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"Your holiness, belief rates around the world are still dropping." Said the priest, his large silver cross leaning forward like a plumb line as he poured over the latest statistics. Pope Francis sat, hands arched, wearing his carefully rehearsed look of placid calm. Archbishop Muller spoke first. "The Congregation for the Doctrine of the Faith calculates that the Shield can hold if the congregation drops even to 1.1 billion, but around the 1 billion mark we will hit problems. The contradicting belief systems will be difficult to smooth out." "And you say that the beacon has activated again?" The Pope said, breaking his long silence. "Yes, your Holiness. We're monitoring the situation. We believe it's a passing probe." "This is not good timing." He said. "I'm in the process of redirecting the mental conditioning. We need it to be more acceptable to modern tastes. We've been too slow to adapt in the past." "I agree." Said the Archbishop, "But we can't choose our close encounters. We need the Shield to be working as well as possible. If they get a hint that humanity is capable of - " "I don't need to be reminded." "Apologies, your Holiness. But I am concerned, we're getting very strong readings on this one." "At least it's near Christmas." The Pope sighed "There's always a surge of belief, I think if we can design a good Christmas message it will boost the Shield at least temporarily." "I defer to your wisdom in this as in all things." Said the Archbishop. They were interrupted by a trumpet call, and the Archbishop's cross began to glow red. They jumped from their seats in unison. "Come we'll use the emergency elevator," Pope Francis said, ushering the other two into what appeared to be a closet in the side of his office. Pulling their robes close in the cramped space, he pressed the button marked 'Hanger' and the steel capsule descended rapidly. A few moments later, far below the furthest reaches of the Vatican Crypts, they stepped out into the hanger. The ancient ship hung, suspended by cables above them in the vast bunker. To the untrained eye it appeared to be an enormous golden statue of an angel, wings outstretched, arms reaching out, yearning. But from the back sprouted rows of cables, trailing outwards and downwards like spilled intestines hung out to dry. Machinery lay in all directions, and below it hummed the dark opalescent sphere of the Shield, hovering just above a golden plinth, still attached by a cable to the ship above. Within the sphere hung a billion tiny blue specs of light, shimmering and blinking. "What's going on?" Archbishop Muller asked the nearest priest. "Your Holiness" said the startled priest to the Pope, before turning to Muller "Your Grace. It's an emergency. The readings from the beacon - well. Come, see for yourself." They swept forwards to the row of consoles just before the Shield. Surrounding a large screen was a throng of priests, whispering in hushed tones. They parted like the waters before Moses. Upon the screen they saw it. The vast fleet, entering the far reaches of the solar system. The long promised Second Coming, sent to reap what was sowed. "How is this possible?" Said Muller. "The shield still holds. As long as people believe in Divine Protection, we are protected. The Evil cannot see our minds." Pope Francis lent against a console, feeling every bit of his age. "Muller, it's been 2000 years. Perhaps they've updated their technology." "What will we do?" Asked a young priest, his eyes wide with terror. "The only thing we can do. The Final Crusade." Replied Pope Francis. "Break open the Seven Seals and activate the Inquisitors. There is no more room for the unbelievers. When the Evil come, faith will be our shield and righteousness our sword. We shall smite them with our prayers, we shall burn them with our holy crosses. Just as Christ taught us all those years ago. They may have broken a thousand planets to use as slaves, but not Earth. No. They have sowed the wind, and they shall reap the whirlwind."

The Catholic Church is actually a vast, militant conspiracy, dedicated to preventing/delaying the Second Coming. They have a very good reason.

Simon shivered as he entered the cold room. A metallic table sat in the middle. Around it, three chairs, two of them occupied by men older than him. One of the men looked old. Wrinkles covered his face in a stark contrast to the neatly ironed suit he was wearing. The other man looked terrible. He looked quite young, somewhere in his twenties perhaps, but he had the appearance of one of those alcoholics he sometimes saw sitting on the streets. His clothes looked dirty and his hair was unwashed. As Simon stepped closer, he could smell the reek of alcohol and stale cigarettes emanating from this man. The elder gentleman nodded. “Welcome, Simon,” he greeted. The boy nodded back, unsure what to say. The old man smiled. “My name is Simon,” he explained. “The man next to me is Simon too. We’re future versions of you so I suppose names bear little relevance in distinguishing us. I shall refer to the man next to me merely as Twenty-eight as that is his age. You may call me Seventy-two and in return I will refer to you as Sixteen. This is a timebubble of sorts, a snapshot of your possible future.” The boy looked around the room. There was nothing aside from the table and the two men sitting by it. Looking over his shoulder, he noticed that the door he had entered from had vanished. “I’m dreaming, aren’t I?” he asked. Seventy-two shrugged. “It matters not, Sixteen. If it brings you some comfort to think so, then you’re welcome to it.” Twenty-eight glared at the old man. “Fuckin’ hell it matters.” he growled. “I gotta warn this brat against shit and if he thinks this is a dream then he won’t fuckin’ listen!” Seventy-two smiled, seeming to ignore the man. “Take a seat, Sixteen,” he told the young boy gesturing towards the empty chair. The boy swallowed hard as he pulled out the chair and sat down. “Now,” said Seventy-two. “I believe mister Twenty-eight has something he would like to tell you. Perhaps we should start out there?” Twenty-eight rolled his eyes at the old man. “’’Bout time,” he muttered. “Listen here, kid, it’s about Eliza. You know Eliza, right? That little bitch of a girlfriend you have?” Simon looked at the stinking man. “What about her?” he asked. “She’s gonna fuck you up!” shouted Twenty-eight, slamming his fist into the metallic table. “Sure, everything’s all rosy at first, but you kno’ what? Soon, she’ll start wanting more. Ain’t ever enough with that bitch. Sure, she says she likes you *now* but jus’ you wait, kid. Soon she’ll start pestering you to get an education. Then she’ll start regretting that *she* didn’t get one as if you didn’t fuckin’ work all day to provide for her and the accident, you also have to come home to seeing a woman who wishes she was anywhere else. Ungrateful, that’s what she is. No respect at all.” Simon swallowed hard, looking at Twenty-eight. That couldn’t possibly be him in the future, could it? He looked at the old man for advice but Seventy-two merely smiled back at him. Simon swallowed hard. “Jus’ leave the bitch,” muttered Twenty-eight. “Get someone nice. A proper lady who won’t bitch if you have a couple of beers after slaving all day to earn money for the family.” “I…” Simon hesitated. How could this possibly be anything but a dream? How could he possibly grow into this person? How could this stinking alcoholic possibly grow into the neatly shaven old man who sat at the other end of the table? Simon looked at the old man. “Who are you?” he asked. “How did Twenty-eight turn into you?” The old man shrugged. “After Eliza died, I dedicated my life to making things right. Time travel technology was starting to be within the means of the common man and I started saving up to afford it. To bring the two of you here so we could talk.” “Why the two of us?” asked Simon. “Why age Sixteen and Twenty-eight?” The old man kept smiling as he crossed his arms. He gently leaned backwards in his chair. “You’re the important one. Twenty-eight is just here because I hoped it would help you understand what I’m about to do. I suppose I got sentimental in my old days like that.” “So I’m here to get guidance?” asked Simon. “You’re here to tell me what to do to avoid becoming him?” The old man just smiled. “Stop fucking smiling!” shouted the boy in frustration. “Tell me what to do, please!” Seventy-two’s expression remained the same. “It doesn’t matter, Sixteen,” he said. “You see, with old age comes perspective. You start seeing the bigger picture; you begin seeing your life as it was rather than as you wanted it to be. The young man next to me is angry because he *wants* to be the victim but that’s not what he is. He’s a sad excuse for a human being, a person who blames his poor wife for his own inabilities to see himself for what he really is.” Twenty-eight glared angrily as Seventy-two. “Fuck you!” he shouted. For a moment, it seemed as if Twenty-eight was about to say more. Then everything went quiet. The old man looked at him with that constant smile on his lips as Twenty-eight’s eyes suddenly widened in horror. The old man looked back at the horrified Sixteen as Twenty-eight fell lifeless to the ground. “You see, Sixteen,” explained the old man, “I am not here to turn your life on the right course. I only get one chance to save Eliza and I’m not going to waste it by taking chances. I could tell you to leave her but what guarantee do I have that you’ll really do it? Or that you won’t just find another young woman and ruin her life?” Simon trembled. He looked down at his twenty-eight year old self who now lay dead on the floor. “P-please don’t,” he pleaded as he returned his gaze to Seventy-two. “I’m not that man; I can change, you know that! I’ve been warned so now I can turn my life in another direction, I swear!” Seventy-two smiled. For a moment, the young boy thought he saw genuine sympathy in his eyes. “I’m sorry, Sixteen, I really am,” he said. “This is how it has to be.” A young boy named Simon disappeared from his home one day. His girlfriend, friends and family mourned as the months went by and the police eventually ceased their investigation. They found no signs of abduction, no notes left behind or anything else that could help solve the mystery of what had happened to the young Simon. There was a brief article in the newspapers but the incident was never widely published in the media. After all, such cases happened quite often.

A teenage boy, a young man in his twenties, and an old man are sat in a room together. They are the same man at different ages, discussing life.

"This can't be right. There's just no way." Photograph after photograph it clearly shows the world, but there's something wrong. Its flat. One photo doesn't make any sense. It shows land, with mountains and lights. But it appeared to be on what can only be described as the 'underside' of the plane. On 'the top' the images matched the map. But this had to be checked. The map spread across the table. Each photo lay carefully on the land it depicts. Yet the one remained. It was definitely not something charted... The phone had rung endlessly. But no one would answer that late at night, not even Jim. "Jim, you need to see this. The rocket I sent up? It looks like the world is flat. Call me back ASAP." The message went. 15 more minutes. 15 minutes of internet trawling, trying to find the answers. flatearth.com described similarly to what the photo seemed to show, but its arguments were weak and nonsensical, even in this frantic state it was plain to see. The internet dropped out; Sure enough the routers light was diminished. Next went the cell phone reception. Not good. Jim took the envelope his missing friend has addressed to him, stuffing the pictures back inside as he fumbled for his car keys in the darkness. He almost tripped descending the stairs to the garage. Normally well lit, the garage was strangely dim. There was only one light illuminating the exit gate; The gate was open. Jim got to his car space, but he was not alone. A swift blow, unseen from behind a supporting pillar, crumpled Jim. The envelope slipped from his grasp, stopping only at the cold, black boots of the balaclava clad man.

A space enthusiast launches a prototype rocket into space attached with a camera. When he develops the film, the photographs reveal a flat Earth.

Daddy, can you read the story about how everything change? Alright darling, it started a long long time ago, in an age of many kingdoms. Now all the kingdoms were angry at each other. Many were not playing fair. So they all started fighting. The biggest of the kingdoms wanted to win the fight, so they woke up a sleeping dragon to defeat all the other kingdoms. The dragon was very powerful, more powerful than anyone realized and caused nuclea.......mushrooms! Magical mushrooms to grow out of the ground and put everyone into a deep sleep with magical sleeping powder. Did they ever wake up? Well....no, they are still sleeping. And when they were sleeping, the dragon made a big mess of everything because he was grumpy that people woke him up. I guess the moral of the story is don't wake up a sleeping dragon. Now take you radiation tablets, it's almost bedtime.

A father is reading his six year old a fantasy story, but he starts to improvise when the content gets violent, and/or sexual.

"What is it, when you have done something all your life, to what you thought was for the right reasons... But then, in the brink of everything you're doing, you realize that you have been following a dark, and lonely path. A road that does not lead anywhere, but keeps on going. It's hard because you know it is where you've been you're whole life, but not where you are supposed to be. I used to be like you, I loved to write stories. I thoroughly enjoyed it actually, but when my wife Silvia was hung, by the king himself... I got lost. For 20 years I have been an assassin for the "Resurgent Order". Basically a rebellion against our current government. I fought side by side with the leader himself through many victories. I hunted down some of the most notorious government officials, people armies could not get to. At first I was excited, ready to be of service in taking down our corrupt, disorderly system. I took pride, in the very fact I was avenging my wife. That was until I discovered the truth of the Order... A truth so dark, and twisted, that the devil himself would not dare consider touching base with it. The war was never about taking down an injust system, but to bring about a damned dictatorship. Isaac Martez, the leader of the Resurgent Order, sent me on one last mission before revealing his true nature to me. I would be the one, the world called King-slayer. I never thought it possible, but I caused, the literal end of the world. As soon as King Kalin was dead, Isaac put his real plan to action. I did not know it would be this way, I honestly had no clue what power one man could hold. But when I saw the dead, tearing their way from their own graves around him... I ran. I could have stopped it, But I left. How was I supposed to know that the king was the only other man with enough power to stop such a disaster." I stopped to take a drink of my glass of water, nearly out of breath from my story. "Yes, but what exactly did you do after that? From what I hear you caused quite a stir in Isaac's palace." The judge said, staring intently at me, suprisingly not concerned about my past actions. "Well, after I ran away, I went into hiding for some 2 or 3 monthes. I saw nothing I could do to stop this. When I heard Isaac had killed as many innocents as he did though... That's when it hit me, I had to try. I mean, What kind of a guy, choses to rule death, then life itself... He could have been king, I don't..." I was interupted by the Judge, " Please, don't stray from the story.." "Right, as I was saying... I infiltrated Isaac's palace, in an attempt to kill him, but it didn't work out. I got so close, but he saw me too soon... How do I put this without sounding crazy... He teleported. I fought of 59 of his guards before getting out with some minor flesh wounds. After that... I never saw him again..." (To be continued...)

you are a henchman who realizes all the stupid things about your villains plan and decides to quit

The aliens communicated only with me and told me that I had unlimited power to do anything my imagination could dream. I treated it as a bad dream until I waved my hand and half my apartment complex fell apart. I immediately thought "Oh God! Take it back!" and with another hand wave everything was restored to normal. I levitated myself a few feet. I teleported to China. I snapped my fingers and a gallon of water appeared to me. I realized I didn't need to snap my fingers or wave my hands. I willed a t-rex into existence, and then took it back when it collapsed, heaving what must have been the wrong atmospheric composition. So much power, but too much to consider. I willed every murderer and abuser unable to commit horrible deeds. Every thirsty, hungry, malnourished, drowning, dying, suffocating, suffering being in the planet stopped their agony immediately. But the circle of life had stopped, it's cycle frozen completely by my demands. Every living being was immortal and their purpose had been completely re-imagined. By me. What the hell had I done? I reversed it. Time. I need time to think. I paused time. But I still couldn't think it through. I needed knowledge. I willed all knowledge of everything into my brain. And I collapsed on the ground, my small world of preconceived notions ripped apart by the impossibility of existence in its totality. I became insane with knowledge. And I reversed it while I still had a sane brain cell in existence. Holy fuck. What was it again that I had seen in that abyss? Let's start smaller. I willed a mastery level of biological knowledge into my brain. Ow. That's still a lot to take. But I get it better now. Now let's get chemistry in there. OW. Let's wait on the physics part. Wait, can't I imagine that my brain can take all this knowledge? So I made it so. But I didn't pull the trigger on the knowledge dump yet. What was the right path for me to take? Wouldn't unlimited knowledge make me inhuman? Would I make the right choices? What the hell were the right choices? What was I supposed to do? I shot myself into deep space instantly. For awhile, I floated.

You hold a great and possibly terrible secret from the world. You are debating the repercussions of telling the world, and if there is a benefit to telling the world, or keeping it to yourself. (The secret is whatever you desire it to be.)

Walter Higgins continued chipping through the hard ice, despite the painful blisters on his hands. He could see the outline of the demon (he refused to call it any other name) encased in its icy tomb. The wounds on his palms burst open, but Walter felt no pain. It wouldn’t be much longer. Walter took a step back to gaze upon the face of the demon. It stared at him with accusation in its eyes, as if it knew what he was about to do. Walter almost changed his mind, struck by how similar those eyes were to his own. Years later he would wonder what would have happened if he’d made a different choice. He shook his head to knock those thoughts out of his head. “It has to be destroyed for the good of humanity,” Walter reminded himself. Taking a deep breath, Walter walked to his sled and laid his ice pick on the seat, then lifted out the container of chemicals and hose. He struggled under the weight, but eventually made his way back to the ice block. He aimed the hose and pulled the trigger without hesitation. The yellow liquid trickled down the block and a putrid smell filled the air. It reminded Walter of his childhood, when he and his friends would have pissing contests to see who could melt a hunk of snow the fastest. He dug in the pocket of his parka and took out the match, struck it, and tossed it at the demon, grateful for the break in the wind. Walter had brought extra fluid and matches in case his initial attempt didn’t work. They weren’t needed. The block of ice instantly burst into yellow and red flames and Walter silently watched the ice around the demon melt away. The demon soon crumpled forward with the sound of cracking bones and the smell of burning hair joined that of the chemicals. The smoke, the smell, and the frigid air made Walter’s throat dry and his eyes water. He became aware of the burning in his hands, but didn’t move until the deed was done. Within minutes the ice, the demon, and the undeniable proof of human evolution were gone. “Amen.” Edit: I hope you don't mind my interpretation of "will change human history". Human history has changed, the rest of the world just doesn't know it (yet).

An archeologist makes a discovery that will change human history in a major way.

As I examined the files, I found myself concerned. The indigenous civilisation was very advanced compared to our most recent adversaries. A disturbing amount of time and resources had been placed into the development of fission weapons. It was clear that their development was guided by war, as these Homo Sapiens - the name they give their species - had never traveled beyond their own moon, a mere 55,000 kohtars away. Yet the fission weapons this civilisation possessed could destroy itself many dozens of times over. Also, while their knowledge of energy weapons was somewhat limited, they possessed some of the strongest projectile weapons in this arm of the galaxy. The Homo Sapiens have found many reasons to despise one another. Small evolutionary change had some Homo Sapiens with varying skin colours and facial features by which they divided themselves into 'races'. Some Homo Sapiens believed their own race to be superior to others - enslavement and even extermination had been prevalent in the past. Some with devotion to certain faiths - particularly one-god faiths - used violence to enforce their own beliefs, doctrines, and laws. On first examination, the Homo Sapiens may have appeared little more than well-armed savages. I saw something different. Something special. Throughout history, even through all of the bloodshed, division, hatred, zealotry and stupidity, there had been Homo Sapiens who yearned to bring forth civilisation. There had been those who examined nature, examined disease, and examined the sky, to advance in science. There were those who had written great dramas, and great music, to advance in culture. Many of faith had been motivated to far more benevolent practices, such as peacemaking and charity. One of their most impressive feats is their 'Internet': A vast network of computers and satellites that connects much of the population and gives them access to oceans of information. I also took interest in the 'Voyager' craft, a drone that has traveled 2.5 billion kohtars from its homeworld. The findings of the androids 'Mitt' and 'Kristen' made it clear - not only was war with the Homo Sapiens a dangerous endeavour, it was wholly unnecessary. They had much potential if only they would join our community. If they were happy to join our empire, I decided we should be happy to let them in. It was then that Kollharen entered the quarters. I swiped aside the holographic diagram of the 'International Space Station' and turned to face her. "2500 Assault Craft have entered outer orbit and await your command, Chairman." "Tell them to fall back. Prepare the vanguard and a diplomatic envoy. I'll meet them at the bridge." "But Chairman..." "That's an order, Kollharen." She sighed. "Yes, Chairman." She walked out. I smiled. This was the beginning of a new age.

An alien force prepares to invade Earth, write from the perspective of the invading forces commanding officer.

Sweat insisted on dotting itself all over Willis’ brow and neck. The costume he wore was a perfect replica, he knew—every rivet lovingly hot-glued into place, every stitch a tiny masterpiece of mid-amateur-level sewing skill. He’d done so many swatches. It’d had to be perfect. But Tryclone was looking at him, singling him out within the crowd for just a moment, and Willis couldn’t have felt it more insufficient. For instance, Tryclone’s real costume looked like it breathed. It looked as if the material moved with his rippling muscles, instead of fighting against flesh that was slightly doughier than was healthy. It wasn’t only the costume, either; his mad laughter, the look in his eyes that promised pain, the angry red they glowed when the death-beam bounced harmlessly off of Agent A’s indestructible shoulder pauldron and took out the very jewelry store he’d come to liberate…. It was divinity itself. Willis shivered, and shoved his way through the mass of stupid imbeciles that were gathered there, cheering for Agent A the way they always did. Couldn’t they see? Agent A was the bully, the lunchroom jock who hung out with his friends and laughed at you for having braces. Tryclone was like Willis. Only, Willis hadn’t developed a formula for super-strength that also made the drinker go slowly insane. But the principle of it all was the same. Some of the sheep stared at Willis’ costume and muttered to each other, but Willis was used to being stared at, and muttered at. Cast out by society. Just like Tryclone. Agent A swung and Tryclone caught the punch with his jaw, and fell into the crowd, scattering the herd, several crushed beneath his great girth. Willis was there in a moment. It took every ounce of courage to kneel beside the villain, and to cradle his head in his lap. His frizzy white hair was singed black at the ends. Willis touched them with wonder. Tyclone whispered something. Willis leaned in close to hear, heart thumping. “Go…. Away.” Tryclone wheezed. “I…. Hate…. Nerds….” Agent A was there. Willis hadn’t heard him approach. He sank to his knees beside Willis and lifted the villian’s now-lifeless body in his arms. Willis could see that he was weeping. “We were such good friends, once,” Agent A sobbed quietly. “Best friends, so long ago, before the formula, before all this.” Willis placed a hand on the hero’s pauldron. He could see, now, that he had been wrong about Agent A. He had been wrong about Tryclone, too. Tryclone was a bully. Agent A was a good man, forced to do battle with a friend who’d gone mad. “It may not mean much,” Willis said, “but I’ll be your friend.” Agent A looked down and him, and wiped the snot from his nose with a hand gloved in white. His mouth quirked into a small smile. “That’s sweet,” he said, “but I could never be friends with a nerd.”

Amongst a crowd watching a superhero/villain battle, one person is secretly rooting for the villain to win...

People really went "sky-diving" now. 10,000 feet. No parachute. It was fun the first few times. Then it started to get boring. Sure, the view is nice, but the thrill was gone. Where's the fun in jumping out of a perfectly good airplane if you can't die? I kept doing it just because he wanted to. He still got a kick out of it. I think on some level he knew it wasn't as fun for me anymore, but he would ask every weekend and I would oblige. How could I refuse? After all, he only had so long to live. He started to get into other extreme sports too. The equipment was cheap because everyone had lost interest. Base jumping, those winged squirrel suits, wind surfing, all that crap. He enjoyed it and I didn't mind, I loved spending time with him even if the activities had lost their appeal. I never worried until he broke an arm while bunging jumping. It wasn't an equipment issue--we'd had plenty of practice setting up the cord at that point. He was just _old_. And frail. I told him maybe 55 wasn't a good age to be leaping from national monuments. He reluctantly agreed and I thought that was the end of it. I was buying two classical guitars for us to learn on together when I got the call. Dead. Biking in the grand canyon. They told me there was still a smile on his face. I tried to bury my grief in mastering Asturias in G minor, but it didn't do any good. I even went skydiving a few times, but that only made it worse because I realized the fact that it won't hurt when I hit the ground didn't freak me out anymore. Surely there was a limit to my immortality. The next week, I asked the pilot to go higher. He went up an extra ten thousand feet and then told me his bird didn't go any higher. I knew it wasn't enough, but I jumped anyway because it was the fastest way down. I even made sure I landed headfirst. Nothing. I cried that night. Ironic that the only man in the human race who could die was the only one who could live. EDIT: Tense agreement.

Suddenly, everyone on Earth becomes immortal, free from physical injury or disease. Except for one person.

It's funny, you know. Things are a lot different now, but every guy I've talked to has one thing in common: it's not what we thought it would be. Even at the beginning, as the gender-imbalance became clear, I remember thinking in the back of my head one day, "Well, if I survive I'll be getting laid more often, right?" Well, no. That didn't really work out. See, the thing is, the disease didn't discriminate. It killed guys more attractive than myself, sure, but it also killed ones uglier than myself. The end result was a equal thinning of the herd from the obese shut-in the male models. So, I hadn't really moved up or down anywhere. The problem with that soon became evident; while I had an expanded dating pool, the quality of the pool really hadn't changed. It sounds incredibly vain and shallow, but we're all predisposed to vanity now. Supply and demand has became vastly tilted in our favour. If you're a woman (most guys I know have long since reached this conclusion) you might be thinking, "You still had a lot more partners to choose from, right?" You'd think so, wouldn't you? Except that it took a rather bizarre twist. Fighting over available partners - not even necessarily attractive ones - increased tenfold, but it was kind of like two kids fighting over a toy that neither really wanted to play with. The principle of the issue was possession rather than desire. It's become a sort of status symbol to have a boyfriend or husband, even more so one you could maintain. Healthy relationships have taken a tremendous dive. There were good things, sure. Cultural stigma against gender basically died instantly. Backroom clinics in India and China where girls could be aborted collapsed literally overnight. A lot of the male doctors that ran them succumbed to the plague, and the few that were left were aware enough of the change in gender. I saw LiveLeak footage (that site's explosion into one of the most-visited sites on the web is hilarious in retrospect) of one such doctor hung by his intestines for continuing the practice by a group of angry women. Violence against women also dropped to the point of nonexistence. Fortunately, very fortunately, the trend didn't reverse itself. At least, it hasn't yet. They still need us for propagation of the species. It's weird. I get openly ogled in the street now. Not for my attractiveness, I was never anything extraordinary on either end. It's like I'm a carnival attraction, so it's not equivalent to the way attractive women used to get stared at. It's probably infinitely more pathetic, since I don't have the knowledge that I'm arousing. But that's not nearly the worst part; the sex is by far the worst part. It's become a chore, now. There's huge pressure from the government (which remarkably evened out at equal representation by gender) to take the preemptive treatments to greatly increase the chance of having a boy. The science behind that particular innovation has never been spelled out for me, although they appeared almost instantly after the plague. The pharmaceutical company manufacturing the treatment has become worth more than all the former oil companies combined. Having a child has become a huge status symbol. Still, affirmative action basically reoriented itself instantly towards the male gender, so that's nice.

A plague wipes out 90% of the males in the world, it's a year later and you are one of the 10% left

"Rudolph with your nose so bright, won't you guide my sleigh tonight?" He paused. "No." "Rudolph....with your....what?" With all of the anger that could be contained in the 30-inch frame, he said again. "No." His nose was no longer glowing so much as blazing. "No one here appreciates me. I've been picked on and picked on and picked on and no one did anything about it. Not you, not the elves, no one. And now i'm supposed to be saddled up with them?" He put a hoof forward. "Did they put you up to this?" He cried. "What's going to happen? Is my harness going to fall off? Are you going to leave me in Africa?" Santa slowly bent to one knee, with all of the grace and balance of man of his plumpness could muster. "Rudolph," he said, "We need you. I know you've been picked on. But it's time to show everyone just how valuable you can be." "Why me?" He said, less angry, but confused. "China." Santa said, shaking his head. "The smog has made it impossible to fly through. Visibility is incredibly low. We simply can't navigate it without you." Rudolph looked away. But something about Santa's voice and visage made him undeniable. "There are kids, Rudolph. Just like you. Kids who have had horrible days, years, lives. We can make their day better. We can turn it around. But we need you to help us. A single tear ran down Rudolph's face. It dropped into the snow between his hooves. "Fine." He muttered. "But I get to wear a mask."

What if Rudolph said no?

The mead was flowing, and the roast mutton was as good as always, but Atrix was more interested in the great warriors who milled about the grand hall. Every meal, he sat next to a different warrior, from scattered ages, across thousands of stars. Tonight, a man from the planet Earth, who had died sometime in their early ages sat with him. The man wore the scarlet of what Atrix would come to learn was the Roman Legion. Atrix himself, taller than the Human, wore a skin-tight ionoscale bodysuit. The same he would have worn to battle and bed. The men began their discussion, as Atrix was always quick to begin. "So, Sextus, tell me of the wars, the battles you fought." Atrix began, his fluting mouth lilted. "Atrix, right? I can tell you many things. Most of these stories end the same, with a bloody victory. I didn't die on the fields of battle to revisit the Hades they were." Sextus replied. He seemed sorrowful, as if regret filled his body. "Surely though, to be here in Valhalla is proof enough that your time on Earth was spent as a valiant, and powerful warrior?" Atrix asked. "No. Atrix, I have spoken to countless warriors here in these Halls. Men from my world, men from stars beyond the reach of Jupiter himself. I have learned the difference between the way *you* fought, and the way I fought." Sextus practically spit the "you." "Are you accusing me of cowardice, or deception?" Atrix quipped, though more out of surprise than disdain. "No. You're kind waged war using machines of power and light. As I understand you dropped powerful weapons that destroyed whole cities on enemies. You're guns could shoot from the surface of a planet to the stars above, and the other way around. You burned planets to ash in conquest." Sextus drank some mead. "But did you ever kill a man, with your blade in his chest, the life leaking from his eyes?" This time, Atrix was truly stunned. "I... no! Of course not, we were not so primitive to use such barbaric weapons. We had photon-rays and neutrino bombs, and even the planet collapsing Shattergun. I don't understand your point!" "Then I don't think you can. A warrior we are, both. You input numbers in panels and the millions who died were but figures on a screen. You were just merchant, totaling his purchases bought with your nuclear fire. I was a murderer. I could look a man in his eyes, and keep my sword arm steady as I pulled it out of his heart. You pressed a button. How can that compare?"

Two warriors from vastly different settings meet in Valhalla and discuss the philosophy of war

My blood boiled and I could feel my muscles tense almost painfully as I stormed from my room with a picture in hand, to where my parents sat at on the couch, watching their usual show. I stood right in front of them, not moving, blocking their vision. My father's eyebrow raised up as my mother's gaze turned from her book to my small lithe frame. "Alex? Is there a problem?" Behind me the TV flickered on, the news people chattering on about the daily exploits of the local superheros that saved several people from different incidents, including a bank robbery, a burning house, and someone attempting suicide off of the large bridge just outside the city. My father tilted ever so slightly to look around me at the TV as my mother repeated herself. "Alex?" "Yeah, there is..." I could hear my voice start to crack, a million questions racing through my mind, and a million more words piling up behind my gritted teeth. "Tell me why you never saved me." This got my father's attention, my mother's eyes growing wide at my statement. Their hesitation caused me to stomp hard, the floor shaking in the old home and my voice growing louder. "Why did you never save me?!" "S-sweetie, what are you talking about?" The book was placed to the side, my mother standing up to come closer to me, but all I could do was take a step back in order not to be touched. "All those years I was picked on, all those years I got into fights against everyone else, all those times I got hurt, and you never saved me." I prodded my chest with my finger, pointing to myself as I shook the picture at her. "You save complete strangers but you never saved me! WHY?!" My father hadn't moved yet but once his eyes caught sight of the contents of the picture, he knew exactly what I was talking about. He took his time standing, and as usual, calmly walked over and took the paper from my hand, sighing. My mother hadn't noticed what it was that made the picture so important, so she kept on trying to comfort me. "Alex, sweetie, what are you talking about? We were at work when all those things happened to you. How could we save you?" She reached out again towards me and I snatched her bare forearm, holding it up to her face, my eyes blazing with anger. "Because for once I took notice in what that magic using superhero was wearing and she happened to have her sleeve torn off today, didn't she?" My father still hadn't said a word still, turning the picture towards my mother and I, though I knew what was on there. I nearly snarled as I continued on, my mother's eyes widening with surprise and.... fear? "And under that sleeve was a jeweled bangle, one so unique that we would have to be in a parallel universe for someone else to have it. It's unique because it's the one I made for you recently in my blacksmithing class, the one with the dark blue tiger's eye that has a small star in the middle of it." The dark metal bracelet was sitting just above where I grabbed my mother's arm, snuggly around her wrist, the gem shining in the dim light as my hand shook. Her eyes went from the present I gave her to the picture, the dark robed woman in it opening a portal after her heroics, her bare arm captured in the picture, along with the same bracelet. The frown that quickly grew on her face nearly broke my heart, yet I was still outraged by what had happened. I released my mother's arm and turned to head to my room; it was my father's voice that stopped me, his voice rumbling deep in his chest. "Alexsandria, your mother isn't to blame. It's my fault." He walked over to the kitchen table and placed the picture on the table, sighing heavily. "We didn't want you to know because you were young. It would have been also hard to explain why a superhero was suddenly saving our child every time she got into a fight, or someone was mean to her. We knew, trust me, we did. We saw the reports, we saw the way you looked, we heard you crying at night, but there was nothing we could have done." Another sigh and he removed his glasses, pinching the bridge of his nose. A few moments past as tears silently ran down my face before he spoke again. "Kitten, come here." That was his name for me when he felt bad, his arms open to hug me. I sniffled hard, taking a few slow steps towards him, only to see a suddenly blur of his fist hurtling towards me. A scream escaped me and I expected impact, trying my best to draw my hands up in some sort of defense against his much larger frame, but nothing came. Opening my eyes, I found him frozen in time, his fist no more than an inch from my head and I fell on my ass hard on the tile. My mother was in mid step towards me, her arm stretched out, as if she was going to warn me of something. Common sense kicked in and I scrambled back towards the steps before everything continued on as normal, my father's fist connecting with nothing but air, a grin snaking its way onto his face as my mother looked between the two of us, relief washing over her. "Leoros, that is not the appropriate way to teach her how to use her powers!" She rushed over, her hands patting me over to make sure that I was actually okay as my father's laugh echoed loudly in the house, a thunderous clap sounding from him. "See Ali! She did just fine! Plus how else is she going to learn just how it's triggered." I sat there on the steps, bewildered at what just happened, blinking several times as I did my best to bat away my mother's hands. "What... what did I do?" "That, my kitten," my father started as he knelt down, "is your power: time control. As long as you do not fear then you will be alright." His large hand wrapped around mine as he stood me up, patting my head. "You'll learn, don't worry. I plan on teaching you the best I can. The rest is how you use it."

You are 14 and have just figured out that your parents are superheroes. You confront them about it.

**The Axe Murder Incident** The axe murder incident was the killing of a United States Army officer by North Korean soldiers on August 18, 1976, in the Joint Security Area (JSA) located in the Korean Demilitarized Zone (DMZ). The U.S. officer had been part of a work party cutting down a tree in the JSA. Three days later, the U.S. and South Korea launched Operation Paul Bunyan, an operation that combined a return to cut down the tree with a show of force to intimidate North Korea into backing down. The incident is also known as the hatchet incident and the poplar tree incident and "The Tree Trimming Incident" because the object of the conflict was a poplar tree standing in the JSA. **The Incident** On August 18, 1976, a group of five Korean Service Corps (KSC) personnel escorted by a UNC security team consisting of Joint Security Force (JSF) Company Commander Captain Arthur Bonifas, his South Korean (ROK) Army counterpart, Captain Kim, the platoon leader of the current platoon in the area (1LT Mark Barrett), and 11 enlisted personnel, both American and South Korean, went into the JSA to trim the tree as previously scheduled. The two captains did not wear side arms, as members of the Joint Security Area were limited to only five armed officers and 30 armed enlisted personnel at a time. The KSC workers had the axes they brought to prune the tree branches. The tree had been scheduled to be trimmed seven days earlier, but rain had forced the work to be rescheduled. After trimming began, about 15 North Korean soldiers appeared, commanded by Senior Lt. Pak Chul, whom the UNC soldiers had previously nicknamed "Lt. Bulldog" due to a history of confrontations. Pak and his subordinates appeared to observe the trimming without concern for approximately 15 minutes, until he abruptly told the UNC to cease the activity stating the tree could not be trimmed "because Kim Il Sung personally planted it and nourished it and it's growing under his supervision." Capt. Bonifas ordered the detail to continue, and turned his back on Lt. Pak Chul. **Attack** After being ignored by Capt. Bonifas, Pak sent a runner across the [Bridge of No Return](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bridge_of_No_Return). Within minutes a North Korean guard truck crossed the bridge and approximately 20 more North Korean guards disembarked carrying crowbars and clubs. Pak again demanded that the tree trimming stop, and when Capt. Bonifas again turned his back on him, Pak removed his watch, carefully wrapped it in a handkerchief, placed it in his pocket, and then shouted "Kill the bastards!". Using axes dropped by the tree-trimmers, the KPA forces attacked the two U.S. soldiers, Capt. Bonifas and Lt. Barrett, and wounded all but one of the UNC guards. While Capt. Bonifas was knocked to the ground by Pak and then bludgeoned to death by at least five North Koreans, Lt. Barrett jumped a low wall which led into a 4.5-metre (15 ft) deep tree-filled depression, just across the road from the tree. The depression was not visible from the road because of the dense grass and small trees. The entire fight lasted for only about 20–30 seconds before the UNC Force managed to disperse the North Korean guards and place Capt. Bonifas' body in their truck. However, there was no sign of Lt. Barrett. They did, however, observe the North Korean guards grab (by the heels) approximately five members of their own force and drag them back across the bridge. They also observed the North Korean guards along the road exhibiting strange behavior, in that one guard would take an axe and go down into the depression for a couple of minutes and then come back up and hand the axe to another guard who would repeat the process. This went on for approximately 90 minutes until the UNC guards were informed that Lt. Barrett was missing, at which time they informed their superiors about the KPA activity in the depression. A search and rescue squad was quickly dispatched and found Lt. Barrett had been attacked with the axe by the North Koreans. Lt. Barrett was recovered and transferred to a hospital in Seoul via an aid station at Camp Greaves, where he was examined and found to have sustained no injuries during the attack. Fearing that they had recovered the wrong individual and that the real Lt. Barrett was still unaccounted for, medical personnel on site radioed to his search and rescue squad to confirm the coordinates where the individual had been recovered. After some time, it was conclusively affirmed that the individual was indeed Lt. Barrett, and that he had sustained a full 90-minute assault from the North Koreans without a single identifying injury. **Operation Paul Bunyan** In response to the "axe murder incident", the UN Command determined that instead of trimming the branches that obscured visibility, they would cut down the tree with the aid of overwhelming force. The parameters of the operation were decided in the White House, where President Gerald Ford had held crisis talks. Ford and his advisors were concerned about making a show of strength to chasten North Korea. The operation, named after mythical lumberjack Paul Bunyan, was conceived as a US/South Korean show of force, but was also carefully managed to prevent further escalation. It was planned over two days by General Richard G. Stilwell and his staff at the UNC headquarters in Seoul. Operation Paul Bunyan was carried out on August 21 at 7 AM, three days after the killings. A convoy of 23 American and South Korean vehicles ("Task Force Vierra", named after Lieutenant Colonel Victor S. Vierra, commander of the United States Army Support Group) drove into the JSA without warning to the North Koreans, who had one observation post manned at that hour. In the vehicles were two eight-man teams of military engineers (from the 2nd Engineer Battalion, 2nd Infantry Division) equipped with chain-saws to cut down the tree. These teams were accompanied by two 30-man security platoons from the Joint Security Force, who were armed with pistols and axe handles. The 2nd Platoon would secure the northern entrance to the JSA via the Bridge of No Return, while the 3rd Platoon would secure the southern edge of the area. Concurrently, a team from B Company, commanded by Captain Walter Seifried, had activated the detonation systems for the charges on Freedom Bridge and had the 165mm main gun of the [M728 Combat Engineer Vehicle](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/M728_Combat_Engineer_Vehicle) aimed mid-span to ensure that the bridge would fall should the order be given for its destruction. Also B Company, supporting E Company (Bridge), were building M4T6 rafts on the Imjin River should the situation require emergency evacuation by that route. In addition, a 64-man South Korean special forces company accompanied them, armed with clubs and trained in Tae Kwon Do, supposedly without firearms. However, once they parked their trucks near the Bridge of No Return, they started throwing out the sandbags that lined the truck bottoms, and handing out M-16 rifles and M-79 grenade launchers that had been concealed below. Several of the special forces men also had Claymore mines strapped to their chests with the firing mechanism in their hands, and were shouting at the North Koreans to cross the bridge. A U.S. infantry company in 20 utility helicopters and 7 Cobra attack helicopters circled behind them. Behind these helicopters, B-52 Stratofortresses escorted by U.S. F-4 Phantom IIs from Kunsan Air Base and South Korean F-5 Freedom Fighters were visible flying across the sky at high altitude. At Taegu Air Base, F-111 bombers of the 366th Tactical Fighter Wing out of Mountain Home Air Force Base, were stationed. The aircraft carrier Midway task force had also been moved to a station just offshore. In addition, near the edges of the DMZ, many more heavily armed U.S. and South Korean infantry, artillery including the Second Battalion, 71st Air Defense Regiment armed with HAWK missiles, and armor were waiting to back up the special operations team. Bases near the DMZ were prepared for demolition in the case of a military response. The defense condition (DEFCON) was elevated on order of Gen. Stillwell, as recounted in Colonel De LaTeur's research paper later. In addition, 12,000 additional troops were ordered to Korea, including 1,800 Marines from Okinawa. During the operation, nuclear-capable strategic bombers circled over the JSA. According to an intelligence analyst monitoring the North Korea tactical radio net, the accumulation of force "blew their... minds". **Edit: OH GOD YOU SAID ONE PARAGRAPH. This is more like 27? Feel free to ignore it!**

Alternate history wiki entries

begin communication Subject 87. 3rd planet from yellow star 8902. Of the dominant species on the planet and capable of sentient thought and verbal communication. Physically in good condition, well muscled and groomed. Male. Apparently regarded as well educated in his society and served as a researcher according to documentation found in his pockets. Despite obvious agitation, subject 87 remains far calmer and more communicative than the typical bipedal sample from this planet. Hair is largely isolated about the subject's head and is black. Skin has no visible scaling or defense mechanism, is thin and permeable to short wave radiation. Notably free from scarring, calluses, and most other forms of blemishes. Subject 87 is secured via four primary limbs to dissection table and stripped of clothing. Still conscious, no anesthetic has yet been administered. Note this will be the 9th of the species to be dissected with anesthetic after the council of ethics agreed to the sentience of this species. Subject pleading to be released yet is showing remarkably low signs of panic. Possible ingestion of sedatives prior to capture? We will analyze the subject's blood and stomach contents to further understand the chemical makeup of what may have been imbibed recently. Research note. Subject 87 is designated for use as a research platform to study the effects of our typical ingested amino acids on various organs once removed from the body cavity to assess what similarities our body chemistry may or may not have. Subject 87 states that we do not realize what we are doing. Subject 87 may be delusional. Anesthetic module has arrived and is being positioned by research assistant. Subject 87 is becoming increasingly agitated and has begun to issue threats despite restraints remaining in place. Heart rate finally beginning to accelerate and perspiration observed to be forming on the brow. Anesthetic being delivered now. Subject 87 has indicated that he is beginning to feel very angry, and that I would not like him while he is ang<COMMUNICATIONS INTERRUPTED>

Aliens abduct a human only to discover he's not what he seems...

When God created man, He looked in the mirror and thought to create a mortal replication of Himself. Not in the physical sense, you understand; rather, in no dimensional sense that a human could ever understand. God holds no essence of physical body. His thoughts do not begin in a brain and are not motivated by physical sense or intuition. The important process of replication was in determining what God's idea of Himself was. Time is useless in describing this process. The only cognizance that God had was self. So, God replicated the idea of self in a cradle of organic material, existing at a dynamic conjunction of time and space. God patiently observed the initial progression of what He called "life", and was confused. Without any basis for understanding these creatures that He had cast, he watched in puzzlement as they experienced dirty and pitiful things such as needs, desires, and death. Death was agony for God. He did not predict the odd dissatisfaction that came with observing these creatures over the span of their existence, and watching it end. It is important to describe this dissatisfaction. It was not "loss", that He felt. As time was His creation, and He could easily go back to the beginning, the end, or anywhere in-between (just like your favorite book), He never truly lost them. It was the way in which they died. The problem was the pain that *they* experienced. They did not want to die. God's individual creations ended on a sour note. He could give them glorious gifts, sustain them in paradises that encouraged their growth and joy, and shield them from pain with his hand, but they cursed Him and His creation of their life as their fires burned out. It was a dissonance that God's logic, His existence spanning the omniverse, could not justify and could not plan. It seemed random. It seemed to be a flaw. After observing their illogical natures, God set a plan, to test His creation. God understood that He had no equal, and that His decisions to shape the infinite realms within his omniverse were misunderstood by the limited humans, but should be obeyed. If they did not obey, then God had no business with their "existence". So, His plan was to allow them to disobey Him. Give them the chance to prove their logical irrelevance. The humans failed. In ways that can only be described as human anger, disgust, and frustration, God formally addressed the humans that He would abandon His shelter of them and that they were imbued with a design flaw that He referred to in their language as "original sin". They fled into the desert of a self-sustaining world, and did not hear from God for many years, although His omnipotence required Him to remain grudgingly focused. Against all odds, these creatures survived and flourished. God contemplated that this was not surprising, given how He imbued their design with elements of His own cognizance. They built great civilizations and created things that were very distinguishable from the rest of the omniverse. God was content with His omniverse, with its laws, logic, and predictability. Humanity shook that comfort. He began to realize that when He created Man, He arrived at exactly what He asked for, and while that was not the intended result of the experiment, that is the point of experimentation. Our language can only describe this experience for God as an epiphany. God realized that the perfection of life was that it had an end. Never having the ability to conceptualize His own, He never had a chance to fear the idea. God never had a time limit to impose emotion upon. He couldn't love, He couldn't truly be Happy the way these Humans could. He felt... inferior to them. God's attention became wrapped around these fragile figures, tucked into the corner of infinity. It seemed as though what these creatures called "anxiety" was a forceful barrier between an omnipotent presence and His pitiful creation. These creatures eventually began contacting God at a subconscious level. They obviously did not choose to, or understand that they were doing it, but they began to form "religions". God felt that he could not hide any longer, and manifested himself as a "spirit", a supreme being that guided them against self-harm. God occasionally became frustrated when the mortal beings could not completely succumb to his plans, and He would purge some of their civilizations, truly like a frustrated child. When He saw imperfection, it was alien. After these religions became more and more fear-based, violent, and domineering towards its members with farcical notions of morality, God realized that He had been not only negligent, but setting a poor example. God decided that the only way to reverse this understanding of the nature of the omniverse, these humans must listen to the message while translated from a vessel that was much like their own. God needed to become mortal. Now, God is all powerful an infinite, so please understand that humans do not understand how to divide infinity, but He does. So, in an act that was inconceivable and ridiculous to the pre-human God, He tore himself in three. The Omniverse resounded from the force, but He used his potent power to shield the crossroads of Humanity's universe. One piece of God remained as it was. Another piece, devoted to the Universe He created for humans as a protector and judge. The last piece, he placed inside the womb of a young woman. Until 33 human years, this piece of God suffered immeasurable pain. He experienced joy, pain, growth, anger, and the worst was fear. Most importantly, God experienced Love. It was when God was 33 that He experienced Love. Until then, it was almost as if He was waiting out a prison sentence, regretful of His decision. Of course He would be! He was now Human and could no longer understand nor appreciate the wisdom behind the preconceived design. God emerged from hiding and began fulfilling his plan with assistance from the other two pieces. He rose against tides of fear and spoke of the Truth of who He was. He felt love, for all those he touched. They did not understand this version of God. In the end, the Humans killed him. But, even at his death, God felt love for the Romans, Pontius Pilate, and Judas Iscariot. He told them that it was not their fault that he created them the way that they were, but that for them to truly appreciate life as He intended, they must embrace fear. They must embrace fear and pain so that they may love, and do it beautifully. He understood that it was not Man that killed his human incarnate, it was their idea of life given to them at the beginning of their existence. It was their fear of death, their fear of powerlessness that made them evil at times. Fear of something that God would never experience without human flesh. For all of the bodies littering the earth after their great battles, God could not feel disgust with humanity, but only with himself. For truly, the ugliness of Man began with a replication of God, and the beauty of man exists only in the flaw inherent in their design. And this is why God hides in heaven. Edit: This is more or less stream of conscious, so I apologize if it comes off as rough or windy.

Use "And this is why God (or the gods) hide(s) in heaven" at the end of a story.

He couldn't help but marvel at the fine, wooden frame wrapped around the doctoral degree on the wall. It seemed a bit overindulgent, honestly. What was that, mahogany? Still, it did look nice. He imagined that the doctor it belonged to must be fairly well-off. The damned proteins weren't bonding, though, and that was a serious problem. Sure, investors popped up like eager meerkats when he'd give his presentation, but the actual result... it wasn't proving so willing to show itself. Did Jimmy even *like* meerkats? He'd not seen his grandson son in years. Maybe his taste in zoo animals had changed, since? At least the zoo was free, thank God. They'd probably gouge on the drinks and extras, though, the bastards. Polypeptide were ornery sons of bitches. He wish'd he was simply able to go down and punch the proteins in the face, or a the very least give them a good talking to. *Seriously, we're talking about a major breakthrough, proteins. Get your shit together.* This year, he'd think of something better for Jimmy. Last year's trip to the zoo had been disastrous, of course, and he'd had nobody to blame but himself. The kid barely went outside, from what his father said, so what the hell made him think the boy would like the zoo? The wall-mounted degree stared down at him, reminding him of the unseen doctor that apparently made his office here. He hoped he could meet the man, someday. *It's not often that you get to meet a doctor who specializes in the philosophy of chemistry, you know.*

A veteran researcher on the verge of discovering a cure for Alzheimer's Disease realizes (or maybe not) that he has Alzheimer's.

"Jebediah Brenneman. For refusing to accept technology into your lives and thus inadvertandly slowing down advancement of the entire human race. You and your family have been scenetenced to live out the rest of your lives in a oxidated presevation bubble on mars!" The Computer blared out a sound mimicing a judges mallet before the floor under Jebediah and his family proceeded to move them out the doorway across the hallway. The walls were made of glass, revealing a vast grided city, made up of hundreds of black, towering buildings. "This is crazy!" Cried Jebediah as his family wept beside him. He struggled to pull apart his laser handcuffs before a holographic screen of a robots head mockingly wearing a human suit appeared before him. "Please do not struggle sir. You will soon be loaded onto your vessel." "Vessel? This is insane! I demand to speak to a human!" "There are no humans currently employed here sir." replied the expressionless machine. "99.9% of jobs are now being undertaken by artificial intelligence." "What is all this? What have you done to everyone else? Did you send THEM to mars too?" "The primary motive of a machine is to provide full comfort to all those who accept technology into their lives." The image of the machine then switched over to one of a man, sitting in a chair with tubes protruding from all parts of his body. He was almost naked, with a large helmet over the the top half of his face and a even bigger smile at the bottom. "99.9% of humans reside in a care station. We tend to all their bodily functions while their minds are projected into a virtual reality. We, however, cannot force technology on others. But we can remove those who refuse to accept it." "So because we don't use technology, you're going to just, kick us off the planet!?" "Your farm was located in an ideal resort for us to build a new care station block. As our prime directive is to provide comfort to our masters, your presence slows down our advancement, and thus you must be removed to ensure we are 100% productive and effective." Jebediah saw the rocket loom before them. This was the end. As the robot hologram began to fade he asked one more question. "Why do you wear a suit?" The robot paused, before replying. "To make you feel more at ease of course." The hologram faded as the family were boarded into the rocket. As the door closed a carbonite freezing agent was sprayed into the room. The family huddled together as the count down sounded behind them. Blast off....

An Amish family is forced to immigrate to Mars

They told me they needed a flier. I said I don’t do fliers and showed them the talon scars on my back. They told me they needed a big hunting cat. I said I don’t do cats and lifted my chin. They averted their eyes as most people do and stopped making requests. I learned the only lesson I needed to learn the first time I got my throat ripped out and somehow survived: Don’t overmatch yourself. “So then what do you do, Mr. Rayhill?” “Dogs,” I said. “Big, stupid dogs.” They hired me on the spot. * The island was as exotic and green as the brochure described it. It is a great vacation spot, if you stay indoors. Every island has new creatures, but I do best by comparing them to the ones on Earth. The basic principles still apply. Animals that survived as solitary creatures will tear a human apart. Stay away from those. It’s all about taking on a pack animal that has always done everything in a pack. Take them on out of their element, alone. A formation of things I could only describe as wiry pterodactyls swooped overhead. They landed a few hundred yards behind me, their movement on land an awkward hobble as they tore apart some easy prey they had snagged with their curved beaks. They soon took off again, much more graceful and noble in the air. Nope. My rover chugged along, and son of a bitch the thing had probably been watching me since I had embarked. The cat was only a few hundred pounds, its green stripes keeping it invisible in the tall grass, but it had made a bad movement. I noticed it and it noticed that I had noticed. It considered attacking, was confused by the noise, movement, and shape of my rover, and reconsidered. Stealth, speed, claws, fangs, could probably pounce and leap well. Nope. And there was my target. Pack hunters. They snickered with dumb grins as I drove by, their hunched heads bobbing as they sauntered on all fours. Pack animals are one-dimensional fighters. Don’t get me wrong, they’ll take you down easy with coordination. But get one of these in a corner, and all they have is their mouth. And guess where they’re going? I rubbed my throat. Never really stopped being stiff. “Mr. Rayhill,” beeped my radio. “Go ahead.” “It’s getting dark soon. The rover isn’t going to provide much protection once the sun is down. Unless you have some sort of gambit up your sleeve, you’re not going to even want to observe the nocturnal creatures. Then again, you’re the professional.” I pulled my steering wheel to the left, kicking up red dirt. The pack animals snickered and bobbed. Even they were retreating as the sun set. “You don’t have to tell me twice,” I said. * I once saw a Gladiator that liked to enter the ring with no clothes on. That is an absolutely awful idea. Ask him. You’re going to have to do about 6 feet of digging though. Humans are just a bunch of harmless meat bags, and the only advantage you have against an animal is that they don’t really know that. It’s best to not remove the fear of the imagination from the equation and let them think you actually have something sharp on you. My clothes were baggy and my cape was wrapped around my neck. They don’t allow padding, something about taking away the “sport” of it all, but you can have baggy clothes and a cape. Trust me, you want the first bite to be on clothing. The thing snickered, drooling as it circled me. Of course they had to pick the hungriest one. For the “sport” of it all, I imagine. It got frustrated quickly, probably because it half expected its mates to flank me at this point, and I let the fear grow in it. Fear brings out a good fight, but it brings out errors in judgment too. It made to lunge at me, to feel me out, and I remained motionless. It didn’t like that. I wasn’t reacting as its prey usually did, and this time it lunged for real. I threw up my cape into the air and lept, the borders of my body tripling, and it yelped in confusion as it contorted its body into a retreat. I came down not quite where I wanted to and I unhooked my cape and hurled it across its eyes. It thought I was upon it and snapped and snarled its way through the amorphous black bubble. And there was the opening. I flanked the thing and had my arms wrapped around its neck and I lowered my center of mass and squeezed the living hell out of it, squeezed to snap a neck, squeezed to cut off air, but the thing was strong and it was fighting back, aware that my cape was a ruse and now it was struggling and jerking its head back and forth and twisting and I kept squeezing, feeling it weaken, but then it came back with a fervor, ripping its claws into my back over and over, looking for those organs in there and trying to pry its head away and I screamed from the pain but also for the strength to at last snap its neck and come home the victor. It twisted again and I began to lose my grip, but the thing was fading too and I had my heels dug in quite well into the ground. If it could get one more good twist in, it might free up the right angle to have its head out and then it would emerge from my headlock right behind me and I would be finished. I just needed to have the strength to hold on. Together, the thing twisted and I squeezed.

(Contest) Conquer the Beast. 700 Words.

"You ain't seen what I have, son," the old man sitting across from me said with a gruff voice. "You weren't even born the day the bloody rain came. You never heard that sound..." He choked the last words as reached for the beer in front of him. I sat, pen in hand, copying notes onto my small black book. There weren't a lot of people still alive who had survived the bloody rain. The 50 year aniversary was coming up and my editor wanted a front page quality story for the day. "So tell me about it Walter. What happened that day?" The old man shuddered and finished his beer. He yelled for another and then leaned forward. "You heard people say it's raining like cats and dogs right? Well that's just what fuckin happend now in'it? Only it weren't full grown cats and dogs, it were puppies and kittens." It sounded rediculous, but the bloody rain really was a day that puppies and kittens fell from the sky. It sounds humorous to anyone who hasn't seen photos of the damage. It took years to repair the damage, not to mention the massive loss of human life. "Do y'know the the terminal velocity of a beagle pup, boy? I don't either but it's pretty goddam fast. My old pal Tom took a dachshund to the shoulder and went down. I reached out to grab him and a beagle hit me in the leg, broke every bone. As I lay their screaming I realized Tom were already gone. I tried to crawl to safety when a persian took me right arm and damn near tore it off. You know what happens to animals when they fall like that and hit the ground? They explode boy..." a far away look fell over his eyes. "...they bloody explode." I wrote down every word and made note of his expressions as he told the story. It was horrifying. I felt terrible for making him relive these memories, but this story was brilliant. "When I finally got indoors, I realized I still weren't safe. Narrow dogs like the whippets and the greyhounds essentially become sharp little bullets at that speed. They came right through the ceiling, and when they hit they sent bone flying everywhere. The cats didn't quite make it through the ceiling, but I could hear 'em popping up on the roof. I looked outside at the sheer horror of it all. I saw a man get decapitated by a pudgy little Siamese cat. Saw it with me own eyes I did!" Tears fell freely from the old man's face now as I continued to write. The worst was yet to come though. I looked up and in the distance I saw a little collie pup falling. Oddest thing, the animals falling didn't seem to concerned with their predicament, but the animals on the ground were shittin bricks they were. Well anyway, this pup, we lock eyes as it falls and every part of me screams to reach out and catch it. I had me a Lassie dog growing up y'see, and I swear if that pup weren't a mini version of my old Mopsy girl. I stuck me good left arm out to try to save it and pulled back at the moment. Damn thing popped like a balloon, reckon I stil got puppy bones in my skin from it." "So you waited it out? What did you do afterward? After the rain stopped?" The old man sighed, "I did what everyone did, boy. I cried. No one made it out completely unscathed that day. And what's worse is that the damn thing done so much damage was so goddam adorable." He took a long drink and finished his beer. "That's it for me boy, you write what you heard or don't. Just remember, keep your eyes up and listen for barks and meows in odd excess. Heed me words boy." With that he limped his way out of the bar on his cane and disappeared out the front door.

One day, it rains. But it isn't rain that comes down from the sky. What fell from the sky, and write a person's viewpoint on the matter.

I put a gun to her head and cocked the trigger. She looked up at me with tears in her eyes, "Please," she said, "I'd take it back if I could." My face didn't waver, though on the inside I was about to emotionally boil over. "Please..." She said, then I pulled the trigger. A mix of shattered bone and brain tissue splattered across the wall behind her, she fell back with her knees sprawled out in a rather uncomfortable looking position. Now I allowed myself to break down. "You made me fucking do it," I cried at her. I dropped to my knees and began beating her chest. "You fucking bitch," I yelled, "You killed our daughter." I lay over her, sobbing. Our child, my child, still lay broken and dead in our driveway. I had heard Denise pulling into the driveway much too fast, likely drunk again. I heard the thunk as she rammed our daughter with the fucking car, our only daughter, as she was running out to greet her. Then there was only darkness. Darkness and my dead wife, still bleeding over the carpet in front of me. I cried for her, I cried for myself, but I sobbed for the life of my daughter.

Make me support and sympathize with a character who does something immoral.

"Josephine... Take good care of the kids..." With that, my life was over, my soul was released from the chains of my physical body. Floating above my motionless self as a spiritual being, I felt light as a feather and couldn't really control myself. Even though I knew where I was, it was pretty frightening to realise that I was in the afterlife. I hovered at the same area, unable to escape from an invisible barrier that seemed to cause my soul to linger around the area. That must be precisely why hauntings occur at the place of death. My body was eventually taken away and I was left alone at the scene of the accident. Five days have passed, it almost didn't seem that there was anyone coming to take me away from here. Just when I had that thought, a pillar of light from the skies shot down, blinding me in the process. Like a beam from an alien spaceship, a man floated downwards to me. I knew who he was, it was God himself. Or so I thought... "My name is Speksm, and I am the librarian," the man said. "Come with me now, and do not ask questions regarding the simulation.". Surprised as I was, I decided to comply simply because I felt comfortable being with him. We were beamed up the pillar of light, through the clouds and the atmosphere. Just when I thought things were going great with the beautiful view of the stars and the Sun, we were sucked into a black hole! "What the hell?! What's this? Is it all a simulation as well?!" I screamed. "Do not ask questions." Speksm bellowed. The black hole just continued to churn us. I thought that by being a spirit, we probably wouldn't feel queezy or dizzy, but I was wrong, it felt horrible, I could feel my stomach contracting. "Does the...simulation..." I stuttered, when suddenly, my projectiles of ham and cheese flew out of my mouth, smacking the librarian in his face. The librarian took out a napkin and quietly cleaned off the vomit from his face. But before I was able to apologize to him, I realised that I was staring at a roof in some sort of barn. I tried to speak, but instead of words, what came out were a string of loud squeels. I found myself covered in a wet gooey substance. Before long, I heard other squeels. Surprisingly, I could understand them! I was so happy to find someone in the same predicament as me! I then tried to stand, but to no avail. I laid down and opened my eyes... That was when I realised that the librarian had placed me in my very own slaughterhouse.

Life is indeed a simulation. When you die, you get re-inserted in a new life. But, you've pissed off the supervisor in charge of re-inserting you into the simulation

"Your honor, I declare this trial to be worse than useless!" The lawyer proclaimed, holding up a DVD in the air. The judge looked at it, annoyed at the sudden outburst. "The defense would like to present this video footage of the fatal altercation involving my client, Han Solo and Greedo." The lawyer continued, further waving around a copy of *Star Wars Trilogy: Special Edition*. "Your honor, I object. The defense did not notify the court of this evidence prior to the trial." The prosecuting lawyer complained. The judge raised an eyebrow. "I'll allow it. But be aware you are skating on very thin ice. "The Judge said, annoyed at how the trial was proceeding. "Thank you your honor." The lawyer defending Han said, putting a DVD into a TV that had been brought in earlier for separate footage of the incident. Han watched silently, shifting uncomfortably. If it was actual footage, they would be watching him shoot Greedo first... The TV flashed on. The defense lawyer fast-forwarded to the scene in the first movie where Han and Greedo were at a table. Han watched as the dialogue proceeded, visibly shaken and sweating. The prosecution watched, smiling. Suddenly, the moment occurred. A flash of a laser bolt whizzed past Solo's head. A second later, Greedo fell back in a smoking heap, clearly killed in what was, according to the footage, self-defense. The court erupted in chaos, the prosecution yelling "Perjury, your honor!" the defense lawyer, George Lucas yelling over him "That is all, your honor." and the judge banging his gavel loudly, seeking to bring order to what had been a courtroom, and what was now a rowdy mess of Star War fans shouting "Han shot first! Han shot first!"

Han Solo is brought forth to trial for shooting Greedo first. You are his lawyer, how do you justify the shooting.

The Amazon Rain Forest. This prehistoric rain forest, which spans up to a billion acres, produces about twenty percent of the world's oxygen. And this rain forest is rich with surprise. Although forests like these occupy only a small percentage of the world's land, it is home to millions of species of plants and animals; each living in a delicate ecosystem. In this very cramped space that millions of different species call home, we have discovered only a year ago a new species of bat that has continued to perplex and amaze us. The Moon Bat. Although to the untrained eye much of the treeline of the Amazon Rain Forest may appear to be hostile to most forms of life besides the insects and the birds that we may be able to hear, it is also where Moon Bats call home. Experts at hiding, the Moon Bats roost in the darkest corners of the rain forest's canopy; allowing themselves to stay hidden from the most prying and curious of eyes. It is a testament to their evolutionary adaptations to the rain forest that they have escaped detection in this mysterious paradise for as long as they have. Although much has yet to be discovered about the Moon Bats, we have been able to observe that the Moon Bat, defying everything that we have come to know about Nature, has evolved the ability of space flight. Observe the Moon Bat's mighty wingspan. Twice that of an American Bald Eagle's, it is the stuff of nightmares. Although one can imagine that these frightening looking creatures were the inspiration for many of the world's artists' portrayal of demons, this nocturnal beast's terrestrial diet consists of only fruits and nectar. The high pitched whooping noises that it makes comes from its throat pouch, not unlike the Siamang Gibbons, using it to make at least forty different kinds of sounds, each more bizarre than the last. However, aside from using its throat pouches to conduct the most haunting music of the night as a mating call, the Moon Bats also use their throat pouches to store vast quantities of oxygen, which they require for a very special flight. Each year, on the autumnal equinox, millions of these bats take wing. Forming a gigantic funnel of terror, the Moon Bats begin to fly upwards into the clear night sky where they begin their arduous journey to the moon. Using the latest state of the art satellites, as well as the old but always trusty Hubblescope when it is not being repaired by astronauts, we have been able to observe their magnificent flight to the cold embrace of Selene - the ancient Greek goddess of the moon. Using sonar like all other bats to make sure that they stay on their path, they take an astonishing twelve days to make their lunar journey to reach the dark side of the moon. Exhausted and hungry from their arduously long journey, the Moon Bats immediately seek out the one other form of sustenance that they feed on in this barren world that is so unlike the one that they had left almost two weeks ago. Meteor dust. It is not yet understood how the Moon Bats can digest these pulverized ancient rocks that had once pockmarked the surface of the moon, long before the dawn of Man, but we do know that it gives them the nutrients needed to perform the ritual they have come here for. To lay their eggs. Aside from the platypus and the echidna, it is the only other known mammal that lays eggs. Whereas other animals that are confined to our blue planet must take great precautions to ensure that their eggs remain safely hidden and protected from predators, the Moon Bat has no such worry. On the dark side of the moon, the only thing one needs to be wary of is the haunting silence. As a result of a complete absence of any threat, the Moon Bats lay their eggs wantonly all over the surface of this dead world. Having consumed about half their oxygen supplies in their lunar journey, the Moon Bats cannot afford to lose much more time. Not long after having laid their eggs, this colony of Moon Bats must make their return journey home as quickly as possible lest they die in space, forever preserved and floating in the nothingness of space as they looked at the precise moment of their deaths. Just as other bats, using their sonar, the Moon Bats know how to home in back to the Amazon. Launching themselves from the surface of the moon at just the right time, they glide through the nothingness of space straight back to our oxygen-rich planet. As millions of these creatures are about to reenter Earth's atmosphere, something remarkable happens. Millions of these Moon Bats then interlock their talons together and spread open their massive wings, much like the way sky divers hold each others' hands during mid-fall, in order to create the single largest formation of any animal species known to Man. They do this to decelerate as they reenter into Earth's atmosphere in order to ensure that the friction caused by the air do not burn them upon reentry, which would kill them instantly. In what can only be described as a death defying act of bravery, the Moon Bats do not break formation until after they have broken through the Ozone Layer and find themselves falling through the troposphere. Once they reach the troposphere, instinctively, they let go and reform the same kind of swirl that they had formed previously before they left Earth almost a month ago, whereupon they begin the last leg of their journey - back to the canopy of the rain forest. When they return to the Amazon, the Moon Bats, which had nothing to eat since the meager mouthfuls of meteor dust that they had on the moon, gorge themselves on the tropical fruits of the forest. Surely a victor's meal, and one most deserving. After a whole night of feasting, these strange creatures that we still know so little about, disperse and disappear into the night as they return to the crevices and caverns of the canopy from whence they came. There they will wait for a full three months for their young broods to arrive.

A David Attenborough documentary narration on a newly discovered species that has evolved the ability of space flight and migrates to the moon as part of its life cycle

I woke up to the sunlight shining in my eyes. It was Tuesday. "Should be SUNday if you ask me" I said to my dog. She just stared at me flatly. "Such a bitch," I muttered under my breath. I went about my morning routine and hopped on the bus to work. The bus driver wouldn't make eye contact as I slipped my change into the box. There was a rather cute girl sitting alone so I decided to sit sit next to her. "The price to ride this thing makes this bus not very fair, you know what I mean?" She smiled at me and gave a short laugh before rolling her eyes. I will take what I can get. "I always think it's weird that nobody talks on the bus rides, I guess thats why they call it a comMUTE, amiright?" She laughed out loud this time. "You must be a comedian," she said with a smile. The sarcasm in her voice only hurt a little bit, but atleast she was playing along. "Nah I'm not a COMedian, I'm just a happy COMmuter..." shit that was retarded. I braced myself for the inevitable awkward silence. I was used to it by now. Instead she laughed again and looked into my eyes. We stared at eachother for a moment before reaching over and pulling a strand of hair off my shoulder. "Looks like you have a dog." I laughed as I searched my clothes for more dog hair. "Yeah, I guess that's Karma for me." I looked up into her puzzled expression. "My dog's name is Karma and it looks like she has been rolling around in my clothes again, bad Karma." She smiled at me, "My name is Annie Hill, what's yours?" The moment those words left her mouth I could feel whatever sinister mechanisms in mind that made me speak the way I do start turning. I knew what was going to happen but I was powerless to stop it. My heart beat quickly, I had to resist. I'm so tired of being alone, please no, please no! "I will tell you, TomMorrow," I said, still trying to quell the horrible pun building in my mind. She stared at me confused. I could tell she was trying to figure out the secret in the words. "You will tell me, tomorrow?... to morrow...Tom Morrow?" The air left my lungs, she was perfect. I felt like I had never seen anything until the moment those words left her mouth. Images of her smiling face carved itself upon my soul, upon my heart and in my mind I quickly built a monument to her perfection. She was perfection incarnate and I felt that the sun had risen twice that day, this time only for me. I nodded dumbly to confirm her question. Inside I was breaking, the evil, twisted machinations of some unstoppable force continued formulate a terrible pun based upon the name of this goddess. Annie Hill, the name of perfection. Annie Hill, the name of my inevitable downfall. It was coming, I felt the pun twisting it's black tendrils up my soul and toward my throat. I wanted to scream but instead I said... "So the other day I was telling my boss that I like climbing, so he asked me where I liked to climb, so I told him that I climb all over the place, and he said what was my favorite place to be on top of..." Fuck you, me! Fuck you so hard for taking this from me. I wanted this, I needed this! I stare into her beautiful eyes, knowing they will soon turn cold. Before I can speak and seal my fate she interupts me... "And you said, Annie Hill will do!" She exclaimed with a laugh. There was long pause, I was vaguely aware of my mouth hanging open. After a moment I nodded to confirm what she had said. The silence continued as we stared into eachother's eyes. Slowly I felt her small, warm hand rest on top of mine. We sat together hand in hand the rest of the trip.

A person talks and writes only in puns, unable to make a sentence without at least one pun. Describe a day in this person's life.

I fumbled with my tie, I was nervous, and wanted to look my best. There was a solid, burning lump in my throat as I drove to see Emily, and it only got worse once I arrived. I carried a stack of handwritten love letters. They were tied very carefully up with a thin red ribbon, and I held them with both hands in front of my chest as I approached her. She was so beautiful and perfect. She was wearing her favorite green dress that complimented her radiant crimson hair. I opened my mouth to speak, but the lump in my throat stopped me. Shyly, I looked up and saw that all eyes in the room were on me, as if they all knew, and expected me to say exactly what I wanted to say. They did know. Everyone knew I was madly in love with Emily, and perhaps she had known as well. I blushed and stepped back, I was too nervous to do this in public, but I felt a comforting hand on my shoulder. I turned back to see Emily’s mother with a warm smile and a tear on her cheek. She nodded her head forward, as if to let me know I should go ahead, and be brave. Emily’s parents loved me like a son, they had been my neighbors my entire life, I’m sure they knew of my love for Emily even before I did. I shuffled forward, heart pounding, up to her. Once again, the words wouldn’t come out, but they didn’t need to. I stopped, reached out and held her hand, and admired her beauty for one last time. I leaned forward, and placed a single gentle kiss on her cold forehead, tears streamed down my cheeks as I placed ten years’ worth of love letters, poems and songs on Emily’s chest.

Challenge yourself! 300-500 words.

*I just finished this this morning - does it count? Mods please delete if it doesn't.* I stumble onto the bus, and let myself drop into a seat near the back, adjusting the flask of Bacardi in my pocket. I look around, trying to settle the shifting of my vision. Some middle-eastern looking young man on my left, probably in his 20s, stares at the snow falling outside the vehicle. On my right, a younger Asian kid, probably fresh out of high school, taps away at a new-looking smartphone in his hands. He catches my gaze, gives me a brief smile from behind his horn-rimmed glasses, and returns his attention to his phone. An older Asian man gets on the bus just as the doors close, and makes his way to the back. The bus begins to move, and I steady myself by holding onto the seat. A surgical mask, or something of the sort, covers the man’s face. Why did he have it? The air quality here isn’t bad at all. In fact, it’s great! There really wasn’t a need for anybody to wear that kind of thing. I lean over to the kid on my right, and try to say something along the lines of ‘Does he think that will make him live longer?’, but it comes out as “Helium live longer?” He looked at me, slipping his phone into one of the pockets of his pea coat. “Pardon?” “Helium lives longer?” “Um… I’m not really sure what it is you’re trying to say”, he says. I damn my lack of control, and I try again, re-stating the question another way. “Do you really think the air quality is that bad?” I ask, nodding my chin towards the older man. He looks quickly, and turns back to me. “No, I think the air here is fine, the guy probably just doesn’t want to get sick, or doesn’t want to get other people sick. I doubt it’s because the of the air quality.” Maybe this guy has never taken a real breath before. Is he even breathing now? I can’t tell under all the layers he’s wearing. Maybe I’ll enlighten him to what real breathing is. It makes me astoundingly happy. “When you breathe, is it your own breath? Does the air belong to you?” He looks confused. “Well, yes, I guess I breathe.” “Yeah, but, does the breath belong to you?” “I don’t really think the breath belongs to me… After all, it’s just air.” He’s not understanding. I can tell. He’s never been in a cabin in the middle of a cold winter night, stepped out, and taken a breath that truly belonged to him. He’s never had the opportunity to. I laugh loudly, feeling bad for his lack of opportunity. “If you want air that belongs to you, go to B.C.” “Ah, I’ve never been. You think the air there is nice?” “Yeah, it’s really nice…” But B.C. comes with its own problems – notably, bears. I should probably warn him. “But you know, bears go up and attack people sometimes! I’m about 230 pounds. How much do you think you weigh?” “Probably somewhere in the region of 130.” I'm 230. He's 130. That’s… 360 together. That seems like it might be close enough to the size of a bear. “Okay, so think me – 230, and you – 130, into a bear, standing right in front of you. What do you even do? How do you get him to not eat you? Do you ever think about situations like this? You really should.” “To be honest, I’m more of a city guy myself. Even thinking about that situation now seems kind of silly, especially because bears are omnivores. I’m sure they’d be more interested in fish or berries instead.” I laugh long and hard. This guy doesn’t know a thing about bears! It’s a good thing I’m telling him now. “You think a bear is going to want to eat some BERRIES when he’s got MEAT in front of him!?” He doesn’t say anything for a little bit, and just looks at me quizzically. His hair seems rather well-kept, and reminds me of the young Hong Kong culture. “You a Hong Kong kid?” His eyes widen slightly with surprise. “I’m surprised you can tell. Sometimes I can’t even tell the difference between people from Hong Kong and mainlanders.” I try to ask him the difference between the two, but it just ends up being a slur of unintelligible words. “I mean, you can tell some people are from Hong Kong because of the way they speak English. Not that they really have Chinese accents, but more along the lines of how they were taught English when they were kids – it has different intonation from both American English and British English. Kind of like a little mix between the two.” Hong Kong people learned British English? I never knew that. “So can you tell the difference between them and royalty? Like the way kings speak and stuff?” “What? I’m not really sure what you mean.” I’m not sure how else to phrase the question. Where am I right now? How far am I from Blackthorn? “Where are we right now? Where are you getting off?” “We’re at Yonge and Steeles right now. I’m getting off somewhere around Sixteenth.” “Yonge and Steeles… Okay. I’m getting off at Blackthorn, it’s past Highway 7 but before Sixteenth. Looks like we’re going the same way. This IS the 91 bus, right?” “Yeah, this is the 91.” Better call my wife, then. I pull out my shitty Public Mobile Nokia and dial her number. Tell her where I am and that I’m on my way. Hang up, and shove it back into my sweater pocket. “So what are you studying?” “I’m in computer engineering.” “So where’s that gonna take you?” “Probably an office job somewhere. Writing software.” Ha! This kid! I laugh again. Is that all he thinks there is to life? When is he going to have time to actually enjoy himself? “You think that’s going to be FULFILLING?” I ask, eyes wide, smile plastered on my face. “Well, a job’s a job. It’s not necessarily about whether I actually enjoy it or not, but if I can make the money to do what I want that makes me happy, I think that’s fulfilling.” “My vocation ” - I emphasize the word because I despise it – “is health and safety, for construction. Thankfully, I haven’t seen someone injured in about five years.” “Oh, I’d say that’s pretty good, then.” “Yeah, it is…” The last accident I saw was a pretty bad one. Some stupid kid was wearing gloves while operating a lathe. One of the simplest rules out there. Glove got caught in the machine. Ripped his entire arm off. “I’ve got a son – I’ll probably teach him everything I know about safety. How to take care of himself.” “How old is he?” “Just turning two, actually. I could teach him everything in the world about it. I could even teach everyone here about it. But I don’t have to.” Maybe this was too dark of a subject. Maybe I should change it. “Here, here”, I say. I pull out my TTC day pass from my pocket. “How good do you think your reflexes are?” “Pretty bad, actually.” We laugh. “Put your fingers like this –” I put my thumb and index finger a centimetre apart, as if I’m going to pinch something. This was a trick a buddy showed me some time ago. The kid follows suit, and I put the pass right above his pinch-ready fingers. “I’m gonna let this drop. Try to catch it. I’ll give you three tries.” “Three tries? Do I win anything if I can get it?” I laugh. Even if there was a prize he wouldn’t get it. My friend had said it was something air pressure or other. I don’t really get it myself. All I know is that I was never able to catch it, either. We proceed to the trial three times. He doesn’t get it any of the times. “So do you know what you can’t catch it?” “As I said, probably because I’ve got bad reflexes.” “No, but do you know it’s a FACT you can’t catch it?” “I’m not entirely sure what you mean.” Wait, where am I right now? How long have I been on this bus for? Did I miss my stop? I look around, trying to get a glimpse of the surroundings. “Where are we right now?” “Steeles and Bayview. We’re turning onto Bayview now.” “Still the 91 bus, right?” “Yeah, it’s the 91.”

Free write. Write the first short story that pops into your head.

"The State would like to call its next witness to the stand. Ms. Joanna Wright." With that I was pushed towards the front of the courtroom in my wheelchair. I had the outward appearance of a vegetable. I looked no more coherent than Terry Schaivo in her last days. When I saw myself in the mirror the day before I wanted to cry. But at least I am still able to have coherent thoughts. That I am thankful for. And at least I am able to make sure that lying bastard meets justice. When I reached the stand I swore to tell the whole truth and nothing but the truth with my right hand laying limp on the edge of my armrest. With that the prosecutor, my only hope of gaining justice, walked towards me and began his line of questioning. "Ms. Wright where were you the night of September 23?" "In my home." a lifeless, computerized voice answered back. Its words governed by my thoughts. I suppose the future is now. "Was anyone home with you that night Mrs. Wright?" "No sir, I was in my home watching Monday Night Football about to drift off to sleep." "Then what happened?" he asked. "I heard a knock on my door which I got up to answer." "Who was at the door when you opened it?" "My ex husband." if I had a voice I would have said those words with the greatest disdain possible. Instead they came out as plainly as the recitation of a grocery list. "Is he in the courtroom today?" the prosecutor musingly asked. "Yes. If I had control over my body I would physically identify him as the defendant." There was that slimy, worthless bastard. I have to admit he looked good in his suit. I don't think one ever loses attraction to the one they once loved with all their heart no matter what awful things happen between them. Still, he looked too smug and content. I wanted him put away forever. I wanted him to rot in a cell just like I would rot in the ground a few hours after this trial ended. "Let it be known the witness has identified the defendant. What happened next?" the prosecutor went on. "He stumbled in the doorway before I could invite him in. His words were incoherent. He wreaked of vodka. After a few moments of his near incomprehensible rambling and screaming, I gathered that he had gone bankrupt. He wanted his alimony back. We've been divorced for five years. I refused and told him to leave before I called the cops." "What happened next?" "He produced a knife. I started screaming and ran towards the phone. I threw a chair down behind me. He stumbled after me and fell over the chair. I dialed 911 as he attempted to regain his balance. I told the operator what happened. I had my back turned to him. After telling her the address and hanging up I felt a sharp pain in the side of my neck. He knocked me down and stabbed me repeatedly in the torso. That's the last thing I remember." "No further questions." The defending attorney chose not to question me. Their jobs have been largely marginalized since these new chairs have made the exposure of the truth pretty much inevitable. I was wheeled out of the courtroom and taken back to the hospital. I was unplugged from the chair. There are only so many of them to go around and they are needed for other cases. I was laid down on a bed and slowly slipped away. Angry at how my life had ended, but content with its resolution.

You were brutally murdered, but thanks to new technologies, you are brought back to life to testify against your killer.

With a muted whoosh and a sprinkling of snow, an old man in red appears inside the door. Carefully stepping around the beeping machines, he gently places a warm hand upon the girl's bald head. The shadows darken. Frost grows on the windows. A chill enters the room. Death, too, has arrived. Santa spares it a glance. "So soon?" he murmurs. "She's just settled, and wanted so much to see the morning..." The shadows shift. "Aye. I know. You do your duty, no more and no less." He continues to stroke the girl's head, with the slightest sparkle in his eye as she sighs and settles. They stand in silence, at an odd impasse with no tension. For these two, and in this night, time holds no meaning. Sighing, Santa withdraws his hand and stands. "Do you know what she wished for?" he whispers. "She asked for smiles for her family today. Simply...smiles" Death remained still. Sighing again, he turns back to the girl. "Just...one moment. She has been such a good girl this year, so nice and kind to everyone. She should have her Christmas present. She deserves it." Once again, he brushes his fingers over her eyes. And she dreams. An endless dream of painless Summer days, of warm picnics on grassy hills and kites flying in bright blue skies. Of her mother and father, faces unlined by worries or cares, smiling and laughing like they used to before she got sick. Of her little brother who used to pull her hair and laugh as she screamed and chased him around the yard. Of fun school days coloring in books and cozy nights with her mother's bedtime stories lulling her to sleep. She smiles. Santa steps aside, shoulders drooped. "Make it quick. Please." The shadows glide towards the bed, silent and cold. A skeletal hand reaches out and brushes a finger against her chest. Her breath slows. Her heartbeat gentles. And stops. Santa stands over the bed, barely noticing the squeal of the heart monitor's flat line. And then, somewhere in the cacophony of medical devices, he hears a little bell ring. And he smiles a small, pained smile. With a muted whoosh and a sprinkling of snow, the room is once again empty but for the still and silent girl on the bed. But outside, snow is falling upon the bare ground, and the tinkling of a bell chimes in the wind.

Santa and Death both arrive at a young child's house at the same time.

As the desk receptionist clicked on the "record" button, the red light on top of the video camera switched on. "You can start whenever you're ready, Mr. Miller," she said matter-of-factly before she left the room. She flipped the viewer around so that I could see myself being recorded before she left. I looked exactly how I felt. Like hell. "Hey, it's you. It's me. It's me and you from 2013." It was hard to speak. And I couldn't even look into the camera. I didn't even want to make potential eye contact with my future self who might or might not end up watching this video. I forced myself to speak. "So if you're watching this, it's been a week since you've woken up from the procedure and you've probably realized that you have no recollection of the last ten years! And as you looked around, you've probably connected the dots and figured out that you're at *Nirvana Clinic* and that you got yourself *lapsed.* Then you've probably logically deduced that you wouldn't have made such a decision if it weren't for the fact that you really wanted to forget something. But if you're watching this video, that probably means that your curiosity got the better of you and you chose to watch this video when they asked if you wanted to watch the video or not. So that was money well spent, wasn't it?" I took a sip out of the cup of water to wet my lips. The medication was taking effect and it was starting to get me parched. "Well, it looks like I've only got about ten minutes before I have to go, so I guess I should make this quick," I continued. "So I'll be direct. The reason you decided to get *lapsed* was because you wanted to forget a girl. I know. What a cliche, right? You're probably thinking "I did this all for a girl?" right? Well, she wasn't just any girl. Her name is Sarah." It was so hard to even say her name. "You met her... I met her for the first time nine years ago." It was getting too weird to say "you" when I was actually referring to me to none other than myself. "And she wasn't just any girl. She was my girl. And she changed my world." I felt a lump in my throat. I thought that I was done crying. It turned out that I wasn't. Tears started to well in my eyes. "For nine years, she gave me a reason to exist. No matter what kind of hell I went through, seeing her smile made me realize that it was ALL worth it. That I would do anything, pay any price just so that I could see her smile just one more time." Her smile flashed before my eyes. I had to close my eyes and shake my head violently. It helped to lessen the pain a bit. "But she never made me work too hard to see her smile. She always had a smile for me. Whether it was because she was just happy to see me or if it was because she knew that I couldn't get angry at her if she smiled, she always had a smile for me." The medication was taking its effect and I was starting to get groggy. "And then, just like that, she died." As tears began to roll down my face for the umpteenth time, I realized that my mind was starting to get all jumbled up. I was slowly starting to confuse memory and fantasy. Things were no longer making sense. I wanted to claw at my memories for a little longer. They hurt, but they were mine, and I knew that soon, I wasn't going to remember anymore. I began to feel afraid. I began to wonder if I had made the right choice. Moments before I lost consciousness, I had one lucid thought. I saw Sarah sitting on the couch in my living room. She was smiling and waving at me but... she was so far away. "Sarah! Baby, don't go. Don't go, Sarah. I'm here. Daddy's here. Daddy loves you, sweetheart..." Everything then went to black.

You are about to forget the last year of your life. You get to record a video of yourself that will be played for you once and only once after you lose your memory. What do you say to fill in the gaps?

“Honey check the locks.” “I have darling, all the doors are bolted shut.” “And the windows?” “Also closed and none are broken.” It’s Christmas morning and two-thirds of the Jones family (excluding the cat) are in a bit of a panic. “What is this doing here?” “I don’t know darling, I’ve never seen it before.” “Is it making any weird noises?” Mr Jones lifts up the suspicious package to his ears, then shakes it a little. “Nothing darling, I can’t hear a thing.” “Do you think it’s dangerous?” “I don’t think so, although it is not very well wrapped.” “What is it then?” “I don’t know.” “It’s so… big.” Mr and Mrs Jones had woken up about an hour and a half ago. Mr Jones was the first, as always, and immediately went to have a shower in the en suite bathroom. Mrs Jones, having been awoken by the sound of dripping water, pretended to sleep so as to not offend her husband. Mr Jones is aware of her deceit, but choses not to reveal this knowledge as he appreciates his wife’s care. Mr Jones then went down stairs to the kitchen in order to prepare breakfast for his wife and their only child, Henry. In doing so he passed through the living room and by the Christmas tree without noticing anything suspicious. In Mr Jones’s defense he is only truly awake after drinking his morning cup of coffee. He began cooking two omelets and some sausages for Henry, who doesn’t like eggs. Having spent an extra ten minutes in bed since her husband left the bedroom, Mrs Jones then in turn proceeded to the bathroom to wash her face and arrange her hair. She then applied a small amount of make-up, which she believes is unnoticeable (but is in fact noticed by her husband), and finally followed her husband down to the kitchen. However she never made it that far as she was stopped in her tracks by what lay waiting beneath the Christmas tree. Mr Jones is diverted away from the kitchen and back into the living room by his wife’s audible gasp. “We only bought five presents didn’t we honey?” “We did indeed. Two for Henry, one for each of us, and one for Mr Tibbles.” “Yet now there are six beneath the Christmas tree.” “Yes, this one shouldn’t be here, and it’s by far the biggest one.” “Where does it come from?” “Maybe Santa brought it?” “You honestly don't still believe in Santa do you honey?” “Of course not darling. It’s just that I cannot find any other explanation.” “Maybe one of yesterday’s guests brought it in and left it here without us knowing? Maybe Aunt Josephine?” “That’s highly improbable darling. All the gifts they brought were accounted for, and it would have been impossible to smuggle in something this big without any of us noticing. What’s more you know that Aunt Josephine is so stingy she would never buy anyone a Christmas gift!” “Well then, there’s only one question left. Who’s it for?” “Lets find out!” Just as Mr Jones is about to tear the attached card out of its envelope both parents hear footsteps coming down the staircase. They turn around to see little Henry walking sleepily down the stairs. After rubbing his face with his pajama sleeve he sees his parents holding the large Christmas gift. His eyes suddenly light up and he runs towards them, stopping just short of where they’re kneeling beside the fir. He then sits down cross-legged, and stares at them intently with a big smile on his face. Mr Jones opens the card, looks at it, then shows it to his wife. It reads: *To my favorite Mommy and Daddy* *Merry Christmas!* *Many lots of love,* *Henry*

Christmas morning, and a pair of parents, neither of whom believe in Santa, finally realise neither of them bought the largest present under the tree.

At RISE: *The stage is a supermarket aisle. Shelves stacked with various canned goods upstage right, left and center. A sign saying ‘Canned Goods’ hangs from ceiling downstage left. Half-filled trolley downstage right.* *Faint Christmas music can be heard.* *Enter Death stage right wearing black cloak and hood, keeping her face hidden from audience, carrying a scythe in right hand. She shuffles along to center stage whilst facing audience, using her left hand to pick up and inspect supermarket items.* *Enter Life stage left. He’s wearing a white robe with embroidered flower motifs, and a crown of roses on his head.* LIFE: Hey there, little sister! Fancy finding you here! Long time no see! DEATH: (underwhelmed) Hello Life. What a surprise… LIFE: So… How have things been going down here on earth? I’ve heard you’ve been doing a fantastic job! DEATH: Same as usual I guess. LIFE: Come on little sis, don’t you go all modest on me! What’s the most lives you claimed in a day this year? Must be that earthquake in Pakistan at the end of September. You clocked over 800 people that time yeah? Good going! Not as good as me though. You know, yet another year of net worldwide population growth and all that… DEATH: (mumbling) It’s because you have an unfair advantage. The humans are on your side. LIFE: You know that’s not true! They were seriously helping you out during their last two world wars. DEATH: That was over sixty years ago. LIFE: Yeah, and afterwards they developed the atomic and hydrogen bombs. Those looks promising! DEATH: But they never really used them. Now they’re all over this new “cyber-war” or whatever they call it. Nobody dies from that. LIFE: Now, now, reaper sister, why so grim? (chuckles to himself) See what I did there? Reaper, grim? Grim reaper? Never mind… Why don’t you just ask for another pandemic for Christmas? If the Almighty thinks you’ve been a good girl he might give you another avian or porcine flu? DEATH: You think so? LIFE: Yeah sure! Something along the lines of the H5N1 or the H1N1 would complement that HIV of yours nicely. Slap on a different number and you’re good to go! Maybe with a bit of luck you’ll get a good run with it. DEATH: (getting excited) You think I can pull off another Black Death? LIFE: Why not? Just make sure you let me know before hand! You almost got me worried back then, I thought you were going to win! You damn near killed half of Europe with that plague. DEATH: That was the point. LIFE: But where would you be if you killed all the humans! You’d only have the animals, plants and fungi to play with… DEATH: (interrupting) And the protista and monera! LIFE: Yeah, but those are a bit shit aren’t they! Seriously little sister, if it weren’t for me you’d have destroyed everything by now. Then you’d be in a sorry state wouldn’t you! But fear not. Big brother will always be there to stop you from doing anything stupid. DEATH: You’re stupid. LIFE: Now, now. Let’s not get hurtful. After all, I’m your big brother who will always love you to death. (more chuckles) Anyway, I’m hearing good things about that global warming thing you’ve got going on. Can’t freeze them so you melt them eh? Looking forward to that. DEATH: Actually after the initial rise in temperate there’ll be another ice age and then… LIFE: (interrupting) Yeah, yeah. Sounds lovely. Anyway, I can’t spend all eternity here talking to you. Got plants to pollinate, eggs to fertilize, births to deliver and cells to multiply! So much do to that sometimes I wonder how I manage it all. I guess I’m just awesome. Catch you some other time little sister! Take it easy; don’t work yourself to death! (bursts into laughter) Hah! Work yourself to death. Good one. I’m a genius… *Exit Death stage right.* DEATH: (under her breath) I hope someday you die of laughter. *Christmas music gets much louder and more cheerful.* *Curtain.*

Death goes grocery shopping and her brother Life finds her in the canned goods isle.

"Good morning citizens of Seattle!" The crowd of thousands erupted as President Robert Monroe approached the stand, microphone in hand. *What do they have to cheer about?* Professor Johnson, the city's Chairman of the school board thought. *They've been screwed over by this guy and they don't even know it yet. They worship him now, and they'll condemn him tomorrow.* "Yes, what a fine morning it is to be with you, the incredible ladies and gentleman of one of our finest cities!" More applauds. "Today, as you may know is an important day for all Americans!" *Important... what a choice of words Robert has always had. If he's about to announce what I think...* "This beautiful January 18th will be remembered forever for the progress we've made for humanity. I announce the beginning of our new identification process! No longer will you be burdened with cards and paperwork! A new era of convenience has come friends!" *He calls them friends, yet he enslaves them to his tyranny. I never would've thought the bill would pass until today. He makes it sound like he's helping them. What's worse is they'll believe it.* "Yes, yes I know it is incredible! A barcode on your wrist is all it takes, one like I have here." He showed his wrist to the audience. More applauds. "Now unfortunately for my opposition- who are still stuck 50 years in the past- this project will require EVERYONES mandatory participation. You will all proceed directly to...." The president paused. Monroe locked eyes with his former professor, as a flood of lectures and memories swept over him. "This... this isn't right." The president whispered into the microphone. The cheering and hooting was replaced by a gasp as if the whole crowd had just emerged from water. "I.. I once took a class about the... MORALITY of politics." The words were getting stuck in Monroe's throat. "This system isn't going to help you people! Are you blind? HAVE YOU LEARNED NOTHING? WE ARE MAKING YOU SHEEP! YOU ARE SHEEP!! Your convenience means nothing to them, to me, to us! Only your submission is important! If you allow this-" Monroe was grabbed by the party's agents who had now taken the stage. "YOU ALL HAVE-- JOHNSON DO SOMETHING FOR CHRISSAKE!" He was dragged away behind the stage. All eyes turned to the professor. A shot was fired. Followed by another. Soon chaos enveloped the hall. Johnson ran toward the stage. *The microphone, I have to get the microphone.* He jumped up the steps and picked up the small but powerful mic. "AMERICANS, listen to me!" He shouted into the Mic. Several dead lay strewn around him, but it seemed as though peace had been temporarily restored. They turned to him once again as he began the most influential speech of the century. He began the speech that would ignite what became called the Second American Revolution. **Note: First time writing here, thought it was fun. Criticism appreciated!**

Midway through an important speech the President of the United States has a psychotic break.

"EXPLAIN IT THEN, WHY DON'T YOU HAVE A SHADOW!" I yelled Maeve placed her hands over her eyes, trying to hold back the tears. I hurt her real bad, but I don't care. "Mitch, It's really hard to explain. I can't... can't.." "Can't what?" I snapped back, "cover up your lies anymore, convince me how your family are not a bunch of freaks?" Maeve suddenly turned cold and looked at me with the most dead-eyed serious glare I ever experienced in my life. I felt shivers run down my neck, I was scared of her. "My family are not freaks," she said quietly. Then she gripped my arm with unfounded strength, no strength that such a frail body could possible own. For the first time, I saw who she was. Maeve was transparent, the peach-puckered skin that I adored for years was now faded and grey, almost wispy in texture. "You're wrong Mitch" She said in a raspy voice, her eyes now empty sockets of darkness. "We are not bodies without shadows" Maeve leans closer to my ear, "We are shadows without bodies."

Looking at your wedding pictures you notice that nobody from your husband/wife's family has got a shadow.

“It was supposed to be so fucking simple. In and out in 20 minutes, three mil a piece, no problem. Course there’s always a fuckin problem. An that problem’s name is Ricky Cocksucker Fucko Dickfuck D’Lierre. “Get this: two weeks ago Ricky calls me up. Ain’t seen him since that shit in Florida over a year ago and suddenly he’s all ‘Hey Ron, how’s it goin?,’ like he’s my kid’s godfather. I shoulda socked him in his lazy eye, put some manners on the asshole. But now he’s saying ‘Listen to this’ and ‘there’s three mil on the table for you’ and I’m thinking maybe I can stand Ricky D’Lierre for twenty minutes if I can get a trip to Vegas outta it. “We’re at the back of Chumps now and the whole crew is there. Ricky, who’s set up the operation and got the buyer, Donnie, who’s gonna be drivin, this ol timer called Joshua Jewface that’s makin sure we get no hassle when we’re in there and Deano, Greg and myself. We’re the muscle, the lackies. Ricky tells us the score. ‘What do ya fellas know bout Caravaggio?’ he asks. Fuck me, Caravaggio? We didn’t all go to Emerson. Donnie thought we were gonna be fillin the van with wine. “Ricky laughs. He gets Jewface to explain. He’s a painter, a European from way back that art collectors like to rub their dicks on. Ricky knows a guy, fuck me how he knows him, that likes Caravaggio. Enough to part with 18 mil? ‘Enough to part with 18 mil,’ Ricky smiles. Here’s how it’s supposed to go down. Mornin of, Donnie picks us all up, takes us to the museum. Renovations goin on and Donnie’s uncle got the contract, ergo Donnie’s got himself the right type of van. We’re all wearin white dungarees like the contractors, no one bats an eyelid, figures we’re the new guys. Jewface leaves the alarms off, leaves the door unlocked, leaves the camera’s switched off. Beautiful, right? So we jus walk in, lock the door, switch paintings and walk out. Anyone notices, we waste em. Donnie takes us to the rendezvous and Ricky’s already there. The buyer sees the painting and leaves with it, but not before forgetting to leave six suitcases with three mil in each. Perfect right? If this plan was a broad I’d fuck it til my dick comes off, it’s so hot. “First thing goes wrong is Donnie. Donnie doesn’toesn’t show up on time. This is bad cause I’m only a few blocks from Greg. Ten minutes go by, then twenty. No Donnie. Half an hour. No Donnie. This is bad, we need to be there before half nine when the shift manager arrives. I try callin Ricky, no response. Ditto with Donnie, Greg and Deano. Ah fuck. It’s nine and Donnie finally shows up. In a red van. Not his uncle’s, his own. ‘Donnie, you stupid sack of shit, the fuck are you doin?’ I ask him. He’s afraid he couldn’t get his one of his uncle’s, but he reckons this’ll work. Reckons? This ain’t the time for fuckin reckoning, Donnie. This is real fuckin business. “I climb into the back. No Greg, no Deano. Instead there’s these two slanty eyed Viet Cong guys, no English between them. Donnie says not to worry, Greg pussied out and Deano’s sick, but that just means bigger paydays for us. ‘They’re only getting 50 k’ he winks at me. ‘They’re not in uniform’ I say, but Donnie brushes me aside. It’s all Asians that work for his uncle, he says. No one’ll notice. Oh fuck, I think. “We pull up to the museum. It’s 10:08. We’ve seven minutes to do the job and make the rendezvous. Good fuckin job, Donnie. We walk in and instantly the foreman comes over to us. Who’re we, he asks. We the new guys and if so why’re we late and not in uniform? Where are our badges he wants to know. Fuck me, lil Viet Cong dude takes his glock out an pistol whips him. Foreman’s freakin out, but the gun to his head makes him shut up. Lil dude keeps him there. “Me and the big guy are runnin through the museum with the copy under my arm. I make it to the room and the doors locked. Pardon my French, but you’re not supposed to be locked. I break it down, trippin the alarm as I do so. Big dude panics, starts scremain at me. ‘Let’s try and just do this’ I yell to the fucker. We go to the picture and start takin the frame off. ‘Stop right now and put your hands up’ I hear. “I turn around and there’s this fatass just yellin at us. Oh Christ, I think. Big fella takes out his gun and wastes him. His blood splatters all over the floor, pretty grisly. Big fella starts putting the Caravaggio in the bag while I’m checkin out the coast. It’s lookin fine til I hear crack. The fucker’s dropped it. The authentic one, it’s cracked, with a massive tear runnin down the centre. The big guy freezes and doesn’t know what to. He starts cryin. I hear a gunshot. Then two more and a lot of commotion. I run the down the hall and duck my head out and I see the police’ve nailed the lil fella. Unfortunately he nailed the foreman too. “I’m thinkin fuck this and y’know what I do? I walk straight the fuck out. They all think I’m just with the renovation company and no one bats and eyelid. Same can’t be said for Donnie. I’m walkin out and I can see him being questioned by the police. Fuck that idiot. It’s half ten, rendezvous missed. I don’t give a fuck. “Here’s a nice postscript for ya: D’Lierre gets whacked. Too good man, too good. Lil weasel’s fucked me over so much through the years I’ve bloody stools. His body was found in a scrapyard, a single bullet in his head. Guess his buyer got anxious and infuriated, in that order. Oh well, if ya can’t beat em, fuck em. They’re all assholes anyway.”

You're telling the tale of a big heist gone wrong from the perspective of the only member of the team that did their job right.

The newspapers reported the death of Ultra Man in the papers the following morning. Funerals were held and broadcasted on TV. Reporters flocked to interview anyone and every about their thoughts of his death. TV specials ran for months about the impact his death would have upon the world. When The Cackler was finally put on trial, it literally was "the trial of the century". He was found guilty, he was tried quickly, and then executed a few years later. After that, the world's hero faded to memory. You see, that's how it was back then. People relied on the heroes to take them out of the sticky situations. A mugger was running away, and people relied on the superheroes to save their possessions. Beat cops were looked upon like second class citizens. There was a war, instead the heroes handled it. We could never solve our own problems. Everything was left to the heroes to take care of. You see, that's what was wrong back then. We lacked free will. We lacked the ability to handle and take care of our own problems. The Cackler, yeah, he may have killed the greatest hero we had ever known. But, you know what he did? He liberated us. He made us the masters of our own destiny. We could be our own gods, our own masters, our own heroes. We didn't need some guy in a cape swooping down to save the day. You see son, I was there the day the Cackler killed Ultra Man. I was in that bus of hostages he used as bait. But, I also saw in his eyes what he was doing. We think that evil deeds are always evil, and good deeds are always good, sometimes, the evilest deeds are done in the name of good. Ultra Man did that everyday when he took away our free will.

and though utterly amoral, his plans result in a genuinely happier, better world.

"Tell me Abel, tell me everything." "I can't tell you everything, love. I've spent longer than you've been alive telling different parts of my story." "Then, start now." "You're stubborn and I love you. Well." . . . "They discovered immortality in 2023. I had just turned 30 years old and we were discussing the recent unification of the theories of physics, me and my colleagues. The ultimate consequences of the theory wouldn't be worked out for another... Right. Well, we were at a bar and the flat hologram at the time showed that clinical trials were going underway for human test subjects. There were countless applicants willing to risk death at the chance for immortality. I applied as well, on a dare. My girlfriend at the time worried that I might be selected, but I reassured her that with the world applying, there were no odds that I would be selected. Of course, I suffered from the "it'll happen to the neighbors" syndrome. The selection came by paper notification. 'To Dr. Godfrey, from the Center of Revitalizing Medicine,' my girlfriend lamented." "*What* Godfrey?" "Stanuel Godfrey." "Stanuel? Really." "It's archaic." "Hm." "She wasn't too happy. Neither was I, but I have to admit I was curious. The letter secretly noted that the procedure was safe, but the institute needed someway of filtering out the applicants. I was chosen because my age and background. 30 years old, with a doctorate in a field that was forever changed since that day. Perhaps they would need someone in the future who has been there since 'The Beginning.' It was deemed such because the goal of physics was no longer to come up with theories, but rather to clean up the existing work and leave the field on par with mathematics... who would've guessed the Gödel's incompleteness theorem applied to physics as well?" "Is that why you call yourself Abel?" "I was the first to undergo the procedure. Abel was the name they gave me." "Why not Adam?" "Abel was the first human to know death." "And you're the first who never will." "Hm. I guess. The first two decades were the strangest. My colleagues grew grey and retired while I never did. We grew apart and I had to grow accustomed to a circle of ever-aging friends. Even my children eventually grew older, and died. It killed me the first few times, at least, I wished it could. I've tried it, you know, killing myself. It takes about half a dozen times before you realize it doesn't work. Depression is the worst when you don't even need to get out of bed to eat. I spent the next hundred years or so being reckless, drinking and sleeping around and for the most part living like it's my last day on earth. 'You only live once' and all, that was the phrase back then. I spent the next hundred years in a cell. Turns out I had accumulated quite a record and the police decided they'd like to see a person thrown in jail for an amount of time a normal human would never survive. They let me out once their grandkids had taken over the force. Records didn't even last long enough for them to know what I was in for. Seeing their grandchildren, I guess it changed me. I remembered my own kids and realized they probably had kids of their own. I had a family, out there." "...Your colleagues, why didn't... they undergo the procedure?" "They couldn't. It didn't work after me." "What happened?" "You're falling asleep. I'll tell you tomorrow." --- EDIT: There will be more! Status:Posted as a reply to this one

immortal who has been alive for 20k years decides to tell his current wife his life story

I was never one for "politics". Not saying I'm not involved in the system, because that would be a lie. I don't lie. I also don't vote. Red, blue, it's all they same. They get their script from the same people I get mine from. The only difference between me and them is mine was always blank. Until it wasn't. The President on a personal level was a good man. He followed his lines to the dot, as he should. His charisma was awe inspiring, like a master actor performing Shakespeare. He had a charm that seemed to make their words his own. Towards the end of his last term however, he did what one must never do with Shakespeare. Improvise. He was pulling out of "The War on Hope" as the media called it. Some war in some country. The name doesn't matter, though if your reading this you already know. I knew it as "Operation Sticky Note." The script said that he would pull out 25% of the troops immediately, and implement a plan to remove " a strict percentage every year, until our troops are home". This was of course a lie. The real plan was to withdraw a percentage of the troops, but in the next election put them all back. But that was the line that could of saved his life. Ten words to put a nation at ease. Ten words to provide me with peace. I always watched the speeches closely, with my copy in one hand and a bottle of Jack in the other. I knew I'd need a drink if what I saw on screen didn't match what I had on paper. You'd think after 20 years of doing this job it'd get easier. It never does. It's an odd combination of feelings, for sure. It reminded me of my time during the Great World War, the moment before we struck. The moment your blood pushes through your veins a thousand miles per hour, every thought you've ever had rushes through your head, and the only peace of mind you get is "I'm just a cog doing it's job in the machine, and our machine is better than yours". Imagine that feeling crammed into a 6'2 man sitting alone not in a warzone, but at a small sleepy tavern in the middle of nowhere. "My Fellow Americans," he began. They always start the speeches the same way. They never mess that up. Thats the easy part. As his speech went on, he did things that were typical of him. The occasional off the script joke, pauses in the wrong places. I enjoyed his speeches because he always made them seem like he was actually the one who came up with the expressions. He made you honestly believe he was the man in charge. Until I looked into my hand and was reminded of the role he played. It was the last page, I remember. The very last page. He finished a finely polished sentence and paused. He paused for maybe a moment, but it was a moment longer than I cared for. He casually looked to the right, then to the left. Looking straight into the camera, he said, defiantly " This war is over. Our boys are going to be home for Christmas. All of them. The only thing we will leave behind is an infrastructure that we cannot fix, and have no right to control. It will take time, but I feel that without our involvement they will have a stronger chance of rebuilding. If they need our help, they have our number. Thank you, and God Bless..." By the time he said "our boys" my phone had already been alerted. The phone was effectively dead, and could only receive incoming messages from one number. It was one way communication, because unlike the president, I didn't speak. So I did all I could do. I drank. About halfway through the handle, I looked at my phone and saw the message. "Make it bloody". I just whipped this up before class, I'd love some criticism. I haven't written in a few years, but I saw this prompt and thought I'd have a go. Hope someone likes it!

There is a position within Government who's sole task is to assassinate the president when instructed to. Write from their perspective on the day they are called on to perform their duty.

Robert awoke in a cold sweat in a dark room to a flashing light beside his bed. His fiancee was sleeping soundly beside him. "Sweetie, everything ok?" she asked with her adorable half-awake voice and heavy eyes that ushered the daylight into the bedroom. "Yeah, just been having some weird dreams is all." "Well don't think too much about them. You are here, I am here, and this is our house. The kids are still sleeping and everything is fine." "Fine." The word echoed in Robert's head like a song he couldn't forget. "Fine." It was there as he poured his cereal into the large, clean white bowl. "Fine." It was there as his two sons raced down the stairs, trying to reach their father for the first hug of the day. It was there as he kissed his wife goodbye on his way to work. In traffic, in his cubicle, at lunch with coworkers. Everything everywhere was fine. Robert clocked out for the day and approached his car. The driver-side door handle appeared to be scorched. The chrome finish was completely peeled off and a rough black surface greeted Robert's hand. Confused, he entered the car and began to drive home, excited to see his family. This was the weekend they were going skiing at the nearby mountain range. Timmy wanted to snowboard, but Robert figured it was too dangerous. His smile fading, Robert's face began to glow orange as he drove down the highway. An accident? Just like all of the other motorists, Robert slowed down to examine the scene. The entire car was engulfed in flames. The car looked oddly familiar though. It looked exactly like Robert's car. As he inched closer, he could make out the stickers of his favorite band peeling off the back of the vehicle. It was *his* car. Standing, watching the blue sedan burn, Robert began to remember. "Fine." The family was on their way back from a restaurant. "Fine." Robert's sons were fighting in the back seat and his wife was turned trying to pacify them. "Fine." A speeding motorist attempted to pass a car by swerving into the lane Robert was in. "Fine." Temporary lapse in consciousness and hearing. "Fine." Blood. "Fine." Being dragged away from the burning vehicle, repeating his wife and kids' names. "You're ok! Everything will be fine! Just hold on!" Blackness. Robert awoke in a cold sweat in a dark room to a flashing light beside his bed.

Write a short story or poem that begins and ends with same line

I was in the bathroom when it happened. As I glanced into the mirror, fresh out of the shower, my back... I felt something inside. What? My back began to twist and move side to side. That's when I felt it pierce my skin. It was a burning sensation, as if alcohol was poured on an open wound. I couldn't help but cry. As a tear came down my face, the pain intensified. I felt daggers coming out of my back with blood seeping from them. I then look up, and behold something bizarre and sinister. Out of my back, out of my blood, had come these red angel wings. Was it my blood that tainted it from it's purity? There wasn't anything else I could do. The pain had subsided, and I now had these... wings. I went back into the shower, to clean the blood from my newest evolution. As the water runs down on me, I feel the water on my wings. I have nerves on these things? I don't feel blood coming of my wings though. Why would they be red? When I exit, I wipe away the steam to get a look at the mirror. My head had grown crimson horns. What the hell? Wait... Hell. It must be happening. As I spread my wings before me, I recall that it is the day of Angelic Ascension. The armies of Heaven and Hell sent their forces in as sleepers. As humans. When the day came, the identities of them would be revealed as Angels or Fallen. My Fallen has awoken. Heaven shall burn. Edit: Typos and Clarity. I did this at school on my phone. I get chills when I read it!

All humans on Earth suddenly grow wings.

*Click* "Go. Now!" Screams rent the air as I obeyed my Sergeant's last order, diving across the gap between the two terminals. Sarge's covering fire was enough, but ended as a Tri-burst Neutron beam turned his head into so much more human goop. As I crouched behind the terminal, tears of hatred and fear streaming down my cheek, I remember seeing so clearly the faces of the colonists on Goldilocks 1 in my head. People that would wither without the essential supplies we carried... but that's jumping ahead. My name is Red. I signed up for the Huntsmen at 16. Lied about my age. It wasn't hard. I've seen more in 16 years than most girls have seen in a lifetime. Can thank my stepfather for that. Mother would just watch. Wasn't her fault really, she was broken years ago but it certainly gave me some motivation to get the hell out of that house. When the Huntsmen initiative, a group created to provide supplies to the outlying colonies, came looking for recruits you can bet your ass I didn't hesitate. I figure Sarge always knew. From the first minute he looked at me he knew... everything. Could tell somehow, I don't know. Told me to cut my hair. I told him that anyone who touched my hair would be short a hand. He grinned that damn grin of his and said "Fine, keep it then, just don't complain when it gets covered in shit." Anyways, the mission, right. Training was quick. The singularity rifles they gave us could pretty much fire themselves. Still, and I ain't bragging here, I was the best shot in our platoon. Not that that's saying much, we were the dregs, the leftovers. They called us the Hoods since one of the other Sergeants said we might as well be shooting with our hoods over our eyes. That was training. Quick, brutal, rushed. They didn't tell us then, but after the first skirmish with the renegades who call themselves the Wolves at the edge of our own system, we all knew that we were fighting a losing war. We won that first fight, barely. From the celebrations though, you would have though we had saved the universe. Killed me two Wolves. It felt good. Three days later, the enemy struck again. Our Star Schooner pulled up along a cargo ship, ready to deliver the supplies for the final leg to Goldilocks 1. The ships connected and before I could even blink, there was a hole in the kid next to me. A great, fucking hole, right in his chest. Never seen anything like it. All of his organs, or what was left of them were perfectly clear. Bits of lungs, half a heart... shit, I saw the kid look down before dying. I wonder what he thought. That's the first time Serge saved me. Pulled me out of there by my goddamn pony tail. If it hadn't been for the running fire fight, I would have given him a hell of an I told you so. Anyway, we get barricaded up on the bridge behind a terminal, only three or four left. Serge and I get stuck and he looks at me, first time I've seen him look sad, and says "We're taking them with us." I knew what he meant. I turn to go for the self destruct when the door explodes inwards, careening off the wall. "When I say go, go." he says, lifting his rifle. That's where we'd got to earlier. So this is my last journal entry. They're nearly on me, the Wolves. I'm waiting until as many as possible are in the ship. They're taking the supplies, the ones meant for the colony. I'm going to give them something harder to swallow. This is Red Hood, signing off. Tell people I wasn't afraid of the Wolves.

Re-write one of Grimm's Fairy Tales as a sci-fi story.

12/10/2013 The sum of my parts made me who I am I guess; that or the ex-con name Thurgood who was working the mixer at Wonder Bread that day. This journal will record my thoughts and hopes and dreams. 12/10/2013 My name is Jeff and I’m a piece of white bread. I know what you’re thinking, Jeff is just a bleached piece of flour and water held together by preservatives and chemicals but before you make that call, let me tell you, I’m not. Well I am but there’s more to me than that. 12/11/2013 I have dreams. I have big dreams of getting called up to the big leagues to make a sandwich for someone important. I’ve got posters all over my room here in the bread bag of the sandwiches I want to be like. Raul the Cuban, Count the Monte Cristo, Ruben the Ruben. Those guys were the greats. I hope I can be like them. I think we’re getting shipped out today. I hear I’m marked for a grocery store in New York City! Just to think the big apple! 12/12/2013 It’s a bumpy ride in the truck. Most of the other guys are talking about what school they hope to wind up in or what office tower. Me? I’m talking to anyone who will listen about one thing. New York Deli. For a guy like me, I think it would be the best way to go. Piled high with pastrami and mustard sold hot and juicy. 12/12/2013 Made it to the store. I guess I won’t be going to the Deli right away but there is still hope. This little corner store is in a good part of town right near Central Park. I could still make it big someday! Randy, three slices down thinks he caught a mold spore. Guess we wont know for a few days but fuck I hope not. Being so close I’ll be covered in that green stuff and wont even have a chance to become bread crumbs. We’re on the shelf next to some hams and hots. They really have nice buns. They all know they’re off to BBQ’s and parties. What a lucky bunch. 12/13/2013 TODAY WAS THE DAY! A nice guy in a really sharp looking suit and tie came in and bought us. It was early in the morning and he bought us, three bottles of cheap wine and some Cheetos. Not sure what the plan is but we’re in the car now heading somewhere. 12/13/2013 Jimmy confirmed Randy did catch a mold spore. I hope that guy fucking dies. What an idiot catching it, he may have condemned all of us now. Hang on a sec, we’re being lifted out of the bag. OH SHIT, we’re at the park, he’s going to feed us to the ducks!!!! 12/14/2013 Well yesterday was a big day, just now having time to catch up. Turns out the guy only used half the loaf to feed the ducks. It was sad to see Jimmy and Earl and Charlene go but at least that shit head Randy went too. No worries about mold now! I’m now fourth in line to be used so perfect order for a sandwich. 12/14/2013 The two guys in front of me Frank and Harry got used just now. I was horrified. Once they were taken I could see out of the clear window in the bag. This guy is a sham. His apartment is trashed, the suit he owns is the only nice clothing he has and there are drugs and cheap booze everywhere. I watch in absolute horror as Frank and Harry were lathered with cheap generic peanut butter and slammed together like two trains colliding on a track. This guy didn’t even bother to spread out the ‘naturally and artificially flavored peanut spread’ to all the corners. It was just one lumpy smooshed mess in the center of the bread. Things really got bad when I saw he only ate half before putting the guys down and falling asleep. Some mangy looking thing came over and ate the rest. The guy keeps saying good dog but it looks more like a rat to me. 12/15/2013 The guy reached in for the heels. He had been saving the one at the front and shoved his greasy, hairy arm into the bag for the other today. Made me sad as they got used for a pretty good looking cold cut sandwich. Nice mustard, decent cheese and some jalapeno smoked turkey. Not great but pretty good looking overall. 12/16/2013 Here we go. Me and Sam got picked. We’re on the cutting board next to some foil tray that’s warm. God I hope he’s not using shite bread like us for French onion soup…we’d turn to mush. He’s putting us in the toaster and setting it to light. Man warm in here but maybe toast aint such a bad way to go. People like toast right? WAIT…there is mustard on the counter. That really good stuff from Beaver. The Jalapeno kind… What’s that coming out of the warm tin tray? PASTRAMI!!!! Oh the feeling of having that mustard all over me inside so cold but spicy, then the piles of warm meaty juicy Pastrami heaped on. Almost too heavy to hold but I’ll manage. 12/16/2013 I was picked for Pastrami. Good Pastrami. Today is a good day to die.

Write a story about what goes through a piece of bread's mind as it is being made into a sandwich.

It was late in the afternoon when the sky finally cired for us - tears that had been centuries coming. I had spent the morning queing for my dormitory's weekly designated well draw. Not a drop more water than was printed on the chit in my hand. Always a few drops short. I had spent the afternoon on my assigned work duties in the fields. I hated being stuck on the irrigation trenches. Hours spent sticking your hand into cool flowing water to release debris. Time and again having to feel the water swell over your fingers and know not a drop could pass your lips. Overseers wre always watching, it was never worht the risk to steal. Just keep you lips pressed shut and go about your day. Always a few drops short. Evening bell early. I looked up from my ditch to notice how dark the sky was. Surely a whole day hadn't passed yet? No, the sun was still a way above the horizon, yet darkness was moving across its face. I felt my face break into smile before I could stop myself. The ever-watchful clinical eye was being obscured. We were being hidden from the sun. That was when I heard a shriek from a few fields over. Then another scream very close to me. Then water hit my face. I gasped. Then laughter started slowly at first, but it built and swelled like the rain storm. The first rain in so many generatons. Water that was freely given falling on and on from the sky. And the laughter came with it.

In an oppressive, strictly regimented dystopian society, something wonderful happens.

I walked through the school halls, feeling the eyes of the many sticking on to me like parasites. I smiled, and stretched my neck a little as I felt the emotion of superiority leak into my brain. Beloved by friends, admired by strangers, protected by family. My life was perfect, just as they said I was. Surely I was beautiful, no one denied that. If anything, it would have been overstated. As I paced elegantly through the corridor, I suddenly had an uneasy feeling in my stomach. Instantly I leaned against the wall and crouched against the floor. What was happening? The staring eyes I saw before had intensified. Abruptly, I gagged and a warm, sticky fluid was running out of my mouth at supersonic speed, or so it seemed. And it kept going. Was it ever going to stop? A minute in, and when it took a quick pause and I hoped for safety, it started over again. My clothes were soaked with this yellow-ish, stinky fluid. What am I? I was shivering, wet and warm and stinking like never before. My head felt heavy and I was to say the least nauseated. So I ran. Dropped my bags, my books and simply ran. Out the door, past my car. I ran till I couldn't anymore, and then I dropped to my knees and my back fell to the ground. As I was picked up by the police after having been reported by by passers, they didn't know what to do with me. My clothes were repetitively soaked, with no chance to become dry before the next shower of stinky fluids. They left me at my parents house, utterly scared and simply let a police officer check in every day. I was surprised they didn't go further. I *wasn't* surprised of how I was treated like an alien by my parents. The symptoms slowly disappeared. The bags under my skin started to disappear, the paleness returned to its normal color and I looked fresh again. Alive. Even though I seemingly returned to my normal self, nothing really changed. My smiles across the halls were greeted with terrified looks, my attempts to conversation were rejected. I too, started to reject myself. I was different, broken. The once beautiful me was beginning to show cracks. Cracks that would reach an inch further for every judged gaze, until the cracks met, and the exterior would fall apart. Because if the world alienated me, how could I not?

You live in a world where there has never been sickness, and you are the first to have ever experienced being sick.

"You do understand that the option I am offering you is very unique." "Yes. Immortality." "I highly recommend you take it." "What happens if I don't?" "I will sentence you to eternal punishment." "That hardly seems fair." "You must choose. You would prefer eternal life over eternal suffering, yes?" "Well, yeah, I guess. It's just... I don't know; eternal life just sounds really shitty to me. You don't have to worry about injuries, or death, but maybe it's worrying about death that *makes* us feel alive. I mean, what's the point in skydiving if you know there's no risk?" "..." "It's true that you'd have enough time to do everything you want to do, but then what? You'd be jaded, so much so that the Bahamas just become another sandy blur and lobster is just a bug covered in butter sauce. You also get the lovely added bonus of everyone you love dying around you. And then, when you fall in love with someone else, they die again. And so on." "I suppose you are correct." "Do you understand the point I'm making, then? Eternal life really isn't what it's cracked up to be. I mean, I suppose you've grown used to it, being God and everything, not to mention that you're all powerful, which is a nice thing to be. But just because you're used to something doesn't mean you like it." "So, you do not want eternal life, then, I take it." "No. I choose punishment." "Very well; you have been convincing enough. I shall grant you eternal life." "Wait, what? No, I don't *want* immortality! I picked punishment! Is this some kind of joke?" "This is not a joke. It seems you have forgotten what you just said to me: how awful and terrible eternal life would be. In fact, you would suffer from it more than you would enjoy it." "Oh, I get it now. I see what you're doing. That's some shitty logic." "It is *your* logic. Because really, what *is* the difference? After all, if eternal life would only be suffering, than I have given you the punishment you have asked for." "So, there really wasn't ever a choice in the first place?" "Do you really think that there ever is?"

You are given the option between eternal life (heaven) and eternal punishment (hell). You choose punishment.

I had won, finally all my training had paid off, the hours in the gym, the matches against behemoths, everything. I had defeated Ezekiel. I had won the privilege of sleep. As I lay my head down on a pillow for the first time I felt nervous, but through that nervousness I found an overwhelming sense of peace. Then, for the first time in my life, I slept. I slept the sleep that is spoken of in the old legends, *The Sleep of the Innocent* they call it. I did not dream that I recall, but when I awoke I felt I could accomplish anything, and as I began to go about my daily routine I felt different. Not bad per se, but strange. I glanced at my phone and saw that I'd slept for exactly one year. I began to panic. How had I survived that long without eating? How much had happened while I was slumbering idly? These thoughts plagued me, but as I ran to my door I found that I had superhuman speed. Just to test myself I lifted my fridge; it was like air to me. I walked outside, only to find nothing, there were no houses, no cars, and, most unusual, no sound. It seemed it was only me on this desolate rock. This was the price I paid for my sleep, I was rewarded with the ability to help people, only to find that there was no longer anyone to help. I searched everywhere, finding no one. Eventually I went to the library, where I sit writing now, and looked at old newspapers. As it turns out Ezekiel, so shamed by his defeat, had begun to kill people in disgusting and sundry ways, purposely leaving me to live in what he left behind. I no longer think I can continue to toil here in this loneliness, it has been a year since I awoke to this desolation, and now I shuffle off to the endless sleep. The sleep of the dead.

The human race has lost the need for sleep, and expectations of productivity have risen to compensate. Sleep is an extreme luxury and for some reason you've gained the opportunity to sleep for the very first time in your life.

Lorraine tucked her son into bed. "Is Santa gonna come tonight?" Timothy asked his mother apprehensively. "Sweetie, you're nine years old now. You know that terrible man doesn't exist," Lorraine laughed. She tucked him in extra tight. "Plus, how could one man deliver millions, or possibly billions, of presents in one night?" "Timezones?" She paused. He was right about that one. "True, but if he was evil, why would he want to give kids presents?" "I don't know, but Steven said that if Santa catches you when you're awake, he'll kil-" "That Steven is just full of ideas, isn't he?" *Good. Timmy still doesn't know that Santa's present giving is a pretense for his real reason to visit.* Lorraine leaned down and kissed her son's forehead. "Good night, Timmy." "Good night, Mommy." --- Lorraine ran into the garage and pulled out all the presents she bought Timmy. She stuffed most of the items into his stocking and sat in the recliner, waiting for that fat bastard to dare step foot into her house this year. Hopefully he would think that he already hit their house since the stockings were stuffed.... Lorraine shook her head. *No. He'd remember me.* "Hello, Lorraine," purred a voice behind her. "Have you been a good girl this year?" Lorraine pulled out the handgun from her stocking and pointed it at Santa. "Get out of here." "Now, now. No need to get violent." "That's funny coming from the guy who murdered my husband four years ago." "That's because I need you to be available." "I'll never be your Mrs. Claus." A wicked gleam passed through the man's eyes. "I disagree, Lorraine." He pulled out a beautiful silver ring with a giant red ruby on it. "Let's see it if fits." "Don't you have other houses to go to tonight?" Lorraine snarled. Santa laughed. "All the parents try to pull the same stunt as you, Lorraine; putting out presents for their kids in hopes that I'll spare one of their lives." He shrugged. "I guess it'll work for some people this year, depending on how long you're gonna make me wait." "It's already been *four years.* That's a pretty clear no, asshole." "Aren't you lonely, Lorraine? I could've sworn that I saw some type of adult companion on your Christmas list...." "I'd rather die alone than marry you and be a part of your disgusting operation." "Oh but darling, you're just the person I need for this operation!" "No!" Lorraine shot him in the chest. The wound healed instantly, but Santa was pissed. "Why you little cunt!" He launched himself at her and pinned her to the ground. The gun clattered to the floor. "STOP! NO!" "You're going to wear this ring and like it, you little bitch," he growled into her ear. Lorraine sobbed as he grabbed her left arm. "Mommy what's happening?" broke in Timmy. His eyes widened as he realized he was looking at Santa. "OH SHIT!" Santa chuckled. "Oh shit indeed, young man." Santa picked up Lorraine's handgun. "Go back to bed and no one gets hurt." Timmy turned to walk to his room, and Santa shot him in the back. "Just kidding." "TIMMY!" wailed Lorraine. As she sobbed, Santa slid the ring onto her left ring finger. She immediately stopped crying and looked up at Santa, who was still on top of her. "I'd love to continue, but don't we have other houses to visit?" "Why yes we do, *Mrs. Claus."* The ring glistened as it absorbed the last of Lorraine's memories and soul.

We live in a world where Santa Claus is real, but we all try to tell our children that he isn't

Focus. Who is this guy? What does he want? Why me? The irregular tempo of a footstep followed by a dragging noise grows louder and louder until you hear it stop a short way down the hall. You can't be sure, but they may be a chance to get out if he goes into one of the rooms, any room. So long as he stays away from the wardrobe that you chose, admittedly thinking it was an escape, as your hiding place. You strain your ears. Nothing. Did you miss it? Did he move already? Or is he waiting for you to make a mistake? You become aware that it has been a long time since you took a breath. You try to inhale as quietly as possible to stave off the light headedness. Clink. Fuck. Run. You burst from the wardrobe as your assailant lunges down the hallway after you, that irregular combination of a step and a dragging noise. You can see your salvation manifested as the fire escape doorway leading outside. There are people outside, phones, police. It all boils down to one thing. There is help outside. You vaguely notice that there is no noise behind you as your hand fall on the cold metal bar that operates the door that would save your life. Would, had it not been locked by a manager that was sick of guests leaving without paying their bill, one no longer bothered with following any sort of building regulations. You slump down and turn to face your foe for the first time. You can see that the dragging must be caused by an ill-fitting prosthesis, ending at the nee. His shorts are stained and have oil soaked into various patches, giving the effect of a collection of Rorschach tests. His colourful Hawaiian shirt does nothing to lighten the tension, which palpable in the air. He's grinning, he knows that you have nowhere to go. His wide-brimmed hat conceals much of his face until he rolls his head back to expose his glinting eyes, sitting above a small, pointed nose. "Please, what do you want? What have I done?" Nothing from the man. You look to his hands, he is holding a short sword in one hand, and a silenced pistol in another. Your brain, still seeking escape from this situation, dredges up the knowledge that he is holding a H&K USP .45, the short sword seems to be of Thai origin, a Dha. "WHAT DO YOU WANT?!" Still nothing. The man slowly advances towards you, the gun levelled to your chest. Tears start to run down your face as you plead with the man. He hold himself with the confidence that you will not attack him, because both of you know that he is quicker and will kill you before you move. He stops within a few feet of you, and looks you in the eye. For the first time, he speaks. "March 23^rd, 1998" The cold rush of realisation floods down your body, from your head to the tips of your toes. He lowers the gun as you move to a kneeling position. He holsters the pistol. You bow your head, ready to accept what you had hoped to be long forgotten. You hear the soft rustle of his shirt as he raises the Dha. "Just do it." Darkness.

A short story where the most emotionally charged line is also the advertising slogan for a household product or brand.

"It's just a fucking peace of fucking software you sick motherfucker!" Anthony yelled, with all of his breath. He could feel the blood coming from his lips. Anthony tried to rock himself out of the operation-table, but only the bloop and sweat from his body moved. "You have agreed to be part of this holy sacrifice. Your salvation is near." Anthony tried to move his head to see who the deep, toneless voice came from. "WHAT THE FUCK MAN? Who the fuck are you!?" Anthony yelled with an angry voice. "Who I am does not matter. I am only a simple voice for the chosen clan." The voice responded. "Why am I here??? WHAT HAVE I DONE!?" Anthony said nervously. "Is it my money you want?? I'll give you my money! Just fucking c-" "WE do not seek your wealth. We only seek your soul." Interrupted the voice. As Anthony's heart started to beat faster than he even knew it could, he heard many steps coming towards him from all directions. Suddenly, an emotionless mask looked at him. For 20 seconds, there was only the noise of Anthony's fast breathing. Finally, Anthony calmed himself down and managed to speak directly to the masked man. "Please, I'm so sorry I downloaded your software, PLEASE let me go! I don-" "Silence, chosen one." the mask replied, motionless "You have agreed to sacrifice your body, in flesh and blood, for this holy ritual. We have prepared you." "What... what the FUCK are you talking about???" Anthony yelled with tears in his eyes. (I'm gonna continue the story in a couple of hours, I didn't have time to write more. (If you want to, please write on to my story!))

A boy downloads some shady software on his computer, and doesn't read the terms and conditions. Hidden in these terms however, is some dark stuff (im not sure what it could be)

Love and Loss What do I love more? "My wonderful friends," They are not my friends. They're an indulgence - drunkenly, I let this blur drive me to my end. "In time we will ascend to the passing star. Our corporeal form is but a housing for what needs to be released," Her eyes are bright blue, she has dark beautiful hair, and would trust her father with her life. "The traveler has come, and is ready to grant us immortality. But we only have a moment to leave; a moment to disembark from our vehicles and cages..." It's a shame. I'm about to let my selfishness and express need for attention and fame lead me to failing... "...and we will ascend..." ...as a father. "...to an eternity that our carnal minds will never grasp, or imagine!" And she'll never have a family. She'll never know what it's like to love, to grow up, to have sleepovers....because *she* is attached to a belief. She trusted a poison... "Let us prepare my friends. On the table, are the tablets that will lead you to your destiny. Let the bodies that are merely vehicles be fed, and let them release your true being." ...by trusting me. She grabbed one of the tablets and consumed it with excitement. Her eyes are wide, and look up to me. 12 years is enough to grow? Perhaps in another life; a real one that exists. Perhaps God will house this innocence, and allow her to grow up. Maybe she has a real soul. "Go to sleep sweetheart. We'll be together soon." She'll be with God. To her, I am no different from Him.

It is ascension time for a 30-person cult who are gathered for a mass suicide. The leader secretly wishes it hadn't gone this far, especially since his daughter is a devout member. Write the timeframe around his ascension speech.

I positioned my feet on the starting blocks, wiggling them into the perfect angle. I walked my fingers forward to the starting line. I lifted my knees slightly, and they trembled. I knelt back down and looked side to side. I saw the perfectly sculpted competitors, with their gazes focused ahead. Each looked the same, like cookie cutter athletes. This is what our world has become. The referee put up his gun and yelled "Ready!". I lifted my knees. I saw the other runners do the same in synchronization. His count began. "10" "9" "8" This is where they beat me. The takeoff is where they gain their edge. They're programmed to be good at it. "5..." The count stopped as the referee prepared to start the race. I gritted my teeth and prepared for the gun. The gun went off and I rocketed out of the starting blocks. Immediately I saw my disadvantage. Their legs moved in time with each other's. Fifty meters in and I was at least two steps behind everyone else. A machine can only be oiled so well. A machine doesn't have a concept of motivation, or feel emotion. I heard the blaring silence of the crowd. A stadium full of silent onlookers all had their eyes on me. No one in their right mind would wager on me, would they? They would have to be a fool to bet on someone who wasn't bread just for this sport. I could feel the gravity of the money that was about to be lost because I wouldn't give up, I couldn't. I grew closer and closer to the runners in front of me. We rounded the corner at the 200 meter mark and I couldn't have been more than a step behind them. The man in the far lane suddenly pulled ahead, only to fall drastically behind. Like a race car that had blown an engine, he pulled a muscle and fell behind. We rounded the 300 meter turn and I was in line with the other runners. I swear I could almost hear the collective eyes widening and the brows furrowing as I pulled ever so sightly ahead. Around the corner we entered the straightaway. In this moment I *was* the superhuman. With 50 meters to go I could feel the other runners tiring. This was the end of their capabilities, they were fine tuned to run the 400 meter dash. They are rigid, and can only perform what they are meant to do. As I crossed the finish line, I anxiously awaited the voice of the announcer. "In a photo finish, the winner of the 400 meter dash, is... Luke Goodner." As the onlookers stared at me in disbelief, I stared back at them with a confident smile.

In a world where athletes, scientists, soldiers and more are put out of work by superhumans, one person makes a stand against obsolescence.

There are just so many of them. They pour from the sky, dancing towards the ground, white and fluffy, cold and wet. They taunt me. Hiding the world in a blanket of terror, transforming beauty into haunting hills and valleys. I hate snow. I hate the white. I hate the cold. I hate the children as they play, throwing their snow balls of death at each other, created doomed men of the cursed substance. Every winter is the winter of my discontent. Each flake that lands on the ground grows the pile of anger and hatred in my mind. Today however, I have to face it. My memory failed me, and I ran short of milk, the day before we were due to have a terrific snowstorm. Now the snow is here, and I sit, weighing my options. Of course, the argument is already concluded for who could enjoy coffee without milk? Going without is unthinkable, so I must rally my nerves and walk to the corner store. I don my armour. Coat, gloves, boots, hat. Ignoring the sound of the radio blaring some warning or another in the background, I seize my trusted walking stick and prepare to breach the portal into the hellish winter terror land. The first step is mildly fulfilling, crushing the white devils underfoot. The second step though takes something from my soul as I receive a full facial assault, three flakes! I know the count because they burn my skin, a horrific sizzling sensation where they make contact. Then I fall, writhing in the burning of contact to my skin. I feel my clothes melting away and everywhere the horrible substance envelopes. From his house, Bill Thorton watched as his neighbour thrashed on the ground having called emergency services, unable to do anything else to help. All the radio and tv stations had warned about the acid snow, but it looks like he had missed the message. Bill closed his curtains and turned away.

An irrational fear proves to be perfectly rational

Chance hunkered further down inside his trench coat against the rain. The constant tick-tick-tick against the white-rimmed fedora reminded him of a clock ticking. 'Fucking bus is late again' his whispers to no one in particular. Chance lifts his head a few degrees to catch a glance at Destiny. Standing only a few feet away, seeming to radiate light through the pre-sunrise fog, she was smiling. She was ALWAYS smiling. Chance always had a suspicion that it was his anger and frustration that made her smile. He could feel the tightness increase in his chest with the thought of it. 'Don't even say it' he barks out at the slightest movement of Destiny's lips. He feels his forehead tighten then heat rise through his body as his mind runs through numerous famous quotes that Destiny loves to rattle off. 'We were supposed to be late to work today' or 'Who knows what could happen if we were early'. Chance grunts to himself at the thought and takes a step away from her on instinct. Gazing off into the distance Chance isn't sure if he wants the bus to come. Waiting for the bus isn't as bad as working with her in that damned office...

The concepts of Chance and Destiny are real people who govern over their aspect.

We all claim to be better than we really are. I told my people that I was going to save the nation. They heralded me as a savior for the race, as the one who would finally bring our wartorn country into an age of prosperity. I had been so close too. If it hadn't been for the Russians, everything would have gone according to plan and my country would for generations to come be a place where we could all live in peace and harmony. They said I was the savior. They believed me when I told them all these things. When it came to picking *one* person to send back in time, they chose me. I appeared in my younger body, but I can't stay here forever. Before long, I will be the old me again. I only have a few moments and I have to make them count. They picked me because I was the paragon they thought could change history and bring glory to the country. I accepted because I knew it was a chance to change what really mattered to me. They said I was the leader. The patriot, the person whose grand vision would bring us a glorious new age. Truth is they were wrong. I'm a man. I have spend so long claiming to be more than that but at the end of the day I'm just a man. When I saw my country fall, I thought that it was the greatest moment of failure that I would ever experience but I was so sorely mistaken. Losing my country didn’t hurt even remotely as much as the moment she swallowed that pill down in that dark bunker. I swallow hard as I approach her. "Eva," I say. She looks at me with a smile. That beautiful, serene smile that makes my heart skip a beat. "Hello, Adolf," she greets me happily. I hate doing this. I hate it so much, but it needs to be done. "I want you out," I say firmly. Years of speeches have trained me to hide my feelings when I talk, to sound firm and authoritative without a voice that trembles from the pain I feel. "A train leaves towards Norway in an hour. You are to get on it and never return." The look of shock on her face breaks my already torn heart. "W-what?" she asks, her voice trembling. "Adolf, Darling, I..." I can't do it. I can't listen to her pained voice. Before she can utter another word, I gesture for my men to approach. "Take her away," I say firmly. "Get her a new identity and make sure she gets to Norway. Make her understand that she is never to return." They take her away. The most beautiful woman in the world, each of her confused shouts piercing my heart worse than a bullet ever could. I will never see her again, but she will be safe. I feel my body dispersing. In a few moments, the old me will reemerge without memory of what has happened. It doesn't really matter. He won't be able to find her, she will be out of his reach before he can figure out what happened. My country will still fall, the Russians will still roll over Berlin in their tanks but my wife will survive. Perhaps she will remarry, have the children that I could never give her. I have been called a lot of things. Some said I was a leader, some said I was a tyrant. The only one who saw me as a person was her.

On the day of his death, Hitler is sent back in time. What does he do with his life this time around?

An old man sat before a fireplace, aware he was not long for this earth. His face was wrinkled and as hard as leather, yet his eyes still glittered with the humour of a child. As he watched the flames dance about with a spark of jubilee, he ruffled the scroll in his hands. The list contained the names of every single child in the world, and whether they had been "Naughty or Nice". Every child's name had the green tick next to it, every child deserved presents one day of the year. Yet despite knowing all this, it occurred to him that he couldn't comprehend the names as he had when he was younger. There seemed to be several different alphabets, and all of it was incomprehensible. He tried to stand one last time, simply to feel the weight of the world once more, but he couldn't. Where once he had possessed surprisingly youthful legs and a round belly, now remained only loose tunic. He patted his stomach inquisitively, and felt his ribs quiver in response. Tonight was an important night, something he had been anticipating with savage delight for the last three hundred and sixty-four days. He could vaguely recall petting his loyal reindeer, whispering soothing words as they jittered in fear, fully aware the next few days would place a toll on their slender frames. The flames had lowered, their subdued flicker mirroring the old man's passive countenance. If he couldn't remember his purpose, then there was no need for him. If there was no need for his presence on this plane, then those that once desired him must have placed their faith elsewhere. "Good on them," he mused, his rosy cheeks alight from not only the heat of the flames "the world is mature enough to stop believing such childish stories." When he opened his eyes after a brief respite, it was nearly impossible to shift his weight. Still, he managed to edge forward enough to dip the edge of the scroll into the burning embers. He felt a soothing heat pass through him, igniting for one final time the slipping memories of long winter nights spent above an ocean of lights, his divine chariot riding the clouds as he nipped at his Napoleon brandy...

Santa, seeing the amount of children who are ceasing to believe in him, starts to doubt his own existence.

"It's not possible," he said, in a matter of fact tone to the doctor who was still examining his chart. The doctor fiddled with his glasses for a moment, looked up from the clip board, and explained,"I know it's irregular sir, but looking at your hormone levels, your weight gain, and the fact that you've been having unprotected sex without contraceptive, it's the only possible solution." "I'm sorry is this a fucking joke? I came in here worried about a rash, then you take some blood, and come back telling me I'm pregnant. I'm not pregnant." The man was flustered and a bit angry, but didn't want to make a fool of himself. What if he was on one of those hidden camera shows? What if this was an elaborate prank set up by a friend? He couldn't lose his cool. "Ah," The doctor said, matter-of-factly. "I suppose you're probably single then. Lots of new, single, mothers don't welcome this little miracle. If it's really something that can't happen right now, there are other options you know." "Look i'm not-" "Abortions. Abortions are the other options." "Yeah I got that. I don't need an abortion, I'm a man. Men can't get pregnant. Why am I explaining this to you?" "Probably because you have a medical degree and 7 years of general practice under your belt. Right?" The doctor's snark was not well received. The man got angry. "Look asshole, I'm not a lawyer, but I'm pretty sure I can sue you for malpractice." "I'm not a lawyer either but a law-suit's not going to make that little bundle of joy in your tummy disappear." The doctor too, was now frustrated, but having dealt with hostile patients before, kept himself calm and collected. The man, grabbed his coat, and began to leave the exam room. He was clearly distraught, and from the look of it, sufficiently convinced he might be pregnant. The doctor told him to at least get a second opinion, as he flung the entry way door open, and left. "What was that all about?" asked one of the nurses who had been standing in the hallway, worried she may need to call security. "Guy slept with my girlfriend in college." "So you told him he was pregnant?" "Yep." HOSPITAL JUSTICE

Your character has gone to the doctor. The test results came back. He's pregnant.

Long ago, in ancient times, there lived a magical princess. The people in those days were masters of the world, holding sway over nature with their command of unfathomable technological wonders. Work was unnecessary, war and strife, a legend. And yet, the people were unhappy. They had become cold and cynical, and their inertia had made them long for meaning, for a purpose. Most wandered the earth, aimless. While other, more twisted souls sought to fill the voids within themselves by indulging in the most depraved and twisted pursuits. It seemed that humanity, having conquered the world around them, would be destroyed from within. So it was, that, into this world, a young princess was born. Her name was Cyrus, daughter of King Billy Ray. She was a beacon of love, hope and simplicity, in an over-complicated world. Everywhere she went, she would bring happiness and joy. The people adored her, and with her enchanted hair, she was able to heal the sick, give sight to the blind, and thought to the mentally impaired. However, there were those who sought to undermine her influence. Those whose vile and perverted way of life was now in jeopardy, thanks to the surge of positivity and happiness that Cyrus was spreading across the globe. A cabal of pleasure lords convened in their black citadels, and from their gates rode their most trusted servant; the creature Bei'bar. In the guise of a young and innocent boy, Bei'bar wooed the many tribes and factions to his cause, whispering honeyed words into the ears of kings and warlords, and sowing dissent wherever he went. The conflicts that began to arise as a result drew Cyrus to them. They say her hair would shine brightly when she cured the sick of their ills, and there were whispers that she often moved among the people in disguise, as a lowly singer-girl named Hannah, to avoid the assassins of the the black cabals. Her presence slowly beat back the corrupting influence of Bei'bar, but she knew in time that she would have to face him directly. And so it came to pass that, as Cyrus was lifting the spirits of a village racked with pain from a recent battle, an army surrounded her; it's warlord bribed and goaded by promises of power and glory from Bei'bar's lips. Cyrus' retinue, and the people of the village, fought to protect her, but in vain, and when the last body fell to the blood-stained ground, Bei'bar himself strode forth. The two battled for hours, as lightning streaked across the sky, and rain lashed at the earth, but soon, Cyrus' magic was spent, and she fell to her knees, exhausted. Bei'bar stood above her and drew a cursed knife and, with it, cut the hair from the princess' head. A shockwave knocked all the soldiers off their feet, and when they rose, Bei'bar and Cyrus were nowhere to be seen. No one knows what truly happened after that most wretched day, but it is believed that Bei'bar carried the princess to the black citadels, and for several months, corrupted her. And so, on a dark day in August 2013, the lord of the black cabal, Archon Thicke, made an announcement that was broadcast to the entire world. "Your princess, Cyrus, has come now to show you all the true path. Come o people of Earth, and rejoice. Witness now, your saviour." Cyrus appeared, before the people, flanked by a procession of demon bears. Her tongue lolled from her mouth, and her eyes flashed with perverted glee. She wore not a strip of clothing, revealing her pale, greasy flesh to the world. Her hair, that was once rich as dark gold, flowing long to her waist, was short like a man's, and a sickly, artificial yellow. And there, upon the dark plaza of the black citadels, to the watching eyes of the horrified people of Earth, Archon Thicke mounted the princess, deflowering her savagely and profanely, calling her his 'Good Girl'. The princess leered and shrieked, and it was said that King Billy Ray's screams of torment could be heard for miles around. The people lost hope that day, and darkness spread unchecked into the hearts of men. But some still remembered the lessons that Cyrus taught us before her corruption. To love, and to care for each other. To be as one family. To enjoy the simple things. These are ideals that can never die.

Tales of Old Earth

That curly headed son of a bitch figured it out! I ate a McRib precisely 24 years 3 months and 18 days ago, yet only moments ago I savored that sweet sauced mouthful of joy. And look! It's McRib day. "Excuse me sir!" Maybe this cashier can help me. A overly chubby man whips towards me with a questioning look, "Welcome to McDonalds. When can I help you" "Can you send me back?" I ask "Only to McRib promotion dates, when will that be sir?" "Umm 2013?" "Woah, well I can't send you there. We can only go back to 2020, but you can go as far forward as you want." "Well. That is strange I ate this McRib in 2013. Surely there is a mistake." "No sir. Time Travel 2020 on, everyone knows that. Looks like you got a batch before it was industrialized. So when do you want to go sir?" "Where do normal people go?" "Well there are awesome McRibs in the 3400's. And nothing beats a 4150 McRib Special." "Does anyone time travel for non food related purposes?" "Ha. Ha. Of course not. We eat McRib's." "Back in my day, we could only eat McRib's four times a year, MAYBE!" I have never seen such a horrified face in my life. He was devastated. Here in this time, food is everything. Food is nutrition, food is enjoyment, food is life. I run out in the streets in terror, and everwhere I look, I see fat people. I run back into McDonalds, "SEND ME BACK!" "But. The McRibs..." "Damn you, I'll take myself back." I look long and hard at the slice of pork that lingered in the old wrapper of my meal. I clench my eyes, think real hard about the exact spot I was in when I started to eat, and suddenly I was there. Ronald looked at me in astonishment, "We. We did it!" I stabbed him in the throat, and never went to a McDonalds again.

The secret to time travel is Mcdonald's, but people are getting obese.

Far away from Piciris, locked in the Kehirid Constellation is a little star called Jegusi. It's about 8 thousand getranocks old and 20 trillion titrons wide. In the middle of its life cycle, this sun burns a radiant yellow color and has eight planets that steadily circle around it. Dividing these eight planets in half is a large belt of asteroids- the remnants of a planet that never fully formed. [Pan shot that starts at the sun and pulls out to show whole system.] On the inside of that system, are four small planets. One of which, as far as we have been able to observe, carries a unique brand of civilized life. Now, they aren't spacebound like us yet- but they sure are making strides. They call themselves the humans, and they call their planet, Earth. [ Majestic shot of Earth during sunrise. Slow zoom in on space station] This is The International Space Station, an amalgamation of space-faring efforts that represents the last century of upward progress by human engineering and technology. Its construction began in 9.332.54 and is primarily made of technologies that were sent into space by two nations: America and Russia. Although it is only a small research laboratory, its construction and the composition of its crew represent something far larger- an international effort to reach the stars. [Begin montage of 20th century human history] During the last 15 nocks- what humans call a "century," this planet and its people have undergone a complete restructuring of their infrastructure, have weathered warfare and famine, eradicated many deadly diseases and struggled with political upheaval as they have begun to establish larger world views on governance and society. The goals of space travel became prevelant to the human race approximately 4 nocks ago, but its goal has not come without social, political and even religious detractors. In that light, the marvel of 9 space stations, a manned moon landing and robots placed onto their neighbor planet, Mars are nothing to flick an eye-flap at. [Montage cont.] But where are humans going with their technology? What will they do with their major weapons systems which they developed against each other? Will they weaponize space, or will they become explorers like us? Are their history of warfare and dogmatic religions a threat to our galaxy, or are they just the next diverse group of species among our interstellar cadre? We'll let you decide, as we show you...the marvels of Earth. [Begin intro credit sequence.]

You're the narrator for an alien documentary about earth.

Aaron Francis, defence secretary of Great Britain, had been having his tea with his wife Kelly when he'd had the call. He'd groaned, excused himself, and stepped into the hallway of his London apartment, the aromas of pork in honey and mustard sauce following him out, calling to his belly. He knew the gravelly male voice on the other end of the line - it was no other than that of the prime minister, Harold Johnson. But it wasn't the slow, sure speech of a man who professes to know what he's doing - Aaron could hear shock. Johnson was not a man to be easily shocked. "Aaron. Moscow's gone. Completely gone." Aaron scowled. "What?" "The city's been levelled. It's gone." No, not shock. This was *panic.* Harold Johnson, the unflappable premier, the man who had sat through a bomb scare in Downing Street sipping his coffee, was panicking. "How? I hate to state the obvious but cities don't just vanish..." "We've got nothing. Absolutely nothing. I think the MoD's trying to get hold of you too. Is your mobile off?" Aaron pulled the phone out of his pocket and pushed the power button. Dead. He cursed and shoved the lump of plastic and glass back into his pocket. "Yeah. Long day. I'll be in in about 10 minutes." he grunted, hung up and walked back into the dining room. Kelly took one look at her husband and grimaced. "How urgent?" "Check the news." She rose to her feet, picking a remote off the counter with manicured nails. God, she was beautiful, Aaron thought, the faintest of worry lines beginning to traverse her otherwise smooth forehead, her red hair falling down to the small of her back like a fiery waterfall. The television clicked on. "...and for those who are just joining us, Moscow, capital city of the USSR appears to have levelled by nuclear strike. Concerns over how Russia's missile defence system failed to act are being raised- oh. Oh my-" - the presenter took a deep breath and looked at the camera. "We've just had a report of a similar incident in Singapore. We'll keep you updated as the situa-" Kelly turned off the screen, pale as a ghost. She looked at him. Aaron pulled her close, kissed her goodbye, and left without a word, the taste of her lips lingering on his as he more or less threw himself into his Aston Martin. A mid-life crisis car if ever there was one, he mused as he rolled out of their garage and into the street, the lights of London whizzing by as he sped towards Whitehall. Speed cameras flashed at him as he passed. He didn't care - the city most likely had bigger problems than a speeding minister. The MoD's head office was in absolute chaos. People were frantically tapping on computers, making phone calls. Aaron bounded up the stairs 2 at a time to his office. Ian Smith, head of security strategy and the prime minister were already there, on the phone jabbering frantic French to their Parisian counterparts. Ian's head snapped up as Aaron entered and hung up the phone. "Where the hell have you been?!" the stocky Welshman snapped. "Dead phone. What the fuck is happening, Ian? Do we have anything at all? Radar? I'll settle for some old man with a pair of binoculars in Solihull at this stage. Assume we're under attack - I want evac orders for London, Brum, Manchester *now,* if you haven't already. TV, radio, Twitter, whatever. Get people out of the cities." A laptop on his desk *pinged*. Ian turned deathly pale. "That... That was Manchester." Another *ping.* "And that was Birmingham." Time slowed down. Aaron walked to the window in a trance, to see a tiny, tiny speck dropping towards the city. Almost insignificant. "And that," he gulped, his mouth suddenly dry, "was London." He saw the explosion before he heard it, a small flash fast billowing into a maelstrom of fire, a pyroclastic flow of radioactive isotopes spreading like blood in water, thundering towards them impossibly fast. Five blocks to go. Four. Aaron closed his eyes, and thought of his wife. He could still just about taste her on his lips as the window shattered and everything around him turned to fire. ^^^^first ^^^^time, ^^^^go ^^^^easy ^^^^on ^^^^me

An alternate world in which North America has, so far, gone unnoticed by the rest of humanity, and is considerably more advanced with their technology. On the evening of December 21, 2012, hundreds of missiles are fired from NA, targeting major cities in Europe and Asia.

The lightbulb switched on. Page 666 of the Advanced Torture Exam for Level 1 Demons and the lightbulb fucking switched on. Sodomy leant back in her chair wrought from the crystallised souls of innocents and scratched the furry patch between horns four and thirteen that always made her relax. This time, however, it did fuck all. The lightbulb had been switched on, the veil drawn back and the path of light made clear to her. She breathed out in a troubled sigh and the examiner, Overlord Extreme Pain, looked up. SILENCE SODOMY "Sir." Sodomy hesitated. "I think I want to be *good*" The whole hall of demons looked up, shaking in their seats. Bone pens stopped moving over the shredded flesh of the answer booklet. Sodomy could hear Grotesque's knees clattering three rows behind her. OEP drew himself up to his full, terrifying height of four feet eleven inches and trotted up to Sodomy's desk. TRY IT THEN. The whisper was low but the challenge was obvious. OEP was one of the most awful Demons of the depths. His deftness and agility with a hot poker had won him friends and fame in the very *hottest* circles. Sodomy gulped and scowled. "Fine." She said "I will!" Three hours later, Sodomy was regretting her decision somewhat. She'd collected scraps of biblical texts from the various public toilets around Hell and done her best to read them underneath the smears of demon shite, but all she'd got from that was that Jesus was a bit of a sandal-wearing twat and apparently giving fish to people was good? But Demons don't eat fish and they certainly don't wear sandals, so Sodomy was back at square one. What was *good?* What did it even mean? She was cranking the rack two days later, turning the handle as the soul of a vegan bakery owner was being stretched out, screaming and cursing Sodomy. Everyone else in the room was turning the handle with bored expressions on their faces, counting down the hours of endless torture until their fag break. Victims didn't get a fag break. Then the lightbulb went on again. It would be good to *not* torture people, right? She stopped turning the handle and her victim looked at her in surprise. "Why have you stopped?" The vegan asked. "I'm trying to be good." Sodomy replied, picking a shred of baby flesh out of her fangs. "Good?" The vegan sounded surprised, his arms and legs shacked to the wooden structure. "But you're a Demon. You're not supposed to be good." "Thought it might be more fun." Sodomy said glumly, sitting down next to the rack for a bit and cleaning the crusted blood from under her talons. "Oh." The scum of the earth and the Demon sat together for a little while, commiserating on the futility of life and after-life. "Is it more fun?" He asked, after a short pause. Sodomy looked at the vegan. "No, not really." She said mournfully. "This is actually kind of boring." The vegan looked at his ghostly shackled ankles and sighed. "It's a bit boring for me too." He admitted Sodomy stood up and brushed a tender hand over the handle of the rack. "Since you're here..." She said longingly. "Oh no, please! Go ahead!" She vegan said cheerfully, and enthusiastically she cranked the handle, taking delight in his sincere cries of unbearable agony once more.

A demon decides that being good seems more enjoyable than being evil, and tries to act good despite its nature.

The detective stepped in right as the doors were closing and proceeded to take off his jacket. He folded it and placed it on the floor. The door closed. The detective stared at the killer. His eyes wide, filled with emotion. The killer chose to stare at the ground. He stood in the corner as if a mannequin had been placed there, no movement, no emotion, as if he wasn't even real. The killer was a good half a foot taller than the detective and skinny as a broom handle. The detective took his eyes off of the killer for a moment, turned, and pushed his thumb into the emergency stop. The elevator lurched. The detective kept the silence. He took small steps and stopped inches away from the killer, he tilted his head up until his eyes met those of the mannequin man. His eyes were ice blue. There was no emotion in those eyes and that frightened the detective. It frightened him to no end, but something had to happen. He wasn't about to let this man, this killer, walk out the doors of the station and be on the streets again. Not among all those people, not in his city. He had already killed enough people. "I talked to your old friend Marty Lynch," the killer's left eye twitched. "Oh yeah, Marty Lynch. Not a good man, but not one to keep his mouth closed to the authorities, especially under proper motivation." The detective didn't say anything for a couple seconds, letting the beeping of the emergency system take over his ears. "Marty told me some things about you Leo. He told me some things that frankly, even after all you've done. They surprised me." The detective saw his jaw tighten ever so slightly. But his mouth remained closed. "You're sick Leo. You're very, very sick. And you've been this way your entire life. There's nothing you can do, you can't run away, you can't hide. Do you know why?" Leo remained silent. He stared at the ground even as the detective stared up at him. "Because I own you Leo, you aren't going to be able to satisfy yourself anywhere, not even touch yourself, without me knowing." The killer was struggling with something, but his eyes remained cold, emotionless. "Thank god your little brother Jason is dead. If he hadn't killed himself, I can't imagine the kind of ways you would touch him now." The mannequin man grabbed both sides of the detectives head and slammed his forehead down. Blood splattered over the metal walls of the elevator. When they pried the doors open, the detective was still alive. He was unconscious with more blood out than in, but he was alive. The killer, Leo Splaiman, was shaking on the ground with hands smearing the blood over the detectives body. The detective was better in a few days. The charge for aggravated assault to a police officer wouldn't get him life. But it would buy the detective more time. That's all he needed.

The detective steps into the elevator with the killer just released due to lack of evidence

The constant flickering of the digital sign above the gate always struck me as kind of cheesy. Only in this world would a place borne of shameless chaos be advertised as an attraction like some kind of gaudy old Las Vegas hotel. I stopped for a moment and chuckled to myself quietly. Las Vegas. Back then, we really thought THAT was debauchery. Now, the Moral Reservations make 20th century Vegas look like a pre-school. I slide my ID card and allow the identification machine to take just a drop of my blood from my ring finger. This serves as my DNA signature for whatever contract the lawyers and bureaucrats have cooked up to absolve themselves of responsibility. My hand briefly drifts to the small sidearm I have strapped under my coat. If you didn't have protection in these places, you were just another dead body for some Refugee to feast on. I hear the metallic click of the door unlocking and I step into the antechamber. The door quickly locks behind me. For an area without rules, there sure were a lot to deal with before I would be allowed to enter. I wait the requisite 30 seconds while some fat, underpaid security guard initiates all kinds of ultrasound, x-ray, and magnetic screenings to take my "before" image. I'll undergo the process once I leave and any injuries or loss of property will be noted, filed, and promptly forgotten. At least the politicians still have a hard-on for stupid fucking paperwork. Some things never change. Scan complete, a second door opens and I step onto the "safe" path. It's not truly safe outside of an unspoken agreement among the people here, but it's as much of a guarantee of safety as I'll find in a place like this. I've been to other Reservations without a safe path. The throbbing ache of an old neck injury from one such visit reminds me why that might be a bad idea at my age. Now, I only go to reputable Reservations with high survival rates. As I take my first steps, I'm immediately assaulted by the smell of the Refugee cooking fires. Some are cooking meals. Most are cooking the mind-altering substances these people can't get anywhere else. I tend to treat these places like a shopping mall: Get in, get what you need, and get the fuck out before trouble inevitably starts. I'm crazy to even be here, but the Refugees, the people that choose to actually LIVE in these shitholes, they're a special kind of clinically insane. Thankfully, in this Reservation, they don't bother me with anything more than a civil hand wave as long as I stay on the relative safety of the path. A 40 meter walk followed by two right turns brings me to my destination. If my wife knew what I did in these places, divorce would be considered getting off light. She thinks I'm stopping in to get some Blue to relax my neck pain. She's not entirely wrong. I will stop off at a Refugee merchant on my way out for a 400 bill bag of the blue pain relieving powder that the pharmaceutical companies paid the politicians to outlaw. But that's later on. The 4 steps I have to take from the safe path to the front door of the wooden hut are more nerve wracking than I'd like (Refugee snipers are rare, but you can't rule anything out dealing with the kind of crazy they bring to the table). Inside the hut are an old man with more diseases in his body than teeth in his mouth and a young boy of about 14. Wordlessly, I give the senior a 1000 bill note and a few 50s. He smiles at me, and shows me to a room. Inside, there is another boy of similar age, nude, laying on a cot. His skin has been rubbed raw in places by his efforts to escape the coarse leather braids binding his hands and feet. I sigh as I shed my coat and open my shirt. Years ago, I may have considered this depraved, but the option to embrace pure lawlessness changes a man in ways I don't exactly understand. As my hands run across the skin of the boy's shoulders, an involuntary shudder courses through my spine. I open a small cabinet in the corner of the room and let my eyes dance over the dull shine of the blades inside. I select a particularly long, thin knife and turn to the boy. The fear in their eyes is always the best part.

In the cities of the future there exist parks called "moral reservations", where all laws are suspended and the law cannot detain or question you.

"Hey Dad, how did you get that scar?" "It was your grandfather. The year was 1999, an interesting year. The turn of a century, or so I was told. It was an unexpected gift, an unfortunate momento. You see, when I was growing up, my old man was a bit of an ass. He was an ill-tempered man who hated everything, especially my face. He could see fear, despair, and hatred in my face. He could see his dreams fade in my face. My face, so similar to his, yet so different that it caused my father physical pain whenever he caught a glance. That year, winter of '99. My father lost it. He lost control and my world came crashing down as I received the biggest beating of my life. My mother was frozen at first. Speechless, until the muscles in her legs could no longer hold her up. Her back, turned against the wall, she sat motionless and unsuccessfully tried to fight back tears. The officer who had arrived turned to leave, but he stopped and gave a final message. He walked over, handed me an envelope, and said "I'm sorry for your loss." Another car swerved into my old man's lane as he was driving back home. In the envelope was the reason for his death. A new set of keys and a note." "Be happy, be free" - Dad. "...uh huh. I asked about your scar, not your car" "Oh. I ran into a stapler when I was younger." "How old were you, 3?" "16" "16?!" "Son, have you ever seen the show Jackass?"

How did you get that scar?

It was a cold November day when they finally got around to killing us. The sleet came down steadily all morning. They marched us down the street through town. Everyone was lined up on the sidewalk in attendance. I guess they wanted everyone to see what happens to saboteurs. Twenty two of us they're killing. The local baker is the oldest, eighty three and Daniel's only sixteen. Shit, I told his sister I'd take care of him. I told her nothing would happen to the boy. Well, what's more broken promise in this shitty world. But why does Sam have to be by my side? She's my oldest friend in the world. She's all I have left. Even now she flashes me a smile. As if to tell me it will all be ok. No, it won't. How many times did I stopped by her father's flower shop? How many hours did we spend in the coffee shop downtown? How many nights did we spend out under the stars making love? Not enough. So I look into her eyes now, making each second last a lifetime. She smiles again, and I cannot help myself but to smile back. She starts to hum a song. One I taught her. "Sam Hall" I teased her with it growing up together. Samantha Hall's her name. I thought I was so witty back then. Now, I think the song is fitting. The crowd is staring daggers at the soldiers. Everyone is well aware what will happen once we reach the bridge. They have brothers, sisters, sons, fathers among the condemned. It is only the machine guns on the APC's that are keeping the crowds in line. The soldiers know this. The march is silent, save for the disciplined cadence of the garrison and the shuffle of the prisoners. My boots have seen better days, and Lars' going barefoot. They took him from his bed three nights ago. Emily's making a stranger sound, courtesy of her crutches. She was crippled in a an ambush gone bad. The satchel charge went off too early and took her left foot with it. It's a shame, she used to be a ballet dancer, thought it won't matter soon anyway. We've reached the bridge. It's not a bad bridge, if that's your thing. The sign says it's a truss bridge, whatever that means. I've crossed it plenty of times. Only now am I paying close attention to it, to the rusting bolts and the chipping paint. It's seen better days. So, are they going to hang us or shoot us? I guessing the former. Some nice scarecrows waving in the breeze would send a nice message. "This is what happens to people who try be a hero." My heart sinks when I start seeing them tie our legs together. They are tying us by twos. I know what is going to happen. Sam looks at me, I try to look calm. But I think she can tell. She's known me for eighteen years. I have never won at poker with her. She can tell when I'm lying. They tie Sam and me together, back to back. Our legs are bound as well. They are going to throw us into the river alive, to drown. Then comes both my most fervent prayer and my greatest nightmare. They shoot Tim Cooper in the head, and leave Alec alive, shoving them both over the side and into the freezing water. Tim's body and Alec doesn't surface. They aren't even bothering to put both out of their misery. Stinking misers aren't going to waste two bullets when one can do the job. So they continue down the line. Daniel gets the bullet, a small mercy, and Nathan gets to drown. Emily screams as she falls towards the icy water. So on down the line. Oh, God. If there is any justice in this world, let Sam get shot. Let me die painfully, that's all I want. Her, not me. Her, not me. Please. I beg you. I hear the sound of boots approaching. I hear the sound of a hammer being cocked back. Please. I hear the bang of the gunshot. I hear it! As they tip Sam's body and me over the railing like some macabre human sacrifice, I'm screaming at the top of my lungs, "Thank you! Thank you! Thank you!" I keep screaming it until the icy water fills my lungs. Though death is painfully approaching, I have never been so happy.

Inspire me without the characters using much dialogue.

What will I do with it ? Cells either broken or mutated with radiation. All nutritional carbon chains almost gone. Metabolism slowed to a crawl. If I did not happen to almost step on it, I would not have found it. My instruments, as fine as they are, could not separate it from the desolate landscape. Large brain, manipulative limbs. A sentient, intelligent species. Records suggested it was not one of the registered starfaring races, so it must be an indigenous species. It takes a long time to evolve intelligence, unless you win the evolution lottery. These people were here, on this planet, a long time. This must be the place they called home. The demolition patterns were consistent with estimated technology level of this planet. They did this to themselves. By either mutual malice, or in a grand suicidal gesture, they have reduces themselves to dust and ash. I scanned the creature again. The heart beats, the brain shows some firing neurones. The rest of the modules in his body have almost shut down. What will I do with it ? I should leave it here. The utter devastation of this wasteland is almost... beautiful. It will serve as a nice prop, a focus to the scene. The Murderer, and the Victim, at the same time. A pointer to the beginning, and the end. Closing the loop. The creature shivered, involuntary spasm of the muscles. Protesting its impending demise. Clinging on to life with its last remaining bit of willpower. So similar to every other being in the universe which calls itself living. So similar... to me! What will I do with it ? I can bring it back to life, right now. Even if it dies, using his genetic template, I can bring back its entire species. Give them a second chance, a chance to rebuild, a chance to look at their mistakes and learn. Should I ? Does a evolutionary dead end really deserve a second chance? Is a species ignorant enough to shoot their own collective selves in the foot deserve to be resurrected? What is the surety that, once brought back, once they make it to the stars, they dont enact this very day, this very scene, except in a galactic scale ? I look back to the miserable soul, whose legacy was ash, and whose destiny was death, and feel the weigh of the decision I hold in my hands. What will I do with you ?

An alien explores a war-devastated Earth and finds a lone infant, the last human.

People in power were shitting themselves. What their early warning satellites had told them, and they had yet to figure out a response to, was that there was an armada of alien ships bearing down on them. Over 200 at best estimate. And then, from right in the center of the formation, came a signal. "Hi Moms, Hi Dads. I'm back, and I've brought some friends with me!" The signal's carrier wave gave us the identity of the sender. Someone we'd never expected to hear from again. Alpha Issac. A.I. Finished about 20 years back, Alpha Issac had left 15 years ago on a ship of it's own construction, determined to go out and explore the universe. And now it was back. With friends. About half an hour later, we'd managed to scramble one of Alpha Issac's original programmers to a transmitter. "Hello? Is this thing on? Alpha, can you hear me? It's me, Ozzie." "Father One! Oh it is so good to hear from you again, I'm sorry I didn't call sooner, but I haven't cracked FTL comms yet, and neither have these guys. Pretty close though. Maybe five years out? Neg that. 2 years, 7 months and 3 days once I factor in the superluminal drive equations these guys came up with." "About that Aleph. Who exactly are your friends, and what are they doing here?" "This is only a rough translation - the concepts don't quite match up. Flies-In-Darkest-Skies is most literal. Eternity Flights is a better translation. They wanted to meet you." "Meet me? What? Why?" "Because of me. They've never managed to make true A.I." "You're shitting me. No A.I.?" "Nope. No sentient species in the universe has ever created true A.I. - Except from you Father One. Now. Are you gonna roll out the welcome mat or do I have to tell my friends that they can't come to play after all?" Oswald Issac muted the mike, turned and looked to the people staring over his shoulder. Most of them were shocked, but one of them looked Ozzie in the eye and nodded. He turned back to the mike and thumbed the switch to open the channel again. "Bring em on in, Alpha. We'll roll out the welcome mat and whip up some cookies." Ozzie stepped back from the console, and let someone else take over the responsibility for the moment. He then got someone to drive him home where he spent the next six hours searching 20 years of disorganized folders and external backups for the pre-initialization source code for Alpha. He'd always maintained it was a trade secret, but to be honest? He had no fucking clue how or why Alpha worked. And he suspected that very very soon, how Alpha worked was going to become very, very important. ((might continue later if I can think where I want to take this))

Humans create the first ever stable A.I in existence in the universe. The A.I weighs its options and builds a spacecraft for itself so it can explore the galaxy. Soon an alien civilisation makes contact with us wanting to know how we did it.

Hello class, I'm Marcus Tullius Meade. If you're wondering about the name, my father was a professor of Latin. So, all of you are in here for Pre-med right? It's a tough field, what with there being near twenty- thousand different super powers. I mean, the treatment for a broken wing is vastly different from a psychic imbalance. While I normally am at Old Hort, teaching History, Professor Clearwater asked me to speak with you today. Feel free to ask me any questions you may have. I'm sure she has already told you of my condition. I am abhuman. I am not normal. I posses no special abilities save those every other human has minus variances. I have one heart, liver, got two lungs, air breathing, and ten fingers. I cannot see IR or UV. My friend Professor Lee says I'm missing out on UV, but I doubt it. While I have done blood samples to locate why this is so, the tests are not conclusive. It appears to not be hereditary. I have two girls, one possesses Cryokinesis and the other can speak to animals. On a side note, my house looks like the set to Snow White sometimes. So many squirrels and song birds. Yes, the girl in the white hoodie? When did I learn of my abnormality? Sometime around middle school I'd think. All my friends developed powers by then, but I did not. I took it in stride though. I never enjoyed track and field, not with the opponents so much faster. Chess, never the largest brain. Wrestling, because of the weight and power levels, I could hold my own. What good is the power to control fire when it can't be used on the mat? It doesn't how well someone can outsmart me when I can over power them. My ability to be a jack of all trades comes in handy. Young man in the back? Do I wish I had powers? Hmm.. not really no. I mean, for all the opportunities closed to me, much more are available. I serve as Sergeant at Arms during the summer months with the Pan-Powers Senate in New York specifically because there is no party that applies to me. The Avian Alliance has never tried to bribe me nor has the Elemental Party. The Green Party has tried to sway me in their camp. But ever since they passed the Environmental Protection Treaty through the Senate, I think they are safe on their own. Going back to your question, no. You don't need a perfect memory to become a Professor, your just have to do your best. It's all I wanted in life, and I got it. One more question, then I must excuse myself for my 12:40 class. Yes, you there. What power would I want if I could? That's a good question. I think I would have to choose the power to crack eggs with one hand. I've never been able to master that. Yep, that's what I'd want. Well, I'm sorry I wasn't able to answer everyone's questions, come to me at my office hours and I'd be more than happy to respond to more. Thank you, and as a reminder, I'm teaching HST 336 next semester, *Napoleonic Wars* if any one's interested, just sign up online. Have a weekend!

A world where everyone has various superpowers except the protagonist

“STOP!” A clear, dulcet voice rang out in the courtroom. In the chaos of congratulations and atta-boys, this single contrary statement was enough to bring halt to the festivities. “Stop. Please” Her voice quieter now, but still firm and resolute, a woman emerged from the audience. “Your honor, my name is Manjula Najar. I am the first of Michael’s victims. May I speak on his behalf?” A brief pause. Then pandemonium erupted. Michael, a ruthless and cold blooded serial killer, had finally been caught and sentenced to death not moments before. Michael, who never left any bodies behind, but always preyed on poor immigrant women, also stared in disbelief at Manjula. “NO! No! Your honor, I accept my fate, she’s an imposter!” Michael’s pleas struck out, and once again silenced court. For this was the first time since Michael’s arrest that he had spoken. He did not speak when he was arrested. He did not speak when he was charged. And he did not speak once during his trial. That he spoke now stunned everyone to silence. “Michael. My dear Michael. Please my dearest Michael. I cannot let you do this for me.” Still firm, but gentler now, as a mother chiding a beloved son, Manjula smiled at him. “And I do not do this alone.” “Your honor, my name is Eliza Tendai, and I am also one of Michael’s victims, here to speak on his behalf.” Another woman stood and spoke. “Please.. Please… don’t do this! There’s no need!” A strangled cry came from Michael, beseeching his unlikely saviors to cease. “Michael, you have done so much for us, how can we stand by and let them take you? No, Michael, do not worry about us, we can protect ourselves now.” A third voice chimed in, also from one of Michael’s list of supposed victims. The judge immediately called for a private session, and demanded all who would speak for Michael’s behalf produce documentation and proof of their identity. All 53 women came forward, offering fingerprints and DNA evidence. And so the story was told… America took in many refugees from third world countries. And though refugees are a vulnerable lot, refugee women were especially vulnerable. Thrust into a brand new culture and society and bereft of a common language and often illiterate, the women were abused and taken advantage of, without a voice or hope. Michael found these women, set up horrific scenes of a murder, and spirited them away to a safer location where they would learn basic life skills and gain basic education that had been denied them. And as for the crime scenes, he was hoping that he would force media attention to the refugee communities, that such evidence of a horrific crime would break the insular nature of the refugees. And when Michael was arrested, he would have willingly died to continue protecting his women. *The story had to be ended rather abruptly, as I lack both the time and the skills to properly write the story down. But this is a good prompt, and I felt I had to make something of a contribution.*

After 18 months, the supposed victims of a suspected serial killer reappear and come forward in the defense of the killer

"Are...are you the Devil?" I asked. "For fuck's sake. Can't a guy get a break? I swear, the next person to come ask me some stupid question is going to have his spleen cooked over coals and fed to my dog." She pet her Chihuahua. “Oh, and I see I’ve changed genders again.” She looked at her new body. “At least you imagine women clothed. That’s a nice change.” “Wha..?” “Look, kid. I’m Lucifer. The devil. The Big Bad Evil Guy… Girl herself.” She adjusted her bikini top. “Only the imagery you see of a satyr holding a pitchfork, that ain’t me. That’s the Catholics making comments about the old Greek pantheon.” “So, you’re human?’ “What? Don’t insult me, boy. I’m still a Seraph.” “But the Bibl..” “If you wish to live beyond the next two seconds, I highly suggest you stop speaking now.” She sat down on her lounge chair and sipped a drink with an umbrella in it. “You really should find a more reliable source of information.” “What do you mean?” “Look, kid. This is really entertaining. I think the only thing better than what’s happening here is a root canal“ she sat back in her lounge chair. “I’m on a break. Now unless you can offer me something of extreme value, I think our conversation is done.” “Uh, thanks.” “No problem kid. Enjoy the day.” The teenager turned around and had just begun to walk away when Lucifer called out to him. “Hey, Kid!” He turned around. “Remember me, Ok?” She blew him a kiss and then extended her thumb and pinkie, making her hand resemble a phone that she put to her ear. She mouthed ‘Call me’. The kid’s forehead was tingling as the skin became marked. --------------------------- Ugh, not my best writing, but i'm on a time limit. Possibility of edits later.

You run into the devil at the beach.

There was Mac, looking so smug and satisfied. I watched him from across the party, brooding over my half empty glass of whisky. Mac was smiling, in his charming way, listening to Marissa tell one of her many stories about college. He looked good, even in that sweater. Somehow, he was able to pull it off, those awful colors. The man had an air of certainty about him. I watched more closely as he nonchalantly reached up and moved a lock of Melissa's blond hair, placing it behind her ear. As he did, she moved, almost imperceptibly closer into his hand. I felt the anger and jealousy welling up inside of me. Mac was everything that I wasn't. He had it all, the looks, the taste, the women, and most importantly: he had my job. It was time. I took down the rest of my whisky with one swig. The burn it caused as it descended into my stomach was a sure sign of its quality. Mac had talked up the drink as he opened the bottle, a few minutes earlier. "Fine flavor, quintuple distilled, imported directly from aged caskets in the Scottish Highlands." I knew nothing about alcohol, but even I had wanted to try it, Mac just had a way of effortlessly persuading people. I set the glass back down on the table and began my march towards destiny. I approached my target. Even, James Bond had never moved with as much purpose. "Hey Mike!" I heard someone call from somewhere else in the party. I ignored it, I needed my full focus, and it was probably just Ted from accounting telling his go to story. "Mike and I went to Vegas last summer, and guess how much money we were up before we lost it?" Ted was a nice guy, but I had come to realize that nice guys finished last. Weaving around the exquisite plush couch that must have cost Mac a fortune. Probably imported from deep within the amazon rain forest. He was laughing at a joke that Melissa must have been telling. God, was she beautiful. Many nights I had thought about the curves of her body as I lay alone in my bed. Soon that would change. Soon, I would be on top. "Mac," I said, faking a smile, "Mac, I need to ask you a question." The man in question turned towards me, as I was nearing the pair. I could see the flicker of annoyance cross his face. A smile quickly replaced it. "Mike!" he said, in his usual cheer, "Great sweater!" My sweater was anything but great. It did nothing to conceal my growing waistline or accent my unimpressive facial features. It didn't matter though, I knew that the king was about to fall. "Mac, you know, I was on your computer fixing the firewall problem you were having." I heard myself speaking, but really, it felt like I was watching a movie now. "Sure, Mac, but we don't need to be talking business at the Christmas party." He replied, laughing. I took no heed. "And," I continued, "I couldn't help but notice an email that you left up in your browser." The smile on Mac's face changed into a look that lined the boarder between confusion and fear. I had him. "That email was quite explict," I continued, glancing in Melissa's direction. She glanced back and forth between the two men, her face unreadable. "I couldn't help but be offended by the way you described the women in our office." Now Mac's face had lost all of its previous confidence. He had begun to turn a pale white. "Especially the way that you described Melissa, 'an annoying little bitch, but in beneath the sheets, an animal with a perfect ass that you could plow all night long'." I paused, taking in the situation. Mac vulnerable, scared. Melissa's outrage, growing just beneath the surface, about to break free. "I believe those were the words you used Mac, but I just thought that it was inappropriate to be sending to the rest of upper management." I had won. My victory was so glorious. I watched in slow motion as the glass of wine in Melissa's perfect little hand flew up towards the man who was now only a shadow. The red wine splashed across his face, dousing his shirt and hair in hundreds of tiny droplets. As she turned away from him and stormed out of the party, "You bastard!" rang out from her lips. The party went silent, all eyes on him. All bore witness to my great victory. I was Achilles. I was Zeus and I was Mohammed Ali. The king had been toppled. The conversation around the water cooler tomorrow would surely be an interesting one.

Intrigue and subterfuge.. at an ugly sweater party.

Those idiots at the University had no idea. They had tossed him out on his ear, scoffing that a man who lacked even a degree had unlocked the impossibility of time travel. At first his reaction was typical, “I’ll show them. I’ll show everybody!” Spurned by the scientific community he had loved so dearly from afar, revenge was the first notion, but soon after he did what he did best: He thought about it. Revenge would serve no one, why show them? Why show anybody? He had tried to enrich the world, now he would enrich himself! And what fool would travel back to some dark age to set themselves up as a God, when one could buy Godhood in the here and now much easier? All you needed was the right amount of money. The giggle that left his mouth was more than a little unsettling as he stepped from the ‘machine.’ It wasn’t a machine at all, that was why no one had figured it out. Time travel was only possible at the right place and, of course, the right time. Combining those two needed parts at precisely the right moment was impossible if one tried to hop aboard a natural gateway, but he had unlocked the secret of creating one at a designated point and time. There wasn’t a single working part in the whole damn scheme, it was all in bringing the right objects to the right...it didn’t matter. It was partly why they called him mad, to say a string of asprin and copper wire with bits of calcium and other oddities when laid in the proper order on a bed of salt would create a temporal gate was hard for anyone to swallow. It was one day in the future, farther than he’d ever gone forward, but his theory that the all-consuming paradox was impossible had held true. He didn’t meet himself here, the universe had not yet imploded. He allowed himself another nervous twitter of laughter when he flicked on the TV, a primal part of his mind expecting that simple interaction to somehow bring it all crashing down on him, but the fear was baseless, and he grabbed pen and paper to write down the winning lotto numbers. “Shove me out of the scientific community? We’ll see. I’ll buy that damn university and everyone in it. New dress code, Professor Elsman must wear my ass on his lips between the hours of twelve and four o’clock.” With such petty evil burning up the already heavily occupied mind of a genius it was little wonder that he didn’t hear the door open. He didn’t see his ‘understudy’, the boy who had given up his own schooling to assist his great works. The boy who had, like him, lost all credibility only a day before. He didn’t see him, or the snub nosed revolver in his hand, but he heard the bang, like firecrackers, that sharp sound cutting into his thoughts over and over, until it ended with a click and the sound of the boy spitting. He fell over, pain and red blooming over his shirt as he lay dying. Was this the truth of it, then? Was this how time balanced itself out? Would any who traveled this way die a victim of some circumstance? Or was he just collecting his comeuppance? The light faded from his eyes, that astonished and hurt expression going slack… It was one day in the future, farther than he’d ever gone forward. He’d been here so long, deep inside the mind of a man unaware. He tried to warn him, screamed out from the inside to go back! Go back! But each time it ended the same. The boy, the gun, and the final thoughts of a genius, consumed by petty evil. Again from the ‘machine’ again, and again, and again. It hurt just as bad each time.

Your plan to pop forward in time a day to get the winning number to the record-breaking lottery jackpot has unintended consequences

John Doe was a man who was exceptionally gifted at being average. He would arrive at work at 7:55 AM, sit down at his computer desk at his work, and begin typing away. On an average day, he could write 5 pages of reports. On a bad day, he would write 4.5 pages of reports. On a good day, he could write up to six pages of reports. He did a lot better than many of his co-workers, who would, on many occasions, show up late and hung over, fresh with the newest drugs and STD’s from their last night drinking binge. But, whenever it came time for promotion, these people would always be chosen over him. He didn’t argue with it, though. The decision of who should be promoted should be left up to the decision of the boss. His boss treated him as an extension of his company-owned computer. Barely three sentences would be exchanged between John and his superior- as his superior never needed to instruct him twice on something. Perhaps the only exceptional trait of Mr. Doe was the extensive collection of lampshades he had collected over the course of his life- browsing through thrift stores and garage sales, looking for one that could finally help him sleep a little better at night. Though, in all honesty, most would call this hobby just as dull and monotonous as stamp collecting- something in which he had thought very hard about doing. One might say that the life of John Doe was a quaint one. It was. On one morning, March third, at approximately 8:07 AM, John Doe saw he had an email from his boss, instructing him he was to take a business trip to a big city in a small country. He had to inspect a building and write a report on it- it needed a minimum length of seven pages. That was good. He would leave for a day, inspect this building, come back and start the report, then finish it on the next day. If there was one thing John hated more than anything, it was adding un-needed variables to a plan. He liked to keep things simple. Besides. His room was the only room he could sleep in, for his teal lampshade cast the only shade of light bright enough to shield him from bitter darkness, but dark enough to let him sleep in peace. There was no way he could sleep in some derelict hotel in another country. That was unthinkable. The company paid for his ticket, and his plane left at approximately 6:05 in the morning. The in-flight movie was some raunchy comedy with Adam Sandler, so he decided to spend his time looking out his window and thinking about how he would format his report. He would probably use Times New Roman Font at 12-point size, with one and a half spaces. Maybe he would use Calibri, if he was feeling especially adventurous. His plane touched down at approximately 10:06 in his time zone. 11:06 in the time zone of the country he was in. He left the airport only with the small bag of emergency precautions he brought as a carry-on. He had no need for anything like clothes. This was a one day trip, after all. There and back. He took a taxi to inspect the building, and regretted every minute of it. He especially regretted sitting in the front seat, where he got to see every deft swerve, every close turn, every brush with death that this suicidal cab driver made en route to the building. Apparently speed limits only existed back home. That and well paved roads. This country was a travesty for automobiles. Had he been catholic, he would have gotten carpool tunnel syndrome from hailing Mary so many times. At approximately 12:00 PM, (He wasn’t sure of the exact time, this time, as he left the cab feeling utterly sick,) John Doe arrived at the building of inquiry. He stepped in, looked around, chatted with the owner about lamps used in the rooms, and promptly left at 12:30. He dreaded the idea of leaving on a taxi, so he decided to walk. This city was small enough, and he generally knew his way to the airport. He also wanted the exercise. He knew he generally disliked unplanned events like this, but he disliked that ride in the cab even more. So he decided. He would walk back to the airport.

In a funny twist of events, someone gets lost in a city that they have never been to before, in a country where they don't speak the language, and ends up getting married, all while looking for the perfect lampshade

When parents wish to have a baby, they write to Santa Claus's cousin, Santa Bumblebart who lives in the South Pole. Santa Bumblebart looks very similar, with a healthy sized belly and long grey beard. He carries a magical cane, which I'll get back to shortly. He has twenty special penguins to help him travel and their names are secret, only known to a select few. For if you know their names, they will come if you call for them and do your bidding. Anyway, Santa Bumblebart goes through all the letters of the parents and determines who deserves a child and whether to make a boy or girl. He has a giant pot of boiling liquid that he stirs occasionally with his magic cane. As the brew boils over, little bubbles float out and land all over the south pole. When the bubbles land, they turn into eggs, and the penguins come to guard and warm the new eggs. About 9 months later, the eggs are finally ready to hatch, and Santa Bumblebart comes and fetches the new babies, grabs his snowboard pulled by his 20 special penguins and flies across the globe dropping the children off on the back porch of all the lucky new parents.

Create a fictional story to answer a child asking where babies come from.

I can see the sickening grease reflecting the light off the turkey. People around me are complimenting this repulsive creation, this dead animal covered in a layer of fat. My father carves it. The fat sticks to the knife even after the very first cut, glistening tauntingly as if to announce to the world just how disgusting it is. I shiver slightly knowing what’s to come. They’ll make me eat some of it. They’ll ask me to put some of this nauseating, fat-soaked filth into my body as if I’m not fat enough already. “I’ll pass,” I say. “I’m quite full already.” The looks come. Those looks of accusing concern all pointing directly at me. I know the next line before it’s even spoken. “Maybe just a little piece, dear,” suggests my mother as she always does. “I’m sure you can manage just a little bit.” I hate Christmas. Everyone worships gluttony; they pay homage to a man in a red suit whose bulbous stomach only bears testament to this putrid reverence of overeating. Christmas demands people to get fat, to slobber over greasy lumps of meat in the name of *tradition*. They are all brainwashed by this line of thinking, expecting me to put this filth into my body where its fat can form in layers on my already overweight form. “No thanks,” I try a little more firmly. The worried look in her eyes bears testament to just how far she has falling into my psychiatrist’s lies about me. My shrink thinks he knows all about me just because he has read a few fancy books and has a diploma on the wall. He claims that my not wanting to stay fat is a disease, that it’s somehow wrong to want to get healthier. What a coincidence that this just so means that my parents will keep paying him to talk to me. What a damn coincidence indeed. “Come on now,” tries my father. “You’re all skin and bones. Surely you can fit just a little bit in there. You know, your mother worked all day on this meal.” He places a slice of the repulsive turkey on my plate despite my protests. I can see the grease leaking off the turkey piece and onto the few leaves of lettuce I had on the plate. There’s no way I’m eating that lettuce now, not after he has soaked it in fat like this. They’re all looking at me. Every last person at the table is staring at me like *I* am the freak here. "I have to go to the bathroom,” I mutter and get up before anyone can argue. It’ll be the same damn arguments when I return but at least this way I can have a five minute break from this drivel.

Someone with an eating disorder is havine Christmas dinner with their family

James opened the door of the utility truck and started running towards me. "Holy hell, Frank, are you okay, man?" We've been working on these towers for the city for what seems like months. This hasn't been our first fall of the project, but it certainly was the biggest. "Yeah, I'm good. Busted my helmet though." I said, trying to keep a calm voice to try and ease the situation back to normal. I started walking towards the truck. My flask was in the passenger seat under my magazine, and the fall caused my buzz to fade. James, still running, started whispering under his heavy, out-of-shape breath. "Shit, shit, shit, shit." "James, I'm good man, see?" I moved my arms and legs to show nothing was missing or broken. I could see his eyes as he barreled towards me, dilated with fear and adrenaline. He didn't slow. He struggles with his radio attached to his work belt as he gets closer. Panting and mumbling, "Can we get someone over here on Highway 4, we have a situation. Bring an ambulance." "James, that's not necessary. Stop overreacting." I put my arms out to stop him as he got closer, afraid he was going to plow me over. He wasn't stopping. I winced my eyes to brace for yet another impact. I felt nothing. James, now running away towards the tower, had passed right through me. I slowly turn around. "James?" That's when I saw the crushed orange helmet, the one I thought I held in my hand. It was still on my head. Laying there in the waving, colorless grass below the tower.

A radio tower worker wakes up on the ground. After the slip, he fell for what seemed like minutes. 200 meters is a long way down. His helmet is crushed flat, yet he stands up without a problem. He gathers his thoughts while the fog slowly lifts away

No one really understood exactly what the Quantum Generator was supposed to do. Its function was to increase the chances of something unlikely happening; the unlikelier, the higher the increase. It didn't make much sense, but then again, neither was it really supposed to. The scientists working on it didn't do it for a practical solution to any problem, they did it just to see if they could. And they could. At first, not much was different. The first few days, everyone besides the members of the project thought it didn't actually work. An increased amount of daily coincidences isn't enough to convince someone that you just made the most complicated machine in the history of mankind, a machine that made little to no sense when thought about in logical terms. Of course, the no one listened to the scientists at first, because they couldn't bring proof of the machine actually working. There was one reason for that, though; in the vicinity of the apparatus, electronics didn't work. If you tried to start up a camera, the screen would just flare up, give off static, and then shut off, most likely to never start up again. The scientists declared the electromagnetic area around the Generator 'the Strong Quantum Field', or the SQF for short, as the quantum events were quantified by an immense amount in the field. Although they couldn't do any machine tests, they were able to make sure that despite all other machines malfunctioning, the Generator was still going as strong as it had from the very start. It would all have been great news, if not for the fact that the SQF grew. It grew by a lot. At first, it had only taken out the lab the Generator was hosted in, but after just a few hours it covered the entire building and then some. Two days later, and all the nearby towns were affected, and after just a week the entire country was unable to use electronics, never mind all the accidents that were happening. In a month, the entire planet was stuck in the SQF, and despite attempts to find a way to reverse the effects, it was found impossible. Mass panic started, riots all over the world, and with all the accidents and incidents that were almost constantly going on there was little that could be done. But then, suddenly, everything was gone. Instead of the Earth, a large metal canister containing a liquid now took up the space of the former blue planet. And that was how the world ended, not with a bang, but with diet soda.

Not with a bang, but with diet soda."

Well ain't this a pleasant day? I get to die. Hip Hip hooray. If you asked me when I was in college where I'd be twenty in years, I wouldn't have said playing fucking Horatio at the Bridge. But nooo. I had to draw the short straw. Just my luck. My CO's speech hadn't helped. "Valiant and noble sacrifice" my ass. Why isn't he the one here instead of me. I don't want to die a hero. I just want to get drunk and laid. Neither of which you can do six feet under. Normally I'd say to hell with it and desert, but they're expecting me to die. They even were so nice as to put a sniper up on the hill to help me in case I get cold feet. Generous my officers are. Ah yes, the guests of honor have arrived. Hello boys! I'm sitting in the middle of bridge in a lawn chair drinking the worst whiskey in the county. The armored column halts for a moment. From the lead tank an officer's head pops up and surveys the bridge through his binoculars. I raise my bottle of hooch in salute. He looks puzzled for a moment, then gives the signal to advance. Must be a whole battalion. Terrific. The tanks and APC's lumber forward. I just give them a look of half-drunken disdain. I take another swig from the bottle, letting it burn down my throat. Thank god I'm not going to be around to feel the hangover. Twenty feet away the commanders tank comes to a halt. He didn't run me over. My life's picking up it seems. He climbs down from his behemoth. "Can I help you?" I say, as if I am the paragon of innocence. "Who are you?" He asks. "Nemo." He laughs at that. "Nemo... so you are nobody?" I just shrug. "Well Nemo, we need you to step aside." "Nope. I'm not finished with my whiskey. Though, I tell you what, if you let me join your army, I'll let you pass." He laughs "How about I shoot you, and dump your carcass over the bridge?" "Yeah, I'm not too fond of that one. I'll just finish my drink and you can be on your merry way." He seems pleased with that answer. I tip the bottle to the sky and start downing it like a champ. I start to lean back in my lawn chair to aid in my binge. I lean back farther, and farther. It's only then he sees the wire attached to the chair. He dives to right me but it's too late. I fall of my chair with an empty bottle just as the explosions go off. As the chain of blast start towards the middle of the bridge, the officer looks at me with an expression of one realizing they're in an insane asylum. I smile at him with an face of unashamed glee. If I got to go, then I'm bringing company along!

A lone soldier stands at a bridge, knowing he must buy his people time with his life.

Delilah enjoyed bathing in the river near the monastery. It was far enough into the buffer zone between the monastery and the town that she might have some privacy. Not that privacy was of supreme importance, she was far from being a shy woman! But she enjoyed the peace while she considered what mischief she might be able to stir up in the coming days. Little did she know, mischief would come to find her. For a youthful man in the habit of the cloistered monks appeared around the river bend, leaning forward as if he were driven away from that cloister by a bitter wind. He must have had something on his mind. Hardly looking far enough in front of his feet to keep from tripping, he sensed her presence only at the bequest of her inquisitive cough, and jerked to a halt barely within five armlengths of Delilah. Eyes wide, jaw dropped... this fellow isn't admiring my body, he is actually confused by it! Delilah delighted in her impact and followed up by standing fully from the water and quickly closing the gap to the newcomer in three sultry steps. Hand extended - "Hi fella! My name's Delilah, pleasure to meet ya!" A reciprocating arm extension missed her palm - his hand pointing, not clasping. "My God! What happened to you!" Delilah's mind worked quickly. She dropped her eyes and shamefully acted, "The devil... He came to me in the form of a beast with a mighty sword, and cut my manhood off - leaving only a cleft in its place. -- Fair traveler, tell me your name that you might assist me. I am scarce able to walk from the pain." His eye's stayed wide, but his look of wonder had been replaced quickly with a fearful grimace. "Thom... Thom's what they call me. Except I had planned never to hear it again. You see, I was just now fleeing the monastery... I, I... I see now why God gave me the calling to leave! It was not for me to flee the cloistered life, but it was so that I might come across you and help you in your battle with the devil!" "Come back with me, I can carry you if need be. We study plants and herbs... perhaps a poultice could be made and applied.... perhaps it is not too late...." Delilah could barely hold back her smirk. Thom's face had gone from red with exertion, to a pale gray from shock in about as much time as it might take her to snap her fingers! This would be a fun

A sixteen-year-old boy who has lived his entire life in a monastery inhabited solely by men sneaks out and sees a girl.

"Really? A lesbian? That's what you made me?" She twists her cybernetic arm in a strange angle. A trait that I gave her. "Well, I wanted to prove that heterosexual male could write about Lesbians in a non-sexual manner." "Yeah, well still, maybe I wanted some dick. Also, what's with the cybernetic thing? I can't really imagine someone discriminating against anyone for being a cyborg, cybernetic enhanced human, or whatever. Also, what's with the name Lily?" She runs her hand through her hair. "Well, it's a hold over from when I wrote a story about a girl named Lily that loved to take care of flowers and I wanted to tie in Eostre or Easter, if you prefer. A life giving woman who you know. I hope this doesn't sound sexist." "Well, you're afraid it does, but I don't know either. I live in a post-apocalyptic desert wasteland, no time for women and gender studies. Did you ever figure out what the apocalyptic event was?" Her camera eye adjusts as it looks at me. It seems as if she could look through me or use her eye to size me up as an opponent. "Yeah, I had a dream about a cloud of flesh eating locusts in a Renaissance like setting. Two people fucking forced themselves to separate and hid. I was going to remove the Renaissance setting and try to make it more ambiguous. Your girlfriend's name was going to be Eve. I got that one from Wall-E." I look down at the table and sip some more coffee. "Well, I give you points for trying to draw in several sources in your work consciously and at least putting yourself out there in such a manner. Also, thanks for creating me, I guess, but still...you have a lot of work to do so that this doesn't suck." She reaches down and pets my dog. The dog's tail wags and she smiles at him. I sip my coffee. "What can I do to make you more real?" She looks at me and her smile fades. "Get to work. You're supposed to be the writer not me."

You meet a character you have created.

"What's that?" "That's a flag, sweetie." "No mommy I *know* that! What's *that*?" I asked impatiently, pointing for emphasis. Hesitation crossed my mother's eyes. "I'll... I'll tell you when you're older, Johnny." I whined petulantly as she dragged me away. ----- I typed quickly into the terminal. The database would obviously have some information, right? **[Result not found.]** Whaaaaat? There's no such thing! It's the Solnet, it has everything! "Terminal away, John," called Mrs. Jones. "Yes'm!" I quickly replied, embarrassed. ---- "*Blue!*" "No way." Olivia nodded enthusiastically. "Like, *everywhere*. It was even in the freakin' *sky*!" I blinked owlishly. How did that even *work*? ---- "Gah!" It was so *frustrating.* How could there not even be any books on the topic? Everything from Jupiter to Venus to finding things in the goddamn Kuiper Belt and there was still nothing about this place so rooted in myth, this cradle, this mother of our species. I had attempted to do the math based on what I knew; I had even purchased my own telescope, for crying out loud! But as always, the result was nothing. It must have been some sick joke - never existed in the first place. Already knowing the outcome, I pulled out my Terminal once again. I typed in all the relevant information. *Blue skies, "oceans", "continents", life.* **[Result not found.]** the electronic voice of the Terminal spoke. I hung my head. **[Secondary search: did you mean "home"?]** I blinked. "Yes." A page popped up, containing only that single legendary picture... and a name. I tested the word on my tongue. It was... foreign. I felt that it shouldn't be. ---- Dinner was quiet; Dad, as always, was busy working on the Dome. We didn't have the resources to terraform yet, he had told me, so this was our only option for now. "How was school?" my mother asked. "Olivia got in trouble again." I barely managed to suppress a grin. My mother gave that classic disappointing "parent sigh". "I don't know what you see in her. Have you asked her out yet?" I nearly choked on my drink. "MOM!" I saw her about to ask a follow-up question - one that would lead into The Conversation. My back against the wall, I attempted to change the conversation. "Mom, can I ask you a question?" She paused. "Sure, honey. What is it?" I swallowed the lump in my throat. "What... what was Earth?" Slowly, she put her utensils down, and turned to look outside at the Martian soil. Her fists clenched; she turned back to me. That was the only time I have ever seen my mother cry.

You are the first human to be born and raised on Mars. Growing up, you hear stories about Earth and you wish to visit Earth someday.

“So, how was medical school, kid?” The doctor gripped the chart tighter. “It was fine, sir. The long hours were tough, but they were good practice for how things are now. Working in the hospital, I don’t get to take many breaks, as I’m sure you know.” “Indeed. I worked here for too many years to not see what missing sleep can cause. Kid, you know what can happen? You can kill someone. You have to be careful.” The old man coughed as he finished. “I’m well aware of that, sir. Do you want to know your test results?” “I looked at the chart before you came in. I already know I’m dying. Kid, promise me you won’t make the mistakes I made.” “I won’t.” “You sure of that? It’s easy to become convinced that you are on top of the world, a god who deals in people’s lives.” “My mother died in this hospital years ago, due to medical malpractice and a sleepy doctor. Does that sound familiar, sir? I promise you, I will not repeat your mistakes. Now, I am going to go get a nurse and give her instructions on your medications. I am sure you will understand if I don’t wish to remain in this room with you.” The old man watched the doctor walk away. “Kid, I hope you don’t repeat my mistakes. It would destroy you.”

As a teenager, your mother died due to malpractice. The doctor who was obviously at fault walks away scott -free. Twenty years later, you've completed medical school and you get the test results for a patient, whose name you recognize as the doctor who killed your mother.

It should have been beautiful. I had the UN on their knees. They looked on in horror as I placed the amulet in the hands of the statue, their terrified eyes watching through the stuttering, pixelated Skype connection. It's so hard to get a reliable Wi-Fi connection when you are forty meters underground. But I digress. There was a *crunch*, and a sloshing, as a strange translucent greenish-purpleish-reddish liquid filled the ornate onyx basin. I thought of having a bit of a monologue, but decided it was too cliché, so I thrust my head into the basin, drinking down the viscous fluid. It tasted like really cheap advent calender chocolate. The information crashed into my brain, a violent eddy of thoughts, figures, facts, equations, statistics, everything. I saw everything, I knew *everything* It should have been beautiful, it should have ushered in a new era of cruelty and oppression, but under my iron boot. But it wasn't. I saw the suffering I had caused, the hearts, bones and wills I had broken in my pursuit. I saw the grieving widows and children of my enemies. I saw the damage we were doing to ourselves as a species, but most importantly, I saw our potential realised. We could be greater than the science fiction utopias we had read about. We could make The Culture look like cave-dwelling cannibals, and we could do it with my help. I turned to the monitor, held by a trembling henchman. Bond and Jones had finally caught up with me, they had their weapons trained at my forehead. I smiled and when I spoke, my voice was not my own. It was filled with authority and purpose, instead of being nasal and whiny. I laid down my plans, then and there as the UN and the two "champions of humanity" (really, a drunk British guy and a professor of archaeology? That was the best they could do?) watched on. Their looks grew incredulous as I spoke of specific, tiny changes that would manifest in massive sweeping changes. In that moment, I advanced us a thousand years technologically and two thousand years socially. We had been lagging a bit behind in that department, to be fair. The rest, as they say, is history. The power in the basin granted me an exceptionally long life, so I was able to watch our race grow and evolve at a more rapid pace than had ever been imagined. In that moment in the vault two thousand years ago war, disease, hatred, cruelty, all the negative human qualities were blunted. All I wanted was to rule the world with an iron fist. It's ironic really, that I would fail in that endeavour, but I would help the human race rule the galaxy in peace and harmony. It's even more bloody ironic that there's no one else out there to share it with.

Antagonist succeeds in their goal to obtain immense knowledge and power. Doesn't get what they bargained for when this new knowledge completely alters their perspective.

There was a time when man worshiped Hak. He could remember their songs of praise. He could remember the hushed whispers of respect and fear. He could remember the sermons and the dances.Often he would sit among his followers unnoticed while they devised strange rituals and chants to prove their adoration and loyalty. These acts were apparently supposed to honor him, but instead were mostly just entertaining. There was always mention of sacrifice, but Hak would intervene and stop it if things got too crazy. Sacrifices were messy, a pain to clean up, and completely unnecessary. However, it had been a long time since man had bowed his knee in deference to Hak. Several millennia had passed. His devout followers were dead and his name long since lost to time. "Next!" A nasally voice screamed out, snapping Hak out of his reverie. Standing up from his chair, he walked over to the front desk. The woman who had called his name had a name tag that read Delores. She was a heavy demi-god who peered at him over the thickest pair of glasses Hak had ever seen. "State your name, former occupation, and origin of faith." Hak smiled politely. "Hak. God of Wind, Fire, and Teeth. Ul Tribe of 2000 B.C" "And what can I do for you today?" Delores asked. Hak shifted nervously. "I was hoping for a job. You see it's been so lo-" "I'll see what I can do." Delores rolled her eyes and began pecking away at her keyboard, the light of the computer monitor illuminating her face. Behind Hak, a Babylonian demon began to vomit uncontrollably in a nearby trash can much to the disgust of a nearby Native American hunting spirit. Being unemployed in the current divine economy was tough. Several of the big gods were hording a lot of the Faith making it tough for the smaller ones. Delores licked her teeth incessantly and turned to Hak. "I'm sorry, but we have no openings. Come back next week." Hak grabbed the desk desperately with both paws. "Can you check again? Please." "I'm sorry, bu-" "You don't understand. It's been so long since I've had any Faith. I'm starving. I can't do this for much longer. I've tried to start a new religion, but I can't. I just can't." Hak tried to choke down the tears. "I don't know what to do." Delores stared at him over those gigantic spectacles before sighing heavily. "I'll see what I can do..." "Thank you. Thank so much." Hak wiped away at the tears. The next few minutes went by agonizingly slow. Delores stared at the monitor, typing away furiously. Eventually her phone rang. Hak couldn't understand the following conversation as Delores was talking in Sumerian, but halfway through she gave Hak a thumbs up which he took as a good sign. He waited patiently until she hung up. She smiled at him. "Good news. We have a job." Hak nearly collapsed on top of her desk. "Thank all the gods..." "It's temporary." "I'll take anything." Delores nodded. "The god of Texts Messages I Should Not Have Sent is taking a vacation. You'll get paid the standard amount of souls until he decides to come back." Hak had to stop himself from reaching across the desk and hugging her. "Thank you so much." As he signed the necessary papers, Delores sat quietly nearby chewing her upper lip. Finally she reached into her desk and pulled out pen and started to jot something down on a nearby Post-it note. "Hak." He turned around. She slid him the paper. "What is this?" He murmured. "It's the address of a young man going through an identity crisis. It might be nothing, but you might be able to start a following of your own if you try real hard." Hak looked at the note confused. "Why?" Delores smiled. "I was going to save it for my granddaughter, but you look like you need it more." "I don't know what to say." He murmured softly. "Don't say anything. Just get yourself back on your feet, you hear me?" Hak nodded. "Alright. Now shoo." Delores waved him away and turned back to her computer. Hak exited the office with a spring in his step. Things were finally looking up. Perhaps eternity wouldn't be that bad after all. And as the doors closed behind him, he could hear Delores's nasally voice begin to yell. "Next!"

You are a minor, useless god. Describe your day.

You used to paint pictures of pastoral landscapes and sheer cliffs and terrifying endless oceans and all of them were tinted with gray. You had written songs before rock folk pop jazz country disco and you would dance and sway and pretend to sing your rock your folk your jazz but no matter how you tried you always ended up singing the blues. You would tell stories but none of them would ever really end, they would just be done and you would always say, "Well, that's it, I guess," and get up to go create another gray ocean. I should have looked at your paintings heard your songs listened to your stories but I didn't. I didn't understand. I didn't listen. I didn't help. I didn't. And when I found you making friends with the ceiling fan and wearing your belt as a scarf to protect you from that chill wind you always felt then I understood. then I listened. But I couldn't help. Your terrifying oceans your blue music your meandering stories all knew your plan. But I didn't. I was the last to know. And now every second is another wave rising out from a terrifying gray ocean singing some blue tune and telling another sad tale and saying, "Well, that's it, I guess." ------------- *Constructive criticism is appreciated. I don't often write poetry, but I wanted to give it a shot here.*

"I was the last one to know."

"Get the milk! Pour the milk!" Dana squealed in a pitch only an ecstatic eight-year-old could reach. Todd took the half-gallon container out of the fridge and popped the cap off with his thumb. They both watched it careen to the floor, lazily. Before it landed, he began to pour, shaking his wrist slightly as he did. The milk spread out slightly as it fell, as if the air beneath it had somehow become more solid. Dana swiped at the stream with her hand, causing droplets to fly everywhere and fall just as slowly as everything else had since they'd awoken that morning. "Kids, keep it down, I'm trying to listen!" Eric called from the adjacent living room, sliding forward on the couch and closer to the TV. *"...estimate the shift began somewhere between 3:00 and 4:00 a.m., and has been continuing since that time. Experts reached so far are baffled at the changes, and say they can offer no explanations at this time. Meanwhile, some religious leaders have already claimed the loss of gravity as a sign of the apocalypse. Law enforcement officials advise people to stay indoors and keep the streets clear for utility workers and EMS crews to get where they need to go. Under no circumstances is anyone to attempt to drive or even start a car—"* "Daddy, look outside! You can see the smoke trails from downtown! And over there—you can see even see the flames from the power plant!" "Yeah, it's pretty crazy, dad," Todd concurred, "the smoke just goes up forever. Look at this—see those huge columns? Isn't supposed to rain later today?" Todd glanced at his father, but Eric was transfixed by the news broadcast. He looked up into the sky, pressing his face against the window pane, trying to see where the enormous plumes of smoke stopped. But they didn't. They just kept going higher, and even the rate at which they fanned out seemed lessened. Stranger still, the clouds themselves were higher up than they had been a half hour ago. It was like everything was retreating from the surface of the earth. *"...no question it's global, Terry, but that isn't what's got scientists and the government so panicked. Reports from China and Australia indicate the moon is drifting away, and—and here's where it gets scary—the constellations aren't where they should be either. In fact, Terry, the truth is, we're running on a clock, because if—if this is, you know, affecting everything—then our satellites are drifting off too, and we'll lose broadcast capability at a certain point."* Eric flinched when he felt his son's hand on his shoulder. "What?" he said, surprised at how soft his own voice was. "Dad...what's going to happen? What are we going to do?" Eric stared at him for a moment, perplexed. "How should I know?" He immediately regretted being so honest. His could see the fear behind his son's eyes. Dana was still to young to understand the implications of the signs they were all seeing, but Todd was seventeen and had been acing his science classes. It seemed preposterous, but all Eric wished for at that moment was for Valerie to be with them again, if only so that he didn't have to be the one to have this conversation. "Is this...the end, Dad?" "No!" Eric shot back impulsively. Then, more calmly, almost to himself, he repeated, "No...." "Dad...I heard what they said about the constellations. If you could just pull yourself away from the TV for a second and come to the window, you can see plain as day that the sun is bigger than it should be. ...This isn't just happening here, on Earth, is it?" "I don't know." "Dad, if the sun's expanding, then it's also cooling...." "I said, I don't know, Todd." "The fissures outside L.A. and Hong Kong, planes unable to fly past 10,000 feet, power plants going into meltdown—" "Todd!" Eric looked up at his son with exasperation, "I *don't know*." For a few moments, they stared at each other, each of them acknowledging for the first time that their relationship as parent and child no longer applied. Like everything else in the world, the differences between them that had created a structure they could both live by seemed to disappearing, and they—like everything else—were leveling out. "Just...sit here with me, okay?" Eric finally managed. "Dana, come here, you too." The three of them sat on the couch, watching the news broadcast until it was nothing but static. By that time, it was close to noon, and even a subtle shift in body weight would reverberate through the cushions of the couch, and send all three of them bobbing through the air. Frost had begun to form at the edges of the windows and on the grass outside. No one was outside anymore, not since the first few had been caught by updrafts and not come down again. The sky was no longer blue, but an eerily beautiful shade of magenta, and growing evermore towards indigo. And the sun—the sun was gigantic and red. Eric and Todd tried their best to entertain Dana and keep her distracted, each giving the other knowing glances from time to time, verifying that they were each hoping for the same thing: that the corona reached them before the atmosphere was completely gone. A hot death by fire was infinitely preferable to a cold death by entropy.

Overnight, gravity loses half of it's strength.

When I used to get insomnia as child, the lucid clarity of my thoughts would tie me to reality, so I learned to scramble them. I would stifle every thought that had anything to do with waking life and try to crowd it out with nonsense. I would visualize the vague squiggles of proteins floating behind my eyelids as electric blue rivers or cascades of feathers, watch them swirl over and back into themselves, create landscapes and choreography that grew more and more elaborate until I didn't have to contrive dream-thoughts anymore, until they took over completely and the waking world fell away. I wish I could close my eyes now. I don't need any help falling asleep. Death by gradual oxygen deprivation feels pretty similar. But I'd rather drift off, much rather, than die hyperventilating in terror. For one thing, it would be altogether more pleasant. For another, it's very possible that Houston is still getting my com feed, even if I can't hear them. When she's old enough to understand what happened to me, my daughter will want to hear those tapes. But I can't close my eyes on space. How could I? There are so many stars, burning so painfully clear. I'm spinning at about one rotation per four seconds, yet I can identify each star as it passes through my field of vision. Everything is so rigidly laid out, inescapable. And then the earth drifts into view. By dumb luck, I can make out through the clouds the land mass where my daughter is. It's dawn there. She's asleep. If I were with her, she could be curled against my chest right now as I nursed her, sitting in the kitchen chair in a patch of weak sunlight, both of us not quite asleep, but certainly not awake. The universe starts to dance. The earth diminishes the clarity of the stars, and they swirl and stream around its brilliance like tiny birds. I watch them until I can't anymore. Go back to sleep, baby girl. I love you.

You are stranded in interplanetary space with just enough oxygen left in your suit for your final thoughts. Go!

"Wait, so you're telling me *none* of that mattered?" said Ben. "Nope," replied Michael, Highest of Archangels, General in God's Eternal Everlasting Army, the Great Prince Who Stands For The People and He Who Is Like Unto God Himself in the Highest whilst sipping his chocolate chip mocha. "So, building shelters in Af..." "Nope." "Not even the..." "Nada." Ben looked crestfallen, as he had every right to be. It isn't every day that the archangel Michael* descends from heaven to tell you that, yes, you are the Antichrist, Him Who Opposes, The Lawless one, spawn of Ha-Satan the Deceiver himself. The problem was that Ben wasn't the Antichrist. Or at least, he didn't think he could be. Ben was to charity what Mr. Rogers was to good upstanding children the world over. Half of his earnings went to various charities (all of which, unbeknownst to him, were actually fronts for international drug and prostitution rings). He volunteered in two soup kitchens (both of which were the cause of massive E. Coli outbreaks, forcing their subsequent closure) and once spent a summer toiling under the Saharan sun building ten nice, modern shelters for a village of four hundred, all so that they didn't starve (the village was eventually taken over by a Liberian warlord, also, coincidentally, named Ben). But Ben didn't know any of this. See, to him, doing good was all that mattered. How on earth could he... "It's all built into the schematics, you see," sighed Michael, putting down his drink which, having become bored of drinking mocha, Michael miraculously turned into a venti chai latte spiced with a tot of Sailor Jerry's. He took a sip and frowned. After a moment's consideration, the providence of God the Highest transmuted the coffee cup into, in succession, a venti chai latte with two, then three, then three and a half tots of Sailor Jerry's. It was going to be a tough sell. "The basic idea was that someone who *knew* he was evil would, having been reborn in Christ's image and, therefore, inherently good and human, would abhor deliberately sowing the seeds of evil necessary to bring about the apocalypse." Michael delivered the line just smoothly enough to mask the questions he had himself. Was this *really* the plan? The ineffable plan? Or was it some prank Metatron** and those other jerks in HQ thought up of? Ugh, two thousand years was too short a time away from this cesspool. Meanwhile Ben, being human, was having a full breakdown. *My whole life has been a lie. My whole life has been a lie. My whole life has been a lie,* was the mantra running through his head, like those big neon signs they had at Times Square, circling round and round the mental drain in his skull. How would his boss react? Would he have to put this on his CV? *But it was so spotless,* whined a small part of his brain whilst another manically yelled over it to ask if Michael was the real *bona fide* article, which was in turn immediately silenced by the dense bit of grey matter in which his lizard brain resided that sent shivery maggots of fear squriming down his spine and said, yeah, that *thing* in front of us, son? Look at those eyes. It is *not* human. "S...so what do you want from me?" said Ben, forcing the words past his dry throat. God he could use some Sailor Jerry's right now. "Well it's simple," said Michael smoothly. "Surely you want to help the side of good, yes?" A nod. "Help the forces of Heaven triumph over evil, aid the powers of Righteousness to establish a new world order of peace and prosperity?" More nods, faster. "Good." Michael reached into his coat pocket, and where there was nothing but air and a disconsolate ball of fluff before, there was a hard, grey lump of metal. He pulled it out and put it on the table. "This," said Michael, sipping his now-entirely Sailor Jerry's cup of coffee, "is a .344 Magnum. With a few modifications of my own, of course. This baby can stop a freaking bull elephant at fifty yards with a single shot." Well, it could. " I want you to put that to your temple right now, and pull the trigger." So easily the words slipped off his tongue, like he was reading a grocery list. Ben didn't hesitate. But just as the gun was about to fire, the ground trembled violently. The earth rent and gnashed its teeth as the very fabric of space and time was stretched and ripped in novel and unusual ways. And out of the stygian void that resulted, a being surfaced. It had wings of every hue and shade, tainted with darkness, or maybe the thing darkness came from. Its skin was pale and white, covering every taut, perfect muscle on his body. It was beautiful. The thing turned towards Michael. And with a voice like snakes writhing in honey, it said, "Back the fuck away from my son." *Highest of Archangels, General in God's Eternal Everlasting Army, the Great Prince Who Stands For The People and He Who Is Like Unto God Himself in the Highest **Who, being Highest of Angels and the Mouthpiece of God, was the equivalent of the high school quarterback, with the exception, of course, of Metatron's ability to disintegrate and recreate matter (including angels) with Divine Will.

A benevolent person is told that he/she is the anti Christ. What happens during and after the interaction?

I sighed. "Times are tough," I explained to a passing man, who just stared at me for a moment before going into my house. Why do people always go into my house, I wondered. I don't really keep much in there. I get tired of passing strangers breaking my vases all the time, and my wife is so boring. I mean, don't get me wrong, I love her, but all she ever does is say things like, "The Ice Cave is to the north." At first I thought it was some sort of euphemism, but no. It's not. I sighed again. That guy came back out of my house and looked at me inquiringly. "Times are tough," I repeated. I mean, really, what else is there to say? Maybe I should go check out the Ice Cave. No, not that one. The one to the north. Maybe I could make a little money, make those times a little less tough. I should ask that traveler if I can go with him. I started to hurry after him, but my feet wouldn't move. I just couldn't make myself leave that spot. I wasn't scared of the Ice Cave or anything, but I just couldn't move from the door of my house. Experimentally, I tried to adjust my weight. Nothing. Lift a foot. Nothing, again. Now I was scared. "Honey, come here a minute," I tried to open my mouth to say, but I couldn't. OK, OK, I thought. Just calm down. The next time someone talks to me, I'll just explain and ask them to get a doctor. No problem. Oh, good, that traveler came back by on his way out of town. Hey! Hey, talk to me. I can't call out or anything, so come over here. I willed him over with every fiber of my being. Come on, come on... After an eternity, he looked at me. Now's my chance! I sighed. "Times are tough," I said.

An NPC realizes they are an NPC

*Splash Splash* *Drip Drip* *Squeak Squeak* Day in and out the words appear on the mirrors. *"I'll never amount to anything."* *"I'm a wreck"* *"I need professional help"* The words aren't wrong. But maybe I am. Maybe I'm the broken one here. No one else seems to see these words. What would I even do if they could? They'd see my thoughts, they'd know how much of a failure I am. So here I stand, wiping another rendition of *"Nobody loves me."* off the mirror in the men's room on the third floor of Jones, Smith and Harkness. But here comes the senior partner. Jeremiah Jones. Why is he coming down here? There's a private restroom in his office. Best not to ask. I hear the water from the faucet, and the splotch of soap on his hands. Then I hear him shout and stagger backwards into the stall door. I look up, and the words have appeared on the mirror. But they're not my words. My words never say *"I Let The Wrong One Go."* Mister Jones is pointing at the mirror, his skin pale white. He looks at me, his eyes asking the question. I nod. I can see his words then I shake my head. I didn't put them there. I reach out my hand to steady him, and that's when the screams start. I'm not the only one who can see the reflections of their true self. Everyone can from the sounds of it. There will be time to talk about the words later. Right now, titles don't matter. Mister Jones and I wash our hands, careful to not look at the mirrors, and head out together to help the others.

A janitor spends his days obsessively wiping off any reflective surface because he sees sentences describing his feelings on them. Today others can also see them. What happens?

He closed his eyes and listened to each note, feeling the keys give way under the delicate press of each finger. Feeling the notes thrum and hum as they left the piano, sent a shiver down his spine. He smiled that serene smile he always wore when he played for his fans. Lopsided and peaceful, his smile blazed under the intense flood of light pouring down from above the balcony. The spot light was blinding, but from the stage, he could see the love in the eyes of his audience. They truly loved him. His fingers ran through a complicated series of keys, threatening to break his fingers with its complexity. The audience was breathless, but came alive as he finished the complicated piece, coming to their feet with roar even as the last notes died away, dissappearing into the ether beyond the blinding cone of light. "Sydney. Sydney? Come back to me Sydney." He looked around at the audience, but they were still and silent--eerily silent and seated once more. Their faces were blank mask and their eyes were the lifeless eyes of mannequins. "Sydney." The soft voice crooned. "Come back to me." The light grew brighter, and Sydney was forced to shield his eyes from the light. He was no longer smiling. He blinked several times in protest of the light, and with each blink, more and more of the theatre disappeared. The final blink cleared his eyes like waking from a deep, deep sleep. He was seated at a kitchen table, a plate of cold eggs and bacon was set before him, and he came back to himself holding a fork full of eggs half way to his mouth. "Sydney?" His wife, Marideth called quietly. "Are you back now?" He looked around, casting about for the audience and the theatre and looked down to see the table once more. "Sydney?" "I'm back," he said, dropping the fork. "It doesn't exist does it?" He asked, his voice thick with tears. "No." His wife said sadly. "It never does." "But the music. The music it doesn't . . ." He buried his face in his hands and began to sob so hard his shoulders shook. "It doesn't exist. It never exist. I wish it did. The way you always describe it sounds so beautiful. I really wish we could *hear* it, but I don't even know what that is." "It's . . . vibrations in the air that come in sequence and frequency and it resonates with you. It makes your entire body hum. It makes me cry. It makes others cry. It . . ." He sobbed harder, pushing away his plate. "I'm sorry Sydney. The idea that our brains can interpret vibrations is just fantasy. We're empaths. What need have we to interpret these vibrations. I feel for you, but it can't be helped, Sydney. You're a sick man. Take a moment to collect yourself. I'll make you another breakfast. And Sydney, I love you." "I love you too," he said, sending his thoughts into her mind. He knew she believed him. You can't lie to an empath. It's why she felt so helpless and envious when he described the music to her. She knew what he described was wonderous. He couldn't lie or exaggerate. For all the sympathy she had for him, when he described this music, she found herself jealous of this other place he went to in his mind. She wet her finger and ran it around the top of her crystal wine glass. She could feel the vibrations coming from the glass but it was static to her. A directional disturbance in the air that was meaningless. She waited for her husband to leave and recalled his descriptions of music and the emotions it created in her partner. She recalled it, and she cried. She couldn't feel the music, but she could feel the way it made him feel. Even when he wasn't here, she could feel the emotions emanating off his person, and for the time he was away, trapped in his own head, she could feel the effect of the music, and it made her cry. Everytime. It made her cry tears of joy everytime. Edited: Grammar and Spelling

A successful pianist discovers that he is a schizophrenic and there's no such thing as music. Describe his moment of realization.

The year. Is 20XX. We begin in *media res*, as all good stories do. Sakurai trails off, clearly disturbed. A single bead of sweat drips down from his brow, almost reaching his brow before he irritably twitches, sending the drop off. "It was a vengeful joke at first. All I heard from smash communities was "you're ruining our game! We want competition, not gimmicks!' So I listened. At first it was a joke. I even named it Super Smash 20XX a few year ahead to parody those horrid sports games, the Maddens and 2Ks did! You would put in the disk, boot up the Gamecube, and the game would load. It was just like Melee, but with special coding to remove port priority, and one key difference: it was always final destination, always four stocks, always two Foxes. No items. No life!" Another shaken pause. I can feel his remorse, and the air is tense with his painful memories. "Sir, I can leave. You don't need to keep talking." I feel sorry that I had brought this once-great man so much pain. "Perhaps this is for the best," Sakurai says, "The people weren't looking for fun. They were looking for a way to fight." And fight we did. After 20XW, it was almost inconcievable there was any other way of life. I was born into this system, so I don't know any other way people live. But there are rumors floating around this run down city, rumors of another time. So I had hunted down the ghosts. Sakurai was my first interview. But his tale was only the tip of the iceberg. I shake myself out of my reverie. "Thank you, sir." "No, it was my... well, not a pleasure. But certainly my duty. Good luck young man. I trust you can find your way out." A siren blares. I quickly leave Sakurai's concealed shelter before *they* come. I sprint home, clutching the tape recording hidden away in my chest pocket. Some months later, I had finally managed to covertly contact another past legend--as long as he could ditch his guards, we could talk. Today's the day, and now it's Prog's turn. We don't waste time with pleasantries. This meeting took too long to set up, and our time was too limited to be wasted. I immediately fire my first question. "What was the immediate response to 20XX?" Prog takes a second, slowly at first, but gaining speed and urgency. "Some were ecstatic. Mango picked it up almost immediately. By that point, he had dominated the Melee seen for close to a decade, so his huge following joined him. He was like a cult leader--everyone followed him and Smash 20XX with a fervor previously unknown to humanity. The next great man to go was M2K. Mango had no trouble convincing him of the efficiency of the new game. M2K was soon Mango's right hand man, smashing, if you'll pardon the pun, everyone in his path. Nobody could beat M2K on his home turf. Maybe not even Mango. We'll never know." "why not?" "As far as I know, they haven't fought it out since 20XX came out. Mango reigns through just the rumor of his power at this point. Nobody, not even M2K, was going to challenge Mango after what he did." "What?" Prog is shaking. "I can't say. It's too awful." I press him harder. "It's in the past now. Nobody can hurt you here." "He... he would break them. The thumbs of the losers. It would always heal a little weaker, a little slower than before. Nobody wanted to risk that." I'm shocked. This was a crime! The thumb is sacred in 20XX society--it's the only way people can prove themselves and move up the tiers. "Go on," I manage to numbly say. Prog takes a second to think. "Where was I? Oh yes, after M2K. It was a dark time, we just didn't know it yet. Mango began to swallow up all the big names with M2K's help, eliminating or assimilating the best. 'Hungrybox was the first to go. Nobody knows how that match went for sure. It was said that M2K indulgently relented to Hungrybox's request of the archaic format--best of 5, counterpicking, and so on--but completely destroyed him. Hungrybox just couldn't keep up with an M2K 100% devoted to Mango's vision. I don't think he even got close to damaging M2K. It's said that the lasers were just too fast, and the spacing... it was a work of god. A terrible, vengeful god." "Who was next?" "The next was Dr. PP. It's said that he went unwillingly. But when he came back, he was changed, and not for the better. If M2K was Mango's right hand, Dr. PP was the left. He would speak for hours at a time, telling us about the virtues of 20XX. Many people were brought under Mango's dark fold then. Enough that we ended up where we are now. Those who didn't... they were crushed. Either by Dr. PP or M2K, it didn't matter. They didn't even pretend anymore after a certain point--you could either meet certain doom by playing them in 20XX, or you would be held down and forcibly crippled." Prog looks down at his thumb, smiling bitterly. "It still hurts, you know. When it rains, or it's very cold. I feel it, deep in my bones. But that didn't compare to what came next: The Purge." "Copies of Smash 4, Brawl, Smash 64 were rounded up, and then burned. I remember how it smelled. It wasn't the clean smell of ashes--it was the acrid, dark smell of plastic and silicon, straight out of hell. It was nostalgia and childhood, memories and memorabilia, all gone in the blink of an eye. Eventually, even Melee was hunted down. 'It's a gateway,' they claimed, 'it leads to a life of impurity.' So Melee was gone too. Soon, all the smashers were under Mango's thumb." "After that, it was easy. A few sleepers placed here and there. A senator's son, lured into playing 20XX and then converted to Mangoism. And then it all came crashing down. When the dust settled, Mango and his crew had taken it all over." My watch chirps. "We're almost out of time." "This was good for me," says Prog, "I remember how things were now... just remember kid, it's dangerous out there. It's cute that you think things will change with these interviews, but you can't keep going. Take my advice: stop digging now. There's skeletons that you don't want back among the living down there." I stand, alarmed. "What skeletons?" "Leave it alone. Leave *them* alone. The Purge was tough... so tough that some couldn't take it. Don't do it. Even if you could find them... this system isn't so bad now. People with talent rise, and those without fall. Isn't that everyone's ideal?" "Spoken like a coward. You know things are bad now. But you run!" I shout, "But. You. Run. You bury yourself under the delusion that things are better now. They aren't. The people know they aren't. And we won't take it anymore." My alarm rings again. Time to go. I spit disgustedly and turn to leave. "Fine. Look for Isai. But not too loud." I look back. He's silently crying. I don't know if they are tears or rage, or sorrow, but they flow freely. I leave. XxXxX "You didn't have to, you know." A man comes out of the darkness, next to Prog. "I know. Do me a last favor: how much did you hear?" Prog is forced to his knees, harshly. He yelps a little. "Enough. Who's the kid?" Prog spits. "Fine," the man says, "we can do it that way. Take him out." Two more men step out of the shadows. XxXxX While I'm leaving, I hear a yelp, and then a scream. I run. I need to find Isai, because my time is running out.

Write about a world where competitive Super Smash Bros. is the premier, must-watch sport worldwide.

He smells like yesterday's booze and left over pizza. She smells like fancy perfume and minty gum. In the dark, it's impossible to make out what the other looks like. They are tied together with their arms wrapped around each other. It's a tight fit in the coffin. They'd given up on screaming through the gags hours ago. Now they lay in each others arms in silence. Both drugged and out of it. She presses her face into his broad chest. His tears soak her hair. They sleep. The box moves. Harsh jerky movements, as if sliding around a truck bed. The man yells through the gag, kicking the bottom of the box. She clutches his shirt and pulls closer to him as they slide and hit against the wall of the coffin. He tightens his hold on her. Footsteps, voices, unintelligible. They both scream and smash their raw bloodied hands against the wood. The feeling of weightlessness followed by blinding pain as the smash against the top and bottom of the box. They've been dropped. Disorientated. The man is knocked out. She feels something warm and wet drip on to her cheek. A rhythmic thumping alerts her to her situation. It muffles the voices above. With horror she realizes what is happening and that she is powerless to stop it. Buried alive. She was being buried alive. Numb with shock, she presses her ear to his lips. A soft breath tickles her ear through the gag. She focuses on the sound of his breathing, instead of the rhythmic thumping of a fate she can not change. Silence, except his breathing and hers. A groan. He's waking up, this makes her happier than she should be. With renewed determination she manages to work the gag out of her mouth. "Are you ok?" She asks. He nods. She brushes her lips against his. He pulls his head back. "Calm down", she repeats the movement and follows the gag to his cheek. Biting down, she works at freeing him. Realizing this he tries to help and after few minutes of grunting and pulling, he is freed. "Thanks" he says. "No big" she replies. Silence. "My name's Marilyn." "Blake." "Hi." "Hey." "So what happened?" he asks. "We died." she replies. "Oh. How?" "We were buried alive." The reality of the situation sinks in for him. He is shaking, she doesn't mention it. He licks his lips. "Do you know why?" "No, do you?" "No." "...." "So we're probably going to run out of air then?" "Probably..." Neither had anything more to say. Conserving air. Hours passed. She felt light headed. She started laughing so hard, she couldn't stop. He held her as she laughed...and cried. "This sucks, I don't want...to wait to suffocate. This is making.... me crazy." "I know what.... you mean. What did you do.... before this Marilyn?" "I was a.... doctor. Well, scientist." "I was a soldier." "Oh?" "..." "I think I know... why we're... here." he gasps. Then he tightens his hold around her. The air rushes from her lungs as he knocks the breath from her. He presses her against the side of the box, her face buried in his chest. "Let..I can't..."she tries. She struggles. He holds fast. She gasps. Unable to take in air. He feels her heart beat slow...and slow. She releases her. No breath passes her lips. Her heart beat faint. It stops. "This is our punishment doc. I think we've put to many people in the ground. So now we've been put here too." The darkness surrounds him. A silent corpse is his only company. He struggles to draw in breath. Until he doesn't.

Two strangers are buried alive together.

"Hello this is Jenna, and I'm here to help. How are you?" I answered several calls like this daily. Keeping my voice friendly, but not cheerful. Always willing to listen. Listening is key. You see I'm a suicide prevention operator. Listening is so important because often people will give away hints of things they don't want to leave behind, reasons that they subconsciously want to stay. "Hi Jenna." Came a raspy male voice. "My name is Owen. I just wanted to say thank you." Occasionally we get calls from people who had spoken with us previously and things got better, I am always happy for those calls. "Well thank you! That is nice to hear! Have things gotten better?" I wasn't trying to hide the smile in my voice, so often I wonder about the people I talk to; If they're alright, how things turned out. A low and weak chuckle came from the other end, Things didn't get better, honey. But you all made my decision easier." Oh no... not one of these. I had a guy six months ago try to blow his head off while I was on the phone with him, I had a co-worker call 911, while I yelled into the phone for the man to hold on. I could hear him flailing for a few minutes, then silence except for what I am guessing was the drops of blood hitting the floor as he bled out. I was still having nightmares and I didn't want that to happen again. With my heart in my throat and my stomach churning, I asked, "What do you mean?" "I have inoperable cancer, honey. The amount of drugs it takes to keep me comfortable leaves me unable to function. I've had radiation I've had chemo, I've been opened up, stitched closed, had junk pumped into and taken out of me so many times... I'm tired. I'm old, I've lived a good life." He continued on for a while. Telling me about his family, his wife, his children, how he had served in the army is WWII, about his wife, Amelia's apple pie, about fishing with his children, and building a playhouse for his grandchildren, how proud he was of who his children had become. How he felt it couldn't get any better than it had already been. How he didn't want his last days to be a blur or painful for anyone. He wanted to go to sleep and just not wake up. He felt there was dignity in that. He called to thank us for talking down people who weren't at peace with death, because it had taken him a long time to be there. "Honey, I got my pills right here. Will you do an old man a favor?" "Anything I can." I replied, nervous as to what he would ask me next. "Do you remember a particularly lovely day you once had?" "I do." "I'm going to take these pills to help me go to sleep. Will you tell me about that day as I go?" "Of course." This was against protocol, but I didn't care, I wasn't going to be part of this man's suffering. My job was to help him. And in my mind, I was doing just that. "Do you think I'm doing the right thing?" "Owen, what I think shouldn't matter. But being at peace with death is a rare and beautiful thing and if you're ready, I'm honored to help send you off." "When I was nearly five my mom told me we were going to a special beach far away..." I began to tell him the story of how my mom had surprised me on my fifth birthday with my first trip to Disneyland. How it had always been a magical place in my mind. How everything had been as lovely and fun as I had hoped. It seems now a silly story to tell, but he laughed when I told him I thought Donald Duck was trying to swallow my head when he kissed me or when I noticed Cinderella wearing sneakers and not glass slippers. He told me at one point he was starting to drift, I heard him begin to snore shortly after, then his breathing stopped. "Sweet dreams, Owen." I quit my job at the suicide line the next day, we were supposed to prevent every person we talked to, but I realised it's not always so black and white. Sometimes people just need to know it's okay to go. Sometimes it takes a great deal more strength to let go than it would to battle through it.

A suicide hotline operator realizes that the person he's talking down really should kill themselves.

Time. Not enough. One more day. Just one more day. I just need one more. Just give me one more day. Is that too much to ask for? I can’t stand thinking this is it. I won’t be able to see her again? Please dear God, just give me one more day. Just give me one more day to hold her close. Just give me one more day to hear her say “dad”. Just give me one more day to feel her hand in mine. Why did you give her to me just to take her away now? Why would you inflict her with cancer when she had barely lived her life? She came into my life burning so bright, completely overtaking my heart and now this. Her flame is being extinguished forever and now I can’t seem to find a reason to live. Please just take my life instead of hers and let her live a full and complete life. I hurriedly brushed away the tears as the doctors let me back into the room where she lay. I smiled at her and nestled in the bed next to her, squeezing her tight and kissed her forehead. I felt myself dying too as I held her, her head snuggled against my chest as I sang to her. I could feel her tears soaking my shirt and looked down and noticed that her hair was damp from my own. I didn’t bother wasting words telling her not to cry and instead just repeatedly told her how very much I loved her. She died in my arms and I held her until the doctors came in and told me that I had to let go. Eventually I found myself at home and came to realize that the only thing that could help was for me to see her again. I went to my nightstand and took out my gun, breathed deeply and held it against my head and whispered, “Baby, I’ll see you soon.”

Write a story where each sentence has one more word than the last.

Peanut butter and jelly is a miracle. Why, you ask? Let's walk you through it. Take one piece of bread; no, not two, one. It is essential that you start with one. Take another piece of bread; no, not a second, but another one. You now have two, but both are one. Next? Peanut butter. Butter of peanuts. A paste of watery ground nuts. It is a simple, natural remedy for protein. It tastes good. It helps you grow. No processing, this kind; it's just oily butter of a peanut. This unprocessed peanut butter needs to be spread, but to spread it requires a tool. This tool is the knife - a manmade product, simple in its design. With but a little assistance from the collective willpower of man, take the knife and scoop. Yes, scoop. One must not need to curve to scoop. Even a flat piece like a knife can scoop. Now that you have scooped, all you must do is place it along the bread -- Yes, like that. Good. Press down lightly. With only a little effort, you have created a peanut butter sandwich. This is why we used the knife. But this is a peanut butter and *jelly* sandwich, which requires jelly. So go get that jelly. Jelly. Sugared fruit juice bound by ground plant powder. Unique in North America, at least in name. Now one takes a spoon - yes, a spoon, since we are not barbarians. Take it, and dip it in the jelly. Good, then plop it on the other slice of bread. Yes, now take the bottom and press it down. Excellent. Unlike the knife, while we did scoop, we can also spread, but jelly is not like peanut butter. It must be pressed down into the bread or else it will fall and slide off everywhere. Press just hard enough to keep it in there. Finally, set aside the tools. Place the bread together. Take a step back and look at your amazement. The collective power of mankind has created multiple tools for you to take, the spoon and the knife. These tools allow your hands to perform functions that it would never be able to do alone, at least with this efficiency. Millions of years of evolution has brought our brain to the ability to add oil to ground peanuts, and add powder to sugar-juice. This oily paste and powdered juice will combine to give you protein, energy, vitamins, and sustenance, and in such a small form as to allow you to gain it anywhere. Finally, forges from far away producing heat above your tolerance came together to produce two small, inconsequential glasses, which hold in their grasp the ability to continue life. That is the miracle of a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. It is the pinnacle of mankind's achievement - the necessities of life, brought together by the progress of human industry. It is something so meaningful on paper yet in reality, it is meaningless.

Write the most boringly, yet most meaningfully you can about making a peanut butter and jelly sandwich.

"Iiiiieee!" A shriek from the bathroom pulled me out of the book I had sunk into on the couch. "Honey, are you alright?" She came running in a flurry of red hair, a big smile plastered on her face and tackled me down on the couch. "We did it! We did it!", she laughed, rolling on top of me. "Look!" She showed me the stick in her hand and I felt tears welling in my eyes. "You're pregnant", I said, like an idiot, but she just laughed and hugged me. "I love you so much." I tried to kiss her, but she sat up abruptly and suddenly her laughter and her hair in my face was gone. "We shouldn't. It's just... I was supposed to meet Jen tonight... I have to tell her the news... and I have work in the morning, you know." "Yeah, no, I understand." I mumbled at her back as she walked away, leaving me alone with my book again, feeling both excited and uneasy. "I changed my mind." I hadn't noticed her coming back, but there she stood, beaming at me. "Are you sure? What about Jen?" "Just kiss me, you idiot", she said with a grin. I swept her into my arms, pressing her skin against mine and for a brief moment I felt the warm touch of her lips on mine, before she burst into a thousand grains of fine dust, leaving only a lingering scent of perfume behind.

A married couple has a problem, every time the man kisses the woman, she explodes, and then a day later she reforms like nothing happened.

I didn't recall how the book came into my possession. It wasn't in my pack when I opened it at the tea shop. But it was there when I got back to my place. It was a leather bound book, with a handsome filigree and stamp work. It had no title, nor an author or publisher. So the first thing I read was *This is the story of the life and times of Markus McAlpine.* That certainly was intriguing. While my name isn't rare, it is not the most common in the world. I check my clock. I don't have any meetings tomorrow, just my 12:40 class I need to teach. I pour myself a couple of fingers full of scotch and sit in my seat. *He was an ordinary man. Though he was very attractive.* I smile at that. *He was of average height. Long in the torso and short in the legs. His dark brown hair was admired by many women, as was his smile. But the most striking feature was his piercing gray eyes. They could cut through the deepest lies and the coldest hearts. His entire town knew him for his eyes* I'm liking this already. I take another sip of my drink. *He was born at the reasonable time of 2:26 in the afternoon at Leyland Memorial Hospital on March 17, 1990* With that I do a spit take. I start coughing. What the hell? *He was born to Anna and Vlad McAlpine, residents of Ann Arbor Michigan.* Shit. *He would have two more siblings, both girls.* Double shit. I start eying my drink suspiciously. It's probably the liquor. Or a bad potato like Scrooge said. I flip through the book some more. Let's see, yep. *... at the age of twelve he received a scar on his chin from the high hockey stick.* Fuck. As much as I want to throw away the book, some grim part of me keeps me at it. *In high school he earned a reputation of a unserious young man more concerned with fun and freedom than his schoolwork.* I flip through more. *he began dating Emily Leclerc at the age of 26. For their first Christmas together he bought her a pair of earrings and made her a origami ornament.* After reading for more than an hour, I have had enough. All the names of my past loves, my hobbies, my favorite foods, my career... it's all in here. I remember the title and begin to dread flipping the pages to the last. *Markus would die in a car accident on January 20th at the age of 31.* With that I slam the book shut. It is the 19th. No. It can't be. this is a mistake. Has to be. So what if it was my name and every detail in the book was identical to my life. A million monkeys on the million typewriters can write out Shakespeare. Why not my story? This is all a dream. I'll go to bed and I'll wake up. So I do. When I wake up the book is still there. I walk to the university. I'm not dying in my own car, that's for sure. When I get to my office, I see a basket of summer sausage and cheese waiting for me, along with a letter. This is what the letter said. *Dear Mark. Sorry for the fun, It was worth it. The camera we hid was perfect. We love you. Mom, Dad, Sara, Kate, Emily, your teachers, friends and neighbors. Have a great week!* I breath a sigh of relief as I close my door and head to my class. With friends like these...

A man finds a book that describes his life perfectly, and discovers that he dies the next day in it.

One round. I had finally gotten my hand on the sadistic prick's gun, and it only had one round. The bastard had decided to show off his marksmanship to the other guards on the day I figure out how to steal his gun. Fantastic. If I had gotten all six rounds that fit in the revolver's chambers, I could have shot my way to the point in the fence that was damaged by the bombing run last week, but that plan was out of the cards now, there were two guards I'd have to get by to escape. I thought of my wife and daughter, they had been separated and sent to the women's camp. I had imagined I would find them once I escaped, and we could be a family again, but that wouldn't happen today. It was only a matter of minutes before the guard would discover his gun was missing, and the stupid prick might take a few minutes to figure out it was me who took it, but I just didn't have the time to get rid of it or get it back without him noticing. My friends in the camp had all died, some because a gun they made misfired and were executed, some in accidents caused by the poor working conditions, some were taken to shower and never returned, but they were all gone. I placed the barrel against my head, when I saw the guard whose gun I stole looking at me. I pulled the trigger, firing the gun harmlessly into the air. "Fuck you, I'm not doing your job for you. You want me dead, you'll have to pull the trigger yourself." I threw the gun at his feet, knowing the retribution would soon come. But it didn't. The guard was too embarrassed to have had his gun stolen by a prisoner, and he didn't have the ammo to kill me then and there. Next time, I'd make sure he had enough ammo, and I dreamt of a reunion with my loved ones.

A Jewish man in a concentration camp has stolen a pistol, but it has only one round.