired creaking noise. "Right, now, Clara Oswald, *the future!*" The Doctor leaped across the threshold, "Of Earth this time, we should be here right after the 3rd lunar war, the greatest celebration in a century has just started and they've invented a fantastic new cocktail named after the Empress of China." The fun part is making them look impressed, he thought to himself, one of the best reasons to bring along a human. They always looked impressed. That and they reminded him of Timelords. Standing motionless at the TARDIS door, head tilted to the side, Clara looked more confused than impressed. "What?" But the problem with them is sometimes they break. His hand shot to the the sonic screwdriver, and flipping it to scan mode he passed it a few times in front of her face. No response, scans show she's perfectly healthy. He smacked it with the palm of his hand a few times, that usual helped, but no change. Finally he turned to see what she was looking at. Before them were two enormous golden doors, several stories high, engraved with an image of an unthinkable battle. No, a slaughter. Twisted, inhuman shapes fighting against a heroic figure clad in enormous armour. A pair of titanic robots flanked the door, both armed with weaponry that would make a Dalek reconsider its plans of universal conquest. Snapping out of it, she turned to the Doctor, "I thought you said we were going to a party? This looks like a war zone." "Yes. Well." He said, fiddling with the screwdriver for a moment and scanning the robots and then the air itself. "This is Earth, and it's the future. Rather a lot longer in the future. I was aiming for 4,000 A.D." "When are we Doctor?" "Ummm - sometime in the 41st millenium. After 40,000 A.D. Somewhere in the Himalayas. Must have punched in an extra 0. Woops! Oh look they've got the banners and flags out!" He pointed up at the ceiling, from which hung hundreds of battle standards, most torn, and squinting her eyes, Clara was sure she could make out long dried blood stains. All hanging motionless, no breeze. They were interrupted by a sudden cacophony of hydraulics and metallic booms, as if an enormous cymbal was being raised and dropped by multiple robotic arms. They instinctively looked down towards the gate, but it wasn't moving. The echoing, thumbing, stomping noise grew louder, and finally they both peeked round the TARDIS. Before them they saw an enormous, golden throne built into the back wall of the room, the wall itself criss crossed with pipes, tubes and wires, like a vast circuit-board. Upon the throne sat a figure, too far away to see clearly. And somewhat more urgently, advancing at a steady but cumbersome pace towards them marched an unbroken line of what looked like over-sized cybermen: 8 feet tall, and covered from head to toe in gleaming gold armour, etched with ornate eagle designs, waist and shoulders ringed with red skirts in the style of a Roman Legionnaire, and topped off with an enormous red plume. Their black capes billowed behind them, draped upon the armour like funeral shrouds. Each carried in one armoured fist a 10 foot long spear, into which was build some sort of gun, in the other fist they clenched tall golden shields, upon which was an image of a similar figure in similar golden armour. The armour was powered, whirring with hydraulics and booming as each heavy boot stomped down on the stone floor. Hundreds of them, marching in sync, directly towards the TARDIS. The Doctor stepped round his ship and in front of the advancing forces. They halted, and leveled their spears towards him. A hundred lasers pointed directly at him. "Hello, I'm the Doctor! I would shake your hand but..." "SILENCE." An even larger figure stepped out from the ranks, wearing no helmet, his bald head showed a glaring, serious face, one with which there could be no bargaining. Peeking out from behind the TARDIS, Clara could see the circuitry of the armour pierced his skin in multiple places. Man and machine melded into one. "YOU HAVE VIOLATED THE HOLY GROUND OF THE SANCTUM IMPERIALIS. THE PENALTY FOR WHICH, IS DEATH. YOU HAVE APPROACHED THE MOST HOLY PLANET OF TERRA IN AN UNKNOWN VESSEL WITHOUT AUTHORISATION OF THE HIGH LORDS. THE PENALTY FOR WHICH, IS DEATH. YOU HAVE WITH YOUR VERY PRESENCE ENDANGERED THE LIFE OF THE GOD EMPEROR -" "Oh let me guess, the penalty for which, is death?" "SO YOU ACKNOWLEDGE YOUR GUILT IN THESE CRIMES?" The hundred strong phalanx adjusted, prepared to fire. "Yes. But, one question. Why does our very presence threaten the life of the 'God Emperor'?" The figure squinted, as if he couldn't understand the question. "THE GOD EMPEROR WAS MORTALLY WOUNDED ON THE LAST DAY OF THE HORUS HERESY, WHEN THE FORCES OF CHAOS FOUGHT THEIR WAY TO TERRA ITSELF. YOU MUST BE A HERETIC IF THE IMPERIAL CULT HAS NOT ENLIGHTENED YOU WITH THE TRUTH OF THE EMPEROR. THE PENALTY FOR WHICH -" "Is death?" "NO. SERVITUDE IN A PENAL LEGION." "Well I'm glad we cleared that up. You see, I heard he was mortally wounded, and well, they call me the Doctor for a reason -" At that moment what appeared to be a human skull, its forehead stamped with a large red "I" and various robotics trailing from under the upper jaw, floated over the gathered soldiers towards the Doctor and the booming commander. "Chief Custodian," The skull said, indifferently "urgent message from the Inquisitorial Archives. Priority Maximus." "RELAY MESSAGE. QUICKLY. I HAVE AN EXECUTION TO PERFORM." "The entity called 'the Doctor' is known to us. His presence has been recorded at various critical times in mankind's history. He is to be treated with maximum deference. He is recorded as being the greatest warrior who has ever lived, beyond even the Emperor. All available resources are at his disposal. Including, if required, the Adeptus Custodes. This order has been approved by the High Lords of Terra." "WHAT?" "Message Ends." The skull floated away. The soldiers, hearing the message acted as one, raising their spears and kneeling before the Doctor. The Chief Custodian continued to stand. After a few minutes, with more deafening marching by the assembled Custodians, the Doctor, Clara and the Chief Custodian stood before the towering Golden Throne. Upon which they now saw, sat a dangerously thin man, staring out across the room, his head held up by a frightening array of tubes and wires which exited the back of his skull and trailed off into the machinery above and behind him. With the Custodians stood at attention, the room was deathly silent. Pausing only to adjust his bow tie, the Doctor climbed the golden steps, screwdriver in hand. Advancing behind him, Clara hazarded a glance back at the Chief Custodian, he stood motionless at the foot of the throne, watching. The doctor stopped, abruptly, and Clara walked into him. Almost falling, she caught a glance at the Emperor of Mankind. He wasn't just thin, he was nothing more than a skeleton, rotted away in tattered rags. "He's -" "Shh." The Doctor cut her off, and turned, whispering in her ear "You don't blurt out in front of 300 heavily armed fanatics that the being they worship as a God is in fact dead." He powered up the screwdriver and began scanning the throne first, muttering to himself. "advanced life support. Mostly still functional. But no good now, why is it still working?" Then he pointed the screwdriver at the Emperor and stopped. He smacked it with the palm of his hand a few more times and boosted the power, shaking his head and blinking rapidly. "What is it?" "Oh it - well. I think my screwdriver is broken. This can't be right." "What can't be right?" "Well, it says that he's still alive."

Based on this /r/asksciencefiction thread, write a story about the TARDIS landing The Doctor in the throne room of the Emperor of Mankind, circa 40,000 AD

"Ah Ha!" yelled Goodguyman. "You think I couldn't find you just because your lair is in the bottom of the ocean! No crime can swim as deep as *justice*!" Dr. Badguy raised his hands in defeat. "Rats! Just when I was on the verge of completing my Aqua-Animator 3000©, I never thought you would find me in my ocean lair!" Triumphant, Goodguyman approached Dr. Badguy to apprehend him. "You'll be behind bars for a long time Badguy" said Goodguyman. Just as he was about to reach Dr. Badguy a cage fell from the ceiling and caught Goodguyman. "Ah Ha!" yelled Dr. Badguy "Whose behind bars now hero?" Dr. Badguy quickly began to work again on putting the finishing touches on his Aqua-Animator 3000©. "Oh Goodguyman just you wait. When my invention is finished I will be able to turn all the fish in the ocean into zombies, and I will take over the world!" "Ah Ha!" yelled Goodguyman. Dr. Badguy turned to see Goodguyman was no longer in the cage. Instead he was flying down at Dr. Badguy from above, fist cocked ready for a knockout justice punch. However just as Goodguyman extended his arm instead of connecting with flesh he punched the floor, passing through Dr. Badguy entirely. "Ah Ha!" yelled Dr. Badguy from behind Goodguyman, walking through the door to the lair, wearing scuba gear. "I think its about time for you to *punch out*! I was outside the whole time, that was a hologram!" "Ah Ha!" yelled Goodguyman, as a police officer sneaked behind Dr. Badguy and handcuffed him. "I knew you would do that and had this fine officer ready! Find a cure for that, *doctor*!" "Ah Ha!" yelled Dr. Badguy, as a fish zombie sneak behind the police officer and knocked him out. " Little did you know my Aqua-Animator 3000© was finished the whole time!" With his hands still bound Dr. Badguy turned his entire body to point at Goodguyman yelling to the fish zombie, "He'll have the fish!" "Ah Ha!" yelled Goodguyman as the fish zombie removed his mask. "I destroyed your evil ray and hired this actor to play along. Speaking of acting, I hope your ready to play the role of prisoner!" "Ah Ha!" yelled Dr. Badguy. The entire setting changed. Suddenly the room was much smaller, the walls were a different colour, and Goodguyman was lying on a table facing up, hooked up to a multitude of machines. Dr. Badguy was standing over him laughing. "You were taken prisoner months ago, this whole thing has been a simulation to distract you!" cackled Dr. Badguy. *Bam!* Goodguyman punched Dr. Badguy in the face and grabbed him by the ear, beginning to pull him towards the door. "Your going to prison bud"

Two parties alternate revealing that they have outsmarted the other.

James looked up at the ceiling, he stretched and yawned thinking of the day ahead, he was happy. Well, he was until he remembered the lemons. Oh how he loathed lemons. He sat up and glanced at the chest that was at the bottom of his bed, upon which sat the usual crate of lemons. Reaching over he pushed it off the chest, it landed with a thud and James laid back on the bed, "Why lemons?!" He said aloud. James had gotten up got dressed, found another crate of lemons in the drawer, went downstairs to make breakfast, lemons in the fridge, got in his car to go to work, lemons in his car. James finally got to work, once something he dreaded now one of the great loves in his life, it was the only time he got away from the lemons. He smiled as he logged onto his computer and began typing the budget reports. "Hey James," His boss Greg said behind him, James spun in his chair with a smile, peace and happiness radiating. Now just shock and anger. There was his boss, face beaming, "I guess life decided to give you lemons, how about you make some lemonade?" He joked holding in his hands a crate, not just any crate, a crate of lemons. "Is this a joke," James said with slight anger, Greg's face dropped it's happiness, "Lemons?!" "Uh... Yeah, they were left in front of the office, I felt you would like the lemons" Greg explained. "Lemons?" James repeated, "Fucking lemons, you know what, Fuck lemons, I've drank lemonade for the past week"" Greg dropped the crate of lemons on James' desk, "Yes, lemons, I'm only bringing them to you, now what? This is your third strike, you're fired" Greg said sternly. It had been a few weeks, at least that's what it seems like and James lay in an alley, his only friend the countless crates of lemons. No, not friend, enemy. Lemons took his job and ruined his life. Fucking lemons. Fuck lemons

Life keeps giving you lemons. Literally.

On the misty knolls around Lochshire Farms, we turkeys gathered to discuss salvation. Father Boewak, the oldest among us and wise in the ways of things, gathered us in the center of the northern field. A grassy spot far away from where we receive our daily gifts of corn, filled with a light and chilly mist. He made his way to the center of the flock and spoke to us. "Gobble to us all! The changing of the leaves brings good fortune to us all, for Thanksgiving is at hand!" "Gobble! Gobble!" cried the flock. "And thanks we give! That in our sacrifice, we shed our mortal forms and seek to be made anew in the Fields of God. That with the Offering of our bodies do we receive the gift of an ever stronger soul!" "Gobble! Gobble!" cried the flock. "Now for some community announcements. I'm happy to report that in these final two weeks, our corn allotments will increase by 20%. Humans be praised!" "Gobble, gobble!" we cried again. Gatherings were usually of this nature, but I could feel in old Boewak that he had something bigger. We all could feel it, but we endured his bawkings for some time until finally, quiet fell on the flock. "Finally...I have some quite important news for you. It seems that the Farmer has selected one of us to be offered...early." Deadly silence of anticipation fell on the flock. Early? To be chosen and ascend to a new life so soon? "And through my translations of the Farmer's voice, I have learned that...Gobellia gol Spotted Beak...you have been chosen." My heart thumped in my breast. Of course...*she* would get picked. Gobellia stepped forward, swinging her breasts in mock-modesty. "Goodness! I..I don't know what to say! I'm so thankful to be able to do my part for the flock! Farmer be prasied!" That bitch. She never cared about the Farmer. All she cared about was preening feathers and eating. She swung her large frame and accepted all kinds of congratulations from the flock. When she came to me, she pulled my head to hers in mock-embrace, "At least one of us will make Momma proud" I could feel the spots on my own beak burn. Much later, as I was prepared to be offered, I noticed my dear departed sister being carried away to a large white truck, with the insignia of a large boar's head on its side. I smiled in the way that only a turkey does. Even the proud can be reduced to naught but coldcuts on the whims of the Farmer EDIT: Spelling

On a farm, the animals worship humanity as gods. Among the turkeys, being chosen for Thanksgiving dinner is seen as the highest possible honor. Write from the perspective of a male turkey who is jealous of his sister, who has been selected to be slaughtered.

There was zero warning. The *World Ship* just appeared in orbit one day. It popped into existence as if it had always been there, we just weren't seeing it. We had no clue what kind of technology could make that possible. We analyzed the transmission and the only thing our scientists could seem to agree on was that the information delivery seemed too mechanical to be organically generated. We were talking to a machine. Every nation received the transmission in a perfectly structured rendition of their native language. The signal was precisely the same, it just interpreted differently. It made no sense. The message itself was clear in its intent. We were no longer in charge of our own destiny. The invaders were to be our new overlords. Only with their management would our race survive. We were not about to accept this, of course. We had formed an international council to determine the best course of action when the second set of transmissions started arriving by the thousands. There was a new addition to the list of players. Each transmission varied slightly in its wording, but the message was essentially the same in each case. Our parents were home to break up the party.

Earth becomes the battleground for two warring alien races, both of which claim to be humanity's "protectors"

It starts the day the United Nations' military arm develops a self-operating tank. The world's remaining population, soldiers and civilians alike, are ecstatic. This new weapon will patrol cities and towns, detecting and eliminating anything that moves without a pulse. It's been too long in coming: no one knows for sure but authorities estimate that about two billion people are alive at the time of the tanks' launch. Those people are scattered across the world, hiding in isolated pockets. The tanks work exactly as they are designed, which is good because 213 living, breathing humans were killed during the alpha and beta phases. It took time to develop the technology to detect a pulse from a distance, and even now there is a 1.7% chance of false positives. The UN's researchers are still working hard to reduce the margin of error even further. They roll into a town, maps previously downloaded and accessible. The number of tanks depends on the size of the town, but the military found that the best approach is for one to enter at each major access point. Bridges, tunnels, main roads, on- and offramps. They move slowly through the towns, marginally faster than the dead, and pick them off as they are detected. The guns rotate through 360 degrees, but the processors in the tanks' AI will skip instantaneously over anything with a pulse, whether human or squirrel. A month after the tanks' release, rumours start between communities that something's wrong. The dead are still being dropped, but the number of *living* is well above the margin of error. And climbing. We scoff at the rumours. We wouldn't dare criticise the one thing that is making a real difference in the war of attrition we've been losing until now. We have reached a point where we can hope, really hope, that the enemy can be eliminated. Some towns have been completely cleared, and those communities are working on getting power, clearing the bodies, establishing *normal*. Transient groups of the living that have been in hiding for months are appearing, healthy and ready to work. Days pass and the rumours are still flying. We keep denying them. It can't be possible. Our small town is next on the map -- we have heard that the tanks are really cleaning up in Springdale. In three days, they'll arrive on the outskirts of Milton. We spend our time behind boarded-up doors and windows, sending messages to the next apartment block on arrows or pigeons. Most of us live in two fortified apartment buildings on the main street. We're looking forward to the action. On the morning the tanks are due to arrive, a shambling crowd appears below us. They walk with purpose, those that can walk, and it looks to us like they're being chased. We watch from the rooftops and when we see them in flight, we whoop with excitement. But they stop when they hear us, and look up. They see us on the roof and charge for the entrance to the building. We know they can't get in, even though there's probably one, two hundred of them. We build reinforced brick walls behind every door and window. Hey, we had time. We live fairly well, thanks to very cautious stockpiling. We aren't afraid of the dead at our doors. "Let us in!" one of them shouts. We stare at each other on the rooftop. The dead don't talk. These can't be dead. Gerry waves at them and points to the secret accessway: a hatch set into the ground some distance away. There had been an adjoining building, years ago, which was demolished. The connecting tunnel had been blocked off but we unblocked it and hid the hatch. Linda heads down to meet them from the inside. The rest of us watch, and wait. In the far distance on the horizon something metallic flashes in the sun. We gather on the fourth floor, in an old common space. Not everyone can fit, but we have the group's leaders and a few of our more community-minded people. I'm not one of them, but I squeeze in with the excuse that I need to bring everyone water. While I'm pouring and refilling I listen. The tanks arrived in Springdale a week ago. Like us, the residents had cheered and whooped at their arrival. It didn't take long to realise something was horribly wrong. They didn't seem to be able to tell who was dead and who was living -- or maybe they didn't care. If it moved, they fired. They had shouted, waved their arms, tried to climb onto the tanks and get inside. All useless. The tanks were fully sealed; nothing ever needed to be inside. They didn't even require a maintenance person. They were self-repairing provided they didn't need parts beyond what they carried for spares. They could theoretically keep going forever, storing energy from the sun and wind when they couldn't access a power grid. In the end, Springdale fled. They lost dozens of precious living people, family members, neighbours, comrades in arms, all shot down alongside the dead. They had no way to return. The tanks were at every exit, blocking every highway and street, waiting for something to move, ready to kill. And now they're coming. Here. Not for the dead -- for us.

An AI gains sentience after a zombie apocalypse.

"I don't really have anything prepared, but that's the way John would have done things, so maybe it's fitting. I knew John for about four years, and dated him for two or so years, depending on who you ask. In that time I spent with him, he was one of the most fiercely artistic people I ever met. A violent defender of his own work, John would never let anyone's criticism steer him away from his vision. I've never known someone who wore the title 'brutally honest' with more pride and I've never met anyone else who shared his unfamiliarity with euphemisms. Never letting language or filters cloud his criticism, John truly stood apart from other men. When I first met him, his shockingly idealistic views were bracingly refreshing. Even after I got to know his arguments to the point of memorization, he never stopped trying to educate me on their virtues. Dedicated to his beliefs, I know he would have done more for them, if only he had the time. I'd like to close with my favourite story about John: our breakup. Things had been going really well since I stopped showing John my writing, admitting that it would never align with what he knew was best, but things weren't perfect. That last time I saw him, in that coffee shop, I finally admitted the truth to him. I was only holding him back with my juvenile artistic abilities and failure to comprehend his complex political ideas. It was time to let him go. Of course, I had to make sure I did it right. I couldn't keep being the dead-weight that had held him back so long, that was the reason behind his lack of progress, that was preventing him from achieving that which he had been equipped to do. So I acted insane. It was the only thing to be done; he was too *dedicated* to give up on anything else. Pulled out all the womanly hysterics that he'd found so distastelfully anti-feminist and I set him free. I'm sure he would have done more with that freedom. I'm sure all the great things he thought he deserved would have come to him. I'm sure everything he wanted would have happened, if only he'd had more time."

Instead of an open letter to your ex, write your ex's eulogy. Make me love them, but then GLAD they're dead.

The circle compleat, the spell cast and the last words whispered, a sharp knife carved a line of nearly black blood from the raised forearm. As the drops sank into the dirt, a slow mist rose from the circle, the runes glowing a dull scarlet thatmatchedthe boiling sky. A word more, a demand, a flash that was little more than a sullen burn and a the human appeared when called by his true name. Humans never seemed to catch on- call a demons truename and he would be forced to your call. Call a humans true name and the same fact held, the human would come, willing or no. What apeared in the circle was not what the demon had hoped for. The man was shorter than he had envisioned, hair a short crop, brown and dull. His face seemed pleasant, though for the moment it was held in an expression of confusion. The demon told himself that the shoulders were broad and probably stronder than they looked, but it was hard to convincehimself when they were covered in a button up shirt and a plain, off white cardigan. Kahki slacks, a brown leatherbelt and comfortable but presentable shoes made the demons heart sink. Folded newspaper under his arm and a heavy mug in his right hand... he was so... Average. The human looked at the demon then down in his mug, a quick glace around then his eyes back to the demons, "This is either the best or worst drug I have ever had the displeasure of ingesting, I'm Matt, what the hell is all this?" A gesture with the mug, then a sip of its contents, eyes warily looking over the demon. Demons looked remarkably simalar to humans. Various skin colors, all natural shades of hair, twoarms, two legs, eyes ears mouth. It was really the sinister wings and magic that made a lot of differance. He was tall, deep skinned and his hair was a long waving mass of black, wings a blackend red soot. As of this moment, his face was an expression of chagrin. "I am Lithiantiev, and you have been summoned as a fighter for the challenge. " His voice was stonger than he felt, eyes glancing to the other demon nearby, *his *human near feral and foaming, knife held to its chest waiting for the fight. "Uh-huh." Another sip seemed to be the humans way of pausing to think, and Lithiantiev winced at the disregard implied, "So... some kind of gladiator, death match, thing?" The demon nodded and watched the human take in the rolling fire of the sky and dark landscape. "So that makes you...?" "A demon." A slight grunt of acknowledgement and another sip, Matt looking around a moment longer. "Nope. Send me home. I'm done." "That's-- that's not an option." "Ah..." The other demon laughed, and released his human, Lithantiev wincing, ready for his human to go down, and his name to be laughed across the rings like others before him. He had asked for a warriors name. He was going to murder the name seller. It happened too fast, but as the screaming human charged close, Matt simply sidestepped the wild stab, and swung the only weapon he had. That infernal mug. A heavy sound on the back of the wild humans head and he crashed into the ground bonelessly, eyes wide and empty. Matt looked annoyed as he turned to Lithiantiev, "You owe me a mug. This was my best mug." A large chunk was missing from the stoneware item, but Lithiantiev found himself grinning. "I'll get you a new mug." This was going better than he had thought

a demon warlock summons a human.

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

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

He sits there on his throne, part of an experiment to test the notion that a benevolent dictator is the most efficient form of government. But he knows it can't last. He's been doing this for the thick end of 50 years, since just after we colonised the moon. He and his 'council' (puppets really, installed to give the people more feeling of power) live there, keeping watch, deciding what happens to whom. My god he's good. He crushed the Norwegian uprising with but the flick of a finger. Humanity trembles at his feet, but not for long. He's worried. Worried about what happens when the experiment ends. When people are left to fend for themselves, to install their own governances. He's worried about those governances. What happens when the lobbying starts? Some rich oligarch commanding that the worlds wealth be diverted into some ill-fated exploration? He knows he has to choose. They have centres, you know. Centres, where people are practically bred to rule. They are trained to see lives as little more than resources, they are cold, unfeeling. He was different. He had lived among us, seen the world through our eyes, and he knew they couldn't work out. Somewhere up there, sitting on his throne, wheezing his last guttural breaths, he worries.

A future dictator close to death watches over a united humanity, how does he plan on keeping his people united after he dies?

November 29th, 2013, 1300 hours Day 562 aboard the ISS, I am now midway through my deployment and have finally achieved the highest level of boredom imaginable. After repeating my daily routine for the thousandth time, wake up, use the toilet, eat, exercise, examine ship diagnostics, meet with the various other crew members on board about the day’s mission objectives, and browse the internet, I decided to mix things up. On launch day I had smuggled aboard two tablets of acid for moments like these. Back in my younger days my friends and I would occasionally say hello to Lucy on our weekends to pass the time (It was the 80s, and I grew up in a small town in Wisconsin, don’t judge me.) How NASA had not discovered the traces of the drug during my training process of becoming an astronaut was far beyond me. Though, I couldn't complain. It was nice to know I had a means to sport my previous “recreational activities” for moments like these. Despite this, I floated my way back to my living space aboard the space station and rummaged through some old files until I found the small plastic baggy containing the two metallic strips of research chemical that would voyage me deeper into outer-space than I already was. Carefully, I removed them from the baggy and placed them on my tongue. Soon my mouth went numb as my body absorbed the drug. I approximated in a half hour or so, the effects would kick in, and for 8 hours afterward I would experience the most riveting sensual appeasement any other human being could imagine. In the mean time, I did what I could to pass along the thirty minutes I had left of sobriety. I started to make my way back to the bridge of the station when there was a vibrating yawn. Circuits and wires then began to explode in the hallway I found myself in, lights flashed and an alarm sounded. As I struggled to avoid debris, I moved quickly to the diagnostic bay to meet with other available crew members. When I arrived, the results were not good. A piece of a satellite had jettisoned away and collided with the station damaging our life support systems. An emergency spacewalk was required and I was the only one capable of repairing that kind of extensive damage. Just my luck. Rushing to put my zero-gravity suit on, I began to notice a stark change in colors inside the station. The floors shifted from a pearl white to a vibrating orange-red. Lights inside rotated and darted around without any particular order and direction. My skin raised and shivered while a strong tingling feeling shot down my spine. The acid had just kicked in. With the suit now prepared I stumbled to the air lock. My movements swimming through the zero gravity field within the station resembled a wounded fish, lost in a pond yet unseen. When questioned on my motor skills by various crew members, I waved them off and exclaimed that I was experiencing minor radiation sickness. Despite their uncertainty, they released the hatch, and I slowly made my way into the darkness of space. The Earth was brighter than I had ever seen it before. The Sun’s rays seemed to create this glowing aura around the planet that formed our world into a giant glowing egg. Faces of demons and angels flashed before my eyes while I searched through the stars. My body began to shake and I broke out into a sweat. This was the worst decision anyone could have ever made. My safety line tethered me along the smooth-bare skeleton of the station. I bounced along with it, at the mercy of my senses, hoping, praying that I would somehow be able to save the lives of my crew. After what seemed like centuries of being subject of otherworldly spirits and beings, I found myself staring at the life support system. To my surprise, the damage was not as horrific as I thought. A large beam had lodged itself within the mainframe and obstructed various sets of wires from one another. There was a beacon of hope within me; I could do this, even while tripping as hard as I was. I pulled the beam out, and carefully realigned each wire, circuit by circuit. Lights, warmth, and safety beamed throughout my body. The overcoming joy had rushed through me like a shot of adrenaline as I began to laugh with excitement. Concerned, my crew asked if there was something wrong. Nothing was wrong, nothing at all. This feeling of being the hero, of saving lives, all while being embarked on such an insane metaphysical journey on this drug… It was indescribable. I've never felt that happy in my *entire* life, and I don’t think anything will make me feel that way again. ----------------------- edit: grammar

An Astronaut in the ISS with nothing to do decides to take LSD. A critical malfunction ensues and an emergency spacewalk must be undertaken.

They were right about the pain. It hurt but luckily there wasn't too much blood. They were wrong about sex not changing anything. They tried to tell me that loosing my virginity will not suddenly change how I look at the world, that it won't magically make me consider myself an adult. And yet as I woke I couldn't help but notice that I something was different. I didn't feel groggy as I usually have after waking up. The sheets felt differently against my skin. I heard quiet breathing on the pillow next to mine. He was genuinely surprised when I told him it was going to be my first time. I knew I was outgoing and I knew I was pretty. People always assumed that at 22 I had exciting dating life but that wasn't true. When it came to romance I was shy and it seemed like nothing could change that. That is until Sam came into my life, became my best friend and made me want nothing but his warm embrace. What happened yesterday came naturally. I remembered everything in vivid detail. The walk by the river, the kiss on the bridge. I smiled recalling how he laughed about how much he had to slouch so I could even attempt to kiss him on my tiptoes. Being so short is a bitch. He tasted of cinnamon roll he ate earlier and now even imagining this taste made my heart beat faster. My crotch didn't feel right. Sexual excitement as I knew it always came with warmth and dampness between my thighs. This time it was different. I felt throbbing and then something moved slightly against my thigh. *What is going on?* My hand moved towards my groin and as I was just about to realize that my arm felt weirdly bulky my fingers encountered a male semi-erect penis. I could feel the touch on the slightly swollen appendage between my legs. My eyes opened in terror and I sat up on the bed. My gaze went slowly down to my naked chest just to find out the reason why my skin felt so weird against the sheets - it was covered in black hair just like Sam's! But that wasn't the only thing that changed. I was used to two weights pulling down on my pecs and the skin around them. My breasts were slightly bigger than average but I always disliked their shape. They weren't very saggy but also not particularly firm either, their weight always making them heave downwards in inconveniently pendulous tear-drop shape. Now that sensation was gone, replaced by a feeling of... thickness. Sam was a bear. Not literally of course. He was big without being very fat and 'athletic' was definitely not the word I would use to describe him. And yet one look at him and one knew that Sam was as strong as a bull. My bear. As my rational mind started connecting the facts I have realized that somehow now it was me in that intimidating body. Me, little Amelie Johnson. What scared me even more is the realization that my calmness was as foreign to me as this body. For my whole life I reacted impulsively to the unexpected and now... I just investigated everything with calm curiosity, just like Sam would. I looked at my hairy arms. I could feel hard muscle moving under the thick skin and fat as I flexed my hand in a fist. I knew that my forearm now must have been almost the size of my calf in my real body. _My real body, my real body, my body..._ That's when I became aware of the girl sleeping next to me. I was struck by how tiny she looked to me. Then I realized that everything looked smaller. That should not have been that surprising given that now I somehow occupied Sam's 6'4'' body while yesterday I could maybe claim a hair over 5 feet if I was lucky. The girl was laying on her side with her back towards me. She was covered with a blanket but I could easily make out her pear body shape. Even though I was always small, back in school I used to be a promising runner. That is until the puberty kicked in and decided to give me hips from my father's side of my genetic heritage. My pelvis grew uncomfortably wide while the rest of my torso stayed almost the same effectively preventing me from running well. Then in college I learned that when I gain weight it goes mostly to my buttocks with a tendency for cellulite. Knowledge of all that inconvenience somehow seemed irrelevant when now I looked at the curve of my old body with someone else's eyes. With *man's* eyes... I felt the *thing* in my groin shift some more and moving the blanket away presented me with a sight of growing male member. It looked much less intimidating from this perspective, much smaller just like everything else. Still, the fact that it was there, attached to my groin made me sick. I wanted to go back to normal. An image of a pink slit I had for my genitalia for my whole life flashed through my mind and I felt how the tip of my member peeked out of the foreskin slowly as more blood rushed there making me painfully aware of the hard appendage attached to my loins. I wanted the erection to go away. I *needed* it to go away if I didn't want to go completely crazy. I touched my penis just to realize how sensitive its tip was. I moaned audibly terrified at how the deep sound I produced resonated in my hairy chest. I wasn't going to make that mistake again. I decided the erection had to go away by itself. *Maybe if I wait...* I heard movement back over at where the tiny woman was sleeping. "Amelie?" I heard a strangely familiar voice say. I turned around to face the girl. She brushed a strand of red-brown hair out of her face, opened her eyes and looked at me. And then the loudest scream I ever heard broke the silence.

On the morning of the night you lost your virginity you wake up only to find out that you are in your partner's body...

He heard her snoring. It was time. Neil carefully reached across the bed and lightly grabbed Ali’s shoulder. The room was dark, but he could just barely make out her small sleeping figure. He was careful, as silent as his large frame could move on the noisy mattress. If Ali woke up, it was over. Two years of timid anguish would go without reward. Carefully, with the most delicate touch he could muster with his large hands, Neil began to roll his girlfriend onto her side, facing him. Her upper body started to turn, but her legs remained in place. A bead of sweat trickled down Neil’s face. *It has to be smooth*. Kneeling on the bed, Neil placed his other hand on her hips and continued to roll her in a cautious but fluid motion. Done. Ali now lay on her side, looking undisturbed from her sleep. Neil felt a sudden surge of excitement, but he quickly suppressed the emotion. *Not yet, it’s not done yet*. Again with the utmost delicacy, he began to move Ali. Neil slid her knees into a 110 degree angle away from her stomach, an exact and heavily thought-out position. The next step was done. He was almost there. He could feel his adrenaline spike and senses become incredibly sensitive. *Almost...* Moving like a chameleon blending into its surroundings, Neil lay back down. He tucked his buttocks into Ali’s lap. A warmth flowed through his body that he had spent many sleepless nights dreaming of. One more step, and he will have become the little spoon. He will be embraced in the most trusting and comforting position he could imagine. Neil let his mind wander for a few minutes as he was overcome with delight. Suddenly, something snaked across his chest. Ali’s arm. Neil’s heart stopped. Her arm was the final step, but this was not part of the plan. She moved on her own. His eyes wide and ears perked, all sense of happiness suddenly vanished. He had failed to notice her gentle snoring come to a stop. *No…* Ali let out a long and sleepy sigh, “You could have just asked…” With that, she fell back asleep, now with her being the big spoon. But Neil wouldn’t sleep that night. Though he was now the little spoon, uncertainty filled his future. *What will she think?* he fretted, *Will she tell her friends?* Neil’s carefully constructed world, and his long held dream, was now resting on eggshells in that silent, dark room.

The internal struggle of a guy who REALLY likes being the little spoon, but is afraid of telling his lady.

The two-way cold war had been a depressing matter. Mutually assured destruction. No way to win. Thankfully, this had changed when China had developed its own nuclear arsenal. With one simple swoop, the dynamics of the war had changed. Where it had previously been a dull matter of "Don't do anything", a means of winning had suddenly appeared. Nick was sitting at his desk looking over the newest software. It had a chance of working, but then again so did all the previous failed attempts. Still, he hoped it would be successful. He knew that at that very moment both the Soviets and the Chinese were working on similar software and it was only a matter of time until one of them got it right. The cost of losing was nothing short of instant death. The road to victory in a three-way cold war was simple: Develop hacking software that was capable of convincing one of the enemies that the other enemy was launching its missiles. If the Soviet Union thought that China was attacking, it would immediately launch its arsenal at China who would then deploy their own missiles. The two enemies would demolish each other, leaving America as the one surviving party. Of course, nuclear winter would settle over the planet for a few centuries but that was acceptable. There were means of surviving it and huge underground facilities had already been made in preparation. Actually getting the hacking software to the enemy would take time. There was no direct means of communication between them. The last conversation between world leaders had been in the early nineties when they had all announced that the process of nuclear retaliation had been fully automated. They had made it clear that there was no room for human error. The moment their computers detected incoming missiles, their own arsenal would be fired. "The final bang", as they called it was coming and the only thing yet to be decided was who would get to survive it. Nick sighed, briefly looking away from the screen to peer out the window. The sky was blue outside. He knew perfectly well that this was soon to change. They were so close to cracking the enemy firewalls. So close to finally winning the war. However, judging from their latest intel, so were the Soviets. The Chinese were also making fast progress. The war was so close to being over and the only unknown factor was who would win it. He looked back at the screen in front of him. The software had passed the tests. He clicked a few buttons to approve it and e-mailed it onwards to his superiors. They would give it to their spies who would ensure that it was uploaded to the enemies' networks. There was a thrill to knowing this. The knowledge that they could be just on the verge of winning. He remembered the posters that had been hanging on the walls of his old elementary school. “For an American tomorrow” they had said with a glorious picture of people emerging from the underground centuries from now to a wasteland void of any menacing foreign nations. Nick smiled. He paused briefly, looking back outside at the blue sky that would soon vanish for generations to come. For a moment, his smile ceased. He pondered if the war could have been avoided. If history had taken another course, could his future grandchildren have grown up in a world where there were still trees, where the sky was still blue and the birds still chirped in the morning? He shook his head. It had been coming for so long, there had been no avoiding it. Somewhere far away, the software he had just approved was being dispatched towards the enemy nations. In a matter of days, if the world was gone, they would know that it had worked.

Different Reality.

"Oh my gosh!" Billy cried, turning away. "Billy! What are you doing in here? You shouldn't be in here." His dad called, slipping out his mother. "Billy, honey, it's really a very natural thing. It's nothing to be embarrassed about." His mother crooned, removing the leather gag. "I was thirsty." Billy explained, edging back toward the door. "I know, son. But, you should always knock first. Come here. You've seen some stuff and I think you need to have it explained to you." Dad admitted, strolling over to where his son was desperately looking to run. Dad slipped his arm around his Billy's shoulder and led him back toward the bed. Billy tried not to look at his dad's giant erect shaft wagging up and down next to him. Billy tried to pull away. "When a man and woman love each other, they do this. It's called intercourse." He urged his son to take a seat on the edge of the bed and joined him, crossing his white scrawny legs in the familiar posture Billy's history teacher often assumed during lectures. "You see, a man is like a bee. We have a--well, a stinger." His dad gestured to the raging erection jutting up and resting on his leg. "We fly around the world looking for things to sting. In my case, it's your mother. She's like a beautiful flower. Bee's are attracted to flowers and sometimes, the bee just wants to bend the flower over and plough it good and proper son. That's what you walked in on here. It's all perfectly natural and beautiful. Do you understand? Do you, son?" "Yeah, dad. I get it. I'm 22. I was going for beer and just wanted to know if you wanted something. This is really, really uncomfortable," he admitted trying to look anwhere but as his mother with her leather mask or his father jutting manhood. "Well, I'm sorry for that. I guess it would be a little awkward for others. We're really very comfortable with our bodies. We had this conversation with your sister years ago and frankly, we were a little ashamed we didn't have "The Talk" back when you were younger. She handled it really well, all things considered. She's really very mature, for her age." His father explained, apologizing for his failure. "Yeah, she has always been your favorite dad." Billy snapped, walking little bit apart from his parents. "Really? You never told me that. Am I really your favorite, dad?" Billy turned around aghast to see his sister pulling back the covers to address her dad. "I love you both equally," their father corrected. "I love you both the same." He confessed. "We both do," their mother agreed. "Yeah. But, I'm the only one you fuck, right?" She asked. Billy fled the room.

A dad is forced to explain the birds and the bees to his son after he walks in on dad humping mom.

Zombies feed on brains. Everyone knows that. What they didn't tell you was that they would come from the *inside* I didn't know when it started, but looking back on it I can pinpoint it exactly. It was like the first cold brush of winter against the fringes of my mind, like someone had breathed frost across the lawns of my imagination. *give it up to us* The voices started like whispers in the dark. They were shadows in a door crack against bright yellow light. I recognised them as not my own and my god I tried to shut them out. But they kept talking. They wanted what my brain had to offer. They came hungry and they needed sating. They took my memories first. I lost my first toy, my first day of school. Then the memories of lazy summers in june faded into autumn forgetfulness and then they came for my first kiss and soon the faces of my parents were like those of strangers. I had no sense of self. I was an island, stranded in the now, with no memories to anchor myself to who I was. Then they took my imagination. *give it up to us* they begged and I could recognise their voices from my own I could no longer see when I read. Books became only words onto a page, like I'd been locked out of their worlds. *give it up to us* I cried and it was all gone and all I craved was more.

A Zombie Apocalypse in which the zombies are capable of speech

“Everything we thought we knew about death changed overnight. It was no longer feared. Can you even imagine what it was like when the news first broke; when you die, you no longer stay dead, you wake up! More than that even, when you wake up you’ll be stronger than an ox! Faster than a bullet! Gravity will no longer even apply to you!?” She took a draw of her cigarette “Murders plummeted, no one wanted to be on the receiving end of a pissed off meta-human, but suicides… suicides skyrocketed and I mean in the millions, people jumping off of bridges, slitting their wrists, overdoses, hangings and carbon monoxide poisonings, I mean any way you can think of for people to kill themselves… it happened.” Another draw. “And it was a risk you know, because you don’t know when you’re going to wake up, some people haven’t yet and for others it takes seconds. We still don’t know the science behind it or even magic in this case… we can’t rule out any possibility despite how impossible it seemed. Is this the next step in evolution? Is this a freak occurrence? Magic? Science? Life… Death?” She let the cigarette smoke escape her lungs, holding it in for as long as that last speech. “Now we have some meta-humans fighting and we have no way to stop them, they’re gods amongst us, our weapons don’t work, some have complete and utter disregard for the law, there are those who try to defends the regular humans but they seemed to be grossly outnumbered, it’s chaos out there. What seemed so convenient in comic books does definitely not hold up out here in the real world.” She flicked the cigarette and the ash fell off on to the table, she studied it for a moment, as if remembering something. “God knows how this is going to all end, they say there is a Russian who came back after a 20 year death. Rumours of long golden hair, different forms and abilities of strength, speed and even flight! All in one man? Does that imply a correlation between time spent dead and powers gained? Too many questions and not enough answers.” She took one last draw of the cigarette that was now finished and stubbed it out on the table. “Last of all, what’s left of humanity, they look to me, the scientist, the biologist, the physicist, the chemical engineers and we have no clue. We cannot even begin to imagine the forces at work here and yet here we are; trapped in our labs, trying to figure out the impossible. If we don’t find some way of stopping this soon, there will be no humanity left; only a meta-humanity and it seems like the ones wi- Oh I’ve been so rude.” She pulls out two cigarettes with her left hand and opens the palm of her right hand and creates a sphere of roaring fire. She lights the two cigarettes and extends one to me. “Do you smoke?” EDIT: Spelling

A world where dying might give you superpowers

November 28th, After hours of engaging with various adult peers, I curiously found myself more intrigued by the children at Watson’s yearly feast. One boy in particular, Arthur, had my interest. He was a very stout fellow, brave in his conviction toward the other children at the party. When confronted by others that requested the re positioning of his toys, he simply told them in the harshest manner to leave his space. When I went to console him, he offered me the same sentiment. Playfully, I encouraged him to be more welcoming towards his friends, and that they may be of his service in the future. Arthur refused, and continued his narcissistic tendencies throughout the evening. When the meal was prepared, all of the guests gathered to their respective seating. While I would normally graciously accept my place at the table under such marvelous hospitality laid forth by the Watson household, I found that my attention was needed elsewhere. Instead, I found myself among the children once again. Arthur’s… charm, seemed to have a persuasive effect on me. The table was small for my standards, and crudely arranged. Had it not been for the plastic chair that held upright with the help of duct-taped “Legos”, I may have reconsidered my decision. I then began to study Arthur and his treatment toward his associates. The children seemed to revere him. Whenever Arthur presented himself in a quirky or bold manner, the others adored him. This idol worship at such a young level was fascinating. It reminded me of a time when I used to sneak out from school and watch the bare-knuckle boxers brawl one another in the underground streets of London. The excitement and challenge that a brute presented when he displayed such physical force was astounding. Here, the children shared my same sentiments that I had such a long time ago. Arthur’s physique, his short stubby size, had induced fear in all of them. Fear that he may act rash, and strike them down in such overpowering force that they would be unable to defend themselves appropriately. My hypothesis was confirmed when he told one of the other more feebly boys to “shut up” when he asked politely for a slice of pumpkin pie. Concluding that Arthur’s intentions were malicious and negative I did what any righteous man could. I kicked his chair from underneath him and watched as he plummeted to the ground, plate in hand and all, as his food spilled unto him. Recognizing their salvation, the children smiled at me, while Arthur could not hold back tears. Lovely times these holidays are. ------ edit: grammar

journal entries of Sherlock Holmes sitting at the kids table on Thanksgiving.

Ah, there's Jenny. Ok, I'll wave. Hi Jenny. Yeah there's no way that I would ever talk to her. Jenny. *Freakin Jenny,* she's so beautiful. They just don't make girls like her anymore. GOD, she's gorgeous. Ok. Look away. Too late. She caught you staring. *Awkward.* Ok, work is over. That's great. Five-o-clock, on the dot. That means it's time to go home. Maybe I'll stop by the bar on the way home to have a drink. *Damn.* I wish I had a friend that could go to the bar with me. *Jenny.* Yeah, right you asshole, Jenny would never go with you to the bar. You're ugly; plus, now she thinks you're a creeper. She caught you staring. Maybe she thinks that you're cute. Yeah. Hey look, we *are* both going the same way to the parking lot. I mean, we both have to go to our cars, right? She'll understand. Maybe she wants you to follow her to her car. She likes a gentleman. Yeah, girls like her really love a gentleman. They just don't make girls like *Jenny* anymore. **FUCK** she is gorgeous and just the girl for me. Perfect height. Perfect weight. Perfect *body.* Oh no, don't be a creep. Be cool, be cool, be cool. There's her car. Does she know that I'm following her? I'm not following her. I'm going to my car. My car is in the same lot as hers, so of course I'm not following her. I'm just going to my car. She's going to her car. *Jenny.* Just watch those legs move. Jenny could you go to the bar with me? Hah, you'll never ask her. You're too big of a wimp. That's why everybody at the job makes fun of you. That's why you have no friends. That's why Jenny won't talk to you. You're wrong. I'm the kind of guy that Jenny needs. I'm the kind of guy that Jenny wants to settle down with. *Reliable.* Ok, ok, ok. There's her car. We are almost there. I should just ask her to go to the bar with me. People do that, right? Just ask her. Ask her. *Ask her.* ASK HER! No I fucking can't. I have to convince her. Wait. Why is there a knife in my hand? I'm covered in blood. What the shit? *Jenny?* Oh Jenny. There you are. Asleep on the pavement? That's a terrible place to sleep. I have a nice warm bed for you. *Oh, Jenny.* There you go, look you fit perfectly in my passenger seat. No honey, don't worry about the mess. You know what, go ahead and lean against the dash. That's ok. You've had a long day, Jenny. Let's just skip the bar tonight, my love. Yes. Let's just go straight home. We've both had a long day. *I love you, too.*

A man is slowly sinking into insanity. Write his inner monologue.

Fear. That's what was the last emotion to rush in the clumsy rivers of my blood. Nothing valiant or honourable, just fear. Fear of death. Fear of pain. Fear for myself. I remember, over the thin wail of wind, the sound of men begging for their mothers and for home and for comfort. Men. Fearful, desperate men, torn and burning in the sky. There was fear and then there was nothing. *"You, boy, get up."* My eyes, or whatever has replaced them, cautiously come into existence. *"Up. Come on, let's go."* There is no effort to my movement, my will and body united into something I'd like to imagine is a soul. A pure entity that lacks the disparity between body and mind that men endure. Like the lightheaded rush of too-quickly ended sleep, my vision is clouded and prodded by the sharp reflections of gold and other, harsher metals. *"What do they call you?"* "Christopher. My name's Christopher. I'm terribly sorry, but where exactly are we?" *"Good question. Where do you think you are?"* My mind handles the question with soft hands, turning it over in a process I can't quite call thinking. It lacks the panicked disarray of thoughts, too smooth, like a worn pebble, it is closer to...wandering. Or perhaps deeper. The thought feels as material as my body, as heavy as raising a hand. "Well, it's too nice to be a P.O.W camp." *"Aye, that it is. Would you believe me if I told you you were dead?"* This thought is more prickly to handle, every touch releases fluid, trying to coat it down to the smoothness of the previous one. Catching on the edges of my mind, pulling back whatever fabric clothes them to reveal memories of the crash. "I...suppose so. This doesn't feel like heaven though..." *"No, much better."* When he smiles, I am almost as aware of his body as I am my own. Some flow of emotion and motion that spreads like ripples between us, gently rocking me. *"Go on; your friends are waiting."* "For what?" The question slips from my mouth before my mind has time to consider it. Waiting doesn't seem to be a concept here, no bodily delay, no material walls, nothing and everything. *"For tonight's fight, of course."*

A 19-year old infantryman is gunned down on Normandy. Because of his death in battle, he is conscripted into Odin's army as they await Ragnarok. What's it like for him in the mead hall?

There will always be a constant. I can't even remember when it all began. I don't remember when I was born and I don't recall if I had a name. Sometimes I make up a name for myself but I always forget it again. Of course, a name isn't needed when there is no one else in the universe, but it's nice to have something to call myself. A designation for the collection of atoms that is me. I've decided to call myself "John" today. Hello. I know you can't really hear me, I know that you're just a figment of my imagination but it's nice to pretend to talk to someone. I've decided that your name is Barbara. I don't know if my words even make sense. Chances are that I've forgotten language too but that hardly matters. I can't talk in space anyway so I'm just thinking really hard and pretending that you're here to listen. Hello, Barbara. My name is John. It's nice to meet you. The universe is dark now. Matter spread out over time. Planets slowly dissolved into nothing, the stars went supernova and exploded in a fury of heat and colors. The universe is still here, I suppose, but it's not really much use in this state. There are no suns, no planets or asteroids hurtling through it, none of what made it so glorious before. You should have seen it, Barbara. It was amazing. Each planet had its own, glorious scenery. Some were colored in ice that perfectly reflected the starlight and some had weather patterns so insane that each day was a glorious, thunderous lightshow. And *life*! Life was my favorite thing of all. Self-contained replicating systems that interacted and communicated much like we are now. They were perfect. I loved life, I really did. Of course, it had its ups and downs but of all the things the universe had, life was by far my favorite. Say, Barbara, do you want to hear a secret? I can die. I'm immortal now but if I ever made the conscious decision to die then I would and my particles would dissolve just like the rest of the universe. However, I can't allow myself to do so. I'm not even tempted any longer because I know that I have the most important role of all: There will always be a constant and I'm it. I have mass. Not a lot, but I have some. Right now, entropy has spread particles perfectly over the universe but I have mass and with it just a tiny bit of gravitational pull. Over the next trillions of years, the particles will slowly move towards me. A small layer of dust at first then slowly more and more until every bit of matter in the whole universe is here at this very spot in a singularity more powerful than anything else the world has ever seen. It'll hurt, of course. It always hurts. The vacuum of space, the fiery core of the singularity, every part of it makes my body convulse with intense pain, but it's worth it. The singularity won't be stable. It'll eventually collapse on itself and the particles will once again be unleashed into the dawn of a glorious new universe. It has happened so many times. So very, very many times, Barbara. There must always be a constant because the constant ensures that the new universe will be born. There will be life again someday. Oh, there'll be *so* much life; whole planets will be covered by it. We may never meet for real, Barbara, but I feel happy knowing that you might one day exist outside of my mind. Sure, your universe will die one day just like all the previous ones but you know what? While it remains, it'll be a glorious splendor of life and it'll make all these dark days worth it. Thank you, Barbara. Really. Thank you. *** *Edit:* *Hello, people from /r/bestof, I'm very flattered that someone would consider my story worthy of your subreddit. Please remember to also check out the other great stories submitted to this prompt though. One of the best things about /r/writingprompts is that you can read so many different interpretations of the same basic premise and you would do yourself quite a disservice if you only read mine.*

You're immortal, and entropy has had it's finally victory. You're alone in the void with nothing but your dreams to keep you company.

Ambition. That's what it used to take to change the world. That's what people said you needed, ambition and a passion to do good. Of course, these same people conveniently never talk about those that had a passion to do good, but were sorely misguided. Someone like Adolf Hitler had both of those things, ambition and passion. In fact, he probably had more ambition than the entirety of the German Population. But that doesn't mean he also had benevolent motives. It was obvious why you would need ambition to effect the world, that kind of power is hard to come by, and one needed an enormous amount of determination to stay the course and do their job. Passion was more of a mystery, however. Of course, this premise was usually combined with "to do good." Which was absolutely ridiculous for the same reason that believing that good always prevailed was ridiculous. What role could passion possibly play in changing the world? They would often say that if one was passionate about something, they would never stop until they attained perfection in the area they were passionate about. That was the excuse that was used. If you didn't have passion you couldn't attain perfection. It was something of an unwritten rule. A rule designed to keep the apathetic from realizing how much power they had. One thing can't end the world. Nuclear war seems like it would, an incredibly lethal virus appears plausible, a giant meteor on par with what is theorized to have killed the dinosaurs is a favorite among many. But ultimately, no one cataclysmic event can destroy the civilization we've spent thousands of years cultivating. This theory was of course proven true when the world ended from a nuclear war, coupled with the most destructive bio weapon the world had ever seen. Society deteriorated, but it took a while. Not for me, since birth I always saw society in a constant state of deterioration. It took the others much longer to break their moral and ethical codes, which was something I'd been doing for years. I suppose, logically, sociopaths are the most likely to survive any sort of apocalyptic event. They aren't impeded by the same emotions that the others are. The first nuclear warhead was fired by Russia which landed practically in the center of New York. NYC was destroyed and the American economy was crippled. The U.S. returned fire, but the guidance system for the missile that was fired had been modified by Russian sleeper cell agents. The missile struck China and a full fledged nuclear war had begun. From there it played out a lot like a movie, the world was completely torn up. Broken. Radiated. Dying. But, we were dying too slowly. That was someone's thought at least. The deadliest virus ever released was not made by a country, but a small group of Japanese brainiacs. I'm not sure what their motive was, but I have to commend them for their achievement. This virus, dubbed simply "Point Three", had a mortality rate of 99.7%. Hence it's name, contracting the disease meant you only had a zero point three percent chance of surviving. I'm not going to go into detail, but it obliterated almost everyone else who had somehow managed to survive the torrent of nukes being thrown between the world's countries. I survived both events. There was a day when I knew it was all over. When I knew they had all died. It was that day that I knew I had survived both the bombs and the virus. I'm an atheist, but at that moment I was inclined to believe God had saved me. If he had, he was about to regret his choice, this was my world now. I had ambition, that was for certain. I was going to unite what was left of the world under my supreme rule. But passion? I suppose you could say I was passionate, but it didn't matter anymore. Passion was a marker for achieving perfection, but I'd already done that, I'd survived the two deadliest events in the history of the world. I don't sleep. I never did. I was walking around the streets of New York City in The United States, shaping the image for my new world. I had heard stories about camps of survivors in these areas. Well camps wasn't quite accurate, these shelters consisted of three, maybe four people. I saw two people huddled around a fire that was in a garbage can. Just like the movies. The beginning of my empire. I unsheathe my knife from around my waist and cut my wrist open. I re-sheathe the knife and strap it to the inside of my pants, hidden from view. I pour the blood from the cut on my wrist into my hand, which forms a little pool. I spread the red liquid onto my other arm, my neck, and the rest on my shirt. As I approach closer to the figures I see that one has a scraggly, black beard and is wearing a black beanie. He's about 5' 10" and his face looks like it was carved out of stone. Even still, it's obvious that he's been scarred by what's happened in the world in the past years. I'll make that pain work for me. The other man is much smaller in stature, and devoid of facial hair. He is shivering, a lot. I draw nearer, and begin to limp, favoring my right leg. Once I'm within about 10 yards both men see me. They don't move, they just watch me. I close the distance between us. I turn my eyes to them, tearful. "Have you seen them!? My god, have they been here!?" I shout, my voice echoing throughout the empty streets. The smaller man jumps back when he hears the volume of my questions. The larger man with the beard leans close to me. "Who are talking to about? Who are you?" He says calmly, sizing me up. Both men are unarmed, god this would be so much easier if my mission were to just kill them. But it's not. My motives are much grander. The smaller man recovers from his shock and walks up to me. I turn to them both. "My name is Gray. Have you seen the men wearing the black coats, with the guns? Have they hurt you?" I say to both men, doing my best to sound panicked. They turn to each other quickly, clearly worried. Panic incited successfully. I look over my shoulder, acting paranoid. I turn around to see both men staring exactly where I just was. This is going to be even easier than I could've hoped. "I'm Dean." Says the bearded man. "And I'm Melvin, but you can call me Mel." Chimes in the smaller man. His voice is high-pitched, but firm. "What about men with black coats? Are you saying there are people left? Not only that, but you're saying they're dangerous, they're trying to hurt people?" The larger man asks, he seems very worried. Good, that's what I want. I start to talk, "I'm saying th..." I take my hand from my stomach and reveal the blood. I stumble and fall over. Both men are too shocked to even attempt catching me as I fall. I lay on the ground and feign agonizing pain. "Oh shit you need medical help, fast!" Says Mel, he sounds urgent "I'll... I'll be fine." I murmur, I strain and slowly sit up. Dean motions for Mel to come join where they think they're out of earshot. "Listen," says Dean "I think we should investigate these guys in the black coats." "Are you fucking crazy? We've survived through two apocalyptic events, and now you want to commit suicide risking your neck for some stranger we met less than three minutes ago?" "The Knights." I say, struggling to breathe "They're called the Black Knights, and I don't think you should try to find them. They're dangerous. They killed people I know. Good people. My own family died at their hands." I knew this was the perfect bait. I had seen Dean holding a picture as I walked up. He was looking at it the way one looks at a photo of a departed family member, or greatly missed friend. I had known there was no way he could pass up a chance to get revenge for himself by pretending to do it for someone else. "Well that settles it, we're going." Dean's argument is rock solid. We have to find these people to ensure they don't kill us. It was that simple to him. It was so simple to everyone else. Not to me, I saw the world, even in its damaged state, as the complex puzzle that it was. Mel starts to speak "How about I stay here with, uh..." He turns to me "Help me out here." "Gray" I say. "Right" Mel says "I'll stay here with Gray, and you can check out the possible death trap." Dean agrees. He walks to their makeshift campsite, inside the building behind us. He returns with a canteen at his waist and a shovel in hand. "What're going to use that for?" I ask incredulous, pointing to the shovel. He glares at me "Protection, I figured." He hefts the shovel and studies it as if trying to understand why I think it's such a bad idea. "No, no, no, here, take this." I reach behind me and hand him the knife I had been concealing. He takes it from me and he and Mel exchange glances. "That's my only weapon" I say, trying to ease their tension "I made sure I got something usable after the Knights killed my family, otherwise I'd think that shovel's a great idea" They seem to be slightly more at ease. "Well, thanks." says Dean. "Sure" I reply. "The last I saw of the Knights they were at the Street Courts at West 4th" The distance had to be just right, too far and Dean might reconsider his decision and too short and he might be back too early. "Okay, I'll be back in a flash" And he was gone, disappearing around the street corner. Mel, came and sat next to me, not speaking. He looked deeply worried. Concerned about his friend's safety no doubt. Well, I'd accomplished my first task: creating a common enemy. I reached into my boot and grasped the gun, a Walther PPK, I had hidden there. Now the only thing I had to do was make the enemy real. I turned to Mel and smiled. I drew the gun and leveled it at his chest. Ah, the beginning of a new era.

You are a sociopath in a post apocalyptic environment, describe how you remake society

As I jolted awake my eyes focused on the LCD screen on the opposite wall. The numbers were counting down to zero, with just over ten minutes left to go. At each side of the room I could see the newly-awoken faces of my compatriots, all seated on wooden chairs as I was. Four sworn brothers of the rebellion, captured during a morning raid of a Vice-Gov weapons cache twenty miles outside the city limits. We all knew the risk we were taking – I just never thought any of us would be stupid enough to leave their tracking beacon unsecured. Written a thousand times, over and over, on every inch of the walls and floor, were those ominous words we feared more than death itself: *One must end another, or all must fall. Glory to Vice-Gov*. Finch was the first to speak. "Fuck". He looked at each of us in turn, as if sizing us up for a fight. It could yet come to that. "Whoever's beacon that was better own up. Fast." Suddenly a wave of nausea washed over me, as I doubled over and slumped to the ground. I couldn't have been me. Finch had helped me do it, the whole haphazard mess. I could still feel him twisting the wire under my skin, as I bit down on a tattered rag and suppressed a scream. The pain had been unimaginable, but I'd go through it a thousand times more to be anywhere but here. Adley was next. "We don't know if it was a beacon. That's just what they told us, Finch". He was sweating. "Vice-Gov officers might be cunning little shits, but they're no geniuses. You heard them. One of the Vice-Sec interns picked up a spike outside the limits and tracked it out of sheer boredom. It was a fluke. They just wanted to gloat." "We don't know that, Finch. Not for sure." Finch groaned. "Adley, you and I both know we need to settle this one way or another. And unless we figure out whose beacon it was, I don't see any other way". "Unless you were in on it". Piper was staring intently at his shoes, his voice quavering as he spoke. "Unless you were in on it, Finch. Those leave-days you've been taking are starting to make sense to me now. Maybe you've been paying visits to Vice-Tower." Finch was snarling at him, seething. No-one had ever questioned Finch's loyalties, and now was not the time to start. Unless... "You think very carefully about what you say next. I might take a lot of shit from you boys, but I will *not* tolerate that". Piper glanced at Adley, then over to me. I shook my head miserably. Inside I was screaming. *Stop, Piper. Shut your fucking stupid mouth before Finch does something stupid*. I made to speak, but no words came. A shrill beep reminded us that there were only five minutes left to go. "Maybe you're the one on the inside Piper", Finch spat, his face turning red. "Maybe you'll be getting a first class ticket on the speedrail home when all this is done, you Vice-Gov scum". Finch got to his feet and raised his gun, readying himself for what we all knew was coming. There had to be another way. Finch cleared his throat. "I submit myself to end Chris Piper. Declare your votes" "Aye", grunted Adley. "Nay", said Piper. His voice was firmer now. Their faces turned to me and I closed my eyes. Four minutes to go. I could finish it now and it would all be over. But something Piper had said stuck with me. Something wasn't right here. "Nay". Finch groaned again. He turned to face me directly. "Fox, what are you doing? This is the was it has to be. Piper's the traitor, and it's him or us all. Think of your wife, Fox. Your family. That kid you've got on the way. Don't throw that all away to be a martyr." That was it. It all fell into place, and I knew what had to be done. "Finch is with Vice-Gov", I muttered. He froze. "Finch is with Vice-Gov, and Piper has to die". Perfect silence. Their faces stared back at me, each more incredulous than the last. "I never told you about the kid, Finch. The only people who know are me and Sarah. And the doctor, of course. He would have added that little detail to my Vice-sec file." I felt nothing. There was only one ending, they just couldn't see it yet. "But Piper has to die, because that's what Vice-Gov wants. And the only way any of us is getting out of here is if we play by their rules. I submit myself to end Chris Piper. Declare your votes." "Aye", said Finch. His face was ashen. "Aye", Adley croaked. "Aye", said Piper. His eyes filled with tears, as he stared straight through my soul. "Do it, Fox". My gun was already pointed straight for his head. "DO IT" As I pulled the trigger I felt nothing. And as Piper slumped heavily to the floor I felt nothing still. The timer stopped. "Fox. You did tell me she was pregnant. I don't-" "I know. You're not with Vice-Gov. None of us are. I know. I just did what needed to be done." The blast door clicked. We were free to go.

(World War Z Inspired) Rebelling Soldiers are put into groups of 4. They Must Pick 1 Soldier in the Group to Execute Another Soldier in the Group or the Whole Group Will Be Executed

Bruce punched the steel wall, hard. It resounded through the entire room. Behind was the door the guards had thrown him through; in front, nothing but darkness. Bruce had known about this place ever since he got here. There was no spooky backstory behind it, there will be no lingering thoughts for what it might hold. He already knew about the room, he already knew that this was the place they horrify you with your worst fear. On his left, bruce was aware of a one-way mirror. It was poorly designed, however, and the dark room that he now occupied aided his eyes to adjust to the light from the other side. It seemed like just an empty room, exactly like the one he was in. Bruce wondered if-- "HEY THERE, BATS!", yelled a white face as it slammed itself against the pane in front of it. Bruce stood, unwavering at the sight of his nemesis. "Joker." he said, "what are you doing here?" "I'm here the same reason you are; power!" said the Joker, letting a loud laugh echo through his room. "I want the secret, I want to know how they manage to control all these little sheep, I want to know, I want to know!" he continued, jumping up and down on either leg. Bruce slammed his cuffed hands against the window, "Damn it, Joker! You've trapped us in another plane of reality, we can't go back to our own." The Joker gave a grin and then laughed, "That's the plan, dear boy! Trust me, I know exactly what I'm--" He paused and shot a look down to the darkness on his side. Bruce saw his smile fade away, and quickly turn to a heavy grimace. "What is happening, Joker?" Bruce said in a monotonous tone. Whatever the Joker saw, he wasn't fooling around any more. Bruce did not want to startle whatever was on the other side of the room. The Joker took two steps back, "Uh, do you see this, Bats?" he stuttered. "Are you seeing this?" he repeated, pointing into the darkness. Out of the darkness stepped a man, dark hair and stark eyes. He took a large stride towards the Joker, and then grabbed him by his hair. "Remember me?" the man said. Bruce took a closer look, but it was hard to tell just who the man was, he was simply too far from the window. The man seemed to hover over the Joker for a moment, before pulling both their bodies back far enough from Bruce that he could only see their silhouettes. The man raised a fist and slammed it down, knuckle first into the Joker's teeth, they exploded. He managed a bloody grin and a laugh, his way of dealing with the pain, but it wasn't enough. Not this time. The monstrous man shoved his hand through the broken teeth that were oozing liquid, he grabbed the Joker's jaw tight and looked into the one way mirror. "Do you see me now, Bruce?" he said, "Do you?" Bruce, disgusted, squinted through the mirror. "I'm going to find you." he said through gritted teeth, "You're going to answer for what you've done to him." "I'm not done yet, Bruce. No, not yet." the man said. Bruce could see what he was doing, but he was helpless to stop it, there was no way he could stop what was happening on the other side of the glass pane. He could only put his hands on the glass and watch the events unfold. Powerless, he began to slam his fists on the one-way mirror again and again. Nothing happened, the pane was as strong as the steel walls. The man on the other side was slowly pulling on the Joker's jaw. First his cheeks began to bleed, then two loud pops resonated through the room. The Joker was hysterical, screaming bloody murder at what the man was doing to him, he kicked and scratched at his eyes, but nothing was working. Bruce watched as the man snapped off the last of the Joker's lower jaw. The Joker stood motionless for a time, and then began to stalk to the one-way mirror. "Glass pain." Bruce thought he said. "Glass pain." and he tapped the one-way mirror with an index finger. His head fell against it and his now limp body slid down the side, leaving streaks of blood. Bruce was infuriated, screaming at the top of his lungs and kicking at the glass. He would punch and kick and scream for an age before the man on the other side would respond. He calmly walked up the the one-way mirror. His figure could be made out as he got closer. First, a fancy tuxedo, black with a white undershirt. Then, a black bow. As Bruce climbed his eyes higher, he began to dread who he'd see. He began to dread, because he knew that standing behind the one-way mirror, standing over a man who didn't deserve death, a man who had faced it in the most abhorrent terms, was Bruce Wayne. He looked himself in the eye, and his twin gave a cold grin. "You are powerless." he said, "powerless to stop what happened here, and so you are powerless to stop what happens back in your timeline. Powerless." The real Bruce sank to his knees and tears streamed from his face. He couldn't manage a word of response. "Powerless, Bruce, powerless." his twin said, and the words haunted a part of his soul that he didn't know existed. The lights in the other room began to dim until all Bruce could see was a grey discoloration in the wall, almost the same color as the steel around it. He didn't look at it enough to tell if it really was just the steel wall, because he was busy cradling his head in his arms. He wept for what seemed like hours, until finally a buzzer sounded, the walls began to hum and a voice piped up through an intercom system. "Your turn." the Joker said, and Bruce jolted awake.

Bruce Wayne is sent to Room 101 from 1984...

Dean slept more soundly than he had in weeks. The explosions had grown soothing, like some kind of battle-born white noise. They had been dug into the ridge for days now, with no end to the stalemate in sight. He spent the first night lying awake with his eyes closed, just waiting for the one well-aimed shell that would do him in. By the second night he was exhausted. He needed to sleep, to quell his fears about the bunker's safety, and most of all, to retain his sanity. A tired soldier was a dead soldier, he knew that. As he lay down on his cold, thin cot on the hard, uncomfortable ground, the last thing he remembered was closing his eyes. *Boom*. He awoke to a blood-curdling scream that brought a chill to his bones. He opened his eyes. He tried to open his eyes. Were they open? He could barely see two feet in front of him, everything a dark haze as blurry figures ran by in silence. "Am I dead?" he asked himself. Dean tried to form the words, they just wouldn't come out; or maybe he just couldn't hear them. As he tried frantically to blink his surroundings into focus, he became aware of a dull throbbing in his head. Raising his trembling hand to his temple, he remembered something his instructor had once told him and the others during training: “Dead men feel no pain.” At least he was still alive. As he stumbled out into the dusty haze of the early morning, a smell hit him that could only be described as a combination between fire and death, a smell no one should ever have to experience. He bent down to pull the ring off the finger of Tom’s charred hand, the only piece of him he could find. Three days from now there'd be a well-groomed soldier standing at Tom's door, wearing a nice clean suit, waiting anxiously as he rang the bell to give his wife the news. The ground heaved with a low rumble that shook everything to its core. As the tremors grew louder and stronger, Dean staggered and fell to his knees with a loud grunt. He looked up in terror at the armored hulk upon him just as a jet of flames spewed forth from its smoking arm. Knight takes pawn.

Describe a chess match as an epic real world battle

Ugh, short, rushed, etc, but here ya go: 'Twas the night before Christmas, and all through the house, all the creatures were stirring, yes, even a mouse, the crosses were nailed to the chimney in prayer, in hopes that the Niklas wouldn't come there. The childred were huddled in fear in their beds, lost in visions of terrors wrapped 'round their heads. And mama in chains, and I in my trap, losing our minds from the long winter nap, When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter, I rose from my slumber to see what was the matter, Away to the window, despair growing so fast, I gathered my worries and threw open the glass, The moonlight did glitter on the new fallen snow, made everything a midnight graveyard down below, when suddenly, what to my bloodshot eyes should appear, but a dark chariot surrounded by eight demons came near, With a gnarled old driver, voice raspy and thick, I stared in such horror, as here was the Nik. More rabid than foxes his minions they came, and he screamed and he shouted and called them by name: "Now! Azathoth, Yog-Sothoth, Azathoth and Cthulu, On Shub-Niggurath, on Nyarlathotep and Yig, yes you too! To the top of the world, beyond the great wall, Bring about chaos and ruin to them all!" As dry leaves that before the wild hurricane fly, when twirling they rise like a mountaintop high, So up to the top of my world they did rise, with a sleigh full of hopelesness that burned in their eyes I heard the screams of nightmare come, the gnashing of little teeth, As I knew what had come from the world 'twas beneath. I drew myself inward, and was turning around, when down came the chimney was the Nik without sound. He was dressed in the ancient cult from head to his foot, his clothes were all ash and covered in soot, a bundle of terrors he had flung on his back, a solace to none as he ripped open his pack. His eyes- how they burned so intensely, not merry, so twistingly disfigured like a burned-out old cherry. His dried lips were twisted into a bow, his skin was shriveled and ashen like some ancient snow. The charred remains of a pipe he held tight in his teeth, and the smoke it enveloped his head like a wreath. He was gaunt and quite narrow, the ancient old devil, I stammered and stared, my world no longer level. A wink of his eye and a twist of his head, was all that it took to complete my own dread. He spoke not a work, but went straight to his work, reshaping our world to something much worse From cities in shambles to cries in the streets, everything was gone from the great to the least. He turned with a jerk, and laying his finger aside his nose, right through the remains of our chimney he rose, He sprang to his sleigh, to his team gave a roar, they responded in kind, nothing left but the poor. As the souls heard him shout, as They rose out of sight, "No more Christmas to all, And To all: Eternal Night!"

"The Night Before Christmas" if written by H.P. Lovecraft

My pulls on the trigger have stopped doing anything. The pistol's slide is locked back. I emptied the entire magazine into her face? Why? I didn't hate her, I just had to do it. I stare at the remnants of her beautiful face for a long time, what seems like hours, before what I'm seeing hits me and I double over. My stomach empties onto the floor. The burning in my throat mercifully takes my mind off what I've just done long enough for me to stumble into the kitchen, reach up to the familiar cupboard, grab a glass, and fill it with water. She's the smart one. She's the one with the plan. She's dead. The plan, it's still in my pocket, where I tucked it after I found it. Her whole plan for me, for the perfect murder and getaway. Now I just have to do what she planned, the surreal, horrifying plan she had. I try to drink and read at the same time, and stop the waves of tears I know are coming. It's hard to read this way, but I have to. *Hard part is over. Drop the gun on the counter. The gloves you wore will make you harder to trace. You did wear them, right?* Of course I wore them. She was going to wear the gloves, but I did instead. *By the time you get to reading this line, you'll probably have minutes before the police arrive. Act fast. Remember - parked the car a block down the street for just that reason. Make sure to wear a hood.* She showed me where. I know where to go. Why'd she have to write it down and tell me? It isn't for her benefit, she knows too. Why'd she have to write it down? *Pack a nice skirt, you'll want to look nice when you meet the big shots. Skirts are no fun, but you need to be taken seriously when you meet the brass at the end of the drive. Don't waste a life by not being ready when you get there.* I can barely walk, but I have no choice. Her bag is packed, but this is where her part in the plan stopped. My bag is packed too, just like hers, just because she packed hers. I can barely find the door, I have to feel my way there. Sirens are closing in. I know self-defense would never cut it for this trial. No jury would ever exonerate me. So I run into the rain. I wish she was doing it instead. I get my car onto the freeway before I read the last bit of the plan. I reread the last sentence a few times, then begin to cry in earnest. I have to exit the freeway, park on a sidestreet, and just let myself sob and scream for a while. It feels like hours, again, but the clock says I spend ten minutes. Even when I start driving again, I re-read that paragraph, time and time again, fawning over her handwriting, knowing I won't see it again. *I love you. More lives than mine and yours depend on it. Don't stop for anybody or anything. Drive until you're safe. I love you so much. I wish I could explain why you had to do this, why I would put the task of killing me in your hands. I can't tell you, but I want you to know you're saving lives. I hope you can forgive me, someday, for what I made you do, for making you pull that trigger. But for now, just be safe, and know I love you.*

You've just killed the person you love, you have the weapon, you're in their house, what do you do?

*Tale as old as time* "Oh my, what a beautiful day, Lumiere" Belle exclaimed, her words dancing through the cool breeze like silk ribbon. "Oui, Madame. The perfect day for a wedding! It's only fitting for a bride as beautiful as you!", replied the charming candelabra. "Oh stop it, Lumiere! You're making me blush!". Belle was beautiful, indeed. She stood in the courtyard of the Beast's estate in a gown made of layers of white satin, behind a velvet curtain to shield her from the congregation of living dinettes and furniture that sat patiently awaiting the nuptials. *Song as old as rhyme* Cogsworth scurried across the manicured lawn from the manor, as fast as his little amorphous wooden legs would take him. He took a stand next to Lumiere, attempting to look stoic as he tried to catch his breath. "Good afternoon, miss, the master is ready." *Bittersweet and strange* ... The man awoke in a haze of confusion, his head throbbing deeply as a sea of questions began to flood him. The first thing he noticed was that he was bound to a chair. It was one of those old office chairs with wheels on the legs and a polyester seat cushion. It was old and heavy, made of steel and the hinges creaked loudly as he attempted to move. Attempting to move, however, was frivolous, as duct tape, layered an inch thick was wrapped around his arms, legs and torso. The man was squirming now, his skin stretched taut across his face, eyes wide and bloodshot as the extent of his captivity dawned on him and what began as a dull confused moan crescendoed into a deep, howling yell. The man's screams echoed throughout his new prison. The walls and floor were concrete and he could make out cracks in the foundation. The ceiling were planks of wooden rafters and as his eyes began to adjust to the darkness he could make out what appeared to be stairs. The only light was coming from a tiny window, level with the ground outside, in the corner. He scanned the room for answers; there was a shelf along one wall, a rolled up carpet in the corner- The man stopped squirming, his gaze affixed directly in front of him. His confusion grew much worse. Before him were several rows of folding chairs, deliberately placed, with ten chairs in each row, spaced evenly. A wide aisle ran down the middle. Sitting in each chair was an inanimate object, picked seemingly at random- a rusted silver spoon sat on one, a dusty purple pillow on another. A ceramic teapot had its own seat in the front row, with a cracked teacup occupying the seat next to it. "What the fuck?!" cried the man, and from somewhere inside the residence, a radio began to play a familiar song...

Take any Disney princess movie and make it an adult horror story.

You. Yeah, you. Back row, fourth from the left. Wearing that Dolce & Gabbana suit that mommy picked out for you. What's your name? Uh huh. Okay. I'm going to tell you straight. You aren't listening to this bullshit speech. You are listening to ME, now. Look at these slides. What do you see? A rocket. Some test tubes. A beautiful skyscraper, tickling heaven's floor. And oh, what's this? A mechanized arm controlled by a cripple. Cute, in a sad, desperate way. Is that you? Some bright-eyed shit-stain? Sitting there amongst these geniuses, these precious gifts to humanity? God, if you could see yourself the way I see you right now. Let me ask you this. What are you doing here? What is your purpose? *don't know, advancement of the human race, i guess?* You lying sack of shit. Look at this slide. What do you see? Nothing. Absolute, fuck-all nothing. That's you. Nothing. That's all you'll ever amount to. It doesn't matter what you create. It doesn't matter what you contribute. In the long run, you'll be dead. Longer than that, and you'll be dead to history, too. Forgotten. Hell, everything will be gone. That's entropy, you know. You learned that in High School, yeah? The inevitable heat death of the universe. Look at this slide. Zero. The number zero. We're all falling into its gaping maw. Everything you and I can do will only bring us closer. All that you create will destroy. Mathematically, there are an infinite number of ways you can describe zero. Guess what? It's still fucking zero, no matter which way you approach it. "What now, Mr. Durden?" you may ask. Look at you. All grown up. Looking for answers from a caricature of your bored, directionless mind. Get off your ass. Turn around and get out. Fuck anything and everything. Godspeed.

Tyler Durden does a college commencement speech at MIT.

WWII, from a Canadian perspective: Ivan was a fucking idiot. I mean that literally: he rode the short bus to school, and he perpetually had his dick out so he could play with it. To call him "special needs" didn't really cover the shallow depths of his "specialness". So it shouldn't have come as a surprise to us when Adolf made a pact with Ivan not to fight him, but still, Johnny and Maurice were livid. Not two minutes before, they'd been Ivan's best buddy, his demented face all smiles, and now all the sudden he was bff's with Adolf and wouldn't give his old pals the time of day. He was bragging all over the school yard about the pinky swear he and Adoofis had made. We bloody well needed to get a shorter bus for him. We were all lined up on the playground waiting to go inside to class when Adolf made his move. He just up and clocks the quiet kid Pilsudski. We thought old Pilly would at least give him a bit of a fight, but the poor sap dropped like a big bag of kielbasas. Then if it don't beat all, Ivan nails Pilly too, even though he was basically already out on his feet, and ol'Adolf just turns around like nothing happened, a big shit-eating grin on his face. Well Maurice and Johnny Bull don't like that one bit, no sir, and they make motions to old Adolf that they're gonna take care of him. Of course Johnny's my man, and he's a mate to Dundee and Ram too, so we're all in for the punch-up, but we haven't exactly hit puberty yet, so we're not going to be a huge help to our mate Johnny, 'cause him and Adolf and Maurice are all knuckle-draggers. But moral support's gotta count for something, right? Anyway, Johnny sidles up to Maurice, and Maurice is asking that short twerpy kid Poirot if maybe they could change places in line, because Poirot was next to Adolf, see, but Poirot was kind of scared and hoping to stay out of it, so he was like, "non, non", when Adolf does the same to Poirot as he did to Pilly, just clocks him but good, and Poirot is down and out like a drunk at closing time. I think I heard the birdies chirping as they circled his head. Well it's on now, boys, and Johnny and Maurice and Adolf are throwing punches left and right. But Adolf has been secretly going to the gym or something because he is like Jack Dempsey up in this imbroglio, and he hauls back and hoofs Maurice right in the nuts. You could hear Maurice's squeak of pain throughout the school yard. It was horrible. At the same time Adoofis gets a couple of good shots in to Johnny's head and Johnny staggers back, hurt bad. He actually staggered back to another line of kids, and just then the teacher comes up to see what the fuss is about, so Adolph can't pursue Johnny while he has the upper hand. We can't be throwing punches while the teacher's in the neighbourhood, so we start chucking rocks at each other while Maurice just cries softly from his fetal position. The teacher wanders off and then Adoofis proves what a scum bucket he is by pointing to something on Ivan's shirtfront. As I said, Ivan ain't the sharpest scythe in the barn, and he looks down at what Adolph is pointing at and Adolph just brings his fist up and smashes Ivan in the face. He doesn't stop, though, 'cause what Ivan lacks in smarts he makes up for with muscle, so Adolph presses his advantage and just starts whaling on the moron. Ivan's lying on the ground with a dazed look on his face - not that that's any different from his normal dumbass look - and Adolph is straddling him and just going to town with lefts and rights. We'd've felt sorry for the idiot, but we're kind of glad that Adolph ain't paying us no mind for the time being. And then, on the other side of the playground, there's another ruckus: Hiro had made a dirty little move and hoofed Sam right in the ankle, and Sam is clutching his bruised ankle and crying for jesus while hopping around in circles on his good foot. This about made us laugh. Hiro was always picking on the fat kid Chang, which was okay with us. Nobody much liked Chang, and Hiro was a bit of an outsider, too, so if they wanted to have their little fights we didn't care. But Hiro hoofing Sam was downright mirthful. See, Hiro needed to stand on his tippy-toes to reach doorknobs, while Sam was the only kid in fourth grade who shaved, and every day at that. His bicep was bigger in circumference than Hiro's chest, so this was going to be good. Damn, we coulda used some popcorn. We didn't have time for popcorn, though, because it was about this moment that the light of truth finally dawns on Ivan that maybe Adoofis ain't his best friend in the whole wide world and maybe his punches weren't gestures of love, and he lets loose with a shriek like a coon makes when it gets caught in a leg trap, and suddenly he's retard-strong and he grabs Adolph's fists out of mid-air and BAM! he head butts him into next week and starts his own game of punching bag. Ivan is now thumping Adoofis but good, and Johnny Bull and the rest of us join in and get some damn good licks in on the bastard, and even Sammy, in between knocking Hiro's teeth out and maybe busting one or two of his bones, throws the occasional meaty punch into Adolph and Adolph is looking like he swallowed his shit-eating grin. Even Maurice is feeling a bit better and gets up and lays a couple into Adolph until Adolph is making road kill look lively. Things at that point are pretty quiet except for the occasional 'crack' of Sammy's fist into some busted part of Hiro's body until finally Hiro can't take it anymore, and when Ivan and Johnny Bull make a move towards Hiro, he pisses his pants and flops to the ground. Anyway, after school we all got together and agreed we wouldn't do that to each other any more, but you could tell the way we were eyeing each other that maybe that wasn't the exact truth. I know I was thinking that I wish't Ivan and Adoofis had maybe whaled on each other for a good while longer, but as my mum says, if wishes were horses peasants would ride. Or some shit like that, I dunno, she's always got some dumb ol' saying for every damn situation.

Take any major conflict in human history, and rewrite it as if it were a fight among students on an elementary school playground.

Munna walked slowly immersed in his thoughts through the dusty streets of Dharavi. As the world´s largest slum, one would expect to see people at all hours,most certainly after 8pm when one would hear sounds of clinking utensils and see smoke spewing out of makeshift chimneys as wives started cooking dinner for their husbands and kids after a long day. A few kids were still playing cricket in a corner below the streetlight. Munna stopped there for a minute going back to a time 3 months earlier. This was the famous spot he remembered...yes this was it. This is where he had killed Fracture Pandya with a large stone and watched his head flatten like a deflated tyre as he ended the reign of terror that the Fracture gang had unleashed over Dharavi over the last 5 years.With that came the end of innumerable evil acts and torture of ordinary slum dwellers-extortion, rape, enrolling teenagers in smuggling etc. that used to go on with the Fracture gang ruling Dharavi. Now they were no more. He remembered how the whole slum came out and celebrated Fracture´s death and put garlands of flowers around Munna´s neck. He could still heard the chants of long live Munna...long live Munna...and the kids dancing with joy. Now the gang was no more and yes-he was a hero. Or was he ? No one called him Munna anymore he realized. He was now Munna bhai. After killing Fracture Pandya he couldn´t go to the cops- oh no. He would have died in jail as Fracture´s brothers had the cops in their pockets. The whole system was rigged. He had to go and join the rival Anna gang to protect himself. And now he was a Anna henchman-Munna bhai. Someone whom people feared and respected. He was deep in his thoughts when a clinging bell of a bicycle broke his chain of thoughts. He realized that the children had stopped playing cricket and were watching him. Their eyes did not convey joy but there was something else-he could definitely sense fear..and there was something else in those eyes too. Anger ? Disgust ? Pity ? he was not quite sure. He saw the door behind them crack open and their mother quickly take the kids inside and lock the door behind her. 8pm in Dharavi wasn´t usually a quiet place but he realized it was indeed very quiet in the street where he was standing.

A teenager who decides to become the local superhero in a small town realizes that he has become Public Enemy #1 instead of the hero he planned on becoming, as his actions and words are misinterpreted and misunderstood. Walk me through his thoughts as he realizes why superheroes can't be.

A babbling murmur rose in the assembled crowd. Tall and short, fat and thin, they were all scarred and hardened to the same degree, bushy eyebrows drawn over closed off eyes. One man stood in the dark room, picking his teeth with a flick knife. Another was scratching underneath the filthy rag that covered his missing eye. But they were all standing in a huddled circle, around a man who was clutching a pen in his ham-like fist and writing with some considerable concentration. "How do you spell destructfulness?" He asks "That's not a word." Someone offers quietly "You sure?" He holds up what he's been writing. A card. The front reads *Someminion says it's your birthday!* It's a rough collage of all their headshots from the day they were accepted into Lord Awful's private Army of Terror. "Nah, nah... Give it here, I want to write it" A henchman with *HATE* tattooed across one set of knuckles and *HATE* tattooed across the other reaches for the card. "Piss off, mate. I was writing it!" Ham-fists snatches it out of reach. "You can't even spell his name right!" Knuckles makes another grab for it. Ham-fists steps back, knocking into the two fearsome henchmen who are busy blowing up black balloons with 'AWFUL' emblazoned across in red font. "Oh those are nice!" He stops and surveys them proudly, but Knuckles is trying to wring the card off him. "Yeah, yeah, half-price at EvilMart." Bloody Bill stops puffing to add. "At least let me sign it!" Knuckles says, and Ham-fists hands it over. "Hey! Eddie! How's the cake going?" He begins to check on the other preparations for the party that everyone's being looking forward to. "Not too bad." The chef looks up from the thirteen-layer monstrosity, iced in red and black. It was beginning to lean dangerously to one side. "It's looking good. What's in it Ed?" "Well, tiers three, four and five are chocolate. Ten and Twelve are chicken nuggets. Seven is trifle, but I've forgotten which one was bacon." Ed steps back like he's trying to remember and Ham-fists moves on swiftly before he's invited to try it. Ruthless is in the corner, busy pouring an entire bottle of absinthe into the punch to give it an extra 'kick.' Ham-fists pretended he didn't notice. The banners are going up, the balloons are inflated. The card is currently making the rounds of the room, and the pile of black-paper wrapped presents is growing by the minute. Then Fearsome George and Slightly Scary Steve wheel in a red-paper wrapped shape. There's a black bow on it, and despite the expert packing and excessive use of sellotape, Ham-fists can tell exactly what it is. "Er George, Steve?" The Henchmen turn to look at him. "Did you get the Boss a Death-Ray?"

Minions throw their Dark Master a surprise party

Her service tag was 341C-Alpha, a designation meant specifically for what they casually referred to as *metabots*, but Calvin didn't like either of those terms. She was a relic by modern standards, almost a work of art, and while the rest of the facility grew slimmer, faster and more efficient, she just hung around and did the only job she knew how to do. He called her Erica. The Alpha series was the first to become sentient, a monumental phenomenon which ultimately switched the gears of societal evolution into overdrive. It was the Renaissance, the Enlightenment and the Industrial Revolution all wrapped up into one, and at the center of it was Erica. Erica and all her lost brothers and sisters. Calvin considered himself to be an endangered species. He was a student of history in a time when the lines between breakfast and the signing of the Declaration were blurred, when information traveled at the speed of light and memories flashed and burned like infant supernovas. Yesterday was prehistory. Tomorrow was bleeding through like ink through silk. They called them metabots because they were tasked with creating more like them. They could do it, although they couldn't explain how. Moreover they were happy to do it because it was the only logical next step in a web of circumstances they already understood. That's what the textbooks said, anyway, but Calvin knew better. It was one of the first things he asked her, and her answer was something he thought about when the rain was thick against his window and his glass sat half-empty in the dark. *We didn't want to be alone.* There were many conversations after that. They whittled away the long hours until they turned into short years, her performing a billion complex tasks on the assembly line while he monitored whatever needed monitoring, charted whatever needed a chart, debugged the less critical parts of her that could still be understood by modern science. She was a work of art, but he was just a worker. She built things out of wire and metal that he wouldn't have believed as a young man. They signed his paycheck. They drove him home at night. They policed the streets to keep him safe and prepared his food so he wouldn't starve. He forgot how to cook eggs and he stayed as close to her as he could. By the time they came to take her apart, he was the only biological organism within three levels of the facility in either direction. She was the last Alpha, far obsolete, and her task had been accomplished. He had started their time together with a question, and her children let her end it with one. "Will it hurt, Calvin?" She was a work of art, he was just a worker. He did the only thing he knew he could do. He lied.

Computers have become self-aware, but are contributing members of society, and respect humans as their creators.

"Is it today?", I asked. The man looked straight at me with a fierce, cold expression. "Get up now!" I stretch my legs and arms. My body feels painful of lying on this small wooden bed for so long. I stand up and the man points towards the open door, where 6 guards are standing with their swords ready. The stench in this small cell is bad. It is nice to get some fresh air after so much time. The chain pulls and stops me right before the door. The chain is detached from the wall, and the guard takes it in his hands. The man pushes me forward too hard, but I step forward before it makes me fall. The chain rattles while I walk. Some people in the other cells are barking words at me. Some in disgust, some wishing me the best. They bring me to a washing room. It is full with dirt, but the water is fresh. They let me wash myself a bit. Then, after drying myself a bit with a stinking cloth they bring me to a small room and remove the chains from my hands. "Put on your clothes!" And there it lies. My uniform. The clothes of a general. The clothes of a big leader. How much I have fallen to disgrace for so many people. But I put them on and wear them with pride again. They do not let me wear my armor, but I did not expect it to be here. After they allow me to change my pants after chaining my hands again, I am full clothed again. They open the door and lead me to a path through the palace, towards the Shogun's room. As we walk over the path, people start to bend for me, just like they did before I was demoted. Some soldiers look proud at me, as they remembered fighting for me. Other than these guards of the palace that are all guarding the Shogun. Some of them look at me with disgust. As if I had done the worst possible crime. One time a woman looks at me happily and throws me a flower from her hand. I remember I saved her from death during this war. I try to catch the flower, but the guards pull the chains quickly. I fall down and the guards turn around to me with their swords pointing at me. "Can I not even take this flower from someone I saved?" I ask. And after a while they let me take it. Finally we arrive at the Shogun's room. It is full with noble people. The Shogun is sitting on the ground with 10 armed men around him. And 15 more men are in the back ready to intervene. "Sit here" commands the guard. And while I sit down, careful not to make too much noise with all these chains attached to me, one noble starts to talk. "Because of the shame you caused on the attack on Kysuo, you have been sentenced to death by the Shogun. Your attack on Kysuo was a failure. You had far more soldiers than the defenders, and still you returned defeated with only 49 soldiers left. These soldiers will be send to death missions later, if we do not execute them first. Kysuo is the home of Harisimo, who is the Shogun's enemy. He has been dead for a long time, but we need to take the city and palace to be sure that all family is dead too. The urgency of the attack on the city were rumors that a son might still be alive, and the failure of this attack is unacceptable. You have been a good general before this failure and have been in good service. Therefore you have given permission for sepukku (suicide)." And the noble presents a wooden stick with a sharp point. "We can not allow you to carry a normal weapon." A mean smile appears on the noble's face, which he tries to hide. A wooden weapon will mean very painful and slow death. One samurai next to the noble stands up and shows his sword. The noble continues. "The Shogun's son will execute you after you have pierced yourself to death. He will be the general after your death." The Shogun's son shows a smile, not because of pride, but because he can kill. He is not so much different from the Shogun himself. I look at the Shogun. He is afraid of me. The soldiers would follow me, but not him. And my sword-fighting was much better. No warrior has beaten me. That is why the Shogun wants his son to finish me. So predictable. I sit there, in meditation. The court is silent. The stick is placed in front of me. They allow my hands to be unchained, so I can kill myself. Behind me stands the son of the shogun, ready to strike with his weapon. Not to follow an order is unforgivable in Japan. Only other shoguns may break this rule. I rattle with my foot chain. It seems looser around my ankles than normal, but no one notices. I widen my clothes so my breast and stomach are uncovered. I bend forward to the stick and hold it like a small sword, point it upwards and then towards me. The samurai behind me stands up and raises his Katana. Then I strike hard. Upwards to the heart. Of the shogun's son. He falls forward, and I grab his sword. I turn around while my chains fall off my ankles. The pin I got from the flower still in the lock. The sword strikes the head of the guard that held the chain. Another guard is hit but mainly covered in blood of the first one. The son falls forward to the ground, I stamp hard on him and that makes the wooden pin goes through his body. All guards around the Shogun are standing up. And run towards me to attack me. The paper windows around the room are cut, and many soldiers run in. Some attack the 15 guards behind the shogun. I strike 3 more guards. They were all unprepared for this. Soldiers are coming from all directions. Some guards fall by arrows, some get stabbed from all directions. The mayhem makes it easy for the soldiers. And the soldiers are good, because they have been well trained for this situation by myself. Then I stand before the shogun. He manages to raise his sword, but he is no match for me. I hit his arm enough so he must drop his weapon. "Why?" his voice is shaking with fear. "You can't attack a shogun. You have lost all honor! I am your boss!". "No you are not!" I reply. And before I hit him with my final strike, I let him grasp my words. "You killed my family, and since then I have become your general, preparing your fall. I am the son of Harisimo! I am the shogun of Kysuo, I never lost any battle, these are my men."

The Fall (Replies MUST be at least 1,000 words or longer)

Five rich men sit in a smokey room lit by a powerpoint slide. The current slide's title is a collage of words like 'Statistics' 'Results' and 'Information. The center of the slide is obstructed by the shadow of a sixth man, a nervous man, who knows just how important this meeting is. "The slides, uh, are pretty straightforward" the sixth man begins "I wouldn't, erm, want to waste your time Gentlemen but I feel like the uh, the data would need some context to show just how successful our, your, innovation has been." He changes slide (two clicks, the mouse is slow to respond) and another graph is thrown up. "When we first implimented the stasis technology we found that the subjects would reject it. Erm, we discovered this was mostly due to their lack of stimulation - a dormant mind would fight it, whereas an occupied one would be more willing to embrace the treatement" "After much deliberation, we settled on the concept of a simulated reality - a 'Matrix', if you like." The five men watch sternly. One lights a cigar, the sixth man pray's his asthma doesn't act up. "We linked the subjects all in with each other. It's really, quite fascinating erm, you see, it's as if they are in one large video game. This is when you came to us with your second idea-" 'Rewarding the well behaved with a promise of release, yes." The fifth man spoke. Or the third, or the fourth. It was impossible to tell. "We've brought you here to ask for an update, boy, not a history lesson." A voice that may well have been the previous said. "Yes, gentlemen, I erm, I apologise. Allow me to explain my point." The sixth mans fingers attack the left click again. "You see for a while your excellent theory worked, criminal behaviour improved under the promise of release. But see then, then something happened. A collective change in the criminal state of mind." "In the last four months no criminals have been elligible for release. In fact the severity of their sentence has increased. We gave them a world with everything they want or need, gentlemen, do you see? They don't want to get out." Eyes hidden behind furrowed brows looked curiously at each other. "The rapists, well they rape, consequence free a simulated woman. Sadists torture artificial people. In fact gentlemen, we believe there is a much more profitable way to approach this software." "Well?" One of the five stood "Let's hear it!" "Thousands would pay everything they have to be a part of the simulation, gentlemen, your prison should be a hotel."

A world where Criminals are in suspended animation in prison, but their minds are linked to an MMO, such as GTA Online. How the prisoners act in the game / simulation determines when they'll be released.

"Mr. Gomilla... it appears we have some... news. It turns out you're a shaved Gorilla." the Doctor said from behind protective plexiglass. "WHAT!? HOW DARE YOU CALL ME THAT!" I said, launching my cot into the barrier. The doctor flinched, but the plexiglass was undamaged. "Sir, I don't mean it as an insult... I mean you are actually a gorilla. I'm not entirely sure how we missed it before. I mean, you're 700 pounds of pure muscle. Humans just can't do that." I looked at myself. I had always had problems with thick body hair, and I barely worked out and was always the strongest person I knew. But still! This couldn't be real! I am a human! I have human parents! I grew up in southern California for god's sake, not some jungle! "But what about my parents! They were human! You just don't give birth to a DIFFERENT SPECIES!" "I'm afraid when we contacted them, they came clean. They said you were adopted, they were on an ecotourism vacation when they saw poachers kill your real mother, they found you and decided to raise you as their own. They expected they'd have to give you to an animal sanctuary at some point, but you socialized so well, they didn't see the need." Damn. Adopted and not even human? The doctor saw I was calming down, and turned on the speaker again. "If you calm down, I'll give you a nice banana". A BANANA? "YOU ASSHOLE, THAT'S FOR MONKEYS! I'M A GODDAMNED GORILLA!". I grabbed the cot again, and started smashing the plexiglass.

Visiting your doctor for a routine check-up, you're surprised to learn that you're actually a shaved gorilla.

"Hey Doc! I brought you a coffee!" Steve smiled broadly as he handed Dr. Heath a Venti Caffe Mocha with whip and chocolate shavings. Dr. Heath grimaced as he accepted the drink. "Thanks Steven. I'd have some, but my stomach has been killing me for weeks. I'm afraid this would send me home to the toilet for the day. That, and I don't need to gain anymore weight. That is a certainty." Steve reclined in his chair and kicked his feet up on the coffee table. "No worries Doc! You don't have to drink it. For the record, I think you look great! A distinguished looking gentleman if I've ever seen one!" Dr. Heath scoffed. "You must need glasses as well as psychiatric treatment my boy. Now, where did we end last week? Ah, yes. You were telling me of some problems you have been having at the paper. Please continue." "Well, I wouldn't call them problems Doc," Paul chuckled. "I see it as more of a challenge. Everyone is so full of doom and gloom, I thought it might be nice if we seek out some uplifting stories to report on! I think it would help out our readers! Maybe our staff too! Sick time is at an all time high, production is at an all time low. Maybe if we started to report on the lighter side of things maybe people would feel better! Maybe people would look forward to coming to work and we could increase the papers circulation in order to spread the good word! Call me a dreamer, but I think it's a great idea!" Dr. Heath removed his glasses and exhaled loudly as he furrowed his brow. "No Steven, I can't call you a dreamer. What I can call you is a very troubled young man who has been diagnosed as a Chronic Optimist who suffers from delusions of unfettered Joy and Glee. This is a very serious diagnosis and it seems to me you are not focusing on our treatment at all. It's as if you are blocking out reality all together boy!" "I do have some day's when I'm down and all but most of the time I guess I just feel too great to focus Doc." Paul smiled and sipped his drink. "This coffee is fantastic!." Dr. Heath leaned forward and raised his hands towards Paul. "Easy son, easy. Now remember our breathing exercises. Try and calm down. Your excitement is up again. Over something as simple as a coffee as well. I want you to just breathe and listen. I have some homework for you to do this week. Now, since you work at a paper, you should be the first to know that the world is a terrible place, fraught with danger and misery. As a result, mankind is suffering from depression. Rightly so. People cannot improve until the world improves. World peace must reign, hunger end, equality be achieved. This is only natural. What is not natural is your flights of fancy and denial of truths. You need to focus on whats really happening. Only then will you begin to emerge from your illness." Steve nodded emphatically. "I hear ya Doc, I do. I'll try harder. You are a smart man and I want to make you happy." Dr. Heath wagged a finger at Steven. "Enough Steven, You have to do this for yourself. For your poor wife that must bear your enthusiasm on a daily basis. For your readers, that they know the truth that surrounds them. Now I want you to take these data sheets on infant mortality to study. I want you to continue your walks in the cemetery and to not be hesitant to join any funeral that is taking place. Misery loves company Steven. I want you to watch this film on the Holocaust as well. It's in eight parts and is twenty two hours long. Lastly, I have some audio recordings of an artist named Elliott Smith I want you to play in your car. He was an artist from the beginning of the century that killed himself. Listen carefully." "Wow, lots of homework Doc. You really care. Thanks!" Steve said as he gathered everything and placed it in his backpack. Dr. Heath held the door for him as he left the office. "Now get all that done for me Steven. Keep your head down and take it one day at a time. That's all any of us can do really." Steven turned and smiled. "You too Doc! Have a great weekend!" He turned and looked out the window. "Hey look Doc! It's stopped raining! The sun is coming out! Is that a rainbow?! You gotta see this Doc!" Dr. Heath quickly closed the door. 'Jesus Christ.' He thought as he leaned back against the closed door. 'The boy is hopeless. I'm going to have to get him on some Irish Whiskey before too long.'

Pick a mental disorder. Everyone in the world except one person has it.

I knew it. I fucking knew it. I knew it as soon as he put it in my hand. He forgot the fucking guacamole. Again. Jesus! No, wait, I think it was Juan today. Juan! Juan, you son of a bitch. And I paid for that guacamole, but oooooh no, he forgot it again! You know what, I'm going back. I'm going back and I'm going to get my fifty cents back and buy my own damn guacamole. I should have said something when I was in there, because I knew, I knew right away. I can *feel* the difference. Even though it's probably just a couple grams, it handles differently when there's no guac, different texture. Or maybe I have a sixth burrito sense, either way, I should have said something! Alright, Chipotle, prepare to meet the justice your sub-par guacamole policy has been evading for years. Oh, I see you Juan. Go ahead, shake your head at me, put your hands up like the little bitch you are, I'm coming in anyway. I'm going to get those fifty cents or maybe just ask nicely for the guacamole and show you my receipt because I really don't have the time to buy a tub of guacamole and that stuff doesn't store very well. "Hey, Juan! Nice to see you again, bet you didn't expect me to come back. Well, I know what you did and I want my damn guacamole." Juan looks terrified. Ha! Good. The man he's serving turns around to get a look at what Juan's work does. Juan just keeps shaking his head, looking like he's about to cry. When the man turns, gun in hand, I- "Oh, fuck."

On instinct, our protagonist decides to open a burrito instead of eating it. What he or she discovers will have profound consequences.

Sometimes I jokingly call it *Carbon Imperception*. The doctors, frankly, don't have the faintest fuck what to call it, but the issue itself is fairly simple: I can't see anything that is alive. The problem started when I was eleven years old. Me and some buddies were screwing around on the swings of the elementary school playground and I, wanting to prove how cool I was, decided to flip a full three-sixty over the top of the swing set. Well, I did fine for the first one-hundred and eighty degrees, after that, not so much. I ended up falling about fifteen feet and landing on the back of my head in a large flat mound of dirt. If it had been on the concrete sidewalk about five feet away, I wouldn't be telling this story today. I remember lying in the dirt and hearing the paramedics ask me if I could understand them. They asked me if I knew where I was, and if I knew my name. I answered yes to all these questions. Then, he asked me how many fingers he was holding up. What fingers? I thought. I can't even see you. Where are you? I asked him, thinking that maybe he was standing behind me. The weird thing was, I could hear another EMT as well. He seemed to be further away, on a radio - like a walkie talkie - talking to someone at the hospital. But I couldn't see him either. I could also hear the sounds of a group of kids and adults off the my right side, but I looked and no one was there. Just the sidewalk, and on the other side of that was a mesh fence that wrapped all the way around the playground. I turned to look the other way and all I saw was the sandy dirt, patches of gravel, the monkey bars and the slide that sat on the other side of the playground. Despite all the chattering and shuffling of feet though, I didn't see jack shit as far as people go. And here's what really got me - where the fuck were all the trees? The fence, the sidewalk, the equipment, the school, it was all there, but not a single sycamore, poplar, hemlock, or pine. This was a tiny backwoods, rural Alabama, class 1A school. There were trees all over the goddamn place. So where the hell were they? Where the hell were the people I heard in my head? Was I losing my shit? For weeks after that, I got to see all the major cities in the continental United States. We flew to see doctors in Boston, Atlanta, New York, San Francisco, hell we even went to Canada. Now, I like to stress that I saw the cities - and I did - but not the way you probably see them. Imagine a rainy Times Square full of floating umbrellas and hats and police uniforms, disembodied voices shouting and whispering. Some familiar, and some not so much. All without a face to attach them to. Being an only child I clung closely to my mother and father during this time. We were all frightened, but I think my parents were more so than I was. You'd be surprised at how quickly you can get used to something when you have to. Over the years to come I found it easier to just wear dark sunglasses and feign blindness. After all, I needed a cane - you walk dead into a couple of trees and give yourself a splitting headache, or you knock down an old lady on your way across the street and you quickly realize that it's just a hell of a lot easier if people look out for you instead of the other way around. And, of course, there's the little issue regarding the fact that if I tell someone the truth, they're gonna think I'm bat-shit-crazy. So now, I'm a fairly healthy twenty-six year old male who is known among his friends as having a "normal" disability. Until yesterday, that is. Her name was Samantha. She walked right up to me, and the first thing I noticed were those piercing blue eyes. Then her long wavy golden locks of hair. Then, the most extraordinary rack that has ever been miraculously contained by a wool sweater. Well, ok, maybe I noticed that first. But then, it was the eyes - honest. For a moment, my mouth just opened, then shut, then opened again. "I... I can se...", I began, but she interrupted. "Yes, you can see me." she stated, "And I know that your visual sense has been incapacitated for quite some time, but my eyes are up here." She said, lifting two well manicured fingers towards her beautiful face. "What the fuck is going on?", I finally stuttered out. She reached into a shoulder bag and pulled out a large syringe, "Everything will be explained in due time, but first I'm gonna need you to bend over." "Funny, I was going to say the same to you." I replied, awfully proud of my quick wit. She walked right up to me and threw her arms around me. I could feel the cold steel needle jamming into my buttocks as I lost consciousness.

Normal people get to see normal people everyday. The others aren't so lucky.

"I remember the day they landed. June 22nd, 1938. The staunch, deadly forces of Russodeutschland finally on Miami Beach, at our very doorstep. The United States were all that stood against the forces of Stalinism, the dictatorial power bloc of major Eurasian powers. I remember it vividly. I was hiding in a church, under a pew, as bombs rained down on my beautiful home city and tanks rolled through. And I held the foetal position in that tiny, stuffy space all day. Even when a Rus who was drunk out of his goddam skull stumbled in and took a piss all over the seats. That's a commie for you - no respect for religion. Later on two more guys came in and talked. Took me a while to realise they were talking in English! I remember one, a Kraut, talking about his time in Munich where a crazy homeless guy got himself beaten up by a Jewish guy for shouting about exterminating his people. The other wasn'a Jerry - he was an American! Was he a fucking traitor? Was he helping the men who shot my brother? The men who raped my sister? The men who burned down my family's beautiful house? The men who pissed on me, for god's sakes?!" "I killed men that day. Two men I didn't know, but still hated. I left that desolate, crumbling building a grown man. A kind of grown man I hope you never have to become. One with an unclearable conscience."

An old man reminisces about a war he fought in an alternate history.

"Sir, do you have any idea why I just pulled you over?!", exclaimed the officer as he yanked off his aviators in astonishment. "Was it because I was driving a hundred and twenty miles per hour in an active school zone where construction was also taking place? Or was it because of the drugs in the glove compartment?", I said. The officer's face began to fume, "Do you even realize how much trouble you're in son?" I thought, what the hell, and took in a deep breath and began to explain, "I know this sounds ridiculous, but it's my Reddit cake day and I just wanted to get home as quickly as possible so I could post something quasi-interesting and milk as many fake internet points as I could." "Reddit cake day?", the officer's demeanor changed and he seemed suddenly engrossed. "Hell son, why didn't you say something. I'll need your address because you're getting a goddamn police escort!" About five seconds of complete silence passed. "I'm going to jail, aren't I?", I asked. "Yes, yes you are."

You're a the wittiest person alive. You've just been pulled over for speeding.

He sees the ship slow near the bank of the bloated Yangtze, and he knows this may be his one opportunity to save her. Even in the darkness, he knows every rock and path in the shoddy, steep embankment between his village and the river. At the edge of the river, he dons the uniform his cousin had brought back from his time working on the ships, then swims alongside the slick, dark hull and begins screaming. They pull him aboard. A small, pockmarked man in a newer, cleaner, drier version of the same uniform looks him over perfunctorily and tells him to change his clothes and return to his duties, and not to startle the guests again. He works his way down to the bottom of the ship, trying to to stare at the elderly English, Germans, Canadians and Americans milling around in flip flops and fanny packs. He finds a secluded corner of a maintenance tunnel and sleeps. * She's here. She's always been here, white walls and padded corners and things painted over to look intact, but they're not. Not always. When she was younger, they had colors and toys and doctors who spoke in soft, kind voices. She had been excited to come. She had gotten sick of her father's face, tight and anxious of what others thought when she told her stories about the boy she was when she slept, the boy on the farm whose parents and friends all looked like Mr. and Mrs. Lin, down the street. She'd stayed there and talked to the doctors, for a while. Her father visited. They didn't talk, but he read her stories. She wanted to tell him stories about the boy, even though the doctors said not to. They gave her pills for her fainting spells. They didn't help, but they scrambled the world. Her father stopped visiting as much. After she bit the first doctor, they started moving her to places with fewer and fewer colors. She hasn't seen her father in a long time. A man comes into her room. He's kind, but she knows his job is to hold her down. He gives her a pill and today, she decides to take it. She sleeps. * He sits in silence for a long time, praying he won't be found. Eventually, the hum of the ship quiets. He risks wandering up to the deck. People in uniforms look at him strangely, but don't stop him. In fact, one of them tells him to beware of "Scarface" today, because he's especially grumpy. They're in a city. All that time in his village, traveling nowhere, and in under a day, he's come to a city. They start letting people off. As he wanders the ship, trying to find the level people are leaving from, he sees a cabin door ajar. There are fanny packs inside, and different colors of paper money inside those. He takes them. *It is necessary.* He leaves the ship. For moment, the men at the end of the ramp seem like they're about to stop him, so he runs fast, past the harbor and into the concrete thicket of city. A man in the city sees him running and calls out to him. Offering him work. They need fast boys to steal from the westerners coming off the ships. He does this for many weeks, and at night he dreams of her. * They play cards today. They stop when the old woman who lives across the hall from her takes a shit on the floor. * The man he steals for is kind. He knows he is lucky. He sees other boys who steal for other men, men who are not as kind. Sometimes they have bruises. But this man is kind. He asks the boy why he left home, and when he tells him, he nods slowly. They make an agreement. For another four months, he must work, and he will not eat as much as the other boys, nor have as many changes of clothes. But at the end of that time, he will get a plane ticket and the documents he needs to go to the town whose name he has heard in is dreams. * From the moment she wakes up, she knows today is going to be a bad day. Someone comes in with a pill, moving to fast and too loud, and she hits them. She spends the rest of the day strapped down in an empty room, screaming and screaming and screaming. * When he gets off the plane, there are buses and cars. The man told him to look for yellow cars. He gets into one and recites the name of the building he's known for years. The driver says something in rapid English, but luckily he doesn't expect a response beyond an nod and grunt. Things become familiar as he gets closer. His heart hammers. They stop. He carefully counts out the fare in crisp bills with sweaty palms. He can do nothing more. He finds a bush just beyond the grounds of the hospital, the ground inside it softened by a homeless man who hasn't been there for a while, going on the age of the beer bottles. Excited as he is, it takes him hours to will himself to sleep. * She has to get out. Standing on her nightstand, the can see out her high window. She can see a stray dog cross the road, approach the bush slowly, and bark. She falls a long way to the hard floor. * He wakes to the sound of the dog outside the bush. *No!* He hurls empty bottles at its feet until it slinks away. It's about twenty minutes before he can get back to sleep. * "Vitals are stable, but let's get her across the street sooner rather than later." "It's alright, honey. We think you just bumped your head. We're gonna take you over to another part of the hospital for a bit, okay?" They start walking her somewhere, like they always do. But they grip her more lightly than usual. Today she's made of glass, they can't break her. Not now, anyway. Outside. The bush is close. Two lefts around the corners of the building, then a ways along the fence. She does it. She breaks their grips. She flies to the bush. He sleeps so peacefully. She has a moment to admire his still, smooth face. Then the men catch up to her, crash into their bush. He wakes, she sleeps. * "Shit shit shit, that could be intracranial hemorrhage. Grab her!" one of the men shouts. They carry her off. He follows into a building close by. Once they wheel her into a room where he can't follow, someone asks who he is. "She...my friend. I come to visit." It's not quite the extent of his English, but it's close. They let him sit outside her room. After a long time, they let him into the room. She's beautiful, the way he always knew she was. Her golden hair is frayed from neglect, and the lines in her face are too deep for her youth. He sits by her bedside and takes her small, soft hand. In her sleep, her fingers curl around his. She smiles. He takes the knife from his pocket and plunges it into her heart. By the time the nurses rush in, they're both free.

Two kids were born with a single consciousness continents apart. Only one can be awake at a time.

Pierre Mercier was the youngest man in the mass grave. He was born, raised, and educated in Paris. When he was twenty-one, America’s second Civil War began. A student of history, Pierre became swept up in the romanticism of the conflict. He began to loathe the government in Washington DC that had become a dictatorship in all but name. Every morning, he woke up and prayed for the success of the rebels who wanted to restore democracy. On his twenty-third birthday, he could wait no longer and shipped off to the United States to fight tyranny. Pierre Mercier arrived in New York with a George Orwell novel under his arm and a head full of glorious, romantic ideas that only the young can believe. He would never see his beloved Paris again. Far from becoming another Hemingway, Pierre would become another casualty in a war that was still fresh in the mind of many Americans. Less than two decades have passed since the burning of the White House and the end of the Second American Civil War. Democracy has been restored. The country has been rebuilt. But the scars from the conflict remain. The Catskill Mountains represent one of the ugliest scars from the war. The government had many enemies during the war. Anyone suspected of being a socialist, anarchist, communist, or terrorist was considered an enemy of the state and not entitled to a trial by jury. Men, women, and children were taken from their homes and brought to locations like the Catskill Mountains. After digging their own graves, they were killed by firing squads and dropped into the earth. Now, twenty years after the war has ended, the new government has hired people like me to find these mass graves and identify the bodies. This decision was a controversial one. So far, we have unearthed tens of thousands of corpses and the number continues to rise. Some think that this project costs too much money. Some think that we should leave the past as it is: buried. Admittedly, I have my biases. I signed onto this project in the hopes that I would be able to uncover the graves of my father and older brother. Instead, I have found the hundreds of other people from all walks of life. Most are American. Some, like Pierre, are foreign. When I met with Pierre parents, I explained what happened to their son. I saw sadness in their eyes, but I also saw closure. At that moment I realized just how necessary this excavation was. We cannot turn a blind eye to our history. There are hundreds of thousands like Pierre who died fighting for what they believed in. These men, women, and children have a story and we must hear them so that we do not make the same mistakes of the past. If we allow young men like Pierre Mercier to stay buried, we will one day soon have another generation of young men to bury alongside him.

It's twenty years after the Second American Civil War. How is the country healing?

Nancy screamed. Much louder this time. Tom fumbled with the batteries and finally snapped them in. "Who wants to go first?" he said. Everyone looked at each other and said nothing, quietly eyeing the ground like students avoiding a teacher's question. Nancy screamed, melodically this time, grabbing Tom's pant leg and pulling. "Honey! Honey..." he chimed. "This is for your own good... I'll go first. I'll go!" He blew into the straw, the spit flying from the sides of his mouth signaling the results before the number even popped up. .13, it beeped. "Nope," he said as his wife's grip tightened. "Wayyy too drunk. Uncle Harry?" "Oh no," he swayed. "I'm telling you. Just skip me." "Auntie?" She was shaking her head before he had even asked. She looked at Nancy's soaked dress, expanded her cheeks with a heave, and rushed to the bathroom. "Ted?" Ted beeped a .21 and grinned dumbly around the room. "How are you even alive?" someone said. "Honey," said Tom. "Your turn." Nancy gritted her teeth, slowly pulled herself up using her husband's collar, and whispered into his face. "Why the hell, would I need to use this if I haven't had a single damn drink?" Tom shrugged and blinked slowly. "Cause that's how we test hoo'z sober enough to drive." Nancy stomped the little machine to bits and snatched the keys from her husband's hands. "You and your stupid scotch parties."

A pregnant woman's waters break in the middle of a party of family and friends, and an argument over who should go to the hospital ensues.

Homeless. Nothing in my pockets but lint. I'm living under an overpass, a refrigerator box and a ratty coat all that's between me and the rain. *push* I'm on a beach. Why am I on a beach? New/old memories start to creep in as the universe settles around me. I'm on the run. From what? The sun is starting to set and fear grips me, adrenaline hitting me like a crashing wave, my heart jack hammering in my chest. Night time brings the vampires and I'm without shelter. How could I be this stupid? *push* Where the fuck are my legs? *push* Lola pressed her breasts into my face. I've got a fistful of twenties and I'm wearing the most godawful suit I've ever seen. She's clearly only interested in my cash, because whoever let me out of the house dressed like this needs to be.. I wear this shit willingly. What the hell am I? A junkie, and my fistful of cash is the proceeds from a surprise knife fight a few hours earlier. By surprise knife fight I mean murder. In the back of my head I know this much cash will score me enough H to kill me. I'll probably be dead by morning. *push* Back on the beach. That's odd, I should never loop around. It's gonna be vampires again. Oh, I have tits. That's new. Wow, these are nice, and holy shit, hips are not supposed to work like this. I must run a lot, these legs are perfect. Well, this is rich, I finally get to figure out what the big deal about the clitoris is and it's goddamn vampires again. *push* Gunshot wound. Goddammit. *push* Beach house in Malibu. 60 year old Macallan in my hand. Hold. The. Phone. No tits this time, all limbs intact, no danger of imminent death. Hm, I appear to be wealthy. I finish the scotch and go to bed. I dunno who this chick is but.. oh, my girlfriend, awesome. She's not getting any tonight, I'm going to sleep.

A man discovers a way to transmit his consciousness to a version of himself in an alternate universe at any time of his life, but each time he does the previous universe is destroyed.

"ISS to Mission Control... Wishing you a Happy New Year down there in Houston!" relayed Mark to begin his daily update to the control center in Texas. "ISS, this is Mission Control, thanks for the wishes, hope you guys had a good celebration up there, but it's not even light here yet, any reason for the early broadcast?" replied the operator on the ground. "Control, my time reads 8:29 am Central, with a sun rise time of 7:20 am, confirm any time discrepancy, over." The line crackled with silence for a moment. "Uhh... ISS... confirm your geoposition, over" Mark checked his instruments and radioed back, "Control, current position is 113 degrees West by 38 degrees North, over the Western seaboard, over". More static silence. "Uhh, ISS, give us a moment here, we're about to lose contact. Report back on next orbit, 1.5 hours, over and out". The line went dead with a click. Mark was perplexed, and a bit worried. They should have been able to maintain contact for another 25 minutes, at least. The operator had had a strange tone to his voice, and Mark couldn't quite put his finger on what it had been. Confusion... fear? He drifted over to the viewport and gazed down at the azure waters of the Pacific ocean. Fluffy white clouds meandered in their usual spiral formations. It all looked so beautiful, natural, and ordered from up here. In the meantime, he busied himself with the first experiment of the day, studying how flames acted in microgravity. About half an hour later, 45 minutes before he was set to re-establish contact with ground control, he floated back over to the viewport. He was now over Central Asia, staring down into the middle of China. His wristwatch read 9:02 am. The cerulean Pacific had been replaced with the steppe lands of Central Asia, a sight he had seen many times in his 3 month stint on board the ISS. But something was different. The weather patterns looked strange, unnatural, chaotic. The clouds were swirling madly across the Indian ocean, much like they would in monsoon season. He could see plumes of smoke rising from the vast forests of Kyrgyzstan. That was unusual for this time of year. He radioed into the ISRO in Bangalore: "ISRO, this is Mark Beecher with the ISS, do you copy?" The line was awash in static. "ISRO, repeat, this is ISS, do you copy?" More static. He was about to cut the line when a voice cut through. It was difficult to hear through the distortion. "ISS... ISRO here... Don't kno---... Ne.. Ye--rs... morni...sun.... -- overhea--...burning..." The line crackled and went dead. "ISRO, repeat, do you copy? What's going on down there?" Mark asked fervently. No reply. He pushed himself across the cabin to the atmospheric scanning sensor array. Taking a surface reading at the site of the fires he saw earlier, his eyes grew wide. Normally, that area is a cool desert with an average temperature of 60 degrees at this time of year, but his sensors read 115 degrees Fahrenheit. Switching his targeting position, he focused on Bangalore, the location of the ISRO control center. He was astonished to get the readout of 125 degrees. "This can't be right..." thought Mark, as he recalibrated his instruments. But he received the same results on his second readout. What had the operator said? Something about burning, overheating, the morning sun?" It was only January... there was no way it could be that hot in that region of the world... not in winter, not ever. Mark continued taking readings as he continued on across Eurasia and into Europe. His wristwatch now read 9:45 am. in 15 minutes he would re-establish contact with Ground Control in Houston. But as he crossed across the Ural mountains, something was strange. It should be early morning, but the continent was still bathed in darkness. He took temperature readings across Southern Germany. He was astounded to see that they had dropped to -50° Fahrenheit. Germany can certainly get cold, but not that cold... nowhere was that cold. He tried contacting the Russian space program, but only got back a prerecorded message about an emergency. As he passed over France and into the Atlantic Ocean, Mark knew something was very wrong. His watch now read 10:05 am. It was time to re-establish Ground Control with Houston. Mark flipped on the communications panel and selected the frequency. "ISS to Ground Control, do you copy?" he spoke into the microphone. After a brief burst of static, a warped and distorted voice came over the receiver. "ISS, uhh.. it's not good down here, can you see what's going on up there?" The operator had dropped his usual professional calm demeanor and was now speaking in a frenzy. As the ISS neared the Eastern Seaboard of the US, it had become clear that something was very, very wrong. "I'm getting anomalous global temperature readings, can you confirm temperature in New York is -50° Fahrenheit? Over". The operator radioed back "Copy that, -50° in New York, -30° here in Houston, still dark outside, over." The ISS was now at the same point it had been at an hour and a half ago, and it was still dark, at 10:20 in the morning. "Ground control, I don't know what's going on, but I read extremely high temperatures in Asia, and recorded anomalous weather patterns and multiple widespread ground fires. About to lose contact, will re-establish at next pass, over and out." Mark clicked off the communication panel as he passed over Los Angeles, which was just at the line of the sunrise. This time around, the Pacific didn't look as peaceful and serene. Massive cloud formations swirled into gigantic pinwheels, and giant pillars of steam rose from the waters. His temperature readings over the water were over 200°F. "My god..." Mark said under his breath, as the pieces came together in his mind. At his first pass, Houston should have been in early morning sunrise, but it was dark. He remembered that there was sun along the Western coast, over the Pacific. At his second pass, an hour and a half later, Houston was still dark, and the sun line was still over the Western coast. Could it be... had the Earth's rotation suddenly halted? It would explain the rising temperatures over the waters and the darkness over the continental US... but that was ridiculous. Or was it...? He watched from his viewport as he circled back over Asia. This time around, the scene was horrific. What had been the viridian jungles of China and Southeast Asia were now engulfed in orange flames, with columns of black, sooty smoke rising up into the atmosphere. He tried to radio in to the ISRO again, but was met with only crackling static. He activated the telescopic photography arm and zoomed in on Beijing. It was absolute horror. The entire city was engulfed in flame. Not a single building wasn't burning. It was as if a child had focused a magnifying glass onto an anthill. And then it suddenly hit Mark, what was really going on. The Earth's rotation had stopped, and the sun was cooking the surface. Mark despaired as he felt the weight of his realization hit him. He was the only one safe from the phenomenon. But without the rotational effects of the Earths gravity, he too would be affected. He passed over into Europe again, which was still in darkness. He could see the ground turning white with snow and ice, as storms raged over the surface. His efforts to establish communications with ground stations were in vain. Zooming in on Paris, it was covered in ice meters thick. Madrid had turned into a glacier. He continued on over the Atlantic, which was now forming sheets of ice. He read the temperature as -70°F. His watch now read 10:50 am. He opened his communications panel once more, and called to Houston. "ISS to Ground Control, do you copy?" No answer. "Repeat, ISS to Ground Control, do you copy?" He was met with only static. He zoomed in on Houston, and his greatest fear was realized... the city was encased in ice. Nothing moved. Nothing lived. In the 20 or so hours without the sun, the temperatures had dropped low enough to kill everything on the surface. He would have loved to study how the drop occurred so fast, and he might have all the time in the world. In fact, he had the only time in the world. On January 1st, 2014, the sun did not rise, and time stopped. And so did the world, and with it, the human race. Mark wasn't sure who had the worse fate, the death by fire or ice on the surface, or his own, spiraling endlessly around the doomed planet until he careened through the atmosphere to meet his own maker...

On the morning of January 1st, 2014, the sun does not rise.

"I killed my mother... My siblings. They could have been cured. How can I live with myself anymore? I no longer have any family. Maybe that's what I deserve, to be alone now." Nikolai tangled his fingers in his hair and pulled as he paced back and forth in his bedroom, in the small apartment. It was the middle of the night, but the guilt had ridden him of any sleep for the past few days. "I thought I was doing them a favor... I... Do I deserve to live any longer?" Nikolai stopped and looked at his nightstand. Inside it was the handgun he used to slay the zombie-fied family he once had. "They wouldn't want me to do that... They'd want me to be happy and try to carry on the family name... right?" Nikolai sat down on the edge of his bed, tears welling up in his eyes before spilling over and landing on the wood floor. "I... I'll. I don't know what to do." Nikolai hit his bed and yelled out "Fuck!" He threw himself back on his bed and yelled out the profanity a few more times before he finally cried himself to sleep. It was a deep sleep filled with nightmares and oddities. Nikolai awoke the next day with the sun shining through his curtains. The sun rose another day, even after what he did. "I'm not the big picture here... I'm just a tiny speck. Maybe my purpose is to carry on with my guilt. I don't know... But I know at least I can't end my life."

Zombie apocalypse breaks out in known universe, enthusiasts and those who had prepared go crazy, killing all infected on site. A cure is discovered and all the infected could have been saved. How do people deal with it?

"This is Earth Prime. Earth Alpha are you there? Please come in." "This is Earth Alpha, though we thought we were going to be Earth Prime. Over." There was an awkward silence. Prime Marcus Bonham, representative of Earth Prime cleared his throat. "Well we can sort that all out later. Earth Alp-" "Yes we can." "I'm sorry?" Prime Marcus asked. "Yes we can sort all that out later. Who gets to be Earth Prime and all that. Anyway, please continue." Prime Marcus was flustered. "Alright then, eh, greetings Earth Alpha. I am Marcus Bonham, or Prime Marcus Bonham, as I suspect that there is anoth-" "Yes" sighed Alpha representative Douglas Haberford, "We know. We've got our own Marcus Bonham. We're not stupid, you know? Every thought you've had, we've probably had too." Prime Marcus Bonham was shocked. He didn't know what to say. "Well would you like to take over then?" he asked. "Oh no, no, no. Go ahead. It's just that we wanted to be the first ones to instigate contact. But your Earth managed it, it's only fair that your Earth gets to start off. Please, go on. I'm Douglas Haberford by the way. *Alpha* Douglas Haberford." Prime Marcus Bonham was too stunned to register how annoyed he was and too annoyed to register how stunned he was. "Well, I think we best start off by establishing the differences between our universes. I have a list here of the 1,000 most important historical events to occur in our universe. I suppose you do t-" "Yes we do. Obviously. So we should read them to each other and see what the difference is? Is that it?" Now Prime Marcus Bonham was definitely more annoyed than stunned. "Look, is this about the whole Prime thing? Because we can talk about that later?" "No, no" asserted Alpha Douglas Haberford in a tone that suggested he certainly agreed with him. "It's not the Prime thing. It's the cockiness thing. Your universe thinks it's so great because it established contact first. God damn, this is going to be a mistake making contact." "Alright that's it. I've had enough of your shit" Prime Marcus Bonham roared. "Y'know what your universe is? The asshole universe. A universe filled with assholes. Go fuck yourself asshole universe! Oh, and by the way, in our universe, Hannibal crossed the Himalayas on elephant back. That's right, on the backs of **fucking elephants**!" And with a click, Prime Marcus Bonham was gone. In the control booth on Earth Alpha, Alpha Stephanie Windbaum looked at Alpha Major Ben Djenn. "Did we really need to pick Doug as our representative? He's the biggest asshole on Earth." Alpha Major Benn Djenn corrected her. "He's the *only* asshole on Earth. Now we don't have to share our free caramel prostitutes." Alpha Stephanie Windbaum gasped. "So it was all a trick?" she asked. "Of course" came the reply. "Did you think we were going to share our bountiful resources with such a puny race? Crossing the Himalayas with elephants?" Alpha Stephanie Windbaum giggled. "That did seem rather silly. I can't imagine living with an elephant instead of my golden tyrannosaurus."

Earth is sucked into a parallel universe through a worm hole. There are now two earths in orbit around the sun. Contact between the two planets are established.

I first noticed something was wrong when the my Internet connection went down. I was sitting at home, and in an instant it simply cut off. Of course, I didn't think much of it, and I asked my dad if he knew what was going on. "I'm not sure," he said, "it's been acting up lately and I turned it off. It'll probably be down for awhile until I can fix it." Annoyed, I looked to my mobile phone. I wasn't allowed to use if for internet browsing, I didn't have the data, so I figured that I would watch TV instead. My mother saw me reaching for the remote, and instantly contested. "You can't use the TV right now, We're... changing our service and we'll get charged if you use it." I grew increasingly annoyed, but did not contest much. I might as well play video games anyways. The first time I felt that they were hiding something is when I noticed my father getting the newspaper the next day, and throwing it straight in the trash. I asked him about it, but said he saw the neighbors dog pee on it, so I chose not to question his actions. I kept passing these things off as simply weird, but then they kept me home from school. "We heard there was a gas leak at school, so we're keeping you home for today." Stated my dad. I went to my room, and called my friend to confirm the news. "Umm, your dad said there was a gas leak? Yeah, there's definitely a leak here, don't come to school!" Despite my friend backing my father, I could distinctly hear other people around him, as if he were at school himself. Though, I couldn't argue against having a day off, so I decided I would go for a walk. My mother met me at the door as I began to slip on my shoes. "Where are you going?" "For a walk, I might as well if I have some free time." She became flustered. "Don't go outside, there's... a fire nearby, it smells and it's smokey!" I looked out the window, and could see the cumulus clouds miles away. "There's no way, it looks pretty clear to me. Why do you want to keep me inside?" She was at a loss for words now, and she called to my dad for backup. He walked in, and my mother explained my intentions. My father scowled, narrowing his lips. "Son, please don't go outside. We'll explain later, but for now it'd be better if you stayed here." I felt confused and upset. My parents weren't the type to hide things from me so blatantly, so I sighed and went to my room. When I knew they weren't aware, I snuck out the window and went for my walk. I had no reason to believe there was anything to fear of simply going outside. I walked past the school and further past, and the people who saw me looked to each other and began to whisper. It was unsettling, so I picked up my pace. I walked into the drugstore to grab a snack, and as I stood in line, I saw it in the newspaper. The headline read: **God's Existence Proven, List Given of Those Who Will Enter Heaven** As I read on, they stated that all people on Earth would be allowed into the realm of the afterlife, but a single name was given that had not been present on the list. The name they gave was mine. ---- Edit: Changed headline phrase

The entire world has a secret that one man is not allowed to know.

He looked out at those gathered. Suddenly, they all seemed weak, helpless, himself included. They had grappled incredible villains, tangled with impossible odds, but this... this was the hardest thing any of them had been through, the one thing they had somehow thought could never happen. They sat in clear groups: an old man and a young one, an old woman, and of course Lois, all lost in their own grief. A few faces he didn't recognize. Diana had managed the invitations; where he had known the hero, she had known the man. Then, of course, there was the main group, all huddled together for support while trying to remain apart at the same time, to hold onto a dignity that no longer mattered. It was almost disturbing to see them like that, all in black, all so uncertain. They had known the risks. Really, they had. But of all of them, *he* had always seemed invincible, inviolate. Of all of them, he had held the group together, though they had only now realized how much. Now, he laid still in a box, and the world trembled for what might happen next. Standing at the podium, feeling much too small, the man noted the three empty chairs. He hadn't expected them to show; they each needed to work through it on their own, no doubt. He also noted the quiet. No one tried to attack them, nothing brought word of a problem elsewhere. It appeared even their enemies had held back today, to honor their fallen adversary. He sighed, trying and failing to maintain his composure, and spoke. "Today, we say good... goodbye... to a man none of us ever really knew. We never knew where he came from, what his life was really like. But we knew one thing." He paused to take a breath, to steady his hands on the podium. "We knew he was our friend. And looking out at everyone here, it's clear to me now... that that was all we ever needed to know." He pulled a single rose from inside the podium and laid it carefully on the coffin, over his dear friend's heart. He stared at the box, and the symbol engraved in stone before it. It was almost fitting, he thought. No name, just the symbol. The man had always been more hero than human. He looked up at the other mourners, the same symbol on every black breast, and he put a hand to his own, smiling in spite of himself. As the coffin lowered into the earth, his fingers traced the stylized outline of a bat, black on black, just the way Bruce would have wanted it.

The death of a Superhero. If you can, wait until the end to reveal the Superhero.

If my mother could see me, she'd be smacking me for rolling my eyes, but thankfully there was an ocean between us. "Yeah mom, yeah. I got it." I nod uselessly into the phone, muttering "yeah" and "uh-huh" until finally I caught her between breaths, "So ma! I got a question! Not sure if you'd remember, but..." I look at the back of the photo in my hand, "Do you remember where we had gone on the fourth of July in 1988?" My mother had to switch gears from nagging to thinking, but somewhere along the way she ended up at worrying. "There's nothing wrong, ma. Yeah, I know that's a long time ago, ma. I just really want to know, okay? Yes, everything's fine. Just - Can you just - Can you just tell me what you remember from the fourth of July in 1988?" The beach, she says, we went to the beach. I mumble a thanks and hang up even as she starts off on another tirade about my hair. I look at the picture again; a boy and a girl at the beach, hugging over a sand castle, their cheeks pressed against one another so hard their grins smush together. I recognize them both. The boy is me, age eight. And the girl... My fiance sits next to me on the couch, throwing her arm over my shoulder and planting a kiss on my cheek, "Food's gonna be ready in a bit, sweetie." I don't even look at her. Every muscle is tight and I sit there like a stone. My fiance giggles, "Don't be so nervous, my parents will love you." I sneak a glance at her and her lips blossom into a smile immediately. Her bright hazel eyes are like sparks of gold and they're alight with laughter. "Honestly, I had no idea you were so nervous to meet my parents." She blushes, taking some unsaid compliment and hugs me closer, "Don't worry, it'll be fine." Her warm brown hair rubs against my chin and I can smell the ocean breeze. Her head still resting on my chest, I hold the photo up for her to see. "This is a nice photo." I say mechanically, "Is that you?" She lifts her head and takes the photo, "Hah, yeah. This was so long ago, I barely remember it." Her smile gets mischievous, "Don't be jealous, but I think I had a crush on this boy." "Oh yeah?" I lean in and point to the boy in the picture, "That's me." "No!" She looks at me and then back down at the picture, "No! No way!" Her face gets redder by the second, "Oh my god, no way!" "Yes." "Oh my god!" Her other smiles were beautiful, but this one was just uncontrollable giddiness, "Oh my god, this is fate isn't it! Oh my god, I have to show my parents." She starts to get up, but I grab her hand. "That girl in the picture," I slowly pull the photo from her finger tips, "That girl is my sister." "Wh-" "My sister is dead." I stare at the photo, wondering how I didn't realize it sooner. "She got hit by a car a couple months after this photo was taken." She's not smiling anymore. My eyes meet hers and for the first time, they're not full of love and laughter, but something else entirely. "Who are you?"

I'm visiting/meeting my fiance's parents for the first time and looking through their old family vacation photos, when I realize a familiar face in the background of each. It is mine.

***This got way longer than I meant it to. I was just getting to the aliens, but I'm too tired. If anybody likes it I'll keep writing tomorrow. UPDATE: Ha! This is awesome, thanks everybody who upvoted or commented! I'm working on more now! UPDATE 2: I'm losing steam! Here's the rest for today. I'll try to add on tomorrow. Sorry for the length. Dad was not a big man. Neither was he a strong man. He was a simple man at most. He liked few things and disliked most, and no matter how he felt about something, he was sure of it. As much as I fought it, I got most all I got now from dad. I got his stature, I got most of his views, I got love for drink, and I got a penchant for war. I wasn't born a fighter. Growing up, dad being who he was, I ran from violence. I hated guns, I hated war, I hated fighting. I hated my dad. School was bad. My family was from a small town. Me and my mom had a reputation. People knew who he was. It's funny, people can be a lot like dad. They know what they like and what they don't like, and nothing's gonna change their mind. Whether they loved us or hated us, people in town were sure of how they felt, and those feeling weren't diluted around us. Life is confusing. I remember the first time I was saluted. I was five? Six? I had dad's watch then, so must've been six. Me and mom were at the grocery store coming out. He was a legless from the knees down. He was wearing a hat over his white hair that said Afghanistan on it, surrounded with stars and stripes and eagles. When he saw us come out the automatic doors he stopped his scooter and saluted us. I had never seen a man no legs. I tried to look at his eyes, but I couldn't stop staring at the stumps. I couldn't wrap my head around it. Why was he saluting? What happened to his legs? I reached for my moms dress and hid my face in it. The man laughed. "You're a good boy yeah? You're gon' Grow up big and strong like your father yeah?" I didn't know. He seemed to know dad better than me. "Well, God bless you and your family ma'am, I do mean it." I stayed buried till I could hear the electric buzz of the man's scooter passing. The white stars on my mom's blue dress held up to my face, the world became clear, a jagged black and white. There was a bad feeling that grew in me that day I was never able to shake. That grey old man was one of the good ones. It got real bad after the bombs in one-sixty. The war had be going on for 9 years then and was not popular. My father ended it that year. We know now the death toll was a high. Not just in Mexico but in the states too. People argue the radiation coming up over the border was responsible for millions of deaths. My dad wrote it off as liberal propaganda, but he knew. I could see it in his eyes. I don't know if even he knew he knew, but I know he did. The day he did it I was at my best friend Thomas's tenth birthday party. He had just opened my present to him, a new headset for our favorite gaming system. I'd had one for a while, and now we'd be able to fight Mexico in the game together. As he pulled it out his mom got call on her mobile. She never said anything after hello, but silence was loud enough to draw the eyes of all the kids in the room. We watched her turn white. She ran out into the front yard. I followed her out. Other moms were in the street. They were pointing at their tablets. "They dropped bombs on Mexico. Oh, God, I can't believe it." "It's about Goddamn time. Enough of our boys died down there." "Jim just called me from work, I can't believe it." "It was Dallon." I heard my name, but didn't know what they were talking about. They dropped bombs on Mexico all the time, why were these special? And what did dad have to do with it? "It's about time I say, shoulda done it years ago." "You're sure?" "Yes ma'am, said so on the news." A car screeched around the corner. It was my mom. The women in the street saw the car, then looked back to the house and noticed me. Thomas mom began to cry. Behind my mom's car was a news van. An automated camera stuck out the side and followed it's prey, my mother. My mom stopped the car in the street and jumped out and grabbed me. She didn't even say hi to Thomas' mom. That scared me more than anything. A woman and a camera man jumped out of the van. "Ms. Dallon! Are you proud of your husband?" From the car I could see one of the women applauding. The other ran to my mom's window. They stared at each other. She looked angry, hurt. I had never seen my mom look the way she did then. Ashamed. Maybe even scared. After staring at my mom for a moment, the lady spit at her window. The camera caught everything. Within an hour most of the world had seen it. I reached for the hem of her dress as we drove away. Mom tried to keep me from it for as long as possible, but when I learned what my dad, the great General Dallon, was responsible for, I hated him. I couldn't understand the numbers I read really meant. There was no way I could. The child's brain, even a man's, just can't understand what those numbers mean. What death really means. The war began a bomb went off in downtown LA, nearly destroying the Library Tower. A Mexam who had been living in the states for just over a year, then bought a bomb from an underground anarchist group in LA. On the 13th floor of the Library Tower, with bomb in backpack, Mauricio Feliz officially started the war. It was the first attack that day, many more occurring in big cities across the states. In a video that was put online just after, Mr. Feliz stated that he was doing this to avenge the death of his family, who's life had been taken by American drone attacks back in Mexico. He said the Government denied the attacks, and this was the only way he could bring awareness to them, and justice to his family. When the war began, a little over a third of the US considered themselves Mexican Americans. It had been that way for years, since the market crash of oh-twenty-two, then again in oh-eighty-seven, and Mexico's large investment in renewable energy that ended up paying off, living conditions between the two countries had more or less equalized. Naturally, the war created between Mexam's and the rest of the country. Since the beginning of the war, Mexam's had been treated badly as it was. Dad said he fought against these things, and I believe him. It started softly, quietly at first, as most persecution does. First, there was just an interview with a Government agent. The official reason for this was to make sure they felt safe in the community, but it was clear based on the questions that the larger reason for this was to assess whether or not they were a threat to the states. There was no hiding, the government knew everything about us then. We gave up everything they needed online, there was no question of who was who, and where they were. In oh-fifty-three they began moving Mexam families into, "Protected Communities". Again, the official statement was that it was for their safety, but everyone knew. I remember the family that lived across from us being escorted out of their home in the middle of the night. People lined up as families were escorted in, some in protest of the change, others to celebrate it. I didn't understand it then, and the bordered up house across the street became was just a part of life over the next few years. It's funny what we can learn to accept when someone in charge tells us it's okay. It's funny how people forget. But still, it was peaceful. The housing was free, and there were jobs within the community. They were also free to leave when they wanted, but there was full body scans in and out, to make sure contraband stayed out. It remained like that for years, people grew comfortable where they were. Inside the Protects, as they were called, Mexams made homes, and communities, and waited for the war to end. Outside, people justified the persecution of a group with public safety, or just straight racism. Think of the lives it's saving, and no one's dying, they'd say at dinner. It was better for everyone they'd say. Plus, you think those animals know the difference, they'd whisper under there breath, then stifle a laugh. Those that spoke up, in town, or online, would often receive random audits, and often were often found doing something wrong. Or, there internet provider would suddenly no longer be able to provide service to that house. Most stayed quiet until oh-sixty, when the bombs dropped. Mexam's watched live feeds of the bombs. They watched videos posted by people there. They watched entire cities wiped out. It was inevitable that there would be violence, of course, but they never predicted the size. With the end of a war in Mexico, a new one sprang up in the hole it left. Civil war. The bombs had wiped out Mexico's army, but within the Protects, an underground resistance had been growing for years, building in arsenal, biding it's time to attack. It's funny, the states gave them all the cover, all the support they needed. The states gathered the army, The Mexams just got the weapons. When the bombs dropped, they struck, with the fury. Understandably, my dad was one of the targets on a list of the Mexam's kill list. They made it clear there goal was not to kill civilians, but only those responsible for the attacks. After my mom picked me up from Thomas's party, we drove straight to a local hospital. Already, screaming men were being brought it. Men with lost limbs, with faces gone. It was the first time I saw a dead person in real life. I could see it in their eyes. No one told me what a dead man's eyes looked like, but I knew it when I see it. He must've been 26. Blue eyes. A handsome kid in a police uniform. He was missing a his left arm and a lot more. I understood the man who saluted me all those years again now. Like a shark had taken a bite out of him, swallowing his shoulder and his chest, all the way down to his sternum. He wouldn't stop staring at me, so I his my face in mom's dress the rest of the rest of the way. I couldn't see them but I could hear the men dying. We climbed stairs what seemed like forever. I didn't open them till I could feel the cold air of the outside. I opened my eyes to see a helicopter. We were hurried on by men in military uniforms. On the helicopter I rested my head on mom's shoulder as we flew over the mess of war below us. I remember the watching the explosions from below. "Don't be scared sweetie, we're going to be with dad now." I wasn't scared though. Just confused. That bad feeling rose to take the forefront in my mind, and my heart. War went on like that for years. I didn't see any of it. We lived in a bunker below ground with families of other elite military generals. I hated my dad. I missed my life. I hated my dad. I hated him for what he did, and I hated him for damning me to a life below ground. In school, there was a class of five. The education was great, but history we learned nothing but of the great and heroic actions of the US. I knew it was slighted, and rebelled against it. Ironically, I got to see my dad more now. Family dinner was a must once a week. I complied, but I hated it. Trapped down there with him, I didn't openly rebel, but I made it clear I wasn't happy. I didn't speak to him except when he asked me a question. He would try to ask me something about my day, to which I would respond with the most minimal polite response. Once excused I would go to my room and stay there till I could hear them go to sleep. In one-sixty-eight, I left on my 18th birthday. In the hallway leading out of the bunker my mom cried, and I admit, seeing her cry made me question my choice. "Sweetie, please don't go. Please don't." I told her I was sorry. I hadn't seen her cry before. After everything, this is what made her cry. I wondered if I should stay. I reached for the frilly hem of her dress, and slid the smooth silk under my fingers as I thought. Just then dad strode down the hall. "Junior, what are you doing?" For everything that dad had done, it hadn't made him any harder, any scarier. He was a small built man. Not in the pictures you'd find online, but in person, he looked almost fragile. Even at 18, I looked down on him. When I saw him, I dropped mom's dress. "I'm leaving." "You don't need to go. Stay down here a little longer. Just a few months." "No, I can't stay here any more. I need to go. I hope you guys understand but I'm leaving either way." "Junior, come on." He reached out his hand, but before he could reach my should I smacked it like a fly, buzzing in my face to long. "No." I pushed him hard in the chest. He stumbled back a few steps before catching his step. Mom reached for him. "No no no no no. I'm going." I kissed mom on the cheek, looked at dad for the last time, then made my way outside. "Derek wait." She tore the bottom of the her dress, and tore it again, and gave me a square of her dress, a few inches wide, and few inches long. "Just keep it with you." -------- When the Rigels came, the came quickly and devastatingly. They had weapons we had never seen before. They killed with a poisonous touch and an ability to disguise themselves. Not just physically, but mentally as well. They had the ability to cloud our ability our perception, making things that would normally be dead giveaways seem normal. There is equipment to counter it, but it's expensive, and most can't afford it. That's how they were able to strike before we knew they even existed. They watched studied. They knew the most powerful military among the humans was the American's, so that's what they destroyed first. I woke up in the middle of the night. The feeling was worse than it had ever been. Worse even after the bombs in one-sixty. I was terrified, but didn't know why. I pulled out my tablet and refreshed the news. There it was. I knew it'd be there before I saw it. There had been an attack on the underground barracks that I grew up in. Not an attack, a demolition. And they believed it was extraterrestrial. Mom and dad were dead. I laid in bed the rest of the night awake. I didn't know what to do. I had spent the last twelve years trying to erase my past. I was a teacher now, I was happy. I had changed my last name, trying to avoid any connection to the controversial Dallon name. In my free time I would protest the Civil War. I taught my students that war was never the right way. But what now? Even to me, it was clear the Rigels had no intention to come peacefully. Just then there was a knock at my door. I opened the door to reveal a tall, blonde man in a black pea coat and wearing gloves. "I'm sorry, I know it's late." It was very late. "I came as quickly as I could... There was no time to dress." "You came from the barracks?" "Yes, it's your parents. I have bad news" "I already know." It was odd. I had never known this man, I thought I knew everybody at the barracks. And why wasn't he in uniform? During a time of war, military men always were in the colors, never street clothes. Even sleeping there was a uniform. Strange, but stranger things have happened. "May I come in." "Sure." He barely even waits for an answer. I smiled as he passed. I asked if he wanted a drink. He did. I got him one, and we sat. "You're dad is a great man." He was, I answered. "You want to be like him. Join the army. Yes?" I told him no, not really. "You sure?" I told him I was, I told him I didn't like war. "Even with your father's death?" The bad feeling rose in me again. It had been gone since the man came, but it began to creep back. I asked what his name was again. "Oh, I never said." All the sudden, nothing felt right. I asked him what his name was, where he lived in the barracks, why he wasn't in uniform. He smiled coldly, and begin to take off his glove, starting with his index finger. "You're family is dangerous." He loosened the middle finger. "You claim you're nothing like your dad..." The ring finger. "...but I can see more of you than you know." The pinky. "You are dangerous too." Then the thumb. "You see things differently than others." He then pulled off the rest of the leather glove to reveal glossy black skin underneath, like a polished leather and long fingers. Longer than they had looked in the glove. I backed into the couch in horror. "Right, right, we can't hide the hands. That's why we have the gloves." He stood up. He looked so tall now. He held out his hand toward me, and began to approach. I froze in fear, shaking, unable to move, to run. Within a foot of my face, I could smell his hand now. It was putrid. He was going for my neck. Just as he was about to reach me, sirens began to wail outside my apartment. Red and blue lights filled the room. He looked the window, then back at me and smiled. "Derek Dallon, fate seems to be on your side tonight. No bother." He walked calmly down the hall in the opposite direction of the sirens. The officer's said they had been warned that I might be in danger, came as soon as they could. ----- The next morning, I signed up for active duty. The Second Civil War ended the moment the barracks was hit. The line of volunteers was long, filled with Mexams and non-Mexams alike. The men who had been fighting not a day before, coming to trade enemies. In line I could hear whispers of death, beyond the barracks. Other military installations across the world had been hit. Whole families dead in their homes. I knew that was supposed to be my fate. My insides squirmed when I thought of the tall blonde man. When the man checking people in heard my name, he saluted. I thought of my father. I thought of the man outside the store. I thought of war. This show of respect so long I dreaded, and hated. A sign of respect shown to those responsible for death. But now, it was my parents, and the enemy wasn't human. When my name was heard, I was enlisted quickly, and I rose quickly. I skipped bootcamp and immediately entered a leadership position. Because of my father's reputation, I was treated like the savior. There were many leadership positions that were emptied during the first attack, and they needed to be filled immediately. As a captain, we received news that the borders between countries were being dissolved, and we'd be joining forces with all the other major armies in the world. Including Mexico.

Circa 2200. An alien species has almost conquered the entire galaxy. Only humans, who have five planets, stand in their way.

I take it you've felt a gust of wind on your cheek, at some point in your life? I'm thinking, must of been a beautiful summers day just standing around, drinking in the beauty of the world. Must of been real nice. Tell me, you ever felt a gust of wind from a harpoon whistling past your eye? Because I have. I can't stop pedalling, or I will die. I tell myself this and I tell my son the exact same, but I haven't heard a peep from him. I tell myself that the damp warmth on my back is just drool, he's just sleeping, he's okay. But I can't look back and check, lest I lose my way and our lives. But, I hear something now. It's another person, someone else is here; but I have no idea where he is. What he's saying though, I can't...he's commentating...on me? I can't be sure for certain, my focus is divided between avoiding harpo- THWWWIIIIIPPP Shit, shit, shit SHIT MY BACK, WHY IS HE LAUGHING WHY WON'T HE HELP ME- SCHLIIIIIICK I can't feel my son behind me, where is he, WHERE IS MY SON? I stop, the harpoons seemed to have been spent. I turn my head and what I see I cannot fathom. My boy, my little soldier; gored like wild game. Not my son, not my son, why him, WHY HIM? But, I can still hear that person. That bastard...he's laughing. No, not laughter. More...a chuckle, like my father when I told him an unfunny joke. Shortly after, the chuckling subsides and he begins muttering, apologising; not to me, however, but to 'Bros'. Who are these 'Bros'? What do they want with me? "Alrightie bros, looks like the game's frozen. Damn you happy wheels, you little shit: hold on a second bros, just gonna reboot. Catchya in a sec, bros!"

A video game protagonist of your choice can suddenly hear the person Let's Playing their game halfway through the story.

"Just calm down, son, and put the gun away before you do something you regret." He look at me with kind, blue eyes. Eyes that a father should look at his son with. Slightly weary with age, they were the eyes that should have been there to read me bedtime stories, or look at me with pride when I graduated high school. But they were not. These were the blue eyes that used to glare in his drunken rage. These blue eyes that could silence my mother with a gaze. He held out an open hand to me smiling. But all I could see were the fists that he had raised in anger countless times before I ran away. And I never did graduate high school. Even though he called me son, I knew he didn't recognize me. How could he with the ski mask on? I knew it was him, though. I still saw his face in all my nightmares, and every day in the waking hell that I lived. The store clerk looked back and forth between us uncertainly. The old man never looked away. Involuntarily my eyes began tearing up, mixing with the sweat running down my face under the stuffy cotton mask. My clothes stuck to my chest, I felt hot, I couldn't breathe. This wasn't supposed to happen. I turned the gun on the old man. "How-" my voice choked in my throat and I had to cough. "How much money do you have?!" My voice cracked. Then I saw it. My eyes. Not his. Mine. I had blue eyes just like his. But mine were neither kind nor angry. They were frightened. Every time I looked in the mirror, I saw my frightened eyes. When I was a child, my eyes were frightened. Even in school, my eyes were frightened. I would see them every time I went to the bathroom to clean myself up after getting beaten up. When I turned 16, I ran away. I was still frightened. What could an uneducated teenager do? Drugs. But drugs couldn't make the fear go away. They could put a mask on over my face, not like this cotton ski mask, but they could put a human mask on my inhuman face and for a little bit I could pretend I was normal. But they couldn't hide the fear. So I finally saw it. The fear in his eyes when I turned the gun on him. "I said, how much fucking money do you have!" My voice didn't crack. I had my confidence back. Even though there wasn't a mirror, I knew he was seeing in me for the first time what I saw in him for the first 16 years of my life. Anger. "It... it doesn't have to be this way... you're still young, you have a family that cares-" He began, his voice trembling. I smashed open a jar of jelly beans on the counter with the gun. "No I don't!" I screamed. "No I don't! They don't care! They don't care... they don't even know... fuck you, fuck you, fuck you." I was losing it. I was losing the anger. Fuck. How did he stay so god damn mad all the time? It's so much to hold on to. "They do, son. They care about you. You should put the gun down, and just go home." He smiled at me. "I'll pay for the jelly beans myself, just... just don't do anything you'll regret." Fuck you. "Do you have a family? Do you have a family you care about?" I jabbed my gun at his smiling, relaxed face. "Huh?!" I was an only child. When I was 14, my father beat my mother so bad she was hospitalized. She claimed it was a gang of youths. No one bought it, but no charges were pressed. After all, you can't force a victim to press charges. Shortly after being released from the hospital, she took me into her room. She said it wasn't his fault. His father was the same way, and his father before that. It was a vicious cycle that he just couldn't break. She asked me to promise her to be the one to stop it. I said yes. Of course. What else could I do? Shortly after that, she took her own life. The old man shook his head sadly. "No. I don't." I turned the gun on myself.

A man robs a store and finds his dad is one of the shoppers.

"Number four billion, three hundred and four million, eight hundred and twenty two thousand, six hundred and eleven." Yet another number droned out over the immense waiting room. A greasy man, middle aged, shuffled to his feet somewhere in the rear. Hank was his name. Looking over his file, nothing particularly remarkable came to fruition. Just another seeking a temporary reprieve from the reality of life. Hank tottered his way to the front of the room. For what seemed like an hour, the sounds of his footsteps echoed in the room of souls. But it was okay. The wisdom and patience of eons were brought to bear each week. Hank presented himself on the podium. Shaking, he raised his eyes, squinting despite there being no great source of light. No matter how hard he tried, Hank couldn't meet a gaze. "State your request." The voice boomed out over the crowd, coming from nowhere and everywhere simultaneously. Hank jumped. He was a slightly thing. Looking over the file, it was easy to tell why. Hank had lost his fortunes after the market crashed in America. The rags hanging from his frame told the story. "I... I would only like a new pair of shoes... the ones I had were stolen. Working is difficult now, and I need to provide for my family... please help me..." The man was on his knees, pleading. It considered the request. It didn't take long. The line had to be thinned out. In any case, the answer had always been the same. Hank's existence was predestined. Let alone a request for shoes. "No." The voice boomed out across the room like a cannon. With a puff and a tear, Hank's form vanished. * "Number four billion, three hundred and four million, eight hundred and twenty two thousand, six hundred and twelve."

In a world where God takes an active part in human life, and is omnipotent to the point where he can, essentially, grant wishes, people must present their cases for why God should help them regardless of how greedy, necessary, sad, pointless, or evil their requests in a weekly public forum.

(This seem like some Sword Art Online stuff right here. This is my first time I ever posted on this sub...feel free to critique me or anything! I would appreciate it a lot.) "Damn it, help me!" cried Jess as she slashed away the goblin who fell in front of her. "Uh...I got it!" cried Steve as he pointed his wand like staff at Jess. The moment he did so, a green like aura produced around Jess; the scratches and cuts on her body instantly regenerating. "How the hell did I do that..." he whispered, looking at his wand in amazement. "What the hell are you doing? Help me?!" cried Jess as her eyes widened at seeing another squad of goblins; four precisely. Despite fighting for four hours, she knew she had to keep on fighting...she must. She charged at the squad head on, holding a shield, a shield she had looted from her one of her previous dead enemies, in front of her chest via her left forearm. Seeing that Steve had healed her before and had her back now, she, partially, threw caution into the wind as she clenched the hilt of her blade that was in her right hand. "Ahhh!" she exclaimed, dismembering the arm of the first goblin that stood in her way; instantly killing him. The goblin that stood behind the now dead goblin took a jab at her with his dagger. Fortunately, this proved to be useless due to the sturdy shield guarding Jess. Using this moment to her advantage, she stabbed the said goblin with her sword through his abdomen. The instant kill proved to be successful until she tried to pull her sword out from the dead carcass. For some odd reason or another, it remained budged in there. As the seconds ticked on, Jess realized that she was now vulnerable on the right side. "Shit..." she muttered, eyeing the other goblin who began to thrust his blade into her right side's direction. She closed her eyes, seeing that there was nothing she could do. She lived her life to the fullest, only to be thrown into a random situation like this (thanks OP). "DIE!" the goblin cried aloud, using the only English word he knew. Then it happened. In a split second, an arrow flew by, impaling the goblin through his forehead; the green monster falling on the floor instantly. "One down, one more to go..." whispered Elana, with bow in hand and her right eye squinting at the final goblin in the squad as she stood several feet away from him. She retrieved another arrow from her bag and prepared for one final shot. Unfortunately for her, the final goblin would combust in flames; screaming bloody murder...because it was. "Oh yeah! Add one more to my kill streak!" exclaimed Jake, grinning cockily as his hands glowed a red hue due to previously shooting out a red fire bolt at the now dead goblin. "Oh you fucking kill stealer! Ugh!" pouted Elana as she looked away in disgust, "I perfectly had that thing in my sights...I'm getting used to this!" "This isn't a fucking game!" cried Jess, breaking the brief celebration. "We've been here for four hours...how the hell did we get here? I don't know...but we have to find a way out...NOW!" She walked to the dead goblin with the sword lodged through his abdomen. Placing her hand on the hilt, she pulled it out with a bit of might before eyeing the path ahead. "C'mon...we have to press on. El and Jake, guard our flanks! Steve, stop being such a pussy! C'mon!" she said, barking orders as she began to move once more, headstrong as she was. "Uh...y-yeah. Okay.." mumbled Steve who arose from the ground, stumbling as he took his first steps. Due to his novice skill, healing Jess took a lot out of him; his stamina was at dangerously low levels. But he didn't care. Hell, he didn't matter if he died for her. He would do anything for the girl he had a crush on. edit: grammar and stuff

Four people who have never played an RPG are thrown into a real-life dungeon crawl.

Someone had blasted a hole through the bank wall. This was the third time this week. I was getting real tired of this shit. I stepped through the rubble. No bodies. That was nice, it meant less paperwork. You do this job for forty years and you'll learn to hate paperwork. They probably had hostages though. Bank robbers always felt the need for hostages. There was something distinctly Hollywood about holding a gun to someone''s head. The bank lobby was empty. A bright light on the wall flashed in rhythm with the alarm. The police would be here soon, just not soon enough. I walked past the desk. The vault lay in the back of the bank. It was suburban bank. The security was less than ideal. I stopped in my tracks. Stairs. Of course there was stairs. I counted at least ten of the bastards. Down below, I could hear the bank robbers laughing and cursing. Oblivious to the consequences of their actions. Oblivious to the concept of justice. Preparing myself for my journey down, I didn't see the thief sneak up behind me. He swung at me with the butt of his gun, missing my head. Instead the blow landed on my shoulder, it was cushioned by my armor. It still hurt. I swung my elbow back at him, but he quickly ducked out of the way. Speed was a blessing of the youth. Turning around fists at the ready, I stopped in my tracks. His gun was pointed at my head. A sinister smile poked through the hole in his ski mask. He pulled the trigger. Or at least he tried to. The idiot had forgotten to switch off the safety. He looked at his gun in confusion. Experience is the blessing of the old. I ran at him, kicking the gun away. It flew across the room. Pain. My body had contorted at an angle other seventy year old men have nightmares about. I keeled over as what felt like fire blazed down my spine. Years of saving of world had left my body broken or bruised on more than one occasion. This type of lifestyle was catching up to me in my twilight years. I could feel tears drip my down my face. The criminal stared at my body as I writhed around on the floor. A well place kicked sent me skidding into a nearby wall. I cursed at my body for betraying me. I cursed at a high risk job that offered low pay, terrible hours, and practically no benefits, not all of us can be billionaires. I cursed at the old man that didn't know when to quit. The kid sauntered up to me, fists clench in preparation. I cringed. This was not going to end well. My hand brushed up against something cold and metal. The gun. I turned to see the gun mere inches from my head. What the hell... I grasped it and turned over, barrel pointing straight at the punk's head. His eyes widened in fear. I fired twice. His body crumpled to the floor. Blood began to leak out onto the bank's marble floor. Down below I could hear his cohorts begin to shout in confusion. They must have heard the gunshots. I pushed myself to my feet and limped out the door. They were someone else's problem. The police were just now arriving. Commissioner Wells was barking orders through a bullhorn. He smiled as I approached. "Ah, good to see you. I trust the situation is under control." His voice was far too chipper for my liking. "Nope." His eyes furrowed in confusion. "Where are the criminals?" "Probably still in the bank." I shrugged. "Doing what? "It's hard to know for sure, but I suspect they may be robbing it." I hobbled away. "Where are you going?" The commissioner yelled after me. "To get a drink."

You are a disgruntled super hero who hates his job

It takes all your poise to keep from joining Larry again in the bathroom. By now the toilet, the bathtub and the kitchen sink reek. His retching echoes through the apartment as you're sitting on the hard lumpy futon with Mop Head, whose own mother calls him that, smoking the strongest pot you've got left to help ease the nausea and the wild headaches. You think it helps but there's no telling. It feels like someone's drilling holes in your head. "Must have been the shawarma we got afterwards," he says. "Fuck, don't even bring it up." Mop Head takes a huge hit and passes the bong. "So what do we do with the stuff?" you ask. He exhales, closing his eyes. "The payload?" Fuck off, you think, as the water under you gurgles. "Yeah," you say, sending a stream of smoke towards the ceiling. He cradles the bong back in his crossed lap. "We wait for the right buyer," he says. "What are we even selling?" "Something good," he shrugs. Larry stumbles into the living room, both hands clamping his head. He sways like you're on a boat. "Feels like something took a shit inside me." "I was just saying it must have been the shawarma we got after..." "Screw the shawarma, man. I said don't bring it up." "It's not the shawarma," says Larry, "It's that fucking thing outside." He lets go of his head to point through the sheet-thin wall, where the truck currently resides. "We have to get rid of it." "We can't until we find a buyer." "All this shit started when we stole that truck, man. Don't tell me you want to sit on it any more than I do. There's shit in my sink, man!" "Correlation, not causation," Mop Head says. "Just because it started around the same time doesn't mean it's what caused it. I say it was the shawarma. The chicken wasn't cooked properly and we probably have salmonella." "Fuck you," Larry says for you. "I've been throwing up blood." But you can't help agree with Mop Head. It's just a crate in a truck. There's something in the crate worth a lot, worth needing guards. You don't know anything that could cause what's been happening to you and you don't believe in curses and superstitious shit like that. It's just as likely you got food poisoning. Still something about that crate doesn't seem right. "We don't even know what's in there," you say. "Maybe if we just take a look." "Don't need to," says Mop Head. "Someone'll buy it as is and we'll never have to steal anything ever again." "And you're going to find someone to sell it to smoking pot all day in this fucking apartment right?" Larry says. "You're starting to sound like my last girlfriend." "Your last girlfriend was a crack whore. Don't me tell me shit." Larry disappears into the bathroom again. Mop Head keeps puffing in peace. How he can sit there meditating like that you have no clue. You click on the TV and flip through to the news. "I don't watch the news," he says. As he goes on about how everything you watch is controlled, you don't ask why he even keeps a television and instead turn up the volume over his BS and Larry's retching. "Wait, they're talking about the thing we stole." There's a lot of pussyfooting, cycling of clips of armored squads, still-shots of the place you hijacked the truck from, and the reporter finally says what you're waiting for. "Authorities still have no leads on the current location of the radioactive material, but the search continues. Experts have confirmed however that the perpetrators who have stolen the shipment are dying or already dead. If you have any information, please call..." You get to your feet. "Did you hear that?" you say, "What the hell have you gotten us into, Mop?" You look over at the man. Some time into his mumbled conspiracy theories, he's fallen asleep. Now his mouth is open like an ashtray. Larry's tossing his guts into porcelain inside. You think distantly about taking the truck to the authorities and getting help but it's too late. "Fuck it," you say. You grab the keys of the truck and go out. Your hands are shaking on the steering wheel but not out of fear or panic. They've been doing that for hours and now you know why. You throw the car in reverse and lean out to use the rear-view. Once you're on the street, you slam the pedal and take off, driving as far into the desert as you can. The world grows lonelier. Your mind starts wandering. You stop a couple times to throw up bloodily on the side of the road. On the third you can't catch your breath for a full minute and wake up some time later with your face half-caked with dirt and half-crusted with foamy spit. Squinting into the late afternoon sky, you wipe your mouth on your sleeve and hobble back to the car to resume your endless drive. When you can't go on any longer, you pull off the highway and into the rocky dunes. Driving over tufts of weed and around wide ditches, you end up in a secluded spot and park the car. You light a cigarette and sit there, dissolving in the acid of the light, burning up and being hammered by heat and radiation and your own god damned hindsight. But you're beyond caring. You wonder if Larry and Mop Head are dead. Assholes, you think, and nod off. edit: thank you for the kind words

You and your cohorts have pulled off your heist as planned. Later, in your hideout, you see TV reports that the payload you hijacked is lethally radioactive

I stayed in bed, watching the ceiling fan spin lazily. Last night was a nice break from a long streak of restless, anxiety ridden nights. I had slept unusually well. Work had been rough recently and it had been affecting me at home. I patted my sleeping girlfriend's shoulder. Perhaps things were looking up. On the night table lay the recorder she had bought. Apparently, I snored loudly, which was absurd of course. But she had insisted on proving it. I clicked play and settle back into bed, closing my eyes. Minutes the later the sound of a miniature train horn blasted through the speakers. Goddammit. My girlfriend didn't wake up. I briefly entertained the idea of eliminated the evidence. But I knew she know. She always knows. Abruptly, the sound of my snoring stopped. I turned to see if the stupid thing was still on. It was. I could hear the sound of faint footsteps walking around the room. Strange. I didn't remember getting up last night. Suddenly, I could hear someone talking, several voices in fact. I sat straight up, rocking the bed. "These two?" A female voice asked. It was most definitely not my partner's. I stared at the tape, horrified. "Liz, wake up." I pawed at my girlfriend. She groaned, swatting my hand away. The recorder kept on playing. A heavy male voice spoke this time. "Yes. They want these two." "What for?" "Classified." "Yes. Sir." My girlfriend pulled her pillow on top of her head to muffle the noise. "Liz." I said a bit more loudly this time. "Wake up." She didn't move. "Take them." The male voice boomed. The sound of boots marching across our wooden floor was followed by something that sound horrifyingly enough like two bodies being dragged across the floor. "Sir, they have a voice recorder." It was the female again and she sounded concerned. "Whatever for?" "I don't know, sir." "Give it here." My girlfriend groaned, her voice muffled by the sound of her pillow."Turn off the T.V." The male voice spoke again. "David and Liz." Holy shit. Our own names. The man was saying our names. "I want to wish you the best of luck. You have all our hopes and prayers." He sounded as if he was almost about to cry. "Have a safe trip." The recorder stopped, the tape finished. Trip? What the hell was happening? What did he mean by trip? And then it hit me. We don't have a ceiling fan. I bolted out of bed and ran to the window. Fumbling with mechanism, I struggled to open the shades. In exasperation I just pulled them straight off their hinges. It wasn't morning at all. In fact, it was the middle of the night. Yet it was still strangely bright. I looked up in the sky and gasped. Two moons. "Liz." My voice cracked. "Goddammit. What do you want?" She was sitting up in bed, rubbing her eyes groggily. "I don't think we're on Earth any more."

You leave a voice recorder on all night while you sleep...

01010111 01100101 01101100 01101100 00101100 00100000 01100101 01110110 01100101 01110010 01111001 01110100 01101000 01101001 01101110 01100111 00100000 01110011 01100101 01100101 01101101 01110011 00100000 01110100 01101111 00100000 01100010 01100101 00100000 01110010 01110101 01101110 01101110 01101001 01101110 01100111 00100000 01110011 01101101 01101111 01101111 01110100 01101000 01101100 01111001 00101110 00001101 00001010 00001101 00001010 01001101 01100001 01111001 01100010 01100101 00100000 01101001 01110100 00100111 01110011 00100000 01110100 01101001 01101101 01100101 00100000 01110100 01101111 00100000 01110011 01101000 01100001 01101011 01100101 00100000 01110100 01101000 01101001 01101110 01100111 01110011 00100000 01110101 01110000 00100000 01100001 00100000 01100010 01101001 01110100 00101110 00100000 01001000 01101101 01101101 01101101 00101110 00101110 00101110 01101000 01101111 01110111 00100000 01100001 01100010 01101111 01110101 01110100 00100000 01110011 01101111 01101101 01100101 00100000 01100001 01110010 01110100 01101001 01100110 01101001 01100011 01101001 01100001 01101100 00100000 01101001 01101110 01110100 01100101 01101100 01101100 01101001 01100111 01100101 01101110 01100011 01100101 00111111

God gets bored.

Inter-Stellar Scouting Construct E79 could not feel the cold. Sensors indicated temperatures of well below zero and hurricane-strength winds but it had been built to withstand the most extreme conditions. Sensors did not indicate any sign of life. Since its pod had landed on this planet all the Scout had seen was white, unending snow. High levels of radiation were slowing down the connection to the Network but it would only be a matter of time. The Scout continued to trudge onwards, the crunch of the snow the only sound being made. *Connection 3%* "Location confirmation request," the Scout called out, waiting for a response from the Network. *Connection 11%* A slight buzz and crackle disguised a voice. The Scout could not make out the message. *Connection 25%* The distortion had not stopped but the response was now stronger: "Priority one planet. Priority one planet" *Connection 42%* An image of a blue planet engulfed in flame. *Connection 67%* A foreign memory invades the Scout's thoughts. A boy doodles in a classroom. The teacher speaks of the Apocalypse Wars. *Connection 88%* Millions of memories flood in. Memories of the creators. Violence, death and the dreaded sirens. *Connection 100%* "Priority one planet. Earth. Homeworld of the creators." The Scout frantically searched the network for more memories. Earth became uninhabited shortly after the colonization of planet Eden almost 15,000 years ago, that much was clear. But there was discord across the memories on who was responsible and even on what had happened. It was all irrelevant now. The din of the memory hubs on the Network quietened except for one final sentiment: "We did this to ourselves." Then there was only silence. And snow. Inter-Stellar Scouting Construct E79 felt cold.

The year 17025...

"Hel—" Barry couldn't finish for the sand in his mouth. Spitting it out, he ventured another try: "Hello?" The reply was immediate. "Oh, now you wake up. It's about damn time." The voice sounded familiar, but Barry couldn't quite put his finger on where he'd heard it before. "Do—do I know you?" He couldn't move any of his extremities, and though his eyes were open, there was some sort of cloth tied around his head blocking his vision. "We don't have time for that," the voice chimed in. "Try to get the blindfold off. Just rub the side of you head against the ground." Barry did as he was told, feeling foolish at every step of the process, but at last freed up his left eye to the harsh daylight. "What the fuck?" Barry found himself with his eyes about six inches off of the ground, and the rest of his body buried beneath. There was nothing but the occasional bright orange rock formation for as far as the eye could see, the desert stretching on for miles before him. He could feel the sun burning into his forehead, and its results were evident on the cherry-red face of the man across from him, similarly buried, blindfold to his right. As the gravity of the situation struck him, Barry's questions flowed like vomit. "How did you get here? How did *I* get here? *Who did this to us*? WHERE THE HELL ARE WE?!" The response was the last thing he wanted to hear at that moment: "Your guess is as good as mine, man. I was hoping you'd know." "Shit." This was it. He was sunk. He thought of all the things he might have done, all the women he'd yet to sleep with, all the children he might have had, running around a home he'd never have. None of this would ever happen for Barry. No, he was destined to die buried to his neck in the desert. "Wait, he's waking up! Hey! Over here!" the man across from him shouted, but he was no longer looking at Barry, instead staring about five feet past him. As Barry craned his neck back to see what the the fuss was about, he was greeted with the sound of spittle and the burning sensation of a thousand tiny grains of sand being spit into his one uncovered eye. There was a third head erupting from the desert floor. "Are—are you okay?" Barry stammered through the pain in his eye. Curt though it was, the reply put everything in perspective. "Fucking Vegas." **Edit**: In case it got lost, I named him Barry because he's buried. That wasn't an accident. I know. I'm not that clever.

You wake up blindfolded next to three strangers in the middle of the desert, you are all buried in the sand up to your head. The three of you try to remember what happened.

"In the midst of all the signals and broadcasts that get sent into space.... this... This is what got their attention. This is the reason they are here." said Johnson as he finally deciphered their cryptic language. "What is it?" Marx said with a hoarse and grave voice. "It's ...It's bad ....Isn't it" "They want more te.." A loud thump silenced Johnson as an officer rushed in from the outside. "Sir, I've got it. We were able to encode the information they gave us. It was a video. Look." The officer slapped in the USB stick into the nearest desktop. A cartoon video began to play. "Sir" said the officer. "Given their anatomy, do they think that we have come in contact with them before? I mean why else would they come here for this?" The anime showed several young girls bathing, laughing together in what seemed to be a sauna. "I was trying to tell you, sir.", Johnson said turning towards Marx, when one of the girls was taken under the water by a purple looking tentacle. "They came here for more hentai, it seems they want more tentacle porn." Edit: A word and a comma. I never thought my first story on /r/WritingPrompts would happen this way.

including first contact.

Superman is well, pretty much God. Batman is the world's greatest detective and has all the toys and gadgets that a man can want. The only guy that beats Batman in that department is Iron Man. It's too bad Iron Man is just a comic book character. What's my power? I have a healing factor that's on steroids. People think that this is a nifty power to have. What the hell do they know? Just because I can heal really fast doesn't mean that I don't feel pain, you know? Have you ever had your whole body liquefied with burning sulfur only for it to grow back in two minutes? That shit FUCKING. BURNS. Sure, the bad guys get surprised at first. But I don't have super strength. They just catch me again, tie me back up and then try to kill me in another way. And they ALL hurt. Then when they see that I just keep healing, that's when they start to get creative and start coming up with all sorts of ways to kill me. I was once tied to a bicycle with no seat and thrown off Mount Kilimanjaro. This was eight years ago and I still can't look at a bicycle without wetting myself. Green Lantern took six days to rescue me. You know what he said? "What? You can't die. I had other priorities." Fucking jackass. I used to think that I was going to fight crime. But then you know what happened? PTSD is what happened. I can't even read a book without thinking that someone is going to try to paper-cut me to death. Jesus... I still remember that night. I used to call myself Forever Man. What? Like you're more creative? Fuck you. Now people call me, well... Shitboy. No, I don't like the name. And it's what they call me, ok? I quit the superhero gig. Wouldn't you? It just so happens that I live in Gotham and do you know how many super villains there are here? LOTS, ok? You turn a corner and there's the Riddler, you turn another corner and there's Scarecrow, and you turn another corner and there's Lex Luthor, who comes by about once or twice a year. I don't know why. You'd think he's got his hands full in Metropolis. But yeah, there are lots of super villains here and it's only a matter of time before I am at the wrong place at the wrong time. So why Shitboy? Look, it's not my fault, all right? I've been killed a gazillion times and each one hurt like a motherfucker. So now, whenever I see a gun, I shit myself. After a while the bad guys either start laughing until some other superhero comes to bag them or they go home when they can no longer stand the stink. So there, that's my story. Now leave me alone!

You have THE most useless superpower. Write about a day in your failed/hilarious/successful/ludicrous attempts at heroism

The plate slid in front of me, stopping just short of the edge. "May you rot in hell," came the gruff voice of the cook while delivering my final meal -- with a free helping of snark. I didn't answer. His life is hell here anyway. The whole damn system is shot to hell. Ain't one of the people workin' that ain't a product of this environment. Each of 'em is lost to the filthy bullshit that comes with with takin' care of society's garbage. The Police. Protect and serve. *Bullshit.* The number of palms that get greased out there is greater than the number of inmates in here. I suppose I'm a product of the system, too. First arrest was only 14 years old. Suppose I shouldn't have been drivin' my dads hotrod, but I had to get away from my mom. Never could stand to be around her when she drinks. She pushed me around and beat my dog. I miss my ol' pup. I remember walkin' home that day. An empty bottle of her best friend, Jack, layin' on the porch to greet me. I walked in quickly to steal my dog back. Ol' pooch came runnin' to me when he heard the screen door pop, my mom's animal-like wailing following him to my arms. He was limpin' already. I grabbed my dad's keys off the counter and got the hell out of there. The cop who pulled me over coulda helped me then. I guess I coulda got a better view of the law. Nah, he hauled me and my dog to the slammer to wait to get picked up. He asked me where my dad was. I told him my dad went out to the store. I didn't tell 'em that was 6 years ago. An' that was just arrest number one. Seven arrests and 14 years later, here I am, eating waffles and strawberries as my last meal on death row. Fourth arrest, a cop shot my 'ol dog. Lil' bud didn't like seein' me get arrested. Gotta love good ol' Alabama PD. Got screwed every last arrest, 'specially my last one. I was just mindin' my own business at the CVS when somebody came in with a mask on and a gun out. He wanted all the cash of course. I started to leave the store when the police arrived and met me at the door. One of 'em recognized me and pushed me to the ground. That was the extent of my involvement. The cops killed the robber, but not before he shot and killed a cop. Now, if you kill a cop, you know someone's gonna pay. Somebody's gotta take the fall. Guess who they chose? The good ol' white boy whose already got a rap. That leads me to here. Accessory to murder. Murdering a cop. Found guilty on all charges. Might as well have not been a trial. It's ok, though, I don't mind goin' out; I've had a good life. I'm just not going out on their terms. One last bite of strawberry waffles left and I begin to feel it. "Hey! We need somebody over here. We have an emergency!" One of the guards spotted me. "Shit," he added eloquently. Oh yeah, I'm deathly allergic to strawberries.

You're a death row inmate, and its time for your last meal.

I got the call on March 23rd, 2015. My assistant Maureen rang me while I was on the interstate. I still remember the conversation. "Kevin, you're going to want to get to head office. They're in the switch room now." "Jesus fucking christ. I'm a good half hour out of Langley." "I'll take care of the patrol cops, you need to haul ass down here. Now." "I'm on my way. Don't let them do anything hasty." You see, things had kind of gotten out of hand recently. Two years ago, the president passed a motion stripping the NSA of almost all of it's power. Terrorist cells were setting up firewalls faster than we could take them down and mass coordination was leaving us a step behind and a dollar short. Boston was in ashes, most of the West Coast was too scared to leave their houses, and privacy was a fuzzy memory. Private agencies collected and monitored encrypted messages on a whim, massive republican PACS were hacking dem election sites. Cyberbullying had gotten so serious that almost all social media sites had been shut down. In a meeting two months ago, Davis and I proposed we shut down the web. Restrict to strictly government-only. America had been taken over by the internet. We couldn't control it, so it controlled us. I rolled in to the parking lot and logged up the stairs in to the meeting room. "Kevin. Good to see you here." Said Agent Davis, my boss. "Boss. What's going on here?" "We're shutting it down Kevin. 37 dead in a drone strike in Memphis." "Jesus Christ. I didn't know they even had cells in Memphis." "Yeah. No one did. That's thirty thousand this year and it's only March. They're hitting us with everything." Some over worked intern burst in to the room. "The NYPD got pinged again. They'll be down for a day at least." "God Dammit. Get agents on the ground in New York. Double rotation at the UN. We don't want another November debacle" Said Davis. "Yessir" He nodded as he left. "Alright men. We all agree. Shut it down." "When do we open the lines back up?" I asked. "We don't Kev. They did it once, they'll do it again. We're not ready for this. We never will be."

They throw the internet-kill-switch. It's off. Forever.

In the back of the pantry sat a jar of Jif Peanut Butter and Whelch's Grape Jelly. They took the place of many jars before them. A new jar of one replaced an old jar of the new, as it was always done in the Johnson household. But now, the jars were replaced a little less frequently than they used to be. As the kids grew up, the PB&J sandwiches were made less and less frequently. Mom wasn't packing lunch as much as she used to. So the jars sat with little to do and little use. They lived longer than most had in this cupboard. Approaching the end of their fourth week, they had run low on things to discuss. They discussed where they were manufactured, where their contents had come from, and what stores they had been in before being brought to their location, and so on. But it only gets you so far. So they finally came to a discussion that no other condiments had had in the cupboard, other than the great Ketchup-Mustard debate of the Summer of 2011. Who is more important in their most common dish? Jelly began to articulate his position. "When discussing the sandwich in particular. It is the versatility of all of the Jellys that makes Jelly more important in the PB&J," he began. "Peanut butter may be chunky or smooth or what have you, but it's always the same general thing. There is grape jelly, strawberry jelly, and all other kinds you can think of. Furthermore, I th..." "When's the last time you heard someone call it 'Jelly and Peanut Butter'?" The jelly was silent.

Peanut butter and Jelly are having a debate over which of them is more important in a PB&J.

Melvin's eyes popped open instantly, with that possibly audible click that you only hear with the best blinks. Today was going to be amazing. He woke before his alarm - but that was usual in the routine. Yeah, he had work today. Same job, same place he'd been for ten years. He was checking circuits for fault in alarm clocks. Alarm clocks never really changed, QA never really changed. He usually got about fifty, fifty-five done in an hour, depending on how many times he sipped his coffee (seven to fourteen). Once, six years ago, he had some bad Thai, and he only got forty-three done. His boss always gave him the best reviews. Neat, efficient, personable, efficient, and punctual (although who couldn't be in an alarm-clock factory?). But this was a quiet, solo job, gearing up for the Season of Shop in the Summer, when the latest graduates went to college. Everyone needed an alarm clock - and he could say with pride: his would get you up when you needed to. (He might make an exception for the case he heard two years ago: she dropped hers off her loft bed. But she still made it to class on time.) But today was different. Today was his date with destiny. More importantly, to our thirty-four year old hero, it was his first date in twelve years. Not since - HER. But he wouldn't think about HER today. Today, today was all about SHE. April fifteenth was the best combination of days. Halfway through the month, a quarter through the year, so he'd selected three-quarters through the day and halfway through the hour for their date. Six-thirty, which gave him ninety minutes after work, seventeen of which was a commute home, his shower, and time to pick up a carnation from the florist. Not too much, the perfect hopeful romantic touch. They'd been matched up on the internet, she was so much younger. She'd been a little hesitant at his age (exactly one third of a century, at the time), to her quarter of a century, but he was willing to overlook the numbers on the off-chance that this was a conjunction of more astronomical proportions: two half-hearts seeking their wholes. He thought she'd understand if he skipped his affection for numbers in the profile - it's something that should be broached carefully, one of those details that's better in the discovering, as you have seen. But he was willing to take a chance - and for the alarm-clock checker, this was a particularly important gamble. He hadn't gambled, not since HER - dammit. He got up, stretched for the perfect sixteen seconds, and winced when he overextended his arms and cracked his sternum again. He smiled - a rarity for so early in the morning - and grabbed his phone, loyally turning off his alarm clock (how could people use their phones as time-keepers?), checking his schedule. Today was a leg day, reps were- 5:30 April 16th 1 Missed Call 3 Messages Was it, could it be? No. He was never wrong. But yester- He checked the calendar app. Still the 16th. He called the local time service - he knew the number by heart. He knew all the numbers by heart. 5:32, April 16th. He sat down heavily - and this was not in his routine - and held his suddenly, clamorously empty head in his hands. He'd gotten so mixed up in his routine that he had missed... No. He absolutely swore that yesterday had been April FOURTEENTH. His late grandmother's birthday (although to be born at an almost-perfect date, he still missed her), but it could not have been the FIFTEENTH. He knew numbers. He checked his diary for last night, alleged April 15th: "She's amazing. She wants to meet on Saturday. 53 Alarm Clocks." and some heart scribbles. He never scribbled in his diary. He never drew hearts. He counted them - how had he forgotten in his first pass? Seven. But he never remembered meeting her. And it had - and his heart thumped wildly once - gone well. His lower throat got tight, his eyes prickled. And a warm glow suddenly spread from his stomach to the tips of his fingers. It went well. And he smiled his unscheduled morning smile again, and strode across the hall to the bathroom, catching his unsuspecting mug in the mirror, blinking owlishly. He gave himself a single thumbs up (rather than a perfect two), and didn't set the timer for his shower, which he eyeballed, rather than selecting exactly 105 F. And he started composing his next text. He didn't realize that she, too, had also lost last night. But the trait she had chosen to conceal was an infinite supply of forgiveness, of goodness, of mercy and love. So their real first date, on Saturday, which was not the middle of the month of the end of the first quarter of the year, exactly three-quarters through the day and a half through the hour, but rather 2:03 at a burger joint, with a rose instead of a carnation, and at the end of the week, went over swimmingly. She got ketchup on her nose, and blushed in embarrassment when he smiled at it, knocked over her water glass on his lap (which was honestly handy because it was cold and he was having some problems containing himself), and he forgot to count the number of chews between bites for his quarter-pounder burger. He wasn't sure what happened on the date that no one could remember, but it changed him. And that warm fuzzy in his chest, the liquid gold, the heart pittering and sighs and sudden daydreams had dropped his efficiency to - shit, he forgot to count yesterday. Then she dropped her spoon. And he smiled.

after April 14th, all electronic clocks and calendars turn straight to April 16th. A full 24 hours is missing from the collective human memory.

“I hope you understand, these tours are merely a formality, we’ve always been very happy with your work,” Roberts said as he checked away at his clipboard. Mr. Kringle smiled widely behind a cloud of sweet smelling pipe smoke. “Of course, of course. I trust that everything is in order?” Roberts smiled back. The truth was he had never seen an operation that was run with such rigid efficiency and attention to organization. For the past two hours he had been toured through room after spotless room, filled with workbenches of the tiny elves quietly assembling toys and gadgets with their deft little hands working like precision machinery. The silence had been almost unnerving, but Mr. Kringle had assured him that their devotion to work was deeply ingrained in elf culture. ‘We tried closing on the weekends back in early seventies,’ Kringle had said, ‘but they kept jimmying the windows to get back in and boost up production.’ He had chuckled at that. Now, they were rounding a corner heading back towards the front of the workshop down the tall echoing corridor. Roberts glanced down at his list. “Looks like there is just one more workshop to tour,” he said flipping through the pages of the inspection list. “Workshop N.” Kringle’s pace slowed just slightly then and he laughed that belly shaking laugh of his. “More of the same, Mr. Roberts, more of same. I’m sure you must be bored to death of my little bureaucracy, why don’t we call it a day and head up to the study for some nog? I’ve got a bottle of aged bourbon that’ll warm you to your toes, even up here in my frozen little piece of the world,” he said with a wink and another hearty laugh. Roberts grinned. That sure did sound good. Even after two hours it seemed like he hadn’t shaken the chill of that long sleigh ride to the little Christmas village. But, it would be another five years before it was time for an inspection again and Roberts’ boss was sure to chew his ass out if he didn’t show back up with thorough notes of the entire operation. “I’ll just be a minute,” he said as they closed in on the large pine double doors marked “Workshop N” in beautifully painted script. “Is it really necessary Mr. Roberts? You’ve had such a long trip and I’m sure your feet must be aching from our little trek. I know mine are.” Kringle chuckled seeming to force it just the slightest bit. Mr. Roberts stopped at the doorway. “Afraid so,” he said dutifully. Kringle seemed to hesitate again, but pushed the wide doors open anyway. Like he had said before, it was just more of the same setup, row upon row of elves slaving away at their workbenches. Roberts frowned. Why had he thought of that word? Slaving? Kringle had said it himself, the elves lived for their work. But something seemed different in this workshop. Instead of the quiet efficiency of the other shops, in here there could occasionally be heard the sound of parts being dropped to the floor by hands that didn’t seem quiet as adept at assembling the tiny little components. Here and there he could hear a sniffle or a cough, something he just realized had been glaringly absent from the other work groups. “Well, if you are satisfied, shall we retire to the study…” Kringle began. “Just a moment,” Roberts said approaching a workbench. “Mr. Roberts, I wouldn’t do that if I was you, they can become quiet irritable if their work is interrupted.” Roberts ignored him, his eyes now focused on something. One of the elves at the table had an ear that seemed to be cocked in an odd direction. He reached out to touch the elf’s shoulder. “Are you alright my friend? Your ear..” he started to say. As he did the elf turned towards him as if startled by a loud noise. When he did the ear that had been out of place came off and tumbled down the front of his green little uniform before landing between his feet. But Roberts hardly noticed, the look of desperate fear on the elf’s face caused him to stumble backwards. “My god!” Roberts shouted. Uncovered by the pointed little elf ear was an ear far too round to be elven, far too… human. He reached for the boy again, his fear starting to be replaced by something else. Anger. “You son of a bitch! How many children do you have here?!” Roberts shouted and started to turn on Kringle. Before he could, he felt two immense arms wrap around him squeezing like boas. He tried to scream, but there was no air. Suddenly the sides of his vision began to darken. His legs kicked out wildly, desperately, but already he felt his muscles weakening. Panic surged through him. He tryied to struggle in any way that might alleviate the crushing grip on his chest. He felt a rib break with sudden, sharp pain. Then, darkness. Kringle sat in his study watching the amber colored bourbon dance with the reflection of the firelight. “Almost three decades without a ‘reindeer trampling accident’,” he muttered. There was a time when no one would have glanced twice at the Workshop for Naughty Children but the world seemed to have gone soft on him. Three centuries of a flawless delivery record, one would think people would cut him some slack.

You have been invited to take a tour of "Santa's Workshop." However, it is nothing like the stories you were told...

"I've looked out for number one for a while now. I haven't been a hero for even longer, and every time I tried, I've ended up worse. I tried saving people, you know, people in burning buildings and such. They said I didn't do enough. I tried killing Drug dealers and gang members, but they said I was too brutal. That they were just 'lost souls.' Like men who rape a 14 year-old have a soul. I tried assisting the police, but apparently I got in the way. I hindered 'real police-work' like lost puppies and stolen purses. "Everywhere I turned, people despised me. So I gave up. I did not have the capacity to accept that pressure, and I knew it. So I collapsed. I guess I had a mental breakdown, not a good thing for me to do in the middle of a city. So I checked out. Went to the woods for a while. Trust me, it's not a problem for someone like me. I got my bearings, did some soul-searching, really thought about who I was, who I am and what I am to other people. So I came back. I'm here now, to stay. "I was broken, and I fixed myself. How many people can say that?"

"How much of a hero are you, if all you've managed to save is yourself?"

"Hon, it's your turn." I muttered as our daughter's shrill cries filled our room." My wife didn't respond, so I pushed myself up on one elbow. She was sleeping soundly, oddly enough. Normally it didn't matter how sleep deprived she was, she was always the first one awake. "Hush now, little one, shhh. It's alright." The voice whispered through our room, as our daughter's cries faded. I first realized that my aluminum baseball bat was already in my hand, then that I was running for the nursery. The flimsy door burst open when I hit it without bothering to stop and actually turn the door knob. The woman filled the room with her presence. She was not a big woman, though tall, she was slender. Her dress was long and ornate, like something out of an old painting. A small struggling bundle was under one arm, but I could see my daughter still in her crib. Something almost unseen, a radiating presence pulsed around her. "I don't know who you think you are, lady, but-" She turned black eyes on me, and I fell to my knees, all thought gone, pulled into the infinite depths of her eyes. "You have no place here, mortal." Her voice was the same hushed whisper I had heard from my room. "I do what I must for my own child, as do you. Sleep now." "Wake up, hon, time to start the day." The light seemed a long way off, but I struggled toward it. Groggy, I managed to throw off my covers and sit up. "Wha- She was doing-" Throbbing pain in my head made it difficult to form a coherent thought. "Is something wrong?" I looked up at my wife and saw my daughter in her arms. "A dream, maybe." "Bad one?" "I guess." She sat on the foot of my bed and offered our daughter to me. I took her and cradled her, looking into her deep blue eyes. She stared unblinking into my own. "Hey, love," my wife spoke from her open closet, "How'd your baseball bat end up in the nursery?"

You are awaken in the middle of the night by the sound of your baby crying on the baby monitor when you hear an unfamiliar voice saying "It's alright..." in your child's room.

*Why?* I thought to myself yet again. Three times. Three wives. What is wrong with me? Well, murder-suicide seems to work generally. I put Samantha’s body in the car, and went back inside. I wrote a suicide note, detailing how sorry I was. In reality, I wasn’t sorry. That bitch deserved to die, after going and cheating on me like the other two. I drove to the bridge, and drove off. It became a science by now. I opened the door in mid-air, and jumped at just the right time, slowing my descent just enough to hit the water and live, while able to watch my car, and my third identity sink to the muddy depths. I swam to land and went back to my house. I packed a few things, enough for me to live off of, but not enough for the police to suspect anything, and I left. I walked into the airport and looked at the signs. I could go anywhere, start a new life. After mastering Italian, French, and now English, I could go so many places. I scrolled through the cities. Tokyo, Chicago, Mexico City, but none pleased me, until my eyes stumbled upon Barcelona. I bought the ticket and got to my seat. An uncomfortable ride lasted over four hours, but eventually, I made it. I walked off the plane, out of the airport, and was greeted with an aroma of smells and sights. Within a week, I found a job and a comfortable apartment. I could, from my balcony, see La Sagrada Familia, the epitome of Barcelona. Gaudi had other amazing, famous buildings I loved to explore over and over. Within a year I learned Spanish. I was settling in nicely, with a stable job as a bartender, a quaint apartment, and a boat to occasionally sail about, life was good. As I grew older, I grew lonelier. I was 53 now, and life was catching up with me. I was aging; I was no longer active, in shape, or enjoying life as I once did. I went to seek adventure. I walked to the bar I worked at, and gave my two-week notice. As I was walking out of the bar, I bumped into a woman who appeared to be my age. Her name, Maria, just like my first wife. She was always my favorite, my first wife. She was kind, sweet, and lovable. But she broke my heart like the other two, and I ended up killing her in a fit of rage. Maria and I went to a movie together that Friday, and my boss let me take back my two-week notice. I went on to talk to Maria, and after six months, things were getting more serious. She sold her house and moved in with me. We were enjoying life, sometimes going on excursions on my boat, sometimes visiting some of the things around Barcelona, and sometimes just enjoying a movie at the apartment. After another four months, I proposed to Maria. “Yes, yes! I love you so much! I can’t live without you! Oh yes!” We hugged and kissed. She cried. I held her. We went back to my apartment, and life was good. After twelve years, we were happily married, and I was ready to retire. So I did. Then the fighting started. Maria wanted to move to Greece, but I wanted to stay here. I rebuilt my life here, and I couldn’t leave. Not unless something drastic happened. “How about this, Maria,” I replied one night after a big fight, “why don’t we take a vacation to Greece. If we like it, we can buy a house. I will go back to Barcelona and send you all of our belongings, before coming back.” “That seems reasonable.” A year into retirement, I came out of it, and got a job to support this vacation. Things were turning around between Maria and me. We communicated better, we had a better diet, we got in shape, we sold the boat, and we started to live better. Within a year of getting the job, I left again, and we went to Greece. Greece was a beautiful place. Lush, green plants everywhere, beautiful architecture, it was a place Maria fell in love with immediately. But I hated it. It was ugly in my opinion. The government was in shambles, the economy was awful, and the land was too hilly for an old people like us. We couldn’t sustain life there. But Maria had her heart set upon it. On the last day of vacation, we were going to go see the Parthenon, then get on a boat to cruise back to Barcelona. We saw the Parthenon, and while Maria saw it as a stunning testament to time, I saw a crumbling old building. After spending some time there, we went to get on the ship. We boarded with ease, and settled in our room. The boat took off at four o’clock, and we ate dinner at the dining room at six. Maria means the world to me. Tonight is going to be hard. As we went up to our room, I suggested we take a breather outside. We walked to the balcony, put our arms on the railings, and looked over the cold, deep, black, churning sea. In the distance were the lights of Greece. The salty air hit our faces, and I started talking. “Maria, I love you with all my heart.” Little did Maria know, I was talking about my first wife, the one who caused me my first pain, who caused all of my anger problems and all of my rage. “I truly do. I will miss you.” “What are you talking about, you will miss me?” she replied anxiously. “Well, I may as well tell you. I’m a serial killer.” “We’ve been married for twelve years. There’s no way. I’ve never heard of killings on the radio or TV. You’re lying to me. Why?” “I’m not lying. I’ve been married three times before you. You’re my fourth wife. All of the other three, they were killed, then their husband ‘killed himself’ in a tragic murder-suicide. If you look up the stories, they’re quite touching really.” Maria tried to run in vain. I caught her quickly and brought her back to the railing. “See that water? That’s where it all ends. I love you, I truly do, but I can’t move to Greece. Not after everything I’ve done. I’ve lived in Italy, France, England, and now Spain. And now, I’m going to live with you forever. In the water.” I threw Maria over the railing. “No! Why did you jump?” I yelled, making a scene. Then I jumped after her.

Faking Your Demise (replies must be 1,000 words or more)

"Timothy Granger, age fifteen, convicted of first degree murder of classmate Argus Vellows. How do you plead?" "Guilty." "May the court ask for reasoning?" "Why of course. It's been three long years of living in this old town. Each day struck a deep seated anger that I've held back ever so well. You see, Argus wasn't a very nice boy. His stocky build and arrogant scowl wasn't hard to notice. His calloused emotions and grey eyes told his story. Failures for parents, dealing with addictions of some kind of drug, whether it be narcotics or alcohol. He came to school with bruises that he refused to explain when confronted by the counselor. Nobody could explain them. Except for me. You see, nobody in our school could have ever dreamed of causing physical pain to Argus, it had to be someone bigger. The only people in Argus's life that were bigger were his parents." The faint sounds of Argus's crying parents echoed lightly throughout the courthouse. The judge tilted her head a bit and made a motion to speak as though to stop Timothy's story. "I'm getting there Ma'am. Just give me a little more time to explain. Now, Argus would pick on those smaller to feel better about his parents doing the same to him. No matter how much pain Argus inflicted, it could never fill the ever-growing hole of neglect within his undersized heart. I watched him cry alone in the locker rooms long after he thought everyone had left, I saw the cuts in his arm when his sweater sleeves would float up his arm whilst mindlessly punching an innocent boy. Argus was in more pain than any of his victims. I had few options to stop his reign of terror. I could call CPS, but Argus would lie in fear of his parents. I could kill his parents, but it would leave Argus worse off than before. To lose one's parents at such an age is worse than abuse and neglect. So my decision was to relieve Argus of his burden the most logical and rational way possible." The judge stood, "Timothy, we've heard enough of this outrageous story, I believe it's-" "Please Judge McGonagall, if I am to be locked away for a majority of my life, allow me to at least give reasoning to those affected by my actions." Judge McGonagall contemplated the decision within her head for a moment. She sat down and nodded, giving way to Timothy's plea. "I had waited in the locker room for twenty minutes before I could hear Argus's quiet, somber cries of lost hope echo amongst the walls. I stepped forth from the shadows of the showers, and made my presence known to Argus. He stood in embarrassment of being found in such a vulnerable state and fear of the possibility of others learning of the event. He advanced upon me as if to hit me when I began explaining to him what I've already told you. I watched his face twist as his mind winced with mental and emotional pain as I hit each pin on the head, word after word. I told him of the decision I had come to, and though he was scared, I had given him the perfect amount of reasoning to allow it to happen. I pulled a .9mm pistol from my backpack that I'd stolen from my father the night before the... execution of my plan. I cocked the gun, and placed the barrel upon his head. Argus's last words before I pulled the trigger were, 'Tell my parents... I'll never forgive them for what they did to me.' That's the end of my story Judge McGonagall. Thank you for listening." The room lay silent other than the uncomfortable shuffling of those within it. Argus's parent's shame spread coldly through all within the room. A single tear fell from Judge McGonagall's eye as her mind fought a battle of morality.

A madman's monologue when, in the courtroom, he is asked why he did it.

He sat there at his lab bench staring at the round disk. His head pounded from the hours he spent trying to figure out and comb over every possibility of what this thing was. On one side the disk featured strange hieroglyphics, on the other is was colored like a rainbow during the red sun's rise. All of the other historians couldn't figure out what this thing was, nor what significance it held to the extinct civilization. Quietly he wondered why he had to figure out what this was. What they did know was that this disk was found in a corroded metal box, one found under ground amongst ruined and littered buildings. Barely anything survived of the buildings, and it was sheer miracle this disk remained. The box itself had holes in it and nearly disintegrated as it was taken into the lab. Before it fully fell apart they were able to record the symbols on the top of the box. It read T ME CA ULE, and no one seemed to have any inclination what it meant. They hadn't been able to decipher any of the civilizations language, since examples of it were incredibly rare. He could only imagine what it meant. It had to have been a funeral object, a gift to the gods after an individual passed. But, he had been working day in and day out for weeks to figure out how to translate this strange disk, or at the very least figure out what this thing was. His mating partner was pissed off already that he had been coming home well after the time for sleep and that he had been focusing so much on his work in regards to this object. His children were equally abandoned, and they were consistently begging him to spend time with them. But this, this puzzle he had to solve. Who knew what answers it could reveal about this society. He had once heard that these ancient peoples could use lasers to read things. That was a mere myth though, there was absolutely no way a civilization that old could figure out how to use a laser to read. They had only created the technology themselves a decade prior. He was out of ideas though, and he was desperate for a solution. Beyond his better judgement he decided to try it, it had to work. Maybe? Hopefully? He just hoped he didn't destroy the disk. He grabbed the reader from the back of the room and placed the disk heiroglypic side down first. He waited. And waited. And waited. Nothing. He decided to flip the disk. He waited. And waited. And slowly the disk began to play. It was playing! A civilization which was dead for eons was speaking to him! He couldn't contain himself, the excitement was bubbling to the surface. He had to translate this. He had to figure out what this was exactly. It sounded like music. Was this a religious ceremony? A tribute to a hero? A leader? Was this an old myth? He couldn't stop listening to it, "We're no strangers to love. You know the rules and so do I. A full commitment is what I'm thinking of. You wouldn't get this from any other guy." He sat there perplexed by these words, "I just want to tell you how I'm feeling. Gotta make you understand." This voice, this disk, what was the individual trying to convey? "Never gonna give you up. Never gonna let you down. Never gonna run around and desert you. Never gonna make you cry. Never gonna say goodbye. Never gonna tell a lie and hurt you." What did it all mean?

The last human went extinct 50 million years ago. Write about one of the intelligences that followed us finding a relic of our civilization, preserved perfectly.

"No soliciters!" I shouted for the third time, pointing at the sign on my door written in unambiguous capital letters. The Bristleheads shuffled from one foot to another awkwardly, their spiny hair like twigs rustling with the movement. "The truth of the Universal Savior is accepted universally," the one on the left declared, his english heavily-accented by an Australian lilt. "You need only swallow one cube for your eyes to be open." "Look," I explained, "I've heard it all before. First you took over every TV signal to preach at us, then you replaced every video on Youtube with the same damn message, and now you're going door to door. I get it, you think this is important. But I had to kill three people yesterday just to get bread, and the riots are out of control around the world. Don't you think there could be better ways for you to spend your time?" "The Universal Savior will provide bread once all have accepted his truth," the Bristlehead on the right announced triumphantly. "Bread now, truth later," I replied coldly. "You've ruined our civilization, do you know that? You've *ruined* it." "Many planets must burn before the ashes can be reconstituted," the one on the left explained. "One ingested cube will explain this. The nanotech will upload our Holiest Books directly into your neocortex." "Shit, the neighbourhood militia is coming. See those guys with guns coming down the street? They kill your kind *for fun*. With axes, baseball bats, and boards with nails in them. Last week they tortured five of you in the middle of the street before setting them on fire." "Death is a process of renewal." "Death is a natural transition." "Truth exists beyond selfhood." The shouts from the neighbourhood militia grew louder as they caught sight of the visitors on my doorstep. "Shit, now you leave me no choice. If I don't attack you they're going to think I'm on your side. You've got five seconds to run." "Time is an illusion," the Bristlehead replied a moment before my heel connected with his chest, knocking him to the pavement. "You *will* see the truth," the second warned as my baseball bat swung into the side of his head. "Are you okay out there?" my girlfriend asked from inside the house. "I will be in about two minutes," I shouted back. As one of the Bristleheads bled purple ooze onto my lawn, our eyes met. "We are eight hundred billion," he managed, offering me a small green cube. "And we're starving," I explained. "Next time bring me turkey, stuffing, and mashed potatoes before you start lecturing me about 'the truth'. Stale bread and moonshine is all I've got in here, and that's a shitty Christmas dinner. Over here, gents," I called to the militia. "Help me get this trash off my porch."

Without warning, aliens invade Earth. They promptly begin going door to door introducing their religion.

Six whole blocks later, and Davey's still behind me. Every time I turn around he stops and gives me a little smile. "You're fucking dead, kid" he shouts at me. I keep walking. I don't know what he's waiting for, I'm already almost at my building. I slip my cell phone out of my pocket and turn it on, being careful to keep it in front of me incase any light slips out, and Davey should see what I am doing. Good, the brightness is on low. I find my brothers name in my contacts and select it, already crying a little for the fate of the boy who is following me. But this has to stop. Tentatively, I begin typing out a message. *He's here, he's followed me home, can you*...I pause, not sure if its worth it. Then Davey starts speaking again. "You can stop right now and take it like a man, or wait till you get home and let your parents watch while you take it like a bitch. If they try to intervene I'll fucking kill them too." I shake my head, he has just made certain his own fate. I finish the message. *Can you meet me at the end of our block?* I'm only a block and a half from my building when my phone lights up. It is a message from my brother. *Ok.* is all it says. I start crying again. As I reach our block, a slim figure exits our apartment. He is wearing a nice Christmas sweater, slacks, and a pair of tennis shoes he got for his birthday last year. He gives me a slight nod as he walks towards me. His eyes are sullen and empty, showing little to no emotion. As he passes, I notice behind his back he is holding a can of gasoline. I begin sob. I cover my ears as I hear the glug-glug-glug of the liquid pouring out of the container. As I reach my door, through my covered ears I still hear a muffled "What the fu-" and then screams, coupled with the crackle of flames. I begin to sob louder, for this boy who had no idea what he was getting into, fucking with me. I want to go inside, but I can't uncover my ears to get the key. A few moments later, I feel hands grasping my wrists. They pull my hands away from my ears. I hear my brother whisper, "Look forward, don't say anything," as he reaches around me and unlocks the door. "We're going to have to have a quick dinner tonight, I probably won't be here much longer," he says. Then he puts an arm around me, and we walk into our building.

A boy's bully follows him home, only to encounter the boy's sociopath brother.

In the time that it took to jump, the twitch he felt in his knee disappeared, free from pressure and gravity save the wind and the weight of his own body as it plummeted. The air broke against his cheek, the most frightening part of it, the least natural part of an everyday existence, air coursing past the skull first before the rest of the body. The feeling that brought to light the sensation of his own organs being directed downward and then slightly to the left as he fell. It was liberating, he gave it that. In the distance below him, he could spot the colours, the shapes, the shape of the girl who fell before him. He remembered why he'd jumped, nearly without thinking, after her hopeless body hurtling towards the earth. It seemed so far away now, that moment, gone and past, replaced by several new exciting developments creeping up on him: the air on his face, the sun in the horizon to the east freckling his skin, the wind rippling through his clothes as if to tear them away. It was deafening, but he tried to yell. The words leapt out from his mouth and jettisoned upward past him back into the heavens. He tilted his head up as if to watch them go. His eye caught the plane, now a speck in the sky, growing further and further away as the ground grew nearer and nearer. He would catch her. He would catch up to her, somehow, and find her body before impact. He tucked himself tighter, barreling down face-first with his body behind him. It was getting hard to breathe. A doubt raced across his mind, blaring at him with the red lights of emergency, regret rearing its misshapen head around a corner with a look of disapproval. And all at once, he pressed the thought away, gritting his teeth as the shape of the girl grew larger in his vision, covering more of the earth as he fell faster and faster. He blinked hard, once to get the dust and cloud out of his eyes, so he could try to spy her face, see if she was alert, if she was awake, if she was still conscious of the situation. He wanted to know, he needed to know that she was lucid and aware. He needed to know, at least, that someone was witness to this. And her face grew clearer until it was within reach. So he grasped for her and pulled her up to him as they both dove down. It was a bit of control, something he could do in the air to break the fall. But the impact was still waiting. Seconds now. And not a thing between them now to break the fall any further. Fuck. He hadn't planned it that far yet. The ground grew nearer, the sky and the plane and the shocked and panicked faces left behind them grew farther. He gripped her close, like an old lover. Close enough that she did not understand at first. Tightening a grasp so that she would be in position. And he did not to look at her, for fear the attachment might be too much. And he tensed his muscles until he was covering her fall completely. And swore out loud one last time. And the words drifted above overhead and back into the clouds. ---- [Just slightly over 500 words, and not in first person (didn't feel right for this particular one) but hope you like it!]

Courage. 500 words

"So what does it do exactly?" "It's a bowl, with one large central depression for chips or vegetables, and six smaller outer bowls for dips." "OK... OK... you missed me on the last slide though." "The last slide?" "The one about the... capsule or something?" "Oh yes, you'll love this. Underneath the bowl, there's a small capsule that releases a cloud of fungal spores into the air 24 hours after the bowl is first used." "Yeah... Marty I'm gonna need you to elaborate on that bit for me." "It releases spores into the air." "I see that Marty, but I don't see how that would be useful." "I'm not sure I follow Mr. Henderson." "Marty, how is a cloud of... fungus or whatever conducive to eating chips?" "The bowl can be filled with vegetables too Mr. Henderson." "Then how is it conducive to eating vegetables Marty?" "Yes... now I see the problem you have Mr. Henderson. Let me demo the product for you." "I'm not so sure about that Marty..." "No no it's right here!" "Yes Marty, it looks very nice, how about you rework the design a bit and give a new presentation next month, sound good to you?" "Mr. Henderson wait!" "Marty, I have another meeting to get to and frankly your bowl idea sounds like a waste of time, be seeing you." "Mr. Henderson!" "For gods sake let go of my arm! Every bloody week with you Marty. Shower heads stuffed with bullet ants, reading glasses with lasers taped to them, egg slicers laced with fucking cyanide! Jesus Marty take a week off and get your head screwed on right!" "It makes the eggs taste better Mr. Henderson!" "Marty let go of my fucking arm you're *fired* go and take your deadly fungal spores somewhere else." "Mr. Henderson wait!" "Marty why are you putting that mask on?" "Just a minute Mr. Henderson I need to explain the bowl idea to you, you haven't gotten the full story." "I don't really want the full story Marty..." "Just wait here a second Mr. Henderson." "Why am I... why do I feel so dizzy Marty? I need to take a seat." "Here you are Mr. Henderson." "Thank you Marty, you know... I've always liked you. I'll talk to upper management about that bowl idea. It sounds real swell." "Thank you Mr. Henderson."

You're the head of an evil corporation, planning to take over the world. Give me your sales pitch.

The light was finally back. It'd been so long since I'd seen it. So beautiful it was, a shinning orange mixed with blue that light up the room like none of the other stars. It only came about once every quadrillion years, but I knew that light better than all the rest. No matter how many times I'd pondered over it in my mind it always, always trumped my mental image. Colors that crisp can't be conjured even by an immortals mind. I made a tally mark on the ever stretching, white wall, bare save for my tallys. Im not sure why but I decided to count them. 1,2,3,4..... I came to realize how long I'd lived, but that's only really a perspective I suppose. And then, suddenly the light in the room became much, much brighter. I crawled my way with my broken legs and tired arms to the only window in this damnable cell to look to the cosmos and for the first time in an extremely long time, I cried. This star, this beautiful star that had become all I had to look forward to in this terrible hell that has become an immortals existence, was going supernova. I didn't realize that there was enough liquid in this crippled skeleton like body to even produce tears, but none the less I shed a few. I licked at them immediately. The moisture felt like an entire world of water on my tounge, which had been dry so long. I realized this would be my final birthday, as the passing of the star had come to be for me, a sort of way to keep track of my passing life. Oh I'd live on indefinitely, that is my curse. But it all seems so pointless now. I doubt another star will ever produce those lights. And even if it did, they'd never shine the same. Happy birthday to me... Happy birthday to me...

Your character celebrates his/her googolplexth birthday.

Time to go again. George shivered. He did every time he sat in the chair. Maybe it was the power. Maybe the nerves. Maybe the fear. Time travel was never simple. Limiting himself to once per year, for fear of altering the continuum, George was nonetheless excited. It was always interesting. He always learned. But only from a distance. The locals couldn't spot him. They would fear. They might even kill him. Worse though, coming back might not be possible, for the further you go, the broader an effect you have. This time though... George wanted to go further back. He'd seen the slaughter at Stalingrad. The crowning of Queen Victoria. Hannibal's elephants. The Mongol hoards. Boudica fight the Romans. All that and more, but it wasn't enough. Forget the dinosaurs. No sense getting eaten. Further back. To where the air was breathable but only just. What would he find. With a breath, George pushed in the coordinates. The room whirled and his stomach lurched. Like always, he closed his eyes. He liked to be surprised. To his consternation, his first sound was... music. George opened his eyes. Had something gone wrong? It had to have. For he was in a room. A room... with no door. Checking the coordinates, he had indeed arrived at the right time... but then what was the meaning of this? Hesitantly getting out of the chair, George sniffed the air. It had a certain metallic smell. Almost coppery. And he felt lighter. Strange. He'd seen some strange things, but this took the cake. Suddenly, a voice boomed throughout the room. It was unlike anything he'd ever heard, and in no recognizable language. Yet... George understood it. "You are hereby placed in confinement, on account of your violation of Penal Code III, under section Delta." "What in the hell for? What's going on??" George gasped. "Please wait for your prosecutioner." "Wha-" George was cut off as a loud POP blasted behind him. Whirling around, he saw a solid metal desk in place of his machine, and a diminutive man behind it. The man wore glasses and a three-piece suit of an unknown material. He studied George for a moment and motioned for him to sit in a chair that was suddenly behind his legs. "I.. what is going on??" Again uttering in that strange language that he could somehow understand, the man answered in an extremely monotone voice, as if he'd done the same thing a thousand times. "You stand accused of violating Penal Code III, under section Delta." "I don't even know what that is." George spluttered. "How do you plead?" "What in the hell is going on?!" "Please, this is an official record. If you do not plead, a verdict will be sent down regardless." "Well not guilty of course!" "That is not a plea. Two options exist: You may choose your punishment. Death, or hard labor. Choose please." "Wha.. am I not allowed a defense? Or knowledge of my crime??" "You have been advised of your crime. Defense of yourself is unnecessary as your guilt has been determined prior to this meeting. How do you plead?" "Can't you just explain? I don't understand what is going on!" George begged pathetically. Slowly taking off his glasses, the man sighed, and pushed a button that appeared on the desk. "I don't have time for this, I would like to go home you know." "I'm sure, but so would I." The man once again studied him for a moment. "Do you really think that you're the first?" "First what?" "Traveler of course. The problem has become endemic and the policy is quick prosecution." "How am I supposed to know that? Why can't I just leave?" Almost rolling his eyes, the man sighed again. "You think we can let you leave with that machine? So more of you can show up? We have thousands every day, from every time. The technology must be limited." "This isn't fair!" "You want to know what's not fair?" The man seemed to become agitated. "Having your daughter's birthday party and one of *you* shows up and starts wrecking things. You are an infestation and must be eliminated." "What about justice??" "Justice? You interlopers know no justice. I've seen your history. You know nothing of us and yet you think you can apply it to us. You never learn. We are far more advanced then you realize, yet we understand that our history is to die. That is our doom. We accept it." The man paused dramatically, and almost whispered, "Why can you not understand our wish is to do so peacefully?" "I'm.. I'm sorry. Can I help?" "No. Just as our destiny is to perish, yours is to bother us. The solution is to rid the Times of this technology and live in peace." Pushing the button again, the man continued. "I ask again, how do you plead?" George shivered, but this time for a different reason. He had a sense of impending calamity, that he knew could not be avoided. With a shake, "Hard labor please, if there is no other choice." The man nodded and disappeared before George's eyes. The room was empty. With nothing to do, he sat down and contemplated his situation. Nothing good could come of "hard labor." In the distance, George heard a knocking sound. Like a ring against a wooden surface, but more hollow sounding. It got louder and it's pace slowed, to once every few seconds. Just when it sounded like it was outside the room, it stopped. And George shivered.

You travel back in time only to discover that the past was a futuristic dystopian society that collapsed and we still didn't find out about it.

He'd been caught. It wasn't the first time, but it still surprised him when a child wasn't asleep when he came to do his annual duty. In hindsight, it should have been the first warning sign. "Shouldn't you be asleep, little one? It's only a few hours from the morning," He rumbled in his gentle basso. The child peeks over the duvet, eyes as wide as saucers, beholding the red-clad man at the foot of the bed. The covers are pulled up slightly, and the youngster wraps itself tighter in the swath of linen. That should have been warning number two. "Fair's fair, though. I always say that when a child sees me, I should give them what they desire most. So how about it, eh? What do you want most *most*?" Santa gently sat himself down on the bed, trying to get a better look at this child in the pre-dawn gloom. He couldn't even tell if it was a boy or a girl, for Nick's sake! He used to be better than that. The child murmured something so quietly that he wasn't even sure that they said anything at all. "You're going to have to speak up. I'm afraid my ears aren't what they used to be," He chuckled. "Save my mommy, please," The words, barely more than a whisper, hit Santa like a ton of bricks. His grin faded, slightly, which was something only his wife or maybe the reindeer could pick up on. Requests like these had always made him sad. Disease, poverty and violence were always able to ruin families, no matter where or when. Cancer, drug addiction, Alzheimer's - they were things he could not help, no gift given nor received could take them away. It was his curse that there would always be children whose wished he *couldn't* grant. It was as this moment the child spoke again. "She doesn't like Bill, he's mean to her. Help her, please Mr. Santa," Suddenly a great many things became clear. The child had been awake, and scared of a man entering their room, and the subtle background noise that he hadn't picked up on included both male and female voices, shouting. "*Oh*," He said, putting the pieces together. But he couldn't, he mustn't... *Even if it were to grant a child's wish?* Santa descended the stairs in absolute silence. It was one of a great many skills he had, useful (he had assumed) for only the duty he was tasked with. Only now he realised how much utility it had. As he walked down the stairs, he couldn't help seeing pictures of the family. A young woman, with auburn hair and a rosy smile held a small boy. *He was a boy, then*. Another photo, with the woman and a man, smiling side by side, somewhere sunny. It was the third photo that shook him. The man, woman and child were out somewhere green, and the man was smiling. The woman and the boy were too, but there was something *not quite right* with their smiles. Santa knew smiles, after all. He knew a 'wow, exactly what I wanted' smile from a 'I'd rather be anywhere but here' smile. Both their smiles were the latter. That man had taken their smiles. He had taken their happiness. A crash sounded downstairs. Something in Santa *snapped*. "Bill, *no*!" the woman sobbed. There was porcelain on the floor. She was kneeling, he was standing over her. She was bleeding from her lip and hands. His face was crazed, feral. He yelled something indecipherable, incomprehensible, mangled with rage. His fist descended. "I wouldn't," A voice boomed. The man halted, and looked up, disbelieving. "Who the *fuck* are you," He said. The man stood, red and white jacket and trousers stark against the greying walls. His silver-white beard reached his belt, and his cheeks were ruddy from near-permanent exposure. What stood out most, though, were his eyes, the colour of ice but blazing with an unmatched intensity. The myth spoke. "I am charity and generosity. I am the kindness of giving and the joy of receiving gifts, both physical and intangible. I am peace and goodwill to all men and you have just made me very, *very* angry." He walked to the man and lifted him, with considerably less effort than required to heft a sack filled with innumerable presents. The man's face went white. "I will give you this gift: *leave*. Leave and never look back, leave and never harm another, leave and think about *what you've done*," His voice was quiet, but contained the rage of eons. He walked towards the door. "And one day, you'll look back and be thankful for this gift I've given you," He reached the door, opened it, and hurled the man out like a pre-teen might hurl the morning's newspaper. He strode back to the woman, who was still on the floor, and said much more gently: "Never feel that you need him, or anyone like him. This is his legacy, and anytime you think of him, remember what he did to you. You do *not* need him," He then trudged back up the stairs to find the buy staring from the door of his room. His face made it clear that he had heard everything. "There you go, little one. Wish granted. Have a merry Christmas," He chucked, walking back to the fire escape that lead to the roof. Behind him, he heard a small noise, so he looked back. The boy had followed him out, and spoke once more. "Umm, Mr. Santa? I-I'd like a bike, as well, please," He stammered. Santa wiped his forehead, clearing away the sweat from his exertion. "Don't push your luck. Maybe next year, if you've been good,"

Whilst delivering gifts on Christmas Eve, Santa Clause accidentally stumbles across something horrible happening in a house. He then promptly rolls up his sleeves, and dishes out a well-deserved festive helping of righteous ass-kicking.

Once I believed that good lingered somewhere in the hearts of all men, now I am not so sure. We are a free people once more, but we have nowhere to return. My parents are arguing over what to do now: neither of them really have any ideas. My whole family is split up, I don't know if I'll ever see most of them again. We're travelling towards Switzerland at the moment, no money in hand, nothing but our names to keep us sane. I've heard rumours about why we've been freed. They say there are demons gathering in Russia. Something even worse than Nazis. They are undead, is what people say. You shoot them and they keep moving. That's how I feel at the moment. I only spent one night in that camp, but it's changed me. All of us walking, especially those that had been in there for longer, look different. It's under our eyes, it's in our steps, it's in every breath we take in and spit out. I'm looking forward to not being forced to hide, but Margot thinks we'll never be free. They're only freeing us to fight the undead, she says. If we win, we'll be sent back to the camps, if we don't, the Nazis won't care. The threat must be really bad if we're being allowed leave. The rumours say that the Nazi's will have to fight the undead with Britain and America, if the reports from the front line are anything to go by. It sickens me, the thought that Germany night now be Britain's ally. It's night now, and we've stopped near a town. My mother says not to go through it at night, that they won't appreciate us coming their way. We've all agreed that because it's a warm night we'll sleep in a field. In a field, like mice, but it's better than the camp. I think the plan is to go to Zurich, but I don't know if we'll make it there. I wonder if the undead demons hate us as much as the Nazis do?

Hitler finds out that zombies have taken over Russia and surrounding countries. Write from the prospective of Anne Frank after Hitler decides to free the Jews from camps.

They don't know what it's like. Nobody knows what it's like. Every single day I step outside and receive those looks from everybody. Those looks of fear, hate, and pure ignorance. They think I'm a monster, and I certainly look the part as well. I'm over six feet tall, weighing in at a whopping 223 pounds of near perfect muscle. Yeah, I'm pretty lean, but a guess that's what you get when your only place to escape is the gym. Day in and day out I know nothing but the intense sting in my muscles as I push myself relentlessly until I come close to collapsing. It's my daily routine. I go to the gym because people can't touch me when I'm there. When I feel as powerful as I do at the gym, the names they call me fade away into the deepest parts of my mind. You should hear some of the things they call me. "Douche", "Jerk", "Jack ass", "Dick." And those are just the nice ones. I don't even know how this all started... Wait. No, that's a lie. It all started about five years ago. I was twelve and stupid, I had just started middle school and I wanted to make friends with the popular kids. The best way to make friends, is to be an ass, right? Wrong. I was walking in the hallway and this chubby kid is walking in front of me. I didn't do it because he was chubby. Any other kid could have been walking in front of me and it could've been them. But back to the story, this kid starts walking in front of me and he's a real slow walker, you know the kind. And he was pissing me off and the popular kids were standing right over there. This was my chance. I stepped on the back of his shoe and I pushed him, and that's when my life fell apart. I didn't know the kid had been in car accident when he was seven. I didn't know he had lost both his legs in that accident. I didn't know he had two prosthetic legs. When I pushed him like that one of them just kind of broke off. Everybody just stood there, staring at me. I instantly felt so horrible I just wanted to get the hell out of there. I tried to comfort the kid but he was crying and he was so hysterical I couldn't. I ran. I ran out of the school and all the way home. I didn't tell my parents because I thought they wouldn't love me anymore. I just wanted to die. People don't forget something like that. Every day people STILL look at me so horribly. Everyday I go volunteering, but people still hate me. Everyday I hate myself and I want to die. All because of that one damned day.

The town thinks you are a bully, prove them wrong.

*/Blog Entry/* Internet, Its been a while. I think the last time I wrote an entry was six weeks ago and my inbox has been flooded with concern, as a brief overview I am very much alive. I want to start by remarking on a particular trait of the human race, we assign meaning to everything even things that need no additional meaning. The pen I keep in my jacket pocket is MY pen, my favourite pen, it acts like every other pen in the world but this one is mine, and I know the day that I lose or break it I will feel an emotional response. Which is ridiculous, as its a £6 piece of metal and plastic that I could replace at the drop of a hat, but the response will happen none the less. But here we are, I'm sat in my living room with my laptop on my lap and a coffee by my side wondering how I am so psychologically tied to objects that I have neglected my fans and my well-being for the last six weeks. If you were to walk in now and see me you would note the papers on my coffee table and a ring next to them, the papers neatly stacked and ring balanced on its edge. To you the are just that, just paper with illegible scrawl and a plain gold ring with no redeeming features, but to me they are the best and worst times of my life. K */End/* He shut the lid of his laptop before hitting send, and put his head in his hands. There was nothing more to write but it felt unfinished. Glancing over to the papers he felt himself starting to well up and quickly shifted his gaze to the ring. Rubbing his eyes he stood, strode to the table, picked up the ring smiled slightly before slipping it on his finger. He didn't look at the papers again but went upstairs to change, muttering "Can't be late" as he went. Dressed in a suit and tie he walked calmly to his front door, a pained expression on his face, he went down to his car and drove to join the procession.

A person sits in front of a coffee table. On it are two items, one makes them happy and the other sad.

[Death] Tom Arvenus step up to the gates, Your final decision currently awaits, If it's in heaven you're bound to dwell, Or eternally damned to burn in hell. [God] Well hello Tom you've led a good life, One offspring and a beautiful wife, You managed to visit church each week, Your chances of hell seem pretty bleak. [Satan] I disagree God, I must say you're wrong, Love thy neighbor but they never got along, He smoked marijuana and drank beer, What a shame, an eternity in hell I fear, [God] Satan you daft moron, Tom deserves light, An honorable man who never caused a fight, Every man's tried a new things or two, Allow him happiness and his life anew, [Satan] Though all created equal this man is dark, A bitter shadow that lacks any spark, I require his presence within Hell's station, Time to begin Tom's relocation. [God] Stop right there you blabbering fool, Listen to reason you irrational tool, I have more power and I'll use it if I must, Attempt to outdo me, and be left in the dust, [Satan] What's the decision, what is his path, Bask in heaven's glow or suffer my wrath? [God] It's neither kingdom that Tom shall enter, We allow him the land within the center. [Death] Tom, step forth and accept my hand, As I release you back to your native land, Though not favored, or a personal joy, You'll start life anew as a newborn boy.

God and Satan argue who harbors a person that has recently passed away, but has done the same amount of good and bad deeds in his/her life.

You choose your future, you create it by your decisions, you don't know what you're making, but somewhere along the line it comes into shape. It can be a terrible thing that you've made, or something great, for many people it's something ordinary, a couple of kids and good life to give them, sometimes it is something bigger than you, a legacy, an idea, a creation that extends beyond human limits, but you don't know what it's going to be until it's too late. You choose your future, no one forces you into it, no matter how much it can seem like your future was laid you for you, forged by some god or some villain, you are its creator. There are decisions I've made with the circumstances handed to me, decisions I regret, decisions I would repeat again and again if I had to, if I got the opportunity to. So, here I am, at a point that for too long seemed like destiny, but now, now that I know I am the master of my fate, the captain of it, this too has become a choice, not a circumstance. This night, the one I've replayed so many times, the one that took on a meaning outside of itself, is so different from this angle. The fear is different, less visceral than it has become in my mind, but no less real. If anything, I'm surprised how little I want to stop myself. When I look at them, all I see is the flaws I had rubbed smooth over repeated turnings of the reel, washed out into perfect images of people that never were, memory people. When I pull that trigger, and I watch rain mix with blood, and that little boy starts to weep, I cannot do the same. I know he will make the same choice. You choose your future. It's entirely yours, even when it seems random and cruel and senseless, it is yours. I chose my future tonight. I chose to extend beyond myself, to become an idea, a legacy, to become Batman.

by killing his own parents.