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There is a lot of dust in the air. Dust caught in a beam of sunlight to my right, dust hardened to concrete inside my nostrils, dust that I cough as it is whipped around me. It's funny how thoughts can strike you when your veins are swollen with blood and adrenaline, your brain high on survival. Here I was, about to die, and all I can think about is dust. By now there is nothing but dust in my gun, dust and burnt carbon. Another burst flies through the doorway, and the dust dances effortlessly out of the way of bullets which I know with a sickening surety I could not hope to evade. Sand from the floor rises to its fellows in the air, joining the dance. With a shaking hand I reach to my belt, to the six inches of steel which now feels so small. I fumble it out of the sheath, and it drops straight to the floor as another salvo of rounds whacks into the wall behind me, a single round making it through the doorway from outside, making another hole in the wall, loosing yet more dust. "Shit shit shit shit shit." I squat slowly, hand fumbling for the handle. There. I hold the shaking bayonet, trying to line the catch with the base of the handle, and the ring at its hilt with the end of my barrel. It click into place, and I shake it, feeling it securely in place. It has stopped shaking. I rise to my feet, my rifle now a spear. The dust saves me. I do not hear the figure that approaches the doorway, but I do see the shining particles disappear as a shadow falls across the doorway. I run from this room, around another doorway, further inside. The sound of the grenade is devastating, punching my ears deep into my skull, filling them with a whine and shaking more dust from the ceiling. I hold my breath, all of my focus now on the stricken doorway through which I just came. There is no warning, I hear nothing but the high tone drilling into my head. Suddenly there is a figure in the doorway, and I see a rifle and its owner turning to face me, a silhouette of such clarity that there is no hesitation. In slow motion the ellipse of the barrel's end becomes more and more circular. I scream a scream I cannot hear, and lunge at the target. "IN! OUT!" I bellow loud enough to hurt my very core, and with the words my weapon moves. It enters just below the navel, and I drive it upwards, feeling resistance break as it rises, and the horrible warm suction as I draw it out again. The rifle next to my head fires, but I do not hear it, only feel the hot flash and the shock of pressure. "IN! OUT!" The blade sinks in again, higher, scraping under ribs and into the soul behind. My target falls, all strength flowing from it in a dark flood, rifle toppling impotently, legs no more support than water. "ON GUARD!" My screaming is hurting me, but it feels good. All the pain, the stress, the misery, it is all but fuel now. Even my fatigue, days of minimal sleep and constant effort becomes a source of energy now, the simple idea that I cannot die now, not without making it all count for something. More will come, and somehow I feel I can see them, doing exactly what I would do if I were to see the bleeding body in the doorway. That is why I was ready for the grenade. It bounced off the wall, almost right into me. Time barely moved as I watched the metal shape approach me, and swung the butt of my rifle with aching slowness. By a miracle I made contact, saw it bounce away, even as I realised it would still fall inside the room. It lands next to the body in front of me, and with a frantic kick I catch it, knocking it back through the doorway. The shockwave still knocks me off my feet, and the shriek in my ears rises unbearably. I howl unheeded, rolling to my feet, two doorways waving ahead, two corpses rolling under my feet as I stumble half mad through the door to a room where dust rules blood. Two bodies lie still, two more lie moving. "IN! OUT! IN OUT!" Three still, one moving. The last figure turns a head to me, and chokes at me. No matter. "IN! OUT!" As the last word escapes me, I feel the paralyzing fatigue, the aches, the stabbing pain in my ears, the shock at what has just happened. It can't have been real, but here it is, dust sticking to my blood soaked hands and drinking the blood flowing from broken bodies all around me. For the first time I see the end of the bayonet shake. It was under my control before, now it has a life of its own. I don't care. It got me out alive, I owe it that.

You just brought a knife to a gunfight. How do you survive?

The steering wheel was turning his knuckles white. After the argument, he had left the house. He had to get rid of his anger. And so he would drive along 66 until he was going too fast for his rage to catch up with him. He had hit her. What the hell was he thinking? He had hit her! Over something so trivial. Over something as silly as buying the wrong kind of orange juice -- he wanted high pulp, she had purchased pulp-free -- and from there it had just exploded, his inexplicable fury ballooning inside of him until it was filling his lungs, suffocating him, screaming in his ears, hammering fists on his skull, and he just had to release it in something that words could not convey -- And then he had hit her. She had given him a look of such genuine surprise, such total shock, a look that said, "*How could you do this to me? I thought you loved me*," and he did love her, he did, but how could she love him back now? He pushed his foot down harder on the accelerator. The needle on the speedometer hovered around 85 mph. Goddamnit. He hadn't just hit her. He had hurt her. He had broken something that they had once shared -- something fragile, though, a glass vase teetering on the edge of a table, threatening to shatter at any moment. And he had swiped at the vase and knocked it off the table and it had shattered into ten million pieces and it could never be reconstructed. Could it? It couldn't. It was good that it was 3 AM. No one else was even on the road. Just an open expanse of asphalt for him to speed down. It wasn't working, though. He wasn't supposed to still be angry. He was supposed to feel sorry. Certainly he was sorry, sorry for breaking the vase, but not perhaps for swiping at it. He had needed to teach her a lesson, to put her in her place, to -- Where the hell were these thoughts coming from? Best to leave them behind, throw them out the window to sit in the skid marks left by his car. He was going almost 100 now. He wasn't a monster. He was sorry. He was so, so sorry. Or at least, he could keep telling himself that. 105 now, no, 110. The tires were starting to squeal. He loosened his grip on the steering wheel. He felt... free. Free now, free to shout where no one could shout back; free to pummel the road with his tires, and the road would just accept it; free to go as fast as he wanted without any repercussions -- There are always repercussions. The newspaper the next day said that it was an oil slick that caused the driver to lose control, but that the speed of the car had contributed greatly. The driver had been going almost 130 miles per hour when he had spun out and slammed into the barrier, bisecting the car and ejecting the driver, who had not been wearing his seat belt, almost 200 feet from the car. He had died as soon as he'd hit the pavement, but had skidded for almost 50 more feet, painting the highway with a gruesome smear of blood and gray matter. His wife had had a black eye at the funeral. She'd told people that she'd simply run into a door frame, and that was that, and could we please talk about something else now? She'd gone home, sat down, and poured herself a glass of pulp-free orange juice. She'd cried, no, she'd wept; this was all her fault. She'd thrown the glass at the floor and orange juice had gone everywhere and the glass had shattered into ten million pieces. And it would never, *never*, be put back together. This was all her fault. If she had just listened to him. If she had just accepted that she was wrong. If, if, if, if, if. She had grabbed her keys from the table. She was going for a drive. And she wasn't coming back.

A man drives recklessly whilst mulling over life troubles and recollecting a fight with his SO. He ends up in a car crash. Best entry will be adapted to a short film.

Johnny remembered. Socks. Socks. Johnny remembered socks. He got socks from Santa last year. He had complained to his parents. They looked sad about it and said, “Well, it’s been a rough year and Santa probably had to let go of some of the elves, so I don’t know if he was able to give what he wanted to, dear. But next year, I’m sure it’ll be much better. Just be a good boy and I’m sure he’ll get you what you want.” And then they had exchanged a look that told Johnny all he needed to know. Santa was a prick. He had complained to his cousin the next day when they had gone over to his aunt’s house. “Really? Socks? That’s what he got ya?” his cousin had asked. “Maybe you were bad. I got a Power Wheels!” Johnny tried not to cry. He knew he was better than his cousin. His cousin always got away with doing bad things, but Johnny was a veritable angel. He was quiet when his parents asked him to be. He went to bed when they wanted. He took baths sometimes. He was a perfect boy. And he got socks and his cousin who whined and complained and didn’t even say thank you got a fancy car. *Santa…are you really even out there? What…why would you do this…?* When school started up again, he groused about his situation to the other kids. Some were just like his cousin, talking up how Santa had lavished them with all manner of goods. Others shared the same plight as Johnny. “You know,” Kevin muttered. “I bet he ain’t even real.” The other kids gasped. “What are you talking about?” “I been hearing some rumblin’ as of late. On the playgrounds, in back alleys. Overheard a couple things. I’m sayin’…don’t know if that fat man ain’t nothin’ more than a…what’s that they say…a fig newton of our imagination.” The other kids were silent. Who knew what they were thinking. But Johnny knew what was going through his mind. Plans. The entire year was devoted to plans. He knew he had to wait until Christmas to figure out whether or not Santa was real. He tried to needle it out of his parents. He pestered them clear through February, but they weren’t giving up any information. *Fine. Protect that jerk, I don’t care.* He tried to figure out what to do. The year passed, summer came, and then he entered the 3rd grade. He had never let the idea of catching Santa escape his mind. And that’s when inspiration struck. Their school had an assembly to address the dangers of ingesting poisons. Apparently some 2nd grader had gotten into his mommy’s pills and got himself sent to the hospital. Word on the street was the kid collapsed and was frothing at the mouth like some sort of out of order slushie machine. *That’s what I need. Poison.* Christmas time finally rolled around. “Johnny! Want to help mommy make cookies for Santa?” Opportunity. Johnny realized this was it! “Be right there, mom!” He dashed up to his parent’s room and made a beeline to the bathroom where he knew his mom kept some of her pills. He grabbed a handful and stuck it in his pocket and raced downstairs. They made these cookies. Full of chocolate chips and walnuts and pills. He laughed to himself. Santa was going to get laid out this year. The cookies were prepared and set out with some milk. For good measure, Johnny popped a pill into the milk as well. “Now go to sleep, Johnny. Tomorrow’s Christmas and I know Santa is going to get you something good this year!” His parents smiled at him and then at each other. Johnny just smiled to himself. He tried to stay up to hear the telltale thud of Santa hitting the deck, but he was exhausted from the mental strain leading up to this momentous occasion. He slept. He awoke to his parents ushering him into the living room. And that’s when he saw it. A nice, shiny present. Big. Right in front of him. “Merry Christmas, Johnny! Looks like you were a good boy this year! Come on, open it, Santa just brought it last night!” A Power Wheels. Santa had given him a Power Wheels. He looked at his parents with tears in his eyes. “He did this? He brought this for me?” They just smiled at him and nodded. They came to him to hug him, but he shrugged off their embrace and started to wail. His bewildered parents didn’t know what to do. “He…he’s probably just really happy or something,” his dad muttered to his mom. They didn’t understand. He had tried to kill Santa. He was bad. And yet Santa brought this to him. He didn’t understand. Later that night, he couldn’t go to sleep. It was late and he wanted to be with his parents, but didn’t want to bother them, so he crept out of his bedroom and just lied at their door, comforted by the light that escaped from under it. He overheard them talking. “Hey baby, what was in those cookies last night? Tasted…weird.” “I don’t know, I had Johnny help me, so maybe he didn’t mix it well?” “Hmm, no, don’t think it was that. The milk was weird, too. Anyway, how about I give you your gift now. Santa is going to be putting something into your chimney…” “Oh geez, honey, don’t talk like that. Disgusting. Hey…wait a second…where are my birth control pills…”

Determined to find out if Santa is real, a young child poisons the cookies left out for Saint Nick.

*Ok, I apologize in advance. I'm drunk so this is probably going to be insane...* __________ Martin's first attempt at ingesting Indian cuisine ended with a mad race-against-time to the toilet of his third floor apartment. Thankful for having forgotten to wear his belt, he managed to undo the button and drop his trousers just as the strange cries and gurgling noises emanating from his stomach said their last tearful goodbyes to the dear chole bhatura. Just passin' through. *What was that? Is that you dad?* With the reverberation of the bathroom walls it was nearly impossible to pinpoint the precise location of the voice. "Sam? " Martin called aloud, fearing that the loud, fully-automatic discharge of butt shrapnel had awakened his roomate. *Sam? Who's Sam* the voice replied. Then Martin remembered. Sam had went out of town for the weekend to visit his female friend in east Nashville. He was the only one left in the apartment. But where the hell was that voice coming from? The next door neighbor perhaps? "Mr. Rutherford - is that you? I'm sorry if I woke you up." said Martin, his face beginning to blush with embarrassment. *Sam? Rutherford? Who is this? Thomas, if that's you I swear I'm gonna beat your ass tomorrow at band rehearsal. Why don't you just fess up now!* the voice came back, more frustrated than ever. Poor Martin had now lost all concept of who the hell it is exactly that he was speaking with. But something sounded so *familiar* to him about that voice. Where had he heard it before. He hesitated for a moment, then said out loud, "What do you play?" *What do I play? Thomas, you know damn good and well what I play - bass guitar, you half-wit.* the voice returned. Martin's brain was suddenly inundated with memories. They washed up into his consciousness like so many dead fish on the banks of the Padma river. Martin played bass guitar. Martin once had an asshole bandmate named Thomas when he was in junior high. What the fuck was going on here, he said to himself. There had been a glass of wine, or two, at dinner, but he wasn't drunk. Hell, he wasn't even a little tipsy. He decided to prod further. "What is your name?" asked Martin, attempting his most sincere voice. For a moment there was no reply. Then... *You know, you don't really sound like Thomas. Who the hell is this?* the voice demanded. "I asked first. You answer my question and I'll answer yours." Martin negotiated. *Alright, have it your way. My name is Martin.* Martin - the first Martin - seized up in horror, as if Krishna himself had just poked his head out of the very toilet he had been sitting on. He had to investigate further. "Martin, huh? What's your last name?" he questioned the disembodied voice. *What just it minute.* the voice said, *where's your end of the bargain? You're supposed to tell me your name.* Martin hesitated for a moment, but it was only fair. A deal is a deal. "My name is also Martin." he said. *What? The hell it is!*, came the voice from the ether. *Stop bullshitting me. Tell me your name - your real name - right now.* By now Martin could tell from the sound of the voice that who he was talking to was not yet an adult. "Watch your language young man! Who talk you to talk like that to stranger?" *Who taught you to be an ass hole, lying to people while they're sitting constipated on the toilet.*, the voice fired back. "Constipated?" said Martin out-loud, although he was thinking back to a time when he himself had suffered from a bout of constipation - when he was in junior high. Bizarre. *Mom says it's the cheese sticks. I'm not allowed to have so many cheese sticks anymore - cheese locks you up like a Chinese finger trap, or at least that's what she says*, the voice explained. Cheese locks you up like a Chinese finger trap? Martin had the most profound sense of déjà vu wash over him as he remembered those very words coming from his own mother's wise lips. That was all he needed. Martin was now convinced. "Martin! I don't know how - but - it's me! It's me, Martin!" he shouted enthusiastically into the asbestos ceiling tiles of the old apartment. *What do you mean, it's me?* "I mean, I'm you! Or, I'm me - or you're me. We're each other!" Martin somehow felt ok about the strange words puttering out of his lips. *I'm you? Wait. This is trippy shit man. Seriously, if you turn out to be Thomas...* "For fucks sake - I'm not Thomas!" Martin shouted in frustration. "Thomas is a short, fat, red-headed little arrogant ginger shit that thinks he's the best drummer that's ever walked the face of the earth. The only reason you even play with him is because his sister is white-hot as shit and you want to catch a glimpse of her sunbathing naked on the balcony next to the garage where you practice. Am I right, or am I right?" Silence from the other side. After a few moments, *How the hell do you know about me spying on Cynthia? Holy fuck, if you told anybody about that I'm gonna...* "Simmer down," consoled Martin, "I haven't told anyone anything. You want more proof? Alright, let's try this..." Martin began rattling off various Martinisms that only one certain Martin could possibly ever know about. Such esteemed topics such as masturbating onto old department store mannequins found in the dumpster, and crying like a little girl whenever the trolly would leave Henrietta behind in Mr. Rogers neighborhood. There seemed to be nothing about each other that the two didn't have intimate knowledge of - at least their youth. *I can't believe it*, the voice said. *It's like you are me - but, from the future.* "I don't know how, but there seems to be no mistaking it. It is what it is." said Martin, still in a state of semi-shock, not knowing where this was going. *So, what are you doing now? How old are you? What's it like in the future?* the voice of young Martin enquired. Martin thought for a bit. Should he tell him that he's now forty-two years old and single? Should he tell him about having a twenty-two year old hipster roommate who plays video games all day long? Should he tell him about the crusty old mannequin with the purple hair in his closet? As exciting as all this might sound to a younger version of himself, just the act of thinking about his life depressed the old Martin. How was he going to break the news that they were going to be such losers when they grew up? Should he tell him to stop playing bass? Hell no, bass was cool. Bass was cooler than ever in the future. Keep playing bass - definitely keep doing that. Ok, lets start with the mannequins - definitely lay off the mannequins a bit. "Ok," Martin prepared himself, "we're going to need a pen - I mean you, you're going to need a pen. And some paper." *Ok. Let me see if I can find something to write with - just a sec* the voice began to sound distant. "No! Wait," said Martin in a panic, "I might lose you. We might lose each other. Maybe this only happens once. Maybe we just happened to sit on a toilet on the exact same moment - at the exact same point in time and space, and that opened up a wormhole of sorts." *A worm what? What the hell are you talking about?* "Never mind that. You can't get up, and neither can I. But we can't sit here forever." Martin said as he felt the tingling sensation in his ass. He knew that it would only be moments before the pins and needles made their debut. *Ok*, said the voice, *I guess you're just going to have to tell me stuff that I can remember.* "Alright, alright." Martin racked his brain. What is the most important thing to know? "Apple. If you don't remember anything else, remember Apple computers. Buy stock. Oh, and Microsoft - buy stock. Talk mom and dad into investing everything. Hell, mow lawns, do whatever you gotta do. Just remember to buy stock. Oh, and there's this girl named Jenny. Stay away from her. Ever heard of herpies?" Before the two Martins could finish their conversation, there was a blinding flash of light. Martin awoke on the toilet with a strange sensation. He couldn't quite remember what had just transpired. Had he fainted briefly? All he knew was that he was going to be late for his meeting. He finished his business in the bathroom, washed his hands and wiped the tiny water droplets off of his black turtleneck shirt. He picked up the briefcase and jogged briskly down the stairs of his two-story home in Palo Alto. Today was a big day. Today he would be unveiling to the world the new MartinPad mini.

Your toilet has been enchanted. Every time you sit down on it you're acoustically connected to someone else in space or time who's using the john. You can hear them, they can hear you.

*Oh boy. Wrote something like this for the writer's club (basically /r/writingprompts IRL once a week) I run, but instead for that one a few weeks ago about "A man proposes to his gf, but she harbours a deep secret". This'll be really fun :D* Henry and Jessica walked through the moonlit park, light shimmering off the pools of rainwater. The air smelled fresh, after a rain a few hours before. Suddenly, Henry knelt down, pulling a small box from his pocket. "Jessica I can't stand to live a moment longer without knowing that you love me. Tell me you want to spend the rest of your life with me. Tell me you love me!" he whispered, steadily crescending to a yell, crying to the heavens with all of his might. Jessica gasped, and stepped back. "Henry..." she murmured. "I.. I-I can't." Henry's face fell. "But, but why?" he stammered. "Because..." she began, "I'M CHEATING ON YOU!" *Audible gasp from the audience* "Really!?" Henry stuttered. "My tennis teacher does a lot more than teach me tennis!" she said slyly. But then Henry did something nobody expected. "I AM your tennis teacher! AND I murdered your father!" *Audible gasp from the audience* But Jessica remained coy. "I KNEW you were my tennis teacher! I cheated with you in both ways! I had ANOTHER tennis teacher! AND YOU NEVER KILLED MY FATHER THAT WAS MY FATHER'S **TWIN**!!!" Henry was at a loss. He didn't thing it would get this far. Angry at her cheating, he pulled out a knife. He looked up to see she had done the same. He paused. "Kiss me!" he cried. *Audible gasp from the audience* They kissed passionately. *Much clapping and cheering from the audience* Then they stopped suddenly. Jessica looked to her bosom to see the dagger plunged deep into her heart. Henry looked to see that sheathed into his breast was Jessica's dirk. They looked at each other, kissed one last time, then slumped over one another. *Audible gasp from the audience* Henry managed to say "I love you Jessica." Jessica replied, with her last breath "My name is Dorothy." Henry's eyes widened. They filled with tears. He gasped a last breath. The lights darken, and the park is silent once more. EDIT: Tenses EDIT 2: Formatting

Write a story with nothing but plot twists.

Ever since I was five years old, I’ve had to run to keep up. I remember walking through the streets of the City with my parents, clinging to my mother’s outstretched plastic hand, desperately trying to avoid falling behind. It wasn’t easy, but that’s just the way it goes when you’re young. You miss out if you can’t keep up. It didn’t help that I was short for my age; at eleven, I shouldn’t have had to sprint every few blocks to find their stride again. By then, I knew better than to think the hand I was holding belonged to the woman that gave birth to me. But it was all I had to cling to, so I gripped the plastic as tightly as I could and dashed to the end of the next block. I knew their voices by heart. They’d whispered me to sleep countless nights and woken me up endless late mornings so I wouldn’t miss the bus to school. I sensed they were up there, looking down on me like God does, though maybe not from quite as high a perch. Just once, when I was eight, I wished I could see their faces; the microphone must have picked up my fervent prayers, because I could have sworn I heard stifled sobs coming from the headset as I fell asleep. The next morning, they told me it was dangerous – an unnecessary risk – to bend that far over, but how could it be dangerous when I could easily touch my toes? At seventeen, I finally started growing. The doctors were optimistic – “he’ll be the exception to the rule; you’ll see!” – but my parents were the practical pair. After all, they’d never been told what would happen to them; why would they keep their only son in the dark? The words seemed so far away, even further up than I imagined their sad faces were as they prepared me for life the only way they knew how: with extreme caution. As I grew, the world came into terrifying focus. So many of my classmates, lost to the undue joint stress of jumping, or the bone-shattering impact of running, or even the fatal trip-and-fall. My shoes began to wear out on my feet, but I didn’t dare kneel down to replace them. Overnight, everything became a trap; the morning stroll through the park, set up like a naturally occurring minefield, was left behind with my youth. By 27, it was hardly worth the risk to walk, so I stopped. The skyscrapers of the City serve only as posts for the oldest of us to lean upon. I wonder what it must look like to the children, passing by far below; to the untrained eye, buildings and unmoving pairs of worn-down feet must look eerily similar.

A story set in a universe where people grow taller their whole lives instead of stopping in their 20s

That car came out of nowhere. One minute I'm walking out of jewelry shop with an engagement ring in hand, and the next I'm split in half and plastered all over the pavement. You'd think I'd be upset about leaving my fiancee behind, but in truth I only wanted to marry her for her money. She was loaded, and ready to love. But I figured that there would be some kind of compensation in the after life. Maybe even a free bar. I floated for a bit in an empty blackness, it was like my eyes were closed. I could hear noises, the sound of fire and the scraping of chairs against the floor. I didn't think much of it, I only felt the kind of euphoria that some people only memed about. Then, as quickly as the car hit me, my eyes opened. I was in a clinically white room, it was a like a dentists office. Everything was pure, and angular, and neutral. Everything, except the foxy woman opposite. "You died, Mr. Hillson" she told me, her ruby lips moving graciously with every syllable. "I know." My answer made her chuckle. That was good, making an angel chuckle. "Oh I'm no angel, Mr. Hillson. Though I may give off the air of something... angelic, I am indeed what you mortals fear." "You're my step mother?" "Cute. I am Death, the Reaper incarnate. I have taken your soul, as I do with every subject that is sent here. You must go through a trial with me, a game if you will, if you wish to see it again." "I thought I felt lighter. So what, am I in Heaven?" She chuckled again at that, but it wasn't the sexy chuckle like before. "Mr. Hillson, where you are is arbitrary. Though you may figure it out, all you need to know is that you must play the game." "Okay, I'll bite. What game is it?" "I thought you'd never ask." She lifted me to my feet with those words, and marched me to a door. "My friends in... higher places often used a saying, one that I grew quite fond of. It goes, 'There is no greater Heaven nor Hell than the human imagination'. Get ready for the game, Mr. Hillson." She swung open the door in front of me, and I was met with the sight of a gigantic hall. Thousands of people, all sat down on uniform chairs, all flicking through old magazines or trying to shush crying babies. Fiddling with phones, blowing noses into tissues, coughing into fists and making paper airplanes with forms. Thousands. Hundreds of thousands. Men, women and children. "The waiting game." Everyone in the hall turned to me. They all sighed at the sight of me. They all returned to what they were doing. There was an electric sign above the door, it read: SOUL PROCESSING ROOM. LAST SOUL PROCESSED: 10,000,000,067 DAYS AGO I'm in hell, and it's a waiting room

When you die, you must play Death for your soul

No one could be sure who exactly it was that saw her first, the woman in the flowing translucent white silken robe. Her pale skin seemed to glow with an inner light. Her graceful movements transfixed you. She had impossibly blue eyes beckoning you to follow her to the edge of eternity. You could look at nothing else and it moved you to tears. You watched as she raised an ornate silver chalice to her full, perfect lips, and then you woke up. That's how it happened to every person on Earth. At first it was only quiet rumblings, a subtle feeling in the air. Then an investigative journalist in Argentina broke the story. He had a number of friends and associates in the mental health field. One night, at a pub, a group of them had gathered to blow off some steam. One of them brought up the unusual dream a patient of his had been having. Another, surprised, had told the group she had a patient that told her of the exact same dream. They wondered if it was somehow possible they could be seeing the same patient, but after another round decided to chalk it up to an astonishing coincidence. The journalist kept quiet. He did not think it was a coincidence. He had been having the same dream for the past several days. Over the course of the next week the journalist interviewed every mental health professional he could schedule an appointment to see. Almost every single one of them confirmed what he already suspected. One of their patients, some times even two or three, had reported dreaming of that same enchanting woman. They had not yet come up with a plausible explanation. After a week and a half of interviews and research he decided he needed to go public before someone else could beat him to the story. The day after the story ran the Examiner was flooded with mail. The phone never stopped ringing for more than a second. The newsroom was chaotic. The dream spread at an alarming rate, like the most infectious virus the world had ever seen. But there were no physical symptoms. There was only confusion, and wonder. Speculations ran the gamut from the coming of a new savior, to an apocalyptic enchantress, to a message sent by sentient life from some unknown corner of the universe. Many people declared that the chalice she drank from was the holy grail, and a movement for religious reform ignited. Some, imagining an imminent doom, stopped going to work, stopped behaving decently in public, abandoned all sense of responsibility. In some places riots broke out. Some panicked and went into hiding. It was the same journalist, driven to the brink of insanity, that figured it all out. For the second time, he delivered to the people the biggest news story the world had ever known. The woman was an illusion. A figment of a graphic designer's imagination. The designer was contracted by Unicorp to create the world's first dream implant advertisement. The "Dream Machine" was built by Unicorp's Research and Development department, and the science behind it was unclear, and classified. The popular belief was that these engineers had figured out some way to code an image into sound wave resonances that floated through the atmosphere and delivered the dream straight to the brains of the world's population at all hours of the day and night. Unicorp, forced by the breaking story, made its announcement early. It had indeed pioneered this new method of advertisement, and the enchantress was the spokeswoman for its brand new product, Tealixir. It sold out the world over in two hours.

One person suddenly begins appearing in the dreams of everyone else on the planet.

Kim had been waiting for this day to come. Sweet, blessed justice. Ever since that day, when the human-like thing had shown up, world wide, promising painful death to everyone who had done unforgivable things. At first, when the message came, when she was seven, Uncle Craig had stopped hurting her. He didn't come to the house. He didn't drag her into the basement any more, and do things to her that she couldn't tell mommy about. Kim had been granted blessed peace for two years, and she was so happy that she thanked whatever ethereal creature had spared her from any more. Then Uncle Craig started coming again. Kim was never sure if he had gotten over his fear of death, or if the years that had gone on emboldened him, made him believe that he could outrun whatever was in store for him. It fluctuated then, his visits. Sometimes her Uncle would not come for a year or two, and other years she was not so lucky. When she had turned thirteen, she had enough. She told her parents. They had pursued him into court, into the chair... and he gave such a sob story, such a long winded plea of innocence that the jury gave him only probation. "After all," they said, "what kind of person would continue anything like that after that event a few years ago? It's only his word versus the fragmented memory of a little girl." It had burned Kim inside, to finally stand up for herself, and have her peers say it was alright. That was when she truly began to count down the days to promised justice. When she discovered it was to be on Easter Sunday, she could only smile at the coincidence. Tomorrow was the day. The United States had been on the fence about what to do since the day ten years ago. Some argued that they should do nothing. Why should they protect those who had done things that an older and obviously more advanced alien race abhorred? Others argued that it was morally wrong to condemn anyone for one mistake, some people did not even know they were abusers. They needed mental help. Argue and fight as they would, however, nothing was truly to be done. What could anyone do against a superior intelligent being? Some people hoped that by repenting and helping as many people as possible, they would be saved. Others gave up. A few, like Kim, were just excited. When the day came, it started off normal enough, or as normal as life had been in the past few years as the day approached. Slowly though, one by one, people started dying in accidents. Horrific accidents, some of them, and other just suddenly dropped to the floor, blood pouring out of their face. Mass car crashes, record numbers of people drowning, falling off balconies, being crushed by debris. People who no one had ever suspected of wrongdoing were found in their homes, dead from tripping and falling into glass, metal, hitting heads on corners. The aftermath was terrible. Power wasn't working in most developed countries. The death toll was over a quarter of the world's population. Kim, now seventeen, got into her car and drove four hours to her Uncle's. All she could do when she saw his mangled body, torn apart in a freak accident with a lawnmower, was laugh. Edited out a comma.

10 years ago a being that looked human appeared in every television, every phone and every computer saying he would return one day to painfully kill anyone who committed murder, abuse or rape. Tomorrow is that day. How is society preparing?

And such it was that he was single again. This was a new excuse though, Paul was sure he'd had everyone in the book; "you're not showing enough commitment", "I'm a lesbian", "you're my best friend", but never had it been put so bluntly on a first date. Paul always wanted to be honest, but he never realised that by simply telling a girl the amount of past girlfriends he's had would get him a slap and such heart breaking rejection. She was really, very pretty. The taxi dropped him off alone, to an old and weathered apartment building. Taking the elevator to the 9th floor Paul rested his head on the door of the apartment and took a deep breath. He'd never before felt this much pain after a first date. His face stang where her hand had been. "Home at 8, a new record." he thought to himself as he let himself in and turned on his laptop. The pale glow of social media and YouTube illuminated his face for the next four hours. As midnight struck he began to feel the urge calling him. He had had several recommend films to watch but hadn't attempted any, considering the date he believed would go so well. Paul had the tissues ready as the title screen ran and the first scene opened onto a muscular man finishing sex with a rather ordinary looking woman, who made the usual loud strange sex sounds that so many of his mates seemed to enjoy. A few minutes in and the muscular man was giving more foreplay but Paul had lost interest . He was about to find something else when suddenly the screen changed to a woman. She was playing the daughter of the supposed "MILF" who was the female involved in most of the sex scenes but was more beautiful than any woman Paul had ever seen. He dropped his junk and felt his chest ache. Pausing the film, he slowly examined her. Hair tied back roughly and a smile that lit up the room, Paul looked at her and knew if he could be with her, if he could find her, if he could just touch her face, he would die happy.

A man falls head-over-heels in love with a woman he sees in an porn video.

My anxiety disappeared as soon as I jumped. When I was standing in the plane with a parachute and my gear strapped to my back my heart was beating so hard I thought it was going to burst out of my chest. Once I jumped I felt in control. All my senses were on alert. I wasn't even thinking about the mission. I was just enjoying the air rushing past my face, enveloping and protecting me from whatever was on the ground. I saw parachutes pop open and reflexively pulled the cord hanging over my right shoulder to deploy my own chute. It was nighttime so I couldn't see much until I flipped on my night vision goggles. The ground was flat. No trees but there were a few shrubs I would rather not land on. My feet kicked up sand when I landed. I quickly unclipped my parachute and ran to group up with my team. The team leader was a brutal man. His name was Brandon. I didn't like him but I respected him. The others in the squad would tell stories about him over vodka that we managed to sneak into the barracks. He never participated in those stories though. The plan he came up with was one we had rehearsed many times before. Form a perimeter, lock down the exits, and then enter. I was on the squad that was going into the compound. There were 5 of us in all. I was third from the back. Each person in the 5 man squad covered one direction while my job was to keep an eye out for snipers and the priority target. This was the part that bothered me. They hadn't even told us who the target we were going in here to kill was. They hadn't even told me what they looked like. All they would tell me was where the target was hiding. There was only one room on the second floor and that was where the target was supposed to be. We moved across the compound as swiftly as possible while maintaining silence. Not too difficult. There was one guard at the door. Brandon held up his fist signaling for us to halt. He slowly walked up to the guy. He was no more than 6 feet away when he stopped, stooped down to the ground, and tossed a rock a few feet from the guard. The guard looked startled and looked down. Brandon took the opportunity to wrap a piece of piano wire around the mans neck and choke him. It took him less than a minute to die. We breached the building and took the staircase to our right, just where command said it would be. Sure enough, at the top of the staircase was a hallway with only one door. Brandon signaled for two guys in our team to guard the stairs while the rest of us formed a semi-circle around the doorway. With a nod to signal that we better be ready, Brandon opened the door. We all went in there on high alert and what we saw was not what we were expecting. It looked like a kids bedroom. There was a bed directly opposite the door decorated with cartoon animals. There were some legos that crunched underneath my boot. And in the corner was the owner of the room. She was cowering behind a teddy bear that was at least twice as big as she was. I took the lead and walked over to her. I tried to move slowly and crouched on my heels so that I wouldn't tower over her. "Hey we are not here to hurt you. We want to keep you safe. I promise I won't hurt you" I said. "Do you speak English?" I added. She nodded. I could hear Brandon talking to command in the background. "What the fuck do you mean?" He said. He was probably pissed that command had fucked up this badly. Honestly, we were the best. We were the guys they trained to kill the baddest guys out there. No other military unit in the world had the level of training and expertise that we brought. "FUCK" I heard Brandon say loudly. I had never heard him raise his voice before, let alone on a mission in a hostile compound. "I need you to move". I thought Brandon was speaking to someone else at first. When he said it again I looked over my shoulder. His gun was raised and it was pointing directly at the girl. Only problem was I was in the way. Suddenly I understood what the problem was. I had just been comforting the person we were sent to kill. But a girl that couldn't be more than 10? Why would command send us to kill a child? I may not me the most moral man but in that moment I made a decision. I wasn't going to move. "No." I told Brandon. I expected him to be angry or shoot me but instead he slowly put down his gun and raised his hands. For a second I thought that he did it because of me. When I turned around I saw the real reason. The little girl had pulled out enough c4 to level the whole building out of the back of her teddy bear. Her finger was resting casually on the detonator. There was a smile on her face that reminded me more of a chess master about to put his opponent into check mate than the care-free smile of a child. I heard two gunshots in the hallway and a few seconds later armed men came bursting into the room. The little girl rose, dried the tears off her cheek with the sleeve of her pajamas, and began to give orders. She pointed at Brandon. "That one dies". Without hesitation or emotion one of the armed men shot Brandon in the head. Next she looked at me with dark eyes. "Don't judge a book by its cover" she said without changing her facial expression. "I want you to go back to the pickup location and radio in your helicopter. All the other members of your squad are dead. Tell your superiors what happened here." She then began to stride out of the room. Her soldiers parted to allow her through. She stopped and turned back to me " I am not going to hurt you" she paused, then smiled that precocious smile again and added "yet".

A special forces squad is sent to assassinate an unknown target. After storming a compound they find their target is an 8 year old girl.

One of the most important effects of global warming was geopolitical. The melting of the polar ice caps made way for improved mapping of the ocean floor. Western and Eastern countries, in the early parts of 2024, began plans to map out the ocean floor. Assessments of oil reserves were carried out with great haste. The use of quantum computing for oil field simulations was the first of its kind during this era. As countries discovered reserves previously unknown, they took to claiming the Arctic under the bizarre legal theory that previous treaties only pertained to areas frozen over by ice. Canada, Russia, the United States, Denmark and Norway had become so reliant upon oil because their government's policies advocated against investing in alternative sources of energy. Billionaire industrialists waged a campaign against renewable energy. As such, The War of 2025-2026 started out as territorial disputes arbitrated in the United Nations. When it became clear to Denmark and Norway that their concerns would not be taken seriously they began to mine the seas around their staked claims. Denmark and Norway began the process of setting up their oil derricks. The other countries, alarmed by these actions, sent warships to imply the use of force was imminent. Unfortunately, they were not aware of the mines Denmark and Norway had acquired from China. The Western powers, and Russia, had no way to know that these simple Scandinavian countries would be using sophisticated mines with a low sonar profile. The result was catastrophic. Each country blamed the other for the sinking of several battleships. What began as a simple dispute in the United Nations turned into all out war on the high seas. On March 8, 2025, an informal state of war existed. On July 11, 2025, the eruption of the quiet Mount Tambora caused a large ash cloud to spread into the atmosphere. Military aircraft had difficulty operating in this environment. Furthermore, it became clear very early on that the eruption would have other effects. The ash cloud blanketed the planet and caused temperatures to drop. The summer of 2025 quickly came to an end. News reports of the time quoted many as exclaiming that the summer of 2026 was the coldest they had ever experienced. Indeed, Canada received heavy snowfall at times in June and July of 2026. By August of 2026 it became clear that the ocean was beginning to refreeze in the Arctic Circle. Military operations became unfeasible and oil derricks succumbed to the forces of the freezing oceans. It was not until March of 2027 that a cease-fire had been declared, and a new treaty signed by all countries. However, the last recorded instance of combat in the The War of 2025-2026 was several months prior to the signing of the treaty, in November of 2026. As has happened at many other points in history, nature determined the victor of conflict. But in this case, there truly were no winners in the end.

Please give me a short summary of the 2025-2026 war involving Canada, Russia, the U.S., Denmark and Norway over Arctic resources

We agreed to meet in East Lansing, Michigan. I don't know why exactly. It seems we gave up on chasing each other after five years at the same time. The running subway fight in Tokyo, the ambush in Manila, the epic brawl in that bar in Dublin. Those were some hectic years. He nearly got me in Oslo, it was damn luck I got away. Course, I did pay him back for in Prague with interest. He's still missing half an ear. Don't think he ever forgave me for that. I guess we just got tired of it all and want to settle down. Shame it came to this. The MSU Agricultural Pavilion just south of the main campus is warm, which is nice. Still has the same smell of horse as I remember. I'm sitting in the horse arena, the sand is in excellent condition. Perfect for soaking up blood. I check my watch, still not time yet. I take the moment to hone my blades. The 1796 Pattern sabre is my favorite. Wonderfully balanced with its graceful curving blade, it was designed to be used on horse back, where its cutting edge works wonders. I'm going to need it. While I admire the German rapier and parrying dagger I have, I'm going to need something that can bring down larger game. That's why I also got a falchion on my back. With that heavy chopping blade, anything it hits will feel it. For something with a little reach, there's my halberd. I picked it up many years ago, despite the bulk, I take it everywhere I can. Belonged to an old landsknecht cursed with never dying. He doesn't have that issue any more. For my last blade I'm using is a classic. A pugio. The ancient Roman sidearm. Like its bigger cousin the gladius, it's almost purely a stabbing weapon, and boy does it stab. I differ in wear I'm wearing it, It's going on my right hip instead of the traditional left, the sabre's there. I'm not bothering with much armor. No point, considering my opponent. While my suit of Gothic plate is attractive, he'd just open it up like a tin can. Plus, I hate how my peripheral is limited. No, just a lorica hamata, chain mail shirt. With it, I'm wearing just my clothes and my Boeotian helmet. It's the kind worn by Alexander the Great's cavalry, great hearing and breathing as well as unlimited view. It makes up for the lack of protection. My power is rather untraditional. I've lived many past lives of great warriors. Their skills compounding upon one another. Near two and a half thousand years of legacies. Spartan hoplite, Companion cavalryman, Roman Centurion among them. In a past life, I landed at Lindisfarne from the bow of a long ship. I fought both Saracen and Frank in the Holy land. I died at Agincourt slogging through the mud into the hailstorm of bodkin. I wasn't around much during the War of the Roses, I was too busy in the Reconquista. The Thirty Years war was no fun at all. War of Spanish Succession was though. The Napoleonic Wars was a field day for me. That was good times. Later it got boring, as the years dragged on, with the rise of technology. Guns, I don't like guns. Where is the skill, where is the art? It's tasteless. The blade is king. I was blown sky high at Vimy Ridge in '17 Never saw what hit me. Tarawa was a slugfest. I survived it, but not Okinawa. Interestingly enough, I've never fought in Japan. Never reincarnated there. Who knows why? The point is, every life I live, ends on the field of battle. It's what I'm good at, it's what I do. I can never truly die. He finally shows up. I don't hold it against him, the snow is trouble for anybody. "I'll be with you in a minute." I am ready. I do not fear death. Death is as common to me as sleep. He merely nods and strips down. He assumes he will win. He doesn't want to ruin his street clothes. He stretches to get out the kinks. I say as I tidy up, "There can be only one." He gives me a look of pain and disappointment. "There can be on- Highlander? Seriously? Where's your originality?" He shakes his head. "Doesn't matter." Then he transforms. His limbs grow longer and he gains coarse fur on his body. His canines enlarge and a canine face appears. He is a werewolf. He is now nine feet long by my reckoning and 'bout eight hundred pounds. He is smaller than the previous six I've killed. That must mean he's particularly cunning. I sheath my blades and heft my halberd. It is a game I cannot lose, although he doesn't know it. But still, it will be a memorable dance. We ready ourselves to fight. As he leaps at me, I think how much I love being me.

For decades superheroes have been killing each another to become the last superhero, now only two remain.

Scrunched up shards of wrapping paper carpeted the living room, and tiny bits of sticky tape clung to furniture and rug corners for dear life. Cheesy 90's Christmas tunes were crackling through the radio. On the other side of the room from me, my little brother was jumping up and down with excitement with his new Xbox One clutched tightly in his hands. Another Christmas, another day. Being twenty sucked ass. I look upon my ecstatic sibling with loving envy, whilst twiddling and rotating the box of my new, premier Calvin-Klein underpants. "Who's next?" my mother cried. "Peter just had his xbox, and dad opened his aftershave before that. Who needs to open theirs next?" I stood up. "I guess that would be me". I walked over to the tree, tip-toeing through the debris. There were still a mound of presents yet to be opened, most of them addressed to visitors destined to arrive that afternoon. I picked those gifts up and placed them to one side, looking for a tag with the name 'Gareth' or 'Son' scribbled across the front. Finally I came across a large gift. It was wrapped exquisitely with a red Christmas-bow sat on top, unlike the others which looked as if a blind person had wrapped them single-handedly. "Who's this from?" I tried to ask, over the hustling voices of my family. "Hello! Who's this one from?" My mother snapped her head towards me, as if she had been somewhere else completely. "Oh, let me have a look," she said, getting up from her armchair. She came over, took the present from me and turned it over to inspect it. "There's no name, apart from yours," she said quizzically. "John!" she yelled over at my dad, "Any idea who put this one under the tree for Gareth?" He just shrugged his shoulders. "No idea then. That's strange. It feels quite heavy, too. I wonder what it could be Why don't you open it, maybe we'll be able to figure out who sent it." As I started to rip the paper, I realised no other present under the tree had the same wrapping paper. In fact on closer inspection, I realised just how strange the pattern was. I couldn't even have said it was remotely Christmassy. It was composed simply of a strange pattern that didn't even seem to make sense. I was filled with a anxious sort of intrigue as I ripped the paper apart. Beneath the paper was a strange black box. It had no markings, and no words inscribed on it. It was simply a black box with two handles to open it. I looked around and saw my family were preoccupied; my little brother was still having a fit, my dad was sat on his computer making online bets and my mother was hopelessly trying to clean up after the battle that was christmas morning. I returned my gaze to the box, and then grabbed the handles. As I pulled, I felt a great surge of energy. It wasn't pleasant, in fact it was like a nightmare. And as I stared down into the void which the box contained, I felt myself being sucked inside. The room around me seemed to melt into darkness. I heard screams, screams which I now believe belonged to my family. In that moment, grief, fear, guilt and hopelessness filled me up. It was overpowering. Nightmarish images flashed before my eyes and a great sound filled my ears. It sounded like being in the centre of a blizzard; wind surrounding me, suffocating me. And then it all stopped. I felt like I was back, and when I opened my eyes I saw that I was facing the Christmas tree. But it wasn't how I'd left it. Instead of tinsel wrapping itself around the fir, there was something else. It was something fleshy. Red dripped from it, making stains on the carpet below. I looked to the top and saw no star. Instead, there was... I turned around in disgust and I was met with a sight I've desperately tried to forgot. But I cannot forget. Now, I can only describe it to you in hope that somehow it will help me to forget. Strewn across my family's living room were the desecrated remains of everyone I loved. Pieces of flesh, limbs, organs. The walls were spoiled with blood. The stench...The stench was, unimaginable. In the corner of the room my father had been nailed to the wall, his hands and feet cut off. He had Christmas lights sticking out of his eyesockets. I was taking all of this in. I couldn't move. I couldn't speak. I knew I wanted to scream, to cry, but I did not dare make a sound. I couldn't comprehend what was happening. I still cannot. I just know that it had something to do with the black box. It had brought me here. I looked to the box and its doors were closed. I did the only thing I could think of doing. I grabbed the box, I opened the hatches and I looked into the void. I screamed. "What's wrong? What's wrong?" a woman screamed from across the room. My eyes were closed. I dare not open them. "Gareth? What's wrong?" I felt an arm on my shoulder and my eyes jumped open as I snapped my head around. And there was my mother. Alive. "Who was it from? Do you know?" I heard my little brother call across the room. "What was it?" my mother asked, reaching her hand towards the black box. "No!" I leapt, stopping her from moving an inch closer towards it. "Don't, don't touch it. Don't. I don't know what it is, but do not go near it. Please." She looked confused and upset. "Okay," she said quitely, "Just calm down, everything is alright." I was hyperventilating. I was still trying to figure what the fuck had happened. I was on the verge of tears. Had it all been an hallucination? It all seemed so unreal. I managed to calm down, somehow. I didn't feel the same though. I couldn't get the images out of my head. My family dead, everyone I loved in pieces. I hugged them all. I hugged them tighter than I ever had before. I embraced my mother and told her I loved her so much and that I was so thankful she was here and for everything she'd done. As we finished our hug there was a knock at the door. "Who could that be?" quizzed my mother, getting up. "John, go see who it is at this time". My dad sighed and rose from his armchair.As he left the room I had a very bad feeling. We weren't expecting visitors.

Opening presents on Christmas morning, you find a present under the tree addressed to you. Nobody claims to have put it there. You open it up and find something shocking...

The crash was quieter than Jeremy had expected. There was no build-up of horns or screeching tires or screams. Just a great blast of metal and glass like a balloon being popped, then nothing. Jeremy tried to move. He felt no pain but the way his lower body vanished under clawing metal he knew it looked bad. Next to him on the passenger seat, gleaming, lay his phone. He reached over and clutched at it until his quaking fingers found firm purchase. He held the phone up against the light. Not a scratch, and three bars of reception. He knew he had made a good investment paying a fortune for the damn thing. Steadying his breath, he dialed and put the phone to his ear. "Hello?" "Hey Dad, it's me." "Hey Son, everything OK?" "Yeah, Dad, I'm fine," he said, "I just wanted to see how you were doing." "Can't complain," his father said. "I got my beer in my hand and my shotgun in my lap and no kids on my lawn. Life is good. Your mother's waving violently at me. I think she wants to tell me something. What is it, girl? Did someone fall in the well?" A rustling filled the phone as his mother took over. "Gimme that," she said. "Jeremy, I wanted to know if you can make it to dinner this weekend. A friend of mine from college is visiting and she wants to meet you." "Does your friend have a daughter, Mom?" Jeremy asked. "Is that why you're inviting me?" There was a pause. "Maybe," she said. "I already told you I'm not interested." "I know, I know. But maybe this one might be interesting? You never know. Besides, it's just dinner." "Look, Mom," said Jeremy, "I don't know if I can, ahem, make it to dinner this weekend. I'm, uh, going to be a bit indisposed." "Do you have plans?" He looked around himself. "Something I can't get out of." "Fine, don't tell me. But you can't avoid this forever." "I can and I will." "You know," she said, "I didn't think anyone could get more frustrating than your father. Then lo and behold, you fell out of my hoo-ha and proved me wrong." Jeremy would have laughed but he was losing grasp of himself and where he was. "Mom," said Jeremy, "I love you. I have to go now." "I love you, too, Jeremy. What is it? What's wrong?" "Nothing, Mom. Could you tell Dad I love him too? I didn't say it before. You've been nothing but amazing." "Jeremy?" "I hope I've made you proud." "Of course you have Jeremy. Why are you saying all this? What's the matter?" "Everything's fine. But I have to go now." "Jeremy, I want you to come here this minute." "Bye, Mom." He ended the call and the phone slipped out of his hand and somewhere out of sight. There it buzzed and moved, buzzed and moved, buzzed and moved. Jeremy did not hear it.

A guy comes to to find himself trapped between two semis in a car accident. His lower torso has been lynched and he knows he's going to die. He feels no pain. Within reach he sees his cell phone with a working signal. Who does he call and what does he say?

It's been 5 months since I've been infected. All the cities check you at the bridges, and they torch you if your blood test goes wrong. They won't even let you leave. "No sense creating one more problem," a man once said, before incinerating a child. I had to swim out after I was bitten. It was bullshit by the way, a fucking jumper landed on my car. Didn't have the decency to look both ways before he crossed the windowsill. His head came right through the glass, but it was a mid-air heart attack that killed him. That's how fast it happens, how fast you become a bio-weapon. I swerved to avoid a major accident, and when I pulled over, I calmed down. That's when I saw the tooth in my forearm. A fucking flying zombie lost a tooth in my arm. Well a flying person who.. fuck it you get it. Anyway I immediately ran for the river. When I came out of the water, there were about fifteen of them, all waiting for me, shuffling my way. doing that reverse-swagger walk they do, arms close to their sides looking as small as possible. I didn't have my gun, so I just stared at them. Whatever was coming couldn't hurt as much as what they'd do to me at the bridge. Then they stopped, and just kinda stared at me, or through me, whatever you want to call it. I pushed them out of my way and walked into the treeline, and the craziest thing happened. They followed me. I kept walking and more and more came from behind trees to tag along. Where shall we go, my mindless friends? I have between 17 minutes and 3 hours to find out. Then it won't be my decision anymore. I realized the pack mentality makes sense, they just trust each other. If one of them is walking, that means it received some type of stimulus, be it sound, smell, or sight. That means it is hunting, so unless another has its own stimulus, it tags along to find food. I have no idea how long we walked, but I took them--several hundred at that point-- to my favorite place on earth, and I sat at the edge, waiting to turn. There was nothing to see but trees and the river, and although they were beautiful to me, my buddies received no such stimulants, so they just stood there. I stared into the face of oblivion and wondered if I would retain a subconscious. Would I feel like I'm watching someone else play a video game with my body? My eyes were very heavy, and so is life. I laid my head on a curvature of the cliff surface, and whispered to all the shells of lives that ended violently around me, "I'll see you on the other side." When I woke up the next morning, nothing changed. Biologically, I mean. The dead walk with me, and yet I am alive. I get bored and tired and hungry (not like they do), and the only thing that separates me from any other stranger braving the wilds is my entourage of dead things. Food is easy to find. I just look for campfires, get a running head start on my dead friends, and inform the owners of the campfire that there is a wall of zombies coming momentarily to tear them to pieces. They either run, or they ask a question or two until they run, or they ask a bunch of questions, find out I wasn't lying, and then they run.. And then I take the food they leave. I have to share or eat on the go, if it's fresh game. They follow me but they aren't shy about taking food from me. One man tried to kill me, as he said I was a demon. I wrestled with him until I didn't have to wrestle with him any longer. My friends took over from there. A week ago I finally cured a girl in her late teens. She had barely started to decay, so I gave her a little makeshift blood transfusion. I wasn't hoping for much, but I was bored, and they won't talk to me. I don't know if she could really come back, in the way you want to know. She woke up and looked at me, not through me, then looked around, saw the others, and she screamed. It wasn't a growl, I'm sure of it. I couldn't stop them from eating her, and all parties involved knew that. So here I am today. I know damn well there is only one more experiment left for me to try. I'm going to march right into San Francisco. I've got a bullhorn, a cure, and an army. This will be a case study. I haven't decided whether I want to cure the city or destroy it. Will the city listen to me? I doubt it, but I'm tired of walking with the dead. I'm tired of stealing from people. I'm tired of being harbinger, a "demon." I'm tired of always being alone. I want to know if that girl remembered anything. Most of all, I'm just tired. "ARE YOU INFECTED?!" a voice calls out through a bullhorn on the Bay Bridge. "I AM IMMUNE," my own bullhorn yells back. I am panting, winded from running for the past mile with all my gear. "THERE ARE REPORTS OF A HORDE IN THE MILLIONS HEADED THIS WAY THROUGH OAKLAND. PLEASE DISARM AND SUBMIT TO A BLOOD TEST IMMEDIATELY. WE WILL BE SEALING THE BRIDGE IN THE IMMEDIATE FUTURE." "I WILL FAIL THAT TEST. BUT I HAVE A CURE. PLEASE, THEY'RE COMING I WAS INFECTED MONTHS AGO BUT I NEVER TURNED." "IF YOU TAKE ONE MORE STEP WE WILL OPEN FIRE. IF YOU ATTEMPT TO FLEE, WE WILL OPEN FIRE." "LISTEN. THEY WALK WITH ME. IF YOU KILL ME, THIS CITY IS FORFEIT." Behind me, they start to emerge. Ahead of me, a small contingent of soldiers approach, two with assault rifles and two with flamethrowers. "I WILL COUNT DOWN FROM TEN FOR YOU TO DISARM, TAKE OFF YOUR CLOTHES AND LIE DOWN." "10." I throw down all my weapons. A .22 hunting rifle, a pistol, and a shotgun. "9." "8." "7." I draw my knife and remove my shirt. "6." "I DON'T WANT TO DIE. I DON'T WANT YOU TO DIE." "5." They are getting closer. "4." All of them. "3." I draw a canteen from my bag. It's almost full. "2." I open the veins in my left wrist and top off the canteen with more of my blood. I seal it. "1." With my right hand, I lob the canteen over the soldiers, only a few feet from me now. I'm beginning to fade out from the loss of blood. They fire at it, but the flames are caught by the wind and cannot reach high enough. The bullets whiz past it, but the sounds are like echoes to me. Echoes of screams. A medic puts the canteen in a bio-hazard bag, soldiers raise their rifles, and finally, both the officer on the bridge and I raise our bullhorns. "OPEN FIRE!"/"WALK WITH ME!" A bullet splits my skull, and the Bay Bridge fades from my senses. It's so beautiful.

Human blending in with zombies

March 27, Well I just came up north to hike the Pictured Rocks. I know it is a tad early, but the spring is unusually warm. The snows almost all melted off. I'm going ultra light again. It really is the way to go. Forecast for the week seems good. March 28 Spending time in Munising before I head out. They have a great diner here eggs and the works. Local paper was interesting, apparently several of the dogs in town have turned up missing. Probable thieves. The rash of dog knapping's have happened in the past two weeks. Something on the total of Eight dogs are gone. Shame. March 29, The trail sure sure is beautiful. The Grand Sable Dunes are just gorgeous. Though I think the bears are coming out of hibernation. I'm pretty sure I heard one in the woods as I was going down the trail. Going to have to use the bear proof poles to keep me food safe. The Au Sable Light is a pretty stop, but the water spring there is terrible! It has a horrible iron tang to it. Still, beggars can't be choosers. March 29 (later) Hurricane River. Got my tarp all set up and dinner cooking, ramen and tea. Yum! Lake Superior is really refreshing after a day of backpacking. But man is it cold! Weather is looking good still. Met two couples hiking together. One of the gals has never been hiking before. She expressed concerns of ax murderers. Ha. As if such a thing exist in the U.P. Oh sure they exist, but they go after their wives, not strangers. Swell people those four. They were kind enough to share food with me. They appreciated my gift of flour to make bannock on a stick. On an other note, I came across some strange tracks. They're not human, nor deer or raccoon. They're not wolf or cougar either. I don't have a camera on me, so I can't show it to anyone. Doesn't matter really. The moon sure is pretty tonight. March 30, There was something in the forest during the night. Probably attracted to my food. Though I must have spooked it, 'cause it didn't leave the woods to investigate, so I have no tracks. Must have stayed in the area for a couple of hours. Likely a raccoon, the thieves. Twelve Mile Beach was stunning. I walked along the waters edge. Despite a lot of the lakeshore being gravelly stones, Twelve Mile is really sandy. It was the strangest thing, it felt like there was something watching me from the tree line as I was on the beach. March 30 (later) Stealth Camping along the beach. Lots of drift wood for a fire. The flask of vodka is great with lemonade. Package of Tuna with crackers for dinner. And tea, lot's of it. March 31. Yeah, there is definitely animals about. I heard something up on the buffs. Great big thing to. I clean up and headed out, making sure my bear mace was at the ready. Still beautiful here. I should make Mosquito Beach in good time. March 31 (later) Well, I was wrong. Storm came in out of nowhere rain pouring by the bucket. Dinner will be good though, oatmeal with dried berries and more tea, gunfire tea to be exact. Night. April 1 I don't know what the fuck I saw. I went out my tent to take a piss sometime around one with the lightning going on. As I was taking care of business, the lightning illuminated something. It sounds crazy, but it was like a man. I say like a man because men don't have giant fucking ten foot wide wings. Shit. Must have been a couple hundred yards away. Course, I was pretty tipsy from the drink. I really shouldn't be listening to Fantasia on my iPod. April 1 (later) Made it to 'Squito beach, they weren't kidding about the name! Though it isn't the skeeters, it's a damn black flies! They take chunks out of you. It's a feast tonight! The last of the bannock, plus a couple of honey packets I filched from the diner to go with my ramen. Hopefully I won't have any more bad dreams. April 2. It wasn't a dream or pink elephants. What I saw real, and last night real close. It was a fucking Man bat, like the Batman character from the old animated series. A fucking man with wings in his back and bat nose and fangs. The moon was full last night. He was just looking at my tent and waiting, and waiting. he didn't move for hours before retreating into the darkness. Oh I didn't sleep at all last night. It was like that Allen Steele book, the one that gave me nightmares when I first read it. But my back is to the beach and I'll make Miners Castle by noon. Everything will be all right.

A single corpse of a lone hiker is found near the edge of a forest clutching a journal with 11 eerie entries telling his fate.

"Alright, is everyone here? Jerome, Mark, Veronica, Jason, Brett, Larry, Sarah, Paul, Mohammad, and of course, yours truly. Have a seat, we'll get right to it." The 10 most powerful people on the globe sat down on lawn chairs and boxes around the flimsy outdoor card table. "So." I began, as I always do, "How has it been?" "Frustrating," they called out in unison, as they always do. "Progress?" "Progressing." "Let's start with Paul." I announced. Paul was the tech guy. "Promising, as usual, and increasingly so. I've got Google and a few others pushing for the cool stuff, but the old standbys are experiencing significant refinement, as planned." "And how are we doing on the Aerospace sector? Have we overcome the hurdles there yet?" "I'm as anxious as you about that whole mess. Don't know what went wrong, but it is beginning to recover in earnest. Musk is progressing satisfactorily. The Rover was a decent success. The asteroid in Russia was an unexpected boon, but we really need to figure out a way to get the public more interested in this stuff." "That's always the issue, isn't it? We have our hands in every public figure from the White House to Hollywood, whether they know it or not, but the one thing we can't seem to predict is how mind-numbingly stupid the people can be. If they just played along, we'd have world peace and a Mars colony to boot. But some asshole's gotta go screaming about their 'freedoms'. Sad is what it is." "I'll drink to that," said Jerome, producing a bottle of craft beer from the cooler beside him. His job was media. He'd been drinking a lot recently. "I don't know what to do anymore. Most of the guys in charge only care about carving out a market for themselves these days. Fox is goddamned insufferable. There's no way for me to shift things the way we want if they stopped caring what I say." BARROOOOGAAAH BAROOOOGAAAHHH Author's note: I got to this point and realised there's no way for a council like this to actually have any power. Everything's run by markets in one way or another, so unless you're running a revolution and setting up the incentive systems, you have minimal power, and even if you do set up the incentive systems, you have no way of really knowing what kind of parasitic, bizarre relationships the little issues with it will eventually lead to. There are no men controlling the world. There are lots of men with a little bit of influence, but it's more like beetles on a man in free fall than a rider on a horse. It takes many to make a shift, and even then it's a minor shift.

The world is ruled by 10 powerful men who the public do not know of, write about their annual meeting and discussion.

10:42 AM Just got sneezed out by some weird dude named Jim. I hated being inside Jim. His body was in perfect shape and his damn white blood cells were too strong. These guys were fucking 3 millimeters tall! Not fair. Whatever, hopefully this next person is better. I'll find out my assignment in a few hours. Until then, I'll just hang out and replicate myself. 2:16 PM Apparently my next assignment is to invade the immune system of a boy, age 6, named Zeke. More like, this will be too e-Zeke! Am I right or am I right? The only thing easier than this would be if you put me in a dying old person haha. Whatever, I have to feed the family somehow. First, I'll take down his weak, overstressed immune system by launching a sophisticated attack on his white blood cells. They won't know what hit 'em when I'm done. One by one I'll penetrate their cell walls and shut down their nuclei with this sweet new deactivating gadget I got for Christmas. I'll be back in a bit after I kick some immune system ass. 9:35 PM Phew! I'm goddamn tired after that good old-fashioned ass whooping we just gave to Zeke. The frantic screams of the white blood cells as I slowly and painfully suck the life out of them are why I do this job. A bit sadistic, I know, but hey, I'm just a simple influenza virus, what else am I supposed to do? Now the poor lad's gonna get a runny nose, a fever (just cause I'm so *hot*), and maybe I'll add in a sore throat just for the hell of it. Meanwhile, I'll be feeding on the remains of his immune system. Yum. It's not the kids' favorite meal, but it'll have to do for tonight. It's a rough life being a rugged and handsome flu virus, but hey, someone's gotta do it.

Pick a disease and write about it from the point of view of the disease

Lucas placed the briefcase down on the floor. Emanuel repeated the action with his own. The soldiers of their great gangs flanked them with the clothes and marks of their people. Lucas' were draped in trenchcoats, suits and well worn beards. Emanuel's were wrapped in undershirts, baggy jeans and crucifix tattoos. The two liasons switched sides and inspected the contents of each others' briefcases. As they moved back across the invisible line to their own gang members, they nodded. "Halt!" yelled a young, nasal voice. "In the name of the law!" The two veteran drug runners turned to see two teenagers, one dressed in a sweatervest, with thick horn-rimmed glasses and the other in a hoodie with an emo-swoop haircut. "We're here to take you down, bro!" threatened the emo swoop. Uzis raised and in mere seconds, both teenagers were limp piles of pockmarked flesh on the concrete- sputtering and convulsing in their death throes. The two drug runners looked at one another. "We better leave," commented Emanuel. They all disappeared into the night.

A teenager from the 50s teams up with a modern-day teenager. Together, they fight crime.

"Christ. where am I?" I asked, the nurse lifting me up didn't respond, she had a partially healed sore on her forehead, funny how you remember little details like that even years and years later. I looked around, the room was empty and aside from the dangling IV tubes, now bereft of flesh to nestle within, and the sad, deflated shape of a liquids bag, and of course the nurse transferring me to a steel gurney there was nothing there. No life support machine, I guess they'd weaned me off of that while I was out. "Hello?" I asked, the nurse gave me a disinterested look and then moved me out of the room. Instead of the almost painfully bright white hallways I've always associated with hospitals, these walls were dingy, grey, dark. Something wasn't right. There was a doctor passing by, he nodded at me, I tried to respond but he was already past. We entered a new room, this one with a man in a suit sitting behind a desk. I was placed into a chair, the sudden movement to being upright making my head swim. "You're probably wondering where you are and what has happened while you were comatose Mr. Williams." He said, I nodded. "How long was I out? At least a year right?" The suited man chuckled, obviously amused by my answer. "You were hit by a car on December 1, 2018. Today it is December 2, 2023, you've been out for five years Mr. Williams." I blinked, shocked. That long? "What happened since then?" The suit nodded, looking almost ruminative. "I suppose I should tell you, but I'll warn you, things have changed since you went under. The first thing you should know is that China collapsed." I almost jumped, surprised. "What?" "There was a crash, in the winter of 2018, just a few days after you were admitted. The Chinese economy crashed especially hard, turns out most of their industries were huge bubbles just waiting to pop. That shit in 2008 had nothing on this. Here it wasn't too bad, we had martial law for a bit, then price controls were put in and everything got nationalized so things here quieted down pretty quickly." His face twisted into a grin, sadness lurking underneath. "Unemployment is only 24% now, back then it was pushing 50% during the worst of it." I nodded slowly, this was nuts, but I couldn't understand, what had happened to China…and the rest of the world for that matter? "China started splintering soon afterwards, the Muslims up north split away, Tibet made a run for it and was adopted by India, Vietnam started making noise about owning some of the southern provinces, and then whatever remained of the commies in Beijing started launching nukes against the separatists. India got pissed when Lhasa got turned to ash and they pasted the Chinese and then got pasted in turn. In the end when it was all said and done, China got hit by nine hundred megatons, twenty of them came from us, in the last dying days of that clusterfuck." Silence, I couldn't respond, how could things have gotten that bad so quickly? "Of course," the suited man continued, "with nearly a billion dead in less than a week, that had to have some effects globally. The winter that year was colder than usual, lasted well into April if I remember correctly. The only good thing about it was that the sunsets were beautiful, fueled by the ashes of the dead. There was famine soon afterwards. Again, not much happened to us except we lost a bunch of friends in the Third World once it became clear that we couldn't keep selling them food and this time around the martial law became permanent." "What's happened since then?" I asked, I almost didn't want to know the answer but somehow a morbid curiosity propelled the question from my lips. "Not much, it's been quiet. We've kind of cut ourselves off from the world ever since Israel went nuts and initiated the Samson Option. They nuked the entire Mid-East, the oil fields produce radiation now-a-days, not much else. Lucky for us we were able to drill and get our gas that way. The government passed a law a while back requiring that all vehicles be hybrids, I gotta tell you it was kind of hilarious seeing those big eighteen wheelers zip on down the road without even hearing their engine…" I wasn't interested in hearing that though, what the fuck had happened to the world while I was out? "What else happened?" My voice almost sounded panicked, the suited man stopped smiling. "Africa went nuts but ever since the Congo got nuked they've quieted down, Asia kind of collapsed in on itself, everyone is more or less non interventionist these days. We did invade Nigeria a while back to stop the genocide there but that stopped when some nut detonated a suitcase nuke in Atlanta to protest. Then of course the surviving radical Islamists from northern China started pilfering uranium from the abandoned reactors there and before you knew it everyone and their grandma had nukes, all sold to them by these crazy fucking Chinese people." I was shaking, this was all too much yet I couldn't stop listening. "Who's president now?" Maybe politics weren't quite so bad, even if the nation was under martial law, permanently the suited man had said, maybe the commander in chief was at least a well meaning individual. "Right now its Hillary Clinton, she's been pushing back the elections for a while now, they were supposed to happen in 2020 but it's been what, like three years now? I don't really mind, its not likely that its her pulling the strings, the military has gotten awfully comfortable lately, they have a fuck ton of advisors in the Oval Office anyways." I looked down at the carpet and chuckled. "This is all so cliche isn't it? I awaken after a coma only to find that the world has gone to shit." The suited man nodded sadly. "It would seem so. But that's just the world that we live in." And the worst part was, he was right.

You wake up from a 5 year coma, only to find out your country has been sunk into a Totalitarian Dystopia.

*click* "Doc, I have to tell you, I think I might be losing my mind." *click* "And what makes you think that?" *click* "All day long, I keep seeing... things. I thought it was my imagination at first. When I walked outside to get the mail, the mailman was going about his delivery route, there were a couple of kids riding their bicycles, you know, the normal things you'd expect. Except it wasn't normal." *click* "What about it wasn't normal, hm? First or second?" "Uh, second. Their clothes! They weren't wearing any clothes at all! I saw naked women going shopping, I saw naked men working on telephone poles, I saw naked kids playing tag in their backyard. I even saw a naked fast food worker taking out the trash. I mean, who ever heard of a naked fast food worker?!" The doctor tapped his chin, lost in thought even as I tried to avoid looking directly at him for obvious reasons. *click* "And so this led you to me. First or second?" "First. Yes, please, you have to help me, I don't know who else to ask." "Well, you came to the right place. Based on this, it's obvious what's going on." "Tell me!" "Superman, I think it's time to consider contact lenses."

You wake up on an average day. You get dressed, grab a bite to eat, and head out to start the day, only to realize that everyone else is the world is naked.

"Don't sweat it, you look amazing!" Of course you would say that, you are supposed to say that. "I don't know, I feel like my trousers are too tight. I really want her to like me but I don't want her to think I'm a complete slag." "Speaking of which, it's your 7th date with her. Is she going to get any?" Ugh, Rick always thinks of sex. No wonder everyone thinks he's easy. Which he is. She immediately stood up when I got into the restaurant, waving me over and already pulling back my chair. She looked so *handsome*, her hair in a simple ponytail, a tight red dress. Hmm, I should have started dating a personal trainer ears ago. Most women I date are slouches, with their videogames and constant violent movies they don't care what they look like, yet I am supposed to watch what I eat and go to the gym twice a week or I am 'disgusting'. "Hey babe, you look beautiful tonight." She said, as her eyes slowly moved up and down, taking me in, only resting briefly on my hips. "Is that a new watch? It looks great on you!" Oh my GOD, she noticed and I didn't even have to flash it around a bit. "Thank you," I smiled and leaned in for a kiss as her hand rested on my lower back in a quick embrace, "You look great." As she helped me in, I couldn't help but notice she forgot to trim her nails. "Women..." I sighed in my head, well at least she brushed her teeth. "Oh, before we order, I got you something. It's been exactly a month since our first date, so I got you a small teddy bear holding a heart." Aww, she is *so* considerate, I remember my last girlfriend, Rachel, she would only give me a gift when she was trying to get lucky. I replied with a smile and I silently mouthed thanks, when the waiter got to our table. "I will have the chicken parmesan and could you bring us the '92 merlot? And what we'll you have honey?" "Oh, just a ceasar salad, dressing on the side please. I've had a big lunch." "Come one, we're in a nice restaurant, it's a special occasion and you look great. Have something you actually like." Fine, I don't want to make a scene. Faking a smile, I replied "Okay, I'll have the vegetarian lasagne." We both arrived by taxi, so we decided to walk home together. It was a cold night out, so we went to her place. She was talking about work, as I snuggled up to her arm, resting my head on her breast. The best thing about being with a taller girl, is the sense of protection. Walking through an alley I would never think of walking through alone, at her side I knew nothing would go wrong. "This is me, do you want to come in?" she asked, as she brushed a strand of hair behind my ear. "Yes, that would be nice." She had a good sized apartment, a bit messy but I had seen worse. Sitting on the couch, with the electric fireplace heating us, expelling the chills from our bones, we talked. And as the evening grew later and the bottle grew emptier, she put her hand on my knee and we started to kiss. She moved from my mouth, to my neck, then further down. "I am so sorry." She said, out of breathe, "It's just, you're so attractive and it's been a while and..." I laid my finger on her lips. "Shhh. It was good, you were very good. I don't have to... you know.. to have a good time." Although slightly disappointed, I felt like this has brought us closer, had brought our relationship to a new level. Besides, I don't want her to feel bad about it. She offered to let me spend the night, which I gladly accepted. She made for an excellent big spoon, not too close where we'd start to sweat, but not so far to make a gap in the duvet to let the cold in.

Gender-traditional roles are switched, and you have a date.

I lit the first fuse. BANG. BANG. BANG. Red fireworks against the night sky. Three small explosions of color, lighting my lined face. They were the best I could find, only ones left above water. I'll dive for canned food, for bottled water. Stupid to dive for gunpowder. I lit the second fuse. BANG. BANG. BANG. BANG. Purple, green, orange, blue. I hadn't known what colors the mismatched quadruplets would be. They glittered brighter than the stars and sparkled on the water I was surrounded by. It had been years since the city flooded. I lit the third fuse. BANG. BANG. Loudest things I'd ever heard in my life. Wondered if some man across the world was doing the same. Probably not. I'd been alone here for- BANG. BANG. Fourteen years. I started to cry. BANG. BANG. What use was this without an audience? What use was- BANG. BANG. anything? There's nobody- BANG. BANG. else. BANG. Eighteen fireworks. Happy birthday to me. I lit the final fuse, and bit down on the dynamite. BANG. EDIT: Well I went away for a week to the beach and you suckers make me feel like top shit. Cheers for all the comments, I've read them all. You rock, thanks OP for the prompt!

The last person on earth throws a birthday party.

Dave looked curiously at the watch he had acquired from a strange old man a week earlier. The man said the watch was "special". *More like broken*, he murmured. Today it read 7:19 pm all day. Yesterday it had read 1:02 am. Which happened to be nearly the exact time a school bus full of kids went off a highway, and were brought in to the hospital that Dave was a surgeon at. It had kept him 8 hours past his shift, and 6 sets of parents ended up losing their child. It also happened to perfectly match the suit he was wearing to a very important meal with his boss later that night. He looked at the time on his cell phone. *6:59 pm*. "Davey, hurry up we're gonna be late for dinner! How long does it take to pick out a watch anyways?!" His wife, Bridget exclaimed. He quickly grabbed the broken watch, snapped it on and rushed out of the house. Dave could not afford to be late to this dinner. His career was on the line. He glanced nervously at the clock every 10 seconds as they rushed through traffic. 7:08. 7:13. 7:16. *perfect, I'm late, this is gonna look great to the Chief of Surgery*. They got to within a few blocks of the restaurant, and were approaching a busy intersection. Dave glanced down at the clock on the dashboard. 7:19 pm. He looked down at the watch and it also read 7:19 pm. *well it's right at least twice a day*, he thought to himself and chuckled. He looked back up just in time to see the lights flashing In front of him as he slammed head first into an ambulance going 50 miles per hour. The ambulance was obliterated, tires screeched, glass shattered, and the wreckage of the accident was sprawled about the intersection. His car skidded to a stop on the median. Dave slowly opened his eyes. Bridget was slumped over against the airbag. Broken glass and blood covered what was left of the interior of the car. Using all his strength left in him he lifted his hand up toward his face. As Dave closed his eyes for the last tIme, he watched the time on the watch switch from 7:19 to 7:20 pm. Edit: added and fixed some stuff. Long time reader first time poster go easy on me :)

A man finds a watch that displays seemingly random times. Eventually, he discovers that whatever time is presented on the watch foretells the time of an important or dangerous event that day.

"You," he spat. "Me," she said simply. "Please, do sit." "Why the fuck would I do that?" She smiled. "Would you rather have me tell them that you're threatening me?" For a moment he stood stone still, jaw clenched. He looked over his shoulder to see the guard who led him in glaring straight back. Begrudgingly, he plopped down into the hard metal seat. Warm conversations between other inmates and their loved ones echoed throughout the small room. The tension between the man and woman left them in a cold, seemingly distant corner. "What do you want?" He snapped. "This," she cooed. "To see you rot like the piece of trash you are." "You don't know shit about me!" Guards from every entrance seemed to rustle in place. Adjusting uncomfortably in his own seat, he turned back to the woman in a hushed voice. "The first time we EVER saw each other was in that courtroom and you know it." "Maybe it's the first time you've seen me. But I've known you my whole life, David Hix." He muttered under his breath, "Crazy bitch." She giggled with an unbridled, manic glee. For the first time since seeing this dark-haired, green-eyed woman sitting patiently in the visitors room, David felt unsettled. "Oh, sweetie," she whispered, "you didn't think the Harrisons would ever forget did you?" He blinked in confusion. She grinned, cocking her head to the side. "Thirty-five years ago. Boston. I'm sure you and your friend intended it to be a simple burglary, but then the baby started crying. And you had to shut it up." David's jaw dropped, his grizzled face paling. "That...that was a...really...long time ago..." "You have no idea," she sneered. "So much time. So much waiting. But I found you. I finally found you." "I - I don't -" he stuttered. She flicked a lock of hair over her shoulder. "Well I obviously can't tell you the nasty particulars of what I had to do to get you here, but I CAN finally tell you what I've always wanted to." He was looking down, past memories hitting him like a brick wall. Images flashed before his eyes, each more painful to see than the last. It was the meth- it wasn't him, it was the meth - he had always told himself. She leaned forward, eyes burning with a victorious brilliance. "This is for killing my big brother."

A young woman visits a man in prison. Ten years ago, she falsely accused him of molesting her.

Throughout the year, there were three groups of people. The over-confident AP kids, the remedial-level scared shitless kids, and everyone in between. Usually after exams, the remedial students would end back up in class after exams with one less familiar face. Every once in a while one of the smart kids would be gone, having gone in too far over their heads. Every year, some one dies, and every year, someone makes a game out of it. Actually, many people do. A not-so-secret betting ring makes its way around at the end of the year, having people wager money against students while providing current grades and grade-point averages to consider. A lot of people think of this as downright horrible before they find out that thousands of dollars are at stake. I was one of these people. As the year went on, one of my friends, a certain James Kingsley, has had almost everything bad happen to him. He's been sick more than he's been healthy, his dad died, and James strangely found comfort with me, saying his grades are all failing. I did my best to console him and even pointed him in the direction of some tutors, and soon to the other students he didn't seem like *the one.* I knew he was. I took him out for the best weekend of his life. We went to his favorite restaurant, saw that new movie he's been going on about, and drove out to the country to see the Milky Way. James and I went skydiving, long-boarding... I wanted him to be happy. As I drove him back to his house, James turned to me from the passenger seat. "I know I'm gonna be the one this year." My throat tightened and I made a sound between a cough and a squeal. "I know you know, too," he said, turning away with a sigh. "I want to thank you for doing this with me this weekend, it means a lot. I knew I was gonna get it, and this made me feel a lot better. So much has happened, I shouldn't even bother. I've missed all the important information, missed all of the interaction with my learning, I don't even know why I tried in the end." James shifted in his seat, reaching into his wallet. He put it on the dash, and slid it towards me. "There's about $200 dollars in there, put it on me." A weird wave of emotion washed over me. I was sad for James. In a few days' time, the last person to see him alive would be some anonymous man that would be his executioner. In a week would be his funeral. I was sad for his doom, but I was happy that he appreciated the time we spent together, and it probably made him feel better. I was mad, too, at the fact this all had to happen. He would die, and to a lot of other people he doesn't matter. James would become a lottery number and a statistic, but he made sure he'd be the winning ticket, and I'd be the one to cash in on it. The betting pool found its way to me on Thursday, and I put down $300 on James Kingsley, grade 11, homeroom Talbot. On Sunday, the news story broke out about how the police found his body quartered, strewn out, and bled out behind an abandoned strip mall. The following Monday, I opened my locker to a check for $5700. I cashed it out, and mailed it in an envelope with no return address to his parents. I wouldn't dare handle the money that he died for; his parents would definitely need it more than me. ___________________________________ ^Not ^too ^confident ^about ^this ^one, ^but ^I'll ^put ^it ^up ^anyways. ^Kind ^of ^off-topic ^IMO; ^I'll ^welcome ^criticism.

You attend a high school where whoever does the worst on their end-of-year exams is brutally murdered.

James blinked rapidly and shot up out of bed. He had the dream again. It was glorious, everyone was drinking, dancing, and smoking. The music was so loud and couples were beginning to break off from the group to have drug-fueled sex in whatever spare room they could find. But here he was. He ran his hand through the thick puppy fur that composed his entire bedspread. Beautiful beams of orange sunlight filtered through the window and danced around his eyes like obnoxious fruit flies. His wife woke up a second later, as she always did. "Morning, honey. Would you like coffee and breakfast in bed today?" The bare curves of her body would have made any living man excited, but not James. Not here. Here, nobody is "burdened" by urges of that sort. "No, I don't want fu- frigging breakfast, how many times do I have to tell you?" "Okay honey, if there's anything you need, let me know, I'm- "'Here to serve', yeah, I know." James stormed out of the house and into the main thoroughfare, paved in clouds. Every step felt like walking on warm, caressing air. Happy couples walked to and fro, holding hands and wearing proud smiles on their stupid faces. James brushed past everyone, picking the silk of his robe out of his asscrack. He walked with purpose, straight to the throne room. There was no appointment necessary. He approached the grand, golden throne. Before him was a man made entirely of light. A giant, humanoid manifestation of pure love and goodwill. "I'm done. Send me down." "James, you know that I cannot let you live again on Earth. It is a hateful, evil place and is no home for my children." "Oh shut UP, you made that rock, didn't you? How am I the only one who can't enjoy this? It's beautiful, but nothing ever happens! I want a beer. I want to have fun again." "James, some take time to adjust. You know I cannot let you back to Earth." "I'm not talking about Earth..." He took a deep breath and continued: "Goddamn it" Within an instant, the floor of the palace had opened, and he was in free fall. His robe fluttered away into the clouds. He closed his eyes and felt the air whip around his naked body. A massive hole appeared in the Earth directly under him. He heard the screams, yes, but among the screams were laughs. Moans of ecstasy. His eyes widened as he felt the intense heat. He laughed himself silly all the way down. The pain felt amazing.

Instead of being happy in heaven, someone is depressed beyond belief. Why?

A good bargain, his dad had said, when they'd picked the car up cheap from a local dealer. They weren't going to get him a car, but this one was such a low price that his dad had shrugged and handed over the creased notes he'd had sitting in his pocket. "Take Marie out to the pictures." He said. "Girls love a guy with his own car." Jim doubted Marie would like a beat-up Volkswagen that hadn't been new when Carter was in charge. "Hey, hey stud." The sound was coming from the car stereo, which the dealer had sword would never work in a month of Sundays. Jim took the fact that his car was talking at him slightly better than Shia LaBeouf did in the first Transformers film. He rolled over to the side of the road and turned up the knob of the stereo, which promptly fell off in his hand. "Watch it, jackass." The car spoke again. "Be careful. You don't see me going around pulling your knob off." "I have a talking car." Jim said, wondering if his mum had put more in her 'secret recipe' brownies than she usually did. "Yeah, yeah I know, it's weird. Anyway, wanna get down and dirty with the old gal? I've got a few tips. Used to be a regular old Casanova in my prime days." "In the 1950s?" "You kids think you're all so fucking funny. Listen carefully, okay? I don't repeat myself." They picked up Marie Morgenstern at three fifteen that day. By seven fifteen she'd been raped four times and her body left in the bottom of the local river, black bruises around her neck and wrists. Cause of death was suffocation, it was determined. Jim was arrested and the car taken in for evidence. By ten thirty the day after Marie's body was found it was conclusively decided that four other murders had taken place in the boot of the ancient Volkswagen. The car was sold on. Such a low price. Such a good bargain.

A Disaster, a Comedy, or a Betrayal. Contest.

Prohibition doesn't have jack on us. Two companies, behemoths in their game. Two companies control their clients with liquid poison. They fought with Tommy guns and Molotovs in the 20s. We fight with soda guns and corn syrup. And yet, we're killing so many more every single day. Which, well, is why I fell in love with her. She looked so full of life, you know? There I am, manning the Pepsi stand in the park, galling people to "Live for now" and "Refresh everything." I'm handing out samples like crazy, passing out free shots, always showing excitement when someone says it tastes better than Coke because that's another bonus in my pocket. And then she drifted by on roller blades. My eyes widened. I gawked. The memorized sales pitch I was feeding to the disc golfer in front of me sputtered on my lips. Oh God, she looked amazing. She gave me the finger. Then she laughed. As she passed, I couldn't help staring a little at her muscled legs and rippling back; she was definitely a tight end. She was definitely off limits, too -- there was a little tattoo of a Coke bottle cap behind her left knee. It was probably temporary; our competitor's stand on the other side of the park handed those out if you pledged to only drink their offering. Buying votes, really. Disgusting. The drink, I mean. But God, those legs. I could see the sweat trickling down, into her socks, her blades. Delicious. Pepsi, I mean. On her next pass, I flagged her down. And on her third, she skidded to a stop. My partner had left to restock, and I faced her alone. "What do you want?" she asked. "I'm already with Coke, so you'd better have something good before they see me talking to you." She leaned a little closer. "You're kinda cute. So, what do you want?" "Your number," I said. Then I felt like I could die; flushed skin, damp hands and the embarrassment of a lifetime. "I-I mean, I wanna give you my number. Here." I scribbled my personal number on the back of a business card and held it out. "I probably shouldn't, I'm being watched, but I really think... I mean, I kind of... here." She took it. "I guess you don't want mine, after all." "No, believe me, I do! I mean--" She was laughing. Small, behind a gloved hand, but I could see it in her eyes. "You're cute. And forward. But, how'd you know I was a..." "Fingernails." I winked, and her blushed matched my own. "I can't help but notice hands in this business. My shift ends pretty soon, when my partner gets back." "Wanna grab a bite? You owe me; I feel like I'm putting my life at risk just talking to you." "Okay. But I can't drink Coke. Company policy." She rolled her eyes. "I'll say anything for a sticker tattoo; it's not like I actually drink Coke." She glanced back toward the Coke stand. "I think... I'll have water."

"I'll have water" A story of star crossed lovers, a Coke employee and a Pepsi employee fall in love but can never go out together because of company policy. (Cross post from /crazyideas)

My face is stuck in a wall. It doesn't hurt too much, I don't really bleed from anything that anyone does to me. Not the 20 millimeter cannon shell that broke my wrist earlier, not the hammer blow from Captain Justice that sent me flying through a row of shanty houses like a railgun projectile. Now my face is stuck in a wall, my wrist is throbbing and swollen, I have no more morphine patches to stick on me, I don't think that I could really move even if I did. There are hands grabbing the shreds of my shirt, I recognize the red trim around the edges of the leather gloves, it's Lieutenant Valor, Captain Justice's sidekick. "We've got you." He says, dragging me from the wall and holding me up triumphantly, his hands clamped like a vice around my throat. Captain Justice steps into the house, there are soldiers not too far behind. I look at him, his stupid fucking costume practically glowing amidst all of the dust that our fight has thrown up. Why do superheroes always go for the Captain title, why not General, Admiral or Commander? That would sound just as good. "Yup," I wheeze, "you've got me. Now let go of my throat you bastard." His lip is cut, where I hit him with a pipe as he lunged at me in the opening moments of the fight. That one sent him spinning away through the bay window a house about a half mile from here. Fights these days cover a lot of ground, I think this one lasted about forty five seconds, a new personal record for me. "His wrist is broken so be careful with the cuffs." Captain Justice says, stepping aside to let a soldier through the hole in the house's wall. The soldier doesn't look like he's going to be nice to me, I don't really care, they can't hurt me and I'll just escape eventually. The cuffs, big titanium things, snap shut over my wrists and I hiss in pain. Lieutenant Valor lets the soldiers take me, then picks up something that I've dropped, a little black card. "What's this?" He asks me as the soldiers start to haul me away. I merely smirk, then the card begins to glow white hot and he drops it, his glove suddenly aflame. I jerk from side to side and the soldiers spin away. Captain Justice is making a beeline straight for me, I kick him in the gut and he goes flying, taking a section of the opposite wall with him. The card is hissing and sizzling on the floor, I put the cuffs to it and it melts straight through them. "You didn't really think I would let you take me so easily." I say, dodging a punch and driving a knee into the Lieutenant's side. He wheezes and I am about to stomp his face into the dirt when an M16 round hits me in the lower back, making me stumble. Bullets don't really do much to my skin besides leave some pretty impressive bruises. Dodging to the side I have just enough time to see Captain Justice coming back through the window before his trademark hammer sends me through the stairwell and out onto the street. That proved to be the last straw for the house and it collapsed onto the two superheroes. Getting up I roll away from the oncoming soldiers and find a garbage can lid, this city seems to be the only place I know of that still uses metal garbage cans. Tossing it like a discus I send it slicing throughout he hood of the soldiers' Humvee and watch as they abandon it, taking shots at me with their rifles. In the wreckage of the house Captain Justice is hefting the limp form of Lieutenant Valor out of the debris and I dodge away, bullets shattering brick behind me. "Stop right there!" Somebody shouts and I knock a bum out of the way. There is a swimming pool in front of me, I've made my way into somebody's back yard. I start running, hoping to jump over it, when something erupts from the water. I have just enough time to see a flash of blue, then a fist crashes into my jaw and the entire world goes blurry. Before I lose consciousness I feel the bitter sting of humiliation. I had beaten Lieutenant Valor to a pulp and incapacitated Captain Justice but I had forgotten all about Aquaman. Goddamnit.

The noble hero defeats the villain in a climactic battle. Write from the villain's perspective.

Subject: Augur circle recovered from sector 3^34* Program: UNIFICATION initiated Assimilating astronomical coordinates Assimilating language data -- NOT FOUND Assimilating culture prompts Compensating for biological differences [NOTE: Species appears to have extremely limited visual spectrum; must rely on forms of communication other than hololuminescence ] Terraformation development: Ke't'ail industrial adaptation level 3 Technological development: Mmmnba organic society level 1.4 Political development: Zyu non-consensus level 0.2 !!Contemporaneous Religious influence detected!! Checking for xenophobic tendencies... Found 45 results. Performing hazard assessment Warfare data lacking; extrapolating... Early atomic capability. Chemical-propelled material firearms. Result: Inconsequential hazard; extermination not necessary. --- Proceeding to level 2 processing: Brainwave record found! Initiating read... Translating... Learning... Comprehension error; unknown thought patterns detected Searching for extra data... Sound data discovered. Hypothesis: Species relies on altering soundwaves to communicate Hypothesis confirmed. Assimilating language data Pass 2 -- success New sense data: "Music" Adapting logical parameters... Hypothesis: "Music" utilized for plebian class control Hypothesis inconclusive. Hypothesis: "Music" used as reproductive assist Hypothesis inconclusive. Hypothesis...[956 lines omitted] ERROR: Purpose for "Music" not understood [NOTE: Paradigm 1 dictates new information must be assimilated into the Society] Further inquiry required. Forwarding request to Data Council... Request received. Request granted. Shutting down for cryo-hibernation...

You are an alien scientist who has discovered Voyager 1 and retrieved it.

"You don't need to do this." He's standing on the edge of a bridge, facing towards the policeman who is slowly edging towards him, trying to save his life. I know that he'll jump before the cop gets within arms reach though, unless he says something really clever. "You don't understand the situation I'm in though," the man says sadly, "it never gets any better. I'll snap out of it for a week…for a month, but then it just comes back and sooner or later I'm up here just waiting to jump. You guys have rescued me twice before, I'm not letting you rescue me again." The cop lunges, the man steps off the ledge and I see the cop's fingers brush the front of the man's jacket, then he's just standing there, watching him plummet. "Get the boat going, he jumped." He says tonelessly and sighs. "Why can't people do that in their own homes?" Some lady says behind me, "where they won't traumatize people." I have nothing to say to this, I just keep walking, when the cop's radio crackles and he picks it up. "Yeah?" "He's alive. His legs are broken but we got him out before he could drown." The cop seemed to get about ten years younger in the time it took for the boat crew to tell him that and I couldn't help but feel good for the guy. "How does that work, its a two hundred foot drop?" "I don't know, he was wearing a pretty baggy jacket, maybe it acted as a parachute of some kind, I don't know…" The radio crackled some more. "Wait," the man on the boat said, "he wants to talk to you." There was a brief silence, then a weak voice. "Fuck you, you should have jumped too." The cop's face registered shock and then he gave the radio a weird look as if it could give him answers. "He's immoral." The cop said and shook his head, getting back into his car. I looked down at the boat, idling in the waters below and wondered what was up with the jumper. It wasn't any of my business I supposed, just another suicidal guy granted immorality.

A suicidal man is suddenly given immorality.

Of all the revelations regarding the nature of the universe, none could be considered more humbling, or unnerving, than those that exposed how little about it was known, let alone understood. Dr. Vargas thought of herself as an aficionado of ignorance--not the sort of ignorance that emerged as an ingrown social condition--rather, she practiced a tempered naivete relying on self-effacing curiosity and precision of mind. So when she came across the possibility that there lay beyond existing horizons of human perception a greater boundary, the woman of science was impelled to devoting her whole faculties in pursuit of this extraordinary truth. However, what scientific endeavor, by virtue of its design, could not provide was a glimpse into the consequences of any given discovery. The mathematics that equated matter and energy, for example, had in its derivation no sentiment of violence. Yet it seemed the inevitable outcome of such an understanding was threaded into its conception, and arguably into its very fabrication. Dr. Vargas could not have foreseen the fate she had invited with her earnest and ignorant measures, no more than could have a mouse attempting to free its food from the spring of a loaded trap. After years of pursuing the origin of a particular ultra-high-energetic emission, Dr. Vargas made a significant breakthrough while vetting the details of her work with one of her graduate students. The reason for its strength and clarity was not that the signal was originating from an immense phenomenon far away, but rather from somewhere simultaneous, another dimension. Attacking her chalkboard with the vigor of someone possessed, she filled the black expanse with her terse and shaky writing--in a language that would have seemed alien to any passerby even without its near-illegibility. She and her graduate student stared upon the cobweb of mathematics in awe, realizing the implications of this new advancement. Now the nature of the signal made sudden sense. The patterns that had seemed erratic before, now folded into elegant functions. Without the fog of previous misunderstanding, the beacon appeared brighter than ever. Something beyond the defined universe was attempting to make contact, and Dr. Vargas knew, though she did not express it then, they had to answer back. The signal took fifteen years to crack. Enclosed within the beacon itself were instructions on replicating extra-dimensional communication. A couple more decades passed in the construction of a suitable device, a planetary accelerator with enough energy to agitate the foam of spacetime and manipulate its texture to carry information outside the bounds of relativity. Dr. Vargas observed the inaugural launch from the ISS, indescribably excited and filled with a sense of pride at the sight of the object in the distance, the reward of her commitment. Once the preparation was complete, the device was initiated. It began to glow and pulse bright enough to eclipse the moon floating in the backdrop. As soon as it had powered up, the ring began to shut down. A moment of denouement passed and the entire crew cheered at their success. Dr. Vargas struggled to keep the tears back as everyone around her congratulated her. Before long, while the others were still celebrating, she boarded the private shuttle NASA had afforded her and disbarked towards Earth. She wanted the ride home to reflect and maybe catch some shut-eye. In the excitement of the past few days, and arguably the recent half of her lifetime, she had given little consideration to rest. As the warm filtered air of the shuttle enveloped her and put her to sleep, she laid her head back and stared out the window at the moon hanging in the dark of space with the ring of the device superimposed over its bright ivory face. She smiled, knowing the world would never be the same and slept, unaware that the signal was not a beacon but bait. ------ Great prompt. I know I took liberty with the 'realization' bit. And borrowed heavily from Contact. Thank you, Carl Sagan.

A scientist discovers other dimensions and realizes something has found us.

Knife, left hand, ball, right hand, toss, toss, bottle, right hand, toss, hairbrush, left hand, ball, right hand, toss, knife, left hand, toss, toss… They said that after a while I wouldn’t need to think . But I’d been juggling for eighteen years now and I still had that monologue, droning on, and on, and on. I was the most popular juggler in the troupe. Everyone wanted to see the old man do his thing. I hated my job, but the pay was decent, so I juggled. Knife, right hand, bottle, left hand, toss, ball, right hand, toss, hairbrush, left hand, toss, toss… I was beginning to get tired. It was only eight at night. Well, I guess my body was catching up with me. I had gotten a bad infection recently, and the damn doctor gave me some medicine and now I have hypaglycimia, or whatever the doc said. I just had to have a few sugar packets every five or six hours. I didn’t mind. Hairbrush, left hand, ball, right hand, toss, toss, knife, left hand, toss… My eyes were getting really droopy. I decided I’d had enough and coughed three times. My act would end, and I could go and get some sleep. But I would have to keep going until then. Knife, right hand, toss… I wondered why I was so tired. I had a couple sugars in my coffee three hours earlier, so it wasn’t that. My coffee did taste a little weird, like… Splenda. I fell to the ground, already passed out. Knife, left hand. Ow.

A juggler's medication wears off halfway through their act.

I knew I would recognize my soul mate by the scars he held. God, I hadn’t cried for myself since I was a little kid, but everyday, I found myself running to the bathroom to find some place to hide from the pain that wrapped around me like a noose. I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t even locate the pain. It seemed to come from all over, a blanket of ice and fire. It was one of those secrets that everyone knew about but no one talked about. I mean, it’s pretty freaking hard to hide the fact that you undergo torture-like pain all the time for no visible reason. My mother told me that there was nothing to be done. I believed her until, after a particularly painful night when I could not breathe for hours, I decided to find my soul mate. I scraped together all my savings I had managed since the end of college and packed a bag. I had no idea where on earth he would be, but I knew he would be in trouble. I checked prisons and military compounds. I traveled through unstable countries. I found myself in a firefight more than once, pinned against a wall and hoping to God that whoever was left standing would want no more of me. I found my own pain a few times. One time, a bullet had punched through my arm. I had to find a refugee camp where some doctor was willing to patch it for a secular westerner without much money. With a cut to my forehead I ended up bribing an old seamstress to sew up with a few coins and a promise to mail a letter to her nephew. There were sticky situations where I found my words as my only weapons against guns. While most knew English, sometimes I found myself patching together words from the phrasebooks I carried. “I look for the friend of my soul,” I would say, haltingly, in whatever language was native to the region. “He is hurt.” Eventually, I ran out of money, and I find myself on a plane back home, out of even cash enough to pay for a checked bag and out of hope of any sort. I did not come into failure easily. It ripped through my soul, knowing I had failed the one person in life that I could ever hope to bring me comfort, to understand me in any significant way. I had failed my soul mate, and I would spend the rest of my years alone and in pain while he did the same. A man sat next to me on the plane. He wore a suit and a frown. He had no scars, I observed listlessly before returning to stare out the window. What would I tell everyone when they asked about my adventures? What would I tell my boss? Could I even get my job back? I didn’t have enough money to get an apartment. I’d have to move back in with my parents or beg a couch off a friend. “What happened to your arm?” the man asked. His voice was soft, almost imperceptible against the blare of the jets. “I, I was shot,” I said, without looking up from the window. “It’s nothing.” “When did it happen?” he asked. “Oh, a few weeks past. Why do you--?” I started as I turned to face him. He had turned up the edge of his sleeve so that I could see a red welt in the selfsame place where the bullet had entered my own arm. I stared. Very carefully, I placed my hands on my lap, below where he could see. I took a fingernail and dug it into the lower right side of my palm as deep as I could. The man flinched as he rubbed the lower right part of his own palm. “But, your pain, I felt it. What--? How--?” I stared. “You have no scars.” “Not all pain leaves scars,” he whispered. He removed a piece of paper from his jacket, which he handed me. It was a release order from psychiatric care after treatment for depression following a suicide attempt. “And not all scars you can see.”

A world where everyone's soul mate can feel each other's pain no matter the distance.

#cutforbieber A joke that started in the infamous 4chan website. Though meant as a joke to criticize the intense fandom of the Bieber fanbase, some teenagers took the joke seriously, posting pictures of their slashed wrists. But none of them took it as far as Ashley Miller, a fourteen year old girl. One would consider her a die hard fan. She has one of the largest collections of Bieber memorabilia in the entire world, and has followed him around the world, watching his concerts. But, ironically, she was one of the prettiest, smartest, and friendliest in her school, based from the testimony of her teachers and father, Nolan Miler. This earned her a huge following of friends and suitors. When she learned about the "#cutforbieber" trend, she immediately jumps into the bandwagon, without using her better judgement. She plans a huge get together to perform this "ceremony", scheduling it a week before classes resume. She invites all of her friends to join her. A turnout of about 400 students appear, both male and female, with ages ranging from 10-18. Forensics have suggested that Ashley has decided that simply "cutting" for her idol was not enough. What follows is not for the faint of heart. The school administration and worried parents caught wind of the "cutting ceremony". They discover the mutilated corpses of the 400 students. Writings written in blood cover the gym wall, lyrics to all of the songs of Justin Bieber. Hands are cut off the arms, the fingers cut off the hands, and the fingernails ripped off of those fingers. They were used as the paintbrushes. Caricatures of Justin Bieber are etched in the backs of some corpses. Eyeballs, feet, teeth, and tongues are strewn around the floor. A huge bonfire is set in the center of the gymnasium, with bodies piled up and used as fuel. A crucifix is set in the middle of the pile, with a body nailed to it. DNA tests show that the corpse belongs to Ashley Miller. And from this, the "Miller-Bieber Effect" was born. A man with this condition will suffer obsession to the loved one that died, grows insane, and kills himself in an elaborate fashion. Any man who is closely related to the victim will immediately suffer this condition once he sees the corpse, and the vicious cycle continues. Nolan Miller, after seeing her corpse, mourned her for 3 years. He went insane, and killed himself by etching her name repeatedly to his body, until he finally died from blood loss. His wife, after seeing the crime scene, entered intense depression and longing for his husband. She finally died after melting her her wedding ring, and swallowing the molten gold, burning her throat and blocking the air passage way. The condition quickly spread throughout the country, and migrated overseas. Human population decreased massively. Some places were declared inhabitable because of the sheer amount of rotten corpses. The last human to die was, ironically, Justin Bieber. He died by puncturing both eardrums with stakes and ripping his throat out with his bare hands. Please don't cut for Bieber :(

Write a New Apocalypse

That was it then. He was finally leaving. Finally. The words struck her hard, tears welled up in her old eyes. They weren't really old, deep down she knew that. But the crows feet forming around them almost had her screaming every time she looked into a mirror. A deep breath and shutting her eyes hard. Cutting of the world. The world wasn't ending. This was just the initial reaction. The flash of pain as the knife struck skin. Soon the calm would come. Endorphins would be flowing from her head through her body, forcing a chemical calm. Time passed slowly as she was breathing in the small kitchen. Her large frame barely fitting between the cupboards and fridge. A small chord hung tangled in her left arm and up to the wall, stuck to a jack in the wall. Blue and lifeless. She stared at it now, no tears had fell, her cheeks were clean. Calmed down she untangled the chord from her arm and picked the phone from the ground. "Honey, that's great news" Her voice rang hollow in the empty kitchen. She couldn't fool herself, but a fake smile even formed on her face as her lies went through the phone to the other end, where her ecstatic son was telling her his great news. "Oh, I just dropped the phone, you know me, I'm clumsy, I got excited and it fell, that's all." "But I'll see you tomorrow, I'll come pick you up. Can't wait to tell dad, this is great news." She heard him smile through his words back at her. Saying good bye was easy. The silence left after putting the phone in it's hanger scared her. She turned the mute off the TV. Faceless voices spilled out through the speakers. Forcing a crowded sense to the room. This was good news. She forced the thought through her head. Good news. Good news. Good news. She felt older than ever. He was leaving. The last bird, leaving the nest. She laughed at her own dramatized way of taking the news. Of course he was going to grow up. Hadn't the other two proved that already? She sighed. The was nothing to be done, she'd have to do her best to help. A few weeks later she would feel younger than she had in many years. As she hugged her son good bye at the airport, he was starting a new chapter in his life. But so was she. Her head turned and she smiled at her husband. She could see him smile back and a warmth hit her, they had barely smiled at each other for 20 years. Now they were leaving on a mini-vacation, fitted in just for the hell of it. She was excited. She was sad and happy. Confused and afraid. She was conflicted, being human never gets easy.

Write about something significant that happened to you personally, from someone else's perspective.

"Afraid?" Cal asked. "No. Regretful." El replied. "I'm not the best of your students, but I challenge you. I can't abide it." Cal dropped to a squat and plucked a blade of grass. "Withdraw the challenge. You are not ready for this. Please. Withdraw it." El closed his eyes and tried to rub the stress from his own neck with one hand. "It is a formal challenge. I will not withdraw it. Please, Master, make yourself ready. I have no wish to take you by surprise." Cal came to his feet, shrugging off his duster. "I need my second." He called, to the other students. None came forward. "It is a formal challenge. One of you must stand as his second." El explained to his pupils. "Choose who will stand and arm yourself. I need one of you to stand as the Watcher. Emile, you will serve in this capacity. Be the Watcher." "As you wish, Master." Emile replied, combing his fingers through his green highlights. His black hair, straight and smooth, spilled across his brow after each pass of his fingers. "I need a second gun." Emile said holding out his hand to one of the other students. A student with red highlights unbuckled his gunbelt and passed it over to the Watcher. Emile buckled it around his waist opposite his own gun and holster. "I do not train cowards. Choose who will stand as his second and make yourself known." El snapped, laying a hand to a jade-handled Colt. From the back of the mob of students, a single student moved. His hair was streaked with yellow and green and the other students sniggered as he pushed through them. Next to Cal, he was the second worst student in the class. His death and Cal's was most assured. They could not stand against the Master let alone his second. Cal cradled his second's head and thanked him. "I'm sorry for this. You know why I have to do this. I'm sorry it was you who volunteered, Pi. I truly am." "Do not get in my way." Pi replied under his breathe. "Stand wide and three feet back. Do not touch your gun. I will handle this." Cal studied Pi for many silent moments while El's second detached himself from the group of students. It was Por. "I can't let you face them alone," Cal argued. "Do not touch your gun." Pi repeated sternly, gripping Cal's neck painfully. "Do not." There was anger in Pi's voice and Cal nearly recoiled from the vehemence he found there. "Make yourselves ready," the Watcher commanded, drawing his two guns. He would shoot anyone who tried to interfer with the challenge. A formal challenge was sacred. It meant death for any who interferred. Emile would see to that with vengeful haste and efficiency. The four men stepped apart and the students witnessing the challenge fell back to give them room. El and Por stood some eight feet apart with their hands hovering still and ready above the grips of their respective pistols. Cal and Pi arrayed themselves in a near similar fashion with one exception. Cal obeyed Pi's instructions and fell back three feet. "Today, the first night of the of the Reaping Harvest, Cal Bist O'pal has called out Master El Bist K'pic in the capacity as citizen justicer. Master El Bist K'pic has accepted the challenge. The charge as provided by the justicer is to be recorded as a charge of willful homicide. Master El Bist K'pic stands accused of thirteen counts of willful homicide." Emile thumbed back the hammers of the two pistols he held in his hand. "Cal Bist O'pal, have I stated your charge accurately?" The Watcher inquired, watching the men with cold blue eyes. "You have." Cal replied. "Master El Bist K'pic, do you understand this charge laid against you?" Emile asked. "I do." The Master replied. "How do you answer this charge?" The Watcher inquired, observing the formalities. "I answer with a charge of not guilty." Master El replied, opening and closing his hands to limber up his fingers. Por mimicked the exercise. Across the alley, Cal waggled his fingers to limber them as well, but not Pi. Pi wore his gun belt across his chest with his pistol inverted. The other students often ridiculed him for his unorthodoxed style, arguing that it made it harder for someone to draw their weapon. Unlike the other students, however, Pi carried a second pistol which hung from his gun belt near the middle of his back. He was remarkable with his guns, but had somehow never managed to rise above apprentice gunmen. Everyone was waiting for him to die in an accident on the training grounds. Unlike other quick-draw academies, Master El's school practiced with live high impact rounds. They did not graduate dudes from the school. "You will await my count of ten before firing. Any man who fires before ten will be shot dead." Emile informed them, training his revolvers on the two principals. "Is this understood?" "Yes, Watcher." The four gunmen replied. "Seconds, fire to wound." The Watcher studied the four men and studied them, looking for any sign they would cheat. "One." Pi crossed his arms. "Two." The Master cracked his neck from side to side. "Three." Por took a deep breathe and slowly released it. "Four." Cal glanced over at Pi and received a nod confirming his earlier instructions. "Five." Cal crossed his arms. "Six." The Master's eyes opened in surprise and confusion. "Seven." Pi took a step closer to Cal. "Eight." Pi turned sideways and slipped one hand behind him and one hand before. "Nine." Por gritted his teeth and snarled. His brow furrowed and his brown eyes were suddenly black. "Ten." It happened all at once and so fast the students heard only a single shot. Pi leapt sideways blocking Cal. While Master El drew, rolled back his hammer, and fired in one smooth movement. He hit Pi in the center of the chest. Por fired twice and missed Pi both times. Cal did the only thing he could think of and drew the gun on Pi's back as Pi fell and fired, hitting Master El in the throat. It was a small hole, and at first Master El was stunned and surprised by the hit. His gun wavered and hovered before him as his body decided whether or not it was going to die. Pi managed to squeeze off a single shot from the gun across his chest, hitting Por in the right ankle. Pi was dead before he hit the ground. Master El died a moment later, dropping to his knees as his lifeless hands dropped his jade-handled pistol. "Tend to Por," Emile commanded with the authority of his temporary position. Por was rolling on the ground screaming as he tried unsuccessfully to cradle his ankle. "Why did he do it?" Emile demanded, marching over to stand above the fallen Pi. "The thirteen killed were his clansmen." Cal replied, tossing the gun he'd used down on the ground near Pi's body. "I issued the challenge because he was too afraid to. He feared himself a coward." "I guess he found his courage in the end." Emile quipped, holstering the two pistols he held. He removed the second belt and passed it back to its rightful owner. "Graduate the weapons. Bury the dead. Justice has been done this day. Do you have another you wish to challenge?" Emile asked, knowing the answer. "No." Cal replied, kneeling next to his friend. "Justice is done. I resume my academic status and surrender my role as citizen justicer. Let peace reign." "Amen." Emile muttered, heading toward the saloon.

A master is challenged by his or her worst student.

(I have very little knowledge about ants, but this is the best I can come up with.) "Mi queen." One of my darling boyfriends clicked and rattled. "There's someone that needs to talk to you." "Very well, let him in." I clicked. Some of my darling boyfriend climbed on top of each other to let someone else crawl on me. "Thank you, my queen. I am a worker ant that survived the large creature's den. They were brutal, they sprayed something onto us, we didn't only drown, but our skin burned. I'm under the impression that they are smarter than us, perhaps smarter than anything combined." "Foolish ant, they just squawk, mate, and claim a lot of land. How could they be possibly smarter than us?" I rattled with laughter. But shortly afterwards, outside my little den a lot of worker ants started screaming. "They're here..." The worker ant on me clicked fearfully. "Guards! Close the gate! NOW!" He rattled. The guards were hesitant, I clicked them to go ahead. They started pestering the edge of the hole, making the dirt close off the entrance. Just before it closed, a worker ant barged in the hole on the top, screaming in agony. "My skin!" It clicked. "It burns!" "It's true..." I rattled sadly. "Guards, dig another tunnel out of here, we migrate to Gruination's colony. We shall teach these bumbling giant four limbs idiots not to mess with us." We followed the guards as they digged the tunnel upward. After what seems like a long time, light shined through the tunnel. We walked out, I looked behind and see two giants making joyful sounds as they keep pouring the liquid into my colony's entrance. "We'll meet again soon." I clicked, before making a journey to a nearby colony.

A colony of ants begins to think it is not the only intelligent species on Earth

After the yelling I'd lick his hand and nuzzle against his knee. He never pushed me away like the woman. She would scream at me like she screamed at him. She was always screaming. I stayed away from her, but he'd pat my head after the yelling, and if the weather was good we'd go for a long walk. You know a person after you walk with him enough. Sometimes he'd even take the leash off when nobody was around, because he knew I hated it. Sometimes he'd just talk out loud, and even though I didn't understand I'd stay and listen for as long as he talked. If it seemed like he wanted a reply I'd lick his knee or his hand, or run off to get him to follow me. But one night, after the yelling, he left the house without me. He left me with the screaming woman. Did he forget to bring me with him for his walk? He couldn't have forgot; we always walk together. We were friends. How long was he going to walk? The screaming women kept forgetting to feed me, and when she did it was never enough. And then one night when I was thinking about the man, she brought up the cage from the door I can't go through. I tried to run away but got lost in all the white rooms and she cornered me. I stayed in that cage for so long. Why didn't the man come back? I thought he was my friend. I thought he loved me. He would always say he loved me when I licked his hand. Then he would pat my head. He left too fast the last night I saw him, and I couldn't lick his hand and nuzzle up to him like normal. Was that why he didn't love me anymore? But then, suddenly, he came back! It was such a long walk, and he looked *exhausted*. I was worried the screaming woman would start screaming at me and him, but she didn't. No, when I looked at her she seemed like she was exhausted too, although she never walked. Why did she look like that? But before I could figure everything out, the man let me out of the cage! I tried to lick and play with him as much as I could to show him how much I cared, but I think he was too exhausted to play. He put the leash on me. Were we going for a walk *now*? No, instead he took me too a new house, and in this one I was allowed to go anywhere! There was no screaming woman, there was no cage, and when the man went to sleep on his pillow, he said I could sleep there with him. He never let me sleep on his pillow before, but I didn't care. It meant he was my friend, and when I licked his face he told me he loved me like he always did.

Write a story about a divorce from the perspective of the family dog.

Kim Jong Un looked bravely out over his soldiers, three hundred men, the very best that South Korea had to offer. Now, they were just joking around, talking, having good times. But you couldn't ignore the powerful looking rifles slung on their backs, nor the swords hanging from their waists. Kim, himself, wore the next generation of battle armour, titanium plates strengthened with graphene weaves. No normal man could wear that armor and stay standing. But Kim was definitely not normal. He stood at close to 7 human feet, towering over many alien species. His arms were barely contained within the armor itself, the muscles straining to be released. And his flowing golden locks, which he had inherited from his father Kim Jong Fabio, rolled down the back of his armor. Under one arm he held his battle helmet, standing graciously above his troops. Soon, he'd have to command them to get ready for the next wave. "My People!" he shouted, his beautiful voice carrying across the distance, "it is almost time. As I say this, I can see some of you groaning, not ready for what comes." And it was true; several troops sighed, looks of despair on their faces. "But fear not! For you are the grand 300! The best humanity has to offer!" Their shoulders perked up a bit, and some of the other soldiers leaned forward to listen to the speech. "As my father once told me, before he was killed by the aliens, he whispered to me, "remember it's not the flowing locks on the outside that counts, but the locks on the inside." Several of the troops looked stunned at this message, and several of the bald-headed soldiers nodded a little, their backs straightening. "So even if today we fight the hordes of the mammoths, remember that we are the best! Each and every one of you has enough hair to make wigs for every cancer-afflicted child on earth! All of you, from the straightest, to the curly, from the red-heads, to the brunettes. All of you are the best, and no matter how much hair you have, we WILL win this!" The soldiers were now standing, cheering on Kim Jong Un as rallied the troops, the flag with the crossed comb and rifle being raised in the center of the masses. "And so, let's FIGHT for humanity! Maybe we'll fail. Maybe it's Maybelline! But we will not go without taking some of those fuckers with us! TO ARMS, MY BRETHREN! TO ARMS!" ------------

Earth is invaded by an alien race, and humanity is eventually made extinct. {PROMPT CONTINUES INSIDE}

If you don't know my name, it's Jeff. It's not faggot. It's not dumbass. It's not crybaby. It's Jeff. I'm not sure if any of them know my name. I mean, they should. We've been going to the same school for the past eight years. But I cant remember the last time I heard someone other than a teacher call me Jeff. Yeah, I know what you're thinking. This kid's a faggot. Grow some balls. I've heard it all before. You know, it didn't use to be like this. I had friends once. Then two years ago my dad left. Probably because I'm such a little shit. I know. But how could he just leave us? My little sister. My mom. I mean shit, take me and dump me in the woods. Fine. But mom and Sara? What an asshole. I guess I took it harder than Sara. She's young, though. Shit, she still pretends she's playing with dad in the woods. I haven't stepped foot in the woods since he left. I have hardly left my room. How could I? That was our place. We played hide and seek all the time. Hell, he even built me a tree house. I'm sure it's been squatted by a family of squirrels or birds by now. How could I go back to that place after he just left us? Mom and dad fought a lot after he got laid off. I get it - parents fight. He tried to find another job, but it didn't happen. I kept telling myself he was a spy on a secret mission. I grew up, though. I'm not a kid anymore. I stopped believing in Santa even before dad left. I know. I know. Stop crying, you little bitch. Right? Don't worry it's almost over. Sorry mom. Sorry Sara. At least I cleaned my room. I also put that Captain America action figure in Sara's room. She always loved that thing. Better for them that I do this. Ok squirrels, you're going to have to move out of the way. For a bit at least. So much of my childhood spent in that house. I guess it's as good of a place as any to do it. Sara must spend a lot of time out here. The path is still pretty worn down. After that next bend I'll be able to see it. Finally, right? Is that Sara? What is that hanging on there? Dad? "See, Jeff. I told you me and daddy still played together."

A boy goes to hang himself in the woods, only to find a decaying body already hung. A girl sits quietly nearby.

“Is this where you wanted the file, Mr. N?” I stared at the bird-eyed young woman in front of me, slowly shaking my head. No, that’s not right. I was staring at the young bird woman’s eyes as they looked at me with that semi-vacant look that I’d grown accustomed to. With a sigh I leaned back in my leather office chair before pointing to the third shelf. “No, Lucille, it goes on the third shelf, not on the first.” “Oh! Tee hee, I knew that!” Her feathers fluttered leaving several small ones floating in the air as she stuffed the file quickly into the third shelf before turning to wander off. I stared in amazement, wondering exactly how she’d managed to climb the evolutionary ladder at all, but I already knew the answer. We all did, and we simply worked around it as best we could. After a minute or so I decided to check on the progress of the new kid working in Accounting, and I could feel my face growing hot in anger. The camera clearly showed that goat chewing on a stack of payroll checks that he must’ve just printed. I closed my eyes and counted to ten, as I had to do at least twelve times an hour, then calmly pressed the intercom, only to be greeted by a bleating sound so loud I nearly fell out of my chair. “Randy.” “BAA- oh, Mr. N!” I could see the dawning realization of what he was actually doing on his face even as he continued chewing on the paper, his horns lightly poking at the light that dangled just a bit too low for his head. “I was just processing- er… payroll… oh god please don’t fire me…” “Randy, it’s quite all right, you’re still new here. You’ll get the hang of it eventually. But I need you to do something for me right now.” “Sure thing, boss! Whatcha need?” I gave a half smile, knowing that I had to give very clear instructons or else this would go as badly as the paycheck remains that dangled from his gruff lips. “I need you to help Lucille with the mail delivery. She seems to be having difficulty concentrating today, and I believe your unique talents may help prod her in the right direction.” The goat beamed, his bleat still mostly deafening. I could feel the headache coming on already. “Yes sir, Mr. N, sir, boss! I won’t disappoint you!” “I’m sure you won’t. Now get a move on, please.” I flicked off the intercom and rubbed at my temples. I was pretty certain that I’d just sent Randy on an exercise of failure, but I still held a tiny bit of hope that he’d ‘butt’ his way into Lucille’s conversations to keep her moving along. Every day it was the same thing with her, flittering all over the place and gabbing up a storm, which is why I’d hired Randy in the first place. My thoughts were interrupted by a loud thud just outside my office. Surprised, but with that sinking feeling I’ve grown accustomed to, I peered out into the hallway just in time to be greeted by what had to be the largest monkey I’d ever seen. No, I corrected myself, I couldn’t say that – HR had been on my ass about racism in the workplace. He was a hulking gorilla with a suit that was about five sizes too small, a tie that looked more like it dangled from his neck as opposed to being properly fitted, and he was carrying a large cardboard box. What was strange was the fearful look in his eyes and the humble way he hung his head. That was something you didn’t see very often; a remorseful monk- er, gorilla. But when I saw who was at his feet (and only at his feet), I understood. “Just what’s the big idea!? Watch where you’re going, ape! You think this is some kind of jungle you can just barge into wherever you want all willy-nilly?!” The gorilla whispered softly. “Sorry Jerome, it won’t happen again.” “Darn right it won’t!” Jerome put his mousey hands on his hips, glaring way up at the deliveryman, and I had to duck back into my office before I burst laughing. Sometimes, the distractions got on my nerves, but this- this was the reason I still came into work every day. Being the only human in a firm like this had its advantages now and then. Lucille stuck her head into my door right then, her beak chattering away at a mile a minute. “Mr. N, you have a ca-ca-ca-ca-call- EEK!” I looked in disbelief as Randy butted her down the hallway, her wings flapping frantically as she tried to keep relaying the message, but I’d already picked up the gist of it. With a sigh I poked at the monitor on my desk to be greeted by a most familiar and welcome face. “Hi honey, how’s work going?” The black and white striped cat-face that greeted me made me smile, her ears perked forward as she was obviously leaning into the viewframe. “Ah hey Felina, you know, business as usual. Had some new people start, they’re still trying to learn the ropes.” She purred amusingly. “And the swings, and the vines, and the bushes, and-“ “Oh har har, very funny.” I grinned, leaning a little closer myself. “So what brings you here?” “I was just feeling lonely, and hoping perrrchance you might be able to share a mid-day lunch with me.” I smirked. “As long as it’s not that mouse-bar again.” The thought of a bar where you stuck your head into a tray to pick up a mouse bit to feed to your partner might amuse a cat like her, but as much as I loved my wife, there were just some things even I wouldn’t do. “Awww... I thought you liked the Kitty Litter…” “The atmosphere was kind of nice, I guess. But I’m more thinking something simple.” “McFurby’s?” She leaned forward to give me a good view, and I nodded. “McFurby’s.” “Okies, I’ll meet you there in about half an hourrr…. Don’t get caught up, sweetie!” “I won’t.” As I flipped the switch to turn the screen off, I sat back in my chair, stretching out as best I could. Yeah, sometimes the animals were a pain in the butt, but there were some advantages to this crazy world. I found myself gazing at the plaque above my door, grateful that I did have someone to go home too that I could provide for. It read: Noah’s Ark Industries – Keeping Your Business Above Water I smiled inwardly. To think I'd managed to somehow wrangle everyone to work together was a miracle itself, but that we were this successful almost made it worthwhile. Lucille poked her head in again, and I eyed her as she walked over to the shelf next to my desk with a nod of self confidence, but her voice betrayed me yet again. "First shelf, just like you said, Mr. N!" I could feel the headache growing again.

Humans live alongside anthropomorphized animals and they are generally viewed as a huge inconvenience.

"Son, are you ready?" "Yes, father." "Okay. Well, good luck, the family's honor is on you now." The boy was pushed gently by his father, who was kneeling by the child, towards a warrior priest. Today was the boy's second most important day of his life (after marriage) - the day he became a man. In the Ulubu culture, boys became men when their hair was cut for the first time since birth, as having long hair was a sign that a person was not warrior. The reasoning was long hair was cumbersome in battle, a grab point in melee combat. While this seems fairly reasonable and mundane to us, the Ulubu are fairly unique: there are nerve endings in hair. To cut a single hair was incredibly painful, around a rating of 7 on one of those pain scales with faces on it you find in modern day hospitals. To show their strength, the boys of the Ulubu culture do not receive any pain killers and are expected to show no emotion during the ordeal. The boy was seated cross-legged in front of the warrior priest. The boy had just turned twelve and was tiny compared to the man in front of him. The warrior priest was 6'7", heavily muscled, tattooed, and naked except for a large wooden mask and some cloth bits around his crotch. The mask was completely plain save for eyeholes and a carved picture of the sun - this particular clan's symbol. Understandably, the child was terrified, and looked at the ground. The warrior priest started walking around the boy and the villagers watched silently, ready to start yelling if the boy showed signs of pain. Suddenly, a small knife appeared in the priest's hand. The boy clenched his eyes shut and hoped that it would be over soon. It would not end for another six hours. The priest bent down, and, with great delicacy, picked up a single hair near the boy's right ear. He followed the strand down to the scalp and with blinding speed cut the hair. The boy felt a searing pain, he felt like someone had plunged a hot nail into the follicle of the hair and did not stop into the nail had reached the brain and then twisted. The boy flinched. The priest walked to the other side of the boy and cut a hair again. The priest is careful to not take too much hair from the same part of the head at one point so that the boy does not pass out in pain. Six hours later the sun had already gone down and the priest was working by torchlight. Near the top of the head of the boy was one last length of hair, nearly three feet long, jet black and straight. The priest carefully wrapped it around his hand and took a breath. The boy's father said a quick prayer and pulled his family in close, looking at his son. The warrior priest then pulled, yanking the hair and its nerve directly out of the follicle. The boy fell over, but none of the villagers said a word - the boy had not shown any expression and did not yell out. He was now a man.

Cutting your hair hurts just as much as cutting your skin.

"Any regrets?" I asked. "Yeah. Wish I could have see what you've seen." Issac laughed, his blind eyes staring off into oblivion. "I dearly wish I could have seen color. My world was always so dark and featureless." "Any color in particular?" I asked. "Blue. I've always heard people talk about the color blue. They seem to really enjoy that color." Issac had a wistful look on his face as he said it. "Before I die, I would have liked to have seen the color blue." "Give me a moment," I whispered, getting an idea. I searched through the doctor's supplies on the cart and found what I was looking for. The gel ice pack the nurse had provided to reduce the swelling of Issac's feet. I slit it open. "Hold out your hand, Issac." Issac did as he was asked. I squeezed the gel out into his hand. "It's cold." He said, furrowing his brow. "What else?" I asked. He rubbed his fingers around in the gel. "It's smooth and silky. What is it?" "That's the color blue, my friend. It's how we feel when we see it." I explained. He laughed and rubbed his fingers together, relishing the feel. "And this," I said, moving the lamp over his arm. "Is the color yellow." "That's warm. What is that?" He said, reaching up toward the source of heat. He burned his hands on the bulb. "And that," I laughed, as he hissed in pain, "is the color red." "You asshole," Issac laughed, sucking on his burnt fingers. I laughed as well, reaching out with a rag to clean the gel off his other hand. "All other colors are just combinations of those three." I explained. "Even white?" He asked. "That one is harder." I confessed, thinking. "I got it." I cried, disappearing into the hall. I came back with two plastic cups. "Here. Hold each of these over your ears. One over each ear." Issac fumbled around for the cups, taking one in each hand. After a embarrassed chuckle, he did as he was instructed. He listened to the silence for a few short moments. "This is the color white?" "Yep," I said, after he pulled the cups away. "White is like a featureless blanket blocking out everything else. It's blinding." "And, what about black," he asked, closing his eyes. The heart monitor's beep got further and further apart. "You're about experience black, my friend. Any moment now." I told him sadly. "Maybe--maybe I'll be able to see . . . in heaven." Issac whispered, slipping away. "I hope so, my friend. I hope so."

A blind-man on his death bed asks you describe color to him.

The bible warned us. It said that one day, people who had made the right choice would be lifted to the heavens. The people stuck on Earth would have to live through its final hellish months. Few people ever foresaw just how accurate this prediction would be. There had been a choice to make. The ones who had chosen correctly were in a better place now. The ones who had chosen bitcoin, however, were stuck living through the nightmare that the planet had become. A small creature wandered through this wasteland. It was a small canine, a young shiba inus. Around it, the creature heard tortured screams. It saw buildings on fire, it heard gunshots and witnessed people openly sobbing on the street. "Wow," said the doge. "So destruction. Much sad." It stopped as it noticed two people arguing in the ruins of an old house. It was a man and a women shouting as their baby cried in an old, worn-down cradle. The doge trembled as it walked closer. "The baby is starving!" shouted the man desperately. "We have to go to the store and get food!" "We can't!" shrieked the woman. "Our coins may be worth more tomorrow. We can't spend them now, we have to wait. We have to keep waiting. More bitcoins are lost every day, the value of ours keep growing!" The man swallowed hard. "Darling, our child may be dead tomorrow. We need to buy some food *now*!" She hesitated. For a moment, the spying canine thought she might see reason. "No," she whispered, demolishing that fragile hope. In an instant, her depressed eyes brightened as greed once again filled her with delusions of future riches. "We'll *sell* the baby!" she said eagerly. "We'll sell it for more bitcoins!" As the man broke down in tears, the doge shook its head and walked away. There was nothing it could do. The woman was too far gone to see the way things were meant to be. When it finally reached its destination, the doge looked back at the dying planet one last time. A single tear fell from its eyes as it witnessed the destruction that bitcoin had brought. "Lone tear," narrated the creature. "Many symbolism. Much deep. Wow." The doge turned away from this horrible sight. It was time to leave this dead planet behind. It was time to go to the Promised Land in the heavens where the people who had chosen correctly all those years ago were waiting for it to join them. With a final sigh, the doge boarded the rocket and blasted off to the moon.

A future where Bitcoin is the dominant world currency

Dear Lost but not Forgotten, I hate you. I despise and loathe you. I hate the way you said my name, but I despise saying yours more. I hate that you scarred my brain with that stupid little grin. I hate how you crossed your arms so uniquely content; a way that no one else can even mimic. I hate how you felt the need to be a lifeboat during my suicidal tidal wave of depression. I wince in hatred at how you left me so soon. I hate how everything reminds me of you. I hate how everyone still talks about you as if we are still together. Everyone tells me to go see you, "bring her flowers" they say- like it’s so simple. They don’t get it. Because no matter how loudly I scream your name, the six feet of dirt and clay that separate us won’t stop mocking me. I kneel down on the grass sobbing over a slab of granite that reads your name. You are right under me, yet it feels like you are on another planet. I hate it. I hate you for making me fall so madly in love with everything you did. I hate you for making it impossible for me to feel anything but love for you. God damnit, why did you leave me? Sincerely, Lost and Trying to Forget EDIT: Thank you so much for the gold, kind stranger.

Write a letter to your ex.

He realized his eyes had turned to stone. Not still, or lifeless - just cold, and uncaring. Time spent staring into mirrors was a luxury most could not afford in the new world, but Drake had just killed three men, and for the moment, felt safe. So, he stared. When the world had first begun it's triumphant finale, Drake had been a contractor. The work had kept his mind off of his kids, and the bitch ex-wife that he paid child support to every month. He didn't see them too much then, and now, they were gone with everyone else that had been half-decent. It was weird, realizing that you were one of those people who weren't "good". You go through life thinking to yourself, "Yeah, I'm not all bad". But then, all the good people get lifted up into whatever the fuck's up there, and you're left with the remainder. The remainder is not a good group to be apart of. Rapists, murderers, scoundrels, and lawyers. One thing is for sure, life became a lot more interesting once ethics and morals left the stage. Grey hairs grew in place of the once-onyx strands he used to sport. Grey was better, now - easier to blend in with the desolate, bleak wasteland that remained. His skin had greyed too, brushed with the grey concrete dust shed from the dilapidation of the city. Drake decided there was not much left to look at. The days where he would ask himself what he was doing with his life were gone. The nights spent wondering how he would keep himself together for the kids were past. Anymore, he lived only because it was all he had left. He had become a gargoyle, and would continue watching the world for the rest of his life, with stone-dead eyes.

A five year survivor of the apocalypse gets a chance to look at their self in the mirror and reflect on what they have become.

I am the most common man on the face of the earth. Nothing about me is memorable. People forget me all the time. My parents forgot me in the car half a dozen times. Once I waited an hour to be served at a restaurant; they had forgotten I had paid for a pot of tea. I happen to look like everyone. I'm male, mid-twenties, 5' 7" Brown hair that falls straight and no facial hair. My face is neither gaunt nor fat. My body is the same. I wear no bright colors or pure black. My wardrobe consists of non brand name clothes. No American eagle or American Apparel on me. Grays and browns and tans are not very memorable. I wear no jewelry. I find it gaudy. If I was to rob a bank, all I would have to do is wear a sombrero to hide from the cameras. The tellers and bystanders would not be able to give any details. I'm okay with all this. The less people who know me, the better. But there is one thing that annoys me about my curious ignoble superpower is this. Everyone I meet swears they have met me or have a friend who looks exactly like me. The first time was intriguing and entertaining. The second and third time was enlightening. After the eightieth time, it got old. "Hey Marc, I'd like to meet some of my friends. Guys, this Marc. We have class together." I speak." Hello, how do you do?" Her friend lights up. *Uh oh.* "Oh my gosh. This is going to sound crazy" *Try me* "I don't know if you know this." *Nope* "But you look exactly, and I mean exactly like one of my friends." *No... can't be.* Has any every told you that?" I resist the urge to shotgun my beer in exasperation. It's not her fault. I just smile at her instead of screaming and nod, saying, "Yeah, I get that a lot."

"I get that a lot."

Lin sat at his desk, reading ahead in his book while the broadcasts echoed through the school. The retelling of Song Un’s victory, while still a source of great pride, seemed less important than achieving marks. Even with partial focus, it was impossible for him to miss the replacement of the official’s voice with the murmurs of students and teachers. It wasn’t the first broadcast to cut out. Electricity was prone to the occasional outage, mostly during the afternoon. The lights were still working, though. He wondered, along with the rest of the student body, what had happened when the speakers returned to life. An unfamiliar voice took command. It said something about the surrender of the Glorious Leader to an international force. A few students moved to the windows. It wasn’t just the school; the horns on the posts outside were running the same message. The Korean of the speaker was clumsy. There was a photographer a few years back with skin so dark it looked like he had bathed in mud each day. There was a State-appointed translator, but the man insisted on using his own words. The speaker had similar trouble with the language. “You are free,” they ended. Free. The man obviously misspoke. Shoulders were shrugged. Puzzled looks were exchanged. Class continued as normal, less the broadcasts until they could be fixed. On the walk home, Lin couldn’t help but notice that the roads were different. The uniforms patrolling the streets were missing. Buses weren’t running, either, nor were the trucks and cars that sped through town at that time of day. The motorways weren’t empty, however. Far from it. Large vehicles with antennas and disks on top rolled around, stopping here and there. More photographers with beaming smiles ran from person to person, asking questions in the same type of broken words that interrupted the broadcasts from earlier. “How it feel does to finally be free?” one asked Kyun. The girl barely made out what the question was, but did not understand it. She smiled awkwardly and nodded her head, never breaking stride. Lin attempted to dodge the woman with the microphone, but ran face first into someone else. An identification badge in a foreign language buried a metal clip into his nose. Lin rubbed away the pain. “So sorry,” the man attempted to say. His Korean was better. “Here.” He held out a small piece of white fabric, miming a rub of his nose when it remained unclaimed. Lin grabbed it and dabbed off a few drops of blood. Lin tried to return it, but the news man refused. “Please, keep it.” Lin stuffed the used cloth into a pocket as he resumed his walk home. The news man pulled his shoulder, though, blocking his journey. “Do you go to school here?” he asked, pointing to the building behind. “Y-yes,” Lin answered. “What was the reaction when you heard the news?” “News?” Lin recalled the end of the broadcast. “Our classes were interrupted. I’d like to go home now.” “Of course,” replied the reporter, flashing an insincere grin. “I understand. You want to spend your time with family. Don’t let me keep you.” It was an odd response, but Lin just wanted to get home. As the rows of buildings stopped, so did the streams of foreigners. The rural outskirts were the same as they had been. Lin’s house was nestled in the middle of identical structures. His mother was sitting outside, hugging the neighbors. They were all crying. “Mom?” “Lin! Come here,” she called for him. The boy complied and walked into his mother’s embrace. She squeezed him tightly, tighter than he could remember. “I’m hungry,” he muttered. The hug ended, but his mother’s hands held their grip on his arms. She pushed him back enough to see his face. Her head shook back and forth. “I’m sorry,” she said. “The Republic has fallen. The trucks stopped running. Our food never came.” News. Lin recalled the reporter from earlier. He reached for his pocket. “What is that?” his mother asked as she saw her son squirm. He retrieved the kerchief and held it in front. “Only my blood. A foreigner hurt me.” Lin’s mother dropped her head. “They hurt us all.”

It's 2040 and North Korea has been liberated; the citizens are free, but they're learning how little the world cared about them.

The monster, she calls me. The one who terrifies her in her sleep, crawling under her bed, trying to catch her when she drops her guard and take her down below, in the dark depths of my realm. That's what she thinks of me, just because I happen to live in the shadows, to be *made* of shadows. Well, at least to her I'm something, I'm *still* something. The other one, he's a real nasty piece of work. He came in one night, set himself up in the closed and I'll be damned if he left even for a moment. The bastard's plotting in there, I just know it, I can feel it in my gut... well, not a physical gut, more of a metaphysical, ethereal if you will... bah, you get it, or you don't, I don't give a fuck. You've ignored me for so long now, it's as if I'd never been there. Do you remember when YOU used to sleep in that bed? When YOU used to fear me? Ah, those were good times, you can't deny it. Then you grew up, you moved on, you moved out and forgot everything about me. You can't even remember my name, you spoiled little bitch, but I do remember yours and I do know the name of your little one, and just when you turn the lights out, just when you think she's safe and cozy under her covers... that's when I begin protecting her. Because that's what I do, what I've been doing for as long as I can remember for countless little girls, and if you only knew what lies hidden in the dark of the night you'd be grateful. You should be grateful I never was distracted enough that you *saw* what lies hidden just behind the thin veil of reality. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to be rude, I was just reminiscing and things got out of hand. I slipped for a second and... damn, that shouldn't have happened. He came out of the closet, silently, and shifted towards her bed, *ABOVE* her. That's what he does, the slimy bastard, he sucks away her soul while she sleeps, but she wasn't sleeping, she was awake and *SHE SAW*. Not for long, as soon as I sensed her fear I banished him back in his closet, your little one's soul still intact. And that's when it happened, the first time in a very long while. "Thank you", she said to me, cuddling herself up in her sheets, trembling like a leaf. She was terrified at my sight, but I saw a faint glimpse of a smile on her face. It was beautiful. I caressed her head, and I went back to hide under the bed, to watch out for her, to keep the monsters away from her. And she knows now that I might be a monster, but I will keep her safe. And I know that one day she will move on, and that again I will be forgotten, a shadow of the past, the monster hidden under the bed. Edit: words.

It protects her from the monster in the closet.

*Congratulations, Dr Reilly. You are the fourteenth human to successfully travel forward in time. The year is 2118. Please take a moment to absorb this information before attempting to stand up.* Jesus. I... I thought- *I will pause for 10 seconds before continuing so as to allow you to ponder the significance of your accomplishment.* The year is 2118? I was meant to travel to- Ah, Fuck! *Dr Reilly, I explicitly advised you not to stand up. Your body is not yet ready for physical activity. Your action has been noted.* Wait? You're studying me. *Yes, but do not be nervous. You are not failing any sort of test. In fact, of the fourteen humans who have traveled forward in time, not one has heeded my warning.* Ok. Sorry. *There is no need to be sorry, Dr Reilly. It seems to be human nature.* Who are you? *The voice you are hearing is part of a program designed by the late Dr Rivera. This program greets newly arrived humans from the past.* There have been 14 of us? But I was the first to invent time travel. Does that mean that they- *This is incorrect. The first to invent time travel was Doctor Antonio Rivera. Born January 12, 1889 in Sevilla, Spain. Died June 18th 2118.* Somebody born before 1900 traveled forward in time? That's impossible. We didn't have the technology back then. *Your kind did have the technology, Dr Reilly. Dr Rivera developed it in the early 20th century and reached the year 2118. He never returned to his original time with the technology.* So, I'm the fourteenth person to develop time travel? *Precisely.* Why am I in 2118? I'm supposed to be in 2213. *That is the nature of this program. Dr Rivera designed this program as a type of "intercept" for those traveling forward in time.* What do you mean? *This program will not allow you to travel past the year 2118.* Why not? *Dr Rivera had many reasons for developing a program which disabled time machines. Chief among which-* Wait! My machine is disabled? Does that mean I can't go back? *Precisely.* No! This can't happen! I need to go back! If I don't go back to the year 2013 my wife is going to die! Do you understand me? *Your wife is already dead, Dr Reilly.* Shut your goddamn mouth! *Fourteen out of fourteen time travelers all raised their voice at this program, failing to recognize the futility in yelling at a machine.* I.... I'm sorry. *There is no need to be sorry, Dr Reilly. It seems to be human nature.* There has to be a way back. Why would Dr Rivera just trap himself in this year? *Dr Rivera had motivations similar to yours. In the year 1918, his daughter was stricken with Spanish Influenza. To save her life, he traveled forward in time to the year 2118. In this year, he realized that the technology existed to save his daughter. Before returning, however, he realized that his actions had the potential to create a time paradox. Dr Rivera realized that his daughter's life was not worth the risk of compromising the universe as we know it.* But it isn't guaranteed that it would do harm. I could go back with the technology. I could do so much more good. Think of how much better the future could be if we had access to this medical technology then. *You are not concerned about mankind, Dr Reilly. Your concern is for your wife.* Of course it is! I've dedicated my life to finding a way to fix her. *You humans have a disproportionate sense of compassion. You would dedicate your life for one woman but, in the time you have conversed with this program, twenty-three different humans have died. Over a dozen of them from preventable causes.* But... I can't let her die that way. *If you were allowed to go back, you would risk every human life that has ever existed. Do you understand why this program exists?* Yes. I... I'm sorry. *There is no need to be sorry, Dr Reilly. It seems to be human nature.*

A man invents time travel in order to find a cure for his sick wife and succeeds, only to find out he can't go back

Listen up boys and girls. I'm gonna tell you a secret. When your mommy and daddy ask you what you want to be when you grow up, tell them you want to be remembered. They'll be so proud of their little child's drive and determination that they won't even ask how you'll be remembered. And here's another secret: the thing people remember most, is the worst thing you can do. Rape that girl, she's asking for it anyway. Look at her milky white thighs peeking from her skirt. They're screaming to be touched, to be owned. Hold her down and make her beg. Make her remember your face bursting with passion and strength. Gun down that school. Those kids aren't going to amount to shit anyway. Look at them shuffling through those hallways; zombies all of them. Make them pay for all those jeers they threw at you. Make them remember your face as much as the cold barrel right between their eyes, oddly reminiscent of their dumb quivering lips. I know you're scared, kiddies. But you want to be remembered don't you? I know you do. And you can. Just do those things that your parents tell you not to. Cause they know these secrets too. Why won't they tell you? I don't know either, little ones. But if you do have the courage to do the deed, they will remember you. They will remember.

Write a short on anything you'd like, in so far as it ends with the phrase 'They will remember'

Do you remember the time you punched me in your sleep? That was back when we slept in that awful twin bed. We'd lay there back to back, sweaty and cramped, and talk about how someday we'd have a king. No, you'd tell me, we'll have a California King. I'd never heard of that until I'd met you. I don't think you wanted a bed that big, not really, you were just in love with the word California. You were mad about the place back then. I never imagined how cold a bed could be, even under a pile of blankets so thick you feel suffocated. The chill of too much space. Sometimes at night I lay a pillow against my back. It almost feels like someones there. As I lay there under the layers of blanket, pillow propped against my back as a barrier to that empty space, I wonder how you must feel in that little bed, smaller than a twin, with all those layers of dirt above you. Remember after we first got that bed? I'll never forget the sighs of relief when we first lay down in it. That thing was impossible to get out of. The number of times we were late for work, I'm surprised we weren't fired. The only thing that could pull us away was the baby crying. Do you remember his second word? Or was it his third, I forget whether he said 'dada' or 'space' first. I still don't know where he got it. Do you think it was the planet mobile above his crib? I used to tell him what they were and where they were when he was going to sleep. But I also told him about cars and trees and a million other things. Remember how you used to get mad at me for telling him he'd be an astronaut? Don't tell him silly things, you'd say, we don't even have a space program anymore. He's set on space, I'd tell you, from his very first words. This baby is going to the moon! I think he could have done it. He would have made it to the stars. If he'd lived. I got the letter you sent. Asking me how I was doing. I know that you're not really dead. It's just easier. Easier to pretend that you didn't leave. That instead of out in California, you're up there with him, the two of you waiting for me.

Tell me a love story that will make me laugh and cry and then laugh and cry some more.

"Come on, she'll never know." "I don't know.. We've been together for 3 years, it's just... Can you excuse me for a minute?" Adam felt something dripping on the side of his neck as he walked into the bathroom. He assumed that his ears were bleeding from the aneurism Sarah just gave him. She was so fucking hot, but he couldn't do that to Jen. He couldn't live with that. He glanced in the mirror and gave an exasperated sigh. His guardian angel had just pissed on his neck. "Gabriel, you miserable asshole, where were you? I was in serious need back there." "Youuu don't even *hic* you don't even... KNOW dude. You don't even KNOW what I gotta deal wi- *burp* gotta deal with, man." Adam turned to his Devil. "Damien, how the hell does he get like this? Can you talk to him about this shit?" Damien scoffed. "Gabe. GABE. GABRIEL. How is Adam supposed to ignore me if you're not taking care of yourse- oh, Jesus, Adam, look." Adam shifted his eyes just in time to see Gabriel's penis about to penetrate his ear. He panicked and swiped the little angel into the sink. He turned the faucet on and let the water pour over Gabriel's face. Sarah put her ear to the door just in time to hear Adam yell, "YOU NEED THIS. YOU HAVE A PROBLEM." Gabriel passed out within five seconds. Adam sighed. He looked at Damien. "I should probably just fuck her, right?" "Yep." He entered the living room and saw that Sarah had put her shirt back on. He moved to put a hand on her hip. She backed away from him. "Are you insane? Get the hell out of my house, you freak!" He did as he was told. Planting his forehead into his steering wheel, he began to sob. The following morning was the best of Sarah's life. Gabriel was the smallest guy she'd ever been with, but it was heavenly.

A man has to make the hardest decision of his life. His consciences show up to guide him but the angel is fall down drunk.

Operator: Hello, Suicide Prevention Hotline. My name is Brian. What's your name? Death: My name isn't important. Operator: You don't have to tell me your name, but you should know that this call and all details will remain private. Are you sure you'd rather not say? Death: ... Operator: Sir, are you still there? Death: You can call me Max. Operator: Alright, Max. How old are you? Death: Brian, are you good at your job? Operator: I'm sorry? Death: Do you believe yourself to be adequate at this job? Operator: I'd like to think so, Max. Are you worried that I can't help you? Death: No. I suppose I'm worried that you're making *my* job harder than it needs to be. Operator: I'm not sure I understand. Death: That's fine, Brian. I don't take it personally. Operator: Would you like to talk me through why you called tonight? Death: Sometimes I feel like people are eager to meet me, but then suddenly all contact drops off. Operator: Are you lonely, Max? Loneliness isn't always easy to cope with. Death: No, no, I have plenty of company. Operator: Do you find it difficult to relate to others? Death: I have no need to relate to others. Operator: And why do you say that? Death: My job is my life. Operator: What is it that you do, Max? Death: I'm a guide. Operator: So you lead tours? Death: In a way, sure. Operator: Do you enjoy it? Death: It's all I've ever known. Operator: So maybe it's feeling stale? Death: No, it's the same as it's ever been. It's what I was made for. Operator: You feel you were destined for it, you mean? Death: Sure, Brian. Sure. Operator: What exactly is troubling you then? Death: Some parts of my job require less... pursuit than others. It's the only sense of ease I've ever been familiar with. As of recently, people like you have worked diligently to take that away from me. Operator: I'm sorry, Max, but what could someone like me have done to make your job harder? Death: Most people are cowards, Brian. When faced with my... expertise, they try, in vain, to escape it. Operator: Max, I'm trying very hard to understand what it is you're going through, but you need to help me understand before I can help you. Death: I don't want your *help*, Brian. Your *help* has only succeeded in taking away the only thing I've grown to love. Operator: And what is that, Max? Death: Willing participants. Those who would see my face as rescue instead of catastrophe. Those who would not become filled with terror, howling childish pleas for another chance. Those who would embrace me with tears in their eyes, awaiting peace. Tell me, Brian, why did you choose your job? Operator: Because I wanted to give back what was once given to me. Death: You mean to deny others what you once grew too fearful to grasp. I remember the moment you sought me out, Brian. In your eyes were the tears of acceptance, but you, with the help of one of your predecessors, wiped them away in ignorance. Operator: Max, I must ask you not to grow hostile. I have the responsibility to send help your way in that case. Death: Don't you remember? You wanted me. We could have been together. Without pretense, without struggle, without the chase. You, myself, and Kelly. Operator: How... Death: Yes. She stood beside me, waiting for you. And you led her along. Led me along. Only to continue on pointlessly, keeping others with you. Keeping them from me. And for that, I will never forgive you. I wanted you to hear this. Goodbye, Brian. Operator: Wait! I don't understand! Death: And you never will. I abandon you. Enjoy your time. All of it. *click*

A Suicide Hotline Operator slowly realizes the man who called is Death.

"You're such an ignoramus," snorted the pretentious man at one end of the table. "How can you believe something so outlandish?" The man to whom the insult was addressed feigned innocence. "Why not let people believe what they want? It doesn't cause any harm. You're so harsh." He mumbled to himself, "That's why you deserve fire torture." Another man stood atop his chair, as if on a pedestal, superior to his companions. "You're both idiots! Oh my god, I can't bear to look at you! With that stupid mantra and that *stupid* fedora! Neither of you is intellectual and neither of you is edgy! You're almost as bad as facebook girls!" The whole table stared him down. "And what gives you the right to be such a judgemental asshole?" "Maybe we should calm down," another man interjected. "We can all agree, the NSA sucks." The other members of the gathering mumbled amongst themselves, generally in agreement on that point. The man wasn't done talking, though. "The NSA sucks, it sucks, it sucks, Republicans suck, Obama sucks, Israel sucks, large companies SUCK." The others edged away, uncomfortable. He was so obsessed. There was one more who had yet to speak, but he was busy on his laptop. It was a while before he broke the silence. "Hey everyone! There's a game series on Steam that's cheaper than one of the individual games!" "That's... neat." "I have a picture!" "Um... okay." How did this mismatched group ever get along?

five subreddits of your choice, in human form, are forced to sit together at a coffee table and have polite conversation

I am heavily disappointed in the world. Humanity, and all that is within Mother Earth. Not a year ago, the curse that everyone loved came true. Zombie apocalypse. The undead walks and eat and kill. Half a month ago they found a cure, they killed off the rest of the undead, and chaos were restored. But not for me, someone broke into my house, he looked so hungry to the point where I was uncertain if he wasn't undead. But he is trespassing and he wants food which he won't get. So I killed him, but the damn cops came in the day afterwards, saying that there was a cure, and saw the body. I got out on bail, I'm in the bathroom at this moment, ready to go to my trail to be judged by twelve. I knew I was going to jail, all of the juries were a survivor in a heavily guarded fort, so they all had no idea what I went through. But fear not, they will. I've harvested a blood from the zombie a long while ago. I also have a razor on me. I looked at my time, 11:57am. Three minutes before my trail begins, it takes ten minutes to turn. I sliced my arm, poured the blood into the wound, felt it lurking in my arm and eventually spreading all around my body. I begin to walk into the court. I will not rot in jail, I won't be judged by people who had no idea what I went through. I also will make sure they do, starting with that idiotic prosecutor...

A survivor of the zombie apocalypse stands trial for murder after a cure is discovered.

I sat there, alone in my room in the dark. Even though it's daylight outside, I tinfoil my window shut so it's nice and dark in here. Even though it's near pitch black, I can still see the shape of the noose. I don't even know how long I've stared at it. Must've been all night since I hanged the noose up. But the fear of the air cutting off, the fear of pain kept me from doing it. I hated my life, I will kill myself, but not this way. I walked outside in the blinding light, walked to the nearest store and bought off the counter sleeping pills. At the stall, I knew the clerk wouldn't ask questions, especially with the dark bag under my eyes. "Would you like to try your luck with our lottery?" The clerk asked. I thought about it, if I lost, at least this store would have some of my money. I bought the expensive one and walked home. I put down the lottery, and took the entire canister of sleeping pills. It was quick, the tiredness I already had from staying up all night was worst after a while of taking the pills. I looked at the lottery, chuckled and grabbed the changes in my pocket. I started to wipe the coating off, and then I realized... It said I won $50 million. I felt guilty right as I looked at the lottery, it was too late. I ran to the kitchen to grab the phone. But I knew by the time they get here, it'll be too late. Tears starting to flow out of my eyes, I sat down, and thought about the most stupidest thing I ever did. I thought of a good way for the $50mil... I grabbed an envelope, placed the lottery inside, and wrote on the front. "For my ex-wife, Gretta, and our daughter, Daisy." Before I put the pen down, I fell asleep...

A Suicidal Man Wins the Lottery Jackpot of 50 Million Dollars

Jay Gatsby stood at the end of his pool, drink in hand. The party had been roaring on for quite a while, but his awaited guest had not arrived. A black car drove up to the front. Gatsby placed the drink on a tray to meet the man of the hour. "Mr. Wayne! I see you were able to make it after all!" "I'm glad I did, this seems to be quite the occasion." "Come, let's talk." Wayne and Gatsby sat in the library, where the growing insanity of the party was nowhere to be found. "So, what brings you to the West Egg?" "I've always been fascinated with the enormous energy here. It's refreshing." Gatsby chuckled. "Of course. It's a beautiful place." "But there's another reason I'm here." Gatsby leaned in. "I'm looking for someone. I don't know who yet, but I do know that I will be very interested in this man in the future." "Oh? And how do you know?" "A hunch." "Ah, so an investment?" "I guess you could say so." "Well old sport, I can say that I may help you in this endeavor, although I don't know how much assistance I can offer. As I hear, you are a smart man." "I've made some mistakes." Gatsby sighed. "We all have." "Well, I'll be going now, I must conduct some business and I fear this party could take the life out of me." "Oh, no worries, take care!" As Wayne drove away into the dark and inky night, Gatsby stared at the green and hypnotizing light. He then opened a box of makeup. "Tonight, Gotham sees my true face..." *to be continued* [im typing this all on mobile, so I might have to do this in chunks] #Part 2 "Alfred, get the suit" "Already, sir?" "It's always good to keep watch." "As you wish, Master Wayne." As Bruce Wayne became the Dark Knight, Gatsby would also become something. Thompson in hand and makeup applied, the Joker, as he called himself, paced and skipped around his workers as they unloaded crates of liquor. "Get on it people, jokes don't tell themselves!" "What joke, boss?" The Joker stopped in his tracks. He then unloaded his rounds into the worker. "Well well, I stand corrected!" He let out a loud chuckle, and slapped his knee. At that moment, a fleet of police cars rounded the corner, and the officers got out of their cabs. "Freeze!" "Why?" "Sir, the alcohol in your possession is unlawful and you will have to be taken into custody." "Oh, you know what else they say about alcohol?" The officers lowered their weapons, and confusedly looked at each other. "It really lightens the mood!" The Joker took his matchbox, lit one up, and threw it into the mountain of crates, as he laughed maniacally. The Joker ran and the crates exploded into a fire of gaseous joy. The Batman knew that laugh all too well. #Part 3 The Dark Knight jumped around in the night, from building to building, trying to find the source of the distinctive laugh. He came across the crime scene. The bodies were charred, and some small flames were still alive. But one thing struck him: the victims had all died smiling. He pulled out his cellphone. "Alfred, I found it. His first crime." "Excellent, Master Wayne! Also, I've just received a message from Mr. Gatsby. He invites you to his home next week, for another party." "I'm afraid I can't. I have to stop the Joker before he becomes who he is." "Mr. Gatsby also says he might have some information on the man you are looking for." "I'll be there." #Part 4 "Mr. Wayne, if you would like, I insist you join the party." They stood at the edge of the pool, observing the chaotic party. "No thank you. I need the information. And how did you know I wanted to find this guy?" "You struck me as a man of justice. His name is the Joker. I hear he has a twisted sense of humor, and is a master of deception. He could even be here right now, you never know." As the members of the party got drunker and drunker, they also laughed harder and harder. The laughs grew so loud it could be heard all over Gotham. "Do you know anything else?" Wayne asked. "No. But I'll be on the lookout. As they say, it only takes one bad day to make a man crazy." "Yes it does. Thank you for the invitation, I'll be leaving now." "Before you go, do you care for a drink?" "No thank you." Wayne left the party, and Gatsby's repulsion began. What, does this man not know how to have fun? How to have a laugh? He observed the beautiful green glow across the pier. "One bad day..." #Part 5 "Does anyone else want to try!?" In front of the Joker was a cop with a smile carved into his face, and a pool of crimson blood spreading on the floor of the police station. "You aren't peacekeepers! You're civilians dressed in fancy uniforms! You're all COWARDS!!" He fired his gun into the ceiling. "Will no one come up? Is there not a worthy opponent? Give me a real deliverer of justice, and I will give you a show NOBODY will forget!" Batman flew into a window, kicking the Joker into a desk. "Joker, stop this madness." "Ah... Haha... A man dressed as a bat..." The Joker got up, and stared. "HahahaHAHAHAHAHAHAH! That... That is truly fantastic!" "You can't keep killing these people. They've done nothing wrong." "Oh, you're too much fun! I like you! You know how to take a joke! Tell me this, bat, why don't you just shoot me now?" "It's not what I do." "Oh... Oh! This is perfect! You know what bat, I think we're going to have some fun together! Okay bat, what is your name?" "I'm Batman." "Well Batman, since you won't kill me..." The Joker pulled out his Thompson, and sprayed the entire station, leaving all the cops dead. "I guess these wannabe vigilantes will have to pay the price! So long Batman!" The Joker threw down a smoke grenade, as he disappeared, with the echoes of his laughter left. Batman was overpowered by the gas, and sat alone, laughing. It was then that Gatsby faked his death. It was then that Batman became his new fascination. It was then that the green glow turned into the Bat Signal in the sky. #The End Hope you liked it!

Bruce Wayne is transported back in time to Prohibition Era Gotham City. Upon his tour of old Gotham, he meets the extravagant millionaire Jay Gatsby, whom unbeknownst to Bruce, moonlights as The Joker, tainting his own bootlegged alcohol with a primitive version of the Joker toxin.

It was starting to get cold outside the night I danced home from Anna Dowl's house. But I didn't care; I was young and in love. I met Anna on the first day of college and we had pretty much hung out every day since. We started dating after a month, and that night she told me she loved me. I was afraid to be so optimistic because I was young, but she felt like the perfect girl for me. I was singing quietly to myself and doing a few dance moves on the street when I heard a noise from behind me and turned around. The noise got louder, but there was nothing there. I looked up and saw something move quickly and then I woke up in my bed. I was confused about how I got there and why I was still in the same outfit as the night before, but I saw my clock and noticed I only had fifteen minutes to get to class. I quickly changed and jogged to school, showing up only a few minutes late. I walked into my classroom and found a different class from my own in session. I waited outside of the room confused, hoping other students from my class would show up and be just as lost as me. An hour passed and the classroom emptied out. I ran up to the professor and asked her if she knew where my class was. "That class was taught in here last year. It's being taught in the math and science building this year," she said as she packed up her things. I walked to the student center confused and feeling sick to my stomach when I saw Anna posting something on a bulletin board. I snuck up behind her and hugged her tight. "Good morning b--" I began, but she thrashed around violently so I let her go and stepped back. Everyone around us stopped and stared. "Who the hell are you," she demanded. But a look of recognition slowly overtook her anger and she asked, "Peter? Is that you?" "Of course it's me!" I yelled. "Who else would it be?" "Long time no see, jerk," she said with an aggravated tone, "Finally decided to call me back?" "What are you talking about? I saw you last night!" She scrunched up her face and looked me over slowly. She hesitantly said, "Pete, I haven't seen you since last year." I tried to convince myself she was wrong. I told myself I was still asleep, or this was a very elaborate joke. But it all lined up too perfectly. Then I thought about my parents. If I had actually been gone a year, they must be worried sick. I quickly said goodbye to Anna and sprinted home. I started to think about my parents and realized that the last time we talked it was an argument. For a year they hadn't seen me, and the last memory they had of me was a fight. I ran home faster. They had just gotten home from work when I burst in through the door. They turned and yelped when they saw someone run into their house. But when they saw it was me, they went white as ghosts and ran to hug me. Seeing them made me realize everything was real. They looked old and worn out. White hairs, wrinkles, and bags under their eyes, too real to be faked. We sat down at the table and discussed the past year. They said I was technically a man, so they assumed I ran away and for a long time they didn't call anyone, hoping I was just staying with a friend and would come home. They told me that they eventually tried to report me missing, but it was difficult because of my age, and because the argument we had before I disappeared. They explained that the cops finally believed I may have been in danger when they found I was still signed up for classes and took no clothes with me. When they asked me where I went, I began to cry. "I don't know," I admitted. "I was walking home last night and woke up here this morning. I thought today was the day after yester-- the day after I went missing." They looked worried that I had been kidnapped or drugged, but i assured them no kidnappers could wipe my memory of a year. We talked and hugged for hours. They called family members and had me talk to them and apologize for giving everyone such a scare, since they didn't want me telling everyone I just disappeared for a year. They both hugged me tight after it all and told me how glad they were that I was back. Then they went to bed, holding each other close. I suddenly thought of Anna. I called her and apologized, trying to explain everything that sounded so untrue. But she reluctantly came to believe me for some of it. I begged her to give me another chance at a date the next night and she finally gave in. I thanked her and ended the call. I crawled into my bed and grinned widely. I could still fix this all. But as I started to get comfortable, a noise came from above my bed. Before I could react, I woke up. I wasn't in my room anymore. It was a kids room. Toys and posters were everywhere. I slowly got out of the race car bed I was suddenly in and left the room. The house was all different. Every piece of furniture was changed, the carpet replaced, and the pictures of a new family hung from the walls. "They moved," I whispered. I wanted to get out of the house as quickly as possible in case the new family came home, but I found their house phone and tried calling my parents. "The number you are trying to reach has been disconnected," the voice over the phone said to me. I elected to look them up later, but first I dialed Anna. She picked up and her slightly matured voice came over the phone, "Hello?" "Anna?" I asked. "Yes it is. Who am I speaking with?" "Peter." "Peter who?" She asked. "It's me, Anna. Peter." She was quiet for a moment and then the phone clicked. A dial tone rang in my ear soon after. I quickly called her back and she answered and immediately yelled, "Leave me alone! I don't know why you teased me twice for two years. But I have a new boyfriend! And he plays football. So just stop trying to hurt me!" I tried to explain but she cut me off and told me to stop lying. Then she called me a cowardly pig and hung up the phone. I snuck out of the house and went to a local library to look up my parents. When I couldn't find them, I contacted a few other relatives online. My aunt and uncle finally responded. They told me my mom and dad moved to hawaii after I disappeared the second time. They said my parents did not have a phone as they were not interested in talking to anyone. I told my aunt and uncle where I was and the situation I was in. They said they would come pick me up, but it would take a few hours for them to get there. After a while the library closed, so I slowly shuffled outside. I laid down on a bench and dozed off. I awoke the next morning and walked inside slowly. I logged back on to the computer and found the messages to be dated a year old. My aunt and uncle had messaged me dozens of more times trying to find me. They even stayed in a motel a couple nights. But they had jobs to get back to, and finally they left for home. For days and simultaneous years I wandered, trying to figure out the noise and where my life would lead. I used public libraries everywhere I went to keep myself updated on news events and what happened with my family. After twenty days, my parents died. After twenty-three days Anna got married. After forty-six days, all of my family members that I knew had passed. Everything around me had changed drastically. But every year my body stayed the same. After seventy days, Anna died. I didn't know her anymore. And she wouldn't remember me. But I was done after that. The night Anna died, I stood waiting for the noise. When it eventually showed up, I turned to it and screamed. "Kill me! Don't send me back! I don't want this!" Suddenly everything around me faded to black. It was silent for a long time before a deep voice echoed around me. "We have given you a day a year on Earth. That is a gift," it bellowed. "It's a curse!" I screamed into the nothingness. "We have granted you immortality," It continued. "Take it back! I want to die!" It was quiet again. Finally, the voice asked, "Are you sure this is what you want?" "Yes!" I screamed. I suddenly fell down into the darkness and woke up on the street outside my house. I wasn't sure if it was another test, a dream, heaven, hell, or actually my life, but I didn't want to find out. I curled up on the street and cried until I fell asleep. No noise bothered me for the rest of the night.

Every day the main character wakes up a year has passed

The humans were blissfully unaware of our presence, going about their mundane, purposeless lives like ants in a mill. We had always planned to keep it that way - they were a dangerous species, but we did not kill unnecessarily. Some humans were smart enough to comprehend the complexities of the universe, but the rest focused blindly on whatever "purpose" they wished to invent. This environment can only lead only to conflict: between the wise, and the foolish; between the powerful, and the meek; between the blind, and themselves. Altogether, the human race was too volatile to be allowed to broach the boundaries that kept them on Earth. We were tasked with impeding their progress - diverting their attention to other technologies that would keep them anchored to this world. For a while, we succeeded. But our agents in the various research programs were discovered, killed, and hidden again. The governments of Earth hid us much better than we could ourselves - And the machine kept on. I struggled to find a way to continue my mission. I was alone on this world, with no means to contact my people. A singular agent attempting to stop the flow of human progress would be like a child attempting to stop a tsunami with sand. While their advances thus far had been quelled, in time the humans would discover the technology needed to travel through space. They would also create weapons far more destructive than their current arsenal. Unlike those peoples of the civilized universe, humans would not hesitate to use those weapons. They would come for us. I devised a plan that I believed to be the only course of action I could take. I gave them the weapons. I delivered them to every side of every battle. They are still a century away from developing anything that would allow them to move between the stars, but by then the humans, their planet, and I will all be gone - dust in a lifeless solar system.

It is revealed that NASA has been deliberately holding back advances in space travel for the past 50 years. Why?

Their smiles haunt me. Even when I fail or do something wrong, they keep on smiling. That's the creepy part. I want to meet someone who's great like me, not perfect. Sometimes I'll stay awake all night, after they all go to sleep to rest their perfect little heads, and that is when I get peace of mind. I stare off into the perfect night sky and wish on those perfect stars, that one night, one of these lonely sleepless nights, I'll see a not-so perfect star. Maybe it's moving, maybe it's a little dimmer then the others. Maybe it just plain out disappears. Anything. It's not like I'm a horrible person. I just...I'm...good. I get *good* grades, I get paid a *good* wage for my *good* work. This scares them. Through those smiling teeth and dancing eyes, I know there is a hint of disappointment and hatred. They might be perfect on the outside, but whoever said the inside? They all hate my guts. It's true. Which actually, I take comfort in that. It means they're all a little less perfect then they appear. It's a sin to hate your fellow man. I daydream of a day when one of them slips. One of them hates me so much that they do something about it. Maybe yell, scream, or if I get lucky, hurt me. That's my real dream. Someone will hurt me. That might sound silly but if you think about it, that makes that someone non-perfect. They acted on their non-perfect emotions. I hope they snap and just freak out, punching me and abusing me till my body surrenders to death. I see it as an honor and a relief. I get to die, which I want to all the time, and I know that one of them is stuck in that horrible position I was in. They're the non-perfect one in this world. I'm dead and gone and I pass the torch down to them. That fucking son of a bitch has to live my life and probably go bat-shit crazy. Good. Actually you know what, that would be better than good, it would be perfect.

The only sinner in a world of "perfect" people

Every customer and employee is down on their stomachs, hands over head, fingers interlocked. It's amazing what a couple 9mm warning shots can do. I take a tour of the lobby, collecting everyone's wallets, watches and jewelry. *I am gonna have a condo. With a minibar. Shark tank. Gold plated fireplace. Fuck yes.* I feel the weight of the bag clenched in my fist. It's heavy as hell. I walk into the back room with a smile on my face. *They should be through the safe by now.* I am wrong. Frank is furiously dry humping the safe, while Dave is hunched over in the corner, scarfing down 5 gas station taquitos. "God dammit guys! Get that fucking thing unlocked before- I am interrupted by the sound of exploding glass, followed by a cluster of gunshots. Frank and Dave are on the ground bleeding before I even realize what had happened. I swivel around and reach for my gun. "Don't even think about it." I pause, removing my hand from the holster. *Fuck. Not HIM.* The Messiah clutches his Uzi tighter. "You thought I was dead, didn't you? I was crucified for a reason. Scum like you are no longer of consequence." Jesus fires. He blows the smoke off the barrel of his gun. "Three down. Four to go." Starring Bruce Willis.

You are a human who physically represents one of the seven deadly sins. You and two other "sins" attempt a bank heist.

I still remember the first day I was assigned Bridget. The others angels tried not to laugh, but I know most of them did. The majority probably sighed with relief that she was not theirs, but an odd few did try to offer up encouragement: "If you can get through this, you can get through anything!" "At least you'll always have a job!" "Remember what they say - God won't give you anything you can't handle." Bridget's last guardian angel quit. Rumor has it that he was sent to a heaven hospital after a psychiatric breakdown or something. But that's just a rumor, right? *Right??* After reading her case file, I knew I was doomed. It didn't seem so bad at first: "Skirt fell down at 8th grade graduation" Okay, that's embarrassing, but forgettable! "Total nip slip at Isaac Peterson's pool party freshman year" ISAAC PETERSON'S? THAT'S LIKE SOCIAL SUICIDE! I mean- uh, that's not too horrible. I've heard worse. "Struck by lightning twice." Wow, okay, um that's rather unfortunate, but things happen I guess? But the more I read, the worse it got. "Broke both her legs while skiing", "Trapped in elevator for 37 hours", "Hit by car", "Sued by driver who hit her for denting car", "Lost court case against driver", "Cheated on by 3 of her past 4 boyfriends", "The other boyfriend turned out to be gay", "Accidentally shaved off both eyebrows", "Puked on Madonna", and the list goes on and on. Bridget isn't just unlucky though, she is terrible at everything she does. I'm not trying to be mean, but it's the honest truth. I didn't know someone could be bad at breathing, but sometimes she remembers that breathing is automatic, and then she starts regulating her breathing, then she starts panicking because she suddenly can't remember how a normal person breathes, and she's breathing in too much and not out enough and suddenly she's cramping and she's gasping for air in the middle of a busy hallway. She's made herself pass out at least four times since I started the job. Don't worry though, I always made sure she hit her head on something soft. But as troubling as Bridget may be, I cannot help but care for her. In her terrible, unlucky, untalented way, she is one of the most endearing people I've ever met. She has been given every bad hand in the deck, yet she still tries to make the most of it. This morning when she woke up I watched in terror as she held her curling iron to her head a bit too long as she watched TV and the hair started burning. I tried to yank out the cord from the wall, but the damage was done. She didn't bring the smoldering device away from her head until she thought she smelled something burning. Fearing it was the brownies she had planned on bringing into her new coworkers on the first day of her job, she dropped the curling iron. Her eyes widened in horror as her blackened hair fell with it. If this wasn't bad enough, the iron landed on her foot, practically branding her with a visible symbol of her unluckiness. But the burning smell didn't go away. Ignoring the still burning curling iron, she ran to the kitchen. I took this as my opportunity to turn the stupid thing off before she caught her new curtains on fire, the curtain rod already fell on her yesterday. By the time I caught up to her in the kitchen, she was coughing at the thick cloud of black smoke that emerged from her oven. Her brownies remained inside, charred to an unidentifiable crisp. After clearing the air enough to see, she began to reach in to remove the hot pan with her exposed hand. I frantically knocked an oven mitt off the counter and to the floor, and she laughed at herself as she bent over to pick it up. I couldn't help but want to hit myself in the forehead as she tried in vain to salvage what was left of her cooking efforts. She spent so much time on it that I knew she was going to be late for work. I gave her a few more minutes to have a chance to look at the time, but she didn't. I finally resolved to setting off the alarm on her oven. "Oh my God! It's already 7:40! I need to be at work by 8!" She exclaimed to no one in particular. She slipped on a pair of black heels and shoveled the burnt brownies into a basket. Upon reaching her car in her apartment complex's parking garage, we were both dismayed to realize that she had a flat tire. "I guess that's okay, I can always walk." Bridget muttered to herself, trying to stay upbeat. This would have been fine, as she already lives downtown and her work building was only about 15 minutes away by foot, except she managed to break a heel 6 minutes into her commute. I sighed and manipulated the wind just enough to cause a flier for 40% off shoes at a nearby store to fly directly into her face. She gazed at the paper in amazement before wobbling off down the street in search of this new shop. After her brief stop to buy a sensible pair of flats, she arrived at work just in time to meet her new boss. And by meet her new boss, I mean, accidentally pour her scalding hot coffee all down the front of his very white shirt as she clambered onto the elevator. As if this wasn't bad enough, she managed to soak the front of her blouse in the process, revealing her hot pink bra. In horror, I cut the lights to the elevator, attempting to save her from further embarrassment. She shrugged on the sweater she had been carrying in her arms as she hurriedly apologized to her boss, even offering him a blackened brownie as she attempted to dab at the stain with her sleeves. "It's fine, it's fine. Accidents happen. Nice to have you on the job, I hope the rest of your first day is better than the beginning." He laughed, thank goodness! "Now if you could just give me that copy of those papers I told you to bring..." No. Not the papers. She left those at home during the whole brick brownie fiasco! How could I have forgotten? I snapped my fingers and a USB with the files is transported to her pants pocket. "Um, about those papers.." I set the vibrations off on her cell phone and her hands were drawn to her pockets, where she felt the outline of the USB. "about the papers, I have them here...on my USB! I just need to print them out!" The rest of her day went as smooth as it can for Bridget, which naturally means, not at all. After narrowly stopping a box of staplers from falling on her and placing worms in the salad containing cashews in it she planned on having for lunch (which she is highly allergic to!), the rest of the day was better than we've had in a long time. Later on, I cringed when her best friend, Amy, called her after work. "How was your day?" Horrible. Dreadful. Humiliating! These were all words I would expect from any normal person. But not Bridget. "It was great! I kind of messed up my hair this morning, but now I have an excuse to get it redone. And I broke my favorite pair of heels, but it turned out to be a good thing because I ended up buying these really comfy flats. And they're really nice because I burned my foot this morning and they totally hide that! And I kind of got a flat tire, but at least I got some exercise by walking to work this morning and-" It is listening to conversations like these, when I realize just how good a of a person Bridget is. And as difficult as it may be, she deserves any help I can give. When Bridget finally stopped talking and went to sleep that night, I found myself sitting back in the Guardian Angel break room. A young angel approached me, I've never seen him before, he must be new. "Are you Stephen? You're a legend man! You have Bridget Sullivan, right? I heard about her. How'd you get stuck with that travesty?" "I don't know kid, I guess I'm just lucky."

A Guardian Angels Tries to Protect a Person with Extraordinarily Bad Luck. Chaos Ensues.

Blonde hair, hazel eyes, slim build...everything about this girl excites me. She is everything I look for in a woman. New to the city, hasn't yet made too many connections, a chance like this is a godsend. “More wine?” She gladly accepts. She idly stabs at her lamp chop, girl has no idea what she's doing to me. Red oozes from the messy cut of meat, my blood is flowing to all the right places. “So tell me Karen, what do you like to do for fun?” I watch as she actively struggles to keep her eyes from visibly rolling at such a cliché first date question...they always struggle. “Well back home I was big into hiking, I love being out in nature. Yourself?” The corners of her mouth lift ever so slightly as to seem like she means it. Society is built around ritual and expectations. I like to think that I have my own. "I used to kayak in the central valley before I moved out here. I try to stay active so I'm big into bike riding." Unmistakable interest flashes across her face, now I've got her. "I like a man who appreciates the great outdoors..." She leans forward and brings her shoulders ever so slightly together, pushing up her chest, she knows I'm looking, she knows that I like that I see. "Do you know any scenic places around here that maybe we could check out after dinner?" Her eyes never leave mine as I feel her foot under the table find my lap and close in on the outline of my manhood, my strength, something a weak woman like her can never take from me. Play it cool. Clearly she's on the end of a dry spell, her posture, the constant sideways glances don't exactly paint her as a social butterfly. She's hungry, she wants me, but I'm the only one who's going to eat tonight. With a confident grin, I tell her, "Oh, I can show you places." In the corner of my field of vision I spot our server, "Waiter, check please." It's going to be a good night... ---------------------------------------------------------------------- Chez Marianne? I guess I can't blame the guy for trying. Mama always said men are only after one thing and clearly this guy wants to be sure he gets it. Disgusting. "More wine?" I don't know who he thinks he's fooling, clearly he wants to get me hammered. I do my best to look coy as I sip from my recently overflowing glass. A single line of red dribbles down the side, it's taunting me. Primal, life affirming, powerful. “So tell me Karen, what do you like to do for fun?” Really? God, I just want to get out of here already. This guy is so painstakingly by the book, I'll be doing him a favor really, he probably wonders why women are never into him. Might as well give him the standard answer. “Well back home I was big into hiking, I love being out in nature. Yourself?” Unexpectedly, opportunity knocks. "I used to kayak in the central valley before I moved out here. I try to stay active so I'm big into bike riding." Perfect. No one really pays attention to a pretty little thing such as myself in the wrong part of town so long as I've got a big, strong man on my arm, but you still have to keep your eyes open for witnesses. This guy likes being away from prying eyes. It's time to seal the deal. "I like a man who appreciates the great outdoors..." He's been eyeing my bust all night long. I press them together, he probably thinks of it as foreshadowing of pleasures to come. "Do you know any scenic places around here that maybe we could check out after dinner?" I kick off a shoe so I can size up the situation. Fool. He's already thinking with his other head..geez, he is really thinking down there. That's really all it ever takes, a little contact with the right parts and they stop thinking at all. He thinks he's getting lucky, he has no idea. "Oh, I can show you places." He's obviously trying not to look too excited, "Waiter, check please." It's going to be a good night...

Two Serial Killers Go on a Date, and are Unaware of Each Other's Motives

Looking out on the vastness of the wastelands, the newborn Domril took in the beauty of what he had created, and what he was due to create. He breathed in the air, air he had brought into being, and rubbed his hands together. He picked up a handful of dirt and let it tumble out of his palm as he wondered - with a universe of opportunities, where did a God begin? Odin sat in his astral throne, watching Huginn and Muninn circle him, his one eye half-closed in exhaustion. Ragnarok had come and gone, and he had lived, despite all the prophecies, lived to see the others die. The men were gone from Midgard, leaving only wastes where there had once been fields, mountains, hills rolling into deep, river-veined valleys. Over time, spirits had appeared, shaping the old world as they saw fit, some creating life, others merely raising monuments to themselves and destroying those raised by others. At first, he had intervened in their petty squabbling, trying to unite them, in the hope of creating a new world from the ashes of the old - for there was still a spark under Midgard, where life was waiting to rise anew - but that hope had died, when he realised that these waifs and wisps could do nothing to replace the company he had once kept in Asgard. True, there were lesser and greater spirits among them, but none could have touched the majesty of the old Gods. Lost in reminisces of the times when time still mattered, he fell into a deep sleep, and dreamed of Mjölnir buried deep below the ground in the ruins of Asgard. Trees... why did he remember an idea of a tree? Domril could not think what a tree was, or when he may have seen or imagined one, but he remembered them as... important. He had been trying, but perhaps creation was harder than he had first thought... But no fear! He had an eternity to learn, to practise. He sped up into the sky... why had the sky been so easy? The sky, with its butts and moon and stars, had come as naturally to him as walking does to a baby! But... what was a baby? He was confused, confused by the half-formed memories that he did not remember forming. He cast the doubts from his mind as best he could - he was the Creator, after all, so what could have been before him? He avoided considering where he had come from, for he had simply always been there. He came out of his reverie to find something even more unexpected than everything he had encountered - something he did not remember creating. Another? He certainly resembled Domril in certain ways - he had arms, and legs, and a head, but what had happened to his face? Domril had seen his face when he looked into the glassy ocean, and it had been as smooth as the virgin soil he had created. This creature was more like a broken cliff face, covered in deep cracks and unsightly ridges... Domril would never have made something so ugly, why would he? But then again, he thought bitterly, at least this spirit seemed to be alive. Odin stirred. He did not know how long he had slept, not that it mattered. He saw one of the spirits he so loathed, and willed himself to go back to sleep. But it had noticed he was now awake, and came up to him and spoke, "What *are* you?" Odin sighed. The worst ones were those that could communicate... "I am Odin, first son of Bor. I am a God of a time before you came to be. I am a God who is tired of meeting sprites with grand ideas of godhead. I am a God who is tired." He sat back in his chair again, hoping that it would leave. "I am Domril, but I am no sprite! I am a God, as you are, and I have made the world that you see below you! Is it not wonderful?" He suppressed a laugh, and spoke again, "You have not created, Domril the Insignificant, you have merely shaped, and shaped poorly. The world you believe you have brought into being was once Midgard, a great and beautiful world forged from the body of the giant Ymir. My fellow Gods and I ruled Midgard for centuries before you existed, until the world died at Ragnarok, as foreseen. I survived when I did not deserve to, and as my punishment I must wait out eternity in the void left behind." Domril was now afraid, and moved closer to Odin to speak again. "How... how did you create a world?" Odin's eye was already closed, and his chest rising and falling. His final words to the quailing spirit were murmured, and were not encouragement, "I would share with you, Domril, if I believed that worlds were still worth creating."

A young and and idealistic god meets an old and jaded one.

“So go on. Tell me about this recurring dream again.” “Well... as it starts, I'm going aboard this ship, right? It's really interesting. I'm dancing and singing along and just enjoying myself. It's like a bar situation. I mean, I remember doing work or something, but that's not what I see. Just the dancing. Pretty girls in plain skirts.” “But none of these girls catch your eye.” “No, not on my level. There's this really pretty girl, though. She seems to have a snobby family and snobby friends. She's just the sort of girl who looks so classy and elegant that I think to myself... man, there's no way she'll ever have anything to do with me. I mean, there's no reason for it. I'm like the equivalent of a penniless beggar but on a ship.” “But this girl reciprocates your feelings.” “Yeah. She really does. And everything is going along fine. It's like, I think I may have a real shot of dating this girl when we get home. Then..” “What happens next?” “I don't... remember. There's this Godawful racket. Water pouring in on all sides... We end up running on the deck, hanging on the very tip of the ship... and then we go straight now into the water. I've always had nightmares about sharks and shit anyway. It's horrible.” “Then what happens, Jack?” “Then... then I get her onto this wardrobe. The water's freezing. And I can't get on it for some reason... and I die saving this girl.” “Can't, Jack?” the doctor removed his glasses and folded them, laying them on his desk. “Or won't? Is the wardrobe large enough to accommodate both you and the young lady?” “I don't know... maybe... but wouldn't buoyancy factor in?” “I don't know, Jack. Let's forget about buoyancy for just a second. How hard do you try to get on that wardrobe, Jack?” “I remember trying to climb on and sliding around a bit and just giving up and hanging onto the side resigned to die, but wanting to spend my last moments looking at her face. It seemed... bitter-sweet and romantic. It made me wake up with such an ache in my heart.” “Do you know what I see what I hear that story, Jack? I see a man afraid. I see a man so afraid of what might happen that he doesn't put all of his effort into climbing onto that wardrobe. I see a man who feels like he's worth less because of his circumstances and socioeconomic class, so much so that he's willing to die within inches of the breakthrough of his life because he doesn't have the confidence to climb onto that wardrobe and survive to see that romance through.” “You really think it's my lack of confidence, doctor?” “I do. I think it's all going to work out in the end, Jack. You climb that wardrobe. Make that commitment. You have to be assertive, Jack. You don't want to end up at the bottom of the ocean. No one does.” “No... no, that would suck."

A fictional character talks to a psychiatrist about their belief that they are in a fictional universe and they are about to be killed off by the author. Write from the perspective of the patient or the psychiatrist.

Comment to save this thread for later, heading to the gym! *No you're not bro, you're gonna text your ex, and head out to a bar with the boys, don't kid yourself.* What? No, I don't need to talk to her, she made her choices, and my resolution was to be a healthier person. I don't have any intention of drinking tonight. *We never do. But if I were you, which I am, I would take a drink. Look, you spent New Years Eve alone, the fact that we still remember it means we've failed as human beings. Don't be a pussy man, its just a couple shots. The last few days of 2013 were rough, you've just gotta forget your troubles. Besides, we both know we drive better, drunk.* Seriously, I don't want to think about her, so stop. I don't care that I spent the night alone, I just wished that somebody reached out ya know? Besides, if she wants to get back together with him it's HER CHOICE. I don't need to listen to this. I'm leaving. *OOOHH but you do. I'm in your head bro, a part of you. Now, here's how it's gonna go down, you're gonna text Mike, he's gonna pick you up, then you two are gonna scoop Rob and John. You're gonna go down to that little tavern lookin' place and have one of those classy drafts we always hear about but never buy. Waddaya say huh? Maybe after we could head to Taco Bell and pick up one of those dorito tacos.* Look, I don't think you understand. I took a long hard look in the mirror and you know what I realized, I am not even half the man I want to be. I need to get in shape, and take care of myself. And it all starts with getting sober. *You hear that? Thats the sound of the one girl you ever truly cared about screaming another man's name. SHE'S YOURS BRO, OWN HER. MAKE HER KNOW YOU WON'T JUST ROLL OVER LIKE A BITCH. But I get it, you are more....fuck whats the word?.....oh, reserved. Thats fine, why don't we forget the guys, ok? Lets mix ourselves a niiice old fashioned and chill with some Breaking Bad..wait, House of Cards. I still haven't seen the finale. Maybe after we finish, we'll text her. Nothing too weird just a "Hey, I miss you :)" Ok? Good.* NO! I am done with this. Self destruction isn't the answer, it's half the reason she left. FUCK. OFF. I don't want to live in a constant state of regret anymore. *Ok, so you're gonna be difficult. If you won't text her, I will. It's only a matter of time before I take the reigns again. But hey, you think it's YOUR life. That's fine. Now run along and buy that gym membership you can't afford, and choke down those disgusting protein bars and smoothies. Live your life in discomfort. With me the end is the means. But on your path, you will suffer everyday for the rest of your life until you reach a goal, then suffer for another.* ......... *Seems I struck a nerve. Lets meet halfway, there's a bottle of scotch in the pantry. One drink to ring in the new year. If you still want to go ahead with your silly little promises and resolutions, fine. But one drink couldn't hurt, could it?* ........Just one? *Just one.* Alright, one. *Attaboy.*

Your drunk and sober personalities have a conversation.

Bippity Boppity Boom. It started as a normal day. Wake up. Shower. Shave. I never could grow much facial hair, but the scruffy bit I could conjure was required by my employer to be stricken from my face. Drove to work, put on my suit, and boarded a trolley into a tunnel to get to the briefing room. "We have two wedding proposals and seven school trips today, so group A should rotate out group C by the castle at around noon so that they all see you". "Pan!", my boss yelled to me (I don't even think he knows my real name), "I need you by Cinderella's castle all day". No shock there. Peter Pan was always supposed to be near Tinkerbell when she would do her wire flying precisely every three hours and fifteen minutes. It started as a normal day. Crying kids timidly taking family photos with me. The large grin of happiness and wonder concreted across my face. "And remember, you can find Neverland wherever you are!". Number 16. It had been an hour and I had used that line 16 times. "And remember, you can--", and my words were muffled by the sound of a blast and the earth shook with such tremor you'd think Walt was breaking free from his Cryo-grave. I was in mid picture with a school group, Ms. Hubbard's fourth graders to be specific when it happened: the ground started crumbling. We'd later find out that this was result of a terrorist cell targeting the family lives of American's, starting with the, "Happiest Place on Earth". They'd make a statement about it being an allegory, taking down Cinderella's castle is the first step in taking down the White House. But in this moment, all I knew was that I had 13 ten year-olds on my left and right flank. My mind turned to battle mode, but unfortunately for me and my lack of military experience, it meant I was ready to flee. As I was turning to sprint, I realized the kids were cowering behind me. The earth was shaking, our ears were blasted, and smoke was flowing from building to building as the sound of more blasts was heard. Goodbye overpriced gift shop. Without thinking, I grabbed the hands of the two kids next to me and had them form a chain of kids. "Come on, kids! Captain Hook is coming!". Suddenly the expressions changed from desperation and shock to excitement and adoration. I really was like Peter Pan to them, taking them away from the chaos of reality into a world of imagination. Following protocol, I decided to go to the area designated for emergencies. Believe it or not, Disney gets dozens of bomb threats a year due to the occupancy we have on a daily basis, so we have plans for if something were to happen. Never thought I'd see the day. So together forming a human chain, we ran as fast as we could to the underground bunker they had built during the Cold War. Still functional and can survive a nuclear blast. But, being the Cold War, it was dark, musty, and cold. The kids still were cowering, the illusion of Neverland fading. Time to put my high school theatre classes to use. "Who can tell me how to sword fight a pirate?" I exclaimed as I grabbed two old wooden dowels left behind from construction. "Arrrghhh!" A kid shouted as he lunged at me, laughing and getting his classmates to cheer. As he bowed to a cavalcade of applause from the impromptu audience he had gained after winning the duel, I shouted "Come and get us, Hook!". It really was an adventure for them. Just after I said that, we saw a shadowy creature from the corridor running towards us. As we readied our dowels, the light revealed it was my manager. "Jeff, get them out of here we're safe, but hurry!". Now he remembers my name. "Ahem?". I mouthed, "Pan" to him, and despite the confused eye-roll, he retorted, "Fine, PAN, get them out of here!". The kids screamed and raced out of the bunker. A nightmare for everyone else was turned into a child's wonderland with just the right acting and motivation. After the ordeal was done, I visited their class in my normal clothes to see how they were holding up. Funny enough, no one recognized me. They told me of their adventure with Peter Pan and how much fun they had, and I couldn't help but chuckle and hide my green tights under the black denim I was wearing. I was heading back into work right after I visited. Just like a normal day. EDIT: Done! Not the best, but it was fun! EDIT 2: It's a flamboyant Peter Pan, so I took the "princess" part of this liberally

There's a crisis of some sort (mass shooting, terrorist attack, etc.) at Disneyworld. A Disney Princess leads a group of children to safety, remaining in character so they won't be frightened.

(((Note, I wrote this all in one go, and it was based on my own sort of interpretation of the constraints of these pyrokinetic powers.))) What he'd liked about it was the unpredictability. Oh, with the right knowledge you could tell for certain whether any given campfire would meekly peter out or spread into a brushfire - but can you measure the angles of a single flame in motion, swaying in the breeze? - predict the patterns its shifting tips make as it flickers? - put into mere words and numbers the way it makes you feel to espy those magnificent hot blues, reds and yellows, a painting in motion so impossibly hot that your vision blurs and your retinas seemingly sear? Fire is a destructive energy - a disassembling force. To love it is to give in to its power - not to tame it. Sometimes he just liked to toss rubbish into the charcoal pit and see how it burned. You could tell a lot about the nature of a thing by watching the process of its destruction. Building blocks burned quite differently from plastic bottles, linens, squirrel carcasses, or fingernails. He'd thought he'd begun to understand, once. The incineration process seemed to impart certain knowledges to him. Like he could tell your worth by the way you burned. But even then, he was a mere prophet - a translator, of wisdoms so complex they could not... should not be comprehended in their entirety... only interpreted. Studied, but never truly known. Reacted to... Never controlled. This ability was wrong. Flames erupted from his fingertips - but what was burning? They were false fires - unwelcome impostors. Moreover, they were uninteresting; the mystique was maddeningly gone. How vile, how perverse, that he could hold the tip of the flame in utter stillness - move it in slow bobs and weaves that were a mockery of the chaos of a true inferno. It sickened him that he had this power, but lacked the dexterity to wield it appropriately. It felt like some cruel joke played on him by a demon - like a clever half-gift given to someone too foolish to spell out what they really wanted before the agreement became binding. He had no memory of any such arrangement being made, but it was the only logical explanation. What must he have unknowingly lost and forgotten, in some poorly thought through moment of weakness? What kind of fool could he have been, to ever agree to anything less than the full power of Beelzebub himself? His fire lacked feeling, lacked passion, lacked purpose. All seemed lacking now, the mystery and unknowingness gone from life. He could never again stare at the burning wick of a candle and ask for answers, knowing that subconsciously he was manipulating the flame by the very act of watching it. He had been a fool... And for this he would burn.

- A fire-obsessed man finds that he has the power of pyrokenisis.

I never believed in any butterfly effects or chaos theories before this, hell, thinking about it makes my head hurt. It's so stupid but yet for some reason it happened, nuclear war because of a snowflake. It all started in Oslo, a man had just bought his morning coffee and was fumbling with the lid when a single, tiny, snowflake landed in his cup. Instead of reacting like a normal human being and think it was strange, he flung it away. Scalding the nearby lady that was on her way to work. She in turn screamed and fell before a car, a car in which the norwegian prime minister was driving. Luckily no one was seriously injured as she managed to steer the car away but the damage was done, Erna Solberg was late. She was late for the meeting with kim jong-un in which he was, according to many, going to yell at her for not receiving any nobel prizes even though she calmly explained the last time that it wasn't her job. She went into the meeting room and was immediately bombarded by words as "North Korea is best Korea", "Great leader is great" and "Where is the cakes". Sick and tired of the way she was being treated and with adrenaline pumping through her veins because after all, she hadn't had this kind of rush since the last all out knuckle brawl with Jens Stoltenberg for the prize of prime minister. She told them to fuck off back to shitty North Korea and now here we are, waiting for the dust to settle over former North Korea as their attempt at bombing Oslo failed in a surprise attack on Hawaii something that Obama dealt with by blasting North Korea into smithereens. Now standing in the tiny crater where North Korea's "nuclear missile" or as we can clearly see, rock, hit. I still can't believe it, maybe it was all a hoax by the lizard people that controlls the word.

A snowflake lands in a person's coffee in Norway that causes a chain of events, ending in North Korea launching nuclear missiles. What were the events?

A pebble-strewn embankment, rolling slowly down toward Mossy Creek, its snow-dappled southern crest rounded to a crude lookout over churning melt-swollen water. Arlen Hedge-mouse stepped out upon this promontory and took in the uncharted land before him: a stand of white ash and pines grew to the north, wide branches curving up like flames toward the bright, fresh sky of spring; downstream the water rushed through a broken road of brick, the once-patterned pieces divested of their uniform angles and strewn fanlike across the small plain that descended into the sea. Beyond the creek and the pines, just visible through twigs and crosshatching needles, stood the Green Ape. Arlen shrugged off his rucksack and took the inkpen and tablet from it. He drew what he could see of the ancient monolith from his position, the terrifying tribute to the grandeur of ages past: it was the figure of an ape outstretched to the sky, its skin a cold celadon and speckled with dirt and rust, and standing far taller than the highest tree. At its peak roosted a tribe of eagles. Arlen would bundle such drawings and his notes in a watertight pouch for safekeeping, and share them with King Frances upon his return. The Island of the Green Ape was small, a tiny fraction of the size of Willowbrook, the mainland from which Arlen had been dispatched. He made his way across the rushing creek with the help of a fallen pine branch, and set to clambering up the embankment on the other side. Surmounting this, the young mouse found himself at a clearing. Further ruined brick mingled here with large, white flagstones and stalwart tufts of wintergrass; such was the open field that ran straight to the massive base of the monument. Ancient stonework rose 200 tails or more straight up, upon which base stood further rises and a cathedral of crenellated, pillared rock. Even the size of this was almost beyond reckoning; perhaps the height of three tall pines stacked up end-on-end. And then there was the ape figure atop it, as tall again as everything below and ancient looking as the sea itself. Arlen clutched the sword hilt at his waist instinctively. As yet there was no sign of the gods who erected this monolith, although likely his meager weapon would not avail him much in any case. He made another quick sketch and shouldered his pack. The trek across the wide stones and crumbling brick was difficult. Often the young mouse had to pause and catch his breath, keeping an eye out above for circling eagles. But the birds seemed to pay him no heed. Perhaps it was too far even for them to see. At long last he came to a muddy field strewn with bits of rock. The Green Ape towered over him now, its zenith approaching the very ceiling of the sky. At the southeastern side of the monument’s base, wind and tide had driven a ramp of earth up to the second level, and Arlen made use of this. The view from the summit was dizzying: the forest which had taken him a day to cross seemed tiny and snubbed, ending abruptly at the southern waterline like a little shrub. Past this and the deep green-blue shimmer of the sea, he could just barely make out the pines and oak trees of Willowbrook in the distance. King Frances was awaiting his report there, no doubt pacing atop the lookout point at Harewood House this minute. Arlen smiled, and turned back to the monolith. Just around the corner, at another section in the wall and partly buried in silt, was a great sheet of metal, brass perhaps, which was inscribed with the runes of a language Arlen did not understand. Much of it was worn off or covered in dirt, but, dropping his pack excitedly beside him, Arlen took his pen and tablet and began to copy what he could make out: *A NEW COLOSSUS.* *NOT LIKE THE BRAZEN ----* *WITH CONQUERING LIMBS ASTRI------* *...* *WITH SILENT LIPS. “GIVE ME Y------* *POOR.* *YOUR HUDDLED MASSES YEARN-----* *THE WRETCHED REF---* *...* When he had finished, Arlen stepped back and examined the inscription. Somewhere high above, one of the nesting eagles let out a long, mournful cry.

The king of a xenophobic and isolated kingdom makes the decision to send out scouts and envoys.

When the public heard of the NSA breach, they rushed to their computers. They took apart their desktops, ran multiple scans on their laptops and did everything they could to secure the data on those sensitive devices. And this made them feel safe. They were looking in all the wrong places, for everything has a microchip nowadays, everything submits and records data. From microwaves to hairdryers, the NSA rigged everything, simply because they could. Most of the data was utterly useless, of course, as useless as the top POV porno or account numbers of Mr. Reynold's Bank of America account ($3,214.63 in checking, $325.10 in savings, as of 1/2/2014 11:27AM EST). No, instead they focused on something much more innocuous: the thermostat. They tracked when Mr. Reynolds left for work each morning, how he ticked down his heat by eight degrees. The blustery 62° would soon morph to a comfortable 70 when he came home from work, and then back down again. Some idiot Agent actually convinced the NSA to release a consumer based product that allowed people to do this automatically, and the public actually bought it! A fraction of the idiot public paid hundreds of dollars to install advanced thermostats all over their homes, tracking the degrees with their mobile phones, and unwittingly giving the NSA even faster, pinpoint-accuraccy access into their heating and cooling preferences. They calculated how many degrees of change a person could stand before they went back to the thermostat to check. They tracked which hours of the night lulled people into their deepest sleeps, where they cold turn off the heating altogether, completely unnoticed. And so they began to hog energy, siphon it away and hide it. Some branches used the information to buy future shares of natural gases and sell during peak demand. I joined because when I heard of PROJECT HELIOS, I truly believed they could use it to make a better world, to wean America off its energy binges. They could snip off electricity to those buzzing televisions, slowly drain the AC of its potency, but instead, they've used it to hoard and stockpile perhaps the only truly valuable thing we have left: energy, electricity, propane, all those natural elements we cannot truly replace.

NSA is the first agency with enough data to see common patterns behind seemingly innocent facts and behaviors worldwide. Those patterns lead to an enormous and sinister conspiracy. Conspiracy so weird and unexpected no reasonable person would have ever believed in it.

When your friends wake you up at 4am to do something, one would typically expect them to be up to no good. Perhaps an all night party, or robbery of the 7/11, or even smuggling drugs in the back of an old AMC Hornet; however if you knew my friends like I did, you would know they had something amazing in store. We drove through the chilled August night, already miles from all possible human civilization. My two friends were bickering in the front seat, gesturing on the map about which place seem to be the best place for whatever it is they are doing. The car stopped with a sudden jolt and I assumed they came to a compromise. We were at the foot of one of the many scraggly mountains that encircled the town, my friends grabbed supplies from the trunk and gestured me to move along. Finally, after a quick five minute hike, we were on top of the mountain, at the spot where something amazing would happen. It was quick and pretty anticlimactic, the sky flashed a streak of faded snow and as quick as it came was as quick as it vanished. That was Halley's comet, something I won't see again for another 75 years.We all stared up in wonder and then my friends pulled out a blanket and food; and together, we watched the sunrise.

Three friends. Four AM. No dialogue

Some guy in Oklahoma won the lottery yesterday, poor fucker. Said he'd saved up his Luck for ten years before buying that ticket. I give him seventy-two hours until he's hit by a truck or falls off a cliff. What kind of idiot leaves no luck in reserve? I'm feeling a bit antsy, myself. Just yesterday I found a dollar on the street. God knows how much luck that cost me. I'm extra careful today on my way to work. Five miles below the limit. Complete stops at the sign. At work, I and my colleagues try to keep track of everyone's luck. It's not so much a tangible number, we never know exactly who has how much. But we do our best on ensuring that the elderly on their death beds are giving away as much as humanly possible. They don't need it. At lunch I flip on the TV. Between programs, the commercials. Cancer victims, mutants, widows, all wishing what little luck they have left to millions of faceless viewers across the airwaves. A final kind gesture from the inevitably fucked. It doesn't give much luck to anyone as they are so many recipients, but it's the thought that counts. On my way home from work I cross the street to the parking garage. Halfway across the intersection a car barrels down the road, narrowly missing me. He slams on the breaks, jumps out of his car. *Shit*, we're both thinking. *That was lucky*. And then, the horrifying realization: how much do we have left? "Go!" I yell. He hops back in his car. I race to mine. I've got to get out of here. In fifteen minutes I'm at the airport. Before I even get in line there are dozens of uniformed men and women wishing me luck -- don't want any unlucky bastards getting on the plane and killing the rest of us. Perfect. Every time those precious words leave their mouths I feel just a little bit safer. If I don't get on the plane, though, I'm going to prison. Can't steal the free luck for passengers, can I? Just then, the ground begins to quake. Everyone screams. In the distance, I can see people dropping like flies, instantly dying. They collapse onto the floor in waves... headed towards me. And that's when I see it. The little black cat scampering through the airport.

Luck is an actual resource that each person is born with, and when you wish someone "Good Luck," you transfer a portion of your luck to that person

''In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God. The same was in the beginning with God. All things were made by him; and without him was not anything made that was made. In him was life; and the life was the light of men.'' Those words were read beside me for many years, from the black book they called the Bible. Book wasn't red to me. Oh no. Those words and all other were read to other humans living here; yet I had more time to think about those words - more than anyone living in this house really. The Bible was read only on special occasions by the people living here, yet they never stopped and thought about what they mean. Without God nothing was made that was made. Well I am. I exist. I think. Thereby I have God's breath of life, and so does every object in this house. Although I am nothing more than a bird cage, and according to humans living here I am just an inanimate object which happens to take up space and serves only one purpose. Well, as you have noticed dear little one, humans couldn’t be further from the truth. I see and hear and understand more than most. This blessing is really more of a curse. Two weeks ago, before you and your beautiful red feathers were locked up here, someone died. It was a painful day for me and the masters. Mournful silence pierced through the household, gripping everyone’s hearts. Everyone mourned because their favorite bird died. Birdie they called her. She was beautiful. Her gorgeous blue feathers lit up the room as the sunlight entered it, and her voice cheered up the whole household on quiet days. Little did the masters know, Birdie never sang a happy song. She wasn’t purchased by the masters form some store. She wasn’t born into bondage; no she was captured and brought inside. From that day on she sang about the value of freedom and beauty of something simple as vacancy. To her freedom felt like wind which passed through her feathers. It looked like blue sky and tasted like cold water from fresh springs. Birdie never liked me. I wasn’t surprised. After all, I was on her way to her precious freedom. Ahh.. Freedom. It sounds amazing. Go wherever desired! Be whoever you wish! Love whoever you want! It sounds quite shocking to me. I never had those things. What really hurts me is that I never will. The masters don’t know what they have since they never lost it. I despise them because of that. You will too soon enough. As you can see, you are not the first bird who was locked up inside me. You aren’t the second one, nor the third one. Think you have a purpose in this cage? Yes in fact you do. Just like me, you are now owned to do the bidding of the people. You’re here to bow down to humans and serve them. You are a slave little one. Like everyone else that lived here you were brought here into bondage. Into a prison that is in all essence and form… me. For people living here, as far as they know I am just a bird cage. For you I am a lot more than that. I am your demise. I am but an object that causes sorrow and madness. You see, little bird, my last occupant died right where you are now standing. She didn't die of starvation, nor treachery. Quite the opposite; she was fed well. What really killed her is the humiliation and loneliness. Loneliness which pierced her little heart every day and every night. She begged me to stop, to go away. I would. I would in a heartbeat only if I could. You will also die sooner than you think. Me on the other hand, I cannot. If I could run away, I would. If I could kill myself, I would. Punished by God or man, I will live a life which brings you and others locked up here nothing but pain, loneliness and sorrow. I exist to imprison you to a life of melancholy. From now on your short life won’t know the taste of freedom, nor vacancy.

Vacancy. Contest, 700 Words.

"Hey man, I brought eighty, what do you got?" "Well, you have options. I've got a half ounce of Stress, and I've got some better stuff but you won't get as much. I can do a third of some of my better stuff. Blueberry Kush, God Bud, Holy Smoke, Nirvana, Heavenly Light. Take your pick. Oh, and I've got some fish and bread you can have for when you get the munchies, if you want." "No thanks man, I was thinking about going to Taco Bell after I light up. Got anything you'd recommend?" "Sativa Salvation is good if you want a nice head buzz. Heavenly light is a nice balance of the two, and you can't go wrong with God Bud if you want a bit more couch-lock. What is it you're seeking?" "I dunno man, I just kinda want to get my mind off of some stuff. Heavenly Light will work, I guess." "What is it that's troubling you? I'll tell you what, I'll go ahead and spot you a half oh for the eighty. Normally I'd ask a hundred, but... well hold on." Jay reached into the nearly empty Mason jar with "H.L." scrawled atop the lid, and seemed to pull out for more bud than the jar appeared to have contained. He didn't bother weighing it before putting it in a zip-lock baggie. It appeared to be far more than a half ounce. "Are you sure man, that's... that's way more than I can pay for right now." "There's more than enough here, don't worry about it. What's been troubling you?" "I've just had some shit on my mind man. Everyone I meet seems so shitty and selfish and shallow, all of my friends moved away I feel like you're practically the only person I even talk to anymore. No offense." "Maybe you are missing something in your life. Have you considered talking to your Father?" "My dad? No way man, he's... he's a hardass, he gets down on me about shit all the time. Do you wanna hit this? I'm gonna light up right now if you don't mind." "No thank you. Not your father on earth, but your father in heaven. The only way to true satisfaction is through him, all earthly troubles pale in comparison." "Haha, I never took you for a bible-thumper man. No, I haven't prayed since I was a kid, and I only really go to church for... for Christmas and Easter I guess. When my family makes me go." "You have said that you feel a loss and an emptiness in your life, and I tell you that no void is too great to be filled by your father in heaven." "I don't think that's what it is though, man, it's... *-cough- -cough-* shit dude *-cough-* you weren't kidding about this stuff." "It is as I have said." "It's not like... it's not like I feel that God isn't there for me, I don't feel an absence of God in my life, I mean, even though I don't... I dunno. Don't reach out to him, I don't feel like anything's missing in that way, you feel me?" "God watches after and rejoices even for the lost among his flock, for how much greater should be celebrated their return to the fold?" "Yeah man, exactly. You get me. It's not that, I just feel... I feel lonely, I guess. Like, the last time... the last time I really... really talked to someone... besides now, it was with Kara. And she's gone now." "No man is alone when he has accepted God into his heart." "No, I get that, I don't mean... I'm not... man, you're really on a God trip aren't you?" "I am His son, as we are all children of our Lord." "Yeah, I feel that. I just... I think about how things ended and I wish... I wish I'd tried harder. It wasn't even like we had real problems you know? Nobody cheated, nobody was bad to the other..." "Even the lowest among us deserve our compassion, for in the kingdom of heaven the lowest shall be raised up, and the high shall be made low." "Yeah, I guess I feel pretty low right now. But we just... we drifted apart. School was hard, and she lived two hours away, but she was... she was perfect." "No man is perfect but our Lord." "No, I don't mean like that, I mean for *me*. She was perfect for *me*, and we threw what we had away. Because it got hard." "A kingdom divided against itself shall not stand." "Tell me about it, we started fighting over nothing and just decided to let it go, but I haven't... man, I've looked, and I can't find anyone that seems half as good as her. You're really easy to talk to, you know?" "Perhaps you should call out. No call goes unheard." "Yeah. I think you're right, I should give her a call and see what she's up to. Thanks a lot man, it was good to talk to someone. I'm fuckin' faded right now, too. I better wait to call her." "It is well, my son."

while talking to your weed dealer, you realize he is Jesus Christ in disguise. He soon makes you realize you miss your ex.

She was so perfect. It had been atleast 6 months since they had met, but in those 6 months what a transformation she had undertaken. She shed 40 kilos; none from her breasts; the perfect hour glass figure. She claimed she wasn't doing anything different, since she came back from her holiday in central Africa. The number of attentive friends that surrounded her signaled that something must have changed. No one knew what it was though. The coroner couldn't work it out either. She was the image of health; beauty even. Every inch of her supple skin, perfection personified. It was a shock to all when her boyfriend woke to find her without a heart beat, though she was more radiant than the day previous. The death was treated as suspicious. After all, a beautiful girl who'd made an amazing transformation, from anonymity to near stardom, in a matter of months; someone had to be envious. Men would walk from their wives, enchanted in the streets. The pied piper would have turned green with envy at the sight. The coroner checked the skin. Supple and soft to the touch, it was unblemished - despite the families assertion of scars and stretch marks. The coroner checked the hair for toxins. Nothing but the sweet smell of strawberry shampoo. The coroner then checked the blood. The red blood cell count, the white blood cell count - not just within toleration - it was scientifically perfect. He double checked, and triple checked. Truth be told he was sure of his work, but he could not bare the thought of having to ruin this masterpiece with a scalpel. Alas, the decision was made. The organs were revealed; Perfect in size and colour. The body was unparallelled. It was as though there was nothing left to improve. Back at the funeral, open coffin of course, the crowd had turned out in droves. There were men swooning at the coffin side, women both enchanted and envious of a corpse's ability; perfect as it may be; to take their mans' attention from them. She coughed. Silence fell upon the room. She coughed and spluttered and they came running. All crowded beside the coffin. The eager want for this snow white to wake from this slumber was palpable. Then she opened her eyes. Her eyes wide with fear and pain. Her mouth, agape, let out a great puff of orange mist. It covered the beautiful black gowns of the women, the solemn silk suites of the men, even the garb of the attending priest. With that last breath of life, she was gone. Her aura had faded. The rest of the funeral went smoothly, relatively speaking of course. But when he went home, Jim felt the wanton need to sleep, and sleep deeply he did. The next day was uneventful, and the day after, and even the days preceding it. Until one day he felt the eyes upon him. Surely enough, he would find himself catching the glaces of women at work. Huddled around the water cooler they whispered and murmured, stealing as much of a glance Jim's way as they could. Walking the street, women would stumble in his presence. Usually an unknown, at clubs he was approached endlessly by loose women ready to give their lives for him. He looked himself in the mirror. He looked the same as he always had. He picked up a picture from the funeral. He, in his faded black suit, stood gaunt over the other attendees. His arms were too long and his hair was messy. But his face. His face was, different? He held it beside his face in the mirror. His nose wasn't crooked anymore. His eyes, not so sunken. His jaw, chiseled. He took of his shirt. His muscles, defined, made the perfect guiding lines down... He extended his waste band, well, there was definitely a big improvement to say the least. The next day, he walked like a new man. Astute in his conviction and self esteem. His tongue, once quivering at the though of talking to Ashley, was made of silver this day, and from this day on. It was Ashley who found herself at a loss for words. Jim's interest in her was something she had dreamed of, if only recently. She had not noticed him before in the office, maybe, through the barrage of unwarranted sexual advances, he had avoided her gaze. Yet, here she was, quaking, giddy as a school girl. She was at a loss for words. She could scarcely remember how the conversation went. She knew she had to be ready at 6pm, dressed to the nines, but apart from that, Jim's eyes, his beautiful blue eyes, the conversation was a sweaty palmed blur. She was under his spell, and she knew it. The next 5 and a half months were the best of Jim's life. His career had jumped, due in part to his confidence, but in greater part due to his ability to stand out in the crowd. Ashely was wonderful, an eager lover with the fervor of youth, attentive and dependable. Although their time together had been brief, he knew it in his heart: this is how his life would continue. He had purchased the ring. Held it in his pocket for the last two days. The next day he would wake early, make breakfast and slip the ring on one of the roses he had bought, ready for Ashely to wake to. However, he did not wake. Ashely found him, without a pulse. She screamed bloody murder. The knife was further twisted when she found the ring. She was inconsolable in her grief. At the funeral the crowds turned out in droves. Work colleagues, friends and acquaintances he'd met along this last 6 month journey all felt a deep sorrow for Jim's passing. The coroner could not explain it, nor could he explain the deaths of the 150 other random men and women in their sleep that same night. Their only apparent connection was their beauty. As though they were angels that were returning to heaven. Jim looked as such. A body of a god, the face of perfection and a heart of gold. But he had passed, and the ceremony had began. The coffin was open, of course, for all to marvel in his beauty. Then, Jim coughed, and spluttered, and all crowded around with bated breath, eager for Jim to rise. He did, with pain in his eyes, his mouth agape... <><><><><><> Haven't written much, constructive criticism welcomed! Edit: Wrote this all and then emergency maintenance >:( EDIT2: Changed some words and grammar so it reads like I want it to. edit 3: Someone gave me gold :D that was very nice of you.

An infectious disease that gradually makes people more and more beautiful over a period of time, then results in their deaths when they have reached physical perfection.

None of them know yet. There have always been people predicting the apocolypse, the end is nigh and all that. But I am the first person in human history who absolutely *knows* we are all doomed. The when and why and how. Funny sometimes, the privelages we are granted. When you grow up shipboard you get used to eternity just outside your window. We have no trouble putting humanity into perspective with the vastness we are confronted with every wake-shift. But somehow I can't help but feel the universe will feel unbearably empty once we're gone. Blink and you miss us. You'd think, in the 400 years we've been out here we'd have noticed a problem with the gardens before. I mean we could have missed something in the mad scramble to leave the Earth, but you'd think with the silence we've had since then we would have had time to notice the rot setting in. We didn't start the sterilisation of biopods 3 and 4 in time. All 12 had been compromised before we figured that out. I am the last lab awake, tasked with analysing the the scant samples we managed to salvage before pod 12 was finally labeled a biohazard. I think the others in the team went back to sleep so they didn't have to be where I am now. My last little seedling died this morning. We have no more oxygen gardens. I'll have to tell the others soon. Right now though, I'm recording this for... well, I don't know. I suppose you could be some other spacefaring race, similar enough to humankind to be able to decipher our technology, our language and finally this message. You could be another human being. I doubt that. We've heard nothing but our own echoes for the past 200 years, whatever's back there on Earth we're the least of their concern right now. I think... I think I'm writing this to the planet we will never see. I mean, I was never going to see it to being with, but I always felt I was. We all did. Those of you who were going to step onto a new world, the first humans with ground beneath their feet in generations, you would have stepped out with us behind you. The ranks of us who got you there. Except we didn't. *I* didn't. We're humanity's last little light in the darkness and we're about to go out soon. Quietly, without any fuss. But I hope, if the future we will never have exists out there in some form somewhere, that you felt the journey was worth it. Enjoy the sunshine, and the breeze. Enjoy rain. And above all, enjoy the first bud of green through barren soil. Good luck to you all.

You were humanity's last hope, and you just failed

When my parents, the Baron and Baroness of Krasny had their wedding, the celebration was interrupted by a wizened crone. It was the Queen of Ravens, the Lady of Fate. She appeared out of smoke during the ball and delivered a message. "Your child" she said, "will rule a conqueror's kingdom for many years and so the line will continue on. Marry the foe, and you shall be prosperous." With that she transformed into a flock of ravens and so burst out of the great hall. My father swore the guests into silence. For the King was a dangerous man, and such a prophecy would be a threat to his power. He would not hesitate to kill a child. Eventually my elder brother Aidan was born. Still aware of the prophecy, they gave him the best of learning. He was an avid reader, and singer, and he was a born rider. He wanted for nothing, except companionship. He spent all his time with tutors and instructors, my parents molding him into a future king. The only time he was free was on his rides. When he was sixteen, fate would start to take hold. It was on a day trip to the market town, when he meet her, Maria Von Borcke. She was in a carriage when a highwayman pulled it over. My brother saw this, and galloped to her aid. Aidan rode against the robber, and after exchanging a number of blows, the scoundrel fled. Her driver was dead, so he took her up in his saddle a rode for our home, I was ten at the time. When he arrived, he explained what had happen to our parents. They were shocked at such a crime taking place but even more shocked at their guest. Our paternal grandfather and Lady Maria's uncle died in a duel against one another. There was bad blood between them, and they were prepared to send her on her way with the minimum of hospitality required when the remember what the Queen of Ravens had said. The family shall prosper if the enemy is married. So they supplied their own carriage and with Aidan as guard. She had been going to visit her mother's family, who happened to be 2nd cousins of our mother. So say they fell in love is to demonstrate the epitome of the word, understatement. They were madly in love with each other. Two years of courtship, they married, him at eighteen and her at nineteen. It took some persuasion, but a favorable comment about the union from the Duke and the concession of certain hunting rights in our forests sealed the deal. My brother would accept a commission in a regiment of lancers in the army, earning his way to the rank of captain. Unfortunately, the King caught wind of the prophecy. He accused our father and mother of treason and so sentenced them to death. They were murdered when the King's soldiers broke into our manor and shot them while they were at breakfast. There is a famous painting of the event, depicting my father shielding mother as eight royal guards fire at point blank range while an officer gestures with sword. They arrested me and sentenced me to house imprisonment. They also tried to arrest my brother Aidan. His unit was on maneuvers when they attempted to imprison him in front of his men. Terrible mistake. They were sent back to the King barefoot and with an ultimatum. Release me or else suffer the consequences. He rejected it outright. My brother gathered like minded officers, men who could not stomach the brutal murder and cruelty that had transpired and so rebelled. Assembling a force, they marched for the capital. The army sent to crush them instead joined them, swelling the ranks of the rebels. Only the Kind's Guard stayed loyal to the end. The fighting in the streets was bloody. My brother and his lancers cut a path through the fighting and stormed the palace. Many brave men died on those palace steps. In the throne room the King and the last of his cuirassiers fought. Dismounted were both sides, the armor of the King's men proving difficult to defeat. Many men fell. It was only when my brother slayed the King in single combat that the fighting subside. It took thirty minutes for the news to reach all in the city. The King was dead. At four in the afternoon of the thirtieth day of march, my brother Aidan was crowned King to the cheers of hundreds of officers and men. It was not a crown he wanted. Two weeks after, word had reach him of war. Three rival powers always eager for our rich kingdom, took the overthrow of the previous long dynasty as an opportunity to settle old grudges. My brother obliged. Every battle he was at, he was undefeated. After repulsing the initial attacks, he invaded those who had wronged us. They could do nothing to stop him. Army after army melted before our might. He expanded our borders to double the size previously. However, he was a reluctant warrior. Three times had he tried for peace. Three times was he rejected. They demanded unreasonable concessions. So he continued on. Five more years of violence ensued. It was terrible those years. Neither side willing to give in. Calling up the last of the reserves and every available solder, both sides embarked on a final campaign, it was do or die. After months of skirmishes and raids. Both massive armies met. For two days a battle of gigantic proportions was raged. The dead littered the field, the cries of the wounded and dying echoing in the night. It was on the second day my brother sought to end this bloody war forever. Summoning up the last of his cavalry divisions, he aimed them towards the flags of the leadership of the allied army, lead by New Visby's Prince Ivan, heir to the throne. He was almost successful. Unfortunately, a crack unit of cuirassiers was waiting beyond the rise of the hill. Prince Ivan and my brother met on the field of battle. I was present at the battle, I was tending to the injured with other noble women. I could not see anything but smoke and dust except for the occasional gust of wind which would wipe a section of the smoke away to reveal a scene of killing and dying. I did not see Prince Ivan lay low my brother. It was only when six of his lancers returned with his body that I learned. I was distraught, overcome with grief. It was he who supported me, telling me it would be alright. He was a prisoner, captured when his infantry square fell to the 16th Dragoons' charge. He was Vasily Ivanovich, youngest brother to Prince Ivan. Though hardly the time, I was spell bound by him. Despite him being filthy and bloody from carrying wounded. The battle ended that day, and so did the war. The allied army being too mangled and battered to press on. So they proclaimed me Queen and allow us to keep our captured territory, with the agreement to take no more land. I was completely fine with this. Prince Vasily would come to visit me and after years of courting we were married, ending any distrust both sides may have had. We have four children. The prophecy was indeed true. But my brother did not live to enjoy it. I rule the Kingdom he conquered, and I wedded the brother of his final foe. Though I am adored by my subjects, and my land is free. I'd much rather have my brother as he used to be.

A girl and her brother grow up believing he is a prophesied "Chosen One". She discovers the prophecy was about her.

Thinking back to when I first saw him, I'm not sure which was more ancient; the relics he sold me or the look in his eyes. His face was covered in almost as many scars as his armor: Scratches, burns, punctures. "What can I do for you, sir?" I asked. "Could I interest you in a potion? It will cure all that ails you." My meager wares were spread out on the table before me, but surely I had nothing that would interest this great warrior. "No... I just want to know how much these are worth." He asked, opening his rucksack. I couldn't believe my eyes... there were potions that glittered all colors of the rainbow, teeth and scales from creatures only heard of in myths and legends, a helmet made of the finest, most precious metals, and even more... "I can't possibly buy all this," I told the adventurer. "Even if I had all the gold I've ever earned in my life, I could only afford a handful of these." The hero shrugged. "Then take what you can afford, and I will move on." I picked a few of the more valuable oddities, and exchanged them with this man for gold. "But why would you sell these? Are you not a great adventurer? Are these not useful to you?" There was a moment of silence before he answered. "I'm...retiring. I've found there are some things in this world more valuable than magic trinkets." And with that, he bid me farewell, and went on his way. Later, I was looking over the items I bought from him. One particularly caught my eye... a locket, gold, but badly burnt. I opened it. Inside was a picture of a dazzling young woman, with sparkling black hair and a smile like the sun. I flipped over the picture, and on the back it only read: *" 'Til death do us part. "*

A realistic exchange between a video game character selling his extremely powerful magical items/weapons to NPCs

Previously on "Attack of the fifty foot Hippopotamus." *A colossal dark shadow looms over dozens of screaming citizens as they flee in pure terror. Over their screams we hear a loud roar. The camera momentarily zooms in on a woman as she turns to look down the street.*. **Woman**: Oh no! It's a fifty foot hippopotamus! And it's attacking us! *A man quickly jumps out of his car just before a pale grey leg squashes it. The camera pans up to the hippopotamus' face, (unless the CGI budget got canceled again, in which case the camera pans ominously down the street showing us the destruction).* *Cut to a shot of the president striding down the corridor , a number of advisors bustling around him.* **Advisor 1**: Mr. President, the fifty foot hippopotamus has attacked Las Vegas, Los Angeles, and is heading towards Seattle. **President**: Have we tried nuking it? **Advisor 1**: Of course sir. **President**: And? **Advisor 1**: Only civilian casualties sir. **President**: Damn it. **Advisor 2**: There is of course, another option. **President**: And what is that? *Advisor 2 hands the President a folder with TOP SECRET stamped across the front. The President slides the paper out and we see that it reads OPERATION ELEPHANT. The President wordlessly looks at Advisor 2, deep in thought.* *Cut to Johnny standing on a hill overlooking a town the fifty foot hippopotamus just attacked. He is wearing a leather jacket and tinted sunglasses. Behind him his love interest, Jennifer, looks on.* **Jennifer**: Johnny, please don't do this! What if the fifty foot hippopotamus attacks you? What about me? What about us? **Johnny**: I'm sorry babe, but I gotta do it, you know that. Just promise me one thing. **Jennifer**: Anything. **Johnny**: Never stop loving me. *Jennifer nods, tears running down her cheeks. Johnny hops on his motorbike, revs it and looks across the city.*. **Johnny**: I got a feeling this hippo... *He whips off his sunglasses* ...is about to be hippowned. *The show's theme music begins as the camera pans away from Johnny riding towards the ruined city.* -004

Recap sequence ("Previously on...") for a TV show that doesn't exist (1000 words max).

As Bob chopped his way through the dense brush of the jungle, he knew that he was on a fool's errand. He would never be able to save her. "Fuck you, okay? Can you just let me do this? How does this even concern you?" Bob continued to talk to himself like an idiot as he pushed forward. He almost stepped on a snake back there. That would have been cool. "I'm not listening to you anymore. Asshole..." Anna was not too far ahead of him. Soon, he would find her. In the clearing. Dead. "You don't know that! Just shut up and let me be!" Bob had never been the type to listen to reason. In fact, he had made more stupid mistakes than anyone else in his family. He continued this pattern of failure by chasing a dead piece of tail through the jungle. This mistake would be the worst of all. This mistake would be the one that finally kills Bob. The question is how... "Go to hell! What do you even do? Just get in people's heads and make fucking judgements? Who are you to tell me my fate?" By this point, Bob had vented all of his frustrations and decided to shut his stupid- "NO! I will not! I'm not going to let you talk about Anna that way! You can count on this: I will fucking find you. I will figure out how you're doing this, and I will make you regret every single word." Bob was confident, but he knew deep down that he was just flexing, puffing up like a blowfish and trying to be intimidating for the first time in his life. He knew that it wasn't working. But he saw the clearing up ahead and knew that it wasn't worth arguing anymore. "This is NOT over." Bob knew that it was. He saw her in the middle of that clearing, dead. Could the big, bad narrator have been right? What are the odds of *that?* Bob rushed over to her cold body and cried like a baby. He felt like an idiot. He should have listened to the voice in his head. The voice of truth. The voice of reas- "How did she die, you fucking monster?! You killed her, didn't you? How could you possibly have known? Why have you led me here? So you could rub it in? 'Haha I killed your girlfriend'? Is that it?" Bob's speech was very impressive, even with snot dripping down his fat face. He felt some of his anger melt away as he thought about the events of the past few days. It finally occurred to him that there was a gap in his memory. Even Bob wasn't dumb enough to think Wednesday comes after Monday. But what on Earth could have happened Tuesday? Now Bob was certainly intrigued. He just couldn't figure out that he was with me on Tuesday. He also didn't know that it wasn't me that killed Anna. It was him. "You fucking... liar..." The memories came flooding back into his pathetic little brain. He cried some more. It was actually very funny to watch. "Who *are* you?" A crack opened below Bob, and he fell down, screaming. Bob, my name is Lucifer, and you are about to meet me again.

The main character of a adventure story can hear the narrator.

Technically, because not one single woman was ever interested in me before I returned to Earth, an infinitely higher multiple of women are now incredibly interested in my genitals. My first inkling of my newfound popularity was the welcome wagon of 20 million women at the military airport where my lander touched down. I emerged from the cramped confines of the pod sweaty and with a harsh headache and feeling like my stomach was about to make a speech when cheers of enough young single girls to fill a small nation boomed around me. My eyes were still adjusting to the light but I could've sworn most of them were naked. The first few to get to me wrapped their arms around me and screamed in joy. I was of course a little stunned by this, it being a far cry from the moody air force cadets I was expecting to show me back to the hanger for debriefing. Next hundreds began to surround me and push me into a massive ball of flesh and excitement and confusion. I suppose the women near me figured that they didn't want me to be crushed so they held the other back and cleared space around me. When the screaming began to die down one of them started to explain to me what was going on. Long story short, I've been the last man on Earth for about 6 months, and some ladies can't handle a dry spell for that long. It's been three days and, not counting the 5 girls, yes 5, that currently occupy me, and I mean CURRENTLY, I've been with 134 women so far, all in groups. I've of course had to pace myself, eat and drink appropriately, take brakes every few hours, get a few hours of sleep each day. While they were awaiting my arrival they set up a very impressive que system so that each woman could have a chance. Older women first, moving progressively younger until once nearing the end of my 4 billion woman assignment, those that are infants now would be between 20 and 30 years of age. Kinda creepy if you think about it. But I have no time for thinking anymore. I am a human pleasure machine. All these women say I'm going to save the human race. Those that have volunteered for childbirth I shall impregnate and soon men will return to earth. I just hope I can make the most of my current situation before they find out about my vasectomy.

A disease killed all persons of your sex while you were on a spatial mission. You come back to earth to be the last male/female alive. Make it funny!

"Pass it, nigga." Sal passed the pipe to Alison and she took it clumsily. She fumbled for her lighter until finding it under her discarded shirt. "This isn't right..." George said with a sigh as Alison lit the pipe and Sal plucked aimlessly at the guitar making sounds that no one heard. "Did you guys even hear me? We need to tell people." George repeated more directly. "Hey, man..." Cali suddenly answered with her eyes still closed. "You're not doing much for our buzz, man. You mind going and being moral over there, maybe?" She gestured limply towards the black woods. George became annoyed. "You're all high. It's the end of the fucking world and you're all high what is wrong with you." Sal responded without taking his gaze from the fire. "It's not the end of the world, man. Just another crazy fucking message that don't mean anything." He turned to face George. "And if it were the end of the damn world then gettin' high is exactly what you should be doin'." "He's right." Cali said with a cough. "What better way to die than stoned out your goddamned mind, man." Alison was about to say something but was still holding in the smoke. She coughed it out and nearly threw up. George looked back at the fire and then the sky. After a few moments Sal spoke again. "If it were the end of the world than wouldn't like, the stock market be crashin' and shit? Like, people would be freaked out right? They say the stock market is a good determinate for how people feel generally." George didn't bother responding this time. Cali spoke again. "Lay off him, babe. He's just scared." George answered angrily. "I am not scared. I'm annoyed that you all are being pricks about this whole thing." Alison replied, "You don't call me prick little bitch. I'm living my life and you... can.. " she trailed off and lit her pipe again. Sal turned to Alison. "Okay I think you had enough, girl." "It's the enda the fucking world, Sal. There is no 'enough'." She responded before lighting the pipe. Cali, still not moving, addressed George. "Just cool down, man. It's really not that big a deal. So the world is ending. Great. All gonna die someday. Might as well be in a big fucking fireball." George responded, "But we've got to tell at least somebody. People should know." "Why?" Cali exclaimed. "Why should anyone get the privilege of knowing when they're gonna die. People die every single day and they never have any warning so why should anybody else. The only reason that we know is cause we found out accidentally. And we deserve to have something to ourselves every once in a while." George replied, "Well there isn't going to be any more 'once in a while's." Cali opened her eyes. "Why can't you just be fucking happy like the rest of us." She uncrossed her arms and pointed to Sal and Alison. "You know why none of us are freaking out? Because there's no reason to anymore. There's no reason to freak out about anything anymore. Because it's all going away and nothing matters anymore. So why worry?" George's face dropped. Cali continued, "Just sit down, stop bitching and fucking get high like the rest of us." She slumped back down, recrossed her arms and closed her eyes again. They sat in silence for a while. Finally George could no longer contain himself. He looked over to see that both Alison and Sal were asleep. He whispered Sal's name to make sure he didn't respond. "Cali." He said. "What." "I've got something to tell you." "I know." "Oh." "You have a crush on me." "Ya." They sat. "I'm sorry I couldn't tell you earlier." "Don't be. I said to stop worrying about stuff." "Actually, I think I might be in love with you." "Okay. Fine." "I just needed to tell you." "Fine." They sat. They all sat in silence for a long while before the rumbling began. Cali opened her eyes and looked around to see the others all asleep. Then the sky cracked above them as a bright flash broke through the black and illuminated the woods around them. George awoke shouting and gaped up at the blinding sky. He looked at Cali and she looked at him. They looked for a long time. Then the fire went out.

The world ends at three AM. Only four teenagers know, but tell nobody. They spend their last night together.

It was just a look in the doctors eyes that gave it away. It couldn't be happening. I couldn't be infected. How did this happen? Does that mean we all were infected, and it was only a matter of time? I was changing, mutating. Stupid infectious disease, causing us to hide. Soon I'm going to want to kill everyone here, the doctor, my cousin, my older brother, even Jared. And all out of fear. I don't want to kill Jared. *Hide, just hide,* I wanted to say. But my fear was rising in my throat. I knew that they wouldn't understand anyway. I knew I had to run first. If I left them, I might just save their lives. So that's what I did. I gave one last sympathetic look to them, and bolted out the door. Few of us still lived. If you could call it living. But once infected, everything changes, your mind, words. Even the way you carried yourself. So many different things mattered. As I was running, my own skin became revolting to me. But, soon the smell would go away. I began to run faster. I had to keep Jared safe. If it was the last thing I did before I entered the world of immortality. Humans, they die so quickly. And I was becoming one.

Instead of humans hiding from the zombies, zombies are hiding from the humans.

Drip. Drip. Drip. It's the only sound I can hear. The room is black as night and quiet as a church mouse. A rusted, leaky faucet is the only thing that reminds me my ear drums work. The molded box. 10 matches. 4 work. I have 2 left. Without one of them lit, I can't even see my hands. With them lit I can see just to the faucet. There's been others here. I know it. Scratch marks on the wall, writings with tiny pieces of chalk. People writing for help, remembrance, salvation. One man wrote his own memoir. John Tannenburg Simpson. Age 38. Caucasian. Loving father, forgotten son. May God Rest His Soul. John's dried blood paints the ground around me. I'm guessing I'm next. I'm shaking and afraid as the flame swallows the wood and runs down to an ember. 2 matches left. I stand up. The door is bolted shut. The rusted-brown chain around my leg hinders most movement. I pick up some chalk. What do I write? I wonder how I got here. I was walking down Pine Avenue, on the phone with our insurance agent. My life insurance policy had been renewed, to a much larger extent than I had agreed..fuck. I write, "I'm worth $120,000" on the wall. Maybe I'll just sit her and linger for a few weeks, in darkness, until the insurance runs dry. Then I'll be let out with a new name, a scraggly beard to hide my identity. 1 match. Drip. The fucking sink. I walk over to the rusted old bucket to turn the faucet off. I stare at the thing. For a little sink, it carries a..dark presence. I reach down to turn the nozzle. I nearly rip the damn thing off. My match is embers. Suddenly, a decrepit hand reaches from the darkness to silence the flame once and for all. The room fills with black. Drip.

A man awakens with no memory, he is inside a small dark room with only a candle and a single pack of matches and strange writings on the walls.

Pah! Of course that scallywag had manufactured a reason to delay our gentlemanly fight to the death. Zombies! What a silly excuse, and no doubt made up so that he would have time to change his urine-stained pantaloons. Surely he was now quaking in fear as he walked toward my location, toward *me*, the bringer of his demise. No matter. I would simply wait, and upon his arrival, I would greet him politely, insult his mother, turn my back, walk ten paces, suddenly reverse and fire a round into the space between his eyebrows. But zombies? Of all the excuses he could have come up with, *zombies*? This made me only more determined, that yes, today would finally be the day that Ezekiel Poppentotham would come to an end, at the hands of none other than I, Cornelius Bartholomew Brentington! He finally arrived a full half hour after the time at which we had arranged to meet. He seemed out of breath, like he had been running from someone. Good, it would make him easier to finish off. "Ah, Ezekiel!" I said, sweeping my arms in a grand gesture. "So kind of you to finally show up! I had grown tired of cleaning my musket while waiting for you. As always, you were late, once again." "B-b-b-b-be..." He trailed off. "Ah, stuttering, are you now? Why, I bet even your old twat of a mother would be ashamed. I shall now make you aware of the more unpleasant qualities of your mother. Your mother has accumulated such a gross excess of spare flesh that peasants attempt to use her excess flesh as a method of warmth to protect themselves in the cold winter night! Haha!" He was quaking now, extending his finger at something in the distance, his eyes full of fear. "B-b-b-b... Z-z-z-z..." Oh, I had a stake in him yet, and I would continue driving in insults until he broke. "Yes, your mother," I loudly proclaimed, "is so lacking in brains that she ate crumpets... without *tea*!" I could no longer contain myself at this, and guffawed heartily. The wit of Cornelius Bartholomew Brentington could be matched by no man! "Your mother," I continued, "possesses such destestably grotesque facial features that she makes even blind men shed tears! Oh ho ho! What say, you Ezekiel? Do you continue to stutter and splutter?" "B-be-be..." Ah, it looked like the buffoon was trying to concoct a complete thought. "Be-behind you..." I turned slowly and became suddenly enlightened as to the true reason for Ezekiel's quaking and stuttering. A rotting corpse turned to me, opened its mouth and mumbled, "Ah, but if only you had listened to your friend, you would have been saved. We may not be capable of running quickly, but we are so close to you now that attempting to flee from us would be futile. Our ranks have surrounded you. Your friend Ezekiel may have escaped, but you, my friend, shall join us." With that, the mutilated corpse suddenly lunged forward, and, with its teeth, tore of a great portion of my left cheek. The pain, however, was only momentary. Soon after, I was compelled by only one desire. I would find Ezekiel Poppentotham. And I would feast upon his brains. (New Years Challenge - 003)

A gentlemanly duel to the death is postponed on account of zombies. Posh British accents, stiff upper lips and outrageous bragging ensue.

Shit shit shit! This is bad. I just stepped in the door of my apartment and fuck me sideways if I don't have diarrhea only comparable to Old Faithful. I damn well don't want infinite toilet seats. A lifetime supply of toilet paper wouldn't be awful but I'd feel like an idiot. FUCKING TACO BELL. Gordida Crunch gets me every time. I frantically look around the house. Never ending TV's? Nah that thing is a piece of shit. Donuts? I could open a new pastry shop and quit my shitty job. Damn! Gotta stop thinking about shit. I'm literally starting to sweat as I clench my butt cheeks tighter than a nun in Reno. BINGO MOTHER FUCKER. I just struck gold. Literally. My gold necklace is upstairs on my bed. Endless gold doesn't sound too bad. I'll just keep pawning it off. Early retirement here I come! Fuck. I swear there are more stairs than there used to be. Each one makes my stomach lurch. Whatever. I'll shit myself if I have to. Shitting yourself isn't a concern if you're rich. I make it to the top of the stairs. So close. There's the door to my room. I push it open. Christ almighty, there it is. I see it on the bed all I have to do is- Bark! There is no way on God's green earth that that bitch that I call my girlfriend left her little yappy fucking chihuahua at my house today. A brutal wet fart escapes me as I look to the right and make eye contact with the dog of Satan himself. "Stay! Stay you bitch!" I frantically yell as I start for the necklace. No use. Twinkie (that's the name of the canine from hell in question) takes off and leaps for me. So here I am, butthole puckered tighter than Hitler at a bar mitzvah, running in circles around my room with a dog named Twinkie hot on my heels. I'll be damned if I don't eat shit and that dog doesn't jump right into my lap. So you know what I do? I throw that dog clear across the hall into the guest bedroom and slam the door. I turn around to reach for the necklace. Two Twinkies are right in front of me, yapping their little heads off. And then I shit myself.

After a chance encounter with a genie, you learn that the first thing you touch when you return home will be infinitely self-replenishing for as long as it stays inside the house.

Alpha and Omega. Beginning and the end. I was eternity. Forever. I was there along-side him, when he created the heavens and the earth. I witnessed his creation. I was sickened, by their blind loyalty, their endless praise. So I did what was in my nature. I accused. I taught these fleas how to think for themselves. I bared for all to see, his selfish, arrogant methods, and they couldn't deny it. I subverted them, gave them thought, and many of them saw him for the fraud he was. So when these fleas died, he sent them to me, disgusted by their questioning ways. And again, I indulged in my nature. I took delight in accusing every single one of them, laying out their folly. It amused me, to observe them. Their constant pondering about their origin, and their destination, was of particular interest. I had given them free thought, the ability to be as critical as I, and I enjoyed seeing the fleas trying to utilize it in their own limited capacity. Or maybe not as limited as I thought, for it never occurred to me to wonder about my own origin, or my own destination. I had called him out, questioned him, subverted him. But I never doubted him on one thing. He always was, and always will be. And I, right along side him. For all my questioning and arguing, I never thought we could be tied by the same limitations as the fleas he had created. But here I was, being held by a being I couldn't comprehend, with a power I could not fathom. It read out a list of my sins, laid out my flaws and imperfections for me to see, the same way I had accused the fleas of HIS creation. And as realization dawned on me, I began to laugh. My world had been ripped apart, my pride shattered, and I knew how insignificant I really was. It was all too good to be true. Because there was one being in existence with more pride than me. And I couldn't wait until he found himself here to face how insignificant he really was.

The devil dies, and learns of a second afterlife.

Multiple personality disorder patient #372: Inner dialogue recording #3 Level of disability: Severe "Oh, how the late afternoon sun dips so beautifully upon the horizon, elegantly dancing it's light upon the clear waters, only to soon give it's heart for the moon's wondrous midnight shine. I could-" "Another day soon to be past, I've... done nothing today. I've sat upon the beach, reflecting hopelessly upon these haunting memories that plague my inner mind. Just like the glows of the sun and moon, an eternal battle to find beauty in these quotidian acts of mother nature. I've spent days at a time, staring-" "Bask beneath Mother Nature's sweet glow of magnificence for an eternity. Someday, this world will come to a close for me, and I'll happily float towards the heavens above, to live amongst this natural grace, day in, and day out. Wherever my actions take me upon this Earth, I'll commit to observing these natural blessings each day, and- "Out at these unnerving balls of gases and rocks, they've no meaning other than one day, this world will turn dark, and we'll feel nothing but the cold shoulder of mother nature as we numb and wither into a pile of nothingness. Nothing will change what lays for me within my future, I know how this depressing theater act shall come to the a close. The curtains shall congregate, and" "I will die happy." "I will die miserable."

Write about the way the sunset looks from two different characters' perspectives. One is depressed. The other is in love and happy.

"Another adventure? What's this moron putting me up to this time?" I said as I casually roamed the grounds of the Renaissance fair that had recently traveled to my city. I passed a very well endowed woman and thought to myself, "Hey... hey writer? Want to help me out a bit here? I haven't been with a girl since the last one left me for my brother, seeing as you have this awful Soap Opera view on drama." "Shut up, I have different plans for you." "Oh really?" I groaned casually and continued to walk. I heard a loud squelching noise beneath my boot, only to have raised it and observed cow feces with a very fine boot print pressed in the center. "You asshole! These are brand new boots, can't you give me a-" ***BANG*** "See that? That was a bullet. I saved your life. Now shut up." "You **PUT** that bullet there you daft moron, you wrote it in there!" I yelled as I heard chuckling echo throughout my thoughts. "... of all people to have control over my actions, this loon." "Just go along with it, you'll be happy in a bit when you see where this all takes you." "Not like I can do anything else..." I noticed a police officer staring me down from across the fair. I seemed to... recognize him. Is that... Tom Hanks? "Okay, this is bullshit, you can't just put real life actors floating around in this place." "YOLO!" "I hate you."

A character going about their life. But are fully aware they're fictional.

He sat in the room alone. It was dark, the only source of light was from his laptop screen. It was crazy, really. Dan wasn't even home. He was in a motel room in the city. He could turn the lights on and blast the volume so loud that the other tenants would think he bought a prostitute. Had it really come to this? Watching porn in a seedy motel room an hour away from home? Helen has pushed him this far. She didn't understand. She begged him to get help. She even told Father O'Connor. He went on and on about the pitfalls of porn and the beauty of sexuality. Hypocrite. Dan didn't trust a man who wouldn't whack it to a busty blonde going down a nice long piece off... And boom goes the dynamite. All over her face. Dan would have loved to get his rocks off from that scene, but he couldn't. In fact, his little soldier hadn't even reported in for duty that night. Or for any nights in the last few months. Hence the reason why Helen got worried. Helen thought it was natural for men Dan's age to look at porn. She asked her girlfriends and they told her that it was just a way for the boys to let off some steam. But Dan became more distant. He barely had anytime for her and the children. He said he was tired from work, but she knew better. When he went into his home office to "work", Helen knew better. Dan wouldn't even touch her anymore. She could feel his eyes compare her to the women he watched. They had bigger breasts, skinnier, and most heads came *into* their vaginas, not out. She had begged him to talk to someone, maybe to Father O'Connor. He refused and he got angry. Helen finally had enough when he started making requests. Weird sexual fetishes that she was sure was illegal in most states. She threatened to cut off the internet. She did, eventually. Sophia's parent had cut off the internet. She was absolutely furious at her parents. Why the hell would they do that? Why were they punishing her for something that they were clearly fighting over. Her mom had been crying, that much was obvious. Her dad had been keeping to himself lately these days. He would stay in his office all night. He'd come out to use the washrooms, so she would sometimes run into him just as she finished taking her showers. But Sophia could see that he was trying to patch things up with her mom. Her dad had offered to drive her and her friends around, whether it was to the mall, to school, or to soccer practice. And he was more "huggy" these days. Sophia would hug her father tightly when he would embrace her out of the blue. Poor guy, he must be going through a rough patch. The internet service provider sent Helen a list of the internet traffic for their IP address. Helen looked at the unopened letter for hours before gathering enough courage to look at it. Her hands shook as she went through the sites. The tears came when she saw what Dan had been looking at. Hours and hours of porn, but specific porn. Dan only looked at one specific kind. Sophia walked to the kitchen to grab a drink. Her mom was bawling her eyes out at the kitchen table. It must be because her dad wasn't home yet, and it was already two in the morning. Her mom looked at her and simply broke down. Sophia went to comfort her when she saw what her mom has been reading. It was a list of their internet traffic. He sat in the room alone. It was still dark. Somehow, Dan wanted to believe that he could hide in the darkness. He scoured the internet for porn. He's looked at everything. All kinds of sick fetishes that he wished he never knew existed. Yet, only one kind haunted him. Only one specific kind of porn burned his soul. It was innocent role play at first. Then it became something more, to the point that it would be the only kind of porn that gave him a ghost of a feeling. But soon, the porn wasn't enough. Dan was craving for release. Sophia had just turned thirteen. And so did her friends. At first he would just watch them play soccer. Then, he would be in complete rapture as their scent intoxicated him. The smell of their shampoo and soap and perfume when they were going to the mall or to school. The scent of their sweat and grass when they got back from soccer practice. And Sophia's soft and tender touch when she embraced him. Maybe it was time for daddy to go home. ..... I wish I never wrote this.

Porn is ruining a marriage. Write both perspectives of husband/wife. Bonus points for including son/daughter's perspective.

This is so messed up, this is all so fucking messed up. How the fuck can I go on like this? well, you've already written the letter...and bought the pills, you might as well see it through... *Please no, please stop, please. You don't want to this, I know you don't want to do this.* I don't have any other choice, this has become too much, I can't take living like this anymore! *Then get help! Lots of people live like this, silencing your mind won't work! Please don't kill us all!* **DO IT! KnOck em bAcK! FucK it All, cHug eM noW. DO IT!** *Think off your loved ones, how can you do this to them?* **THey'll bE haPpy to Get rid OF tHis fuCker! yOur A pAraSite, a FuckIng PlagUe On thEir LiVes. You'Ll bE doiNg thEm A faVour!** I think he might have a point... He's right, I'm a burden, I'm better off dead! [I say! Hold on a tick! If this old bean kicks the bucket what'll happen to the rest of us, what what!?](http://oldbean.ba) **UnsCrew thE cAp, tAke oFf tHe CaP** *Ring mum, tell her you want to live.* **thE Cap. ThE caP** I...I can't... But isn't mum at work? Be a shame to bother her... [How about a jolly good ol song? That ought to liven things up a bit eh?](http://oldbean.ma) *We all love you, none of us want you to this* ~~He's only saying that cause he doesn't want to die too~~ **UnscRew ThE CaP! chUg em aLL bacK! ThE CAp!** Shut up... *Maybe you can go back to college and get that degree you've always wanted?* [Dance dance! Where ever you may be! I am the lord of the Dance said he!] (http://oldbean.ma) ~~You made a lot of spelling mistakes in your suicide note~~ shut up, shut up, shut up... thats a bit rude... *You should really cycle more, it's good for the mind!* [And if you dance! Wherever you may Beee! Then Surely won't you dance with me!](http://oldbean.ma) ~~You're ugly~~ **DO It NoW! PoP the CAP! KnOck Em baCk! Do IT!** SHUT UP! ALL OF YOU! SHUT THE FUCK UP!!! ...............

A person with multiple personality disorder is contemplating suicide. The other personalities talk the person out of it/into it.

He sounded sugary. I guess that ought to have been my first clue. Also the fact that I'd summoned him with Tibbles' slightly mangy skull and some left over rose petals from the last, disatrous, time I'd tried to seduce a woman. But he turned up in my living room, a choir of slightly bored voices heralding his less than impressive arrival. "Sup bro." He drawled from somewhere on my left. "Gabe here. What's the dealio?" He sounded like a third rate bit actor from a second rate TV series that got cancelled halfway into its first season. "Bro, that's rude!" He sounded almost hurt. "I can read minds ya know!" "Sorry..." I cringed. "I just really want to be able to see." I pointed at my eyes. I'd been blind from birth, and all I wanted was to see was flowers in spring, the look on children's faces on Christmas, and the sight of three men ejaculating on a woman's face. "Dude, that's disgusting." The Angel sniffed. But he sighed. "Sure. Listen, usual rules. You get your sight, but I come back in ten years and collect your immortal soul, okay?" "I thought those were Hell's rules?" "Yeah, well... We're under new management." "Wha-" "Do you want your sight back or not?" "Yes please." And I could see, just like that. I looked over to my benefactor and saw a shrivelled demon, horns curling like hair down its back, red eyes flashing in its pale face. I made to gasp, but no noise came out. "Remember." The devil smirked. "Ten years. I'll see you soon."

A blind man makes a deal with an angel to get his eyesight back. The only problem is that the angel is actually a devil.

Hey there Sloth, it's me, the boss. Look, I don't know how to tell you this, but I'm afraid we're going to have to let you go. Why? Well, if you look at the final quarter figures, less and less evil is being done in the world. Did you know we didn't even eclipse fifty million violent deaths this year? I'm afraid you just haven been pulling your weight. Yes, I know that's your thing. But I'm sorry. I truly am, it's just this company has been in existence for near 10,000 years. It's the 21st century. We got to adapt. Unfortunately, laziness just isn't as terrible of a sin anymore. I mean, the rise of industrialization already got you less hours. Add on the acceptance of kids staying at home for longer... You're being marginalized. Look, it was either you or Gluttony and people still give fat folks a hard time. Believe me, as soon as they develop the zero-calorie Big Mac, he's on the curb. But look, I'm a fair devil, so I'll fix you up with a job. I think you'll do quite nicely there. Great wages, health plan and they sit around doing nothing but make other people's lives miserable. I see big things for you. Trust me, you'll love congress.

The devil lost funding and must fire one of the seven deadly sins.

That was the plot of [Rendezvous with Rama!](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Rendezvous_with_Rama) ~~~ It hit the moon within two weeks of the last Apollo astronaut's death. A lot of people take that as a bad omen, but I like to think of it more as a stick to go with the carrot of nice views and not being extinct. NASA, the EU, and China got in on one mission while the Russians and Indians drew up plans for a different one to get there first. They might've done it if some engineer hadn't played a little fast and loose with tolerances and blown up their ship on the launchpad. Anyway, nine months to the day after that blast me, Haddely, and Ti all riding around on this POS dune buggy while Grossman is stuck catching up on his reading in orbit. The ship was only about five miles long- *only* five miles long! -but the debris field around the hunk that miraculously survived impact was a lot bigger, so we put the lander pretty far away. Luckily the new lander has some wheels on it and got us within a quarter mile of the main crater. "I don't see why we all have to be out here. Shouldn't someone be waiting in the lander in case everything goes south?" Hadderly asked. "That's what Grossman's for, idiot!" Ti said. That was probably why Ti and I had gotten along so well in training. "When it caves in and kills us he'll be able to fly home and tell everyone how cool it looked when it fell." As we'd seen in all of the photographs and lander pictures, a quarter mile of the ship's structure was still holding together. It stuck out of the center of the crater at a jaunty angle, daring somebody to run over and kick the jagged, burned up husk over. It looked like it was more likely to crumble and blow away than to fall over. We found a hole big enough to walk in through without too much trouble. I'd lost an untelevised rock-paper-scissors game the night before so I got to go in first while Ti brought up the lead. She kept making jokes about getting eaten last right up until the cameras in our suits went live. "I'm here in the spaceship, codenamed Rama, and it definitely looks artificial. There's, uh, there's doors, hallways, lots of stuff." I struggled to walk on the ground at the sharp angle. There was a bit of a struggle to line the camera up with a door that'd been cracked in half so I could show the viewing public pictures of a few assorted pieces of charcoal inside. Scientists estimated that whatever'd been in there had been burned by temperatures as hot as the sun, hit by a shockwave strong enough to vaporize concrete, and then probably sucked out the holes in the hull if there'd still been air when it hit. We weren't there to pick up any light reading, that was for sure. "Hey, I found something neat in here!" Ti said, then repeated the line in cantonese. She was supposed to be speaking mandarin but that wasn't her native language. I watched her pick up some sort of small, uncharred cube in the copy of her feed tucked into the corner of my helmet. The ship's lights all turned on at once.

A large and very slow moving asteroid is detected coming toward earth, images from observatories and Hubble reveal its actually a very well preserved derelict alien dreadnaught that has clearly been abandoned for hundreds or even thousands of years.

It was his job to love, of course. His is the last embrace everyone feels and, occasionally, the first. There was a pride to the work that nothing could match, as he knew people in the most intimate way. Agatha was her name, he believed. She was sitting in an armchair on a front lawn that was new to her every day, surrounded by people whose names and faces were fresh and new experiences. Death glanced at her withered features and the way she sagged in the chair, and he knew he had found her. Now was only time to wait. Her family spoke among themselves and sometimes to Agatha herself. If she knew what was happening, she might have been happy. Instead her responses were whispers and the ragged gasps that resembled breathing. Death knelt beside her and lay aside the scythe so often used for drunken brawls and motor collisions. He lightly touched her hand with his, and spoke into her ear. "Time to go, my Sweet." He placed his lips close to hers, and as she breathed out, he breathed in. From her he received the dregs of life that remained. From them he could feel only the misery of forgetting. Collecting was a terrible business, but one Death has honed. He committed himself to knowing about who he collected. Sometimes he was happy to collect the lives of people who did not deserve them. He laughed then. In the moment of death, he lived and became them, and knew them more than anyone else. More than that, he loved them. He loved their quirks and eccentricities. Every collection was a new memory, and he had many. But he hated these. The ones that forget. They were some of the hardest, because if they are not remembered by death, then they are truly forgotten. He loved these people most of all. He fell in love with each one, and remembered their names, at least, if nothing else remained. It was his job to love, and he did so gladly. He shook in grief.

Death comes to collect someone and ends up falling in love with them.