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[WP]: Having been denied euthanasia, an old lady hires a hitman for herself | "You want me to what?" I say with an obvious reluctance to the matter. This little old lady breathing with the aid of an oxygen tank.
"Kill me. My family doesn't visit me anymore, besides I'm the only thing standing in the way of their inheritance. They put me in this God forsaken home just to get me out of the way. " She's gotten herself worked up to the point of almost suffocating and takes a few more puffs from the tank.
"Will you do it?"
"...No. Listen, I kill bums who owe money. People who piss off the wrong people. You're just an old lady with a chip on her shoulder, and if I go around killing little old ladies with chips on their shoulders, then who will bake those chips into chocolate chip cookies? Why don't I just take out a few of the family members?"
"You can." She wheezed, "but only AFTER you do me."
"You're going to just have to find someone else."
"...I've already.....had you put......in my will." She wheezed through puffs on the tank. She's still visually upset and she's puffing away at that damn thing like a meth head just walked into Walter White's lab by accident.
"Like I said...I won't do it." I stand up, adjust my suit and tie. "I know you expected me to walk in accept the offer and do the deed, but I can't do that not for any amount of money in the world."
"Not even 50 million?" She says without the aid of her trusty tank.
I paused, 50 million certainly got my attention.
"Not even for 50 million." I lied. Anyone else would have already been disposed of, but not this one. I use to do jobs for her husband before he passed away and I told her if she needed anything to just ask. Yeah the rest of the family is full of shit. But her and her husband where ok in my book.
"Just my luck I manage to get the one killer with morals." She took a few more puffs.
I head for the door. As I turn my back, she jumps out of the chair and starts punching me. Each punch hurting less than the last but none of them enough to even leave a bruise. Think of it as if you're being punched by an 8 year
I've had enough.
"Stop it....cut it out...STOP!" I pushed her too hard and the sickening thud of her skull bouncing off the edge of the table was all that echoed in the silence.
"Looks like you got your wish."
I kneeled down next to her and after smelling the urine, I managed to say only two words.
"Sorry grandma." I didn't know she was this upset about not having any visitors. Hell I thought she'd be more pissed since I only came once every few months, but having a grandmother in the mob makes her understanding to the fact that her grandson is a hit man.
Now I got some family to take care of....and 50 million dollars coming my way. | "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 | 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. | She gazed out the window, where the leaves fluttered in the dying breezes towards the ground. She could remember the days when she could see the sharp outlines of each furl, when she could stand outside in the startlingly cold but fresh air of winter, enjoying its chilling caresses upon her skin. Now, however, all she could make out are murky brown shapes drifting in the air. It had not been long since she last breathed *real* air, but she knew that even if she were outside, it would not be as she imagined. The air would never be as crisp, the trees never as defined, the sounds never as stark.
Despite this, she could not bring herself to actively end her life. She had filed for euthanasia, and on some level within her consciousness she knew it would be denied. However, she could not bear this existence; she felt like a husk of her former self. The sights and tastes of the world could appeal to her no more, and as she constantly compared her current self to her previous self, she felt an unyielding longing for an escape from her current reality.
The old lady mused for longer between her swirling reminiscences of her youth and vitality. There was a solution that she had so far avoided, that she had not wanted to entertain. Yet, she could think of no better alternatives. She wondered if she would come to regret this. Perhaps, she knew it would come to this, and had simply wanted to delay for as long as possible.
Her mind was made up. Her eyes, though only useful for discerning large quantities of light now, crinkled at the edges.
It was time to call her ex-husband, to complete his final service to her. |
|
[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. | She gazed out the window, where the leaves fluttered in the dying breezes towards the ground. She could remember the days when she could see the sharp outlines of each furl, when she could stand outside in the startlingly cold but fresh air of winter, enjoying its chilling caresses upon her skin. Now, however, all she could make out are murky brown shapes drifting in the air. It had not been long since she last breathed *real* air, but she knew that even if she were outside, it would not be as she imagined. The air would never be as crisp, the trees never as defined, the sounds never as stark.
Despite this, she could not bring herself to actively end her life. She had filed for euthanasia, and on some level within her consciousness she knew it would be denied. However, she could not bear this existence; she felt like a husk of her former self. The sights and tastes of the world could appeal to her no more, and as she constantly compared her current self to her previous self, she felt an unyielding longing for an escape from her current reality.
The old lady mused for longer between her swirling reminiscences of her youth and vitality. There was a solution that she had so far avoided, that she had not wanted to entertain. Yet, she could think of no better alternatives. She wondered if she would come to regret this. Perhaps, she knew it would come to this, and had simply wanted to delay for as long as possible.
Her mind was made up. Her eyes, though only useful for discerning large quantities of light now, crinkled at the edges.
It was time to call her ex-husband, to complete his final service to her. |
|
[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." | She gazed out the window, where the leaves fluttered in the dying breezes towards the ground. She could remember the days when she could see the sharp outlines of each furl, when she could stand outside in the startlingly cold but fresh air of winter, enjoying its chilling caresses upon her skin. Now, however, all she could make out are murky brown shapes drifting in the air. It had not been long since she last breathed *real* air, but she knew that even if she were outside, it would not be as she imagined. The air would never be as crisp, the trees never as defined, the sounds never as stark.
Despite this, she could not bring herself to actively end her life. She had filed for euthanasia, and on some level within her consciousness she knew it would be denied. However, she could not bear this existence; she felt like a husk of her former self. The sights and tastes of the world could appeal to her no more, and as she constantly compared her current self to her previous self, she felt an unyielding longing for an escape from her current reality.
The old lady mused for longer between her swirling reminiscences of her youth and vitality. There was a solution that she had so far avoided, that she had not wanted to entertain. Yet, she could think of no better alternatives. She wondered if she would come to regret this. Perhaps, she knew it would come to this, and had simply wanted to delay for as long as possible.
Her mind was made up. Her eyes, though only useful for discerning large quantities of light now, crinkled at the edges.
It was time to call her ex-husband, to complete his final service to her. |
|
[WP]: Having been denied euthanasia, an old lady hires a hitman for herself | I entered the hospital wearing a white doctor's coat and scrubs. It was easy enough to find room 612, and no one even recognized I didn't belong. They never do.
I'm not quite sure what I was expecting, but the old lady was just an old lady. Didn't seem right, though that's probably just because I'm used to a different type of employer. But no, she was a shriveled thing, looking like she didn't even need my help.
I shut the door quietly and walked over to the bed. She appeared to be sleeping, while hooked up to a number of IVs. Everything was as the letter said.
I crossed past her, to the opposite side, and studying the machines. I was supposed to remove the drip inserted on the bottom right. Wasn't supposed to set off any alarms.
I felt something weird in my stomach. I looked down. Rubbed my abdomen. The hand came up bloody. I turned to face the woman. She was sitting upright now, and holding a muffled pistol. I collapsed weakly. She pointed the gun at my head, and spoke. She really was just an old lady.
*Sorry honey. This was the last item on my bucket list.*
She pulled the trigger. | The phone rang.
"Speak."
"Hello... is this Mr... Cleaner? Is that right, dear?"
"What's the job?"
"Well, I was wondering if you had different options. I'm not interested in any soft killings."
"Soft?"
"You know. I'm not interested in smothering or poisoning. I want something really exciting. Like...like shot in the face, or bludgeoned with a rusty tire iron. You know, dear, something like that."
"Who is the target?"
"Oh, of course you'd need to know that: Mrs. Evelyn Garowski, 265 Pine Lane, Jackson, Florida. So forgetful these days, you know."
"Five thousand. Drop it in the dumpster behind Wal-Mart in Jackson."
"Oh, I've been saving for this. It's just that I'm too lonely now that Stanley's gone, dear. You know how it is. I'm just going to--"
Click. The other line went dead.
"Oh, dear, he got cut off." Said Mrs. Evelyn Garowski to herself. "But he seems like such a nice young man." |
|
[WP] Baby, did it hurt when you fell from Heaven? Because you might be entitled to compensation | "What did you say to me," asked Sarah frustrated as she was sprawled on the cement, poked at her broken heel, and picked up the items spilled from her purse. She took a deep breath, slowly exhaled, and stood up wobbly on one foot three inches higher than the other. Next to her stood a young man in bright fashionable clothing smirking at her.
"You heard me princess," he said as he fidgeted and adjusted his fedora.
Sarah dusted herself off, turned partially on her heel to walk away, stopped and said, "If I was a princess you would have helped me up."
He coughed nervously, "You ain't all that."
"Oh, you think I don't know what you're doing," she snapped. "This is that lame pick up artist shit. You compliment then insult, right? All women are sluts who just need their locks picked by bright young men following some formula, right?"
He looked away briefly, looked back at her, and stared at her wordlessly.
"And what do you expect me to do. Swoon? I'm standing here with a broken heel. I just fucking fell and you half-ass hit on me? What's your problem," she demanded throwing her hands up in the air.
"I didn't tell you to wear them shoes," he said trying hard to look disinterested.
"I wear these shoes because they're professional attire for women and its expected of me," she replied. "Trust me, if I had the choice I'd wear men's shoes."
The man exhaled, squinted his eyes at her, and started to walk away.
"Oh is that it, no more poking me? Gonna let this 'unicorn' go?" she demanded pointing her finger in his face.
"What do you want me to do, lady?" he asked. "I'm just on the make, like everyone. Trying to climb the social ladder, bust out of the friendzone. We all gotta do it," he implored shrugging his shoulders.
"Really? Really? You think we're all playing games to sleep with each other. Being disingenuous jerks and liars?" she asked.
"Don't deny it. There's nothing wrong with my approach," he said.
"Except it completely lacks empathy and basic human decency. You're crazy if you think this is normal. Normal human relationships aren't built on trickery and bullshit. We build them on honest conversation, honestly expressing our needs, and handling things like rejection well. Instead of using rejection as an excuse to be an ass," she said tiredly.
"Not all girls are as high minded as you, they're just as bad as me," he said with a smile.
"Then at least be the bigger man or realize not all girls are like that. A lot of us just want a decent boyfriend, not some peacocked up guy on the make for a one night stand," she said rolling her eyes.
"Yeah whatever," he said as walked off pretending to check his phone.
Sarah sighed, picked up her cellphone and made a call.
"Sorry I'm going to be late. I fell, tore my hose, and busted a heel and then some jackass harassed me. I know right? I swear there must be an internet forum where they all get together and discuss these asinine pick-up strategies. Its tiresome and transparent. Yeah, see you soon, I'm gonna stop and get a mocha and be in."
She hung up the call, laughed at the ridiculousness of the day, and started her lopsided walk to Starbucks. "Just another day in the big city," she told herself as she walked on.
/the above is dedicated to all the guys in /r/theredpill | Sestina
The dog in the yard was hurt.
It lay by the hickory where it fell.
It panted whispers of Heaven.
I'd have followed it if I might
have been so entitled.
But some masters get no compensation.
^..
We all long for compensation--
Tickets or tokens for how we are hurt.
In no way are we so entitled.
The hickory stood where she fell.
And I stood there too so that she might
Hear my words wishing her off to Heaven.
^..
In later days I found my own Heaven.
Kisses under a hickory as compensation
For besting rivals with physical might.
Caresses for muscles and scuffs that hurt.
Into her lips, into her breath, I fell.
What she gave and she gave I found myself entitled.
^..
The shouts of the fans made me so entitled.
The din of their cries a whisper from Heaven.
Their words from the hickory stands fell.
Another few yards deserved such compensation.
A twist of an arm, a yard full of hurt
A crashing of youth, vigor, and might.
^..
An age of youth and vigor and might.
We lap at the pool of this memory and so are entitled,
Even as we caress those who we hurt.
Your kisses in April were my taste of Heaven.
My words, poorly phrased, were no compensation.
We never could stand so far as we fell.
^..
It was a terrible thing, the way that we fell.
I couldn't quite say it, try as I might.
Take my true sentiment as some compensation,
To far more than these scant words are you entitled.
The most laughable words whisper of Heaven.
We use them to forget the dreams of our hurt.
^..
Baby did it hurt when you fell
from Heaven? Because you might
be entitled to compensation.
|
|
[WP] Baby, did it hurt when you fell from Heaven? Because you might be entitled to compensation | "Oh, blood oath it did!" She tried to roll over and get to her feet. "OW F**K my wing's broken."
"Whoa, you kiss your mother with that mouth?" I reach down to help her up.
"Ahh, I nearly took a jet engine to the face, what do you expect?" she glared back. "Can you heal me?"
"Tell ya what, I'll set it. You can stay here on Earth until it heals on its own, and maybe you'll learn a thing or two about checking flight paths before making stunts like that."
"Oh, no fair!" She gritted her teeth as I set the upper humerus back in place. "What am I supposed to do?"
"I don't know, teach some human the true meaning of enlightenment or something. You're an angel, remember?"
"Funny." She leaned in close, "now, what about my compensation?"
"I still have to deal with that dent you made. We'll talk about this when you get home."
"Bastard."
"See you next week!" I waved, then flittered away.
"I hate you." | It was just another Sunday morning, most were in church, and Bill and Doyle was sitting on the roof top. A cold beer in one hand, their hunting rifle in the other.
"BOOOM goes the dynamite!" Bill says.
"Oh man, haha I think you got that one", Doyle says as he slams Bill in the back.
"Hey watch it dude! I almost spilled my beer!"
"Ha! Down they go." Doyle exclaimed as he looked at the black dot in the distance.
"Let's go check it out Bill."
So they jumped off the roof top with an acrobacy of not spilling any beer. After a minute of walking through the field they finally get up to their prey.
Bill walked up to it and put the nozzle to its' head.
"That'll make a good stew", he said
Doyle kneeled down by the packade, "well well well, look what the stork brought us, it's a girl!" he said to Bill.
"Baby, did it hurt when you fell from Heaven? Because you might be entitled to compensation" Doyle said to her and laughed. |
|
[WP] Baby, did it hurt when you fell from Heaven? Because you might be entitled to compensation | "What did you say to me," asked Sarah frustrated as she was sprawled on the cement, poked at her broken heel, and picked up the items spilled from her purse. She took a deep breath, slowly exhaled, and stood up wobbly on one foot three inches higher than the other. Next to her stood a young man in bright fashionable clothing smirking at her.
"You heard me princess," he said as he fidgeted and adjusted his fedora.
Sarah dusted herself off, turned partially on her heel to walk away, stopped and said, "If I was a princess you would have helped me up."
He coughed nervously, "You ain't all that."
"Oh, you think I don't know what you're doing," she snapped. "This is that lame pick up artist shit. You compliment then insult, right? All women are sluts who just need their locks picked by bright young men following some formula, right?"
He looked away briefly, looked back at her, and stared at her wordlessly.
"And what do you expect me to do. Swoon? I'm standing here with a broken heel. I just fucking fell and you half-ass hit on me? What's your problem," she demanded throwing her hands up in the air.
"I didn't tell you to wear them shoes," he said trying hard to look disinterested.
"I wear these shoes because they're professional attire for women and its expected of me," she replied. "Trust me, if I had the choice I'd wear men's shoes."
The man exhaled, squinted his eyes at her, and started to walk away.
"Oh is that it, no more poking me? Gonna let this 'unicorn' go?" she demanded pointing her finger in his face.
"What do you want me to do, lady?" he asked. "I'm just on the make, like everyone. Trying to climb the social ladder, bust out of the friendzone. We all gotta do it," he implored shrugging his shoulders.
"Really? Really? You think we're all playing games to sleep with each other. Being disingenuous jerks and liars?" she asked.
"Don't deny it. There's nothing wrong with my approach," he said.
"Except it completely lacks empathy and basic human decency. You're crazy if you think this is normal. Normal human relationships aren't built on trickery and bullshit. We build them on honest conversation, honestly expressing our needs, and handling things like rejection well. Instead of using rejection as an excuse to be an ass," she said tiredly.
"Not all girls are as high minded as you, they're just as bad as me," he said with a smile.
"Then at least be the bigger man or realize not all girls are like that. A lot of us just want a decent boyfriend, not some peacocked up guy on the make for a one night stand," she said rolling her eyes.
"Yeah whatever," he said as walked off pretending to check his phone.
Sarah sighed, picked up her cellphone and made a call.
"Sorry I'm going to be late. I fell, tore my hose, and busted a heel and then some jackass harassed me. I know right? I swear there must be an internet forum where they all get together and discuss these asinine pick-up strategies. Its tiresome and transparent. Yeah, see you soon, I'm gonna stop and get a mocha and be in."
She hung up the call, laughed at the ridiculousness of the day, and started her lopsided walk to Starbucks. "Just another day in the big city," she told herself as she walked on.
/the above is dedicated to all the guys in /r/theredpill | It was just another Sunday morning, most were in church, and Bill and Doyle was sitting on the roof top. A cold beer in one hand, their hunting rifle in the other.
"BOOOM goes the dynamite!" Bill says.
"Oh man, haha I think you got that one", Doyle says as he slams Bill in the back.
"Hey watch it dude! I almost spilled my beer!"
"Ha! Down they go." Doyle exclaimed as he looked at the black dot in the distance.
"Let's go check it out Bill."
So they jumped off the roof top with an acrobacy of not spilling any beer. After a minute of walking through the field they finally get up to their prey.
Bill walked up to it and put the nozzle to its' head.
"That'll make a good stew", he said
Doyle kneeled down by the packade, "well well well, look what the stork brought us, it's a girl!" he said to Bill.
"Baby, did it hurt when you fell from Heaven? Because you might be entitled to compensation" Doyle said to her and laughed. |
|
[WP] Baby, did it hurt when you fell from Heaven? Because you might be entitled to compensation | Jessica checks her rear in the mirror again. It has to be perfect. These guys have women lining up for a chance at them, and so they are picky like a connoisseur. These guys being lawyers that is. This is the best place in Washington to get a lawyer. Most only manage to get one for a night, but the hope is that the right chemistry that this could turn into dating, then a relationship, and then marriage. Marriage to a guy that can take care of a women right. Doesn't matter if he messes around or not, cause she can take him for half in the divorce. The point is to get him to that stage. Gotta marry rich, and a lawyer is as good a way as any to do it.
Jessica sighs ready to put on her alluring face and steps from the women's restroom. Walking her best walk she heads for the bar to find a place to sit and a drink. Need a drink to take away the pain the shoes are causing. She has to look natural, like she was born with 4-inch spikes on her feet. Plus, she has to save her feet for some dancing if anyone should ask.
"Gin and tonic." Jennifer tries to mask her mid-western drawl. These guys date city girls, not country bumpkins.
"Coming right up. That will be six fifty."
"Let me get that."
Jennifer turns as the man behind her reaches around with a ten dollar bill. Just what the doctor ordered, and quicker than most nights too. Too many nights she's sat there waiting only to get hit on by the sloppy drunks at 2 am that just wanna bang in the parking lot.
"Well, hello there, handsome. Thank you for the drink."
The man in a suit sits down and loosens his tie. He just wants to relax and have a little pretty company with him.
Jennifer looking for adding a little humor blurts out, "So, are you here to just have a drink and talk to me, or are you going to hand me a card and offer to represent me in some class action suit?"
Jim groans to himself. That's the best she can come up with? Well, maybe if he plays along he'll get a little tail later.
"Represent, of course. So, Baby, did it hurt when you fell from Heaven? Because you might be entitled to compensation." | It was just another Sunday morning, most were in church, and Bill and Doyle was sitting on the roof top. A cold beer in one hand, their hunting rifle in the other.
"BOOOM goes the dynamite!" Bill says.
"Oh man, haha I think you got that one", Doyle says as he slams Bill in the back.
"Hey watch it dude! I almost spilled my beer!"
"Ha! Down they go." Doyle exclaimed as he looked at the black dot in the distance.
"Let's go check it out Bill."
So they jumped off the roof top with an acrobacy of not spilling any beer. After a minute of walking through the field they finally get up to their prey.
Bill walked up to it and put the nozzle to its' head.
"That'll make a good stew", he said
Doyle kneeled down by the packade, "well well well, look what the stork brought us, it's a girl!" he said to Bill.
"Baby, did it hurt when you fell from Heaven? Because you might be entitled to compensation" Doyle said to her and laughed. |
|
[WP] Baby, did it hurt when you fell from Heaven? Because you might be entitled to compensation | "What did you say to me," asked Sarah frustrated as she was sprawled on the cement, poked at her broken heel, and picked up the items spilled from her purse. She took a deep breath, slowly exhaled, and stood up wobbly on one foot three inches higher than the other. Next to her stood a young man in bright fashionable clothing smirking at her.
"You heard me princess," he said as he fidgeted and adjusted his fedora.
Sarah dusted herself off, turned partially on her heel to walk away, stopped and said, "If I was a princess you would have helped me up."
He coughed nervously, "You ain't all that."
"Oh, you think I don't know what you're doing," she snapped. "This is that lame pick up artist shit. You compliment then insult, right? All women are sluts who just need their locks picked by bright young men following some formula, right?"
He looked away briefly, looked back at her, and stared at her wordlessly.
"And what do you expect me to do. Swoon? I'm standing here with a broken heel. I just fucking fell and you half-ass hit on me? What's your problem," she demanded throwing her hands up in the air.
"I didn't tell you to wear them shoes," he said trying hard to look disinterested.
"I wear these shoes because they're professional attire for women and its expected of me," she replied. "Trust me, if I had the choice I'd wear men's shoes."
The man exhaled, squinted his eyes at her, and started to walk away.
"Oh is that it, no more poking me? Gonna let this 'unicorn' go?" she demanded pointing her finger in his face.
"What do you want me to do, lady?" he asked. "I'm just on the make, like everyone. Trying to climb the social ladder, bust out of the friendzone. We all gotta do it," he implored shrugging his shoulders.
"Really? Really? You think we're all playing games to sleep with each other. Being disingenuous jerks and liars?" she asked.
"Don't deny it. There's nothing wrong with my approach," he said.
"Except it completely lacks empathy and basic human decency. You're crazy if you think this is normal. Normal human relationships aren't built on trickery and bullshit. We build them on honest conversation, honestly expressing our needs, and handling things like rejection well. Instead of using rejection as an excuse to be an ass," she said tiredly.
"Not all girls are as high minded as you, they're just as bad as me," he said with a smile.
"Then at least be the bigger man or realize not all girls are like that. A lot of us just want a decent boyfriend, not some peacocked up guy on the make for a one night stand," she said rolling her eyes.
"Yeah whatever," he said as walked off pretending to check his phone.
Sarah sighed, picked up her cellphone and made a call.
"Sorry I'm going to be late. I fell, tore my hose, and busted a heel and then some jackass harassed me. I know right? I swear there must be an internet forum where they all get together and discuss these asinine pick-up strategies. Its tiresome and transparent. Yeah, see you soon, I'm gonna stop and get a mocha and be in."
She hung up the call, laughed at the ridiculousness of the day, and started her lopsided walk to Starbucks. "Just another day in the big city," she told herself as she walked on.
/the above is dedicated to all the guys in /r/theredpill | "Oh, blood oath it did!" She tried to roll over and get to her feet. "OW F**K my wing's broken."
"Whoa, you kiss your mother with that mouth?" I reach down to help her up.
"Ahh, I nearly took a jet engine to the face, what do you expect?" she glared back. "Can you heal me?"
"Tell ya what, I'll set it. You can stay here on Earth until it heals on its own, and maybe you'll learn a thing or two about checking flight paths before making stunts like that."
"Oh, no fair!" She gritted her teeth as I set the upper humerus back in place. "What am I supposed to do?"
"I don't know, teach some human the true meaning of enlightenment or something. You're an angel, remember?"
"Funny." She leaned in close, "now, what about my compensation?"
"I still have to deal with that dent you made. We'll talk about this when you get home."
"Bastard."
"See you next week!" I waved, then flittered away.
"I hate you." |
|
[WP] You find a tattered book in a thrift store / charity shop which describes your life down to a T in third person. It's a relatively thin book - what's your reaction / do you read the end? | TALES OF TOXLAB
What the actual what? Is this about toxicology? When I chose the monicker, I had no idea. Thought I was being original. Asked a friend what she thought of the alias, and she said, "Sounds like a comic book villain."
Sold.
Oh. The early years. Hey, I remember that. I...wait. Does it have...oh. it does.
But what about when...That's in here too? Guess I'm buying this. No one else can know about...
Oh. Shit. That's in here too? Okay. Look around. Any flammable liquids here? Some way I can burn this book in the parking lot?
Shit. Someone else has probably read this. Look at the guy at the counter. No, he always looks at me like that. Figures everybody that comes into this dump is out to steal from him. But maybe. Maybe *he knows.*
Fuck. What else is in here. Why are there all these other chapters? Okay, flip to the end.
Oh. Oh my. Who are these people? Why is this story continuing? It should be over dozens of times by now. Is something interesting going to happen? Something *special?* something different?
I have to know.
Oh. Yeah. I guess that makes sense, Okay.
Yes, How are you, sir? Just the one today. Here's a five. No, keep the change. See you next week. | This is stupid. I'm one of a kind, and I know for a fact that no one can know these things about me. Rather than skim through like I had originally been doing, I gave each word, each sentence the utmost attention. I cradled the paragraphs and caressed the pages, not out of some freakish obsession with paperbacks, but because I knew somewhere, without ever believing it in my consciousness, that this book was me. I was inexorably linked with the fate of what lay upon these pages and I found that so fascinating and horrific that my heart fluttered, my chest pounded, my skin crawled. And simultaneously, without feeling anything, I felt the book flutter and pound and crawl. I wanted to put the book down, but that was a lie I told myself-- I wanted to want to put the book down. Inside, I yearned to walk away, forget I had seen it, leave the store and never return. It had been hours now, and twice I had tried to pay, at two separate registers with two separate employees, and both times they immediately told me the book did not belong to the store. I walked around the book store nearly colliding with shelves on several occasions; I could not refrain from looking over my shoulder constantly. Someone had to be watching me, but what took my breath away, the single piece that made me feel as if I was concurrently smaller than an atom and larger than this universe made to hold me and me alone: this book knew my deepest thoughts that had never seen the light of day, even inside my mind. It knew what I wanted in different occasions throughout my life, and knew how I felt always. I skimmed around some after coming to the conclusion I dared not speak, and had a thought that stunned me: this book does not continue nearly as long as it should. I flipped through, glided over phrases, and found myself at the end of the book. I could not bring myself to flip to the last page, but the one I was on currently detailed exactly what is going through my mind now. The final sentences on this page read "he placed the book down, bewildered, and turned to walk outside. He was shaken to his core, and could not fathom what-". It ended here, and I literally am unable to turn the page. I know now that I have paths lain in front of me; I can see them clear as day. One leads to the end of the book, figuring out how this thing concludes and working from there. I see another path that has me hiding here, rereading my life and remembering all of the things I've done. It is safe and comfortable, and I don't know that I'll ever have to leave. Yet as I move forward, down this final path, I know that there was ultimately only one outcome for me, and I step through the door without looking back.
|
|
[WP] You find a tattered book in a thrift store / charity shop which describes your life down to a T in third person. It's a relatively thin book - what's your reaction / do you read the end? | I never go to bookstores. I never read books. I mean, I read, just not books, not physical books. It’s always either on my Kindle, or something on my phone. But, and I don’t even know why I was here, I think I had an hour or so to kill before my wife finished class, but I found myself downtown at this really cramped bookstore.
“Can I help you with anything?” that was the lady behind the desk, which, it wasn’t even a desk, really, it was just another stack of books, only it didn’t go all the way up to the ceiling, so it looked like a desk. Nothing looked like anything. Every inch of wall space, it was just books. And there were milk crates on the floor overflowing with more books. It’s like, I could imagine people moving, changing apartments, they’ve cleaned out their closets, they have this really weird collection of old textbooks and random paperbacks.
“See if you can sell it to the bookstore,” someone might say, and of course they’re not going to pay anything for it, I mean, if I owned a small bookstore, I mean really small, I mean this place, I was getting uncomfortable just standing inside, but if it was my shop, and some guys brought a crate of books, I’d just motion to the wall, “Leave them over there boys.” And they’d be like, “Well, is this stuff worth anything?” And I’d just repeat, “Over there, by the other milk crates.”
It’s like, could there be something valuable buried under all of those unused cookbooks and twenty-fifth edition Lord of the Rings trilogies? Maybe. Probably not. So when the lady asked me if I needed any help, I almost wanted to throw it right back at her, I wanted to be like, “Me? Do I need any help? Looks like you’re the one who needs some help, organizing these books, getting rid of that really old book smell.”
Of course I wouldn’t say that, “Just browsing,” I told her. And I started browsing, in the fullest definition of the word. I couldn’t tell if the books in the bookcases were organized by author name or if there was some sort of a category in which everything was supposed to fall, but, I looked, I don’t think there was any system, it was just a bunch of books, wherever they fit, one book come out, grab another from the milk crate, one that fits really tight.
I knew that my chances of finding something cool were pretty slim. There wasn’t really enough time to read the jacket covers of every book that I selected at random from the shelves. Mostly I was looking to kill some time, I nudged worn-out spines out from the collection and looked at the cover art. It’s interesting, most book covers, they fall into three categories: there are photographs, usually a memoir or a biography, there are cool artistic illustrations, these may or may not have something to do with whatever’s written inside.
And then there are the covers that don’t mess around, a solid color with the title printed in bold text. *Don’t Put it Back* caught my eye not because of what was on it, but rather what wasn’t. It was a plain blue jacket, the copy itself looked maybe thirty years old or so, and the title was written in a very simple yellow Helvetica.
It drew me in. I flipped through the yellowed pages, opened at random to somewhere just past the middle. I started reading at a paragraph on the center of the left page:
> “Rob opened the book to a random spot and started reading. He still had twenty minutes or so until he was supposed to meet his wife, but that’s not a lot of time to be able to do anything, nothing meaningful, not really. Why was he in this old bookstore? He questioned his surroundings, but a background part of his mind calculated what it would feel like to be waiting somewhere else, outside, that would have been too cold, maybe for five minutes or so, but twenty, no, he would have started playing with his phone, gloves off, his fingers would be freezing. Starbucks? Coffee? Too crowded, he’d have to buy something. No, this was nice. Not nice, not exactly, but no pressure, he could just stand, look at stuff, maybe read something, he was always open to the long shot possibility that something might pop out, a good story. He’d buy it …”
This was crazy. This paragraph was describing exactly what I was doing at that very second, down to the thought process. It was absolutely uncanny. Like, my heart actually skipped a beat, like you notice someone staring at you from across a room, you think, is this for real? Is that person really staring at me? And you play it off like it’s not weird, like this is just another mundane moment, I can’t really compute such a dramatic turn of events.
I put the book back. I thought, was this a joke? Like some sort of a hidden camera thing? They have shows like that, they’ll put unsuspecting people in weird situations and film the reactions. That kind of made sense. Were all of the books like this? All of the paragraphs identical? I started picking out other random books.
There was a random fiction collection, some nonfiction Civil War book, something with a painting of a seashell on the cover. I looked through all of them. Nothing. Regular words. I had to see the other book. Did it call me by name, Rob? What was the rest of the book about? But I couldn’t find it. It was right here but now I couldn’t find where I had slid it back.
“Excuse me,” I think I startled the lady behind the book desk. “I was just reading this book, it was blue, I think it was called *Don’t Put it Back*. Do you know what I’m talking about?”
“Well let’s see,” she stepped into the aisle and started looking at the titles printed on the spines. “Do you know the author? Maybe I could look it up online.”
This wasn’t going to be any help. “No,” I said, “It was right here, I was just reading it.”
She could tell I was getting impatient. She said, “Well, maybe you shouldn’t of put it back,” adding extra emphasis on the last three words, like, haha, that was funny right?
It wasn’t funny. I needed to know what was in that book. But my wife called. She told me she was ready. I tried telling her what was going on but she was all, “Yeah, yeah, I’m freezing, let’s go.” And I had to go.
I don’t even remember where that bookstore was. I was just wandering around. I went back a few days later and I swear, I couldn’t find it. It was crazy. Was that like the universe giving me a chance at some sort of important wisdom, something right there on the cover, Rob, don’t put this book back. And I’m just like, hold on, this is crazy. And I put it back.
I put it right back. That sounds crazy, right? | This is stupid. I'm one of a kind, and I know for a fact that no one can know these things about me. Rather than skim through like I had originally been doing, I gave each word, each sentence the utmost attention. I cradled the paragraphs and caressed the pages, not out of some freakish obsession with paperbacks, but because I knew somewhere, without ever believing it in my consciousness, that this book was me. I was inexorably linked with the fate of what lay upon these pages and I found that so fascinating and horrific that my heart fluttered, my chest pounded, my skin crawled. And simultaneously, without feeling anything, I felt the book flutter and pound and crawl. I wanted to put the book down, but that was a lie I told myself-- I wanted to want to put the book down. Inside, I yearned to walk away, forget I had seen it, leave the store and never return. It had been hours now, and twice I had tried to pay, at two separate registers with two separate employees, and both times they immediately told me the book did not belong to the store. I walked around the book store nearly colliding with shelves on several occasions; I could not refrain from looking over my shoulder constantly. Someone had to be watching me, but what took my breath away, the single piece that made me feel as if I was concurrently smaller than an atom and larger than this universe made to hold me and me alone: this book knew my deepest thoughts that had never seen the light of day, even inside my mind. It knew what I wanted in different occasions throughout my life, and knew how I felt always. I skimmed around some after coming to the conclusion I dared not speak, and had a thought that stunned me: this book does not continue nearly as long as it should. I flipped through, glided over phrases, and found myself at the end of the book. I could not bring myself to flip to the last page, but the one I was on currently detailed exactly what is going through my mind now. The final sentences on this page read "he placed the book down, bewildered, and turned to walk outside. He was shaken to his core, and could not fathom what-". It ended here, and I literally am unable to turn the page. I know now that I have paths lain in front of me; I can see them clear as day. One leads to the end of the book, figuring out how this thing concludes and working from there. I see another path that has me hiding here, rereading my life and remembering all of the things I've done. It is safe and comfortable, and I don't know that I'll ever have to leave. Yet as I move forward, down this final path, I know that there was ultimately only one outcome for me, and I step through the door without looking back.
|
|
[WP] You find a tattered book in a thrift store / charity shop which describes your life down to a T in third person. It's a relatively thin book - what's your reaction / do you read the end? | TALES OF TOXLAB
What the actual what? Is this about toxicology? When I chose the monicker, I had no idea. Thought I was being original. Asked a friend what she thought of the alias, and she said, "Sounds like a comic book villain."
Sold.
Oh. The early years. Hey, I remember that. I...wait. Does it have...oh. it does.
But what about when...That's in here too? Guess I'm buying this. No one else can know about...
Oh. Shit. That's in here too? Okay. Look around. Any flammable liquids here? Some way I can burn this book in the parking lot?
Shit. Someone else has probably read this. Look at the guy at the counter. No, he always looks at me like that. Figures everybody that comes into this dump is out to steal from him. But maybe. Maybe *he knows.*
Fuck. What else is in here. Why are there all these other chapters? Okay, flip to the end.
Oh. Oh my. Who are these people? Why is this story continuing? It should be over dozens of times by now. Is something interesting going to happen? Something *special?* something different?
I have to know.
Oh. Yeah. I guess that makes sense, Okay.
Yes, How are you, sir? Just the one today. Here's a five. No, keep the change. See you next week. | My memoir, in a *thrift shop*? I'm stunned. Flabbergasted. Confounded. Who would resell *my life*? I wrote it to share. I wrote it so people would see how I grew from poverty to become a social dynamo, champion of the party scene. I poured tears into my fall through drugs and alcohol. The years I spent homeless and lonely, cold and miserable... my return to the high life when my novel, the manuscript written on cocktail napkins and scrap paper, launched to best seller lists the world over.
I was the next J.K. Rowlings, and my *life* is now on the used books rack at the local Salvation Army? I smile to myself. Sounds just like the ending I penned years ago. All that is left to do is fade into ambiguity, return to the railyards I once frequented and wait for the cold to end me. |
|
[WP] You find a tattered book in a thrift store / charity shop which describes your life down to a T in third person. It's a relatively thin book - what's your reaction / do you read the end? | I never go to bookstores. I never read books. I mean, I read, just not books, not physical books. It’s always either on my Kindle, or something on my phone. But, and I don’t even know why I was here, I think I had an hour or so to kill before my wife finished class, but I found myself downtown at this really cramped bookstore.
“Can I help you with anything?” that was the lady behind the desk, which, it wasn’t even a desk, really, it was just another stack of books, only it didn’t go all the way up to the ceiling, so it looked like a desk. Nothing looked like anything. Every inch of wall space, it was just books. And there were milk crates on the floor overflowing with more books. It’s like, I could imagine people moving, changing apartments, they’ve cleaned out their closets, they have this really weird collection of old textbooks and random paperbacks.
“See if you can sell it to the bookstore,” someone might say, and of course they’re not going to pay anything for it, I mean, if I owned a small bookstore, I mean really small, I mean this place, I was getting uncomfortable just standing inside, but if it was my shop, and some guys brought a crate of books, I’d just motion to the wall, “Leave them over there boys.” And they’d be like, “Well, is this stuff worth anything?” And I’d just repeat, “Over there, by the other milk crates.”
It’s like, could there be something valuable buried under all of those unused cookbooks and twenty-fifth edition Lord of the Rings trilogies? Maybe. Probably not. So when the lady asked me if I needed any help, I almost wanted to throw it right back at her, I wanted to be like, “Me? Do I need any help? Looks like you’re the one who needs some help, organizing these books, getting rid of that really old book smell.”
Of course I wouldn’t say that, “Just browsing,” I told her. And I started browsing, in the fullest definition of the word. I couldn’t tell if the books in the bookcases were organized by author name or if there was some sort of a category in which everything was supposed to fall, but, I looked, I don’t think there was any system, it was just a bunch of books, wherever they fit, one book come out, grab another from the milk crate, one that fits really tight.
I knew that my chances of finding something cool were pretty slim. There wasn’t really enough time to read the jacket covers of every book that I selected at random from the shelves. Mostly I was looking to kill some time, I nudged worn-out spines out from the collection and looked at the cover art. It’s interesting, most book covers, they fall into three categories: there are photographs, usually a memoir or a biography, there are cool artistic illustrations, these may or may not have something to do with whatever’s written inside.
And then there are the covers that don’t mess around, a solid color with the title printed in bold text. *Don’t Put it Back* caught my eye not because of what was on it, but rather what wasn’t. It was a plain blue jacket, the copy itself looked maybe thirty years old or so, and the title was written in a very simple yellow Helvetica.
It drew me in. I flipped through the yellowed pages, opened at random to somewhere just past the middle. I started reading at a paragraph on the center of the left page:
> “Rob opened the book to a random spot and started reading. He still had twenty minutes or so until he was supposed to meet his wife, but that’s not a lot of time to be able to do anything, nothing meaningful, not really. Why was he in this old bookstore? He questioned his surroundings, but a background part of his mind calculated what it would feel like to be waiting somewhere else, outside, that would have been too cold, maybe for five minutes or so, but twenty, no, he would have started playing with his phone, gloves off, his fingers would be freezing. Starbucks? Coffee? Too crowded, he’d have to buy something. No, this was nice. Not nice, not exactly, but no pressure, he could just stand, look at stuff, maybe read something, he was always open to the long shot possibility that something might pop out, a good story. He’d buy it …”
This was crazy. This paragraph was describing exactly what I was doing at that very second, down to the thought process. It was absolutely uncanny. Like, my heart actually skipped a beat, like you notice someone staring at you from across a room, you think, is this for real? Is that person really staring at me? And you play it off like it’s not weird, like this is just another mundane moment, I can’t really compute such a dramatic turn of events.
I put the book back. I thought, was this a joke? Like some sort of a hidden camera thing? They have shows like that, they’ll put unsuspecting people in weird situations and film the reactions. That kind of made sense. Were all of the books like this? All of the paragraphs identical? I started picking out other random books.
There was a random fiction collection, some nonfiction Civil War book, something with a painting of a seashell on the cover. I looked through all of them. Nothing. Regular words. I had to see the other book. Did it call me by name, Rob? What was the rest of the book about? But I couldn’t find it. It was right here but now I couldn’t find where I had slid it back.
“Excuse me,” I think I startled the lady behind the book desk. “I was just reading this book, it was blue, I think it was called *Don’t Put it Back*. Do you know what I’m talking about?”
“Well let’s see,” she stepped into the aisle and started looking at the titles printed on the spines. “Do you know the author? Maybe I could look it up online.”
This wasn’t going to be any help. “No,” I said, “It was right here, I was just reading it.”
She could tell I was getting impatient. She said, “Well, maybe you shouldn’t of put it back,” adding extra emphasis on the last three words, like, haha, that was funny right?
It wasn’t funny. I needed to know what was in that book. But my wife called. She told me she was ready. I tried telling her what was going on but she was all, “Yeah, yeah, I’m freezing, let’s go.” And I had to go.
I don’t even remember where that bookstore was. I was just wandering around. I went back a few days later and I swear, I couldn’t find it. It was crazy. Was that like the universe giving me a chance at some sort of important wisdom, something right there on the cover, Rob, don’t put this book back. And I’m just like, hold on, this is crazy. And I put it back.
I put it right back. That sounds crazy, right? | My memoir, in a *thrift shop*? I'm stunned. Flabbergasted. Confounded. Who would resell *my life*? I wrote it to share. I wrote it so people would see how I grew from poverty to become a social dynamo, champion of the party scene. I poured tears into my fall through drugs and alcohol. The years I spent homeless and lonely, cold and miserable... my return to the high life when my novel, the manuscript written on cocktail napkins and scrap paper, launched to best seller lists the world over.
I was the next J.K. Rowlings, and my *life* is now on the used books rack at the local Salvation Army? I smile to myself. Sounds just like the ending I penned years ago. All that is left to do is fade into ambiguity, return to the railyards I once frequented and wait for the cold to end me. |
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[WP] You find a tattered book in a thrift store / charity shop which describes your life down to a T in third person. It's a relatively thin book - what's your reaction / do you read the end? | I never go to bookstores. I never read books. I mean, I read, just not books, not physical books. It’s always either on my Kindle, or something on my phone. But, and I don’t even know why I was here, I think I had an hour or so to kill before my wife finished class, but I found myself downtown at this really cramped bookstore.
“Can I help you with anything?” that was the lady behind the desk, which, it wasn’t even a desk, really, it was just another stack of books, only it didn’t go all the way up to the ceiling, so it looked like a desk. Nothing looked like anything. Every inch of wall space, it was just books. And there were milk crates on the floor overflowing with more books. It’s like, I could imagine people moving, changing apartments, they’ve cleaned out their closets, they have this really weird collection of old textbooks and random paperbacks.
“See if you can sell it to the bookstore,” someone might say, and of course they’re not going to pay anything for it, I mean, if I owned a small bookstore, I mean really small, I mean this place, I was getting uncomfortable just standing inside, but if it was my shop, and some guys brought a crate of books, I’d just motion to the wall, “Leave them over there boys.” And they’d be like, “Well, is this stuff worth anything?” And I’d just repeat, “Over there, by the other milk crates.”
It’s like, could there be something valuable buried under all of those unused cookbooks and twenty-fifth edition Lord of the Rings trilogies? Maybe. Probably not. So when the lady asked me if I needed any help, I almost wanted to throw it right back at her, I wanted to be like, “Me? Do I need any help? Looks like you’re the one who needs some help, organizing these books, getting rid of that really old book smell.”
Of course I wouldn’t say that, “Just browsing,” I told her. And I started browsing, in the fullest definition of the word. I couldn’t tell if the books in the bookcases were organized by author name or if there was some sort of a category in which everything was supposed to fall, but, I looked, I don’t think there was any system, it was just a bunch of books, wherever they fit, one book come out, grab another from the milk crate, one that fits really tight.
I knew that my chances of finding something cool were pretty slim. There wasn’t really enough time to read the jacket covers of every book that I selected at random from the shelves. Mostly I was looking to kill some time, I nudged worn-out spines out from the collection and looked at the cover art. It’s interesting, most book covers, they fall into three categories: there are photographs, usually a memoir or a biography, there are cool artistic illustrations, these may or may not have something to do with whatever’s written inside.
And then there are the covers that don’t mess around, a solid color with the title printed in bold text. *Don’t Put it Back* caught my eye not because of what was on it, but rather what wasn’t. It was a plain blue jacket, the copy itself looked maybe thirty years old or so, and the title was written in a very simple yellow Helvetica.
It drew me in. I flipped through the yellowed pages, opened at random to somewhere just past the middle. I started reading at a paragraph on the center of the left page:
> “Rob opened the book to a random spot and started reading. He still had twenty minutes or so until he was supposed to meet his wife, but that’s not a lot of time to be able to do anything, nothing meaningful, not really. Why was he in this old bookstore? He questioned his surroundings, but a background part of his mind calculated what it would feel like to be waiting somewhere else, outside, that would have been too cold, maybe for five minutes or so, but twenty, no, he would have started playing with his phone, gloves off, his fingers would be freezing. Starbucks? Coffee? Too crowded, he’d have to buy something. No, this was nice. Not nice, not exactly, but no pressure, he could just stand, look at stuff, maybe read something, he was always open to the long shot possibility that something might pop out, a good story. He’d buy it …”
This was crazy. This paragraph was describing exactly what I was doing at that very second, down to the thought process. It was absolutely uncanny. Like, my heart actually skipped a beat, like you notice someone staring at you from across a room, you think, is this for real? Is that person really staring at me? And you play it off like it’s not weird, like this is just another mundane moment, I can’t really compute such a dramatic turn of events.
I put the book back. I thought, was this a joke? Like some sort of a hidden camera thing? They have shows like that, they’ll put unsuspecting people in weird situations and film the reactions. That kind of made sense. Were all of the books like this? All of the paragraphs identical? I started picking out other random books.
There was a random fiction collection, some nonfiction Civil War book, something with a painting of a seashell on the cover. I looked through all of them. Nothing. Regular words. I had to see the other book. Did it call me by name, Rob? What was the rest of the book about? But I couldn’t find it. It was right here but now I couldn’t find where I had slid it back.
“Excuse me,” I think I startled the lady behind the book desk. “I was just reading this book, it was blue, I think it was called *Don’t Put it Back*. Do you know what I’m talking about?”
“Well let’s see,” she stepped into the aisle and started looking at the titles printed on the spines. “Do you know the author? Maybe I could look it up online.”
This wasn’t going to be any help. “No,” I said, “It was right here, I was just reading it.”
She could tell I was getting impatient. She said, “Well, maybe you shouldn’t of put it back,” adding extra emphasis on the last three words, like, haha, that was funny right?
It wasn’t funny. I needed to know what was in that book. But my wife called. She told me she was ready. I tried telling her what was going on but she was all, “Yeah, yeah, I’m freezing, let’s go.” And I had to go.
I don’t even remember where that bookstore was. I was just wandering around. I went back a few days later and I swear, I couldn’t find it. It was crazy. Was that like the universe giving me a chance at some sort of important wisdom, something right there on the cover, Rob, don’t put this book back. And I’m just like, hold on, this is crazy. And I put it back.
I put it right back. That sounds crazy, right? | TALES OF TOXLAB
What the actual what? Is this about toxicology? When I chose the monicker, I had no idea. Thought I was being original. Asked a friend what she thought of the alias, and she said, "Sounds like a comic book villain."
Sold.
Oh. The early years. Hey, I remember that. I...wait. Does it have...oh. it does.
But what about when...That's in here too? Guess I'm buying this. No one else can know about...
Oh. Shit. That's in here too? Okay. Look around. Any flammable liquids here? Some way I can burn this book in the parking lot?
Shit. Someone else has probably read this. Look at the guy at the counter. No, he always looks at me like that. Figures everybody that comes into this dump is out to steal from him. But maybe. Maybe *he knows.*
Fuck. What else is in here. Why are there all these other chapters? Okay, flip to the end.
Oh. Oh my. Who are these people? Why is this story continuing? It should be over dozens of times by now. Is something interesting going to happen? Something *special?* something different?
I have to know.
Oh. Yeah. I guess that makes sense, Okay.
Yes, How are you, sir? Just the one today. Here's a five. No, keep the change. See you next week. |
|
[WP] You find a tattered book in a thrift store / charity shop which describes your life down to a T in third person. It's a relatively thin book - what's your reaction / do you read the end? | A quiet day with Andrya had brought us to her favorite store. A hobby shop that doubled as a sort of Salvation army store. She thumbed through rolls of fabric, and bins full to the brim of different colored buttons while I made my way to their meager collection of books. They told you just how long they'd been around with their covers, with the color of their pages, and with the state of them in general. It was unusual to find a book that was bound in leather, but here was one lying there at the very end being used as the bottom layer of a book end. It looked like someone's journal, and I immediately got it in my head that it was an old travel journal from some long dead husband or wife whose spouse couldn't bear to remember anymore. I opened it and on the first page were the words "Read on." The bulk of the story was introduced by short broken ideas that would branch into other things that were only mildly tangential to each other. After a few dozen pages or so I was glad to see that the writing improved, in fact it reminded me of old stories I'd published a few years ago. The book went on to describe certain events in my life that I half remembered, but because the memories weren't complete I brushed them aside and continued reading. There were bits and pieces of the book that vividly described events in my life. Seeing the ruins of Egypt, the beauty of Italy and France, the underlying unease and tension in Jordan, Iran, and so many places that were once ravaged by wars that bore little to no meaning to so many others. Then it described her. The description of her was absolutely undeniable. It spoke of her almond skin, her jet black hair, the pain in her eyes that defied her only when she was angry or drunk. It described our first kiss, the apprehension, my surprise and her seemingly eager departure. I could find nothing in the writing that didn't bring her to mind. My hands shaking I pressed on. The book told of our love, everything from our best to our worst. It spoke of us losing our virginity to each other, it spoke of us travelling together, it reminded me of every argument we had and told me when I had been wrong and when I had been right.
Then it brought back the memory of her death. She was troubled. Coping with her family life was never her strong suit, and our drinking didn't help her. In the end she killed herself accidentally. A difficult few months with her family made her more willing to forget than normal and before the night was done she had suffocated on vomit while I was unconscious on the floor. I broke down in the store, tears streaming down my face and sobs echoing against the walls. Andrya found me and did her best to comfort me, but I was inconsolable. We left the store quickly, the clerks let me keep the book or Andrya paid for it, I didn't stop to think about that. Once I was home, the book was all I could focus on. It brought so many memories back to the surface, fragments of my past that I had pushed to the back were brought to mind and I broke down several more times before the book brought up the life I had built with Andrya. I paused as I began reading about the emotional breakdown I had just suffered. The book had at least thirty more pages to it. With an unsteady hand I turned the page and continued on. I learned things of myself that I would have never guessed, things I would find a passion for that I had never thought of. I would become something successful, but I would gain no celebrity from it and I was ready and willing to accept that. There would be times of uncertainty, and times of pain. Having to sit by as Andrya's mind drifted away from me would be the most painful, but with this I could brace myself. I learned that I would die quickly, that it would come suddenly. I would get myself ready for bed, turn out the lights, close my eyes, and never wake. I closed the book and set it on the bookshelf. Days later I took the book off of the shelf and opened it to the last page, to remind myself of the peace I would find in death. I was met by the description of a horrific car accident. The sound of tires screeching came from outside. | Ever seen Stranger Than Fiction? |
|
[WP] You find a tattered book in a thrift store / charity shop which describes your life down to a T in third person. It's a relatively thin book - what's your reaction / do you read the end? | I never go to bookstores. I never read books. I mean, I read, just not books, not physical books. It’s always either on my Kindle, or something on my phone. But, and I don’t even know why I was here, I think I had an hour or so to kill before my wife finished class, but I found myself downtown at this really cramped bookstore.
“Can I help you with anything?” that was the lady behind the desk, which, it wasn’t even a desk, really, it was just another stack of books, only it didn’t go all the way up to the ceiling, so it looked like a desk. Nothing looked like anything. Every inch of wall space, it was just books. And there were milk crates on the floor overflowing with more books. It’s like, I could imagine people moving, changing apartments, they’ve cleaned out their closets, they have this really weird collection of old textbooks and random paperbacks.
“See if you can sell it to the bookstore,” someone might say, and of course they’re not going to pay anything for it, I mean, if I owned a small bookstore, I mean really small, I mean this place, I was getting uncomfortable just standing inside, but if it was my shop, and some guys brought a crate of books, I’d just motion to the wall, “Leave them over there boys.” And they’d be like, “Well, is this stuff worth anything?” And I’d just repeat, “Over there, by the other milk crates.”
It’s like, could there be something valuable buried under all of those unused cookbooks and twenty-fifth edition Lord of the Rings trilogies? Maybe. Probably not. So when the lady asked me if I needed any help, I almost wanted to throw it right back at her, I wanted to be like, “Me? Do I need any help? Looks like you’re the one who needs some help, organizing these books, getting rid of that really old book smell.”
Of course I wouldn’t say that, “Just browsing,” I told her. And I started browsing, in the fullest definition of the word. I couldn’t tell if the books in the bookcases were organized by author name or if there was some sort of a category in which everything was supposed to fall, but, I looked, I don’t think there was any system, it was just a bunch of books, wherever they fit, one book come out, grab another from the milk crate, one that fits really tight.
I knew that my chances of finding something cool were pretty slim. There wasn’t really enough time to read the jacket covers of every book that I selected at random from the shelves. Mostly I was looking to kill some time, I nudged worn-out spines out from the collection and looked at the cover art. It’s interesting, most book covers, they fall into three categories: there are photographs, usually a memoir or a biography, there are cool artistic illustrations, these may or may not have something to do with whatever’s written inside.
And then there are the covers that don’t mess around, a solid color with the title printed in bold text. *Don’t Put it Back* caught my eye not because of what was on it, but rather what wasn’t. It was a plain blue jacket, the copy itself looked maybe thirty years old or so, and the title was written in a very simple yellow Helvetica.
It drew me in. I flipped through the yellowed pages, opened at random to somewhere just past the middle. I started reading at a paragraph on the center of the left page:
> “Rob opened the book to a random spot and started reading. He still had twenty minutes or so until he was supposed to meet his wife, but that’s not a lot of time to be able to do anything, nothing meaningful, not really. Why was he in this old bookstore? He questioned his surroundings, but a background part of his mind calculated what it would feel like to be waiting somewhere else, outside, that would have been too cold, maybe for five minutes or so, but twenty, no, he would have started playing with his phone, gloves off, his fingers would be freezing. Starbucks? Coffee? Too crowded, he’d have to buy something. No, this was nice. Not nice, not exactly, but no pressure, he could just stand, look at stuff, maybe read something, he was always open to the long shot possibility that something might pop out, a good story. He’d buy it …”
This was crazy. This paragraph was describing exactly what I was doing at that very second, down to the thought process. It was absolutely uncanny. Like, my heart actually skipped a beat, like you notice someone staring at you from across a room, you think, is this for real? Is that person really staring at me? And you play it off like it’s not weird, like this is just another mundane moment, I can’t really compute such a dramatic turn of events.
I put the book back. I thought, was this a joke? Like some sort of a hidden camera thing? They have shows like that, they’ll put unsuspecting people in weird situations and film the reactions. That kind of made sense. Were all of the books like this? All of the paragraphs identical? I started picking out other random books.
There was a random fiction collection, some nonfiction Civil War book, something with a painting of a seashell on the cover. I looked through all of them. Nothing. Regular words. I had to see the other book. Did it call me by name, Rob? What was the rest of the book about? But I couldn’t find it. It was right here but now I couldn’t find where I had slid it back.
“Excuse me,” I think I startled the lady behind the book desk. “I was just reading this book, it was blue, I think it was called *Don’t Put it Back*. Do you know what I’m talking about?”
“Well let’s see,” she stepped into the aisle and started looking at the titles printed on the spines. “Do you know the author? Maybe I could look it up online.”
This wasn’t going to be any help. “No,” I said, “It was right here, I was just reading it.”
She could tell I was getting impatient. She said, “Well, maybe you shouldn’t of put it back,” adding extra emphasis on the last three words, like, haha, that was funny right?
It wasn’t funny. I needed to know what was in that book. But my wife called. She told me she was ready. I tried telling her what was going on but she was all, “Yeah, yeah, I’m freezing, let’s go.” And I had to go.
I don’t even remember where that bookstore was. I was just wandering around. I went back a few days later and I swear, I couldn’t find it. It was crazy. Was that like the universe giving me a chance at some sort of important wisdom, something right there on the cover, Rob, don’t put this book back. And I’m just like, hold on, this is crazy. And I put it back.
I put it right back. That sounds crazy, right? | Ever seen Stranger Than Fiction? |
|
[WP] You find a tattered book in a thrift store / charity shop which describes your life down to a T in third person. It's a relatively thin book - what's your reaction / do you read the end? | I never go to bookstores. I never read books. I mean, I read, just not books, not physical books. It’s always either on my Kindle, or something on my phone. But, and I don’t even know why I was here, I think I had an hour or so to kill before my wife finished class, but I found myself downtown at this really cramped bookstore.
“Can I help you with anything?” that was the lady behind the desk, which, it wasn’t even a desk, really, it was just another stack of books, only it didn’t go all the way up to the ceiling, so it looked like a desk. Nothing looked like anything. Every inch of wall space, it was just books. And there were milk crates on the floor overflowing with more books. It’s like, I could imagine people moving, changing apartments, they’ve cleaned out their closets, they have this really weird collection of old textbooks and random paperbacks.
“See if you can sell it to the bookstore,” someone might say, and of course they’re not going to pay anything for it, I mean, if I owned a small bookstore, I mean really small, I mean this place, I was getting uncomfortable just standing inside, but if it was my shop, and some guys brought a crate of books, I’d just motion to the wall, “Leave them over there boys.” And they’d be like, “Well, is this stuff worth anything?” And I’d just repeat, “Over there, by the other milk crates.”
It’s like, could there be something valuable buried under all of those unused cookbooks and twenty-fifth edition Lord of the Rings trilogies? Maybe. Probably not. So when the lady asked me if I needed any help, I almost wanted to throw it right back at her, I wanted to be like, “Me? Do I need any help? Looks like you’re the one who needs some help, organizing these books, getting rid of that really old book smell.”
Of course I wouldn’t say that, “Just browsing,” I told her. And I started browsing, in the fullest definition of the word. I couldn’t tell if the books in the bookcases were organized by author name or if there was some sort of a category in which everything was supposed to fall, but, I looked, I don’t think there was any system, it was just a bunch of books, wherever they fit, one book come out, grab another from the milk crate, one that fits really tight.
I knew that my chances of finding something cool were pretty slim. There wasn’t really enough time to read the jacket covers of every book that I selected at random from the shelves. Mostly I was looking to kill some time, I nudged worn-out spines out from the collection and looked at the cover art. It’s interesting, most book covers, they fall into three categories: there are photographs, usually a memoir or a biography, there are cool artistic illustrations, these may or may not have something to do with whatever’s written inside.
And then there are the covers that don’t mess around, a solid color with the title printed in bold text. *Don’t Put it Back* caught my eye not because of what was on it, but rather what wasn’t. It was a plain blue jacket, the copy itself looked maybe thirty years old or so, and the title was written in a very simple yellow Helvetica.
It drew me in. I flipped through the yellowed pages, opened at random to somewhere just past the middle. I started reading at a paragraph on the center of the left page:
> “Rob opened the book to a random spot and started reading. He still had twenty minutes or so until he was supposed to meet his wife, but that’s not a lot of time to be able to do anything, nothing meaningful, not really. Why was he in this old bookstore? He questioned his surroundings, but a background part of his mind calculated what it would feel like to be waiting somewhere else, outside, that would have been too cold, maybe for five minutes or so, but twenty, no, he would have started playing with his phone, gloves off, his fingers would be freezing. Starbucks? Coffee? Too crowded, he’d have to buy something. No, this was nice. Not nice, not exactly, but no pressure, he could just stand, look at stuff, maybe read something, he was always open to the long shot possibility that something might pop out, a good story. He’d buy it …”
This was crazy. This paragraph was describing exactly what I was doing at that very second, down to the thought process. It was absolutely uncanny. Like, my heart actually skipped a beat, like you notice someone staring at you from across a room, you think, is this for real? Is that person really staring at me? And you play it off like it’s not weird, like this is just another mundane moment, I can’t really compute such a dramatic turn of events.
I put the book back. I thought, was this a joke? Like some sort of a hidden camera thing? They have shows like that, they’ll put unsuspecting people in weird situations and film the reactions. That kind of made sense. Were all of the books like this? All of the paragraphs identical? I started picking out other random books.
There was a random fiction collection, some nonfiction Civil War book, something with a painting of a seashell on the cover. I looked through all of them. Nothing. Regular words. I had to see the other book. Did it call me by name, Rob? What was the rest of the book about? But I couldn’t find it. It was right here but now I couldn’t find where I had slid it back.
“Excuse me,” I think I startled the lady behind the book desk. “I was just reading this book, it was blue, I think it was called *Don’t Put it Back*. Do you know what I’m talking about?”
“Well let’s see,” she stepped into the aisle and started looking at the titles printed on the spines. “Do you know the author? Maybe I could look it up online.”
This wasn’t going to be any help. “No,” I said, “It was right here, I was just reading it.”
She could tell I was getting impatient. She said, “Well, maybe you shouldn’t of put it back,” adding extra emphasis on the last three words, like, haha, that was funny right?
It wasn’t funny. I needed to know what was in that book. But my wife called. She told me she was ready. I tried telling her what was going on but she was all, “Yeah, yeah, I’m freezing, let’s go.” And I had to go.
I don’t even remember where that bookstore was. I was just wandering around. I went back a few days later and I swear, I couldn’t find it. It was crazy. Was that like the universe giving me a chance at some sort of important wisdom, something right there on the cover, Rob, don’t put this book back. And I’m just like, hold on, this is crazy. And I put it back.
I put it right back. That sounds crazy, right? | A quiet day with Andrya had brought us to her favorite store. A hobby shop that doubled as a sort of Salvation army store. She thumbed through rolls of fabric, and bins full to the brim of different colored buttons while I made my way to their meager collection of books. They told you just how long they'd been around with their covers, with the color of their pages, and with the state of them in general. It was unusual to find a book that was bound in leather, but here was one lying there at the very end being used as the bottom layer of a book end. It looked like someone's journal, and I immediately got it in my head that it was an old travel journal from some long dead husband or wife whose spouse couldn't bear to remember anymore. I opened it and on the first page were the words "Read on." The bulk of the story was introduced by short broken ideas that would branch into other things that were only mildly tangential to each other. After a few dozen pages or so I was glad to see that the writing improved, in fact it reminded me of old stories I'd published a few years ago. The book went on to describe certain events in my life that I half remembered, but because the memories weren't complete I brushed them aside and continued reading. There were bits and pieces of the book that vividly described events in my life. Seeing the ruins of Egypt, the beauty of Italy and France, the underlying unease and tension in Jordan, Iran, and so many places that were once ravaged by wars that bore little to no meaning to so many others. Then it described her. The description of her was absolutely undeniable. It spoke of her almond skin, her jet black hair, the pain in her eyes that defied her only when she was angry or drunk. It described our first kiss, the apprehension, my surprise and her seemingly eager departure. I could find nothing in the writing that didn't bring her to mind. My hands shaking I pressed on. The book told of our love, everything from our best to our worst. It spoke of us losing our virginity to each other, it spoke of us travelling together, it reminded me of every argument we had and told me when I had been wrong and when I had been right.
Then it brought back the memory of her death. She was troubled. Coping with her family life was never her strong suit, and our drinking didn't help her. In the end she killed herself accidentally. A difficult few months with her family made her more willing to forget than normal and before the night was done she had suffocated on vomit while I was unconscious on the floor. I broke down in the store, tears streaming down my face and sobs echoing against the walls. Andrya found me and did her best to comfort me, but I was inconsolable. We left the store quickly, the clerks let me keep the book or Andrya paid for it, I didn't stop to think about that. Once I was home, the book was all I could focus on. It brought so many memories back to the surface, fragments of my past that I had pushed to the back were brought to mind and I broke down several more times before the book brought up the life I had built with Andrya. I paused as I began reading about the emotional breakdown I had just suffered. The book had at least thirty more pages to it. With an unsteady hand I turned the page and continued on. I learned things of myself that I would have never guessed, things I would find a passion for that I had never thought of. I would become something successful, but I would gain no celebrity from it and I was ready and willing to accept that. There would be times of uncertainty, and times of pain. Having to sit by as Andrya's mind drifted away from me would be the most painful, but with this I could brace myself. I learned that I would die quickly, that it would come suddenly. I would get myself ready for bed, turn out the lights, close my eyes, and never wake. I closed the book and set it on the bookshelf. Days later I took the book off of the shelf and opened it to the last page, to remind myself of the peace I would find in death. I was met by the description of a horrific car accident. The sound of tires screeching came from outside. |
|
[WP] An immortal enlists in the army. | It was uncomfortable, to stand near her.
On one hand it was a surreal to see her face, the flaws and pockmarks not airbrushed away, the wrinkles deeper than they should be on anyone. Of course, this was someone who'd gotten stuck at thirty. He'd never really followed the science behind... her.
The other awkward aspect to standing near her carried a lot more gravitas. She would outlive him. Whether he functioned as a tactical genius with the luck of a cow in India or did the macarana on a floor made of landmines, she'd last longer. She was never going to fail, falter, or fumble. Her life was an infinite tactical success, here mere existence more impressive than anything he could hope to achieve.
The third and final awkward thing was that He outranked her. She faced him, and had to hold that long perfected pose as long as he liked, her empty eyes resting on him for however long he pleased. Nothing could waste her time.
He pointed to a map and stated some facts, some suspicions, some reccomendations.
He sent the countries favourite little hellspawn off to kill.
God, someday something might capture her, if she didn't bite and claw and take any bullet with a laugh.
God, someday something might change her, give her back a little of the soul she'd worn thin.
God, someday she might quit?
It was too much to hope for. The army'd already had one miracle. | Out of breath, but I can't stop running. I still am in a state of shock as to where my life is going. Branches, roots, mystical flowers of every hue donned my path as I continuously tripped in my attempt at elevated speed.
Nine hundred meters, seven hundred meters, was I faster? No, I can't be. Even though I am an explorer and running and athleticism is in bold print in the job description I know how fast I am. My perception was thrown off. I nicked my eye leaving that last temple, did I? It's very itchy, and I never did fill out the prescription for that dry eye treatment medicine.. maybe it's that? I can't think, I can't breath.
*Get to the town, just, just get to the town and settle down, they can't hurt you there*.
"What is your name?" She asked me. Rachel.. Avery? I am very interested in knowing her name exactly, but it may seem pervasive of me to stare at her name-tag placed directly on her left breast. It looks like she may be so petit that her nametag was pushing her breast back into her chest, hmm. I need to think.
"My n-name?" He began, stuttering as usual. "My birthname.. or an alias perhaps.. or are we playing a game were I have to think of a n-" he spurted out unrealistically fast.
Stop, calm down. Your birthname, the name you've had your entire life
*Oh.. you shouldn't have asked that* he thought. He's gone by many names. He feels simply geriatric upon pondering upon the fact. His name, when he moved to that town after The Temple Incident was something cool. It was the only name that he felt matched his race exactly. He, and always has been, half Venezuelan and half Cape Verdean.
"Mateo Carter" he uttered.
"Mateo Carter" she repeated happily. "Well alright. Now, you see wasn't that just so simple? I'm glad we can reach that. I am going to ask you a few more questions.. this entire system is regulated to hell." She began laughing in a way he found very cute, even perfect.
He nodded, but he wasn't particularly listening. He's lived in this area for two-hundred years. That temple he tried to dismember from his memories changed his thoughts of life forever. He just wouldn't die, wouldn't age, wouldn't even be able to grow hair. He cried for the first two years almost every day. Every week, on every Friday he completely broke down, and trekked to the nearby inner city in an attempt at suicide. He never died though, he just felt sore, regardless of the height of the building, regardless of how much water he filled his lungs up with.
The questioning finished up, and he showed the nice lady his forged identifications, he needed new ones every twenty years or so, he knew who to go to, new people each time.
His final conclusion as to what happened can be summed up in a short sentence. He, personally, for he had never really gone to anyone else about this, shifted from his normal human mortality to an immortal and hypo-physically-active state of being. The Temple must've been the cause, he always concluded. He went back once, but he couldn't get too close without the black pit of fear erupting in his stomach.
The nice lady guided me to the Barracks. |
|
[WP] An immortal enlists in the army. | We had been fleeing the strafing planes for ten minutes. But now it was quiet. I stood over Gordon’s body, with two bloody holes in his chest. One in his lung, and another in his heart I suspected. It had not been long before I found him, and red liquid was still trickling from the rips and tears in his body.
The salty blood stung my cracked lips as I drank from the growing pool on the ground. And then I was alive. I felt like some slight stress in the sinew of my muscle released. Warmth crept into my breath, and my mind was purified with the flooding emotions. I slurped harder, indifferent to the grainy sand I lapped up along with the blood. Eventually I moved straight to the wound, and my whole body shivering with ecstasy, I drained Gordon. After a short while I stood up, shaking with energy, before finally reaching equilibrium, and enhanced steadiness. Still but not frigid.
I had been friends with him, but through the centuries, I obviously learned not to grow attached, and anyway, it was a war.
I have great distaste for direct hunting, and I have hard time justifying the energy spent when mortals are constantly killing themselves anyway. Constantly cutting, ripping, tearing through flesh, and from these wounds welled fresh blood. I never starved in war, and it was easy enough staying alive. Mortal weapons were so clunky and slow. Bullets can be dodged, mortars predicted. The hardest thing to keep alive was apperances.
| Out of breath, but I can't stop running. I still am in a state of shock as to where my life is going. Branches, roots, mystical flowers of every hue donned my path as I continuously tripped in my attempt at elevated speed.
Nine hundred meters, seven hundred meters, was I faster? No, I can't be. Even though I am an explorer and running and athleticism is in bold print in the job description I know how fast I am. My perception was thrown off. I nicked my eye leaving that last temple, did I? It's very itchy, and I never did fill out the prescription for that dry eye treatment medicine.. maybe it's that? I can't think, I can't breath.
*Get to the town, just, just get to the town and settle down, they can't hurt you there*.
"What is your name?" She asked me. Rachel.. Avery? I am very interested in knowing her name exactly, but it may seem pervasive of me to stare at her name-tag placed directly on her left breast. It looks like she may be so petit that her nametag was pushing her breast back into her chest, hmm. I need to think.
"My n-name?" He began, stuttering as usual. "My birthname.. or an alias perhaps.. or are we playing a game were I have to think of a n-" he spurted out unrealistically fast.
Stop, calm down. Your birthname, the name you've had your entire life
*Oh.. you shouldn't have asked that* he thought. He's gone by many names. He feels simply geriatric upon pondering upon the fact. His name, when he moved to that town after The Temple Incident was something cool. It was the only name that he felt matched his race exactly. He, and always has been, half Venezuelan and half Cape Verdean.
"Mateo Carter" he uttered.
"Mateo Carter" she repeated happily. "Well alright. Now, you see wasn't that just so simple? I'm glad we can reach that. I am going to ask you a few more questions.. this entire system is regulated to hell." She began laughing in a way he found very cute, even perfect.
He nodded, but he wasn't particularly listening. He's lived in this area for two-hundred years. That temple he tried to dismember from his memories changed his thoughts of life forever. He just wouldn't die, wouldn't age, wouldn't even be able to grow hair. He cried for the first two years almost every day. Every week, on every Friday he completely broke down, and trekked to the nearby inner city in an attempt at suicide. He never died though, he just felt sore, regardless of the height of the building, regardless of how much water he filled his lungs up with.
The questioning finished up, and he showed the nice lady his forged identifications, he needed new ones every twenty years or so, he knew who to go to, new people each time.
His final conclusion as to what happened can be summed up in a short sentence. He, personally, for he had never really gone to anyone else about this, shifted from his normal human mortality to an immortal and hypo-physically-active state of being. The Temple must've been the cause, he always concluded. He went back once, but he couldn't get too close without the black pit of fear erupting in his stomach.
The nice lady guided me to the Barracks. |
|
[WP] An immortal enlists in the army. | We had been fleeing the strafing planes for ten minutes. But now it was quiet. I stood over Gordon’s body, with two bloody holes in his chest. One in his lung, and another in his heart I suspected. It had not been long before I found him, and red liquid was still trickling from the rips and tears in his body.
The salty blood stung my cracked lips as I drank from the growing pool on the ground. And then I was alive. I felt like some slight stress in the sinew of my muscle released. Warmth crept into my breath, and my mind was purified with the flooding emotions. I slurped harder, indifferent to the grainy sand I lapped up along with the blood. Eventually I moved straight to the wound, and my whole body shivering with ecstasy, I drained Gordon. After a short while I stood up, shaking with energy, before finally reaching equilibrium, and enhanced steadiness. Still but not frigid.
I had been friends with him, but through the centuries, I obviously learned not to grow attached, and anyway, it was a war.
I have great distaste for direct hunting, and I have hard time justifying the energy spent when mortals are constantly killing themselves anyway. Constantly cutting, ripping, tearing through flesh, and from these wounds welled fresh blood. I never starved in war, and it was easy enough staying alive. Mortal weapons were so clunky and slow. Bullets can be dodged, mortars predicted. The hardest thing to keep alive was apperances.
| Death? I was once afraid, so very afraid of it, but years of life have brought me to welcome it. You don't think about those around you when you are young and immortal. Everyone I know or have known has faded into the void while I linger on. At first, I tried to make the best of my immortality, but I knew that all those around me would fade, just like those before them. After a few hundred years, I grew tired of life. I was ready to join my brothers and sisters. I enlisted in The Great War. Millions died, but not me. I was shot by a machine gunner in the leg, but my leg healed. In the Second World War, I was killed. My body lay dormant for days before I was picked up, but just as somebody made contact with me, I awoke. I could not die. My blessing became my curse. |
|
[WP] An immortal enlists in the army. | I looked across the battlefield, all smoke and blood and bombshells. In the distance, a man was screaming. Then he was not. Some time passed, and the runners came with ammo and new orders: the next block over, a building full of young men in the wrong uniform. I thought of what was to happen next: more blood, more screaming, the hesitant thrill of the first shot and the frenzied joy of the next hundred. I hated myself then, passionately and deeply. But I got up, took the offered rounds and bounded down the road with a step light enough that my comrades thought me mad, carrying my deepest, most shameful secret with me - that at the end of the day, if you couldn't die, war was actually quite fun.
*edited for missing article | Death? I was once afraid, so very afraid of it, but years of life have brought me to welcome it. You don't think about those around you when you are young and immortal. Everyone I know or have known has faded into the void while I linger on. At first, I tried to make the best of my immortality, but I knew that all those around me would fade, just like those before them. After a few hundred years, I grew tired of life. I was ready to join my brothers and sisters. I enlisted in The Great War. Millions died, but not me. I was shot by a machine gunner in the leg, but my leg healed. In the Second World War, I was killed. My body lay dormant for days before I was picked up, but just as somebody made contact with me, I awoke. I could not die. My blessing became my curse. |
|
[WP] An immortal enlists in the army. | i felt the musket fire pierce my shoulder before i saw the gunman. i stared at him as i dug into my flesh with my fingers, fishing for the ball. 300 years, and this was my first time being shot. I'd been bitten, mauled, clawed, and stabbed, but never shot. i walked toward the man who had turned ashen and was quivering.
"are your going to kill me?" he asked, his voice shaking. he was crouched in a bush, hiding from the enemy: me. i loomed over him, my frame blocking all light from his face.
"not today. but i will if i see you on the field of battle again. Go home. find a wife, if you have not done so. Live long and happy, have many children, and know that you are only alive because i have granted you life." He stare at my silhouette blankly. He got up slowly, thanking me as he backed away. | Death? I was once afraid, so very afraid of it, but years of life have brought me to welcome it. You don't think about those around you when you are young and immortal. Everyone I know or have known has faded into the void while I linger on. At first, I tried to make the best of my immortality, but I knew that all those around me would fade, just like those before them. After a few hundred years, I grew tired of life. I was ready to join my brothers and sisters. I enlisted in The Great War. Millions died, but not me. I was shot by a machine gunner in the leg, but my leg healed. In the Second World War, I was killed. My body lay dormant for days before I was picked up, but just as somebody made contact with me, I awoke. I could not die. My blessing became my curse. |
|
[WP] An immortal enlists in the army. | War has changed so much since my first fight. Heck, the world period has changed. When I first took up arms it was to defend my first, and now long dead family. I was cursed by a Sumerian witch to live like this. Through the years I've been staked in the heart, beheaded, lopped in half, shot, blown up, shot down, and bayoneted. I've fought in armies in every major war it seems. I've lost faith in religion. I've fallen in and out of love. But the armies of the world have been my home for centuries. Whether it be laying siege to Rome, or serving in it legions Ive always fought. Ive seen man go from stabbing each other with sticks to dropping atomic bombs. I've flown bombers, fighters. Driven tanks. Dug trenches. Slogged through the mud and the blood in the Somme. Drug my comrades from the snow as the Russian air force bombed our Finnish ranks. I've surrendered to Yankees. To Brits. To Germans. To Russians. Maybe I've been searching for death. Maybe its to remind myself what pain feels like. Either way as I enlist in the US Army for the 5th time I wonder what my next war will be. Will it be against Jihadis? Against Aliens? Oh god just let me die | Death? I was once afraid, so very afraid of it, but years of life have brought me to welcome it. You don't think about those around you when you are young and immortal. Everyone I know or have known has faded into the void while I linger on. At first, I tried to make the best of my immortality, but I knew that all those around me would fade, just like those before them. After a few hundred years, I grew tired of life. I was ready to join my brothers and sisters. I enlisted in The Great War. Millions died, but not me. I was shot by a machine gunner in the leg, but my leg healed. In the Second World War, I was killed. My body lay dormant for days before I was picked up, but just as somebody made contact with me, I awoke. I could not die. My blessing became my curse. |
|
[WP] An immortal enlists in the army. | My dear citizens,
I regret to inform you -
Our foe cannot die. | Death? I was once afraid, so very afraid of it, but years of life have brought me to welcome it. You don't think about those around you when you are young and immortal. Everyone I know or have known has faded into the void while I linger on. At first, I tried to make the best of my immortality, but I knew that all those around me would fade, just like those before them. After a few hundred years, I grew tired of life. I was ready to join my brothers and sisters. I enlisted in The Great War. Millions died, but not me. I was shot by a machine gunner in the leg, but my leg healed. In the Second World War, I was killed. My body lay dormant for days before I was picked up, but just as somebody made contact with me, I awoke. I could not die. My blessing became my curse. |
|
[WP] An immortal enlists in the army. | We had been fleeing the strafing planes for ten minutes. But now it was quiet. I stood over Gordon’s body, with two bloody holes in his chest. One in his lung, and another in his heart I suspected. It had not been long before I found him, and red liquid was still trickling from the rips and tears in his body.
The salty blood stung my cracked lips as I drank from the growing pool on the ground. And then I was alive. I felt like some slight stress in the sinew of my muscle released. Warmth crept into my breath, and my mind was purified with the flooding emotions. I slurped harder, indifferent to the grainy sand I lapped up along with the blood. Eventually I moved straight to the wound, and my whole body shivering with ecstasy, I drained Gordon. After a short while I stood up, shaking with energy, before finally reaching equilibrium, and enhanced steadiness. Still but not frigid.
I had been friends with him, but through the centuries, I obviously learned not to grow attached, and anyway, it was a war.
I have great distaste for direct hunting, and I have hard time justifying the energy spent when mortals are constantly killing themselves anyway. Constantly cutting, ripping, tearing through flesh, and from these wounds welled fresh blood. I never starved in war, and it was easy enough staying alive. Mortal weapons were so clunky and slow. Bullets can be dodged, mortars predicted. The hardest thing to keep alive was apperances.
| Programs on TV are, in fact, relatively accurate. You wouldn't think it, when you're 19, sick of paying for everything, sick of people still treating me like a child; when people offer immortality only the few would even think about refusing it. Soon after you realise you've lost a month to obscene amounts of drinking you begin to wonder whether or not your life has point. after 400 years you begin to see how not only have your actions hurt people around you but also the rest of their family. You can see how much pain people are in. Continuous, endless, pain, listening to them cry at night and see their struggles in the day. I tried to start up charities, nothing worked. I have no papers for a bank mortgage or loan anymore, or at least none that people will believe are actually mine. A birth certificate from 1594 is not what people want.
I decided to do something helpful for once. I tried The Army; what else could I do? I dread to think how much more wrong I could of been.
- 023 |
|
[WP] An immortal enlists in the army. | I looked across the battlefield, all smoke and blood and bombshells. In the distance, a man was screaming. Then he was not. Some time passed, and the runners came with ammo and new orders: the next block over, a building full of young men in the wrong uniform. I thought of what was to happen next: more blood, more screaming, the hesitant thrill of the first shot and the frenzied joy of the next hundred. I hated myself then, passionately and deeply. But I got up, took the offered rounds and bounded down the road with a step light enough that my comrades thought me mad, carrying my deepest, most shameful secret with me - that at the end of the day, if you couldn't die, war was actually quite fun.
*edited for missing article | Programs on TV are, in fact, relatively accurate. You wouldn't think it, when you're 19, sick of paying for everything, sick of people still treating me like a child; when people offer immortality only the few would even think about refusing it. Soon after you realise you've lost a month to obscene amounts of drinking you begin to wonder whether or not your life has point. after 400 years you begin to see how not only have your actions hurt people around you but also the rest of their family. You can see how much pain people are in. Continuous, endless, pain, listening to them cry at night and see their struggles in the day. I tried to start up charities, nothing worked. I have no papers for a bank mortgage or loan anymore, or at least none that people will believe are actually mine. A birth certificate from 1594 is not what people want.
I decided to do something helpful for once. I tried The Army; what else could I do? I dread to think how much more wrong I could of been.
- 023 |
|
[WP] An immortal enlists in the army. | i felt the musket fire pierce my shoulder before i saw the gunman. i stared at him as i dug into my flesh with my fingers, fishing for the ball. 300 years, and this was my first time being shot. I'd been bitten, mauled, clawed, and stabbed, but never shot. i walked toward the man who had turned ashen and was quivering.
"are your going to kill me?" he asked, his voice shaking. he was crouched in a bush, hiding from the enemy: me. i loomed over him, my frame blocking all light from his face.
"not today. but i will if i see you on the field of battle again. Go home. find a wife, if you have not done so. Live long and happy, have many children, and know that you are only alive because i have granted you life." He stare at my silhouette blankly. He got up slowly, thanking me as he backed away. | Programs on TV are, in fact, relatively accurate. You wouldn't think it, when you're 19, sick of paying for everything, sick of people still treating me like a child; when people offer immortality only the few would even think about refusing it. Soon after you realise you've lost a month to obscene amounts of drinking you begin to wonder whether or not your life has point. after 400 years you begin to see how not only have your actions hurt people around you but also the rest of their family. You can see how much pain people are in. Continuous, endless, pain, listening to them cry at night and see their struggles in the day. I tried to start up charities, nothing worked. I have no papers for a bank mortgage or loan anymore, or at least none that people will believe are actually mine. A birth certificate from 1594 is not what people want.
I decided to do something helpful for once. I tried The Army; what else could I do? I dread to think how much more wrong I could of been.
- 023 |
|
[WP] An immortal enlists in the army. | War has changed so much since my first fight. Heck, the world period has changed. When I first took up arms it was to defend my first, and now long dead family. I was cursed by a Sumerian witch to live like this. Through the years I've been staked in the heart, beheaded, lopped in half, shot, blown up, shot down, and bayoneted. I've fought in armies in every major war it seems. I've lost faith in religion. I've fallen in and out of love. But the armies of the world have been my home for centuries. Whether it be laying siege to Rome, or serving in it legions Ive always fought. Ive seen man go from stabbing each other with sticks to dropping atomic bombs. I've flown bombers, fighters. Driven tanks. Dug trenches. Slogged through the mud and the blood in the Somme. Drug my comrades from the snow as the Russian air force bombed our Finnish ranks. I've surrendered to Yankees. To Brits. To Germans. To Russians. Maybe I've been searching for death. Maybe its to remind myself what pain feels like. Either way as I enlist in the US Army for the 5th time I wonder what my next war will be. Will it be against Jihadis? Against Aliens? Oh god just let me die | Programs on TV are, in fact, relatively accurate. You wouldn't think it, when you're 19, sick of paying for everything, sick of people still treating me like a child; when people offer immortality only the few would even think about refusing it. Soon after you realise you've lost a month to obscene amounts of drinking you begin to wonder whether or not your life has point. after 400 years you begin to see how not only have your actions hurt people around you but also the rest of their family. You can see how much pain people are in. Continuous, endless, pain, listening to them cry at night and see their struggles in the day. I tried to start up charities, nothing worked. I have no papers for a bank mortgage or loan anymore, or at least none that people will believe are actually mine. A birth certificate from 1594 is not what people want.
I decided to do something helpful for once. I tried The Army; what else could I do? I dread to think how much more wrong I could of been.
- 023 |
|
[WP] An immortal enlists in the army. | My dear citizens,
I regret to inform you -
Our foe cannot die. | Programs on TV are, in fact, relatively accurate. You wouldn't think it, when you're 19, sick of paying for everything, sick of people still treating me like a child; when people offer immortality only the few would even think about refusing it. Soon after you realise you've lost a month to obscene amounts of drinking you begin to wonder whether or not your life has point. after 400 years you begin to see how not only have your actions hurt people around you but also the rest of their family. You can see how much pain people are in. Continuous, endless, pain, listening to them cry at night and see their struggles in the day. I tried to start up charities, nothing worked. I have no papers for a bank mortgage or loan anymore, or at least none that people will believe are actually mine. A birth certificate from 1594 is not what people want.
I decided to do something helpful for once. I tried The Army; what else could I do? I dread to think how much more wrong I could of been.
- 023 |
|
[WP] An immortal enlists in the army. | My dear citizens,
I regret to inform you -
Our foe cannot die. | i felt the musket fire pierce my shoulder before i saw the gunman. i stared at him as i dug into my flesh with my fingers, fishing for the ball. 300 years, and this was my first time being shot. I'd been bitten, mauled, clawed, and stabbed, but never shot. i walked toward the man who had turned ashen and was quivering.
"are your going to kill me?" he asked, his voice shaking. he was crouched in a bush, hiding from the enemy: me. i loomed over him, my frame blocking all light from his face.
"not today. but i will if i see you on the field of battle again. Go home. find a wife, if you have not done so. Live long and happy, have many children, and know that you are only alive because i have granted you life." He stare at my silhouette blankly. He got up slowly, thanking me as he backed away. |
|
[WP] An immortal enlists in the army. | My dear citizens,
I regret to inform you -
Our foe cannot die. | War has changed so much since my first fight. Heck, the world period has changed. When I first took up arms it was to defend my first, and now long dead family. I was cursed by a Sumerian witch to live like this. Through the years I've been staked in the heart, beheaded, lopped in half, shot, blown up, shot down, and bayoneted. I've fought in armies in every major war it seems. I've lost faith in religion. I've fallen in and out of love. But the armies of the world have been my home for centuries. Whether it be laying siege to Rome, or serving in it legions Ive always fought. Ive seen man go from stabbing each other with sticks to dropping atomic bombs. I've flown bombers, fighters. Driven tanks. Dug trenches. Slogged through the mud and the blood in the Somme. Drug my comrades from the snow as the Russian air force bombed our Finnish ranks. I've surrendered to Yankees. To Brits. To Germans. To Russians. Maybe I've been searching for death. Maybe its to remind myself what pain feels like. Either way as I enlist in the US Army for the 5th time I wonder what my next war will be. Will it be against Jihadis? Against Aliens? Oh god just let me die |
|
The island is not big. You explore its entirety in one day. And you find a house. Rather big, this house reminds you of those colonial period plantation villa, void of any living presence. In a closed room, you find a great number of sheets. What you read on them freezes the blood in your veins.
What did you read, on those sheets? | [WP]You're stranded on an island. | I took a once around the island. Then again. No docks. No piers. No empty beer bottles in the sand or quirky driftwood signs pointing to a bar. The island appeared to be empty. The waters stretched out blue and beautiful from the pristine white sand beaches. Palm trees reached out over the bluffs and spanish moss dangled from the branches of the Blackoak trees twisting and supporting the blue dome of cloudless heaven over his my head. I looked at the smoke coming from the motor of my boat. I wasn't going anywhere soon, if I didn't find someone with a radio.
I found an inlet and followed it inland. It opened onto a beautiful lagoon with richly colored flora and birds of every color winging through the tree tops. It was nice, but what drew my attention was the glimpse of a roof top through the trees. It was a big house and probably inhabitated. I waded across the shallow part of the lagoon and found a sandy trail leading through the palm trees and tropical fauna. It opened onto a mostly overgrown house--an early plantation villa.
It was big and gaudy and built from bamboo. The design was extremely reminiscent of colonial craftsmanship, but who ever had built it lacked the supplies and access to civilization to make it properly.
I climbed the steps and from the porch in the distance, I could see huts, rotting and slowly being reclaimed by the island. The porch was carpeted in palm fronds. A coral snake slithered from beneath one frond and disappeared over the edge of the porch. I moved nervously toward the door. *Why do people always get scared when they think the home abandoned. It made more sense to be afraid if you know it to be populated.* It was a distracting thought.
"Hello!" I called.
Birds took flight from out of the eaves and a big blue-winged bug buzzed across the room and out the door past me. The door was in shambles and falling down, but what I saw in the living room took my breath away. Stacks of rotting money and old luggage, green with mildew. I went to the money. What jackass wouldn't and gingerly picked up one of the bills. It was old. The date on the bill was 1943. I pocketed it and collected a few fistfuls.
It was obvious the house was abandoned. No one was going to miss this. I pushed through a rotting curtain that collapsed in a cloud of dust and entered the hall. There were many rooms, but it was in the last one that the direness of my situation became readily apparent.
Two skeletons, one in flowering print shirt and a straw hat and khaki shorts and another in a white sundress and gloves clutching a parasol with a broad-brimmed sun hat like the type women used to wear to watch the derby back in my grandfather's time. Two sheets hung from the wall and my knees went week. It was that island. I searched the other rooms and found the rest of them.
A tall skeleton was resting on a handmade mattress with one arm in pieces on the floor. The ligaments gone with nothing to hold it together. He was dressed in white pants and a blue rotting shirt. A hat with a golden anchor on it confirmed my suspicions. I gave the skeletons in the other room casual in interest. The orange long sleeved shirt on the last skeleton filled me with woe. That explained all the huts outside.
I went back to the last bedroom and pulled the money from my pocket, showering the two skeletons with hundred dollar bills. The money was pointless. It hadn't saved them. I read the sheets again and then again. Shaking my head to deny the truth, but there it was, in big red letters.
*Welcome to Gilligan's Island.*
I made a paddle out whatever I could scavenge and began paddling my boat back out to sea. Anything was better than being trapped here like them. I paddled with everything I had and put the island behind me. | Blood stains. On the sheets. Buried. But still, if I check deeper and deeper into the laundry bins.... Growing, ever present blood stains. From orifices suggesting... no.... it can't be....
Where is the sun in the sky? I remember it was July not to long ago... oh, no, no no no no... too near the equator... I need to see the flora and fauna now.
Plant roots! Oh, please tell me they're normal! Let me dig them up and find them... no no no no no they shouldn't grow that way they CAN'T no no no...
Why aren't there any animals? Why are all the fish and reefs just not here? Oh no no no it can't be...
This has to have been one of the islands atomic tests were preformed around. And if I stay here much longer I'll spend the rest of my life here. A very forshortened life. Half a life again as much as the last resident but still too short.
I need to get out of here before I become another anatomical bit of writing on the walls. |
The island is not big. You explore its entirety in one day. And you find a house. Rather big, this house reminds you of those colonial period plantation villa, void of any living presence. In a closed room, you find a great number of sheets. What you read on them freezes the blood in your veins.
What did you read, on those sheets? | [WP]You're stranded on an island. | Boat. The waves are heavy walls that rock the boat. Sea. Sky. Sea. Sky. All of the world is swaying. Sea. Sky. There is water at my feet. Sea. Sky. Sea.
Cold oppressing sea.
Upside down? Can't breath. Cold sea. Old friend. Can't breath. Mary-Anne, I'm sorry.
* * *
All at once I become aware - of my face in the sand, of the water splashing over me, of the the fact that I am still alive. I summon some strength and lift my face off the sand. The storm is still raging and cold rain peppers me.
My lungs ache. How much water did I take in? I lie on my side and let my body cough and splutter my lungs empty. I'm shaking. Exhaustion does not describe the completeness of my defeat. Every move I make is a personal Everest.
I shuffle further up the beach, away from the waves that had been trying to pull me back into the ocean's embrace. I vow never to swim or captain a boat again. The cover of trees is just over me when I can move no more, no matter my will.
Unconsciousness greats me.
* * *
I'm on the boat again. The sky is clear. My dear Mary-Anne is next to me, and yet, she is on the docks waving to me - dreams allow for such oddities. She is still waving. I wave back.
"I'll be back, my dear!"
I'm on my boat. The sky is filled with clouds. They race over head and cackle at me with thunder, each arc of electricity painting a smile across the lumpy passing greyness. Mary-Anne screams. Her hands close around my throat.
"LIAR!"
Her words cut me. I try to beg forgiveness. I cannot move. Cannot speak. Cannot breath.
The trees are above me again, I turn my head and spit the rain that had accumulated out of my mouth. I cannot keep my eyes open.
* * *
It is midday when I awake again. The sun is in the sky and eager to pretend last night had not happened, there was not so much as a smudge in the blue that would give evidence of the storm. I am shaking. My clothes are wet.
I shed them and spread them amongst some sunny trees. They will dry soon enough.
I move like an elderly man. Hunched and shuffling, but I have no other choice. I must survive, and to do this I must move. I drink some gathered rainwater and decide to walk the beach.
The island is small, from what I can see, and heavily vegetated. In my brief explorations I see what may be a path deeper into the island. I make note of it and return to my clothes. They are not dry, but will do.
* * *
It stands at two stories tall and is well maintained. Perhaps a Plantation Villa is what you would call it. My voice fails me as I try to announce my arrival. The wood rattles as I rack my knuckles on the door. God had blessed me to let me wash upon an island with people. I knock again.
There is no reply.
People would understand if I let myself in, would they not? Clearly I am desperate. I press down on the handle and the door swings open. Salt water had not been allowed to eat the hinges or warp the frame. "Greetings" I say, as best my voice would let me "I am ship-wrecked and find myself on your island."
The house does not reply, my voice so low it does not even earn an echo.
People will understand if I look about, would they not?
* * *
I have wept. I feel now that God is taunting me. The house is empty. I have fed myself with preserves from the kitchen and drank from a heavy tank of water. I feel better in body, but my spirit is crushed.
No. Surely I have just missed the homeowner. They may be at the beach. Perhaps they found my boat beyond where I had looked. They will be home soon enough.
I shuffle about the house again. The owner would be home soon!
A door I had ignored, on account of it's being closed, now calls my attention. Perhaps the owner is old and deaf. Perhaps he is in there? I press down the handle and enter.
It is my study. My books. My desk. My sheets.
A painting of an old boat is above the mantle. I read some sheets. They are my fictions. A story about a man and his love, Mary-Anne. I see myself in a mirror. I am old. I am no captain. I have never been. I shuffle not from suffering but from age. I am old. My mind is faulted.
I am alone.
I walk to the beach. The sun is setting. I swim out into the sea, my pockets full of rocks.
Fear not. It won't work. It never has.
| Blood stains. On the sheets. Buried. But still, if I check deeper and deeper into the laundry bins.... Growing, ever present blood stains. From orifices suggesting... no.... it can't be....
Where is the sun in the sky? I remember it was July not to long ago... oh, no, no no no no... too near the equator... I need to see the flora and fauna now.
Plant roots! Oh, please tell me they're normal! Let me dig them up and find them... no no no no no they shouldn't grow that way they CAN'T no no no...
Why aren't there any animals? Why are all the fish and reefs just not here? Oh no no no it can't be...
This has to have been one of the islands atomic tests were preformed around. And if I stay here much longer I'll spend the rest of my life here. A very forshortened life. Half a life again as much as the last resident but still too short.
I need to get out of here before I become another anatomical bit of writing on the walls. |
The island is not big. You explore its entirety in one day. And you find a house. Rather big, this house reminds you of those colonial period plantation villa, void of any living presence. In a closed room, you find a great number of sheets. What you read on them freezes the blood in your veins.
What did you read, on those sheets? | [WP]You're stranded on an island. | I took a once around the island. Then again. No docks. No piers. No empty beer bottles in the sand or quirky driftwood signs pointing to a bar. The island appeared to be empty. The waters stretched out blue and beautiful from the pristine white sand beaches. Palm trees reached out over the bluffs and spanish moss dangled from the branches of the Blackoak trees twisting and supporting the blue dome of cloudless heaven over his my head. I looked at the smoke coming from the motor of my boat. I wasn't going anywhere soon, if I didn't find someone with a radio.
I found an inlet and followed it inland. It opened onto a beautiful lagoon with richly colored flora and birds of every color winging through the tree tops. It was nice, but what drew my attention was the glimpse of a roof top through the trees. It was a big house and probably inhabitated. I waded across the shallow part of the lagoon and found a sandy trail leading through the palm trees and tropical fauna. It opened onto a mostly overgrown house--an early plantation villa.
It was big and gaudy and built from bamboo. The design was extremely reminiscent of colonial craftsmanship, but who ever had built it lacked the supplies and access to civilization to make it properly.
I climbed the steps and from the porch in the distance, I could see huts, rotting and slowly being reclaimed by the island. The porch was carpeted in palm fronds. A coral snake slithered from beneath one frond and disappeared over the edge of the porch. I moved nervously toward the door. *Why do people always get scared when they think the home abandoned. It made more sense to be afraid if you know it to be populated.* It was a distracting thought.
"Hello!" I called.
Birds took flight from out of the eaves and a big blue-winged bug buzzed across the room and out the door past me. The door was in shambles and falling down, but what I saw in the living room took my breath away. Stacks of rotting money and old luggage, green with mildew. I went to the money. What jackass wouldn't and gingerly picked up one of the bills. It was old. The date on the bill was 1943. I pocketed it and collected a few fistfuls.
It was obvious the house was abandoned. No one was going to miss this. I pushed through a rotting curtain that collapsed in a cloud of dust and entered the hall. There were many rooms, but it was in the last one that the direness of my situation became readily apparent.
Two skeletons, one in flowering print shirt and a straw hat and khaki shorts and another in a white sundress and gloves clutching a parasol with a broad-brimmed sun hat like the type women used to wear to watch the derby back in my grandfather's time. Two sheets hung from the wall and my knees went week. It was that island. I searched the other rooms and found the rest of them.
A tall skeleton was resting on a handmade mattress with one arm in pieces on the floor. The ligaments gone with nothing to hold it together. He was dressed in white pants and a blue rotting shirt. A hat with a golden anchor on it confirmed my suspicions. I gave the skeletons in the other room casual in interest. The orange long sleeved shirt on the last skeleton filled me with woe. That explained all the huts outside.
I went back to the last bedroom and pulled the money from my pocket, showering the two skeletons with hundred dollar bills. The money was pointless. It hadn't saved them. I read the sheets again and then again. Shaking my head to deny the truth, but there it was, in big red letters.
*Welcome to Gilligan's Island.*
I made a paddle out whatever I could scavenge and began paddling my boat back out to sea. Anything was better than being trapped here like them. I paddled with everything I had and put the island behind me. | I remember the plane. The aerial tour was the grand prize at that luau, but first sight of the plane put an end to any grandeur. It may as well have been held together with duct tape. The rusty red wings drooped against the for-show braces. The pilot’s breath smelled of a few too many whiskey sours and his jokes about parachutes should have been enough to keep me away. I did turn to walk away, but I could see her face against the back window of the Jeep. I didn’t want to let her down.
One moment, the pilot was pointing out a rocky cove below the craft, the next I was waking up face down in wet sand. There was some falling in there, too, I’m sure. I’ve seen too many movies to not know where I was. Stranded on some island in the south Pacific. I had to find a way to call for help. I had to find if the pilot survived. I had to located food and water. I had to find shelter.
All of the movies on Netflix couldn’t prepare me for what I saw when I mustered the strength to lift my head. There was a house, two stories with a garage that opened out straight into the ocean. The French doors were ajar, letting a crack of electric light join the intense sun. Naturally, my first instinct was that I wasn’t on some remote island after all. But that theory lasted only until I got to my feet. There was nothing but a sliver of sand and ocean to the left of the house. Same thing on the right. The island had no trees or grass, just this transplanted suburban home.
Perhaps it was the crashing waves at my back that pushed me in, but I did not hesitate to enter the house despite its impossibility. I was immediately greeted by a staircase with a hallway running to its right. Further to the right was a den, bare of any furnishings. To the left, a dining room sat with an unset table and no chairs. I ignored the stairs and continued down the hallway. Another carpeted room, devoid of furniture, sat nestled under the stair case. The hardwood floors became laminate as the hall ended to mark the start of the kitchen.
The kitchen had another table, light brown wood, with a matching chair. Resting on the table was a manila folder with “Read Me” in large bold print. I flipped the cover to reveal a small stack of documents. At the top was a letter.
`Dear Paul`
It was for me. My lungs defied my wishes to breathe.
`What are we doing? Who are we trying to fool?`
“Where are we?” the pilot asked, standing behind me.
“I don’t know,” I responded. “Some island. Some house. Could be anywhere?”
“No, I meant where are *we*?”
I distantly echoed, “We?”
“Keep reading.”
The pilot walked over to some cabinets on the wall.
`We used to be different. We used to care. We used to mean`
`something to each other. But now? We’re oceans apart. I’m`
`sorry to tell you like this, but it’s time we move on. It’s time`
`to wake up. I will always care for you, but I can’t bear to try`
`loving you anymore.`
`-Dara`
Dara. That face in the Jeep. My eyes were fixed on the words when the glass of liquor was thrust in front of me. I grabbed it in one hand, keeping the letter clutched firmly in the other.
“Here,” the pilot urged. “This will clear your head.”
Clear my head. That’s what she said about the ticket. She was the one who won them. She was the one who insisted I go instead.
“It will clear your head,” she claimed.
“Any idea where this is?” the pilot asked.
“It was our home.”
“Kind of empty, don’t you think?”
“We never moved in. I mean, it was *going* to be our home. One day.”
“What do you mean by ‘one day?’” he asked between drinks. He seemed completely oblivious to my state.
I ignored the question and started wandering the rooms. At each, I pictured how our things, the pictures, the linens, the books would all fit in. I pictured the life I thought we would have had. I let the crumpled letter fall to the floor. The ever-prying pilot wasted no time in picking it up and reading it aloud.
“What’s this at the botton?”
“Her name,” I called back with as much hate as I could manage.
“No, I meant the PS.”
I snatched the paper from his hands, ripping the top half.
`PS. It’s time to wake up`
“That waking up thing. You got any idea?”
He finished his drink and stared in the glass at the bare bottom. I just shook my head and kept walking. The master bath had no windows, so I had to fumble around for a light switch. As the bulbs roused to life, I was greeted by my own image. The mirror stole my attention. I was crying. But there was something else. The pilot, his salty breath still my nostrils, was missing. I knew he was there, though, as my hair was blowing against the rush of air. I turned to face him, but he was so far away, just a red dot against the clear blue sky.
Back on the mirror, I was trying to tell myself something.
“It’s time to wake up.”
He was right. It was time. I nodded. As I did, his figure vanished. The mirror drew me in with overwhelming force. I tightened my grip on the letter, the one I wrote, my response. My hair whipped furiously as my speed increased. The emptiness in the pane filled with a greenish blue. In the center stood a group of jagged rocks. I was on my way home. |
The island is not big. You explore its entirety in one day. And you find a house. Rather big, this house reminds you of those colonial period plantation villa, void of any living presence. In a closed room, you find a great number of sheets. What you read on them freezes the blood in your veins.
What did you read, on those sheets? | [WP]You're stranded on an island. | I took a once around the island. Then again. No docks. No piers. No empty beer bottles in the sand or quirky driftwood signs pointing to a bar. The island appeared to be empty. The waters stretched out blue and beautiful from the pristine white sand beaches. Palm trees reached out over the bluffs and spanish moss dangled from the branches of the Blackoak trees twisting and supporting the blue dome of cloudless heaven over his my head. I looked at the smoke coming from the motor of my boat. I wasn't going anywhere soon, if I didn't find someone with a radio.
I found an inlet and followed it inland. It opened onto a beautiful lagoon with richly colored flora and birds of every color winging through the tree tops. It was nice, but what drew my attention was the glimpse of a roof top through the trees. It was a big house and probably inhabitated. I waded across the shallow part of the lagoon and found a sandy trail leading through the palm trees and tropical fauna. It opened onto a mostly overgrown house--an early plantation villa.
It was big and gaudy and built from bamboo. The design was extremely reminiscent of colonial craftsmanship, but who ever had built it lacked the supplies and access to civilization to make it properly.
I climbed the steps and from the porch in the distance, I could see huts, rotting and slowly being reclaimed by the island. The porch was carpeted in palm fronds. A coral snake slithered from beneath one frond and disappeared over the edge of the porch. I moved nervously toward the door. *Why do people always get scared when they think the home abandoned. It made more sense to be afraid if you know it to be populated.* It was a distracting thought.
"Hello!" I called.
Birds took flight from out of the eaves and a big blue-winged bug buzzed across the room and out the door past me. The door was in shambles and falling down, but what I saw in the living room took my breath away. Stacks of rotting money and old luggage, green with mildew. I went to the money. What jackass wouldn't and gingerly picked up one of the bills. It was old. The date on the bill was 1943. I pocketed it and collected a few fistfuls.
It was obvious the house was abandoned. No one was going to miss this. I pushed through a rotting curtain that collapsed in a cloud of dust and entered the hall. There were many rooms, but it was in the last one that the direness of my situation became readily apparent.
Two skeletons, one in flowering print shirt and a straw hat and khaki shorts and another in a white sundress and gloves clutching a parasol with a broad-brimmed sun hat like the type women used to wear to watch the derby back in my grandfather's time. Two sheets hung from the wall and my knees went week. It was that island. I searched the other rooms and found the rest of them.
A tall skeleton was resting on a handmade mattress with one arm in pieces on the floor. The ligaments gone with nothing to hold it together. He was dressed in white pants and a blue rotting shirt. A hat with a golden anchor on it confirmed my suspicions. I gave the skeletons in the other room casual in interest. The orange long sleeved shirt on the last skeleton filled me with woe. That explained all the huts outside.
I went back to the last bedroom and pulled the money from my pocket, showering the two skeletons with hundred dollar bills. The money was pointless. It hadn't saved them. I read the sheets again and then again. Shaking my head to deny the truth, but there it was, in big red letters.
*Welcome to Gilligan's Island.*
I made a paddle out whatever I could scavenge and began paddling my boat back out to sea. Anything was better than being trapped here like them. I paddled with everything I had and put the island behind me. | I sat on the island and cried. "It's not fair." I shouted.
"Suck it up." My brother called. "I didn't make the rules."
"Yes you did. It's not fair." I shouted, kicking my heels.
"It's totally fair. You can't get all the way over here, so I get to watch what I want." He told me smugly.
"The floor isn't really lava," I said, laying on my stomach in an attempt to reach the floor.
"It'll burn your feet." He said. I pulled my feet back up quickly. He was probably just teasing me, but I didn't know what lava was and didn't want to get my feet burnt.
"I'm going to tell mom?" I threatened.
"How. You're trapped on the kitchen island and the floor is lava." He crowed, laughing much to my chagrin. I looked around for some way out of my predicament. I wasn't going to watch one more episode of Dragon Ball Z. I looked at the lip on the door facing. I could make it. The living room floor was covered with a rug. It would surely protect my feet. Hell, my older brother just walked acrossed it barefoot.
I climbed to my feet, brushing bread crumbs from the side of my leg and readied myself to jump. All I needed to do was catch the lip and swing myself over onto the rug. It was bound to work. I looked at the kitchen floor in fear and sucked it up. It was now or never. I readied my hands, bent my knees and leapt. My finger tips caught the lip on the molding. *I did it!* I shouted in my mind right before my feet swung up to head height and my fingers let go. *Betrayed!* I thought as I fell into the lava.
I hit the floor with a powdery sounding--WHOOF!--and all the air was blasted from my lungs. *I'm not burning.* My brother, sympathetic sibling that he was, looked down on me and laughed. "Dumb ass." |
http://imgur.com/UOGDfUU | [WP] This is an actual study question for an evolution course I am in. I want to see who can think of the most creative response. | Pure eel sperm, ingested, turns the consumer invisible for a brief period of time. The exact amount of time is dependent on the weight of the consumer and the ingested quantity. Because of this, eel sperm is popular in a number of illegal activities, such as robberies, murders, rapes.
Eel sperm is also used in military tactics.
Governments worldwide forbade the home growing of eels. In the last 50 years a heavy campaign of killing all wild eels led to a near extinction of the eel population. The majority of the live exemplars today are government grown.
Heavy eel sperm traffic takes place in the developing countries, where supplies are coming from South America and Saudi Arabia. Several military and paramilitary organisations' sole purpose of existence is to stop this atrocity.
Rubbed on skin, eel sperm will cure fungus, skin cancer, zits, bone cancer.
Despite urban legends, eel sperm will have no effect on brain cancer, mental disease and IQ.
Eel sperm has the following characteristics: is phosphorescent, tastes like strawberries, smells like almonds, when fresh it has a fluffy and airy texture.
Eel sperm is recommended as a supplement to pregnant women.
------
-028 | Sorry for the extra step, but I couldn't link directly to the image. The prompt in question is the imgur URL above. I'm giggling to myself in the library thinking of creative responses to this. How about it /u/poem_for_your_sprog? |
[WP] What is the ultimate act of willpower? | I’ve loved this girl for years. We didn’t work out then, but here we are again. She’s easily the most gorgeous woman I have ever laid eyes on. We’ve been talking for hours, catching up about life. So much has changed, but so much hasn’t. The one constant is that I’m crazy about her and all I can think about is taking her to bed. Her hand on my thigh tells me the feeling is mutual.
“What are we doing here?” I ask.
She bites her lip through her smile and laughs. “I have no idea,” she replies. “Having fun, I guess?”
“Is that what your husband would call this?”
“Do you know where he is right now?” She asks me, wedging her knee in between my legs. I look down in surprise and see her short, black bandage dress riding up her thighs.
“Nope,” I reply.
“You and me both,” she states, annoyed. “But I’m not concerned with him, and you shouldn’t be either.”
I haven’t had sex in two months and I’m drunk. This is not a good equation. She leans further into me and whispers in my ear, “Settle up. Let’s go.”
She gets up and pulls down her dress, revealing the amazing figure I always remember her having; a mental image that’s kept me company on many a lonely night.
I pay the bar tab and we leave. When I go to open the car door for her she steps in, making sure I’m aware she’s wearing a pair of black lace underwear that looks familiar to me. “Your favorite,” she giggles.
In frustration I close the door a little too hard. The smile on her face looking up at me through the window lets me know she knows I’m struggling. I’m totally losing this battle. I remind myself that having an affair with this woman would weight way too heavy on me and it releases the tension a bit.
“You’re awful,” I tell her as I get in.
“I can be worse,” she replies.
Against my better judgment I drive to my hotel instead of dropping her off at home. She comes up for a drink, sitting on the king size bed recently turned down by the hotel staff. She takes the small chocolate on my pillow, unwraps it, and takes a bite. She motions me over, tells me to close my eyes, which I do, and feeds me the rest. Before I get a chance to open them I feel her hand rubbing up and down on my thigh.
“Stay here. I’ll be right back,” she commands me.
I know what she’s going to come back dressed in. The thought alone is making every part of my anatomy twitch. The handle of the bathroom door turns. I run.
I hop into the driver’s seat of my rental car. All I can think about is her in that little set of black lingerie I bought her so long ago and all the things she knows how to do to me while wearing it.
Looking for a way out of my own mind to keep form going back upstairs, I pull out my phone. I unlock my screen and there it is, a picture of my wife.
“Two months,” I tell myself, pulling the car out of the hotel garage to make the next flight out. | There was a time when love would have sufficed.
But that time is gone now.
There was a time when a few simple words were all it would have taken. But in the face of this, the most powerful of foes, we lie helpless, for all our grandstanding.
"I don't want you...to die."
A cruel statement, the cruelest, given the circumstances. But what else was there to say?
"It's fine...this is my life...don't mourn me for too long, okay?"
Tears...and tears, and tears. Such useless things. Streams of salty water, clouding my eyes as their cause clouded my thoughts. In that moment, I hated them more than anything. What were they? A facade of sadness, a deception, a fake. How dare anyone believe that pain could be equaled, or even rivaled, by tears? How dare I believe it?
"Listen...I'm going to go now..."
"No! Hang on, just...I'll think of something! Don't close your eyes."
Who was I?
Last moments, the last moments ever, and all I could do was cry.
"Like I said...don't mourn me. That...would be...really annoying."
That.
That was it. Nobody deserved that much sadness. I was done, I had nothing to live for. Then the least I could do...
I looked down at my entire life, looked down and smiled. It wasn't nearly as hard as I'd thought it would be. A thousand smiles, a thousand ecstatic grins. I thought of them, thought of *her*, the one who made them all real. And for that...for *everything*...I smiled.
She opened her half-shut eyes weakly and looked back at me, a pained grin on her face.
"You're smiling," she said, and her eyes that had been dulled by pain lit up for the briefest of moments. "Thank you."
Those few words almost broke me, but I kept smiling down at her, pulling her gently toward me.
"Yeah, I'm smiling. How could I not?"
She laughed, then, a laugh I'd never heard from her. A laugh I couldn't have heard before, the type of laugh that wants for nothing. The laugh of absolute freedom.
And if that was the case, then...
"You know I love you," I said, smiling wider, desperately, as the tears flowed faster.
"Yeah," she said, her eyes twinkling faintly, "you better."
She looked so peaceful, so serene, I could almost believe everything would be fine. In a voice so soft, I might have imagined it, she told me, without a trace of fear or regret: "Yeah. Just keep smiling."
And then she sighed, and the light faded from her eyes.
...
Had I done the right thing? There was so much we'd left unsaid, things I should have done for her, apologies I never made. There would never be time now, and all I could do was wonder, and so I did.
But then I would remember her smile, the way her mouth crinkled at the corners. The way her eyes shone, sparkling like emeralds. The way her laugh echoed. I would remember her voice, and I would imagine her chides as I lay there, contemplating giving up.
And when that wasn't enough, when the gun was loaded and the trigger was half-pressed, when I was sure it was over and there was nothing left for me, I would remember her last words.
And so I lived. With nothing to live for, with everything to strive for. I didn't want to go on, but I couldn't bear to end it. Because some days, if I looked hard enough at the bay, I saw her eyes in the water. Those days, I allowed myself to think that she would hate for me to end my life. Those days, I looked forward and back, and in both directions, I saw only her. Those days, I smiled.
And just kept smiling. |
|
Have some fun with it.
Research: /r/steampunk /r/Cyberpunk | [WP] A scientist in a cyberpunk universe makes his way to a steampunk universe. He is completely unprepared. | The first thing he noticed, after he finished sneezing for five minutes, was the smell. Burning, everything was *burning* his brain told him. But his eyes and his brain failed to agree. Rarely a good feeling.
When they'd loaded Javon Dillworth into that damned capsule they told him they were sending him back in time, but this couldn't be right. Nothing about this was right. The *smell.* People breathed in this?
The ropes that fell around him were almost a relief. The mask that someone put over his face felt even better. All of a sudden he was going up. Until he felt wood collide with his chest and he wasn't going up anymore.
"Ugh." Said Javon. "Hi."
"He a pirate?"
"Maybe, but he don't have a crew if he is. Take a pair of brass balls to pull a solo job like that."
Javon coughed, "I'm not a pirate! If I can get access to your net-"
A kick in the ribs is quite painful when the person doing the kicking means it. Javon's mind was cloudy and the physical abuse wasn't doing much to help. And the sky...the sky was the wrong color. Oh shit.
This lab tech was not where he was supposed to be. | Tec, Reebee, and Gizmo waited patiently outside the Cybernetic Vortex as their departed comrade ventures into the terrifying unknown.
After several days of no contact, they began to lose hope of the project and some of the team members even suggested closing the vortex.
"We don't know what could come out, it's better to play it safe." Tec insisted.
"Auto is our friend, we can't just abandon him" Reebee pleaded.
Suddenly the argument was interrupted as a fatigue Auto stumbled out of the vortex.
His friends rushed to helped him as Reebee quickly shot Tec a dirty glance. Tec pretending to ignore her went to deactivate the Cybernetic Vortex.
After treating Auto and letting him rest, the team finally had the courage to ask what he saw.
"It's was........weird.......entirely unexpected" He stuttered out.
"What was in there? Was it a universe where computers ruled everything and everyone?" Gizmo asked.
"No, it wasn't anything like our world......at all."
"Well what were the people like, were there people, have you asked any of them how to stop the computers?"
Auto pinched his forehead from the stress of the questions before answering again.
"These people...... these people were wearing cogwheels and springs........ on their grandparents' clothing."
"That's ridicules, how would wearing clock parts help them in any way" Tec asked as he glued another neon light to his trench coat.
"I think it was a fashion accessory of some sort, anyway everyone had these fake British accents. I don't know why everyone was trying to pretend to be British, but I could not make it a miles length without someone shoving a crumpet or cup of tea into my hand."
"What are crumpets?" Reebee asked.
"They are like our slave ration biscuits except more dry and crumbly and they also had cogwheels on them."
"Just give us the whole story please."
"Alright, I exited the Vortex into our parallel city of Electrico, expect they called it New London and the sky was clear blue and full of blimps instead of the daily tracker robots. The city itself was quite fancy and 1920-ish with massive brass wheels turning everywhere even though they serve no available or useful function and were rather quite dangerous. I suppose however I pick that over the decaying rubbish of Electrico.
My tour guide was a gal name Leticia, who insisted on wearing a massive torn up Victorian ball gown, even though it was like 98 degrees outside. She did not like my name for some reason and decided to call me Sebastien; which was strange because half the guys there were named Sebastien.
She did not seem to grasp the concept of "computer" but did seem to know what a machine was. Leticia eventually taught me how to use many of the old fashion machinery even though it was boring and difficult as eff because **Everything** had to run on clockwork.
After gaining her trust, she lead me to the secret rebellion organization that plotted to over throw the corrupt monarchy."
"Monarchy, you got to be pulling my leg here, who still follows a monarchy" Tec sneered as he bowed to the poster of Master Computer.
"Anyway, after overthrowing the upper-class and installing a new king and queen that they insisted won't go corrupt again, I finally figured out the solution to our own problem."
"What could that be" Reebee asked hopefully.
"Have we ever tried pulling out the plug of the Master Computer." Auto asked.
"By the Volt Lord, that's brilliant" Gizmo exclaimed.
All the members began plotting their new plan except Tec, who silently loft back in the distance, messaging the Master Computer because he was secretly a robot the entire time. |
[WP] Two time travelers from the future arrive in the present day. One claims that the future is a utopian paradise, the other claims that it's a hellish dystopia. Both of them are lying. | "You're both lying-"
"No we're not."
"You just addressed yourselves as collective 'we' when in fact it's not a collective 'we' when both of things you're saying contradicts the other."
"Well, yes to someone like you but in our time both can exist."
"How?"
"Well if you look at time in a non-subjective, non-linear -"
"If you quote Doctor Who again, I'm to bitch slap the both of you."
"But he has a point, The Doctor. . . "
"No, time isn't wibbley-wobbley. DAMN IT! You have me doing it now. Both realities can't possibly exist."
"How would you know? How do you know that your reality isn't just one side of the coin?"
I'm going to have an aneurysm dealing with these two. These men appeared out of the blue at the summit of my perfect plateau overlooking the city. One wore a comically patchwork suit, while the other wore a rather nice black italian tux. Upon seeing my shock, they deduced the time of day, day, month, year, and geographical location. I thought it would be more impressive than simply looking at their watches.
The black tux spoke of utopian paradise, peace, FTL, and many other fantastic things that I really had a hard time grasping. The comical one spoke of death, plagues, the end of the world, no mention of the second-coming, and the looming black hole that would soon be seen in the sol system. The Political situation of the world was either anarchy or unified world government. But it seemed that through talking to them I understood something perfectly clear. . . .
Both realities existed. It wasn't so much as both lying but both telling the truth. What was a perfect world to one was hell for another. What one could perceive as anarchy was in fact world peace. In a way, it made sense. That nothing in this world is truly perfect or truly hell but a cross between the two. In having "anarchy" but world peace, would mean that the governments were united and that the only unrest came from the people. So no wars but there were riots. Technology meant people could be cured of everything, the problem is . . . super viruses and bacterial adaptation meant every month or so a new pathogen would decimate a group of people or at least cause 10 million people to be in the hospital for a month. They were very little deaths but constant suffering.
"So is there anything I should know about the future that might help me today?"
"Nope, have a nice day. We're just here on Holiday, enjoy your evening!"
That even if things were perfect or if things were hell. I should be happy for this world I'm in. There's hope in suffering and there's pain in life. I probably won't feel my legs tomorrow. I may not be able to walk for a few days but to see this view was worth it. I know, not quite the ending you were hoping for. Life rarely has perfect endin- | "So which is it?!" She demanded to know. "I need to know. Please."
The two time travelers looked at each other.
"It's... *okay*" |
|
[WP] Two time travelers from the future arrive in the present day. One claims that the future is a utopian paradise, the other claims that it's a hellish dystopia. Both of them are lying. | The two men stood before Marcus in fine Italian suits, freshly pressed. Marcus couldn't help but think they're trying to impress someone, God knows why they chose him. The device they used to get here would impress him enough, who'd have thought "time travel" would be included as a cell phone feature in the future? Are there unlimited time travel minutes? Are they paying roaming charges for going backwa-
"Keep focus, Marcus." It was the one in the pin-stripes, claiming all sorts of bad things. He's right though, this is no time to lose focus. They may run out of minutes.
"Alright," Marcus said, "care to explain this whole ocean thing to me again?"
The man in charcoal went first, as usual. "Well, after efforts to reduce the effects of global warming were taken seriously, the polar caps stopped melting. The technology boon this provided made it possible to have floating colonies across the ocean, since much of the research went into developing plants capable of living off of krill, plankton, and salt water. Its much different than how people in your time envisioned it, the colonies don't live in giant metal capsules. Think of them as...one giant plant dozens of miles in diameter...floating. The plant is large enough to support a small ecosystem without sinking. This is the main reason wars came to an end, land claims became silly when you could just...*grow* a nation with pretty much all the resources you need. Several of these nations became specialists to support their economies, with trade between the nations being about equal."
Without a second delay, pinstripes came in to be a mood kill. "Global warming was dealt with before it became too serious an issue. Unfortunately, by too serious an issue I mean before everything became completely flooded. New York City? Gone. Italy? I heard its boot shaped in your time, back home it looks like someone took a shotgun to it. Florida isn't even a *thing* anymore, I came here expecting a reef. Well, with so little land mass left research was the *last* thing on our mind. Survival became an issue. Everyone figured their neighbors had a pretty sweet thing going on, and it started several wars...that led to more wars...in fact, there are wars still goin' on right now."
Marcus didn't seem to understand. Both these men came from the same dimension, same world, same time, but it looks like they're both talking out of their ass when you look at both sides. Why the hell is Charcoal so proper anyway? Pinstripes looks like you could sit and have a...
"Hey charcoal..." His gaze fixed upon Marcus for the first time. "...so those floating nation things, how does that work again?"
Charcoal looked a bit tired, having to explain it for the third time. "We plant a seed, and the seed develops into a mature adult in ten years time. Its a plant, so it lives off of sunlight and water, and-"
"Yes, its a plant, but where does it get its *mass* from? These things are huge, right?"
"Plants gain most of their mass from the air, but plankton and krill replaces nutrients it would obtain from the soil."
"...how does the supply of these stay up? I mean, like...those islands must eat a ton of that stuff, right?"
Charcoal's demeanor suddenly shifted. A furrow formed on his brow, the crease of his lips narrowed. His face turned slightly towards Pinstripes. "We pay them to keep marine populations in check."
Marcus began to get the idea. "And uh...I'm guessing everything you've mentioned...free education, unlimited food, endless space just...applies to your islands, huh?"
"Yes." Charcoal looks surprisingly okay with all that.
"So, Pinstripes, you guys on land kinda got the shaft then?"
"It ain't that bad. I mean, eventually one of those things is gonna crash into a coast, right? We'll just take it over then, not like these pansies know how to fight."
Marcus just sat. He didn't care to know anything more. His writer has given up and has naught enough time to make a proper ending, what with limited time before beer-getting. He just simply stood up and wished his visitors farewell, with one piece of advise: "Next time you pop outta nowhere on some dude just eating his Wheaties, and that guy asks about the future, just tell him nothin much has changed." | and what if at the end..... they go to the future with the protagonist and....... nothing is there, a wasteland. |
|
[WP] A child born and raised on a space station experiences gravity for the first time. | Ten year old Miranda pushed off the platform following her father down the work crew tunnels that facilitated the maintenance of refueling station her family called home. As she deftly glided amongst the arteries of the station Miranda felt a pang of sadness as she realized this would be one of the last times she would be able to work in null-g with her father – the station was being stripped for war. The insurgent colonists from Eros had a small fleet of armed mining ships headed towards the station and the United Colonies had ordered the refueling station evacuated. The adults had spoken in hushed conversations and Miranda had felt a palatable tension between her parents ever since the long range beam had announced the evac orders.
“Hand me the spanner Miranda.” Her fathers voiced shook Miranda out of her head. The annoyed tone her father had used made Miranda realize that wasn’t the first time he had ask for the spanner. They had arrived at the next control box and her father was waiting for her. Miranda reached into the tool-bag that gently hovered behind her in the absence of gravity like an adept servant waiting to be beckoned. She handed her father the spanner.
Without looking up from his work or turning off the electrical hiss of the spanner, he spoke in a tone that Miranda knew meant more than his words would portray. “You need to pay attention, keep out of your head. No one is going to look out for you on the travel ship. You’ll need to make sure your mother and brother keep up with their exercises too. The first few weeks in the gravity well will be hard. Your body won’t be used to it. You will need to be in the exercise room daily. You need to be the strong one now.”
He pried the box loose and started to pull out components.
He sighed, still not turning from the work. The work was always first, Miranda knew her father loved her more than anything, but out here, the work always came first. A dissected communications brownout cable floated past her hand. Miranda thought she saw a droplet of water drift from the direction of her father. He turned off the spanner.
“I am not going with you Miranda. A skeleton crew is remaining on the station to slow down the insurgents from Eros. I am on that crew Miranda. You’ll need to make sure the family stays together for the trip to Earth. You need to be strong for them. Promise me Miranda.”
Miranda nodded as her own eyes filled with tears and mumbled a “Yes sir. I promise.”
The spanner came back on.
**
The travel ship was huge; bigger than anything that Miranda had ever see out in the dark. The entire middle section of the ship spun slowly. Miranda had thought as soon as she left the station she would feel the gravity, but they were still in null-g. Miranda and her family were in the transition chamber along with the six other families that represented the refueling station. The room was strange; carpet lined one of the walls.
A man in a United Colonies uniform raised a hand to get their attention; he drifted at the front of the room, one foot hooked on a hand hold. He was sideways to everyone else in the room, feet orientated towards the carpeted wall.
He spoke in clipped military inflections. “Hello everyone – I am Lieutenant Marks, and welcome to the UCS Endeavor. The UC praises you for the devotion to the Colonies and your sacrifice. This is what we call a transition room before entering the gravity well. I am now going to turn on gravity to three-quarters of what the well represents. Please allow yourself a few minutes to orient yourselves, and then meet me at the end of the tunnel.” He pushed himself down the tunnel and that was it.
A red light flashed and a short horn blared. A computer voice came from some speakers Miranda hadn’t noticed. “Prepare for gravity, three… two… one.”
Miranda took and a deep breath and suddenly the room started to turn, she slid against the wall, and then the carpeted floor. It felt as if a sand bag had been suddenly tied to her feet. The gravity weight was much more than the exercise room on the station simulated. Her legs screamed at her to collapse, her stomach twisted in a way she had never felt before. She was nauseated, even her teeth felt heavy. She heard others struggle in their own fight with gravity. Miranda took a step forward and another and was suddenly walking down the hall with the rest of the families. She looked back at the airlock door, hoping maybe, her father would come through it and hurry to meet up with her. She almost wanted to run back to the door, and then she looked down at her brother, struggling but with a smile on his face. She smiled back at him. She would be strong, for father. Tears streaked down her face, and fell to the floor.
| Ray has reached the top of the game: he has won the galactic Olympic medals for platform jumping, flying, and most of the bubble swimming competitions. A true natural sportsman some say, but others feel different.
“I don’t know if that guy would do anything real where I come from!”
The general sentiment of old schoolers, is that young Ray would never be able to compete in what they consider the true sports: those that are practiced on planet Earth. The galactic sports were created soon after humanity settled in space. Although the first international space station was more of a scientific endeavor, the next ones had a commercial and entertainment focus. Because of the lack of gravity, the new sports were totally different, although some were adapted.
The newer generations would grow playing different sports than those played by the terrestrial kids. And since then, people have always wondered, whose sportsmen and women are best: those from the space, or those from earth.
Ray knew this. And he was set to prove that he could be the best, and conquer Earth. His goal, ever since he began doing sports, has been to compete there. That is why he has trained the right muscles so that he can walk, and even run when stepping on the planet.
“I’ve always trained as if the galactic competitions took place in Earth, now I want to see the results, at the terrestrial Olympics.”
The Olympics in planet Earth will happen in two years. Ray, among other sportsmen and women born in the space station, are to be the first Galacticans to compete in a sports event in planet Earth. He will participate in the following categories: long jump, pool swimming, and pool diving.
|
|
[WP] A child born and raised on a space station experiences gravity for the first time. | Every year growing up, our capsule grew a little bit smaller. Perhaps we were just growing larger. In an effort to save humanity from being destroyed after the great Los Angeles volcano blackened the sky, we were sent out in teams of two; male and female. Every so often, a video would play for us showing a loving couple holding hands and setting up farms. There was enough storage and equipment on board to last us for 20 years. It was my 15th birthday and our 11th year drifting off into space.
Stacy was my partner and I was reaching a time in my life where she was making me feel things that I had not felt before. I was also aware that she felt the same. Sometimes we would hold hands like the couple in the videos and just float for hours. Today was different though, instead of the usual videos, the couple kissed. They had never done that before. I looked at Stacy and she blushed. We had never tried it before, but the video setup that we had been watching most of our lives drew us in. I plowed my face into hers and she winced as her teeth cut her lip from the force of us colliding. A drop of blood hovered between us. It might have been a while before we decided to try that again.
I stared at the blood in the air for a few seconds when the engines kicked on reverberating throughout our ship. It was as if the blood stayed still while the wall twisted and pulled into it, splattering everywhere and pulling us along. For hours, the ship shook and we got to the point that no matter how hard we pushed, we could not spring from the wall. It was beyond anything we had ever felt before. I looked at Stacy’s normally round face and saw her skin sag. Her helpless expression met mine. I could tell from the pull on my arm that my face now held a similar deformity.
Everything in the ship that wasn’t tied down piled on top of us and crushing us further. It grew harder and harder to breathe. Finally, a large piece of farming equipment came flying at us. Stacy was entirely crushed along with my legs. The force pinning me to the wall diverted for a split second as the equipment also pierced the hull of the ship. I looked outside for the first time in my life seeing fire as my body boiled and the star consumed the rest of us.
| Ray has reached the top of the game: he has won the galactic Olympic medals for platform jumping, flying, and most of the bubble swimming competitions. A true natural sportsman some say, but others feel different.
“I don’t know if that guy would do anything real where I come from!”
The general sentiment of old schoolers, is that young Ray would never be able to compete in what they consider the true sports: those that are practiced on planet Earth. The galactic sports were created soon after humanity settled in space. Although the first international space station was more of a scientific endeavor, the next ones had a commercial and entertainment focus. Because of the lack of gravity, the new sports were totally different, although some were adapted.
The newer generations would grow playing different sports than those played by the terrestrial kids. And since then, people have always wondered, whose sportsmen and women are best: those from the space, or those from earth.
Ray knew this. And he was set to prove that he could be the best, and conquer Earth. His goal, ever since he began doing sports, has been to compete there. That is why he has trained the right muscles so that he can walk, and even run when stepping on the planet.
“I’ve always trained as if the galactic competitions took place in Earth, now I want to see the results, at the terrestrial Olympics.”
The Olympics in planet Earth will happen in two years. Ray, among other sportsmen and women born in the space station, are to be the first Galacticans to compete in a sports event in planet Earth. He will participate in the following categories: long jump, pool swimming, and pool diving.
|
|
[wp] You are in a world where Pokemon live in cities and towns and catch humans with Peoplemon balls. | Albinos are shinies. | Wouldn't it be called people balls? Or would that be too confusing? |
|
[wp] You are in a world where Pokemon live in cities and towns and catch humans with Peoplemon balls. | The light is blinding.
Always is.
Could be two-thirty in the morning, thrust from darkness into darkness, and still, somehow, the most distant stars in the night sky would find some way to twinkle just the right way, frying my optic nerves and sending knives of pain racing back into my brain as if getting there faster would make a difference.
I squeeze my eyes shut and howl, palms to the air. A gasp of wonder, unintelligible whispers. Insects somewhere in the near distance. This is how it begins. With the voices. Those damn repetitious voices.
You’d figure a civilization that somehow managed to not only conquer the most technologically advanced system in the history of the world would have managed to evolve their vocabulary past a single idea. No. No. You’d figure that civilization would have NECESSITATED a vocabulary more advanced than this. An entire system of speaking – happiness, sadness, creativity, analysis, problem-solving, so on and so forth – based on repetition. I knew a man once, a linguist (or so he said), that lived on the other side of the forest tract I grew up in who could speak just about any human language, could learn an entire new way of speaking in less than a month if he put his mind to it. Mom called him a savant, said he had something wrong upstairs and that’s why he was never captured. But the guy, Stephen O’Reilly, was confounded by the speech of the Masters. He had charts in his house, entire walls with notes on phrasing and pictures of various different emotions that Masters displayed, but he never could figure it out. He began repeating his own name in different inflections one day. Sometimes he’d try to talk to people, but most everyone assumed his brilliance had finally got the best of him, and they’d hurry away. One day he left for the City, whispering “Stephen” over and over again to himself: “Stephen! Stephen? Steve-Steve! Steeeeeeve!” Gesturing with his arms and nodding, he disappeared into the shrubbery and was never seen again.
“PidgeOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!!”
I know that turn of phrase, though. The extended “o” at the end of the ear-piercing scream. I’m about to be forced into combat…again. My knees hurt from the last fight. Still. Had to wage unholy war against some middle-aged woman in a sandbox. Surprising how well she moved, despite the heels she wore. Bitch was screaming, charging at me, barely before I got my vision back. I covered my head, waiting for the inevitable blow to the face, but I got kicked in the shins, instead. I don’t remember much of what she looked like. Some fights I get better views than others, especially with the more civilized folk. Every so often, a handshake is exchanged along with verbal pleasantries before the atrocities begin. I’ve been fortunate enough, on more than one occasion, to have entire conversations with combatants during the course of battle. This woman, though, clad in likely the same purple dress she was wearing the moment she was captured, golden earrings glistening in the sun, came flying at me like a banshee. Barely human anymore. Extended captivity via the Masters does that in some cases. Turns us into animals. That’s what this woman had become. Her soul had long ago evaporated and left the rabid casing of a maniac. Pretty sure her kick fractured my shin. I can barely stand right now. God knows I fractured her face with my fist. Fuckin’ asshole never even took me to a hospital for some medical assistance after that fight.
God, it hurts to stand. This one should be over quickly.
“Pidge. Ee. OOO!!!!!” The white blur of the world comes into focus and I look up to see the huge narrowed eyes staring back at me. One wing unfurled, feathers pointing to something – likely someONE – behind me. Next to him (I think they have genders) is one of those yellow-mouse-gerbil-lightning things, head cocked to the side in curiosity. It looks at the bird and nods, pats it on the back.
“Pika-Pi?”
“Pidgeot!”
The furry one smiles, throws its arms in the air. “Pi-KA!”
I snort. “Pika-Pi?” I say, hands in my pockets. “Pika-Pika-Pi?”
They look at each other for a moment, confused, and laugh. Apparently they aren’t fluent in smart-assery. The yellow one points at me and rubs its stomach. “Pika-Pikachu?”
“Yes,” I say, throwing my hands in the air. “Yes, I’m fucking hungry.” I shift to my right, keeping pressure off my left leg. Blood is crusted on my jeans. Dammit…
The mouse-gerbil glares, the novelty of my attempt at conversation having quickly dissipated, and the bird pokes my stomach with a feather before yelling again. I don’t know exactly what it says and I don’t have to. I’ve done this enough to know the rules: fight and eat. Go back inside. Rest. Wake up. Fight and eat. This will be, what, my thirty-fourth fight? I’d keep tallies on the walls of my prison cell if it had walls. My prison doesn’t have walls, though. Nor does it have a toilet. Nor a ceiling. It has a white void, the suspended animation. It is the abyss. My hell.
I turn to face my enemy across a field of grass, gingerly hopping. And stare into the eyes of a child. Seven years old at the most. Baby blue eyes, like the sky, a tousled mess of sandy blond hair. He’s already shaking, whimpering. Too scared to cry. Not too scared to piss himself. Trickles down his leg like a stream, soaking into the chocolate earth. I don’t want to do this. Not anymore. I’ll fight women, I’ll fight men. Doctors, professors, priests. Hell, even fought a boxer once. I put up a decent fight, too. Name was TJ. Good guy.
But not this.
I turn around and look into the eyes of my Master, searching for some semblance of a soul, but stare only into darkness made manifest. It points again. “Pidgeot,” it calmly states. “Pidge. Ee. Ot.” Then it reaches behind its back and tosses a couple of the bland, stale pastries at my feet. My prize: a relatively full – yet unsatisfied – stomach, should I be victorious in this battle of epic proportions. I turn to face the kid again, and tear up as I wade through the grass towards the shaking recipient of the violence I have come to call my life. Selling my soul for bread.
All this for poffins.
All it feeds me is poffins…
| Wouldn't it be called people balls? Or would that be too confusing? |
|
[WP] "Do you know that you can save 15% by switching to Geico?" "Yes, everyone knows that." "Well, did you know ..." (make up your own). | "Well did you know you can ask reddit to come up with ideas for your advertising campaign?" | “Excuse me sir” the salesman shouted to a passerby. The passerby stopped in his tracks and slowly turned to face the one talking to him.
“Did you know you could save 15% on your car insurance by switching to geico?” The salesman asked, in response the passerby opened his mouth slightly. A dribble of sickly green vomit dribbled out of the open hole, soon escalating to a torrent. As the man vomited the salesman slowly backed away, and no one saved any money on their car insurance.
|
|
The protagonist dies and says "What the fuck? ... " | [WP] The disappointment at finding out what actually happens after death | Frank no longer felt the pain from his cancer. He finally felt normal. When he opened his eyes, he was there in the hospital room with his family. Did the surgery go well? He thought.
Something was off. He wasn't in a bed. He was standing. He looked to the bed and saw himself. He knew at that moment he was dead.
He tried to speak to his family, to comfort them. Nothing he said could be heard. Then he saw a black robed pale man standing next to his now lifeless body.
"Hello Frank. I am Death." He said in an oddly calming voice.
"Is this a dream? I'm an atheist! I don't want to go to hell!"
"Don't worry Frank. You aren't going to hell."
Frank got excited "I'm going to heaven?! I'm forgiven for forsaking God?"
"Not really."
"Then what's going to happen?" questioned Frank.
Death sighed dejectedly "Look. With Atheism on the rise, God's stocks plummeted"
"God's... stock?"
"Yes, faith is sort of a currency for deities. He ended up having to sell. There was buyer, but unfortunately being reliant on God's religion by being the opposites means he went out of business."
Frank's family was lead out of the room by some nurses. Probably to ready the movement to a funeral home.
"What about Buddhism with reincarnation? Can I get reincarnated?" said Frank, excited about this new thought.
"Have you SEEN the lines to get into the Department of Reincarnation?"
"No... I'm new to this being-dead thing"
"Well it didn't used to be so bad, but after Genghis Khan got reincarnated as Hitler, things got more regulated. The forms take centuries to fill out. And that's not even counting the time it takes in line or however many times you answered their vague-as-fuck questions and get sent to the back of the line. On top of all that trouble, you don't get to pick your reincarnation anymore. You get assigned on. A lot of people get reincarnated as a chicken and their eggs gets eaten for breakfast!" Death chuckled a little on that last sentence.
"So what do I do?"
"Have a sit down. Chat with some other ghosts. Sip some imaginary tea. "
Death came Frank a pat of the shoulder. "Have fun Frank!"
So frank sat down. Pretending to sip some tea. Hoping for all this information to "click" into place in this mind as he stared blankly out the window.
"What the fuck? ..." | I looked into my wife's eyes, and then suddenly it was all black.
----------------------------
As I felt myself waking up I noticed that I heard circus music. *What the hell?* I opened my eyes and all I saw were clowns. Clowns were flying, they were swimming through the ground, they were having arguments with the furniture about where they could buy lotto tickets.
Turns out the afterlife's a circus themed glitch version of our world. |
The protagonist dies and says "What the fuck? ... " | [WP] The disappointment at finding out what actually happens after death | I'm quite familiar with death. I spent a third of my life in and out of it, staring at concrete, windowless walls and locked in solitary confinement. Coffin's a little bit of a tighter fit, but the principle's the same. Funny thing is, every afterlife people came up with, every religion thought that if an afterlife existed, you'd go somewhere. Or your soul would. Truth is, you just stay put. | I looked into my wife's eyes, and then suddenly it was all black.
----------------------------
As I felt myself waking up I noticed that I heard circus music. *What the hell?* I opened my eyes and all I saw were clowns. Clowns were flying, they were swimming through the ground, they were having arguments with the furniture about where they could buy lotto tickets.
Turns out the afterlife's a circus themed glitch version of our world. |
The protagonist dies and says "What the fuck? ... " | [WP] The disappointment at finding out what actually happens after death | "What the fuck?"
*Hi!*
"AAAAAH! What the fuck?!"
*Don't be afraid. My name's Peter.*
"P-p-peter, like Saint Peter? Like the pearly gates guy?"
*Well, something like that.*
"I'm dead, aren't I?"
*Yes.*
"And now I'm in heaven?"
*No, sorry.*
"What?! Does...does that mean I'm in hell?!"
*Yes.*
"But I...I...I..."
*Hey there now. It's really not as bad as you think.*
"I'M SO SORRY! I'm sorry. I'm...I can't go to hell! Please there has to be something I can do."
*That time is passed.*
"I'm SO sorry for all the sins I've committed. I'm sorry for stealing and lying and everything! PLEASE!"
*That's not why you're here.*
"I'm sorry for killing that squirrel when I was a kid. I always felt bad about it. Please, please don't do this to me."
*That was forgiven long ago.*
"I'm sorry for, y'know, the other stuff. The, uh, masturbating."
...
"That was it, wasn't it? I'm going to hell for jerking off too much, aren't I?"
*Not exactly.*
"What then?! What did I do to deserve HELL?"
*Well, it's more about what you didn't do. You've had countless opportunities to do something, create something, or be someone. But you've squandered those opportunities to sit and stare at a screen your whole life.*
"But...I've done some things. I mean, I have over three hundred thousand karma. That's not easy to get, y'know?"
*That's not the same as real karma. Real karma would have gotten you somewhere.*
"But think of all the joy I created! I made things that captured peoples' imaginations!"
*You created nothing. I know what a repost is.*
"Oh...well...what's going to happen to me?"
*Don't worry, no fire and brimstone for you, son. You will spend your afterlife as you've spent your life. Here, take a seat.*
"What the...you mean to tell me there's Reddit in hell?"
*Kind of. But you will only find links you've already seen before. No original content. No new jokes. Only reposts.*
"Oh, well that's not so bad. How long will I have to look at the same stuff for?"
*Eternity.*
"Fuck." | I looked into my wife's eyes, and then suddenly it was all black.
----------------------------
As I felt myself waking up I noticed that I heard circus music. *What the hell?* I opened my eyes and all I saw were clowns. Clowns were flying, they were swimming through the ground, they were having arguments with the furniture about where they could buy lotto tickets.
Turns out the afterlife's a circus themed glitch version of our world. |
The protagonist dies and says "What the fuck? ... " | [WP] The disappointment at finding out what actually happens after death | "So, this is it?"
"Yup."
"We just float around?"
"Yup."
"What the fuck? That's dumb. This is dumb."
"Calm down. It gets better."
"Can I eventually control where I float around? Or have a body or shape? Or like, interact with anything or anyone, or affect anything at all ever?"
"No. Nothing like that. But after a while you get used it."
"You just give up? You just watch life go by powerlessly?"
"Kind of. But, it's not as depressing as you make it sound. You'll see a lot neat things. Some bad things too, of course, but you'll come to see the good outweighs the bad. Beauty is everywhere when you have nothing but time to look for it."
"Yeah? Well, right now it sucks. I can't see my family. I don't get to go to my own funeral? There's no fucking heaven! And now I get to spend eternity floating around the intersection where I died."
"Oh, you'll drift far enough in time. Look, you're already almost on the sidewalk. Looks like you're headed south. Lots of beautiful trees out that way."
"How long have you been drifting? I'm Jack, by the way."
"Ha, 'Jack'! That's a good name. I've lost my own. I've lost my age too. It all runs together eventually. It's quite relaxing."
"Where is everyone else? How come you're the only one I hear?"
"Oh, they're everywhere! A lot of 'em don't say much anymore. Not too much too say after you've seen as much as most have. But there's plenty of talkers too, they're probably just being polite. Say 'hello' guys!"
"Hey!" "Hi" "Hello!" "Hi!"
"Hey!" "Hello!" "Hi."
"Hi." "'Sup." "Hey!"
"Wow! This is fucking weird."
"Yup. You get used to it."
| I looked into my wife's eyes, and then suddenly it was all black.
----------------------------
As I felt myself waking up I noticed that I heard circus music. *What the hell?* I opened my eyes and all I saw were clowns. Clowns were flying, they were swimming through the ground, they were having arguments with the furniture about where they could buy lotto tickets.
Turns out the afterlife's a circus themed glitch version of our world. |
The protagonist dies and says "What the fuck? ... " | [WP] The disappointment at finding out what actually happens after death | I'm quite familiar with death. I spent a third of my life in and out of it, staring at concrete, windowless walls and locked in solitary confinement. Coffin's a little bit of a tighter fit, but the principle's the same. Funny thing is, every afterlife people came up with, every religion thought that if an afterlife existed, you'd go somewhere. Or your soul would. Truth is, you just stay put. | Frank no longer felt the pain from his cancer. He finally felt normal. When he opened his eyes, he was there in the hospital room with his family. Did the surgery go well? He thought.
Something was off. He wasn't in a bed. He was standing. He looked to the bed and saw himself. He knew at that moment he was dead.
He tried to speak to his family, to comfort them. Nothing he said could be heard. Then he saw a black robed pale man standing next to his now lifeless body.
"Hello Frank. I am Death." He said in an oddly calming voice.
"Is this a dream? I'm an atheist! I don't want to go to hell!"
"Don't worry Frank. You aren't going to hell."
Frank got excited "I'm going to heaven?! I'm forgiven for forsaking God?"
"Not really."
"Then what's going to happen?" questioned Frank.
Death sighed dejectedly "Look. With Atheism on the rise, God's stocks plummeted"
"God's... stock?"
"Yes, faith is sort of a currency for deities. He ended up having to sell. There was buyer, but unfortunately being reliant on God's religion by being the opposites means he went out of business."
Frank's family was lead out of the room by some nurses. Probably to ready the movement to a funeral home.
"What about Buddhism with reincarnation? Can I get reincarnated?" said Frank, excited about this new thought.
"Have you SEEN the lines to get into the Department of Reincarnation?"
"No... I'm new to this being-dead thing"
"Well it didn't used to be so bad, but after Genghis Khan got reincarnated as Hitler, things got more regulated. The forms take centuries to fill out. And that's not even counting the time it takes in line or however many times you answered their vague-as-fuck questions and get sent to the back of the line. On top of all that trouble, you don't get to pick your reincarnation anymore. You get assigned on. A lot of people get reincarnated as a chicken and their eggs gets eaten for breakfast!" Death chuckled a little on that last sentence.
"So what do I do?"
"Have a sit down. Chat with some other ghosts. Sip some imaginary tea. "
Death came Frank a pat of the shoulder. "Have fun Frank!"
So frank sat down. Pretending to sip some tea. Hoping for all this information to "click" into place in this mind as he stared blankly out the window.
"What the fuck? ..." |
The protagonist dies and says "What the fuck? ... " | [WP] The disappointment at finding out what actually happens after death | "What the fuck?"
*Hi!*
"AAAAAH! What the fuck?!"
*Don't be afraid. My name's Peter.*
"P-p-peter, like Saint Peter? Like the pearly gates guy?"
*Well, something like that.*
"I'm dead, aren't I?"
*Yes.*
"And now I'm in heaven?"
*No, sorry.*
"What?! Does...does that mean I'm in hell?!"
*Yes.*
"But I...I...I..."
*Hey there now. It's really not as bad as you think.*
"I'M SO SORRY! I'm sorry. I'm...I can't go to hell! Please there has to be something I can do."
*That time is passed.*
"I'm SO sorry for all the sins I've committed. I'm sorry for stealing and lying and everything! PLEASE!"
*That's not why you're here.*
"I'm sorry for killing that squirrel when I was a kid. I always felt bad about it. Please, please don't do this to me."
*That was forgiven long ago.*
"I'm sorry for, y'know, the other stuff. The, uh, masturbating."
...
"That was it, wasn't it? I'm going to hell for jerking off too much, aren't I?"
*Not exactly.*
"What then?! What did I do to deserve HELL?"
*Well, it's more about what you didn't do. You've had countless opportunities to do something, create something, or be someone. But you've squandered those opportunities to sit and stare at a screen your whole life.*
"But...I've done some things. I mean, I have over three hundred thousand karma. That's not easy to get, y'know?"
*That's not the same as real karma. Real karma would have gotten you somewhere.*
"But think of all the joy I created! I made things that captured peoples' imaginations!"
*You created nothing. I know what a repost is.*
"Oh...well...what's going to happen to me?"
*Don't worry, no fire and brimstone for you, son. You will spend your afterlife as you've spent your life. Here, take a seat.*
"What the...you mean to tell me there's Reddit in hell?"
*Kind of. But you will only find links you've already seen before. No original content. No new jokes. Only reposts.*
"Oh, well that's not so bad. How long will I have to look at the same stuff for?"
*Eternity.*
"Fuck." | Frank no longer felt the pain from his cancer. He finally felt normal. When he opened his eyes, he was there in the hospital room with his family. Did the surgery go well? He thought.
Something was off. He wasn't in a bed. He was standing. He looked to the bed and saw himself. He knew at that moment he was dead.
He tried to speak to his family, to comfort them. Nothing he said could be heard. Then he saw a black robed pale man standing next to his now lifeless body.
"Hello Frank. I am Death." He said in an oddly calming voice.
"Is this a dream? I'm an atheist! I don't want to go to hell!"
"Don't worry Frank. You aren't going to hell."
Frank got excited "I'm going to heaven?! I'm forgiven for forsaking God?"
"Not really."
"Then what's going to happen?" questioned Frank.
Death sighed dejectedly "Look. With Atheism on the rise, God's stocks plummeted"
"God's... stock?"
"Yes, faith is sort of a currency for deities. He ended up having to sell. There was buyer, but unfortunately being reliant on God's religion by being the opposites means he went out of business."
Frank's family was lead out of the room by some nurses. Probably to ready the movement to a funeral home.
"What about Buddhism with reincarnation? Can I get reincarnated?" said Frank, excited about this new thought.
"Have you SEEN the lines to get into the Department of Reincarnation?"
"No... I'm new to this being-dead thing"
"Well it didn't used to be so bad, but after Genghis Khan got reincarnated as Hitler, things got more regulated. The forms take centuries to fill out. And that's not even counting the time it takes in line or however many times you answered their vague-as-fuck questions and get sent to the back of the line. On top of all that trouble, you don't get to pick your reincarnation anymore. You get assigned on. A lot of people get reincarnated as a chicken and their eggs gets eaten for breakfast!" Death chuckled a little on that last sentence.
"So what do I do?"
"Have a sit down. Chat with some other ghosts. Sip some imaginary tea. "
Death came Frank a pat of the shoulder. "Have fun Frank!"
So frank sat down. Pretending to sip some tea. Hoping for all this information to "click" into place in this mind as he stared blankly out the window.
"What the fuck? ..." |
The protagonist dies and says "What the fuck? ... " | [WP] The disappointment at finding out what actually happens after death | "So, this is it?"
"Yup."
"We just float around?"
"Yup."
"What the fuck? That's dumb. This is dumb."
"Calm down. It gets better."
"Can I eventually control where I float around? Or have a body or shape? Or like, interact with anything or anyone, or affect anything at all ever?"
"No. Nothing like that. But after a while you get used it."
"You just give up? You just watch life go by powerlessly?"
"Kind of. But, it's not as depressing as you make it sound. You'll see a lot neat things. Some bad things too, of course, but you'll come to see the good outweighs the bad. Beauty is everywhere when you have nothing but time to look for it."
"Yeah? Well, right now it sucks. I can't see my family. I don't get to go to my own funeral? There's no fucking heaven! And now I get to spend eternity floating around the intersection where I died."
"Oh, you'll drift far enough in time. Look, you're already almost on the sidewalk. Looks like you're headed south. Lots of beautiful trees out that way."
"How long have you been drifting? I'm Jack, by the way."
"Ha, 'Jack'! That's a good name. I've lost my own. I've lost my age too. It all runs together eventually. It's quite relaxing."
"Where is everyone else? How come you're the only one I hear?"
"Oh, they're everywhere! A lot of 'em don't say much anymore. Not too much too say after you've seen as much as most have. But there's plenty of talkers too, they're probably just being polite. Say 'hello' guys!"
"Hey!" "Hi" "Hello!" "Hi!"
"Hey!" "Hello!" "Hi."
"Hi." "'Sup." "Hey!"
"Wow! This is fucking weird."
"Yup. You get used to it."
| Frank no longer felt the pain from his cancer. He finally felt normal. When he opened his eyes, he was there in the hospital room with his family. Did the surgery go well? He thought.
Something was off. He wasn't in a bed. He was standing. He looked to the bed and saw himself. He knew at that moment he was dead.
He tried to speak to his family, to comfort them. Nothing he said could be heard. Then he saw a black robed pale man standing next to his now lifeless body.
"Hello Frank. I am Death." He said in an oddly calming voice.
"Is this a dream? I'm an atheist! I don't want to go to hell!"
"Don't worry Frank. You aren't going to hell."
Frank got excited "I'm going to heaven?! I'm forgiven for forsaking God?"
"Not really."
"Then what's going to happen?" questioned Frank.
Death sighed dejectedly "Look. With Atheism on the rise, God's stocks plummeted"
"God's... stock?"
"Yes, faith is sort of a currency for deities. He ended up having to sell. There was buyer, but unfortunately being reliant on God's religion by being the opposites means he went out of business."
Frank's family was lead out of the room by some nurses. Probably to ready the movement to a funeral home.
"What about Buddhism with reincarnation? Can I get reincarnated?" said Frank, excited about this new thought.
"Have you SEEN the lines to get into the Department of Reincarnation?"
"No... I'm new to this being-dead thing"
"Well it didn't used to be so bad, but after Genghis Khan got reincarnated as Hitler, things got more regulated. The forms take centuries to fill out. And that's not even counting the time it takes in line or however many times you answered their vague-as-fuck questions and get sent to the back of the line. On top of all that trouble, you don't get to pick your reincarnation anymore. You get assigned on. A lot of people get reincarnated as a chicken and their eggs gets eaten for breakfast!" Death chuckled a little on that last sentence.
"So what do I do?"
"Have a sit down. Chat with some other ghosts. Sip some imaginary tea. "
Death came Frank a pat of the shoulder. "Have fun Frank!"
So frank sat down. Pretending to sip some tea. Hoping for all this information to "click" into place in this mind as he stared blankly out the window.
"What the fuck? ..." |
The protagonist dies and says "What the fuck? ... " | [WP] The disappointment at finding out what actually happens after death | "What the fuck?"
*Hi!*
"AAAAAH! What the fuck?!"
*Don't be afraid. My name's Peter.*
"P-p-peter, like Saint Peter? Like the pearly gates guy?"
*Well, something like that.*
"I'm dead, aren't I?"
*Yes.*
"And now I'm in heaven?"
*No, sorry.*
"What?! Does...does that mean I'm in hell?!"
*Yes.*
"But I...I...I..."
*Hey there now. It's really not as bad as you think.*
"I'M SO SORRY! I'm sorry. I'm...I can't go to hell! Please there has to be something I can do."
*That time is passed.*
"I'm SO sorry for all the sins I've committed. I'm sorry for stealing and lying and everything! PLEASE!"
*That's not why you're here.*
"I'm sorry for killing that squirrel when I was a kid. I always felt bad about it. Please, please don't do this to me."
*That was forgiven long ago.*
"I'm sorry for, y'know, the other stuff. The, uh, masturbating."
...
"That was it, wasn't it? I'm going to hell for jerking off too much, aren't I?"
*Not exactly.*
"What then?! What did I do to deserve HELL?"
*Well, it's more about what you didn't do. You've had countless opportunities to do something, create something, or be someone. But you've squandered those opportunities to sit and stare at a screen your whole life.*
"But...I've done some things. I mean, I have over three hundred thousand karma. That's not easy to get, y'know?"
*That's not the same as real karma. Real karma would have gotten you somewhere.*
"But think of all the joy I created! I made things that captured peoples' imaginations!"
*You created nothing. I know what a repost is.*
"Oh...well...what's going to happen to me?"
*Don't worry, no fire and brimstone for you, son. You will spend your afterlife as you've spent your life. Here, take a seat.*
"What the...you mean to tell me there's Reddit in hell?"
*Kind of. But you will only find links you've already seen before. No original content. No new jokes. Only reposts.*
"Oh, well that's not so bad. How long will I have to look at the same stuff for?"
*Eternity.*
"Fuck." | I'm quite familiar with death. I spent a third of my life in and out of it, staring at concrete, windowless walls and locked in solitary confinement. Coffin's a little bit of a tighter fit, but the principle's the same. Funny thing is, every afterlife people came up with, every religion thought that if an afterlife existed, you'd go somewhere. Or your soul would. Truth is, you just stay put. |
To clarify -
The couple, for whatever reason, end up cheating on each other with people they thought were random strangers, when in actual fact they were hooking-up/kissing/flirting/talking online with each other. Leads to a mind fuck/dilemma.
| [WP] Two people in a relationship cheat on each other, WITH each other, unknowingly. | Jerry followed the hostess wearing the transparent tight dress down the dimly lit hall. Red LEDs lit up the side of her dress and blinked in a pattern as she walked in her silver 4" heels. He stared at her backside as she turned around and smiled, "The other client is already inside."
He looked at the obsidian colored door and examined its history of handprints. Are those child handprints? No they must be midgets or teenagers, he thought to himself. He gulped as the hostess opened the door. She paused and pulled something out of her tiny purse.
"You'll need to wear this," she said as Jerry grabbed the ball gag. "We can't have our clients recognizing their voices. Don't worry its been sanitized."
"Is she gagged as well," he asked, "No one mentioned gags."
"Of course, sir, that is our policy. She is also a client, just like you. It helps keep everything anonymous and its a little sexy."
She helped him put on the gag, pulled it tight, and Jerry winced at the discomfort of wearing a tight gag. He breathed through a small hole and watched disgustedly as drool accidentally flowed out. He sighed, causing only a whistle noise to occur. The hostess giggled, "Don't worry, you'll forget you're wearing it in no time."
She opened the black door and Jerry walked in. The room was dim with hissing neon lights lining the ceiling crown. The walls and floor were painted black and in the middle stood a white life-size statue of a bent over woman. Jerry walked up to it and felt the white porcelain-like material with his hands.
A speaker in the corner came alive with a sultry woman's voice, "She's waiting for you, don't keep her waiting... she's been waiting a long time for you to fill her... be a good boy and fuck her..." The speaker then began to blare out loud annoying techno music.
A panel of the statue opened and revealed a woman's rear end. My god, she's stuffed in that statue, thought Jerry. She can't even move. This is kinda hot. His erection grew as he peeled off his pants, grabbed a condom sitting on top of the statue, and mounted her doggy style. Both their moans were muffled by the gags and the music. He fucked her until he came, threw his used condom into a small wastebasket, and watched as two hostesses came and wheeled the statue away. Another hostess came for him.
"You've got to let me meet her, my god, that was fucking hot," he exclaimed wiping the sweat from his forehead.
"I'm sorry, but our clients demand the strictest of privacy," said the hostess with a smile. Jerry was led to the waiting room where his coat hung. He pulled out his phone to see his missed messages. "Tennis ended early, coming home now," he read. "Crap," he said as he walked out of the building and ran to his car, speeding home.
He entered an empty house and went upstairs to take a shower. Can she smell this on me? Women can smell sex on a man right, he thought to himself. He heard the door open as he was toweling himself off. He walked downstairs, "Sorry hon, I stepped in dog shit, got it on my hands, got disgusted and took a shower."
"Oh god, Jerry, I can't remember the last time I had a workout like this. I'm soaked," she said as she ran past him and into the shower downstairs, "Just gonna take a quick shower."
Jerry sat down on the couch and searched his pockets making sure he didn't keep any cards or anything from the brothel.
"Oh wait, I need something in my purse. Uh, girl stuff," she said as she ran into the living room naked, grabbed her bag, and ran back into the bathroom. He heard the shower turn on.
He relaxed his tense muscles. She has no idea, he thought. No idea at all. He leaned back in his chair and sighed "Women," with a dismissive head shake.
| The woman on the other side of the wall didn't have a face. In fact, she was barely a woman at all. There was just a piece of flesh, parted in two and warm. So warm. It felt nice. The hole was a portal to another dimension of happiness, far away from this depressing and hateful world. I loved her. She was my life. What did I do to her that drove her into his arms? I'm so sorry. I wish I could have provided what you needed. I started crying right there in the dirty bathroom stall. The warm flesh on the other side sped up while I cried harder. My wailing drowned out the heavy panting on the other side.
And then it was done. For one brief second, I didn't hurt anymore. I didn't think about her. I just felt happy.
I wasn't sure as to what the etiquette in this situation generally is. So I just decided to go wash my hands. She walked out of the stall next to me. We made eye contact for what seemed like an eternity and then she walked out the door. |
To clarify -
The couple, for whatever reason, end up cheating on each other with people they thought were random strangers, when in actual fact they were hooking-up/kissing/flirting/talking online with each other. Leads to a mind fuck/dilemma.
| [WP] Two people in a relationship cheat on each other, WITH each other, unknowingly. | Jerry followed the hostess wearing the transparent tight dress down the dimly lit hall. Red LEDs lit up the side of her dress and blinked in a pattern as she walked in her silver 4" heels. He stared at her backside as she turned around and smiled, "The other client is already inside."
He looked at the obsidian colored door and examined its history of handprints. Are those child handprints? No they must be midgets or teenagers, he thought to himself. He gulped as the hostess opened the door. She paused and pulled something out of her tiny purse.
"You'll need to wear this," she said as Jerry grabbed the ball gag. "We can't have our clients recognizing their voices. Don't worry its been sanitized."
"Is she gagged as well," he asked, "No one mentioned gags."
"Of course, sir, that is our policy. She is also a client, just like you. It helps keep everything anonymous and its a little sexy."
She helped him put on the gag, pulled it tight, and Jerry winced at the discomfort of wearing a tight gag. He breathed through a small hole and watched disgustedly as drool accidentally flowed out. He sighed, causing only a whistle noise to occur. The hostess giggled, "Don't worry, you'll forget you're wearing it in no time."
She opened the black door and Jerry walked in. The room was dim with hissing neon lights lining the ceiling crown. The walls and floor were painted black and in the middle stood a white life-size statue of a bent over woman. Jerry walked up to it and felt the white porcelain-like material with his hands.
A speaker in the corner came alive with a sultry woman's voice, "She's waiting for you, don't keep her waiting... she's been waiting a long time for you to fill her... be a good boy and fuck her..." The speaker then began to blare out loud annoying techno music.
A panel of the statue opened and revealed a woman's rear end. My god, she's stuffed in that statue, thought Jerry. She can't even move. This is kinda hot. His erection grew as he peeled off his pants, grabbed a condom sitting on top of the statue, and mounted her doggy style. Both their moans were muffled by the gags and the music. He fucked her until he came, threw his used condom into a small wastebasket, and watched as two hostesses came and wheeled the statue away. Another hostess came for him.
"You've got to let me meet her, my god, that was fucking hot," he exclaimed wiping the sweat from his forehead.
"I'm sorry, but our clients demand the strictest of privacy," said the hostess with a smile. Jerry was led to the waiting room where his coat hung. He pulled out his phone to see his missed messages. "Tennis ended early, coming home now," he read. "Crap," he said as he walked out of the building and ran to his car, speeding home.
He entered an empty house and went upstairs to take a shower. Can she smell this on me? Women can smell sex on a man right, he thought to himself. He heard the door open as he was toweling himself off. He walked downstairs, "Sorry hon, I stepped in dog shit, got it on my hands, got disgusted and took a shower."
"Oh god, Jerry, I can't remember the last time I had a workout like this. I'm soaked," she said as she ran past him and into the shower downstairs, "Just gonna take a quick shower."
Jerry sat down on the couch and searched his pockets making sure he didn't keep any cards or anything from the brothel.
"Oh wait, I need something in my purse. Uh, girl stuff," she said as she ran into the living room naked, grabbed her bag, and ran back into the bathroom. He heard the shower turn on.
He relaxed his tense muscles. She has no idea, he thought. No idea at all. He leaned back in his chair and sighed "Women," with a dismissive head shake.
| Last night was another long night. The baby had woken up at midnight and I couldn't get her to bed until almost two. We were running low on formula, and diapers, and milk, and everything else for that matter. We couldn't even afford to pay for the sitter at our house right now. It was nice of my husband to take me out to dinner but, really, the money could have been better spent. He knew that.
I knew that she didn't love me anymore. All she did was worry. About money, about the baby, about my lack of a job. Hell, she was probably worrying right now. Even when we're out to dinner together. What's the point. The woman I've met now, I'm not proud of it, but she's far better than my wife. Vivacious. Charming. Sensual. The long phone conversations, the passionate sex. We've been meeting in private, not revealing our names, not who we are, not even our faces.
We meet at a dingy motel, tucked away behind 7-11, making sweet love until we either tire out or the night does. For a few hours, it's bliss. Away from the worries of the family, away from life. She is my escape.
I know he must feel the same way about me. Not my husband, he gave up on me months, probably years, ago. No this new man I met. He's swept me into his arms, loved me, cared for me like no other. I can't imagine myself without him, I must be with him. At night we escape together in secret, wrapping our arms and bodies around one another until the sun rises. I don't even know his name, but I know I love him. I can't keep living like this. I'm poor, broke, out of love with a child we can't raise or care for. It's time to leave, to get far away from it all.
There's no point hiding it, I love her. It's time to tell my wife.
"Honey, there's something I need to tell you."
"Yes, I suppose there's something I should tell you too."
"I'm having an affair."
"So am I."
"We've been meeting for the past month, she's amazing and I can't stop thinking about her. We've been meeting at the hotel at 11, every Thursday, for the past sixth months."
She smiles humorlessly.
"That's funny."
"What?"
"I've been meeting a man, in secret, at that same hotel, at 11, for the past sixth months. He's amazing, and sweet, and charming, and I think I love him."
We stare at each, realization dawning.
"So I guess this is true love?"
She starts crying.
"Yeah, I guess it is." |
[WP] You involuntarily read people's minds when they are close to you, but it is limited to only one thought from every person you meet. On a crowded subway platform you pick up a unique thought. | "What? How did she know that," mumbled Tom as he walked onto the subway platform. He stood there scanning the crowd looking for a woman who would match the voice in his head. He tapped his foot impatiently and sighed as he saw dozens of likely women who could have given off the stray thought. The brunette? The blonde? Who is it? How am I hearing voices anyway, he asked himself. He stepped on the train, sat down, and considered the idea he heard.
Tom picked up the phone in his office and dialed. He knocked over a large pile of papers and briefly smelled the kicked up dust. He ran his hand over the top of his wooden desk, pushing the dust off the edge.
"Hey Pete, you guys still working on that project with Global Dynamic?"
Pete laughed. "When did you decide to join us in the ugly practical world, Mr Theorist." "Yeah, we're still building it out. Its ugly and we're stuck on like seventeen different problems, but we have funding for another 3 or 4 years before congressional approval."
"I was, uh, reading about it. Had a thought in the shower about it. Care to hear?"
"Sure, sure. Any help we can get right now would be great."
"Anyone ever write a paper describing artificial intuition as a non-gestalt non-bottom-up process? That it could be a wave function collapse from near random data sources like stray thoughts or misfiring neurons or large sets of neuron misfire?"
Pete paused, "That's... interesting. Would explain why our most creative tend to be our most mentally ill. What's this about anyway? You writing a paper on this?"
"Yeah, think so," added Tom. "Think its something I can get published?"
"Why not? Artificial intuition is like our biggest stumbling block. We have all these quasi-thinking machines but they're about as creative as a pile of dirt."
Tom said his goodbyes and put down the phone. The next morning he went back to the train stop and prepared to take notes on what he picked up. Where is the voice? It must be her? Is it?
After a few weeks he accosted a young lady after he heard her speaking on her phone, "I know your voice! Its you isn't it? Isn't it? With the AI stuff?" Her eyes went wide and she said, "Get away from me you creep" as the train doors closed. He sat there staring at her through the window as she clutched her purse and looked away. Others on the platform looked at him. He put his head down and walked to the street to hail a cab. What am I doing, he thought to himself. This is crazy. No, it must be her. She's lying. She's hiding something from me.
He picked up his phone back in his office. "Pete, remember that AI problem I've been working on?"
"Uh, the artificial intuition breakthrough your lordship is planning to bestow on us peasants?"
Tom chuckled, "Yeah that. I wrote the paper. Can you read it for me before I submit it?"
Pete said sure as Tom clicked on the send button. 30 minutes later Pete came running into his office.
"Holy shit, Tommy. I just ran some test data against your algorithms. The Smith-Ross creativity index hit 74. Up until now, we were lucky to get 5 or 6. If this pans out, this is a legitimate breakthrough." Pete saw Tom's expression and closed the door behind him.
Tom sighed, "I'm not sure if this is my work. I've been hearing voices, they've been giving me hints. Usually in the morning on the train. I..." he looked around the room, "I think I might be telepathic. A female voice entered my head the day I called you. I stole the idea from some talented young researcher I think.. I could ruin her career with my theft. I can't take credit for this. Its unethical!"
Pete raised an eyebrow.
Tom leaned back on his chair, "I found the girl. I think. I went up to her on the train. She snapped at me. I don't know what to do. Maybe its not her. I guess it could be some other girl. It felt like it was her."
Pete nodded his head quietly. "You know, I took a lot of classics courses in undergrad. I thought I'd be a historian." Pete smiled. "Socrates had the same problem."
"He did," asked Tom folding his hands.
"Yeah, he eventually just called it his Daemon. He accepted that his intuition and thoughts weren't really his own and came from somewhere."
"Oh come on, this is different. I literally hear the voice!"
Pete furrowed his brow, "Is it? Socrates said the same thing. He accepted it as his muse. Maybe you aren't telepathic. Maybe its your muse. I mean, you're an educated man, we can't get telepathy to work in the lab. Its bunk! Heck, my wife thought she had telepathy once and she's also a PhD. She was thinking of writing a paper about it, but it would have been career suicide, even on a theoretical level. Why would it suddenly work for you in a field similar to yours? Its too big of a coincidence."
Tom looked out the window, "Anna thought that as well? So this paper is really mine?"
"Sure as hell is! You know Vint Cerf came up with most of TCP in the shower. Einstein rode his bike for inspiration. Apparently, you're a subway thinker." Pete laughed.
Tom smiled. "Okay okay, I guess I got stuck in my head. I get that way sometimes. The telepathy thing felt 100% real and rational."
"Its okay, Tom. You're an academic theorist. You wouldn't be here if you didn't get stuck in your head for long stretches. We're all a little crazy. This time it paid off. AI creativity and intuition is a gamechanger in the long run. Come on, let me buy you lunch."
Tom stood up, shook Pete's hand, and said, "Yes, let's get lunch and lets talk about how your team of nerds is going to make my idea work in the real world."
Pete laughed as they walked out the door together. He looked down at his phone and saw a text message from Anna. He looked at Tom and said, "One sec, gotta reply to this uh... needy grad student." He tapped out a reply, "Your telepathic projection is out of control again. You may have been spotted."
Pete smiled at Tom again, "So what do you think? Italian?"
| *I should have been a cop. Or at least a vigilante. The sheer number of bomb threats I've encountered while taking the sub to Manhattan is ridiculous. After a while, you just stop calling the police and start stealing the bad guy's backpack. Public safety for all, I guess.*
*On the other hand, I might be a great thief too. After all, I know when people are watching what I'm doing. As soon as someone sees me, I can hear what they're thinking. Only once, though, and only in that specific moment. But that window is more than big enough to complete a less-than-elaborate heist, especially since I can hear it again if we lock eyes.*
*Today has been quiet. Not a single intrusive thought made it's way to me and it's already past five. At the firm time went slow as usual, and I could hear the boss thinking the same, and on the road most people were concerned with what to buy for Christmas. I think I've heard* "I'll just get him a sweater again." *about thirty times and that was only this morning. Sometimes I think my power would be a lot more fun if people weren't so damn boring.*
"We've arrived altjspjklsmdflsdlfjmsdljfmj"
*Understanding what the announcer says, now that would be a useful power to have. Anyway, this is my stop. Time for one last safety check. Let's see, there are five* "Should I call her?"*s at the south exist, and two at the north. These kids still don't realize that if you think about her this much, you should call her, without a doubt. At least let her dump your ass and set your mind at ease. Two more sweaters and three potential suicides. Always the same with sad people around holidays, they just have to find a way to kill your buzz.*
"They just have to find a way to kill your buzz."
*What's that? Did someone think the same thing as I did, at exactly the same moment? Maybe I'm not as different as I thought. Or maybe someone has the same power I do. But where. If I could just see these peoples eyes, but they are hurrying out of the station far too fast. Would the other person be standing still too, waiting for people to notice him and try and safe as many as possible? Over there is a young girl sitting on a bench,* "When's papa coming to get me?" *No, that's not it. Maybe that elderly man,* "Another goddamned sweater." *Nope, not that one either. That woman near the exit, maybe?* "Oh my God, he's going to push that man!" *That's weird, she's looking right at me. What is she going on about?*
"Here. we. go."
*My head hurts, I can't feel my legs anymore. People are screaming. I can't distinguish their thoughts from their shouts anymore.* "Someone save him!" "We can't the train is there, it's too late." *I can hear it too now, the tracks are speaking to me. Is this the end? All I wanted to do was help some ...* |
|
[WP] Narrate a murder | I got a better look as she approached. She is perfect. Blonde. Well dressed. Standing alone outside Tony's; so she has good taste. That purse looks full, but not heavy enough to cause me any trouble. Dainty, shouldn't put up much of a struggle. I had never seen heels so high. Those must be hard to walk in.
"Where ya heading maam?" I've said those words a thousand times.
"15 Court Street, please." One whiff of her tequila breath and I giggled at the thought of her getting me a DUI.
"No problem at all." She got in the back. At least a dozen people saw, but nobody pays attention to any other taxi except their own. I pulled away as if I had never been there. That feeling, the rush... oh it feels like I could gun her down in broad daylight and no one would be the wiser. But that would be such a waste. This girl, nay, woman has so much more to her. She is at least someone's daughter. Let's find out.
"Have you always lived around here" I inquired.
"No, actually."
"Where were you before?"
"Boston."
Isn't she a clam! Let's see if I can't get her to open up a little.
"Are you? I have relatives in that area. What did you do there?" I have no relatives.
"Well, my husband worked at General, a plastic surgeon. But now, since he is going into private practice, he wanted to move somewhere with a better patient population."
A plastic surgeon. Ha. I took the opportunity at a red light to glance back at her. That would explain her overly perfect nose. She has triangular jaw line, and a chest that seemed to explode through her wool coat.
"Wow, good for the both of you. What is it like being married to a surgeon?" Let's find out about their relationship shall we?
"It has its ups and downs, seems to... nevermind."
"Seems to what?" Green light.
"Have more downs than ups lately. I never see him, and tonight was the anniversary of the day we met and he is in the city for a conference. I don't mind that but he didn't even call."
"Maybe he has a surprise for you?" Poor bastard. The words felt fake before I even said them.
"Fat chance," she said.
Back to the quiet little clam she goes.
“Well, I’m sorry to hear that. On the bright side it is the anniversary of us meeting. I would take you out for drinks but it seems someone beat me to it.”
No response? I thought that the slight invasiveness of my last comment would push some sort of button. Oh well, we are pulling up anyways. Not a single street light on her road. It wasn’t in a neighborhood, but not a main road either, if this was even her road. I hadn’t thought of the possibility that she may be on her way to a boyfriend’s house. But then, why drink alone? Seems unlikely. I would bet that this is her house. All the lights were off. It was a quaint house. A thick wreath hung proudly on the front door. That must have been her doing, this must be her house.
“How much do I owe you?”
“Twenty four dollars,” and your soul.
“Keep the change,” as she handed me a rolled up twenty and a ten before attempting to unlock the door. It was always cute when they fumbled for the first few seconds. I imagine they first feel awkward and incompetent, unable to see the lock in the dark, before they ignore that gut sense of alarm.
“I seem to be stuck.” Her voice was frustrated, as if she wanted nothing left to do with me. I hopped out immediately before she attempted to use the other door.
“Oh, I’m sorry. It has been sticky lately. Please allow me.” I pulled open the door with my left hand and pulled my tool out of my right coat pocket. She started to rise. Her body had not yet exited the car before my fist met her throat. This was the risky part, I always punch the throat first so they don’t scream. All those hours lifting other peoples’ luggage pays off when you can hit like a train. I got three mean punches in before she started scrambling for the opposite door. Her back to me, I pounced with my tool. She let out a last groan of air as I landed on her back with my tool ready. Silence from here on out, I had practiced how to hold it between my two hands. Had trained myself to grab their left shoulder with my left hand, bring my right hand over their right shoulder, and loop my right hand around their neck and back again. This way the piano wire made a single loop around their neck that crosses in the back, all I have to do is pull my hands apart use my body weight to press her flat against the back seat. This was by far my favorite part. Maybe it was because I felt proud of my garrote skills. Maybe it was because it was too easy from here on out, it was all over except for the struggles. Boy did she struggle, she even tried to head butt me. I pressed my elbows against her shoulder blades to keep that blonde wrecking ball out of reach. The only downside of this method was that I couldn't ever see their face. I miss all the little emotions. Maybe I could put a mirror back here. Perhaps this was my favorite part because it was oddly quiet. I was breathing loudly, sure. And the struggle made some rubbing noises on the seat, but there was no screaming, no gunshots, no banging, pounding, no nothing. All the girls were too small to kick anything beneath my massiveness. I like to let my thoughts wander during this part. Gloves are a godsend. Cold, black leather with tight fingers so they are not clumsy at all. Good enough to maintain dexterity without leaving a trace. I have always had a thing for good gloves. People think it is so quick, the movies all have it wrong. My hands would be raw without gloves after all this pulling. Nobody goes down fast. They go down, but I get to enjoy several long minutes of domination.
She slows down. This part was also, often misconstrued in the media. They don’t stop struggling all of the sudden, nor do they weakly struggle for more than oh… 4 seconds. The blackout happens fairly suddenly and a few weak jerks echo from her consciousness before the smell of tequila has faded completely. I give a last good pull for twenty-Mississippi just for good measure. I loosen the cord, revealing the compression it left in her blond hair that cloaked the back of her neck. I gave her a quick kiss on the check before returning to the front seat. No need to tie up a stiff.
I can see my own breath in the street lights as I cruise down salty road four blocks away already. All these cars passing me, and they have no idea! The bridge is a good 10 minutes away, plenty of time to relax. I glance back again at the backside of my prize, her face still buried in the back seat. She’s mine. That coat is mine. The ring on her finger is mine. Her purse, her hair… that body, all mine. I shiver with excitement.
“Mine.” I say it aloud, oh it feels good.
| Dave and his friends had been out drinking in the bar district of town, which is just a couple blocks from a weird, small section of crack dealers and heroin dealers. In a way it makes sense, because bars bring a lot of shit with them so the police already have their hands full keeping the rich kids and the middle class kids safe, and so there's no resources to care about the hustler trying to make a living a few blocks away, as long as he isn't bothering anyone.
Dave is pretty rich. He's that one guy in his group of friends that works in a *pretty damn* high paying job, but doesn't like flashy things so he ends up having tons of spending money. He's that one guy people kind of linger around hoping he'll buy them a shot, or let them take a hit from his bong. And he does. And sometimes, when he's partying, he likes to buy a gram or so of blow and share it with the hangers on.
Yeah, it bothers him, but whatever. He has the money.
So he leaves a bar, walks a couple blocks, and waits on the street corner. Dave is a white boy, he has nice fashion sense, nice shoes. He looks even richer than he really is.
Within just a few moments, the dealers start walking up. Crack users start walking up too, hoping to get a crack handout from a dealer for bringing him this white boy to overcharge. Or, maybe give him something that looks like cocaine but really isn't at all. Flour, sugar, or detergent even.
One guy walks up, jittery, asks him what he wants, and other guys stand behind him. Dave's done this before a few times, knows to be firm about what he wants, not buy until he tries, and so on.
Now, since the cops are just a couple blocks away, the dealers are concerned about being spotted doing a deal. One guy pulls Dave aside, and has him walk a couple blocks so that they're away from the foot traffic of the bars, away from the cops, and away from his competition.
He gives Dave a bit to try. It doesn't really seem like coke. Tastes kinda sweet, mild anasthesiac sensation, but hardly. It might even just be in his head.
The dealer takes it personally. He gives Dave another try, but this time it's definitely coke. Was he confused? He's a little drunk. He knows that all these guys are just ripoff artists, and so he apologizes and assumes the guy was first trying to sell him the fake shit, and then once he noticed it was fake, offered the real shit.
The dealer won't let off about it. His bigger than Dave, earlier they had made small talk and the guy was from LA. He keeps asking why Dave was trying to disrespect him. "That's disrespectful. You think I'm tryna rip you off like that?"
"No man, that's not what I'm saying I'm just saying at first it didn't taste like powder, now it does man it's all good lemme get half a gram I got 40 man"
They go back and forth. The guy asks him "Look man you come over here askin for trouble or somethin? I asked you before, *why are you tryna disrespect me like that*?"
Dave doesn't have an answer. There is no answer. He doesn't know what to do. He isn't that uncomfortable, the guy **seems** reasonable.
"Look man you betta give me that forty dollars as an apology for tryna say that I'm out here hustlin fake shit man"
"Alright man, you want my forty dollars here's my forty dollars alright man. Look I'm sorry about it dude I was *NOT* trying to disrespect you."
"Listen man you still think I'm stupid or somethin? I know you got more than forty dollars in that coat of yours you better give it to me"
Dave didn't have any more money. He had a tendency to party too hard and spend far too much money, so when he would go out drinking he had a policy of leaving his credit card at home and bringing a fixed budget of cash. The forty dollars was all he had.
Dave opened his wallet to show it to the dealer. The dealer says "Alright well we can go to the ATM then."
"Dude look man, that's all I got, I don't take my card with me when I go out drinking man. That's seriously all I got. Look, I haven't lied to you and I'm not a lying person. I'm telling you man, that's literally everything I have." as he showed the man his open wallet.
"You said you keep it at home? You better not be lying to me. You already disrespected me before. Do I need to show you the pistol in my back pocket?"
Dave hadn't been scared before, but now he was scared. "No! Man. Dude, you do NOT need to show me your pistol. Listen man *why* are you doing me like this? Why are you treating me like this? Listen, I'm sorry I acted like your shit was fake okay I already apologized. Jesus if I had more I would give it to you man I don't lie about this shit. Why would I lie when you have a gun man, I'm not that fucking stupid dude. It's **all I've got**."
"Well listen. Tell you what we're gonna do. We're gonna go to your house and you're gonna get me sixty for disrespecting me. Then we'll be cool okay?"
"Fuck dude I don't live by here, I live like 20 minutes away man,"
"Let me ask you again, do you want me to show you the pistol in my back pocket?"
At this point it was clear. This wasn't about respect. This wasn't about anything. This was about a criminal who saw a rich looking white boy and wanted to rob him.
Dave's first thought was to run. To just bolt.
He opened his mouth to talk, but had nothing to say. He fled. He ran as fast as he could.
The guy was actually chasing him. He didn't expect that he'd be chased, the guy already had his forty bucks. Dave wanted to run back to an area where there was foot traffic, where there was people. He didn't want to look back because it would slow him down, but he could hear himself being chased.
He wasn't fast enough. The guy tackled him, and started pulling out his pistol to hit him. Dave saw it, and assumed he was going to shoot. The dealer lifted up the pistol to hit him and Dave reached for the man's arm.
Dave isn't a runner, but he wasn't out of shape either. He managed to start to get himself into an advantageous position. He swung a punch into the dealer's face as they grappled. He held tightly onto the man's arm that was holding the gun, and used every power in his body to both keep his balance and try to deal as much harm as possible.
The man fell. Dave was fighting for his life, trying to attack the man's balls and throat. He got into a mount position, and lifted up to swing over the man stuck on his back beneath him. As he did so, he became too obsessed with damage and for a moment forgot about the man's arm.
He shot him. The man shot Dave, and it went through the bottom of his chin and out the top of his head. As quickly as he could, the man threw Dave off of him and ran as fast as he could, away. Within less than five minutes he was nearly a mile away.
Dave was already dead. It would be fifteen minutes before anyone would find his body and call 9-1-1. By then, the dealer was long gone.
|
|
[WP] Narrate a murder | "You have no idea how long I've been wanting to do this? Now do you?" I say to my longtime friend Andre.
"C-c'mon man. You don't have to do this. P-please. I just pr-proposed to Lindsay too. Please Rick." I hear Andre plead for his life. I couldn't care less about what this lousy son of a bitch has to say.
"Oh just kill the poor bastard already!" My partner in crime Maxwell says from behind Andre.
"Don't worry Max." I say. "I'll do it. I just want to enjoy this first." I chuckle as Andre tries his best to wiggle out the chair I've duct taped him to.
"Who are you talking to?" Andre says with terror.
"No one that concerns you." I say to him. I take the knife from my pocket, and play with it. Caress the tip of the blade with my fingertips. The sharpness of the blade is almost orgasmic for me. "Oh, I am going to enjoy this SO MUCH!"
"Ricky please!" Andre yells. "You don't have to do this! Just let me live and - and I won't tell anybody!"
"That's just a load of bullshit you're saying to try and prolong your worthless little life." I now raise the knife about hip level. I then start walking toward Andre. Just seeing the fear in his eyes just makes the anticipation greater.
"Finally!" Maxwell yells as I get closer and closer to Andre. "It only took you fucking long enough! Jesus fucking Christ!"
"Holy shit Max." I say, now stopping in my tracks. Andre now looks as confused as ever. "Would you please shut the fuck up and let me kill this stupid cunt."
"Alright, alright." Max says as he backs off a bit, into the shadows of the room.
"Now," I say to Andre. "where were we?"
"You - were - uh - about to let me go." Andre says. He's shivering. He knows that the inevitable is coming.
"Umm - no." I say. I then take my knife, and shove it into Andre's right thigh.
"Arrgh! FUCK YOU ASSHOLE!" Andre screams in pain.
"What was that?" I ask him. I then wiggle the knife that's impaled into his thigh. I can almost feel his flesh ripping apart. The sound of his muscle's tearing is like hearing a piece of paper rip in half.
"Please - STOP THIS!"
"No, I don't think I will. I actually really like this." I say to him. I then forcefully pull the knife out of his leg, and then shove it into his right shoulder.
"AAGGGGHHHH!" Andre's screams of terror give the greatest sensation of pleasure.
"Oh yes. Please. Just keep screaming. IT MAKES ME FEEL SO GOOD!" I shout out in joy. I then take the knife out of his right shoulder and start repeatedly jabbing him in his throat. In and out and in and out. His throat then becomes nothing but a big hole in his throat. As a result of this, his blood is all over my face. I look up at his face, his eyes are still moving.
The cunt isn't dead yet!
"You motherfucker! You will die!" I then take the knife and start to cut a circle around his eye socket. Once I reach the other end, I rip his eye out of his socket. I do the exact same thing with his other eye. And just to be sure that he is dead, I decapitate him. The sound of my knife sawing against his vertebrae gives the greatest sense of pleasure once again.
"Ha! I did it! You son of a bitch. You're dead. YOU'RE FUCKING DEAD AND I'M NOT! HA HA HA!" I shout out at Andre's mutilated corpse as I jump up and down like a toddler in a tantrum.
"Good job." I hear Max say as he comes toward me with a knife himself.
"wait, what're you doing?" I ask him.
"Oh, you'll see." He then comes at me with the same bloody knife that I have. But before he even touches me, I slit his throat. Maxwell's body then falls to the floor.
I then feel a choking feeling. Like something coming up into my throat. Instead of this thing pouring out of my mouth, it skewers out of my throat instead. I lift up my hand and feel my throat, to see that I have actually slit my own throat. It turns out this whole time, Maxwell wasn't there at all. Just a figment of my imagination. I can't help but think about how much I've fucked up in life as I fall to the floor and bleed o- | Dave and his friends had been out drinking in the bar district of town, which is just a couple blocks from a weird, small section of crack dealers and heroin dealers. In a way it makes sense, because bars bring a lot of shit with them so the police already have their hands full keeping the rich kids and the middle class kids safe, and so there's no resources to care about the hustler trying to make a living a few blocks away, as long as he isn't bothering anyone.
Dave is pretty rich. He's that one guy in his group of friends that works in a *pretty damn* high paying job, but doesn't like flashy things so he ends up having tons of spending money. He's that one guy people kind of linger around hoping he'll buy them a shot, or let them take a hit from his bong. And he does. And sometimes, when he's partying, he likes to buy a gram or so of blow and share it with the hangers on.
Yeah, it bothers him, but whatever. He has the money.
So he leaves a bar, walks a couple blocks, and waits on the street corner. Dave is a white boy, he has nice fashion sense, nice shoes. He looks even richer than he really is.
Within just a few moments, the dealers start walking up. Crack users start walking up too, hoping to get a crack handout from a dealer for bringing him this white boy to overcharge. Or, maybe give him something that looks like cocaine but really isn't at all. Flour, sugar, or detergent even.
One guy walks up, jittery, asks him what he wants, and other guys stand behind him. Dave's done this before a few times, knows to be firm about what he wants, not buy until he tries, and so on.
Now, since the cops are just a couple blocks away, the dealers are concerned about being spotted doing a deal. One guy pulls Dave aside, and has him walk a couple blocks so that they're away from the foot traffic of the bars, away from the cops, and away from his competition.
He gives Dave a bit to try. It doesn't really seem like coke. Tastes kinda sweet, mild anasthesiac sensation, but hardly. It might even just be in his head.
The dealer takes it personally. He gives Dave another try, but this time it's definitely coke. Was he confused? He's a little drunk. He knows that all these guys are just ripoff artists, and so he apologizes and assumes the guy was first trying to sell him the fake shit, and then once he noticed it was fake, offered the real shit.
The dealer won't let off about it. His bigger than Dave, earlier they had made small talk and the guy was from LA. He keeps asking why Dave was trying to disrespect him. "That's disrespectful. You think I'm tryna rip you off like that?"
"No man, that's not what I'm saying I'm just saying at first it didn't taste like powder, now it does man it's all good lemme get half a gram I got 40 man"
They go back and forth. The guy asks him "Look man you come over here askin for trouble or somethin? I asked you before, *why are you tryna disrespect me like that*?"
Dave doesn't have an answer. There is no answer. He doesn't know what to do. He isn't that uncomfortable, the guy **seems** reasonable.
"Look man you betta give me that forty dollars as an apology for tryna say that I'm out here hustlin fake shit man"
"Alright man, you want my forty dollars here's my forty dollars alright man. Look I'm sorry about it dude I was *NOT* trying to disrespect you."
"Listen man you still think I'm stupid or somethin? I know you got more than forty dollars in that coat of yours you better give it to me"
Dave didn't have any more money. He had a tendency to party too hard and spend far too much money, so when he would go out drinking he had a policy of leaving his credit card at home and bringing a fixed budget of cash. The forty dollars was all he had.
Dave opened his wallet to show it to the dealer. The dealer says "Alright well we can go to the ATM then."
"Dude look man, that's all I got, I don't take my card with me when I go out drinking man. That's seriously all I got. Look, I haven't lied to you and I'm not a lying person. I'm telling you man, that's literally everything I have." as he showed the man his open wallet.
"You said you keep it at home? You better not be lying to me. You already disrespected me before. Do I need to show you the pistol in my back pocket?"
Dave hadn't been scared before, but now he was scared. "No! Man. Dude, you do NOT need to show me your pistol. Listen man *why* are you doing me like this? Why are you treating me like this? Listen, I'm sorry I acted like your shit was fake okay I already apologized. Jesus if I had more I would give it to you man I don't lie about this shit. Why would I lie when you have a gun man, I'm not that fucking stupid dude. It's **all I've got**."
"Well listen. Tell you what we're gonna do. We're gonna go to your house and you're gonna get me sixty for disrespecting me. Then we'll be cool okay?"
"Fuck dude I don't live by here, I live like 20 minutes away man,"
"Let me ask you again, do you want me to show you the pistol in my back pocket?"
At this point it was clear. This wasn't about respect. This wasn't about anything. This was about a criminal who saw a rich looking white boy and wanted to rob him.
Dave's first thought was to run. To just bolt.
He opened his mouth to talk, but had nothing to say. He fled. He ran as fast as he could.
The guy was actually chasing him. He didn't expect that he'd be chased, the guy already had his forty bucks. Dave wanted to run back to an area where there was foot traffic, where there was people. He didn't want to look back because it would slow him down, but he could hear himself being chased.
He wasn't fast enough. The guy tackled him, and started pulling out his pistol to hit him. Dave saw it, and assumed he was going to shoot. The dealer lifted up the pistol to hit him and Dave reached for the man's arm.
Dave isn't a runner, but he wasn't out of shape either. He managed to start to get himself into an advantageous position. He swung a punch into the dealer's face as they grappled. He held tightly onto the man's arm that was holding the gun, and used every power in his body to both keep his balance and try to deal as much harm as possible.
The man fell. Dave was fighting for his life, trying to attack the man's balls and throat. He got into a mount position, and lifted up to swing over the man stuck on his back beneath him. As he did so, he became too obsessed with damage and for a moment forgot about the man's arm.
He shot him. The man shot Dave, and it went through the bottom of his chin and out the top of his head. As quickly as he could, the man threw Dave off of him and ran as fast as he could, away. Within less than five minutes he was nearly a mile away.
Dave was already dead. It would be fifteen minutes before anyone would find his body and call 9-1-1. By then, the dealer was long gone.
|
|
[WP] Narrate a murder | I got a better look as she approached. She is perfect. Blonde. Well dressed. Standing alone outside Tony's; so she has good taste. That purse looks full, but not heavy enough to cause me any trouble. Dainty, shouldn't put up much of a struggle. I had never seen heels so high. Those must be hard to walk in.
"Where ya heading maam?" I've said those words a thousand times.
"15 Court Street, please." One whiff of her tequila breath and I giggled at the thought of her getting me a DUI.
"No problem at all." She got in the back. At least a dozen people saw, but nobody pays attention to any other taxi except their own. I pulled away as if I had never been there. That feeling, the rush... oh it feels like I could gun her down in broad daylight and no one would be the wiser. But that would be such a waste. This girl, nay, woman has so much more to her. She is at least someone's daughter. Let's find out.
"Have you always lived around here" I inquired.
"No, actually."
"Where were you before?"
"Boston."
Isn't she a clam! Let's see if I can't get her to open up a little.
"Are you? I have relatives in that area. What did you do there?" I have no relatives.
"Well, my husband worked at General, a plastic surgeon. But now, since he is going into private practice, he wanted to move somewhere with a better patient population."
A plastic surgeon. Ha. I took the opportunity at a red light to glance back at her. That would explain her overly perfect nose. She has triangular jaw line, and a chest that seemed to explode through her wool coat.
"Wow, good for the both of you. What is it like being married to a surgeon?" Let's find out about their relationship shall we?
"It has its ups and downs, seems to... nevermind."
"Seems to what?" Green light.
"Have more downs than ups lately. I never see him, and tonight was the anniversary of the day we met and he is in the city for a conference. I don't mind that but he didn't even call."
"Maybe he has a surprise for you?" Poor bastard. The words felt fake before I even said them.
"Fat chance," she said.
Back to the quiet little clam she goes.
“Well, I’m sorry to hear that. On the bright side it is the anniversary of us meeting. I would take you out for drinks but it seems someone beat me to it.”
No response? I thought that the slight invasiveness of my last comment would push some sort of button. Oh well, we are pulling up anyways. Not a single street light on her road. It wasn’t in a neighborhood, but not a main road either, if this was even her road. I hadn’t thought of the possibility that she may be on her way to a boyfriend’s house. But then, why drink alone? Seems unlikely. I would bet that this is her house. All the lights were off. It was a quaint house. A thick wreath hung proudly on the front door. That must have been her doing, this must be her house.
“How much do I owe you?”
“Twenty four dollars,” and your soul.
“Keep the change,” as she handed me a rolled up twenty and a ten before attempting to unlock the door. It was always cute when they fumbled for the first few seconds. I imagine they first feel awkward and incompetent, unable to see the lock in the dark, before they ignore that gut sense of alarm.
“I seem to be stuck.” Her voice was frustrated, as if she wanted nothing left to do with me. I hopped out immediately before she attempted to use the other door.
“Oh, I’m sorry. It has been sticky lately. Please allow me.” I pulled open the door with my left hand and pulled my tool out of my right coat pocket. She started to rise. Her body had not yet exited the car before my fist met her throat. This was the risky part, I always punch the throat first so they don’t scream. All those hours lifting other peoples’ luggage pays off when you can hit like a train. I got three mean punches in before she started scrambling for the opposite door. Her back to me, I pounced with my tool. She let out a last groan of air as I landed on her back with my tool ready. Silence from here on out, I had practiced how to hold it between my two hands. Had trained myself to grab their left shoulder with my left hand, bring my right hand over their right shoulder, and loop my right hand around their neck and back again. This way the piano wire made a single loop around their neck that crosses in the back, all I have to do is pull my hands apart use my body weight to press her flat against the back seat. This was by far my favorite part. Maybe it was because I felt proud of my garrote skills. Maybe it was because it was too easy from here on out, it was all over except for the struggles. Boy did she struggle, she even tried to head butt me. I pressed my elbows against her shoulder blades to keep that blonde wrecking ball out of reach. The only downside of this method was that I couldn't ever see their face. I miss all the little emotions. Maybe I could put a mirror back here. Perhaps this was my favorite part because it was oddly quiet. I was breathing loudly, sure. And the struggle made some rubbing noises on the seat, but there was no screaming, no gunshots, no banging, pounding, no nothing. All the girls were too small to kick anything beneath my massiveness. I like to let my thoughts wander during this part. Gloves are a godsend. Cold, black leather with tight fingers so they are not clumsy at all. Good enough to maintain dexterity without leaving a trace. I have always had a thing for good gloves. People think it is so quick, the movies all have it wrong. My hands would be raw without gloves after all this pulling. Nobody goes down fast. They go down, but I get to enjoy several long minutes of domination.
She slows down. This part was also, often misconstrued in the media. They don’t stop struggling all of the sudden, nor do they weakly struggle for more than oh… 4 seconds. The blackout happens fairly suddenly and a few weak jerks echo from her consciousness before the smell of tequila has faded completely. I give a last good pull for twenty-Mississippi just for good measure. I loosen the cord, revealing the compression it left in her blond hair that cloaked the back of her neck. I gave her a quick kiss on the check before returning to the front seat. No need to tie up a stiff.
I can see my own breath in the street lights as I cruise down salty road four blocks away already. All these cars passing me, and they have no idea! The bridge is a good 10 minutes away, plenty of time to relax. I glance back again at the backside of my prize, her face still buried in the back seat. She’s mine. That coat is mine. The ring on her finger is mine. Her purse, her hair… that body, all mine. I shiver with excitement.
“Mine.” I say it aloud, oh it feels good.
| Marla rushes out of the coffee shop, clutching her favourite caramel Latté. Her cheeks are rosie from the cold, she rushes through the frigid night, heading to her boyfriend's house. She thinks about her architecture class, and the assignment her teacher had assigned the class. Taking a sip from her latté, she smiles at the sweet hot beverage.
She barely makes it a few yards until a hand covers her mouth and jerks her head back. A cold touch of steel on her neck, and her eyes open in terror as she realizes it's a knife. Slowly, the knife presses deeper and deeper into her neck. She feels the burning icy blade as it first punctures her skin, then the unbelievable pain as it slowly follows through. Her fragile neck simply splits, as any plastic bag or meat wrapper would. The knife reaches it's final destination. A thin stream of red flows out of the thin slit in her throat as she falls to the floor. How pathetic it all was. |
|
[WP] A struggling writer surfs /r/askreddit for juicy plots and characters based on reddit user comments. A year later and the writer has a best seller in store, a redditor discovers striking similarities to one of her storys and goes to have a little chat with the writer. | NEW, IN BOOKSTORES NOW, RINGING OF THE GONG!
***
"Oh, that's an interesting title."
Catherine ordered a book online, "Ringing of the Gong". It had a nice cover, not too flashy, and at least there wasn't something cliche, like the sun or the moon in the title. It had been on the recommended section of Amazon, and it didn't look too bad. She needed a new book anyway, and her friend had been raving about how the main character reminded her of her.
When it arrived a week later, she had set down some coffee, pulled it out of the wrapping, and began to read.
***
*Ring. Ring. Ri-*
"Hello?"
"My name is Catherine Lorne, is this Mr. Gabriel Clarke?"
"Yes, do you need something?"
"I was actually calling about your book."
"Oh, are you a fan? I'm glad I got a call from you and all, but, this is my home phone number, this isn't public. Please don't call it again."
"No, I'm not a fan, this is more about your popularity and monetary earnings."
"Ah." Gabriel Clarke's voice became quite a bit less friendly. "Sorry, but I already have enough publicity, and I don't feel like giving anyone else a chunk of my hard-earned checks."
Catherine smiled on the line. "No sir, it isn't about that, either. Could we meet at a cafe, I have something to discuss with you."
"I don't think so."
"Well, then I think I will need to get in contact with my lawyer. I don't think you'd like that."
A pause. Then-
"Your lawyer?"
"Yes, Mr. Clarke. That's what people usually do when their ideas are stolen. They sue."
She heard him sigh over the line. A silence drew out. He was no doubt thinking it over in his head.
*She's just someone else that wants the publicity. She doesn't have anything, there's no way this would pan out.*
*Except... why isn't there a news story about this then?*
"What cafe did you have in mind?"
***
Catherine Lorne sat in a corner table, the picture of professionalism. Full business attire, small laptop on the table, a briefcase at her feet. It was then that Mr. Clarke felt underdressed and unprepared for whatever she was about to say. She also seemed familiar.
He sat at the table, wary, and gave a little cough.
Catherine gave no sign whatsoever that she had seen or heard him, although she must have. She continued on her computer for a two full minutes, and then closed and put it at her feet.
"So what's this about, Miss Lorne?"
"About a year ago, I posted something to a site called Reddit. A host of things, actually. About my childhood."
"If you got me out here to waste my time, I-"
She gave Mr. Clarke an eyebrow, and continued. "As you can see, I am a redheaded girl with green eyes. I am of average build and height. I can be very cynical. I work in a professional setting, consultation for large businesses to be exact, and am very good with numbers."
"I fail to see where this is going."
"Of course. You're not a story writer, Mr. Clarke. You're a plagiarizer and thief, which is exactly why you don't understand where there this is going, but I will tell you. All in all I bear quite a bit in common with the main character of your book, don't you think?"
He was silent, and she allowed herself a small smile.
"A year ago, there was an askreddit question. Something about 'most eventful part of life'. Not the most original question, but I was on a work break and wanted to write. Curiously, what happened with my family, is detailed very explicitly in your book."
Gabriel Clarke sniffed. "Coincidence. A lot of people like to read about readheads. Throw in a screwed up family life and it's a best seller."
"Yes, I was sure you'd say something like that. Which is why I brought this."
And with that, Catherine pulled out her briefcase, and withdrew a stack of papers.
"This, Mr. Clarke, is my reddit submitting and and comment history. All well before you claim your book was even thought of, let alone published. It is a detailed account of my life from 17-23, which is why you loved it so much, I'm guessing. There's a pattern here, many submissions and comments of mine had a user named 'taco69fucker' comment on them. Usually one word, sometimes a sentence, and always to save it. Starting with, of course, the main story of my family, which is the focal point of your book."
Mr. Clarke's blood ran cold. She was not only smart, but she had him between a rock and a hard place.
"You have no proof that's me."
"Well, actually..."
She pulled out a second stack from that infernal briefcase, and showed him, to his growing horror, his own comment history, which included where he had once posted his town as a point of reference, in separate cases his first and last name, and, worst of all, links to the online site he posted pieces of his best seller as a rough draft.
"In fact, I've highlighted points where you completely plagiarized things I've written, word for word."
He was done.
"What do you want, Miss Lorne?"
"Fifty percent of profits, and the guarantee that you will never write a book again."
His eyes bulged.
"WHAT? Out of the question!"
She shrugged.
"You can either agree, or I can sue and get it that way. I can assure you that road would cost a lot more. On your end of course. You didn't put anything bad about me in that book of yours, since all you wanted was a fiery little redhead."
Indignantly, he stood up. "Do you really think you can just walk into my life and make everything about you?!"
Catherine replaced her papers, picked up her briefcase and computer, and stood up as well.
"Mr. Clarke, you're the one that made everything about me. I am your main character, after all." | The sun bled across the evening sky in the most interesting way. The colors around me were vibrant and gleeful, but as it was they reflected the opposite of what I felt. That motherfucker! How dare he? The Oprah book of the month bore the name of something Andrew had come up with while skinning squirrels in his backyard. "Third Encounters of The Furry Kind" was written as a side project to all his backyard animal skinning and it was a story based on the little boys who lived in his head. One day, while in the grips of a psychotic breakdown due to excessive caffeine, he decided to write their stories and post them on a website called Reddit. Nobody seemed to care but now...this motherfucker! How dare he? HOW DARE HE?
Andrew walked into what Google had told him was the fucker's house when he realized he couldn't walk through locked doors. Andrew ended up breaking a window. Once inside he noticed the fucker's disturbing lack of dead animals. What a freak! Andrew pulled out his squirrel de-skinning 10inch blade from his lengthy pant pocket just in case the weirdo fucker tried anything. You never know! Andrew approached what seemed to be a bedroom. Nobody there. Nobody in the kitchen. Nobody in the bathroom.
"I sit in the corner of one of the bathrooms and await silently. I know he'll be come running to his shelter eventually... " Andrew thought silently. The last thought that ran through Andrew's mind before he fell asleep was something about designing condoms made out of squirrel skin. |
|
Edit: every single story in this thread is great. Keep on writing guys!
Edit 2: what is is with you all and /r/atheism??? | [WP] War has broken out. Redditors are now fighting IRL. Write about one group's stories. | "Snoop DAWGY DAWWWGG!" I cry with pure adrenalin as I bring my bong down upon my victims head, the glass shards turning another r/pimpcats soldier into to a pimpchidna.
I stop briefly to contemplate the possibility of "bong" being an onomatopoeia for the sound made when pulling a bong.
My philosophizing is put on hold as my Ent Brethren draw their joints. Our foes have no chance now. As our army advances, the enemy try to retreat, but it is too late. A dire hunger grows in each and every one of them, and they begin to drop to the ground. As more and more fall to the ground, they begin to form circles. Chants start to fill the air. "Puff puff pass", "Pass to the left", and many other commandments sacred to the Ents echo around the battlefield. Once again another battle has been won, and another legion united under the banner of r/trees. | The first bomb dropped at 14:34 U.S. central time. At first, everyone at the meet up believed it some kind of joke organized by people looking to rake in Karma from filming our reactions. Except when everyone pulled out their phones, none of them worked. Then, the old CRT tv's went out of phase and then, dark. From the corner where I stood I could slowly feel the blinds of dread and despair draw on the room, casting shadows on everyone's expressions. The ground and walls began to rigorously shake causing the far end of the old theaters roof to collapse, crushing and most likely killing everyone standing beneath it. If there were screams, no one could hear them. It felt as if the hands of god drummed the air around us. Then, there was nothing.
People began to pile into the room. At first it was groups of 3-5 people at a time. No one seemed to notice or care about the smell. those still capable were franticly trying to get their phones on or trying to locate their friends cries for help. But the smell. Still in disbelief I wandered the room, those who had come in from outside wore dark shirts of burnt skin and cloth.
That's it for tonight, I'm going to bed :P
I suck at writing anyways. |
Edit: every single story in this thread is great. Keep on writing guys!
Edit 2: what is is with you all and /r/atheism??? | [WP] War has broken out. Redditors are now fighting IRL. Write about one group's stories. | "Snoop DAWGY DAWWWGG!" I cry with pure adrenalin as I bring my bong down upon my victims head, the glass shards turning another r/pimpcats soldier into to a pimpchidna.
I stop briefly to contemplate the possibility of "bong" being an onomatopoeia for the sound made when pulling a bong.
My philosophizing is put on hold as my Ent Brethren draw their joints. Our foes have no chance now. As our army advances, the enemy try to retreat, but it is too late. A dire hunger grows in each and every one of them, and they begin to drop to the ground. As more and more fall to the ground, they begin to form circles. Chants start to fill the air. "Puff puff pass", "Pass to the left", and many other commandments sacred to the Ents echo around the battlefield. Once again another battle has been won, and another legion united under the banner of r/trees. | The civil war that tore /r/gaming apart, like a sudden but devastating crack spreading through ice, was about as surprising as it was immediate. For years we lived, desperately hoping the beliefs we held and the joys we drew from our chosen deities would keep us together. We all had our passion in common, and for a long while, that was enough. Was it that? Was it our passion that would ultimately tear us apart; a double edged sword of the most dividing kind? Or was there simply too many factions splitting us apart? It depended on who you asked. Maybe the former, maybe the latter, most probably a deadly combination of both. Cutting through the speculation however is a single fact; it all started with the long seated rivalry of the proud Sonee clan, and the brutal warriors of the Kros-Boks clan.
For as long as anyone can remember, the threat of Peeci (the so-dreaded master race) was all that kept the Sonee and the Kros-Boksians in an uneasy confederation. United they could stand up to the continual abuse the Peeci laid at their doors, but that was all they perceived themselves to have in common. Their entirely different cultural beliefs often put them at odds: the Sonee believed in a lineage of gods, with each generation of god building upon the legacy of the last, simply referring to each god as a numerical value based on how far down the lineage they had come (they currently worshipped Four). The warrior society of the Cros-Boks was slightly more archaic, choosing to worship their current warriors as demi-gods. For instance there was the Pheonix, who it was said had a chest the size of two barrels and was rumoured to be partially made from gears. Above all however there was the Great Chief, a green giant who encouraged actions instead of words.
In any case, when war finally broke out between the two factions, it was all anyone else could do but be slowly swallowed into the turmoil. The Nentendia clan tried to alleviate the coming violence by migrating their society into exciting, new, unheard-of directions, but it was of no use. Before long they had to defend their lands from the great civil war, and a similar fate befell the nomadic people of Mobyle, finishing the complete militarisation of /r/gaming.
I, of course, harbour my fair share of the blame. However, it was never my intention to rile and inflame the Peeci like I did, I only ever meant the best for my tribe. In a million years I never thought my discovery of steam would be used against the rest of /r/gaming like it has been. But it's not too late. I've forged a new device, a steam machine that runs on my previous discovery; my assistants have simply labelled it the Steam Box. This time it will be available to everyone, and I can only hope it will level the playing field and bring peace to the great subreddit of /r/gaming.
Sincerely, and with much hope,
Gabe Logan Newell.
Aside: This is my first attempt at properly writing, feel free to lay on the criticism! |
Edit: every single story in this thread is great. Keep on writing guys!
Edit 2: what is is with you all and /r/atheism??? | [WP] War has broken out. Redditors are now fighting IRL. Write about one group's stories. | /u/the_dinks looked out at his fellow brave soldiers while the group's medic, /u/wsgy111 stitched up his arm. "You should really get a prostate exam," advised wsgy, but Dinks knew that there were more pressing matters at hand. Taking a swig of Code Blue Mountain Dew, he steadied himself on the arm of his chair, and waited for the assembled soldiers to quiet down.
"My fellow brave soldiers, today is a day we will never forget. While we did manage to destroy the kingdom of the pun threads, we lost a great warrior today. May the world always remember the strength and tenacity of /u/T_Dumbsford, who died at the ripe age of 87."
The 18 year old Dinks took a moment to compose himself, looking at his waifu, /u/flamindogpoo, for encouragement. The roar of /u/jij sounded in the distance.
"But m'lord," exclaimed /u/Rountree1, his cock swaying free in the breeze, "what about /u/ValyrianAss, or whatever he's calling himself these days?"
"Yeah!" agreed /u/Boobies_Are_Awesome. "I always said that Bane had a future. In fact, everyone shut up and listen to me drunkenly rant about him. Bane, you've got a future-"
BAA's mic was cut as /u/altosax29b muted him. Dinks nodded to alto, and continued with his speech.
"My friends, it is true that Bane is missing. But we will have to do without him. /u/THIS_IS_A_SHITPOST, you'll need to step it up on the shitposts. /u/pyrowolf8, you now have to represent whatever ethnicity Bane was on your own." Both looked frightened at the responsibility, but Dinks knew they would hold.
"And friends, this is the last battle we will ever fight, for *she* is ready."
A murmur swept through the crowd. /u/bodom2245 was visibly taken aback.
"...Sir, are you sure that it's the right time? After all we don't know what *she's* capable of!"
The Dinks knew that. He turned his back to the troops, and looked at the massive rumbling cage in front of him.
"Guardians of bravery, we have no choice. The armies of /r/atheism will be here on the morrow, and they just got a fresh shipment of fedoras. We have to win at all costs. /u/Here_Comes_The_King, release the beast!"
"Foshizzle, Dinks." Snoop finished his joint and started turning the large wench that covered the door to her cage. As the wind picked up and shifted some of the rubble, Dinks thought about his dear friend /u/K_Lobstah , killed by the traitorous armies of /r/JustTyphoonThings. He thought about his family, his precious waifu, and about the baby /u/donkey_brains. But as he caught the first sight of her, all these thoughts were erased from his mind.
"God help us," pleaded Dinks as more of /u/Kesha_Paul's irradiated figure was revealed, a result of the great and terrible April 20th nuclear Doritos plant meltdown. Dinks nervously fingered the trigger of his NERF™ pistol, all the while knowing that its mighty darts would do nothing against this monster. Dinks spit out his spliff and shaded his eyes, trying to block out the harshness of the winter sun.
"God help us all."
| The first plans were laid long ago, when modems screeched and black sludge clogged mice. The accumulation of white young men in their 20s was each sides first obvious goal. These are the souls to grieve for, for they are the damned. Unknowingly and unwittingly, for points that cant be spent, they cast away their humanity. The system that shaped them was most cunning. Subliminal messages, classification, rankings, and detailed statistics were spoon fed to them in the shape of narwhals, bacon, and karma.
The years of aggregation were slow, but each sides army had finally reached a goodly size and the agreed upon date of battle drew near. The leaders of this battle had never met, put together at random odds. Perhaps if they had shared a moment before, the treachery would of been more obvious. But as always one side zergged, and the other rage quit. |
Edit: every single story in this thread is great. Keep on writing guys!
Edit 2: what is is with you all and /r/atheism??? | [WP] War has broken out. Redditors are now fighting IRL. Write about one group's stories. | /u/the_dinks looked out at his fellow brave soldiers while the group's medic, /u/wsgy111 stitched up his arm. "You should really get a prostate exam," advised wsgy, but Dinks knew that there were more pressing matters at hand. Taking a swig of Code Blue Mountain Dew, he steadied himself on the arm of his chair, and waited for the assembled soldiers to quiet down.
"My fellow brave soldiers, today is a day we will never forget. While we did manage to destroy the kingdom of the pun threads, we lost a great warrior today. May the world always remember the strength and tenacity of /u/T_Dumbsford, who died at the ripe age of 87."
The 18 year old Dinks took a moment to compose himself, looking at his waifu, /u/flamindogpoo, for encouragement. The roar of /u/jij sounded in the distance.
"But m'lord," exclaimed /u/Rountree1, his cock swaying free in the breeze, "what about /u/ValyrianAss, or whatever he's calling himself these days?"
"Yeah!" agreed /u/Boobies_Are_Awesome. "I always said that Bane had a future. In fact, everyone shut up and listen to me drunkenly rant about him. Bane, you've got a future-"
BAA's mic was cut as /u/altosax29b muted him. Dinks nodded to alto, and continued with his speech.
"My friends, it is true that Bane is missing. But we will have to do without him. /u/THIS_IS_A_SHITPOST, you'll need to step it up on the shitposts. /u/pyrowolf8, you now have to represent whatever ethnicity Bane was on your own." Both looked frightened at the responsibility, but Dinks knew they would hold.
"And friends, this is the last battle we will ever fight, for *she* is ready."
A murmur swept through the crowd. /u/bodom2245 was visibly taken aback.
"...Sir, are you sure that it's the right time? After all we don't know what *she's* capable of!"
The Dinks knew that. He turned his back to the troops, and looked at the massive rumbling cage in front of him.
"Guardians of bravery, we have no choice. The armies of /r/atheism will be here on the morrow, and they just got a fresh shipment of fedoras. We have to win at all costs. /u/Here_Comes_The_King, release the beast!"
"Foshizzle, Dinks." Snoop finished his joint and started turning the large wench that covered the door to her cage. As the wind picked up and shifted some of the rubble, Dinks thought about his dear friend /u/K_Lobstah , killed by the traitorous armies of /r/JustTyphoonThings. He thought about his family, his precious waifu, and about the baby /u/donkey_brains. But as he caught the first sight of her, all these thoughts were erased from his mind.
"God help us," pleaded Dinks as more of /u/Kesha_Paul's irradiated figure was revealed, a result of the great and terrible April 20th nuclear Doritos plant meltdown. Dinks nervously fingered the trigger of his NERF™ pistol, all the while knowing that its mighty darts would do nothing against this monster. Dinks spit out his spliff and shaded his eyes, trying to block out the harshness of the winter sun.
"God help us all."
| Sometimes the battles that nobody pays any attention to are the ones most worth fighting. After the first shots were fired and the atheists and Christians started slugging it out in the city, most of the others aligned themselves with one group or the other. The reporters have already started calling the Reddit War an episode of "religious conflict". But war is never so simple. And it was on the night just after the world's eyes turned towards the larger battle that *they* made their move against us. We should have seen it coming, but I suppose we got so used to making fun of them that we started to forget what they were capable of.
I turn to the man cuffed to the chair in the middle of the rusty, leaking basement in the abandoned apartment complex where we've made camp. His breathing is heavy and ragged, sweat stains darken his fedora. We have a strict policy against physically torturing prisoners but he doesn't need to know that yet.
"How are you feeling?" I ask him. "Hungry? Tired? You know, I can make your stay here a *lot* more comfortable if you cooperate."
He takes a deep breath to muster his courage. "Sorry, *m'lady,* but I would never betray my brothers in arms!"
"'M'lady?' Really? You do realize I'm a guy, right?"
"*Manginas* don't count, you traitor." He tries to spit onto the floor but it lands on his large stomach. "Go back to eating your blue pills and white-knighting for the matriarchy!"
"What is that even supposed to m...actually, never mind. All I need to know is where the local r/mensrights hit squad is stationed, how many troops it has, and how much firepower they're packing. Answer my questions, and you get to walk out of here. Keep stonewalling me, and things will get very unpleasant." I point towards the little table next to me. He sees the interrogation materials and starts to sweat even more.
He whispers under his breath, *"Paul Elam, great martyr, hear my prayer and grant me the strength to stay alpha in the face of-"*
"Your 'great martyr' can't help you. Why do you even call him that, anyway? He didn't die in battle, he gave himself a heart attack listening to an interview with Anita Sarkeesian. That was *months* before the war even started!"
"Well, he was broken by the pressures of living in a gynocentric world! The constant fear of being drafted, or left behind on the Titanic, or having to pay for dinner on every date was too much for his noble heart to bear!"
"That's quite enough of that." In one motion, I pull the fedora off his head and hold it over the flame of a zippo lighter. He cringes and tries to look away.
"No, please, don't!"
"Well, are you ready to...ah, god damn it. Really?" This thing is so covered in sweat and pizza grease that it won't even light. Throwing it aside in disgust, I sigh and rub my eyes. What a way to spend a night. My squad has been holding off MRA raiding parties for over 36 hours, and all I want to do is go to sleep. But we need that information.
"I can see that you're not going to do this the easy way. But don't worry, we *will* get what we want." I knock on the big metal door. "Ready when you are. Come on in." The prisoner glances nervously around the room, trying to predict what will happen to him next.
The door opens, and in steps one of our best soldiers. She is 22, tall and blonde, wearing a low-cut My Little Pony t-shirt that our squad was issued for situations like these. I take a step back into the shadows and get ready to take notes. Prisoners never lasted long when we brought out the big guns.
"Hey!" she said cheerfully, picking up the fedora. "This hat is really classy! Here, I'll put it back on your head for you. Wow, you look so much more...*sophisticated* up close. Wait...are you wearing an MLP shirt too? Oh my god! That is *so* cool! We have so much in common."
His eyes are immediately drawn to her chest. Then, somehow, he manages to tip his fedora while cuffed. That must be a special move taught in MRA evasion training. This guy might be of a higher rank than he let on.
"Thanks...m'lady...hey, do you want to, maybe, like, hang out sometime...?"
Her eyes widen and she strokes the hair on his neck. "Wow, really? Yes, of course I do! I'm so tired of dating jerks and it would be *wonderful* to finally be with a nice guy who-" she paused.
"Wait," he whispered, "what are you doing?"
"Actually," she said slowly, "I think you're cool and all, but maybe we should just be friends."
He starts to tremble. "Wait. Stop. Please, you don't need to do this."
"Don't worry, we can still hang out together, it's just that-"
"AAUUGH! No! You bitch, I'll never tell you a goddamn thing!"
"It's just that I see you as more like a *brother* than..."
"*THE POWER PLANT! OUR OUTPOST WAS IN THE OLD POWER PLANT, THERE'S TWENTY-EIGHT OF US, ALL WITH RIFLES AND FOUR RPG's! PLEASE, MAKE IT STOP!*"
I tap her on the shoulder and she steps back. "Thank you, comrade. That will do nicely." She salutes, returns the MLP shirt to the interrogation table, and exits the room with a smile.
The prisoner is panting, drooling, looking like he's about to pass out. I give him a drink of water and he sucks it down through gritted teeth.
"You bastards," he seethes, "You'll pay for this. My men already control this town. We'll wipe you and all the other r/feminism scum off the face of the Earth, and I'll be there to pull the trigger when it's you up against the wall."
"Maybe you will." I uncuff him and put a black bag over his head. "But when you get back to your army, tell them this: you can conquer us, you can occupy our homes, you can even kill us, but no matter what..." I pause for a moment before injecting him with the sedative. "The word 'spermjack' will *always* be hilarious and there is *nothing* you can do to stop it."
I press the plunger and he slumps forward in the chair. Two of my comrades come in with ski masks and rifles to carry him away. As they haul him out of the room, I glance over my notes. The power plant. Yes, that made sense. The MRAs would never fortify a location without reliable electricity for their computers. It would be a tough fight, but not impossible. We would have the element of surprise, they would finally be on the defensive for once, and besides...sexual frustration can only keep an army going for so long when it's made up of complete fucking idiots.
|
Edit: every single story in this thread is great. Keep on writing guys!
Edit 2: what is is with you all and /r/atheism??? | [WP] War has broken out. Redditors are now fighting IRL. Write about one group's stories. | /u/the_dinks looked out at his fellow brave soldiers while the group's medic, /u/wsgy111 stitched up his arm. "You should really get a prostate exam," advised wsgy, but Dinks knew that there were more pressing matters at hand. Taking a swig of Code Blue Mountain Dew, he steadied himself on the arm of his chair, and waited for the assembled soldiers to quiet down.
"My fellow brave soldiers, today is a day we will never forget. While we did manage to destroy the kingdom of the pun threads, we lost a great warrior today. May the world always remember the strength and tenacity of /u/T_Dumbsford, who died at the ripe age of 87."
The 18 year old Dinks took a moment to compose himself, looking at his waifu, /u/flamindogpoo, for encouragement. The roar of /u/jij sounded in the distance.
"But m'lord," exclaimed /u/Rountree1, his cock swaying free in the breeze, "what about /u/ValyrianAss, or whatever he's calling himself these days?"
"Yeah!" agreed /u/Boobies_Are_Awesome. "I always said that Bane had a future. In fact, everyone shut up and listen to me drunkenly rant about him. Bane, you've got a future-"
BAA's mic was cut as /u/altosax29b muted him. Dinks nodded to alto, and continued with his speech.
"My friends, it is true that Bane is missing. But we will have to do without him. /u/THIS_IS_A_SHITPOST, you'll need to step it up on the shitposts. /u/pyrowolf8, you now have to represent whatever ethnicity Bane was on your own." Both looked frightened at the responsibility, but Dinks knew they would hold.
"And friends, this is the last battle we will ever fight, for *she* is ready."
A murmur swept through the crowd. /u/bodom2245 was visibly taken aback.
"...Sir, are you sure that it's the right time? After all we don't know what *she's* capable of!"
The Dinks knew that. He turned his back to the troops, and looked at the massive rumbling cage in front of him.
"Guardians of bravery, we have no choice. The armies of /r/atheism will be here on the morrow, and they just got a fresh shipment of fedoras. We have to win at all costs. /u/Here_Comes_The_King, release the beast!"
"Foshizzle, Dinks." Snoop finished his joint and started turning the large wench that covered the door to her cage. As the wind picked up and shifted some of the rubble, Dinks thought about his dear friend /u/K_Lobstah , killed by the traitorous armies of /r/JustTyphoonThings. He thought about his family, his precious waifu, and about the baby /u/donkey_brains. But as he caught the first sight of her, all these thoughts were erased from his mind.
"God help us," pleaded Dinks as more of /u/Kesha_Paul's irradiated figure was revealed, a result of the great and terrible April 20th nuclear Doritos plant meltdown. Dinks nervously fingered the trigger of his NERF™ pistol, all the while knowing that its mighty darts would do nothing against this monster. Dinks spit out his spliff and shaded his eyes, trying to block out the harshness of the winter sun.
"God help us all."
| Fucking hell.
I do the best I can, keeping people up when they get filled with downvotes. It's hard when you only have one upvote to give sometimes. It's harder when they never give up throwing downvotes at us. Day after day, /r/Atheism taunts us for our faith in victory. Our faith in anything. Fuck them. We heard that /r/4chan managed to break through fortress Gonewild but we haven't gotten another messenger since. I'm not sure if that's a good thing anymore. The PC Master Race guys perform amazingly despite the fact that they refuse to use anything except computer parts for weapons and frequently challenge enemy units to Crysis Hunter Mode matches. Sometimes when I'm feeling down I poke my head up from the trenches and watch one of those big glorious blond bastards smash an /r/xboxone militiaman's head in with a motherboard.
Things are getting worse here now that Lord /u/I_RAPE_CATS has mustered his whole horde. We hear he even drew levies from /r/MorbidReality and they haven't even pledged allegiance to anyone yet. The whole army from Spacedicks met with WTF near /r/Funny and WTF was shattered. Jesus. The people I had to upvote after that battle were barely people. The horde's besieging Funny now but I'm not worried. With 4 million subscribers they can hold out a long, long time. God, I hear that /u/I_RAPE_CATS even released those freaks from gonewidl on the defenders of /r/Funny.
In the face of a common enemy, it seems all of the non-/r/atheists joined up over here. They hold up admirably despite their low numbers and upvoting them is always easier, it seems. The last news we got before the Atheists managed to cut us off from everybody else is that /u/Unidan is converging TIL, Askreddit, and a few minors to push back Spacedicks. I hope it works.
If you get this little message, then I'm either dead and you found it, or that we managed to beat back the atheists and send this.
I hope it's the latter.
--/u/Doctor_Waffleses |
Edit: every single story in this thread is great. Keep on writing guys!
Edit 2: what is is with you all and /r/atheism??? | [WP] War has broken out. Redditors are now fighting IRL. Write about one group's stories. | /u/the_dinks looked out at his fellow brave soldiers while the group's medic, /u/wsgy111 stitched up his arm. "You should really get a prostate exam," advised wsgy, but Dinks knew that there were more pressing matters at hand. Taking a swig of Code Blue Mountain Dew, he steadied himself on the arm of his chair, and waited for the assembled soldiers to quiet down.
"My fellow brave soldiers, today is a day we will never forget. While we did manage to destroy the kingdom of the pun threads, we lost a great warrior today. May the world always remember the strength and tenacity of /u/T_Dumbsford, who died at the ripe age of 87."
The 18 year old Dinks took a moment to compose himself, looking at his waifu, /u/flamindogpoo, for encouragement. The roar of /u/jij sounded in the distance.
"But m'lord," exclaimed /u/Rountree1, his cock swaying free in the breeze, "what about /u/ValyrianAss, or whatever he's calling himself these days?"
"Yeah!" agreed /u/Boobies_Are_Awesome. "I always said that Bane had a future. In fact, everyone shut up and listen to me drunkenly rant about him. Bane, you've got a future-"
BAA's mic was cut as /u/altosax29b muted him. Dinks nodded to alto, and continued with his speech.
"My friends, it is true that Bane is missing. But we will have to do without him. /u/THIS_IS_A_SHITPOST, you'll need to step it up on the shitposts. /u/pyrowolf8, you now have to represent whatever ethnicity Bane was on your own." Both looked frightened at the responsibility, but Dinks knew they would hold.
"And friends, this is the last battle we will ever fight, for *she* is ready."
A murmur swept through the crowd. /u/bodom2245 was visibly taken aback.
"...Sir, are you sure that it's the right time? After all we don't know what *she's* capable of!"
The Dinks knew that. He turned his back to the troops, and looked at the massive rumbling cage in front of him.
"Guardians of bravery, we have no choice. The armies of /r/atheism will be here on the morrow, and they just got a fresh shipment of fedoras. We have to win at all costs. /u/Here_Comes_The_King, release the beast!"
"Foshizzle, Dinks." Snoop finished his joint and started turning the large wench that covered the door to her cage. As the wind picked up and shifted some of the rubble, Dinks thought about his dear friend /u/K_Lobstah , killed by the traitorous armies of /r/JustTyphoonThings. He thought about his family, his precious waifu, and about the baby /u/donkey_brains. But as he caught the first sight of her, all these thoughts were erased from his mind.
"God help us," pleaded Dinks as more of /u/Kesha_Paul's irradiated figure was revealed, a result of the great and terrible April 20th nuclear Doritos plant meltdown. Dinks nervously fingered the trigger of his NERF™ pistol, all the while knowing that its mighty darts would do nothing against this monster. Dinks spit out his spliff and shaded his eyes, trying to block out the harshness of the winter sun.
"God help us all."
| The war room was a scene of chaos. The proposed battle strategies numbered in the thousands. With [/r/gaming](http://www.reddit.com/r/gaming/) starting to move into a flanking position, time to think was quickly running out. The general leaned back and attempted to process the myriad options laid out in front of him. The constant screaming of his lead strategists certainly was not helping.
“We *have* to take to the water,” one pleaded. “There’s no other way to get to the objective!”
Another chimed in, “No! We have to play to our strengths! Our air power is unstoppable.”
“Our forces are weary,” shouted a third. “We must withdraw. Bring them back to the Centre to rest and heal the wounded!”
The general laid his red hat down on the table and began to massage his temples. His frustration was mounting. Every choice brings with it potentially dire consequences. Add to that the fact that any personnel changes on the front line have often resulted in defection – even from his best soldiers – and the ramifications of his decision became all the more complicated.
With the commotion in the war room, he could not even hear his own thoughts. Being pulled in so many directions at once was quickly driving him insane. *Thirty seconds,* his mind screamed. *I just need THIRTY SECONDS to figure all this out.*
The general banged his fist on the table with a boom. “Will you people PLEASE do this like civilized human beings?!?” The anarchy in the room ceased immediately. They’d never heard the general raise his voice like that before. Unmoving, seemingly frozen in time, they stared intently back at him. Waiting for him to process his thoughts.
Shaking with frustration, the general grabbed a pen and paper from the cabinet behind him. “Here’s what we’re going to do. Pass these around and *vote* on which direction we should take our troops. Get me when you have a consensus.”
He left the gathered [r/twitchplayspokemon](http://www.reddit.com/r/twitchplayspokemon/) advisers to their vote and retreated into his study. He slammed the door, finally alone with his thoughts. He fell to his knees and reached into his right pocket. He brought out the old fossil and held it close, whispering, “Deliver us from evil, o Helix. Bird Jesus be praised. Amen.” |
Edit: every single story in this thread is great. Keep on writing guys!
Edit 2: what is is with you all and /r/atheism??? | [WP] War has broken out. Redditors are now fighting IRL. Write about one group's stories. | /u/the_dinks looked out at his fellow brave soldiers while the group's medic, /u/wsgy111 stitched up his arm. "You should really get a prostate exam," advised wsgy, but Dinks knew that there were more pressing matters at hand. Taking a swig of Code Blue Mountain Dew, he steadied himself on the arm of his chair, and waited for the assembled soldiers to quiet down.
"My fellow brave soldiers, today is a day we will never forget. While we did manage to destroy the kingdom of the pun threads, we lost a great warrior today. May the world always remember the strength and tenacity of /u/T_Dumbsford, who died at the ripe age of 87."
The 18 year old Dinks took a moment to compose himself, looking at his waifu, /u/flamindogpoo, for encouragement. The roar of /u/jij sounded in the distance.
"But m'lord," exclaimed /u/Rountree1, his cock swaying free in the breeze, "what about /u/ValyrianAss, or whatever he's calling himself these days?"
"Yeah!" agreed /u/Boobies_Are_Awesome. "I always said that Bane had a future. In fact, everyone shut up and listen to me drunkenly rant about him. Bane, you've got a future-"
BAA's mic was cut as /u/altosax29b muted him. Dinks nodded to alto, and continued with his speech.
"My friends, it is true that Bane is missing. But we will have to do without him. /u/THIS_IS_A_SHITPOST, you'll need to step it up on the shitposts. /u/pyrowolf8, you now have to represent whatever ethnicity Bane was on your own." Both looked frightened at the responsibility, but Dinks knew they would hold.
"And friends, this is the last battle we will ever fight, for *she* is ready."
A murmur swept through the crowd. /u/bodom2245 was visibly taken aback.
"...Sir, are you sure that it's the right time? After all we don't know what *she's* capable of!"
The Dinks knew that. He turned his back to the troops, and looked at the massive rumbling cage in front of him.
"Guardians of bravery, we have no choice. The armies of /r/atheism will be here on the morrow, and they just got a fresh shipment of fedoras. We have to win at all costs. /u/Here_Comes_The_King, release the beast!"
"Foshizzle, Dinks." Snoop finished his joint and started turning the large wench that covered the door to her cage. As the wind picked up and shifted some of the rubble, Dinks thought about his dear friend /u/K_Lobstah , killed by the traitorous armies of /r/JustTyphoonThings. He thought about his family, his precious waifu, and about the baby /u/donkey_brains. But as he caught the first sight of her, all these thoughts were erased from his mind.
"God help us," pleaded Dinks as more of /u/Kesha_Paul's irradiated figure was revealed, a result of the great and terrible April 20th nuclear Doritos plant meltdown. Dinks nervously fingered the trigger of his NERF™ pistol, all the while knowing that its mighty darts would do nothing against this monster. Dinks spit out his spliff and shaded his eyes, trying to block out the harshness of the winter sun.
"God help us all."
| Everything we ever believed in was a lie.
They held up a blanket of lies in front of our faces, and we trusted everything they said. The ones who spoke out early were banned, downvoted, or worse. I sit here, five years later after the breakdown of /r/badhistory, not knowing whether I should laugh or cry.
I live under the fear to be found out and shipped off and offered to the Volcano God. It's enough to make you question your life choices a bit - however it's much too late now. I fondly recall the moments on Reddit where we were laughing at people with ridiculous beliefs. I was never part of the hardcore /r/atheism crowd, but I agree I chuckled to a few of the memes posted there of ignorant Christians. Likewise, I thoroughly enjoyed having a laugh when incredulous statements were made, in particular about Jesus existence, or rather non-existence.
It was all a ruthless lie to lead us into slavery. The mods of /r/badhistory joined forces with the mods of /r/askhistorians and ambushed us sometime in the Spring of 2016. It's all a blur by now, so I can't recall the actual order of events. They gathered us up after sending out a bogus invitation to a global meetup called "Obliterate History Revisionism". We were helpless. We were expecting so much, our lives has become dependent on a daily fix of bad, revisionist history, but nothing prepared us for the truth.
Jesus walked out of the volcano.
He was the Volcano God.
At his side was Adolf Hitler and Mother Teresa.
Hundreds of thousands perished within minutes from the molten lava that exploded in a fashion that would make Roland Emmerich blush.
Jesus brought with him the scrolls from the Library of Alexandria. They had been hidden for thousands of years, because humanity was deemed not worthy of that knowledge yet. Only the mods of /r/askhistorians and /r/badhistory had the capacity to understand the scrolls. During the next months, devilish machines were produced - probably from instructions on these scrolls - which lay most of the land to waste.
I know there must be the details on how to construct a time machine somewhere in those scrolls. Some of us, mostly former moderators of various meta-subreddits, have formed a rebellion - trying to infiltrate their base to steal the scroll, build a time machine and go back and burn the scrolls before Jesus hid them. We are biding our time.
Strong, then kill.
|
Edit: every single story in this thread is great. Keep on writing guys!
Edit 2: what is is with you all and /r/atheism??? | [WP] War has broken out. Redditors are now fighting IRL. Write about one group's stories. | Reddit. April 1, 2013. OrangeReds Vs Periwinkles.
It was a bloody war. Subreddits were destroyed through and through. Hatred was spread. Downvotes purely based on some arbitrary random categorization. No one had any idea what they were doing, but they recruited their IRL friends. If those friends were on the enemy side, then damn them.
Comments were attacked. people said things, and those things were altered. Home subreddits were created. The actual rules were eventually revealed, but I don't think anyone cared.
Hatred still exists to this day.
Damn periwinkles. | *Historians have just recovered relics from the third world war, before internet censors shut down international communication. A very interesting look into the day-to-day culture of citizens who happened to be at war. Here are a few notable examples.*
.
I think our government should realize something about the war. (livememe.com)
submitted 3 hours ago to the_truth to AdviceAnimals
41 comments share save hide report
.
.
.
War. (imgur.com)
submitted 5 hours ago by The_not_dead_soldier to WTF
NSFW/NSFL 327 comments share save hide report
.
.
.
Clinton calls for peace talks with China, there may be an end in sight to this war. (reuters.com)
submitted 7 hours ago by Nws_Rprtr to worldnews
9023 comments share save hide report
.
.
.
My friend was shot in the head, yesterday. I don't see a need to go on (self.suicidewatch)
submitted 7 hours ago by throwawayforever2201 to suicidewatch
90 comments share save hide report
.
.
.
Well this is what war looks like! (imgur.com)
submitted 4 hours ago by alphaman2061 to funny
338 comments share save hide report
.
.
. |
Edit: every single story in this thread is great. Keep on writing guys!
Edit 2: what is is with you all and /r/atheism??? | [WP] War has broken out. Redditors are now fighting IRL. Write about one group's stories. | /u/the_dinks looked out at his fellow brave soldiers while the group's medic, /u/wsgy111 stitched up his arm. "You should really get a prostate exam," advised wsgy, but Dinks knew that there were more pressing matters at hand. Taking a swig of Code Blue Mountain Dew, he steadied himself on the arm of his chair, and waited for the assembled soldiers to quiet down.
"My fellow brave soldiers, today is a day we will never forget. While we did manage to destroy the kingdom of the pun threads, we lost a great warrior today. May the world always remember the strength and tenacity of /u/T_Dumbsford, who died at the ripe age of 87."
The 18 year old Dinks took a moment to compose himself, looking at his waifu, /u/flamindogpoo, for encouragement. The roar of /u/jij sounded in the distance.
"But m'lord," exclaimed /u/Rountree1, his cock swaying free in the breeze, "what about /u/ValyrianAss, or whatever he's calling himself these days?"
"Yeah!" agreed /u/Boobies_Are_Awesome. "I always said that Bane had a future. In fact, everyone shut up and listen to me drunkenly rant about him. Bane, you've got a future-"
BAA's mic was cut as /u/altosax29b muted him. Dinks nodded to alto, and continued with his speech.
"My friends, it is true that Bane is missing. But we will have to do without him. /u/THIS_IS_A_SHITPOST, you'll need to step it up on the shitposts. /u/pyrowolf8, you now have to represent whatever ethnicity Bane was on your own." Both looked frightened at the responsibility, but Dinks knew they would hold.
"And friends, this is the last battle we will ever fight, for *she* is ready."
A murmur swept through the crowd. /u/bodom2245 was visibly taken aback.
"...Sir, are you sure that it's the right time? After all we don't know what *she's* capable of!"
The Dinks knew that. He turned his back to the troops, and looked at the massive rumbling cage in front of him.
"Guardians of bravery, we have no choice. The armies of /r/atheism will be here on the morrow, and they just got a fresh shipment of fedoras. We have to win at all costs. /u/Here_Comes_The_King, release the beast!"
"Foshizzle, Dinks." Snoop finished his joint and started turning the large wench that covered the door to her cage. As the wind picked up and shifted some of the rubble, Dinks thought about his dear friend /u/K_Lobstah , killed by the traitorous armies of /r/JustTyphoonThings. He thought about his family, his precious waifu, and about the baby /u/donkey_brains. But as he caught the first sight of her, all these thoughts were erased from his mind.
"God help us," pleaded Dinks as more of /u/Kesha_Paul's irradiated figure was revealed, a result of the great and terrible April 20th nuclear Doritos plant meltdown. Dinks nervously fingered the trigger of his NERF™ pistol, all the while knowing that its mighty darts would do nothing against this monster. Dinks spit out his spliff and shaded his eyes, trying to block out the harshness of the winter sun.
"God help us all."
| *Historians have just recovered relics from the third world war, before internet censors shut down international communication. A very interesting look into the day-to-day culture of citizens who happened to be at war. Here are a few notable examples.*
.
I think our government should realize something about the war. (livememe.com)
submitted 3 hours ago to the_truth to AdviceAnimals
41 comments share save hide report
.
.
.
War. (imgur.com)
submitted 5 hours ago by The_not_dead_soldier to WTF
NSFW/NSFL 327 comments share save hide report
.
.
.
Clinton calls for peace talks with China, there may be an end in sight to this war. (reuters.com)
submitted 7 hours ago by Nws_Rprtr to worldnews
9023 comments share save hide report
.
.
.
My friend was shot in the head, yesterday. I don't see a need to go on (self.suicidewatch)
submitted 7 hours ago by throwawayforever2201 to suicidewatch
90 comments share save hide report
.
.
.
Well this is what war looks like! (imgur.com)
submitted 4 hours ago by alphaman2061 to funny
338 comments share save hide report
.
.
. |
Edit: every single story in this thread is great. Keep on writing guys!
Edit 2: what is is with you all and /r/atheism??? | [WP] War has broken out. Redditors are now fighting IRL. Write about one group's stories. | /u/the_dinks looked out at his fellow brave soldiers while the group's medic, /u/wsgy111 stitched up his arm. "You should really get a prostate exam," advised wsgy, but Dinks knew that there were more pressing matters at hand. Taking a swig of Code Blue Mountain Dew, he steadied himself on the arm of his chair, and waited for the assembled soldiers to quiet down.
"My fellow brave soldiers, today is a day we will never forget. While we did manage to destroy the kingdom of the pun threads, we lost a great warrior today. May the world always remember the strength and tenacity of /u/T_Dumbsford, who died at the ripe age of 87."
The 18 year old Dinks took a moment to compose himself, looking at his waifu, /u/flamindogpoo, for encouragement. The roar of /u/jij sounded in the distance.
"But m'lord," exclaimed /u/Rountree1, his cock swaying free in the breeze, "what about /u/ValyrianAss, or whatever he's calling himself these days?"
"Yeah!" agreed /u/Boobies_Are_Awesome. "I always said that Bane had a future. In fact, everyone shut up and listen to me drunkenly rant about him. Bane, you've got a future-"
BAA's mic was cut as /u/altosax29b muted him. Dinks nodded to alto, and continued with his speech.
"My friends, it is true that Bane is missing. But we will have to do without him. /u/THIS_IS_A_SHITPOST, you'll need to step it up on the shitposts. /u/pyrowolf8, you now have to represent whatever ethnicity Bane was on your own." Both looked frightened at the responsibility, but Dinks knew they would hold.
"And friends, this is the last battle we will ever fight, for *she* is ready."
A murmur swept through the crowd. /u/bodom2245 was visibly taken aback.
"...Sir, are you sure that it's the right time? After all we don't know what *she's* capable of!"
The Dinks knew that. He turned his back to the troops, and looked at the massive rumbling cage in front of him.
"Guardians of bravery, we have no choice. The armies of /r/atheism will be here on the morrow, and they just got a fresh shipment of fedoras. We have to win at all costs. /u/Here_Comes_The_King, release the beast!"
"Foshizzle, Dinks." Snoop finished his joint and started turning the large wench that covered the door to her cage. As the wind picked up and shifted some of the rubble, Dinks thought about his dear friend /u/K_Lobstah , killed by the traitorous armies of /r/JustTyphoonThings. He thought about his family, his precious waifu, and about the baby /u/donkey_brains. But as he caught the first sight of her, all these thoughts were erased from his mind.
"God help us," pleaded Dinks as more of /u/Kesha_Paul's irradiated figure was revealed, a result of the great and terrible April 20th nuclear Doritos plant meltdown. Dinks nervously fingered the trigger of his NERF™ pistol, all the while knowing that its mighty darts would do nothing against this monster. Dinks spit out his spliff and shaded his eyes, trying to block out the harshness of the winter sun.
"God help us all."
| Reddit. April 1, 2013. OrangeReds Vs Periwinkles.
It was a bloody war. Subreddits were destroyed through and through. Hatred was spread. Downvotes purely based on some arbitrary random categorization. No one had any idea what they were doing, but they recruited their IRL friends. If those friends were on the enemy side, then damn them.
Comments were attacked. people said things, and those things were altered. Home subreddits were created. The actual rules were eventually revealed, but I don't think anyone cared.
Hatred still exists to this day.
Damn periwinkles. |
Edit: every single story in this thread is great. Keep on writing guys!
Edit 2: what is is with you all and /r/atheism??? | [WP] War has broken out. Redditors are now fighting IRL. Write about one group's stories. | /u/the_dinks looked out at his fellow brave soldiers while the group's medic, /u/wsgy111 stitched up his arm. "You should really get a prostate exam," advised wsgy, but Dinks knew that there were more pressing matters at hand. Taking a swig of Code Blue Mountain Dew, he steadied himself on the arm of his chair, and waited for the assembled soldiers to quiet down.
"My fellow brave soldiers, today is a day we will never forget. While we did manage to destroy the kingdom of the pun threads, we lost a great warrior today. May the world always remember the strength and tenacity of /u/T_Dumbsford, who died at the ripe age of 87."
The 18 year old Dinks took a moment to compose himself, looking at his waifu, /u/flamindogpoo, for encouragement. The roar of /u/jij sounded in the distance.
"But m'lord," exclaimed /u/Rountree1, his cock swaying free in the breeze, "what about /u/ValyrianAss, or whatever he's calling himself these days?"
"Yeah!" agreed /u/Boobies_Are_Awesome. "I always said that Bane had a future. In fact, everyone shut up and listen to me drunkenly rant about him. Bane, you've got a future-"
BAA's mic was cut as /u/altosax29b muted him. Dinks nodded to alto, and continued with his speech.
"My friends, it is true that Bane is missing. But we will have to do without him. /u/THIS_IS_A_SHITPOST, you'll need to step it up on the shitposts. /u/pyrowolf8, you now have to represent whatever ethnicity Bane was on your own." Both looked frightened at the responsibility, but Dinks knew they would hold.
"And friends, this is the last battle we will ever fight, for *she* is ready."
A murmur swept through the crowd. /u/bodom2245 was visibly taken aback.
"...Sir, are you sure that it's the right time? After all we don't know what *she's* capable of!"
The Dinks knew that. He turned his back to the troops, and looked at the massive rumbling cage in front of him.
"Guardians of bravery, we have no choice. The armies of /r/atheism will be here on the morrow, and they just got a fresh shipment of fedoras. We have to win at all costs. /u/Here_Comes_The_King, release the beast!"
"Foshizzle, Dinks." Snoop finished his joint and started turning the large wench that covered the door to her cage. As the wind picked up and shifted some of the rubble, Dinks thought about his dear friend /u/K_Lobstah , killed by the traitorous armies of /r/JustTyphoonThings. He thought about his family, his precious waifu, and about the baby /u/donkey_brains. But as he caught the first sight of her, all these thoughts were erased from his mind.
"God help us," pleaded Dinks as more of /u/Kesha_Paul's irradiated figure was revealed, a result of the great and terrible April 20th nuclear Doritos plant meltdown. Dinks nervously fingered the trigger of his NERF™ pistol, all the while knowing that its mighty darts would do nothing against this monster. Dinks spit out his spliff and shaded his eyes, trying to block out the harshness of the winter sun.
"God help us all."
| "I'm telling you!" The man slammed his hand on the table, his grey and white heraldry signifying his alliance to the North. "There is no fucking way that Benjen is Daario!"
The man sat opposite of him was clad in Crimson and Gold, his allegiance sworn to the Lions of the Rock. He met his debate partner's reply with a smile. "If you're so sure, Stark boy," he began. "Then why haven't they been seen togeth-"
The bombs dropping shook the room they had all called home violently, their scant light sources flickering as the war waged on outside. One which they were not a member of. One which they refused to join. *We shall wear no crowns and win no glory.*
The man in grey and white sat back down as one of his brothers clad in Red and Black refilled his mug. He wore a solemn look on his face as he thanked a "dragon's blood." His debate partner refilled his own glass, the clear cup taking a crimson hue. Before their table was a flank of ham, stewing in both in honey and its own juices. There were trenchers on each side filled with stew. Their fellow crows broke their fast as they tried to forget the dire straits which lead to their isolation. The silence was deafening.
"You were saying?" The main in Grey and White finally said with a smile. Though the war was far from over, he couldn't help but find solace in his situation. He found a group he was finally able to fit in with. He had also enjoyed debating his opponent.
Even if he was Lannister scum.
^^^^/r/asoiaf |
Edit: every single story in this thread is great. Keep on writing guys!
Edit 2: what is is with you all and /r/atheism??? | [WP] War has broken out. Redditors are now fighting IRL. Write about one group's stories. | I hope this letter reaches you, my love.
Day 272 of the Great reddit war
I miss you, my love. I know, I write it at the beginning and at the end of nearly every letter I send you, but it needs to be said again nonetheless. If not for you, at least for me. It forms a kind of anchor for me. Something to cling to when the downvotes fall, you know?
I told you how we lost Jeff in a firefight in the last letter. Well, a few days back came his replacement. A young man, almost a boy still. But his age isn't as important as another thing:
He's still subscribed to /r/atheism.
I know, I know, I shouldn't judge. And it really isn't his beliefs that anger me. It's just his *vigour* in which he shows contempt for things he's never seen or experienced before. When a stray barrage of downvotes annihilated our central outpost, a post mostly manned by men and women subscribed to /r/christianity, he just snorted and said they 'had it coming' and we should be happy for them as they now 'get to go to their magic sky fairy'.
I start to despise this boy.
Brook came back. Her time with the /r/4chan -battalion has visibly scarred her. Which is strange, because I haven't heard of any major offensive in their sector. But when I ask she quickly changes topics or shuts down completely. Maybe it's best not to ask further.
I hope this peace talks are fruitful. Because, despite what the Newsletter tells you, we're barely holding our own out here. The area has turned into a desolate wasteland, downvotes fall like rain and I haven't seen an upvote in so long, I've almost forgotten how they look like.
I just hope /u/unidan can mediate between our and their envoy.
I miss you, my love.
If Snoo is just, we'll see each other again. | "I'm telling you!" The man slammed his hand on the table, his grey and white heraldry signifying his alliance to the North. "There is no fucking way that Benjen is Daario!"
The man sat opposite of him was clad in Crimson and Gold, his allegiance sworn to the Lions of the Rock. He met his debate partner's reply with a smile. "If you're so sure, Stark boy," he began. "Then why haven't they been seen togeth-"
The bombs dropping shook the room they had all called home violently, their scant light sources flickering as the war waged on outside. One which they were not a member of. One which they refused to join. *We shall wear no crowns and win no glory.*
The man in grey and white sat back down as one of his brothers clad in Red and Black refilled his mug. He wore a solemn look on his face as he thanked a "dragon's blood." His debate partner refilled his own glass, the clear cup taking a crimson hue. Before their table was a flank of ham, stewing in both in honey and its own juices. There were trenchers on each side filled with stew. Their fellow crows broke their fast as they tried to forget the dire straits which lead to their isolation. The silence was deafening.
"You were saying?" The main in Grey and White finally said with a smile. Though the war was far from over, he couldn't help but find solace in his situation. He found a group he was finally able to fit in with. He had also enjoyed debating his opponent.
Even if he was Lannister scum.
^^^^/r/asoiaf |
[WP] The God of Cheese becomes envious of other Gods and sends forth a real dog to destroy all other dieties through the usage of internet writing forums. | Just for clarity, I didn't write this response to be mean to u/iamadogforreal, who actually raises a decent point and sometimes I roll my eyes when I come onto r/writingprompts and see a zillion traditional religion based (i.e. God vs. devil, or "what if you were God?", etc) posts. However, the mainstay of the comments is something I agree on- the theme changes every week, and sometimes it's God, sometimes it's superheroes, sometimes it's death, etc.
I thought that the comments in the discussion became gradually funnier and I created this prompt out of good spirited teasing. | Wow, Thor OP must nerf |
|
Donors of this new blood type can donate to others of lesser blood types, whereas these new blood donors can only accept the blood of the same special blood type. | [WP] The political effects of the discovery of a new blood type that completely heals others when donated, and how these new donors are treated. | Ellis was the first of us to be discovered. He had been a construction worker before they found out his blood could cure anything.
On April 10, 2065, Ellis Mercer was injured at a construction site, and desperately needed a blood transfusion. Doctors couldn’t find a suitable match. *An undiscovered blood type!*, they proclaimed; and amidst the publicity storm that followed, a campaign was launched to find the blood that would save Ellis’ life. In that campaign, Ashley, Jason, and Carol were found. They all donated as much blood as their bodies would allow. Our blood type was deemed ‘X’.
It was Ashley’s blood that led to the discovery that X blood had no antigens and could be used to treat any other blood type. Jason’s blood was used to save Ellis. And Carol’s blood showed the world that Type X cured every known ailment of the human race.
The story took over the media before the medical world knew what to do with this new panacea. Before anyone had time to protect us, there was mass hysteria as the world suddenly wanted to buy, sell, and divide all that was Type X.
And, of course, as was the case with anything valuable, big business wanted a share. Pharmaceutical companies went on the offensive, sending money and lobbyists to Washington in unprecedented number. In response, the government enacted mandatory blood testing. Type X individuals were detained; shipped off to research facilities so that whatever made our blood special could be synthesized and sold.
If only it had been so simple. The country’s greatest minds and wealthiest benefactors poured all of their resources into us, but to no avail. They needed our blood. And as vessels, they needed us. So days turned into weeks, and weeks turned into months away from our lives, our jobs, our families. Once supposedly in place to protect us, laws evolved to protect those who held us, and to ameliorate and obscure the ethical questions surrounding our treatment.
There were protests in the beginning. As we were being taken, picketers would line the streets, social media was buzzing with support for Type X’ers, and the international community voiced strong dissention. But the opposing voices slowly faded, and every one of us was forgotten. The promise of lives with no illness or pain was too alluring, too desirable. Even in the eyes of the compassionate, our detention was seen as a necessary evil—for the greater good.
I was seventeen when they took me. Five years later, my life is still on hold.
----
I live in a remote medical facility with twenty other Type X’ers. Our dorms are sealed, protected from the outside world. We aren’t allowed communication with anyone on the outside. Our diets are strictly regulated, and we are required to exercise three hours a day. They need us healthy. And they need us clean. All of our heads are shaved, even the women’s, and we wear the same bleached white cotton smocks and pants day in and day out. When we aren’t eating, sleeping, exercising, or shitting, we’re strapped onto a cold steel table while they draw endless amounts of blood, to sell or to test. They drain us to the point just before death; then bring us back to do the same thing again the next day.
Today is like any other; every other. I’m eating a breakfast of plain oatmeal from a sterile metal bowl. Matt sits down beside me, grinning.
“Heya, Tom.” He leans back onto the table rakishly, propping his elbows behind him.
“What’s with you?” I ask without turning from my oatmeal.
“I hear they’re sending a new X to the asylum today,” he replies casually, looking up towards the ceiling.
That’s what we call this place: the asylum. Because we’re treated like patients, and being in here is enough to drive anyone insane.
I don’t reply, still slowly rolling oatmeal around in my mouth.
“The new X’er, it’s a *girl*,” he adds a second later, with special emphasis.
I scoff. “Oh, yeah? So what?”
“What do you mean, ‘so what’? It’s a sausage fest in here! Or did you forget about girls?” He looks at me incredulously.
“Trisha’s here. She’s a woman.”
“Yeah, but *dude*, she’s like a thousand years old,” Matt is clearly irritated with me. “Well, fine, less competition I guess.”
I laugh. “Good luck trying anything; no use getting worked up for nothing.”
“SHHHH SHHH,” Matt starts to shush me urgently, “Look, I think that’s her!” He tilts his head slightly to the side, lifting his eyebrows to the top of their range.
I give him a dull look before sighing and turning casually in the direction Matt is indicating.
Sure enough, a new person is being ushered in by one of the doctors. Her head has already been shaved, and her face is expressionless. She is young and petite, clearly wearing a cotton uniform several sizes too large, and she is walking gingerly to avoid tripping on the extra fabric pooling around her.
When the doctor leaves her side, she stands in the middle of the room, scanning it slowly. Matt ushers her over with a friendly wave. She gives a cold smile in return, but begins walking in our direction nonetheless.
“I’m Kala,” she announces as she sits across from us.
“Hi, Kala,” Matt responds enthusiastically, “I’m Matt, and this is Tom. So where are you being transferred from?”
“I’m not being *transferred* from anywhere,” she snaps defiantly. “I’ve never *been* in one of these godforsaken places.” She lowers her voice an octave before adding, “I work with Erik Sorenson. On the outside.”
“You’re joking,” I interject without thinking. Matt and I exchange an incredulous look.
“No,” Kala spreads her thumb and pointer finger wide, revealing a miniscule red ‘X’ tattooed on the web between her fingers. “I’m not.”
“Holy shit,” I whisper, “I thought the Red Ten was an urban legend.”
She smiled, closing her hand into a fist and lowering it to her side. “We’re real. And we’re growing.”
The Red Ten was a group rumored to have been founded by ten Type X’ers that escaped the initial rounds of blood testing. They managed to stay free, led by Erik Sorenson, and they sold blood on the black market to fund opposition movements to the detainment and treatment of people like us. Everyone was talking about the Red Ten in the beginning, but I hadn’t heard anything about them for over a year. I’d assumed they’d been rounded up, silenced.
Matt is shaking his head. “Things have been getting worse and worse for us on the inside, and all of you free bastards have done *nothing*."
Kala gestures for him to keep his voice down, “I know, I know—look. We’ve been keeping a low profile because something big is about to happen. I didn’t get sent here by chance. The Red Ten are planting members into every medical facility in the country to prepare.”
“Prepare for what?” I’m watching her face closely.
Her eyes spark as she whispers, “For justice. You in?”
Matt is frowning. “You haven’t even told us a plan. You expect us to sign on for something without knowing anything about it?”
Kala shrugs off his question impatiently, “I will explain everything when the time comes. Right now all you need to know is that there is finally an alternative. You don’t have to sit back and take this inhuman shit.”
She leans forward, eager to make an impression. “Wouldn’t you risk anything for the chance at a normal life, however remote?”
Matt hisses at her, “We will *never* have normal lives."
Kala opens her mouth to respond, but I speak before she has the chance. “Probably not. But anything has got to better than this. I’m in.”
“Tom, seriously?” Matt whips around to face me, livid. “You don’t even know if she is who she says she is!”
I’m not listening. Who knows what the future holds. But for the first time since I was seventeen, I feel hope. | They were better than the rest of us. They lived lives of perfect health and were so rare that they were only discovered by an act of God. No-one truly knows who first made the discovery, but the story goes that a young girl was dying of a wasting disease and was visited by an old woman who was convinced that she could save her. She prayed by the girls side for days before injecting the girl with her own blood. They say that she told the doctors god had told her to do it. Naturally she was restrained, they thought she was crazy, they tried to lock her away, - but the girl was cured. And what was thought to be madness, was known to be miracle.
These days the bloodlines are carefully maintained and the Blessed, as they are known, live lives of complete wealth and luxury. The Church of the Blessed is now the largest religion in human history and those with enough money will give everything that they own for a single drop of the Holy Blood.
Of course there are dissidents; malcontents who whisper that if only scientists could study the Bloodlines then the benefits could be enjoyed by all. Or worse, there are those who say that it is the blood of witches and all of the Blessed should be burned at the stake. But the Bloodlines are well protected and well connected, although it is hard to say whether it is they or the Church who is in control of their destinies. |
[WP] You are a character in a novel who falls in love with the author | I have never met the man I love, I hardly know anything about him. He knows everything about me, except this one secret. I am nothing but what he made me, I do not know my mothers name or my favourite outfit, because he never told me that. He never included it, it was irrelevant. I grew out of what he gave me, beginning as a mere shell and slowly gaining a personality, following blindly my beliefs for no reason but that he told me I should. But somehow I have changed.
He gave me everything I ever wanted, made me work for it but everything turned out right in the end. That's how I know this is fiction, happy endings just don't happen outside of the stories. I married the man of my dreams, raising children with him. But he is no longer the man I want, for I am in love with my writer, my creator. My appearance has not changed in all the years, he never re described me, but who I am inside has.
He loved me once as well, I was always the girl he never could have, the one too good to be true. But he doesn't love me anymore, he has created so many of us now. I was his first, and that makes me special to him, but I am not current. I no longer reflect what he wants in a woman, he is matured and I have not. He never wanted me to mature before, but now he's changed and I am just a childish dream, one of those cringeworthy moments from the past.
I do not think he has forgotten me, merely moved on, past my story. I should be thankful he never killed me off, unlike my brother. Maybe I should hate him for that, but like I said everything was right in the end and I do not bear a grudge. I miss him now he has gone, and wish for his return, but I do not believe he will. He gave me everything I ever dreamed for, I cannot expect him to give me this as well. | DISCLAIMER: This is probably really bad, poorly written/unreadable. It's literally the first thing I've written since probably highschool? And I wasn't a writer then. I don't know why I suddenly wanted to write something.
He created me, yet I could feel nothing beyond this story and I **know** he is holding me back. I don't know why, but I am bound to his wishes. I have no past beyond the memories he seems to have given me.
When it first started, I didn't feel like anything. I was incomplete, just looking to be picked up and start anew. He came along, hands so deft and unrelenting, and swept me upright, not ready to let me fall again into nothingness.
At least that's how it seemed.
It began slowly, but I know he was just searching for that one spark that would blossom our relationship into an immortal association. One man and the woman whose life he devoted himself to. He always had this look in his eye like he would not stop loving me, even long after I've been forgotten by the masses. And much longer than even anyone would utter his name again.
"If I have my way," he said, "millions of eyes will be on you, my dear." He wanted me to be something. And I loved him for that. I longed for him to touch me, to add his experience to mine, so we could be together forever.
He showed me a beautiful world, everything he seemed to adore and long for in our ideal life.
And as everything seemed to be reaching its best, the peak at which our story would finally remembered, it all came crumbling down around me. My life, my family, my friends were all ripped from me by his hand. He took me to a place that he thought millions of people would praise him for.
How could this, my ruin and now again my nothingness, be so joyful for him? I am not anywhere and I have no future besides the future he envisions for me, but he has moved on. Another life encapsulates all his pompous, somehow "more meaningful" time. I cannot leave, for I am tied to him eternally now and I will not be the type to run away because of a dim in the spark.
I simply want the spark to reignite. And I will wait here with no golden life, no easy love, for that spark to put pen to paper and bring me back to him. |
|
[WP] Two people are granted any wish they desire. One wishes for super powers, the other ........ to know the answer to *any* question. | The scientist worked tirelessly in his lab. All his efforts were focused on one question. How could he help his country win the war? Suddenly it clicked, as if God himself has answered the question. By the end of the night, he had developed his secret weapon.
___________________________________________________________
Mr. Rogers sat alone in despair. He was on his second beer, trying desperately to drown his troubles. All he wanted to do was to fight for his country and stand up against oppression. But alas, the army wouldn't take him. Something about having too many health problems or some other bullshit. The recruitment officer even dared to say that he would be a danger to his fellow soldiers! If only he was stronger. He just wished he would be strong enough to serve his country. In his drunken state, Steve didn't notice the scientist approaching him from behind. | Archenchantress Leda was not surprised when her simple wooden cart, now 2 days lost among the Tras'al desert's dunes and crags, caught something in its wheel. Nor was she surprised when the cart's wheel began dragging because of it. When her squire boy showed off the shimmering golden relic of a box he'd found underneath, she nearly lost the courtly stoicism for which she was widely known. Small advantage that stoicism was, as isolated as they were, but Leda had always found strength in her pride.
The small box was primarily brass, or something like it, inlaid with woven silver cords at each corner. The top and sides of the box were carved with bizarre, jagged runes, the likes of which were unheard of to Leda. A cheap foreign bauble, to be sure.
"It's a bardbox, Genba. It plays music when you hold it open. It might anyway, if it isn't filled with sand and rocks. Now get back in the cart before you dirty those clothes any further," said Leda, with a bit more curtness than she had intended. Genba looked at the box, then back at his mistress. His eyes shone with the unasked question of ownership. A pity the law disallowed squires from property, but for the best. Leda could not afford to be caught giving the boy any special treatment -- it was shame enough that an Enchantress birth one entirely bereft of Talent, and still moreso she had taken such a boy as squire. Many at court would see such kindness as weakness if they knew the whole story.
"May I play it, just once mistress?" Genba plead, but began to lift the lid before Leda could reply. His years of squirehood had taught him that forgiveness was the quickest path to his heart's desires, not permission. Leda anticipated the ploy, however, and kicked the box from her servant's hand with a metallic *smack*.
"No, Genba. In fact, let us leave the trinket here before you develop a further attachment to such a useless thing. Show me your discipline, squire, and throw the box that way over the dune. Without opening it." Genba looked down at the beautiful box, hiding the disappointment on his face. He picked up the box and turned around, channeling his frustration into his windup. As his arm came back, the lid fell open.
A lilting, minor melody spilled from the bardbox as it flew through the air. Dark blue light poured after, and then a roiling blanket of crimson smoke. If metal ever fell against rock or sand, the sound was lost in the opaque fog. In seconds everything in sight was red mist, save for a bright light from the direction the box had gone like a lighthouse in a storm of blood. The bardbox's blue light mixed with the red of the fog and played dark, disorienting purples on each wisp of smoke. Thunder rumbled nearby. The horse whinnied nervously.
For a frightful moment Leda was back on her father's schooner, sharp rocks everywhere beneath the dark waters, lighthouse barely visible through the storm. She fought back the years of nightmares and came back to the present as an eye opened in the smoke in front of her. At least three hands in length and one high, it had an iris of fire an a pupil resembling the night's sky. This was magic - very, very powerful magic.
*"Who is our host? Who owns our jyorca box,"* asked a voice in the red. It was a voice drenched in visceral danger bordering on madness, a voice like an earthquake, yet as captivating as a falling star. It was a growling drawl that reverberated in the depths of the spirit. *"To whosoever owns our jyorca, we shall grant any one thing at all. But do not tarry or try our patience, for we grow restless."* As if in punctuation, a dozen more eyes opened in the smoke. With a start Leda realized that there was no powerful creature hiding in the fog: the fog *was* the creature.
So struck was the Archenchantress that she fell wordless with awe. Genba, however, did not let his opportunity slip by. He stepped a bit forward, timidly at first. The eyes focused on the squire boy. "I want to be an Enchanter. The greatest Enchanter, better than any ever has been or will be! Better than the Enchanters in the stories, better than Mistre- better than Leda!" Genba finished with his head and voice high.
Leda's rage boiled at the insurrection. In one motion she dismounted and lay her boot into the back of the boy's head, driving him to the ground face-first with a sickening *crack*. Genba cried out and struggled to get off the ground, but she held him under her foot until he gave up. "Excuse him his lack of discretion, please, your grace," she said through the shivers of nervousness and fear she hadn't felt since childhood. The eyes all shifted to focus on Leda as one. "I own this boy, your grace, and he owns nothing. So your box is of course mine."
*"We care not,"* came the reply. *"A pact has been made. You may make one as well, if you desire, but be quick."* Behind her, Leda's horse broke free of its harness and ran.
Leda knew that true power came not necessarily from magic or skills but from knowledge. With knowledge of her enemies' plans, she could outwit them. With knowledge of trade secrets she could outdo any craftsmen. With knowledge of all the spells of old, she could bend the world's knee on a whim. **All** would be at her pleasure. "I wish to know all things at once. To have every secret laid bare before my minds eye, and the root of all knowledge in my grasp," she said triumphantly.
*"Then it is decided,"* said the red, *"we shall dwell within the two of you. You shall be our vessels, and you shall have what you seek and more."*
This is what I have been waiting for my entire life, Leda thought. The idea of that much power made her giddy. "No," she said. "Only I will be your vessel. This one does not deserve it." Leda declared, and leaned her weight upon Genba's neck. He brought his arms up to struggle, to push her off, anything at all, but he was too late and his arms too weak. Genba's neck snapped like so many twigs before his mistress's steps.
*"So say you,"* said the thing. The harbinger of Leda's greatness, her personal messiah, her *destiny*. She held her arms aloft as she had during her Enchanter's baptism, and let the blood smoke and thunder and light and that sweet voice all flow into her through mouth and nose. It was a searing pain like none other, but Leda would not let this break her. Not so close to her... her coronation.
She saw everything that was, everything that could be, in her mind. The mere thought of a question gave her an answer. She saw all the realms that humans were blind to, and she saw that the world she thought she knew teetered on the brink of unknowable darknesses. She saw all the power and all the spells and all the skills of all the lands.
What she didn't see was the smoke that now poured into Genba beneath her heel.
Leda began asking questions of the answering force. *How does magic work? Is our will free or fated? Do the gods exist? What was the thing in the bardbox, and where does its power come from? Why was it kept in a bardbox? Why was it lying? Why does it want to be inside of me? What will it do with me?*
With each new answer the awe and splendor of her new-found power faded, to be replaced with terror. She didn't bat an eye when Genba rose up, neck healed, and bound Leda to the earth in arcane shackles. She knew what he was about to do, and knew how to stop it; a simple twist of his Enchanter's threads *there* and *there* would disperse his coming bolt of lightning. She also knew that it didn't matter, that she was as good as dead anyway. The parasite would see to that soon enough. So instead, Archenchantress Leda did perhaps the only good and right thing she would ever do:
she turned his spell into a giant explosion.
The next day a horse bearing the brand of the Enchanter's guild rode into the oasis town of Jemez, starving and near dead of exhaustion. The court's caravan had stayed there overnight waiting for the Archenchantress, but upon seeing the frightened steed mounted a search party. With the help of a few local enchanters who knew the deserts, the court eventually located the Archenchantress's bones among the ruble of a wooden cart.
They were picked clean, bleached white, and alone. |
|
[WP] Your family tradition is to become a serial killer. Your dad loves to kill, your mom does the clean-up, grandma and grandpa had some times too, and your little sister is an experienced one as well. you refuse to be a part of this....But its in your blood | It's a long-standing fact that every family has a tradition. Some families decorate the Christmas tree together. m families eat turkey for Thanksgiving. Some families have movie nights. Our family? Well, you wouldn't want to know, but I'm telling you anyway. Why? So you can stay away. So you can stay alive. So I can save you.
Let me start from the beginning.
Something like three hundred years ago, one of our ancestors traded his soul to the devil for a gift. He became extremely smart, very charming, and five kinds of handsome. You see where this would lead, right? Successful career as a physician, beautiful wife, high profile status, you get the idea. For a decade or so,he enjoyed all this with no consequence other than, you know, eternal damnation, but all in all, life was good.
That is, until he met Marie.
Quickly, imagine the most beautiful girl you've ever seen. No, not a damn celebrity, those girls have no more beauty than two watermelons squished together. I'm talking about real beauty, the kind that makes you want to abandon everything you love just for the chance to speak to someone who has it. That someone was Marie.
She had just moved into town with her family, and before they had even fixed their beds fro their first night in town, boys from all over were already lining up just to catch a glimpse of sweet, darling, eighteen-year-old Marie.
Great-great-great-great-great grampa heard the news and thought it was exaggerated. He already had a pretty wife and two precious children. Why would he even think of another woman, much less one who was half his age?
That all changed one day, when he saw Marie while he was at the market. She was shopping for fruits, he was looking at prime cuts. Immediately, he was stricken. He felt like his heart rent in two and out of it emerged a fiery passion that he could neither control nor ignore.
He walked stately up to Marie, and with his most charming smile, asked her if she could pick out an apple for him. She picked one out of her own basket, and with a smile, but not a second glance, handed it to him.
So it went, the doctor would venture into town to try to talk to Marie, but he was always met with a stone wall of resistance. His charm had no effect, his handsome visage helped none, his intelligence was naught. He was in agony. In despair, he called upon the devil again, in the dead of night, with another request.
"Make her love me," he said, pleading on his knees.
"What have you to offer?" asked the devil.
"Anything!" he said "Anything at all, just please, give her to me."
"I already have your soul, what more can your puny self offer me?" The devil started to turn away.
"No, wait!" he called out, "You want souls? I shall provide you souls!" With that, he took his scalpel and crept into his bedroom, where his wife was sleeping. He turned her over and sank the blade deep into her heart.
The devil was pleased, but not satisfied. "That's not nearly enough," the demon spat.
Without hesitation, he crept into his children's bedroom and murdered them both in their sleep.
The devil, the embodiment of sin, wanted more. The evil one proposed a deal. He would give him Marie, if he would consent to a curse. Before the devil could even state what the curse was, the doctor agreed. Before the devil could change his mind, the doctor had signed in blood and was rushing over to Marie's house.
Five years later, he was living happily with Marie and his new son. She knew nothing of his past, and why would he want to change that? Life was good for all of them. His son possessed his not-God-given traits, along with Marie's stunning features. It was as close to bliss as he would get.
One night, he was having a nightmare. He dreamed that he was trapped in a cage with a bloodthirsty monster. He tried his best to run away, but he couldn't escape. The monster clawed open his chest as he screamed, and forced its massive body into his own.
He awoke screaming and sweaty. Marie awoke too, and asked if he was alright. He started to answer, but was stopped by an intense, fiery pain in his chest. Marie screamed as he clutched at his chest. Without his controlling them, his hands grasped Marie's shoulders, as if to calm her down. He looked up at her beautiful face, a face of concern and fear, which lost the concern after his hands started strangling her, and the beauty after he started bashing it into the wall.
As he looked in horror at what he did, a single lightning bolt struck, illuminating the room and revealing his son in the doorway, smiling.
This is the story that has been told every generation of my family. The curse was handed down to each and every one of the doctor's grandchildren, along with his gifts. I wouldn't say everyone thinks of it as a curse. Point of fact, most of my relatives enjoy it. My dad just killed our neighbor last week because the dog was annoying at night. My sister killed her kindergarten teacher at the age of four.
I fear I may be the only sane one in this family, and yet I killed my best friend when I was eight. So I pass this warning onto you. Avoid going to Jamaica in the summer and suburban Ohio the rest of the year. If you do live here, however, avoid the neighborhood on Ludlow St., and avoid people called Trilby. I don't want to kill you. | I am kinda interseted in the sisters point of view. So this will be the sisters point of view.
"What?" I harshly replied.
"I don't know how you do it. The blood is gross. The gore is even worse. That was a human. He had a life, a family, possibly kids and now you killed him."
I stood there vacantly staring at him. With a body at my feet. Again.
"Then, he should learn how to defend himself. Actually putting up a fight instead of whining like a coward." I spat back with no emotion in my voice.
"Thats not how-"
Before he finished the sentance I whipped out my phone and called mom.
"Can you meet me at Bruce Street in the alley?"
"What have you-" she growled, but my finger had already clicked the disconnect button.
She would show up with cleaning supplies and a body bag. She will drop us off then dispose the body in some lake or dump somewhere. Not my problem anymore. Now I need to stay within sight of the body in case the cops came. A ladder to rooftops convienently was placed down tthe alley.
"C'mon. On the roof."
Even in the dark I could still see the guilty and disapproving look in his eyes. He should have red hands by now. Like the rest of the family. I had my first kill when I was only six, because some girl came over to my house and took my necklace. She was 12. Thats when I discovered my thirst for blood. 41 kills since then.
Sorry it stops so abruptly. I have to attend to real life, but will write more if there is any intrest. Thanks for reading! |
|
[WP] Your family tradition is to become a serial killer. Your dad loves to kill, your mom does the clean-up, grandma and grandpa had some times too, and your little sister is an experienced one as well. you refuse to be a part of this....But its in your blood | It was Christmas Day, 1982. I was thirteen years old.
The night had not yet turned into day, but I was awake, not for anticipation of presents, but for a muffled thumping coming from the living room, accompanied by moans of pain and desperation and the jingling of the ornaments on the tree. The effect was a grotesque melody, a harmony of the unholy and the innocent. I padded out of my room.
Standing by the tree was my father, a surprisingly small man at five foot four. I was almost as tall as he now, and growing taller every day. My father had an effect of looming over anyone, however. Something in him brought others low, made them seem horribly inferior. He had that air of power about him, not like a politician's haughty confidence but the cold malevolence of a predator. A gagged and bound man writhed beneath the Christmas tree.
"Merry Christmas, Charles! I got you something very special this year. You're old enough to get some experience in the family business."
I eyed the man on the ground, aghast. He looked up at me, plaintive, making musical-note pleas for mercy, promising me anything I wanted in castrato tones. My father lashed out with a kick, pretending to be solemn but enojoying himself too much to be very convincing.
"Recognize him?"
Of course I did. It was my English teacher, the man who read us Whitman and Thoreau and other writers of peace and tranquility. He had made the mistake of asking us to write a short story, and mine had content he deemed "inappropriate". He took me under his wing, trying to help me, saying he wouldn't report me because I'd just get shipped off to the loony bin, and wouldn't that be a shame. Clearly he had made the mistake of mentioning my violent tendencies to my parents, and had talked of helping me to get rid of them. That was not popular.
"There's a present in your stocking if you want to grab it."
I walked over, pulled it out. I had written about a murderer with a penchant for using an ornate switchblade, conducting the kill like a symphony, dancing, swirling. Apparently my father had asked for a copy, because that's what I found.
"Want to try it out?"
Somewhere in my mind I knew even then that this was a defining moment in my life, that this was where I chose who I was. My teacher was like a father to me, but it would be traitorous to say so. My new blade may very well have been turned on me if I refused to satisfy it myself.
"I see you hesitating. No need to fear, fear is his lot, the lot of the prey. He thought you took you under his wing- he is a pigeon raising a hawk in his nest, he will become food like everything else. In nature, the one who penetrates, who dominates, is the one who carries on. Our basic anatomy reinforces this! Why do you think I rape my victims? For the enjoyment of it, the pleasure? I take no joy in the act, it is the symbolism that I find beautiful. Stop crying. Be glad I'm not asking you to do the same- be glad this teacher wasn't a woman. Or do you want to? I won't stop you if you do."
I shook my head no.
"Then end him. Today you shall be reborn, baptized in blood, reborn as Christ was reborn!"
I did not mention to him that Easter would have been a more appropriate time, and immediately reprimanded myself for finding the time to joke- my brain was moving too fast to edit my thoughts.
I looked upon the two of them. I felt alive, my blood boiling in my veins, a primal urge older than humankind rearing its head. My father's lessons and my teacher's played through my head. "Pacifism is weakness, thou shalt not kill a lie" fought with "Every person has their own world in their mind- empathy is attempting to enter that world, to see through another's eyes. All great art is an appeal to this, to attempt to force people to see the world through a lens other than their own."
I held the knife. I felt virile, powerful. I had him defenseless. This man thought he was my authority figure, thought he could inscribe his thoughts onto my tabula rasa, molding me into him. I knew where my allegiances lay.
"Killing is in your blood, son. You have no choices. Do you think I would have chosen it to be this way? If I could live happy as a weakling I would, but I know the **truth**. Life is domination. Sex, eating- basic components of life, all domination. Dominate or be destroyed."
It was true. I could be destroyed or I could assert domination. I raised the knife- it sparkled with the colors of the Christmas lights, festive, celebrating the birth of the great lord, the man who would absolve humanity of sin. The knife descended.
...
The police burst into the house. I lay beneath the tree, kneeling, praying for the first time in my life. I sought forgiveness from my Father, while my father lay in a pool of his own blood. His prophecy held more truth than he would have guessed. I had no option. I had to kill. | I am kinda interseted in the sisters point of view. So this will be the sisters point of view.
"What?" I harshly replied.
"I don't know how you do it. The blood is gross. The gore is even worse. That was a human. He had a life, a family, possibly kids and now you killed him."
I stood there vacantly staring at him. With a body at my feet. Again.
"Then, he should learn how to defend himself. Actually putting up a fight instead of whining like a coward." I spat back with no emotion in my voice.
"Thats not how-"
Before he finished the sentance I whipped out my phone and called mom.
"Can you meet me at Bruce Street in the alley?"
"What have you-" she growled, but my finger had already clicked the disconnect button.
She would show up with cleaning supplies and a body bag. She will drop us off then dispose the body in some lake or dump somewhere. Not my problem anymore. Now I need to stay within sight of the body in case the cops came. A ladder to rooftops convienently was placed down tthe alley.
"C'mon. On the roof."
Even in the dark I could still see the guilty and disapproving look in his eyes. He should have red hands by now. Like the rest of the family. I had my first kill when I was only six, because some girl came over to my house and took my necklace. She was 12. Thats when I discovered my thirst for blood. 41 kills since then.
Sorry it stops so abruptly. I have to attend to real life, but will write more if there is any intrest. Thanks for reading! |
|
[WP] Your family tradition is to become a serial killer. Your dad loves to kill, your mom does the clean-up, grandma and grandpa had some times too, and your little sister is an experienced one as well. you refuse to be a part of this....But its in your blood | She'd done it again, played the little lost girl routine, lured some would-be good samaritan down the alley claiming to have lost her mother, clung to her in tears, and then sliced a perfect diagonal cut into her unsuspecting prey's femoral artery. I tried not to look too much at the blood now ruining an exquisite designer pantsuit.
_What a waste… A more careful hand could have had her out of the pantsuit, and savored the cutting. Done it slowly. Saved the blood rather than wasting it on the ground. DAMN YOU! STOP!_
Charlotte might not have my meticulousness, but she did have her own sort of style. She cuts them and then she reacts in horror, “What's happening?” she cries, “I think I'm bleeding! Hold me, hold me!”. She plays confused and upset so easily. I knew without even asking that she got a confused hug from her prey before she breathed her last. Charlotte calls it _taking the last of their love_, it's her thing.
You have to hand it to her, she's only seven and she's really good at the family business. I'm a disappointment. I don't want to be this way.
Charlotte's no angel either—she doesn't like cleanup, she wants to leave it all to me, her big sister.
“No!”, I tearing my eyes from her beautiful beautiful ruined prey to look Charlotte in the eye, “I'm not cleaning up after you this time.”
“I'm telling mom! You never help!”, and then she began to mock me “Zoe Zoe too good! Zoe Zoe too good!”
I sighed. Making it look like a mugging gone wrong was the right thing to do, for Charlotte, and for mom and dad. I have to look after my sister.
I took her wallet out of her purse, and checked her ID. Melanie Campbell, born 1981. I could see a bulge in her suit jacket and knew it must be her phone. I reached in to take it. _Touch her, she’s still warm._ I did. As I reached into her jacket to take her phone, I gently caressed her breast. Charlotte was oblivious as always. _Kiss her! Kiss her! NO! ***I WON'T***._
“You should do this bit, she’s your kill!” I said to Charlotte as I got out a throwaway mugging knife. Charlotte needed to work on her technique. Stabbing a corpse isn’t the same as stabbing a live person, so you need to do it with care and that takes practice. Practice that Charlotte’s was short on. Disguising her expert femoral slice as random bad luck is always the trickiest part. Adding wounds to her chest and abdomen to imply a bigger fight were much easier. I should really have stabbed faster but I knew from my Dad’s corpse practice sessions that I could get away with going slowly. I have good technique.
_I’m doing it slow because I don’t want to do it, not because I like it. Who am I kidding? Fuck, why am I so aroused by this. ARGH! STOP!_
I messed with and tore the bloody clothing, simulating panic but also ruining the blood spatter evidence. I may hate myself, but I do good work.
I looked at Charlotte “That was the last time, okay! You’re old enough to clear up after yourself, and I shouldn’t have to clean up your messes.”
“But you do it so well.” she said, and gave me a knowing look before skipping away.
I cleaned myself up with some items from my kit.
_What’s that taste in your mouth? You licked your fingers didn’t you. You fucking creep. What’s ***wrong*** with you? Just STOP._
_I need to run away from all this. My family isn't helping me be a normal person. I need to get away. Kill them all, and get away._
| I am kinda interseted in the sisters point of view. So this will be the sisters point of view.
"What?" I harshly replied.
"I don't know how you do it. The blood is gross. The gore is even worse. That was a human. He had a life, a family, possibly kids and now you killed him."
I stood there vacantly staring at him. With a body at my feet. Again.
"Then, he should learn how to defend himself. Actually putting up a fight instead of whining like a coward." I spat back with no emotion in my voice.
"Thats not how-"
Before he finished the sentance I whipped out my phone and called mom.
"Can you meet me at Bruce Street in the alley?"
"What have you-" she growled, but my finger had already clicked the disconnect button.
She would show up with cleaning supplies and a body bag. She will drop us off then dispose the body in some lake or dump somewhere. Not my problem anymore. Now I need to stay within sight of the body in case the cops came. A ladder to rooftops convienently was placed down tthe alley.
"C'mon. On the roof."
Even in the dark I could still see the guilty and disapproving look in his eyes. He should have red hands by now. Like the rest of the family. I had my first kill when I was only six, because some girl came over to my house and took my necklace. She was 12. Thats when I discovered my thirst for blood. 41 kills since then.
Sorry it stops so abruptly. I have to attend to real life, but will write more if there is any intrest. Thanks for reading! |
|
[WP] Your family tradition is to become a serial killer. Your dad loves to kill, your mom does the clean-up, grandma and grandpa had some times too, and your little sister is an experienced one as well. you refuse to be a part of this....But its in your blood | It was Christmas Day, 1982. I was thirteen years old.
The night had not yet turned into day, but I was awake, not for anticipation of presents, but for a muffled thumping coming from the living room, accompanied by moans of pain and desperation and the jingling of the ornaments on the tree. The effect was a grotesque melody, a harmony of the unholy and the innocent. I padded out of my room.
Standing by the tree was my father, a surprisingly small man at five foot four. I was almost as tall as he now, and growing taller every day. My father had an effect of looming over anyone, however. Something in him brought others low, made them seem horribly inferior. He had that air of power about him, not like a politician's haughty confidence but the cold malevolence of a predator. A gagged and bound man writhed beneath the Christmas tree.
"Merry Christmas, Charles! I got you something very special this year. You're old enough to get some experience in the family business."
I eyed the man on the ground, aghast. He looked up at me, plaintive, making musical-note pleas for mercy, promising me anything I wanted in castrato tones. My father lashed out with a kick, pretending to be solemn but enojoying himself too much to be very convincing.
"Recognize him?"
Of course I did. It was my English teacher, the man who read us Whitman and Thoreau and other writers of peace and tranquility. He had made the mistake of asking us to write a short story, and mine had content he deemed "inappropriate". He took me under his wing, trying to help me, saying he wouldn't report me because I'd just get shipped off to the loony bin, and wouldn't that be a shame. Clearly he had made the mistake of mentioning my violent tendencies to my parents, and had talked of helping me to get rid of them. That was not popular.
"There's a present in your stocking if you want to grab it."
I walked over, pulled it out. I had written about a murderer with a penchant for using an ornate switchblade, conducting the kill like a symphony, dancing, swirling. Apparently my father had asked for a copy, because that's what I found.
"Want to try it out?"
Somewhere in my mind I knew even then that this was a defining moment in my life, that this was where I chose who I was. My teacher was like a father to me, but it would be traitorous to say so. My new blade may very well have been turned on me if I refused to satisfy it myself.
"I see you hesitating. No need to fear, fear is his lot, the lot of the prey. He thought you took you under his wing- he is a pigeon raising a hawk in his nest, he will become food like everything else. In nature, the one who penetrates, who dominates, is the one who carries on. Our basic anatomy reinforces this! Why do you think I rape my victims? For the enjoyment of it, the pleasure? I take no joy in the act, it is the symbolism that I find beautiful. Stop crying. Be glad I'm not asking you to do the same- be glad this teacher wasn't a woman. Or do you want to? I won't stop you if you do."
I shook my head no.
"Then end him. Today you shall be reborn, baptized in blood, reborn as Christ was reborn!"
I did not mention to him that Easter would have been a more appropriate time, and immediately reprimanded myself for finding the time to joke- my brain was moving too fast to edit my thoughts.
I looked upon the two of them. I felt alive, my blood boiling in my veins, a primal urge older than humankind rearing its head. My father's lessons and my teacher's played through my head. "Pacifism is weakness, thou shalt not kill a lie" fought with "Every person has their own world in their mind- empathy is attempting to enter that world, to see through another's eyes. All great art is an appeal to this, to attempt to force people to see the world through a lens other than their own."
I held the knife. I felt virile, powerful. I had him defenseless. This man thought he was my authority figure, thought he could inscribe his thoughts onto my tabula rasa, molding me into him. I knew where my allegiances lay.
"Killing is in your blood, son. You have no choices. Do you think I would have chosen it to be this way? If I could live happy as a weakling I would, but I know the **truth**. Life is domination. Sex, eating- basic components of life, all domination. Dominate or be destroyed."
It was true. I could be destroyed or I could assert domination. I raised the knife- it sparkled with the colors of the Christmas lights, festive, celebrating the birth of the great lord, the man who would absolve humanity of sin. The knife descended.
...
The police burst into the house. I lay beneath the tree, kneeling, praying for the first time in my life. I sought forgiveness from my Father, while my father lay in a pool of his own blood. His prophecy held more truth than he would have guessed. I had no option. I had to kill. | "I don't like it."
"Come on, sweetie, you love heart! Make you grow big and strong and invisible to your enemies!"
"No! I don't like it."
"Rick, talk to him, please? If he doesn't eat now he's just going to be whining for Goldfish crackers at bedtime."
"Listen, sport, that's not just any heart. You know where I got that heart from?"
"......where?"
"From an insurance adjuster. That's not the interesting part, though: This particular insurance adjuster could read my thoughts!"
"....nuh uh...."
"No, really! I was at work, right? Staring out the window, thinking about how sex with your grandmother always reminds me of cutting open the lower abdomen of a body, how the entrails spill out and are always so warm, and I.....Anyway I was looking out the window and this guy walks by on his way to the parking lot, but get this...he looks at me!"
"....so?"
"Well he just looks at me and keeps walking to his car, so obviously he must have read my mind and was going home to begin aligning his forces against me. So I jotted down his license plate, went down to the courthouse and charmed some woman into looking it up for me, tracked him down to his house and sure enough! There he was in his living room with his kids, watching....are you ready for this? Adventure Time!"
"....what's that mean?"
"YOU watch Adventure Time!"
"Well, yeah...but....lots of kids do."
"Don't you see, Jack? He was using Adventure Time to form a psychic link between his kids and you, to gain insight into our family and destroy us! Do you realize the power it takes to make that kind of techno-magic? He's a 5th Order Magency at LEAST, and here we are, cutting you a slice of his heart! Don't you want to taste that kind of power?"
"It's all bloody and gross!"
"All right, fine...will you eat an eyeball at least? You can have mine."
"Look, Dad....if I eat two bites of heart, can....can I go sleep over at Jeremy's tonight? His mom said it was OK if it was OK with you guys."
"Is Jeremy the one that was at the park that one time? Had the Shadow Curse of Bul-Rathi emenating from his mouth?"
"NO! No, Dad, he's just Jeremy, a kid from my class. He's not reincarnated or anything. I...I made sure to place some dirt on his head once, and it didn't cause him to turn into an incubus or speak in tounges! Promise!"
"OK...give me three bites and you can go. But you're taking one of these fingers with you, as a talismen against the Magency's War Bears. Just in case." |
|
[WP] Your family tradition is to become a serial killer. Your dad loves to kill, your mom does the clean-up, grandma and grandpa had some times too, and your little sister is an experienced one as well. you refuse to be a part of this....But its in your blood | She'd done it again, played the little lost girl routine, lured some would-be good samaritan down the alley claiming to have lost her mother, clung to her in tears, and then sliced a perfect diagonal cut into her unsuspecting prey's femoral artery. I tried not to look too much at the blood now ruining an exquisite designer pantsuit.
_What a waste… A more careful hand could have had her out of the pantsuit, and savored the cutting. Done it slowly. Saved the blood rather than wasting it on the ground. DAMN YOU! STOP!_
Charlotte might not have my meticulousness, but she did have her own sort of style. She cuts them and then she reacts in horror, “What's happening?” she cries, “I think I'm bleeding! Hold me, hold me!”. She plays confused and upset so easily. I knew without even asking that she got a confused hug from her prey before she breathed her last. Charlotte calls it _taking the last of their love_, it's her thing.
You have to hand it to her, she's only seven and she's really good at the family business. I'm a disappointment. I don't want to be this way.
Charlotte's no angel either—she doesn't like cleanup, she wants to leave it all to me, her big sister.
“No!”, I tearing my eyes from her beautiful beautiful ruined prey to look Charlotte in the eye, “I'm not cleaning up after you this time.”
“I'm telling mom! You never help!”, and then she began to mock me “Zoe Zoe too good! Zoe Zoe too good!”
I sighed. Making it look like a mugging gone wrong was the right thing to do, for Charlotte, and for mom and dad. I have to look after my sister.
I took her wallet out of her purse, and checked her ID. Melanie Campbell, born 1981. I could see a bulge in her suit jacket and knew it must be her phone. I reached in to take it. _Touch her, she’s still warm._ I did. As I reached into her jacket to take her phone, I gently caressed her breast. Charlotte was oblivious as always. _Kiss her! Kiss her! NO! ***I WON'T***._
“You should do this bit, she’s your kill!” I said to Charlotte as I got out a throwaway mugging knife. Charlotte needed to work on her technique. Stabbing a corpse isn’t the same as stabbing a live person, so you need to do it with care and that takes practice. Practice that Charlotte’s was short on. Disguising her expert femoral slice as random bad luck is always the trickiest part. Adding wounds to her chest and abdomen to imply a bigger fight were much easier. I should really have stabbed faster but I knew from my Dad’s corpse practice sessions that I could get away with going slowly. I have good technique.
_I’m doing it slow because I don’t want to do it, not because I like it. Who am I kidding? Fuck, why am I so aroused by this. ARGH! STOP!_
I messed with and tore the bloody clothing, simulating panic but also ruining the blood spatter evidence. I may hate myself, but I do good work.
I looked at Charlotte “That was the last time, okay! You’re old enough to clear up after yourself, and I shouldn’t have to clean up your messes.”
“But you do it so well.” she said, and gave me a knowing look before skipping away.
I cleaned myself up with some items from my kit.
_What’s that taste in your mouth? You licked your fingers didn’t you. You fucking creep. What’s ***wrong*** with you? Just STOP._
_I need to run away from all this. My family isn't helping me be a normal person. I need to get away. Kill them all, and get away._
| "I don't like it."
"Come on, sweetie, you love heart! Make you grow big and strong and invisible to your enemies!"
"No! I don't like it."
"Rick, talk to him, please? If he doesn't eat now he's just going to be whining for Goldfish crackers at bedtime."
"Listen, sport, that's not just any heart. You know where I got that heart from?"
"......where?"
"From an insurance adjuster. That's not the interesting part, though: This particular insurance adjuster could read my thoughts!"
"....nuh uh...."
"No, really! I was at work, right? Staring out the window, thinking about how sex with your grandmother always reminds me of cutting open the lower abdomen of a body, how the entrails spill out and are always so warm, and I.....Anyway I was looking out the window and this guy walks by on his way to the parking lot, but get this...he looks at me!"
"....so?"
"Well he just looks at me and keeps walking to his car, so obviously he must have read my mind and was going home to begin aligning his forces against me. So I jotted down his license plate, went down to the courthouse and charmed some woman into looking it up for me, tracked him down to his house and sure enough! There he was in his living room with his kids, watching....are you ready for this? Adventure Time!"
"....what's that mean?"
"YOU watch Adventure Time!"
"Well, yeah...but....lots of kids do."
"Don't you see, Jack? He was using Adventure Time to form a psychic link between his kids and you, to gain insight into our family and destroy us! Do you realize the power it takes to make that kind of techno-magic? He's a 5th Order Magency at LEAST, and here we are, cutting you a slice of his heart! Don't you want to taste that kind of power?"
"It's all bloody and gross!"
"All right, fine...will you eat an eyeball at least? You can have mine."
"Look, Dad....if I eat two bites of heart, can....can I go sleep over at Jeremy's tonight? His mom said it was OK if it was OK with you guys."
"Is Jeremy the one that was at the park that one time? Had the Shadow Curse of Bul-Rathi emenating from his mouth?"
"NO! No, Dad, he's just Jeremy, a kid from my class. He's not reincarnated or anything. I...I made sure to place some dirt on his head once, and it didn't cause him to turn into an incubus or speak in tounges! Promise!"
"OK...give me three bites and you can go. But you're taking one of these fingers with you, as a talismen against the Magency's War Bears. Just in case." |
|
[WP] A drug user and his dealer run into each other as they pick their respective children up from preschool. | "Hey little man, how was school today? Did you remember your lunch money?"
I turned in time to get a mouthful of knuckles and hit the ground. Trevor stood over me, shaking his head. I crabwalked to the side of my minivan.
"What the fuck man, I said I'd pay you today! It was just two ounces."
I stood up slowly and Trevor spit out, "I have some Symbicort to buy, and I don't have time for your bullshit today, *Steven*." He sneered at me as the school bell rang.
I had just finished digging out and handing over the cash when my son came running up excitedly. "Daddy, Daddy, I drew you a picture!" "That's great, Danny, you can show me when we get home. Wait in the car while I finish talking to my-"
Danny shouted at Trevor, eyes lighting up, "Hey, you're Rebecca's Daddy, aren't you? I remember from the field trip last week!" The look on Trevor's face was hard but softened as he leaned against my minivan, "Well yes I am, big man, and you're the one who did the best monkey impression at the zoo."
Danny started giggling but stopped when his eye caught the school entrance. A little girl was struggling to use her inhaler and balance on her crutches at the same time. Trevor stood up and said "Sorry Steve, I'll see you around," before walking toward his daughter.
| Rick whistled tunelessly. He was trying to learn to whistle as well as people did in songs, but wasn't having much luck with it. That didn't stop him from trying, as long as it was in the privacy of his own car. Idly, he checked his phone. *It's right at 3, why aren't the kids out?* he mused to himself.
As though summoned, a squealing mass of children emerged from the school. Rick grinned and hopped out of his Honda Accord, looking around for Anne. As his eyes darted around, he saw a white Mustang. That wasn't anything particularly notable, except he knew the guy sitting in it. *Shit shit shit!* he thought as he darted over to the other side of his car. Maybe Tree hadn't seen him. *What the hell is he doing here?!*
'Tree' got out of his car as a little boy ran up to him. "Daddy!" the child exclaimed, and gave him as big of a hug as his short arms could manage.
*Wait... Tree's got a kid?* thought Rick, somewhat horrified. *And that kid goes to the same place as Anne?* Tree put his son into the car seat and drove off, unaware of Rick's presence. Once he was out of sight, Rick stood up straight, looking around for Anne once again. After collecting her, he rushed home.
That night, over dinner, he broached the idea of moving Anne to a different school with his wife. |
|
[WP] A drug user and his dealer run into each other as they pick their respective children up from preschool. | "Hey little man, how was school today? Did you remember your lunch money?"
I turned in time to get a mouthful of knuckles and hit the ground. Trevor stood over me, shaking his head. I crabwalked to the side of my minivan.
"What the fuck man, I said I'd pay you today! It was just two ounces."
I stood up slowly and Trevor spit out, "I have some Symbicort to buy, and I don't have time for your bullshit today, *Steven*." He sneered at me as the school bell rang.
I had just finished digging out and handing over the cash when my son came running up excitedly. "Daddy, Daddy, I drew you a picture!" "That's great, Danny, you can show me when we get home. Wait in the car while I finish talking to my-"
Danny shouted at Trevor, eyes lighting up, "Hey, you're Rebecca's Daddy, aren't you? I remember from the field trip last week!" The look on Trevor's face was hard but softened as he leaned against my minivan, "Well yes I am, big man, and you're the one who did the best monkey impression at the zoo."
Danny started giggling but stopped when his eye caught the school entrance. A little girl was struggling to use her inhaler and balance on her crutches at the same time. Trevor stood up and said "Sorry Steve, I'll see you around," before walking toward his daughter.
| "Hey man what's up?" said I when I saw Tim.
"Hey man, same old shit but pretty good. I gotta run Miley to her mother's, then meeting up with Kayla for dinner. Oh hey, I got some more of them beans if you want any." Kyle was casual, knowing no one around would know what he meant.
"Cool, i'll call you later." I replied.
|
|
[WP] A drug user and his dealer run into each other as they pick their respective children up from preschool. | Dave stood waiting in the school playground. Bits of litter danced across the tarmac, remnants of lunches that mothers had so lovingly packed.
His mum had never done that. Too busy sending off for competitions in tabloids she'd never win or desperately searching for pennies beneath the sofa to be able to afford a packet of cigarettes. That's probably why he was standing here waiting. Because dear old mummy never had. He'd always have to walk to school or from school on his own. He'd learned to fight. You had to. Adam Saunders made sure of that. He always waited in the alley next to school, waiting to pound on the next kid that walked down for their money. He always pounded on David Little extra hard because David Little never had any money.
Dave shook away the memories. He hoped his Elissa had a better time of it at school than he did. He always made sure that she had matching socks and clothes that fit. He lovingly packed her lunch everyday. More than his dad ever did. Dave could barely remember his dad. A tall guy, dark hair maybe? He always associated the image of his dad with pain but never delved too deeply into it. He did more than his mum ever did, too. Little Elissa Little was lucky, she had a dad that loved her and a mum that loved her. He didn't mind being a stay at home dad while Sarah worked. She was a doctor whereas he could run his website design business from anywhere.
Other parents had started to arrive. He noticed the guy who worked at the local off license standing there awkwardly, too. He didn't know that he had children. They exchanged nods.
"Alright, mate."
"Yeah, you?"
"Not too bad, cheers."
| In a neighborhood like this, when Mike and one of his clients meet in the wild, it's best for everyone to go their separate ways.
Both men had wives and children to take care of. No reason to mix them up in their private business, right?
Besides, meth isn't *that* bad, right? Whatever someone does on his own free time is his business, and how a man makes money is his business.
Of course, in order to prevent something like this happening again, Mike has to kill him. It's a shame, really. |
|
[WP] A ancient Lich have grown tired of the evil ways. he opens up a Tavern, it quickly becomes the most popular Tavern in the lands. | Grummoth the ancient glared out from behind the bar.
Happy people drank, boisterous and vital. Serving wenches balanced tankards of ale, people toasted and cheered, a small boy chased a dog through the center of the tavern. Celebtration and life.
Grummoth sniffed, breathing deep of their life, their vitality. It would be so easy to drain them all, to absorb their life, into himself.
"Waste not, want not" he thought to himself. They were so cute. Like kittens. He had enough energy to last him a lifetime. No need for these children to suffer.
"Boss" said the third cook. "The big guy at the oak table won't pay for his drinks! "
Monmoth turned from the small man and walked gingerly over to the oak table, his hooded robe concealing his skeletal figure. Monmoth, wasn't tall, and he walked like an old man, with a slight limp from when the Red Dragon of Vandersheer chewed on his leg. He moved up to a large, mighty thewed, ugly man who had a scar across his face.
The man turned, his pig like eyes finding this man not a threat. "Who are you?!" he challenged.
"I am the proprietor of this establishment. I understand you have a problem with your bill". His tones were even, cold, rather sepulchral. Somewhere a cat ran away in terror. But this man had fought things and experienced terror before. Terror makes him angry. He stood up. He was a good head taller than Monmoth. He peered into the hood, seeing no eyes there. Just darkness. Maybe some glowing red embers of eyes perhaps, maybe not. But he spoke arrogantly.
"Your ale is slop! We are the Crimson Spawn. We either drink good ale, or you give it to us for free, or we will burn down your tavern!"
Monmoth said "You must pay, all mortals pay, it is *The Law*".
"Who are you calling, mortal, barkeep! My legends are immortal!" He pulled out a large knife, or maybe a short sword, and, in the blink of an eye, put it to Monmoth's throat.
Monmoth sighed. You do not want to hear an archlich sigh. It's a sigh of deep disappointment, black moods, depression. It's the sigh of all things being ugly, awful, and sick. It's the sigh of an awful existence of despair, clinging to the material world and the false concept of an immutable self. One of the barmaids started to cry. The dog stopped running through the tavern and howled, the boy chasing him stopped and looked scared. The toasts stopped, everything stopped moving. The only thing still moving was one of the wooden cartwheel chandeliers was slightly turning, the candles casting odd shadows on the ceiling.
The big guy seemed unsure of himself. He still had the knife out, but immediately reversed it. "Will this knife, which I stole from the lair of the eldritch horror of kirkendun, cover the damages?"
Monmoth said "Yes", taking the knife. He turned and went away, downstairs to the dark cellar. He saw the life upstairs, and wanted to eat it all. "But not today, not today".
| There is no people in the meat pies! That is un-sanitary! And... morally wrong. *Can't say the same about the sausages.* |
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[WP] A ancient Lich have grown tired of the evil ways. he opens up a Tavern, it quickly becomes the most popular Tavern in the lands. | "See, kid, when I was young, I thought just like you." Azzy leaned over the counter, drumming his skeletal left hand on the table. "Conquer kingdoms, slay gods, go down in history as the most evil person in the world."
He grinned at Jarad, or at least Jarad thought he did. You could never quite tell with skeletons.
"But take it from someone who knows, it gets old." He leaned back over the wooden counter and flicked a finger at a bottle on the top shelf, which sailed itself over to table number 2. "You never think it will at the time, but you can only immolate so many people before it gets boring, and one dying scream is very much like another."
Az'Haan the Unspeakable, ancient lich from forgotten times, shrugged. "I tried being insane for a while, but that got boring too. I was getting a bit worried about the whole 'immortality' thing, if everything was going to be boring, so I looked around for something that was constantly changing to keep my attention."
Jarad was confused. He had grown up hearing stories of Az'Haan, of the cities he burned with a thought and the spells of such power you'd go mad just hearing the words. "Being evil gets old?"
Azzy laughed, a strange sound to come out of a hollow chest. "Sure does. There's only so evil you can be, you know. I tried killing people, then bringing them back and killing them again, but it just got tedious. But doing good..." He rested his hands on the counter and gave a genuine smile. "That never gets old. And here as a bartender, you hear all the interesting stories of the world, from people everchanging. I've been running the 'Grinning Goblet' for centuries now, and there's never a dull moment."
Jarad was at a loss. He had come to ask Az'Haan about the ancient magics he had used to destroy the kingdoms of old, and all he'd gotten was the troubling idea that immortality spent doing nothing but killing wasn't all it was cracked up to be. "But... surely you still feel the old battle-fever, the bloodlust you felt when shattering the Old Magi?"
Azzy tapped his chest, a dry rustling of cloth-wrapped bones. "No blood to lust with. And once you settle down, it fades faster than most people think."
Seeing the look of disappointment on Jarad's face, Azzy sighed theatrically. "Very well, I suppose we can make a deal." He snapped his fingers and summoned half a dozen tankards to his side, and began filling them by hand from a tankard to his left. "This place is busy day and night, since I haven't bothered sleeping in millenia. How about you do some work around here as a bartender, experience life, and I'll show you a trick or two?"
He tilted his head towards Jarad, the red glow in his eyes not entirely from the shadowy light of the fire. "If after that, you still want to try to burn the world or some such nonsense, that's your choice. Old Azzy wouldn't ever tell someone what they can and can't do."
Az'Haan passed over a goblet of elf-made mead, his ever-smiling face as warm as the crowded tavern. "No, I won't stop you. But I get the feeling you'll like it here. I've been everywhere, done everything, and being good is the only experience that can last an eternity." | There is no people in the meat pies! That is un-sanitary! And... morally wrong. *Can't say the same about the sausages.* |
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[WP] A ancient Lich have grown tired of the evil ways. he opens up a Tavern, it quickly becomes the most popular Tavern in the lands. | "I don't know Sharon, I'm just tired of it" Markond leant back in his high backed throne made of the bones of many a fallen hero. "I sit in this lair all day and night waiting on some poor unsuspecting group of wide-eyed adventurers to stumble in. I'm just feeling unfulfilled professionally"
"Well honey, perhaps it's time for a change? Maybe a new start?"
"But we have a great financial situation, a beautiful cavern to raise some un-dead and I have job security"
"Marky, it doesn't mean anything if you're not happy. You always dreamed of opening that inn remember" She strolled over and lightly massaged his shoulders. "We used to talk about it on those long cold night before you ascended, we'd buy an old barnhouse and fix it up, let the rooms out, brew our own beer, cook meals and hire a bard or two"
"Of course I remember but that was nothing but a stupid dream, there's no way a Lich could run a tavern, it's just...not the done thing"
"Marky, baby, who cares what the done thing is? Lets do it! There's that nasty little tavern down the road which you send your minions to so they can spread rumours of your treasure but that's our only competition! We've got the market cornered!"
"You know what Sharon, you're right, you're always right. Lets do this baby"
6 months later, Markond stood cleaning a mug with his favourite rag. A warm smile crossed his face. The Tavern was bustling, the fire pit roared warmly in the centre of the room and the Minstrel sung songs of heroes of old. Sharon was serving a group of rowdy Dwarves and she had never looked more beautiful to him, not even on the day he kidnapped her from her village. Everything was perfect.
| There is no people in the meat pies! That is un-sanitary! And... morally wrong. *Can't say the same about the sausages.* |
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[WP] A ancient Lich have grown tired of the evil ways. he opens up a Tavern, it quickly becomes the most popular Tavern in the lands. | In a generic and idyllic fantasy farmland, five generic adventurers took off their filthy cloaks and stepped into the warmth and homeliness of a tavern. A dwarf, a hobbit, an elf, a man, and a wizard were among their company.
"I don't know about this" rumbled the wizard out of a mouth hidden by feet of grey hair.
"I'm telling you, everyone says the ale's to die for. And I know a thing or two about that" thundered the dwarf, a short and thick-bodied thing covered in scars.
The hobbit chirped in. "I heard they make the best food in (insert generic fantasy name for aforementioned idyllic farmland)."
The man said nothing, for he was a mute and sign language hadn't been invented.
The elf said nothing as well, because he was too good for this shit because elves are unrealistically good at everything.
And so the company proceeded to a rounded table and thudded downwards into sturdy wooden chairs, breathing deep an aroma of well-spiced meat pies and racks of lamb. It was not long before the overeager proprietor strode over.
She was an odd looking creature. So tall and thin she looked set to burst through the ceiling, thought it was a good 14 feet in the air. Yet food stains covered her apron, in a pattern indicating a few had dribbled down from her bony mouth. An aura of light and dark emanated from her at the same time, so that all would feel afraid of her, yet simultaneously want to lay their head in her lap as she sung them to sleep.
Speaking in a grating but musical fashion that radiated bubbly enthusiasm, the owner took their orders.
"Hello, and welcome to the First Love. I'm--oh. It's you guys."
Enthusiasm turned to depressed mumbling.
"Yeah. Been a long time on the road you know, since we-uh" stuttered the wizard.
"Crushed my empire and dreams of world domination? Freed my slaves? Toppled my dark fortress?"
"Yeah. That. So, uh, what are you calling yourself these days? If I remember correctly, it used to be Shazath the Twice-Genocidal."
"Well my little surprisingly hard to kill hobbit, nowadays I'm known as Shazath the Preposterously Pleasant."
"Enough about that, let's have some drinks!" The entire tavern trembled at the dwarf's fist-strike into the table.
"Do you want me to choose for you? I mean, I do know you pretty well by now."
Finally the elf responded. "Why thank you Shazath! We'd very much like that."
As she bounded off, the companions conversed.
"Can you believe how much she's changed? Another few years and old skin-and-bones might be fat enough to marry!" the dwarf jested.
"I say good for her."
"Really? She slaughtered your people, elf. The twice-genocidal and all that."
"I don't see any wizards around anymore."
"There were only like nine of us to begin with."
Musing half to himself, the hobbit joined in. "That's a good point. Why was she called the twice-genocidal? By my count, there was only one."
"All the more reason to give her ale a chance! Heh-heh! Speak of the lich!"
"For the dwarf, a full-bodied brown stored in enchanted Elven casks."
"That's a good lass! See elf, your people can make an actual drink!"
"And for the elf, a summer wine from the King's own vintage."
"I was trying to find some of that after you sacked Vorathiel and butchered everyone inside! Thanks!"
"Sausages mashed into a drinkable pulp to wash down a full plate of sausages, that's for the hobbit."
"Two meals at once? You are magical!"
"Wizard, my oldest foe. You get something special. My finest honeyed mead, sweetened by my own traitorous tongued spells."
"You always knew how to sweet talk an old fellow."
"Man. For you, the best of all."
She clapped twice in a brisk motion. Out of a doorway off to the side came two human women and one elven woman in flowing silks of ever-changing hue, with waving breasts threatening to render them useless.
One tenth of a second was all it took for the man to explode out of his chair. A second tenth to grab them all in arm, and a third to disappear with them from whence they came. Seizing the opportunity, Shazath claimed his seat.
"So, what's everybody think?"
Her question produced a half-mumbled chorus of gurgled "dishlishis."
"Good. Look, I just want you all to know how bad I feel about trying to conquer the world and exterminate all the races. It was wrong. I know that now. You defeating me was the best thing that ever happened to me. I took some time to reflect, and I realized that I wanted nothing more than to open up a tavern and serve food and drink to hungry adventurers and heroes like yourselves. I'm happy now. Actually happy, for the first time since I can remember. I even met a husband."
As one, all four spat the contents of their bulging mouths halfway across the sizable tavern. But the hostess continued unabated.
"A fat horror of a man. But nice enough. And the best chef you'll ever meet, aside from me of course. Our love is all thanks to you. So no matter what, you're always welcome at the First Love. Anything you want is on the house."
| There is no people in the meat pies! That is un-sanitary! And... morally wrong. *Can't say the same about the sausages.* |
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[WP] A ancient Lich have grown tired of the evil ways. he opens up a Tavern, it quickly becomes the most popular Tavern in the lands. | Kairngorth, Vanquisher of the Dead, loved new travellers. The regulars here at the tavern were used to everything by now, but the look on the faces of those who walked through his modest little door for the first time was hilarious.
Kairngorth, Vanquisher of the Dead, would stand a short distance from the door, fully covered in the armour of the Lich-Lords. It was dark, heavy, plate metal, which obscured every part of his body. Recently Kairngorth, Vanquisher of the Dead, had infused it with the souls of the men he had conquered, which took form as whisps of shadow that floated around the armour. This addition to his appearance only made the looks of first-timers even more amusing.
The tavern was quite unsuspecting in many ways. It slid in to the bustling central hub of the city, inconspicuous, and very much unheard of. Standing outside the tavern was one of Kairngorth's, Vanquisher of the Dead, thralls, a stout wight named Carl. Carl had never fit in with many of the other wraith's at the barrow - but Kairngorth, Vanquisher of the Dead, had sympathised with him, and recruited him to direct people to his tavern.
And so Carl would stand outside, day and night, for after all wights have no need of food or drink or sleep. And Carl would hold up a dark sign which was black as night, for all things a Lich owns must be black as night, to inspire fear and look badass. On this sign was scrawled in bone white writing: "Rahnig-Zhul". The name didn't really mean anything though. Kairngorth, Vanquisher of the Dead, had simply thought it sounded appropriately Lich-y, for every name a lich must have associated with him must be appropriately Lich-y. With the exception of Carl, of course.
It hadn't taken long before everybody across Garenthal had heard of Kairngorth, Vanquisher of the Dead, and Raznig-Zhul. After all, not many Lich's were around these days, and there are even fewer Lich's around who can tolerate the puny mortals that inhabit the world of the living. This made Kairngorth, Vanquisher of the Dead, quite exceptional really.
After the moment of entrepreneurial genius that inspired Kairngorth, Vanquisher of the Dead, to buy the land for the tavern, he had quickly set about acquiring builders for building, brewers for brewing, cooks for cooking, and Carl for moderate amusement. It seemed everybody these days thought that wights were thin, harsh and cruel, but Carl was plump and happy. He was the epitome of a jovial soul.
Kairngorth, Vanquisher of the Dead, was a rich Lich from his many crusades against the Demon Tribes from the Realm of the Banished, however whenever he asked somebody to do something, they would do it, free of charge. The Lich was upset by this - his workers refusing his money for their services made him feel like some form of a slave master. Granted, he had enslaved the souls of thousands once, but he was trying to turn over a new page.
Manning the bar was a hairy old goblin named Gwyneth. Goblins are a naturally hideous race, and when one is considered "fuck-ugly" by one's own race, who are considered "fuck-ugly" by the rest of the people's of the world, one has a tendency to seek another race who will be more appreciative of one's inner beauty.
Kairngorth, Vanquisher of the Dead, did not have this form of appreciation for Gwyneth, however he did appreciate that she could keep tenants in line and tell a mean one-liner. After noting Kairngorth, Vanquisher of the Dead, himself, tenants would often notice Gwyneth next. Not many goblins hang around these parts, and not many things anywhere have boils as large as Gwyneth's. A truly magnificent advocate for surgery, it was. The thing was so large and hideous that Carl had whimpered like a little girl when he first saw it, and he had hidden in the realm of the dead for 3 weeks before Kairngorth, Vanquisher of the Dead, could convince him that the boil wouldn't hurt him.
Kairngorth's, Vanquisher of the Dead, rivals around town would whisper that Gwyneth would squeeze pus out of her nose and into the beer, in a hope that it would bring more customers from Raznig-Zhul to their establishments. So Kairngorth, Vanquisher of the Dead, had sent shadow-demons to cut the throats of these rivals, in full knowledge that it would bring more customers. But he didn't do it for the customers, he did it because he felt quite sorry for Gwyneth. Seriously, she grew a meaner beard than he could!
With it's already increasing popularity, the tavern had grown massively. Kairngorth, Vanquisher of the Dead, bought the building on the left, and had taken the building on the right when Carl won it off the landlord in a game of ice dice. Yet Raznig-Zhul was still crowded. Kairngorth, Vanquisher of the Dead, concluded that the best course of action was to build far into the ground, where the lower-class customers would stay, whilst he also built high into the sky, offering exquisite cuisine to the upper classes who would stay there.
There was, however, one issue with this. An issue which prompted a story which Kairngorth, Vanquisher of the Dead, vowed he would remember until the day he died (only later Kairngorth, Vanquisher of the Dead, had realised that this was a bit of a queer promise, given that a Lich couldn't actually die).
One day, across the city, in the Mage's Tower, the great Blood Sorcerers of the realm had attempted to summon the God of Blood and War, Sharenath. These mages believed Sharenath could give them guidance in their current war. That was the biggest problem with humans, Kairngorth, Vanquisher of the Dead, had mused. They were always at war with someone or another. It was perhaps hypocritical coming from someone who had spent the last few thousands of years waging war, however Kairngorth, Vanquisher of the Dead, believed he was a changed Lich.
When Sharenath came down from the heavens, opening up the sky and turning it red as blood, the God of Blood and War looked down over the city, trying to find the puny humans who had summoned him. Reasoning that only mages would dare to bring him down from his Accursed Throne amongst the stars, Sharenath flew down from the heavens, the great wings of a dragon flapping from his shoulder blades, and a tail of fire poking out underneath his robes. He headed towards the highest building he could find.
The highest building in the city was not the mage's tower, not anymore. It was Raznig-Zhul. Kairngorth, Vanquisher of the Dead, immediately raced upstairs to entertain the God, fearing he was about to lay death and destruction to all around him. Sharenath had a bit of reputation for laying death and destruction to his immediate environments, and Kairngorth, Vanquisher of the Dead, was not too pleased by the prospects of it happening on his roof. He found the god standing, somewhat puzzled on top of the whole establishment. Below, the mages who had summoned him were crowding around the tavern. These mages had vowed never to enter a place such as a tavern, and so they watched on, helpless, as Kairngorth, Vanquisher of the Dead, invited Sharenath inside so that they could share some ale and tell tales of Brutal Victories.
To the dismay of the mages, their great Sharenath agreed. And several hours later, their God stumbled out the front door, quite severely intoxicated (the brew was so good that even a God could get plonkered off of it).
"They don't brew them like that up amongst the stars!" Shouted the God to Kairngorth, Vanquisher of the Dead, before he barrelled through all the mages, setting one of them on fire with his tail. They stood in stunned silence as Sharenath took off towards the sky. They had sacrificed three virgins and an elephant for this ritual, and it had all gone to waste. Kairngorth invited them inside, offering a free drink for their troubles, and many of the Blood Sorcerers renounced their vows and agreed.
Being able to boast that a God had visited his tavern boosted it in popularity massively. Now it was also the most frequented Tavern in EVERY land, from EVERY realm. Occasionally Sharenath would visit when he wasn't busy fighting his eternal wars, and bring with him other Gods, which only boosted the popularity further.
From his humble beginnings as the Vanquisher of the Dead to owner of the most popular Tavern ever made anywhere in all planes of existence, Kairngorth, modest tavern owner, was quietly proud of what he had achieved. He wasn't sure where he would go next, if anywhere, but for the next thousand years our great hero was content to stay in his tavern.
EDIT: Grammar | There is no people in the meat pies! That is un-sanitary! And... morally wrong. *Can't say the same about the sausages.* |
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[WP] A ancient Lich have grown tired of the evil ways. he opens up a Tavern, it quickly becomes the most popular Tavern in the lands. | In a generic and idyllic fantasy farmland, five generic adventurers took off their filthy cloaks and stepped into the warmth and homeliness of a tavern. A dwarf, a hobbit, an elf, a man, and a wizard were among their company.
"I don't know about this" rumbled the wizard out of a mouth hidden by feet of grey hair.
"I'm telling you, everyone says the ale's to die for. And I know a thing or two about that" thundered the dwarf, a short and thick-bodied thing covered in scars.
The hobbit chirped in. "I heard they make the best food in (insert generic fantasy name for aforementioned idyllic farmland)."
The man said nothing, for he was a mute and sign language hadn't been invented.
The elf said nothing as well, because he was too good for this shit because elves are unrealistically good at everything.
And so the company proceeded to a rounded table and thudded downwards into sturdy wooden chairs, breathing deep an aroma of well-spiced meat pies and racks of lamb. It was not long before the overeager proprietor strode over.
She was an odd looking creature. So tall and thin she looked set to burst through the ceiling, thought it was a good 14 feet in the air. Yet food stains covered her apron, in a pattern indicating a few had dribbled down from her bony mouth. An aura of light and dark emanated from her at the same time, so that all would feel afraid of her, yet simultaneously want to lay their head in her lap as she sung them to sleep.
Speaking in a grating but musical fashion that radiated bubbly enthusiasm, the owner took their orders.
"Hello, and welcome to the First Love. I'm--oh. It's you guys."
Enthusiasm turned to depressed mumbling.
"Yeah. Been a long time on the road you know, since we-uh" stuttered the wizard.
"Crushed my empire and dreams of world domination? Freed my slaves? Toppled my dark fortress?"
"Yeah. That. So, uh, what are you calling yourself these days? If I remember correctly, it used to be Shazath the Twice-Genocidal."
"Well my little surprisingly hard to kill hobbit, nowadays I'm known as Shazath the Preposterously Pleasant."
"Enough about that, let's have some drinks!" The entire tavern trembled at the dwarf's fist-strike into the table.
"Do you want me to choose for you? I mean, I do know you pretty well by now."
Finally the elf responded. "Why thank you Shazath! We'd very much like that."
As she bounded off, the companions conversed.
"Can you believe how much she's changed? Another few years and old skin-and-bones might be fat enough to marry!" the dwarf jested.
"I say good for her."
"Really? She slaughtered your people, elf. The twice-genocidal and all that."
"I don't see any wizards around anymore."
"There were only like nine of us to begin with."
Musing half to himself, the hobbit joined in. "That's a good point. Why was she called the twice-genocidal? By my count, there was only one."
"All the more reason to give her ale a chance! Heh-heh! Speak of the lich!"
"For the dwarf, a full-bodied brown stored in enchanted Elven casks."
"That's a good lass! See elf, your people can make an actual drink!"
"And for the elf, a summer wine from the King's own vintage."
"I was trying to find some of that after you sacked Vorathiel and butchered everyone inside! Thanks!"
"Sausages mashed into a drinkable pulp to wash down a full plate of sausages, that's for the hobbit."
"Two meals at once? You are magical!"
"Wizard, my oldest foe. You get something special. My finest honeyed mead, sweetened by my own traitorous tongued spells."
"You always knew how to sweet talk an old fellow."
"Man. For you, the best of all."
She clapped twice in a brisk motion. Out of a doorway off to the side came two human women and one elven woman in flowing silks of ever-changing hue, with waving breasts threatening to render them useless.
One tenth of a second was all it took for the man to explode out of his chair. A second tenth to grab them all in arm, and a third to disappear with them from whence they came. Seizing the opportunity, Shazath claimed his seat.
"So, what's everybody think?"
Her question produced a half-mumbled chorus of gurgled "dishlishis."
"Good. Look, I just want you all to know how bad I feel about trying to conquer the world and exterminate all the races. It was wrong. I know that now. You defeating me was the best thing that ever happened to me. I took some time to reflect, and I realized that I wanted nothing more than to open up a tavern and serve food and drink to hungry adventurers and heroes like yourselves. I'm happy now. Actually happy, for the first time since I can remember. I even met a husband."
As one, all four spat the contents of their bulging mouths halfway across the sizable tavern. But the hostess continued unabated.
"A fat horror of a man. But nice enough. And the best chef you'll ever meet, aside from me of course. Our love is all thanks to you. So no matter what, you're always welcome at the First Love. Anything you want is on the house."
| Grummoth the ancient glared out from behind the bar.
Happy people drank, boisterous and vital. Serving wenches balanced tankards of ale, people toasted and cheered, a small boy chased a dog through the center of the tavern. Celebtration and life.
Grummoth sniffed, breathing deep of their life, their vitality. It would be so easy to drain them all, to absorb their life, into himself.
"Waste not, want not" he thought to himself. They were so cute. Like kittens. He had enough energy to last him a lifetime. No need for these children to suffer.
"Boss" said the third cook. "The big guy at the oak table won't pay for his drinks! "
Monmoth turned from the small man and walked gingerly over to the oak table, his hooded robe concealing his skeletal figure. Monmoth, wasn't tall, and he walked like an old man, with a slight limp from when the Red Dragon of Vandersheer chewed on his leg. He moved up to a large, mighty thewed, ugly man who had a scar across his face.
The man turned, his pig like eyes finding this man not a threat. "Who are you?!" he challenged.
"I am the proprietor of this establishment. I understand you have a problem with your bill". His tones were even, cold, rather sepulchral. Somewhere a cat ran away in terror. But this man had fought things and experienced terror before. Terror makes him angry. He stood up. He was a good head taller than Monmoth. He peered into the hood, seeing no eyes there. Just darkness. Maybe some glowing red embers of eyes perhaps, maybe not. But he spoke arrogantly.
"Your ale is slop! We are the Crimson Spawn. We either drink good ale, or you give it to us for free, or we will burn down your tavern!"
Monmoth said "You must pay, all mortals pay, it is *The Law*".
"Who are you calling, mortal, barkeep! My legends are immortal!" He pulled out a large knife, or maybe a short sword, and, in the blink of an eye, put it to Monmoth's throat.
Monmoth sighed. You do not want to hear an archlich sigh. It's a sigh of deep disappointment, black moods, depression. It's the sigh of all things being ugly, awful, and sick. It's the sigh of an awful existence of despair, clinging to the material world and the false concept of an immutable self. One of the barmaids started to cry. The dog stopped running through the tavern and howled, the boy chasing him stopped and looked scared. The toasts stopped, everything stopped moving. The only thing still moving was one of the wooden cartwheel chandeliers was slightly turning, the candles casting odd shadows on the ceiling.
The big guy seemed unsure of himself. He still had the knife out, but immediately reversed it. "Will this knife, which I stole from the lair of the eldritch horror of kirkendun, cover the damages?"
Monmoth said "Yes", taking the knife. He turned and went away, downstairs to the dark cellar. He saw the life upstairs, and wanted to eat it all. "But not today, not today".
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[WP] A ancient Lich have grown tired of the evil ways. he opens up a Tavern, it quickly becomes the most popular Tavern in the lands. | In a generic and idyllic fantasy farmland, five generic adventurers took off their filthy cloaks and stepped into the warmth and homeliness of a tavern. A dwarf, a hobbit, an elf, a man, and a wizard were among their company.
"I don't know about this" rumbled the wizard out of a mouth hidden by feet of grey hair.
"I'm telling you, everyone says the ale's to die for. And I know a thing or two about that" thundered the dwarf, a short and thick-bodied thing covered in scars.
The hobbit chirped in. "I heard they make the best food in (insert generic fantasy name for aforementioned idyllic farmland)."
The man said nothing, for he was a mute and sign language hadn't been invented.
The elf said nothing as well, because he was too good for this shit because elves are unrealistically good at everything.
And so the company proceeded to a rounded table and thudded downwards into sturdy wooden chairs, breathing deep an aroma of well-spiced meat pies and racks of lamb. It was not long before the overeager proprietor strode over.
She was an odd looking creature. So tall and thin she looked set to burst through the ceiling, thought it was a good 14 feet in the air. Yet food stains covered her apron, in a pattern indicating a few had dribbled down from her bony mouth. An aura of light and dark emanated from her at the same time, so that all would feel afraid of her, yet simultaneously want to lay their head in her lap as she sung them to sleep.
Speaking in a grating but musical fashion that radiated bubbly enthusiasm, the owner took their orders.
"Hello, and welcome to the First Love. I'm--oh. It's you guys."
Enthusiasm turned to depressed mumbling.
"Yeah. Been a long time on the road you know, since we-uh" stuttered the wizard.
"Crushed my empire and dreams of world domination? Freed my slaves? Toppled my dark fortress?"
"Yeah. That. So, uh, what are you calling yourself these days? If I remember correctly, it used to be Shazath the Twice-Genocidal."
"Well my little surprisingly hard to kill hobbit, nowadays I'm known as Shazath the Preposterously Pleasant."
"Enough about that, let's have some drinks!" The entire tavern trembled at the dwarf's fist-strike into the table.
"Do you want me to choose for you? I mean, I do know you pretty well by now."
Finally the elf responded. "Why thank you Shazath! We'd very much like that."
As she bounded off, the companions conversed.
"Can you believe how much she's changed? Another few years and old skin-and-bones might be fat enough to marry!" the dwarf jested.
"I say good for her."
"Really? She slaughtered your people, elf. The twice-genocidal and all that."
"I don't see any wizards around anymore."
"There were only like nine of us to begin with."
Musing half to himself, the hobbit joined in. "That's a good point. Why was she called the twice-genocidal? By my count, there was only one."
"All the more reason to give her ale a chance! Heh-heh! Speak of the lich!"
"For the dwarf, a full-bodied brown stored in enchanted Elven casks."
"That's a good lass! See elf, your people can make an actual drink!"
"And for the elf, a summer wine from the King's own vintage."
"I was trying to find some of that after you sacked Vorathiel and butchered everyone inside! Thanks!"
"Sausages mashed into a drinkable pulp to wash down a full plate of sausages, that's for the hobbit."
"Two meals at once? You are magical!"
"Wizard, my oldest foe. You get something special. My finest honeyed mead, sweetened by my own traitorous tongued spells."
"You always knew how to sweet talk an old fellow."
"Man. For you, the best of all."
She clapped twice in a brisk motion. Out of a doorway off to the side came two human women and one elven woman in flowing silks of ever-changing hue, with waving breasts threatening to render them useless.
One tenth of a second was all it took for the man to explode out of his chair. A second tenth to grab them all in arm, and a third to disappear with them from whence they came. Seizing the opportunity, Shazath claimed his seat.
"So, what's everybody think?"
Her question produced a half-mumbled chorus of gurgled "dishlishis."
"Good. Look, I just want you all to know how bad I feel about trying to conquer the world and exterminate all the races. It was wrong. I know that now. You defeating me was the best thing that ever happened to me. I took some time to reflect, and I realized that I wanted nothing more than to open up a tavern and serve food and drink to hungry adventurers and heroes like yourselves. I'm happy now. Actually happy, for the first time since I can remember. I even met a husband."
As one, all four spat the contents of their bulging mouths halfway across the sizable tavern. But the hostess continued unabated.
"A fat horror of a man. But nice enough. And the best chef you'll ever meet, aside from me of course. Our love is all thanks to you. So no matter what, you're always welcome at the First Love. Anything you want is on the house."
| "See, kid, when I was young, I thought just like you." Azzy leaned over the counter, drumming his skeletal left hand on the table. "Conquer kingdoms, slay gods, go down in history as the most evil person in the world."
He grinned at Jarad, or at least Jarad thought he did. You could never quite tell with skeletons.
"But take it from someone who knows, it gets old." He leaned back over the wooden counter and flicked a finger at a bottle on the top shelf, which sailed itself over to table number 2. "You never think it will at the time, but you can only immolate so many people before it gets boring, and one dying scream is very much like another."
Az'Haan the Unspeakable, ancient lich from forgotten times, shrugged. "I tried being insane for a while, but that got boring too. I was getting a bit worried about the whole 'immortality' thing, if everything was going to be boring, so I looked around for something that was constantly changing to keep my attention."
Jarad was confused. He had grown up hearing stories of Az'Haan, of the cities he burned with a thought and the spells of such power you'd go mad just hearing the words. "Being evil gets old?"
Azzy laughed, a strange sound to come out of a hollow chest. "Sure does. There's only so evil you can be, you know. I tried killing people, then bringing them back and killing them again, but it just got tedious. But doing good..." He rested his hands on the counter and gave a genuine smile. "That never gets old. And here as a bartender, you hear all the interesting stories of the world, from people everchanging. I've been running the 'Grinning Goblet' for centuries now, and there's never a dull moment."
Jarad was at a loss. He had come to ask Az'Haan about the ancient magics he had used to destroy the kingdoms of old, and all he'd gotten was the troubling idea that immortality spent doing nothing but killing wasn't all it was cracked up to be. "But... surely you still feel the old battle-fever, the bloodlust you felt when shattering the Old Magi?"
Azzy tapped his chest, a dry rustling of cloth-wrapped bones. "No blood to lust with. And once you settle down, it fades faster than most people think."
Seeing the look of disappointment on Jarad's face, Azzy sighed theatrically. "Very well, I suppose we can make a deal." He snapped his fingers and summoned half a dozen tankards to his side, and began filling them by hand from a tankard to his left. "This place is busy day and night, since I haven't bothered sleeping in millenia. How about you do some work around here as a bartender, experience life, and I'll show you a trick or two?"
He tilted his head towards Jarad, the red glow in his eyes not entirely from the shadowy light of the fire. "If after that, you still want to try to burn the world or some such nonsense, that's your choice. Old Azzy wouldn't ever tell someone what they can and can't do."
Az'Haan passed over a goblet of elf-made mead, his ever-smiling face as warm as the crowded tavern. "No, I won't stop you. But I get the feeling you'll like it here. I've been everywhere, done everything, and being good is the only experience that can last an eternity." |
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[WP] A ancient Lich have grown tired of the evil ways. he opens up a Tavern, it quickly becomes the most popular Tavern in the lands. | In a generic and idyllic fantasy farmland, five generic adventurers took off their filthy cloaks and stepped into the warmth and homeliness of a tavern. A dwarf, a hobbit, an elf, a man, and a wizard were among their company.
"I don't know about this" rumbled the wizard out of a mouth hidden by feet of grey hair.
"I'm telling you, everyone says the ale's to die for. And I know a thing or two about that" thundered the dwarf, a short and thick-bodied thing covered in scars.
The hobbit chirped in. "I heard they make the best food in (insert generic fantasy name for aforementioned idyllic farmland)."
The man said nothing, for he was a mute and sign language hadn't been invented.
The elf said nothing as well, because he was too good for this shit because elves are unrealistically good at everything.
And so the company proceeded to a rounded table and thudded downwards into sturdy wooden chairs, breathing deep an aroma of well-spiced meat pies and racks of lamb. It was not long before the overeager proprietor strode over.
She was an odd looking creature. So tall and thin she looked set to burst through the ceiling, thought it was a good 14 feet in the air. Yet food stains covered her apron, in a pattern indicating a few had dribbled down from her bony mouth. An aura of light and dark emanated from her at the same time, so that all would feel afraid of her, yet simultaneously want to lay their head in her lap as she sung them to sleep.
Speaking in a grating but musical fashion that radiated bubbly enthusiasm, the owner took their orders.
"Hello, and welcome to the First Love. I'm--oh. It's you guys."
Enthusiasm turned to depressed mumbling.
"Yeah. Been a long time on the road you know, since we-uh" stuttered the wizard.
"Crushed my empire and dreams of world domination? Freed my slaves? Toppled my dark fortress?"
"Yeah. That. So, uh, what are you calling yourself these days? If I remember correctly, it used to be Shazath the Twice-Genocidal."
"Well my little surprisingly hard to kill hobbit, nowadays I'm known as Shazath the Preposterously Pleasant."
"Enough about that, let's have some drinks!" The entire tavern trembled at the dwarf's fist-strike into the table.
"Do you want me to choose for you? I mean, I do know you pretty well by now."
Finally the elf responded. "Why thank you Shazath! We'd very much like that."
As she bounded off, the companions conversed.
"Can you believe how much she's changed? Another few years and old skin-and-bones might be fat enough to marry!" the dwarf jested.
"I say good for her."
"Really? She slaughtered your people, elf. The twice-genocidal and all that."
"I don't see any wizards around anymore."
"There were only like nine of us to begin with."
Musing half to himself, the hobbit joined in. "That's a good point. Why was she called the twice-genocidal? By my count, there was only one."
"All the more reason to give her ale a chance! Heh-heh! Speak of the lich!"
"For the dwarf, a full-bodied brown stored in enchanted Elven casks."
"That's a good lass! See elf, your people can make an actual drink!"
"And for the elf, a summer wine from the King's own vintage."
"I was trying to find some of that after you sacked Vorathiel and butchered everyone inside! Thanks!"
"Sausages mashed into a drinkable pulp to wash down a full plate of sausages, that's for the hobbit."
"Two meals at once? You are magical!"
"Wizard, my oldest foe. You get something special. My finest honeyed mead, sweetened by my own traitorous tongued spells."
"You always knew how to sweet talk an old fellow."
"Man. For you, the best of all."
She clapped twice in a brisk motion. Out of a doorway off to the side came two human women and one elven woman in flowing silks of ever-changing hue, with waving breasts threatening to render them useless.
One tenth of a second was all it took for the man to explode out of his chair. A second tenth to grab them all in arm, and a third to disappear with them from whence they came. Seizing the opportunity, Shazath claimed his seat.
"So, what's everybody think?"
Her question produced a half-mumbled chorus of gurgled "dishlishis."
"Good. Look, I just want you all to know how bad I feel about trying to conquer the world and exterminate all the races. It was wrong. I know that now. You defeating me was the best thing that ever happened to me. I took some time to reflect, and I realized that I wanted nothing more than to open up a tavern and serve food and drink to hungry adventurers and heroes like yourselves. I'm happy now. Actually happy, for the first time since I can remember. I even met a husband."
As one, all four spat the contents of their bulging mouths halfway across the sizable tavern. But the hostess continued unabated.
"A fat horror of a man. But nice enough. And the best chef you'll ever meet, aside from me of course. Our love is all thanks to you. So no matter what, you're always welcome at the First Love. Anything you want is on the house."
| "I don't know Sharon, I'm just tired of it" Markond leant back in his high backed throne made of the bones of many a fallen hero. "I sit in this lair all day and night waiting on some poor unsuspecting group of wide-eyed adventurers to stumble in. I'm just feeling unfulfilled professionally"
"Well honey, perhaps it's time for a change? Maybe a new start?"
"But we have a great financial situation, a beautiful cavern to raise some un-dead and I have job security"
"Marky, it doesn't mean anything if you're not happy. You always dreamed of opening that inn remember" She strolled over and lightly massaged his shoulders. "We used to talk about it on those long cold night before you ascended, we'd buy an old barnhouse and fix it up, let the rooms out, brew our own beer, cook meals and hire a bard or two"
"Of course I remember but that was nothing but a stupid dream, there's no way a Lich could run a tavern, it's just...not the done thing"
"Marky, baby, who cares what the done thing is? Lets do it! There's that nasty little tavern down the road which you send your minions to so they can spread rumours of your treasure but that's our only competition! We've got the market cornered!"
"You know what Sharon, you're right, you're always right. Lets do this baby"
6 months later, Markond stood cleaning a mug with his favourite rag. A warm smile crossed his face. The Tavern was bustling, the fire pit roared warmly in the centre of the room and the Minstrel sung songs of heroes of old. Sharon was serving a group of rowdy Dwarves and she had never looked more beautiful to him, not even on the day he kidnapped her from her village. Everything was perfect.
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[WP] A ancient Lich have grown tired of the evil ways. he opens up a Tavern, it quickly becomes the most popular Tavern in the lands. | Kairngorth, Vanquisher of the Dead, loved new travellers. The regulars here at the tavern were used to everything by now, but the look on the faces of those who walked through his modest little door for the first time was hilarious.
Kairngorth, Vanquisher of the Dead, would stand a short distance from the door, fully covered in the armour of the Lich-Lords. It was dark, heavy, plate metal, which obscured every part of his body. Recently Kairngorth, Vanquisher of the Dead, had infused it with the souls of the men he had conquered, which took form as whisps of shadow that floated around the armour. This addition to his appearance only made the looks of first-timers even more amusing.
The tavern was quite unsuspecting in many ways. It slid in to the bustling central hub of the city, inconspicuous, and very much unheard of. Standing outside the tavern was one of Kairngorth's, Vanquisher of the Dead, thralls, a stout wight named Carl. Carl had never fit in with many of the other wraith's at the barrow - but Kairngorth, Vanquisher of the Dead, had sympathised with him, and recruited him to direct people to his tavern.
And so Carl would stand outside, day and night, for after all wights have no need of food or drink or sleep. And Carl would hold up a dark sign which was black as night, for all things a Lich owns must be black as night, to inspire fear and look badass. On this sign was scrawled in bone white writing: "Rahnig-Zhul". The name didn't really mean anything though. Kairngorth, Vanquisher of the Dead, had simply thought it sounded appropriately Lich-y, for every name a lich must have associated with him must be appropriately Lich-y. With the exception of Carl, of course.
It hadn't taken long before everybody across Garenthal had heard of Kairngorth, Vanquisher of the Dead, and Raznig-Zhul. After all, not many Lich's were around these days, and there are even fewer Lich's around who can tolerate the puny mortals that inhabit the world of the living. This made Kairngorth, Vanquisher of the Dead, quite exceptional really.
After the moment of entrepreneurial genius that inspired Kairngorth, Vanquisher of the Dead, to buy the land for the tavern, he had quickly set about acquiring builders for building, brewers for brewing, cooks for cooking, and Carl for moderate amusement. It seemed everybody these days thought that wights were thin, harsh and cruel, but Carl was plump and happy. He was the epitome of a jovial soul.
Kairngorth, Vanquisher of the Dead, was a rich Lich from his many crusades against the Demon Tribes from the Realm of the Banished, however whenever he asked somebody to do something, they would do it, free of charge. The Lich was upset by this - his workers refusing his money for their services made him feel like some form of a slave master. Granted, he had enslaved the souls of thousands once, but he was trying to turn over a new page.
Manning the bar was a hairy old goblin named Gwyneth. Goblins are a naturally hideous race, and when one is considered "fuck-ugly" by one's own race, who are considered "fuck-ugly" by the rest of the people's of the world, one has a tendency to seek another race who will be more appreciative of one's inner beauty.
Kairngorth, Vanquisher of the Dead, did not have this form of appreciation for Gwyneth, however he did appreciate that she could keep tenants in line and tell a mean one-liner. After noting Kairngorth, Vanquisher of the Dead, himself, tenants would often notice Gwyneth next. Not many goblins hang around these parts, and not many things anywhere have boils as large as Gwyneth's. A truly magnificent advocate for surgery, it was. The thing was so large and hideous that Carl had whimpered like a little girl when he first saw it, and he had hidden in the realm of the dead for 3 weeks before Kairngorth, Vanquisher of the Dead, could convince him that the boil wouldn't hurt him.
Kairngorth's, Vanquisher of the Dead, rivals around town would whisper that Gwyneth would squeeze pus out of her nose and into the beer, in a hope that it would bring more customers from Raznig-Zhul to their establishments. So Kairngorth, Vanquisher of the Dead, had sent shadow-demons to cut the throats of these rivals, in full knowledge that it would bring more customers. But he didn't do it for the customers, he did it because he felt quite sorry for Gwyneth. Seriously, she grew a meaner beard than he could!
With it's already increasing popularity, the tavern had grown massively. Kairngorth, Vanquisher of the Dead, bought the building on the left, and had taken the building on the right when Carl won it off the landlord in a game of ice dice. Yet Raznig-Zhul was still crowded. Kairngorth, Vanquisher of the Dead, concluded that the best course of action was to build far into the ground, where the lower-class customers would stay, whilst he also built high into the sky, offering exquisite cuisine to the upper classes who would stay there.
There was, however, one issue with this. An issue which prompted a story which Kairngorth, Vanquisher of the Dead, vowed he would remember until the day he died (only later Kairngorth, Vanquisher of the Dead, had realised that this was a bit of a queer promise, given that a Lich couldn't actually die).
One day, across the city, in the Mage's Tower, the great Blood Sorcerers of the realm had attempted to summon the God of Blood and War, Sharenath. These mages believed Sharenath could give them guidance in their current war. That was the biggest problem with humans, Kairngorth, Vanquisher of the Dead, had mused. They were always at war with someone or another. It was perhaps hypocritical coming from someone who had spent the last few thousands of years waging war, however Kairngorth, Vanquisher of the Dead, believed he was a changed Lich.
When Sharenath came down from the heavens, opening up the sky and turning it red as blood, the God of Blood and War looked down over the city, trying to find the puny humans who had summoned him. Reasoning that only mages would dare to bring him down from his Accursed Throne amongst the stars, Sharenath flew down from the heavens, the great wings of a dragon flapping from his shoulder blades, and a tail of fire poking out underneath his robes. He headed towards the highest building he could find.
The highest building in the city was not the mage's tower, not anymore. It was Raznig-Zhul. Kairngorth, Vanquisher of the Dead, immediately raced upstairs to entertain the God, fearing he was about to lay death and destruction to all around him. Sharenath had a bit of reputation for laying death and destruction to his immediate environments, and Kairngorth, Vanquisher of the Dead, was not too pleased by the prospects of it happening on his roof. He found the god standing, somewhat puzzled on top of the whole establishment. Below, the mages who had summoned him were crowding around the tavern. These mages had vowed never to enter a place such as a tavern, and so they watched on, helpless, as Kairngorth, Vanquisher of the Dead, invited Sharenath inside so that they could share some ale and tell tales of Brutal Victories.
To the dismay of the mages, their great Sharenath agreed. And several hours later, their God stumbled out the front door, quite severely intoxicated (the brew was so good that even a God could get plonkered off of it).
"They don't brew them like that up amongst the stars!" Shouted the God to Kairngorth, Vanquisher of the Dead, before he barrelled through all the mages, setting one of them on fire with his tail. They stood in stunned silence as Sharenath took off towards the sky. They had sacrificed three virgins and an elephant for this ritual, and it had all gone to waste. Kairngorth invited them inside, offering a free drink for their troubles, and many of the Blood Sorcerers renounced their vows and agreed.
Being able to boast that a God had visited his tavern boosted it in popularity massively. Now it was also the most frequented Tavern in EVERY land, from EVERY realm. Occasionally Sharenath would visit when he wasn't busy fighting his eternal wars, and bring with him other Gods, which only boosted the popularity further.
From his humble beginnings as the Vanquisher of the Dead to owner of the most popular Tavern ever made anywhere in all planes of existence, Kairngorth, modest tavern owner, was quietly proud of what he had achieved. He wasn't sure where he would go next, if anywhere, but for the next thousand years our great hero was content to stay in his tavern.
EDIT: Grammar | Tali slips into the crowded tavern making her way to the bar, sitting on a stool waiting patiently until her father has a moment to come talk to her. She pushes her long lilac hair behind her slender pointed ear, and leans on the bar in front of her taking in her surrounds. A slight smile crosses her lips as she sees how many people from all over Ashilin came to the tavern. She had worried at first that no one would come after he father decided to open his tavern near the healers' temple.
Her father finally spots her and gives a grumpy looking dwarf a drink and starts in her direction. Although the noise in the tavern is slightly loud, her ears pick up the distinctive sound of bone rubbing against bone, joints creaking and popping, as her father wanders over to her.
A Human man sits down next to her. Taking his hand, Tali smiles at Ren, blushing slightly as she does. Glancing up, the color abruptly leaves her cheeks. She looks between her husband and father, and sighs. Looking up into the depths of fire that have blazed up suddenly, she extends her hand, palm up, towards her father calmly.
."Now Weslin..." She trails off as a hush smothers the bar.
Weslin raises his hand, fire suddenly encasing his hands as his attention shift to the man his fair elf daughter married, his demeanor threatening. He slowly reaches across the bar towards the man, when Tali speaks up. "Weslin, Father, didn't you give us your blessing not too long ago?"
The flame abruptly died, and he shuffled his feet a bit awkwardly, then complained. "Yes. But this being...good is harder than I thought it would be." He turned back to the room, his bones rustling and creaking as he stared at his customers as they suddenly tried to pretend they weren't watching the scene at the bar.
Tali muttered softly to Ren. "Poor Father. It has to be hard going from the most feared and powerful Lich in the world, to a cheerful tavern owner. Let's not tell him about the baby quite yet. I'm not sure he could handle it."
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[WP] A hive mind encounters a human, but has difficulty understanding that an intelligent being can be an individual. | Standard year 1500 since the great disaster, one of Our smaller exploration vessels reached a system with several worlds with the potential to harbor life. One in particular showed signs of the presence of liquid water. The vessel takes up geostationary orbit, ion thrusters firing, and dispatched several probes to scout the atmosphere.
The first thing We noticed was the presence of metallic compounds in orbit. A little searching and the probes discovered wreckage that was clearly artificial, probably from some kind of communications satellite before collisions put an end to it. Analysis of the substance estimated that it had been in orbit for 2000 local years, which nearly matched standard years in length.
Right away, We were ecstatic. There had been intelligent life on this world. We had explored half the galaxy so far and had found only three worlds with signs of alien life. One held fossils only, one microorganisms and primitive plantlike beings, and one a fully developed biosphere based upon silicon (unfortunately, none of the life was sentient). Immediately, the probes descended into the atmosphere, and proceeded to fly over the surface. It was dominated by vast oceans, but there were continents covered in photosynthetic green. We looked for signs of intelligence, hoping that this mind was still alive.
Soon, one of the probes, flying high over the planet's northern hemisphere, attained visual confirmation of an area of intelligent activity. Descending, We saw that it was a sprawling assembly of structures, reminiscent of a beehive, but laid out on a grid. The probe landed in a empty grass field amongst the buildings. As it landed, We saw bipedal creatures fleeing. It appeared that they were unfamiliar with aircraft. Suddenly, we were stricken with shock. They were humans. There was something wrong, though. Their actions were... uncoordinated. After a few hours, a group approached the probe. Having completed language analysis, we understood the words one of them spoke:
"Hello? Is there someone in there?"
From the probe's speakers, We responded,
"I am Human. How did you come to be here?"
Strangely, one turned to another and seemed to ask it "What's happening here?"
We were puzzled. "We are Human. We have dispatched this probe and its mother ship from a star system 500 light years away. It has been journeying for 550 years. This is the first time we have encountered intelligent life. How is it that your forms are human?"
"This is the planet Earth. I am Tomás, and this is by brother Beorn. "
I. It was at that moment that we understood. This was the Homeworld. These humans were "individuals", yet to form a collective. These were us. | Don't know if this is allowed, but I wanted to share one of my favorite short stories, it's the alien from the things side of his [story](http://clarkesworldmagazine.com/watts_01_10/).
If this isn't allowed I'll gladly delete the comment. |
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[WP] A ten year old boy goes to Disney World with his family. At one point, they ride Space Mountain. When the ride emerges from the darkness, only the boy is left in the cars. Upon exiting the ride, he discovers the entire park is empty. | The lights flickered once and in that split second I have never felt more afraid. I have no idea why, but my neck suddenly started to hurt really bad. I looked to my right (or left? I still don't have those two figured out... whatever, it's the side where your fingers make an L if you look at them and your hand isn't facing you) and my fear returned and I immediately cried out. My dad wasn't there! He had been sitting right there when we got on this ride, but he's not there anymore!
My heart starts beating really fast and my breathing matches it as I look around wildly. I look behind me and see that no one else is there. I begin feeling tears welling up in my eyes as the ride comes to a stop. The bars release and I get off as the first of my sobs escape me. Pretty much as soon as my feet touch the ground they give out from underneath me because of who I see in front of me.
No one. I don't see a soul in sight. Not mom, dad, Katy, or anyone.
"M-mom?! Dad?! Moooom!" I scream with all my might.
No reply.
"Hello?!" I yell to the barren theme park.
Again, no reply.
I let out a long, laborious sob and cry softly, "Hello?"
*He's over there*
What? Did someone say something or was that the just the wind?
I listen closely, but there's nothing, not even wind. I start looking around, trying to find... anyone, really. I know mom and dad always told me to stay away from strangers, but something tells me this is a special occasion. As I look around I let out a light yelp because a sudden stab of pain erupted in my neck. Once the pain subsided I begin walking down the walkways when it suddenly occurs to me that literally the only sound in the whole place is the sound of my footsteps, there were no birds or even bugs making noise.
*How did this happen*
This time I know for sure that I heard someone talking, it seemed to be coming from all around me. Something about the voice made my hair stand on end and I begin running. I round the corner of a food stall and stop dead in my tracks. There, standing in front of the Haunted Mansion was an old man with funny looking clothes. Even though he creeped me out and every fiber in my body told me to run away, I still decided to talk to him, hoping beyond hope that he could help me.
"Um... hello?" I said meekly when I got close to him, "Can you help me, please?"
He turned toward me and gave me the perfect grandpa smile, "Hello there, son. How are you?"
"I'm, uh, I'm lost.... I think. I can't find my parents or my sister and there's no one here."
He laughed knowingly at this, "No. You're not lost, you're exactly where you're supposed to be. As for your family and everyone else, well, I think you may want to sit down."
I look over to where he is gesturing and am surprised to see a bright bench (don't know how to describe it, it seemed like it wasn't actually painted or made of anything other than light or... something) that had not been there a moment before. Reluctantly I sit down and as I do realize my neck no longer hurts and my fears have disappeared as well. A faint whirring sound starts up, seeming to originate from the entrance of the park.
"Son," the man says as he sits down next to me, "There was an, uh, *incident* and now you won't be able to see your family for a very long time."
I should be feeling something, I know, but all I felt was peaceful, like I was lying in my mom's arms. I looked at him and asked matter-of-factly, "What do you mean, sir?"
That's when I recognized what the whirring sound was. It was the sound of sirens. That's also when I heard a voice, and I realized what happened.
*I'm sorry for your loss, ma'am* | This thread has been linked to from elsewhere on reddit.
- [/r/TadsPrompts] [\[21st March 2014\] A ten year old boy goes to Disney World with his family. At one point, they ride Space Mountain. When the ride emerges from the darkness, only the boy is left in the cars. Upon exiting the ride, he discovers the entire park is empty.](http://np.reddit.com/r/TadsPrompts/comments/20xwgp/21st_march_2014_a_ten_year_old_boy_goes_to_disney/)
*^I ^am ^a ^bot. ^Comments? ^Complaints? [^Send ^them ^to ^my ^inbox!](http://www.reddit.com/message/compose/?to=totes_meta_bot)*
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[WP] The Freelance Thief | "No no, Mr. Bedford, I'm not a devil, I'm an angel. See my wings and Halo? No silly, you're dreaming, close your eyes. You will see your family in heaven very soon. Goodnight."
Natalia pushed the anesthetic into the old man's arm, and watched as the old man's eyes eased into a deep sleep.
Letting out a breath that she didn't recall holding in, that had been a close one. Removing the IV from the man's arm, grabbing the sleep potion, and then adminstered a healing cream on puncture hole she had just made. After gathering all of her medical apparatus, Natalia began to scan the moonlit bedroom.
With a practiced grace, Natalia slipped around to the other side of the bed and to the small wooden nightstand. Grabbing the handle of the only drawer, Natalia slowly pulled the drawer open and quietly sifted through the the contents. A bound leather wallet containing a small amount of cash, an old silver pocket watch, and a wedding ring that looked to be made of pure gold.
"Fucking jackpot" Natalia whispered as she stuffed all three items into her bra.
A small bag lay by the bed of the bedridden man. Searching through the small handbag, she found a couple more dollars, a metallic pen that was rather heavy and a couple of old family pictures. Noticing that the pen was rather heavy, after considering for an unusually long amount of time, Natalia shrugged and stuffed that in too.
After feeling satisfied that the man was wiped clean of value, Natalia carefully put the bag back just like she had found it, and with ethereal silence, floated out of the room.
Natalia repeated this process with 3 other rooms in the building. Each time was the same process as before. Enter the room with a keycard, put the IV in the patient (hopefully without the withering asshole waking up), administer the knock-out serum, mumble some bullshit about god, heaven, or family (optional), and then sift through the valuables. Sometimes the patient protested, sometimes they fell for the angelic ruse, either way, they never fully realized what was happening before she had time to put them into manufactured rest.
After leaving the fourth and final room of the night, Natalia slipped out the backdoor of the nursing home and glided down a dark road. It wasn't long until arriving at the run-down apartment complex, Natalia pinched the safety pin near her collarbone and retrieved the key that was attached.
After several failed attempts of getting her jittery hand to get the key into the keyhole, Natalia grabbed her own hand and steadied the brown key until it found it's mark. Grinding in protest throughtout the process of opening, the familiar click of an unlocked door greeted Natalia.
Walking through the dingy wooden entrance, Natalia waited until the door was completely closed before erupting into a wild laughter.
The teenager's head buzzed with a rush of endorphines. Chills ran down Natalia's smooth back, summoning goosebumps over every inch of her silky smooth body. The thrill of the night's successes felt almost as good as the bounty itself. Almost.
Walking into the bathroom, Natalia looked into the mirror and nearly burst into laughter once more. An angel looked back at Natalia, tan cloth with white cotton wings sewed onto the back of it. A halo floated above her head made from wire, pipe cleaners, and yellow glowsticks. In the light she looked so goofy, the outfit was a complete mess when revealed, but in the mystery of the night, the outfit was enough to fool the confused and decaying mind of an aging person.
Stripping out of the makeshift angel costume, Natalia plopped herself down on her couch and took off her bulging bra, out spilled a little over a hundred dollars in cash, a still ticking silver pocketwatch, a gold locket, two wedding rings, a pair of jade earrings, a thin wristwatch, and an uncomfortably heavy pen.
Overcome with the success of tonight's bounty, Natalia nearly leapt off the stain-encrusted couch and jumped around her apartment, twirling and dancing around the apartment in only a pair of pink panties, Natalia danced and sang with unmatched enthusiasm, singing whatever came to her mind, and letting her happiness choose the flow of her body. Growing too tired to continue the festivites, Natalia cupped her bare breasts and lay on the moldy carpet smiled at the ceiling. Breathing heavily with her back pressed against the green floor for several more minutes, soaking in the joy of the simmering euphoria.
Awakened by the sound of an alarm. Natalia flung herself on the couch and sunk her hand deep into crevice of the couch cushions. Pulling out the source of the annoying noise, the half-naked woman opening the ancient flip-phone. Seeing the time, Natalia hurried to kitchen, turned the coffee maker on, and sprinted to her room. Grabbing her only of khaki's, sniffing several socks littered on the ground before finding a 'clean' pair, and putting on a blue polo that read "Oasis City Nursing home" and hurried back to the kitchen. Pouring more coffee onto the kitchen counter than into her thermos, the pretty little thief rushed out the door and back to the building she had visited nearly five hours earlier.
| The incessant, high-pitched chirping of crickets resounded through the crisp night air. The crops waved and bent in the light, warm wind, as if a ghostly army crept through the grain, revealing their presence in small gusts blowing against the faces of onlookers. As he walked through the wind-blown ripples of the moonlit sea of grain, he saw the movement of a leather-clad man, waving to him in the torchlight of the farmhouse.
"Jayce," the leather-clad man whispered as he approached, "By the Grey, what were you thinking?"
Jayce tossed a purse into his hands, the contents clinking as he caught it. He could not see Jayce's scarred and rugged visage under his hood, but the disdain towards him was unconcealable. Jayce was a professional; he had been caught twice, and practically vanished from his manacles twice. His technique was brash and hasty; he thought nothing of the difficulty of his assignment, and would not hesitate to kill for his prize, should the situation necessitate it.
Jayce spoke, the croak in his deep voice barely audible: "Tell the Danzig Family they have my regards."
"You stole a trinket from the Wilholt Family... this will mean war, Jayce. You know that just as well..."
"That's what they hired me to do," Jayce raised his voice in anger as he brutally stabbed the nearby wooden board "I do not care for the politics of clans, and I do not care for their feuds. Just get that to Aldred and get my payment to me."
"Jayce, listen..."
He was no longer there. Jayce had strolled back into the ocean of grain, shrinking with every step he took, prematurely vanishing as a cloud overwhelmed the full moon.
He had left his dagger in the notice board, but he seldom had use for it. The Guild knew that any notice that Jayce's blade struck was his property, so they would often leave it until he returned.
The leather-clad man crouched down as he felt the breeze on his face once more, to determine how wise Jayce was in deciding his next mark. The notice read, in a calligraphy common among thieves: "Obtain the Heart's Respite Jewel, in the Danzig Estate."
A skillful man, he thought, but he was far from politically wise. War was now certain. |
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[WP] A meteorite crashed onto someone's front lawn, scientists did some tests on it and noticed cells on it, frozen into a perfect English message. What was the message and why did it get here? | There it sat. In all its smoldering, terrible beauty lay the massive rock. Still glowing as bright as the sun and steaming from the atmosphere, it was an insidious mark on what lay in store for humanity. And all around it, people gazed in wonder and horror as the message was deciphered. When it was finally done, and the scientists beamed at their accomplishments, their smiles quickly turned into looks of sheer horror as the world read the message.
'CONACTING: MILKWAY GALAXY (PLANET REGION "EARTH") SENT FROM: GALAXY NGC 1512 (PLANET REGION "VESPOR")'
TRANSLATED INTO LANGUAGE "ENGLISH"
Organisms of the planet known only as Earth, it has recently come to our full attention that one of our own has been taken and captured by your Leaders of your world. One of our own that in which was requesting peaceful hospitality between our two galaxies, was soon brought under intense and extreme brutality by your Leaders in order to decipher more information of our intergalatic species. Though many messages we have sent to your Leaders pleaing for the safe return of our own kind, we have only been met with more hostility and ignorance on your Leaders' part. As it stands, and as our warnings have been simply brushed off by your species, we have taken full offense in the breachment of intergalatic hospitality and have no choice but to retaliate with full force unto your planet. This is a declaration of war, organisms of Earth, for the extreme brutality of your species. Through the use of the intergalatic wormholes we will travel, and be there within three days Earth time. We are coming, organisms of Earth. There will be no negotiations any longer. There will be no mercy. | "Vulcan HIGHCOMM. Patch coming from CENTCOMM-- The humans are ready for contact. Send them the message."
-Someone use this idea |
|
I'm not looking for a story with this quote, seems a strange quote to be said in actual dialogue, but rather a story based on the idea behind it. Someone who carries other's burdens. | [WP] Give me your pain and I'll suffer it for you | Damian smiled, pulling the little plastic plug sticking out of the wall socket. Standing up, he straightened out his back, looked onto Anna for a last time, sighed and walked out of the door.
The hospital was quiet and chilly. He took another deep breath. It smelled of disinfectant. Turning right, he went into the next room.
Inside lay an old woman, well in her seventies, if not eighties. Her eyes were closed, but when Damian entered, they opened, slowly and with great effort.
"Hello?" Her greeting turned into a rattling cough.
"Hi." Damian smiled back.
He threw a glance towards the chart hanging from the foot of her bed.
"Who are you *cough*, young *cough* man?"
"My name is Damian. I'm a student from the local university." He lied. " I have an asignment to interview a very special woman. Someone who's lived an amazing and interesting life."
Her face lit up, barely contained by her many wrinkles. Damian smiled as well.
"Oh, I don't know if you have the right person, then." she replied jokingly. Damian chuckled.
"Do you mind if I ask you some things about your life, Mrs. Iverne?"
"Oh, not at all, young man. But are you sure you want to listen to an old hag like me?"
"I think you're selling yourself short, Mrs. Iverne! I did some research, and know you were born in 1912. Would you mind telling me how it was like back then?"
She smiled. It was a warm, unfiltered smile. She began to tell her story.
--
Outside, the sun was setting, bathing the horizon in a crimson veil. A firework of red, orange and yellow beams, emitted from the fleeing orb that was the sun, chasing through the evening sky.
Claudia had took a nap, and Damian had sat by her side the whole time. She stirred, opening her eyes slowly.
"Damian, I'm cold. Do you mind adjusting the sheets?"
"Not at all."
Her did as she asked. All tucked in, she looked blissfully at peace.
"What a wonderful day." She whispered, looking out the open window.
"I agree."
"Thanks for spending it with me and listening to me. I think I'll go to sleep now."
She stirred under her covers, sighing and closing her eyes.
Damian stood up.
"Good night, Claudia." he said softly, reaching for the plug.
"Damian?"
"Yeah?"
"Will you be there when I wake up?"
He smiled again.
"Of course, Claudia."
He pulled the little plastic plug out of the wall socket.
"Good, good." Claudia whispered, quietly. She took a deep breath.
"What a beautiful day." | "That's not how it works."
Arthur looked at the man sitting in front of his desk and regretted ever thinking his customers were boring. He wasn't superstitious, but he almost felt like he brought that situation on himself.
"Aren't you a sin eater?"
"I am. That's how I know it's not how it works."
"But I'll die if you don't do it!"
He didn't look ill or anywhere close to death.
"If you die, then I'll be able to take your sins upon me."
"That's..."
"And depression isn't a sin anyway. Besides, you know there is treatment for it. Therapy, meds. Illness, not sin."
"Don't you think I've tried everything? I'll give you anything. Just name your price."
Earlier he claimed to be 32, but his once dark hair was almost entirely white now and deep wrinkles surrounded his eyes and mouth. He looked at least two decades older than 30.
"I believe you. But I can't help you."
"Unless I'm dead."
"That's debatable too. Personally, I think sin eating has more of a symbolic value nowadays."
"Everything has a price."
"Not when you ask for the impossible."
"I'll go to someone else."
"Please."
They both knew there was no one else.
"Listen, Edgar..."
"Yes?"
"I want to help you. You seem like a nice guy. And I never turned down a customer. We can try. I have no idea what you think you did, but it you think this will help..."
They programmed the actual sin eating for another day.
*I never thought I'd ever put my psychology diploma to use in this business,* Arthur told himself as he was looking after his keys to close up early after Edgar left. Enough customers for a day.
------
-105 |
I'm not looking for a story with this quote, seems a strange quote to be said in actual dialogue, but rather a story based on the idea behind it. Someone who carries other's burdens. | [WP] Give me your pain and I'll suffer it for you | "John, are you alright? You're white as a ghost!"
From where he sat, clutching his side, John looked up. He blinked quickly to remove the film of water that had built up in his eyes.
"I'm fine, Mom" He said, trying to feign a smile.
"You know honey, you should be enjoying these final days that you get to spend with me. I know the doctor says I don't have much time left"
His mother, Sydney Rogers, had always been an optimist. She had always seen the best in people. How strange, then, that her son would be cursed with only being able to feel the worst in others.
He didn't tell her, of course. She would have never wanted him to feel her pain. The excruciating pain of a body failing, losing its final battle with a malicious and merciless foe.
His side seared. His limbs felt numb.
"I know, Mom, sorry" John said, doing his best to ignore the overwhelming fatigue that he was experiencing. He wasn't even sure if it was his own fatigue, or her's.
"Honestly, I think that the doctor must be wrong" she told him as she turned to get the turkey out from the family oven. "I've never felt better".
Despite the pain, John watched her, the way she moved about the kitchen that he had grown up in. He would miss her. She didn't have long.
"Johnny," she said, looking over at him, her face was unreadable. "Johnny, I know I don't have long. But, thank you for being here with me. I don't feel nearly as bad when you're around".
John's eyes watered, this time not due to his mother's pain.
"You've been the best son that a mother could ever have". Your father would be so proud. "I'll tell him all about the man you've become. I can see him smiling already".
"Mom," he paused, a wave of pain washing over him. His pain. "I love you".
"I love you, too" His mother beamed. "Everything will be alright".
John nodded, all the pain in the world was a small price to pay to be able to see her happy, even if it was only for a little while.
Pain, after all, is a natural part of life. It is those that we chose to suffer for that defines us.
For John, the choice was obvious. | "That's not how it works."
Arthur looked at the man sitting in front of his desk and regretted ever thinking his customers were boring. He wasn't superstitious, but he almost felt like he brought that situation on himself.
"Aren't you a sin eater?"
"I am. That's how I know it's not how it works."
"But I'll die if you don't do it!"
He didn't look ill or anywhere close to death.
"If you die, then I'll be able to take your sins upon me."
"That's..."
"And depression isn't a sin anyway. Besides, you know there is treatment for it. Therapy, meds. Illness, not sin."
"Don't you think I've tried everything? I'll give you anything. Just name your price."
Earlier he claimed to be 32, but his once dark hair was almost entirely white now and deep wrinkles surrounded his eyes and mouth. He looked at least two decades older than 30.
"I believe you. But I can't help you."
"Unless I'm dead."
"That's debatable too. Personally, I think sin eating has more of a symbolic value nowadays."
"Everything has a price."
"Not when you ask for the impossible."
"I'll go to someone else."
"Please."
They both knew there was no one else.
"Listen, Edgar..."
"Yes?"
"I want to help you. You seem like a nice guy. And I never turned down a customer. We can try. I have no idea what you think you did, but it you think this will help..."
They programmed the actual sin eating for another day.
*I never thought I'd ever put my psychology diploma to use in this business,* Arthur told himself as he was looking after his keys to close up early after Edgar left. Enough customers for a day.
------
-105 |
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