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We spend lots of times on the beautiful. Describe the ugly, in whichever way you can portray it best. | [WP] Describe the ugliest human being to have ever lived. | All I could hear was a soft voice saying, "Lets keep this a secret between me and you, okay?" | Skormfront Pimplebottom Dumpshikster was known for his enduring, illustrious poetry. Each stanza could encapsulate the heart and make the eyes water, or carry one's soul fluttering off to a meadowland of beauty and awe. So when he was called to read his first published book of poems at the Fresh Jive Cat Soul Coffee Plaza Inn, the owner: Cheryl Rosebonnum was confused by Skormfront's agent's persistent deterrants.
"Don't say I didn't warn you," shrugged the agent as Skormfront's car pulled up to the curb. People in front of the store window were coughing as the old junk filled station wagon pumped out black fumes and one even vomited on the sidewalk as the man exited the vehicle. Cheryl couldn't score a solid look at him, obscured by the shapes of people past whom he moved as he drew closer to the shop. All she could see was their appalled faces.
As the door opened, a waft of body odor laser-sighted Cheryl's nose and penetrated her brain like a bad snuff flick. The sores that protruded from Skromfront's face used to be pimples, but were now pus filled infected sacks with hardened red exteriors, resembling fleshy volcanoes. Cheryl felt woozy as he approached and could have sworn she saw flies surrounding him. His eyes bulged through the sunken slots above his jagged hooked nose which drooled a caked river of snot down onto his chapped, brittle lips. Between the sores were tufts of oily facial hair that vaguely formed into a tangled pubic neck beard, with flecks of dandruff, meat and cake caught in its web, as well as a barely visible dead spider. The neck beard merged behind his ears with a greasy weave of thin black hair that dripped onto his pockmarked forehead and contained a veritable jungle of lice.
As he stood in front of her, the words,
"I'm here to do the reading," were the last that Cheryl heard before she projectile vomited and fainted. |
We spend lots of times on the beautiful. Describe the ugly, in whichever way you can portray it best. | [WP] Describe the ugliest human being to have ever lived. | All I could hear was a soft voice saying, "Lets keep this a secret between me and you, okay?" | His breath stank of intolerance, and his words were just as rank. His face was a twisted visage of racism and hatred. He was swathed in a uniform of darkness, one that his entire organization wore. His feet were twisted by the principles that he stood on; it was a wonder that he could even walk. His hands were gnarled by the ideas he held dear, and stained by the blood that they spilled. His eyes were dark and muddied by hypocrisy. His hair was as tangled, greasy, and unkempt as his soul.
He was the ugliest man that history had ever known, but you wouldn't know it just by looking at him, for Adolf's ugliness ran deeper than his skin. |
Looking for something dramatic, like the end of an epic tale. It's a built-in twist, but how far does that rabbit hole go? Take us on a ride! | [WP] A hero confronts the villain in a final showdown, only to find out that their roles have been reversed the entire time. | Rob drew his sword and ran into Ezra's chamber.
*Just one more thing to take care of and this is over. This entire bloody war.*
He skidded to a halt as he looked inside. The man in front of him was nothing like he had pictured. He'd been expecting an angry, vicious man- a man worthy of the reputation that surrounded him. A face that could enslave nations, separate families and raise an army the likes the world had neither seen nor needed.
Instead he found a tired old man frantically writing at a desk. The man didn't look up even as Rob descended on him.
"Are you Ezra?" Rob asked, his voice more questioning now then angry.
"I am called that, and you must be Rob, the great hero that's doomed us all." The man said, as he frantically wrote line after line, even now not sparing Rob a glance.
The ink stains from his writing splashed onto Rob, who slowly grew more agitated. Grasping his sword tightly, Rob kicked the table, causing Ezra to fly out of his chair and land roughly on the ground.
"HOW CAN YOU BE WRITING AT A TIME LIKE THIS?! I HAVE STOPPED YOUR RULE, I HAVE COME TO END YOUR EMPIRE. YOUR DAYS OF TERRORIZING THE WORLD ARE AT AN END. FACE ME!"
Ezra looked up at him, his eyes filling with rage as he saw his papers fall to the ground.
"You will not move." Ezra spoke in a quiet voice, but it stopped Rob in his tracks. There was a powerful weight behind his words, a force that allowed no room for disobedience.
Ezra stood up and spoke "Your actions may have single-handedly wiped out all humans on this planet. And I do not have the time to tell you why. Soon, I will be taken by you or your men, soon, I will die. My actions demand nothing less. But there was only necessasity that pushed my hands to this point. You may think me mad, you may think me evil- but there was no other way. I wouldn't believe the Threat existed either, but it is coming, and I needed humanity ready to face it. I made a mistake in preparing, I left you alone."
"What Threat? What are you tal-"
Ezra's eyes narrowed on him, a strange light lit his eyes and again Rob fell silent.
"There is no time fool. There is something worse than me coming to this world. Something that we had been warned about for thousands and thousands of years. I've inadvertently thrown us into a war that humans cannot hope to win as we where. My life has been spent trying to bring together humanity long enough to face this threat." Ezra paced around the small room, growing more agitated with every step.
"Years and years of work, building a nation, sacrificing my morals one at a time in order to do what must be done. Easier to rule with a fist and have guaranteed obedience then risk losing everything because everyone thinks I'm crazy. AND IT WAS WORKING. Then your 'Guardians' come along and ruin everything.
On that desk are my notes of everything we can do from this point forward to fix things, but you must get started now! There is no time!"
Rob stared at Ezra incredously, "You can't honestly expect me to believe any of this." He stepped forward again, "This... this isn't some play in which you get out of this by making up a fancy story. You enslaved nation after nation in order to build an army against a threat no one else noticed? One that we've been warned about for eons? And you're the only one? You expect me to believe that? That's a load of bullshit. Old man, you will not escape judgement."
Ezra looked at him one more time, his rage gone. Slowly, he moved towards Rob, spreading his hands to the side in an open gesture. He stopped in front of Rob. Grabbing the naked sword with both his hands, Ezra thurst himself onto the blade.
Frozen by shock and anger, Rob could only watch as Ezra's blood began pouring out of his body. "WHAT ARE YOU DOING?!"
Ezra laughed, each shake of his body causing more and more blood to spray out. "Indeed...what am I doing. Perhaps I'm having a petty revenge on you before I go. My failure, my losses, I pass onto you. In the days ahead, you will experience true despair, as you learn what your little victory cost you. When that times comes, come to this room and read."
"I don't understand! What are you rambling about?! Are you really Ezra, what do you mean?! WHAT THREAT? Answer me old man!"
It was like this that the rest of Rob's Guardians found him when they ran into the room. Holding the bleeding body of Ezra and frantically yelling.
************************
In the days and months to come, as entire cities burned and hell rained down from the skies. Rob would come back to that room often. He would sit at the desk Ezra worked at, and search through the notes Ezra had left him, had left humanity. And so, it was with growing terror that Rob learnt the story of Ezra, the story of a man who had called out a challenge to the heavens.
Unfortunately for humanity, that challenge had been answered. | This isn't a family. We aren't a family.
Piercing rage and drunken slurs littered the memory of our relationship, slurs I became accustomed to much too young. Verbally put in my place, I remembered apologizing for my existence, something I couldn't fully understand, but longed for your approval. As if that wasn't enough, it only fed your flames. You didn't want me to feel sorry, you didn't need this kind of guilt. You wanted me to fight back. Begging for the day I broke, let my tongue slip but it never did.
You only saw me as that boy, that boy who you sheltered and fed like a dog that couldn't be 'put down'. I remember yearning for death at times when you'd never be so merciful, you'd never put me out of this misery so easily. Through the scripts I'd read at Aunt Giana's dinners to the camps and programs I'd attend to please you, nothing changed me enough for you. It wasn't what I did that bothered you, it was that I was different, my mere existence was enough of a crime, unfortunately.
You never loved me. You never accepted me for me, you never even tried. Not since the doctor told you I'd be different and that all of God's gifts come in different shapes and sizes. I was the son you drank to forget, but nothing could help me forget what you've put me through. So no, we're not family, we never were, and I'm afraid this is good-bye. The future holds only my tears, and so I no longer wish to be abused. This is the only way I know how to make sure I never see you again. Please God, have mercy on my soul. If not, I'll see you in hell.
-Your unwanted child,
|
Looking for something dramatic, like the end of an epic tale. It's a built-in twist, but how far does that rabbit hole go? Take us on a ride! | [WP] A hero confronts the villain in a final showdown, only to find out that their roles have been reversed the entire time. | Rob drew his sword and ran into Ezra's chamber.
*Just one more thing to take care of and this is over. This entire bloody war.*
He skidded to a halt as he looked inside. The man in front of him was nothing like he had pictured. He'd been expecting an angry, vicious man- a man worthy of the reputation that surrounded him. A face that could enslave nations, separate families and raise an army the likes the world had neither seen nor needed.
Instead he found a tired old man frantically writing at a desk. The man didn't look up even as Rob descended on him.
"Are you Ezra?" Rob asked, his voice more questioning now then angry.
"I am called that, and you must be Rob, the great hero that's doomed us all." The man said, as he frantically wrote line after line, even now not sparing Rob a glance.
The ink stains from his writing splashed onto Rob, who slowly grew more agitated. Grasping his sword tightly, Rob kicked the table, causing Ezra to fly out of his chair and land roughly on the ground.
"HOW CAN YOU BE WRITING AT A TIME LIKE THIS?! I HAVE STOPPED YOUR RULE, I HAVE COME TO END YOUR EMPIRE. YOUR DAYS OF TERRORIZING THE WORLD ARE AT AN END. FACE ME!"
Ezra looked up at him, his eyes filling with rage as he saw his papers fall to the ground.
"You will not move." Ezra spoke in a quiet voice, but it stopped Rob in his tracks. There was a powerful weight behind his words, a force that allowed no room for disobedience.
Ezra stood up and spoke "Your actions may have single-handedly wiped out all humans on this planet. And I do not have the time to tell you why. Soon, I will be taken by you or your men, soon, I will die. My actions demand nothing less. But there was only necessasity that pushed my hands to this point. You may think me mad, you may think me evil- but there was no other way. I wouldn't believe the Threat existed either, but it is coming, and I needed humanity ready to face it. I made a mistake in preparing, I left you alone."
"What Threat? What are you tal-"
Ezra's eyes narrowed on him, a strange light lit his eyes and again Rob fell silent.
"There is no time fool. There is something worse than me coming to this world. Something that we had been warned about for thousands and thousands of years. I've inadvertently thrown us into a war that humans cannot hope to win as we where. My life has been spent trying to bring together humanity long enough to face this threat." Ezra paced around the small room, growing more agitated with every step.
"Years and years of work, building a nation, sacrificing my morals one at a time in order to do what must be done. Easier to rule with a fist and have guaranteed obedience then risk losing everything because everyone thinks I'm crazy. AND IT WAS WORKING. Then your 'Guardians' come along and ruin everything.
On that desk are my notes of everything we can do from this point forward to fix things, but you must get started now! There is no time!"
Rob stared at Ezra incredously, "You can't honestly expect me to believe any of this." He stepped forward again, "This... this isn't some play in which you get out of this by making up a fancy story. You enslaved nation after nation in order to build an army against a threat no one else noticed? One that we've been warned about for eons? And you're the only one? You expect me to believe that? That's a load of bullshit. Old man, you will not escape judgement."
Ezra looked at him one more time, his rage gone. Slowly, he moved towards Rob, spreading his hands to the side in an open gesture. He stopped in front of Rob. Grabbing the naked sword with both his hands, Ezra thurst himself onto the blade.
Frozen by shock and anger, Rob could only watch as Ezra's blood began pouring out of his body. "WHAT ARE YOU DOING?!"
Ezra laughed, each shake of his body causing more and more blood to spray out. "Indeed...what am I doing. Perhaps I'm having a petty revenge on you before I go. My failure, my losses, I pass onto you. In the days ahead, you will experience true despair, as you learn what your little victory cost you. When that times comes, come to this room and read."
"I don't understand! What are you rambling about?! Are you really Ezra, what do you mean?! WHAT THREAT? Answer me old man!"
It was like this that the rest of Rob's Guardians found him when they ran into the room. Holding the bleeding body of Ezra and frantically yelling.
************************
In the days and months to come, as entire cities burned and hell rained down from the skies. Rob would come back to that room often. He would sit at the desk Ezra worked at, and search through the notes Ezra had left him, had left humanity. And so, it was with growing terror that Rob learnt the story of Ezra, the story of a man who had called out a challenge to the heavens.
Unfortunately for humanity, that challenge had been answered. |
“There is an inherent line we draw between good and evil. Paddling our paths through the currents, correcting courses, leaving it all to the winds that blow our sails.” brimming from a toxin scorched voice. “You see...” a slight tilt of the head and a grin that can only be described as possessed continued “We have very little control over our boats and I... well, I can understand that. I can understand you more than you know or want to admit.”
“Justify your crimes to your flunkies” A shout rang out.
“I have. Or more over, I am. You see? No?” Continuing “You're boat was bound for board meetings, expunging the downtrodden, destroying your father's legacy” The voice continued “I worked for your father, we were very close, I studied his demeanor, his vision... no his truth, with only the detail a psychopath could. I believe he brought me closer because of that. He saw that in me and belived I could do good. I couldn't help but... well, follow in his wake.”
“Same mind games, I expect more”
“I'm trying to tell you something. It's important to me and all we've done for you to understand. From the day your father died I knew I had to guide your vessel. The winds, the tides, it was what I had to do.”
“You're nothing but a psychopathic, your delusions hold no value.”
“Who was it that guided your ideals for justice?” the tonality of this sick voice could almost be described as empathetic. “Who drove you to the extremes to act? Who clearly defined your enemies? Made your nights easier... handed you clues along the way without being caught? How could I serve you better than to clearly define and draw out the career criminals, those with murderous intent, ALL those you would call villains.”
“G@#%#%@#$” The restrictions were getting more lax. He would soon be free from his confines.
“You did great. You really did.” a clearing of voice and with a pronounced echoing of pain continued “But you got caught up in the lime light. You're addicted to the costume. I didn't bring you hear as one of our old games. You know, you catch a hand full of criminals and I escape, right?” Eyes widening and sadly encompassing, he continued “Now you're just a bastion of fear for the just... a shining spotlight guiding all of the would-be-criminals into their path for attention. You've stolen my role. Jealousy, maybe? You had everything anyone could want and still wanted more. I was to stay in the underground. You were to be hope. You... You don't see...”
The man was free now, though perfectly portraying a man struggling with escape.
“Here...” plunging his knife into the wood of the chair “You can tell them you won. The Joker is gone. I'm done.”
“We're not finished here” starting towards his opponent the now free man bellowed.
“Yeah, Yeah, we are. You've lost your mind in the Batman. You don't even get what I'm saying right now. Not only did I bring you the criminals, I gave you all a common enemy.” Now pinned …... “You made it a spectacle for attention, you milked it on TV and nourished an environment where fear and criminality is considered fiction. I HAVE FANS! Do you even understand what you've done?”
“Joker, this is where you find justice.” His grasp tightens.
“Cliche..” he gasps “you've lost yourself. What will you do now? Isn't this were I outwit you and escape?”
“You....”
“I played insane, you became insane. You reveled in and spread it. You're winds... they...” fleeting for air “are... a.... typhoon”
“What do you want? TELL ME NOW!” releasing his grip, visibly taken aback.
“Take me to jail... just this once. This time... let me be the bad guy again. Stop letting me go, stop letting me escape Arkham, do what is right for Gothem.”
“And me? The Batman?” pausing for composure, a grin crosses his face.
“You're Bruce Wayne. Stop teaching fantasy and fiction as reality. You made this a sight for the masses to escape reality. You're influence is far more detrimental than mine could ever hope to be.”
“You're a killer, you can't compare.”
“Ah, taking credit for criminal acts to draw out the perpetrators. You've become an utter failure at detective work, but I assume it's to be expected. I led you by your nose all this time. So, what do you say, I go to jail and you put up the act.”
“Nice try.” espousing as he turned away “Maybe next time, Joker... maybe next time.”
“You know I'll go back to crime! Even take it up a notch! It's in my nature, you see.”
“Counting on it.” |
Looking for something dramatic, like the end of an epic tale. It's a built-in twist, but how far does that rabbit hole go? Take us on a ride! | [WP] A hero confronts the villain in a final showdown, only to find out that their roles have been reversed the entire time. | "There is nowhere to run now. I finally have you!" Abel screamed through the winds as he reached the summit of the tower and climbed out upon the rooftop. "Your days are done brother." He saw Cain, stood at the edge, his tar black hair one with the night sky. This was the end of his journey.
"Why are you doing this brother?" Cain turned back from the edge, his tears swept from his face and he crouched to keep his balance as Abel advanced toward him.
"Do not dare to question your own evil, was it not you that bore your weapon down upon me? Was it not you that took your own brother and murdered him?" He stood mere feet from his brother now, after all this time. He would not allow Cain's evil to exist on God's Earth.
"And for that I have repented, for millennia I have repented! The Lord grants us another chance on this Earth and you use that gift to seek *revenge*? You have lost your way my brother! Turn back, I will not fight you!" Cain broke his brothers gaze and looked once more unto the drop behind him, to the world he was not ready to leave.
"Yes you will! I will kill you like a man Cain, not a child who kills from the shadows!" Cain looked back up at his brother, his body heaving and shaking from the rage that filled him, his jaw dropped low and his teeth bared.
"Look at yourself brother, gaze upon what you have become. This is not the Lord's work, this is murder you seek! I pray you, turn back now or forever will you burn in hell like I once did."
"LIAR! You do not fool me with your serpent's tongue, what tricks you have learned from Satan will give you now ground against a man of God."
"You are no man of God, Abel. Not any more." Cain sighed as a fresh tear was fell into the gale. He looked once more at the hunched beast that faced him, his yellow mane formed a ring of fire around his dark eyes that stared into Cain's own. "I'm sorry brother."
"NO! NO YOU ARE NOT!" Abel launched at his brother through the air, a war cry roared and echoed through the sky like thunder. His brother's tears continued to fall as Abel braced for impact, ready to tear flesh and watch blood run, and as lightening struck through the sky Cain's saw Abel's eyes were truly black.
"I'm so sorry." Cain whispered one last time as he drew his dirk and caught Abel upon it. He closed his eyes and cried a final tear.
"No, you're not..." Abel gasped, coughing on his blood. Cain opened his eyes once more to meet his brothers as all life drained from them. He placed placed a hand underneath his neck and turned once more toward the ledge.
"Yes brother, I am." He said as he let go, and Abel fell from the tower. | "Men, this is our final stand. The foreign scum march on our fair city from both the East and West. We will be severely outnumbered. Our divine leader is delegating orders from a secure location. His life is safe. Ours however, will be put on the line for the glory of our wonderful nation. Know that God has chosen us as his fateful people to eliminate the scourge that devours these lands. We have largely succeeded in this objective over the past decade. But now powerful armies hailing from places far from our homes think themselves worthy of destroying our homes, killing our brethren, raping our women, and defying the will of God. This travesty ends today. It ends at the hands of your rifles and your bayonets. Prepare yourselves. They will be upon us soon."
With that the Lieutenant ended his speech and marched off with his other commanding officers. Now I sat here behind a row of sandbags with 30 other men guarding the East gate of the city of my birth. I am one of the only men here with fighting experience. I arrived back in this city with 4 other men from my unit from the West two days ago. Our armies are so sparse and beaten most men here aren't more than 16 years old. This once sparkling metropolis is now at great risk of falling to nations lesser of my own. I look at the grave and deserted stone buildings at my back and think back upon the glorious parade I marched in just weeks before my unit shipped out. The rush of celebrity and pride our 18 year old minds felt. The crowds packed on all corners of the streets. I think of the sweet taste of a cold beer in a luxurious garden I was given the night before we shipped out. I think of the warm touch of a fair girl I held in my arms that same night, a touch I have not felt since. These memories of this once burgeoning city are what I am defending today, as the city is now a shell of its former self. The pagans of the East and the thugs of the West drove out its citizens with their propaganda and fear mongering. We stand here today ready to defend what is ours. And like the famous armies of ancient Sparta, we will stand tall with a warrior's spirit and earn a decisive victory outnumbered.
As all this goes through my head, I look at the small boy on my right. He is quivering with fear. His helmet is two sizes too large and he can hardly keep his rifle from slipping out of his weak and sweaty hands. I offer him my last cigarette to calm his nerves. He accepts and coughs so violently at the first inhale he drops it on the ground.
"I'm terribly sorry sir. I've never actually smoked before." He manages to mutter.
"It's quite alright boy, I gather you haven't much combat experience." I answered.
"No sir I was only called up to the army last week. I'm only but fifteen and have just a week of training under my belt." he said with tangible nervousness.
"Well that doesn't matter now. God will smile upon us today and the tides of the war will turn. I can feel it in my bones." I said smiling at him. Trying to instill a veteran's confidence in his tiny heart.
"Why do they feel the need to this to us? We have only been trying to recover from the travesties incurred to us by the former treaty. Once we did that we only tried to become the greatest nation of all and perform God's will. What can be so awful about that that causes them to bomb and attack us every moment they can? I cannot stand this injustice!" Tears were now streaming down his cheeks.
"I know son." I responded in a grave tone. His concerns and questions were legitimate. I didn't totally understand this war either. But I still tried to find him an answer.
"I suppose, it was a combination of things. People are always jealous of the best, it's human nature. It can't be of any surprise to you that the pigs coming upon us today want a piece of our pie. And I suppose many nonbelievers don't have faith in God's word when it comes from the mouth of a man, even a man as great and true as the Fuhrer. But it is our job to defend his word, and defend our pie. We will do just that today."
With that whistles sounded from all around. Over the horizon the Red Army approached. We waited in staunch anticipation for our next orders. Once they had gotten in range the order to fire was barked. We did and a group of Russians fell to the ground. But their march did not cease. We reloaded and fired again. Their march did not cease. When they were just 100 meters away we could not see where the army ended over the heads of hundreds of Russians. We were ordered to charge. With utmost conviction I ran harder than any other man and was struck down almost immediately by a Soviet bullet. I fell on my side and saw the Swastika on my arm in front of the late afternoon sun. I closed my eyes as I heard screams all around me and waited to meet God. |
Looking for something dramatic, like the end of an epic tale. It's a built-in twist, but how far does that rabbit hole go? Take us on a ride! | [WP] A hero confronts the villain in a final showdown, only to find out that their roles have been reversed the entire time. | It was a simple move. Queen to rook, checkmate, and the match was over. It had taken all of six moves for Adam to beat the world champion of chess.
A hush had fallen over the room when the match had started, and even now not a whisper could be heard. Magnus was stunned. He sat across from Adam, keenly aware of what had just happened. He had anticipated it. He knew and feared that this outcome was inevitable.
Unknown to Adam, Magnus had been watching him since nearly the beginning. Watching as Adam had defeated one grandmaster after another. Watched as a seemingly simple, and flawed strategy cut down the greatest chess players in the world.
Not a single master could find a way to beat Adam's play. There was no defense, no way to win. At first Magnus had watched in quiet curiosity. But as the stakes of matches became more serious, and the contenders that fell became more prominent Magnus realized that Adam was no simple chess player.
Adam simply stared at Magnus. His victory was one that he had also known was inevitable. It wasn't simple confidence. It was knowledge. Adam knew that his strategy was unbeatable. He had found what no other human or computer had ever been able to, a formula for winning chess every match.
After moments of silence turned to minutes Adam finally spoke. "You are beaten. It has taken months, but I've finally reached you, and now I've defeated you." Adam rose to address the still shocked audience. Not a single voice was heard. "Very well, I'll announce myself." Adam boomed to the crowd. "I am the new World Champion of chess! I welcome all comers to attempt to beat me!"
Adam now bursted with the glory of victory. His presence now dwarfed everyone in the chamber. "This is a new dawn for chess." Adam shouted.
"No..." whispered Magnus under his breath. "This is a farce."
"What's that?" Adam asked, spinning back towards his defeated opponent. He hadn't actually heard what Magnus said. "does the beaten have something to protest?"
Magnus rose from his chair. "I say that this is a farce. I do not know how you've found a way to win the way you have, but it has destroyed this game!" A rage was growing in Magnus. He knew what he said was true. The game would be destroyed by this upstart Adam. Even if other's learned how to implement Adam's strategy the game was now broken. "This is no new dawn for chess! This marks the day that our great game died."
Adam laughed. "What foolishness you speak of." He turned to speak to the crowd of on-lookers again. But before he was able to speak Magnus reached into his pocket, revealing a pistol.
A gasp let from the crowd, followed by the the explosion from the gun. Adam fell dead to the ground. His back still to Magnus.
Guards rushed to detain Magnus. The gun he had already let fall to the floor was confiscated. The guards shoved him stomach down on the table he and Adam had just finished playing on. The board and pieces clattered to the floor.
"LOOK!" Shouted a woman from the crowd of onlookers. Her mouth agape, her hand shakily pointing at the body of Adam. From the body, and more specifically from the bullet wound, green blood poured out, and onto the floor.
One of the guards released Magnus, and moved to the body of Adam. The guard turned the body over, and examined Adam. "My God!" The guard exclaimed. searching with his fingers around Adam's neck the guard found a seam. "What is this?" He asked with sick realization. Fearing what he was about to uncover.
It was a mask, and as the guard pulled it back he revealed the true nature of Adam. A small reptilian head emerged from inside the mask. Shocked gasps erupted from the crowd. "An... an alien?" the guard asked in disbelief, "but why?"
| "Men, this is our final stand. The foreign scum march on our fair city from both the East and West. We will be severely outnumbered. Our divine leader is delegating orders from a secure location. His life is safe. Ours however, will be put on the line for the glory of our wonderful nation. Know that God has chosen us as his fateful people to eliminate the scourge that devours these lands. We have largely succeeded in this objective over the past decade. But now powerful armies hailing from places far from our homes think themselves worthy of destroying our homes, killing our brethren, raping our women, and defying the will of God. This travesty ends today. It ends at the hands of your rifles and your bayonets. Prepare yourselves. They will be upon us soon."
With that the Lieutenant ended his speech and marched off with his other commanding officers. Now I sat here behind a row of sandbags with 30 other men guarding the East gate of the city of my birth. I am one of the only men here with fighting experience. I arrived back in this city with 4 other men from my unit from the West two days ago. Our armies are so sparse and beaten most men here aren't more than 16 years old. This once sparkling metropolis is now at great risk of falling to nations lesser of my own. I look at the grave and deserted stone buildings at my back and think back upon the glorious parade I marched in just weeks before my unit shipped out. The rush of celebrity and pride our 18 year old minds felt. The crowds packed on all corners of the streets. I think of the sweet taste of a cold beer in a luxurious garden I was given the night before we shipped out. I think of the warm touch of a fair girl I held in my arms that same night, a touch I have not felt since. These memories of this once burgeoning city are what I am defending today, as the city is now a shell of its former self. The pagans of the East and the thugs of the West drove out its citizens with their propaganda and fear mongering. We stand here today ready to defend what is ours. And like the famous armies of ancient Sparta, we will stand tall with a warrior's spirit and earn a decisive victory outnumbered.
As all this goes through my head, I look at the small boy on my right. He is quivering with fear. His helmet is two sizes too large and he can hardly keep his rifle from slipping out of his weak and sweaty hands. I offer him my last cigarette to calm his nerves. He accepts and coughs so violently at the first inhale he drops it on the ground.
"I'm terribly sorry sir. I've never actually smoked before." He manages to mutter.
"It's quite alright boy, I gather you haven't much combat experience." I answered.
"No sir I was only called up to the army last week. I'm only but fifteen and have just a week of training under my belt." he said with tangible nervousness.
"Well that doesn't matter now. God will smile upon us today and the tides of the war will turn. I can feel it in my bones." I said smiling at him. Trying to instill a veteran's confidence in his tiny heart.
"Why do they feel the need to this to us? We have only been trying to recover from the travesties incurred to us by the former treaty. Once we did that we only tried to become the greatest nation of all and perform God's will. What can be so awful about that that causes them to bomb and attack us every moment they can? I cannot stand this injustice!" Tears were now streaming down his cheeks.
"I know son." I responded in a grave tone. His concerns and questions were legitimate. I didn't totally understand this war either. But I still tried to find him an answer.
"I suppose, it was a combination of things. People are always jealous of the best, it's human nature. It can't be of any surprise to you that the pigs coming upon us today want a piece of our pie. And I suppose many nonbelievers don't have faith in God's word when it comes from the mouth of a man, even a man as great and true as the Fuhrer. But it is our job to defend his word, and defend our pie. We will do just that today."
With that whistles sounded from all around. Over the horizon the Red Army approached. We waited in staunch anticipation for our next orders. Once they had gotten in range the order to fire was barked. We did and a group of Russians fell to the ground. But their march did not cease. We reloaded and fired again. Their march did not cease. When they were just 100 meters away we could not see where the army ended over the heads of hundreds of Russians. We were ordered to charge. With utmost conviction I ran harder than any other man and was struck down almost immediately by a Soviet bullet. I fell on my side and saw the Swastika on my arm in front of the late afternoon sun. I closed my eyes as I heard screams all around me and waited to meet God. |
Put some effort into it please. I'd really like to see where you guys take this. | [WP] Main character finds a door they've never seen before, in a house they've lived in their whole life. | **The Door: Part 1**
Madame Gérard glanced at the ornate clock upon the dresser. It was 10am and the sun was just starting its long, lazy journey across the clear Parisian sky casting ever shorter shadows from the tall windows from which a cool morning breeze and sounds of the outside life drifted into the apartment. She swept across the room to her makeup desk, her dressing gown billowing like a white sail, intent on looking her best for her weekly cafe lunch with old friends. She knew she was long past her ripe years, no longer a succulent beauty, but she could at least be the glamorous dowager.
Knees creaking as she lowered onto the plush stool, she surveyed her potions and salves like a mechanic checking his tools. A long, calm sleep had left no bags beneath her eyes, but the summer heat always made her blush. Reaching for the a brush and adjusting her mirror, she paused for just a moment - something gnawing on the edge of consciousness. An oversight? It was Monday, wasn't it?
Bracing herself against the desk she stood again, and wound her way through the furniture - most of it as old as herself - and out into the long high corridor which snaked it's way through her apartment. The halls echo'd to the patter of her bare feet and as she turned the last corner to the front door she saw the familiar shape of the morning paper, freshly delivered by the complex concierge and thoughtfully placed - to save her from bending over - upon the little side table just inside the doorway. She picked it up and squinted, half blind without her glasses, at the date. Monday.
Returning to her room with the paper, she dropped it on the chaise lounges with yesterday's one. In the mornings of youth she had read every paper as it came in, anxious for the latest news, but in the long evening of old age she realised that most days were just like yesterday, so she made a habit of reading yesterday's paper instead.
Returning to her makeup desk, she continued with the beauty ritual, but found herself distracted, reaching for the wrong perfumes, her hands finding eyeliner when she wanted her comb. Sunday had been good - she had made herself breakfast as the cook was on holiday, dressed and taken herself on the metro to the Louvre. A few hours of elbowing tourists to view paintings and she'd found a hidden basement cafe to escape the crowds in and have her favorite Croque Monsieur for lunch - a meal forbidden by chef - before heading back to her apartment for wine and a novel. But Monday, today, something was different, wrong some how. She considered calling the doctor, but she never had patience for the little man with his stethoscopes and stern warnings about cholesterol. In Madam Gérard's considered opinion, she had smoked, drunk and eaten cheese for her entire life, and stopping now would be to surrender to death.
She drummed her fingers across the desk for a moment, and relented to the temptation of today's news. She retrieved first her glasses and then the paper, returning to the stool at her makeup desk. The front page was uninteresting, more economic unrest, the interior was no better - immigrant tensions, celebrity gossip and international affairs. She tossed it aside, immediately regretting the decision as it would mean bending over to pick it up later, and looked in the mirror at her familiar face.
She froze. Looking now, at the mirror, new clarity brought by her glasses, she saw what had been nagging from the edge of consciousness. Between the tall windows which overlooked the street below she saw a door. Tilting her head to look over the rims of her glasses, she saw the blurred outline, still visible in the mirror. Fingers drumming against the table, she considered her options - dementia? No she had seen how that effected people. Drugs? Not since the '30s. Absinthe? Sunday had been good but not that good. Finally she turned around, and the door presented itself, stubbornly real, stubbornly shut, stubbornly present in an exterior wall fit only for windows.
She stood up and approached it. Memories flooded her mind - her mother sitting at the very table she did her own makeup in. She had run through this room as a child, her father chasing her, pretending to be out of breath. She had probably been conceived in the very bed she now slept in. In the old days they had wintered in the south, near Marseilles, but she had sold that apartment after Claude had died. Determined to see her old age out as she had lived her young age - a Parisian, surrounded by the culture, the life of the city. She tried to count the years she had lived here, in this very apartment, how many nights she had slept in this room. How long had this door been here? Her memories had no answer, no image, no mention no hint of the door.
It was the same as every other door in the apartment - same paint, same knob, same wood, same door frame. The windows either side revealed nothing out of the ordinary - the apartments the other side of the street, the distant Eiffel Tower, the pervasive sounds and smells of the city wafting through their slightly ajar doors. She remembered opening them early this morning to keep the apartment cool. Had it been there then? Had it ever been there? Still no memory.
She approached the door and touched it, cementing in her mind its indisputable reality. She pulled her gown tight and stepped to the left, approaching the window, she pulled it fully open and leaned her head out. Below she saw the cobbled streets and tightly packed cars. A man was walking his dog on the pavement outside and looked disinterested when it hunched up outside the apartment doors. Before it could relieve itself the concierge burst out, waving a plant of wood and screaming insults at the man and his terrified dog. Madame Gérard watched the altercation for a moment, confident in the professional integrity of the concierge. She turned to her right and examined the exterior wall - it continued, unbroken, to the next window and off into the distance, down the long line of apartment buildings to the end of the street. Below the concierge waved his plank around a few more times and appeared to be winning the argument. She braced herself with her left hand and reached out with her right, drumming her fingers against the wall. It was solid. She decided to to retreat inside before the neighbors developed an opinion concerning her attire.
Again she stood before the door. The door to nowhere. The door to a brick wall and then a two story plummet to the street below. The door that was curiously absent from all memory. She opened it.
| I was looking at the door that wasn't there before with surprise, and with excitement.
I have lived in this house for my whole life. First with my parents, but as I was ready to move out, they have moved out instead. They went to Europe, following the dreams of their youth. I envied them. I always wanted to see the world, but never did anything about that. Even of my city, I haven't seen much, especially with all the work I had at the moment. Every day I was just oscillating between home and office.
For a different person, the door would be a bad omen, a first sign of quiet madness. But what I saw was a cheat -- a Get Out Of House Free card, a chance to see _other places_ (Narnia? Middle Earth? Earthsea?) without any effort. Same as my books, or my games -- just reach out and get it.
The door was unlocked. I opened it and stepped in.
I was in my house, with my back to the door I just went through. Someone else with my face was looking straight at me. "No", he said, and pushed me back through the door.
I was in my house again. There was no one around. I was shaken -- I made three steps forward, then heard a sound behind me. Another stranger with my face was coming through.
"No", I said, and pushed him back through the door.
"Ah I understand now." I muttered. I was scared, but not stupid.
Another me entered the corridor. He was smiling, but I knew myself well enough to see that he was frightened. "Hi!" he said. "There is a problem."
"Really? Aside from the fact that there is more than one of me around?"
"Yes. I am not a problem, I am a future you. You will relive it sometime later. There is a different problem. Follow me."
I saw no reason not to trust myself, so I obeyed. We went to to the study, passing some more of us along the way. "Why are there so many of them around?" I asked. "At some point you will think it is a good idea to go through again and again. As if it would change anything."
In the study someone was slumped in my chair. My guide turned the chair and yet again I saw my own face. Frightened. Dead.
"What happened to him?" I asked. It was an abstract interest, the reality has not quite set in yet.
"What will happen to us, you mean?" my guide asked. "This is literally _the_ future you. You, and me, and others will end up in this chair, dead. Unless there is some way to avoid it. I suggest we work on this together, with those of us we understand and trust."
"Understand? Wait, but who killed me?"
"I think there is something wrong. I was chatting with one of us and he talked about the catastrophe, dead people on the streets, no one to talk to. And another spoke about the riots, and obelisk police, and melt-guns. My Earth is reasonably good and boring. I do not remember anything like that."
"I do not think all of us here are from the same place." |
Put some effort into it please. I'd really like to see where you guys take this. | [WP] Main character finds a door they've never seen before, in a house they've lived in their whole life. | Sullen thoughts attract sullen consequences.
"That's a proverb, right?"
He thought to himself in drunken stupor. It sounded familiar to him, but he couldn't recall when or where he heard it from. It didn't matter, if sullen thoughts actually did bring sullen consequences, then it only would have reflected his mood.
The living room was a collection of disregarded bills, empty beer cans, and unkept, wrinkled clothes he simply grabbed and through on when the break called him in for another hangover fueled work day. His mattress was in the center of the chaos. Too many times had he walked up the stairs to his bed room only to lose his footing half way and fall, only to end up spending the night on the couch. The only thing that could be done was to drag the mattress down and collapse on it at the end of every day. It was the most productive act he had accomplished in months.
"People just can't understand" was one of the few things he could muster the will power to say through his slurred words. He repeated it, over and over again, like a child fixated on a single statement while crying for help. He finally wept, after holding in all that had infested his mind, the emotions poured in soft whimpers as he continued repeating his mantra: "people just can't understand, people just can't understand." He drifted slowly off to sleep to that phrase, as if he kept repeating it, everything would disappear, and he would simply fade into darkness and never wake up again.
However much he hoped for that fate, he did wake up, but not to a migraine inducing sunlight. He just simply woke up in the night. The clock read 2:37 AM, and the pulsating pain in his skull would never let him drift off into sweet silence. Only thing to do was to pace and think.
A step into the hallway did little to clear his mind, but he hoped that something would come to him in deep thought, maybe an "aha!" moment that would suddenly solve all of his worries would strike him. The end all. No more booze, no more sullen thoughts, just sweet bliss.
That moment didn't come to him, but something else caught his attention. A door. A single white door was to the right wall of the hallway. He seldom left the living room of his home but he knew of all the rooms in the house. It couldn't be a bathroom, he had thrown up in practically every toilet on this block at least once.
He approached the door with hesitance, almost with fear. There had to be something behind it. He reached for the knob, but quickly withdrew his hand back.
"This is paranormal shit." He mumbled to himself. Something was here to change him. But change what? Kill him? Take him away? What?! No. This isn't evil, this is a sign from God. This was his "aha!" moment. A Snow White door, stood there sent from the heavens to rescue him from his pitiful life. All the answers would be there! Maybe God himself would be standing there ready to cure him of his sullen thoughts, his alcoholism, he could finally be happy. He found the feeling of hope for the first time in years. He grabbed the door knob and pulled the door open ready for the warm embrace of enlightenment.
What awaited him was nothing more than a coat closet. Filled with small child size raincoats, jackets, and sweatshirts of all colors and designs.
"Oh, yeah." He forgot about this closet. It was the kids' closet. He never cleared it out after the car accident. He remembered that night all too well. He even told the kids to grab their coats from this very closet. A blizzard was coming, it was cold, the ice was settling. Should have just left the next morning.
He collapsed to his knees and wept. With his head to floor and repeated his mantra that had got him through this situation plenty of times before: "people just can't understand, people just can't understand."
The warm embrace of slumber found him again. | I was looking at the door that wasn't there before with surprise, and with excitement.
I have lived in this house for my whole life. First with my parents, but as I was ready to move out, they have moved out instead. They went to Europe, following the dreams of their youth. I envied them. I always wanted to see the world, but never did anything about that. Even of my city, I haven't seen much, especially with all the work I had at the moment. Every day I was just oscillating between home and office.
For a different person, the door would be a bad omen, a first sign of quiet madness. But what I saw was a cheat -- a Get Out Of House Free card, a chance to see _other places_ (Narnia? Middle Earth? Earthsea?) without any effort. Same as my books, or my games -- just reach out and get it.
The door was unlocked. I opened it and stepped in.
I was in my house, with my back to the door I just went through. Someone else with my face was looking straight at me. "No", he said, and pushed me back through the door.
I was in my house again. There was no one around. I was shaken -- I made three steps forward, then heard a sound behind me. Another stranger with my face was coming through.
"No", I said, and pushed him back through the door.
"Ah I understand now." I muttered. I was scared, but not stupid.
Another me entered the corridor. He was smiling, but I knew myself well enough to see that he was frightened. "Hi!" he said. "There is a problem."
"Really? Aside from the fact that there is more than one of me around?"
"Yes. I am not a problem, I am a future you. You will relive it sometime later. There is a different problem. Follow me."
I saw no reason not to trust myself, so I obeyed. We went to to the study, passing some more of us along the way. "Why are there so many of them around?" I asked. "At some point you will think it is a good idea to go through again and again. As if it would change anything."
In the study someone was slumped in my chair. My guide turned the chair and yet again I saw my own face. Frightened. Dead.
"What happened to him?" I asked. It was an abstract interest, the reality has not quite set in yet.
"What will happen to us, you mean?" my guide asked. "This is literally _the_ future you. You, and me, and others will end up in this chair, dead. Unless there is some way to avoid it. I suggest we work on this together, with those of us we understand and trust."
"Understand? Wait, but who killed me?"
"I think there is something wrong. I was chatting with one of us and he talked about the catastrophe, dead people on the streets, no one to talk to. And another spoke about the riots, and obelisk police, and melt-guns. My Earth is reasonably good and boring. I do not remember anything like that."
"I do not think all of us here are from the same place." |
Put some effort into it please. I'd really like to see where you guys take this. | [WP] Main character finds a door they've never seen before, in a house they've lived in their whole life. | Sullen thoughts attract sullen consequences.
"That's a proverb, right?"
He thought to himself in drunken stupor. It sounded familiar to him, but he couldn't recall when or where he heard it from. It didn't matter, if sullen thoughts actually did bring sullen consequences, then it only would have reflected his mood.
The living room was a collection of disregarded bills, empty beer cans, and unkept, wrinkled clothes he simply grabbed and through on when the break called him in for another hangover fueled work day. His mattress was in the center of the chaos. Too many times had he walked up the stairs to his bed room only to lose his footing half way and fall, only to end up spending the night on the couch. The only thing that could be done was to drag the mattress down and collapse on it at the end of every day. It was the most productive act he had accomplished in months.
"People just can't understand" was one of the few things he could muster the will power to say through his slurred words. He repeated it, over and over again, like a child fixated on a single statement while crying for help. He finally wept, after holding in all that had infested his mind, the emotions poured in soft whimpers as he continued repeating his mantra: "people just can't understand, people just can't understand." He drifted slowly off to sleep to that phrase, as if he kept repeating it, everything would disappear, and he would simply fade into darkness and never wake up again.
However much he hoped for that fate, he did wake up, but not to a migraine inducing sunlight. He just simply woke up in the night. The clock read 2:37 AM, and the pulsating pain in his skull would never let him drift off into sweet silence. Only thing to do was to pace and think.
A step into the hallway did little to clear his mind, but he hoped that something would come to him in deep thought, maybe an "aha!" moment that would suddenly solve all of his worries would strike him. The end all. No more booze, no more sullen thoughts, just sweet bliss.
That moment didn't come to him, but something else caught his attention. A door. A single white door was to the right wall of the hallway. He seldom left the living room of his home but he knew of all the rooms in the house. It couldn't be a bathroom, he had thrown up in practically every toilet on this block at least once.
He approached the door with hesitance, almost with fear. There had to be something behind it. He reached for the knob, but quickly withdrew his hand back.
"This is paranormal shit." He mumbled to himself. Something was here to change him. But change what? Kill him? Take him away? What?! No. This isn't evil, this is a sign from God. This was his "aha!" moment. A Snow White door, stood there sent from the heavens to rescue him from his pitiful life. All the answers would be there! Maybe God himself would be standing there ready to cure him of his sullen thoughts, his alcoholism, he could finally be happy. He found the feeling of hope for the first time in years. He grabbed the door knob and pulled the door open ready for the warm embrace of enlightenment.
What awaited him was nothing more than a coat closet. Filled with small child size raincoats, jackets, and sweatshirts of all colors and designs.
"Oh, yeah." He forgot about this closet. It was the kids' closet. He never cleared it out after the car accident. He remembered that night all too well. He even told the kids to grab their coats from this very closet. A blizzard was coming, it was cold, the ice was settling. Should have just left the next morning.
He collapsed to his knees and wept. With his head to floor and repeated his mantra that had got him through this situation plenty of times before: "people just can't understand, people just can't understand."
The warm embrace of slumber found him again. | The introduction of Amy as the doctor's companion followed this plot. |
Put some effort into it please. I'd really like to see where you guys take this. | [WP] Main character finds a door they've never seen before, in a house they've lived in their whole life. | I'll die in this house. I said it with confidence, and not a drop of regret. My mother had said the same thing. I was born in this house, I lived in this house and I'll die in this house. This is my house.
I breathe in deep, a lovely breeze blows across the backyard as it always does. The air carries the faint smell of roses. Sometimes its vanilla, other times it...lavender maybe? That's what mother said, she had known more then I do. The sun sits where it always is, bright and warm. Don't look directly at it she said, so I don't. I learned that much at least.
"Are you alright?" A soft voice comes from behind me.
I look back in my lawn chair. Lauren is standing by the sliding glass door.
"Yeah I'll be fine." I'm always fine, i'm not sure how I feel about Lauren. Mother used to say the same thing about dad. But she learned to love him when he showed up too.
"David, do you think you could cook us some dinner? I still don't know how these...stoves work."
I laugh, "yeah its a little more complicated then what you're used to. I'll show you how it all works."
She smiles. Its a nice smile...yeah...I suppose I could get used to her living here. I scoot past her, careful not to invade her personal space. Right into the entry way. I take a left at the end of the hall as I always do.
Kitchen to the right, bedroom to the left. Same as always. But that's not the same. That door. That door isn't the same at all. Its brown, and tall. With a single gold handle. A plain brown door with a gold handle.
I reach out and touch the handle, its cold. With a turn and a pull it swings open. The cream walls give way to a white hallway. There are other brown doors here. Endless in all directions.
"Oh dear, oh dear." A soft cooing voice comes from above. "There must have been a slight glitch in the software, we'll fix that real quick." A white...being drops from the ceiling. More energy then substance it waves two gold gloves around in a panic.
"What..." David murmurs.
"Shhh, don't worry." The warden says. It waves a hand over his head, "There, that's better." David's eye's lose focus. "Are you hungry?" David nods. "Here you go sweetie."
The warden pulls out a banana from the nothingness within its center. The gold hands peel it and pop one end in Davids mouth. David instinctively grabs the end as he takes a bite.
The warden strokes his head as it turns him around and pushes him back towards the door. "There you go, you cute little thing." The door slams shut behind David. The warden looks to the camera in the upper corner. There was no malfunction, its all just part of the show.
From the observation deck above the houses the tour guide leads the crowd in a round of applause. "Lets hear it for our dedicated AI!" The warden performs a curt bow before drifting back towards the ceiling. "Now, lets see what happens next."
"Ms. Vrit!"
"One second dear."
I'm standing in the entryway. Foyer? Is it a foyer...where did I hear that word.
"Is that a banana?" Lauren asks from the other side of the glass door. Her feet firmly planted on the soft grass of the backyard.
"...Yeah."
"I didn't know we had any..."
"Do you want the rest?" I walk over to her, the curious banana still in my hand. I step out into the backyard. For a moment I look over the fence. Endless blue, a shimmer here, there, occasionally I swear I can see it. But no, mother said that this always happened. Just like it happened to her father and all the way back. I hand the banana to Lauren and she takes a triumphant bite. Yeah, I could get used to her living here.
The observation deck erupts into cheers. "Well, it looks like Lauren and David have a bright future together."
"Ms. Vrit! What happened to the rest of of them?"
"Oh, they're all gone honey, they only survive in captivity now. That's why this is so important!"
"...Oh." The boy says thoughtfully, sticking his lower arms securely into his pant pockets.
| FYI, this is the plot of House of Leaves by Mark Danielewski. Totally worth checking out if you haven't!
|
The Alien is wary of the Human as they appear to initially resemble a creature from a cautionary tale for children. | [WP] Humanity discoveres it is not alone in the universe while an astronaut is exploring a geological formation on Mars as the same time as an alien astronaut. [More details within] | I saw something scrabble behind the rocks, and a plume of dust shot up. Nothing moves on a dead planet. I froze, completely paralyzed with fear. I knew what would happen next: genuine first contact. Whatever had made that dust cloud was alive. This wasn't a minor rock slide, or a flash freeze or any sort of geological event- something had raced across flat ground to hide behind the small rock formation in front of me. I would see it and I would make first contact.
All of Earth would change in the next minute of my life. I looked back longingly at the basecamp. The part of me that watched horror movies as a child told me I should go back and get help, but if I did...would we ever actually make contact? What if this was the only time this opportunity was open? I had to take it.
Cautiously, my legs compelled me and pulled my body forward, every cell in my torso screaming to go backward as my heart leapt with each proceeding step. I approached the rocks and I felt my body pulsing with immense fear. I knew that in the next moment, some terrifying parasite would launch from behind the rocks and latch to my face, or some strange entity would suck me up into time and space. I knew that I was destined to bring some havoc inducing monster onto humanity.
Behind the small pile of rocks, was a cowering, four legged, three foot tall smurf, covered in the same type of protective gear that hung off of me. Its blue face's four black eyes panned up to me through its visor and with its sealed nasal passage a light resonated as it did its race's equivalent of speaking. Words launched quickly from its vibrating passage, and I realized as it shook and backed away, that it was absolutely terrified of me.
I couldn't help but laugh in relief. As it watched me laugh, it seized up at first, clenching its three fingered hands over its face and hugging its body with its four legs- crouching down like a tortoise into its shell. As it realized that I had done nothing to harm it, slowly, it emerged from its ball of limbs. It moved around from behind the rocks and came near me. It was cat-like in its inspection, prodding at my knees and legs with its tiny fingers. It spoke aloud, observing me as it touched me, recording notes for its log.
I began to do the same, and after giving the alien a moment to feel comfortable around me, I knelt down and began to communicate. I knew it couldn't hear me. So far, I had heard nothing of what it said either- only being able to tell that it spoke by watching its nasal passage resonate rapidly as we interacted. Kneeling, level to its height, I made eye contact and waved my hand slowly in front of me. The alien, understanding, waved as well.
I drew a rough circle in the dust and waved my arms around across the land, to show that this circle represented this planet. The alien mimicked the motion to show it understood. I wrote "MARS" below the planet. The alien wrote his language's equivalent. A beaming smile crept up my face and connected my ears; we were making progress.
I inched back just a foot and watched the alien flinch a little, still unnerved and worried about my actions. I stayed still and lifted my hands up to show it that I meant no harm. The alien mimicked my action- understanding that hands up meant no harm. I drew an arrow to Mars and then drew another circle, labeling it Earth. I pointed to myself, and then to Earth. To my surprise, the alien nodded its head up and down when it saw that. I was so amazed to see that there was truly, at least one shared bodily communication between our races that was innate.
It repeated the actions and drew its planet in a line to Mars, labeling it with its own language. Now, I felt prepared to make the final step of contact. I stood up slowly, with my hands up to declare no harm. The alien raised its hands to show it understood. I pointed to the basecamp in the distance- the small village of domed white buildings with our parked transport vessel standing upright in the center. The alien saw it and I pointed to it and myself, and then back the base camp. It hesitated, but then watched me put my hands back up in the air. It nodded, and with that, we both began to walk back toward my base camp. As we walked together, my smile never ceased. I had met the first alien, and it hadn't tried to kill me, to eat me or to capture me. It was just as skittish and nervous as I was, and through a slow, shared understanding, we had already come to share the bond of friendship in a strange and dead land. | We were prepared for the one way journey. Immortality at its worst: live forever but in name only.
We were prepared for the weightlessness. Like lifting my newly born son for the first time away from his mother's embrace. An experience of joy and surprise, an exercise of trust with no prior record.
We were prepared for the loneliness. It's as if we were placed in a city of unlimited possibility, with every form of modern telecommunications at our disposal but no willing recipient.
Nothing prepared us for the reflections we saw in our visors. Reflections that mirrored our human surprise but nothing else. |
[WP] The stars are slowly burning off one by one. Scientists have determined the exact amount of time to the week that the sun will shut down. | The sun was going to go out in a week, so we were going to send it out with a bang.
Out of the thirty billion people on Earth, ten billion were shipped off to terraforming colonies in other systems. Five billion were sent off to science and exploratory missions for various governments and corporations. Seven billion more were rocketing off into the unknown corners of space, a gamble. The sun set for Earth, but it had a harder time with the human race. And finally eight billion people, nearly a third part of our all too proud civilization, stayed behind to accept the inevitable.
Looting came first. With so much left behind it was too tempting not to. We took and took, cops powerless, some even taking for themselves. There was violence, too, plenty of murders and much more unpleasant things. Then we realized that we had looted ourselves stupid on the same useless things, that we had hurt others and nothing had changed. The goods were left on street corners, devalued.
It was after a few nights of dark, existential thought that the parties began to happen. And oh, what a celebration! It spread from city centres -- cities! This was global in scale -- it spread from the cities outward to rural areas and met over seas and deserts, a wave of camraderie that the hippies of the twentieth century could only have dreamed of. With the great threat of a hollow sun we found common ground. We were all victims of it, us forgotten sons and daughters of Earth. We drowned the pain in rivers of alcohol that streamed from the broken windows of bars. Tears were shed to join those rivers as tributaries. Then there was consoling, love, sex, empathy. Even the most deranged of sociopaths found someone to forgive them. And every morning, every man and woman in the world would watch the east for the next day's sun, sure of its inevitable absence but ever hopeful it will rise again. It had already risen again for six days, six miracles, six more lifetimes granted to lovers and families -- why wouldn't we hope for just one more? And on the seventh day, we all held our breath and waited, waited many minutes and hours with tears in our eyes as our light never came. On that seventh day, God truly did rest.
After that, it was dark . . . | "You always said- " He coughed. "You always said you couldn't bear the thought of going on without me." He said with a feint smile.
She frowned. "You're an old fool."
The machine played it's tones. His heart rate was dropping again. This was to be expected, they had told her. The nurse had offered to turn the alarms off. He had refused the offer. He didn't want to be a bother.
"Did they say how long?" He asked.
"I've had enough of this talk." She turned away to conceal her sobs.
He chuckled. "You can't tell me that the sun is dying and then leave it be."
"Oh...of course." She turned back with a smile as she wiped a tear away.
"What is it?" He squeezed her frail hand.
"Nothing, I...They said a few months from now."
"A few months." He laughed and then went into another coughing fit. "Almost made it."
She plucked a tissue from a box and dabbed at the blood that had collected at the corners of his mouth. "Stop it. You're not dead yet."
"Ha. Yet." He smiled. She did not return the favor. He grunted and fumbled for the morphine button. She reached across him and clicked the red button. As she leaned back towards her seat, she paused to kiss him on the forehead. She listened as he labored for breath, like a fish tossed ashore.
"Thank you." He said. He squeezed her hand so tightly it hurt. She didn't mind. "I want you to promise me that you won't be scared when the end comes."
"I promise."
"Because people will panic. They will do all sorts of terrible things. They'll be out in the streets fighting over nonsense."
"I know. I will be alright."
"What do you suppose it will be like?"
"I don't know."
"Humor an old man, will you dear?"
She looked down at her lap. The monitor began to chirp louder and faster. "Well...I imagine it will be warm."
He coughed. "Of course."
"But, warmer than anything you've ever felt. It won't be painful. It will be like being wrapped in a warm blanket. Like God himself is hugging you. And the light will be unlike anything you've ever seen."
His breathing became rapid.
"It will be everywhere. And it will be so bright that you will think that you can just reach out and take a piece of it in your hands."
He watched her with tears welling in his eyes. He grinned at her with the same wonder he had the first time he heard her speak. His grip on her hand loosened.
"And just when you think it can't be better. When you think that you don't know how you could have done without this feeling for so long..." Her voice shook. "You are whisked away to dance with the stardust for the rest of eternity."
He rolled his head on his pillow to face her. "Doesn't sound too bad." He closed his eyes. |
|
[WP] The stars are slowly burning off one by one. Scientists have determined the exact amount of time to the week that the sun will shut down. | "What a headline. STARS BURNING OUT. DAYS OF SUN NUMBERED. Who would have guessed?"
"Well, there's worldwide panic, and efforts to clarify the entire matter have all but backfired. People think we're hiding the truth, and this has only increased the hysteria. In short... we're doomed."
"In that case, all we can do is laugh. Though you'll have to admit it was funny, in a sense. The cause- advanced simulations!"
"What exactly did you tell the reporter?"
"The stars are slowly burning off one by one. I have determined the exact amount of time to the week that the sun will shut down."
"... and you didn't clarify your statements?"
"The stars *were* always burning down. It's not my fault that they didn't ask if it was billions of years or a couple of weeks!" | Professor de Havermeyer blinked into the telescope in disbelief. His great find, the Omega galaxy, its faint light coming from so far away that it had no right to exist at all, the once in a lifetime chance at making an indelible mark into the annals of the history of science and earning his place among the pantheon of greatest minds, was not there anymore.
His great fear at seeing what had seemed too good to be true slip through his fingers gripped his most rational of bosoms in the tightest of grips. He spared no effort in recovering his galaxy, he peered heavenwise during sleepless nights through expensive apparatuses, cajoled, bribed and finally threatened his engineers into working overtime to find whatever was wrong with the optics, called in favors with other observatories and even got NASA's Hubble into his search, all for nothing.
The worst hit good De Havermeyer when his archrival on the East Coast, professor McKitrick, not only managed to lose a galaxy as well, but had the nerve to actually publish a paper on it. De Havermeyer's misery increased when his own confirmation paper, rushed before everyone else had a chance at misplacing galaxies, only increased McKitrick's fame.
McKitrick upped the ante with another five galaxies gone, de Havermeyer lost a whole cluster, McKitrick found that galaxies went out as in the path of an expanding sphere, de Havermeyer countered that the expansion speed of that sphere is accelerating, McKitrick observed that the rate of acceleration is accelerating and before de Havermeyer had a chance to publish the most important paper in the history of mankind with a precise expansion formula, a date for the End of Earth, as well as a most ingenious theory to explain it, the odious McKitrick robbed him again by simply going live on television and letting everyone know impending doom is seven days away, in a somber yet dignified speech that not only effectively disolved the institution of science, but every other institution of polite society as well.
The defeated de Havermeyer had nothing left but to take solace in the destruction of a world so filled with injustice.
A jubilant Satan gloated as God hid His Face in His Hands sighing. "You never learn, you keep hoping for a mustard seed of faith to save the day. Give a couple of scientists the power to alter the Universe with their minds and it's just a matter of time before the End. Next World we do the Apocalypse my way, properly." |
|
[WP] The stars are slowly burning off one by one. Scientists have determined the exact amount of time to the week that the sun will shut down. | The sun was going to go out in a week, so we were going to send it out with a bang.
Out of the thirty billion people on Earth, ten billion were shipped off to terraforming colonies in other systems. Five billion were sent off to science and exploratory missions for various governments and corporations. Seven billion more were rocketing off into the unknown corners of space, a gamble. The sun set for Earth, but it had a harder time with the human race. And finally eight billion people, nearly a third part of our all too proud civilization, stayed behind to accept the inevitable.
Looting came first. With so much left behind it was too tempting not to. We took and took, cops powerless, some even taking for themselves. There was violence, too, plenty of murders and much more unpleasant things. Then we realized that we had looted ourselves stupid on the same useless things, that we had hurt others and nothing had changed. The goods were left on street corners, devalued.
It was after a few nights of dark, existential thought that the parties began to happen. And oh, what a celebration! It spread from city centres -- cities! This was global in scale -- it spread from the cities outward to rural areas and met over seas and deserts, a wave of camraderie that the hippies of the twentieth century could only have dreamed of. With the great threat of a hollow sun we found common ground. We were all victims of it, us forgotten sons and daughters of Earth. We drowned the pain in rivers of alcohol that streamed from the broken windows of bars. Tears were shed to join those rivers as tributaries. Then there was consoling, love, sex, empathy. Even the most deranged of sociopaths found someone to forgive them. And every morning, every man and woman in the world would watch the east for the next day's sun, sure of its inevitable absence but ever hopeful it will rise again. It had already risen again for six days, six miracles, six more lifetimes granted to lovers and families -- why wouldn't we hope for just one more? And on the seventh day, we all held our breath and waited, waited many minutes and hours with tears in our eyes as our light never came. On that seventh day, God truly did rest.
After that, it was dark . . . | Professor de Havermeyer blinked into the telescope in disbelief. His great find, the Omega galaxy, its faint light coming from so far away that it had no right to exist at all, the once in a lifetime chance at making an indelible mark into the annals of the history of science and earning his place among the pantheon of greatest minds, was not there anymore.
His great fear at seeing what had seemed too good to be true slip through his fingers gripped his most rational of bosoms in the tightest of grips. He spared no effort in recovering his galaxy, he peered heavenwise during sleepless nights through expensive apparatuses, cajoled, bribed and finally threatened his engineers into working overtime to find whatever was wrong with the optics, called in favors with other observatories and even got NASA's Hubble into his search, all for nothing.
The worst hit good De Havermeyer when his archrival on the East Coast, professor McKitrick, not only managed to lose a galaxy as well, but had the nerve to actually publish a paper on it. De Havermeyer's misery increased when his own confirmation paper, rushed before everyone else had a chance at misplacing galaxies, only increased McKitrick's fame.
McKitrick upped the ante with another five galaxies gone, de Havermeyer lost a whole cluster, McKitrick found that galaxies went out as in the path of an expanding sphere, de Havermeyer countered that the expansion speed of that sphere is accelerating, McKitrick observed that the rate of acceleration is accelerating and before de Havermeyer had a chance to publish the most important paper in the history of mankind with a precise expansion formula, a date for the End of Earth, as well as a most ingenious theory to explain it, the odious McKitrick robbed him again by simply going live on television and letting everyone know impending doom is seven days away, in a somber yet dignified speech that not only effectively disolved the institution of science, but every other institution of polite society as well.
The defeated de Havermeyer had nothing left but to take solace in the destruction of a world so filled with injustice.
A jubilant Satan gloated as God hid His Face in His Hands sighing. "You never learn, you keep hoping for a mustard seed of faith to save the day. Give a couple of scientists the power to alter the Universe with their minds and it's just a matter of time before the End. Next World we do the Apocalypse my way, properly." |
|
[WP] Make me blush 25 words or less. | Anonymity behind a screen that hides your physique, and though you seek a blush, I'm out to turn your whole body scarlet. | Your face is awesome. |
|
[WP] Make me blush 25 words or less. | To fall asleep I imagine you're the big spoon. | Your face is awesome. |
|
[WP] Make me blush 25 words or less. | Trying to make you blush is making me blush now. A silly idea trips my mind: circumstantial romance. So meta it might work. Message me. | Your face is awesome. |
|
[WP] Make me blush 25 words or less. | My hand brushes against your nipple as I blow in your ear. I slowly rub your inner thigh as you gently flinch. | Your face is awesome. |
|
[WP] Make me blush 25 words or less. | Ay bby U Want Sum Fuk? | Your face is awesome. |
|
[WP] Make me blush 25 words or less. | During your most embarrassing, most downtrodden moment of low self esteem, someone out there is getting off to the highest idea of you. | Your face is awesome. |
|
[WP] Make me blush 25 words or less. | Anonymity behind a screen that hides your physique, and though you seek a blush, I'm out to turn your whole body scarlet. | Your zipper's down. |
|
[WP] Make me blush 25 words or less. | Trying to make you blush is making me blush now. A silly idea trips my mind: circumstantial romance. So meta it might work. Message me. | Your zipper's down. |
|
[WP] Make me blush 25 words or less. | My hand brushes against your nipple as I blow in your ear. I slowly rub your inner thigh as you gently flinch. | Your zipper's down. |
|
[WP] Make me blush 25 words or less. | Ay bby U Want Sum Fuk? | Your zipper's down. |
|
[WP] Make me blush 25 words or less. | Anonymity behind a screen that hides your physique, and though you seek a blush, I'm out to turn your whole body scarlet. | You would make all the good love stories jealous. |
|
[WP] Make me blush 25 words or less. | Trying to make you blush is making me blush now. A silly idea trips my mind: circumstantial romance. So meta it might work. Message me. | You would make all the good love stories jealous. |
|
[WP] Make me blush 25 words or less. | My hand brushes against your nipple as I blow in your ear. I slowly rub your inner thigh as you gently flinch. | You would make all the good love stories jealous. |
|
[WP] Make me blush 25 words or less. | Ay bby U Want Sum Fuk? | You would make all the good love stories jealous. |
|
[WP] Make me blush 25 words or less. | To fall asleep I imagine you're the big spoon. | You're the most beautiful, creative, and intelligent person it has ever been my pleasure to briefly interact with. |
|
[WP] Make me blush 25 words or less. | Trying to make you blush is making me blush now. A silly idea trips my mind: circumstantial romance. So meta it might work. Message me. | You're the most beautiful, creative, and intelligent person it has ever been my pleasure to briefly interact with. |
|
[WP] Make me blush 25 words or less. | My hand brushes against your nipple as I blow in your ear. I slowly rub your inner thigh as you gently flinch. | You're the most beautiful, creative, and intelligent person it has ever been my pleasure to briefly interact with. |
|
[WP] Make me blush 25 words or less. | Ay bby U Want Sum Fuk? | You're the most beautiful, creative, and intelligent person it has ever been my pleasure to briefly interact with. |
|
[WP] Make me blush 25 words or less. | During your most embarrassing, most downtrodden moment of low self esteem, someone out there is getting off to the highest idea of you. | You're the most beautiful, creative, and intelligent person it has ever been my pleasure to briefly interact with. |
|
[WP] Make me blush 25 words or less. | Maybe I like your hair. Perhaps it's your smile. It could be your eyes, but I think it's because your penis is showing. | You're the most beautiful, creative, and intelligent person it has ever been my pleasure to briefly interact with. |
|
[WP] Make me blush 25 words or less. | To fall asleep I imagine you're the big spoon. | I never stood a chance. Sheer iridescence. Eyesore; The cure. Nothing can be said to do you justice. I'll end it with just this...Wow. |
|
[WP] Make me blush 25 words or less. | Trying to make you blush is making me blush now. A silly idea trips my mind: circumstantial romance. So meta it might work. Message me. | I never stood a chance. Sheer iridescence. Eyesore; The cure. Nothing can be said to do you justice. I'll end it with just this...Wow. |
|
[WP] Make me blush 25 words or less. | My hand brushes against your nipple as I blow in your ear. I slowly rub your inner thigh as you gently flinch. | I never stood a chance. Sheer iridescence. Eyesore; The cure. Nothing can be said to do you justice. I'll end it with just this...Wow. |
|
[WP] Make me blush 25 words or less. | Ay bby U Want Sum Fuk? | I never stood a chance. Sheer iridescence. Eyesore; The cure. Nothing can be said to do you justice. I'll end it with just this...Wow. |
|
[WP] Make me blush 25 words or less. | During your most embarrassing, most downtrodden moment of low self esteem, someone out there is getting off to the highest idea of you. | I never stood a chance. Sheer iridescence. Eyesore; The cure. Nothing can be said to do you justice. I'll end it with just this...Wow. |
|
[WP] Make me blush 25 words or less. | To fall asleep I imagine you're the big spoon. | Oh, if you insist. |
|
[WP] Make me blush 25 words or less. | Trying to make you blush is making me blush now. A silly idea trips my mind: circumstantial romance. So meta it might work. Message me. | Oh, if you insist. |
|
[WP] Make me blush 25 words or less. | My hand brushes against your nipple as I blow in your ear. I slowly rub your inner thigh as you gently flinch. | Oh, if you insist. |
|
[WP] Make me blush 25 words or less. | Ay bby U Want Sum Fuk? | Oh, if you insist. |
|
[WP] Make me blush 25 words or less. | During your most embarrassing, most downtrodden moment of low self esteem, someone out there is getting off to the highest idea of you. | Oh, if you insist. |
|
[WP] Make me blush 25 words or less. | My hand brushes against your nipple as I blow in your ear. I slowly rub your inner thigh as you gently flinch. | To fall asleep I imagine you're the big spoon. |
|
[WP] Make me blush 25 words or less. | Ay bby U Want Sum Fuk? | To fall asleep I imagine you're the big spoon. |
|
[WP] Make me blush 25 words or less. | Ay bby U Want Sum Fuk? | Trying to make you blush is making me blush now. A silly idea trips my mind: circumstantial romance. So meta it might work. Message me. |
|
[WP] Make me blush 25 words or less. | Ay bby U Want Sum Fuk? | My hand brushes against your nipple as I blow in your ear. I slowly rub your inner thigh as you gently flinch. |
|
It's up to you what constitutes sex or where you set this story. Maybe when you first realise this power, maybe 1000 years later in a young body, maybe using it to get around some kind of obstacle, maybe you finally found someone you love and haven't told them yet, maybe the chain of displaced bodies you've left behind you is causing problems, etc... It's all up to you.
EDIT: I meant one person. The actual you, not plural. Like one person living forever through the bodies of the people they fuck, leaving behind a trail of confusion. Whatever, you've all done your own thing with it. | [WP] Every time you have sex with someone, you switch bodies with them. | A scream ripped right through Casey’s post-coital haze. She hadn’t seen herself so panicked since she was in high school. The look on her face was of pure disgust. Just what she needed - a sexist.
“Honey,” she whispered as she struggled to sit up. “Honey, you need to calm down, okay?”
“Calm down?” the guy she’d met at the party squealed. “You’re in… I’m in your body!”
“I thought you wanted to be inside of me,” she teased.
It was such a cliched line, but she just couldn’t pass up such a perfect set-up. Unfortunately, that guy - whatever his name was - couldn’t see the humor in it. He just dropped to the ground with a thud that must have scraped her knees and started sobbing loudly.
Casey rolled her eyes and fished for his boxers. It took a minute of scraping the carpet before she realized he was a tighty whiteys kind of guy. She never would have had sex with a guy in tighty whiteys if she wasn’t desperate.
“Look, could you stop crying and cover yourself up?” she pleaded softly as she tossed the guy’s t-shirt over to him. “You’re just hormonal. It’s going to be a rough few days, but come on. You knew what you were getting into when you became a bleeder.”
“A what?” the guy sniffled as he slid the shirt that was now nearly double his size over his head.
“You know, a bleeder,” she explained, but a horrible thought took over. “Wait, you knew what you were doing, right? I mean, I did say I wanted you inside of me.”
“I didn’t realize that you meant,” he started, but then the hiccupping sobs drowned out the rest of the sentence.
“Oh Christ,” she grumbled. “You’re a fucking virgin. How old are you?”
Casey watched as her body started shaking uncontrollably. This was bad. She was so desperate to swap bodies that she had popped the cherry of a chubby freshman right before her period. Normally, the testosterone surge from her lover’s body drowned out any sense of sympathy, but most bleeders were just assholes who would do anything for a couple quickies. She’d found the one nice guy left. There was so much estrogen in this body that she was even starting to feel bad for forgetting his name.
“Just calm down,” Casey said as she wrapped an arm around one of her own body’s shoulders. “I know this is a lot to take in, but you’ll be okay. You knew that people switch bodies when they have sex, right?”
“I heard about it,” he sniffed as he pulled the ugly close to her body. “I mean, they tell you this can happen in school, but I thought it was just to scare us. Is this for good?”
Normally, Casey would have laughed right into her face at this, but something about this body made her sympathetic. To have gone this far in life without knowing about The Swap, Jesus, he must have never seen a real porno in his life. She cursed this tubby gamer’s touchy-feely brain chemistry for turning her into such a girl over this.
“No,” she reassured him as she stroked her own hair. “In a few days, we’ll have sex again. You’ll be you, I’ll be me, and everything will be right with the world.”
“What do you mean?” he asked as he wiped her nose on her arm. “Why a couple days?”
“Well, I’m not going to have sex with you while you’re on the rag.”
“That’s terrible!”
“Jeez, man up. It’s a beautiful and natural part of life.”
“Then you do it.”
No amount of emotional boy genes was going to convince Casey to give in to that. She had become a pro at avoiding her monthly visitor and some hormonal loser wasn’t going to guilt her out of it.
“Look, sweetheart, you’re going to be fine,” Casey reassured him. “Just lay low until Thursday. I’ve laid out comfortable clothing for each day, there’s comfort food in the fridge and fudge ice cream in the freezer, and everything else you need is on the second shelf in the bathroom. You probably know your own cell number, so if you could give me back your shirt, I’ll get out of here.”
“What? You’re not staying?”
“Oh, geez. I just don’t want to be seen leaving my apartment in your body. You know how it is.”
Obviously he didn’t because her lip started quivering.
“No, no, come on now. It’s not that I don’t think you’re attractive. I have to go eventually. I can’t stay here in the girls’ dorm all week, can I?”
Her body reluctantly took off the shirt and handed it to her. It was hard watching her own naked body doubled over like that. She seemed so weak and vulnerable.
“You can go,” the guy replied, “but do you have to go right now? I was thinking maybe we could cuddle for a bit.”
“Sure,” she said as she took the boy into his doughy yet supportive arms. “I’d like that.”
And the worst part was that thanks to this body, she realized she actually did. | This would add a whole new level to rape and another set of problems with authentication. |
It's up to you what constitutes sex or where you set this story. Maybe when you first realise this power, maybe 1000 years later in a young body, maybe using it to get around some kind of obstacle, maybe you finally found someone you love and haven't told them yet, maybe the chain of displaced bodies you've left behind you is causing problems, etc... It's all up to you.
EDIT: I meant one person. The actual you, not plural. Like one person living forever through the bodies of the people they fuck, leaving behind a trail of confusion. Whatever, you've all done your own thing with it. | [WP] Every time you have sex with someone, you switch bodies with them. | A scream ripped right through Casey’s post-coital haze. She hadn’t seen herself so panicked since she was in high school. The look on her face was of pure disgust. Just what she needed - a sexist.
“Honey,” she whispered as she struggled to sit up. “Honey, you need to calm down, okay?”
“Calm down?” the guy she’d met at the party squealed. “You’re in… I’m in your body!”
“I thought you wanted to be inside of me,” she teased.
It was such a cliched line, but she just couldn’t pass up such a perfect set-up. Unfortunately, that guy - whatever his name was - couldn’t see the humor in it. He just dropped to the ground with a thud that must have scraped her knees and started sobbing loudly.
Casey rolled her eyes and fished for his boxers. It took a minute of scraping the carpet before she realized he was a tighty whiteys kind of guy. She never would have had sex with a guy in tighty whiteys if she wasn’t desperate.
“Look, could you stop crying and cover yourself up?” she pleaded softly as she tossed the guy’s t-shirt over to him. “You’re just hormonal. It’s going to be a rough few days, but come on. You knew what you were getting into when you became a bleeder.”
“A what?” the guy sniffled as he slid the shirt that was now nearly double his size over his head.
“You know, a bleeder,” she explained, but a horrible thought took over. “Wait, you knew what you were doing, right? I mean, I did say I wanted you inside of me.”
“I didn’t realize that you meant,” he started, but then the hiccupping sobs drowned out the rest of the sentence.
“Oh Christ,” she grumbled. “You’re a fucking virgin. How old are you?”
Casey watched as her body started shaking uncontrollably. This was bad. She was so desperate to swap bodies that she had popped the cherry of a chubby freshman right before her period. Normally, the testosterone surge from her lover’s body drowned out any sense of sympathy, but most bleeders were just assholes who would do anything for a couple quickies. She’d found the one nice guy left. There was so much estrogen in this body that she was even starting to feel bad for forgetting his name.
“Just calm down,” Casey said as she wrapped an arm around one of her own body’s shoulders. “I know this is a lot to take in, but you’ll be okay. You knew that people switch bodies when they have sex, right?”
“I heard about it,” he sniffed as he pulled the ugly close to her body. “I mean, they tell you this can happen in school, but I thought it was just to scare us. Is this for good?”
Normally, Casey would have laughed right into her face at this, but something about this body made her sympathetic. To have gone this far in life without knowing about The Swap, Jesus, he must have never seen a real porno in his life. She cursed this tubby gamer’s touchy-feely brain chemistry for turning her into such a girl over this.
“No,” she reassured him as she stroked her own hair. “In a few days, we’ll have sex again. You’ll be you, I’ll be me, and everything will be right with the world.”
“What do you mean?” he asked as he wiped her nose on her arm. “Why a couple days?”
“Well, I’m not going to have sex with you while you’re on the rag.”
“That’s terrible!”
“Jeez, man up. It’s a beautiful and natural part of life.”
“Then you do it.”
No amount of emotional boy genes was going to convince Casey to give in to that. She had become a pro at avoiding her monthly visitor and some hormonal loser wasn’t going to guilt her out of it.
“Look, sweetheart, you’re going to be fine,” Casey reassured him. “Just lay low until Thursday. I’ve laid out comfortable clothing for each day, there’s comfort food in the fridge and fudge ice cream in the freezer, and everything else you need is on the second shelf in the bathroom. You probably know your own cell number, so if you could give me back your shirt, I’ll get out of here.”
“What? You’re not staying?”
“Oh, geez. I just don’t want to be seen leaving my apartment in your body. You know how it is.”
Obviously he didn’t because her lip started quivering.
“No, no, come on now. It’s not that I don’t think you’re attractive. I have to go eventually. I can’t stay here in the girls’ dorm all week, can I?”
Her body reluctantly took off the shirt and handed it to her. It was hard watching her own naked body doubled over like that. She seemed so weak and vulnerable.
“You can go,” the guy replied, “but do you have to go right now? I was thinking maybe we could cuddle for a bit.”
“Sure,” she said as she took the boy into his doughy yet supportive arms. “I’d like that.”
And the worst part was that thanks to this body, she realized she actually did. | Kate Bush's "Running Up That Hill". |
It's up to you what constitutes sex or where you set this story. Maybe when you first realise this power, maybe 1000 years later in a young body, maybe using it to get around some kind of obstacle, maybe you finally found someone you love and haven't told them yet, maybe the chain of displaced bodies you've left behind you is causing problems, etc... It's all up to you.
EDIT: I meant one person. The actual you, not plural. Like one person living forever through the bodies of the people they fuck, leaving behind a trail of confusion. Whatever, you've all done your own thing with it. | [WP] Every time you have sex with someone, you switch bodies with them. | A scream ripped right through Casey’s post-coital haze. She hadn’t seen herself so panicked since she was in high school. The look on her face was of pure disgust. Just what she needed - a sexist.
“Honey,” she whispered as she struggled to sit up. “Honey, you need to calm down, okay?”
“Calm down?” the guy she’d met at the party squealed. “You’re in… I’m in your body!”
“I thought you wanted to be inside of me,” she teased.
It was such a cliched line, but she just couldn’t pass up such a perfect set-up. Unfortunately, that guy - whatever his name was - couldn’t see the humor in it. He just dropped to the ground with a thud that must have scraped her knees and started sobbing loudly.
Casey rolled her eyes and fished for his boxers. It took a minute of scraping the carpet before she realized he was a tighty whiteys kind of guy. She never would have had sex with a guy in tighty whiteys if she wasn’t desperate.
“Look, could you stop crying and cover yourself up?” she pleaded softly as she tossed the guy’s t-shirt over to him. “You’re just hormonal. It’s going to be a rough few days, but come on. You knew what you were getting into when you became a bleeder.”
“A what?” the guy sniffled as he slid the shirt that was now nearly double his size over his head.
“You know, a bleeder,” she explained, but a horrible thought took over. “Wait, you knew what you were doing, right? I mean, I did say I wanted you inside of me.”
“I didn’t realize that you meant,” he started, but then the hiccupping sobs drowned out the rest of the sentence.
“Oh Christ,” she grumbled. “You’re a fucking virgin. How old are you?”
Casey watched as her body started shaking uncontrollably. This was bad. She was so desperate to swap bodies that she had popped the cherry of a chubby freshman right before her period. Normally, the testosterone surge from her lover’s body drowned out any sense of sympathy, but most bleeders were just assholes who would do anything for a couple quickies. She’d found the one nice guy left. There was so much estrogen in this body that she was even starting to feel bad for forgetting his name.
“Just calm down,” Casey said as she wrapped an arm around one of her own body’s shoulders. “I know this is a lot to take in, but you’ll be okay. You knew that people switch bodies when they have sex, right?”
“I heard about it,” he sniffed as he pulled the ugly close to her body. “I mean, they tell you this can happen in school, but I thought it was just to scare us. Is this for good?”
Normally, Casey would have laughed right into her face at this, but something about this body made her sympathetic. To have gone this far in life without knowing about The Swap, Jesus, he must have never seen a real porno in his life. She cursed this tubby gamer’s touchy-feely brain chemistry for turning her into such a girl over this.
“No,” she reassured him as she stroked her own hair. “In a few days, we’ll have sex again. You’ll be you, I’ll be me, and everything will be right with the world.”
“What do you mean?” he asked as he wiped her nose on her arm. “Why a couple days?”
“Well, I’m not going to have sex with you while you’re on the rag.”
“That’s terrible!”
“Jeez, man up. It’s a beautiful and natural part of life.”
“Then you do it.”
No amount of emotional boy genes was going to convince Casey to give in to that. She had become a pro at avoiding her monthly visitor and some hormonal loser wasn’t going to guilt her out of it.
“Look, sweetheart, you’re going to be fine,” Casey reassured him. “Just lay low until Thursday. I’ve laid out comfortable clothing for each day, there’s comfort food in the fridge and fudge ice cream in the freezer, and everything else you need is on the second shelf in the bathroom. You probably know your own cell number, so if you could give me back your shirt, I’ll get out of here.”
“What? You’re not staying?”
“Oh, geez. I just don’t want to be seen leaving my apartment in your body. You know how it is.”
Obviously he didn’t because her lip started quivering.
“No, no, come on now. It’s not that I don’t think you’re attractive. I have to go eventually. I can’t stay here in the girls’ dorm all week, can I?”
Her body reluctantly took off the shirt and handed it to her. It was hard watching her own naked body doubled over like that. She seemed so weak and vulnerable.
“You can go,” the guy replied, “but do you have to go right now? I was thinking maybe we could cuddle for a bit.”
“Sure,” she said as she took the boy into his doughy yet supportive arms. “I’d like that.”
And the worst part was that thanks to this body, she realized she actually did. | "God dammit, I can't do physics. I took notes as best as I could but this probably doesn't make sense. I told you we should have had sex this morning."
"Oh, it looks fine. Thanks for going to class for me, cutie."
"You're welcome," I sighed. I know she...well, he...me? Ugh, this 'body switch when we have sex' thing is goddamned confusing. Anyway, Jaime kissed me in thanks, but it felt weird having my own tongue in my mouth.
"So what'd you do today?" I asked.
"I applied to a few jobs for you. I found some data entry ones you're definitely qualified for."
"Aw, thank you!" At least she got something productive done for me. I was entirely lost during that physics lecture.
"Oh, and I did something else too," Jaime said with a sly smile that I didn't like at all.
"...what did you do?"
"Come on, I'll show you," she said as she took my hand and led me into the bedroom.
After we had undressed each other, I shouted, "You shaved me! That's gonna itch like crazy!" |
It's up to you what constitutes sex or where you set this story. Maybe when you first realise this power, maybe 1000 years later in a young body, maybe using it to get around some kind of obstacle, maybe you finally found someone you love and haven't told them yet, maybe the chain of displaced bodies you've left behind you is causing problems, etc... It's all up to you.
EDIT: I meant one person. The actual you, not plural. Like one person living forever through the bodies of the people they fuck, leaving behind a trail of confusion. Whatever, you've all done your own thing with it. | [WP] Every time you have sex with someone, you switch bodies with them. | Donald looked down to make everyone think he was concentrating, but he was really just taking a moment to admire his brand new breasts. He took a bit too long, however, and Mrs. Jones cleared her throat loudly.
“Working out the math, are we?” she said acidly.
Donald whipped his head up. “Yes, yes. Of course I am.” As a high school math teacher, he had been quickly promoted to leader of this degenerate crowd. “Okay, folks. I think we can finally trace this back to where it started. “Jenna, you have the notes?”
“Yup,” said a burly, raven-haired young man as he tapped a notepad with a pencil.
“All right, then. Correct me if I get something wrong. “It would appear that this began Friday night, when Jake and Jenna...ah...coupled at the movie theater.”
“Actually, it was in my car out back,” said Jake.
“Right. Sure,” said Donald, waving his hands. “Afterward, Jenna drove off in Jake's body, in Jake's car.” The dark-haired boy nodded. “And Jake, in Jenna's body, met up with Randy. But Randy was actually there to meet Jake.”
“But I didn't recognize him as a chick, of course,” Randy grumbled.
“Of course,” Donald said. “And it wasn't long after that Jake, in a female's body, um, seduced....”
“Me,” Randy said. “He had sex with me.”
Jake shrugged. “It was a really weird moment. I had been looking forward to hanging out with you, but when I was a girl that feeling, like, turned into something else, and I just grabbed you.”
“Shut the fuck up, asshole.”
“Now now,” said Sherrie, Donald's wife. There'll be plenty of time for that later. No need to beat up somebody else's body.”
“It's my body. I'd be beating up my own body,” Randy said with a sneer.
“You guys are going to have to cut it out,” Donald said. “I'm already losing track!”
Everyone fell silent, but Randy kept muttering to himself.
“Okay, Donald,” Sherrie said, her voice noticeably colder. “What happened next?”
“Next, next. Oh! Well, next I...oh, I had sex with Mrs. Jones, and we switched bodies. And shortly after, Mrs. Jones, in my body, managed to convince my wife's sister, Rachel, to go out to dinner with her, whereupon they both got rather drunk and had sex.”
“Oh, I'm sure it took a lot of wine,” Sherrie said.
Donald continued as if she had said nothing. “And here's where it begins to get a little more complicated, because Rachel, now in my body, had sex with Melissa, Randy's sister. And she happens to be nineteen, so I don't know how you managed that, Rachel.”
Rachel, still in Melissa's body, smiled with satisfaction but said nothing.
“Anyway, after that Mrs. Jones, then in Rachel's body and attempting an ultimately doomed plan to return to her own body, seduced who she thought was Rachel in my body, but she didn't know that it was actually Melissa in there. So Mrs. Jones made it back into my body. And that brings us up to Sunday night.”
“On Sunday night, Jenna, who was in Randy's body, somehow—and I don't even know why you would do this, Jake—had sex with Jake, which returned Jenna to her own body, but put Jake in Randy's.”
“It didn't take much convincing,” Jake said from Randy's mouth with a laugh. Randy scowled from across the room with Jake's face.
“And that brings us to today, Monday. The only thing that happened today was that Jenna had sex with her boyfriend, and now they are switched. Well that seems easy enough to fix, at least.”
Donald pulled out his own notepad and began scribbling. “Now, the end result isn't really as complicated as you might think. Randy and Jake are switched. Mrs. Jones and I are switched. Melissa and Rachel are switched. Jenna and are boyfriend are switched. And Sherrie hasn't had sex with anyone.”
“Thanks so much, dear.”
“Donald tossed his hands in the air. “That aside, the solution seems clear. You all just need to...”
“NO!” the entire room shouted at once.
“No way am I fucking my own dick,” Randy yelled.
“How are we even supposed to do this?” whined Melissa. “How would two girls even, I mean...what counts as sex?”
“We could just try and find out,” Rachel said seductively.
“Ew.”
Donald sighed. “And I imagine that my wife doesn't want me coupling with Mrs. Jones again. Okay,” he said, going back to his notepad, “Let's figure this out.”
“Actually, dear,” Sherrie said, “The direct route might be best for you and Mrs. Jones.”
“Eh? Why's that?”
“Well, it's not like I exactly have the high ground here,” she said, with a blush.
Donald dropped both hands to his side. “No. Who was it? How much more complicated can this get?”
“For starters, I'm not Sherrie. I'm Jeremy.”
“Jeremy!” Jenna shouted. “What the fuck! You banged that old lady in my body?” Anger vanished from her face as she suddenly realized what had happened. “But that wouldn't be right. You...you two had sex before Jeremy and I...”
“Sorry, Dear,” Sherrie said from Jenna's body.
“Christ,” said Donald, as he tossed his notepad and pencil into the air. “Christ on a cracker.”
Bonus: [Here are the notes I scribbled down before I could write this little story.](http://i.imgur.com/usTjeQc.jpg) | "God dammit, I can't do physics. I took notes as best as I could but this probably doesn't make sense. I told you we should have had sex this morning."
"Oh, it looks fine. Thanks for going to class for me, cutie."
"You're welcome," I sighed. I know she...well, he...me? Ugh, this 'body switch when we have sex' thing is goddamned confusing. Anyway, Jaime kissed me in thanks, but it felt weird having my own tongue in my mouth.
"So what'd you do today?" I asked.
"I applied to a few jobs for you. I found some data entry ones you're definitely qualified for."
"Aw, thank you!" At least she got something productive done for me. I was entirely lost during that physics lecture.
"Oh, and I did something else too," Jaime said with a sly smile that I didn't like at all.
"...what did you do?"
"Come on, I'll show you," she said as she took my hand and led me into the bedroom.
After we had undressed each other, I shouted, "You shaved me! That's gonna itch like crazy!" |
It's up to you what constitutes sex or where you set this story. Maybe when you first realise this power, maybe 1000 years later in a young body, maybe using it to get around some kind of obstacle, maybe you finally found someone you love and haven't told them yet, maybe the chain of displaced bodies you've left behind you is causing problems, etc... It's all up to you.
EDIT: I meant one person. The actual you, not plural. Like one person living forever through the bodies of the people they fuck, leaving behind a trail of confusion. Whatever, you've all done your own thing with it. | [WP] Every time you have sex with someone, you switch bodies with them. | A scream ripped right through Casey’s post-coital haze. She hadn’t seen herself so panicked since she was in high school. The look on her face was of pure disgust. Just what she needed - a sexist.
“Honey,” she whispered as she struggled to sit up. “Honey, you need to calm down, okay?”
“Calm down?” the guy she’d met at the party squealed. “You’re in… I’m in your body!”
“I thought you wanted to be inside of me,” she teased.
It was such a cliched line, but she just couldn’t pass up such a perfect set-up. Unfortunately, that guy - whatever his name was - couldn’t see the humor in it. He just dropped to the ground with a thud that must have scraped her knees and started sobbing loudly.
Casey rolled her eyes and fished for his boxers. It took a minute of scraping the carpet before she realized he was a tighty whiteys kind of guy. She never would have had sex with a guy in tighty whiteys if she wasn’t desperate.
“Look, could you stop crying and cover yourself up?” she pleaded softly as she tossed the guy’s t-shirt over to him. “You’re just hormonal. It’s going to be a rough few days, but come on. You knew what you were getting into when you became a bleeder.”
“A what?” the guy sniffled as he slid the shirt that was now nearly double his size over his head.
“You know, a bleeder,” she explained, but a horrible thought took over. “Wait, you knew what you were doing, right? I mean, I did say I wanted you inside of me.”
“I didn’t realize that you meant,” he started, but then the hiccupping sobs drowned out the rest of the sentence.
“Oh Christ,” she grumbled. “You’re a fucking virgin. How old are you?”
Casey watched as her body started shaking uncontrollably. This was bad. She was so desperate to swap bodies that she had popped the cherry of a chubby freshman right before her period. Normally, the testosterone surge from her lover’s body drowned out any sense of sympathy, but most bleeders were just assholes who would do anything for a couple quickies. She’d found the one nice guy left. There was so much estrogen in this body that she was even starting to feel bad for forgetting his name.
“Just calm down,” Casey said as she wrapped an arm around one of her own body’s shoulders. “I know this is a lot to take in, but you’ll be okay. You knew that people switch bodies when they have sex, right?”
“I heard about it,” he sniffed as he pulled the ugly close to her body. “I mean, they tell you this can happen in school, but I thought it was just to scare us. Is this for good?”
Normally, Casey would have laughed right into her face at this, but something about this body made her sympathetic. To have gone this far in life without knowing about The Swap, Jesus, he must have never seen a real porno in his life. She cursed this tubby gamer’s touchy-feely brain chemistry for turning her into such a girl over this.
“No,” she reassured him as she stroked her own hair. “In a few days, we’ll have sex again. You’ll be you, I’ll be me, and everything will be right with the world.”
“What do you mean?” he asked as he wiped her nose on her arm. “Why a couple days?”
“Well, I’m not going to have sex with you while you’re on the rag.”
“That’s terrible!”
“Jeez, man up. It’s a beautiful and natural part of life.”
“Then you do it.”
No amount of emotional boy genes was going to convince Casey to give in to that. She had become a pro at avoiding her monthly visitor and some hormonal loser wasn’t going to guilt her out of it.
“Look, sweetheart, you’re going to be fine,” Casey reassured him. “Just lay low until Thursday. I’ve laid out comfortable clothing for each day, there’s comfort food in the fridge and fudge ice cream in the freezer, and everything else you need is on the second shelf in the bathroom. You probably know your own cell number, so if you could give me back your shirt, I’ll get out of here.”
“What? You’re not staying?”
“Oh, geez. I just don’t want to be seen leaving my apartment in your body. You know how it is.”
Obviously he didn’t because her lip started quivering.
“No, no, come on now. It’s not that I don’t think you’re attractive. I have to go eventually. I can’t stay here in the girls’ dorm all week, can I?”
Her body reluctantly took off the shirt and handed it to her. It was hard watching her own naked body doubled over like that. She seemed so weak and vulnerable.
“You can go,” the guy replied, “but do you have to go right now? I was thinking maybe we could cuddle for a bit.”
“Sure,” she said as she took the boy into his doughy yet supportive arms. “I’d like that.”
And the worst part was that thanks to this body, she realized she actually did. | I've been Alex for a long time.
Of course, there's no rational reason to believe that this was her original body. A few months ago, I found an online forum for people who were Switched against their will with someone called Alex. Male, female, but always named Alex. Based on some of the things they remember her saying, some of the physical tics, it could be my Alex. Maybe.
I'd like to think it's my Alex.
Some of them post the dates of their Switch. All after mine. Of course, there could be some before me who didn't post their dates, or haven't found the forum. Or maybe it's the wrong Alex.
But I'd like to think I was the first.
Adjusting wasn't that hard. There's a pretty reliable legal infrastructure now for establishing identity. I had to put my social on a few forms, have some observed interviews with my family, answer the security questions I picked out a long time ago. It's possible to defraud, but difficult, and most people who have casual sex have learned to guard their secrets. After a month, I was back in my apartment, back in my job. Can't do much more otherwise besides ask my friends and acquaintances to keep an eye out for my body.
If I was her first, then this is Alex's body that I move, feed, make pee. I'd like to think the soulful brown eyes that I see every day in the mirror now are the ones she was born with.
Some of the people on the forum are bitter. They say she was insane, narcissistic, self-loathing. That she cleaned out their bank accounts and manipulated their friends and families before their Switch had been registered.
I don't think that's true. I look in those eyes every day, and I remember the warmth and laughter in her voice, the thrill and softness of her hand in mine. She couldn't do harm to others knowingly unless she had to.
I'd like to think she was running from something, or someone. If it catches up to me, I'll destroy it. I will grind it to dust for the crime of making Alex afraid and desperate.
Maybe then she'll come back. |
It's up to you what constitutes sex or where you set this story. Maybe when you first realise this power, maybe 1000 years later in a young body, maybe using it to get around some kind of obstacle, maybe you finally found someone you love and haven't told them yet, maybe the chain of displaced bodies you've left behind you is causing problems, etc... It's all up to you.
EDIT: I meant one person. The actual you, not plural. Like one person living forever through the bodies of the people they fuck, leaving behind a trail of confusion. Whatever, you've all done your own thing with it. | [WP] Every time you have sex with someone, you switch bodies with them. | Donald looked down to make everyone think he was concentrating, but he was really just taking a moment to admire his brand new breasts. He took a bit too long, however, and Mrs. Jones cleared her throat loudly.
“Working out the math, are we?” she said acidly.
Donald whipped his head up. “Yes, yes. Of course I am.” As a high school math teacher, he had been quickly promoted to leader of this degenerate crowd. “Okay, folks. I think we can finally trace this back to where it started. “Jenna, you have the notes?”
“Yup,” said a burly, raven-haired young man as he tapped a notepad with a pencil.
“All right, then. Correct me if I get something wrong. “It would appear that this began Friday night, when Jake and Jenna...ah...coupled at the movie theater.”
“Actually, it was in my car out back,” said Jake.
“Right. Sure,” said Donald, waving his hands. “Afterward, Jenna drove off in Jake's body, in Jake's car.” The dark-haired boy nodded. “And Jake, in Jenna's body, met up with Randy. But Randy was actually there to meet Jake.”
“But I didn't recognize him as a chick, of course,” Randy grumbled.
“Of course,” Donald said. “And it wasn't long after that Jake, in a female's body, um, seduced....”
“Me,” Randy said. “He had sex with me.”
Jake shrugged. “It was a really weird moment. I had been looking forward to hanging out with you, but when I was a girl that feeling, like, turned into something else, and I just grabbed you.”
“Shut the fuck up, asshole.”
“Now now,” said Sherrie, Donald's wife. There'll be plenty of time for that later. No need to beat up somebody else's body.”
“It's my body. I'd be beating up my own body,” Randy said with a sneer.
“You guys are going to have to cut it out,” Donald said. “I'm already losing track!”
Everyone fell silent, but Randy kept muttering to himself.
“Okay, Donald,” Sherrie said, her voice noticeably colder. “What happened next?”
“Next, next. Oh! Well, next I...oh, I had sex with Mrs. Jones, and we switched bodies. And shortly after, Mrs. Jones, in my body, managed to convince my wife's sister, Rachel, to go out to dinner with her, whereupon they both got rather drunk and had sex.”
“Oh, I'm sure it took a lot of wine,” Sherrie said.
Donald continued as if she had said nothing. “And here's where it begins to get a little more complicated, because Rachel, now in my body, had sex with Melissa, Randy's sister. And she happens to be nineteen, so I don't know how you managed that, Rachel.”
Rachel, still in Melissa's body, smiled with satisfaction but said nothing.
“Anyway, after that Mrs. Jones, then in Rachel's body and attempting an ultimately doomed plan to return to her own body, seduced who she thought was Rachel in my body, but she didn't know that it was actually Melissa in there. So Mrs. Jones made it back into my body. And that brings us up to Sunday night.”
“On Sunday night, Jenna, who was in Randy's body, somehow—and I don't even know why you would do this, Jake—had sex with Jake, which returned Jenna to her own body, but put Jake in Randy's.”
“It didn't take much convincing,” Jake said from Randy's mouth with a laugh. Randy scowled from across the room with Jake's face.
“And that brings us to today, Monday. The only thing that happened today was that Jenna had sex with her boyfriend, and now they are switched. Well that seems easy enough to fix, at least.”
Donald pulled out his own notepad and began scribbling. “Now, the end result isn't really as complicated as you might think. Randy and Jake are switched. Mrs. Jones and I are switched. Melissa and Rachel are switched. Jenna and are boyfriend are switched. And Sherrie hasn't had sex with anyone.”
“Thanks so much, dear.”
“Donald tossed his hands in the air. “That aside, the solution seems clear. You all just need to...”
“NO!” the entire room shouted at once.
“No way am I fucking my own dick,” Randy yelled.
“How are we even supposed to do this?” whined Melissa. “How would two girls even, I mean...what counts as sex?”
“We could just try and find out,” Rachel said seductively.
“Ew.”
Donald sighed. “And I imagine that my wife doesn't want me coupling with Mrs. Jones again. Okay,” he said, going back to his notepad, “Let's figure this out.”
“Actually, dear,” Sherrie said, “The direct route might be best for you and Mrs. Jones.”
“Eh? Why's that?”
“Well, it's not like I exactly have the high ground here,” she said, with a blush.
Donald dropped both hands to his side. “No. Who was it? How much more complicated can this get?”
“For starters, I'm not Sherrie. I'm Jeremy.”
“Jeremy!” Jenna shouted. “What the fuck! You banged that old lady in my body?” Anger vanished from her face as she suddenly realized what had happened. “But that wouldn't be right. You...you two had sex before Jeremy and I...”
“Sorry, Dear,” Sherrie said from Jenna's body.
“Christ,” said Donald, as he tossed his notepad and pencil into the air. “Christ on a cracker.”
Bonus: [Here are the notes I scribbled down before I could write this little story.](http://i.imgur.com/usTjeQc.jpg) | I've been Alex for a long time.
Of course, there's no rational reason to believe that this was her original body. A few months ago, I found an online forum for people who were Switched against their will with someone called Alex. Male, female, but always named Alex. Based on some of the things they remember her saying, some of the physical tics, it could be my Alex. Maybe.
I'd like to think it's my Alex.
Some of them post the dates of their Switch. All after mine. Of course, there could be some before me who didn't post their dates, or haven't found the forum. Or maybe it's the wrong Alex.
But I'd like to think I was the first.
Adjusting wasn't that hard. There's a pretty reliable legal infrastructure now for establishing identity. I had to put my social on a few forms, have some observed interviews with my family, answer the security questions I picked out a long time ago. It's possible to defraud, but difficult, and most people who have casual sex have learned to guard their secrets. After a month, I was back in my apartment, back in my job. Can't do much more otherwise besides ask my friends and acquaintances to keep an eye out for my body.
If I was her first, then this is Alex's body that I move, feed, make pee. I'd like to think the soulful brown eyes that I see every day in the mirror now are the ones she was born with.
Some of the people on the forum are bitter. They say she was insane, narcissistic, self-loathing. That she cleaned out their bank accounts and manipulated their friends and families before their Switch had been registered.
I don't think that's true. I look in those eyes every day, and I remember the warmth and laughter in her voice, the thrill and softness of her hand in mine. She couldn't do harm to others knowingly unless she had to.
I'd like to think she was running from something, or someone. If it catches up to me, I'll destroy it. I will grind it to dust for the crime of making Alex afraid and desperate.
Maybe then she'll come back. |
It's up to you what constitutes sex or where you set this story. Maybe when you first realise this power, maybe 1000 years later in a young body, maybe using it to get around some kind of obstacle, maybe you finally found someone you love and haven't told them yet, maybe the chain of displaced bodies you've left behind you is causing problems, etc... It's all up to you.
EDIT: I meant one person. The actual you, not plural. Like one person living forever through the bodies of the people they fuck, leaving behind a trail of confusion. Whatever, you've all done your own thing with it. | [WP] Every time you have sex with someone, you switch bodies with them. | Donald looked down to make everyone think he was concentrating, but he was really just taking a moment to admire his brand new breasts. He took a bit too long, however, and Mrs. Jones cleared her throat loudly.
“Working out the math, are we?” she said acidly.
Donald whipped his head up. “Yes, yes. Of course I am.” As a high school math teacher, he had been quickly promoted to leader of this degenerate crowd. “Okay, folks. I think we can finally trace this back to where it started. “Jenna, you have the notes?”
“Yup,” said a burly, raven-haired young man as he tapped a notepad with a pencil.
“All right, then. Correct me if I get something wrong. “It would appear that this began Friday night, when Jake and Jenna...ah...coupled at the movie theater.”
“Actually, it was in my car out back,” said Jake.
“Right. Sure,” said Donald, waving his hands. “Afterward, Jenna drove off in Jake's body, in Jake's car.” The dark-haired boy nodded. “And Jake, in Jenna's body, met up with Randy. But Randy was actually there to meet Jake.”
“But I didn't recognize him as a chick, of course,” Randy grumbled.
“Of course,” Donald said. “And it wasn't long after that Jake, in a female's body, um, seduced....”
“Me,” Randy said. “He had sex with me.”
Jake shrugged. “It was a really weird moment. I had been looking forward to hanging out with you, but when I was a girl that feeling, like, turned into something else, and I just grabbed you.”
“Shut the fuck up, asshole.”
“Now now,” said Sherrie, Donald's wife. There'll be plenty of time for that later. No need to beat up somebody else's body.”
“It's my body. I'd be beating up my own body,” Randy said with a sneer.
“You guys are going to have to cut it out,” Donald said. “I'm already losing track!”
Everyone fell silent, but Randy kept muttering to himself.
“Okay, Donald,” Sherrie said, her voice noticeably colder. “What happened next?”
“Next, next. Oh! Well, next I...oh, I had sex with Mrs. Jones, and we switched bodies. And shortly after, Mrs. Jones, in my body, managed to convince my wife's sister, Rachel, to go out to dinner with her, whereupon they both got rather drunk and had sex.”
“Oh, I'm sure it took a lot of wine,” Sherrie said.
Donald continued as if she had said nothing. “And here's where it begins to get a little more complicated, because Rachel, now in my body, had sex with Melissa, Randy's sister. And she happens to be nineteen, so I don't know how you managed that, Rachel.”
Rachel, still in Melissa's body, smiled with satisfaction but said nothing.
“Anyway, after that Mrs. Jones, then in Rachel's body and attempting an ultimately doomed plan to return to her own body, seduced who she thought was Rachel in my body, but she didn't know that it was actually Melissa in there. So Mrs. Jones made it back into my body. And that brings us up to Sunday night.”
“On Sunday night, Jenna, who was in Randy's body, somehow—and I don't even know why you would do this, Jake—had sex with Jake, which returned Jenna to her own body, but put Jake in Randy's.”
“It didn't take much convincing,” Jake said from Randy's mouth with a laugh. Randy scowled from across the room with Jake's face.
“And that brings us to today, Monday. The only thing that happened today was that Jenna had sex with her boyfriend, and now they are switched. Well that seems easy enough to fix, at least.”
Donald pulled out his own notepad and began scribbling. “Now, the end result isn't really as complicated as you might think. Randy and Jake are switched. Mrs. Jones and I are switched. Melissa and Rachel are switched. Jenna and are boyfriend are switched. And Sherrie hasn't had sex with anyone.”
“Thanks so much, dear.”
“Donald tossed his hands in the air. “That aside, the solution seems clear. You all just need to...”
“NO!” the entire room shouted at once.
“No way am I fucking my own dick,” Randy yelled.
“How are we even supposed to do this?” whined Melissa. “How would two girls even, I mean...what counts as sex?”
“We could just try and find out,” Rachel said seductively.
“Ew.”
Donald sighed. “And I imagine that my wife doesn't want me coupling with Mrs. Jones again. Okay,” he said, going back to his notepad, “Let's figure this out.”
“Actually, dear,” Sherrie said, “The direct route might be best for you and Mrs. Jones.”
“Eh? Why's that?”
“Well, it's not like I exactly have the high ground here,” she said, with a blush.
Donald dropped both hands to his side. “No. Who was it? How much more complicated can this get?”
“For starters, I'm not Sherrie. I'm Jeremy.”
“Jeremy!” Jenna shouted. “What the fuck! You banged that old lady in my body?” Anger vanished from her face as she suddenly realized what had happened. “But that wouldn't be right. You...you two had sex before Jeremy and I...”
“Sorry, Dear,” Sherrie said from Jenna's body.
“Christ,” said Donald, as he tossed his notepad and pencil into the air. “Christ on a cracker.”
Bonus: [Here are the notes I scribbled down before I could write this little story.](http://i.imgur.com/usTjeQc.jpg) | When I woke up in the morning, the bastard had already left. If my groggy, thumping headache was something to go by, he had drugged me. Holy shit, I thought, had I lost a day or two? I jumped off the bed and promptly fell face first on my nice soft pink rug as my legs reached the floor far earlier than I expected. As I pushed myself away from the floor, I noticed the hairy nature of my arms - my whole body, actually. What the fuck had happened!
I got off the floor and stumbled into the bathroom. That ugly mug stared at me through the mirror. That woke me up. I just stared at the mirror for an eternity. What in the hell had happened? Was I still asleep? My headache suggested otherwise. It took a leap of faith, but I finally figured out what happened. This bastard slipped something into my drink, made me all happy and pliable, managed to get me back at my place, and have sex with me. And somehow, I don't quite know how, I turned into him in the morning. It was late in the morning, but I hadn't lost anytime. I threw up, then went to the kitchen and made a stiff drink. It made me feel human again.
I curled up on my loveseat, now too low and soft for me, the extra weight throwing off the balance of my warm little cubbyhole. The bastard had taken all his clothes when he left, and I did not want to get his sweat on any of my clothes. So I just wrapped my towel around me, with the intention of burning it later.
I tried to think of what to do, but my brain just drew a blank. My life was over. From a nice pretty girl, I had turned into a man who needed drugs to get girls to sleep with them. My brain shut down and idiotic questions made their way out, so in case you ever wondered, female orgasms are just way way better. It's like comparing a hand grenade to a nuclear bomb.
I started feeling hungry so I made myself some eggs and called the office to let them know I was sick. I am not sure, but I think I may be fired. I pondered whether I could call somebody, but if I said something, it would be a direct one-way ticket to crazytown.
Then the bastard came back. I looked so pretty in those red shoes it broke my heart.
I ran up to him... her...I don't know. So anyway, I ran up to him yelling and screaming about what he did to me, but he calmed me down. It's nothing to be worried about, he-she said, he just had an important errand to run. Something that just couldn't wait. But he was back and he would make everything right. He told me that having sex with him again would turn everything the way it was. He would explain everything after that. Why he took my clothes, why he didn't tell me anything last night, everything. But first I had to have sex with him again.
That was a problem. Even with the kinky fact that I was kinda having sex with myself, I couldn't get the bastard's dick up. It wasn't working. He finally had to go down on me and blow me. The bastard even swallowed. I literally bleached my mouth once I got it back. He told me to go to take a pill and go to sleep. I woke up to you knocking down my door and here I am.
"Seriously," the cop taking down my statement said, "you mowed down three people, stole gold bars worth a million dollars, and this is the best defense you can give me. You expect anyone to believe that load of crap."
I looked at him. I told him the truth; that was all I had.
He made me sign my statement and when he started handcuffing me, he whispered in my ear. "One of the security guards you killed was my brother and an ex-cop, bitch. An insanity plea isn't going to save you now." |
[WP] Someone wants to give away their soul for something. Satan tries to talk them out of it. | When Gus was seven years old, he tried to trade his soul for a new video game. His dad was barbecuing at the time. The conversation, which Gus never forgot, went like this:
"Why not?"
"Because it's a game. You have lots of games."
"But I don't have Dragon o' Time 2!"
"Maybe for your birthday, or Saturnalia, or whatever."
"But it's out right now!"
"Great but you only have the one soul. What happens next time you want something?"
"I'll get another soul."
"Oh no you won't, Gustopheles. Do you know what it cost me to get you the one? I'll be damned if I'm going to let you trade it for a video game. You have to look after that soul or so help me, I'll take away all the video games you do have."
Gus did not want this, so he fell silent.
Dad then turned back to his barbecue and looked at Frank, the neighbor, who patted his ample stomach and nodded to the burgers. They needed flipping. Dad struck a match against his horn and lit up a cigar.
"Kids," he said.
"Kids," Frank agreed.
But Gus had not let the matter be settled. He knew where Dad kept the souls. Bartering had not worked, so that left blackmail. That led to a whole other conversation Gus tried his hardest to forget. | Satan enters the boy's bedroom room, possessing the body of a chubby middle aged woman.
"Who, who the fuck are you," exclaims Chris in a panic as he covers himself in his blanket.
The woman laughs maniacally. "Oh Chris, its your pal Satan," she says. Satan walks up to him, curtsies, and goes, "Look at this fat bitch," as she grabs her own oversized breasts. "Can you imagine walking around all day in this?" Satan pinches loose fat on her belly, turns around and shows Chris her large ass and smacks it. "Its like sitting on a tub of jello. Fucking get on a diet, Jesus" he says with an evil grin. Chris blushes.
Satan sits down on Chris's computer desk chair and stares him down. "So, I hear we have a deal?"
Chris clears his throat. "Yeah... I just want Sarah to love me and marry me and I'll give you whatever."
Satan's eyes go wide. "Sarah Johnson? That little bitch?"
Chris yells, "You don't know her! You don't know her like I do!"
"Whoa, whoa tiger," says Satan. He sighs. "Look, I'm not so sure about this. There are rules. Kinda. More like standards." Satan stands up and begins pacing around the room.
"You sure you don't want to touch these tits, kid," he asks as Chris looks away. "Okay, your loss."
"Anyway, so the bishops of hell gotta approve all these contracts and then there's the veto from the big guy. I just don't think Sarah is worth it. They're all gonna say no and make me look like an asshole salesman preying on broken hearted teens."
Chris snaps, "She's amazing. She writes poetry and likes good music. This is bullshit. She's worth it."
Satan smiles, "She's not. Her poetry is terrible and her favorite book is Catcher in the Rye, ugh. Hell, she's listening to Robin Thicke right now. You'll just have to accept it, but I can offer you other things, worthwhile things."
Chris gets up and throws his finger in Satan's face, "Fuck you man, fuck you. You ain't nothing!"
Satan's eyes go fiery red, "How dare you, you little shit, and points his finger at Chris. No one talks to the dark lord like that. No one!" Sparks shoot out of Satan's fingers, harmlessly bouncing off Chris's chest.
Chris falls on his bed. "Uh, what," he says in a daze.
"You little fucker, how dare you talk to me like that! I was trying to help you and look what you did. I could have made you a god. A god! You ruined everything. You little fucking snot piece of shit," she yells, spittle shooting from her mouth.
"Wait, what did you do to me," begs Chris as he taps parts of his body with his hands. "I feel weird."
"You're gay now! No way you can get Sarah if you tried! Might have some luck with her older brother. At least he's getting a 4.0 and has actually read a decent book or two," she cackles as she walks out the door. |
|
[WP] Someone wants to give away their soul for something. Satan tries to talk them out of it. | Stan Marsley threw the fire on the crushed up herbs and waited. A puff of smoke and a flash popped in the room and an unimpressive red skinned man in a red Elvis costume appeared before him with a pitchfork. He did not have Devil horns.
"Behold! I'm Satan!" exclaimed the four and a half foot tall disappointment. "What'll it be and I'll take yer sooooul?!" He cackled.
"Well..." Stan sighed. He looked around as if he was a third grader, preparing to use a dirty word. "I want...I want a llama."
"Ah hah, what a...wait, what?" Satan stymied. "You want what?"
"A llama," repeated Stan quietly.
"Why do you- you can just go buy one, what do I need to give you a goddamned llama for?" Satan blanched. There was a long silence.
"To fuck," Stan clarified. Satan stared at Stan, blinking incessantly.
"To...to fuck?" Satan verified.
"Yes, to fuck," Stan replied matter-of-factly. "I can't go out and buy one because then my wife will know that we have a llama. But if you give me one, then- then I can hide it and I can fuck it whenever I want to."
Another long silence followed this moment.
"Dude, seriously?" Satan squeeled. "You seriously just want a llama? You're...you're going to suffer in hell for this for like, a *really* long time. You know- you know how long eterneity is? It's not like "Oh, man- I was in that line in the DMV for an *eternity*, it's an actual eternity. Your children's great great great and etc. grand children will watch the sun supernova and vaporize the planet and I'll be cutting off your nipples for the trillionth time in Hell. Are you sure you want to go through that for...I mean to fuck..."
"Yes," Stan said assertively. "Yes, I'm sure. I've thought about it a lot, and I can't live the rest of my life without having a llama that I can constantly fuck in my basement against its will."
"What about a child?" Satan postulated.
"What? Eww, no," Stan spat. "No, that's disgusting."
"Well...I- okay, I guess," Satan shrugged and snapped his fingers. A llama came into existence.
"Can you put bondage gear on it?" Stan requested.
"For the soul of your wife," Satan offered.
"Yeah, sure- fine," Stan dismissed, already dragging the unwilling llama toward his basement door. | Satan enters the boy's bedroom room, possessing the body of a chubby middle aged woman.
"Who, who the fuck are you," exclaims Chris in a panic as he covers himself in his blanket.
The woman laughs maniacally. "Oh Chris, its your pal Satan," she says. Satan walks up to him, curtsies, and goes, "Look at this fat bitch," as she grabs her own oversized breasts. "Can you imagine walking around all day in this?" Satan pinches loose fat on her belly, turns around and shows Chris her large ass and smacks it. "Its like sitting on a tub of jello. Fucking get on a diet, Jesus" he says with an evil grin. Chris blushes.
Satan sits down on Chris's computer desk chair and stares him down. "So, I hear we have a deal?"
Chris clears his throat. "Yeah... I just want Sarah to love me and marry me and I'll give you whatever."
Satan's eyes go wide. "Sarah Johnson? That little bitch?"
Chris yells, "You don't know her! You don't know her like I do!"
"Whoa, whoa tiger," says Satan. He sighs. "Look, I'm not so sure about this. There are rules. Kinda. More like standards." Satan stands up and begins pacing around the room.
"You sure you don't want to touch these tits, kid," he asks as Chris looks away. "Okay, your loss."
"Anyway, so the bishops of hell gotta approve all these contracts and then there's the veto from the big guy. I just don't think Sarah is worth it. They're all gonna say no and make me look like an asshole salesman preying on broken hearted teens."
Chris snaps, "She's amazing. She writes poetry and likes good music. This is bullshit. She's worth it."
Satan smiles, "She's not. Her poetry is terrible and her favorite book is Catcher in the Rye, ugh. Hell, she's listening to Robin Thicke right now. You'll just have to accept it, but I can offer you other things, worthwhile things."
Chris gets up and throws his finger in Satan's face, "Fuck you man, fuck you. You ain't nothing!"
Satan's eyes go fiery red, "How dare you, you little shit, and points his finger at Chris. No one talks to the dark lord like that. No one!" Sparks shoot out of Satan's fingers, harmlessly bouncing off Chris's chest.
Chris falls on his bed. "Uh, what," he says in a daze.
"You little fucker, how dare you talk to me like that! I was trying to help you and look what you did. I could have made you a god. A god! You ruined everything. You little fucking snot piece of shit," she yells, spittle shooting from her mouth.
"Wait, what did you do to me," begs Chris as he taps parts of his body with his hands. "I feel weird."
"You're gay now! No way you can get Sarah if you tried! Might have some luck with her older brother. At least he's getting a 4.0 and has actually read a decent book or two," she cackles as she walks out the door. |
|
[WP] Someone wants to give away their soul for something. Satan tries to talk them out of it. | "So anything I want?"
Satan gives his trademark smile, exuding charm and malice. "If it hasn't been asked before. I don't want to get bored. Bad things happen on earth when I'm bored." He smiles again, showing that he's pleased with himself. "For the price of course."
"I wish to be ruler of heaven and earth."
Satan laughs, "I've granted that to someone else already. " | Satan enters the boy's bedroom room, possessing the body of a chubby middle aged woman.
"Who, who the fuck are you," exclaims Chris in a panic as he covers himself in his blanket.
The woman laughs maniacally. "Oh Chris, its your pal Satan," she says. Satan walks up to him, curtsies, and goes, "Look at this fat bitch," as she grabs her own oversized breasts. "Can you imagine walking around all day in this?" Satan pinches loose fat on her belly, turns around and shows Chris her large ass and smacks it. "Its like sitting on a tub of jello. Fucking get on a diet, Jesus" he says with an evil grin. Chris blushes.
Satan sits down on Chris's computer desk chair and stares him down. "So, I hear we have a deal?"
Chris clears his throat. "Yeah... I just want Sarah to love me and marry me and I'll give you whatever."
Satan's eyes go wide. "Sarah Johnson? That little bitch?"
Chris yells, "You don't know her! You don't know her like I do!"
"Whoa, whoa tiger," says Satan. He sighs. "Look, I'm not so sure about this. There are rules. Kinda. More like standards." Satan stands up and begins pacing around the room.
"You sure you don't want to touch these tits, kid," he asks as Chris looks away. "Okay, your loss."
"Anyway, so the bishops of hell gotta approve all these contracts and then there's the veto from the big guy. I just don't think Sarah is worth it. They're all gonna say no and make me look like an asshole salesman preying on broken hearted teens."
Chris snaps, "She's amazing. She writes poetry and likes good music. This is bullshit. She's worth it."
Satan smiles, "She's not. Her poetry is terrible and her favorite book is Catcher in the Rye, ugh. Hell, she's listening to Robin Thicke right now. You'll just have to accept it, but I can offer you other things, worthwhile things."
Chris gets up and throws his finger in Satan's face, "Fuck you man, fuck you. You ain't nothing!"
Satan's eyes go fiery red, "How dare you, you little shit, and points his finger at Chris. No one talks to the dark lord like that. No one!" Sparks shoot out of Satan's fingers, harmlessly bouncing off Chris's chest.
Chris falls on his bed. "Uh, what," he says in a daze.
"You little fucker, how dare you talk to me like that! I was trying to help you and look what you did. I could have made you a god. A god! You ruined everything. You little fucking snot piece of shit," she yells, spittle shooting from her mouth.
"Wait, what did you do to me," begs Chris as he taps parts of his body with his hands. "I feel weird."
"You're gay now! No way you can get Sarah if you tried! Might have some luck with her older brother. At least he's getting a 4.0 and has actually read a decent book or two," she cackles as she walks out the door. |
|
[WP] Someone wants to give away their soul for something. Satan tries to talk them out of it. | "Look man, I'm all for the whole 'A fool and he money are soon parted' thing, believe me. But your soul is worth a hell (pun intened) of a lot more than *a case of PBR.* You really should try and hold me out for something better than that."
Jeff stared at Satan for a moment, his red solo cup long since emptied of refreshments.
"...what about *two* cases of PBR?" He asked, giving the devil two thumbs up.
"Oh for god's sake..."mumbled the devil, rubbing a red hand across his face.
| Satan enters the boy's bedroom room, possessing the body of a chubby middle aged woman.
"Who, who the fuck are you," exclaims Chris in a panic as he covers himself in his blanket.
The woman laughs maniacally. "Oh Chris, its your pal Satan," she says. Satan walks up to him, curtsies, and goes, "Look at this fat bitch," as she grabs her own oversized breasts. "Can you imagine walking around all day in this?" Satan pinches loose fat on her belly, turns around and shows Chris her large ass and smacks it. "Its like sitting on a tub of jello. Fucking get on a diet, Jesus" he says with an evil grin. Chris blushes.
Satan sits down on Chris's computer desk chair and stares him down. "So, I hear we have a deal?"
Chris clears his throat. "Yeah... I just want Sarah to love me and marry me and I'll give you whatever."
Satan's eyes go wide. "Sarah Johnson? That little bitch?"
Chris yells, "You don't know her! You don't know her like I do!"
"Whoa, whoa tiger," says Satan. He sighs. "Look, I'm not so sure about this. There are rules. Kinda. More like standards." Satan stands up and begins pacing around the room.
"You sure you don't want to touch these tits, kid," he asks as Chris looks away. "Okay, your loss."
"Anyway, so the bishops of hell gotta approve all these contracts and then there's the veto from the big guy. I just don't think Sarah is worth it. They're all gonna say no and make me look like an asshole salesman preying on broken hearted teens."
Chris snaps, "She's amazing. She writes poetry and likes good music. This is bullshit. She's worth it."
Satan smiles, "She's not. Her poetry is terrible and her favorite book is Catcher in the Rye, ugh. Hell, she's listening to Robin Thicke right now. You'll just have to accept it, but I can offer you other things, worthwhile things."
Chris gets up and throws his finger in Satan's face, "Fuck you man, fuck you. You ain't nothing!"
Satan's eyes go fiery red, "How dare you, you little shit, and points his finger at Chris. No one talks to the dark lord like that. No one!" Sparks shoot out of Satan's fingers, harmlessly bouncing off Chris's chest.
Chris falls on his bed. "Uh, what," he says in a daze.
"You little fucker, how dare you talk to me like that! I was trying to help you and look what you did. I could have made you a god. A god! You ruined everything. You little fucking snot piece of shit," she yells, spittle shooting from her mouth.
"Wait, what did you do to me," begs Chris as he taps parts of his body with his hands. "I feel weird."
"You're gay now! No way you can get Sarah if you tried! Might have some luck with her older brother. At least he's getting a 4.0 and has actually read a decent book or two," she cackles as she walks out the door. |
|
[WP] Someone wants to give away their soul for something. Satan tries to talk them out of it. | **POP**
Ow, hell ow... dammit. That hurt like all get-out. Is this how it is? Just a featureless room with a table and two chairs? Please tell me that this isn't some perverse "exit interview".
The other chair was tall and leather bound, reflecting dully in the overhead light. The table, well, it wasn't anything special either, just one of those utilitarian jobs from any number of office supply stores. But then again, I was just in a car accident wasn't I? What the hell is--
"Hello. Sorry about that, only time I had available. You should feel better in a few moments."
He was tall, swiveling around in his leather chair. I had expected something different, not a thin man with spectacles wearing a three-piece suit.
"Uh.. why am I here?"
"Oh, well - I think you know. Remember any thoughts before your car hit the -- ", he glanced down at the table which now displayed pertinent facts about my life, all arrayed in a semicircle around him, " - compact car at Madison Street?"
Oh. That.
"Well yes, but I was halfway joking and--"
"It was quite authentic. We have a few automated systems here, they're good at filtering out liars and the insane.", he leaned forward, fingers propping up his narrow chin.
"Well. Right. As you probably know I've had some financial trouble, and I was saying to a friend over the phone how I would sell my soul to have millions of dollars.", it sounded so stupid and quaint now, like I was asking a supermodel for a kiss.
"Right. That request. Well, you see - there's a bit of a problem here. Normally I'd honor such requests from a self-directed being like yourself, but there's some other considerations involved."
Hmm. Okay. I just nodded and sat silent as he shuffled some more pages into view with his fingertips.
"You made a request under duress. I can't disclose any future events to you - as it would violate the FCCA, so I think that--"
"FCCA? What is that?"
He smiled. The broad smile of someone dealing with a child or a small pet.
"The Free Choice Causality Accord - we're prevented from disclosing future events that would cause certain undesirable feedback loops in the time space continuum. It barely passed consensus and wasn't too popular. But here we are. What I'm going to say to you is this - your request has been denied, it is for your own good. Trust is the operative word here."
Stunned, I leaned back.
"But, since I'm already here, why not just grant it?"
"You're just going to make me blurt it out, aren't you? Fine. You have... potential. So, request denied. You will be dispatched to your former earthly conditions, right after you've been revived at the hospital. Best I can do."
It seemed fair enough, but there was one thing still nagging at me. I had to ask.
"So... you're the devil then?"
He took his glasses off, and rubbed his temples. Breathing in deeply, he leaned forward again.
"You're not going to remember this, because it would violate a few other agreements that I can't talk to you about. So why not. As to your first question - 'No'. And the inevitable follow up question - also 'No'. I'm not one of anything. It disturbs me that human kind still hasn't figured it out yet."
"So that means--"
"Yes, one and the same, yin and yang. Two sides of the coin, never to be split, seperated or divorced from each other. How could you have not noticed that in nature? It was only made as pairs, you know. One thing balancing the other - most times contained within the same organism. Oh 'eff it all - you've gone and got me emotional again. Off with you--"
**POP**
"I've got to do a better job on the next batch, this one doesn't seem too bright." | Satan enters the boy's bedroom room, possessing the body of a chubby middle aged woman.
"Who, who the fuck are you," exclaims Chris in a panic as he covers himself in his blanket.
The woman laughs maniacally. "Oh Chris, its your pal Satan," she says. Satan walks up to him, curtsies, and goes, "Look at this fat bitch," as she grabs her own oversized breasts. "Can you imagine walking around all day in this?" Satan pinches loose fat on her belly, turns around and shows Chris her large ass and smacks it. "Its like sitting on a tub of jello. Fucking get on a diet, Jesus" he says with an evil grin. Chris blushes.
Satan sits down on Chris's computer desk chair and stares him down. "So, I hear we have a deal?"
Chris clears his throat. "Yeah... I just want Sarah to love me and marry me and I'll give you whatever."
Satan's eyes go wide. "Sarah Johnson? That little bitch?"
Chris yells, "You don't know her! You don't know her like I do!"
"Whoa, whoa tiger," says Satan. He sighs. "Look, I'm not so sure about this. There are rules. Kinda. More like standards." Satan stands up and begins pacing around the room.
"You sure you don't want to touch these tits, kid," he asks as Chris looks away. "Okay, your loss."
"Anyway, so the bishops of hell gotta approve all these contracts and then there's the veto from the big guy. I just don't think Sarah is worth it. They're all gonna say no and make me look like an asshole salesman preying on broken hearted teens."
Chris snaps, "She's amazing. She writes poetry and likes good music. This is bullshit. She's worth it."
Satan smiles, "She's not. Her poetry is terrible and her favorite book is Catcher in the Rye, ugh. Hell, she's listening to Robin Thicke right now. You'll just have to accept it, but I can offer you other things, worthwhile things."
Chris gets up and throws his finger in Satan's face, "Fuck you man, fuck you. You ain't nothing!"
Satan's eyes go fiery red, "How dare you, you little shit, and points his finger at Chris. No one talks to the dark lord like that. No one!" Sparks shoot out of Satan's fingers, harmlessly bouncing off Chris's chest.
Chris falls on his bed. "Uh, what," he says in a daze.
"You little fucker, how dare you talk to me like that! I was trying to help you and look what you did. I could have made you a god. A god! You ruined everything. You little fucking snot piece of shit," she yells, spittle shooting from her mouth.
"Wait, what did you do to me," begs Chris as he taps parts of his body with his hands. "I feel weird."
"You're gay now! No way you can get Sarah if you tried! Might have some luck with her older brother. At least he's getting a 4.0 and has actually read a decent book or two," she cackles as she walks out the door. |
|
[WP] Someone wants to give away their soul for something. Satan tries to talk them out of it. | "Right. So this document declares that you, Marry White, are the owner of one (1) soul, presumed to be in Good Standing and of Moral Virtue with no previous claims, levies, or fines against"
An astute person can spot someone with a legal background from across a crowded room. There's a certain bearing: the way they hold their shoulders, lift their chin, bring their hands back tight to the belt-buckle when they emote. Speaking with a true master of the legal craft is an even more singular experience. Complex sentences, clauses and subclauses fall from a forked tongue with deft ease -- easy to follow but impossible to fully penetrate.
And then there is this guy, thought Marry. She'd trained at Harvard Law, clerked for the Chief Justice, taken a position with one of New York's finest firms. She'd married an prosecutor and guided his career to the govenor's mansion. She'd played politics with some of the sharpest and most dangerous legal minds on the planet.
But next to this guy? Nothing. His articulation? Perfect. Gestures? Convincing, precise, engaging. Eye contact? Flawless. There was an art to his legal speech, an elegance and poise that stopped even a legal asthete like herself cold.
You could hear this guy pronounce **parentheses** for Christ's sake.
She swallowed and slashed out her name, dark red jags forming the sharp ridges in "White."
"And this one proclaims that you, Marry White, do consign your soul to the stewardship of the undersigned party -- that would be me -- and agree that said ownership is transferred immediately. Subsection C -- next page, yes, that one -- states that you will retain physical possession of the same until your natural death at which time I will collect it or arrange to have it collected."
Marry raised a finger, silencing the man in the dark suit and fashionable red power tie while she reviewed language on the first page.
"Very well"
It was the same tone of voice she'd practiced in the mock court rooms at Harvard, honed in the back-rooms of New York politics, and wielded against state Senators and Representatives as first lady. Steady even now, she thought, her professors would be pleased.
"So if you'll sign" -- the man's immaculately manicured hand reached over hers, casually flipping to the back of the bound document -- "here, here and" -- another flip -- "initial here."
"Ah. And what about your end?"
A laugh, rich, redolent with cigar smoke and fine scotch rippled across his dark eyes and through a predatory smile. "Nothing gets past you, does it. Still, you can't blame me for trying."
Drawing a thin black folio from his jacket pocket, he plucked the pen from her fingers and began to scrawl a signature across it, long looping characters more like glyphs than any language she'd seen before.
"This proclaims a debt to you, Marry White, of one (1) unlimited and unqualified wish to be executed at a time of your choosing and discretion. Certain restrictions do, of course, apply: among them that you can not wish to undo the deal we are signing here and that you can not wish for your own immortality or otherwise render your own soul noncollectable by virtue of your wish. The debt is contingent upon the completion of the soul-transfer agreement," still signing, he nodded at the neatly bound stack of yellow paper awaiting Mary's pen, "and my own signature accepting the same."
He slid the folio across the desk to her; it was still warm from his touch. The red swirls of his signature gleamed against the matte finish. She read it, slowly, patiently, and carefully. Twice.
"Very well"
It was the same tone of voice she'd used with her boys when she was raising them. Neither harsh nor comforting just perfectly level. She was the rock in their lives. Their mercurial father and his political career left little time for the family life she felt they deserved but she strove to deliver it none the less. It was laden with understanding, acceptance, and the patient knowledge that boys would be boys. It was the voice she had used when her first son had traveled to Rwanda with the Peace Corps and the voice she had used to comfort her youngest when the news came back that he'd fallen there before a genocider's machette in 1994 while protecting a young Tutsi woman.
The man handed the pen back to her.
"Here, here, and initial here."
She did her best to quell the tremors in her fingers as she signed once and then a second time. The room felt warmer now, she thought, or perhaps that was merely a trick of her imagination. She took a deep breath and then, with a flourish, etched the last three initials: MLW.
"Very well," she'd used the same tone when her youngest, Michael, had told her he'd been accepted to the Naval Academy. She'd worried at the time but a son in uniform was a boon to her husband's career. The pollsters said that it probably won him the race up-state. Michael looked so sharp and polished in his Marine dress blues next to his father on stage and the resemblance... well... it reminded her of why she'd fallen for the man all those years ago.
"Excellent," the man snapped, jerking her from her reverie and the paper from her hand. He pivoted it roughly towards himself as he stooped to sign. His motions were sharper now, animal, even savage.
"So, these restrictions on my wishes. Can I wish for my dead son back?"
"You can, but he won't be the same. Paragraph 4 clearly lays out that you can't change the past," he responded in a bored sing-song as he looped through an involved symbol.
"What about safety and prosperity for a loved one? Could I protect Michael? Keep him safe in Afghanistan? Settle him down with a nice girl and...."
"Section 9, paragraph 2, **clearly** states that wishes must be of direct benefit to the wisher. Protecting your son is an altruistic act which confers no benefit unto yourself and so no, you may not do that."
With a final jag the signature was done. The man's long fingers plucked a gold and enamel cap from an expertly tailored pocket and slid it down over the barrel of the pen. As it clicked into place the room plunged into darkness.
"Now," he said, black eyes lit by the ember-like glow of the ancient sygls and glyphs inscribed on the vellum page, "what will you have, Marry White?"
Marry looked down and drew a breath. She had studied things, learned things, and done things to bring this moment about that horrified her. She had turned her powerful legal mind to the study of unthinkable texts, grisly secrets, and vile rituls to bring this man into this room and she had done so for a purpose, for a reason, and above all, with a plan.
"World peace," she pronounced, in that level, courtroom voice, "a peaceful transition to a peaceful world without bloodshed, violence, or cause for either continuing in perpetuity and without interruption or suspension until the End of Days."
"What?"
"You heard me."
"Section 9, paragraph 2"
"I know what section 9, paragraph 2 states. World peace is of direct benefit to me; besides the considerable societal savings of which I am a direct beneficiary, it also dramatically reduces my chances of dying in a military action, terrorist attack, etc."
"Section 10"
"Paragraph 16? That my wishes may not hold sway over otherwise natural phenomena? War is not a natural phenomena, at least not if we hold your existence to validate certain other texts which have one or two things to say on that subject. While we're at it, paragraph 4 doesn't apply either: there is no reasonable way to determine my plausible lifespan nor the heralding of the End of Days and therefore restrictions upon the longevity of my wish are likewise invalid. Appendix A's prohibition on wishes which constrain the method by which they are fulfilled is nullified by the nature of this wish in that "peace" can not be defined as a state in which there is no one left to fight and the aforementioned section on natural phenomena, of which human confrontationalism is certainly one. That is my wish. World peace under the terms I have laid out. We have a contract signed in blood with my name and Yours. Do you intend to honor it?"
A pause. A flicker. And the lights came back on.
The man sat, his tie loosened and the bridge of his nose pinched between thumb and forefinger, a curl of smoke rising from the pen in his clenched fist.
"Perhaps we could negotiate an alternate arrangement?"
"Very well." | Satan enters the boy's bedroom room, possessing the body of a chubby middle aged woman.
"Who, who the fuck are you," exclaims Chris in a panic as he covers himself in his blanket.
The woman laughs maniacally. "Oh Chris, its your pal Satan," she says. Satan walks up to him, curtsies, and goes, "Look at this fat bitch," as she grabs her own oversized breasts. "Can you imagine walking around all day in this?" Satan pinches loose fat on her belly, turns around and shows Chris her large ass and smacks it. "Its like sitting on a tub of jello. Fucking get on a diet, Jesus" he says with an evil grin. Chris blushes.
Satan sits down on Chris's computer desk chair and stares him down. "So, I hear we have a deal?"
Chris clears his throat. "Yeah... I just want Sarah to love me and marry me and I'll give you whatever."
Satan's eyes go wide. "Sarah Johnson? That little bitch?"
Chris yells, "You don't know her! You don't know her like I do!"
"Whoa, whoa tiger," says Satan. He sighs. "Look, I'm not so sure about this. There are rules. Kinda. More like standards." Satan stands up and begins pacing around the room.
"You sure you don't want to touch these tits, kid," he asks as Chris looks away. "Okay, your loss."
"Anyway, so the bishops of hell gotta approve all these contracts and then there's the veto from the big guy. I just don't think Sarah is worth it. They're all gonna say no and make me look like an asshole salesman preying on broken hearted teens."
Chris snaps, "She's amazing. She writes poetry and likes good music. This is bullshit. She's worth it."
Satan smiles, "She's not. Her poetry is terrible and her favorite book is Catcher in the Rye, ugh. Hell, she's listening to Robin Thicke right now. You'll just have to accept it, but I can offer you other things, worthwhile things."
Chris gets up and throws his finger in Satan's face, "Fuck you man, fuck you. You ain't nothing!"
Satan's eyes go fiery red, "How dare you, you little shit, and points his finger at Chris. No one talks to the dark lord like that. No one!" Sparks shoot out of Satan's fingers, harmlessly bouncing off Chris's chest.
Chris falls on his bed. "Uh, what," he says in a daze.
"You little fucker, how dare you talk to me like that! I was trying to help you and look what you did. I could have made you a god. A god! You ruined everything. You little fucking snot piece of shit," she yells, spittle shooting from her mouth.
"Wait, what did you do to me," begs Chris as he taps parts of his body with his hands. "I feel weird."
"You're gay now! No way you can get Sarah if you tried! Might have some luck with her older brother. At least he's getting a 4.0 and has actually read a decent book or two," she cackles as she walks out the door. |
|
[WP] Someone wants to give away their soul for something. Satan tries to talk them out of it. | "You want to give your *eternal soul* for internet points on some internet website?" Said the red god, incredulous.
"You must be retarded..." Could even *he* send a disabled man to hell? What fun would it be torturing somebody that understands nothing? He hadn't thought of this, much like the music industry he had created, the net effect of all those wires and modems and nodes on the humans and their societies was something he, the thrones, nobody, could have ever predicted and now it was 'take my soul for WoW points, take my soul for reps, take my sould for BTC, take my sould for *the effing lulz*', it had gotten beyond ridiculous and he was getting fed up of it all.
"This is your immortal soul we're talking about!" He boomed, "This isn't... I-I'm not some sort of joke you know! You'll be tormented forever for this, burned and whipped. Just to be cool on some stupid website? Are you even thinking?"
"There's nothing stupid about Lebbit, replied the idiot. It's the coolest website there is and I don't want to die and never been guilded." He crossed his unasthetic arms defiantly.
The red god considered his options for a few monents and then decided.
He'd revoke his SAWCSM privilage and then send him to /pol/.
Forever.
That'll learn him. The dumb ****. | Satan enters the boy's bedroom room, possessing the body of a chubby middle aged woman.
"Who, who the fuck are you," exclaims Chris in a panic as he covers himself in his blanket.
The woman laughs maniacally. "Oh Chris, its your pal Satan," she says. Satan walks up to him, curtsies, and goes, "Look at this fat bitch," as she grabs her own oversized breasts. "Can you imagine walking around all day in this?" Satan pinches loose fat on her belly, turns around and shows Chris her large ass and smacks it. "Its like sitting on a tub of jello. Fucking get on a diet, Jesus" he says with an evil grin. Chris blushes.
Satan sits down on Chris's computer desk chair and stares him down. "So, I hear we have a deal?"
Chris clears his throat. "Yeah... I just want Sarah to love me and marry me and I'll give you whatever."
Satan's eyes go wide. "Sarah Johnson? That little bitch?"
Chris yells, "You don't know her! You don't know her like I do!"
"Whoa, whoa tiger," says Satan. He sighs. "Look, I'm not so sure about this. There are rules. Kinda. More like standards." Satan stands up and begins pacing around the room.
"You sure you don't want to touch these tits, kid," he asks as Chris looks away. "Okay, your loss."
"Anyway, so the bishops of hell gotta approve all these contracts and then there's the veto from the big guy. I just don't think Sarah is worth it. They're all gonna say no and make me look like an asshole salesman preying on broken hearted teens."
Chris snaps, "She's amazing. She writes poetry and likes good music. This is bullshit. She's worth it."
Satan smiles, "She's not. Her poetry is terrible and her favorite book is Catcher in the Rye, ugh. Hell, she's listening to Robin Thicke right now. You'll just have to accept it, but I can offer you other things, worthwhile things."
Chris gets up and throws his finger in Satan's face, "Fuck you man, fuck you. You ain't nothing!"
Satan's eyes go fiery red, "How dare you, you little shit, and points his finger at Chris. No one talks to the dark lord like that. No one!" Sparks shoot out of Satan's fingers, harmlessly bouncing off Chris's chest.
Chris falls on his bed. "Uh, what," he says in a daze.
"You little fucker, how dare you talk to me like that! I was trying to help you and look what you did. I could have made you a god. A god! You ruined everything. You little fucking snot piece of shit," she yells, spittle shooting from her mouth.
"Wait, what did you do to me," begs Chris as he taps parts of his body with his hands. "I feel weird."
"You're gay now! No way you can get Sarah if you tried! Might have some luck with her older brother. At least he's getting a 4.0 and has actually read a decent book or two," she cackles as she walks out the door. |
|
[WP] Someone wants to give away their soul for something. Satan tries to talk them out of it. | Stan Marsley threw the fire on the crushed up herbs and waited. A puff of smoke and a flash popped in the room and an unimpressive red skinned man in a red Elvis costume appeared before him with a pitchfork. He did not have Devil horns.
"Behold! I'm Satan!" exclaimed the four and a half foot tall disappointment. "What'll it be and I'll take yer sooooul?!" He cackled.
"Well..." Stan sighed. He looked around as if he was a third grader, preparing to use a dirty word. "I want...I want a llama."
"Ah hah, what a...wait, what?" Satan stymied. "You want what?"
"A llama," repeated Stan quietly.
"Why do you- you can just go buy one, what do I need to give you a goddamned llama for?" Satan blanched. There was a long silence.
"To fuck," Stan clarified. Satan stared at Stan, blinking incessantly.
"To...to fuck?" Satan verified.
"Yes, to fuck," Stan replied matter-of-factly. "I can't go out and buy one because then my wife will know that we have a llama. But if you give me one, then- then I can hide it and I can fuck it whenever I want to."
Another long silence followed this moment.
"Dude, seriously?" Satan squeeled. "You seriously just want a llama? You're...you're going to suffer in hell for this for like, a *really* long time. You know- you know how long eterneity is? It's not like "Oh, man- I was in that line in the DMV for an *eternity*, it's an actual eternity. Your children's great great great and etc. grand children will watch the sun supernova and vaporize the planet and I'll be cutting off your nipples for the trillionth time in Hell. Are you sure you want to go through that for...I mean to fuck..."
"Yes," Stan said assertively. "Yes, I'm sure. I've thought about it a lot, and I can't live the rest of my life without having a llama that I can constantly fuck in my basement against its will."
"What about a child?" Satan postulated.
"What? Eww, no," Stan spat. "No, that's disgusting."
"Well...I- okay, I guess," Satan shrugged and snapped his fingers. A llama came into existence.
"Can you put bondage gear on it?" Stan requested.
"For the soul of your wife," Satan offered.
"Yeah, sure- fine," Stan dismissed, already dragging the unwilling llama toward his basement door. | “Look, your soul isn’t worth that much.” Lucifer said as his fingers glided over the piano keys.
“Come on,” she smiled. “If you really are who you say, nothing should be out of your reach.”
Lucifer frowned, “Don’t try that game with me. It’s insulting.”
“It’s one phone call. How bad could it be?”
“You don’t know him like I do. He’s always been a sore loser, and it’s always bad when we fight. Besides, aren’t you concerned about what I’ll do with your soul when you die?”
She shrugged, “Honestly I’ve never been really attached to it, and you’re trying to change the subject. I’m giving you one pristine, undamaged soul for a measly little phone call. What will people think if you turn that down?”
“Alright, fine.” Lucifer sighed. He ended his playing and shook hands, then he pulled her in close, “If I regret this, just know that you’ll be stuck with me. Eternity is a very long time.”
“Totally worth it,” she smiled. “I’m waiting by the way. You can’t just agree then back out.”
He gave her a long-suffering stare before pulling out his cell phone. The contact was in his favorites.
“It’s me. Look, you won’t believe what this woman sold her soul for. She thinks she and I can beat you in a game of hoops. What? No, basketball. Don’t be dense, you know the game. Are you up for it?” He laughed. “Only if you’re sure.” He glanced at her and grinned. “Alright, this Saturday then.”
“So he agreed to it?”
“Oh yes, he loved the idea. But he did make a slight change to our contract. He and I will be teaming up *against* you,” Lucifer smiled.
“What? He can’t do that!”
“Of course he can. He’s God.” |
|
[WP] Someone wants to give away their soul for something. Satan tries to talk them out of it. | "So anything I want?"
Satan gives his trademark smile, exuding charm and malice. "If it hasn't been asked before. I don't want to get bored. Bad things happen on earth when I'm bored." He smiles again, showing that he's pleased with himself. "For the price of course."
"I wish to be ruler of heaven and earth."
Satan laughs, "I've granted that to someone else already. " | “Look, your soul isn’t worth that much.” Lucifer said as his fingers glided over the piano keys.
“Come on,” she smiled. “If you really are who you say, nothing should be out of your reach.”
Lucifer frowned, “Don’t try that game with me. It’s insulting.”
“It’s one phone call. How bad could it be?”
“You don’t know him like I do. He’s always been a sore loser, and it’s always bad when we fight. Besides, aren’t you concerned about what I’ll do with your soul when you die?”
She shrugged, “Honestly I’ve never been really attached to it, and you’re trying to change the subject. I’m giving you one pristine, undamaged soul for a measly little phone call. What will people think if you turn that down?”
“Alright, fine.” Lucifer sighed. He ended his playing and shook hands, then he pulled her in close, “If I regret this, just know that you’ll be stuck with me. Eternity is a very long time.”
“Totally worth it,” she smiled. “I’m waiting by the way. You can’t just agree then back out.”
He gave her a long-suffering stare before pulling out his cell phone. The contact was in his favorites.
“It’s me. Look, you won’t believe what this woman sold her soul for. She thinks she and I can beat you in a game of hoops. What? No, basketball. Don’t be dense, you know the game. Are you up for it?” He laughed. “Only if you’re sure.” He glanced at her and grinned. “Alright, this Saturday then.”
“So he agreed to it?”
“Oh yes, he loved the idea. But he did make a slight change to our contract. He and I will be teaming up *against* you,” Lucifer smiled.
“What? He can’t do that!”
“Of course he can. He’s God.” |
|
[WP] Someone wants to give away their soul for something. Satan tries to talk them out of it. | "Look man, I'm all for the whole 'A fool and he money are soon parted' thing, believe me. But your soul is worth a hell (pun intened) of a lot more than *a case of PBR.* You really should try and hold me out for something better than that."
Jeff stared at Satan for a moment, his red solo cup long since emptied of refreshments.
"...what about *two* cases of PBR?" He asked, giving the devil two thumbs up.
"Oh for god's sake..."mumbled the devil, rubbing a red hand across his face.
| “Look, your soul isn’t worth that much.” Lucifer said as his fingers glided over the piano keys.
“Come on,” she smiled. “If you really are who you say, nothing should be out of your reach.”
Lucifer frowned, “Don’t try that game with me. It’s insulting.”
“It’s one phone call. How bad could it be?”
“You don’t know him like I do. He’s always been a sore loser, and it’s always bad when we fight. Besides, aren’t you concerned about what I’ll do with your soul when you die?”
She shrugged, “Honestly I’ve never been really attached to it, and you’re trying to change the subject. I’m giving you one pristine, undamaged soul for a measly little phone call. What will people think if you turn that down?”
“Alright, fine.” Lucifer sighed. He ended his playing and shook hands, then he pulled her in close, “If I regret this, just know that you’ll be stuck with me. Eternity is a very long time.”
“Totally worth it,” she smiled. “I’m waiting by the way. You can’t just agree then back out.”
He gave her a long-suffering stare before pulling out his cell phone. The contact was in his favorites.
“It’s me. Look, you won’t believe what this woman sold her soul for. She thinks she and I can beat you in a game of hoops. What? No, basketball. Don’t be dense, you know the game. Are you up for it?” He laughed. “Only if you’re sure.” He glanced at her and grinned. “Alright, this Saturday then.”
“So he agreed to it?”
“Oh yes, he loved the idea. But he did make a slight change to our contract. He and I will be teaming up *against* you,” Lucifer smiled.
“What? He can’t do that!”
“Of course he can. He’s God.” |
|
[WP] Someone wants to give away their soul for something. Satan tries to talk them out of it. | **POP**
Ow, hell ow... dammit. That hurt like all get-out. Is this how it is? Just a featureless room with a table and two chairs? Please tell me that this isn't some perverse "exit interview".
The other chair was tall and leather bound, reflecting dully in the overhead light. The table, well, it wasn't anything special either, just one of those utilitarian jobs from any number of office supply stores. But then again, I was just in a car accident wasn't I? What the hell is--
"Hello. Sorry about that, only time I had available. You should feel better in a few moments."
He was tall, swiveling around in his leather chair. I had expected something different, not a thin man with spectacles wearing a three-piece suit.
"Uh.. why am I here?"
"Oh, well - I think you know. Remember any thoughts before your car hit the -- ", he glanced down at the table which now displayed pertinent facts about my life, all arrayed in a semicircle around him, " - compact car at Madison Street?"
Oh. That.
"Well yes, but I was halfway joking and--"
"It was quite authentic. We have a few automated systems here, they're good at filtering out liars and the insane.", he leaned forward, fingers propping up his narrow chin.
"Well. Right. As you probably know I've had some financial trouble, and I was saying to a friend over the phone how I would sell my soul to have millions of dollars.", it sounded so stupid and quaint now, like I was asking a supermodel for a kiss.
"Right. That request. Well, you see - there's a bit of a problem here. Normally I'd honor such requests from a self-directed being like yourself, but there's some other considerations involved."
Hmm. Okay. I just nodded and sat silent as he shuffled some more pages into view with his fingertips.
"You made a request under duress. I can't disclose any future events to you - as it would violate the FCCA, so I think that--"
"FCCA? What is that?"
He smiled. The broad smile of someone dealing with a child or a small pet.
"The Free Choice Causality Accord - we're prevented from disclosing future events that would cause certain undesirable feedback loops in the time space continuum. It barely passed consensus and wasn't too popular. But here we are. What I'm going to say to you is this - your request has been denied, it is for your own good. Trust is the operative word here."
Stunned, I leaned back.
"But, since I'm already here, why not just grant it?"
"You're just going to make me blurt it out, aren't you? Fine. You have... potential. So, request denied. You will be dispatched to your former earthly conditions, right after you've been revived at the hospital. Best I can do."
It seemed fair enough, but there was one thing still nagging at me. I had to ask.
"So... you're the devil then?"
He took his glasses off, and rubbed his temples. Breathing in deeply, he leaned forward again.
"You're not going to remember this, because it would violate a few other agreements that I can't talk to you about. So why not. As to your first question - 'No'. And the inevitable follow up question - also 'No'. I'm not one of anything. It disturbs me that human kind still hasn't figured it out yet."
"So that means--"
"Yes, one and the same, yin and yang. Two sides of the coin, never to be split, seperated or divorced from each other. How could you have not noticed that in nature? It was only made as pairs, you know. One thing balancing the other - most times contained within the same organism. Oh 'eff it all - you've gone and got me emotional again. Off with you--"
**POP**
"I've got to do a better job on the next batch, this one doesn't seem too bright." | “Look, your soul isn’t worth that much.” Lucifer said as his fingers glided over the piano keys.
“Come on,” she smiled. “If you really are who you say, nothing should be out of your reach.”
Lucifer frowned, “Don’t try that game with me. It’s insulting.”
“It’s one phone call. How bad could it be?”
“You don’t know him like I do. He’s always been a sore loser, and it’s always bad when we fight. Besides, aren’t you concerned about what I’ll do with your soul when you die?”
She shrugged, “Honestly I’ve never been really attached to it, and you’re trying to change the subject. I’m giving you one pristine, undamaged soul for a measly little phone call. What will people think if you turn that down?”
“Alright, fine.” Lucifer sighed. He ended his playing and shook hands, then he pulled her in close, “If I regret this, just know that you’ll be stuck with me. Eternity is a very long time.”
“Totally worth it,” she smiled. “I’m waiting by the way. You can’t just agree then back out.”
He gave her a long-suffering stare before pulling out his cell phone. The contact was in his favorites.
“It’s me. Look, you won’t believe what this woman sold her soul for. She thinks she and I can beat you in a game of hoops. What? No, basketball. Don’t be dense, you know the game. Are you up for it?” He laughed. “Only if you’re sure.” He glanced at her and grinned. “Alright, this Saturday then.”
“So he agreed to it?”
“Oh yes, he loved the idea. But he did make a slight change to our contract. He and I will be teaming up *against* you,” Lucifer smiled.
“What? He can’t do that!”
“Of course he can. He’s God.” |
|
[WP] Someone wants to give away their soul for something. Satan tries to talk them out of it. | "Right. So this document declares that you, Marry White, are the owner of one (1) soul, presumed to be in Good Standing and of Moral Virtue with no previous claims, levies, or fines against"
An astute person can spot someone with a legal background from across a crowded room. There's a certain bearing: the way they hold their shoulders, lift their chin, bring their hands back tight to the belt-buckle when they emote. Speaking with a true master of the legal craft is an even more singular experience. Complex sentences, clauses and subclauses fall from a forked tongue with deft ease -- easy to follow but impossible to fully penetrate.
And then there is this guy, thought Marry. She'd trained at Harvard Law, clerked for the Chief Justice, taken a position with one of New York's finest firms. She'd married an prosecutor and guided his career to the govenor's mansion. She'd played politics with some of the sharpest and most dangerous legal minds on the planet.
But next to this guy? Nothing. His articulation? Perfect. Gestures? Convincing, precise, engaging. Eye contact? Flawless. There was an art to his legal speech, an elegance and poise that stopped even a legal asthete like herself cold.
You could hear this guy pronounce **parentheses** for Christ's sake.
She swallowed and slashed out her name, dark red jags forming the sharp ridges in "White."
"And this one proclaims that you, Marry White, do consign your soul to the stewardship of the undersigned party -- that would be me -- and agree that said ownership is transferred immediately. Subsection C -- next page, yes, that one -- states that you will retain physical possession of the same until your natural death at which time I will collect it or arrange to have it collected."
Marry raised a finger, silencing the man in the dark suit and fashionable red power tie while she reviewed language on the first page.
"Very well"
It was the same tone of voice she'd practiced in the mock court rooms at Harvard, honed in the back-rooms of New York politics, and wielded against state Senators and Representatives as first lady. Steady even now, she thought, her professors would be pleased.
"So if you'll sign" -- the man's immaculately manicured hand reached over hers, casually flipping to the back of the bound document -- "here, here and" -- another flip -- "initial here."
"Ah. And what about your end?"
A laugh, rich, redolent with cigar smoke and fine scotch rippled across his dark eyes and through a predatory smile. "Nothing gets past you, does it. Still, you can't blame me for trying."
Drawing a thin black folio from his jacket pocket, he plucked the pen from her fingers and began to scrawl a signature across it, long looping characters more like glyphs than any language she'd seen before.
"This proclaims a debt to you, Marry White, of one (1) unlimited and unqualified wish to be executed at a time of your choosing and discretion. Certain restrictions do, of course, apply: among them that you can not wish to undo the deal we are signing here and that you can not wish for your own immortality or otherwise render your own soul noncollectable by virtue of your wish. The debt is contingent upon the completion of the soul-transfer agreement," still signing, he nodded at the neatly bound stack of yellow paper awaiting Mary's pen, "and my own signature accepting the same."
He slid the folio across the desk to her; it was still warm from his touch. The red swirls of his signature gleamed against the matte finish. She read it, slowly, patiently, and carefully. Twice.
"Very well"
It was the same tone of voice she'd used with her boys when she was raising them. Neither harsh nor comforting just perfectly level. She was the rock in their lives. Their mercurial father and his political career left little time for the family life she felt they deserved but she strove to deliver it none the less. It was laden with understanding, acceptance, and the patient knowledge that boys would be boys. It was the voice she had used when her first son had traveled to Rwanda with the Peace Corps and the voice she had used to comfort her youngest when the news came back that he'd fallen there before a genocider's machette in 1994 while protecting a young Tutsi woman.
The man handed the pen back to her.
"Here, here, and initial here."
She did her best to quell the tremors in her fingers as she signed once and then a second time. The room felt warmer now, she thought, or perhaps that was merely a trick of her imagination. She took a deep breath and then, with a flourish, etched the last three initials: MLW.
"Very well," she'd used the same tone when her youngest, Michael, had told her he'd been accepted to the Naval Academy. She'd worried at the time but a son in uniform was a boon to her husband's career. The pollsters said that it probably won him the race up-state. Michael looked so sharp and polished in his Marine dress blues next to his father on stage and the resemblance... well... it reminded her of why she'd fallen for the man all those years ago.
"Excellent," the man snapped, jerking her from her reverie and the paper from her hand. He pivoted it roughly towards himself as he stooped to sign. His motions were sharper now, animal, even savage.
"So, these restrictions on my wishes. Can I wish for my dead son back?"
"You can, but he won't be the same. Paragraph 4 clearly lays out that you can't change the past," he responded in a bored sing-song as he looped through an involved symbol.
"What about safety and prosperity for a loved one? Could I protect Michael? Keep him safe in Afghanistan? Settle him down with a nice girl and...."
"Section 9, paragraph 2, **clearly** states that wishes must be of direct benefit to the wisher. Protecting your son is an altruistic act which confers no benefit unto yourself and so no, you may not do that."
With a final jag the signature was done. The man's long fingers plucked a gold and enamel cap from an expertly tailored pocket and slid it down over the barrel of the pen. As it clicked into place the room plunged into darkness.
"Now," he said, black eyes lit by the ember-like glow of the ancient sygls and glyphs inscribed on the vellum page, "what will you have, Marry White?"
Marry looked down and drew a breath. She had studied things, learned things, and done things to bring this moment about that horrified her. She had turned her powerful legal mind to the study of unthinkable texts, grisly secrets, and vile rituls to bring this man into this room and she had done so for a purpose, for a reason, and above all, with a plan.
"World peace," she pronounced, in that level, courtroom voice, "a peaceful transition to a peaceful world without bloodshed, violence, or cause for either continuing in perpetuity and without interruption or suspension until the End of Days."
"What?"
"You heard me."
"Section 9, paragraph 2"
"I know what section 9, paragraph 2 states. World peace is of direct benefit to me; besides the considerable societal savings of which I am a direct beneficiary, it also dramatically reduces my chances of dying in a military action, terrorist attack, etc."
"Section 10"
"Paragraph 16? That my wishes may not hold sway over otherwise natural phenomena? War is not a natural phenomena, at least not if we hold your existence to validate certain other texts which have one or two things to say on that subject. While we're at it, paragraph 4 doesn't apply either: there is no reasonable way to determine my plausible lifespan nor the heralding of the End of Days and therefore restrictions upon the longevity of my wish are likewise invalid. Appendix A's prohibition on wishes which constrain the method by which they are fulfilled is nullified by the nature of this wish in that "peace" can not be defined as a state in which there is no one left to fight and the aforementioned section on natural phenomena, of which human confrontationalism is certainly one. That is my wish. World peace under the terms I have laid out. We have a contract signed in blood with my name and Yours. Do you intend to honor it?"
A pause. A flicker. And the lights came back on.
The man sat, his tie loosened and the bridge of his nose pinched between thumb and forefinger, a curl of smoke rising from the pen in his clenched fist.
"Perhaps we could negotiate an alternate arrangement?"
"Very well." | “Look, your soul isn’t worth that much.” Lucifer said as his fingers glided over the piano keys.
“Come on,” she smiled. “If you really are who you say, nothing should be out of your reach.”
Lucifer frowned, “Don’t try that game with me. It’s insulting.”
“It’s one phone call. How bad could it be?”
“You don’t know him like I do. He’s always been a sore loser, and it’s always bad when we fight. Besides, aren’t you concerned about what I’ll do with your soul when you die?”
She shrugged, “Honestly I’ve never been really attached to it, and you’re trying to change the subject. I’m giving you one pristine, undamaged soul for a measly little phone call. What will people think if you turn that down?”
“Alright, fine.” Lucifer sighed. He ended his playing and shook hands, then he pulled her in close, “If I regret this, just know that you’ll be stuck with me. Eternity is a very long time.”
“Totally worth it,” she smiled. “I’m waiting by the way. You can’t just agree then back out.”
He gave her a long-suffering stare before pulling out his cell phone. The contact was in his favorites.
“It’s me. Look, you won’t believe what this woman sold her soul for. She thinks she and I can beat you in a game of hoops. What? No, basketball. Don’t be dense, you know the game. Are you up for it?” He laughed. “Only if you’re sure.” He glanced at her and grinned. “Alright, this Saturday then.”
“So he agreed to it?”
“Oh yes, he loved the idea. But he did make a slight change to our contract. He and I will be teaming up *against* you,” Lucifer smiled.
“What? He can’t do that!”
“Of course he can. He’s God.” |
|
[WP] Someone wants to give away their soul for something. Satan tries to talk them out of it. | Stan Marsley threw the fire on the crushed up herbs and waited. A puff of smoke and a flash popped in the room and an unimpressive red skinned man in a red Elvis costume appeared before him with a pitchfork. He did not have Devil horns.
"Behold! I'm Satan!" exclaimed the four and a half foot tall disappointment. "What'll it be and I'll take yer sooooul?!" He cackled.
"Well..." Stan sighed. He looked around as if he was a third grader, preparing to use a dirty word. "I want...I want a llama."
"Ah hah, what a...wait, what?" Satan stymied. "You want what?"
"A llama," repeated Stan quietly.
"Why do you- you can just go buy one, what do I need to give you a goddamned llama for?" Satan blanched. There was a long silence.
"To fuck," Stan clarified. Satan stared at Stan, blinking incessantly.
"To...to fuck?" Satan verified.
"Yes, to fuck," Stan replied matter-of-factly. "I can't go out and buy one because then my wife will know that we have a llama. But if you give me one, then- then I can hide it and I can fuck it whenever I want to."
Another long silence followed this moment.
"Dude, seriously?" Satan squeeled. "You seriously just want a llama? You're...you're going to suffer in hell for this for like, a *really* long time. You know- you know how long eterneity is? It's not like "Oh, man- I was in that line in the DMV for an *eternity*, it's an actual eternity. Your children's great great great and etc. grand children will watch the sun supernova and vaporize the planet and I'll be cutting off your nipples for the trillionth time in Hell. Are you sure you want to go through that for...I mean to fuck..."
"Yes," Stan said assertively. "Yes, I'm sure. I've thought about it a lot, and I can't live the rest of my life without having a llama that I can constantly fuck in my basement against its will."
"What about a child?" Satan postulated.
"What? Eww, no," Stan spat. "No, that's disgusting."
"Well...I- okay, I guess," Satan shrugged and snapped his fingers. A llama came into existence.
"Can you put bondage gear on it?" Stan requested.
"For the soul of your wife," Satan offered.
"Yeah, sure- fine," Stan dismissed, already dragging the unwilling llama toward his basement door. | A pleasant scented evergreen log spit and cracked as the gales, which now buffeted the lodge, forced the fire's smoke out the large bricked fireplace. Eamonn sat in silence playing cards with Daithi and Holden, the only sound between the men was the familiar utterances,'check', 'call', 'raise' and 'fold'.
The aged timbers and windows which enclosed the lodge, creaked and rattled, resisting a battering from a particularly violent bout of gusts, and the men decided to move their game from the table they were at to a smaller one located in the centre of the room by the fire.
Eamonn, engrossed in watching the fire, started at the sound of the clock, which rang in the lodge's reception just outside of the room he was now seated in, indicating it was eleven o clock.
He looked outside a window to the left of the fire trying to see Dublin. He had hoped to arrive there tonight but the severe weather had forced him to take refuge in the inn he now found himself in. He thought he could make out some of the city, reflected in the dim moonlight, but the light was quickly swallowed by the advancing storm clouds and whatever he had seen was gone.
A gust of wind roared through the room and the serene fire hissed furiously at the disturbance. Eamonn looked at his fellow players, before the three placed there cards on the table, and turned to see the lodge's new arrival.
The fire settled as the door which granted entrance to the lodge was fastened in place. A man, wrapped in a long, black, traveler's cloak, his face hidden under a thick cowl, crossed the room before talking to the indifferent man who served the reception desk.
The man lowered his cowl and thick brown hair was seen to cover his head. The new arrival followed the porter to his room and the three men returned to their game.
Eamonn saw the porter return from the sleeping quarters before coming into the lounge and preparing a table close to his. Shortly after, the new arrival entered the lounge before having a large meal served to him.
The porter brought a bottle of whiskey to Eamonn's table, informing him it was a gift from the man. The men thanked their benefactor and invited him to join their game.
When the man had finished his meal he brought his chair over to the table where the rest of the people staying in the lodge sat playing. Sitting down, he offered the men cigars, which they accepted gratefully, before the four continued their game.
Holden had been forced out of the game before he had finished his cigar. Daithi shortly followed, he chose to cut his losses, abandoning the game in favour of his bed, while he still had some wealth in his wallet.
Daithi laughed as he left the room,'Pretty good gambler for a priest'. Eamonn glanced at the man sitting opposite him. The man brushed unkempt tufts of hair from his eyes. They were green, the lightest green Eamonn had ever seen, they seemed to shift from green, to blue, to brown, like a pool of water caught in different light.
Eamonn lifted his glass before draining it, crunching the ice in his teeth. The man reached across the table, picking up the whiskey, he filled Eamonn's glass much higher than he himself would usually take.
The man leaned back in his chair,'Do I not look like a priest to you?'.
'What does a priest look like?', Eamonn asked, looking briefly in the man's eyes before turning away.'That isn't what I asked you', the man stared back at Eamonn, 'What brings you here tonight?'.
Eamonn bristled at the question, recovering himself, he returned his gaze to the man,'Business'. 'We all have business', the man shifted slightly in his seat, 'Anyone who is anywhere has business to bring them there. I am asking you, what is *your* business here?'.
Eamonn wondered at the man,'Perhaps we should begin with your business here, Father', with emphasis being placed on the word *Father*. The priest sat forward and refilled his own glass with one of the two bottles the porter had brought out,'My business is justice'.
Eamonn smiled,'Then we have that in common, my business too, attends to matters of justice'. The priest, energized by this response, asked, 'Ah, yes, but justice has such a broad definition, my justice is the justice of God, can the same be said of yours?'
Eamonn, angered at the challenge, rose from his seat,'Who are you, priest, to question the morality of my justice? My justice is the justice of the natural world, the world your god created. My justice is that of honour and righteousness. My justice is the justice of vengeance and I will be satisfied or I will be ruined! The justice of your god abandoned me long ago'
The priest, unmoved by Eamonn's fury, sat calmly watching him,'Oh yes, you believe God has abandoned you', the priest rose, he walked to Eamonn and gestured for him to regain his seat.'I heard your prayers and supplications for God's justice go unfulfilled. I was there when your prayers for God's justice turned to a resolve of anger and vendetta. It was then you spoke to me. The deal which you negotiated internally with me was confirmed'.
Calming himself, Eamonn sank back into the chair, 'Do you remember what you asked of me?', the priest moved towards his chair but instead of sitting he stood behind it, placing his hands on the seat's back, 'Your life eternal for revenge inflicted', the priest turned away and stood with facing the fire with his back to Eamonn,'I agreed to your terms but as the appointed time for the conclusion of our contract approaches, I now offer you the opportunity to cancel the arrangement'.
Eamonn, sat listening to the man, his facing desperately trying to hide the disgust and horror which had slowly violated his body upon hearing his companion speak these words. He forced a reply,'But why would you want to cancel the deal?'. The priest laughed,'You know as I sit here now and feel the rancor and venom seethe within you, I wonder myself, your soul would be a fine addition. If pressed for an answer I would have to say it's because I misunderstood your reasons for seeking a deal with myself'.
The priest retook his seat and fixed his gaze on Eamonn,'The unbridled desire for vengeance usually consumes a soul beyond redemption. Anguish and fury mutilate the soul, warping it. The souls I agree to trade for are warped through their own machinations. The man is obliterated because he himself seeks to be destroyed', the priest reached out his hand taking Eamonn's,'There is still a degree of nobility in you, and for me, that taints the transaction. Again, the choice is always yours, a noble soul sears twice as hot'.
Eamonn pulled his hands away from the priest,'I believe you did mistake me. The deal I concluded was not written in pencil, it was signed in blood. I shall have my vengeance and once my life is ended you can reap the rewards of your investment'.
'Well, the decision is made', laughed the priest.'The decision was never under question', Eamonn's voice was low and strained.'Tomorrow, Eamonn, you shall have your wish', the priest made to stand up,'We will meet again and you can tell me if it was worth it'.
'I don't even care if it is', Eamonn looked out the window again. The storm looked to have eased and he could again make out the buildings which marked the city centre. Eamonn turned his head away from the window,'tomorrow, it won't matter if it is', but the priest was gone. |
|
[WP] Someone wants to give away their soul for something. Satan tries to talk them out of it. | "So anything I want?"
Satan gives his trademark smile, exuding charm and malice. "If it hasn't been asked before. I don't want to get bored. Bad things happen on earth when I'm bored." He smiles again, showing that he's pleased with himself. "For the price of course."
"I wish to be ruler of heaven and earth."
Satan laughs, "I've granted that to someone else already. " | A pleasant scented evergreen log spit and cracked as the gales, which now buffeted the lodge, forced the fire's smoke out the large bricked fireplace. Eamonn sat in silence playing cards with Daithi and Holden, the only sound between the men was the familiar utterances,'check', 'call', 'raise' and 'fold'.
The aged timbers and windows which enclosed the lodge, creaked and rattled, resisting a battering from a particularly violent bout of gusts, and the men decided to move their game from the table they were at to a smaller one located in the centre of the room by the fire.
Eamonn, engrossed in watching the fire, started at the sound of the clock, which rang in the lodge's reception just outside of the room he was now seated in, indicating it was eleven o clock.
He looked outside a window to the left of the fire trying to see Dublin. He had hoped to arrive there tonight but the severe weather had forced him to take refuge in the inn he now found himself in. He thought he could make out some of the city, reflected in the dim moonlight, but the light was quickly swallowed by the advancing storm clouds and whatever he had seen was gone.
A gust of wind roared through the room and the serene fire hissed furiously at the disturbance. Eamonn looked at his fellow players, before the three placed there cards on the table, and turned to see the lodge's new arrival.
The fire settled as the door which granted entrance to the lodge was fastened in place. A man, wrapped in a long, black, traveler's cloak, his face hidden under a thick cowl, crossed the room before talking to the indifferent man who served the reception desk.
The man lowered his cowl and thick brown hair was seen to cover his head. The new arrival followed the porter to his room and the three men returned to their game.
Eamonn saw the porter return from the sleeping quarters before coming into the lounge and preparing a table close to his. Shortly after, the new arrival entered the lounge before having a large meal served to him.
The porter brought a bottle of whiskey to Eamonn's table, informing him it was a gift from the man. The men thanked their benefactor and invited him to join their game.
When the man had finished his meal he brought his chair over to the table where the rest of the people staying in the lodge sat playing. Sitting down, he offered the men cigars, which they accepted gratefully, before the four continued their game.
Holden had been forced out of the game before he had finished his cigar. Daithi shortly followed, he chose to cut his losses, abandoning the game in favour of his bed, while he still had some wealth in his wallet.
Daithi laughed as he left the room,'Pretty good gambler for a priest'. Eamonn glanced at the man sitting opposite him. The man brushed unkempt tufts of hair from his eyes. They were green, the lightest green Eamonn had ever seen, they seemed to shift from green, to blue, to brown, like a pool of water caught in different light.
Eamonn lifted his glass before draining it, crunching the ice in his teeth. The man reached across the table, picking up the whiskey, he filled Eamonn's glass much higher than he himself would usually take.
The man leaned back in his chair,'Do I not look like a priest to you?'.
'What does a priest look like?', Eamonn asked, looking briefly in the man's eyes before turning away.'That isn't what I asked you', the man stared back at Eamonn, 'What brings you here tonight?'.
Eamonn bristled at the question, recovering himself, he returned his gaze to the man,'Business'. 'We all have business', the man shifted slightly in his seat, 'Anyone who is anywhere has business to bring them there. I am asking you, what is *your* business here?'.
Eamonn wondered at the man,'Perhaps we should begin with your business here, Father', with emphasis being placed on the word *Father*. The priest sat forward and refilled his own glass with one of the two bottles the porter had brought out,'My business is justice'.
Eamonn smiled,'Then we have that in common, my business too, attends to matters of justice'. The priest, energized by this response, asked, 'Ah, yes, but justice has such a broad definition, my justice is the justice of God, can the same be said of yours?'
Eamonn, angered at the challenge, rose from his seat,'Who are you, priest, to question the morality of my justice? My justice is the justice of the natural world, the world your god created. My justice is that of honour and righteousness. My justice is the justice of vengeance and I will be satisfied or I will be ruined! The justice of your god abandoned me long ago'
The priest, unmoved by Eamonn's fury, sat calmly watching him,'Oh yes, you believe God has abandoned you', the priest rose, he walked to Eamonn and gestured for him to regain his seat.'I heard your prayers and supplications for God's justice go unfulfilled. I was there when your prayers for God's justice turned to a resolve of anger and vendetta. It was then you spoke to me. The deal which you negotiated internally with me was confirmed'.
Calming himself, Eamonn sank back into the chair, 'Do you remember what you asked of me?', the priest moved towards his chair but instead of sitting he stood behind it, placing his hands on the seat's back, 'Your life eternal for revenge inflicted', the priest turned away and stood with facing the fire with his back to Eamonn,'I agreed to your terms but as the appointed time for the conclusion of our contract approaches, I now offer you the opportunity to cancel the arrangement'.
Eamonn, sat listening to the man, his facing desperately trying to hide the disgust and horror which had slowly violated his body upon hearing his companion speak these words. He forced a reply,'But why would you want to cancel the deal?'. The priest laughed,'You know as I sit here now and feel the rancor and venom seethe within you, I wonder myself, your soul would be a fine addition. If pressed for an answer I would have to say it's because I misunderstood your reasons for seeking a deal with myself'.
The priest retook his seat and fixed his gaze on Eamonn,'The unbridled desire for vengeance usually consumes a soul beyond redemption. Anguish and fury mutilate the soul, warping it. The souls I agree to trade for are warped through their own machinations. The man is obliterated because he himself seeks to be destroyed', the priest reached out his hand taking Eamonn's,'There is still a degree of nobility in you, and for me, that taints the transaction. Again, the choice is always yours, a noble soul sears twice as hot'.
Eamonn pulled his hands away from the priest,'I believe you did mistake me. The deal I concluded was not written in pencil, it was signed in blood. I shall have my vengeance and once my life is ended you can reap the rewards of your investment'.
'Well, the decision is made', laughed the priest.'The decision was never under question', Eamonn's voice was low and strained.'Tomorrow, Eamonn, you shall have your wish', the priest made to stand up,'We will meet again and you can tell me if it was worth it'.
'I don't even care if it is', Eamonn looked out the window again. The storm looked to have eased and he could again make out the buildings which marked the city centre. Eamonn turned his head away from the window,'tomorrow, it won't matter if it is', but the priest was gone. |
|
[WP] Someone wants to give away their soul for something. Satan tries to talk them out of it. | "Look man, I'm all for the whole 'A fool and he money are soon parted' thing, believe me. But your soul is worth a hell (pun intened) of a lot more than *a case of PBR.* You really should try and hold me out for something better than that."
Jeff stared at Satan for a moment, his red solo cup long since emptied of refreshments.
"...what about *two* cases of PBR?" He asked, giving the devil two thumbs up.
"Oh for god's sake..."mumbled the devil, rubbing a red hand across his face.
| A pleasant scented evergreen log spit and cracked as the gales, which now buffeted the lodge, forced the fire's smoke out the large bricked fireplace. Eamonn sat in silence playing cards with Daithi and Holden, the only sound between the men was the familiar utterances,'check', 'call', 'raise' and 'fold'.
The aged timbers and windows which enclosed the lodge, creaked and rattled, resisting a battering from a particularly violent bout of gusts, and the men decided to move their game from the table they were at to a smaller one located in the centre of the room by the fire.
Eamonn, engrossed in watching the fire, started at the sound of the clock, which rang in the lodge's reception just outside of the room he was now seated in, indicating it was eleven o clock.
He looked outside a window to the left of the fire trying to see Dublin. He had hoped to arrive there tonight but the severe weather had forced him to take refuge in the inn he now found himself in. He thought he could make out some of the city, reflected in the dim moonlight, but the light was quickly swallowed by the advancing storm clouds and whatever he had seen was gone.
A gust of wind roared through the room and the serene fire hissed furiously at the disturbance. Eamonn looked at his fellow players, before the three placed there cards on the table, and turned to see the lodge's new arrival.
The fire settled as the door which granted entrance to the lodge was fastened in place. A man, wrapped in a long, black, traveler's cloak, his face hidden under a thick cowl, crossed the room before talking to the indifferent man who served the reception desk.
The man lowered his cowl and thick brown hair was seen to cover his head. The new arrival followed the porter to his room and the three men returned to their game.
Eamonn saw the porter return from the sleeping quarters before coming into the lounge and preparing a table close to his. Shortly after, the new arrival entered the lounge before having a large meal served to him.
The porter brought a bottle of whiskey to Eamonn's table, informing him it was a gift from the man. The men thanked their benefactor and invited him to join their game.
When the man had finished his meal he brought his chair over to the table where the rest of the people staying in the lodge sat playing. Sitting down, he offered the men cigars, which they accepted gratefully, before the four continued their game.
Holden had been forced out of the game before he had finished his cigar. Daithi shortly followed, he chose to cut his losses, abandoning the game in favour of his bed, while he still had some wealth in his wallet.
Daithi laughed as he left the room,'Pretty good gambler for a priest'. Eamonn glanced at the man sitting opposite him. The man brushed unkempt tufts of hair from his eyes. They were green, the lightest green Eamonn had ever seen, they seemed to shift from green, to blue, to brown, like a pool of water caught in different light.
Eamonn lifted his glass before draining it, crunching the ice in his teeth. The man reached across the table, picking up the whiskey, he filled Eamonn's glass much higher than he himself would usually take.
The man leaned back in his chair,'Do I not look like a priest to you?'.
'What does a priest look like?', Eamonn asked, looking briefly in the man's eyes before turning away.'That isn't what I asked you', the man stared back at Eamonn, 'What brings you here tonight?'.
Eamonn bristled at the question, recovering himself, he returned his gaze to the man,'Business'. 'We all have business', the man shifted slightly in his seat, 'Anyone who is anywhere has business to bring them there. I am asking you, what is *your* business here?'.
Eamonn wondered at the man,'Perhaps we should begin with your business here, Father', with emphasis being placed on the word *Father*. The priest sat forward and refilled his own glass with one of the two bottles the porter had brought out,'My business is justice'.
Eamonn smiled,'Then we have that in common, my business too, attends to matters of justice'. The priest, energized by this response, asked, 'Ah, yes, but justice has such a broad definition, my justice is the justice of God, can the same be said of yours?'
Eamonn, angered at the challenge, rose from his seat,'Who are you, priest, to question the morality of my justice? My justice is the justice of the natural world, the world your god created. My justice is that of honour and righteousness. My justice is the justice of vengeance and I will be satisfied or I will be ruined! The justice of your god abandoned me long ago'
The priest, unmoved by Eamonn's fury, sat calmly watching him,'Oh yes, you believe God has abandoned you', the priest rose, he walked to Eamonn and gestured for him to regain his seat.'I heard your prayers and supplications for God's justice go unfulfilled. I was there when your prayers for God's justice turned to a resolve of anger and vendetta. It was then you spoke to me. The deal which you negotiated internally with me was confirmed'.
Calming himself, Eamonn sank back into the chair, 'Do you remember what you asked of me?', the priest moved towards his chair but instead of sitting he stood behind it, placing his hands on the seat's back, 'Your life eternal for revenge inflicted', the priest turned away and stood with facing the fire with his back to Eamonn,'I agreed to your terms but as the appointed time for the conclusion of our contract approaches, I now offer you the opportunity to cancel the arrangement'.
Eamonn, sat listening to the man, his facing desperately trying to hide the disgust and horror which had slowly violated his body upon hearing his companion speak these words. He forced a reply,'But why would you want to cancel the deal?'. The priest laughed,'You know as I sit here now and feel the rancor and venom seethe within you, I wonder myself, your soul would be a fine addition. If pressed for an answer I would have to say it's because I misunderstood your reasons for seeking a deal with myself'.
The priest retook his seat and fixed his gaze on Eamonn,'The unbridled desire for vengeance usually consumes a soul beyond redemption. Anguish and fury mutilate the soul, warping it. The souls I agree to trade for are warped through their own machinations. The man is obliterated because he himself seeks to be destroyed', the priest reached out his hand taking Eamonn's,'There is still a degree of nobility in you, and for me, that taints the transaction. Again, the choice is always yours, a noble soul sears twice as hot'.
Eamonn pulled his hands away from the priest,'I believe you did mistake me. The deal I concluded was not written in pencil, it was signed in blood. I shall have my vengeance and once my life is ended you can reap the rewards of your investment'.
'Well, the decision is made', laughed the priest.'The decision was never under question', Eamonn's voice was low and strained.'Tomorrow, Eamonn, you shall have your wish', the priest made to stand up,'We will meet again and you can tell me if it was worth it'.
'I don't even care if it is', Eamonn looked out the window again. The storm looked to have eased and he could again make out the buildings which marked the city centre. Eamonn turned his head away from the window,'tomorrow, it won't matter if it is', but the priest was gone. |
|
[WP] Someone wants to give away their soul for something. Satan tries to talk them out of it. | "Look man, I'm all for the whole 'A fool and he money are soon parted' thing, believe me. But your soul is worth a hell (pun intened) of a lot more than *a case of PBR.* You really should try and hold me out for something better than that."
Jeff stared at Satan for a moment, his red solo cup long since emptied of refreshments.
"...what about *two* cases of PBR?" He asked, giving the devil two thumbs up.
"Oh for god's sake..."mumbled the devil, rubbing a red hand across his face.
| When Gus was seven years old, he tried to trade his soul for a new video game. His dad was barbecuing at the time. The conversation, which Gus never forgot, went like this:
"Why not?"
"Because it's a game. You have lots of games."
"But I don't have Dragon o' Time 2!"
"Maybe for your birthday, or Saturnalia, or whatever."
"But it's out right now!"
"Great but you only have the one soul. What happens next time you want something?"
"I'll get another soul."
"Oh no you won't, Gustopheles. Do you know what it cost me to get you the one? I'll be damned if I'm going to let you trade it for a video game. You have to look after that soul or so help me, I'll take away all the video games you do have."
Gus did not want this, so he fell silent.
Dad then turned back to his barbecue and looked at Frank, the neighbor, who patted his ample stomach and nodded to the burgers. They needed flipping. Dad struck a match against his horn and lit up a cigar.
"Kids," he said.
"Kids," Frank agreed.
But Gus had not let the matter be settled. He knew where Dad kept the souls. Bartering had not worked, so that left blackmail. That led to a whole other conversation Gus tried his hardest to forget. |
|
[WP] Someone wants to give away their soul for something. Satan tries to talk them out of it. | **POP**
Ow, hell ow... dammit. That hurt like all get-out. Is this how it is? Just a featureless room with a table and two chairs? Please tell me that this isn't some perverse "exit interview".
The other chair was tall and leather bound, reflecting dully in the overhead light. The table, well, it wasn't anything special either, just one of those utilitarian jobs from any number of office supply stores. But then again, I was just in a car accident wasn't I? What the hell is--
"Hello. Sorry about that, only time I had available. You should feel better in a few moments."
He was tall, swiveling around in his leather chair. I had expected something different, not a thin man with spectacles wearing a three-piece suit.
"Uh.. why am I here?"
"Oh, well - I think you know. Remember any thoughts before your car hit the -- ", he glanced down at the table which now displayed pertinent facts about my life, all arrayed in a semicircle around him, " - compact car at Madison Street?"
Oh. That.
"Well yes, but I was halfway joking and--"
"It was quite authentic. We have a few automated systems here, they're good at filtering out liars and the insane.", he leaned forward, fingers propping up his narrow chin.
"Well. Right. As you probably know I've had some financial trouble, and I was saying to a friend over the phone how I would sell my soul to have millions of dollars.", it sounded so stupid and quaint now, like I was asking a supermodel for a kiss.
"Right. That request. Well, you see - there's a bit of a problem here. Normally I'd honor such requests from a self-directed being like yourself, but there's some other considerations involved."
Hmm. Okay. I just nodded and sat silent as he shuffled some more pages into view with his fingertips.
"You made a request under duress. I can't disclose any future events to you - as it would violate the FCCA, so I think that--"
"FCCA? What is that?"
He smiled. The broad smile of someone dealing with a child or a small pet.
"The Free Choice Causality Accord - we're prevented from disclosing future events that would cause certain undesirable feedback loops in the time space continuum. It barely passed consensus and wasn't too popular. But here we are. What I'm going to say to you is this - your request has been denied, it is for your own good. Trust is the operative word here."
Stunned, I leaned back.
"But, since I'm already here, why not just grant it?"
"You're just going to make me blurt it out, aren't you? Fine. You have... potential. So, request denied. You will be dispatched to your former earthly conditions, right after you've been revived at the hospital. Best I can do."
It seemed fair enough, but there was one thing still nagging at me. I had to ask.
"So... you're the devil then?"
He took his glasses off, and rubbed his temples. Breathing in deeply, he leaned forward again.
"You're not going to remember this, because it would violate a few other agreements that I can't talk to you about. So why not. As to your first question - 'No'. And the inevitable follow up question - also 'No'. I'm not one of anything. It disturbs me that human kind still hasn't figured it out yet."
"So that means--"
"Yes, one and the same, yin and yang. Two sides of the coin, never to be split, seperated or divorced from each other. How could you have not noticed that in nature? It was only made as pairs, you know. One thing balancing the other - most times contained within the same organism. Oh 'eff it all - you've gone and got me emotional again. Off with you--"
**POP**
"I've got to do a better job on the next batch, this one doesn't seem too bright." | When Gus was seven years old, he tried to trade his soul for a new video game. His dad was barbecuing at the time. The conversation, which Gus never forgot, went like this:
"Why not?"
"Because it's a game. You have lots of games."
"But I don't have Dragon o' Time 2!"
"Maybe for your birthday, or Saturnalia, or whatever."
"But it's out right now!"
"Great but you only have the one soul. What happens next time you want something?"
"I'll get another soul."
"Oh no you won't, Gustopheles. Do you know what it cost me to get you the one? I'll be damned if I'm going to let you trade it for a video game. You have to look after that soul or so help me, I'll take away all the video games you do have."
Gus did not want this, so he fell silent.
Dad then turned back to his barbecue and looked at Frank, the neighbor, who patted his ample stomach and nodded to the burgers. They needed flipping. Dad struck a match against his horn and lit up a cigar.
"Kids," he said.
"Kids," Frank agreed.
But Gus had not let the matter be settled. He knew where Dad kept the souls. Bartering had not worked, so that left blackmail. That led to a whole other conversation Gus tried his hardest to forget. |
|
[WP] Someone wants to give away their soul for something. Satan tries to talk them out of it. | "Right. So this document declares that you, Marry White, are the owner of one (1) soul, presumed to be in Good Standing and of Moral Virtue with no previous claims, levies, or fines against"
An astute person can spot someone with a legal background from across a crowded room. There's a certain bearing: the way they hold their shoulders, lift their chin, bring their hands back tight to the belt-buckle when they emote. Speaking with a true master of the legal craft is an even more singular experience. Complex sentences, clauses and subclauses fall from a forked tongue with deft ease -- easy to follow but impossible to fully penetrate.
And then there is this guy, thought Marry. She'd trained at Harvard Law, clerked for the Chief Justice, taken a position with one of New York's finest firms. She'd married an prosecutor and guided his career to the govenor's mansion. She'd played politics with some of the sharpest and most dangerous legal minds on the planet.
But next to this guy? Nothing. His articulation? Perfect. Gestures? Convincing, precise, engaging. Eye contact? Flawless. There was an art to his legal speech, an elegance and poise that stopped even a legal asthete like herself cold.
You could hear this guy pronounce **parentheses** for Christ's sake.
She swallowed and slashed out her name, dark red jags forming the sharp ridges in "White."
"And this one proclaims that you, Marry White, do consign your soul to the stewardship of the undersigned party -- that would be me -- and agree that said ownership is transferred immediately. Subsection C -- next page, yes, that one -- states that you will retain physical possession of the same until your natural death at which time I will collect it or arrange to have it collected."
Marry raised a finger, silencing the man in the dark suit and fashionable red power tie while she reviewed language on the first page.
"Very well"
It was the same tone of voice she'd practiced in the mock court rooms at Harvard, honed in the back-rooms of New York politics, and wielded against state Senators and Representatives as first lady. Steady even now, she thought, her professors would be pleased.
"So if you'll sign" -- the man's immaculately manicured hand reached over hers, casually flipping to the back of the bound document -- "here, here and" -- another flip -- "initial here."
"Ah. And what about your end?"
A laugh, rich, redolent with cigar smoke and fine scotch rippled across his dark eyes and through a predatory smile. "Nothing gets past you, does it. Still, you can't blame me for trying."
Drawing a thin black folio from his jacket pocket, he plucked the pen from her fingers and began to scrawl a signature across it, long looping characters more like glyphs than any language she'd seen before.
"This proclaims a debt to you, Marry White, of one (1) unlimited and unqualified wish to be executed at a time of your choosing and discretion. Certain restrictions do, of course, apply: among them that you can not wish to undo the deal we are signing here and that you can not wish for your own immortality or otherwise render your own soul noncollectable by virtue of your wish. The debt is contingent upon the completion of the soul-transfer agreement," still signing, he nodded at the neatly bound stack of yellow paper awaiting Mary's pen, "and my own signature accepting the same."
He slid the folio across the desk to her; it was still warm from his touch. The red swirls of his signature gleamed against the matte finish. She read it, slowly, patiently, and carefully. Twice.
"Very well"
It was the same tone of voice she'd used with her boys when she was raising them. Neither harsh nor comforting just perfectly level. She was the rock in their lives. Their mercurial father and his political career left little time for the family life she felt they deserved but she strove to deliver it none the less. It was laden with understanding, acceptance, and the patient knowledge that boys would be boys. It was the voice she had used when her first son had traveled to Rwanda with the Peace Corps and the voice she had used to comfort her youngest when the news came back that he'd fallen there before a genocider's machette in 1994 while protecting a young Tutsi woman.
The man handed the pen back to her.
"Here, here, and initial here."
She did her best to quell the tremors in her fingers as she signed once and then a second time. The room felt warmer now, she thought, or perhaps that was merely a trick of her imagination. She took a deep breath and then, with a flourish, etched the last three initials: MLW.
"Very well," she'd used the same tone when her youngest, Michael, had told her he'd been accepted to the Naval Academy. She'd worried at the time but a son in uniform was a boon to her husband's career. The pollsters said that it probably won him the race up-state. Michael looked so sharp and polished in his Marine dress blues next to his father on stage and the resemblance... well... it reminded her of why she'd fallen for the man all those years ago.
"Excellent," the man snapped, jerking her from her reverie and the paper from her hand. He pivoted it roughly towards himself as he stooped to sign. His motions were sharper now, animal, even savage.
"So, these restrictions on my wishes. Can I wish for my dead son back?"
"You can, but he won't be the same. Paragraph 4 clearly lays out that you can't change the past," he responded in a bored sing-song as he looped through an involved symbol.
"What about safety and prosperity for a loved one? Could I protect Michael? Keep him safe in Afghanistan? Settle him down with a nice girl and...."
"Section 9, paragraph 2, **clearly** states that wishes must be of direct benefit to the wisher. Protecting your son is an altruistic act which confers no benefit unto yourself and so no, you may not do that."
With a final jag the signature was done. The man's long fingers plucked a gold and enamel cap from an expertly tailored pocket and slid it down over the barrel of the pen. As it clicked into place the room plunged into darkness.
"Now," he said, black eyes lit by the ember-like glow of the ancient sygls and glyphs inscribed on the vellum page, "what will you have, Marry White?"
Marry looked down and drew a breath. She had studied things, learned things, and done things to bring this moment about that horrified her. She had turned her powerful legal mind to the study of unthinkable texts, grisly secrets, and vile rituls to bring this man into this room and she had done so for a purpose, for a reason, and above all, with a plan.
"World peace," she pronounced, in that level, courtroom voice, "a peaceful transition to a peaceful world without bloodshed, violence, or cause for either continuing in perpetuity and without interruption or suspension until the End of Days."
"What?"
"You heard me."
"Section 9, paragraph 2"
"I know what section 9, paragraph 2 states. World peace is of direct benefit to me; besides the considerable societal savings of which I am a direct beneficiary, it also dramatically reduces my chances of dying in a military action, terrorist attack, etc."
"Section 10"
"Paragraph 16? That my wishes may not hold sway over otherwise natural phenomena? War is not a natural phenomena, at least not if we hold your existence to validate certain other texts which have one or two things to say on that subject. While we're at it, paragraph 4 doesn't apply either: there is no reasonable way to determine my plausible lifespan nor the heralding of the End of Days and therefore restrictions upon the longevity of my wish are likewise invalid. Appendix A's prohibition on wishes which constrain the method by which they are fulfilled is nullified by the nature of this wish in that "peace" can not be defined as a state in which there is no one left to fight and the aforementioned section on natural phenomena, of which human confrontationalism is certainly one. That is my wish. World peace under the terms I have laid out. We have a contract signed in blood with my name and Yours. Do you intend to honor it?"
A pause. A flicker. And the lights came back on.
The man sat, his tie loosened and the bridge of his nose pinched between thumb and forefinger, a curl of smoke rising from the pen in his clenched fist.
"Perhaps we could negotiate an alternate arrangement?"
"Very well." | When Gus was seven years old, he tried to trade his soul for a new video game. His dad was barbecuing at the time. The conversation, which Gus never forgot, went like this:
"Why not?"
"Because it's a game. You have lots of games."
"But I don't have Dragon o' Time 2!"
"Maybe for your birthday, or Saturnalia, or whatever."
"But it's out right now!"
"Great but you only have the one soul. What happens next time you want something?"
"I'll get another soul."
"Oh no you won't, Gustopheles. Do you know what it cost me to get you the one? I'll be damned if I'm going to let you trade it for a video game. You have to look after that soul or so help me, I'll take away all the video games you do have."
Gus did not want this, so he fell silent.
Dad then turned back to his barbecue and looked at Frank, the neighbor, who patted his ample stomach and nodded to the burgers. They needed flipping. Dad struck a match against his horn and lit up a cigar.
"Kids," he said.
"Kids," Frank agreed.
But Gus had not let the matter be settled. He knew where Dad kept the souls. Bartering had not worked, so that left blackmail. That led to a whole other conversation Gus tried his hardest to forget. |
|
[WP] Someone wants to give away their soul for something. Satan tries to talk them out of it. | "You want to give your *eternal soul* for internet points on some internet website?" Said the red god, incredulous.
"You must be retarded..." Could even *he* send a disabled man to hell? What fun would it be torturing somebody that understands nothing? He hadn't thought of this, much like the music industry he had created, the net effect of all those wires and modems and nodes on the humans and their societies was something he, the thrones, nobody, could have ever predicted and now it was 'take my soul for WoW points, take my soul for reps, take my sould for BTC, take my sould for *the effing lulz*', it had gotten beyond ridiculous and he was getting fed up of it all.
"This is your immortal soul we're talking about!" He boomed, "This isn't... I-I'm not some sort of joke you know! You'll be tormented forever for this, burned and whipped. Just to be cool on some stupid website? Are you even thinking?"
"There's nothing stupid about Lebbit, replied the idiot. It's the coolest website there is and I don't want to die and never been guilded." He crossed his unasthetic arms defiantly.
The red god considered his options for a few monents and then decided.
He'd revoke his SAWCSM privilage and then send him to /pol/.
Forever.
That'll learn him. The dumb ****. | When Gus was seven years old, he tried to trade his soul for a new video game. His dad was barbecuing at the time. The conversation, which Gus never forgot, went like this:
"Why not?"
"Because it's a game. You have lots of games."
"But I don't have Dragon o' Time 2!"
"Maybe for your birthday, or Saturnalia, or whatever."
"But it's out right now!"
"Great but you only have the one soul. What happens next time you want something?"
"I'll get another soul."
"Oh no you won't, Gustopheles. Do you know what it cost me to get you the one? I'll be damned if I'm going to let you trade it for a video game. You have to look after that soul or so help me, I'll take away all the video games you do have."
Gus did not want this, so he fell silent.
Dad then turned back to his barbecue and looked at Frank, the neighbor, who patted his ample stomach and nodded to the burgers. They needed flipping. Dad struck a match against his horn and lit up a cigar.
"Kids," he said.
"Kids," Frank agreed.
But Gus had not let the matter be settled. He knew where Dad kept the souls. Bartering had not worked, so that left blackmail. That led to a whole other conversation Gus tried his hardest to forget. |
|
[WP] Someone wants to give away their soul for something. Satan tries to talk them out of it. | **POP**
Ow, hell ow... dammit. That hurt like all get-out. Is this how it is? Just a featureless room with a table and two chairs? Please tell me that this isn't some perverse "exit interview".
The other chair was tall and leather bound, reflecting dully in the overhead light. The table, well, it wasn't anything special either, just one of those utilitarian jobs from any number of office supply stores. But then again, I was just in a car accident wasn't I? What the hell is--
"Hello. Sorry about that, only time I had available. You should feel better in a few moments."
He was tall, swiveling around in his leather chair. I had expected something different, not a thin man with spectacles wearing a three-piece suit.
"Uh.. why am I here?"
"Oh, well - I think you know. Remember any thoughts before your car hit the -- ", he glanced down at the table which now displayed pertinent facts about my life, all arrayed in a semicircle around him, " - compact car at Madison Street?"
Oh. That.
"Well yes, but I was halfway joking and--"
"It was quite authentic. We have a few automated systems here, they're good at filtering out liars and the insane.", he leaned forward, fingers propping up his narrow chin.
"Well. Right. As you probably know I've had some financial trouble, and I was saying to a friend over the phone how I would sell my soul to have millions of dollars.", it sounded so stupid and quaint now, like I was asking a supermodel for a kiss.
"Right. That request. Well, you see - there's a bit of a problem here. Normally I'd honor such requests from a self-directed being like yourself, but there's some other considerations involved."
Hmm. Okay. I just nodded and sat silent as he shuffled some more pages into view with his fingertips.
"You made a request under duress. I can't disclose any future events to you - as it would violate the FCCA, so I think that--"
"FCCA? What is that?"
He smiled. The broad smile of someone dealing with a child or a small pet.
"The Free Choice Causality Accord - we're prevented from disclosing future events that would cause certain undesirable feedback loops in the time space continuum. It barely passed consensus and wasn't too popular. But here we are. What I'm going to say to you is this - your request has been denied, it is for your own good. Trust is the operative word here."
Stunned, I leaned back.
"But, since I'm already here, why not just grant it?"
"You're just going to make me blurt it out, aren't you? Fine. You have... potential. So, request denied. You will be dispatched to your former earthly conditions, right after you've been revived at the hospital. Best I can do."
It seemed fair enough, but there was one thing still nagging at me. I had to ask.
"So... you're the devil then?"
He took his glasses off, and rubbed his temples. Breathing in deeply, he leaned forward again.
"You're not going to remember this, because it would violate a few other agreements that I can't talk to you about. So why not. As to your first question - 'No'. And the inevitable follow up question - also 'No'. I'm not one of anything. It disturbs me that human kind still hasn't figured it out yet."
"So that means--"
"Yes, one and the same, yin and yang. Two sides of the coin, never to be split, seperated or divorced from each other. How could you have not noticed that in nature? It was only made as pairs, you know. One thing balancing the other - most times contained within the same organism. Oh 'eff it all - you've gone and got me emotional again. Off with you--"
**POP**
"I've got to do a better job on the next batch, this one doesn't seem too bright." | "You called me?"
The call of the man beside him distracted Peter. "Who are--" Before he could finish his sentence, he notices that ram horns adorn his forehead. Satan. "Yes, last night actually. Where were you?"
"I thought that if you slept through it, you'll change your mind." Satan stares at Peter's eyes, his eyes burning sulfur.
Peter scoffs at the remark. "It's what Quentin wanted. All his life. It was our bridge, you know? I loved gaming as much as he did. We'd talk for hours on end. And now he's dead, dead before his wish came true."
Peter kneeled in front of Satan. "Please, don't make this hard for me. Take my soul."
Satan stood up and left. Before Peter could say anything, he starts convulsing, and falls to the ground. Peopls start gathering toward the corpse of the man, when he suddenly jumps up. Not alive, nor dead.
Undead.
-008 |
|
[WP] Someone wants to give away their soul for something. Satan tries to talk them out of it. | "Right. So this document declares that you, Marry White, are the owner of one (1) soul, presumed to be in Good Standing and of Moral Virtue with no previous claims, levies, or fines against"
An astute person can spot someone with a legal background from across a crowded room. There's a certain bearing: the way they hold their shoulders, lift their chin, bring their hands back tight to the belt-buckle when they emote. Speaking with a true master of the legal craft is an even more singular experience. Complex sentences, clauses and subclauses fall from a forked tongue with deft ease -- easy to follow but impossible to fully penetrate.
And then there is this guy, thought Marry. She'd trained at Harvard Law, clerked for the Chief Justice, taken a position with one of New York's finest firms. She'd married an prosecutor and guided his career to the govenor's mansion. She'd played politics with some of the sharpest and most dangerous legal minds on the planet.
But next to this guy? Nothing. His articulation? Perfect. Gestures? Convincing, precise, engaging. Eye contact? Flawless. There was an art to his legal speech, an elegance and poise that stopped even a legal asthete like herself cold.
You could hear this guy pronounce **parentheses** for Christ's sake.
She swallowed and slashed out her name, dark red jags forming the sharp ridges in "White."
"And this one proclaims that you, Marry White, do consign your soul to the stewardship of the undersigned party -- that would be me -- and agree that said ownership is transferred immediately. Subsection C -- next page, yes, that one -- states that you will retain physical possession of the same until your natural death at which time I will collect it or arrange to have it collected."
Marry raised a finger, silencing the man in the dark suit and fashionable red power tie while she reviewed language on the first page.
"Very well"
It was the same tone of voice she'd practiced in the mock court rooms at Harvard, honed in the back-rooms of New York politics, and wielded against state Senators and Representatives as first lady. Steady even now, she thought, her professors would be pleased.
"So if you'll sign" -- the man's immaculately manicured hand reached over hers, casually flipping to the back of the bound document -- "here, here and" -- another flip -- "initial here."
"Ah. And what about your end?"
A laugh, rich, redolent with cigar smoke and fine scotch rippled across his dark eyes and through a predatory smile. "Nothing gets past you, does it. Still, you can't blame me for trying."
Drawing a thin black folio from his jacket pocket, he plucked the pen from her fingers and began to scrawl a signature across it, long looping characters more like glyphs than any language she'd seen before.
"This proclaims a debt to you, Marry White, of one (1) unlimited and unqualified wish to be executed at a time of your choosing and discretion. Certain restrictions do, of course, apply: among them that you can not wish to undo the deal we are signing here and that you can not wish for your own immortality or otherwise render your own soul noncollectable by virtue of your wish. The debt is contingent upon the completion of the soul-transfer agreement," still signing, he nodded at the neatly bound stack of yellow paper awaiting Mary's pen, "and my own signature accepting the same."
He slid the folio across the desk to her; it was still warm from his touch. The red swirls of his signature gleamed against the matte finish. She read it, slowly, patiently, and carefully. Twice.
"Very well"
It was the same tone of voice she'd used with her boys when she was raising them. Neither harsh nor comforting just perfectly level. She was the rock in their lives. Their mercurial father and his political career left little time for the family life she felt they deserved but she strove to deliver it none the less. It was laden with understanding, acceptance, and the patient knowledge that boys would be boys. It was the voice she had used when her first son had traveled to Rwanda with the Peace Corps and the voice she had used to comfort her youngest when the news came back that he'd fallen there before a genocider's machette in 1994 while protecting a young Tutsi woman.
The man handed the pen back to her.
"Here, here, and initial here."
She did her best to quell the tremors in her fingers as she signed once and then a second time. The room felt warmer now, she thought, or perhaps that was merely a trick of her imagination. She took a deep breath and then, with a flourish, etched the last three initials: MLW.
"Very well," she'd used the same tone when her youngest, Michael, had told her he'd been accepted to the Naval Academy. She'd worried at the time but a son in uniform was a boon to her husband's career. The pollsters said that it probably won him the race up-state. Michael looked so sharp and polished in his Marine dress blues next to his father on stage and the resemblance... well... it reminded her of why she'd fallen for the man all those years ago.
"Excellent," the man snapped, jerking her from her reverie and the paper from her hand. He pivoted it roughly towards himself as he stooped to sign. His motions were sharper now, animal, even savage.
"So, these restrictions on my wishes. Can I wish for my dead son back?"
"You can, but he won't be the same. Paragraph 4 clearly lays out that you can't change the past," he responded in a bored sing-song as he looped through an involved symbol.
"What about safety and prosperity for a loved one? Could I protect Michael? Keep him safe in Afghanistan? Settle him down with a nice girl and...."
"Section 9, paragraph 2, **clearly** states that wishes must be of direct benefit to the wisher. Protecting your son is an altruistic act which confers no benefit unto yourself and so no, you may not do that."
With a final jag the signature was done. The man's long fingers plucked a gold and enamel cap from an expertly tailored pocket and slid it down over the barrel of the pen. As it clicked into place the room plunged into darkness.
"Now," he said, black eyes lit by the ember-like glow of the ancient sygls and glyphs inscribed on the vellum page, "what will you have, Marry White?"
Marry looked down and drew a breath. She had studied things, learned things, and done things to bring this moment about that horrified her. She had turned her powerful legal mind to the study of unthinkable texts, grisly secrets, and vile rituls to bring this man into this room and she had done so for a purpose, for a reason, and above all, with a plan.
"World peace," she pronounced, in that level, courtroom voice, "a peaceful transition to a peaceful world without bloodshed, violence, or cause for either continuing in perpetuity and without interruption or suspension until the End of Days."
"What?"
"You heard me."
"Section 9, paragraph 2"
"I know what section 9, paragraph 2 states. World peace is of direct benefit to me; besides the considerable societal savings of which I am a direct beneficiary, it also dramatically reduces my chances of dying in a military action, terrorist attack, etc."
"Section 10"
"Paragraph 16? That my wishes may not hold sway over otherwise natural phenomena? War is not a natural phenomena, at least not if we hold your existence to validate certain other texts which have one or two things to say on that subject. While we're at it, paragraph 4 doesn't apply either: there is no reasonable way to determine my plausible lifespan nor the heralding of the End of Days and therefore restrictions upon the longevity of my wish are likewise invalid. Appendix A's prohibition on wishes which constrain the method by which they are fulfilled is nullified by the nature of this wish in that "peace" can not be defined as a state in which there is no one left to fight and the aforementioned section on natural phenomena, of which human confrontationalism is certainly one. That is my wish. World peace under the terms I have laid out. We have a contract signed in blood with my name and Yours. Do you intend to honor it?"
A pause. A flicker. And the lights came back on.
The man sat, his tie loosened and the bridge of his nose pinched between thumb and forefinger, a curl of smoke rising from the pen in his clenched fist.
"Perhaps we could negotiate an alternate arrangement?"
"Very well." | "You called me?"
The call of the man beside him distracted Peter. "Who are--" Before he could finish his sentence, he notices that ram horns adorn his forehead. Satan. "Yes, last night actually. Where were you?"
"I thought that if you slept through it, you'll change your mind." Satan stares at Peter's eyes, his eyes burning sulfur.
Peter scoffs at the remark. "It's what Quentin wanted. All his life. It was our bridge, you know? I loved gaming as much as he did. We'd talk for hours on end. And now he's dead, dead before his wish came true."
Peter kneeled in front of Satan. "Please, don't make this hard for me. Take my soul."
Satan stood up and left. Before Peter could say anything, he starts convulsing, and falls to the ground. Peopls start gathering toward the corpse of the man, when he suddenly jumps up. Not alive, nor dead.
Undead.
-008 |
|
[WP] Someone wants to give away their soul for something. Satan tries to talk them out of it. | "You want to give your *eternal soul* for internet points on some internet website?" Said the red god, incredulous.
"You must be retarded..." Could even *he* send a disabled man to hell? What fun would it be torturing somebody that understands nothing? He hadn't thought of this, much like the music industry he had created, the net effect of all those wires and modems and nodes on the humans and their societies was something he, the thrones, nobody, could have ever predicted and now it was 'take my soul for WoW points, take my soul for reps, take my sould for BTC, take my sould for *the effing lulz*', it had gotten beyond ridiculous and he was getting fed up of it all.
"This is your immortal soul we're talking about!" He boomed, "This isn't... I-I'm not some sort of joke you know! You'll be tormented forever for this, burned and whipped. Just to be cool on some stupid website? Are you even thinking?"
"There's nothing stupid about Lebbit, replied the idiot. It's the coolest website there is and I don't want to die and never been guilded." He crossed his unasthetic arms defiantly.
The red god considered his options for a few monents and then decided.
He'd revoke his SAWCSM privilage and then send him to /pol/.
Forever.
That'll learn him. The dumb ****. | "You called me?"
The call of the man beside him distracted Peter. "Who are--" Before he could finish his sentence, he notices that ram horns adorn his forehead. Satan. "Yes, last night actually. Where were you?"
"I thought that if you slept through it, you'll change your mind." Satan stares at Peter's eyes, his eyes burning sulfur.
Peter scoffs at the remark. "It's what Quentin wanted. All his life. It was our bridge, you know? I loved gaming as much as he did. We'd talk for hours on end. And now he's dead, dead before his wish came true."
Peter kneeled in front of Satan. "Please, don't make this hard for me. Take my soul."
Satan stood up and left. Before Peter could say anything, he starts convulsing, and falls to the ground. Peopls start gathering toward the corpse of the man, when he suddenly jumps up. Not alive, nor dead.
Undead.
-008 |
|
[WP] Someone wants to give away their soul for something. Satan tries to talk them out of it. | "Look," said Satan, "I'm not interested."
"What?" Cassie asked. "I'm offering my soul to be with the one I love."
"Yeah? So?"
"Well, I thought it would be a fairly common thing for you to do."
"Oh, would it now? Just because I'm the Lord of Hell, I can just take your soul whenever?"
"Well...can't you?"
"Of course not, you idiot!" Satan placed his head in his hands. "Look, the concept of selling souls before you die is just some propaganda spread by the angels in Heaven. Your soul is your property until you die; neither I nor Cliff can-"
"Cliff?"
"Oh, that's what we call God. Anyway, neither of us can claim your soul until your life ends. So, while you could believe that you sold your soul to me, if you were to sacrifice yourself to save someone, you would shoot up to Heaven. In layman's terms, your soul is not the same as your bank balance; you can't just barter your way out of a situation!"
"But," sobbed Cassie, "I love him."
"Boo freaking hoo! You can't be with so-far-in-the-closet-he's-the-representative-for-Narnia Justin Beiber? People break people's hearts. It's called life, sweetheart, get used to it."
"But I can't imagine life without him!"
"**Try!** For Christ's sake, you're only sixteen; Joan of Arc had practically saved France by the time she was your age!"
"So, what do I do now?"
"Get on with your piss-stain of a life! Finish high school, go to college, travel the world, sleep around, invent something, I don't know; I'm not your career advisor!"
"Well.. this didn't go according to plan."
"Yeah, well life doesn't follow your plan. But don't worry Cassie - I'm certain we will see each other again! ***MWUHAHAHAHAHAHAAAAA!*** But seriously, get your shit together." | "You called me?"
The call of the man beside him distracted Peter. "Who are--" Before he could finish his sentence, he notices that ram horns adorn his forehead. Satan. "Yes, last night actually. Where were you?"
"I thought that if you slept through it, you'll change your mind." Satan stares at Peter's eyes, his eyes burning sulfur.
Peter scoffs at the remark. "It's what Quentin wanted. All his life. It was our bridge, you know? I loved gaming as much as he did. We'd talk for hours on end. And now he's dead, dead before his wish came true."
Peter kneeled in front of Satan. "Please, don't make this hard for me. Take my soul."
Satan stood up and left. Before Peter could say anything, he starts convulsing, and falls to the ground. Peopls start gathering toward the corpse of the man, when he suddenly jumps up. Not alive, nor dead.
Undead.
-008 |
|
[WP] Someone wants to give away their soul for something. Satan tries to talk them out of it. | "Hello," Satan called, greeting the seller cordially.
"Are you him?" Stan asked.
"Him . . ." Satan left the question hanging between them.
"Lucifer? Are you him?" Stan asked, suddenly realizing that if he was, he was shaking the Devil's hand and pulled his paw away.
"I'm him. I'm the guy. The Big *Baddie*. The Soul Rancher. Lord Death. The Great Deciever. Lucifer. Satan. Beezlebub. The Fallen. Evil." Satan sang.
Stan nodded nervously.
"So, how can I help you?" Satan asked, wiping the glass show case filled with hand guns with a white rag and some Windex.
"I--I want to sell my soul." Stan whispered meekly.
"Well, it is a buyer's market. Show me the goods, Stan." Satan patted the glass. Bring that soul out here so I can see it.
Stan was confused. He didn't know how to lay his soul out for the Devil's inspection.
"Ah," the Devil called. "Yeah. Most people come in here without knowing how to open it up. Satan leaned over. "May I?" He asked, before touching Stan.
"Y-Yeah. Go ahead." Stan stood perfectly still, not daring to move a muscle so long as the Devil was near.
Satan peeled Stan's soul loose and draped it screaming across the counter. Stan stared at his terrified soul and felt nothing but emptiness. The soul squirmed and screamed and cried out in terror.
"It's got a lot of fight, Stan. That's a good sign. It will definitely drive the price up." Satan pulled out a jewlers loop and fit it to his eye and scrutinized the squirming soul. "Any liens on it by the guy up stairs?" He asked, looking for a holy brand.
"No, sir." Stan replied.
"This isn't a recycled soul, is it? I don't buy reincarnations. Tell me true. I will know if you're lying. I am the Great Deciever. I can tell when a customer is lying." The Devil looked severe.
"I promise. It isn't used. I'm Catholic." Stan assured him.
"Out-*freaking*-standing!! You've got some quality soul here Stan. I'm not going to lie to you. Well, I am, but I'm not. You being Catholic doesn't increase the value of your soul fiscally, but intrinsically, I prefer to buy Catholic souls just to piss off my competition. So Stan, I think we can do business. Your soul is still young, not the strongest, and it has some fight in it. Left alone, I think you'd grow to be a very strong-willed individual. If your soul was an apple, it'd still be a little green. But Hey, I like a tart apple," Satan admitted, giving Stan a big tooty grin.
"So, you'll buy it?" Stan asked, hopefully, carressing the struggling apparition to try and calm it.
"A soul like this will by you . . ." Satan thought it over, "love, lower middle-class income, musical ability, guns, knick-knacks, leprechaun level luck, and perhaps, if you play your cards right, a one night stand with a Lindsay Lohan. She teeters between good and bad so much, it's a crap shoot." Satan thought about his offer and nodded. "So what it'll it be?"
"You said love?" Stan asked. The Devil's smile was huge.
"Lust is one of my favorite sins." He admitted. "Who you wanting to penetrate, son?"
Stan seemed repulsed. "No one. I just want her to love me." He said.
"Riiiight." The Devil's smile was knowing. "So, who's the lucky lady?"
Stan pulled a picture from his wallet. "Her name is Cecilia--Cecilia Vincent. I'm in love with her, but she never notices me."
"Whoa. This is the girl you want to sell your soul for?" Satan asked, suddenly serious.
"Yes. She has the most beautiful eyes. The perfect smile. Skin like new fallen snow. When she walks by, I--" The Devil stopped him
"Nooo. Sorry. Name something else. Anything but her. Name it and it is yours." Satan said.
"She's all I want. All I need. You said I could have love." Stan argued.
"How about, instead of buying your soul outright. I lease it. You keep living unaffected. When you die. I send Death to collect it. What do say?" The Devil asked, looking down his nose, a smile hovering on his lips.
"No. I only want her." Stan said.
"You're killing me here, Stan. You can't have her. I can't give her to you. Pick something else." The Devil told him.
Stan just looked at the Devil with disappointment in his eyes.
"How about this," Satan whispered, "I give you an upgrade. I'll bump your the value of your soul a little bit, and now, you can win a state lottery or something. I'm only doing this cause I like you Stan. You're soul is primo, but it's not good enough to get that girl. I'm sorry. With the winnings, maybe you could impress her then." The Devil held out his hand. "Come on, son. Take the deal."
"I only want her." Stan shouted back.
"A lot of money may get her for you, boy. Don't be a fool. Take the money." Satan extended his hands further.
"I only want her," Stan whispered, turning to go.
"I'm sorry, Stan. You're a good kid. It's why I wanted to buy your soul, but she's no good for you. Keep your soul. Just stay away from her. She'll only lift you up so you can fall. You wouldn't be the first guy she's done it to. Just stay away from her. Keep your soul. Hell, buy a lotto ticket tonight. I guarantee it'll be a winner. It's free and on the house. Maybe later, a few years down the road, you'll meet someone I can deal with and you come back and we'll do business then. How's that sound?" Satan called.
"Why can't it be her? She's perfect. She's beautiful. She's--"
"An angel, Stan. She's an angel. I have no power to compel angels to love you. I'm sorry. Just stay away from that one. It'll only end in heart break. No one's good enough to date an angel. It takes a pure soul, son. She'll break your heart. She broke mine." The Devil turned away. "Buy the ticket. Enjoy the winnings. No strings attached this time. You got the sympathy of the Devil, Stan. It doesn't happen often."
"She hurt you bad?" Stan asked.
"Yeah." Satan replied, remembering a moment long ago. "She was the reason I fell from grace. The reason I was cast out."
Stan nodded. He understood. "Thanks, Lucy." Stan quipped.
Satan looked up in surprise and smiled. "Don't call me that, kid."
Stan smiled back and left the Devil's pawn shop. He had a lotto ticket to buy. | "You called me?"
The call of the man beside him distracted Peter. "Who are--" Before he could finish his sentence, he notices that ram horns adorn his forehead. Satan. "Yes, last night actually. Where were you?"
"I thought that if you slept through it, you'll change your mind." Satan stares at Peter's eyes, his eyes burning sulfur.
Peter scoffs at the remark. "It's what Quentin wanted. All his life. It was our bridge, you know? I loved gaming as much as he did. We'd talk for hours on end. And now he's dead, dead before his wish came true."
Peter kneeled in front of Satan. "Please, don't make this hard for me. Take my soul."
Satan stood up and left. Before Peter could say anything, he starts convulsing, and falls to the ground. Peopls start gathering toward the corpse of the man, when he suddenly jumps up. Not alive, nor dead.
Undead.
-008 |
|
[WP] Someone wants to give away their soul for something. Satan tries to talk them out of it. | Satan rubbed one of his horns and groaned. "Listen, kid. I don't usually say no to soul contracts. But no."
The boy blinked. "Why not?"
"Because," said Satan, "it's against policy."
"'Cause I'm a kid," said the kid. "I bet you think I'm stupid, or something."
"Undoubtedly," said Satan. "And because I don't really _do_ this. Reviving your mother would be more of a heavenly thing. Go ask God."
"He didn't answer me," said the boy.
| "You called me?"
The call of the man beside him distracted Peter. "Who are--" Before he could finish his sentence, he notices that ram horns adorn his forehead. Satan. "Yes, last night actually. Where were you?"
"I thought that if you slept through it, you'll change your mind." Satan stares at Peter's eyes, his eyes burning sulfur.
Peter scoffs at the remark. "It's what Quentin wanted. All his life. It was our bridge, you know? I loved gaming as much as he did. We'd talk for hours on end. And now he's dead, dead before his wish came true."
Peter kneeled in front of Satan. "Please, don't make this hard for me. Take my soul."
Satan stood up and left. Before Peter could say anything, he starts convulsing, and falls to the ground. Peopls start gathering toward the corpse of the man, when he suddenly jumps up. Not alive, nor dead.
Undead.
-008 |
|
[WP] Someone wants to give away their soul for something. Satan tries to talk them out of it. | **POP**
Ow, hell ow... dammit. That hurt like all get-out. Is this how it is? Just a featureless room with a table and two chairs? Please tell me that this isn't some perverse "exit interview".
The other chair was tall and leather bound, reflecting dully in the overhead light. The table, well, it wasn't anything special either, just one of those utilitarian jobs from any number of office supply stores. But then again, I was just in a car accident wasn't I? What the hell is--
"Hello. Sorry about that, only time I had available. You should feel better in a few moments."
He was tall, swiveling around in his leather chair. I had expected something different, not a thin man with spectacles wearing a three-piece suit.
"Uh.. why am I here?"
"Oh, well - I think you know. Remember any thoughts before your car hit the -- ", he glanced down at the table which now displayed pertinent facts about my life, all arrayed in a semicircle around him, " - compact car at Madison Street?"
Oh. That.
"Well yes, but I was halfway joking and--"
"It was quite authentic. We have a few automated systems here, they're good at filtering out liars and the insane.", he leaned forward, fingers propping up his narrow chin.
"Well. Right. As you probably know I've had some financial trouble, and I was saying to a friend over the phone how I would sell my soul to have millions of dollars.", it sounded so stupid and quaint now, like I was asking a supermodel for a kiss.
"Right. That request. Well, you see - there's a bit of a problem here. Normally I'd honor such requests from a self-directed being like yourself, but there's some other considerations involved."
Hmm. Okay. I just nodded and sat silent as he shuffled some more pages into view with his fingertips.
"You made a request under duress. I can't disclose any future events to you - as it would violate the FCCA, so I think that--"
"FCCA? What is that?"
He smiled. The broad smile of someone dealing with a child or a small pet.
"The Free Choice Causality Accord - we're prevented from disclosing future events that would cause certain undesirable feedback loops in the time space continuum. It barely passed consensus and wasn't too popular. But here we are. What I'm going to say to you is this - your request has been denied, it is for your own good. Trust is the operative word here."
Stunned, I leaned back.
"But, since I'm already here, why not just grant it?"
"You're just going to make me blurt it out, aren't you? Fine. You have... potential. So, request denied. You will be dispatched to your former earthly conditions, right after you've been revived at the hospital. Best I can do."
It seemed fair enough, but there was one thing still nagging at me. I had to ask.
"So... you're the devil then?"
He took his glasses off, and rubbed his temples. Breathing in deeply, he leaned forward again.
"You're not going to remember this, because it would violate a few other agreements that I can't talk to you about. So why not. As to your first question - 'No'. And the inevitable follow up question - also 'No'. I'm not one of anything. It disturbs me that human kind still hasn't figured it out yet."
"So that means--"
"Yes, one and the same, yin and yang. Two sides of the coin, never to be split, seperated or divorced from each other. How could you have not noticed that in nature? It was only made as pairs, you know. One thing balancing the other - most times contained within the same organism. Oh 'eff it all - you've gone and got me emotional again. Off with you--"
**POP**
"I've got to do a better job on the next batch, this one doesn't seem too bright." | "Oh good, you're here. Took you longer than i thought it would."
"Well I came as fast as I could, never thought i'd see the day that God's authority on earth asked for *my* favour! What is it you want my... err... **NEW FRIEND**!"
"Ah yes, allow me to quickly place myself in this pentagon. Right, I will give you my soul if you give **YOURS** back to God."
"... Excuse me?"
"You heard me *demon*!"
"... I... I... Why would you do that?"
"Because if **YOU** return to God then there will be no one to tempt humanity. I will gladly serve my time in hell assuming it continues without your existence, for the rest of mankind."
"...But-"
"But nothing demon! It says here that once I summon you and offer you my soul you must at least fulfil my request whilst I live, albeit in ways that suit your wickedness. I have found your weakness Satan. You cannot give your soul to God and take it back. You cannot pretend to give it God. I have commanded thee to do what is truly irreversible. I have asked you Satan, to make the one trade that is truly equal. A soul of the light, plunged into darkness so that a soul of darkness is raised into the light!"
"... So be it."
"And so it shall be." |
|
[WP] Someone wants to give away their soul for something. Satan tries to talk them out of it. | "Right. So this document declares that you, Marry White, are the owner of one (1) soul, presumed to be in Good Standing and of Moral Virtue with no previous claims, levies, or fines against"
An astute person can spot someone with a legal background from across a crowded room. There's a certain bearing: the way they hold their shoulders, lift their chin, bring their hands back tight to the belt-buckle when they emote. Speaking with a true master of the legal craft is an even more singular experience. Complex sentences, clauses and subclauses fall from a forked tongue with deft ease -- easy to follow but impossible to fully penetrate.
And then there is this guy, thought Marry. She'd trained at Harvard Law, clerked for the Chief Justice, taken a position with one of New York's finest firms. She'd married an prosecutor and guided his career to the govenor's mansion. She'd played politics with some of the sharpest and most dangerous legal minds on the planet.
But next to this guy? Nothing. His articulation? Perfect. Gestures? Convincing, precise, engaging. Eye contact? Flawless. There was an art to his legal speech, an elegance and poise that stopped even a legal asthete like herself cold.
You could hear this guy pronounce **parentheses** for Christ's sake.
She swallowed and slashed out her name, dark red jags forming the sharp ridges in "White."
"And this one proclaims that you, Marry White, do consign your soul to the stewardship of the undersigned party -- that would be me -- and agree that said ownership is transferred immediately. Subsection C -- next page, yes, that one -- states that you will retain physical possession of the same until your natural death at which time I will collect it or arrange to have it collected."
Marry raised a finger, silencing the man in the dark suit and fashionable red power tie while she reviewed language on the first page.
"Very well"
It was the same tone of voice she'd practiced in the mock court rooms at Harvard, honed in the back-rooms of New York politics, and wielded against state Senators and Representatives as first lady. Steady even now, she thought, her professors would be pleased.
"So if you'll sign" -- the man's immaculately manicured hand reached over hers, casually flipping to the back of the bound document -- "here, here and" -- another flip -- "initial here."
"Ah. And what about your end?"
A laugh, rich, redolent with cigar smoke and fine scotch rippled across his dark eyes and through a predatory smile. "Nothing gets past you, does it. Still, you can't blame me for trying."
Drawing a thin black folio from his jacket pocket, he plucked the pen from her fingers and began to scrawl a signature across it, long looping characters more like glyphs than any language she'd seen before.
"This proclaims a debt to you, Marry White, of one (1) unlimited and unqualified wish to be executed at a time of your choosing and discretion. Certain restrictions do, of course, apply: among them that you can not wish to undo the deal we are signing here and that you can not wish for your own immortality or otherwise render your own soul noncollectable by virtue of your wish. The debt is contingent upon the completion of the soul-transfer agreement," still signing, he nodded at the neatly bound stack of yellow paper awaiting Mary's pen, "and my own signature accepting the same."
He slid the folio across the desk to her; it was still warm from his touch. The red swirls of his signature gleamed against the matte finish. She read it, slowly, patiently, and carefully. Twice.
"Very well"
It was the same tone of voice she'd used with her boys when she was raising them. Neither harsh nor comforting just perfectly level. She was the rock in their lives. Their mercurial father and his political career left little time for the family life she felt they deserved but she strove to deliver it none the less. It was laden with understanding, acceptance, and the patient knowledge that boys would be boys. It was the voice she had used when her first son had traveled to Rwanda with the Peace Corps and the voice she had used to comfort her youngest when the news came back that he'd fallen there before a genocider's machette in 1994 while protecting a young Tutsi woman.
The man handed the pen back to her.
"Here, here, and initial here."
She did her best to quell the tremors in her fingers as she signed once and then a second time. The room felt warmer now, she thought, or perhaps that was merely a trick of her imagination. She took a deep breath and then, with a flourish, etched the last three initials: MLW.
"Very well," she'd used the same tone when her youngest, Michael, had told her he'd been accepted to the Naval Academy. She'd worried at the time but a son in uniform was a boon to her husband's career. The pollsters said that it probably won him the race up-state. Michael looked so sharp and polished in his Marine dress blues next to his father on stage and the resemblance... well... it reminded her of why she'd fallen for the man all those years ago.
"Excellent," the man snapped, jerking her from her reverie and the paper from her hand. He pivoted it roughly towards himself as he stooped to sign. His motions were sharper now, animal, even savage.
"So, these restrictions on my wishes. Can I wish for my dead son back?"
"You can, but he won't be the same. Paragraph 4 clearly lays out that you can't change the past," he responded in a bored sing-song as he looped through an involved symbol.
"What about safety and prosperity for a loved one? Could I protect Michael? Keep him safe in Afghanistan? Settle him down with a nice girl and...."
"Section 9, paragraph 2, **clearly** states that wishes must be of direct benefit to the wisher. Protecting your son is an altruistic act which confers no benefit unto yourself and so no, you may not do that."
With a final jag the signature was done. The man's long fingers plucked a gold and enamel cap from an expertly tailored pocket and slid it down over the barrel of the pen. As it clicked into place the room plunged into darkness.
"Now," he said, black eyes lit by the ember-like glow of the ancient sygls and glyphs inscribed on the vellum page, "what will you have, Marry White?"
Marry looked down and drew a breath. She had studied things, learned things, and done things to bring this moment about that horrified her. She had turned her powerful legal mind to the study of unthinkable texts, grisly secrets, and vile rituls to bring this man into this room and she had done so for a purpose, for a reason, and above all, with a plan.
"World peace," she pronounced, in that level, courtroom voice, "a peaceful transition to a peaceful world without bloodshed, violence, or cause for either continuing in perpetuity and without interruption or suspension until the End of Days."
"What?"
"You heard me."
"Section 9, paragraph 2"
"I know what section 9, paragraph 2 states. World peace is of direct benefit to me; besides the considerable societal savings of which I am a direct beneficiary, it also dramatically reduces my chances of dying in a military action, terrorist attack, etc."
"Section 10"
"Paragraph 16? That my wishes may not hold sway over otherwise natural phenomena? War is not a natural phenomena, at least not if we hold your existence to validate certain other texts which have one or two things to say on that subject. While we're at it, paragraph 4 doesn't apply either: there is no reasonable way to determine my plausible lifespan nor the heralding of the End of Days and therefore restrictions upon the longevity of my wish are likewise invalid. Appendix A's prohibition on wishes which constrain the method by which they are fulfilled is nullified by the nature of this wish in that "peace" can not be defined as a state in which there is no one left to fight and the aforementioned section on natural phenomena, of which human confrontationalism is certainly one. That is my wish. World peace under the terms I have laid out. We have a contract signed in blood with my name and Yours. Do you intend to honor it?"
A pause. A flicker. And the lights came back on.
The man sat, his tie loosened and the bridge of his nose pinched between thumb and forefinger, a curl of smoke rising from the pen in his clenched fist.
"Perhaps we could negotiate an alternate arrangement?"
"Very well." | "Oh good, you're here. Took you longer than i thought it would."
"Well I came as fast as I could, never thought i'd see the day that God's authority on earth asked for *my* favour! What is it you want my... err... **NEW FRIEND**!"
"Ah yes, allow me to quickly place myself in this pentagon. Right, I will give you my soul if you give **YOURS** back to God."
"... Excuse me?"
"You heard me *demon*!"
"... I... I... Why would you do that?"
"Because if **YOU** return to God then there will be no one to tempt humanity. I will gladly serve my time in hell assuming it continues without your existence, for the rest of mankind."
"...But-"
"But nothing demon! It says here that once I summon you and offer you my soul you must at least fulfil my request whilst I live, albeit in ways that suit your wickedness. I have found your weakness Satan. You cannot give your soul to God and take it back. You cannot pretend to give it God. I have commanded thee to do what is truly irreversible. I have asked you Satan, to make the one trade that is truly equal. A soul of the light, plunged into darkness so that a soul of darkness is raised into the light!"
"... So be it."
"And so it shall be." |
|
[WP] Someone wants to give away their soul for something. Satan tries to talk them out of it. | "You want to give your *eternal soul* for internet points on some internet website?" Said the red god, incredulous.
"You must be retarded..." Could even *he* send a disabled man to hell? What fun would it be torturing somebody that understands nothing? He hadn't thought of this, much like the music industry he had created, the net effect of all those wires and modems and nodes on the humans and their societies was something he, the thrones, nobody, could have ever predicted and now it was 'take my soul for WoW points, take my soul for reps, take my sould for BTC, take my sould for *the effing lulz*', it had gotten beyond ridiculous and he was getting fed up of it all.
"This is your immortal soul we're talking about!" He boomed, "This isn't... I-I'm not some sort of joke you know! You'll be tormented forever for this, burned and whipped. Just to be cool on some stupid website? Are you even thinking?"
"There's nothing stupid about Lebbit, replied the idiot. It's the coolest website there is and I don't want to die and never been guilded." He crossed his unasthetic arms defiantly.
The red god considered his options for a few monents and then decided.
He'd revoke his SAWCSM privilage and then send him to /pol/.
Forever.
That'll learn him. The dumb ****. | "Oh good, you're here. Took you longer than i thought it would."
"Well I came as fast as I could, never thought i'd see the day that God's authority on earth asked for *my* favour! What is it you want my... err... **NEW FRIEND**!"
"Ah yes, allow me to quickly place myself in this pentagon. Right, I will give you my soul if you give **YOURS** back to God."
"... Excuse me?"
"You heard me *demon*!"
"... I... I... Why would you do that?"
"Because if **YOU** return to God then there will be no one to tempt humanity. I will gladly serve my time in hell assuming it continues without your existence, for the rest of mankind."
"...But-"
"But nothing demon! It says here that once I summon you and offer you my soul you must at least fulfil my request whilst I live, albeit in ways that suit your wickedness. I have found your weakness Satan. You cannot give your soul to God and take it back. You cannot pretend to give it God. I have commanded thee to do what is truly irreversible. I have asked you Satan, to make the one trade that is truly equal. A soul of the light, plunged into darkness so that a soul of darkness is raised into the light!"
"... So be it."
"And so it shall be." |
|
[WP] Someone wants to give away their soul for something. Satan tries to talk them out of it. | "Hello," Satan called, greeting the seller cordially.
"Are you him?" Stan asked.
"Him . . ." Satan left the question hanging between them.
"Lucifer? Are you him?" Stan asked, suddenly realizing that if he was, he was shaking the Devil's hand and pulled his paw away.
"I'm him. I'm the guy. The Big *Baddie*. The Soul Rancher. Lord Death. The Great Deciever. Lucifer. Satan. Beezlebub. The Fallen. Evil." Satan sang.
Stan nodded nervously.
"So, how can I help you?" Satan asked, wiping the glass show case filled with hand guns with a white rag and some Windex.
"I--I want to sell my soul." Stan whispered meekly.
"Well, it is a buyer's market. Show me the goods, Stan." Satan patted the glass. Bring that soul out here so I can see it.
Stan was confused. He didn't know how to lay his soul out for the Devil's inspection.
"Ah," the Devil called. "Yeah. Most people come in here without knowing how to open it up. Satan leaned over. "May I?" He asked, before touching Stan.
"Y-Yeah. Go ahead." Stan stood perfectly still, not daring to move a muscle so long as the Devil was near.
Satan peeled Stan's soul loose and draped it screaming across the counter. Stan stared at his terrified soul and felt nothing but emptiness. The soul squirmed and screamed and cried out in terror.
"It's got a lot of fight, Stan. That's a good sign. It will definitely drive the price up." Satan pulled out a jewlers loop and fit it to his eye and scrutinized the squirming soul. "Any liens on it by the guy up stairs?" He asked, looking for a holy brand.
"No, sir." Stan replied.
"This isn't a recycled soul, is it? I don't buy reincarnations. Tell me true. I will know if you're lying. I am the Great Deciever. I can tell when a customer is lying." The Devil looked severe.
"I promise. It isn't used. I'm Catholic." Stan assured him.
"Out-*freaking*-standing!! You've got some quality soul here Stan. I'm not going to lie to you. Well, I am, but I'm not. You being Catholic doesn't increase the value of your soul fiscally, but intrinsically, I prefer to buy Catholic souls just to piss off my competition. So Stan, I think we can do business. Your soul is still young, not the strongest, and it has some fight in it. Left alone, I think you'd grow to be a very strong-willed individual. If your soul was an apple, it'd still be a little green. But Hey, I like a tart apple," Satan admitted, giving Stan a big tooty grin.
"So, you'll buy it?" Stan asked, hopefully, carressing the struggling apparition to try and calm it.
"A soul like this will by you . . ." Satan thought it over, "love, lower middle-class income, musical ability, guns, knick-knacks, leprechaun level luck, and perhaps, if you play your cards right, a one night stand with a Lindsay Lohan. She teeters between good and bad so much, it's a crap shoot." Satan thought about his offer and nodded. "So what it'll it be?"
"You said love?" Stan asked. The Devil's smile was huge.
"Lust is one of my favorite sins." He admitted. "Who you wanting to penetrate, son?"
Stan seemed repulsed. "No one. I just want her to love me." He said.
"Riiiight." The Devil's smile was knowing. "So, who's the lucky lady?"
Stan pulled a picture from his wallet. "Her name is Cecilia--Cecilia Vincent. I'm in love with her, but she never notices me."
"Whoa. This is the girl you want to sell your soul for?" Satan asked, suddenly serious.
"Yes. She has the most beautiful eyes. The perfect smile. Skin like new fallen snow. When she walks by, I--" The Devil stopped him
"Nooo. Sorry. Name something else. Anything but her. Name it and it is yours." Satan said.
"She's all I want. All I need. You said I could have love." Stan argued.
"How about, instead of buying your soul outright. I lease it. You keep living unaffected. When you die. I send Death to collect it. What do say?" The Devil asked, looking down his nose, a smile hovering on his lips.
"No. I only want her." Stan said.
"You're killing me here, Stan. You can't have her. I can't give her to you. Pick something else." The Devil told him.
Stan just looked at the Devil with disappointment in his eyes.
"How about this," Satan whispered, "I give you an upgrade. I'll bump your the value of your soul a little bit, and now, you can win a state lottery or something. I'm only doing this cause I like you Stan. You're soul is primo, but it's not good enough to get that girl. I'm sorry. With the winnings, maybe you could impress her then." The Devil held out his hand. "Come on, son. Take the deal."
"I only want her." Stan shouted back.
"A lot of money may get her for you, boy. Don't be a fool. Take the money." Satan extended his hands further.
"I only want her," Stan whispered, turning to go.
"I'm sorry, Stan. You're a good kid. It's why I wanted to buy your soul, but she's no good for you. Keep your soul. Just stay away from her. She'll only lift you up so you can fall. You wouldn't be the first guy she's done it to. Just stay away from her. Keep your soul. Hell, buy a lotto ticket tonight. I guarantee it'll be a winner. It's free and on the house. Maybe later, a few years down the road, you'll meet someone I can deal with and you come back and we'll do business then. How's that sound?" Satan called.
"Why can't it be her? She's perfect. She's beautiful. She's--"
"An angel, Stan. She's an angel. I have no power to compel angels to love you. I'm sorry. Just stay away from that one. It'll only end in heart break. No one's good enough to date an angel. It takes a pure soul, son. She'll break your heart. She broke mine." The Devil turned away. "Buy the ticket. Enjoy the winnings. No strings attached this time. You got the sympathy of the Devil, Stan. It doesn't happen often."
"She hurt you bad?" Stan asked.
"Yeah." Satan replied, remembering a moment long ago. "She was the reason I fell from grace. The reason I was cast out."
Stan nodded. He understood. "Thanks, Lucy." Stan quipped.
Satan looked up in surprise and smiled. "Don't call me that, kid."
Stan smiled back and left the Devil's pawn shop. He had a lotto ticket to buy. | "Oh good, you're here. Took you longer than i thought it would."
"Well I came as fast as I could, never thought i'd see the day that God's authority on earth asked for *my* favour! What is it you want my... err... **NEW FRIEND**!"
"Ah yes, allow me to quickly place myself in this pentagon. Right, I will give you my soul if you give **YOURS** back to God."
"... Excuse me?"
"You heard me *demon*!"
"... I... I... Why would you do that?"
"Because if **YOU** return to God then there will be no one to tempt humanity. I will gladly serve my time in hell assuming it continues without your existence, for the rest of mankind."
"...But-"
"But nothing demon! It says here that once I summon you and offer you my soul you must at least fulfil my request whilst I live, albeit in ways that suit your wickedness. I have found your weakness Satan. You cannot give your soul to God and take it back. You cannot pretend to give it God. I have commanded thee to do what is truly irreversible. I have asked you Satan, to make the one trade that is truly equal. A soul of the light, plunged into darkness so that a soul of darkness is raised into the light!"
"... So be it."
"And so it shall be." |
|
[WP] Someone wants to give away their soul for something. Satan tries to talk them out of it. | Satan rubbed one of his horns and groaned. "Listen, kid. I don't usually say no to soul contracts. But no."
The boy blinked. "Why not?"
"Because," said Satan, "it's against policy."
"'Cause I'm a kid," said the kid. "I bet you think I'm stupid, or something."
"Undoubtedly," said Satan. "And because I don't really _do_ this. Reviving your mother would be more of a heavenly thing. Go ask God."
"He didn't answer me," said the boy.
| "Oh good, you're here. Took you longer than i thought it would."
"Well I came as fast as I could, never thought i'd see the day that God's authority on earth asked for *my* favour! What is it you want my... err... **NEW FRIEND**!"
"Ah yes, allow me to quickly place myself in this pentagon. Right, I will give you my soul if you give **YOURS** back to God."
"... Excuse me?"
"You heard me *demon*!"
"... I... I... Why would you do that?"
"Because if **YOU** return to God then there will be no one to tempt humanity. I will gladly serve my time in hell assuming it continues without your existence, for the rest of mankind."
"...But-"
"But nothing demon! It says here that once I summon you and offer you my soul you must at least fulfil my request whilst I live, albeit in ways that suit your wickedness. I have found your weakness Satan. You cannot give your soul to God and take it back. You cannot pretend to give it God. I have commanded thee to do what is truly irreversible. I have asked you Satan, to make the one trade that is truly equal. A soul of the light, plunged into darkness so that a soul of darkness is raised into the light!"
"... So be it."
"And so it shall be." |
|
[WP] Someone wants to give away their soul for something. Satan tries to talk them out of it. | "Right. So this document declares that you, Marry White, are the owner of one (1) soul, presumed to be in Good Standing and of Moral Virtue with no previous claims, levies, or fines against"
An astute person can spot someone with a legal background from across a crowded room. There's a certain bearing: the way they hold their shoulders, lift their chin, bring their hands back tight to the belt-buckle when they emote. Speaking with a true master of the legal craft is an even more singular experience. Complex sentences, clauses and subclauses fall from a forked tongue with deft ease -- easy to follow but impossible to fully penetrate.
And then there is this guy, thought Marry. She'd trained at Harvard Law, clerked for the Chief Justice, taken a position with one of New York's finest firms. She'd married an prosecutor and guided his career to the govenor's mansion. She'd played politics with some of the sharpest and most dangerous legal minds on the planet.
But next to this guy? Nothing. His articulation? Perfect. Gestures? Convincing, precise, engaging. Eye contact? Flawless. There was an art to his legal speech, an elegance and poise that stopped even a legal asthete like herself cold.
You could hear this guy pronounce **parentheses** for Christ's sake.
She swallowed and slashed out her name, dark red jags forming the sharp ridges in "White."
"And this one proclaims that you, Marry White, do consign your soul to the stewardship of the undersigned party -- that would be me -- and agree that said ownership is transferred immediately. Subsection C -- next page, yes, that one -- states that you will retain physical possession of the same until your natural death at which time I will collect it or arrange to have it collected."
Marry raised a finger, silencing the man in the dark suit and fashionable red power tie while she reviewed language on the first page.
"Very well"
It was the same tone of voice she'd practiced in the mock court rooms at Harvard, honed in the back-rooms of New York politics, and wielded against state Senators and Representatives as first lady. Steady even now, she thought, her professors would be pleased.
"So if you'll sign" -- the man's immaculately manicured hand reached over hers, casually flipping to the back of the bound document -- "here, here and" -- another flip -- "initial here."
"Ah. And what about your end?"
A laugh, rich, redolent with cigar smoke and fine scotch rippled across his dark eyes and through a predatory smile. "Nothing gets past you, does it. Still, you can't blame me for trying."
Drawing a thin black folio from his jacket pocket, he plucked the pen from her fingers and began to scrawl a signature across it, long looping characters more like glyphs than any language she'd seen before.
"This proclaims a debt to you, Marry White, of one (1) unlimited and unqualified wish to be executed at a time of your choosing and discretion. Certain restrictions do, of course, apply: among them that you can not wish to undo the deal we are signing here and that you can not wish for your own immortality or otherwise render your own soul noncollectable by virtue of your wish. The debt is contingent upon the completion of the soul-transfer agreement," still signing, he nodded at the neatly bound stack of yellow paper awaiting Mary's pen, "and my own signature accepting the same."
He slid the folio across the desk to her; it was still warm from his touch. The red swirls of his signature gleamed against the matte finish. She read it, slowly, patiently, and carefully. Twice.
"Very well"
It was the same tone of voice she'd used with her boys when she was raising them. Neither harsh nor comforting just perfectly level. She was the rock in their lives. Their mercurial father and his political career left little time for the family life she felt they deserved but she strove to deliver it none the less. It was laden with understanding, acceptance, and the patient knowledge that boys would be boys. It was the voice she had used when her first son had traveled to Rwanda with the Peace Corps and the voice she had used to comfort her youngest when the news came back that he'd fallen there before a genocider's machette in 1994 while protecting a young Tutsi woman.
The man handed the pen back to her.
"Here, here, and initial here."
She did her best to quell the tremors in her fingers as she signed once and then a second time. The room felt warmer now, she thought, or perhaps that was merely a trick of her imagination. She took a deep breath and then, with a flourish, etched the last three initials: MLW.
"Very well," she'd used the same tone when her youngest, Michael, had told her he'd been accepted to the Naval Academy. She'd worried at the time but a son in uniform was a boon to her husband's career. The pollsters said that it probably won him the race up-state. Michael looked so sharp and polished in his Marine dress blues next to his father on stage and the resemblance... well... it reminded her of why she'd fallen for the man all those years ago.
"Excellent," the man snapped, jerking her from her reverie and the paper from her hand. He pivoted it roughly towards himself as he stooped to sign. His motions were sharper now, animal, even savage.
"So, these restrictions on my wishes. Can I wish for my dead son back?"
"You can, but he won't be the same. Paragraph 4 clearly lays out that you can't change the past," he responded in a bored sing-song as he looped through an involved symbol.
"What about safety and prosperity for a loved one? Could I protect Michael? Keep him safe in Afghanistan? Settle him down with a nice girl and...."
"Section 9, paragraph 2, **clearly** states that wishes must be of direct benefit to the wisher. Protecting your son is an altruistic act which confers no benefit unto yourself and so no, you may not do that."
With a final jag the signature was done. The man's long fingers plucked a gold and enamel cap from an expertly tailored pocket and slid it down over the barrel of the pen. As it clicked into place the room plunged into darkness.
"Now," he said, black eyes lit by the ember-like glow of the ancient sygls and glyphs inscribed on the vellum page, "what will you have, Marry White?"
Marry looked down and drew a breath. She had studied things, learned things, and done things to bring this moment about that horrified her. She had turned her powerful legal mind to the study of unthinkable texts, grisly secrets, and vile rituls to bring this man into this room and she had done so for a purpose, for a reason, and above all, with a plan.
"World peace," she pronounced, in that level, courtroom voice, "a peaceful transition to a peaceful world without bloodshed, violence, or cause for either continuing in perpetuity and without interruption or suspension until the End of Days."
"What?"
"You heard me."
"Section 9, paragraph 2"
"I know what section 9, paragraph 2 states. World peace is of direct benefit to me; besides the considerable societal savings of which I am a direct beneficiary, it also dramatically reduces my chances of dying in a military action, terrorist attack, etc."
"Section 10"
"Paragraph 16? That my wishes may not hold sway over otherwise natural phenomena? War is not a natural phenomena, at least not if we hold your existence to validate certain other texts which have one or two things to say on that subject. While we're at it, paragraph 4 doesn't apply either: there is no reasonable way to determine my plausible lifespan nor the heralding of the End of Days and therefore restrictions upon the longevity of my wish are likewise invalid. Appendix A's prohibition on wishes which constrain the method by which they are fulfilled is nullified by the nature of this wish in that "peace" can not be defined as a state in which there is no one left to fight and the aforementioned section on natural phenomena, of which human confrontationalism is certainly one. That is my wish. World peace under the terms I have laid out. We have a contract signed in blood with my name and Yours. Do you intend to honor it?"
A pause. A flicker. And the lights came back on.
The man sat, his tie loosened and the bridge of his nose pinched between thumb and forefinger, a curl of smoke rising from the pen in his clenched fist.
"Perhaps we could negotiate an alternate arrangement?"
"Very well." | **POP**
Ow, hell ow... dammit. That hurt like all get-out. Is this how it is? Just a featureless room with a table and two chairs? Please tell me that this isn't some perverse "exit interview".
The other chair was tall and leather bound, reflecting dully in the overhead light. The table, well, it wasn't anything special either, just one of those utilitarian jobs from any number of office supply stores. But then again, I was just in a car accident wasn't I? What the hell is--
"Hello. Sorry about that, only time I had available. You should feel better in a few moments."
He was tall, swiveling around in his leather chair. I had expected something different, not a thin man with spectacles wearing a three-piece suit.
"Uh.. why am I here?"
"Oh, well - I think you know. Remember any thoughts before your car hit the -- ", he glanced down at the table which now displayed pertinent facts about my life, all arrayed in a semicircle around him, " - compact car at Madison Street?"
Oh. That.
"Well yes, but I was halfway joking and--"
"It was quite authentic. We have a few automated systems here, they're good at filtering out liars and the insane.", he leaned forward, fingers propping up his narrow chin.
"Well. Right. As you probably know I've had some financial trouble, and I was saying to a friend over the phone how I would sell my soul to have millions of dollars.", it sounded so stupid and quaint now, like I was asking a supermodel for a kiss.
"Right. That request. Well, you see - there's a bit of a problem here. Normally I'd honor such requests from a self-directed being like yourself, but there's some other considerations involved."
Hmm. Okay. I just nodded and sat silent as he shuffled some more pages into view with his fingertips.
"You made a request under duress. I can't disclose any future events to you - as it would violate the FCCA, so I think that--"
"FCCA? What is that?"
He smiled. The broad smile of someone dealing with a child or a small pet.
"The Free Choice Causality Accord - we're prevented from disclosing future events that would cause certain undesirable feedback loops in the time space continuum. It barely passed consensus and wasn't too popular. But here we are. What I'm going to say to you is this - your request has been denied, it is for your own good. Trust is the operative word here."
Stunned, I leaned back.
"But, since I'm already here, why not just grant it?"
"You're just going to make me blurt it out, aren't you? Fine. You have... potential. So, request denied. You will be dispatched to your former earthly conditions, right after you've been revived at the hospital. Best I can do."
It seemed fair enough, but there was one thing still nagging at me. I had to ask.
"So... you're the devil then?"
He took his glasses off, and rubbed his temples. Breathing in deeply, he leaned forward again.
"You're not going to remember this, because it would violate a few other agreements that I can't talk to you about. So why not. As to your first question - 'No'. And the inevitable follow up question - also 'No'. I'm not one of anything. It disturbs me that human kind still hasn't figured it out yet."
"So that means--"
"Yes, one and the same, yin and yang. Two sides of the coin, never to be split, seperated or divorced from each other. How could you have not noticed that in nature? It was only made as pairs, you know. One thing balancing the other - most times contained within the same organism. Oh 'eff it all - you've gone and got me emotional again. Off with you--"
**POP**
"I've got to do a better job on the next batch, this one doesn't seem too bright." |
|
[WP] Someone wants to give away their soul for something. Satan tries to talk them out of it. | "Hello," Satan called, greeting the seller cordially.
"Are you him?" Stan asked.
"Him . . ." Satan left the question hanging between them.
"Lucifer? Are you him?" Stan asked, suddenly realizing that if he was, he was shaking the Devil's hand and pulled his paw away.
"I'm him. I'm the guy. The Big *Baddie*. The Soul Rancher. Lord Death. The Great Deciever. Lucifer. Satan. Beezlebub. The Fallen. Evil." Satan sang.
Stan nodded nervously.
"So, how can I help you?" Satan asked, wiping the glass show case filled with hand guns with a white rag and some Windex.
"I--I want to sell my soul." Stan whispered meekly.
"Well, it is a buyer's market. Show me the goods, Stan." Satan patted the glass. Bring that soul out here so I can see it.
Stan was confused. He didn't know how to lay his soul out for the Devil's inspection.
"Ah," the Devil called. "Yeah. Most people come in here without knowing how to open it up. Satan leaned over. "May I?" He asked, before touching Stan.
"Y-Yeah. Go ahead." Stan stood perfectly still, not daring to move a muscle so long as the Devil was near.
Satan peeled Stan's soul loose and draped it screaming across the counter. Stan stared at his terrified soul and felt nothing but emptiness. The soul squirmed and screamed and cried out in terror.
"It's got a lot of fight, Stan. That's a good sign. It will definitely drive the price up." Satan pulled out a jewlers loop and fit it to his eye and scrutinized the squirming soul. "Any liens on it by the guy up stairs?" He asked, looking for a holy brand.
"No, sir." Stan replied.
"This isn't a recycled soul, is it? I don't buy reincarnations. Tell me true. I will know if you're lying. I am the Great Deciever. I can tell when a customer is lying." The Devil looked severe.
"I promise. It isn't used. I'm Catholic." Stan assured him.
"Out-*freaking*-standing!! You've got some quality soul here Stan. I'm not going to lie to you. Well, I am, but I'm not. You being Catholic doesn't increase the value of your soul fiscally, but intrinsically, I prefer to buy Catholic souls just to piss off my competition. So Stan, I think we can do business. Your soul is still young, not the strongest, and it has some fight in it. Left alone, I think you'd grow to be a very strong-willed individual. If your soul was an apple, it'd still be a little green. But Hey, I like a tart apple," Satan admitted, giving Stan a big tooty grin.
"So, you'll buy it?" Stan asked, hopefully, carressing the struggling apparition to try and calm it.
"A soul like this will by you . . ." Satan thought it over, "love, lower middle-class income, musical ability, guns, knick-knacks, leprechaun level luck, and perhaps, if you play your cards right, a one night stand with a Lindsay Lohan. She teeters between good and bad so much, it's a crap shoot." Satan thought about his offer and nodded. "So what it'll it be?"
"You said love?" Stan asked. The Devil's smile was huge.
"Lust is one of my favorite sins." He admitted. "Who you wanting to penetrate, son?"
Stan seemed repulsed. "No one. I just want her to love me." He said.
"Riiiight." The Devil's smile was knowing. "So, who's the lucky lady?"
Stan pulled a picture from his wallet. "Her name is Cecilia--Cecilia Vincent. I'm in love with her, but she never notices me."
"Whoa. This is the girl you want to sell your soul for?" Satan asked, suddenly serious.
"Yes. She has the most beautiful eyes. The perfect smile. Skin like new fallen snow. When she walks by, I--" The Devil stopped him
"Nooo. Sorry. Name something else. Anything but her. Name it and it is yours." Satan said.
"She's all I want. All I need. You said I could have love." Stan argued.
"How about, instead of buying your soul outright. I lease it. You keep living unaffected. When you die. I send Death to collect it. What do say?" The Devil asked, looking down his nose, a smile hovering on his lips.
"No. I only want her." Stan said.
"You're killing me here, Stan. You can't have her. I can't give her to you. Pick something else." The Devil told him.
Stan just looked at the Devil with disappointment in his eyes.
"How about this," Satan whispered, "I give you an upgrade. I'll bump your the value of your soul a little bit, and now, you can win a state lottery or something. I'm only doing this cause I like you Stan. You're soul is primo, but it's not good enough to get that girl. I'm sorry. With the winnings, maybe you could impress her then." The Devil held out his hand. "Come on, son. Take the deal."
"I only want her." Stan shouted back.
"A lot of money may get her for you, boy. Don't be a fool. Take the money." Satan extended his hands further.
"I only want her," Stan whispered, turning to go.
"I'm sorry, Stan. You're a good kid. It's why I wanted to buy your soul, but she's no good for you. Keep your soul. Just stay away from her. She'll only lift you up so you can fall. You wouldn't be the first guy she's done it to. Just stay away from her. Keep your soul. Hell, buy a lotto ticket tonight. I guarantee it'll be a winner. It's free and on the house. Maybe later, a few years down the road, you'll meet someone I can deal with and you come back and we'll do business then. How's that sound?" Satan called.
"Why can't it be her? She's perfect. She's beautiful. She's--"
"An angel, Stan. She's an angel. I have no power to compel angels to love you. I'm sorry. Just stay away from that one. It'll only end in heart break. No one's good enough to date an angel. It takes a pure soul, son. She'll break your heart. She broke mine." The Devil turned away. "Buy the ticket. Enjoy the winnings. No strings attached this time. You got the sympathy of the Devil, Stan. It doesn't happen often."
"She hurt you bad?" Stan asked.
"Yeah." Satan replied, remembering a moment long ago. "She was the reason I fell from grace. The reason I was cast out."
Stan nodded. He understood. "Thanks, Lucy." Stan quipped.
Satan looked up in surprise and smiled. "Don't call me that, kid."
Stan smiled back and left the Devil's pawn shop. He had a lotto ticket to buy. | "Look," said Satan, "I'm not interested."
"What?" Cassie asked. "I'm offering my soul to be with the one I love."
"Yeah? So?"
"Well, I thought it would be a fairly common thing for you to do."
"Oh, would it now? Just because I'm the Lord of Hell, I can just take your soul whenever?"
"Well...can't you?"
"Of course not, you idiot!" Satan placed his head in his hands. "Look, the concept of selling souls before you die is just some propaganda spread by the angels in Heaven. Your soul is your property until you die; neither I nor Cliff can-"
"Cliff?"
"Oh, that's what we call God. Anyway, neither of us can claim your soul until your life ends. So, while you could believe that you sold your soul to me, if you were to sacrifice yourself to save someone, you would shoot up to Heaven. In layman's terms, your soul is not the same as your bank balance; you can't just barter your way out of a situation!"
"But," sobbed Cassie, "I love him."
"Boo freaking hoo! You can't be with so-far-in-the-closet-he's-the-representative-for-Narnia Justin Beiber? People break people's hearts. It's called life, sweetheart, get used to it."
"But I can't imagine life without him!"
"**Try!** For Christ's sake, you're only sixteen; Joan of Arc had practically saved France by the time she was your age!"
"So, what do I do now?"
"Get on with your piss-stain of a life! Finish high school, go to college, travel the world, sleep around, invent something, I don't know; I'm not your career advisor!"
"Well.. this didn't go according to plan."
"Yeah, well life doesn't follow your plan. But don't worry Cassie - I'm certain we will see each other again! ***MWUHAHAHAHAHAHAAAAA!*** But seriously, get your shit together." |
|
[WP] Someone wants to give away their soul for something. Satan tries to talk them out of it. | Satan rubbed one of his horns and groaned. "Listen, kid. I don't usually say no to soul contracts. But no."
The boy blinked. "Why not?"
"Because," said Satan, "it's against policy."
"'Cause I'm a kid," said the kid. "I bet you think I'm stupid, or something."
"Undoubtedly," said Satan. "And because I don't really _do_ this. Reviving your mother would be more of a heavenly thing. Go ask God."
"He didn't answer me," said the boy.
| "Look," said Satan, "I'm not interested."
"What?" Cassie asked. "I'm offering my soul to be with the one I love."
"Yeah? So?"
"Well, I thought it would be a fairly common thing for you to do."
"Oh, would it now? Just because I'm the Lord of Hell, I can just take your soul whenever?"
"Well...can't you?"
"Of course not, you idiot!" Satan placed his head in his hands. "Look, the concept of selling souls before you die is just some propaganda spread by the angels in Heaven. Your soul is your property until you die; neither I nor Cliff can-"
"Cliff?"
"Oh, that's what we call God. Anyway, neither of us can claim your soul until your life ends. So, while you could believe that you sold your soul to me, if you were to sacrifice yourself to save someone, you would shoot up to Heaven. In layman's terms, your soul is not the same as your bank balance; you can't just barter your way out of a situation!"
"But," sobbed Cassie, "I love him."
"Boo freaking hoo! You can't be with so-far-in-the-closet-he's-the-representative-for-Narnia Justin Beiber? People break people's hearts. It's called life, sweetheart, get used to it."
"But I can't imagine life without him!"
"**Try!** For Christ's sake, you're only sixteen; Joan of Arc had practically saved France by the time she was your age!"
"So, what do I do now?"
"Get on with your piss-stain of a life! Finish high school, go to college, travel the world, sleep around, invent something, I don't know; I'm not your career advisor!"
"Well.. this didn't go according to plan."
"Yeah, well life doesn't follow your plan. But don't worry Cassie - I'm certain we will see each other again! ***MWUHAHAHAHAHAHAAAAA!*** But seriously, get your shit together." |
|
[WP] Death pleads with a doctor to stop prolonging the suffering of a terminally ill patient. | Beady eyes stared down a beaked nose as Death, Lord of Souls, stood over the woman lying in the hospital bed. A voice, authoritative but meager given the circumstances, piped up behind him. "Don't you lay a finger on her."
Death turned, slowly, and locked eyes with the man who dared to challenge him; with the man who could see him. "Why ever would I not?" The voice creaked and was hard to hear, but the words were laced with a finality that sent chills down the man's spine.
"Because," he coughed. "Because I am her doctor. It is my sworn duty to help her live." The doctor shoved his way between Death, who rose his hands as to not touch the man, and the bed. Intubation tubing trailed from the woman's mouth and machines gave readings of her vital statistics.
"Don't tell me that is your only reason, doctor," Death coaxed.
"You know she's my wife."
"Yes, and I know that she is comatose. She fell down the stairs last month. When you took her here, that's when you found the glioblastoma. Poor thing, unconscious and no one is able to keep her little head from popping," he taunted. Death reached slowly around the doctor, hand snaking up to the young woman's forehead. "Let me ease her suffering."
The man cried out in protest and slapped away Death's hand.
"Shall I take you both? It's not quite your time, but I can make an exception." The doctor shook at the proposition. He loved his wife and couldn't see another day without her to be a day worth living. Still, he was hesitant to accept the offer.
"I promise," Death crooned, "you won't be separate. Just let me ease her - and your - pain." He stepped in and laid his hands, which carried the cold of the grave, on the young couple's foreheads. The doctor held his wife's limp hand, and closed his eyes.
EDIT: on mobile, there might be spelling errors. | "Why must you prolong my stay here?" Death stared the doctor in the eyes, even though the doctor couldn't hear it. Or see him for that matter, but Death knew that his ideas were getting through to the doctor. Death already knew why this was going on, the doctor was clinging on to hope, but this just makes the loss harder in the end.
"You aren't the first doctor to reach this point where they will do everything to try to save the patient, even though it is a lost cause. You feel useless because of the losses that occur all around you, and you are losing your ability to look past it." Death speaks the doctor's mind like reading it off a paper.
"Tomorrow you will realize it. The hopeless struggle to avoid me, even the concept. But it is you holding this man in your reality that is making my presence burn your mind, you are hurting yourself here, even more so than that man. Let it go." And the doctor does. "Till the next time, remember this feeling you brought to yourself. Think of others every now and again." |
|
[WP] Death pleads with a doctor to stop prolonging the suffering of a terminally ill patient. | "You know there is still two weeks left for him to live. Wouldn't you rather spend that time with him?"
She looked at the ground, not quite sure what to do or say. She never expected this to happen. It's unnatural.
"Yes, please do it. It hurts to see him in pain like this all the time. I want him comfortable."
It was a partial truth, but it was the best she could choke out. She would never be able to see him after this. He would face judgement and go where it was decided.
They walked into the room. He was there laying in the bed. His face was grimaced. He was always in pain now this far into the chemo.
She was so confused. She wanted him to stay here with her. She loved him. She wasn't supposed to feel this way about any of them. It's unheard of.
The doctor walked to the bed and took out the needle.
"W-Wait," she stuttered, "I want to do it."
The doctor stepped away and handed the needle to her. Tears in her eyes and the needle in his vein. She kissed his head and whispered "I love you."
It shouldn't be this hard, she thought. She was a reaper. It's part of the job.
(Writing has recently become a new hobby of mine. I've never taken writing classes, so feel free to critique. All tips and suggestions are hugely appreciated! Thanks for reading!) | "Why must you prolong my stay here?" Death stared the doctor in the eyes, even though the doctor couldn't hear it. Or see him for that matter, but Death knew that his ideas were getting through to the doctor. Death already knew why this was going on, the doctor was clinging on to hope, but this just makes the loss harder in the end.
"You aren't the first doctor to reach this point where they will do everything to try to save the patient, even though it is a lost cause. You feel useless because of the losses that occur all around you, and you are losing your ability to look past it." Death speaks the doctor's mind like reading it off a paper.
"Tomorrow you will realize it. The hopeless struggle to avoid me, even the concept. But it is you holding this man in your reality that is making my presence burn your mind, you are hurting yourself here, even more so than that man. Let it go." And the doctor does. "Till the next time, remember this feeling you brought to yourself. Think of others every now and again." |
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[WP] Death pleads with a doctor to stop prolonging the suffering of a terminally ill patient. | Death entered the hospital bedroom, cloaked in black night and carrying a smell of rotting flesh appropriate to the locale. The doctor, carefully studying an elderly patient on life support, watched his nemesis approach.
Death spoke first.
*Why do you keep this woman alive?*
The doctor was shocked. This was no God, no grim reaper who seized souls as he felt. His voice was whiny, his pitch high, his speaking pace hurried. It almost seemed as if Death, Death himself, lacked self-confidence.
*It's my job to preserve life, as it is yours to end it.*
The doctor noticed his own physical presence seemed to fill the space more than Death's. Yet Death was a good 10 feet tall.
*Look, I really need this one. Can you just let me have it?*
It seemed....honest. Needy. The doctor realized Death actually did need this one. But he had an oath, a Hippocratic oath.
*No. I'm sorry.*
To his amazement, the doctor found he actually was sorry. He pitied Death!
Small wonder, as Death chose to simply sit, despondent. He could take the life if he chose. Or could he? Was Death depressed?
*Are you okay?*
The question came before the doctor realized what he was doing.
*Not really.*
Death was just so very..small.
*What's the problem?*
The doctor wondered why he asked such questions, yet he did not stop.
*Modern medicine. You keep them from me. People live longer and longer. It will only get worse. I have become bad at my job.*
Death really was depressed. Hesitantly, carefully, the doctor picked his words carefully. Or rather, he did in his head. What came out instead was a terrible jest.
*Don't tell me Death has quotas to fill?*
Before the doctor could regret saying that, a response came. A declaration from a being resigned to its fate.
*I'm about to get fired.*
Was this real? A dream?
*How can you get fired?*
Death pointed upwards, and the doctor followed the bony finger's track. But another question came into his head, a pressing one.
*What happens if you get fired?*
His insides turned to mush as he awaited the answer.
*The world must end. Without death, there is no balance. The balance is already out of sync. Too many live too long.*
Was this the price to pay for human arrogance? For the prolonging of life?
*What is required for balance?*
*Death.*
It was his own name, said in the most hopeless manner possible. Death had given up.
Cursing at himself in his head. The doctor pushed forward. He offered Death his outstretched hand.
*Let's get you up.*
With much effort, he got Death to stand. Now for the dangerous part. The doctor grabbed the scythe. Abandoned against the wall when Death descended into despair, it bore cracks. Great in number they were, encompassing a dulled blade of curved black steel. Cursing himself even more fiercely, the doctor handed the once-proud weapon over to its rightful owner.
*You can have her. Just this one.*
*Really? You mean it?*
Incredulity. That of a 5 year old who cannot believe his incredible luck at seeing a fantastic gift laid out before him. Would the doctor be damned for this?
*Go ahead.*
He guided Death, guided the fallen Lord of the End. Taking him by a bony hand, he relied on instinct. As if showing a med student how to do a tracheotomy, he helped Death carve off the lady's head to spread red puddles on pristine white tiles.
As blood flowed down the scythe's vicious edge, Death stood taller. Or did it just seem that way? No, he wasn't changing physically. He was changing mentally, and it was frightening. All was as it should be.
Before Death departed, two enemies stood staring at each other. One mortal, and one returned to something far above.
*Thanks.*
A refreshed Death cut off his enemy's head.
| "Why must you prolong my stay here?" Death stared the doctor in the eyes, even though the doctor couldn't hear it. Or see him for that matter, but Death knew that his ideas were getting through to the doctor. Death already knew why this was going on, the doctor was clinging on to hope, but this just makes the loss harder in the end.
"You aren't the first doctor to reach this point where they will do everything to try to save the patient, even though it is a lost cause. You feel useless because of the losses that occur all around you, and you are losing your ability to look past it." Death speaks the doctor's mind like reading it off a paper.
"Tomorrow you will realize it. The hopeless struggle to avoid me, even the concept. But it is you holding this man in your reality that is making my presence burn your mind, you are hurting yourself here, even more so than that man. Let it go." And the doctor does. "Till the next time, remember this feeling you brought to yourself. Think of others every now and again." |
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[WP] Death pleads with a doctor to stop prolonging the suffering of a terminally ill patient. | Death was not at all like I imagined. You see the pictures on the internet, and in paintings and carved into rock walls. As long as we've been alive, we've been showing death. I thought it would be more... skeletal.
But no. To me, Death looked like a man in a black suit. Keeping up with the fashion of the times, he said. It was a better look than the scythe.
Snow was falling gently on the empty little pavilion in the center of the Hospital where Death sat. The cold night air had taken on a white silence, which I felt no particular urge to break. He always spoke first.
*"Don't you know this man is suffering, Doctor?"* he asked. His voice was a booming whisper, impossibly quiet and yet so very clear.
"I know," was all I could reply. He was right, after all. My patients were suffering. "But I won't let you take him. We've had this conversation before."
*"You are only staving off the inevitable. His life is filled with pain, and he will come with me soon enough. The days here are only making it worse."*
I started to wonder how many times I would have to have this conversation. Have to talk with Death. "You are probably right. But there is still hope. In those extra few days, they might find a cure."
*"They won't,"* he replied, matter-of-factly. I knew he was right. He knew when their time was, with or without my help. *"What is it that you gain by fighting me? Why do you humans fight so hard against the inevitable."*
"I don't know," I sighed, sitting down next to him on the cold iron bench. "One day, we'll figure out how to beat you, ya know. No more old age, no more cancer, no more you. And then what will you do, asshole?"
I was told once by my Grandmother that it was unwise to upset supernatural beings. Normally, I would have taken her advice, but I hated this thing more than any other. I had taken up the shield and the staff against him. He knew my time. He wasn't capable of stepping out and causing me to pass early. Or if he was, he certainly wouldn't.
*"One day, you will. But even Immortality doesn't last forever. In the end, I will be there, to welcome all of you back. In twenty years, a hundred, ten thousand. It doesn't matter to me. Eventually, even the universe must die."* He extended his pallid hand to me, a simple offer.
"You're right, I suppose."
I reached out and plucked the lit cigarette from the creatures hand. Warm smoke filled my lungs and calmed my nerves. "Just promise me that when you come for me, you won't hold grudges." | "Why must you prolong my stay here?" Death stared the doctor in the eyes, even though the doctor couldn't hear it. Or see him for that matter, but Death knew that his ideas were getting through to the doctor. Death already knew why this was going on, the doctor was clinging on to hope, but this just makes the loss harder in the end.
"You aren't the first doctor to reach this point where they will do everything to try to save the patient, even though it is a lost cause. You feel useless because of the losses that occur all around you, and you are losing your ability to look past it." Death speaks the doctor's mind like reading it off a paper.
"Tomorrow you will realize it. The hopeless struggle to avoid me, even the concept. But it is you holding this man in your reality that is making my presence burn your mind, you are hurting yourself here, even more so than that man. Let it go." And the doctor does. "Till the next time, remember this feeling you brought to yourself. Think of others every now and again." |
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[WP] Death pleads with a doctor to stop prolonging the suffering of a terminally ill patient. | Beady eyes stared down a beaked nose as Death, Lord of Souls, stood over the woman lying in the hospital bed. A voice, authoritative but meager given the circumstances, piped up behind him. "Don't you lay a finger on her."
Death turned, slowly, and locked eyes with the man who dared to challenge him; with the man who could see him. "Why ever would I not?" The voice creaked and was hard to hear, but the words were laced with a finality that sent chills down the man's spine.
"Because," he coughed. "Because I am her doctor. It is my sworn duty to help her live." The doctor shoved his way between Death, who rose his hands as to not touch the man, and the bed. Intubation tubing trailed from the woman's mouth and machines gave readings of her vital statistics.
"Don't tell me that is your only reason, doctor," Death coaxed.
"You know she's my wife."
"Yes, and I know that she is comatose. She fell down the stairs last month. When you took her here, that's when you found the glioblastoma. Poor thing, unconscious and no one is able to keep her little head from popping," he taunted. Death reached slowly around the doctor, hand snaking up to the young woman's forehead. "Let me ease her suffering."
The man cried out in protest and slapped away Death's hand.
"Shall I take you both? It's not quite your time, but I can make an exception." The doctor shook at the proposition. He loved his wife and couldn't see another day without her to be a day worth living. Still, he was hesitant to accept the offer.
"I promise," Death crooned, "you won't be separate. Just let me ease her - and your - pain." He stepped in and laid his hands, which carried the cold of the grave, on the young couple's foreheads. The doctor held his wife's limp hand, and closed his eyes.
EDIT: on mobile, there might be spelling errors. | "What do you have to gain by keeping this poor woman alive Doctor?" I was not inpatient with the man, annoyed would be the word I think humans would use. I mean, really, what does he have to gain?
"She is young. She has a chance still, for a future, for a family. She smacked her head when she fell, nothing other than a nasty concussion and she blacked out. Get out. Now." To those around him he wasn't saying anything more than the hurried orders of an emergency room doctor, rushing to save this 23 year old woman's life. All of our conversation was heard only between the two of us. I knew she was dead, that is why I was here after all.
"You know I see more than you do Doctor. Blood vessels are rupturing in her brain as we speak, a cascade effect. Already if you could stabilize her and she woke up she would be at greatly reduced capacity. But you can't stop the vessels from bursting. You know it. Let her go. It is her time."
He stopped for a minute, looked at all the fancy equipment and the tubes and then the woman on the gurney. Looked over at where I was "standing", nodded twice. "Stop compression. Brain activity is gone. We lost her."
I nodded politely as her soul rose up and she looked around bewildered, then saw me. I smiled and held my hand out and we ascended to "heaven"... |
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[WP] Death pleads with a doctor to stop prolonging the suffering of a terminally ill patient. | "You know there is still two weeks left for him to live. Wouldn't you rather spend that time with him?"
She looked at the ground, not quite sure what to do or say. She never expected this to happen. It's unnatural.
"Yes, please do it. It hurts to see him in pain like this all the time. I want him comfortable."
It was a partial truth, but it was the best she could choke out. She would never be able to see him after this. He would face judgement and go where it was decided.
They walked into the room. He was there laying in the bed. His face was grimaced. He was always in pain now this far into the chemo.
She was so confused. She wanted him to stay here with her. She loved him. She wasn't supposed to feel this way about any of them. It's unheard of.
The doctor walked to the bed and took out the needle.
"W-Wait," she stuttered, "I want to do it."
The doctor stepped away and handed the needle to her. Tears in her eyes and the needle in his vein. She kissed his head and whispered "I love you."
It shouldn't be this hard, she thought. She was a reaper. It's part of the job.
(Writing has recently become a new hobby of mine. I've never taken writing classes, so feel free to critique. All tips and suggestions are hugely appreciated! Thanks for reading!) | "What do you have to gain by keeping this poor woman alive Doctor?" I was not inpatient with the man, annoyed would be the word I think humans would use. I mean, really, what does he have to gain?
"She is young. She has a chance still, for a future, for a family. She smacked her head when she fell, nothing other than a nasty concussion and she blacked out. Get out. Now." To those around him he wasn't saying anything more than the hurried orders of an emergency room doctor, rushing to save this 23 year old woman's life. All of our conversation was heard only between the two of us. I knew she was dead, that is why I was here after all.
"You know I see more than you do Doctor. Blood vessels are rupturing in her brain as we speak, a cascade effect. Already if you could stabilize her and she woke up she would be at greatly reduced capacity. But you can't stop the vessels from bursting. You know it. Let her go. It is her time."
He stopped for a minute, looked at all the fancy equipment and the tubes and then the woman on the gurney. Looked over at where I was "standing", nodded twice. "Stop compression. Brain activity is gone. We lost her."
I nodded politely as her soul rose up and she looked around bewildered, then saw me. I smiled and held my hand out and we ascended to "heaven"... |
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[WP] Death pleads with a doctor to stop prolonging the suffering of a terminally ill patient. | "You know there is still two weeks left for him to live. Wouldn't you rather spend that time with him?"
She looked at the ground, not quite sure what to do or say. She never expected this to happen. It's unnatural.
"Yes, please do it. It hurts to see him in pain like this all the time. I want him comfortable."
It was a partial truth, but it was the best she could choke out. She would never be able to see him after this. He would face judgement and go where it was decided.
They walked into the room. He was there laying in the bed. His face was grimaced. He was always in pain now this far into the chemo.
She was so confused. She wanted him to stay here with her. She loved him. She wasn't supposed to feel this way about any of them. It's unheard of.
The doctor walked to the bed and took out the needle.
"W-Wait," she stuttered, "I want to do it."
The doctor stepped away and handed the needle to her. Tears in her eyes and the needle in his vein. She kissed his head and whispered "I love you."
It shouldn't be this hard, she thought. She was a reaper. It's part of the job.
(Writing has recently become a new hobby of mine. I've never taken writing classes, so feel free to critique. All tips and suggestions are hugely appreciated! Thanks for reading!) | Beady eyes stared down a beaked nose as Death, Lord of Souls, stood over the woman lying in the hospital bed. A voice, authoritative but meager given the circumstances, piped up behind him. "Don't you lay a finger on her."
Death turned, slowly, and locked eyes with the man who dared to challenge him; with the man who could see him. "Why ever would I not?" The voice creaked and was hard to hear, but the words were laced with a finality that sent chills down the man's spine.
"Because," he coughed. "Because I am her doctor. It is my sworn duty to help her live." The doctor shoved his way between Death, who rose his hands as to not touch the man, and the bed. Intubation tubing trailed from the woman's mouth and machines gave readings of her vital statistics.
"Don't tell me that is your only reason, doctor," Death coaxed.
"You know she's my wife."
"Yes, and I know that she is comatose. She fell down the stairs last month. When you took her here, that's when you found the glioblastoma. Poor thing, unconscious and no one is able to keep her little head from popping," he taunted. Death reached slowly around the doctor, hand snaking up to the young woman's forehead. "Let me ease her suffering."
The man cried out in protest and slapped away Death's hand.
"Shall I take you both? It's not quite your time, but I can make an exception." The doctor shook at the proposition. He loved his wife and couldn't see another day without her to be a day worth living. Still, he was hesitant to accept the offer.
"I promise," Death crooned, "you won't be separate. Just let me ease her - and your - pain." He stepped in and laid his hands, which carried the cold of the grave, on the young couple's foreheads. The doctor held his wife's limp hand, and closed his eyes.
EDIT: on mobile, there might be spelling errors. |
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[WP] Death pleads with a doctor to stop prolonging the suffering of a terminally ill patient. | Death was not at all like I imagined. You see the pictures on the internet, and in paintings and carved into rock walls. As long as we've been alive, we've been showing death. I thought it would be more... skeletal.
But no. To me, Death looked like a man in a black suit. Keeping up with the fashion of the times, he said. It was a better look than the scythe.
Snow was falling gently on the empty little pavilion in the center of the Hospital where Death sat. The cold night air had taken on a white silence, which I felt no particular urge to break. He always spoke first.
*"Don't you know this man is suffering, Doctor?"* he asked. His voice was a booming whisper, impossibly quiet and yet so very clear.
"I know," was all I could reply. He was right, after all. My patients were suffering. "But I won't let you take him. We've had this conversation before."
*"You are only staving off the inevitable. His life is filled with pain, and he will come with me soon enough. The days here are only making it worse."*
I started to wonder how many times I would have to have this conversation. Have to talk with Death. "You are probably right. But there is still hope. In those extra few days, they might find a cure."
*"They won't,"* he replied, matter-of-factly. I knew he was right. He knew when their time was, with or without my help. *"What is it that you gain by fighting me? Why do you humans fight so hard against the inevitable."*
"I don't know," I sighed, sitting down next to him on the cold iron bench. "One day, we'll figure out how to beat you, ya know. No more old age, no more cancer, no more you. And then what will you do, asshole?"
I was told once by my Grandmother that it was unwise to upset supernatural beings. Normally, I would have taken her advice, but I hated this thing more than any other. I had taken up the shield and the staff against him. He knew my time. He wasn't capable of stepping out and causing me to pass early. Or if he was, he certainly wouldn't.
*"One day, you will. But even Immortality doesn't last forever. In the end, I will be there, to welcome all of you back. In twenty years, a hundred, ten thousand. It doesn't matter to me. Eventually, even the universe must die."* He extended his pallid hand to me, a simple offer.
"You're right, I suppose."
I reached out and plucked the lit cigarette from the creatures hand. Warm smoke filled my lungs and calmed my nerves. "Just promise me that when you come for me, you won't hold grudges." | “Not you again,” scowled Susan. “Can’t you see I’m busy?”
“Fine, I’ll stop time then.” Before Susan could object, Death had snapped his fingers and the world around her stood still. Susan sighed, “Who do you want?”
“Mr. Bailey.”
“What? But it isn’t his time yet.”
“I know.”
“You can’t go around claiming people just because you’re bored. How are you even bored? Somewhere around the world, a person dies every half a second.”
“I’m not bored, I’m warning you. Let Anthony Bailey go.”
“But he still has a while left. He’s been diagnosed with MS, but he still has a few precious weeks, a few weeks to see his family, friends, to wait for a new drug. Who knows, he might possibly even have a few months ahead of him, what with all the advances in technology we have.”
“But he’s in pain.”
“We give him morphine.”
“He says he wants to die.”
“He can do it himself you know. He still has his arm and legs, some days he even walks around on some days.”
“Not for long.”
“Well, I can’t do much about that; euthanasia and assisted suicide are illegal here.”
“He’s scared.”
“Aren’t we all?”
“What about the children?”
“Exactly.”
“Exactly.”
“They’ll get to see their Dad for a few more weeks.”
“They’ll get to see their Dad suffer for a few more weeks. Dignity in death?”
“No such thing.”
Death tutted. “Working here has made you hard Susan. I liked it better when you were a governess.”
“Well times change. People change.”
“They shouldn’t. Don’t you feel sorry for him though? Look at him, lying there, tubes attaches to every orifice. One day, he’ll be unable to properly communicate with his daughters, unable to kiss his wife goodbye, unable to live, yet unable to die.”
“But it’s too early now.”
“Not according to him.”
“But some people, when they say things like that, they don’t mean it.”
“I think he did.”
“I don’t think he did. Besides, who made you head of the Ethics committee? You’re Death for heaven’s sake. You *like* people dying.”
Death seemed offended, although it was hard to tell from his lack of facial muscles. “It’s just a job Susan. Believe it or not, I actually like people, and many people like me. I’m their introduction into the supernatural world.
“What an introduction.” muttered Susan.
“Besides, I’m doing him a favour, Heaven and Hell are getting a bit crowded.”
“So let him *stay* then.”
“Suffering?”
“It’s the human condition.”
Death sighed. “You know Susan, after 200,000 years, I thought I finally understood humans. Perhaps I was wrong…” And with that, Death snapped his fingers. People started to move again, voices began flooding in and Death disappeared down the corridor. Susan walked over to Mr. Anthony Bailey and saw the words “Help me” etched into the hospital bedside table.
-018
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Combine these three disparate elements into one cohesive story. Make it interesting. Have fun! | [WP] A porcelain ballerina figurine, an overworked and underpaid schoolteacher, and a pizza that shouldn't have had anchovies on it, but did. | *You know I hate those.* Marina hit SEND and continued shopping. Into the basket went ready-made dough, canned pasta sauce, shredded mozzarella, fresh spinach leaves and a sleeve of pepperonis. Her phone vibrated and she wiggled it out of her back pocket.
*srsly? we ALWAYS make it ur way. if ur gonna be a bitch, i'll just leave.*
Marina groaned, looked up and asked God why. She marched to the middle aisle, tossing the bag of spinach above an army of canned vegetables. She went up and down the row until her eyes fell upon the tin boxes, so similar in shape and size to her cellphone.
Buzz buzz. *hurry up i'm fuckin starving.*
She slid the phone back into her pocket, grabbed the can of smelly, little fish and headed for checkout. At the front of the store she slowed at a bin filled with marked down school supplies. Her hand dove into her purse, meticulously counting the two tens, one five and several one dollar bills. She sighed, grabbing a couple of folders, some wide-ruled paper, a couple packs of pens and markers. She tossed the pepperoni into the bin. The taste of dead sea would ruin it anyway.
In the checkout line she wrote *On my way.* and hit send. In the car she hit her steering wheel in anger until the engine finally cranked to life. In the parking lot of her complex she hit every pothole in existence. As she walked up the three flights of stairs, Marina's stomach growled with hunger and resolve. Her keys jangled, announcing her as she opened the door.
Willem was sprawled on the couch, still in his bedraggled suit and crooked tie, loosened , the top button undone revealing the start of some Chia-pet experiment gone horribly wrong. The kitchen's harsh, florescent lights made his greasy hair shine like Crisco. He glanced Marina's way for a split second before gluing his eyes to the latest fake crime scene investigation. He shook the brown bottle in his hand, the near-empty *sploosh sploosh* made Marina want to bash his skull in with his precious anchovies. "Get me another? Since you're up," he said.
Marina plastered on a smile as she walked into the kitchen and set the pizza ingredients on the counter. "Sure thing. How was work?"
Willem snorted. "Same old shit. You know, you were there." He laughed at his hilarious wit and wiggled the bottle again.
Marina wondered if there was time to slip off to the bathroom for a good old-fashioned barf. But instead she set the oven to pre-heat and opened the fridge. Condiments, beer, and home-made play-do she'd put together for the kids. She grabbed a beer and smiled at the flour and water mixture - orange in color, sitting so patiently in its tupperware. Tomorrow would be messy, but worth it. Satisfying. She shut the door and padded into the living room, handing the bottle over to Willem.
He took it without looking up. "Thanks, babe." He popped the lid off and took a swig. "Oh yeah." He talked over the TV while trying to find room in his brain to do more than one thing. "I meant to tell you, I need you to come in a few days over winter break, sort the new standardized tests and get my records tidied up. Cool?"
Marina clenched her jaw, her smile never wavering. "I'm sure that...won't be a problem," she said. She thought of the color orange, of opportunity. "I've been meaning to ask you about the school supplies budget, it's still shoestring at best, Will. If we could just allocate a little bit of the funds from - "
Willem grabbed her arm and pulled her onto the couch. He tugged on her hair like a child and placed her hand on his crotch. "Aww, enough of that, Mare. Let me handle the big stuff, ok?" He grinned, two bright spots of color on his cheeks. "Now why don't you handle *this*?"
Marina rolled her eyes and stood up. "Can't. This pizza won't make itself."
He laughed and swatted her butt as she walked back into the kitchen. "Extra anchovies please."
Marina looked up and asked God WTF. She opened the dough from its sealed canister and threw the cardboard in the trash. He hand strayed at the sight of pink and cream broken porcelain pieces. Marina dug them up, one by one. A tiny slippered foot. A tutu frill. Little red lips and dark, painted lashes. "My grandmother's figurine?" she asked, her voice rising up as tears pricked the corners of her eyes.
"Aww, yeah, sorry about that, babe," said the back of Willem's head. "Accidentally knocked it over. You want me to glue it back together? Good as new, right?"
EDIT: spelling | Louis Sodheimer stood outside the door to his cramped studio apartment, his hand hovering over the doorknob. His mind wandered. On the other side of the door was a hit squad of Korean assassins, armed to the teeth and waiting. He would open the door, and, with the special training he has never received, he would proceed to take them out, one by one. Then he would track down the sonofabitch who ordered a hit on him. Vengeance would be his.
A ringing from inside his apartment brought Louis back. He opened the front door and strode in his studio apartment. The room was as empty as it always was when he wasn’t there. On the floor next to his mattress was the landline. He walked across the small room to the phone and picked it up. Maybe one day he would get a cell phone. He supposed that they would be useful.
“Hello?” He said.
“Mr. Sodheimer?” A voice on the other line asked. “This is Zachary’s mother. I was just calling about what happened today. He says you gave him detention again.”
Louis rubbed his eyes. The kid was a nightmare. He was in the tenth grade and insisted on eating chalk and starting fights. They didn’t pay him enough for this job. “Yes ma’am. Well it was a similar event to last month. He was disrupting class and threw a textbook at another boy.”
“Well, you know how boys are always rough housing, now.”
“It hit him in the eye. He went to the hospital.”
“Ah. Well, he shouldn’t have let himself get hit like that. Serves him right.” She said it with all the conviction of a loving mother who has no idea that her child is the spawn of satan.
“Zack was lucky that a detention was all he got. Principal Holden will be looking into the whole matter and make a final judgement on what his punishment will be.”
“But isn’t there anything-”
“Look, I’ve had a long day. I don’t need to deal with this now. Goodbye Mrs. Garner.”
Louis hung up the phone and sighed. He would never have kids. Not only were they expensive, but they were a gamble. After years of putting time and effort into raising another human being, if they ended up an idiot, there’s not much you could do. He picked the phone back up and ordered a pizza. Pepperoni and spinach. Then, he turned on the television that was sitting on the floor. He flipped through the limited basic cable options until he realized that there really wasn’t anything on.
So he decided to play Stories.
Stories was an old game that he had made up one night while sitting alone inside one weekend. He would change the station to those old antique roadshow programs and come up with, you guessed it, stories. Whatever the antique, he would craft an elaborate fantasy for it. It passed the time.
After he had gone through about four objects, there was a knock on his door. Louis took one last glance back at the screen. A porcelain ballerina. That was a good one. As he walked to the door one part of his mind began to make up a history for the object. Another part fantasized that behind the door was a military general. The world was in danger and they needed him to step up and save the day.
He opened the door, and was only slightly disappointed to see the pizza delivery boy. He paid him and took the pizza back to his bed.
Louis opened the pizza box. There was the pepperoni. There was the spinach. And there...were the anchovies. He hadn’t ordered anchovies. He quickly dove into the possible meanings of this seemingly innocent mix up before he decided that they were probably dosed with radiation, and likely to give him super powers if he ate them. He scarfed down each piece with relish.
Sometimes, a simple story can make things better. |
[WP]: Having been denied euthanasia, an old lady hires a hitman for herself | She stood, lonely among ghosts on top of that brilliantly white edge. Everyone comes here to die. Margaret had no choices left- her doctor, that bitch, had refused to gift her that last, tiny bit of respect she’d been craving ever since…
“Hank”, she whispered, infuriated, into the wind that swept her hair to freedom, “Hank, why did you leave me? After all these years…”. Margaret finally shut up, bent her knees, pulled her arms back.
“No, I have to go with grace”, she said to herself, took a few steps back. “I am going to fly to my death”.
Now that Margaret stood twelve feet away from the edge, she started to tremble.
“No… please”. But her legs simply gave up. “Why??” she cried so loudly that she immediately stopped. What if someone had heard her? No, the wind was strong and nobody was in sight. At the attempt to finally deliver herself that last bit of respect, her body refused her service. The very thought of slowly walking towards that cliff, made her muscles wobble and merely twitch.
“Fucking instincts. What did I do to deserve this agony? Just let me go.” There wasn’t much left of that formerly gracious old woman with long, windswept, grey hair. Margaret had been reduced to a puddle of grey human, wrinkling up in herself. There was no going back. Only one choice left.
Margaret slowly pulled out her cell phone, along with a crumpled business card. She dialled, and a friendly, young voice answered: “Hello?”
“Hello. I would like to use your services, please.” Margarets voice had steadied. It was quiet now, but determined.
“Whom, when and where?” the charming voice asked.
“The white cliffs, just out of town. I…” she paused. What would this man think? Would he understand? “I can’t do it myself. Please just come and end it. I’m already here, and you can easily dispose of my body. I don’t have relatives”.
No answer. What a stupid thought. Then, Margaret only listened.
“Two grand. Twenty minutes”
Margaret was overjoyed. “I have my credit card on me with a lot more on it. You can take it.”
The line crackled, and then went silent.
For the last twenty minutes of her life, Margaret thought about the beautiful life she’d had, and only begrudgingly accepted the miserable end it was going to have.
“Are you happy, now, Hank?” A shot. A splash. | "But, you're everyone's hero! They'll hunt me down like a dog! Your...***request***...no, I'm afraid I can't accept."
"Dearie...I'm no hero. I'm just an old lady they thought dead. And now that they know that I'm alive, they wont let me die."
"But--"
"Please...you know how painful it is to be famous for not accomplishing my mission? Its humiliating, dear...just, please...
#"..."
Light enters the open window inside the old lady's room. A light knock comes, and a doctor enters, followed by a posse of reporters and nurses.
"Well, how are you doing, Miss--"
A loud bang echos outside the hospital. In a split second, the face of the lady lying on the bed explodes into a bloody mess.
"Oh my God! Amelia Earhart's shot!"
-011 |
|
[WP]: Having been denied euthanasia, an old lady hires a hitman for herself | “Am I your first?” she asked archly.
The boy said nothing. He was fiddling around with things in the room, seeming to avoid the bed as much as possible.
“You know, you were a lot more talkative on the phone.”
“I just want to make sure everything is prepared,” he intoned. The words that issued from the boy’s mouth, though whispered, bore an air of finality.
He was wearing scrubs. They were the sterile green peculiar to medical-wear and toothpaste. They looked baggy on him, but any clothes would on his gaunt frame.
“I’m so glad you decided to take my advice. If my family had found out, well, I don’t know. They’d lose their shit. Pardon my French. And sorry, but you’d stick out like a sore thumb in all black.”
He said nothing in response. He sat on the bed and looked at his client.
“So how are we going to do this?” she asked. “I want it to be quick.”
“Don’t worry. It’s already over, May.”
“It’s been awhile since I’ve been called anything but Gramma,” her brow furrowed in bemusement. “I don’t remember telling you my name over the phone, though.”
As she spoke another person walked through the door into her room. He was wearing a black hoodie, black sweatpants, black shoes; riddled with acne and skinny as a stick. He looked just about as suspicious as possible, looking furtively back and forth and pathetically attempting to hide in the shadows.
She looked back to the man on her bed. Shadows played across his face, cheekbones and brow becoming the grin and stare of a skull.
“Oh.”
As her assassin pulled cords from the wall and set off every alarm in the damn place--hadn’t she explicitly asked the fool to snuff her out with one of the many pillows strewn around the room?--Death held its hand out for her.
She hardly noticed her breath stopping.
She was pulled onto Death’s steed, its coat the same pale green as the shirt Death had worn. She looked around her, the room falling away like a dream. She was in a desert now, its white sands stretching to infinity. An argent plenilune hung in the sky. Its light reflected off the ground, turning the landscape into a refulgent sea, each dune a shining wave.
She got off the horse and stood in the sand. She had forgotten how nice it was to stand on her own two feet. “What now? What’s next?”
“There is no ‘next.’ This is the end.”
Death rode off into some unseen direction, leaving May alone with herself. | "But, you're everyone's hero! They'll hunt me down like a dog! Your...***request***...no, I'm afraid I can't accept."
"Dearie...I'm no hero. I'm just an old lady they thought dead. And now that they know that I'm alive, they wont let me die."
"But--"
"Please...you know how painful it is to be famous for not accomplishing my mission? Its humiliating, dear...just, please...
#"..."
Light enters the open window inside the old lady's room. A light knock comes, and a doctor enters, followed by a posse of reporters and nurses.
"Well, how are you doing, Miss--"
A loud bang echos outside the hospital. In a split second, the face of the lady lying on the bed explodes into a bloody mess.
"Oh my God! Amelia Earhart's shot!"
-011 |
|
[WP]: Having been denied euthanasia, an old lady hires a hitman for herself | Gladys bellowed at the haggard hospital administrator.
"You mean to tell me, I can slave away my entire life for the tax man but I cannot be put out of my misery when my time is done?! We give more respect to a beloved old dog!"
"Ma'am," sighed the administrator, "this is the United States of America. We do not execute old people for being old."
"Well we ought to! We'd finally get a new host on Jeopardy!"
"Look, ma'am, isn't there something still worth living for?"
"Ha! All of my friends are dead, my marriage consists of laying flowers on a grave at holidays, and I swallow more pills than Lindy Lowhand."
"That's, 'Lindsey Lohan.'"
"Whatever! You'll understand one day when you're old... and nobody wants you... and your children never call... and your pension runs out... and-"
"I understand, ma'am. Would you like to speak to a counselor?"
"NO! I'd like to drop dead!" With that, Gladys stormed out into the rain and popped open her tiny, automatic umbrella. "I'd do better to hire a hitman," she muttered to herself. The thunder pealed overhead and lightning flashed in her still, staring eyes as the realization came over her.
That's precisely what she'd do.
Three weeks later, Glady was no nearer finding a hitman. She'd asked at the grocery store, but no one said a word. She mentioned it to the lady at the cleaners but she thought it had something to do with sex. Her only hope had been the internet but no one in the Slingo chatrooms seemed to know anything helpful.
She came home from the convenience store and set her purse down on the table, stuffed with the anti-diarrhea tablets, scratch-off tickets and denture cream she bought every Saturday. She put on the kettle and checked her email.
*Re: Hitman*
She blinked. What was this? She'd never heard of the sender.
*I've heard talk that you are looking for a job done. I'm your man. $2000 and it's done, quietly. Reply if interested.*
She stared quietly at the screen a long while, until the shrill whistle of the tea kettle broke her reverie. It was happening. She could do it. Two thousand dollars was a lot of money but she decided she had enough to afford it and what would it matter what she had left? She'd be dead.
She looked at the array of framed photos of Roger, her husband. "I'll be with you soon," she sighed sadly. She went to her keyboard and arranged a meeting.
---
Gladys sat on a bench at the bus stop. The weather was rainy again and rattled the metal roof of the bus stop canopy. She had wrapped her head in a clear plastic rain kerchief and mused to herself that there was no point, really, as she'd be dead within the hour.
She was very clear with the young man whom she'd insisted on meeting face-to-face. It endangered the chances of booking his services but he agreed to under the circumstances. He seemed very kind and asked her several times if she was sure. She was. Even now, reflecting on it, she was certain. It was time.
She was tired of being alone, tired of struggling to afford groceries, and tired of doctor bills and giant pills and condescension. One shot, silenced, from the bushes. She wanted it sometime within a one hour period but couldn't bear to pin down the moment. Let it come as a surprise. And so, she sat there.
Her hair was freshly coiffed, hence the kerchief. She wore her best cloth coat, green and meticulously pressed. Her white shoes were brand new. A benefit of not having to worry about depleted savings. It was the most she had spent on herself in years.
Time dripped by and she was becoming nervous. She didn't want it to take too long, this is what she had wanted to avoid. She idly began sorting through her purse. Last time she'd look within its cavernous depths. Somewhere there was chewing gum. She rooted around amongst the purse's contents.
Checkbook -rarely used.
Keys to the old house -long since sold and useless but they were Roger's, so...
Breath mints -too hard on her teeth.
And then she spotted it. A small, loaded pearl-handled pistol Roger insisted she carry when she worked at the bank. It wasn't a surprise. She knew it was there. She'd even considered shooting herself but couldn't manage the courage. But what if he never showed up? She considered that she wouldn't be able to afford another style-and-dye so she may have to do it herself.
She continued looking through the purse, finally locating the non-stick, sugar-free sticks of gum. *Hmph*, she thought, *figures that would be my last meal.* As she folded the gum into her mouth, she came upon the scratch-off tickets she had purchased a month ago.
"Oh, I forgot all about these. Ha, maybe I'm a millionaire."
She scratched off the ticket, almost forgetting why she was sitting on a bench in a rain storm. And then it happened.
It came without warning.
It didn't feel the way she had expected.
She never saw it coming.
She had just won 3 million dollars on *Lottsa Mottza*, the Italian-themed scratch off tickets. A trickle tickled her incontinence pants.
And she was on her feet. *I've got to get out of here!* She walked briskly on stiff legs, her varicose veins throbbing. *Oh, sure, NOW you do this, right, God? Having a bit of fun, are we?*
The bushes rustled.
"Go away!"
The rain made it hard to see but she couldn't see anyone there. But they rustled again and she was sure she heard a click.
"No! I- I've changed my mind! Go away!"
She tried to speed up, pain shooting up her thighs into her sciatic nerve. That's when the shot rang out.
And he missed.
"Oh! I said I don't want to die any more!' She darted around the corner, into the shopping plaza, and tried to blend in with people. Casting a frightened glance over her shoulder, she saw him. Couldn't he hear her? "Go away, I said!" She shouted as loudly as she could, but he kept coming.
She trotted down the street, knowing she couldn't flag a cop because the explanation would land *her* in trouble. Weaving in and out of befuddled onlookers, Gladys made her way down the block to her street. She shuffled down Maple Avenue as quickly as her tight new shoes would permit.
She stumbled as she walked across her grass, refusing to take in the mail at a time like this no matter how hard it was to resist. But she knew he was coming. Looking down the lane, she saw him, walking quietly but with purpose; the grim reaper coming to collect.
Not this time.
She stood in the doorway as he opened the gate and crossed into the yard, his eyes locked to hers. In her hand she clutched the small pistol Roger had given her. "I've changed my mind. I think I have made that clear. Now, go away." Her eyes were determined and resolute.
"I thought this is what you wanted. You paid me in full."
"It is a woman's prerogative to change her mind."
She raised the gun and leveled it at him, smiling slightly as he backed away, hands raised.
"You brought some excitement to my life; a life that I have decided to keep on living. Keep the money. Consider it a tip. Now..."
She cocked the gun.
"Get off my lawn." | "But, you're everyone's hero! They'll hunt me down like a dog! Your...***request***...no, I'm afraid I can't accept."
"Dearie...I'm no hero. I'm just an old lady they thought dead. And now that they know that I'm alive, they wont let me die."
"But--"
"Please...you know how painful it is to be famous for not accomplishing my mission? Its humiliating, dear...just, please...
#"..."
Light enters the open window inside the old lady's room. A light knock comes, and a doctor enters, followed by a posse of reporters and nurses.
"Well, how are you doing, Miss--"
A loud bang echos outside the hospital. In a split second, the face of the lady lying on the bed explodes into a bloody mess.
"Oh my God! Amelia Earhart's shot!"
-011 |
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