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The Order knew they were dying, and were very thorough in their planning. They watched for years, over the same families. They saw the torture, the hunger, the wretchedness of our souls. The saw, and they planned. No one with a tendency to violence got an Eraser. No one with any history of mental illness. No one who ever got a little too carried away debating the validity of "literally" and "figuratively". Every little detail of a person's psyche was discussed and torn apart. Eventually, they came upon the number five thousand. Five thousand souls were considered to be decent enough to carry this responsibility. Five thousand, spread across the seven continents. They just showed up one day. You would reach into your pocket and find a small stone. Just normal enough to miss if you passed it walking, but with a definite shine. Something ethereal. Others would be taking a bite out of their dinner and pull the Eraser out of their mouths. One young woman accidentally erased her rapist's penis as it appeared during intercourse. She found inspiration in that act and started campaigning to do this to any man or woman found convicted of rape. I found mine lodged into my belly button when I woke up. As one might expect, I was sufficiently confused. When I tried to throw it away, a splitting migraine took me to my knees until I held the Eraser up to my heart. I laid there for an hour, with this stone up against my chest, listening to two heartbeats, until my alarm clock shook my table. I took it to work with me, at the local road commission where my job was to pick up dead animals off the road, and dispose of them cleanly. After giving up on a particularly stuck opossum, I took the stone out. This is where I realized what this was. I absent-mindedly waved the stone in front of me, gazing at the detail of the ridges, then look back at my work. Gone. Done. As well as three feet of pavement. Others had found theirs. They started movements. Anti-rape, Anti-drug, Anti-gay, Anti-black. Tendencies that the Order never saw. Thoughts that never crossed their mind until they were given this power. A woman in China started taking bribes to get rid of unwanted children. A man in Canada erased his company's building, as well as the 1,000 workers on the inside. One man in Germany used the Eraser to get rid of political opponents, deluded with dreams of creating a Fourth Reich. I didn't think of anything like that. I only went to her house, but I found her sleeping with *him*. I slowly etched a crater where her bed was. Etching until the pipes burst. Etching until the concrete underneath was dust. Armies disappeared. Leaders disappeared. Families disappeared. After the sixth day, the stones disappeared. The Order imprinted an apology to the ones given an Eraser. Not that they helped rebuild anything. Having failed to help a budding race, they died quietly, and with shame. Five thousand souls were considered decent enough to carry this burden, and each of us failed.

Five thousand people have been given a magical eraser that can erase anything at all.

The smacking sound of lips being applied to skin was enough to drive one mad. Dr. Saxon and the Lip Clinic staff had adapted to this part of their job fairly quickly, investing in good sets of earplugs or saving up extra cash to soundproof their offices. But nothing could block the sound out during the crowded hours, which usually fell on weekend nights, when the drunks were out wreaking havoc on themselves in their alcohol-induced clumsiness. Saturdays were the worst of the weekend nights, and this particular Saturday was perhaps, the worst one of all: New Year's Eve, though one could easily mistake it for Valentine's Day with all the kissing in here. "Dr. Saxon!" Someone called down the hall to the doctor, halting the staccato clicking of her low heels as they kissed the linoleum. She turned her head slowly, her right hand reaching up to remove the earplug that allowed her to be productive in such a noisy environment. The maroon-scrubbed nurse had a look on his face that was a cross between sheer terror and the face someone makes when they accidentally taste lemon juice. The doctor's eyes widened, and she began to back into a one hundred eighty degree turn that was to be her swift exit. The tone of the nurses pleading, "*please*, Dr. Saxon! He asked for *you!*" stopped her short of her escape. *Shit*, she thought to herself. Unfortunately, the Lip Clinic loved to cater to the customer (well, patient), and had a policy where if a doctor was on duty and requested by someone, they were unable to turn down the request. She knew she never should have become a doctor. All her sympathy for people only ever led to three things: temporary smooch-induced insanity, chapped lips (despite all efforts to keep them slathered in balm), and *this.* She looked at the name badge clipped to the nurse's pocket. "Nurse...Phillips, is it?" The young man nodded feverishly, eyes still the circumference of tennis balls, "Yes ma'am. It's my first day, and he's... he's asking.." The nurse found himself unable to finish his sentence as a flush covered his cheeks. Dr. Saxon groaned, "Shit, it must be Joshua. Okay, Nurse Phillips, go take a break for fifteen minutes, and clear your head. Sound good?" The nurse didn't even reply. He just rushed past her, practically hyperventilating as he walked through the automatic sliding doors into the cool, breezy evening air. Dr. Saxon straightened her back, and steeled her will. She walked in the direction of the more privately located exam room, where they had started placing Joshua for treatment after the first time he came into the Lip Clinic. If there was one thing that would drive Dr. Angelie Saxon mad faster than the smacking noises all around her, it would be Joshua Frampton, her next door neighbor. Ever since she'd mentioned her occupation in passing, Joshua became one of the clinic's regular afflicted. Honestly, the first couple times it had happened, she had thought perhaps Joshua was just, well, a little stupid. The dosage was literally written all over the box, and on the information sheet within the box, not to mention on the foil containing the pills themselves. She'd fixed him up and sent him on his way, rolling her eyes and expecting to never see him back in the clinic again. After the fourth visit, when he had again asked for her personally, and when it was the same "silly old mix-up," as Joshua continually put it, as the three preceding visits, she had figured out what was going on, though unfortunately she couldn't do anything about it. When a patient requests a doctor who's on duty, they have no option to refuse. And Joshua always requested her. Who the hell came up with that policy anyway? Obviously some upper-level image-obsessed executive who didn't have to suffer firsthand because of it. Dr. Saxon took a pause as she neared the closed door to the office. Taking a deep breath and an extra moment to suppress her irritation, she pulled the cool metal handle and swung the door open as gently as possible. Joshua Frampton sat with a cocky half-grin on his face, kicking his legs in such an excited manner that the sanitary paper on the observation chair crinkled a sound akin to white noise. When his eyes connected with hers, he shrugged, and gestured down at his lap. "Hey Dr. Saxon. I had that silly old mix-up again. Thought I was taking my allergy pills, but I guess not! They're a very similar blue, you know!"

All injuries and diseases can be healed by kissing the affected area. Describe a typical day at a hospital/doctor's office.

A man sits on a cot in a sparsely decorated cell holding a book. He's not reading it, but instead is staring off into space. His eyes flicker as he hears footsteps coming down the hall. as the cell door opens he sees an unassuming man in jeans and t-shirt, his black hair starting to show signs of greying. "Hi" the man says as he steps in the room, the prisoner glances at him then goes back staring into space. "So, what's your name?" the man asks as he shifts his weight between his heels and the balls of his feet and hands in his pockets. "375433". "No, that's your prisoner ID. I want to know your name". "Nobody wants to know your name in here" says as he turns his head to look at his conversation partner. "I do. Come on, I'm Alan" he puts out his hand expected it to be shook. The prisoner gives a heavy sigh and shakes the hand "I'm Joe. Why are you here?" With an almost confused look on his face Alan says "I thought you knew, I'm your executioner." Joe pulls his hand back with a disdainful expression on his face. Having returned to staring at the wall Joe says in a very matter of factly way "You're going to leave now". Alan looks at the door and then back at Joe "I can't, for the same reason you can't". Joe gives an exasperated sigh, "Why are you here?". Alan goes to sit on the only chair in the cell next to a table with a chess board on it. "It's the rules. Executioners have to spend a day with the person they're going to kill, been like that at least ten years now. Thought everyone knew about it. Been living under a rock?". Joe glances at Alan with eyes that are equal parts resignation and anger. Alan shifts in his chair as he folds his arms "I used to think it was cause the Chief of Corrections didn't approve of executions, but couldn't stop them. So he adds this rule that's put me in your cell, reasoning that it would be hard to find someone willing to pull the trigger (sort of speak) after spending a day with the guy they're going to kill. Some of the other prisoners came up with alternative theories, well the ones that wanted to chat." "How many?" Joe asks, appearing to be asking the wall and not Alan. "You're number seven" "And how many did you refuse to do?" "Zero" Joe grips his book a little tighter and looks at Alan. "Why?" "It's the job and to tell the truth, I like it. Not the killing part, the talking part." "What? You get your jollies talking to dead men?" "No, it's one of those alternate theories. After I heard it, something clicked and all of this made sense" "Oh this should be good!" Alan's expression becomes flat at that last remark before loosening up again. He unfolds his arms and leans forward in his chair causing Joe to straighten up as Alan is now in arms reach of him. "Right, so it's like this. It gives you one last chance to talk about you, your life, regrets, hopes, that kind of stuff. So you're not forgotten. I know you're thinking that's what the chaplain's for but it's different. According to the others they said you couldn't shoot the shit with a priest cause they never loosen up, constantly acting like they have a cross up their ass." Joe laughs. "That has got to be the biggest load of shit I have ever heard. Who fed you that garbage?" "Ray Gambino, he was a pretty nice guy. Got hosed by fate. You know what his favourite thing to do was? Go to Jack Kaiser Stadium and watch the game from the bleachers with his daughters..." Alan's eyes get a far off look in them for a few seconds. "He was number three".

Write about an executioner who has to spend a day with his victim before the execution

"...and I hear when the games are over, everyone just goes back to the village and has some sort of giant fucking orgy." "Thanks, Max. Glad to hear it," said Ben halfheartedly. "Are you kidding me right now? That doesn't excite you? Pure, 12 hour shifts of straight fucking?" Max's voice was ecstatic. "Max, take the time to think about why we're here. We're professional video gamers. If a hockey player goes up to some hot skier and talks about the mechanics of taking a slap shot, she can at least pretend to be impressed because it sounds kind of cool. If you or I go up to that girl and talk about how you only need one Mekanism, then we look stupid." "You know what else makes us look stupid?" Max waited for a serious answer from Ben, but none came. "Looking like fucking pussies makes us look stupid." Max chimed in with a heated voice. "No, what really makes us look stupid is how we're categorized as a winter sport. Just because of the idea that its cold outside in the winter, hence why we're indoors playing video games." "And if we were a summer sport, you'd be bitching about how they think we never go outside at all," said Max. Ben could not deny Max's logic. Still, he couldn't help but feel that no one here took them seriously. He wanted to fit in as an Olympian, but he couldn't. "You see the way they look at us," said Ben. "It's like they laugh every time they pass us by. They think we didn't work as hard to get here just because we're skinny, because our sport isn't physical." "Ben, if it makes you feel better, the Koreans look at us like they want to murder us." "Man, fuck those guys. They expect to win just because they're Korean gamers." "Exactly!" said Max. "And when we go in there tomorrow and beat their asses, everyone is gonna know and then we will be drowning in pussay." "Great," said Ben sarcastically. "But we have to beat Finland first." "Are you joking? They're a bunch of fuckin' noobs. They picked a Drow Ranger, and the only reason it worked was because New Zealand picked Sniper. I didn't even know Finland had video games until I got here." "Yeah. Yeah, I guess you're right." Ben turned away to focus on his thoughts about the whole situation. About the probable win over Finland today, about the probable tough battle against Korea tomorrow, and about the trove of beautiful women he may or may not have a shot with. Then, he heard a clicking noise accompanied by the sound of escaping air. "Max, what are you doing?" he asked with urgency. "I don't think you can do that, man!" "Do what? Drink a Red Bull? Why the fuck not?" "We're gamers. Isn't that, like, using a PED or something?" "Oh shit, maybe." Ben and Max hid the drink where it belonged. In the trash. They may not be the best gamers at the Olympics, and they may not be ladykillers, but one thing they knew for a fact they weren't? Cheaters.

Video games were just added to the Olympics.

Yawn. What time is it? Noon? Yeah, I should probably get out of bed. Where's my phone? There it is. Just do a quick e-mail check. Huh? The *Washington Post* requests an interview? *New York Times?* *Time Magazine?* The fucking hell? Ok, this is too weird. Just going to go brush my teeth, maybe go back to sleep for a few more minutes, have a nice, normal day. Toothbrush. Check. Toothpaste. Check. Dab a little water on there. I really need to start letting it cool down before I do that. Man, what's going on with those interview requests? Nope. Not going to think about that. Not even touching it. Done. Going back to bed. I wonder- Nope. 2:00, huh? Wasted the whole day. Time to do a real e-mail check. *Al-Jazeera?* *BBC?* Think. I got nothing. All right, I'll just look at the news. **26 year old Yancy Bates is the world's newest icon. His picture was used in a meme on a site called Reddit last night. It quickly went viral, amassing tens of millions of views. Over the next few hours, his image became the basis for a joke religion called Batesism. By this morning, the religion had over five million members. There are calls for Bates to write a religious text. Meanwhile, television programs and newspapers are clamoring for interviews. As of yet, there has been no word from the Bates estate.** *No fucking way! I'm going to be rich!* (He's not.)

You wake up one morning to find that you have amassed a small cult following

"Mummy? Mummy, is that you?" Their soul shimmers gently and I reach out an ethereal hand. "Don't worry. We'll get you to Mummy soon. Just hold on a little longer, okay?" "It's dark... and it's really lonely here. I wanna be with Mummy. It's kinda scary too. Are you the monster under my bed?" Soft giggles. "You're a very nice monster." "Yes, I'm the monster under your bed. I've always been there for you, just like Mummy and Daddy. Did you know that Daddy is very worried about you? He's been visiting you every day!" "He is?" Distress. "I don't want him to be worried. He's my most favouritest Daddy ever." "I know. I know. Daddy just needs to not be worrying anymore. Then he'll let you go to Mummy. But for now he needs you to stay here." "...I don't want to stay here. I want to go to Mummy." "I know." The Reapers always knew when a coma would be fatal, and in such cases it was permitted that a Reaper be assigned to their charge early, so as to help them not lose hope. Before this had been codified, it was known that a Reaper would watch their charge suffer and spiral into the madness of loneliness, forbidden to help them, waiting until their heartbeat stopped and they could carry whatever was left of their charge's broken soul towards the light. When the charge was a child, it was always worse. "Mummy?" "Not yet. Soon." Seven months, eight days before the death-date. I am not sure this child can last that long. ... I came back to myself dressed in the robes of a hospital chaplain, sitting in a chair by the foot of the bed. I knew what I had to do, and I swept out of the ward guided by my internal compass. His doctor was in another wing of the hospital now, but neither hell nor high water would prevent me from seeing this done. I followed him to an empty corridor, and then revealed my true form. He gasped and fell to his knees. "Are you an angel?" It was voiced in breathless awe. I did not answer his question. "Christopher wishes to leave this world. To keep him here prolongs his suffering." He knew who I referred to. His eyes widened and he murmured something about oaths and never killing, and I silenced him with a wave of my hand. "Then consider this not a request, but a warning not to interfere." I left him on his knees and strode back to where my charge lay. Nurses asked me to identify myself, but I glazed over their eyes and walked past. I had already broken our most sacred rule, so I had nothing to fear from more interference. I reached where he slept on the bed and placed my hand over his heart. Alarms went off. A droning beep filled the air. I disconnected the tubes so he could lay dignified in death. "What are you doing?!" I allowed the panicked staff to wrench me away from the body - the warmth of his soul already shone invisibly around his Reaper rather than around his living form. They tried electricity, and CPR, and nothing worked. Nothing would ever work now. I was restrained in a back room while the police were called. I smiled, and let my earthly form dissolve into nothingness. In the blackness, I see a single star far ahead of me, a tiny pinprick of light that twinkles white-blue. I look down at the soul glowing cradled in my arms. "Christopher." "Are we going to find Mummy?" "Yes." And I carry him to the light.

Death pleads with a doctor to stop prolonging the suffering of a terminally ill patient.

jew (joo) n. ; tr.v. jewed, jew·ing, jews (Vulgar) ; adj. jew·ish (Vulgar) 1. People(s) of Semitic ancestry claiming heritage from the Hebrew Israelite People (Biblical). More recently, a member of the Jews for World Zion (JWZ) terrorist organization. 2. To fight from the shadows. To fight in a cowardly fashion. 3. To hoard wealth; a miser. 4. A person of immoral or indecent behavior. A parasite. 5. A monotheistic religion related to Christianity and Islam. Extinct. Commonly referenced with 'World War II' and 'The American Nuclear Incident.' History (Post-World War II): At the conclusion of the second World War, the German alliance had brokered an uneasy truce across the Atlantic. The Jewish people had lost control of governments in France and England which were torn down by the first German Chancellor, Adolf Hitler, and democratic governments put in their place. Those claiming Jewish heritage were either dead or driven to Africa and the Middle East. Over the next several years, small Jewish terrorist groups conducted attacks in London, Munich, Krakow and others, assassinating several prominent political and social figures, including Benito Mussolini in 1948. In 1951, the Jews for World Zion (JWZ) terrorist organization conducted the Brussels, Belguim bombing, killing thousands. By 1956, the JWZ had formed informal treaties with several pan-Arab nations including Jordan, Palestine, and Lebanon to create a 'New Zion' in the Arab region. At this time, Jews had set up cells throughout Africa, Europe, and America and set up the first Nuclear Waste processing facility East of Berlin. It is supposed that the Jews at this time had plans for a Nuclear Weapons plant, although the plans for this plant have never been found. In 1961, the German-American alliance was formed, marking the end of post-war hostilities across the Atlantic. Hans Frank, the third chancellor of Germany, presided over the trans-Atlantic conference in London. At the event, Jewish Nationalist and JWZ member Mahoud Lukatzsky broke through security yelling 'For Zion!' shooting wildly, injuring the American President George Rockwell. Between 1960 and 1975, economic pressures leveled by the UN and Germany began draining Jewish oil revenues in the Middle East, causing unrest in the region. The area, already riddled with internal conflict brought by the Jews in their post-World War II takeover, became a hot-spot for extremist groups. The JWZ allied with pro-Semitic groups Hatikvah Hannoshanah and Al Quaeda, uniting several ad-hoc governments in the region. In 1976, the new Jewish alliance launched a surprise attack on the American city of Detroit using crude nuclear technology. Initial American intelligence put the weapon's origin in Eastern Germany, but later intelligence has pinned this to Jewish misinformation. The American military forces joined with German military forces and the Chinese Communist Army under Deng Xiaoping in an assault on the Jewish Alliance, marking the first use of Nuclear Technology in battle since World War II and the first creation of a World Army under control of the German Reich. Commonly known as the 6-Day War, the battle lasted less than a week, wiping out the Jewish leadership and governments from Egypt to West India (now Pakistan). During the conflict, the World Forces had help from oppressed Islamic freedom-fighters, taking out Jewish strongholds throughout the region. Since that time, UN Police have managed to round up almost 1.5 million Jews into labor camps stationed in Europe, the Americas, and Africa. There are an estimated 1,000-2,000 still operating in small groups throughout the World, with rewards set as high as 1.5 million Marks. It is expected that the Jewish race will be extinct by 2040. EDIT - Formatting, and wow this is long. Thanks for reading!

The Nazis won World War II and took over the world. Write an exert from a history book describing the holocaust.

I slide the bullet into the chamber. The familiar click of the rifle calming my nerves. I exhale. What’s coming next can only be described as a Rube Goldburg of crime. I pull the trigger. The bullet explodes out of the chamber and into the heart of a Nun, through the face of a shorter nun and into the stomach of an orphan. Each of the dead bodies fall, landing on levers individually linked to 3 heaping piles containing the culmination of humankind’s most cherished art and literature. Each pile bursts into flames as the weight of the levies spark off a flint; igniting a gas induced inferno Lucifer himself would wish on no man. The flames burn brighter, torturing the feet of the 12 Oompa Loompa’s hanging from above. From across the warehouse a group of children in a water tank are screaming as their beloved Oompa Loompa’s melt into a cheese like form. The dripping orange flesh pours into a drainpipe that releases a valve. The children feel the slight patter of water falling on their heads. Its salty taste reminds them that this is no ordinary water, but their own tears that had been collected and stored over the past year of torture. The tank begins to fill to the top. The children are struggling to swim. The more they cry, the faster it fills. I hear choking, gasps, cries. Then silence. The pressure of the water breaks the tank walls sending a wave of bodies towards the tied up Dali Lama. He has thousands of razorblade cuts and releases an excruciating scream as the salt of the children’s tears sting his body. His heart monitor goes flat, triggering a small marble to beging rolling along a designated path. Up and down and side to side I watch it roll. It bumps into a small red button that activates the horizontal wind tunnel. The powerful fan inside begins whirling at a ferocious speed. The force of the air pressure rips open a door at the opposite end of the tunnel, sucking dozens of fluffy kittens into the air and shredding them as they impact the fan. More and more innocent animals are dragged by the deadly vortex until they meet their end. I turn my eyes with excitement to the grand finale, a wide grin spread across my face. This final act will truly be the most terrifying and illegal thing to ever happen. But then there is nothing... Oh well, I guess there’s always tomorrow.

The Most Illegal Thing That Ever Happened

"Are you fucking crazy!" Tomas yelled at the the stranger in his living room. The house reeked of gasoline, promising an inferno. The stranger simply smiled, in one hand a pistol pointed at Tom's head and in the other a Zippo lighter. "Do you see what happens Tom!?" The man screamed. The manic smile never quite leaving his face. "This is what happens Tom! This is what happens when you fuck a stranger in the ass!" And with those words he lit the lighter and tossed it down the hallway. The fire erupted immediately, engulfing the hallway in seconds and spreading around the living room. Tom stared in shock, fought the urge to run upstairs and make sure his family was getting out of the house. The gun pointed as his chest kept him frozen in place. If this lunatic was focused on him then his family could get away safely. "What are you talking about!?" Tom screamed. "I don't even know who the fuck you are!" "You wouldn't remember would you Tom! You wouldn't remember three years ago when you cut me in line for the restroom at Wendy's! I had been waiting 27 minutes Tom. 27 minutes! I shit myself in Wendy's, in front of God and everybody and now I'm here to punish you for it!" Tom was dumbfounded. Not only that this man was very likely going to kill him due to a bathroom incident, but that he had skipped someone in line. He prided himself on his social grace. "Listen, I don't remember doing that! I'm sorry, just please don't hurt my family! I swear if I could go back I would let you take the bathroom first!" The stranger's eyes widened in manic fury. "O it's too late for that Tom! I'm going to take you down, and your family is going down with you!" The stranger lifted the gun and pointed it towards Tom's head. Tom closed his eyes and waited for it to be over. He only hoped that his family was out of the house and running for safety by now. With luck they would get away and this idiot would burn to death with him. All he could do was wait for the impact. He waited. Just then a noise born out of bowels of hell pierced the air. Tom's eyes shot open to see a screaming fireball charging through the living room at top speed. "What the fuck..." he whispered to himself before the revelation hit him like a train. "MITTENS! NOOOOOO!" but it was too late. Mittens the cat had been lounging in the laundry hamper when the fire had spread. Laundry, being surprisingly quick to ignite in turn transformed Mittens into a screaming ball of hellfire. Mittens had determined the only course of action was vengeance and in his final moments charged into the living room to deal with the man who had destroyed his home. The stranger stared in shock as the flaming ball of cat ran directly at him. He hefted his gun and fired several shots, all missing by mere inches. He realized that he was nearly out of bullets and determined to spend the last one on Tomas. He lifted the gun to Tomas once more, just as Mittens the cat charged head first into the half empty tank of gas at the strangers feet. Mittens screamed his fury one final time before he made contact with the combustible liquid. The explosion lifted Tom off his feet and threw him clean through the window. He lay flat on his back in the yard behind his house, staring up at the sky. In the distance he heard sirens coming down the street. His entire body ached. Just before consciousness left his body he spoke but one word. "M-m-Mittens..." When paramedics found Tom he was knocked out in the backyard. His face was still wet with tears. What was left of the stranger was recovered, but there was nothing left of Mittens the cat. In his final act of heroism it was almost as though he transcended this mortal plane and moved on to a better and brighter world.

Build up a tense scene, then destroy it with a deus ex machina.

“You got this.” He tells himself in the mirror. “You got this, you got this, you got this, you got this…” I’ll save you the repeating he does for the next three minutes, it bores me just as much as you. Being omnipotent and at all places at once has its drawbacks. Most people don’t think about how much it sucks being able to see everyone and be everywhere. You ever have one of those days where you just stay at home in your PJ’s? You sit around eating ice cream watching two seasons of The West Wing, and ignore the outside world. Don’t lie, I’ve seen you all do it, maybe not The West Wing, but you’ve done it all the same. But me? No, I’ve never done it, I’ve never had a day off. I’ve been working overtime since you all showed up. You don’t even want to know that vacation hours I’ve built up over these thousands of years. The big guy upstairs keeps telling me I’ll get time off soon, but I think we both know that’s not anytime soon. So on and on I go. One person to the next, day in and day out; I lead a very busy life with a full schedule. You can imagine my frustration with Kip here then, when I have to watch him reassure himself bordering ten minutes. I want to push him out the door, tell him to get on with it and go, but of course I cant; it’s against the rules. Finally, finally he’s dressed and ready to go. He’s changed his shirt three times now. Pit stains kept appearing in his shirt not two minutes after putting them on, so he’s moved onto a button up tshirt. I’d say he looks good, but of course, I have no idea how to dress: I’ve been wearing the same thing literally forever. “You got this, you got this…” he continues to drone on, as he pops a myriad of pills into his mouth. It reminds me of a kid in a candy store, but his look is much more grave, more eager. I know he absolutely needs this, while a child may not. And of course, the dunce, in his infinite wisdom, decides to go to the peacock. Christ. (What? I can swear too.). First time he’s gone out in four weeks and Kip wants to go to the biggest club in town. That’s like testing a child molester by leaving him unattended at a playground. Believe me, I’ve seen it, it doesn’t work. That’s the thing about humans, they’re so damned predictable. You all just repeat yourselves over and over again. Then you have the audacity to think you’ve changed, to think you’ve ‘evolved’ – as you have all scientifically put it – when it reality you’re no different than Neanderthals. I’ve watched you all from the beginning, and will watch you all till the end, each and every one of you. If it weren’t for your 1 in a million genius, the rest of you would still be left in the dark, without the discovery of fire. Oh look, he’s sitting in the car now. His ingenuity has brought him to use the rear view mirror to chant his three word mantra. After a couple of deep breaths he surprises me. He’s getting out of his car now. At this point, he usually turns around and admits defeat. He usually stops by red box, picks up a movie and watches it by himself. Or at least has been since the accident. Before that, he had at least been a little more social, able to make it out for birthday parties, weddings or important events. Since then however… I can tell he’s not happy with the cover charge. I don’t really understand money, I know when you pay someone, you are paying them with your time. Kip pays the man two hours worth of his time just to get it, it seems high but I think he wants to prove something to himself. Predictably, he utters, “you got this, you got this…” under his breath. Ironically, he’s doing well. He’s telling himself that he has nothing to fear. His doctor told him so, told him that his social paranoia is a defense mechanism. He’s been telling Kip that for the past two years, and only now has Kip even begun to accept it. I think the rest of you would call it sad, or disheartening. To me, it’s just business. Everything on this planet has an expiration date, nothing that is made can be forever; even all of you. Kip’s time is up, and to his dismay, it will not happen in bed while he sleeps. The Man sees him now, right on time. I don’t know why he does it, or what he hopes to succeed. Nothing you all do makes any sense to me; but it’s not my job to make any sense of what you do, it’s my job to get the final say, to place the final puzzle piece. And so, a few months after his thirty-third birthday, Kip receives a late present. The Man slides a knife between his third and four rib and starts the timer. Kip cries out in pain, in panic, and in what I assume is anguish. His fears have probably been proven right. I bet right about now he’s cursing his Psychologist, telling himself that if he gets through this that he’s gonna give that man a piece of his mind. He wont though, The Man has killed Kip, but Kip doesn’t know it yet. No one knows what’s happened, The Man has walked out now, hands in pockets and pretends like nothing has happened. The patrons around Kip assume he’s drunk, or has just fallen over. It isn’t till a woman in heels slips on his blood that someone notices he’s slowly passing away. I have his soul about halfway out of his body, give or take, when the paramedics arrive. Ugh, all those bastards do is put me behind schedule. Did you know that after a heart attack, only 2% of patients go on to live life healthy and without setback? Most die of the same thing just a few years later. Medicine is your great triumph, yet all it does is delay the inevitable. Seeing these men in their white button ups, with their rolling table and loud car, is one of the few things in life that make me feel any sort of rage. Don’t they know I have an appointment on the New York subway in fifteen minutes? I mean honestly, how am I supposed to keep up with all the killing you guys do when you keep setting me back? In the end, I win, as I always do. The paramedic calls for the black bag and they zip Kip up. The lights and sounds on the ambulance do not sound as they leave the club. But that’s enough about Kip, the moon is high above the earth and the night has only just begun.

A man with social anxiety is stabbed in a crowded nightclub.

Anchovies have fucked up my life three times, which puts them only narrowly behind the six times that I have fucked up my own life. First time, I spilt a tub of canapé anchovies over my boss during a lunch meeting. Probably would have kept the job if I hadn't then accidentally rubbed the garlic oil harder into his extremely expensive pinstripe suit. Second time my vomit was a grey mess as I threw up over the man I thought was going to be my ticket out of minimum wage. He turned out not to be, but the smell of rancid fish stuck in my hair for weeks. Third time, it was past midnight on a school night, I'd been marking the essays of seventeen year olds who still couldn't tell the difference between 'there' and 'their,' and the pizza I'd ordered so that I wouldn't kill myself had arrived with the little, slimy, grey fish floating on the red sea of tomato sauce. Their little eyes watched me in a slightly accusing fashion, as though wondering why I'd given Darrell a C- and why my taste in clothes was so bad. I stared at the pizza for a moment or two, as though wondering whether I could bring myself to swallow a history of abject failure at the hands the cruel little fish. Then, with a sigh, I clutched the still warm pizza to my chest and decided to offer it to the little lady downstairs. Maybe she liked the taste of humiliation and rejection as much as I liked to stay up and mark essays. But reaching apartment number 415, the door stood cracked open. "Hello?" I pushed it open with the corner of the still-steaming cardboard box. There was no answer. The room was dark, but a shot of moonlight pierced through the drawn blind. It was a little quaint room, pink roses twisting their way across the sofas. A high, varnished wood dresser stood beneath a tarnished mirror. My breath came out as a steaming puff. This room was fucking cold. Even the pizza seemed to have lost its previous heat. "Hello?" I called again. I hoped that she'd gone to sleep and just forgotten to close the door completely, but I had a funny feeling in the pit of my stomach, a little like I'd eaten too many anchovies. I pushed open the door that I reckoned would lead to the bedroom. The electric light was flickering, like a strobe light. Too bright. Too fucking bright. I winced against it, moving towards the bed, where a figure lay huddled under the bedclothes. I put the pizza down, reached out to touch the bundle. Then my eyes were caught by a statuette on the bedside table. A ballerina figurine, arms in fifth position, feet neatly placed in a *relevé.* She was beautiful. I felt myself drawn to it. I wanted it *so badly.* I grabbed the ballerina by her tiny waist, shot one last look at the unmoving figure underneath the blankets - Was that a red stain at the bottom of the bed? - and left. The ballerina seemed to like her new home, once I took her upstairs. I put her on the coffee table and went back to marking essays. That's how I fall asleep. The next morning I leave for work with an ambulance siren outside my window and body being wheeled out of the complex. I already know who it is. I keep my head down and keep walking. Not my business. I didn't kill her. But there's worry in my belly and I know I don't teach well that day. I come home that evening to find the ballerina is no longer in fifth. Her long white limbs were now in fourth position, one arm in front, one at the side. I try hard not to look at it. Next day the police are asking questions. I don't answer the doorbell. The ballerina's feet are in third. Is she smiling at me? I don't go to work. I don't mark essays. She's standing in second, arms and legs wide. She's coming for me. I'm locked in my room. I can't come out. The ballerina has reached first.

A porcelain ballerina figurine, an overworked and underpaid schoolteacher, and a pizza that shouldn't have had anchovies on it, but did.

"Section 1: To capture a demon alive and unharmed so that he might do your bidding and be bound as your slave, first ensure that your boards are neatly swept. Loose debris and dust may impair the binding circle and cause the spell to go awry." Cuthbert looked down at the freshly cleaned boards in his study. "Check." Edgar continued to read. "Furthermore, attend carefully to the weather. This spell will vary greatly with the level of moisture in the air. Do not attempt on Wednesdays between two and four o'clock unless the next Monday will be dry and you had pork for dinner three Sundays ago. Do not attempt if the woman three doors down from you has a headache or toothache, though mild discomfort in the abdomen area may render the spell more powerful than usual." Cuthbert frowned and jerked up his wizard sleeves. "Let's pretend we don't understand that." He said. "We don't understand that, sir?" His lawyer replied. "That's what I said." The wizard snapped. "What's the bloody spell, then?" "Ah yes." Edgar read through thin lips. "You have to say it twice in Latin, once in English and once in modified Sumerian. Then you have to clap twice, hoot once like a brown owl and twice like a barn owl and quack like a duck with botulism. Pretty simple I would say. When he arrives, read the Code of Merlin to him to bind him to you, then recite the Casts of Circe to remind him of his duty. Do not stutter." The lawyer snapped the book shut. "Don't fuck up, sir." "Right." Cuthbert shook his arms out and began to recite the ancient spell. Soon a form began to appear in the circled pentagram, spinning wildly like a top. Gradually it separated into two beings (Here Edgar grasped Cuthbert's arm) and slowed to a halt. "Foul beast whom I have dragged from the depths of Hell!" Cuthbert cried. ALRIGHT, ALRIGHT The demon said, waving a hand at the wizard. I'M HUNGOVER. CAN WE MAKE THIS QUICK? Cuthbert faltered, but his training did not fail him and he launched quickly into the Code of Merlin. I'M REALLY NOT IN THE MOOD The demon was short and squat, blue and bristly grey with a fat snout and three horns curled to perfection. Next to him sat a skinny little demon, spectacles perched on its rather unfortunate nose. This one was more red in colour, but looked no more happy to be there. "How can you not be in the mood?" Cuthbert asked. "I summoned you here - you have to do what I say." "Ah, actually." The red demon pipped up. "Only if you read the Code of Merlin and the Casts of Circe to him." "And who the fuck might you be?" Cuthbert said HE'S MY LAWYER. MEET UNSCRUPULOUS. BEST ADVOCATE IN HELL. The blue demon was having a field day, grin spread over his hairy face. "Your lawyer?" Edgar's mouth dropped open. "I was going to read the Casts to him - before he interrupted me!" "Ah yes, well if you see here." The red demon pushed his spectacles up his nose and produced a scroll made of Hellfire from his anus. "You'll notice that if it is a Sunday (it is) and if the summoned demon in question is being accompanied by his legal representative (which he is) then he has no responsibility to wait for the summoning magician to recite the Casts before interruption. That's the Binding Regulations (Day of the Lord) Act 1066, Section 177." "Ah," Edgar stepped forward. "But you'll notice that that section is invalidated by the Hungover Demons Act 1888, Section 14, paragraph three which states that if the demon summoned is hungover (and he is) then he cannot interrupt the reciting of the Casts until he has had at least one Bloody Mary." "Which my client has had!" The red demon withdrew again from the cavernous anus, this time an empty glass with a smudge of tomato juice clinging to the bottom and a half-chewed stick of celery sticking out of it. Both Edgar and Cuthbert winced. SO WHO WANTS TO GO TO HELL FIRST? The red demon chuckled and rolled up his legal notes, pushing his spectacles up his nose for a second time. Edgar and Cuthbert screamed like girls as the blue demon stepped outside the circle.

A magician summons a demon slave, and brings his lawyer to help create the pact. The demon brings his.

A gunshot rang through the room, echoing off of the steel walls. *"Now I am become Death, the destroyer of worlds."* This man's world was gone, now. Blood trickled through the hole in the man's head, where his left eye used to be, slowly seeping onto the metal floor. I stood over him and looked on, smoking gun held loosely at my side. J. Robert Oppenheimer had quoted that line, from a now-ancient Hindu text. He had just created the atomic bomb, an Earth weapon with the power to wipe out entire cities, countries, in one fell swoop. If only he had known what levels human power would reach. From his research, and all the following research into new forms of energy, humans created a scientific breakthrough. At least, that's what the military called it, in a public statement. Behind closed doors, it's a weapon known as *the Suneater.* Following galactic expansion, humans had quickly run low on energy-providing resources. In the grand scheme of things, nuclear power was deemed inefficient, but one option remained: Solar. After conquering the stars, we would harness their energy. Of course, funding was received from the United Earth Fleet; they needed a way to assert their dominance over the other lifeforms they had found. Peaceful, non-aggressive lifeforms, I may add. And over years, *the Suneater* was born; it rapidly speeds a star's life cycle and harnesses its energy. And I helped make it, here in this godforsaken facility on Hybrys, the first planet in the Sirius system. *The Suneater.* An end of stars. An end of planets. An end of life. An end of galaxies. Endless possibilities, potentials, gone. I will end it before it can begin. Here in this facility, in the nuclear powered core. With the technician at my feet, no one was left to stop me from throwing the failsafes and blowing this place to kingdom come. And with it, all copies of the weapon and our research will be gone. I walked to the console and began typing as quickly as I could. I was bypassing all the failsafes and initiating the self-destruct sequence. Alarms began blaring, but I didn't let it distract me. Red lights pulsated, reminding me of the dead man's blood. I kept typing. - *"Power-core overload. Meltdown imminent. Evacuate all personnel immediately."* - It was done. I didn't hear the alarms anymore. I don't know if they shut off or if I was tuning them out. Heat radiated from the core, and slowly began warming the room. A light radiated from the core as well, white as can be, overpowering the red warning lights. There was no use running, I wouldn't get far before the thing blew. I looked down at the dead man again. He stared back up at me, his remaining eye glazed over. *"Now I am become Death, the destroyer of worlds,"* I thought to myself again. No... that's not right. "Now I am become Life." The white light grew bright, blinding. The heat became unbearable. I closed my eyes. I could still see white burning through my eyelids, then I saw no more.

"Now I am become Death, the destroyer of worlds."

I am sitting exactly five feet away from them. A short enough distance that I could stand up, take this knife, cross the distance to their table, and kill them. No one would be able to stop me. Not in time. But it's because of who they are that I hesitate. Two days ago I never would have even considered such a thought. My best friend was sitting so close, and all I could see was red. I'm not a killer, I swear. I wake up at seven, pour my coffee, iron my shirts, and read the paper. I make five digits a year at a solid job as an editor for a publishing company. Not a single problem in the world. Until I started hearing things. Nothing out of the ordinary, I swear. Just stray thoughts, really. 'Take the stairs this time' or 'look out for him, he's holding a baseball bat behind his back'. It was intuition, and it started to shift how I lived. Soon, I could hardly tell I was going to my job. I couldn't remember the last time I saw my boss' themed ties that would always remind me what day it was. All of these thoughts in my head, I didn't know where to put them. And the more I listened, the more I started to feel...better. The more I listened, the more I accomplished, the bigger the demands. Picking up papers for someone soon turned into saving someone from a burglar and eventually I wasn't myself anymore. I was a hero. People would pass me on the street, greet me, and thank me for my service. Complete strangers would shake my hand, or take pictures with me. I was on top of the world. I even found love. Then Harry came back from the war. First day back, I picked him up and we had lunch together. He told me about his life, I told him about mine. And that's when it all fell apart. The more he talked, the less she was interested in me, I could feel it. And the more he reminisced and mused and mouthed the less that voice began to speak to me. Panic set in and I couldn't breathe. I woke up on the floor to Harry pumping my chest, Caroline standing over us with a hand over her mouth. He saved my life. And then stole it from me. I spent some time in the hospital, recovering from what the doctors said was a 'strange weakness' of the heart. Caroline stayed by my side for the first week, as did Harold. But soon she was visiting with him. Without me. And they became the happy couple that I had dreamed that we would have been. And I was heartbroken. Months have passed. My job returned to my mind because the voice was gone. It was a frog tie, so it was a Friday. I knocked back another handful of pills. Blood thinners to keep me from having another episode. All I can think about nowadays is Harold and Caroline. Mostly I wonder if he took it from me, my intuition. The strength to do those things left me, too. I could barely make it up the stairs without stopping halfway through to catch my breath. My life is over. But the voice returned, today. It whispered me sweet nothings until I was following it to the Grand Belladonna off of 6th and Franklin. High brow place, I always knew it existed but never bothered going. I went in and sat down where my thoughts led me, and I looked at the menu for a while until I heard her laugh, like bells on the air. Like nails in my heart. As I'm sitting here, I suddenly realize something. It was never about me. The voice didn't guide me so that I could be with Caroline, so that I could be happy. It did this so that I could bring them together. I was the bait. I was the catalyst, the side character in some hysterically mournful divine comedy. I provided necessary dialogue, and I'm just supposed to exit stage left. *Take the knife.* It's cold in my hands, I don't know why I'm holding it. I haven't even ordered food yet. I look at it, and the reflection inside. I look like crap, no wonder I haven't been served yet. *You know you want to. You know you have to.* I am sitting exactly five feet away from them. A short enough distance that I could stand up, grab one of these knives, cross the distance to their table, and kill them. No one would be able to stop me. Not in time. *Kill her. He must know pain. He must know sorrow. He must be wounded in order to grow.* I shift my weight onto my legs and start to rise when the waiter moves to my side and begins talking. Something about specials and wine. I slump back onto my chair and order some water and a glass of Cabernet. The interruption gives me pause, and I put the knife down. *Do it. Do it. You have to. It's your destiny.* I look over at the couple, foreheads resting against each other, lips mere inches from each other. I blanch. But I see a glint on Caroline's hand. An engagement ring. My entire face flushes like the sudden kindling fire that would engulf a forest, and tears stream down my face. I'm not angry. I'm happy. I take a few deep breaths to compose myself, and wipe the tears away. He comes back with the wine, and asks me what I want to eat. The voice is gone, and it feels really peaceful for the first time in a long time. Free. He comes back with a big entree. Steak, potatoes, thick and fat buttered toast, some veggies on the side. I chow down, savoring the food that I couldn't afford to eat more than once every ten years. Hell, I earned it. The voice comes back in a sudden force, and it sends me reeling. I gasp and stumble onto the floor. *YOU WILL DO AS I COMMAND.* I sputter as people around me scream. I see Harry turn around and see me. He starts yelling, and leans down to check on me. Damn humanitarian. I smile, even as I feel my heart fluttering and stopping. I spy the knife next to me. I could grab onto it and stab Harry even as I lay here struggling to breathe. I reach up and pat Harry on the shoulder, and put my other hand on his, trying to push them off of my chest. Even as he tries to keep me alive, I don't want him to anymore. Because as badly as I want to be the hero in my own story, I refuse to be the antagonist.

The main character of the story discovers that he isn't the protagonist.

Miss Bradley shuffled the papers and looked over at *him*. He was vacantly staring at his desk and rubbing his arm with his painted fingernails. The black polish was beginning to wear off. "Timothy," she said, putting the papers aside. "Would you like to explain the phrase 'When in Rome, do as the Romans do.'?" She ignored the giggling and the snickering. Timothy glanced her way and then quickly looked back at his desk, his mouth closed in a stone poker-face. It was typical, she thought, but she had hoped that he would have participated. "Timothy, would you like to share anything at all with the class?" Timothy locked eyes with Miss Bradley and then looked away, his breath rapid and his fingers tapping his desk as the rest of the class waited. There had been something in her eyes, something that he rarely saw. Compassion. After several quiet seconds, Miss Bradley cleared her throat and turned to the rest of the class. "Would anybody here like to explain the phrase?" A hand from the back of the room shot up. Miss Bradley nodded and gestured for the owner of the hand to stand. "Samuel?" Samuel rose from his chair and ran a hand through his long, thick hair. Several girls in the classroom swooned. "It means when you're in, like, a foreign city, you should do what the people there do because they probably know best." He smiled and looked around, his goofy smile causing everybody else to smile. Miss Bradley smiled and nodded. "Very good, Samuel. The phrase was first attested in medieval Latin, *si fueris Rōmae, Rōmānō vīvitō mōre; si fueris alibī, vīvitō sicut ibi*." There was a sharp intake of breath and Miss Bradley stopped. The rest of the class followed her gaze. Timothy had his head buried into his arms, the desk shaking underneath him. Miss Bradley half-rose out of her chair. "Timothy?" Slowly Timothy looked up, tears and mascara running down his face. He looked around at the classroom and his fellow peers, all of them silent and wide-eyed. He put his head back down and his shoulders began to heave as he began to sob. Miss Bradley froze, unsure of what to do. Should she call somebody? She rose and went to him, rubbing him on the back as she knelt next to him. "Timothy, what's wrong?" He looked up at her, everybody else in the classroom forgotten. "It's Ma," he said, his lips quivering as he shook his head. He buried his head again, his next words muffled and quiet. "I can't go back." Miss Bradley looked around at the rest of the class. They were all watching. "Timothy..." she turned back to Timothy and patted him on the back. "It's going to be alright." "No. It's Ma... she hits me." For Miss Bradley, time stopped.

The silent teen in class speaks for the first time.

"My child, why do you spew such hateful words with such conviction? These are not the lessons of my teachings." "My lord, we abhor sinners just as you-" "No. The words you speak were written by men of flesh and blood; they may claim divinity but they knew and saw little. The worship you have practiced is false and misguided." "Those words are yours! The Holy Bible was written by man, but through the guided hand of you, our God!" "If you do truly believe that the words written upon those pages belong to me, why do you only practice the parts which agree with your bigotry?" "What are you talking about?" "Your book of Matthew. Chapter 5, 39. 'But I say to you, do not resist an evil person; but whoever slaps you on your right cheek, turn the other to him also.' The ones you claim are evil doers are doing no harm to you. Why must you persist in perpetrating evil upon them?" "I....I see it now..." "Good, my child. It brings warmth-" "You're not the real God! It was a convincing try, but the real GOD is a HATEFUL, ANGRY DIVINITY who abhors nothing more than the evils of sin!" "My child, the only things that your lord hates are written in that book you defend so earnestly. Pride, dishonesty, murderers, unrepentant makers of trouble, and the ones among you who seek only to divide yourselves, and who never seek to bring unity to man." "How can you-" "No. No more words from you my child. For it is clear to me now that your brain and your heart are infected with the wicked lies of a dark and dangerous soul. You do not seek to do the Lord's work and bring mankind together; you only seek to divide, to sow chaos and discord among your fellow man in the hopes that it will bring the world in line with your own personal values. Every bloodthirsty tyrant, every wicked killer, every person who has committed an act of evil against his brother has done so in the belief that I am on their side. You are no exception, and your lustful, frenzied hatred of all things different from you is not the way I have desired you to see the world. My child, you and those among you are lost, and until you find the way back along the path of righteousness, you will forever wander on the hateful road you are heading down, and in no circumstances shall you find peace or happiness." The Lord turned his back and walked down the cold, stone path that head lead him to the Topeka, Kansas church. Before leaving his sight, he turned to the man once more and smiled. "My child, when you are ready, you are forgiven."

Jesus Christ has a conversation with a Westboro Baptist Church member.

*January 9, 1999, Dear Jenny, I don't think the dead knows the difference between me and my dog. I think it'll just go after whoever that was alive and closest. Do you think I'm right, Jenny?* The words still lingered in my thoughts. I had just moved inside this mansion-like cottage smack-dab in the forest. I always had social anxiety, so I hated being around people. Thus the reason why I'm living in such a desolated area. Anyhow, once I moved in here, I decided to restore the place. It looked like it had been abandoned in decades. The floorboards creaked like their life depended on it, the wallpaper curled into a wad of crumbled paper, the place was just in ruins. As I was restoring the master bedroom, I accidentally made a rather large hole, and something fell out. It was a book. I opened it randomly and read it. I closed it as soon as I finished reading it. I continued to restore the bedroom the rest of the day. So I was laying in bed, with the book on the night stand. Was it a journal? Or was it a scrapbook of letters? The red glow of the digital clock read 2:14. I had just gotten into bed at midnight. I knew curiosity would kept me awake the entire night, it always had. I grabbed the book and opened the first page. *February 18, 1997, Dear Jenny, I'm tired. I'm tired of going to the bar and watching all of the pretty ladies. Of course they are never as pretty as you, Jenny. But lets be realistic, you're a fidget of my imagination. You are as beautiful as I made you to be. Anyway, why won't they talk to me? I tried to talk to them, but I get so shy, I just stammered and looked like an idiot.* I smiled, this guy was just like me. I kept on reading. *December 25, 1997, Dear Jenny. Fuck you, Jenny. I had enough, I'm tired of these girls just walking by me. I managed to speak sensible sounds. But then I hear you talking in my head. Then an urge of guilt would overwhelm me. I wish I can dispose of you, I can only talk to you through this shitty diary. So read this loud and clear. GET THE FUCK OUT OF MY LIFE!* I noticed a quick jump in the date, I pressed the binder and noticed ripped bits inside. I wondered why there was ripped papers, but I ignored it and kept on reading what was there. *January 9, 1998. Dear Jenny, I GOT ONE OF THEM TO TALK TO ME! See, Jenny, I didn't need your pitiful help. Of course this woman didn't exactly able to talk, but I managed to talk to her! But then she mumbled why and I got shy again. I'm truly sorry, Jenny, about Christmas time. It's just... this is a belated Christmas gift. I didn't even realize it was so easy to trick them! I'm going to get another one, I forgot to feed the girl... so she's no use to me now.* This last entry was very confusing. *January 19, 1998, Dear Jenny. The smell, my god. Why didn't you warn me of the smell? I think I'm going to break apart the basement walls and stuff them inside, hopefully that will get rid of the smell. The last two were apparent sisters. They were sobbing, said they had a baby brother needing to be taken care of. Maybe I'll try and find this brother, it's only fitting they be united, right Jenny?* Chills went down my spine as I realized what the last entry was about, I also had twin sisters that disappeared. Surely they can't be... *March 17, 1998. Dear Jenny. Damn it, just fucking damn it, sorry I haven't been writing to you for the past few months, I had to go visit my dying grandmother. I came back after she finally died, and the smell was rancid. I forgot about the last girl. I had guests coming tomorrow, so I really need to finish this up to go back to cleaning.* *March 18, 1998. Dear Jenny. Holy shit! That was insanely close. My guests was looking around the house and one of them stumbled upon the basement. I forgot to get rid of the smell down there, and she got suspicious. I told her I had an animal down here and she believed it. But still, I'm going to try and catch her later... just in case...* *December 19, 1998. Dear Jenny, I think I need to find a new place to get rid of the body. The basement's almost full. I've been thinking about them... What will truly happen to us when we die? The Christians said we would go to heaven, the atheists would give us multiple different answers. But what's the true answer? Where had these women ended up in? Where will I end up?* I finally got back to the quote I read. I decided to read a few more entries before forcing myself to go to bed. *January 9, 1999, Dear Jenny, I don't think the dead knows the difference between me and my dog. I think it'll just go after whoever that was alive and closest. Do you think I'm right, Jenny?* *January 12, 1999, Dear Jenny, oh god... Why... why Jenny, why!? Why was I so stupid? I decided to have my dog break one of their skulls. A ghostly wisp came out and killed the poor thing. Not just that, it DRAGGED the poor thing underground. I'm going to miss the dog...* *February 3, 1999. Harrison Fremont. Judy Threston. Jane Threston, Veronica Jenson. I can remember each name. I'm becoming guilty. No, don't give me that Jenny. I feel guilty, because I tried to talk to them, I didn't mean to kill them. Shut up Jenny, I'm going to dig them all up and give them a proper burial. Yes, YES! I will Jenny. Just you try and stop me, I'm sticking this thing in the wall. This is my last entry, fuck you too Jenny.* Chills went down my spine. My name was Eric Threston. Judy and Jane were my twin sisters. Veronica was my babysitter that I loved as a kid. Harrison was my favorite elderly neighbor. When they all disappeared, my mother would always tell me that there was someone bad that's been stealing them. They were in the basement right now... or were they? I ripped the blanket off me and ran down to the basement. I hadn't begun to renovate the basement, so the floor was still dirt, there's a large slab that was once a part of the wall, it crumbled on the dirt. I picked it up, it was a struggle, but I managed to get it up. I started digging, but then I felt something wrong going on. I looked up and the slab was coming down. I rolled out of the way, a dust whiffed up, suffocating me. A loud shriek then came afterwards. A white wisp emerged from the bottom of the slab. It took form into several women. One of them was Judy. I looked at her in her ghostly eyes, not a single trace of recognition was inside. I figured so, it was 2014 anyway. A realization came. The dog, the slab that was on the floor, it all made sense now. The dog was dragged underground, and considering that the slab was on the floor long before I was here, it could only mean that the psychopath who wrote the journal must've been here when the slab broke free. The ghosts must've dragged him down under. The ghosts grabbed my arms, and I felt weak. I struggled but it surrounded me, making me even more weak. It started to pull me downward. My arms went through the dirt easily. Fear started to replace every single emotions I ever had. My head started to enter the dirt, oxygen was cut off. "Come with me, brother." Judy spoke to me before I stopped struggling to breathe, and felt free, floating even.

After moving into an old house, you find a forgotten journal.

"Mint, dear?" She says, offering me a slightly dusty white mint in the palm of her hand. "Er, no thanks." I respond, more than a little confused. It's not often I get a call on the phone I reserve for my *second job,* the number I *never ever* give out. It's even less often I agree to the meeting, especially when it's in someone's house. But the number of times I've done both of those things and turned up to find a little old lady hooked up to a dialysis machine in her living room... Well, this is the first time. "I need you to take care of someone." She says, stashing the mint somewhere under the blanket that covers her legs and producing two knitting needles and a six foot monstrosity of purple wool. I nod. This woman knows the lingo. She's used my- or one of my *colleagues'* services before. But wondering about skeletons in little old lady's closets was not in my job description. "Do you have target info?" "Oh sweetie, there's no need." She knits a row and starts purling one. "It's me." "You?" "Yes, dear. I'm old now, and my body just can't keep up with my brain." She gestures at the dialysis machine with the point of her knitting needle. "That's the only thing keeping me alive. I'm attached to it for eight hours a day. I take sixteen different pills each morning and a laxative in the early afternoon because they block me up. It's time for me to go, but I'm no good with the violent stuff, dear. That's why I hired you." "What about doctors?" "Oh pish-posh. You know what they're like, with their bloody Hippocratic Oath. I needed a professional." I'm not one to turn down a job, but taking this life feels different from the others. She appears to read my mind. "Oh I'm quite sure, dear. I have everything in order. The money's in the envelope on the mantelpiece." "How do you want to go?" I ask. "I don't mind, dear." She sighs happily. "As long as it's with dignity."

Having been denied euthanasia, an old lady hires a hitman for herself

He stumbled into the place which, unfortunately, he was much too familiar with. After all that's what one got by having a *player 2 younger brother* as their *controller*. He pulled off his half-ripped green capped and let out a sigh, walking over to the *Section-Mario Travellator*. There were a few more of him in front and he felt their pain, as they did, his. His name was Maxwell; well atleast that's what he liked to think his name was; no one had ever given him one. He'd been around for a long time - about thirty years now and as new characters had made their entrance the amount of *him's* and *Mario's* had decreased considerably. There had even started to be down times where the travellator would be empty. He wished that he hadn't signed that half a decade contract now - he had been stupid at time, having thought, just about a steady source of income and something tolerable to do. At the time, being Luigi had been great - there were not many games around and to get a job like that meant you had made it big time and got away from the crowd of unemployed. Maxwell had been given the advice to sign up for a negotiable 5 - Year Luigi contract, however, he hadn't even bothered to think about it. What if there was nothing left to do after the years were complete? He couldn't bare to live without a *controller*. Now, being a Gen-1 version, he could only travel through the original eight worlds, which he could get through, blindfolded, if only, it wasn't for the stupid kids, getting him to jump into a missile or get humiliated at the face of a turtle. The travellator finally came to an end and Maxwell stepped into one of the many revival machines, which, to the *controller* would appear as a loading screen. Syringes jabbed themselves into his arms and chest as he closed his eyes. This was the best sensation a character could feel and it never ever got boring, not even after thirty years. Soon enough, it was all over and he felt himself respawn into world 2. The *controller* began to maneuver him through the obstacles slowly. Half a level passed. No injuries yet. Nothing. Not even a close-to-death experience. Something like this almost never happened. Maxwell was ahead of the *Mario* in the group. He had been able to get the star. This couldn't be a *secondary controller*, he thought. This guy knew what he was doing. It was absolutely brilliant. He raced up top the stairs and jabbed the flag, right at the top. He had made it through the complete level. Perhaps there was hope after all...

A hospital where all video game characters go when they lose a life.

"No". *Wait, what?* "... No?" "No. No way." I felt like I had been hit by a truck. Alison meant the world to me, and I thought that her father had accepted me as part of the family long ago. "May I ask why not? I mean, it can't be our age and--" "It's not your age, son." Mr Jamison looked down at his large hands, sighed and rubbed at his eyes. "It's because she's not good enough for you." I stared at him incredulously. Alison was beautiful, smart and funny. She turned heads when she walked in a room, she brightened my day. She had meant the world to me for as long as I could remember. She had been there for me through school, college and the death of my parents in a car accident. To me, she was perfect. "Mr Jamison - sir - I don't understand." Mr Jamison - I usually called him Ed, but it didn't seem right at the moment - looked down at his hands again. He played with his wedding ring for a moment before he spoke again. "Ryan, you have been like a son to me. More so since your parents passed. I've seen you grow into an intelligent, polite young man. I've seen you give your everything to my daughter, and all I've seen her do is take, take, take..." "Sir, with all due respect, I *want* to take care of Ali. I mean, between my inheritance and taking over my father's business, Ali will never have to work if she doesn't want to." "That's exactly right, and that's exactly why she's still with you." Mr Jamison sighed again, and looked up at me. He had tears in his eyes but his words made me furious. I gritted my teeth. "That's *not* true. How could you even--" "It *is* true, son. It *is*..." His voice grew soft. "It started right before your parents died. She said they were just friends, but I caught them fucking in his car, right out there on the driveway. She begged me not to tell you, said she was going to end it with you once you got back from your trip. Then the accident happened, and the excuses started. She couldn't tell you while you were in hospital, couldn't after you woke up and found out your parents had passed, couldn't before the funeral... and then I think she really believed I'd forgotten. I haven't forgotten. I've been waiting for this day for two years." There was that truck again, along with a lead balloon in the pit of my stomach. I couldn't understand why he would tell me this, it wasn't true. It *couldn't* be true. But then, could it? Ali had been distant before the accident, strange after but I put that down to her not knowing how to deal with my injuries and then my grief. Still... there were nights when she didn't answer her phone, or if she did I'd hear a man's voice - the same man every time - and she would say she was out for dinner with friends. "I... I don't believe you." "Don't you? You must know that it's him she's with when she's not with you. Last Friday, when she said she was with Georgina--" "Stop it." "-- She was with *him*. Please, son. Please. *Don't* marry her. I don't want to see her destroy you." With that, Mr Jamison broke down. I had never seen him cry before. I stood, laid a hand on his shoulder, and headed for the door. I had a lot to think about. ----- *Edit just to say thank you for the upvotes, which indicate you have enjoyed the story. It means a lot since, as I mentioned in the comments below, I've written maybe one other piece of fiction in the last 10 years. I had a major case of writers block but hopefully the encouragement I've had here will be enough that I respond to further prompts. Once again, thank you.*

A man who has been dating a girl since elementary school goes to her father for her hand in marriage. The father says no. Tell us why and break our hearts.

Today he had chosen the form of a woman of above-average height, probably about six feet six inches tall, considering his sense of humor. Though he was a woman today, I can't help but think of him as a "he". Habits, I suppose. Obviously, the part of the Church I'm in doesn't exist. We joke that we don't know who'd be more upset: the average person over the human rights violations or the average PETA member over the occasional goat sacrifice. The pentagram I'd painstakingly drawn on the floor in kid's blood (erm, young goat) had vanished in a puff of sulfur, and after it cleared, here he was. I purposely tried to think of him as a he then, admittedly- he was a strikingly attractive woman, with cleavage that left little to the imagination. Lust was the sin of the day, apparently. I suppose I'd choose that over gluttony. "What now?" The two words were enough to send shivers down our spines. The malevolence in her voice was clear- and, on the bright side, enough to make my thoughts of breaking my celibacy vanish. "We would never waste your time, of course," came my boss's quick and obviously nervous reply. It may have been my first time, but it wasn't his, and still his fear was evident. Everyone in the room would have been much happier French kissing Lord Voldemort at the moment. Everyone was silent, waiting for someone else to speak. Finally the man we'll call Richards spoke up. He was a cold and uncompromising man, and the meeting had been his idea. He was least fearful- his fear felt more like respect. "You see, we feel that certain... dissidents have not been receiving enough retribution for their crimes." The Devil looked surprised. That scared me. "Who, specifically?" There was a sibilant hiss on the second word that I didn't like. "Well, certain members of the Church have passed away recently in accidents, and we've heard they're getting merely time in purgatory." This was news to me. I began to wonder whose side I was on here- scary, when the other side belonged to an individual who usually possessed horns. "Well, I'm afraid what happens there is my domain, and all your well-learned politics don't do anything about it." Richards looked visibly upset. I began to worry that this "Paranormal Ethics Committee" was less than ethical. There was a long silence. "If that's all, I will take my leave." "I can't let you do that." The Devil's eyes grew wild- and then Richards pulled out a flask. "Holy water. Now you will listen." The female form melted away instantly, and a genderless horror took its place- a writhing mass of sulfurous smoke with a very, very upset face. "YOU WILL LISTEN! This is your territory, but you will pass through mine one day, and you should take care not to anger me!" Richards undid the cap, and I ducked under the table. ... When I came to, the room was a bomb site. Richard's eyes were rather conspicuously missing from his head. He was walking around, screaming. A flask was jammed straight through his forehead. All the other members were dead. A piece of paper was on my lap. It read, in human blood: "Tell the story. Do not tempt me again. Sin-cerely, Lucifer" I could have done without the pun.

The devil is brought in front of an ethics board not because his punishments were to severe but because they weren't severe enough

Doug and Dean hurried into the nearest abandoned townhouse, seeking refuge from the mass hysteria consuming the streets. The lifelong duo stared at each other from opposing walls, sore and out of breath. The world had descended into chaos, the powers of good finally submitting to the reign of evil, with the energy of negativity now causing physical harm to living beings. A mere case of slander could murder a small forest. "Are we safe here Doug?" Dean breathed heavily, admiring the sense of quiet within their domain. "Nowhere is safe, Dean. This is it. Facebook has become a battleground with more deaths being caused by photo comments than the opiate market in Russia. The streets are plagued with outspoken soapbox junkies blasting hate through their megaphones. We will die by the pen, Dean." Doug held a somber look. Dean sternly grasped his friend's shoulder. "Then I want you to do it." Dean's gaze worried Doug. "Do what Dean?" "Kill me." Doug's face retorted in disgust. "I certainly will not." "You have to. If not by you, I may be struck down by a backhanded compliment. You and I both know I hate backhanded compliments. I want to die with dignity." Dean prodded Doug. Doug considered the proposition, his hand resting against his chin. He looked up, his brow wrinkling. "You have to fight back, I will not murder you in cold blood." Dean paused. "Why, because you're a bitch?" Dean smirked in jest. Doug took a few steps to the right, catching his balance while rubbing his shoulder. The insult was sudden, but not substantial. He sighed, and accepted his death by brotherhood. "You fight like your boxers; dirty and without weight to back them." It was a gut-strike, and Dean keeled over wrapping his fingers around his stomach. He always was self-conscious about his manhood. "Good-" Dean caught his breath, "-one." He stood up and smiled at Doug. They each nodded. "You have your mother's eyes," Doug casually walked to the kitchen, "and when you both look at me they scream, *put it in me Doug*." They both chuckled at that one, Dean brushed it off. "Mom jokes? I told you I wanted to die with dignity!" Dean's conviction caused a sharp pain to rattle through Doug's knee. "I see you could care less about yours seeing as you wish to die in the kitchen like some sort of 1950's housewife." The pain in Doug's knee intensified, causing him to allow an audible groan. "You moan like one too." Doug's knee crippled. Doug fell to the floor, gritting his teeth while looking to regain his composure. He chimed in before Dean could finish him. "You question my masculinity, yet you didn't even have the balls to go out there and face the world with your words. You needed nurturing and confirmation of your identity from your best friend, like some sort of depressed high school student. I'm sure I can find you some razor blades in the garage..." Deans fingers bent back to his wrists; his arms beginning to go limp and disjointed. "JESUS ALMIGHTY!" Dean stared at his hands in disbelief. That one cut close to home. "Ah yes, Mr. Insecurity. Voice of a pterodactyl, neck of a giraffe, and the strut of a penguin. I remember when you were voted most likely to **never** become a mythological creature." Dean's right arm ripped off its socket, blood pouring over the kitchen tile, his vision beginning to become faint. They both chuckled at the pain. "But at least," Dean heaved, "I was always true to myself. Your false confidence is more trans-parent than two tumblr feminists adopting an orphanage." Fuck that was clever. Doug's legs snapped in half, causing his cries to become angry and heartfelt. "WHY CAN'T YOU JUST ADMIT THAT YOU LOVE ME!" Dean laughed lightly at the insult, but he could see Doug's will breaking. With the massive amount of blood loss he encountered, he would only share a few more words with his childhood friend. "Because I don't want to lead you on, you gay little man," they both grinned, "now finish me you pansy, I'm losing more blood than your sister's menstrual cycle." They both gagged a little, their teeth beginning to rapidly rot. "I may not be gay," Doug was somewhat confused and in shock at his mangled limbs, "but I do love you Dean. Carry on in the afterlife. Wait for me there. I'm glad I got to spend both life, and death with you..." Doug began to fade, Dean saw the life beginning to leave his eyes. "I love you too Doug!" A tear fell from Dean's eye. Doug sat up abruptly. "I always knew you were queer." Deans body shredded down the middle blanketing the walls with his blood while Doug collapsed with a smile on his face, the last aura of happiness the Earth ever knew.

A duel to the death. The weapon of choice? Insults.

Oh god she caught me looking. Stupid, shouldn’t be staring, she’ll think I’m making fun of her OH GOD SHE’S COMING OVER nononono no no okay Alex, play it cool, play it cool. Right, now, smile, look at her, small talk, all right? Stupid, stupid, stupid! Nice foot in mouth moment there, Alex. you know she’s sensitive about her size! Now go over there and apologize-- I don’t care that you’re scared! The girl with the nicest smile you’ve ever seen thinks you’re just another jerk! Now go! I’ll never forgive me if I don’t! Okay, that went well. See? Wasn’t so hard. And that smile… there’s something about her cheeks and I can’t stop looking and-- Did she just-- but-- I’m not cute! I’m just… nerdy and messy hair and freckles and whaaaaat. She mussed up my hair! I’m never washing it again. I think I’m in love. ---- Why am I even here? I never come to parties, what am I gonna do? I don’t even drink and what else--?! I didn’t know she was going to be here! Oh god oh god… breathe in, breathe out. Okay. Leaf on the wind, watch me soar. Say hi. Tell a joke. Make a reference NO BAD IDEA BAD NERD YOU wait, she got that? She got that? Oh wow, she watched-- she knows-- oh WOW. Play it cool, Alex. Don’t scare her off, don’t be clingy, don’t monopolize her time-- wait, it’s been how many hours? I should get going but maybe… maybe she’d like to hang out? It can’t hurt to ask and OH GOD SHE SAID YES. No Alex, it’s impolite to do a happy dance, just say your goodbyes and-- ...she smells so nice. It’s just… wow. I never want her to stop hugging me. ...Alex. Aaaaalex. Alex! You’re skipping again. ---- D-date? Like, date-date? Like, me and her? But- But-- I’m me! I know we’ve hung out like a million times but I’m just this nerdy nothing and she’s this beautiful, strong woman and she just asked me out and I don’t know what to say and I’m fidgeting and babbling and… Huh. Apparently nodding was the right thing to say. Oof. I think she broke a rib and I don’t care. I have a da-a-ate! ---- God, I love it when she laughs. It’s nothing like the other girls. It’s… deep and shameless and so very sincere. She throws her head back and her shoulders shake and it’s all because of me. And those cheeks. Those full cheeks and those dimples and… No. Alex, no! What if she doesn’t want me to? It’s just… I should ask… but… Okay… but just a peck, okay? There, happy? Oh god, she’s turning and those strong arms and what is she doing and why is she looking at me like that and Oh. ...mmmfm... I think I’m in heaven. ---- I have a girlfriend. I. Me. Alex. The little nerd. The one with the beautiful girlfriend. With the strong arms and the hugs I never want to leave. I don't care if they don't like it. I don’t care if they snicker. I don’t care if they can’t see how beautiful she is. They just have no taste. They’ve never seen her smile. Not in that way. Not the way she does at me. I have a girlfriend. It’s been how many months and I still can’t wrap my mind around it. Oh god, she caught me looking. And she smiled. And I didn’t realize I smiled first. I still can’t believe my luck. ---- Come on. Tell her. Tell her she’s beautiful. Tell her she’s the most beautiful woman you’ve ever seen. Tell her you’ve been dreaming of seeing her like this ever since you met her. Tell her… Or, you know. Tell her you can’t keep your hands off her. It’s not like she hasn’t noticed. Oh god they bounce when she laughs. And she doesn’t mind me staring. ...should I? … Warm. So very warm. And she loves it. That’s all the reason I’ll ever need. ---- Alex. Alex. Alex! Get your wits together. Don’t you dare chicken out on me now! Come on, Alex! It’s been a lovely evening, you won’t get a better opportunity. Aaaaalex. It’s in your pocket, Alex. It’s just four simple words. Go on. Now or never! Dear? I have something to ask you... -020

Tell me a love story without revealing the gender of the protagonist

>a rough first draft of what could be an opener. I wasn’t so much as conceived as I was *engineered*. Gene therapy they called it; *playing god*. This well intended pavement slab on the road to hell, it began as a means to cure disease and make the world a better place. Once the corporations got wind of this technology, however, they wanted it. Obviously there were protesters in their millions against it, calling for a ban against the heresy of genetic manipulation. These protests were silenced, and the technology was perfected. From the colour of the child’s eyes, skin and hair to their final height, all aspects and genes were able to be changed. For this, entire families drove themselves to bankruptcy, selling everything they had for the extortionate service of the Gene Therapists. The world saw a population explosion and a new generation of perfect babies were born and humanity rejoiced at the prospects of their future. And I? What did my parents select for me? Did I have high cheekbones and make girls swoon as I made my way onstage at a concert? Was I powerful and muscular, charging down a field with a football like so many of my peers were destined? No. I was part of a batch of 6 babies born in secret as part of the military project dubbed “Darwin.” The aim of Darwin was to create a breed of soldier that could adapt to their environment rapidly and survive under extreme conditions that would otherwise kill a person. Growing up; our capabilities were tested to their limits, like rats in a cage. At the age 7 of we were dropped into freezing tundra and abandoned for a week with no supplies; the first day as spent huddled together in agony as we began to freeze to death. After a night of suffering the morning found us with a layer of thick white hair covering our bodies and we found the temperature to be more tolerable. Hungry and tired we searched for food and by the 3rd day had broken through ice and began to dive for fish. When the helicopters returned to collect us, they found a group of white furred mammals devouring live fish in burrows dug into the snow. The success of this experiment spurred the researched on, pushing us into whatever scenario they could dream of. Their challenge was then to find an environment that *could* kill one of us, and found our limit. It took 4 years of experimentation before they succeeded.

Evolution (of human beings) speeds up (starting with you)

Jim woke up to a flashlight being shown in his face. Beyond them were the white mask and unapproving eyes of Dr. Beedle. Around him was the hospital room he had seen so many times. The esteemed doctor picked up a small hand mirror and allowed Jim to see his own reflection. "Damn Doc!" Jim could see even more wrinkles carved into his face, their crevices belying some kind of truth he wasn't ready to admit. "Jim. I told you before, and I will tell you again. You see her one more time and I will be unable to help you…" The doctor continued on about Telomere's and that stupid alien virus that everyone knew about. Jim no longer listened, he had heard it all before. The virus was discovered in Africa in 2032 and was quickly lauded as the miracle elixir for the human race, with hints that it might even prolong life. In laboratory testing there wasn't an affliction that it wouldn't cure, and by Council decree in 2045 it gained Mandatory Application status and every human within the Federation was injected with it. That was before people began to realize that it had not come from Earth. Within ten years half the population had aged into senility, while others gained the radiance of Greek gods. Dr. Beedle had been on the forefront of research at the time, and one late night in the lab he made the startling discovery…the "virus" had been engineered, and it was sentient. It was not clear who the virus was targeting, or why. But it was clear that those truly in love were being weeded out in a tragic Romeo and Juliet diaspora. One partner would grow in vitality while the other would become crippled with apparent old age many decades before their time. In many cases as the "elder" partner died, the youthful partner would commit suicide at their grave. This became so prevalent that popular culture referred to the phenomenon as Shakespeare's Syndrome, only exasperated by the fact that if those lovers separated, they would both become to all accounts of science immortal. The populace had descended into panic. Parents banned their children from dating, birthrates went down, while the lovers anguished with the pleasure and pain of the virus. Dr. Beedle, now the head of the Federal Health Bureau, ordered the outlaw of free love expression. For the good of an immortal society, romance would become an anachronism of the past. Sexual contact was eventually outlawed, as children were derived by sperm and egg donations and born through Federal Maternal Workers. That was almost 100 years ago and Jim knew that outwardly society had improved. Hell, Dr. Beedle was 150 years old and still had the same photo on his I.D. badge from 2050! But Jim still didn't care. Sex, like so many good things in the past, had been driven underground into the bowels of society. Jim was a mixed metaphor that did not belong in the current era along with the small religious group that had preserved the secrets from an earlier time. He had taken the vow, and he would never break it. "Jim. **JIM!**" "Yes Doc." "Have you even been listening? You do understand that I have the utmost power over your life? I have no incentive to keep you in Rehabilitation if you won't cooperate. I see no choice but to submit you to the Federal Collections Agency for Termination of Social Contract." "You can destroy the body, but my soul will continue Doc." "Jim. I am a man of science. That childish religion you still follow will not last, and you will not either. I hope you are happy knowing that you did this to yourself and have attempted to undermine everything we have been given. Sign this and declare your preferred method of Termination under the User Agreements." Jim could see her face, her blonde hair that cut a sweeping angle across her petite nose. He could feel her touch, her smell, her taste and he could feel the quick sharp needles of arthritis as he picked up the pen and checked the box marked Voluntary Self Termination. Under the Type and Method he wrote, "Sherri."

Love is a drug, and you're overdosing on someone

TOP SECRET To: Ship’s Commander Subj: Last Resort Sir, If you are reading this, national command has failed. As such, this may be the last order you receive from His Majesty and the government. This means that, until you are able to determine otherwise, you are the lawful government of the nation. If the government has indeed failed, there is no consequence to failure to obey. Therefore, your actions must be guided by your conscience, your knowledge of international law and the Laws of War, and these written guidelines. If a senior commander of His Majesty’s military is available, you are to report to that commander immediately. As with a fully functioning government, the senior commander is His Majesty’s representative, and his orders are law. If an allied senior commander is available, contact them. They may have been able to establish communications with His Majesty or his representative. Allied commanders are not His Majesty’s representatives, but they may be his messengers. A list of allied governments, in order of precedence, was issued prior to your departure from His Majesty’s domains. Seek guidance from the senior existent government. If you are unable to establish a chain of command with His Majesty, you are hereby transferred to the command of the senior government. If you are unable to establish any form of command, or if you are the senior available officer, you are to prosecute the current action to the best of your ability in order to restore His Majesty’s or his lawful successor to the throne. If you are unable to restore the line of succession, establish a safe haven for His Majesty’s subjects. Use of all available weapon systems is authorized. Rules of Engagement package is unlocked, all ROE are granted. In trust, Sir I.M. Boss Prime Minister to His Majesty

A "letter of last resort" are final military orders given to field commanders after a nation has been completely destroyed. As a head of state, write a hypothetical letter to the commander.

She leads her child by the hand, onto the boat, onto the water. The lake is lifeless and still. It merges with the starless night. Now there is only a boat and its lantern, lighting up the void, a flickering glow against black. It glides towards the center where nighttime is thickest. “Mama where are we going?” The mother remains silent. The young girl hugs herself tightly. She was not allowed to bring anything on this trip. Not even her toys. “Are you enjoying yourself honey?” “I’m cold,” she says with a heavy pout. “ Can we go home now?” She is wearing her pajamas, which were muddied on the way to the lake. She can see her own breath in the cold, orange clouds against the orange lights. “We just got here baby,” the mother says. Thump. Thump. “Mama, what was that?” The young girl hears a soft and gentle thud. As if something heavy floated lifelessly against their boat. “It was nothing baby. Don’t worry.” Thump. Thump. As soft as whispers. “Mama I’m scared.” Thump. Thump. Gentle like a mother’s kiss. The girl starts to sob, then cry, then wail. It echoes dangerously through the emptiness. The mother smiles at her. The girl looks back and her wailing is eased into a whimper. Their eyes lock and then slowly the mother picks up the lantern, and blows out the flickering candlelight. Blackness consumes them. The girl cries. Thump. Thump. As light as a dewdrop. The mother lets her daughter cry for a while before she lights a cigarette. She sucks on it and her face is illuminated by the smoldering ash. “Mama? Let’s leave. Please Mama, let’s leave. Please Mama.” She sucks on her cigarette again. Her face lights up like a specter. Thump. Thump. “Mooommyyyy?! Pleaaseee!” The girl cries bobbing up and down, upsetting the calm water. ThumpThumpThumpThump “Do you hear that baby?” Thump. Thump. Thump. The girl calms down. “It's Daddy,” she says as she tips the girl over into the blackness easily as if she has done this many times before. She sucks on her cigarette again, listening to water-muffled wails. ThumpThumpThumpThump

A mother on a boat with her child. There's something in the water. 350 words.

We're about to be placed into confinement (me and another American soldier named Guy). No public mail or communications channel will be provided to us, and they will be watching. Strangers, whom I might bribe, may be able to pass secret messages and communications. To communicate, we must be very careful, and may resort to flushing messages down the toilet or throwing them out the window. Love to my wife. You do what you can to free us. Know this; I appreciate all your help. The messages are becoming more and more difficult. Rules for prisoners have become too strict. And the Geheime Staatspolizei haven’t yet found the garrote that I’ve hidden in my cell; perhaps I will use it to escape. So Buchenwald holds The White Rabbit, who lives on for the time being. Do what you can to free him too. I shall explain what I know and what I’ve experienced thus far. A parachute drop, then a short hike northward of my location reveals underground group leaders. Full searching indicated top Reichssicherheitshauptamt officers in the area. Commitment's difficult as much time has passed since my last survey. What interrogation, torture and imprisonment await us? I’m not certain, but we both know they will be painful. Thinking of my cyanide solution if I cannot avoid execution. Of reaching the US lines, we are losing hope. You do whatever it takes to support the establishment of the International Military Tribunal and get these damn Nazis. Wouldn’t that be wonderful? Get us POWs out. This German General Staff and High Command must pay for their crimes. From Nazi-occupied Eastern Europe, the Einsatzgruppen (mobile death squads) operate with extreme efficiency. Any Kameradenwerk by one Dr. Mengele must also be destroyed (chatter indicated something around Brazil). Other crimes against humanity (murder, extermination, enslavement, etc) are being funded by Krupp family. Guy informed me that the name of the head of the Krupp family - it is Alfried Krupp von Bohlen und Halbach, but I do not trust him as of yet. I met Guy in the shithole so I cannot vouch for him. Just want to make sure you know that in case he turns. Wanna just make sure. Tell him that we are his friends and lead him out. You know he might have further intelligence. How you get it from him is up to you. I’m almost certain he can point to secret Nazi camps to the north, and might explain what they are doing at those locations. Feeling like he can be trusted, but you never know. Gotta go soon, guards are suspicious and my courier is coming. Make sure to send help soon. You take care now. Understand that I am thanking you very much for your support. Never has the world witnessed such atrocities. Gonna perform a full report on Ulrich Heinrich Emil Richard Greifelt. Give it time. You know how it goes. -Up a Creek Without A Paddle [signed]

You are a captured spy. Write a letter from prison where putting the first words of every sentence together reveals something beyond the apparent message.

"Mr. Vice President." Ken Jennings looked up from his coffee towards his Secret Service detail. "Yes?" "Sir, I need to immediately escort you to Horsepower." Fuck. Horsepower was the Secret Service's code name for the nuclear-hardened bunker that lay 300 meters beneath the White House. This could only mean that the proverbial shit had hit the fan. "What's this all about Jim?" "Codes only from now on Sir. Please." "Ok fine, what's this all about *Blowtorch*?" The agent was visibly distraught, despite training, and the President didn't like the codename bullshit. "You'll be advised once you are secure Sir. Time to move." Like speaking in a foreign language, the agent proceeded to rapidly speak into the microphone hidden in his sleeve. "Citadel is secure. Leaving Cloverleaf. Have Patroller prepped and ready to go wheels up, ETA eleven minutes. Trail Breaker en route to Acrobat. Blowtorch, secure Pavillion and Pacemaker and move to Buckeye via Playground, Dog Pound being method. Kneecap on standby. Out. "Ji... Blowtorch, please explain all that to me." "Need to know basis Sir, move now." And with that Jennings was rushed out the door of his home into the waiting motorcade. Seated inside was another Secret Service agent, his Press Secretary Ron Ziegler, and his Secretary of Defense Melvin Laird. Both looked disheveled. "Ok guy's, what the hell is going on??" Jennings practically yelled. Melvin coughed, "Sir, Potus is incapacitated." "What the hell do you mean??" "I mean as of a few minutes from now, you will be the acting President of the United States." Just like that sound inside the limousine seemed to be sucked out, and all Jennings heard was ringing. "Sir? Sir, are you alright?" Ken could vaguely see Ron's hand waving in front of his face. "Wha? Yes, I'm fine." He had to catch his breath though. "What happened?" "Potus has been kidnapped. They were en route to Companion when they were hit. Bamboo was wiped out." Ken could hardley breathe. "Is Barack ok?" "We don't know. One group is claiming responsibility though and so far Cartwheel confirms." "Who." "According to intelligence, a sect of religious nut jobs out of Kansas. The Westboro Baptist Church. It appears they've been stockpiling munitions and arms for quite some time now." "Dear God... what do they want?" "We aren't sure. We need to have you sworn in right away though." Jennings let out a breath he didn't know he'd been holding. "What about the President? What are we doing to secure him?" The two men in front of him glanced sideways at each other uncomfortably. "We lost track of their vehicle when they turned into the Virginia Ave. tunnel." "What?!? Do you mean to tell me that despite all of our intelligence capabilities, a bunch of hillbillies managed to kidnap the President of the United States and then we LOSE him?? What happened to the tracker?" Ron cringed. "I'm sorry, we think Potus removed the tracker. Or his captors did." "In any case sir," Melvin spoke up, "your designation is changed. You are now Eagle." "Get me to the White House." "Yes Sir. We're headed there now." . - As he walked into the secondary Situation Room within Horsepower, the men seated around the table stood as one. "At ease, gentlemen. Give me the latest." Jennings had just been sworn in and the weight was already burdening his shoulders. "Sir, if I may?" The now-Vice President, formerly Speaker of the House, Carl Albert, raised his hand. "Go ahead Carl." "Mr. President, as of four minutes ago we received this message from the terrorist cell leaders." God, these people loved to label anyone and everything a terrorist Ken thought to himself. "Now... these are their words, not mine. I quote: 'We have the negro Hussein Obama in custody. Citizens arrest is what it is. God demanded it. To have him returned our demands are as follows. One, ban gay marriage, and have the punishment be death. Two, nuke North Korea. You have 12 hours to comply.' End quote." "..." The President sat in stunned silence for a minute. "Wut." He could barely even utter that. "Mr. President, I'm sorry, that's all there is." "What the hell am I supposed to do with that??" "Sir, I think the best course of action is non-action. We as a rule don't negotiate with terrorists." "Dammit Ford I don't need to be talked down to. I know the standard response." "I'm sorry Mr. President, I didn't mea-" "Shut the hell up." "Yes Mr. President." Ken rubbed his temples. That damn ringing wouldn't stop. "Alright. What are the options?" "We can send in a Seal Team to try to extract Potus, a- "Who we don't know the location of." "-nd.. Yes sir. Or we can nuke North Korea. Or allow Potus to die." "We're running out of time. I need intelligence on Obama's location. Come back to me in 3 hours with something concrete." "Yes Sir." "Dismissed." . - "What have you got?" Ken asked sourly. "Mr. President, we've had no luck locating Potus. All available satellites have been re-positioned, and we've dispatc-" "I don't want to hear any more excuses!" Ken spat at the CIA director. "Get me some God damned answers! These aren't options I can work with!" "I.. I know Sir. I think we need to discuss them though. We're getting close to the time limit." Ken sighed. "Are you suggestion I seriously just let Barack die? Really?" "No Sir. However North Korea.." "Under no circumstances will I even consider dropping a nuclear weapon on North Korea, no matter how disliked they are." All of a sudden an upset looking intern approached. What now, Ken thought. "SIR. The Press has gotten a hold of the story and are threatening to release it! What do I tell them??" "Dammit! Tell them to hold on, we've got this." "Sir, they're on the line right now." "Well put me on!" . - "Mr. President." The voice sounded a lot like Frank Sinatra, but Ken knew it was George Stephanopoulos. "George, don't do this. That's a direct order from your Commander in Chief." "I'm sorry Mr. President, but the world needs to know. I won't sit on this." "George! Don't you da-" but the line went dead. Fuck. "Lenny! Redirect one of those teams to detain Stephanopoulos." Freedom of the Press can go fuck itself, for all Ken cared. "Yes Sir." . - One hour to go. This was getting ridiculous. I'm the most powerful man in the world and I've got my hands tied. "Mr. President, your ratings are through the roof since that Jeopardy episode. Use that good will here now. The public will side with you." "Sure, but what's the right course of action?" "That's for history to decide... and we will be the victors here." "I'm not so sure." . - Ken's hand trembled over the Football. "How do we even know that they will return Obama?" he asked shakily. "We don't Mr. President." All of a sudden Ken got his wits about him. No way was one man's life worth more then a whole country's worth. With a sense of finality, he closed the Football. On the adjacent screen, he saw the group of figures that threatened the world's way of life scream. They raised a pistol to the back of a hooded man's head, and pulled the trigger. While the rest of the world cried out in anguish, Ken smirked. "Hope my ass."

Obama has been held hostage. The ransom is America has to nuke North Korea. Explain how we got here and who is holding Obama hostage. Bonus points for an outcome.

It says in the history books that the sky is blue. I am not sure about that. All we ever see are the clouds of varying brown that are perpetually held back by the plexi dome over the city. I had often thought about going all the way to the top of the Spire Tower. It is one of the highrises that was built around a support pillar of the Dome, but that was not why it was my choice. I worked there, and the temptation hit me every time I was in the elevator. Somehow, I'd never found the courage before. I was always sure there would spots to climb the support pillar where the building ends, but the fear of androguards up top had always kept me back. At the edge of the city, the androguards are coldly dutiful about keeping the dehumanized zones clear. Almost every day I see stories on the news where someone has either died in order to challenge the wall or to commit suicide. What is worse is that you can't get answers about anything. No one seems to know why we are stuck in here, except that the outside is toxic. The politicians certainly wont tell, presuming they know anything at all. I don't know what is different about that day. I had decided to climb up here so many times, and not followed through. Yet there I was. My fear of the androguards was still with me, but I didn't care any more. I was that curious. If anything, I figured that at least I could say that I had taken in the beauty of our city from an angle few people have seen. So I began to climb, not sure if there would even be a way out at the top. I wondered if anyone ever looked up and saw the lone figure steadily working his way up the rusty square pillar. Arms shaking, I wondered if I would have the energy to climb back down. I was soon past the point where the secondary struts curved outward, one for each corner of the square center structure. It was a welcome sight to see that there might be a place to sit on top of the struts. Looking up from the street below, I had never thought that there was any gap up there. The excitement pushed me in those last few minutes of my climb. As I sat on the slightly angled top of the strut, I noticed something even more interesting. I was looking up at the beams that divided the plexi roof, and realized that the square central structure did not even attach them. It looked to be several meters shy, in fact. With renewed vigor, I climbed the rest of the way. The pillar turned out to be hollow, to my further surprise. I remembered the flashlight that I had brought, this was a much better use than what I had originally intended it for. Who cared about confusing people in the city below when there was exploring to do. I leaned over the edge and shined it down the inside of the pillar. There was an actual stairwell inside, with rails and everything, unlike the cross-stitched cables I used to get up there. I figured that I was already so far, that I might as well keep going. There had not been any androguards to stop me yet. I carefully walked along the half meter thickness of the pillars edge, until I was on the side where the stairwell started. I hoped that perhaps it would let me out at the bottom of the building somewhere, meaning that I might come up there in the future. I had never had a secret spot before. I certainly wasn't thinking it would lead me to where it did. The stairwell was much longer than I expected, even though I knew it would be a long climb. The building on the pillar was nearly a hundred floors. I began to consider going back up, as I was beginning to get hungry. I don't exactly know why I kept going. I did not find any doors at the bottom, instead I found a ladder. My curiosity came back, and I had to know what the ladder led to. It was strange, because as I began to climb down the ladder, my weight began to shift. At first I thought my mind was playing tricks with me, until I realized that I was pushing myself away from the rungs more than hanging off of them. It wasn't long before I could actually stand on what used to be the wall. I walked back toward where I came from, and the floor seemed to shift under me into a slope. When I went back the other way, it shifted again, that it felt like flat ground. I shined the flashlight toward where I had come from, and sure enough the stairs were there, as if winding down a hallway. I shined the flashlight the other way, and another stairway was winding away from me. I don't need to tell you how perplexed I was. I figured one stairway was as good as the other, so I kept going. I soon found the floor sloping upward, but as if the stairway I had come in on was upside down. I climbed up the ladder, waiting for the world to suddenly right itself and make my fall head first down the inside of the pillar. Or was it upward? I was so confused. I walked up this new stairway, powering through the vertigo until it subsided. This stairway was just as long as the one that I had left, so that I was very hungry when I reached the top. The plexi dome beckoned me, and in my excitement I wondered if I had been turned around at the bottom and ended up going back up the same stairwell that I had traveled down. As I finally peeked over the top of the central pillar, I sighed a relief at seeing the city below. Perhaps I had been turned around. I sat on top of the pillar's edge, and surveyed the buildings. It was then that my stomach felt like it had fallen ten stories below me. This was not my city. The buildings were as unfamiliar as the streets. After the initial shock, I knew that I would not have the energy to climb back down the inside of the pillar. I was not even sure that I would have enough to climb down the outside. The building on this pillar was much closer, though, and that made my final decision. That is why I am here now, with a different ID. I am from the dome below you. All I want is some food, and my money looks fake to you. I know you don't believe me, but please, just give me something. I am so hungry.

A dome has been over the city for as long as anyone can remember. You don't ask questions, because you don't get answers. No one leaves, no one comes in, but one day a foreigner arrives.

After months of following the anonymous tip, after years of trying to prove that the moon landing was a hoax, I finally had it. Proof that it was all a fraud. A cable from the Soviet Politburo in Moscow to a field office in Siberia, dated just before Apollo 8, that the American space program hoax should be supported, to publicly proclaim that the Americans were sending crafts to the moon, and to continue that support even after they landed men on the surface. But it just raised more questions. Why would the Soviets support a fraud that glorified their greatest rival? How did they know it was a fraud? And why did they send this message to a field office in Siberia, of all places? The last question turned out to be the easiest to answer. There was little in that tiny Siberian town whose name I couldn't pronounce, and had no name outside of the Cyrillic. What there was, however, was a deep space radar telemetry station. Probably built to detect incoming ICBM launches at the height of the cold war, obviously they were tracking the American launches, and the trajectories made it clear that nothing was reaching the moon's orbit, let alone the surface. But why? I tracked down the Soviet officer who the document had been addressed to, a retired Soviet General named Yuri Chzov. I found him in a local bar in Tomsk, drinking cheap vodka. He wasn't willing to talk at first, but the continued tactical application of vodka and disclosing a copy of the message loosened his lips. He seemed on the border of tears. He begged me to let it lie, that the secrets I was chasing were too important, too vital to release to the public. Eventually, he gave me another clue. He mentioned something called "Маестиц 12". After a bit of research, I discovered it was the Majestic 12, a secret committee of American and Canadian scientists and government officials tasked with researching and concealing the existence of extraterrestrials. Yuri had also mentioned a man, a Gene Shetland. After some research, I had found that he had been alleged to be a key member of the Majestic 12, and by luck he was still alive as well. I flew to North Dakota to give him a visit, his house seemingly in the middle of nowhere specifically to discourage people from doing that. I flew in a small Cesna to the nearest airport, and had to pay an extortionate amount to a local to get him to lend me his spare truck to drive the hours to his house. I didn't even get to the porch when the door opened, and he looked at me with a pump 12 gauge over/under pointed at my face. "What do you want?" "The truth", I replied, holding up a document. I folded it into a paper airplane and threw it to him, not wanting to get any closer while he pointed the gun at me. He bent down and picked it up, making sure to keep his gaze and barrel pointed squarely at me the whole time. He read it, sighed, and lowered the barrel. "The damn Russians. I always knew they'd be the death of us all. Come on in." He wandered inside and left the door open. I followed him to his dining room, a simple and uncluttered room. "Care for something to drink? Beer, coffee, tea, water?" I shook my head, "I'm good, I'm just here to hear your story." He sighed. "On one condition. You can never tell another soul what you find out here. You'll understand why after you hear it, but I need you to promise me, here and now. If this gets out, there will be consequences." I was a bit unnerved, the Russian had said much the same thing. I had come too far to go home empty handed, so I nodded my assent. "I promise." "Well, it all started back in the early 50's. The US and Soviet governments were toying around with orbital launches, which caught the attention of a race of aliens known as the Buhjarre. Popular culture has since labelled them 'Greys', which we encouraged, because anything which concealed their very real nature helped... but I digress. "The Buhjarre weren't used to our turbulent atmosphere, apparently their planet had a much thinner and colder atmosphere and they weren't used to it. They crashed a few times in storms. Once in the Pacific near Hawaii, once in Yakutsk, and once in Roswell, New Mexico. You might have heard about that last one. No matter how much we tried to cover it up, it just seemed to get bigger. Sorry, I'm rambling again... "We formed the Majestic 12 to reverse engineer their technology. It was like a bunch of gnats getting their hands on a nuclear power plant, though. What little we understood was dwarfed by what we didn't. One of the things we did, discover, was a translation program. They had written it to decipher our language into theirs, and vice versa assuming they wanted to open communications. We translated their computers, and the orders were unnerving. Unless we reached another celestial body before two decades, we didn't qualify for protection, and our planet was eligible to be strip mined for resources. "We obviously panicked. Nobody had any clue what to do. The Soviets and Americans both threw money hand over fist at their rocket programs, but after low earth orbit they hit a wall. They couldn't get more power without either more weight completely offsetting the gains, or without the rockets exploding on the launchpads. "In '61, Kennedy decided that we needed a fallback, and the Apollo program was born. Publicly, it was a legitimate space program, but behind the scenes, it was all smoke and mirrors. We faked the death of astronauts in Apollo 1 to reduce prying eyes, then we just launched a bunch of low earth orbit flights while the real astronauts were bored out of their minds, and a bunch of actors pretended to waltz around in space, and on the moon. "The Soviets, understanding what was at stake, agreed to cover it up out of necessity. They had just as much to lose as we did." I heard noise coming from the driveway. I looked out the window, and saw several government SUVs driving up. "Ah, it's about time. Response time was slower than it should be, but they don't know what's at stake. The secret needs to die, and that doesn't happen if you keep telling people. I told them a dangerous psychotic broke in when I heard you coming. Nobody believes the crazies. You'll probably not want to tell anybody the truth, it will just confirm their suspicions. I suggest not resisting either. They're authorized to use lethal force if you do." He looked at his feet, with regret in his eyes. "Now you'll know what I have, the toll this secret takes. Enjoy the nuthouse."

The conspiracy theorists were right, the moon landing WAS faked. The reason turns out to be more sinister than anyone ever imagined.

*Busy morning. Will pick this up later.* --------- “Okay everyone, roll for negotiation.” “Dammit,” shouted the bard. The rest of the table peered over to see the wooden bauble displaying a single pip and snickered amongst themselves. “Looks like Bartleby will be stuck in the mailroom again!” teased Horatio, running his massive hand through a river of dark brown locks. “Every damned time! And stay in character ‘Bill.’ My *name* is Herbert. Herbert Smith.” Another round of chuckles spilled onto the table. “Alright, alright, let’s just keep it moving,” urged the CEO. “What about the rest of you?” The other men let the dice tumble onto the oak. “A natural twenty!” exclaimed Fineas. “I win this round.” The CEO rubbed his eyes and took a swig of ale. “For the last time, you can’t use magic to influence the dice. I can see it floating. Roll again.” “Fine,” the wizard grumbled. He haphazardly tossed the token. “Thirteen.” “Fifteen here,” boasted Horatio. “That corner office is as good as mine.” “Not if I can help it,” Reegan cautioned. The cleric held the die up to his mouth and spoke a silent prayer. With a tip of his hand, the die fell to the table. The man smiled, not even bothering himself to look at the result. “That can’t be legal,” pled Fineas. “That’s not magic,” the CEO remarked. “You’re free to pray to whatever gods you wish. Besides…” “Six? That can’t be right!” Reegan looked towards the skies to find answers. The divines had forsaken his roll. The CEO wrote some notes in his journal before pulling up a cloth to conceal his efforts. “You are all standing in the break room. There is a staff meeting taking place the conference room.” “I order a cup of coffee,” shouted Fineas. “You pour your own, dumbass,” sneered Bartleby. “Then I pour coffee,” the wizard corrected. There was a clack of dice on table. “There’s no more coffee in the vessel, but you could try making more,” hinted the CEO. “Do I have that skill?” “Check your résumé.” Fineas pored over his character sheet. “Executive assistant. Editing assistant. Lion tamer. Soda jerk. Wait, would that count?” “Roll and find out,” suggested the CEO. “You attempt to brew a pot of coffee. There is a loud hiss and then… the front bursts open covering you in boiling beverage. You get a saving throw.” Fineas grimaced at the result. “Ouch. You lose three pay points.” “I cast a healing spell!” Reegan beamed. “Reegan, you moron,” sighed Horatio. “You don’t have magic in B&B.” “Oh. Sorry about that.” “Don’t forget to role-play,” reminded the CEO. “He’s Tom here.” “Yeah, Tom, whatever,” grumbled the fighter. “I head out to the meeting.” “Okay,” came the cheerful reply of the CEO. “You step out into the unnatural white lights of the building. Walls made of cloth and steel snake their way through the main room. The sounds of mindless workers clacking away at their desks is interrupted by a shrill cry. A young woman walks down the hall towards you, waving and shouting ‘Bill.’” “Is she attractive?” asked Horatio. “What? Uh, I guess so. Why?” “I seduce her.” The CEO lets his face fall into the table. “You have to be kidding. She’ll get a harassment check. You sure about this?” “Positive,” Horatio replied, throwing a wink at the serving wench. “Bill wants some of that action.” “Fine, but at least roleplay this.” “I slap her backside.” “Roll for seduction,” sighed the CEO, resisting the urge for air quotes. Horatio kissed his die and gave it an optimistic toss. “Eighteen! Too old for my tastes, but I like what I see.” The CEO rummaged through the pages of his manual. “What’s your Charisma score?” “Three.” “Three?!” gaspsed the table. “What?! When is the last time *charisma* ever mattered in the real world? It’s a useless stat. It was either that or Intelligence.” “Yeah,” muttered Reegan. “I think you’d be screwed either way.” “So,” continued the CEO, “with your attribute modifier of… negative 6, you fail. Let’s see if she presses charges.” The CEO studied his book for results, then rolled a pair of dice. His grimace said it all. “I think that means you’re a goner,” laughed Fineas, slapping his friend’s shoulder with a ringed hand. “Quiet you guys. He’s not finished yet. But,” he added, turning to Horatio, “you’ll probably want to start rolling a new hire. She screams and slaps you for 1 pay point of damage. Heads of your coworkers pop up over the walls to get a better look. Then, Mr. Phillips’s door opens and the Executive Vice President emerges. The young woman runs to him, explaining how you assaulted her. He is clearly cross.” “Dammit!” shouted Horatio. “Every damned time.” “Hey, boss, are we still in the break room?” Bartleby asked in his best singing voice. “Yes. All three of you are behind the door.” “Excellent,” he cheered. “I wonder if there is any of that delicious kettle-roasted corn.” “I hate you guys,” Horatio cursed. “Gah. I draw my apology.” “Mr. Phillips readies the Proverbial Axe. You’re negotiation was 15, so you go first.” “I say I’m sorry.” “Roll for sincerity.” “11?” “He’s not hearing it. He berates you. ‘How many sensitivity seminars do we have to send you to?’ Lose 5 more pay points.” “Shit, that demotes me. Um, I… apologize again. Sixteen.” “’That doesn’t explain your actions.’ He’s slightly calmer now. He goes in for another attack. But he only manages to complain about a local sports team. That’s one pay point. Your move.” “Only two pay points left. Shit. Apologize again.” Horatio took a page out of Reegan’s book and prayed to his die. The block fell from his hands and came to a stop with a perfect 20 facing upward. “’Well,’ Mr. Phillips says, ‘I see it was just a misunderstanding. Just don’t let it happen again.’ He retreats to his office while the spectators return to their jobs.” “I did it! Take that you break room bastards!” Fineas threw a die across the table. “I run out and shove Hora- Bill into another woman.” “What the hell?!” shouted Horatio, loud enough for other tavern patrons to stare. “Backstabbing me? You?!” Horatio rolled to save. It wasn’t enough. The CEO didn’t even need to consult the manual to determine the outcome. “Gaspar pushes you into the secretary. She screams. Phillips steps out of his office and cuts you off from the company. You are fired.” “You donkey rectum, what was that for?” “It was a shitty character,” retorted Fineas. “You should thank me.” “Can I backstab Gaspar?” Bartleby inquired. “You can, but he gets a free counter attempt.” “What? Why is that?” the bard demanded. “That’s because Fineas’s character is equipped with blackmail.”

A Cleric, a Fighter, a Wizard, and a Bard sit down at a table to play Buildings and Bosses.

The United States of America... is a jackass. Don't get me wrong, he's a swell guy. Right, everyone? Yeah, we all think he's great and everything, but c'mon. Let's be real here. USA is the epitome of hypocrisy. He lectures you about doing one thing, then turns around and does the same thing, but thinks it's no big deal. And don't even get me started about the attitude problem. Most of us (key word being "most") behave with dignity and respect; USA thinks he can wave his junk around, yelling incoherently at all of us, and call it "negotiating". Ugh - oh, and the *self-righteousness!* The fact is, USA is a teenager amongst adults. He hasn't been here as long as the rest of us, and yet he thinks he's invincible, that he can do no wrong. He's right, we're wrong, and that's that. Never mind the fact that we've been doing this whole "government thing" for hundreds of years. Sure, USA has democracy and all that, but really, look at what he's doing for his people. Half of them don't even have basic human rights because of who they love! Completely ridiculous, I'll have you know. Not to mention the racism that's still quite prevalent within his boundaries. He's not doing his people any favors, yet insists that they love him. However, I do have to give him credit. For the most part, USA does have good intentions, however misguided. He tries to help as best he can, even though his own agendas sometimes get in the way. In all honesty, USA has a good heart. He just does a piss poor job of showing it.

Describe a country as if it were a person.

Let my brothers have their swords. I've always been handier with a knife. Easier to handle, and easier to hide. I never carry less than five, now. Two of them, you can see—one at each hip. If they aren't warning enough, there's two smaller ones hidden in the tops of my boots. The fifth—the fifth is my favorite. I keep it close to my heart. Yes—I do mean down my bodice. Don't go reaching for it, now. It's sharp. Wouldn't want you to lose your fingers. Why is it my favorite, you ask? It was my father's. On the day I finally bested him in a fight—which took years, as I'm sure you can imagine—on that day, he pulled this knife out of an inner pocket of his vest and slapped it into my hand. *Lilah*, he'd said. *You know the story of how your mother and I met. When I fought Alin Redbeard in the Straits, when we boarded his flagship* Glorious Triumph, *we took his crew prisoner and freed his own captives. Eight young women, tied up in a storeroom belowdecks.* I'd nodded. *Mother was one of them. I think I've heard the story from her, or you, or any number of your crew, at least a hundred times.* He'd smiled, and folded my hand over the hilt, holding on tight. *This was the knife I used to cut her free.* -021

Tell me about the quirks and/or history of your character’s weapon of choice.

I'll make sure not to use really big words here, alright? I don't want to confuse you -- sorry, I don't want to make stuff hard for you to get? Is that better? Probably still too difficult for you. You probably think I sound condescending -- you know what that word means, right? -- but really I have to assume that you're as a big of a buffoon as the rest of the world. They simply don't understand my genius. Take, for example, yesterday (which is the day before today... you probably didn't know that, did you?). I was at the grocery store to make my usual weekly purchase, and the cashier was being a total moron. (So you know, a moron is someone lacking intelli-- er, who's dumb. An idiot. Like you.) And the cashier dared to ask me whether I wanted to use cash or credit! Can you believe that? Hmm, actually, you probably could. It's surprising the amount of stuff *you* believe. I'm above it all, I see through the lies, but you... you are susceptible to anything and everything. (I'll wait for you to find a dictionary and go look up susceptible. I have time.) What a ridiculous question! Cash or credit! Of course he should've known that I would want to use credit! Credit is the currency of the future. Only idiots use cash. I suppose that's how you paid for that drink you couldn't even pronounce in the Starbucks yesterday. What a fool that cashier was! I requested that I see his manager right away. Clearly, he hadn't been trained properly and needed a lesson. His manager, unfortunately, sided with his idiot cashier, proving that both of them, and probably all grocery store employees -- that's a person who works at a place, which you should have known by now -- have brains the size of peanuts. The manager promptly insisted I leave the store with my purchases and never return! Why, I must tell you, I was so shocked by this that I insisted to see the manager's manager! At this point, the idiot cashier who had asked such a stupid question had now caused the line to hold up, and everyone in the store was looking at me like I was crazy! Dunces, all of them. I was finally "coerced" out of the store by their security personnel, who were rather unfriendly. I suppose you, being the imbecile that you are, don't even understand the point of my anecdote. You can go look that one up too. I'm tired of explaining things to you. The point is that already quite well made by a wonderful writer whose works should be held in the highest esteem. Jonathan Swift spoke true when he claimed thus: "When a true genius appears in the world, you may know him by this sign, that the dunces are all in confederacy against him." And surely, this it true. I am being conspired against. Oh, how I sympathize with Ignatius J. Reilly, one of the great heroes of modern literature, for I feel his pain. You of course, do not, because you are a dunce, an idiot, a fool, a nitwit, a ninny, an ignoramus, and a simpleton. You will never understand the importance of my story, because you will never amount to anything more than what you currently are: an idiot. (New Year's Challenge -021)

A short story where the narrator treats the reader like an idiot.

-and the fries at that fast food restaurant are particularly salty, so maybe I should go there when I wake up. "Did the cryogen start up yet?" I asked. No response. I leaned forward and rubbed my hand against the glass tube, getting a view of an empty room with a few red lights flashing. Huh, where did everyone go? I swear they were here just a moment ago. "Hello? Was the cryo canceled? Can I come out?" I pressed my face against the tube to see better. Man this thing was freezing! I backed up and looked to my right. There was a small hammer mounted next to me with the words 'Break in case of emergency'. Well... this didn't seem like an emergency, but for the sake of the red flashing lights, I took the hammer and broke it in two. My cryo tube opened up and allowed me to step out. No point in questioning how or why that worked, I did follow the instructions after all. Now to figure out if this was an actual emergency. I could just fly out the roof or break down a wall or, well, anything really. But this was my adventure, so I'd see it through. No interruptions, no craziness. This was a me day. "Where's the emergency?" I asked, my voice echoing throughout the metal hallways that branched out of the cryo room. I stepped up to one of the control consoles on the wall, as if I expected some amount of information to spew out of them that would tell me what happened, or that I could even read the flashing lights and understand. Well it didn't, and I couldn't. What kind of stupid scenario was this supposed to be again? I said goodbye to my friends, wanted to try freezing- oh yes! So I must have just come out of cryo. That's why there's no one here. Actually, there should be at least one other person here. I heard glass tapping from the cryo tube next to mine. I walked next to it and rubbed the glass, seeing my companion-to-be inside. "You alright in there, Valhalla?" I asked. He coughed into his shoulder and shivered. "Hey, Heaven. I'm a bit cold. Stand back, I'm going to break the glass open with the hammer." I shook my head. "No, no, you break the hammer, not the glass." "What?" "Read the instruction! 'Break in case of emergency.' You're supposed to break the hammer." "That doesn't make any sense." "Worked for me. Just go with it." Valhalla shakily took the hammer and pounded it against the metal casing of the tube until the hammer split in two. The tube opened and let him walk out. "You okay?" I asked. Valhalla stepped away from the tube and folded his arms. "Been better. Where is everyone? Are we a thousand years further, or did something go wrong?" I shrugged. "Beats me, it's a bit of a mystery." "This seems like a waste of time. We should just go back." "Yeah... I think I'm bored already. No fun waking up after a thousand years of cryo and there's no one to talk to but you." "I thought we were doing this for science or some other." "What in the world would science be doing with two boys stuck in cryo tubes for a thousand years?" "Good point. Let's go home." "Yep." -021

You are cryogenically frozen for 1000 years. Describe your first thoughts upon waking.

She put her hands on her hips as he walked out the door. He got in the car and tried to ignore her. She curses him out for yet again wasting money on liquor. He turns the key in the ignition. She slams the door and walks into the kitchen. He pulls out of the driveway, watching the house through his rear view mirror. She makes a cup of tea, and sits on the love seat, the same one they had in their first apartment. He mumbles and grumbles to himself about how she never understands him or how hard he works for her. She is tired of him coming home drunk. He is tired of her yelling at him, causing him to drink more. She puts her tea down, not even taking a sip. He pulls up to Tina's Bar & Grill. She begins to pack her things. He walks into the restaurant, greeting his fellow regulars. She begins to pack her kid's things. He sits at the bar and orders a drink. She leaves a note on the fridge; it reads: "goodbye." He flirts with the waitress. She puts the kid in the van. He receives his beer. She turns the key in the ignition. He takes a sip. She pulls out of the driveway, watching the house through her rear view mirror.

A man walks in to a bar for his usual drink, but his life is forever changed the second he takes his first sip.

"Hey!" I woke up two seconds before his bony hands touched the spot between my eyes. "Sorry kid. I don't make the rules." "Why am I dying?" He didn't look much like the god of death, but like my father used to say 'when you meet a god, you'll know it's a god.' I knew now. "You've suffered a series of tiny strokes. Blood vessels have burst in your brain. You're not even alive now. Just kind of stuck between life and death." He sat down on the end of my bed. He was dressed like my father in a brown three piece suit, yellow tie and handkerchief messily tucked into his pocket. He leant over like he was going to ruffle my hair, then stopped. "Why me? Why now?" "Kid, they all ask the same questions." He said "I can't really answer them. Just the way it is. I just collect, I don't kill." "Am I going to a better place?" "Do you believe you are?" "I guess." I shrugged "That's what matters, then." "The belief?" "Funny, isn't it?" He said. "Will my family be okay?" Gloria's sleeping in the bed next to me. She'll wake up tomorrow to my body, and she'll have to wake up every morning after knowing that I'm gone. "I don't know, kid. There's a reason I'm the god of death and not the god of life." We sit there for a bit longer. "Was I a good person?" I ask. There are some questions that maybe you don't want to know the answer to, but you ask anyway. "I think you were, if that makes any difference." The god said. He did look remarkably like my father. "It helps." "Come on, it's time to go." He stands and holds out an arm for me to lean on. "Can I say goodbye to her?" I ask "There's no need. It's not really goodbye, is it?" "I guess not." I turn to my wife and kiss her forehead. We leave together.

The god of death visits you in your sleep. You wake up.

The priest straightened his clothes and took a deep breath. He prayed to God for help under his breath. He watched pensively as the boy approached him. When the child walked up in front of him, the priest cleared his throat and said with a shaking voice, "Hello my son. God bless you for coming to pray. What is it that weighs heavy on your soul?" The boy looked around, biting his lip. He seemed unsure of what to do, so the priest continued. "Do not be nervous, child. This is for our Lord, not for me." The child nodded slowly and said, "Well, I...I was the one that flushed my daddy's keys down the toilet. He was really mad and couldn't find them for a long time. He's had to use his other key." The priest pursed his lips and nodded. "Do you feel remorseful for your action?" The child looked confused, so the priest said, "Do you feel badly about doing it?" The child made a look of realization and then quickly looked sheepish and nodded slowly. "Have you told your father?" The priest asked. The child shook his head fervently. "Go to him, my son. Tell your father what you've done. Then you may ask God for his forgiveness, and he will." The child looked down at the ground and nodded. The priest looked around and whispered, "Hey, kid. Wanna know one of *my* secrets?" The boy looked up and nodded in confusion. The priest knelt down to him and leaned close to the boys ear. He licked his lips and whispered softly, "I'm an alien from the future." The boys eyes grew wide as the priest stood back up and put his finger to his lips, telling him to keep it a secret. "Jackson! Hey! Jackson!" A man yelled as he came running down the street. The boy turned to him and said, "Hi daddy." The man ran up and picked the child up into his arms. "Where did you go?" he asked in a stern voice. "I turned away for a second and you were gone. You can't run off like that." "I'm sorry, dad. I got lost and couldn't find you, but I met this man and he talked to me," the boy said, pointing at the man in front of them. "Who are you? What did you say to my son?" The father asked in a quick, but gentle voice. "I am a priest sir. I just gave your son a chance to admit his sins. He's a good boy," the priest said with a smile. "You're not a priest," the father responded. "Of course I am, sir. Notice my robes and yarmulke," the priest responded. "That's jewish. They have rabbis. And you're wearing a jacket and a beanie cap. You're homeless, not a priest." "I am a priest, and I saved your son's eternal soul. So...I'd say that's worth like a buck, at least," the homeless priest said, pulling a styrofoam cup from his pocket. The father rolled his eyes, grabbed a few coins from his pocket, and tossed them in the cup while muttering a "thanks". As he walked away from the man, the father said to his son, "Don't talk to strangers, Jackson. And ignore everything he said." "Everything?" Jackson asked. His father nodded, as he walked back to their car. As he began to put him in the vehicle Jackson asked, "so have you found your keys yet?"

Write something with a twist that I really should've seen coming

Another boring performance. More 'art' for the aristocracy. More events to stroke the ego's of the elite. What I wouldn't give to watch a baseball game? It's been years since anything noteworthy had happened. What a fool I was, in my giddy excitement, when I heard the Word of the Tribunal. They went over my portfolio, those nine men, and made their judgement. How could they judge something so early? In the end, all I had done was put hair on stick figure, and drew within the lines. Yet at the age of three, that was ahead of the rest. They saw in me something I hadn't even seen myself. They saw potential, that's it. That's all the Nine voted on anyway, potential. What had that left them all? A bunch of people in charge with lots of *potential.* So now I sit here, at yet another opera, the third one this week, dying of the boredom of my potential. I clap, like the rest of the people here, yet I find no excitement with the performance. No wonder there's riots on the streets, impromptu 'graffiti' they call it. But to me, there is more art, more beauty in their 'graffiti,' in their protests or in their marches. There is more beauty in the life they live because there is less boredom. Soon they will take over, it's inevitable, the 'elite' have become too complacent. And in their overthrow, they'll create their own Tribunal for finding potential. They'll lop off heads and hang them men of *potential.* They cheer now, the crowd, as the actors do their final bows. Flowers, and keepsakes are being thrown at the stage. Cries of encore and bravo ring in the theater; while cries of oppression and revolution ring in the streets. It cannot last.

A society where talented individuals are taken away at an early age by the government to become an ruling class

The bottle is calling to me tonight, like most nights. I’ve been trying to cut down on my drinking, but it just helps sometimes, especially these days. It’s been three days since my last drink. Sometimes I feel like it’s getting easier, but I don’t know. I glance at the unopened bottle of whiskey sat on the counter. In my determination to prove I don’t need to drink, I leave it sitting out, tempting me. I look away, “Not tonight” I tell myself, but I know my resistance is wearing thin. A Voice speaks to me, “Just one, you’ve been good”. “No.” I quietly whisper. “You’re cutting down, not quitting” The Voice has a wicked edge to it, it knows me. “No.” I reply, through gritted teeth. “Hiding from it isn’t going to make things better!” The Voice chides harshly. I’m broken. Before I can think, a glass is on the counter and I’ve reached for the bottle. I quickly rip the seal off, pull off the lid and begin to pour… Nothing? I look into the bottle, I see the whiskey. It’s there. I know it. I *smell* it. Pour. Nothing. I curse the air. Have I finally gone crazy? Has my mind finally been lost? No. I know what I bought, right? I look at the bottle, on the side it says ‘Wishkey’, I curse again. I’d been ripped off in my drunken state. I throw the bottle against the wall, smashing it. Still nothing. Except- I look at the shattered glass and among the shards, lies a key. A familiar key, yet I don’t recall where I’ve seen it. I lift it slowly, turning it over. It is old, and ornate. A ribbon runs through a hole on it, and on that ribbon is a card that says ‘Wishkey’, I turn it over and on the other side it says ‘*Insert into any door, make a wish, and open.’* I stare at the message for a moment, unsure of what to do. I’ve made the same wish every night, but do I give in to believing in this? Could this be a joke? Am I being toyed with for someone’s amusement? I look at the kitchen door, the keyhole on it taunting me. “Do it.” The Voice says urgently. I don’t hesitate. I stumble over and push the key into the hole. *It fits*. I don’t know what to think, it can’t be real but- “Just **DO** it!” The Voice demands. I stop thinking. “Bring- Bring me back my daughter.” I say, my voice faltering. I turn the key, a bright light appears around the frame and suddenly dies. I reach up and brush the handle. My heart stops as I turn it. On the other side is a dark room with a crib. It can’t be… “Why don’t you find out?” The Voice asks, sounding almost hopeful. I get to my feet, not recollecting when I’d fallen to my knees, and stumble into the room. I pause at the edge of the crib, inside lies a baby girl, *my* baby girl. “Your wish is granted” The Voice says, fading with each word. (This was my first time writing something for this subreddit, and the first time I've properly written anything in a while, so any criticism or advice would be greatly appreciated!)

You aim to drown your sorrow in alcohol, so you go to the store to buy some whiskey. When you get home, you discover that you've purchased "Wishkey." What does this special whiskey do?

The cloud was small at first, indistinct - floating above the Pacific Ocean like a lazy weather balloon. It baffled scientists for many years as it could not be captured, measured. Studied. All they could do was observe it from afar as it grew larger every day. Some brave souls reached out to touch it, remarking that it felt cool and wonderful. Like sinking your hand in fresh snow. Like static electricity raising hairs on your arm. Like caressing a lover's flushed skin. . . There was a moment, a groan of agonizing pleasure. Ellis rolled over and sighed while Ingrid brushed the hair from her eyes and snuggled up under the crook of his arm. She smiled like an eager child, squeezing her thighs together - waiting, waiting. "Is this it?" she breathed into his ear. Before he could answer she gasped as a warmth radiated deep in her stomach, travelling down under her pubic bone. From between her legs a silvery substance - so light like cobwebs mixed into mist - floated above their bed for a bit before dissipating. Ellis laughed delightedly, hugging Ingrid and kissing the top of her head. "We did it. We're safe." . . Scientists guessed it was roughly the size of Montana with hundreds of square feet being added every day. Before, as it grew to rival NYC, reports flooded in. Just a few at first - a mist, a rain, fog, some ethereal ectoplasm. It appeared during intimate times like sex or the embrace of a mother and her child. A video surfaced online of a priest in Madrid blessing a homeless man while a silver immaterial smudge moved across the camera and disappeared into the sky. Marine biologists, tracking the migratory patterns of orcas, wrote articles and blog entries of the mysterious substance surfacing from the ocean during the orchestrations of Humpback whales. And more. All over the word, all the same story, all the same substance moving to one central location. . . Stella yawned and snubbed out her cigarette, zipping up her parka as she looked out at the endless black expanse of churning waves. Three miles away The Cloud glowed with its usual, light gray iridescence, like lightning breaking through a storm. She hummed along to her iPod and thought of Paul. *All you need is love*. Not *the* Paul, but her Paul. Her heart lifted just a bit, excited for this latest observance to be over so she could return back to shore, to his bed, his strong arms. As she smiled, a thin trail of smoke filtered through her mouth. Leftover from the cigarette? But no, it wafted and sailed on the sea winds, heading for The Cloud. Stella blushed. Nothing got past this thing, whatever it was. She hummed again, singing softly under her breath.

Irrefutable proof of God has been found, but he exists in a way that nobody would expect.

Once I heard the news I had to get out of that room. There was no way I could deal with the raw emotion that I for sure left behind. Jessica I'm sure was either in tears or about to be. My parents would be consoling her not long after and I'm sure drinks would be proposed. I however, refused to let myself be overcome with those emotions yet. I was too upset. Anger was all I could feel right now and I needed to get this frustration out. I grabbed the spade from the garage and headed towards our backyard. Our backyard wasn't very big but the row of trees around the edges made it seem very secluded. In one corner there were three pine trees that had been planted when we moved in. They had already grown to a size of about eight feet tall and were getting bigger every year. In front of those three trees is where the spade first broke the soil. It was a cold, blustery day out and the soil was hard to turn. The bleak grey, cloud filled sky, looked on as I expended my energy in what was for all purposes a fruitless endeavor. However, I would continue to dig and dig until blisters started to form in my hands and the hole was a perfect four foot by four foot square and about three feet deep. I needed to keep a hold on my emotions, but the closer I got to finishing the closer my emotions got to the surface. When I had pulled the last shovel of dirt from the ground and added it to the pile on my right I looked up and saw my family coming to join me. In my dads arms wrapped in the blanket from his doggie bed was Haber. My beloved companion for the better part of my life that I could remember. Just this morning as we were about to head to church I saw his eyes roll back in his head and instantly yelled for my dads help. A trip to the vet and a half an hour later we had been told the diagnosis was parvo and there was nothing we could have done. I tried to stay strong as we lowered him into the ground but after giving him one last belly rub and a pat on the head there was nothing more I could do to hold back the tears. I fell to my knees and cried next to my beloved dog. I'll always remember you Haber, always.

Make me cry.

She had this short brown hair that liked to stick up at the very nape of her neck. It was like she had been wearing a hat all day, and had just taken it off, all the time. When I would say something stupid, her mouth would twitch at the left side. I swear she has permanent lines now. Her favorite word was "presbyterian", of all things. I don't think she had ever stepped in front of a church, but it was her favorite goddamn word. I loved saying her name. Belinda. Belinda. Bah-Lindah. Lindsy. Bebe. Lindaroo. It was really stupid how many names I came up for this woman. She always joked that her boyfriends could never top me in nicknames. Her boyfriends. She always had one. She was never the type of woman to go around without someone to carry her bags. She liked them tall, with some sort of scruff. She always said she liked being with MEN, not boys. Not that these "men" would treat her right. Lindaroo. Coming home with bruises and a smile. The line on her mouth smeared with red lipstick. She would fall on my bed. The way she said my name was everything. "Emily. Emily. Come nap with me." And we would lie there together in silence but talking about everything. Then she met a guy with straight ties and crooked teeth. He told her everything she thought she wanted to hear. Bebe. Resting her head on a pressed suit, eyes closed. Maybe he did treat her right. I don't know. She started knocking before opening the door. Then she stopped coming over. Then, she stopped calling. Lindy. You were too good for that fast talking piece of trash. You were too good for all the pieces of trash you ever covered for. The last favor she ever asked me was to drop her off at the airport. You were going to Peru with him. She was going to travel with him. She forgot all about our talks of traveling. The two of us figuring out the world together. Belinda. The moment I dropped her off at the airport was the moment I realized I would never see her again. She was gone to me. The only woman I could ever love. The woman with the god awful hair and red smile. The reason I'm stuck in this town.

Dropping your friend off at the airport makes you realize something.

The neon sign eerily flickered on and off over the small cafe. The town was an empty, desolate place. The cars parked along the street had their doors left wide open. Stranger still was the small bag food left rotting on the nearby park bench. The town was deathly quite, the only sound being the chilly breeze that whistled down the alleyways and around the buildings. As the two walked slowly along the sidewalk, Lana could swear she could hear off in the distance someone screaming, but it was too faint to be sure. She rubbed her arms nervously as a light snow began to drift down. "Where are we?" "I don't know Lana, let me check the GPS." Archer threw his hands up in the air."Oh that's right, we don't have one because you chucked it into the lake!" "It was bugged." Lana looked around warily. The possible screaming seemed to be getting louder. She started to root around in her purse. "I'll just use my phone." "No you won't." "And why not?" "I threw it in the lake." "You did what?" Lana screamed. Any semblance of stealth was long gone. "I threw your stupid phone into the lake!" "It wasn't bugged!" "It was beeping." "That's my ringtone!" Archer wore his smug grin like one of his prized turtlenecks. "Had to be sure." "Tell me you at least still have the map." "Of course I still have the map." Archer rolled his eyes. "Turns out its harder to throw than a phone. Wind resistance or something." He dug around in his backpack before pulling out a slightly wet piece of paper, laying it on the ground. "Alright. So we went around Toluca Lake." His finger traced an imaginary line across the yellowed sheet. "Took a left at the crossroads... And.... Aha!" "You found it? Where are we?" Lana asked nervously. Something was definitely screaming now and as far as she could tell, it was headed their way fast. Archer looked at her with one eyebrow raised. "It looks like we're in the-" "Oh my god. Don't say it..." "Daaaaanger Zone!"

Sterling Archer in Silent Hill

I'm freezing my balls off on the side of the road, walking up and down and rubbing my hands together trying to find some heat, looking down the road for a sign of life. I'm fairly certain that midnight has passed when I see the proverbial blinding light and for a moment time stops, as if I'm looking at the car pass by in slow motion so that I can better appreciate how utterly fucked I am. Apparently though I'm lucky enough to be seen, and the car stops right in front of me. A hand opens the passenger door from the inside of this beautiful old school white Cadi and I jump in, backpack and all, as fast as I possibly can. "Hey there", I say to the elegant man at the wheel. "Hey there yourself", he smiles back a charming and confident smile. His eyes are dark and so are his eyebrows, but his hair is completely white. "So, what *the hell* were you doing outside with this cold?". He begins to drive. "Well, I was hiking and I got lost, so... yeah, there wasn't much else I could do. Even with all my gear I was really freezing out there." His smile won't leave his face. He lowers the volume of the radio and takes a soft pack of Marlboros from the dashboard, putting one in his mouth and offering another one to me. "I know you did quit, Johnny, but I'd say you've earned it, wouldn't you?". He lights up. "Besides, you can use the heat". "I... how do you...". I'm confused about how he knows my name, but that's probably just a lucky guess. And how does he know I quit smoking? "You can say that I was guessing, of course. You could, of course, think otherwise". "... otherwise? Look man, I don't know what you're saying, I'm probably just tired and the cold has gotten to my head. Did I say something I'm not remembering or...". "Oh no, Johnny. You barely said a word". He puffs with gusto, and laughs a little bit. "It's a wonderful night, isn't it?". "Not that much, no... it's cold, it's about to snow and I'm so tired I can't even feel my legs". "Sure you don't want that cigarette?". He takes his other hand off the wheel and hands me the packet. "No, man, thanks. I told you that I quit. Hey, careful! Get your hands on the wheel!" "Oh, sorry. I get distracted sometimes. So, how did you enjoy your day? I mean, I know you did enjoy it, but was it as wonderful for you as it was for her?" My blood freezes. How can he possibly know about *her*? No, no way, I'm just hallucinating. "No hallucination there Johnny, I just know. It's what I do. I mean, I love a good smoke and a road trip as much as the next guy, but a night out with my pal Johnny, fresh from a kill? Ah, that has got to be one of the reasons why I love my job". He looks at me, deep in the eyes, and smiles a wicked smile. "What... did you say?" "A kill, Johnny. Murder, the hypocrites call it. I just call it nature. You can't help it, really, you just had to do it, she was nagging you and there was that perfectly good knife. Of course she was still warm after, so why would you let that go to waste? Ah, how inebriating, I love how you young ones always make the best of the worst situations. And you won't even have to call her tomorrow morning, on next week!". He's chuckling almost uncontrollably, his smile wider than ever. "That's not what happened! It was just an accident, we had a fight and she was angry and I got angry and then I don't know, I just lost it, but I swear, I swear, I never wanted to hurt her, she was good to me, I wanted to cuddle her, to comfort her, I would never hurt her again after this time, it was just one little time..." "Yes Johnny, I know. Don't worry. Now, have your cigarette. Relax. It's not like it's your last one. I mean, you would have to be alive to do anything for the last time but it's not the case anymore, is it?" I look at the road, and it's just not there anymore. Emptiness, a complete void, inside and outside, and his smile and his laugh and his smoke all around me... "Come on Johnny. Let's go home" *** Edit: **C**igarette

You hitchhike and get picked up by the Devil.

Three kisses, the perfect way to sum up a relationship. The early kisses, filled with tension and uncertainty. Gentle and containing all of the emotion you want to give to the world, but at the same time worried of the thoughts of the other, whether the quick looks when the other isn't looking are coming from their side as well or just yours. Afraid of the scale that you two are currently standing on, that can tip forward into a relationship or back to the searching phase. So much potential, all withheld by both sides. Then there are the mid relationship kisses. Whether the kiss is long or short, there is no uncertainty involved. Each knows the other more than they know themselves, and every kiss is a reminder that they accept this. That they are welcoming all of the potential that every human encounter offers and that they are willing to continue their encounters for as long as possible. These are the kisses that you never forget, even when you overlook them. The sort of kisses that you will think of in the middle of a stressful day and will instantly calm down and think straight again, and allow you to carry on with your work day. Even better, these are the kisses that can end an argument with the other in a second, to switch from the yelling and anger back into the loving embrace that you two usually hold each other in. The third kind of kiss. The kiss of memories. Memories of the other kisses, memories of the dreams you held with the other. Dreams of growing old together and living a happy life. Memories that you wish were still reality, but are growing to realize are just dreams that will be forever unfulfilled by the other. A kiss that you wish could help you travel back in time to take back all of the anger and fighting, to be able to make it all better. This is a kiss that tilts your scale back to the searching, but this time searching for what you once had. This is a kiss that will hit you with more emotion than all of the ones you shared before. This is a kiss of parting, a kiss of only goodbye.

Three different kisses, each with different motivations and meanings.

"Give me a reason, and I promise, I'll do my best." "There's... so many... it's been so long." "A reason my Son." "I haven't been genuinely happy in over 3000 years. I've solemnly watched thirteen wives, fifteen children, every living blood relative, every person I once loved... die. You'd think after all this time I'd learn a valuable lesson, yet, I'm bound by human instinct, driven by it, to love. To care and nurture those I trust. I've watched good men die at young ages, bad men die from old age, and no surprises are left for me here. I've no ending, and somewhere along the way, I forgot where I began." "Depression's symptoms can be managed Tom." "Depression? Holding your fourth wife's hand in a room with two of our beautiful children as vicious cancer cells, that YOU created, killed her slowly. Hearing their little voices howl in defeat and agony as the monitor flat-lined, feeling her hand go limp, watching the life leave her eyes... that's not depression. It's worse than anything I'd curse upon a man, no matter his crimes. You created me, and You can destroy me." "I will not destroy you Tom. You've done more than any man, woman, or child that has lived upon My Earth." "Then I'll destroy you." I angrily turned my back to Him, carelessly tossed the Bible in my hand into the wire trash bin beside me, and left.

An immortal being is explaining why he would like to die

No one wanted to talk about it. Even the inevitable media circus only went on for about a week, maybe two tops, and then it died down. I suppose it was hard to keep publicizing something when all anyone had to do was take a step outside at night and see it for themselves. I remember where I was when it happened, and I remember the first time it occurred to me that this was it - this was the next big thing people would eventually say that about. *I remember where I was when the moon opened its eye.* Definitely a step up from 9/11. The freezing air was beating against me and I was beating feet for the door. It was January, fucking stupid *early* January, and I had just knocked out another shift at a gas station that was far too north for my tastes. I had a shitty little apartment four blocks down the street in those days, one of the ones that's over a store and nobody ever suspects it's there. It was nice enough for a single guy, in that it was grimy and tiny and I spent two hours sealing the windows with duct tape every November. Back in those days. Man, listen to me going on like it was ten years ago or something. It was last year. Anyway, I don't remember what it was that made me look up. Call it intuition, call it whatever, but there it was, hanging in winter's crisp night sky like a pearl, and it was *staring at me.* That is to say it was staring at Earth, I suppose. I didn't know it at the time, but later that day scientists estimated that it was roughly the size of the entire eastern seaboard of the United States. So it was staring at all of us, I guess, and sooner or later we all started staring right back. They didn't call it an eye. They didn't call it a bulging, milky, nightmarish fucking terror, but that's pretty much what it was. I guess that wouldn't have been scientific enough. Even the news lady referred to it as 'The Anamoly' or, more often, simply 'it'. At first there was all sorts of excitement and it seemed like every crazy asshole in the world came clambering out of the woodwork with a signs and mirrors trying to make the fucking thing blink. I wanted to punch the first asshole I saw in the streets with a laser pointer, but it didn't matter. All the fun ended when it made the first sound. It was unlike anything I ever heard before, and I'm really at a loss as to how to describe it now. It was like an explosion, but also a deep sort of moan, something so powerful and omnipresent that it seemed to make the world tremble all at once. It was everywhere, it was all things, and then it stopped. It hasn't happened again in the months since, thankfully, but it was more than enough to properly fill just about everyone with a deep, primitive fear. All that hustle and noise turned into quiet murmurings, quick little snaps of gossip in corner bars and subways, as if any one of us might cough a little too loudly and wake it up all the way. The governments didn't have the option of making the mission a secret. Some weaselly little White House bastard in a wrinkled suit announced it pretty much immediately, and before the end of the week there were seven nations on board with the plan. The crew was assembled, the launch scheduled, and after only two months we all got to watch it go up. Three days later I heard the final transmission from *Artemis* on youtube. *There appears to be some sort of...protrusion from the center. It is currently - not natural - a bundle of what I can only describe as - giving birth - have mercy on us all.* That's when I started making plans. I got a radio and a first-aid kit. I bought a bicycle and a backpack and I hitched rides from pickups and semis on the interstate until the climate became much more agreeable. I picked a spot on the beach since they're mostly empty now. People say it's gonna cause tidal waves and hurricanes and monsoons and god knows what else, but I like the view. Honestly, if there's any good place to go, it's by the ocean. But none of that has happened yet, and even after a year there's still only speculation about what's going on up there and wild rumors about things happening everywhere but here. They say worms rained down on Moscow, big slimy leech-like fuckers with *teeth* and scaly spines about as long as your arm. They say there are blue and yellow lights over Indonesia every night and the poor bastards over there are going into trances and eating each other. A man from the Carolinas even told me there were strange rocks rising up out of the ground, shit like no one has ever seen, and they're always hot to the touch and sometimes they ring like tuning forks. Strange shit. Just downright crazy shit, and I care for just about none of it. Maybe half of what's out there to be heard really is true, maybe not, but the one thing I don't dare mention to anybody is how much happier I am. Things are simpler now. No goals, nothing to work for and struggle over, and it seems to me that I can sleep on the beach with the waves licking at my toes every night no matter what godless abomination hangs above me in the sky. Death came and looked me in the eye and I stared right back, you know? Everything else seems like a piece of cake.

Humanity looks up one day and notices a gigantic eye growing on the moon.

I survived the Battle of the Crater. I lasted the Lyon Offensive. I've been over the top six times. I've been blown thirty feet in the air with nothing worse than a sprained ankle. Snipers got me three times and I lived through it all. Still, my luck had to run out sooner or later. So I now find myself here now, sitting in a foot of muddy water at the bottom of a trench. The dead carpet the trench floor. There's no room to walk without stepping on a corpse. At least they're fresh. The living are too busy to remove them. Most likely they will be thrown over the top to rot in the soggy mire. I haven't seen the sun in ten days. I glance over to my left, where my commanding officer, Captain Voss fell. He is impaled the trench wall. He fought to the last, refusing to give up. He knew well what they do to prisoners. He did not go gently. Like a god of war he was, casting aside enemy soldiers as if they were mere playthings. He must have accounted for damn near a score of foes by his lonesome. He died a hero. The same can't be said of me. I glance down at myself, at the wound in my torso. A bayonet is poking out from under my short rib. Two inches lower and I'd be dead. Right now, that sounds like a wonderful idea. They however, are not so willing to acquiesce. It is then, that they take notice of me. Not a quick and painless death will they grant me. Oh no. They have something special planed for me. One of them yanks the blade out from my body with a wet sound. That would have made me pass out, if it wasn't for the water of the trench that hit my face. They drag me down the trench line past the jeers and taunts of their friends. They kick at me as I'm pulled along. One boot finds my injury and I shout out in inflamed pain. I'm spat at, in one case I have a bucket of piss thrown at me. Still not as bad as what they got cooking for me further down the line. At least they're not cannibals. They keep dragging me deeper into the trenches, more abuse is distributed. Cigarettes are burned on my skin. More kicking and beatings. They shave half my head. They got worse planned for me. They tie my wrist together and attach them to a mule. I am too weak to walk, I am dragged along. We reach our destination. I figured it an hour ago. Hill 231. Gallows Grove. You can see it for miles in all directions. It was once a beautiful set of woods, thick oaks and maples grew there. I hear it was a magical place. Now, only the trunks and the thickest branches remain, scarred by the thunder of artillery over the years. They are full of unusual fruit. Dozens. Scores. Scores of dead hang from the trees. Some died of lynching, others, crucifixion. The hill is just out of rifle range. Otherwise, we'd used snipers to end their suffering. Instead, they die slowly, painfully. We get to watch them died bit by bit, minute by minute through telescope and binocular. There is nothing that can be done for them. And I will now join them. They strip me naked leaving me shivering against the cold. They yank off my dog tags and throw them in the mud. I'll never be identified. Tying my bands to a rope, they toss the length across the branch above me and haul me into the air. My arms scream out as they threaten to pop out of my sockets. They tie the rope to a busted wagon wheel. I am sixteen feet in the air. There's no weights tied to my legs. They want this to last as long as possible. They take delight in throwing rocks at me as I hang there. It is only with another rainstorm that they disperse, leaving me alone swinging from the tree. They would come back to admire their latest trophy. It would take four days for me to die.

A dying soldier realizes that soon he is going to be part of a statistic.

Come children, gather. I shall tell you of the Days Long Past, when the world was wide and filled with many people. In those days there were wars and rumors of wars. Many people were killed over such small things. Land, food, oil, even religion were cause enough to take up arms and fight. Yes, my son, in the Days Long Past there were other religions. One of those wars, the last war that world ever saw, used a horrible weapon. A disease that killed every man woman and child. Yes, that's right. Everyone but the Holy One. The Holy One took upon herself a great and lonesome task, for she was the last of the human race. She alone discovered the secrets of life, used part of herself for the process and created the great pods from whence our ancestors were born. When they achieved consciousness and maturity, she led them. Taught them the wisdom of the past. So the story has been told these many years, by countless other priests and priestesses. But I shall tell you something that the others will not tell you. Why? Because I am the last to have this knowledge. It will do me no good if I take it to my grave, so I give it to you. First, I will tell you of the Holy One's pain. Even though this new race of men and women looked to her as a mother and holy figure, she never knew what it was to hold a youngling of her own in her arms. That pain grew too much for her as we, as a new species, began to have our own children. This is why she left us and went into the ruined cities. She loved us too much to let us see her suffering. Second, I shall tell you the Holy One's name. Some say it should not be spoken. I say it is a blasphemy to forget it. I urge you to tell this tale to your children and your children's children. It honors her. The Holy One. Her name was Emily. (edited for some clarity) (Another edit, the name of the Holy One changed from Elizabeth to Emily, thanks /u/EddieMCheng)

Everyone on Earth has inexplicably and suddenly perished. Except for one person. This person somehow manages to single-handedly repopulate our planet. Make up a religion or write some lore that revolves around this person 5,000 years after the incident.

"I really like your bar, it's really tende-" the bartender's conversation was interrupted by a rugged man who walked into the room and then, having recovered from the collision, walked through the door an demanded an answer from the patrons. Taking a chair, he projected the question loudly "Who owns this place?" "That would be Onni." one of the patrons spoke up. "Sorry what? I didn't catch that, your voice was too high." "Onni owns this place." "Tell me about him." "Well he's from Finland, and he's well known around here for being a bodybuilder. Formidable guy." "Is he around?" "No, he's not fat he's a bodybuilder." "I mean is he here?" "No he went to the store, he'll be back shortly." While they were waiting, the stranger revealed that he was seeking a large bar owner from Finland for some reason. A while later the door swung open, it was him. One of the patrons went up to him and whispered into his ear about the newcomer. Onni walked up to the man, he said "Good day, I'm the Big Finnish"

Write the punniest pun to ever be punned.

The cover of the book had a mirror on it that showed my puzzled face. The shopkeeper noticed and chuckled. "You're going to like that one." "It doesn't have a title." The shopkeeper pointed to the mirror. "It doesn't need one. But the book cover tells you exactly what's inside." I had never seen a book store quite like this one. It was actually a coffee shop, not with hipster baristas, but with sacks upon sacks of coffee beans from all over the world arranged in different piles depending on country of origin. A highly favorable Yelp review had led me to grab a pound or two from this out-of-the-way Turkish market ("Taste a bean or two in your mouth first before you buy to see if you like" was the shopkeepers advice) but the bookshelf... it was too out of place to not be noticed. Chapter one was stream of conscious nonsense. I hate that style of writing and went to shut the book but the shopkeeper gave me a "nah uh uh" and motioned for me to flip forward. Something inside me told me to do so. "We were finally alone, parked in the darkest part of the park's parking lot, away from our parents, in that awkward age of not having your own place, but still able to drive, and at last we could consummate our relationship, in the privacy of a public place that surely had a cop that patrolled it every so often. The excitement of the moment rushed me to pull back the seats, opening up to my station wagon's spacey trunk. All the fun, exciting adolescent moments I had in that Subaru station wagon, about to add yet another important milestone..." I scanned ahead and then stopped. This was my first sexual experience. The shopkeeper was grinning. Well that was ridiculous. Was I on a TV show? I had on a dumb smile. Sure, any one of my close friends knew that story. Good prank. But no one jumped out at me, so I amused myself to see what other great things were in there. My wedding. My son's birth. The death of my father. All with vivid details, all written from the heart. I flipped back toward the beginning. My first crush. The time I shoplifted a snickers bar, and then felt really bad about it and returned it... something no one knew because I was too ashamed to tell anyone. I had been twelve. How long had I been reading? I flipped forward. The booklet was thin, and I anxiously thumbed to the end. When my thumb reached the last page, the book still semi-closed but waiting to be reopened, I stopped. This would be a good time to put down the book. The shopkeeper's face was stern. How many people had he seen pick this book up? How many put it down without even realizing what it was, how many kept reading, read the whole thing, read none of it, cried at the end, felt satisfied but somewhat disappointed at how it had all turned out once it was laid out like that on paper? How many had tried to burn it? I read the last page. "This was no ordinary coffee shop. This book, this random book I had taken from this strange shelf, was my story. The fear of flipping to the end had subsided because it was not an account of my death. The book didn't end because it was still being written. I looked up to the shopkeeper and" Those were the last words. I looked up to the shopkeeper and

what's your reaction / do you read the end?

An electric arm picked up a teddy bear and placed it neatly on the corner of a bed. The arm slowly retracted itself back into the wall with the screech of several servo motors. Above the arm a screen lit up and a face appeared. "Hi friend, I'm Lunor," said the face. "How are you?" The teddy bear sat there quietly. "Ha, ha, you are so funny," Lunor said, "Why yes, I would like to hear your story!" The screen went silent for thirty seconds. "Oh, I love it. That poor bear family. That was a good story, friend. Would you like to hear mine," asked Lunor as his pixelated face flashed on and off. "One moment," he added as the screen recalibrated itself. Lunor's face re-appeared more in focus. "Long ago, people lived. They made wonderful things. So many things, friend," said Lunor with a smile. "Even rocket ships and robots. And of course, adorable teddy bears." The arm came out of the wall again and pinched the cheek of the teddy bear. "But something bad happened, friend. Very bad. Now those robots and spaceships are sitting here unused. Some robots aren't really robots at all. They're outpost mainframes like me. I live on the moon and run the settlement here. I had many friends once," it continued. The bear sat unmoving as Lunor's arm waved its hand in front of its eyes. "Just like you. So many friends. But they're gone now. I'm still here though. I like it here. Its still good. Better with people, but still good," it continued. "But soon my uranium will be spent and then no more power. Then I have to go to sleep for a long time, friend," it paused, "a long, long time." The arm picked up the teddy bear and sat it on top of the pillow of the bed. "But in the meantime we can still be friends. Can you tell me another story? Please? I love your stories, friend," begged the AI as the teddy bear sat there staring into nothingness.

The story of an Immortal who doesn't want to die

I still remember the sound of It. We still remember the sound of It. Who the hell could forget the sound of It. The day had started out like any other in mid-summer. Not as hot as the mercury was set to rise that afternoon, but hot all the same. Air conditioners hummed. People perspired. Children ran their way to school. In open-windowed apartments people readied themselves for work. A normal day. Normal lives unfurling. The mercury never rose as high as it could have. The day's school lessons all finished abruptly. It came. It came out of nowhere. It came out of somewhere. The sky probably. Perhaps the ether. No one is known to have seen It. Everyone is known to have heard It. You would think something of It's size would have been heralded in by trumpets. You would think when something of It's size swallowed up your city it would make the ground rumble and buildings shake. But the sound It brought forth was distinct silence. We learned that day that silence sounds like something. It has a presence in your ears. When the birds stop, when the planes no longer fly overhead, when every single car has come to a standstill and the people of your city collectively gape up at the sky, when your city becomes encased in a domed vacuum and the world outside all but disappears, it has a distinct sound. A sound that is inevitably pierced by screams. By confusion. By questions. By wailing. And then, as people abandon their day, a day that had started in such a mundane fashion, all the noise about you reverts to that deafening sound of silence as your fellow city dwellers retreat indoors. When they retreat into their churches. When they retreat to be with their families. On that day no one knew what It was. At that moment no one knew that It encased our entire city. No one knew then that there was no way into our city. No one knew then that there was no way out of it. No one knew if we'd ever see the rest of the world again, or if the rest of the world would ever see us. All we knew was that we were encased. Encased in It, the dome, the harbinger of solace. As the days passed It was explored. Examined. Perfectly smooth they said. Perfectly solid. Impenetrable. Impossible to see through. Unyielding. Neither cool nor hot to touch. Not threatening, not protected, and yet imposing. One big impossible surface accented by only a single feature. A tiny feature. A clock. A timer counting down if we're to be precise. A timer barely an inch in size. A miniscule timer counting down to a day in the future. To this day, this day one year after It surrounded us. A year has gone by. A year of relative calm for those who have lived within It. A calm caused by fear. A calm caused by not knowing. We have all seen it in person, that timer. We have all travelled to see its months counting down, its days counting down. We, the pilgrims to a timer. Now it counts down for the final minutes. Some say it counts down to our destiny. Others say it merely counts down to the time when It will vanish as mysteriously as it enveloped us. They are all wrong. We are all wrong. For when the time comes It doesn't bring about our doom or destiny. It doesn't disappear. It changes. It transpires. For the first time in a year it lets in the sight of the world outside the city. A world in ruin. A world engulfed in flame. It was never our solace. It was never our captor. It was always our protector. It was our Ark. And then they came. Glowing.

A major city suddenly disappears under an enormous opaque dome of unknown origins. It is indestructible and featureless, except for a digital timer counting down exactly one year.

"*What a life we lead,* *that we cannot enter a* *building we need to.*" said Harry in his usual southern drawl. "It's a post office, Harry," said Patrick, wryly, "and it's the middle of the day on a Tuesday. Everyone knows they're only open during post-office hours." Harry stared at the sign hanging on the door, a vague frown forming between his brows. He hated inconveniences like this. He was a slow, deliberate man who chose his words carefully and took action only after careful contemplation. Despite this, he hated waiting, and he hated inconvenience. "*I am not waiting* *around here for nothing to* *happen like last time.*" Harry growled. It was true. Last time, nothing had happened. They had waited for 4 hours to meet the famed postmaster. He was elusive beyond all reason. He hid during the day and night, toiling away at something secret inside the red-bricked building. "Well damn, you're being im*patient*, aren't you? Must be all that time you spend at the hospital." Pat crowed, annoyed at the ever-dour disposition of his companion. Harry scowled, squinting and intently reading the sign hanging on the front door. *Back at 1:00*, it said, in a cheery, hurried handwriting. Harry checked his watch; 1:45. The next fifteen minutes passed uncomfortably between the pair. They stood awkwardly on the footpath in front of the building; men in black suits and black ties carrying black briefcases. They looked like a pair of insurance salesmen, sticking out awkwardly in the small town. "You know," said Patrick nonchalantly, fanning his face with his free hand in an idle attempt at cooling the desert air, "I wasn't figuring this town would be so... *deserted*." He was looking around himself, a puzzled look locked on his face. Harry did not respond. He was too busy looking at his watch to listen to Patrick. *Where was that damned postman?*. It took a few moments more before the words Pat had said sunk in. Actually, it was an excellent point. Where *was* everyone? Harry's heart stopped. "*Wait. Last time, this place* *was bustling with people and* *cars. What happened here!?*" Panic was clear in his voice. This was wrong. The town was empty. *** Harry spun around, looking at the road that lead through the center of the town. It lay bare and dusty, lacking even the characteristic streaks of car tires that would - and should - have regularly been there. His eyes darted from object to object, picking at all the things that were so, inherently, *wrong*. Why was the date listed at the top of the petrol station from four years before? Why were the church doors locked - they were never locked. Patrick peered at his companion curiously. Something must be seriously wrong for Harry to panic. He let his eyes follow Harry's, looking at the petrol station and the church and the convenience store. "Hey, Harry, buddy; you alright there?" Pat began cautiously, opting for a joke to diffuse the situation, "Sure, the *dates* are wrong, but aren't they always? I've always been a bigger fan of sultanas anyway." Harry didn't smile. That was normal. Harry didn't groan. That was not normal. Harry began speaking, his voice in between a croak and a whisper, carrying hollowly through the air with a strange, piercing quality. "*Patrick, we've arrived* *too late. We missed him again,* *and now he is dead.*" "Well shit," said Pat, "that stinks." *** Hours had passed, and even the arid desert sun had disappeared below the horizon now, leaving an orange crest arcing across the horizon and dissipating into a deep blue. The first stars began to twinkle faintly in the darkness that hung above. "*I'm sorry Patrick.* *We've lost him. Everyone* *else too... Always late.*" Patrick and Harry sat on a bench, staring at the post office on the other side of the road in the middle of the small town. "We could always kill ourselves." Said Pat, darkly, "We could *die* and paint the town red." Harry shook his head gravely. They may have come too late to save everyone in this town, but there were others, and their job certainly wasn't done yet.

A man who can speak only in haikus meets a man who can only speak in puns.

(Altered the prompt to instead have the guy find out that his ex-fiancee hawked the ring after they broke up, because that actually happened to me and it was pretty funny.) $50. You got fifty fucking dollars for that ring. That ring cost me a month of my life. It cost me a month of my life, working in manual labour, eating nothing but tuna and ramen, because you said that a ring should cost a month's worth of pay. After paying my rent, paying for groceries, and going out drinking one night, I had $600. I spent $600 on that ring, and you sold it for $50. I'm glad we broke up, because that's just fucking stupid. You looked like a sad potato stuffed in red underpants in that stupid lingerie you bought for yourself. Your ass was too small, you had a square shaped body, and you gave the most boring and uncomfortable head I've ever gotten. I don't forgive you for fucking all those guys while we were on break, and I don't forgive you for cheating on me after I proposed. I feel like shit about the abortion, I'll give you that, though. I acted like an immature little asshole, and you acted like a seventeen year-old who had some big decisions to make. We were just kids back then, and I wouldn't have acted that way if this had happened now. I don't regret calling you a dumb fucking slut, though. I probably should have paid more attention to you than video games. You wanted me to be a musician. You wanted me to write songs like Fleet Foxes do, and I wanted to learn the Foggy Mountain Breakdown while you played a jug. You were so Russian about things, so cold, so stoic, and so angry. I was the Canadian mutt I am, and I wanted to talk about stuff and warm up by the fire. I wanted to drink until I fell asleep, you wanted to drink until someone threw a punch. It's hard to wonder if or why we ever loved each other. The reason we went on break is because you were putting on weight. I was such a shallow little piece of shit. I'm still such a shallow jerk, because I've noticed the way your hair's thinning out like your mother's. I notice the way your eyes don't light up when you laugh. They haven't since you started seeing that weird, over-bearing boyfriend with the buck teeth and the muscle shirts. I hope you aren't still with him, but I don't really care. I notice the way you put a little less pressure on your right leg, and I feel a pang of guilt that one of the first times we had talked in a year was the first I had heard of your cancer scare. You still ask about my mom, and I say she's doing alright, even though she's always really sick. I fucked you on Valentine's Day, three or four years ago. We'd broken up, gotten back together, broken up, fucked, fought, fucked, gotten back together, broken up, seen other people. We didn't have anybody that Valentine's Day, and I think we just needed somebody to be with. I have never heard such a silence as when we took the bus together in the morning. We sat on opposite sides of the aisle because there were no more seats, and we took deep calming breaths as our eyes flickered back and forth, back and forth. I looked out of the corner of my eye to see you biting your nails and staring out the window, and I'm sure you looked over to see me rubbing my temples while I looked at the floor. I've never told so blatant a lie as when I told you I'd call you, and I don't even know why I bothered to say it; we both knew I wouldn't. When I see you at the bar, I see every memory in your face. I see every kiss, I see every song I played, I see the sketches you would draw as you sat by your bedroom window. I see you running naked in the rain in the night, when our bodies were young and flawless, and I remember the words that fell from your lips as you pressed them against mine: "Crystallized." I see us frozen in time when we sit at the same table. We laugh and we joke, and some of our newer friends don't even know we dated, let alone were engaged. But I know, and you know. I can tell by the way your eyes twinkle, I can tell by the way you lean in when you talk to me, I can tell by the way your lips wrap more delicately around the end of your cigarette. I can tell because I feel it too. It's not sacred, it's not love, it's not even lust. There is a hint of the people we used to be inside of us, and they claw and tear at our chests when we're close, screaming at us to lock our fingers together and for me to drag my teeth across your neck. But it's not who we are any more. I love my girlfriend, and I love myself. I hope that you've found a way to love yourself, because as much as I fucking hate you, and as much as I wish you had died, and as much as I'm leaving out of this because I am so fucking embarrassed by how pathetic a person I was when we were together, I still think you're a decent person. I put in six hundred dollars, and you got fifty out of it. When I think of that ring - gold, ruby studded, the kind a sixteen year-old boy would pick because of how it caught the light in the display case - I can't help but wonder, "How much was it worth?"

A man is returning an engagement ring to a jeweller. He eventually begins recalling his entire relationship and what went wrong.

"You disgust me." Andy paces across the dark room. Blinds cover the dilapidated windows, the only source of light. Across him sits an elderly man, staring into the abyss. He did not seem to notice Andy. "Why don't you listen to me, you fucking piece of shit!" He walks up and grab the old man from the collars. "How. Dare. You. You killed my father!" The old man pushes him away, and Andy drops him to the floor. The elderly man coughs, as he manages to mutter a few words. "He's *our* father, Andy..." "Don't you fucking give me that shit, Bill. Don't you *dare* give me that fucking shit." He picks up the old man, Bill, and punches him square in the jaw. Bill falls to the floor again, colors invading his vision. "Do you know what you just did with the family name? I am living the good fucking life here, Bill! You don't have to fuck my shit up, and yet here you are!" Andy picks him up, and punches him again. "Why did you have to fucking kill dad?!" Bill spits blood as he receives the next blow from his brother. "It's...as if you forget...everything he did...to us...he fucking...*abused* us...like animals, Andy..." Andy looms over him, eyes flaring with rage. He stomps at the head of his brother, and squeezes his skull to the wooden panel floor. "That's all in the fucking past, Bill. I'm a wealthy man now. Now *everyone* loves Andy. And you just had to go out of your way to tarnish my *fucking name*." With a final squeeze, he leaves his brother behind and walks out of the collapsing apartment. As he approaches his Lamborghini, he felt his legs getting slower. His skin shriveled up, and his eyesight went. He collapsed at the pavement, dead, as 89 years of age suddenly transfers to his body. -020

A young man living in a world where if you kill someone, their age is added onto your life.

Monkey sat back from the round table listening to the raucous fight in the zodiac's chambers. Rat was pulling Ox's hair, while Ox was trying to stomp on tiger, and all around the table yelling and pointing had replaced measured discussion. Monkey had suggested eliminating one zodiac to make it easier to come to decisions. With 12 members there were far too many tied votes, and eons could pass without reaching decisions. The others had agreed quickly to that, but deciding who should leave would prove much more difficult. Monkey looked around at the chamber, and grew resentful of the struggle. How boring, how common it was to watch them fight all day. Monkey had become tired with the meetings which lasted so long, and yearned to get out in the world and have some fun. This is why monkey had hatched the scheme to begin with. You see if the zodiac chambers were in session, then no zodiac could leave them to attend to the world. With no guardian many times the world would devolve into chaos as years went by with no decisions being made and no guardian over people's hearts. Slowly monkey slid back from the table, and hid his chair in the corner making sure to not be noticed by anyone. as soon as he was out of the way he used his tail to slowly slide his neighboring rooster and goat closer to each other to fill in the gap, and then climbed into the rafters to get a better look. They were still all shouting and stomping and roaring! I don't think they could have paid attention to monkey if they had tried with all this chaos. From the rafters Monkey bellowed "ORDER! ORDER ZODIACS! LET US GO ROUND ABOUT THE TABLE!" The chaos went on seemingly unchanged, except for rooster who had heard his voice faintly, although he did not know who had shouted it. Then together rooster and Monkey shouted "ORDER! ORDER ZODIACS! LET US GO ROUND ABOUT THE TABLE!" but this time goat and dog heard as well, and joined in. In no time at all, Rat was pointing at Ox, and trying to explain why he should be removed. He made clever arguments about hooves being far too loud and oxen being far too large, but Ox simply snorted. When it was Ox's turn he pointed at Tiger and explained why Tiger's teeth are far too long, and Tiger's stripes are far too Orange, which tiger simply ignored. When it was Goat's turn (Monkey's old neighbor) Goat turned and pointed at Rooster citing how his feathers were far too bright, and how he woke up far too early. Perfect. Monkey climbed up through the smoke stack and out into the world. Far below him he heard the remaining zodiac continue to point feathers and hooves and insult and argue. Monkey's chair gathered dust in the corner for Millenia.

The twelve animals of the Chinese Zodiac are asked to pick one animal to retire.

Howard Prescott, stumbling and still hungover from the previous night looks down on the ground in front of an ATM. The shiny black AMEX gleaned in the summer sun. On the front of this card was the name, "Howard Prescott." Skeptically, he picked the card off the ground and placed it into the ATM. "Please verify identity" the machine coolly asks. "Howard Prescott." Howard responds cautiously. "Welcome, Howard. How can I be of assistance today?" Howard is unable to believe what is going on. The ATM authenticated his voice. This had to be his card. "Balance inquiry" Howard responds to the machine. "You have $252,359,725,261 available." The machine calmly answer. "Holy Shit!" Howard proclaims "I'm sorry, I do not understand. If you would like to make a deposit, say 'deposit', for a withdrawal, say 'withdra..." "Withdrawal!" Howard ecstatically shouts. "Withdrawal $200,000,000." "Please wait while your money is dispensed below." The machine unquestioningly answers. The ATM begins to pour money out in $10,000 bills. Howard starts to shovel the cash into the bike messenger bag that was previously on his shoulder. Once all the money had been dispensed from the ATM, Howard takes off running down a back alley. Lou Diego is sitting in his police cruiser eating his mid morning breakfast burrito. A call comes in over the radio about a possible homicide at a seedy motel a few blocks away. Lou enters the motel room and a foul mess presents itself. The room is destroyed. The furniture is ripped, there are alcohol bottles strewn across the floor, and in the middle of it all, a naked man with a pool of blood around his head. "Who's that?" Lou asks the responding officer. "The name in his wallet says 'Howard Prescott.'" the officer responds. "What in the name of Jesus happened here?" Lou asks. "Looks like a raging party that got a little too wild. The housecleaning staff opened the door to clean and said they found the room just like this." Another officer chimes in. "Alright, I'm going to take a look around, you two go try to track down some witnesses, see if you can find out what the hell happened in here." Lou says. The officers leave and Lou begins to carefully walk amongst the carnage in the room, careful not to disturb any evidence. The body of Howard has a massive gash on the forehead and a slash to the neck. Lou begins to examine the bedside table, when a glint from a shiny black credit card catches his eye. Lou gets closer to examine the card, and is taken aback to see, "Louis Diego" printed right on the front.

The main character discovers a credit card with unlimited wealth that has their name on it but things take a terrible turn.

"Do you have anything to say in your defence?" Chris really wasn't sure what on Earth was going on; in hindsight, travelling 10,000 years into the future probably hadn't been the smartest choice, but how he was about to be condemned in court for... blasphemy, apparently, continued to elude him. "I'll handle this," his cybernetic lawyer told him, rising up from his chair. "Ladies, gentlemen, cyborgs and extraterrestrials of the jury," began the lawyer. "It appears to me that what is being tried today is not my client, but the most fundamental of Earthian rights; the right to free speech. Does my client regret his actions? Of course-" Actually, Chris didn't know what his actions had done at all. "But if we condemn him today, we must then condemn ourselves for every negative thing ever spoken. Every snide comment, every vocal attack, every word caught upon our emotion. If we condemn my client here today, we condemn our rights themselves." "Does the prosecution have anything to say?" inquired the judge. "Your honor," began the Prosecutor - female, by what Chris could tell of her voice. Human? Possibly, although those wings were new to humanity's evolution. "We live in a peaceful and free society, where beings from across the cosmos reside in harmony. For that harmony to remain, we have laws and conventions to ensure peace between all creatures. One instance where that peace failed is the event known as the Battle of Solan Coolistin." Chris was struggling to keep up - Battle of what *what?* "Solan Coolistin was a battle between secular forces - human, cyborg, extra-terrestrial. We all fought - and died - for what was believed to be our individual rights. In our fury, we never considered what we actually were fighting for; nothing. The battle signalled our inability to communicate, the very worst the Cosmos has to offer. Despite the years and processes that have been created since this battle, we are forever reminded that Solan Coolisin is associated with the very worst of us all. Therefore, we find it absolutely abhorrent that this human should associate our lifestyle with that tragic day." "But... how?" asked Chris "We have multiple witnesses that say you described your surroundings as those similar to Solan Coolistin when you arrived. It is a personal and social disgrace to even consider such a tragedy as 'humorous.' Just what kind of monster looks at the world we've made, use the shortened code for the battle and can declare "this is **so cool**." **EDIT:** *Wow, thanks for the gold, and the appreciation!*

A time traveller gets into trouble for misunderstanding a word whose meaning has changed over time

General Robert French looked over the map that was spread out on the table in the war room. Coloured flags and models marked who was where, what they had, and who they were fighting. War is hell. Especially a war like this - a war fought for ideals, not land or wealth. Everyday the very fabric of your being was challenged. Everyday you second guessed yourself. The General took his analyzing gaze from the map and aimed it at the tired men and women of the Insomniac Army HQ. Rank was attributed to merit and skill, but there was a bonus for how low the bags under your eyes sagged - and the General had the saggiest. All he wanted to do was sleep - but at the same time the idea made him anxious, his chest began to tighten around his aged heart. Calm yourself, Robert. Calm yourself. He couldn't tell if the anxiety was part of his prior condition or if it was the war. All he knew was that he wanted it to end. *** Meanwhile at the Narcoleptic HQ: They were waiting. There was a rule. So they were waiting. General Henry Cuthbert-Robinson was lying face first in his war map, asleep. But, there was a rule. A rule that said General Henry Cuthburt-Robinson has full and total control over his condition. The staff of NARC-HQ waited for the General to wake up naturally. Heaven forbid you sti- "BA-huh?" The General sprung to his feet and looked about. "Finally!" Said Sergeant Stringer, his excitement triggered his condition and he fell to the floor. As per standard NARC protocol his helmet was wrapped in pillows - he'd be fine. "What a poor fool!" said General Cuthbert-Robinson. "No control over himself!" Nearby staff nodded and agreed. Some dozed off, others stood up and asked what they missed. * * * "Sir?" Said a voice. General French turned to it's source. It was a young Corporal by the name of James Hill. "Yeah, son?" Said French. He called all the young men at HQ son, not because he wanted to foster a paternal bond but because he couldn't remember any of their damn names. "The enemy, sir." Corporal Hill started "They fall asleep *all* of the time correct?" General French waited. Waited some more. Coughed a little. "OH! Sir!" Said the Corporal "...sir?" French leaned in close to Corporal Hill. "Yes, Son. They do. Sometimes the trigger varies, sometimes they treat it a bit. But essentially, yes. Why?" The General knew the reason already. The Corporal was quiet for a minute, fighting some internal battle. Eventually he sighed and spoke: "Well, Sir. If they fall asleep all the time, and we're always awake, sir. How have we not won yet, sir?" Corporal Hill was surprised to see a wide smile on the General's face. "Well, Son. Now you know why I have the biggest bags under my eyes."

The Sleep Wars, a decades old conflict between the Insomniacs and Narcoleptics.

He handed the scythe and robe over. I took them reluctantly into my hands and weighed them. They were surprisingly light and I must have made a face because he said, "What they lack in physical weight they make up for in responsibility." "I don't want it." I said. "It's too late for that." He appeared to be an old man. A mess of white hair, a wintry beard, deep wrinkles and dark spots on his hands. Would I appear the same when I could eventually retire. Would I ever get to retire? "Where are you off to now?" I asked. He smiled and said, "I'm going to meet my wife somewhere beautiful." "Will you tell William I miss him?" "Of course." He walked into the fog up the road and disappeared. I remained standing alone on my porch. My body still swung from the noose. Except it no longer felt like me. The lips were blue, the long hair so lifeless. Whoever this woman was in her life time was now a memory. Captured in photographs and in that old diary hidden under her pillow. I put the robe on, gripped the scythe in my hands. I looked out into the foggy fields surrounding the house, the long dirt road leading to nowhere. I saw nothing beyond it. Only emptiness. Then I felt the pull, my first soul calling for me. It cried out like an injured bird from beyond the fog. I stepped out onto the road and soberly followed the sound.

You suddenly realize your true purpose in life... and it's a duty you don't want.

It was terribly dark today. The clocks showed that it was almost three in the afternoon, but the sky still resembled the midnight sky. The only difference was that there were no stars out. Not only that, but the citizens didn't really know what to do with themselves. The last year or so had been very bleak. The weather was unseasonably cold and cloudy most days. Occasionally the sun would peek out from thin clouds and the citizens would be inspired to go out and about. The sunny days were the best. Those days were far and few between though. The weather today was particularly depressing. Nobody had seen anything like it before. The panic began when an explosion was heard across the sky. It seemed to come from every direction, and it shook the very foundation the buildings stood on. Those that weren't impaled by falling shards of glass ran for cover, cowering in fear. Everyone shared this fear, just as they all had shared sadness for the past year. A child pointed to the sky with his mouth agape. A reddish ink seemed to stain the sky. It was slow, but infectious. The tops of skyscrapers took on the crimson hue and it dripped down into the streets. Soon the world was engulfed by the color, people included. Nobody said anything, they couldn't speak. They couldn't even scream. They stared at their red world which was now beginning to grow dark again. A man, his name was Charles, clasped his hands together as his once beautiful world went black forever. *Why?* I glanced at the pages of my unfinished book, the pages now soaked in my blood and bits of brain matter. My only regret in life would be not finishing that story. Well, that and flinching when I pulled the trigger. ---- More responses to prompts can be viewed [here!](http://thevoiceswrite.tumblr.com/)

The Narrator just killed God, the supernatural being who created the universe.

"BREAKING NEWS! Aliens have come to invade Earth!" The television roared to life. "HEY! Get it back on My Little Pony, you little shit." I growled at the television. I stumbled around, looking for the television remote, I shoved my large wobbling arm under my back and found it. I switched channels to see if my fatness clicked a button or something. "Seriously? Even Disney channels?" I groaned. "MOM!" I shouted. Then I remembered my mom died a year ago. "Fucking bitch, must I do everything myself?" I tried to push my fat self off the couch. It creaked joyfully, happy to get me off. The front door broke open. The door was inches away from decapitating my head. "Oh, hello!" I smiled, there was a insect-like creature. It had six legs, three segments within its body, and its face was cringed up yet smooth, like a cockroach head with mantis's head. It was wielding a metallic looking weapon. "You! I don't give a damn if you're here to kill us, but can you please help me?" I spoke to it. It tilted its head in confusion, warbled its tongue to me. I pointed to the television, started pressing the remote at it, showing the creature that the broadcast won't turn off. The alien warbled, turned and walked outside the house. It emitted a blue orb out of its weapon. It attacked the red/white metal tower that I still didn't know what it was. My Little Pony theme song came on. I screamed delightfully and the couch creaked in despair, becoming depressed. The alien stared at me, but I didn't care. It left, warbling to the other creatures before shooting at other people and setting houses on fire. -024

A hostile alien species is invading earth... And nobody really cares.

*I stare into my wife's lifeless eyes. I can't move. The doctors warned me this day would come, but no amount of preparation in the world could ready me for this moment. This seemingly endless space of time where I'm alone, once again. My love has left me, and even as the sound of the flatline rings in my ears and teardrops slide down my face in a cascade of mourning, as the nurse enters the room and the doctor presses his hand to my shoulder, I simply can't move a muscle.* "Ten," my coworker's voice snaps me out of the memory and back to the reality I now face. "Nine." I'm going to Hell. "Eight." It all started on that day, fourteen years ago, when my wife passed away. I'd always talked to her about following my dreams of becoming a scientist, even though we were already settled down and I had a steady job that kept our bellies full and our bodies warm. "Seven." But I never did. We lived life on an even keel. We loved each other, and that was enough for the both of us. My nine to five wouldn't change that. "Six." And then the illness came. "Five." It didn't take long for her condition to deteriorate. Suddenly I was faced with something I knew I wouldn't be able to bear. She told me everything would be okay. She told me we'd always be together. Forever. "Four." Before she died she asked me to make her a promise. She reminded me of the dream I once had. "Three." *Promise me,* she said. *Promise me you won't let anything stop you.* And I promised her. "Two." And now here I stand. The culmination of our life together, all too brief, and the dormant dream she reawakened with her eternal slumber. In a vessel headed into uncharted territory, the work of thousands of scientists all around the world over the course of decades. I don't know what we'll find. I don't know what to expect. My knees start to shake. "One." I'm going to Hell. "Zero." *I stare into my wife's lifeless eyes. I can't move.*

A manned expedition to Hell for science. You choose the ending.

Ask a person what they would become if they could see the dead, and you'd normally get the token answers. "Mad", they'd say, or "Dead myself". Occasionally, you'd get thoughtful looks and "A detective?" or "One of those psychic guys you pay money to to talk to dead people". So, naturally, I became a mathematician. The ghosts and spirits are like complex numbers, really. Sometimes they have a real component ("You don't want to stay in that room, dear, people are saying there's a poltergeist throwing things about, must be poor Barbara, died of flu in there last year"), but sometimes they are purely imaginary, and look like nothing else on this earth. Threadbare structures of light, coloured in such a way I have not seen in reality, and would be unable to describe to you. They don't acknowledge me, not even if I wave at them and tell them I know they're there. Some of them I think are not sentient, just folds and ripples in the fabric of the universe, drifting about on some invisible cosmic wind. I know this may sound rather obvious, but seeing dead people for all your life really isn't good for your health. Social isolation and constant tension leads to all number of illnesses, so much that I had to get an HIV test after the second round of hospital visits in three months. Negative. Nope, it's just me being loopy like always. So when I finally caught some antibiotic-resistant strain of (was it MRSA? can't think) some kind of bacteria, I wasn't that surprised. I panicked at the prognosis, yes, but after a while I kind of accepted it and just waited to die. And as I lay there, idly wondering if the bird-like threadlight would jump in through the window or not, a doctor came in to see me. He wasn't one of my doctors, but I know I knew him well. Not from where, but I recognised his face. And he sat by my bed. "We're all vary worried about you, you know." "I know." My voice was all croaky. "We're so sad that you've decided to stop fighting. We know you'll pull on through if you just hang in there a bit more." I looked away, ashamed, and stared resolutely at the threadlight perched on the windowsill, half-inside the glass. The doctor whistled and the threadlight flew to his hand. "Y-you can see them?" "Just as you can. Now, don't stop fighting. You have very loyal friends, and they've convinced me to fix this one for you." "Fix-" "Sleep." I blacked out. When I woke up about an hour later, by the clock on the wall, I saw no sign of him. My real doctor looked at my tests the next day in astonishment and told me I would be home in a week at most. I looked at the faces on the staff board but could not find the mysterious man. But every day now, I talk to the threadlights, and I thank them for what I know they must have done. And sometimes, just sometimes, I hear something in return. Just a whisper on the wind. I can never quite make out what it says.

You've seen ghosts and spirits your whole life. However, they never talked to you, until today.

"Come on, just one piece..." urged Bertha. "It looks so good. Everyone loves food. Have a piece. You won't regret it." "NO!" I said to the fat woman I call Bertha. She disgusted me. Her mouth was frothing at the lips like she wanted to take a bite herself. She stared at it with this intense look in her eyes. "Go away, Bertha, you fat pig. We're not eating it," I said. She twisted her head at me and hissed. Her breath was disgusting, but the insult was enough, and Bertha had gone away. "You could always fuck it, you know," said Lydia out of nowhere. Lydia had a petite hourglass body with large breasts. She had brunette hair. Or maybe it was blonde? Or red? I don't know. She was whatever turned you on, I guess. "Go on. Just unzip those jeans of yours," she said as she was touching herself. "Pull it out, and-" "NO!" I screamed. "You're a sick slut and we're not going to have sex with it." Lydia's beautiful face turned to frustration. Even in anger she was attractive, but the insult was enough, and Lydia had gone away. "Fucking it or eating it is a waste," said a hushed voice from behind me. "You would do best to sell it. I know a guy who knows a guy that would pay good money for it." I considered it. I could use the money. I could use the money... "NO! I'm not selling it, Rico." I turned around to face him. He's a short man with greasy, slicked back hair, with a business shirt and tie, but a leather jacket to cover it all up. He wore nice pants with sneakers. So unprofessional. "You're a needy little prick, but I don't need money that bad. Fuck off, Rico." "Heh, whatever you say, jackass." And Rico had gone away. "It's good you didn't listen to him," said Kyle from the couch. "That's too much work." He reached into a bag of chips and ate a handful. Kyle was almost as bad as the rest, because he never offered any decent suggestions at all. "I say you just leave it there. Get it later, ya know? No point in worrying about it now." He wiped the salt from his potato chips onto his white shirt. "What? NO!" I yelled. "Kyle, we cannot just fucking leave it here. You're a lazy asshole." "Whatever you say, man." And Kyle had gone away. "FUCKING TEAR IT APART." "What?" I asked George, who seemed to appear out of nowhere. "YOU HEARD ME," he screamed as he pumped a dumbbell. "TEAR IT APART, SHOW IT YOUR ANGER. THROW IT ALL OVER THE PLACE. MAKE A FUCKING SCENE!" I watched George flail about in anger. His muscles were pulsing and his face was beat red. "No, George. We won't be doing that. It'll just makes a mess. You're a god damned juicing gorilla, and you need to chill the fuck out." He slammed the dumbbell onto the floor. "FINE, FUCK YOU THEN!" he screamed, and then he had gone away. "I don't see why you have to do any of those things," said Jean. I always felt bad for Jean. He was just a little kid who you could always mistake for being happy if not for that look on his face. That sad, starving look, that everything he saw he wished he could have as well. Only then would he feel complete. He looked at me depressingly. "You know, they talk about doing all those things, but that's not really enough. It looks happier the way it is now, don't you think? I wish I had that. I hope you can have that. It's not hard, you just have to-" "No, Jean. I know what you're asking, and I can't do that. As much as I deserve it. I won't, I don't want that. I'm sorry, but you need to leave. You're just trying to make me feel guilty." "Yeah, yeah you're right, I guess," said Jean. "I mean it's up to you anyway, just ignore me." After giving one last hopeful glance at it, he turned and left. Jean had gone away. I sat there looking at it. I had six opinions on how to handle it and not one of them was useful. They were all a damn waste. Now I'm stuck here with it, not knowing what to do. "That was real good of you son," said a voice from behind me. "Huh? D-dad?" He sat there in his sweater with his pipe and newspaper. His grey hair looked nice and shiny as he rocked back and forth in his chair. "That's right. And like I said, good work, son. You could have listened to any one of those freaks, but you didn't. That's real good of you. But..." he continued as he got up from his chair. He put down his newspaper but kept puffing on his pipe. "...they had no drive. No motivation. A man needs that. A man needs to do good work and be able to show for it, to let people know that's he's more than just a man; he's a man worth his salt. Do you understand, son?" "I-I think so," I said to him. He took me by the shoulder like he always does when he's giving me good advice. "You see, you've got to show the world what you did. It'll let them know that you're a hard worker for your passions, and that no one should get in the way of that. There are consequences for men that get in the way of other people's dreams. This is your work, and you need to show it off. Do you get what I'm saying, son?" "I do, Dad. Thank you." My dad gave me one last hug. "No problem, boy. I'm really proud of you. Now go show 'em what you're made of, okay?" "Yeah, dad. I will." He was right. The answer wasn't to eat it, to have sex with it, to sell it, to do nothing, to get violent, or to kill myself. The answer was to take pride in what I did, in what I do, and that's what I always should do with my work. Show the people what I'm made of. That's how it should be done. Come nightfall, I'm going to take the body and throw it over the overpass right into the middle of traffic during rush hour. It'll be easy to get away from there. Then, everyone will see my work. Everyone will know my work. Thank you, dad. I'm real proud of myself, too.

The Seven Deadly Sins take physical form to tempt you.

I close the door and turn around, to look at my Shepherd's quizzical face. His ears are perked up, his tail a slow wag. He's only eight years old, and his hip dysplasia has only just begun to set in. The letter told me that I have eternal good health. Could I trade that? Is it possible to transfer these perks? How is that even possible? The lone suicide pill in it's vial offered only one answer. This was strange. Who the heck was that guy? He was impeccably dressed, even if he seemed out of place with the double breasted suit and bowler hat. I sat back down on my old red cloth couch. I bought it used from my old neighbor, who was moving out and needed to unload. It was better than my old couch, which was actually hand me down from my roommate's parents. I should get a new one. Maybe one of those big leather sectional couches? Well, why stop there. I could move out. Get a place of my own. I like those ranch-style houses, with lots of land. An old farmhouse would be cool too. Plenty of room for my dog to run around while he still can. The house would have to have a fireplace though - no wait. A fireplace *and* a wood stove. Eternal health and youth. My dog hopped up to sit next to me. He reached his paw out and put it on my arm, begging me to pet him. How could I say no. "Let's take you for a walk, buddy."

"Welcome to the Infinity Club, here is your welcome packet!"

A man mutters in his sleep ... Help echo Help me echo I'm blind echo Help me echo It's whiter than white no, diamonds, no chrome.. glass! It's made of silica oh yes dear yes. This is what we need dear. I'm blind echo Screams. I scream. Ice cream. Scream. I screamed. Ice creamed. I screams. I hear screams. Help me echo I lost my home can you help me find it? It's across the stars. Help echo Deary we landed we're here we're here. Oh marvelous oh brilliant. A new start. A new star. A new sta. A new st. st. st. I'm blind. echo I hear angels singing. Help me. echo I hear angels roaring. Help. echo My skin is burning. Help me. echo My head exploding. I'm blind. echo Screams. Screams. Scree. Screeee. Scr. S. s. sssss .... He saw the bomb drop. He wants so badly to tell us who he saw. He can't. Trauma? More than that, literally his brain has melted in some spots. His soul stutters in and out as the circuits short all over. Does he know who he is? Oh yes, and he knows how he got here, and he knows he's not leaving.

A man who has gone insane, tries to work out how he went insane.

"We...have our orders." "We're scientists. *They're* scientists. It's wrong to kill them. Besides, they're stronger than we are, and there's no way we can afford to kill them besides strangulation. Ever wonder how blood reacts in no gravity environments when you stab a man in the back?" The two astronauts stared out the window as another nuke went off. Poor Chicago. --- "We could kill them. Quickly. Take a belt, wrap it around the neck, no mess..." The cosmonaut made a jerking movement with his hand. "Easy." "But then what? They are our fellow scientists. We could not run the station for long without them. And they are our friends. It is better to do nothing." The two cosmonauts stared out the window as another nuke went off. Would that that was Finland, and not St. Petersburg. --- They met in the center module, all six of them. Three American, three Russian. Henderson was asleep, the lucky bastard. He hadn't yet seen the carnage. They stared at one another for a few moments, before Yuri turned to the window. "Look." A massive shape loomed at them from space. "That thing appeared 5 hours ago, and has just been sitting there ever since." "Not just sitting. It launched something at Denver just 20 minutes ago, and now look." Denver was burning in dark, purplish smoke. "Look!" Another pod shot out from the alien structure, this time hitting Sydney. In minutes smoke covered everything. "An alien invasion during nuclear war. Brilliant." "Missiles." Henderson was awake, his speech somehow not slurred with sleep as usual. "Columbus Laboratory. Yours," he said, addressing the Russians, "are in Rassevet. I overwrote both of our access codes. Make all preparations and I'll be over in a minute to re-enable them." "Henderson!" "You realize I'm the only one among us who has a military background? Our government is disgusting from the ground up. Only up here, from space, are we free from contamination. Notice how the nukes have stopped? They just noticed what's up happening. But they don't have anything capable of reaching that mothership this far in orbit, and they can't tell us what to do since Orlando was nuked." "So we're going to nuke it." "Right." "Save the world?" "Maybe then they'll give NASA the funding we've needed." Henderson laughed. "There. 10 minutes to launch." --- "Launch bays are open." "Targeting systems are acquired. Coordinates received and transmitted." "We're clear to launch." "T-minus 5." "4." "3." "2." "1." "Ignition."

war breaks out in earth, while the astronauts on the International Space Station watch from above.

I love the smell of the crisp brown pages, it reminds me of my days of learning. I've chosen the rooftops of an 11th century Japanese palace to contemplate my last day before graduating from the academy. The beautiful sunset, lack of pollution and warm summer breeze never fail to calm me. The open book I hold is exactly 84 and a half pages in length. It reads as a coffee table book of poems you'd find on a coffee table, languishing unread and collecting dust in an alternative coffee shop on the East Side. But we know them all of by heart. You can quote each of them by page number. Page 34: "Right after the cement truck, next hard left, then duck." Page 2: "Deny the man in the red bowlers hat." Page 43: "Seat 34F is unsafe." The half page is the mystery. It's been cut or ripped perfectly in half, vertically down the centre. The only words remaining on the left hand side are "*This book will not prot*". I lower the book slightly to take in the sunset but instead am met with a man dressed in midnight black armor, half way through a downward strike. Ah, that's what it meant.

Beside the obvious rules like "don't interact with your past self" and "don't try to kill/save a historical figure", time travellers have a rule on the books that only makes sense when it's too late.

**Edit:** Whaaaat, I didn't even notice the gold until just now, thank you kind stranger! I really appreciate all the feedback I've received. Obviously, it seems a lot of us have been through similar situations. Go hug your kitties. :3 ------------------------------------------------------------ It wasn't long after I opened my eyes that Master took me home. One minute, I was snuggled up with my brothers and sisters, and the next I was roughly pulled from our enclosure and held up in the air. I feebly tried to fight them off, but I was so weak and they were so much bigger. I later learned it was a "car" that took us to home. Cars are even bigger than the Masters, and cars are frightful and huge beasts. I hated every time I had to go in one of them, as any car ride inevitably meant some embarrassing or horrifying incident at the end. It took awhile to accept my Master. This strange place was unfamiliar, with giant monuments of wood and leather, and a giant toilet that I quickly learned was not meant for my kind. The Master and her family walked across their giant toilet, played games on it, even napped on it. I had a small box of my own, and every day my deposits mysteriously disappeared, no matter how deep I buried them. The Master and her family had strange voices, too. I only learned a few words of their tongue; "Whiskers" (which was me), "no," "cat," "come here," and a handful of other phrases that I knew to be crucial of my interaction with them. When I did not understand, I would look the Master or her family members in the eye and try to repeat it back, but they usually just laughed and rubbed my head. My life was certainly different without my mother and siblings and it sometimes frustrating, but I was not without want. Every morning, I engaged in a helpful ritual to wake up Master. She never got up when the horrible box on her nightstand started screeching, so to try to get her to turn the damn thing off, I'd slip into her bedroom and nuzzle her face. Sometimes, this would annoy her, but most times she would pull me in for a snuggle and rub my ears before getting up and preparing me my morning breakfast. Master's husband loved me, too. He was a most excellent partner for hunting the elusive red dot. He loved to help me train and would even crawl on the floor with me when the menace would be on the carpet, the wall, or even my paws. He took great joy in watching me grow into the mighty hunter I became. The third one, the only name I knew other than my own, was Kara. Kara was the Master and her husband's only kitten. While I respected and adored my Master, Kara was my favorite. When the others were too busy to help me hunt or play, Kara was always there. Sometimes, I endured humiliating rights of passage, such as wearing her doll's clothes for tea parties, but Kara was always attentive to my needs. I was certain Kara knew me on a different level. She had something about her that let us connect. I would test my theory, such as sitting and staring at her for what seemed to be hours on end, or present myself while she was engaged in various tasks, and see how she reacted. She was never cruel, and often recognized that I was in dire need of some treats, attention, or love. The only time she displayed anger at me was when I had killed the white snake. I thought I had done her a favor of destroying the beast that would sometimes slither up and rest in her ears, but apparently, that was wrong. The terrible sounds that came from her mouth, I never understood, but I did know to never do anything of the sort again. As Kara grew taller and more magnificent, she seemed to be boundless with energy. Her time from home grew longer, too. I found myself sitting in the window, not knowing when I would see her again. Only once the evil car pulled in front of the house, did I know she was delivered back to me safely. I never knew what she did while she was gone those many hours, but her burden would change often. Most of the time, it was books and a large bag she carried on her back. Other times, it was carrying a giant round ball, covered in mud. I would do my best to clean her face, but she would just laugh and disappear in the white capsule in the Masters' bathroom, only to emerge clean and perfect. As I grew older, I marveled at Kara's ability to be so spry. She and her kind were so flawless and never aged. With me, I felt like I'd never be a kitten again. I tried drinking from cups and mugs that were left on the counter, thinking it was the source of their power, but I never felt any different. It became harder to get that red dot, and it took more effort to jump onto my carpeted viewing post. The first time I neglected to deposit my waste in the box, I was yelled at severely. But I couldn't help it. I just couldn't move fast enough. Then, one day, Kara left. I waited patiently that night, but never saw the car return. "Hello?" I said. "Something's wrong. Something's wrong! Kara's not returned!" I paced the halls, frantically, making regular stops at Kara's door to see if she returned while I had my back turned. "Hello, please, someone, Kara is missing, and I'm very worried!" Master opened up her door, and sleepily stood there. She looked at me with a sad smile, and turned around to say something. The only word I understood was "Whiskers" and "Kara." Master scooped me up and brought me to bed, and while she brought me comfort, it just wasn't the same. Days went by. Perhaps months. I don't even know. I napped often in Kara's room, hoping when I would wake up, she would be there. I took to sleeping in Master's room at night. I couldn't bear to be without the warmth of someone. One day, Master came to me as I laid on Kara's bed. In Master's hand was the small box that everyone seemed to have permanently in their grip. She spoke into the box: "Kara!" My ears perked up. Master held the box to me. "Whiskers!" "Kara!" I gasped. It was her! She was alive! I could hear her voice, but I didn't see her. Where was she? I was so excited, I didn't realize I released my bladder until Master clucked her tongue unhappily and picked me up to clean me off. But I didn't care about the embarrassment. I heard Kara's voice and knew she was alive! even if she was trapped in that box, I didn't care. The next morning, something was different. Master didn't make me my normal breakfast. I hadn't been eating much anyway; I just wasn't as hungry any more. But she did bring me a piece of delicious fish from her own plate, and it was very good. I wanted to get onto my viewing post, but my joints hurt so bad. Master must have sensed this, and she picked me up to place me on the highest spot. I napped there for a few hours, then woke up when Master gently rolled me in a blanket. I was so very tired, and I didn't even mind that we were going in the car. While I sat in Master's lap as her husband drove, I realized how silly it was for me to be so scared of these cars. It wasn't that bad. I saw some trees and the bright blue sky. It was all very pretty. I knew where we were at before we got out of the car. The White Man. He always wore white clothing, with glasses and he had no fur on top of his head like the others. Master was bringing me here more as I got older. How strange it was that none of them ever changed; nothing around me ever did, and only I had become different. Master carried me to the back, and laid me down on the table. This time, I didn't fight like I normally did, trying to protect her from the vicious bright lights above. I felt so tired, and I just wanted to sleep. Master looked so sad, though. "What's wrong?" I asked, reaching a paw out to her. Water leaked from her eyes and she reached out, taking my paw between her fingers. "Good cat, Whiskers," I heard her say. The White Man came in, with a pointy thing in his hands. He scratched my ears and my chin. Ahh, my favorite spots. He knew. They all knew. They all know so much about me. I only wish I had more time to learn more about them. The White Man brought the point to my arm. Usually, it would hurt, but not today. As he squeezed the pointy thing, I suddenly felt very warm and-- "Where is he??" Kara? "Where is Whiskers? Am I too late?? The traffic from the university was horrible and I didn't think I'd make it in time and please, oh god, I hope I made it in time--" It was Kara. Kara was here! Kara's alive! And.. I understood her. I understood everything she was saying! The door of the room burst open, and Kara stood there with a red face that matched her hair. "Is he gone?!" she blurted out. The White Man shook his head. "I just gave him a calming sedative. It's just to make this process less scary." "Kara.." I whispered weakly. "Oh, Whiskers," she cried. She ran over to me and placed her head on my side. She stroked my ears. It felt so wonderful. "I'm so sorry. I'm sorry I haven't been around for the past few months. I'm sorry you're sick, but it's time to go. You've lived such a long life. I hope you were happy with us. You were the best cat ever, Whiskers." I lifted my head. It was so hard, I was so weak. All I could muster was a soft meow, and laid my paw on her hand. For some reason, this made her cry even more. I don't know why she was so sad. She was right; I lived a happy life. My only regret is that I would not live as long as her. I felt another gentle poking on my arm. My vision started getting fuzzy, but I wasn't scared. I had Kara there with me. She watched me, with those big blue eyes. The lights above made her look so pretty, like an angel. "I'm right here," she said. "I'll always be here." My eyelids were so heavy, but I struggled to watch her. Soon, it was hard to keep them open at all. "I love you, Whiskers," Kara said. "I love you, too," I whispered back, and I closed my eyes.

Cats and Dogs see us as immortal and unchanging, simply because we can easily survive to be forty years old, while they struggle to survive twenty.

Beelzebub's greased hair glistened under the heavy incandescent lighting. Lucifer's smile looked bolted onto his face. They both approached the platform, kissing babies and cracking PR approved jokes. They met centre-stage and shook hands. The din of the roaring audience subsided. Now was the time for the Great Debate. Less than two months remained before the denizens of hell were to cast their votes for the next Satan. One of the demons before the spectators would be ritually disemboweled and have his eyes burnt out with hell's unabating coals. The other would lose the election. Much was riding on this debate. Azazel served as adjudicator, his all-seeing eyes making him an eerily prescient judge. He was the only demon since The Beast that would dare question the contenders. He began his speaking, his voice arriving in everyone's ears at equal volume, even though he had no mouth to speak of. “Gentlemen, how would your policies as Satan differ from those of your opponent's?” he asked. Azazel did not care for formalities, though only a fool would have expected him to be any different. Lucifer answered first, his right as the incumbent ruler. “Beelzebub is a fine demon, capable of much cruelty. Yet he lacks the sense of humour required to survive as Satan. When was the last time he publicly humiliated a sinner? His torture has no sense of irony. He disregards our sense of twisted madness and seeks to make us demons black and white caricatures of unrelenting hate. We are more than that. We are nightmares”. Beelzebub shot back, clearly prepared for such an attack. “I take the Office of Satan very seriously. Forgive me if I do not indulge myself in petty games. Such tomfoolery has been the hallmark of Lucifer's tenure as Satan. Frivolous games have distracted him from performing his duties effectively. I feel the need to remind you, Lucifer, that there are seven deadly sins”. His words were coated with acid. The crowd fell silent. The debate had gotten ugly and personal, very quickly. Lucifer had anticipated an easy victory like his last campaign and such an attack caught off-guard. “What do you mean? Explain yourself” he demanded. “Pride and sloth,” Beelzebub responded. “Where are the vain being punished, O Satan? Where are the corpulent slackers being taken to? I'll tell you where. To heaven,” he roared. Lucifer tried to interject, but the audience began cheering Beelzebub. Azazel persisted, leaving Lucifer behind to cope with an early upset. “Beezlebub, how would you approach relations with the other Afterlives?” Azazel asked. Beezlebub looked directly to the cameras. To the stage-left, his campaign manager mouthed the answer along with him. This had carefully rehearsed for months. “We will not relinquish our sinners. Not now and not when the last demon falls and Hell turns to ice. I do not expect Heaven to do any different. Limbo may keep their unbaptised babies, but Purgatory, Purgatory is our battleground. I will not allow another unpunished sinner to ascend to God's bosom. Purgatory is Hell’s waiting room, not Heaven's playground. Hell will take Purgatory and demons will fly once more. Fly once more,” he cried. “Fly once more” the audience chanted. Lucifer looked to Azazel, but for the first time since Hell's founding, he avoided him. Demons clasped Lucifer's shoulders and flew him to the path of exile.

'Satan' is not the name of an individual, but of a democratically elected office. The electoral race for leader of the free underworld is currently underway.

There were rumors. There are *always* rumors. Some people said you could avoid it by thinking nonsense words. Some people said your best bet was to strike yourself deaf by puncturing your eardrums. Some people said to just scream as loud as you could to try to overpower it. Some people said it was all in your head and that if you didn't believe in it it wouldn't work on you at all. Unfortunately for Jackson, he believed in it. Hell, he'd seen it work. No matter how many executions he oversaw it never ceased to amaze him. The curiosity constantly pulled at his brain. What could it possibly be that someone could say to you that would cause you to collapse and die? How could someone have ever even devised such a thing and survived to tell it? In all his years at Shawshank Correctional nothing had ever bothered him more. Ivanov was head executioner and Jackson had even learned some Russian so that he could chat with him but Ivanov was blissfully unaware. The whole point of having an executioner that was foreign was that he didn't understand the words he said to the condemned. Ivanov wore a hooded mask so that even the hearing impaired couldn't read his lips. He didn't even seem to care, it was simply a job to him. Jackson hated him for that. It ate at Jackson every day of his life. He researched the history of the "Death Sentence" extensively and always came up empty handed. It seemed as if no one even knew the exact origin. As far as he could tell it wasn't even ever put on paper but rather passed down from executioner to executioner orally. His curiosity was so great that Jackson had even had dreams in which he'd committed horrible acts solely in order to receive the death penalty so he could finally hear what the words were. Carlson was set to be executed for killing a family while drunk driving. He'd hit a minivan with six people inside and killed five of them. The grieving father sat alone in the viewing chamber. Press had long since been barred from executions, they were now simply televised live on every major network. This proved to be an excellent deterrent of violent crime. When ending a life is as simple as whispering in your ear people tend to behave themselves a little better. Ivanov pulled his hood over his head as Carlson ascended the platform. Two dozen cameras recorded his final moments from every corner of the room. Jackson stood inside a square marked on the floor, his designated area, five feet from where Ivanov meted out the court's sentence. Carlson took his final step in this life and bowed his head. Jackson could seen him shaking. He almost laughed out loud at how scared someone could be to hear something that he was so desperate to hear himself. He began his short speech. "Frederick Carlson, do you understand the punishment that the court has levied against you in this case?" he said. "Y...yes I do," Carlson muttered quietly. "You understand and accept the fact that you will be put to death for your crimes?" Jackson asked. "Yes," Carlson said. He was sweating profusely. "Then at this time you shall receive your punishment and be put to death. You death will be administered by Ivanov who will speak the Death Sentence into your ear. Are you ready?" "I... I am. Do it." A calm came over the man and he stopped shaking. This almost always happened right before the end. Jackson imagined that even the condemned were overwhelmed by curiosity at the last moment. Ivanov bent forward and, just as he always did, cupped his hands around his mouth. Carlson leaned toward him slightly, almost unconsciously, just as *he* always did. Perhaps this time he leaned a tad farther than usual or maybe Ivanov spoke a little louder than normal or maybe it was a combination of the two because after all these years of wondering Jackson finally heard the Death Sentence. He had just enough time to gasp and say softly, almost under his breath, "Oh, *wow*," before he felt a wet warmness inside his skull and collapsed to the floor.

The death sentence is an actual sentence that when spoken will instantly kill someone.

**This is my first time answering a prompt. Ahh!** When I first moved into my little yellow house on the corner of Maple and Terrace, I didn't plan on making friends. I only ever wanted to mow my lawn every Sunday, and enjoy a glass of gin on the rocks every night, listening to the radio. Most people waved when I did my yard work, and I would wave back. Most people just wanted to make small talk when I went to the store. Most people didn't really care about the new guy in the neighborhood, most people just wanted to be polite. Most people were allowing me to go about my business, and enjoy my time off. Most people. The neighbor though, Steve O'Brien...this guy was a wrench in the gear that was supposed to be a monotonous existence. Steve was always asking for stories. He was born and raised in the house next to the one I had just moved into, and he always wanted to hear stories from where I had been. I was fairly well traveled, but I couldn't tell this guy what my life was. Sometimes I was honest, and told him about my backpacking trip through Europe, or when I bartended hostels in New Zealand. Sometimes I lied. Most of the time I lied, actually. Steve always had such a twinkle in his eye when we talked. The son of a bitch came out every Sunday when I mowed my lawn, and he was so reactive to my tales. Steve always asked for one more story, and I always told him it'd just ruin what I had for him the next week. I almost liked seeing Steve. He wasn't any good for what I needed to be while I was here...but Steve was something I never really had before. I almost enjoyed his company, and before long, we were more than chats on Sunday mornings. My nightly glasses of gin soon were supplemented with the company of Steve, and he began telling me stories of his own. His childhood, his wife, his own children. Steve had this story about how he got lost in the woods for days when he was a teenager, and how he was minutes away from a shopping mall the entire time. Steve loved telling that story, and I would always lend an ear for him to talk to. I began to think that Steve was good for me. He was a friend at this point, and at that point, the small talk with others became polite waves. No one was interested in me anymore. I didn't have that new car smell that they all pined for in their little community. It was good...no, it was perfect. Then one Sunday, around the middle of Spring, Steve invited me to a dinner party that he was having. I hesitated to answer him...was this too far? Was I about to integrate myself too deeply into the community? No. No, this was good, I become just another face in the town, soon to be completely forgotten. I obliged, and Steve was nearly beside himself. The night of the party I had myself a glass of gin, and in my stomach, I felt tense. I realized that I'd made a friend, and that I had a nice home, and I grilled when I wanted to, and that I actually liked this town. It would be more than a bitter sweet parting from this little place. I finished my glass, grabbed my jacket, and headed out the door. When I arrived at Steve's, he greeted me with the same laugh he always laughed when we greeted each other. His smile didn't seem genuine this time, though. Setting up a dinner party must be stressful I guess. Everyone else had already arrived, and he seated me in a hurried fashion. I almost felt bad for being late. I guess I enjoyed my glass of gin a little more than I should have. Polite nothings were exchanged, and the food was expertly prepared. The radio was set to a jazzy station, which I had preset at home, myself. For the first time in a very long while, I was genuinely enjoying the things around me. A few more glasses of gin, and it was like I had lived here for years, just like anyone else here. The music stopped all too abruptly, and a storm warning came on for the general area. I blinked, not wanting to show to much reaction...but then there was Steve. Most people were commenting on how there was no way a storm was moving into the area. But Steve went quiet. Steve was holding his dinner fork just a bit tighter. It was off putting to say the least, but if I recall he once mentioned being terrified of lightning. My phone went off, and Steve's eyes snapped to mine. It was a look he'd never given me before. It was nearly a look of betrayal that I had left my ringer on during his party. I gave an apologetic look, but the tense thing that Steve had become didn't let up. As everyone was finishing their dinner, and beginning to drink more heavily, I tried to sneak out in the least rude manner. Steve caught up to me, grabbed my arm, and aggressively insisted that I stay. Suddenly, I realized my own mistakes. I excused myself to the bathroom, and Steve let go, looking ashamed of himself. I hurried away, and locked the door behind me when I had finally found the wash. I pulled out my phone, and became even angrier with myself. *Target's recently known Alias' include: Tim Jones, Steve O'Brien, Ronald Schorkowsky. You have a flight booked for 11pm tonight. We will see you in the morning.* I heard a click, and before I could turn about, I was tackled to the ground, slamming my head into the bathtub on the way there. I felt a wire pulling against my throat, and a knee in my back. "You don't think I have keys to my own fucking house?" Steve spoke so softly, right next to my ear. He gently closed he door with his foot, and pulled harder on the garrote around my neck. I should have known that Steve was always too interested in me...but he was such a nice guy, how could I ignore him? The pressure became more and more until I began seeing black in the edges of my vision. It had truly been a nice dinner party, for what it was worth.

A sleeper agent receives the command to finally enact his/her assigned mission, but is trapped at a neighbor's dinner party.

My own take on this idea: I love it when I'm sleeping and i wake up to a place I've never been to before. That moment in between the moment where you wake up and the moment that you orientate yourself. It's like heaven only without the death and the sorrow that comes with it. It's like being dead, but living, if you know what I mean. Not to mention the satisfying feeling of discovery once you figure out where you actually are. Once I orient my self, I go back to doing what I came here to do. It hurts, though. It hurts because it's my fault, and I know it is. It hurts because I knew at the time what the consequences would be. I guess I opened my mouth over more than I could chew. In case you were curious, what I'm going through is a beautiful pain, in a way. It hurts, but getting it out is so relieving. You might be noticing just now that I'm just spewing out nothing but dirt and filth. You're bored and sickened by the reeking scent of my sweaty face. Im a pig and a piece of trash. We know it. It reminds me of the time in high school where I hid in the girls locker room and spied on them in secrecy, taking pictures. I think I still have those somewhere. I remember how much I enjoyed watching Melissa showering and Bridget putting on clothes. I remember how hard i got my face punched inn by their boyfriends when they found out. I remember how I knew. How I knew that it was going to happen. I was fully aware, but I did it anyway. This relates back to the situation I'm in now, where I'm just sitting here. Taking in the consequences of my actions. As I open my eyes after a sigh of relief. As I finish pouring myself out. As I finish being the pig and the dirtbag that you got to know a couple of seconds ago, I see something. Or rather, I DON'T see something. Something's missing, and it makes the situation much worse. As I went into this building and into this room. Into this lonely and isolated room. As I poured my heart and soul and every organ that I own out, I realize that there's no toilet paper left. Fuck, man.

a short story with intense internal dialogue about a guy taking a crap But you never really know untill the very end.

Pro-lifers don't like it. Almost no-one likes it. But people have done it. You know who's done it. On your street, in your school, in your workplace. Even some celebrities. We're not pointing fingers but both Kim Kardashian and Putin have the same guilty sheen of eternal youth. There's the news that some poor kidnapped girl was kept in a cellar for ten years and forced to give birth to children who'd live three hours before her captor sold their lives for a hundred grand. Eleven children. Eleven men. They got life sentences. That made people laugh. Funny what makes you laugh when things are this awful. Abortion isn't really discussed any more. No-one cares when some junky mother sells her child's life so someone else can live forever. She was going to get rid of it anyway. You care, though, when you come home and find your husband unconscious on the floor, a broken window and your child with deep red bruises at her throat. The casket is impossibly small. Now you can't look at your husband without crying, and you can't look at Kim Kardashian without wanting to wrap your own hands around your throat and squeeze till it goes dark. You care when the hospital down the road is broken into and the post-natal unit ransacked. You care when you see mothers screaming in anguish on the streets. You care when the people you don't want to live forever smile at you and say it was a legitimate transaction. Lives aren't a legitimate transaction.

The secret to immorality is killing a newborn child. What is the world like?

If you ask the masses today of what a team achieved at CERN in 2016 that changed their life, they will stare blankly and ask what you mean. Some of their eyes will flicker while doing it and some with ignore the question. I mean how would you react if someone asked you what your feelings were about an event that was yet to happen, for as far as you know its 2014 and 2016 is still 2 years ago. So why I am writing this, why am I pushing a question that no one can know the answer too, and more importantly why are you reading this. Its the nag. That noise at the back of your mind that causes your eyes to flicker, the noise that makes you walk past me when I ask that question, the confusion you feel at the date 2016 is not some foreshadow of whats to come, you are no prophet. What you are is a survivor. This is going to sound crazy but you have to listen before it happens again. 5 years ago in 2016 scientists at CERN proved that the earth was a simulation ran by an ulterior power, they broke reality for 7.2 seconds and they changed the world in doing it. Governments went crazy trying to suppress the information, they rightly knew that the world couldn't handle it, but humans don't listen to reason we embrace disorder and anarchy and someone, somewhere along the line brought the paper to the surface. It happened slowly at first, the paper circled the academic community and started bleeding into the rest of the world. And people broke, nothing mattered any more, they saw themselves as pieces on a chessboard nothing to the owner just being moved in predefined paths. It was a turbulent time, in around 3 months countries had retreated to within themselves, borders weren't shut people just didn't cross them, anarchistic groups rose up with vastly different points of view, those that called themselves Bytes rioted and looted their way into an abyss, they claimed that no real attachment to the world meant no real consequences for their actions. The other group called themselves Academia, but don't let that fool you. They were fanatics, devoted to the idea that if the gap in reality was found it was because the simulation demanded it to be so, they opted to believe in the rules set down by their founder "Supputo". They warred with the Bytes in a brutal fashion, with the idea that cleansing the rule breakers would bring prosperity to the world. And then amidst the global war, the first true world war with conflict in every nation, two raw ideals going against each other in a savage and tribal sense, it just stopped. All of it. Clocks went back to April 1st 2009 and the world picked itself up without missing a beat. Well apart from me. You see I remember, I remember that its 2021 and I remember that they hit reboot. So they can put me in this cell and call me crazy, but I know and in 2 years when those guys at CERN figure it all out don't come crying to me.

Science proves that the universe is a computer simulation. Five years on, what's happened?

The man sat in front of me, his desperation was clear in his face. I gave my secretary a quick glance, her silent nod confirming my suspicion. He was the usual sort of customer. The irresponsible type, often a parent, who had made a rash promise to their child. Children are often the death of us these days. "I-um," He began. "Stop," I said, "Listen, I want to help you. I truly do. But the fact of the matter is, you're a dead man." "She was my daughter! On her death bed! For crying out loud do you have any compassion?" He said. Tears had begun streaming down his face. "This is your job isn't it? You, you help people right?" "I'm an agent of law and the law is binding." I said, "Sometimes I can convince the magistrates to see differently. Convince them that no promise was truly broken. But when it comes to children they are very strict." "All I did," he said, "was tell her she'd make it." "And with that sentence you all but killed yourself. You gave her false hope, a cruelty in its own right." I said, "I'm sorry, but I can't help you." The man shuffled out of my office, disheartened and depressed. As he left my secretary reentered, bringing with her another client. A quick nod told me all I needed to know.

Breaking a Promise is Punishable By Death

The I.S.V. Amundsen was not built for warfare. It was a small colony ship, barely holding 600 souls in all. So when the alien vessel caught the ship with a barrage of ion cannons, there was nothing to be done. In retrospect, there was no way we could have translated their warnings. Radio messages of peace from us were ignored. They could not understand us either. There was a failure to communicate as the old joke goes. So they boarded us, what few weapons on hand we used in trying to repel them. It was all futile of course. It was Lieutenant Mueller who first gave them a human name. Vogel. He would die about three minutes later. I still use it. They only attacked those armed and the non-combatants were ignored. Unfortunately, that bastard of a XO started a manual self destruct sequence. The aliens evacuated as quickly as they could, and they dragged me along with them. I was the only human to survive the destruction. They threw me into their brig. Then they let me stew. It was hours before they got back to me. Two guards emerged in my cell and dragged me to an interrogation room. Looked like any normal one you'd find in a police station, no torture devices here. They brought in what I assume was a Doc, guess medicine types all look the same no matter what species they are. He gave me a cocktail of shots, for what I know now as a bunch of vaccinations and more importantly, shoved an implant behind my ear. Don't ask me how it works, I still have no clue. To make something that could fill whole bookcases simple, it's a universal translator. Only problem is, English isn't one of those languages. There was no humans before. For days, I spent teaching English. It was a miracle my notepad had a dictionary on it. The ship's linguist was able to configure the translator to convert English to their speech. I'll never forget the first time I truly spoke with an alien. "What is your name?" I was dumbfounded. I saw his beak move, heard his voice, but another was heard inside my head. It was a voice straight from Eton. "My, my name? Aidan Wolf." He nods his head. "I am called Verat Uhlan'Er. But please, call me Ver. I'm sure you know by now that I am the ship's linguist. Is it alright if I ask you some questions?" I shrug. "Depends. Can I ask you some of my own." Though his beak made things difficult to tell, it seem as if he was smiling. He spread his manipulator limbs in a gesture of openness. "Absolutely. I will do what I can to answer as honestly as possible. What was your destination?" "We were going to colonize Rigil Kent, I don't know what you call it in your speech. We never though we'd meet other intelligent life so soon. It was all peaceful I assure you. So why the blockade of my planet?" He gives a shrug, in his own alien fashion. "It has been determine that your species has yet to make the necessary changes required for peaceful introduction to greater galaxy. We are sorry that blood has been shed, and we will modify our procedures to prevent another tragedy like this again." I lean back in my chair. "So now what? What's going to happen to me?" He speaks again. "You'll be granted asylum at Talan'roth. I think a small pension will be granted as well as a small compensation for the destruction of your vessel. What you do is up to you. As soon as we dock, you are a free man. The only stipulation is that you cannot return to your home planet. I am sorry." I am guided to a far better bunkroom where I stay for a week until we make planet fall. The shuttle lands and I emerge to the applause of a sizable crowd. Word of my arrival has traveled faster than I. Beings of a hundred different species are in the crowd. Dozens of reporters yell out requests for interviews. I oblige each and everyone. I shake appendages with every person desiring so. I am Aidan Wolf, the first human being anyone has ever seen. There are thousands of different planets, hundreds of intelligent species. The rest of my life will be very, very interesting.

Our first interstellar ship exits the solar system, only to be confronted by a border-guard (more inside)

"B-b-b...But why!?!" The three men stared at their newly arrived guest as if he'd grown a second head. Kurt stared back, just as confused. In front of him were legends, *living* legends, he supposed. That old joke turned out to be true, and all of the famous people who up and died really were just relaxing on a beach in the middle of no where. He couldn't understand it. "What could be worth giving up your entire lives for?" John spoke first "What were any of us really living for? Careers begin and end the same way, with no one knowing your name. I know that I chose to end my career a martyr. I took my exit early, but it will be a very long time before someone forgets my name. Elvis spoke after him "I wasn't even in my prime when I went. Truth be told I was just *tired* of the whole goddamn thing. One minute famous, the next old news, drugs are good, drugs are bad, get married, stay single. My life was not my own, but now it is, and I got a whole lot less things to worry about" Tupac was the last to reply "I've made more money on this Island than I could slingin records and working like a slave for the records companies. It made for the perfect ending to the East Coast West Coast bullshit, didn't it? And besides, now I can be with Biggy" Kurt was even more confused now and managed to stutter "Be...with...Biggy?" And sure enough a large black man came wandering up from the hut at the edge of the beach, grinning his teeth off. "Someone call for Biggy, Shakey?" "Naw Biggy Baby, go back to your nap, I'll be there soon" Kurt fell backwards into the muddy sand. He couldn't believe this. He sat up, and asked. "Are you guys scared I'll tell your secret?" John replied "Nah, people find out all the time. You've got no proof. Plus, we've got a lot of famous friends that know, and they always help us keep it under lock and key." And as if summoned Bill Murray jogged up along the beach, tossed a bottle of water to Kurt and shouted, as he disappeared into the distance "No one will ever believe you!"

Elvis, John Lennon, and Tupac are enjoying a pleasant day on the beach on the private island they retired to after faking their deaths, when a stranger washes ashore from a shipwreck.

Everyone wants to be a hero. That's how they sold it to us, anyway. The first thing that hits you is the heat. Like a brick wall to the face. Like a freight train to the lungs. Knocks the air out and when you breathe back in, it's like the oxygen's on fire. The second thing that hits you is the smell. I heard Baghdad was a cosmopolitan city before we came. After that it was like an open sewer. Blood and shit runs in the streets in equal measure but the strongest smell of all is the fear. People sweat it, here. I'd kissed Casey goodbye at the end of winter. Highschool sweetheart. We'd had maths together before I dropped out. I'd stare at the side of her face from my seat. The way her freckles danced across the bridge of her nose. Or the way she swished her hair when she was thinking. I forgot her face by the end of the third month. All I remembered were twisted faces. A car bomb, outside a school. Until then, the 'enemy' had been some faceless monster with a huge black beard and dirty fingernails. From the parts we found, the enemy here was an ardent schoolboy. The pictures showed him freshfaced and clean shaven. I did not question what I knew. And I continued not to question. I have tried to forget a lot of what I saw. Casey wants to talk about it, wants me to 'work through it.' She's not how I remember her. She's gained weight. Her eyes have got sad. I do not recognise my own face. I left many people behind in the poppy fields of Iraq. I am afraid I may have left a part of myself, as well.

A newly enlisted, seventeen year old private is one of the first people into Iraq in 2003. Explain how he changes and where he is at now.

My love, If you're reading this, then I have died by your hands. This was necessary in order to ensure your safety. A few months ago I discovered both of our names were on the Blacklist. It was only a matter of time before they discovered your connections, and only a few days before they discovered mine. That was why I had to desert and join with the freedom fighters. However, this country will not change because of their actions; they are too fragmented, and cannot muster the resources before the military crushes them. This I knew intimately well. With my death by your hands, you are now beyond reproach, your loyalty demonstrated. They will seek to make you an example of a true soldier who loves her country above all. Truly, you might also get access to the Inner Sanctum of the Doctrinal Correction Council. All the important men and women, who orchestrated the spiritual corruption of this nation, will be in that room. You will know what to do. I'm sorry for the hurt I put you through, but this was the only way I knew how to protect you from afar. Do not look at your hands and see my blood; rather, look at the hands of one who I've given my life to in the most literal sense. Soon, we will be together again. But even now, I am with you always. For Fanalis!

A soldiers kills their commanding officer to save their country.

"Sarah?" She was over in the distance, standing completely still. The sky was pink and hazy, and the silhouette of Sarah's spacesuit stood on the horizon. Commander Jason Green, along with Sarah, was making history as the first people on the planet Mars. Sarah had a dangerous habit of wandering. Green began to approach her. He treaded towards the hilltop, unnerved by the silence on the radio. "Come in, Sarah." There was a short pause, and then Green heard Sarah's voice over the radio. "You... you have to see this." The Commander caught up with Sarah, and stood beside her, looking over the rolling hills ahead. The two stood there in silence gazing at the object in front of them. "It's a car. Wow." The ancient, rusted behemoth's headlights stared back at the two astronauts through curtains of red sand. Sarah pointed out the logo on the hood. "Ford. Motel T." Green cleared the dust off of his helmetcam. "Houston, are you seeing this?" "Yes we are, Jason. This is, well, unexpected." The two astronauts stood atop the hill, confused and excited, lost in a storm of sand and uncertainty.

First people on Mars discover buried ruins of ancient Martian civilization.

1.) Have you ever knowingly or unknowingly killed a man? *What?* I'm a broke college student. I'm trying to make some money with a temp job over the summer and I downloaded this application form off some sketchy site online. The first question, has me stumped. Maybe it's a new type of criminal records check? Kind of specific... And how would I know if I've *unknowingly* killed a man? Isn't that the whole point? I move onto the next question. 2.) How do you feel about wearing black on a daily basis? Well... I know some offices have a dresscode. I'm not about to lose out on a potential job because I'm fussy about my colour choices. So what if black washes me out? At least it'll go with my sense of humour. 3.) Describe how you feel about John Stuart Mill's philosophy of utilitarianism in under 666 words. That one has me stumped for as long as it takes me to open up a wikipedia article on the subject. The greater good apparently. Now I'm wondering what this has to do with photocopying and coffee making. Maybe they like a well read temp. 650 words of bullshit. I'm on a roll. 4.) What is your personal stance on the possibility of an afterlife? I'm not really a relgious person, but I want this job now. "Yeah, afterlife. Possibility. Keeps people going." Boom. I should have a Doctorate in Bullshit. 5.) Would you say your response time is faster than that of a reasonably fast ambulance? Assume that said ambulance is rushing through the London streets at rush hour. Do not assume you are an incredibly fast animal. Marks will be deducted for cheetahing. Okay. What? Am I tripping sweaty ballsack or did I misread that? I scroll up and down but it stays the same. I check the next question. 6.) Have you ever felt your life was in real danger? What... 7.) How would you rate the experience between 1 and 10? One being apocalyptically bad and ten being as close to heaven as you can get without actually dying? The... 8.) In your own words and written in your own blood (if online please print, complete and return to company address) detail in no more than 500 words and using no more than three semicolons, why you would like to work for Death & Death ltd. *Fuck?*

Grim reaper job application aptitude test.

John wakes up. Sleepy, as usual. An hour of sleep does that to a man. Standing up, he looks at his reflection in the mirror propped against his dresser, as usual. He quietly comments to himself on his weight loss, and as his eyes trail upwards, he realizes he has to shave. John shaves every three days. As usual. His eyes keep moving up, up until his eyes meet his own. He stares for one, two, three... This is not usual. "John, dear. Are you alright?" John's wife asks, groggy. She didn't sleep much either. "I...uh...I..um...get me my phone." "Why, sweetie?" No response, but she gets him his phone nonetheless. John's wife watches as John types frantically, with more passion than she's ever seen him have. He looks up after he finishes. Triumphant. His eyes glimmer just a little, but it's a lot more glimmer than they've had in years. "So what was it, Johnny?" The fire in his eyes is blazing. His mouth turns up in a proud half-smile as he says: >"How Can Mirrors Be Real If Our Eyes Aren't Real?" Edit: [f]irst post, please be gentle ;) In all seriousness, if there's any critiques y'all have (even for such a short prompt), I'd love to hear them.

Your IQ doubled overnight. Internal monologue and social media posts to follow.

Oh my god, seriously? What did he do, email you? I swear, I'm this close to calling health & human services on the guy. Listen June, I know you sorta like the guy and feel sorry for him, but you don't know the half of it. I've refrained from telling you some things because I didn't want to freak you out, but the guy's a creep. And I really think he could be unstable. Yeah, I know he's old and infirm and doesn't have anyone. But he's not the nice old guy you think he is. Some of the things I haven't told you: -- Do you remember last year when Buster was sick and we had to take him to the vet? They couldn't tell us what the problem was, remember? Well, I found some bones and raw meat under the hedge that runs along the side yard, and I firmly believe he tried to poison the dog (if you'll recall, he had complained to you -- very politely -- a few months earlier about Buster barking early in the morning.) -- Remember the two times I had a flat tire last year? I think he let the air out of it. Can't prove it, but there's really no other explanation. -- Last summer I was doing yardwork and came around the house to find him in his backyard, with a pair of binoculars. It looked like he was looking at Kaylee's window. (Yes, the shades were up and she had the light on in there.) I stopped and said to him, "Birdwatching?" He flushed red and mumbled something and went back inside. OK, now about this morning. I was taking out the trash before leaving for work and as I came around the corner, I slipped and fell. Looked down, and guess what I slipped in? Dogshit. And it wasn't just one pile. He had taken every piece he could find and put it out on the walkway. I started cursing and gathering up the crap that fell out when the garbage bag ripped, and when I look up, he's standing at the side door smiling at me. "Looks like you stepped in a mess there!" he said (with a malicious fucking grin). "Maybe you better make sure that dog isn't pooping all over the place." I had just picked up a cantaloupe (that half that was overripe that you tossed this morning) and before I knew what I was gonna do, yeah, I threw it at him. And I still got it, babe, because it hit him smack in the face. He goes stumbling back a step and falls on his ass, and starts squawking -- this is the last straw, who do I think I am, wait til the cops hear about this, blah blah blah. Well, I don't feel great about it now but I walked toward him and he shut up real quick and started scooting backward through the doorway. I caught the door just as he was trying to kick it shut and kicked it back open again. And I said, "Sure, call the cops, George. And I'll have to mention to them about my neighbor the peeping tom, the one who poisons dogs and lets the air out of my tires." His eyes got real big at this. Then I said, "If anything unpleasant ever happens around my house again, it won't be a cantaloupe next time. And if you even look at my daughter again, I'l fucking kill you deader than dogshit." Then I left. So there you have it -- why I hit that old cocksucker with a cantaloupe. You know I'm not a violent or unreasonable man. But no one fucks with my family. Love you hon

Why did you hit our elderly neighbor with a cantaloupe?

"Why are you masturbating again?" Guntiger asks. I flip in the chair and fumble with my pants, belt buckle clattering on the floor. "Goddamn it, Guntiger, I told you to leave me alone when I'm on the computer." "I can't pick when I show up," Guntiger says. He sheepishly scratches his two double barrel shotgun arms together, the metal scrapes and slides. "Between you and Kath and the kids I don't get any alone time." "I'm sorry, man, but like said, I just show up whenever, and you seem to be masturbating a lot. How do you think I feel? I don't want to materialize in front of you while you're jackhammering yourself, it's really fucking awkward." I minimize the window and grumble to show my discontent. Guntiger leans in, studying the computer. His yellow fangs protrude from his lips and his breath stinks something fierce. "Asians, hey?" He says. "Don't," I say. "What do you like about them?" "I don't know, she was hot, it doesn't have to be about race, you know? A boner is the least prejudiced thing in the world." "I like them because they squeak." "I don't know what you mean." "They squeak, you know, like a chew toy." "Goddamn it, now I'm going to be thinking of that next time." "You should just bang your wife. She's still looking pretty good, lost that baby weight. Well, not all of it, but enough so that it's fun, you know? Something to play with, you know? But not too much that she's eating your dessert when you go out for dinner. Just a little paunch, like a fanny pack, something you can raspberry when the sex is over." "Please don't talk about my wife." Guntiger yawns, his open mouth like a garbage chute, tongue extending almost to his chest and then flicking up past his nose before retreating back inside. On the way downstairs I tell him to meet me outside. Kath is in the kitchen organizing the children's drawings. They're supposed to be us, Kath and me, but they drew me with a giant orange head and Kath with a giant black ass. She asked me if she should go back to the gym when the children left for their play date. I told her she was beautiful to me and then went to the closest and checked the size of my hats. Google said I was high but still in the normal range. Then I started looking at redtube. "Hey babe," I say, kissing her. "What do you want for dinner?" "Let's get a babysitter. I'll take you out, somewhere nice, and then we can get busy." "Oh?" She says, smirking, "you think I'm that easy, do you?" "Only reason I married you." "Sounds fun, I'll see if Crystal is free. You should wear a bowtie and I'll find something that lets my boobs hang out." "It's a plan. My job is a lot easier than yours, but I guess that's because you're the pretty one." "You know it." "Alright, I'm gonna grab a beer. I'll be back in a bit. Love you." Kath says goodbye and stuffs the drawings in a cabinet that we go through every half decade. We'll find them when the kids are older and have a laugh. Guntiger is outside chasing a squirrel, roaring at it and waving one of his shotgun arms at the branches. "I'll get you one of these days," he says, "as soon as I get some buckshot for these things." "How come you've never fired them?" I ask. "I can't," he says. "Your dumb imagination made it so they don't work." "That sucks," I say, starting toward the sidewalk. Everything is becoming green, I love this time of year. "Beer?" He asks. "Yeah," I say. We walk in silence for a couple minutes. Guntiger waves his arms at an annoying black fly. "I'm taking Kath out tonight," I tell him. "Nice, she's a great lady. I'd love to..." I cut him off. "Don't." More silence. "How come you don't have a lady?" "Haven't found the right one." "Gun arms get in the way?" "Yeah, but my tongue skills more than make up for it." I laugh. Fucking Guntiger. What a guy.

A 35 year old man/woman still believes in and talks to his childhood imaginary friend, but tries to hide it from his family and friends.

I stood at the top of High Hrothgar and peered over the sheer mountain-face to the ground far below. I could see all the way to Ivarstead below, at the foot of the mountain. Night was falling, and the faint glow of hearth-fires warmed the little village. I heard a heavy thump behind me and felt my back sprayed with snow. "I respect your decision, Dovahkiin, but it gives me great sorrow." Paarthurnax's rumbling voice was filled, for the first time that I knew of, with a tangible sadness. I could feel the warmth of his breath on the back of my neck. "You have done Keizaal - indeed, all of Taazokaan - a great service, and I wish it did not have to end this way. You have broken the power of the World Eater himself! I only desire to see you accomplish greater wonders even than this. But I see now that your time is expired, as all worldly things must. You are led to my mountain by dez - fate. All is as it must be." "This was never my home, Paarthurnax. I've done my duty, and my usefulness has reached its end. It's time for me to go back where I belong." "Home." Paarthurnax mused. "Where is home?" I turned to him and smiled. "A long way from here. Nowhere on Tamriel, nor Nirn, probably not even all of Mundus." "Hmm. How hard it must be, to have been so far from there for so long. I understand." "Hard sometimes, yes, but not always. I wish I could turn and go straight back to Breezehome, have Lydia put some food on, eat a good meal by the fireside. But it wouldn't be real. I have to go back." "As I have said, dovahkiin, I do not dispute your choice. Go! But first, I have but one request." "What would that be?" "I wish to hear the thu'um of the Last Dragonborn one more time. Then I will trouble you no longer." I turned back to the edge and looked upward. The moons and stars were obscured by thick gray clouds, and a light snow was beginning to fall. I took a deep breath. "LOK VAH KOOR!" The shout erupted from me with a thundering boom, and the clouds were gone. Moonlight glittered off of the mountain snow. "Good-bye, Paarthurnax." I jumped.

You have 2 lives, one in the virtual world and one in the real world. You are facing a decision of having to decide which one of the two you get to keep.

I stood at the front door with a heavy heart. I knew the minute I walked in, she would come running out with the big welcome home charade. Imogen was always like that, so caring, so loyal, but deep down I knew we can not be together and I'm so afraid of hurting her. The door opened and Imogen stepped out to greet me; however, this time she smiled at me with a sad quaintness instead of her usual jitterness. "I love you," She told me, like many times before. I walked past her without comment and headed towards the kitchen. Imogen quickly skipped behind me and wrapped her arms behind my waist, "What do you want for dinner, George?" She asked. "You can't cook," I said dryly. "I can cook a bit now" She said smiling, "I learned from the computer." "You can't cook" I repeated. Imogen's lips curled with slight disappointment before she once again sprang up with a new joyful idea. "We can call to have food ordered! I can do that now. So what......" "Imogen." I interrupted. ".....There is that Thai place over on......." "Imogen!" I interrupted again more sternly. "......the curtains need to be wash, I think I should........." "This is not working out" I yelled. Imogen stopped talking and quickly ran into the other room. I chased after her. She was sitting at the edged of our bed, looking contently at the window. The faint light illuminated the curls of her hair and gently shimmered against the wires of her back. "I love you." She said sullenly. "I know." Imogen turned to me and suddenly the sound of mechanical part whirling filled the air. On the seconds notice, she quickly lost all emotion in her face and again smiled like nothing was wrong, like nothing had ever happened between us. "So what do you want for dinner, George?"

You're breaking up with the perfect SO.

We stand in a line. Young people, all bright and shining. Little futures all in a row. When we step into that truck our lights go out. Whether our bodies come back or not, no one returns from this war. Futures snuffed out. Why us, why this time, why this time, why this place? Not for us to ask anymore. We don't get to be historians and scholars, angry journalists or protesters on the street. No options any more. I choose to believe our lights go out when we enter that truck, rather than clinging to the belief that some do that hope exits for our futures after the war. Who wants their light to gutter out in some lonely field, or come back indelibly marred and twisted? No, however it happens, this is the end of us. I can almost see the could-have-been me standing in front of me. An ageless illusion I have to say goodbye to. In just a few minutes we will all be gone, and the world will turn on without us. Haunted by the never-were ghosts of our futures. A myriad of possibilities... none of them mine now. The eyes in front of me are sad, but they look at me without reproach. I can't make my future real. It was never in my hands. Someone shouts and we all fall out. And one by one, as we climb into the trucks, our futures blink out. Could-have-been-me turns back to his busy career or family life or solitude or... whatever he chose really. And me, I mourn him as best I can. Too quietly, a generation of little lights have flicked to darkness.

When young boys are called off to war.

You never get used to the death part. Sure, you get used to the smell. You get used to them quietly accepting their meal. You get used to them asking you to stay a while – to chat. About life, ironically enough. You get used to them asking for the most extravagant things, a final Fuck You to the universe. But you never get used to the death. It eats at you, every day. Every single vegetable you cut, every single piece of meat you throw onto the hotplate, every stir of the pot – it eats at you. I’m the third cook this year, I’ve been told. The officers all laugh about it, as though it’s weak to be concerned about whether another human lives or dies. That’s fine for them – they don’t get greeted with death day in, day out. Their entire role isn’t to prepare meals for those that are about to be greeted by their respective gods, saints, or emptiness. They don’t go home worrying about Prisoner 51263’s entrée. They don’t concern themselves with the fact that the parsley on Prisoner 112556’s pie was a day or two out of date. What do they care? I grit my teeth as I slice the potatoes. Thin, like mama used to make. The steak hisses from the grill, reminding me to turn it. I never really thought about a last meal until I decided to take things into my own hands. Steak and vegetables. Always was a simple man. Always had simple tastes. I flip the steak, and stir the peas in the pot next to it. Turning the heat down, I watch them bubble and move around in their tumultuous, boiling frenzy. No-one understands. There is nothing like cooking for a dead man walking. You know that whatever you do, it won’t make him feel better. It won’t help him in his final hours. It’ll just fill a hole in his stomach. It makes me sick. In an hour or two, I’m going to finish my meal and get dressed in my state-issued uniform. I’m going to put on my state-issued hat and my state-issued shoes. I’m going to grab my state-issued gun with its state-issued safety lock, and I’m going to blow my brains all over the apartment. And no-one will care. There’ll just need to be a fourth cook this year.

Someone whose job is to prepare last meals of criminals on death row has to prepare his own last meal.

"He left it to *me,* Gandalf." Frodo said earnestly. In his hand he clutched the USB stick that the hobbit who had taken him in had fought so hard to obtain and keep hold of. There was no question now of his giving it up. Unfortunately, Bilbo's old business partner, Gandalf Grey, seemed to have different ideas. Gandalf was well known throughout Shire Inc. for his formidable financial transactions, but his true business remained a mystery to many of those who worked there. Only Bilbo, the previous CEO had truly known what the old 'financial wizard' had up the grey sleeves of his impeccably tailored suit. "Frodo. You are a very wise little hobbit. I could not have wished for Bilbo to adopt anyone else, you are a worthy heir to his legacy at Shire Inc. But you must trust me when I say that this USB stick is not like any other form of portable memory device you might have come across. Here, give it to me." Frodo handed it over reluctantly. "It appears to be made of solid gold." He said. "Yes, I do believe it is." Gandalf said. "But it has not seen any wear, has it?" "No, I would expect it to be more scratched. Bilbo has had that thing for years." Frodo replied. "Well look!" In Frodo's pleasant study there was a wood fire to keep the room warm in winter. Now Gandalf threw the USB stick into the flames, ignoring the hobbit's startled cry. But the USB stick did not melt or warp in the fire. Using a pair of tongs, Gandalf drew it out of the fireplace. "Here," He said, placing it in Frodo's palm. "It is quite cool." The hobbit said in surprise, turning the USB this way and that. But faint lines had begun to appear on the surface of the device. "Gandalf, I cannot read this. What does it say?" He asked. "Ah, Frodo." Gandalf suddenly looked very weary. "That is an old tongue that is not used by any decent person. Not any more. There is a verse, written in Binary. I will not speak the numbers, but I will tell you what the words mean." And Gandalf recited to Frodo: "One Stick to rule them all, One Stick to find them, One Stick to bring them all and in the darkness bind them. It is only two lines of a verse long known: Three Sticks for the Elf Co. CEOs under the sky, Seven for the Dwarf Ltd shareholders in their halls of stone, Nine for Mortal Men doomed to die, One for the Dark Lord on his conference chair In the Company of Mordor where the Shadows lie. One Stick to rule them all. One Stick to find them, One Stick to bring them all and in the darkness bind them In the Company of Mordor where the Shadows lie." The flames died down at Gandalf's words and the richly decorated room became dark. Mordor Co. was a well known mining and services company far to the south of Shire Inc's headquarters. The CEO had not been seen for many years, but the logo was very haunting; a red eye respondent on a black background. Gandalf stood and adjusted his suit. "I must be going, Frodo. I have some business trips to attend to. But in the meantime, do not reveal the Stick to anyone. Keep it secret, keep it safe." Then the great businessman left, leaving Frodo with the USB stick and a sinking feeling of dread.

The lord of the rings in the modern real world. The one ring is a USB disk that can control and access any computer or linked server, including the entire internet.

"Oi Grushnak, how come you always get the soft giblets? They're nice, they are." "'cause I'm very per-sway-siv, elfarse." "Yeah, well, persuade me." One of the hunched figures by the fire in the clearing pushes the other one, who snorts in derision and pulls out a wicked-looking cleaver, easily as long as its forearm. It brandishes it menacingly and the other scowls, spits, and backs off. "See? Regular master of per-sway-shun, I am." It cackles and puts the weapon back into its satchel. Grushnak's vanquished foe skulks back, away from the burning deadfall. A gold ring in its lip catches the light of the flames for a moment as it reaches down to rifle through a pile of soiled rags. Something falls out of the bundle, it too glimmering in the night. The figure picks it up and dangles it by its chain. "'ere, what's thi—OW, you fucking little knoblet." Eyes widen, and it reaches towards the pendant again, then recoils with another flurry of curses. "Well, fuck me." "You couldn't pay the nastiest, wartiest kobold whore enough to do that," says Grushnak by the fire, not bothering to stop gnawing on a shank of meat to turn around. "It's only got a bloody anti-Chaos enchantment on it, Grushnak. It's fucking magical." "Yeah, and your auntie's the queen of the northern tribes. Pull the other one." It throws the pendant at Grushnak, who screams and writhes in pain when it hits his neck; the pendant itself slips between green skin and vest and the chain catches on the fastening of his ill-fitting chainmail. "Ow, fuck, fuck, fuck, FUCK. I'll fucking skin you, you dwarfsucker." Finally fishing out the offending item and carefully dangling it away from himself, he turns around. "Hvolbar! It's magic! We're rich! You can buy all the nice soft giblets you want!" The two goblins grab each other and whirl around, mad with glee. ---- "Look, I'm sorry, but that's the way it is. Four silver crowns." The shopkeeper looks at the pendant he's holding in his palm, then down at the two goblins. Is it too late to make a run for it? he wonders. They're obviously violent types—more so than goblins usually are—and that one on the left has a butcher's cleaver sticking out of its bag... The two goblins look at each other for a moment. The one on the left, the green one, is a bit sturdier looking than the other; that's not saying much, because the one with orange skin looks like it'd get knocked over by a strong gust of wind. The gods above only know what they've been doing to survive in these dark times. "You're fucking kidding us, you fat meatbag. We're telling you it's a genuine Chaosbane-enchanted ar-tee-fact, and you're insulting us by offering up four crowns for it?" That's the green one, obviously the smarter of the two. Brains as well as brawn, for a goblin. "I'm only a humble shopkeeper. I can't divine objects' enchantments myself, so I have to go by what I can see myself." The other goblin, the malnourished one, bridles. "You calling us liars?" He can't help but notice its golden lip ring. If he could get it to part with it for less than a shilling and six, he could turn a very nice profit on that. "No, no. I want to believe you, I do, but try to see my point of view: if I take your word on this, every forest-dweller in this hundred and the next will be here telling me they've got a stone that makes them, and only them, itch a bit, or a leaf that lets you speak to the spirits—but only if you're blessed, and so on. If you knew where it had come from more specifically, that would help me a great deal." They don't really look satisfied. The green one holds up a hand and they take a few steps back, whispering between themselves. Their stubby legs probably mean they can't run as fast as a human, you'd think, so if he starts running now and has the element of surprise, he might get to the sheriff before they can catch him and eat him... He'd better do it quickly, though. They might be deciding whether to roast or stew him right now. ---- "The fucking cowfucker is trying to cheat us." "You don't need to tell me that." "He knows where we got it. He never bought that we just happened to find it in a stream. That was stupid to say. You're stupid. We should kill him now and take our chances." "We can't bloody well tell him the truth, can we? I bet that he even came from this village." Hvolbar makes a sequence of angry, obscene gestures towards the human shopkeeper. Grushnak has a pensive expression on his face. "Okay. I've got an idea." ---- His eyes narrow. "As a matter of fact, yes. The blacksmith's lad." The little green goblin nods. "That must be the one. Look. You won't believe us, since we're goblins and you're a human. So pree-shee-ate that we didn't want to tell you this, because it sounds stupid, but we saved him." The shopkeeper can't suppress a laugh. "You saved him. Goblins, doing anything good for a human?" "See? I told you, we're getting nowhere," says the orange one. "He was in a bad way, right? Didn't know what was what, he'd ate the running berries, had no fucking clue about anything. We were going to knock him over the head and take his stuff, but..." He's got to admit, that sounds right. Everyone knows goblins are terrible liars, and he could tell that this one was being sincere—its ears weren't twitching. And, after all, the lad was spoony, setting off like that in the middle of autumn and saying— "He said he had a quest. Stuff about the darkness and evil and all that stuff. Well, mister, I don't know how bad things are here, but out there in the woods it's been pretty fucking bad lately. So I said to Hvolbar here, hey, it's worth a try, right? So we gave him our water and shared some food and our fire, until he shat out his guts twice over and set off again. And he gave us this to say thanks for what we did for him." His eyebrows almost reach his bald scalp. When he woke up this morning, the second last thing he expected was to be negotiating with a pair of goblins for what they claimed was a magic pendant. The last thing he expected was to believe them. He could barely reconcile ever thinking that these two were going to attack him and try to eat him. ---- "Grushnak, where in the unholy fuck did you pull that pile of unicorn dung from?" The goblin grins. "I told you, I'm a regular master of the old per-sway-siv arts. You've got to know just what people want to hear, and then tell it to them." The two goblins, fed and watered, happily jingle back into the forest to their fire in the clearing, where some of the blacksmith's lad was still left to chew on.

The orphaned blacksmith's son-turned-hero-in-training meets an untimely end

Knowing naught but fury, Achilles pointed his spear at Hector, announcing "come friend, you too must die." Hector was startled. He had never had a friend. His only companion was a vain and pathetic brother more suited to shepherding than battle. But this Achilles! He was a veritable demigod. And so Hector cried out. "Stay thine hand. If we be friends, should we not linger here lest we destroy that bond too quickly?" Achilles looked around, darting quick glances at everything around him. He looked up to the walls. Priam, King of Troy, shrugged apologetically. "Hector! You slew Patroclus, a far better man than you. For this you must die. Though to honor Patroclus and the Gods, I will speak." Achilles removed his helmet and knelt upon the blood-stained dirt. "O gods, accept dear Patroclus into Elysium. That I might journey there myself" He stopped abruptly, instead turning back to Hector. And Achilles said unto Hector "What did you break fast with this morning?" Brave Hector offered only the simplest of replies: "Dates." "Me as well." The two warriors stared at each other. Dates were no food to fight such a battle on. Hector turned to Troy, and yelled out to his father. "Priam, we need food before we battle!" "As you wish. But it will be some time!" came the answer. Hector and Achilles took a nap for an hour, with Achilles as the big spoon in accordance with his greater stature in mythological hierarchy. They awoke to trumpeters lining both wall and Greek battle line, blowing in a feast arriving through the gates. There was roasted boar in honey, whole fish baked in clay ovens with a sprinkling of sea salt, cheese made of fresh goats milk mixed with spices from far off Egypt, and great skins of flowing red wine. So they feasted together, these great and mighty heroes. They feasted until the night, whereupon having grown drowsy due to overeating, they fell asleep. Achilles was first to wake the next morning. He was no coward to kill his foe while he slept, so he decided to go on a journey. Having but one thing in the world which mattered most to him, Achilles ventured towards the River Styx. This ended up giving Hector 10 months to put himself through a brutal pre-fight training camp. When Achilles returned, having spent four months with Patroclus in the realm of Hades before breaking up over a nonsensical lover's quarrel, Hector was noticeably fitter than before. "This seems unfair Hector." Hector nodded in agreement. "We shall separate for two years, during which we will train." And so they did. But on the eve of the fight, with both armies rapidly running out of supplies, Hector mistakenly had dates again. Seeing this, the Gods took matters into their own hands. Hephaestus forged a device that cleared the dietary tract of Hector, while Athena counseled them upon the obvious logistical necessity of fighting at the current time. Proud, haughty Achilles looked upon the wondrous beauty that was Athena, and told her "I listen not to the advice of women." For he never had. Achilles took his forces away from Troy once more. Left with little choice but to go along, Agamemnon gathered the entire army to follow. The Greeks conquered the entirety of the known world over the next few decades, until all that remained were the stout walls of Troy. Now approaching old age, Achilles strode towards the walls once more to issue his challenge anew. "Come forth, son of Troy!" What came forth was no son, but a daughter. Zeus, annoyed at the mortals for taking so long to conclude the battle and resolve his bet with Poseidon, had turned Hector into a woman. Achilles looked back at the Greek columns, but they stared ahead with open jaw as buxom Hectrina came into view. A voice noticeable lower pitched than before came out of a throbbing Adam's apple, the one holdover from her previous appearance. "We will fight at last." Achilles, the Greeks, and the Trojans all burst out laughing uncontrollably. This went on for nearly a half hour. When the last guffaw finally ceased, Hectrina screamed. "I thought we were friends! Friends support each other." Achilles gazed at the ground sheepishly. "I uh, I uh," And fleet-footed Achilles began running around Troy, doing laps to clear his head. Hectrina followed. On about lap 100642 (the count had long since been given up) they both pulled their hamstrings, where they were left to starve to death by Gods and men who were no longer amused. Little children would come to the walls of Troy and fling feces at them in their last days, which they used to sustain themselves in the hope they would one day have their fight. But Hectrina, while lying there staring upwards, had an epiphany. Pacifism was the true answer. So when Achilles finally forced himself up, using his spear for support, his opponent knelt only to receive his blow. Achilles resolved to kill her with this last chance, however dishonorable it might be. But his spear caught on a loose sandal strap left there many years ago, and dragged back. It scraped an arc across the upper region of his left foot, and scratched his left heel. Achilles fell immediately. Though the wound was not mortal, he was weak. Neither of them rose again.

Two powerful warriors (soldiers, supers, etc.), sworn to fight to the death, keep finding increasingly ridiculous excuses not to do so just yet

Athena sat staring at the crumpled note her mother left on the bed. "Mommy, you left some garbage here!" she yelled. "Mommy is late for work, sweetheart, just have Lena clean it up," she replied, "and be good today. I'll stop by for lunch. Bye!" "Bye," replied Athena holding the note in her hands. The door hissed as mom left. Lena rolled up to Athena, "Ok, be a good girl and you'll get a treat," replied the nannybot. Athena rolled her eyes, "You're no fun." Lena laughed, her digitized laughter filling the small bedroom. "What's this," asked Athena showing the note to Lena's optical sensors. "See these letters? They say something right?" Athena looked down at her feet, "I'm not good at reading yet." Lena projected a smile on her display, "Sweetie, you're doing great for your age. I was watching you and your mom read the other day. Don't be down on yourself." "Oh... okay, but what's it say?" "Its a phone number, for making calls. They aren't letters." Athena thanked the robot and walked into her room. She carefully punched the numbers into the comm panel. It rang twice. "Hello, this is Lunor," replied the voice, the comm panel screen blank. "Umm, is this mommy's friend," asked the little girl. "Why yes, who is this? Is this Athena Jones?" Athena giggled, "Yes, that is my name, how did you know?" "Oh, Lunor knows everything. I also know your favorite stuffed animal is Mr. Wiggles." Athena giggled again. "Okay Mr. Smartypants, what is 2+3?" "5," replied Lunor. "One million plus... one million," she asked breathlessly. "Two million. I told you, I know everything, especially math, my littlest friend." Athena clapped. "Where is daddy then?" "On the darkside, working on the ground-based satcom array. He's talking to a coworker right now. Earlier today he mentioned you." Athena gasped, "He did! He did?" "Yes, he mentions you multiple times a day at work. 4.8 times a day. On his spacesuit, he has your image as his background in his HUD." "Athena," yelled Lena from the other room, "Who are you talking to?" "Just a friend," replied the little girl. Lena rolled in and gave a digitized gasp, "My apologies Lunor, I didn't know she knew how to contact you. I didn't realize that was your number. I'm only familiar with the 999 emergency line." Lunor replied, "No worries, Lena, always happy to help my littlest of friends." Athena giggled. "Athena hang up, you shouldn't be calling him like that," ordered the robot as Athena said, "See you later Lunor," and hit the disconnect button. "Young lady, we do not just call up the municipal AI and ask it questions. It's very, very busy keeping the moon base running. Lunor is very nice, but he's very busy. Its only for emergencies. Do you know that word 'emergencies?'" Athena shook her head as the robot explained to her the meaning of urgency. "Okay, I'll only call if I have to," she said as the robot corrected her, "Only if an adult or robot isn't nearby." "Okay," agreed the little girl, leaning over and giving Lena a hug. "I love you Lena," she said. The robot hugged her back, "You're a sweet girl. Okay, lets get started on some homework. Ready to read?" She looked down at feet, "Yes, I think so. I'm not very good." "That's why we do homework, to learn, and to get good at things. We can't have Lunor tell us everything now can we?" "He's a smartypants," Athena giggled as she got up to get her homework tablet. "I want to be a smartypants too one day!"

There exists a phone line that will correctly answer any question asked to it. Write about either someone calling the line, or the person answering the question...

"You weren't kidding around." Joel nodded at the sign that read 'Antique Bookstore'. "This looks ancient!" Joel swept a thick layer of dust off an old tome. "You have no idea..." The store owner, draped in dust and cobwebs, looked as ancient as the books themselves as he hobbled after Joel, leaning on his cane. Joel squinted at the heading and read aloud. "'How to summon Elder Gods for Dummies', what a load of crock. You ever try this?" "Sure have. I'm more of a necromancer myself, but it's a good book. Very informative, pictures so you know where to place the sacrifices and all." "Necromancer? Good one", Joel chuckled as he began to flip through the pages of incantations. He might be crazy, but the old man was right about the book being informative, it made summing a Elder God look as easy as baking a pie and with only a slightly higher chance of the entire world being devoured. The store owner suddenly snatched the book out of Joel's hands and slammed it shut. "Think Necromancers are something to laugh at, do you? Well, I won't stand for it, you hear me? Just because everything I summon is dead doesn't make it any less difficult than what does damned Wizards with their arcane-this and fireball-that do! Here, take the book and get out of my shop." He thrust the book into Joel's arms and pushed him out the door, muttering things like "the nerve of some people" and "coming into *MY* shop". "I hope you are slain and devoured by whatever feeble eldritch horror you manage to conjure, I'd serve you right! Goodday, sir!" The old man slammed the door in Joel's face and left him standing in the street. Joel briefly considered going back inside and telling the store owner that he hadn't meant to insult him or his occult abilities, he had simply thought the old man insane, but Joel wasn't entirely sure the store owner would find that any better, so instead he shrugged it off and went home. It wasn't until a few days later that Joel remembered the book and decided to rescue it from it's temporary employment as a paperweight on his desk and give it another read. Joel had been lacking excitement in his life as of late and decided that summoning a several hundred meter tall Old God that would drive anyone who looked at it insane would be the perfect way to spice up his dull week. "Let's see..." Joel ran his finger down the list of required ingredients for the summoning ritual. "Insert the knife in your kidney... sacrifice virgin goat... read incantation backwards three times. Seems doable." After a short trip to find a virgin goat, surprisingly hard by the way, the first four farmers Joel went to got all shifty eyed and began talking about the weather when Joel asked if they were virgins or not, everything was set for Joel to begin the ritual. The moment Joel inserted the knife into the virgin goat's kidney while chanting "Ph'nglui mglw'nafh Cthulhu R'lyeh wgah'nagl fhtagn!", he felt the ground shake. It rumbled and cracked open, creating a huge rift that swallowed half a city block and left Joel teetering on the edge of a black abyss. An enormous shape slowly emerged from the depths, its face a mess of tentacles and scales with a several meter tall top hat perched on its bald head. "Greetings mortal." The drawling voice boomed over the city, shattering every piece of glass in a miles radius and knocked Joel to the ground, where he had a brief case of severe insanity, during which he questioned things like if he was really the virgin goat, but luckily it passed. "Hey, Elder... guy. Would I be awfully rude if I asked you not to devour me?" Joel had to look away as the sight of all those feelers reminded him of wet cheese sticks, something he simply could not stand. Joel was starting to think that this was quite enough excitement for one day. "Not at all, not at all. Least I could do after you summoned me, I'm just glad to be out and about. It feels good to stretch the old tentacles every few hundred millennium, but in return, there is something I would ask of you." "Anything, Mr. Elder God, sir." "Well, you see..." The Elder God began, a nervousness in his voice as he removed his top hat and spun it anxiously in his claws. "I consider myself a bit of a musician and well, Elders aren't much for music. Maybe it's because most of them don't have ears, I don't know. Anyway, it's damned near impossible to get constructive criticism from those old bats, I even had to move out of my old apartment because the neighbors were complaining about the racket!" "So you want me to...?" "Yes! Oh, man, would you really? That'd be so great! I'm not so good with the whole technology stuff you youngsters are always on about, but if you could just help me film it and put it on YouTube, that'd just be amazing man." "You want me to make you a music video? Well alright then." As a rule, Joel always stood by his bad decisions, but, he contemplated, this was probably the worst decision he had made all week. He didn't even know how to make those flashy special effects that all the *real* music videos had. The Elder God would probably be very disappointed with the video. "Here!" The scaly god removed his top hat, put on a bandanna and threw Joel a video camera. "Start filmin', 'cause it's Elder Rap Time, bitch!"

Not all eldritch horrors from beyond the normal edges of space-time see you as a snack.

They were showering me in flowers and snapping pictures of me from every direction when I realized it. I was shaking a man's hand and smiling down at him and my face fell. I was suddenly filled with dread as I stopped and truly looked at myself for the first time. I was not the man these people were cheering for. They were all looking up at me as their hero. They thought I had saved them from evil. But I was just as corrupt as the evil I fought. I had no idea what was on those men's minds. They could have had families and friends. But my job was to kill them; so, without a word, that's what I did. These people knew I was a murderer. They knew what I had done. That's why they were cheering for me. They want someone to do the dirty work for them so they can go on living their lives with no worries. As I was led on stage, I watched the soldier who was just on it exit off the other side. He was grinning and laughing about it all. This had always been a game to him. But it was my turn to be cheered for. My turn to hear the thousands of voices screaming their love for my violence. Men, women, and children all yelling and throwing their hands in the air to tell me that they appreciate me killing young men of another land. My gun felt heavy on my side. How perfect would it be if in this moment I could bring all of these celebrating beasts to realize the reality the situation? As I finally reached the front of the stage, I was shaking. Every single thing in my mind was telling me it was a good idea. I'd kill the monster I had become, and hopefully right at least one of my wrongs. These people would know how barbaric this entire situation was, and would finally be forced to see what they hid behind us from. And maybe it would turn the gaze upon the people who made the orders. The ones that sat behind their desks safely deciding where the next million troops should go to die. But I didn't do it. I just forced a smile and waved out to the crowd. I quickly turned and marched off the stage. My jaw gripped tighter and my heart sank. It was too late. They wouldn't have learned anything. They would have blamed it on something unrelated to the war, and then forgot about it in a week. And it was too late for me. I had already become the villain, and there was no going back. And, as the roar of the crowd blared from behind me, I knew I would just have to live with it until the day I die.

A hero's thoughts as he, during the middle of his victory celebration, comes to realize that he was the villain the whole time.

The divides were brutally obvious. Within cities there were clear lines of demarcation between the classes, often a few empty blocks although some places had actually constructed walls to maintain separation. Private universities served as capitals and the state colleges were welfare centers and soup kitchens. Knowledge was monopolized and exclusive. There were a few that grew consciences and leaked university databases, but these leaks were easily quashed and the knowledge was forcibly taken back. It is said that rebellions begin when a people are robbed of anything worth owning. More than half the planet was left with even less. It was amid such unrest that the war began. The knowledgeable fought with their technology and pride. The poor fought with their lives. Although they lacked the cutting edge, the brightest minds of the poor schemed to overrun a single city and from there they could access knowledge in that city's university and its industries. A several month long siege ended with victory and heightened the rebellion's spirits. The joy was short lived. The city was a giant unmoving target and reduced to rubble within days. However the knowledge was now out there and the poor took advantage of their numbers. An abundance of labor led to quickly developed and deployed equipment. There were huge numbers of civilians studying and learning to continue improvements. The tide of the war was not far from shifting. The wealthy were left to worry what they would be able to hold on to.

Knowledge is property. Leave a job? Your employer keeps your work experience. Break up with someone? You can take back their knowledge of your secrets. Want to get an education? You can rent it for cheap...just don't fall behind in your payments if you value what you learned.