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[WP] Some kind of force now allows people to die only on Tuesdays. | 12:01 AM Wednesday
The clock on the wall serenely begins its circle once more. A cool breeze flows in through the open window bringing relief from the stuffiness of a late summer night. It caresses my face as I stare out the open window, watching the star's in the night sky slowly shift as time rolled on.
10:37 AM Wednesday
The city outside my apartment comes alive as the morning rolls towards noon. Nothing is open on Tuesday anymore. The weekend is now Monday and Tuesday. Some of the older folks still find it a little odd. To them Saturday and Sunday are still days which meant rest and leisure. However most workplaces couldn't keep to their old ways when the Change happened. People just wouldn't come into work on Tuesday. The first round of lawsuits came around and set the precedent. It was found that making people work on Tuesday's constituted a "risk to their well being and health." So now we have Wednesday as the start of the week. A lot of people still say they are, "having a case of the Mondays" when their having a bad day though. Some habits just don't die easy.
12:35 PM Friday
Having people die only on Tuesday has resulted in some unforeseen effects. It's easier to work out your will when you have a whole week to do it. Some people even plan their funerals, some even attend their own funerals. Everyone dying on one day just makes your week a lot easier to plan around. You don't have to worry about a relative in hospital until Tuesday. It doesn't matter if they've just had their head decapitated from their body or have every organ fail. It won't make a difference until Tuesday. This made murder trials sometimes very interesting. It's hard to defend yourself when faced with the person you murdered as a witness on the stand.
3:52 PM Sunday
A screech of tires from outside interrupts my thoughts. In my mind though I know whats happened. Someone has just walked out into the middle of the road without looking. I hear the sirens as they converge on the accident. It'll be likely though that the person hit will be fine in the long run. Only a few years after the Change scientists found out something very interesting about it's rules. If a person was in a state of suspended animation on a Tuesday they could be resuscitated on Wednesday. As long as the person's brain isn't mush and they have most of their organs intact, surgeons can stitch them back together during the week then suspend them on Tuesday. Most infectious diseases and even cancers can be dealt with in a similar manner. Of course this led to an uproar about how it could be used to potentially live forever. Their hopes and fears proved fairly redundant however. The human brain can only age to a certain point, after which it just deteriorates to much to do anything with. The oldest human alive today is a healthy-ish 153 year old woman. She may not be able to do much of anything but she still wakes up every Wednesday if only to spite Death a little longer.
11:42 PM Monday
The world goes quiet as the clocks approach Tuesdays domain. Death will reign once again for 24 hours. Rain is all I hear outside slowly drumming on the ground, crawling down the window pane. When people found out what happened with the Change there was plenty of speculation on whether or not this was the end of human society. "If we can't die on any other day, then every Tuesday will be a riot of people trying to kill one another!" This of course didn't end up being the case. Some wounds are still effective death sentences any day of the week. Any sort of head wound that damages the brain may not mean that you die but it can't be fixed, you'll just be a vegetable for rest of your life. Spinal injuries also have a similar result. You can sever the spine completely and live right up until 12:00 next Tuesday.
I glance at the clock, it's 11:52, the time is almost here at last. The blood under my cheek dried up long ago giving the floor a coarse sandy feel. The ache from the bashed part of head had faded over the last two weeks as well. I could see myself in my minds eye. A naked middle aged man lying half in his bathtub, half outstretched on the tile floor. What I can't imagine is how my neck must look. It has to be twisted at a grotesque angle because out of the corner of my eye I can see right up my back towards where my midsection is draped across the edge of the bathtub. I shift my eyes back to the window and the darkness of the coming midnight. No one has come to my apartment for two weeks. This doesn't really surprise me though. Teachers have the summer off and I've always been a fairly solitary man. I was hoping to die of dehydration last week but it seems that lying around doing nothing didn't drain my body of much fluids. I'm feeling though in a couple of minutes I'll finally be free of this. 11:59 I'm almost there....
| Tuesdays are when people die. This has become such a simple truth to the young and child that no one gives much thought about it. But I still remember after eighty years of long life. I still feel strange that some kind of restriction has been imposed on death himself. It has not been more than fifty years before such a distinct restriction on death has been observed in earth. I still wonder if it was god himself who imposed such a law to give some rest for the grim himself or it was result of some wicked scientific experiment of the government. Whatever it was it gave new meaning to the Tuesdays.
Tuesdays has become such a fright to people that not a soul is seen in the street on Tuesdays. Mothers lock down their children in confinement
of the walls of their house. No one takes a slightest risks of their life on this day. The city becomes utterly silent. No sound of automobiles, no sound of machinery. Some people as I have heard confines them self in the safety vaults without a single soul to keep them company. But occasionally some careless youths would go out on the street to dare the devil him self for the fun they would get by betting their lives on risks of dangerous games. Along with them sometimes some people who are tired of living and enduring this long pain would ascend their roofs and jump on Tuesdays because in other days their attempt would be useless.
But on other days of week people become more paranoid. Knowing they would not die and they would not kill, the young boys bring out their bikes and ride it in such a speed that accident were common place. The city became such a fearless pit of animals that organized roads, markets , works etc are only in the memory of old days. The people go mad and there is nothing left than chaos.
Oh and waiting here for my Tuesday I smile for what the world has turned into. And think that if this is act of god then he should wake up soon for the world would not sustain this mess for long. |
|
[WP] Some kind of force now allows people to die only on Tuesdays. | 12:01 AM Wednesday
The clock on the wall serenely begins its circle once more. A cool breeze flows in through the open window bringing relief from the stuffiness of a late summer night. It caresses my face as I stare out the open window, watching the star's in the night sky slowly shift as time rolled on.
10:37 AM Wednesday
The city outside my apartment comes alive as the morning rolls towards noon. Nothing is open on Tuesday anymore. The weekend is now Monday and Tuesday. Some of the older folks still find it a little odd. To them Saturday and Sunday are still days which meant rest and leisure. However most workplaces couldn't keep to their old ways when the Change happened. People just wouldn't come into work on Tuesday. The first round of lawsuits came around and set the precedent. It was found that making people work on Tuesday's constituted a "risk to their well being and health." So now we have Wednesday as the start of the week. A lot of people still say they are, "having a case of the Mondays" when their having a bad day though. Some habits just don't die easy.
12:35 PM Friday
Having people die only on Tuesday has resulted in some unforeseen effects. It's easier to work out your will when you have a whole week to do it. Some people even plan their funerals, some even attend their own funerals. Everyone dying on one day just makes your week a lot easier to plan around. You don't have to worry about a relative in hospital until Tuesday. It doesn't matter if they've just had their head decapitated from their body or have every organ fail. It won't make a difference until Tuesday. This made murder trials sometimes very interesting. It's hard to defend yourself when faced with the person you murdered as a witness on the stand.
3:52 PM Sunday
A screech of tires from outside interrupts my thoughts. In my mind though I know whats happened. Someone has just walked out into the middle of the road without looking. I hear the sirens as they converge on the accident. It'll be likely though that the person hit will be fine in the long run. Only a few years after the Change scientists found out something very interesting about it's rules. If a person was in a state of suspended animation on a Tuesday they could be resuscitated on Wednesday. As long as the person's brain isn't mush and they have most of their organs intact, surgeons can stitch them back together during the week then suspend them on Tuesday. Most infectious diseases and even cancers can be dealt with in a similar manner. Of course this led to an uproar about how it could be used to potentially live forever. Their hopes and fears proved fairly redundant however. The human brain can only age to a certain point, after which it just deteriorates to much to do anything with. The oldest human alive today is a healthy-ish 153 year old woman. She may not be able to do much of anything but she still wakes up every Wednesday if only to spite Death a little longer.
11:42 PM Monday
The world goes quiet as the clocks approach Tuesdays domain. Death will reign once again for 24 hours. Rain is all I hear outside slowly drumming on the ground, crawling down the window pane. When people found out what happened with the Change there was plenty of speculation on whether or not this was the end of human society. "If we can't die on any other day, then every Tuesday will be a riot of people trying to kill one another!" This of course didn't end up being the case. Some wounds are still effective death sentences any day of the week. Any sort of head wound that damages the brain may not mean that you die but it can't be fixed, you'll just be a vegetable for rest of your life. Spinal injuries also have a similar result. You can sever the spine completely and live right up until 12:00 next Tuesday.
I glance at the clock, it's 11:52, the time is almost here at last. The blood under my cheek dried up long ago giving the floor a coarse sandy feel. The ache from the bashed part of head had faded over the last two weeks as well. I could see myself in my minds eye. A naked middle aged man lying half in his bathtub, half outstretched on the tile floor. What I can't imagine is how my neck must look. It has to be twisted at a grotesque angle because out of the corner of my eye I can see right up my back towards where my midsection is draped across the edge of the bathtub. I shift my eyes back to the window and the darkness of the coming midnight. No one has come to my apartment for two weeks. This doesn't really surprise me though. Teachers have the summer off and I've always been a fairly solitary man. I was hoping to die of dehydration last week but it seems that lying around doing nothing didn't drain my body of much fluids. I'm feeling though in a couple of minutes I'll finally be free of this. 11:59 I'm almost there....
| Wednesday is, unequivocally, everyone's favorite day of the week.
Anything goes on a Wednesday. It's an awesome day to get in a car accident, or any kind of accident. Most of the injured can pull through in 6 days, by the time the next Tuesday rolls around. This makes Wednesday mornings primetime for adrenaline junkies to be reckless.
But today isn't Wednesday. Today is Tuesday.
"Another late night, Jill?" I look up from my computer screen to my coworker, Arnold, the resident daredevil. It was only five o'clock, and Arnold was on his way out.
"Another death wish, Arnold?" I retort, pointedly eyeing the car keys in his hand.
"You can't live in fear, Jill."
"You can't live at all if you keep up that shit, Arnold."
He tousles my hair.
"I'm here every Wednesday morning, aren't I? Have a little faith."
"I've got work to do, Arnold."
"No you don't."
He taps his car key against my desk twice and strides off towards the elevators. I put on my headphones and gear up for several hours of Netflix in the safety of the office.
Soon midnight rolls around. Or so I thought. I look at my phone: two past eleven.
"Daylight savings time. Right. Well, whatever. Close enough. *Can't live in fear, right, Jill?*" Mocking Arnold is my secret pastime. I grab my keys and head out to the parking lot.
On the highway, a sports car revs up close behind me and taps my bumper. I check the rear view mirror and see the driver take a swig from a bottle in a paper bag.
I quickly change lanes to let him pass by, but instead he pulls up beside me and matches my speed. He rolls down his window and lifts up the bottle.
"Happy Wednesday!" he yells. *Shit.* I glance at my phone on the passenger seat. 11:39.
I shout back at him. "It's still Tuesday!"
"What?" he slurs. Then I see his eyes widen.
I look forward. I've drifted. A concrete overpass support column is barreling towards me, and I towards it. It's 11:40, and I can already feel my heart stop. |
|
I submitted this to a couple "prompt me" posts but never got a response, maybe someone else can do something with it. | [WP] Ten years ago an eccentric looking gentleman gave you a small locked box with the word "destiny" engraved on the lid. Today you received an envelope with no return address, inside is the combination to the box. | *0, 4, 0, 0, 1*
The small, pine box had been meticulously crafted. The edges all matched, the feet were attached well, and the hinges had been very well lubricated. It had been years since Matt had even thought about the box, but even through a couple of moves, and some hard times, Matt kept the box. On the lid was the singular word "Destiny". Underneath it was a symbol that reminded Matt a bit of a loading wheel, but it had an arrow at the "top" of it.
Haley was out at the mall, and would be for several more hours.
Matt read the letter once more.
> *Patron,*
> *You may remember me, but if not, there's no need to fret. As this box was passed on to me, so too was it passed on to you. Now, it is time to reveal the purpose of the box. Inside, you will find something unfathomable to the human mind. As such, it is with a bit of regret, but indeed a great amount of hope that I give you the combination.*
> *From left to right, you should align the numbers into the following code: 0, 4, 0, 0, 1*.
> *Try to do a better job than I did. Good luck.*
Matt was still confused. He set the letter on the coffee table. Staring at the box, Matt was acutely aware that his heart had began beating very fast. His normally steady hands began shaking as he reached forward. Setting them on the lid, Matt closed his eyes and tried to quell his uncharacteristic nervousness.
A minute went by and the lid had not come off. Matt opened his eyes. It would be so easy to just throw the lid open, were it not for the strange letter.
> ***BRRRRT BRRRRT*** **New Message From: Boo Boo Baer Hay ;) ;)**
> *The mall was so packed today!! I could hardly even move! I'm on the way back to the apartment, I'll just get what I need online. Should I grab us some lunch?*
Matt stared down at his phone. *I have to do it before she gets here. What if this thing is dangerous?*
> *No, that's okay. I ate.*
*Why did I just say that?*
> ***BRRRRT BRRRRT*** **New Message From: Boo Boo Baer Hay ;) ;)**
> *Great because I'm here!*
Matt opened the door just as Haley had been reaching for it. She looked at him, her smile as big as it always was, with her straight, paper-white teeth showing. His face was crunched, as if trying to comprehend some complex quantum physics of which he had no knowledge.
"What's up?" She asked, her smile vanishing.
"A letter came today. Didn't say who it was from, but it had instructions on how to open the box"
"Really?! That's great! It's always bugged me, that thing. Let's go open it!"
She practically ran to the couch and plopped down, absolutely buzzing with excitement.
Matt resumed his seat and looked at her. She looked back. Her smile had returned. In unison they each set one hand on their side of the box, Haley on the left, Matt on the right.
"On three" she said, looking at him.
"On three or after three?" He couldn't help but laugh, despite how serious this might be.
Rolling her eyes, Haley said "We'll go '1, 2, 3' and then open it after we're finished saying three"
Matt nodded his head in agreement.
"1" She counted.
*She doesn't have any idea what this thing is! Why are we doing this?! Why are we doing this here?!*
"2" He counted.
*It's too late now. Good thing I already proposed I guess...*
"3" They said together.
A flash of light, and a sudden rushing pulled them both into the depths of the six inch by eight inch box. The lid slammed shut, and they were plunged into darkness. It was a darkness so dark that nothing could be seen - darkness so dark that it almost felt like Matt's bones were being crushed by all of the darkness that surrounded him.
There was nothing. Matt would have said they were floating, but he couldn't tell which way was which.
He tried calling out to Haley, but his voice was broken. Instead, somehow, she answered him in his own brain.
*"Matt, what is this?!"*
*"I don't know*" he thought back to her.
Inexplicably, they were seated in large chairs. Neither of them could have said what they were made of, but they were comfortable. Matt's sense of direction suddenly returned to him. A dim light shone from somewhere above, it's source unknown, casting about them a small oval of yellow.
In front of them, some distance away, gigantic letters appeared and were accompanied by a voice. It resonated all around them, despite nothing to bounce off of or amplify from.
"Welcome. Name?"
Haley, looked to Matt, who responded with his.
"Good. And your companion?"
"Haley" she said.
"Good. Matt, and Haley. Creators of universe zero four zero zero one. Let's begin, we have much work to do and only ten quintillion years to do it."
*This has to be some kind of joke, a dream... SOMETHING!! This is not normal!*
"Wait." Matt said. "What is your name?"
"My name is ten-seventeen Shameful Object."
"What is this place?" Matt said, raising his voice.
"This is your universe, Creator. You have been selected for creation. It is a bit odd however that you chose to bring a companion. Most do not."
"We're going to be creating a universe?" Haley asked, skeptical.
"All infinity cubic light-years of it, or however much you deign acceptable."
"Well, we don't know how to create a universe." Matt said hotly.
"That is why I am here to assist you. I shall guide your creation. All decisions however, rest solely in your hands."
Matt and Haley looked at each other once again. Consternation covered her face; confusion covered his.
She laughed and he said "Let's begin" | He focuses intently. All sensation is lost. His vision narrows, his hearing dims. The ratty chair to his right, the torn up sofa to his left, fade into black oblivion. He clutches the letter in his callused old hand, a hand colored by years and years of crushing labor, always waiting for the wave of Destiny to crash upon him and carry his life into the realm of fantasy. The letter is of a make not seen for many years; thick creamy paper, hand laid by bald monks working by moonlight in the highest reaches of the most sacred Mountain of the Himalayas. The ink is as deep a black as the night sky, yet less mysterious and more sinister. The penmanship is exquisite, clearly graced by a true artisan's touch. His eyes twitch, his feet shake, and in a sudden frenzy of anger tinged with a hint of orgasmic trepidation he destroys the envelope to reveal a series of numbers. He twists the box's dial, living the stress of ten years between each tiny click. The lock stops turning. The box pops open with a slight puff of the most miniscule dust. The man stood up and flattens himself against his wall, refusing to confront that which he had most wanted for the past decade; a reason to live, some direction for his life so cluttered with the insufferable minutiae of life and work and taxes and children. He squared his shoulders, drawing up every mote of courage in his tired heart, and opened the box. It is empty. The man laughs, first softly, then with real gusto, and finally so hard he worries he is going to have a heart attack, colored by madness. He rushes upstairs to his bedroom and dashes around his stained mattress, his chipped wardrobe, and finally reaches his nightstand hammered together from scrap lumber so many years ago that it looks just as tired as the man. He reaches into the top drawer, and retrieves his father's 0.45. It has one bullet in the chamber. Thats all he'll ever need. In the moment that the man raises the aged weapon to his head, he is filled with a wave of peace and serenity, as he is aware that for better or worse, the Rat Race of Life has finally ended. |
I submitted this to a couple "prompt me" posts but never got a response, maybe someone else can do something with it. | [WP] Ten years ago an eccentric looking gentleman gave you a small locked box with the word "destiny" engraved on the lid. Today you received an envelope with no return address, inside is the combination to the box. | Click.
Now at long last, ten years have passed. I watch as time slides by so fast.
Click.
The numbers three of destiny which surely in the box would be.
Click.
When lid had popped my jaw did drop and tired now the time did stop.
Gasp.
The emptiness of smallest chest has long at last let my heart rest.
Sigh.
Freed now of stings from destined things of decade past my heart did sing.
Breathe. | He focuses intently. All sensation is lost. His vision narrows, his hearing dims. The ratty chair to his right, the torn up sofa to his left, fade into black oblivion. He clutches the letter in his callused old hand, a hand colored by years and years of crushing labor, always waiting for the wave of Destiny to crash upon him and carry his life into the realm of fantasy. The letter is of a make not seen for many years; thick creamy paper, hand laid by bald monks working by moonlight in the highest reaches of the most sacred Mountain of the Himalayas. The ink is as deep a black as the night sky, yet less mysterious and more sinister. The penmanship is exquisite, clearly graced by a true artisan's touch. His eyes twitch, his feet shake, and in a sudden frenzy of anger tinged with a hint of orgasmic trepidation he destroys the envelope to reveal a series of numbers. He twists the box's dial, living the stress of ten years between each tiny click. The lock stops turning. The box pops open with a slight puff of the most miniscule dust. The man stood up and flattens himself against his wall, refusing to confront that which he had most wanted for the past decade; a reason to live, some direction for his life so cluttered with the insufferable minutiae of life and work and taxes and children. He squared his shoulders, drawing up every mote of courage in his tired heart, and opened the box. It is empty. The man laughs, first softly, then with real gusto, and finally so hard he worries he is going to have a heart attack, colored by madness. He rushes upstairs to his bedroom and dashes around his stained mattress, his chipped wardrobe, and finally reaches his nightstand hammered together from scrap lumber so many years ago that it looks just as tired as the man. He reaches into the top drawer, and retrieves his father's 0.45. It has one bullet in the chamber. Thats all he'll ever need. In the moment that the man raises the aged weapon to his head, he is filled with a wave of peace and serenity, as he is aware that for better or worse, the Rat Race of Life has finally ended. |
I submitted this to a couple "prompt me" posts but never got a response, maybe someone else can do something with it. | [WP] Ten years ago an eccentric looking gentleman gave you a small locked box with the word "destiny" engraved on the lid. Today you received an envelope with no return address, inside is the combination to the box. | The box itself was quite ornate: a lovely obsidian black with swirling designs etched along the outside, with a single brilliant red ruby embedded on the front. None of that really mattered, however. It wasn't the outside that was interesting. It was what had been locked away inside that would really catch my eye.
I had received the box quite some time ago, about 10 years if I had to guess. It was locked with a combination lock. I didn't have the willpower to try my hand at figuring out the combination, but for some reason I had the willpower to hold on to the damned thing for 10 years.
Today began normally enough; until the letter came. It was the only letter that came. No spam, no chinese food menus, nothing. Nothing but this. And inside it read: *Thank you for holding on to the box. The combination is 4, 1, 2, 9, 7. Enjoy.*
Looking back, I'm not quite sure how the writer knew I still kept the box. Fortunately, it wasn't hidden away or anything. I kept it in the dining room. How could I not? It was a beautiful box, and an interesting conversation starter, to boot.
I sat down at my dining room table, box in one hand, letter in the other. The clock read 9:12 PM. I figured I should record the time of opening; this may be an exciting point in my life! The TV had been blaring, focused on a news story of a prison escapee. I turned it off, this box was the real news. I opened the box and, to my dismay, paper quite literally exploded from it. There was so much, it was baffling to me as to how it all fit inside. I grabbed one and began reading:
*September 14th, 2007 - Watched reruns of Spongebob with the kids for a fair portion of the day. Their mother picked them up later in the evening after being served supper.*
That... sounded familiar. I grabbed another:
*June 26th, 2009 - Attended Jake's Middle School Graduation. Chatted up one of the single mothers there. The Janitor's Closet proved useful. Upon leaving the closet, the once single mother suddenly donned her wedding ring again. Embarrassing, to say the least.*
Now, this, I remembered. I told this story often -- was somebody watching me? But... no, that's not possible. I got this box in 2004, how could there be entries for 2007? For 2009? Did this box hold my future?
I began violently throwing papers out of the box, looking to prematurely glance at my future. I found the last page:
*August 3rd, 2014 - A letter arrived for the box that was received 10 years ago. Upon opening the box, its contents were studied. At the end of the reading, a crash was heard. Someone broke through the window. The man who escaped from prison killed him.*
...What? No, no, no... this can't be the last page, that's absurd, these things don't *just happen* to people, do they? No, of course not, this box must be some weird hoax! Maybe someone was just entering parts in every day or something! This is a prank, a stupid, drawn out, pr--
That's when I heard the crash.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Do be gentle, this is my first story! I hope you enjoyed it! | He focuses intently. All sensation is lost. His vision narrows, his hearing dims. The ratty chair to his right, the torn up sofa to his left, fade into black oblivion. He clutches the letter in his callused old hand, a hand colored by years and years of crushing labor, always waiting for the wave of Destiny to crash upon him and carry his life into the realm of fantasy. The letter is of a make not seen for many years; thick creamy paper, hand laid by bald monks working by moonlight in the highest reaches of the most sacred Mountain of the Himalayas. The ink is as deep a black as the night sky, yet less mysterious and more sinister. The penmanship is exquisite, clearly graced by a true artisan's touch. His eyes twitch, his feet shake, and in a sudden frenzy of anger tinged with a hint of orgasmic trepidation he destroys the envelope to reveal a series of numbers. He twists the box's dial, living the stress of ten years between each tiny click. The lock stops turning. The box pops open with a slight puff of the most miniscule dust. The man stood up and flattens himself against his wall, refusing to confront that which he had most wanted for the past decade; a reason to live, some direction for his life so cluttered with the insufferable minutiae of life and work and taxes and children. He squared his shoulders, drawing up every mote of courage in his tired heart, and opened the box. It is empty. The man laughs, first softly, then with real gusto, and finally so hard he worries he is going to have a heart attack, colored by madness. He rushes upstairs to his bedroom and dashes around his stained mattress, his chipped wardrobe, and finally reaches his nightstand hammered together from scrap lumber so many years ago that it looks just as tired as the man. He reaches into the top drawer, and retrieves his father's 0.45. It has one bullet in the chamber. Thats all he'll ever need. In the moment that the man raises the aged weapon to his head, he is filled with a wave of peace and serenity, as he is aware that for better or worse, the Rat Race of Life has finally ended. |
I submitted this to a couple "prompt me" posts but never got a response, maybe someone else can do something with it. | [WP] Ten years ago an eccentric looking gentleman gave you a small locked box with the word "destiny" engraved on the lid. Today you received an envelope with no return address, inside is the combination to the box. | *0, 4, 0, 0, 1*
The small, pine box had been meticulously crafted. The edges all matched, the feet were attached well, and the hinges had been very well lubricated. It had been years since Matt had even thought about the box, but even through a couple of moves, and some hard times, Matt kept the box. On the lid was the singular word "Destiny". Underneath it was a symbol that reminded Matt a bit of a loading wheel, but it had an arrow at the "top" of it.
Haley was out at the mall, and would be for several more hours.
Matt read the letter once more.
> *Patron,*
> *You may remember me, but if not, there's no need to fret. As this box was passed on to me, so too was it passed on to you. Now, it is time to reveal the purpose of the box. Inside, you will find something unfathomable to the human mind. As such, it is with a bit of regret, but indeed a great amount of hope that I give you the combination.*
> *From left to right, you should align the numbers into the following code: 0, 4, 0, 0, 1*.
> *Try to do a better job than I did. Good luck.*
Matt was still confused. He set the letter on the coffee table. Staring at the box, Matt was acutely aware that his heart had began beating very fast. His normally steady hands began shaking as he reached forward. Setting them on the lid, Matt closed his eyes and tried to quell his uncharacteristic nervousness.
A minute went by and the lid had not come off. Matt opened his eyes. It would be so easy to just throw the lid open, were it not for the strange letter.
> ***BRRRRT BRRRRT*** **New Message From: Boo Boo Baer Hay ;) ;)**
> *The mall was so packed today!! I could hardly even move! I'm on the way back to the apartment, I'll just get what I need online. Should I grab us some lunch?*
Matt stared down at his phone. *I have to do it before she gets here. What if this thing is dangerous?*
> *No, that's okay. I ate.*
*Why did I just say that?*
> ***BRRRRT BRRRRT*** **New Message From: Boo Boo Baer Hay ;) ;)**
> *Great because I'm here!*
Matt opened the door just as Haley had been reaching for it. She looked at him, her smile as big as it always was, with her straight, paper-white teeth showing. His face was crunched, as if trying to comprehend some complex quantum physics of which he had no knowledge.
"What's up?" She asked, her smile vanishing.
"A letter came today. Didn't say who it was from, but it had instructions on how to open the box"
"Really?! That's great! It's always bugged me, that thing. Let's go open it!"
She practically ran to the couch and plopped down, absolutely buzzing with excitement.
Matt resumed his seat and looked at her. She looked back. Her smile had returned. In unison they each set one hand on their side of the box, Haley on the left, Matt on the right.
"On three" she said, looking at him.
"On three or after three?" He couldn't help but laugh, despite how serious this might be.
Rolling her eyes, Haley said "We'll go '1, 2, 3' and then open it after we're finished saying three"
Matt nodded his head in agreement.
"1" She counted.
*She doesn't have any idea what this thing is! Why are we doing this?! Why are we doing this here?!*
"2" He counted.
*It's too late now. Good thing I already proposed I guess...*
"3" They said together.
A flash of light, and a sudden rushing pulled them both into the depths of the six inch by eight inch box. The lid slammed shut, and they were plunged into darkness. It was a darkness so dark that nothing could be seen - darkness so dark that it almost felt like Matt's bones were being crushed by all of the darkness that surrounded him.
There was nothing. Matt would have said they were floating, but he couldn't tell which way was which.
He tried calling out to Haley, but his voice was broken. Instead, somehow, she answered him in his own brain.
*"Matt, what is this?!"*
*"I don't know*" he thought back to her.
Inexplicably, they were seated in large chairs. Neither of them could have said what they were made of, but they were comfortable. Matt's sense of direction suddenly returned to him. A dim light shone from somewhere above, it's source unknown, casting about them a small oval of yellow.
In front of them, some distance away, gigantic letters appeared and were accompanied by a voice. It resonated all around them, despite nothing to bounce off of or amplify from.
"Welcome. Name?"
Haley, looked to Matt, who responded with his.
"Good. And your companion?"
"Haley" she said.
"Good. Matt, and Haley. Creators of universe zero four zero zero one. Let's begin, we have much work to do and only ten quintillion years to do it."
*This has to be some kind of joke, a dream... SOMETHING!! This is not normal!*
"Wait." Matt said. "What is your name?"
"My name is ten-seventeen Shameful Object."
"What is this place?" Matt said, raising his voice.
"This is your universe, Creator. You have been selected for creation. It is a bit odd however that you chose to bring a companion. Most do not."
"We're going to be creating a universe?" Haley asked, skeptical.
"All infinity cubic light-years of it, or however much you deign acceptable."
"Well, we don't know how to create a universe." Matt said hotly.
"That is why I am here to assist you. I shall guide your creation. All decisions however, rest solely in your hands."
Matt and Haley looked at each other once again. Consternation covered her face; confusion covered his.
She laughed and he said "Let's begin" | Everything was on the table, ready for your weekly routine. Clean needle, lighter, the last of the product you had left before you have to resupply. You know that what you’re about to do is wrong, but you’re doing this for the last time, as a farewell to your routine. You deserve it tonight though, you’ve worked hard all week. You knew that your father would be disappointed if he saw you in this state, so it was a good thing he wasn’t around. The last time you saw him was when you were a child. He just laid there in the casket as you told him how much you miss him, told him to come back, and finally promised him you’d grow up to be just like him. “This is the last time, dad”. You’ve been saying this every week for the past year, but it’s become comfortable to at least verbalize it, just to show you meant it. You open the small baggy and pour the last of the brown powder into the rusty spoon. Same process every week. Tonight was the same as last week except for one thing, the letter you opened today. Not one of the usual bills, but a real letter that had no address, only the word *Destiny* on the front. As the flame from the lighter begins liquefying the contents, you glance over at the box.
“What’s in the box?” you remember asking the man ten years ago. It was just a small box, no larger than both your hands put together, with the word *Destiny* engraved on the lid. You knew it probably wasn't safe to accept things from strangers, but there was just something about this man that you trusted. It could have been the bright yellow ducks on his tie, or his circular spectacles, or maybe the smell of cinnamon that you reminded you of your mother’s cinnamon biscuits. But no, the thing you remember the most is the way he talked to you. It was like he’s known you all your life. His words comforted you, made you feel like everything would be okay, something you haven’t felt in too long. You felt like he could tell the future because he was just so certain of each word he told you, yet there was warmth in the way he spoke to you. That was the last time you saw the man.
You stare at the letter in your hands with the box resting on your knees. You’ll just shoot up after opening the box; maybe it’ll be more of what you need, save you the money. You laugh. You’ve tried so many times to pry off the tiny lock that’s on the box, but tonight you’ll finally see what’s inside.
You turn the dials on the lock according to the numbers in the letter. You feel excitement and hope. After keeping it for all these years, finally a payoff.
You open the box, and you see your own pair of light-brown eyes staring back at you. Your heart sinks. “What were you hoping for, idiot?” It’s a mirror, just big enough that you can only see your eyes when you look into it. You were hoping tonight might be different, but it was turning out to be the exact same. You were so curious that you kept it for ten long years, and now it was like a big joke that took ten years for the punchline to hit you in the gut. You laugh again.
As you are closing the box, you notice something carved into the underside of the lid that you didn’t see before, and it reads; *from, dad*.
|
[WP] Give the back story on the little boy sitting in the clouds/moon fishing in the DreamWorks opening title. | "Well since you kids have been helping me milk the cows all day, I guess I could tell you a story-"
"How about the one about the man on the moon?" Leaf asked.
Old man Amerias looked almost surprised for a second, even at the notion that people still heard about that tale. "Well...I'm not sure..."
"Please?" Leaf and cherry said almost at once.
Amerias took off his cracked glasses and began to rub them clean with a raggedy handkerchief. He sighed and said "Well I suppose you'll hear the legend at one point, so it might as well be from me."
It also started where most of the ancients tales start, in the land before. The world that the gods once looked upon as beautiful, slowly turned into a mess of war and hate. One of the gods, Nin, decided he needed to go down to the lands and teach them the ways of their ancestors and how they lived together in peace and harmony.
And this probably would of saved the world of the land before if it wasn't for his son, Nimbus the fishermen, who was very ignorant and believed the people of the land before deserved nothing but a quick death for defiling the land that they made for them.
He tried everything to convince his father not to go down their, out of fear that the people will try and take his power and use it for their own needs. Nin agreed that while they could be dangerous, there would also be people with hearts bigger than the land itself.
Nimbus quickly panicked and began to send his worshipers around the land and kills as many people as possible. This sparked fights, which led to battles, which led to all out war across the land. Within a short time the earth was scorched and desolate of life.
The gods quickly realized who was responsible and captured him. The gods looked to Nin as he should decide how his son would be punished. Although most of the suggestions were to execute him or send him to a world in the black beyond, Nin came to an ultimate conclusion. He trapped his son Nimbus on the moon, with the task of collecting the souls of all those who died by his irrational decision using his fishing rod.
Nin came to another conclusion, that he needed to be punished as well. Despite the other gods claiming it wasn't necessary, Nin insisted on it. As he felt responsible for Nimbus's decision, as he was his father. So went to the scorched landscape in the hopes he could return life to it.
Some say his tears made the four oceans and that his resting body made the grand mountains of the east. Either way, it is still believed he and the survivors of the land before are our ancestors.
The two children looked up at him in awe. "Is it true?" Cherry asked.
Amerias chuckled slightly. "I'm not sure, cherry. It could be. With what I've seen in my life time anything could be possible."
"What have you seen in your lifetime?" Leaf asked. | They still talk about me on earth you know... They tell my story like I did something wrong.
Yeah, I wanted to touch the sun; everyone does though, whether they know it or not.
They say I was blinded by pride, they are wrong, I was blinded by truth. People think that being blinded by truth is a contradiction, that truth only makes your sight more clear, but it doesn't work like that. Earth is a world of shadows, the closer to the sun you get the more blind you appear to humans.
Any-hoo yeah... I try not to get all pseudo-poetic like this, but the fact of the matter is when my wings melted I didn't fall to my death, I fell into the heavens.
So here I am, some sort of angelic guardian with nothing but an eternity of freedom, a fishing lure and a dank ass bad of ganja.. Life is good.
/r/PsychoWritingPrompts |
|
[WP] The seven deadly sins form the Council of Seven with one sin as their leader. Every century this leader rotates to a different sin. Explain which sin stepped down at 2000 AD and which stepped sin was promoted using current events. | "As you know, we choose a new leader on this day. I am proud to have served for these last 100 years. Thank me. I mean, I rocked that!"
Pride rose from the leader's chair. The rest followed and rose from their seats.
"YOU'RE STILL AN ASS, PRIDE!", screamed Wrath.
"Right, thanks, let's get to picking me!", Greed said, hopping around like a small dog with a urinary tract problem.
Sloth yawned and said "Or not. Not is good too. Can I sit down?".
"ALL YOU FUCKERS SHUT UP, WE WON'T GET ANYWHERE WITH YOU SPEWING SHIT FROM YOUR COCK SLOTS!" exclaimed Wrath. Lust jolted a bit at the mention of genitals.
Envy said nothing, only shooting jealous glances at Pride.
Lust spoke up. "Shouldn't we let me have a go? I've barely had any action recently, isn't it time to end this dry spell?"
"INNUENDO! I CAN DO THAT TOO! BLOWJOBS!"
"Lust, you pretty much dominated the 1960's.", said Pride.
"Aww, but I have been able to mount that massive throne of yours in such a long time!"
"BLOOOOOOOOOOOWJOBS!!!"
Envy burst in to the discussion. "I want it! I want it too!"
"It's mine, kid." Greed smugly said.
"NO NO NO NO NO!", Envy whined.
Gluttony was on the floor, trying to eat the carpeting.
Sloth joined Gluttony on the floor, not doing much of anything.
"Alright, fine. None of you will ever be as good as me, of course, but as current leader, I choose who takes my place. All of you, tell me why you think you're worthy of taking over." said Pride.
Greed was the first to say something. "Well, because I want it. I can make mortals want things too. I want it again. It will be mine. Everything will."
"Greed, you realize that we all function, no matter who the leader is, right?" said Pride.
"Oh. Yeah. I still want it."
Envy was the next to speak. "I want it too. You had it! Why can't I?"
Lust interrupted before Pride could speak again. "Short shorts! See-through shirts! Porn! I have this all planned out!"
Wrath couldn't refrain from yelling any longer. "WARS AND SHIT, OKAY? FUCKING BIG ASS EXPLOSIONS IN THE SAND AND RUSSIANS INVADING SHIT AND PLANES! CUNTING PLANES! EVERYTHING WILL BE PLANES! SHIT!"
"Thanks, Wrath. Planes." Pride had joined Gluttony and Sloth on the floor, face buried in hands.
Gluttony pulled the carpet out of its mouth. "Okay, hear me out on this. Deep. Fried. Donut. Burger."
"Gluttony, why?". Pride was face down on the floor.
"PLANE BURGERS!"
"Thank you again, Wrath. Sloth, go." said Pride.
"Look, whatever. Carry me up to the chair and I'll do something." Sloth said, obviously bored.
"Alright. Sloth wins for being the only one to not make me regret eternal existence."
"Yaaaaay." Sloth said.
Lust walked over to Sloth, being down to whisper in its ear. "Hey, Sloth, you know that thing you made a while ago? The Internet? Maybe I should help out a little more with that."
"COMMENT SECTIONS!" screamed Wrath.
| Sloth had always thought that the "Council of Seven" was a pretty lame name. But he couldn't really be bothered to say anything about it.
Sloth had never been bothered to do much of anything, really. He knew it annoyed the other sins, but he didn't actually care. It's not like they could insult him for being lazy. It was kind of his *raison d'être*.
Pride, as the most recent Dominante had chosen their meeting place. It was an old money manor somewhere in Britain. He used to choose France every time, but after Wrath started that Revolution the nation lost it's flavor for Pride...
They were all seated around a large oak table in red upholstered chairs. Sloth disliked them. The backs were so stiff and straight they forced him to sit relatively upright. Sloth preferred to slouch. He glanced around the table at his siblings. He noticed Envy was glaring at the gold in the chandelier, like it had personally offended her. Her hunger was betrayed by her eyes. She had one foot up on the chair and her arms crossed over her chest protectively. Her face was impeccably and cartoonishly done up.
Sloth knew Envy wanted to be the next Dominante. That was the usual order: Gluttony, Lust, Greed, Pride, Envy, Wrath. Sometimes it would get switched up, like in the first century, when Lust was followed by Wrath. Sloth was rarely chosen, which was fine by him. The less work, the better was his motto. He'd been Dominante in the 14th century, when the in fighting had become too much, but everyone had complained that he hadn't really done anything (what did they expect?) and booted him at the next meeting.
He redirected his attention to Lust. He was sitting directly across from Sloth. When he saw Sloth looking he leaned towards him, reaching out for Sloth's coat—a stained, threadbare thing that Sloth thought he might have picked up in the 19th century. Lust started feeling the fabric delicately, smiling hungrily, his eyes shinny with want. Sloth tiredly pulled his coat away and Lust sank back into his seat, not before taking Sloth's cup of wine. He admired the craftsmanship of the cup for a moment and then tipped it back, savoring it. He licked his lips in momentary satisfaction. Sloth knew that if he'd made any movement stop Lust, he could have, but why bother...
Pride walked in, late as usual, and strode to the head of the table.
"Good job, Pride," Lust said with intensity. "I never thought we'd see the day one of managed to top Wrath's death toll."
Wrath snarled quietly. He had been unpleasantly surprised to how the first half of the century had gone. After 6000 years, pride had finally figured out how to use patriotism and nationalism to inspire destruction. The Cold War had been a particularly fascinating experiment—all that fear and pride and competitiveness swirling about in their souls. It was a shame it all ended so soon.
Pride preened a little before tersely responding, "I don't know why you expected anything else, Lust. Let's get down to business. You've all got you're ballot. Oh, and Greed, put your cup back."
Greed grouchily put he wine cup back on the table. Sloth fully expected her to make it out of the building with the cup and the chair. Gluttony had, not unsurprisingly, eaten his wine cup.
Sloth wrote his vote on the ballot and handed it Pride. He counted it up with the others.
"Congratulations, Envy." She cackled and rocked back in forth in her chair.
*Ah, the cycle continues,* Sloth thought vaguely.
|
|
[WP] The seven deadly sins form the Council of Seven with one sin as their leader. Every century this leader rotates to a different sin. Explain which sin stepped down at 2000 AD and which stepped sin was promoted using current events. |
Jan 1st - 2000 12:01 am
Pride bowed at his pedestal though none of the five other members of his order, so much as glanced in his direction. 'FIVE!' he thought, scanning the room, when he saw her, the girl in the dark hood, headphones on, just now slinking in. She plopped herself down in the chair furthest from the podium, and seemed to nearly melt with exhaustion from the effort. He allowed him self no emotional response, for pride was always in control of himself. He simply collected himself, and asked loudly enough to interrupt the quibbling of his siblings in arms, "Well, a fine 100 years I've had.. Shall we decide then, who must follow that performance?"
Lust made is if to speak, but Gluttony put a hand over her mouth, which seemed to satisfy them both when he began what could only be described as eating her face. 'They both serve better as lieutenants anyway' Pride thought to himself looking away from their lewdness.
Red in the face Wrath gibed and garbled, foaming at the mouth. "I-WANT-A-TURNN.." Pride nearly screamed... The last time Wrath had been in charge, there'd been a plague.
Avarice was always eager to chime in with a word and take Wrath's place, and though he had a more sensible head on his shoulders than the "shoot first, ask questions later approach of his hot headed twin, the cool chill of Avarice was colder than any of them wanted to feel. Greed had run rampant through out the 1800s, and before that, set it up with his expansion measures in the early 15th century, and still before with the Romans. It was cool, calculated, and without mercy. Greed was a surgeon's scalpel in a steady hand, where as Wrath was a cudgel.
Pride sighed audibly, ran his long thin fingers through his full blonde hair. None of these were fit to lead for the first hundred years of the new millennium, they were all too busy plotting, they needed someone who understood the big picture and could play the long game.
He stood there pondering until he noticed the smile on Sloths face in the back of the room, looking at him. He was almost about to ask her if she had something to add, when one by one the others began looking up at the stage.
Understanding dawned on him, as he turned around and saw her there, in the dress he'd bought for her that night he'd taken her out on the town and she'd seen it on the pretty girl in the front row, and just had to have it.
"It's seems to me, " Started the pretty girl with the green eyes, "that these humans have been lazy, and angry, they've been prideful to be sure. You can tell with their actions in the civilized world that their greedy. These people have everything handed to them without lifting a finger, and since the internet was invented can lust without fear.. "
I think the time is ripe, to make the poor want, and the rich fear, and show them all alike, what it is, to Envy."
| Whoa. That's kind of long. Well hope you like it.
“Okay finally. It’s about fucking time you all got here. I, Wrath, welcome you all to this century’s counsel session. As you all probably have guessed I am this century’s council head, filling in the extraordinarily roomy seat. As we all know was recently expanded to make room for our previous head, Pride’s, monumental ego.” This barely garnered the attention of pride who was encroached with the reflection of a small looking glass. The only one more attentive to him was Lust, who was in turn being glared at despairingly by Envy.
“So what have you planned for the humans this year Wrath?” Said Pride, snapping his looking glass shut on his blonde hair, bright eyes and strong features. “Another war perhaps? I’m afraid you’re simply outclassed if you’re looking to match the scale velocity of those I oversaw during my seat.”
”I WAS FUCKING GETTING TO THAT! Now… If everyone will open their packets-” He pauses to the sound of a wet smacking noise to his left. “OH FOR THE LOVE OF FUCKING GOD! Will someone please get Gluttony to stop eating his packet!? Sloth please gr-” He looks across the table to meet Sloths gaze through an impenetrable layer of bangs and mascara. ” Fuck. Envy?”
Envy snapped out of his daze, and reaches over to Gluttony. “Cummon buddy, that’s not even edible. Didn’t you get your fill of potatoes during your reign?” He said trying not to get saliva on himself as he shakes out the freshly dampened packet.
“But that was over two hundred years ago!”, said Gluttony following a peculiar FWEH noise.
“What happened to my packet?”, said Envy as he turned back to his seat, ducking his head underneath his section of table.
“Just continue on, if we cater to these clowns we’ll never get anything done-” said Greed hurriedly.
“Clow-OWWWW!!” With a solid clunk as Envy hurriedly tried to resurface the table, followed by Pride and Lust’s snickers. “What do you mean Clowns? You’re the - HEY IS THAT MY PACKET!?” shouted Envy glaring at a packet tucked underneath Greed’s.
“Don’t be Ridiculous! I must’ve been handed two is all. Here take one of mine and try not to lose it this time” Greed said hurriedly passing the packet back to a sheepish and downtrodden Envy.
“ENOUGH! THIS IS MY YEAR! And i’ll be damned twice if I’m gonna let you ruin it for me! Now…” said Wrath, visibly seething. “If you turn to page two in your packets you can see what I have outlined under “Religious Extremism”, you can see how I plan to smoothly transition from Pride’s reign into my own an- SLOTH WILL YOU TURN DOWN YOUR GODDAMN MY CHEMICAL ROMANCE!!” He shouted into Sloth’s skull-crusher headphones. Which she did with a look of disdain. “NOW… Okay so if you’d all pull out your pen’s and highlight un-“
“I’m Hungryyyyy!!” , outburst Gluttony.
” Fuck! Envy will yo-” Wrath shouted only to be cut off by the tinkling sound of a phone going off. “What the fuck was that?”
“Oh that’s my cell phone,” Pride said pulling a large brick shaped object. ” It’s this new thing the humans created. Lust got me one so she can call me when she emails me a picture of her boobs.”
“What the fuck? Pride get ri-“
“YOU BASTARD!”, shouted Envy as he dove across the table trying to grab at Pride, who merely stood out of reach looking down pitifully. “I’m gonna kill y- OWWWWWW! GLUTTONY!” , he wailed rearing his head on his heel submerged into Gluttony’s cavernous maw.
“SHUT THE FUCK UP! THIS IS MY YEAR! AND I’M GOING TO TAKE MY PEN AND STAB EACH OF YOU THROUGH YOUR GODDAMN PUPIL IF YOU DON— WHO THE FUCK STOLE MY PEN!?” |
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[WP] The seven deadly sins form the Council of Seven with one sin as their leader. Every century this leader rotates to a different sin. Explain which sin stepped down at 2000 AD and which stepped sin was promoted using current events. | They sat at an obsidian table amidst the Seventh Layer of Hades, surrounded by a fire so hot it cast a blue-white glow. They all came together once every hundred years to confer and appoint a steward for the next century.
"Oh, how wicked," cooed Lust from her ruby-red lips. She unfurled her black bat-wings ever so slightly, to give just a glimpse of herself, as she stretched all the right muscles. "You really outdid yourself this century, Wrath. I mean...*two* World Wars."
"Yes, well, I didn't have Helen of Troy to inspire those men as you did my dear," replied Wrath in a voice that rattled like bullets and breath that smelled of mustard gas.
"It should be *my* turn now," whined Envy, who had taken the form of a green toad and seemed vastly smaller than the others present, if no less pernicious.
"So tedious," remarked Pride. He had chosen his usual form, a male Angel, somehow even more compelling and magnificent than Lust's form except that it was marred by skeletal, burnt wings where should have been ethereal feathers composed of salvation, light, and glory. "You say that at every meeting but you only get one turn in seven. Just as we do."
"And it's my turn now," slobbered a corpulent man as he wiped spittle from his chin and rose to take his place at the head of the table.
A sophisticated man, in a very expensive tailored suit , sat clinking a pile of coins together. Greed asked, "Give us a preview if you will. Where shall I place my bets?"
"Gluttony rules this era my friends," chortled the fat demon. "I shall drown Empires in their excesses. America eats itself to Diabetes while Africa starves. Though, with the help of my friend Lust, Africa suffers no shortage of sating their sexual appetites to ruination with HIV. Why, Asia has such a glut of souls they've taken to killing all but one of their offspring in the womb! My, how HE has praised me for all those unbaptized babies paving the roads. In Europe, I need do almost nothing. Honestly, the Russians still can't put down the Vodka I plagued them with last time. Finally, those atrocities in South America between the drug cartels aren't quite a war, but will simmer violently for far longer. They just can't get enough cocaine."
Sloth had barely stirred and remained silent. It took so much energy to banter...and for what? He played a long game and was putting all the pieces together for his turn come 2100. All this talk of Global Warming amongst the humans now, but no one willing to act. Let Gluttony have his turn. Sloth would end the game in due time. | Whoa. That's kind of long. Well hope you like it.
“Okay finally. It’s about fucking time you all got here. I, Wrath, welcome you all to this century’s counsel session. As you all probably have guessed I am this century’s council head, filling in the extraordinarily roomy seat. As we all know was recently expanded to make room for our previous head, Pride’s, monumental ego.” This barely garnered the attention of pride who was encroached with the reflection of a small looking glass. The only one more attentive to him was Lust, who was in turn being glared at despairingly by Envy.
“So what have you planned for the humans this year Wrath?” Said Pride, snapping his looking glass shut on his blonde hair, bright eyes and strong features. “Another war perhaps? I’m afraid you’re simply outclassed if you’re looking to match the scale velocity of those I oversaw during my seat.”
”I WAS FUCKING GETTING TO THAT! Now… If everyone will open their packets-” He pauses to the sound of a wet smacking noise to his left. “OH FOR THE LOVE OF FUCKING GOD! Will someone please get Gluttony to stop eating his packet!? Sloth please gr-” He looks across the table to meet Sloths gaze through an impenetrable layer of bangs and mascara. ” Fuck. Envy?”
Envy snapped out of his daze, and reaches over to Gluttony. “Cummon buddy, that’s not even edible. Didn’t you get your fill of potatoes during your reign?” He said trying not to get saliva on himself as he shakes out the freshly dampened packet.
“But that was over two hundred years ago!”, said Gluttony following a peculiar FWEH noise.
“What happened to my packet?”, said Envy as he turned back to his seat, ducking his head underneath his section of table.
“Just continue on, if we cater to these clowns we’ll never get anything done-” said Greed hurriedly.
“Clow-OWWWW!!” With a solid clunk as Envy hurriedly tried to resurface the table, followed by Pride and Lust’s snickers. “What do you mean Clowns? You’re the - HEY IS THAT MY PACKET!?” shouted Envy glaring at a packet tucked underneath Greed’s.
“Don’t be Ridiculous! I must’ve been handed two is all. Here take one of mine and try not to lose it this time” Greed said hurriedly passing the packet back to a sheepish and downtrodden Envy.
“ENOUGH! THIS IS MY YEAR! And i’ll be damned twice if I’m gonna let you ruin it for me! Now…” said Wrath, visibly seething. “If you turn to page two in your packets you can see what I have outlined under “Religious Extremism”, you can see how I plan to smoothly transition from Pride’s reign into my own an- SLOTH WILL YOU TURN DOWN YOUR GODDAMN MY CHEMICAL ROMANCE!!” He shouted into Sloth’s skull-crusher headphones. Which she did with a look of disdain. “NOW… Okay so if you’d all pull out your pen’s and highlight un-“
“I’m Hungryyyyy!!” , outburst Gluttony.
” Fuck! Envy will yo-” Wrath shouted only to be cut off by the tinkling sound of a phone going off. “What the fuck was that?”
“Oh that’s my cell phone,” Pride said pulling a large brick shaped object. ” It’s this new thing the humans created. Lust got me one so she can call me when she emails me a picture of her boobs.”
“What the fuck? Pride get ri-“
“YOU BASTARD!”, shouted Envy as he dove across the table trying to grab at Pride, who merely stood out of reach looking down pitifully. “I’m gonna kill y- OWWWWWW! GLUTTONY!” , he wailed rearing his head on his heel submerged into Gluttony’s cavernous maw.
“SHUT THE FUCK UP! THIS IS MY YEAR! AND I’M GOING TO TAKE MY PEN AND STAB EACH OF YOU THROUGH YOUR GODDAMN PUPIL IF YOU DON— WHO THE FUCK STOLE MY PEN!?” |
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[WP] The seven deadly sins form the Council of Seven with one sin as their leader. Every century this leader rotates to a different sin. Explain which sin stepped down at 2000 AD and which stepped sin was promoted using current events. | They sat at an obsidian table amidst the Seventh Layer of Hades, surrounded by a fire so hot it cast a blue-white glow. They all came together once every hundred years to confer and appoint a steward for the next century.
"Oh, how wicked," cooed Lust from her ruby-red lips. She unfurled her black bat-wings ever so slightly, to give just a glimpse of herself, as she stretched all the right muscles. "You really outdid yourself this century, Wrath. I mean...*two* World Wars."
"Yes, well, I didn't have Helen of Troy to inspire those men as you did my dear," replied Wrath in a voice that rattled like bullets and breath that smelled of mustard gas.
"It should be *my* turn now," whined Envy, who had taken the form of a green toad and seemed vastly smaller than the others present, if no less pernicious.
"So tedious," remarked Pride. He had chosen his usual form, a male Angel, somehow even more compelling and magnificent than Lust's form except that it was marred by skeletal, burnt wings where should have been ethereal feathers composed of salvation, light, and glory. "You say that at every meeting but you only get one turn in seven. Just as we do."
"And it's my turn now," slobbered a corpulent man as he wiped spittle from his chin and rose to take his place at the head of the table.
A sophisticated man, in a very expensive tailored suit , sat clinking a pile of coins together. Greed asked, "Give us a preview if you will. Where shall I place my bets?"
"Gluttony rules this era my friends," chortled the fat demon. "I shall drown Empires in their excesses. America eats itself to Diabetes while Africa starves. Though, with the help of my friend Lust, Africa suffers no shortage of sating their sexual appetites to ruination with HIV. Why, Asia has such a glut of souls they've taken to killing all but one of their offspring in the womb! My, how HE has praised me for all those unbaptized babies paving the roads. In Europe, I need do almost nothing. Honestly, the Russians still can't put down the Vodka I plagued them with last time. Finally, those atrocities in South America between the drug cartels aren't quite a war, but will simmer violently for far longer. They just can't get enough cocaine."
Sloth had barely stirred and remained silent. It took so much energy to banter...and for what? He played a long game and was putting all the pieces together for his turn come 2100. All this talk of Global Warming amongst the humans now, but no one willing to act. Let Gluttony have his turn. Sloth would end the game in due time. |
Jan 1st - 2000 12:01 am
Pride bowed at his pedestal though none of the five other members of his order, so much as glanced in his direction. 'FIVE!' he thought, scanning the room, when he saw her, the girl in the dark hood, headphones on, just now slinking in. She plopped herself down in the chair furthest from the podium, and seemed to nearly melt with exhaustion from the effort. He allowed him self no emotional response, for pride was always in control of himself. He simply collected himself, and asked loudly enough to interrupt the quibbling of his siblings in arms, "Well, a fine 100 years I've had.. Shall we decide then, who must follow that performance?"
Lust made is if to speak, but Gluttony put a hand over her mouth, which seemed to satisfy them both when he began what could only be described as eating her face. 'They both serve better as lieutenants anyway' Pride thought to himself looking away from their lewdness.
Red in the face Wrath gibed and garbled, foaming at the mouth. "I-WANT-A-TURNN.." Pride nearly screamed... The last time Wrath had been in charge, there'd been a plague.
Avarice was always eager to chime in with a word and take Wrath's place, and though he had a more sensible head on his shoulders than the "shoot first, ask questions later approach of his hot headed twin, the cool chill of Avarice was colder than any of them wanted to feel. Greed had run rampant through out the 1800s, and before that, set it up with his expansion measures in the early 15th century, and still before with the Romans. It was cool, calculated, and without mercy. Greed was a surgeon's scalpel in a steady hand, where as Wrath was a cudgel.
Pride sighed audibly, ran his long thin fingers through his full blonde hair. None of these were fit to lead for the first hundred years of the new millennium, they were all too busy plotting, they needed someone who understood the big picture and could play the long game.
He stood there pondering until he noticed the smile on Sloths face in the back of the room, looking at him. He was almost about to ask her if she had something to add, when one by one the others began looking up at the stage.
Understanding dawned on him, as he turned around and saw her there, in the dress he'd bought for her that night he'd taken her out on the town and she'd seen it on the pretty girl in the front row, and just had to have it.
"It's seems to me, " Started the pretty girl with the green eyes, "that these humans have been lazy, and angry, they've been prideful to be sure. You can tell with their actions in the civilized world that their greedy. These people have everything handed to them without lifting a finger, and since the internet was invented can lust without fear.. "
I think the time is ripe, to make the poor want, and the rich fear, and show them all alike, what it is, to Envy."
|
|
[WP] The seven deadly sins form the Council of Seven with one sin as their leader. Every century this leader rotates to a different sin. Explain which sin stepped down at 2000 AD and which stepped sin was promoted using current events. | “ Perhaps,” he paused considering the figures before him, “we may have reached the closest vote in millennia.”
Envy glared at Lust with the dull piercing grey eyes that had pulled the color from so many lives. Gluttony’s grease soaked fingers wrestled another chicken from Greed’s massive arms as Sloth stared in a daze at the ceiling. All were silent, except for the slapping of Gluttony’s jowls as Wrath looked infuriated by the noise.
“Could you close your mouth for ONCE!?!” steamed Wrath.
The dark meat slithered slowly down his many chins as he tried to choke out words through the mass of food.
“Do you think I could have one of those chickens, Greed?” Envy asked reaching his thin fingers out like a spiders arms. Greed turned his massive back toward Envy with a stifled laugh.
“If you please! There is the order of who is to serve the next century to attend to.”
“I want another term” Lust pressed into the judge breathing the most pleasant aroma into his nostrils.
“As you know it is placed to a vote and the decision has been made” He announced unphased.
Lust changed genders and tried again. “Are you sure there is nothing I can do?”
“You can learn to shut up now that the pitiful excuse of a century is over,” incited Wrath with a smile.
“Pitiful like the hundreds of wars that were lost to history during your century? At least the records I’ve made will last forever in that Internet.” retorted Lust.
“If you are finished the next century belongs to Sloth” the Judge asserted.
“But I didn’t do anything” sloth whispered as his head fell forward.
“Precisely” the Judge spoke.
“You have got to be kidding me! This lazy piece of @#%!” Wrath overturned the table.
“But I wanted to have the next century” Envy said dejected.
Gluttony flopped to the floor trying to gather the chickens that lay scattered across the floor as he gasped for breath.
“I always thought it would be Sloth” Lust sat on Sloth’s lap and giggled.
“It was easy,” Sloth said with a long breath. “All I had to do was have people feel like they were doing something without moving. Whether communicating without having to open their mouths, shop without leaving their chair, or see the world without leaving the couch. And speaking of couch I’m exhausted.”
The Judge looked at the council and knew it would be a great century for Sloth. It could have been for anyone, but Sloth always paved the way for Gluttony. Gluttony and his brother Greed worked together even when working against each other. And where Greed succeeded so too did Lust. Envy was always left behind but ever present.
| A hooded figure progressed down a white marble tunnel leading to the meeting spot: a wide open Colosseum. "Seats for over 8 billion should the time come." He explained to no-one.
In the center one table, seats for 6, and behind that a throne, carved in the likeness of the leader; Superbia. The Sin had reined for over four hundred years. Had the rules allowed in the middle of the last century another may have taken over. Just like in all other human wars. But after it was all over, and those who died had gained entrance. The countries that won scarcely remembered those they killed, only remembering those who they had defeated. Their country over all, under the Maker. As if they themselves were chosen by the Council of Virtues to be their people. Time now for a new leader to be chosen by Death.
Almost to the table, Death still talking to himself, the sins unsure if in the past World War the strain had gotten to their Lords mind.
"First, I tally up all the sins of those brought in and the winner is the leader, its rather simple you see, standard procedure. Oh look a soul to be reaped. Get in the boat and wait I'll be there in a second."
A new leader, one to bring the Council of Seven into a new age, and age of electronics. Killings on the scale Death himself could never dream of, of couches and robots, unlimited food to those who need none, religious wars, new cars and electronics, of a widening wage gap, and the internet and sexual freedom. A leader of true sin, everything was covered. The sins were immortal and could handle billions of reaped souls at a time.
Death cleared his throat, a sound of rasping bone on bone was heard, He started in a metallic drone, as if giving a boring speech rehearsed many times before. "Humans have progressed to the point of true evil, letting certain peoples be hunted because of lack of funding, people being turned away for selfish reasons. Only a few even go the other way, I see most. A new sin not foretold in the Holy Books, he has been lurking in the shadows, in the back of consciousnesses, always there. Verum Malum." Death snapped his fingers and a figure wrapped in white robes appeared, "Here you go kids have fun with him, remember to call your mothers." with that Death vanished.
Verum stood at average human height, clothed such that a man would be hard pressed to tell what gender he is. Evil eminated from him. Even the sins became uncomfortable with his power in the room. Verum removed his hood, and behind it was the face of every soul that had ever lived, and that ever will. A small child stealing candy from his sister. And a serial killer stabbing a mother to death in front of her child. A soldier burning down a village. The face of every man and woman living. And he laughed, an evil cackle that chilled the room. It echoed, and then silence. |
|
[WP] The seven deadly sins form the Council of Seven with one sin as their leader. Every century this leader rotates to a different sin. Explain which sin stepped down at 2000 AD and which stepped sin was promoted using current events. | Sloth arrived late, and took a seat beside Gluttony. It didn’t seem that he had missed much: Wrath and Greed were still snapping at each other from opposing pulpits, Lust trying in vain to prevent last century’s fistfight.
“YOU CANNAE HUV TWO TERMS IN A ROW YA FUCKIN COW.” Wrath gripped the sides of his podium, knuckles as white as the bone underneath. The corners of his mouth, permanently frothing, were beginning to overflow.
Greed examined her nails, garish and expensive. “I can’t help my popularity,” she said. “The rules value the people overall. You can’t deny I’ve gone from strength to strength.”
“STRENGTH TO- LISTEN YA BINT. COUNT THE FUCKIN GENOCIDES LAST CENTURY. THAT’S GOIN FROM STRENGTH TO STRENGTH.”
Attempted genocides, thought Sloth, but couldn’t be bothered bringing it up.
“As the saying goes,” Greed said, leaning forward and grinning, “what have you done for us lately, Wrath?”
Wrath paused, the vein in his temple pulsing dangerously. It would not be the first time that it had burst during a meeting. Red-rimmed eyes bore into his opponent. “RIGHT. AFF THE TOP OF MA HEID – HOW MANY SCHOOL SHOOTINS WE HUD THIS YEAR? LUST?”
“A lot,” said the bored mediator, drumming his fingers on the table.
“EXACTLY. CHEERS, YA FUCKIN NONCE. THAT’S JUST THE START. EVERY ISOLATED WEE WANKSTAIN, AH’VE GOAT THEM FUMIN, CHAMPIN AT THE FUCKIN BIT TO SHOOT SOMECUNT OR OTHER. SOCIETY FUCKIN BREEDS THEM FIR US.”
“Charming, Wrath,” said Greed. “But I think we are all aware that there is no such thing as society. And really, with China entering the free market, I’ve secured leadership for a few centuries at least. One only needs to look at wealth distribution to see my glorious inequality manifest. Certainly a bigger impact than a lonely virgin with a machine gun.”
“DID YE NO FUCKIN SEE LIBYA?”
“We all saw Libya,” said Lust, and Sloth thought he detected a hint of resentment. Gaddafi had been one of Lust’s favourites.
“Ahem.” Even Wrath went quiet as Envy spoke for the first time that night. As usual, Sloth was surprised the other sin had arrived. Envy had a habit of slinking in unnoticed. It could be unnerving to discover he had been sitting behind you for several hours before he made his presence known.
“It seems to me,” said Envy, rising and padding through the rows of empty seats towards the podiums, “well, it seems to me that you’ve both won this for me. My thanks.” He smiled, thin and wet.
“PONCE,” snarled Wrath. Greed said nothing, but she was clutching her handbag close, and wary for the first time in the debate.
“Where would these, ah, ‘lonely virgins with machine guns’, where would they be,” said Envy, “without me? Wrath, you’re very good at what you do, but the fact is, you’d never get anywhere if these people didn’t already want to be normal. They want girls, money, less acne. They want, and covet, and it builds. You’re very good at what you do Wrath, and that’s taking the credit.”
Greed swallowed as Envy turned on his heel to face her.
“You made an excellent point about wealth inequality, Greed,” Envy said. “That’s what, one percent of the population owning 90 per cent of the world? Something ridiculous like that?”
“Something like that.” Greed nodded.
Envy smiled again, and even Lust – notorious creep Lust – shivered. Gluttony paused in her eating, bacon grease dribbling down her chins, and Sloth momentarily sat up for a proper look.
“What do you suppose the other ninety-nine percent want?” asked Envy.
Wrath was the first to step down, silently at first. He made it halfway up the aisle in a dignified stride before snapping and attacking a chair to the strains of violent swearing. Greed, trembling, fetched her purse and her pearls and scuttled off to join Sloth and Gluttony. Lust nodded gravely at Envy, who stood in the centre, smile lazy and content.
“My century then?” said Envy. “Good form.”
| A hooded figure progressed down a white marble tunnel leading to the meeting spot: a wide open Colosseum. "Seats for over 8 billion should the time come." He explained to no-one.
In the center one table, seats for 6, and behind that a throne, carved in the likeness of the leader; Superbia. The Sin had reined for over four hundred years. Had the rules allowed in the middle of the last century another may have taken over. Just like in all other human wars. But after it was all over, and those who died had gained entrance. The countries that won scarcely remembered those they killed, only remembering those who they had defeated. Their country over all, under the Maker. As if they themselves were chosen by the Council of Virtues to be their people. Time now for a new leader to be chosen by Death.
Almost to the table, Death still talking to himself, the sins unsure if in the past World War the strain had gotten to their Lords mind.
"First, I tally up all the sins of those brought in and the winner is the leader, its rather simple you see, standard procedure. Oh look a soul to be reaped. Get in the boat and wait I'll be there in a second."
A new leader, one to bring the Council of Seven into a new age, and age of electronics. Killings on the scale Death himself could never dream of, of couches and robots, unlimited food to those who need none, religious wars, new cars and electronics, of a widening wage gap, and the internet and sexual freedom. A leader of true sin, everything was covered. The sins were immortal and could handle billions of reaped souls at a time.
Death cleared his throat, a sound of rasping bone on bone was heard, He started in a metallic drone, as if giving a boring speech rehearsed many times before. "Humans have progressed to the point of true evil, letting certain peoples be hunted because of lack of funding, people being turned away for selfish reasons. Only a few even go the other way, I see most. A new sin not foretold in the Holy Books, he has been lurking in the shadows, in the back of consciousnesses, always there. Verum Malum." Death snapped his fingers and a figure wrapped in white robes appeared, "Here you go kids have fun with him, remember to call your mothers." with that Death vanished.
Verum stood at average human height, clothed such that a man would be hard pressed to tell what gender he is. Evil eminated from him. Even the sins became uncomfortable with his power in the room. Verum removed his hood, and behind it was the face of every soul that had ever lived, and that ever will. A small child stealing candy from his sister. And a serial killer stabbing a mother to death in front of her child. A soldier burning down a village. The face of every man and woman living. And he laughed, an evil cackle that chilled the room. It echoed, and then silence. |
|
[WP] The seven deadly sins form the Council of Seven with one sin as their leader. Every century this leader rotates to a different sin. Explain which sin stepped down at 2000 AD and which stepped sin was promoted using current events. | Sloth arrived late, and took a seat beside Gluttony. It didn’t seem that he had missed much: Wrath and Greed were still snapping at each other from opposing pulpits, Lust trying in vain to prevent last century’s fistfight.
“YOU CANNAE HUV TWO TERMS IN A ROW YA FUCKIN COW.” Wrath gripped the sides of his podium, knuckles as white as the bone underneath. The corners of his mouth, permanently frothing, were beginning to overflow.
Greed examined her nails, garish and expensive. “I can’t help my popularity,” she said. “The rules value the people overall. You can’t deny I’ve gone from strength to strength.”
“STRENGTH TO- LISTEN YA BINT. COUNT THE FUCKIN GENOCIDES LAST CENTURY. THAT’S GOIN FROM STRENGTH TO STRENGTH.”
Attempted genocides, thought Sloth, but couldn’t be bothered bringing it up.
“As the saying goes,” Greed said, leaning forward and grinning, “what have you done for us lately, Wrath?”
Wrath paused, the vein in his temple pulsing dangerously. It would not be the first time that it had burst during a meeting. Red-rimmed eyes bore into his opponent. “RIGHT. AFF THE TOP OF MA HEID – HOW MANY SCHOOL SHOOTINS WE HUD THIS YEAR? LUST?”
“A lot,” said the bored mediator, drumming his fingers on the table.
“EXACTLY. CHEERS, YA FUCKIN NONCE. THAT’S JUST THE START. EVERY ISOLATED WEE WANKSTAIN, AH’VE GOAT THEM FUMIN, CHAMPIN AT THE FUCKIN BIT TO SHOOT SOMECUNT OR OTHER. SOCIETY FUCKIN BREEDS THEM FIR US.”
“Charming, Wrath,” said Greed. “But I think we are all aware that there is no such thing as society. And really, with China entering the free market, I’ve secured leadership for a few centuries at least. One only needs to look at wealth distribution to see my glorious inequality manifest. Certainly a bigger impact than a lonely virgin with a machine gun.”
“DID YE NO FUCKIN SEE LIBYA?”
“We all saw Libya,” said Lust, and Sloth thought he detected a hint of resentment. Gaddafi had been one of Lust’s favourites.
“Ahem.” Even Wrath went quiet as Envy spoke for the first time that night. As usual, Sloth was surprised the other sin had arrived. Envy had a habit of slinking in unnoticed. It could be unnerving to discover he had been sitting behind you for several hours before he made his presence known.
“It seems to me,” said Envy, rising and padding through the rows of empty seats towards the podiums, “well, it seems to me that you’ve both won this for me. My thanks.” He smiled, thin and wet.
“PONCE,” snarled Wrath. Greed said nothing, but she was clutching her handbag close, and wary for the first time in the debate.
“Where would these, ah, ‘lonely virgins with machine guns’, where would they be,” said Envy, “without me? Wrath, you’re very good at what you do, but the fact is, you’d never get anywhere if these people didn’t already want to be normal. They want girls, money, less acne. They want, and covet, and it builds. You’re very good at what you do Wrath, and that’s taking the credit.”
Greed swallowed as Envy turned on his heel to face her.
“You made an excellent point about wealth inequality, Greed,” Envy said. “That’s what, one percent of the population owning 90 per cent of the world? Something ridiculous like that?”
“Something like that.” Greed nodded.
Envy smiled again, and even Lust – notorious creep Lust – shivered. Gluttony paused in her eating, bacon grease dribbling down her chins, and Sloth momentarily sat up for a proper look.
“What do you suppose the other ninety-nine percent want?” asked Envy.
Wrath was the first to step down, silently at first. He made it halfway up the aisle in a dignified stride before snapping and attacking a chair to the strains of violent swearing. Greed, trembling, fetched her purse and her pearls and scuttled off to join Sloth and Gluttony. Lust nodded gravely at Envy, who stood in the centre, smile lazy and content.
“My century then?” said Envy. “Good form.”
| [I suspect this should be tagged [CW], given the current events restriction, but here goes.]
The Council's big cennetial session was over, and truthfully, Wrath was relieved. His efforts had more or less peaked in the first half of his tenure. He had accomplished two world wars, but despite all the power he had gained from the world-wide animosity, he was exhausted by the effort. In hindsight, he realized it was coming a bit of a habit for him. Just like his last tenure, when he had pushed the Mongols on their path of conquest.
He tried to do more, of course. But at the height of the Cuban Crisis, the Old Man Himself had forcefully reminded the Council that they weren't allowed to end the world. After that, Wrath had largely stopped leading, sat back and let the each of the other sins do their own thing.
Of the six others, Gluttony had been the most active. Nobody knew exactly what he had been up to since the fifties, really. It came as a surprise to Wrath when Gluttony was chosen to replace him. He though it would turn out to be Lust, after she had proved her ability to play the long game when she manipulated the creation of the Internet. Not to mention the sexual revolution of the sixties.
But it was Gluttony, and now Wrath realized why. His machinations, though subtle, were beginning to pay off. Social inequality was worsening. First world vs Third world. The poor being forced to pay the debts of the banks they had trusted their wealth with. In fact, the entire economy was founded entirely on the assumption that everyone would borrow money to live above their actual means. Those that refrained from debt and elected to practice austerity were ridiculed by those that didn't. |
|
No limits on country/town/city or time/place. | [WP] You travel regularly on the train, and one day at the station you notice a train going to a destination you are sure doesn't exist. Then you notice that all the people getting onto the train are dressed alike and carry black bags. Who are they and where/why are they going? | *St. Marin's*
The trains were just fucking with him at this point. This was the seventh to pass that wasn't going to his station. Where the hell was St. Marin's, anyway? Sounded like a stupid place for stupid losers. He needed more coffee.
He watched a girl walk across the platform towards the waiting (stupid) train. At least *she* would get to go home today. He felt resentful. He knew he was being irrational. The girl was dressed in a smart black suit and carried a black briefcase. She looked important. A lawyer, maybe. What would a lawyer be doing in a shithole like St. Marin's?
A man followed the girl into the train. He was dressed very much the same - black suit, carrying a black briefcase. Maybe they worked at the same firm. Maybe they accidentally wore the same outfit to work today. How embarrassing.
He snorted. What else could you expect from those St. Marin's folk? God, he needed coffee. Or a beer. Maybe the next train would be his.
Two women walked past him. Black suits, black briefcases. They got into the train. Weird. Did they all know each other? Did they all mean to dress that way? Who even used a briefcase anymore?
He looked around. Most of the the other people nearby were playing with their phones. A few were staring into space, their minds elsewhere. No one seemed to notice the Briefcase People. But he did.
There were more of them, now. They walked through the open doors of the St. Marin's train alone, and in groups. They were young and old and came in all shapes and sizes. And they all wore black suits and carried black briefcases. He counted eight. Nine. Eleven. Fourteen.
He stood up from his spot on the bench. Maybe it was the lack of coffee talking, but he *had* to figure out what was going on. Well. He *wanted* to, at least. He snorted again. Mighty Steve from HR, Solver of Train Mysteries. Steve the Small-Time Adventurer. Kinda-Detective Steve. All he needed was a deerstalker cap - or maybe a cape. And a couple of bucks to get home from St. Marin's.
He got on the train.
The doors closed behind him, and the train started moving. He felt the hairs rise on the back of his neck. This was *weird*. There were about twenty of those nutjobs on board, all told. They were all sitting, straight-backed and statue-still, with their hands folded in their laps and their briefcases set on the floor by their feet. Twenty pairs of eyes stared, unseeing, into the middle distance. Worst of all was the total *silence*. Not a single one of them made so much as a peep. If he hadn't seen them blinking he'd've thought they were mannequins.
Something orange caught his eye. He turned his head to see a schlubby guy in a garishly colored tee shirt standing towards the far end of the car. Orange Guy looked back at him, a sort of amused bewilderment on his face. Another knight gone a-questing, then, determined to plumb the secrets of the Pod People. The two stared at each other for a bit without saying a word, both unwilling to break the church-like atmosphere.
Twenty minutes passed. The train stopped twice more, at Avington and Breakwater. At both stations there was an influx of suits, followed by one or two confused hangers-on. No one got off. No one spoke. He was starting to get nervous.
*Last stop, Saint Marin's. Last stop." The voice over the intercom made him jump. Finally! He needed to get off this train and head back home. Enough was enough. He was the first out the doors and onto the platform.
"What the *hell*?" He knew he was being loud, but he couldn't help it. Getting off the train had broken the hold that that oppressive silence had had on him. Besides, what the *hell*. This wasn't St. Marin's - if there even *was* a St. Marin's. This was fucking *New Weston*! He had been here a thousand times!
He looked back at the train. It still said *St. Marin's* on the side. Maybe it was a mistake? This was definitely the New Weston station. Now he was getting pissed. He didn't have all night to ride the train playing fucking Clue.
The *freaks* were all getting off at this stop, it seemed. He grabbed the arm of the one closest to him. He wanted answers. Distantly, he knew he was acting insane. He didn't care.
"Who the hell *are* you people?" He demanded.
"I beg your pardon?" She was an older woman, graying red hair pinned back in a bun. Same goddamn black suit, same goddamn black briefcase.
"Don't bullshit me. I was on that train. Who are you people? Why are you all dressed like that? Where are you all going? *What the hell is going on here?*"
She grinned. "You're a very observant person."
He blinked. Not quite the response he had expected. "...thank you?" He was starting to feel ridiculous, but he didn't loosen his grip on her arm. He tried to think of something to say.
"Very observant," she continued, oblivious to his distress. "Intelligent too, I'd wager. We're looking for people like you. Observant. People who *notice* things."
"Is this some kind of job offer?"
"Oh, nothing like that. We just want you to notice us. You, and people like you. Observant people. We want you to look at us."
"*Why*?"
There was that grin again. "Because, my dear boy, we're the distraction."
| "Damn Amtrak wi-fi." My email refuses to send. I look up from my computer and out the window for the first time in 20 minutes to see the train speeding through the darkness. There are a few lights in the distance, but I don't remember what stop is next. I'm new to this whole New York to Baltimore commute.
The conductor slams on the brakes. The train screeches. I grab my computer with one hand and my coffee with the other, spilling it all over my lap. "Fuck." Fortunately, the coffee is cool. Cold even.
I stand up to dry myself off, thinking about the nasty things I'll write about Amtrak on Twitter once the wifi is back. Suddenly, a man dressed in a black tshirt and jeans carrying a black bag walks through the open door. Then another. Then another.
All three wearing sun glasses, which is odd being that it's night. I glance out the window, but I can't see a sign at the station. Where the hell am I?
The men sit together at the center of the car, about four rows up from me. It's one of those seats where people face each other with a table in between.. They drop their bags into the fourth seat.
Amtrak guy walks through the car, takes their tickets.
"Excuse me, what stop was that?" Nobody answers. "Why the hell did we stop so fast? I spilled coffee everywhere!" Still no answer.
All three men reach into their bags, each pulling out a bottle of vodka. As the train inches forward, they begin to chug. As the train gathers speed, one puts his bottle down. 1/4 is gone.
"Nastrovia!!!" The other two begin to sing in Russian. The car is cold. Very cold. The conductor announces the next stop, but I don't understand a word of Russian. |
A being that can temporarely take over peoples bodies and memories and make them watch as he/she/it... makes their lives a lot better.
It may take advantage of the powers, but always twists the situation for the benefit of the person it is controlling | [WP] The friendly bodysnatcher. | He tried to surreptitiously glance at the beautiful woman across the bar. He had been trying to find a way to talk to her for the past month. Each time he moved to get up, the gravity seemed to increase tenfold and his legs turned to jelly. It was probably for the best. No one would be interested in him anyway. She seemed to enrich the atmosphere with her lively spirit. Everyone surrounding her smiled and laughed. He simply sat in his dim little corner, sipping his drink alone.
As he was getting up to leave the bar, a strange sensation overtook him. A tingling sensation beginning in his toes seized his body and slowly entered his brain. Then, to his terror, it felt like his consciousness was moved aside, and another one entered.
*Relax, kid. You'll thank me later.*
WHAT THE FUCK?! Someone was *in his head*. He turned around on the invading mind's accord. To his horror, he was approaching his ultimate crush. No, no, no no, NO, NO, NO!
*Calm down! Jesus, you're giving me a head ache.*
He slid up next to her. She turned to him, and a small smile flickered across her face. Curiosity gleamed in her eyes, and dare he think, a little apprehensive excitement?
*Dude, she's been dying for you to talk to her for the past two weeks.*
No, way! She wanted to talk to him?!
"Well, well, well, if it isn't the hermit. Why have you graced my humble presence?" her voice sounded like a sultry melody. And he was absolutely tongue tied. Luckily, his friendly neighborhood body abductor wasn't.
"I was actually hoping you could help me out with this hermit problem."
"Hmmmm....I don't usually help out complete strangers."
"I'm Ian. There, problem solved."
He knows my name?!
*I know everything about you. You're pretty cool, aside from that whole bed wetting thing. Might want to tell her about that before -*
"Amelia," the lovely woman supplied before the body snatcher could probe any deeper. "What did you have in mind?"
"How does dinner and a movie sound?"
"Pretty good. Maybe if that goes well we should do something a little more exciting."
Ian was fairly sure his heart stopped for a moment.
"I need to go, though." she took out a piece of paper and pen from her purse and scribbled down her number. "Call me soon, 'kay hermit?"
"I intend to," he answered suavely.
She handed him the precious paper and swept through the bar, meandering between patrons better than a dancer would.
Wow.
*Uh-huh.*
But how could I possibly call her without fucking things up?
*I only said what you would say if you weren't so damn nervous. Just trust your gut for once. You could be quite the ladies' man.*
The tingling sensation overcame Ian once again. The other consciousness left and his body was once again his own. As he made his way to leave, he caught the eye of the barman. He gave him a knowing wink. Ian tossed him a $20 in thanks. The barman caught it without skipping a beat.
*Another quick buck.*
| I stand next in line
For burgers and fries
Mickey D's and the King
Got shit on Five Guys
She suddenly came
And took over my mind
She ordered a salad
No meat there to find
I'll only eat food
When there's someone to fry it
What the hell happened
This coke is a diet |
Feel free to use this however you want, whether it be a direct quote, starting from where this stops, or anything else you can think of. | [WP] Your newborn's first words are "Dammit, I've played this level before!" | We’d been married for six long years and had all along resisted the pressure to have a child. We finally realized that we were ready and after another nine months of wait it was the doomsday. It had been normal all along and the doctor had predicted a regular no-hassle delivery. So, we were all in the birthing suite with the doctor and the nurses who were as enthusiastic as ever and me and my husband being excited, scared, and confused.
Our son came into this world without creating any problem for anyone. After the routine procedures, one of the nurses handed me our son and it was the most memorable moment of our lives. And then it happened. Our son slowly opened his eyes, soon after which the expression on his face changed. He looked at me and my husband with surprise and said “Dammit! I’ve played this level before. But, what the heck! This has been the best level I’ve ever played and will never get bored no matter how many times I play it.” Having said this, he just slept. All of us in the room were stunned and could not fathom what just happened. It took us a while to gather our collective thoughts and we decided to brush it off and never talk about it with anyone outside the room.
It’s been ten summers since our son was born. We decided to celebrate his tenth birthday at a wonderful beach resort. We took a week off from work and headed to the resort. The employees of the resort were wonderful and put a lot of effort to make the celebrations a grand success. The day after the birthday, we were just resting on the beach and our son was running around playing in the sand and collecting seashells. He then found a strange looking seashell and came running to us to show it. We’d never seen anything like that before. It was amber in color and had a glow. Just as we were enjoying its beauty, our son said something we’ll never forget for the rest of our lives. He said “This is what I’ve been looking for all these years. This completes the level and it’s time to head to the next level. You’ve made this level as good as ever and I hope I get to play it again.” With that, he ran towards the sea holding the seashell, jumped into the water. There was a flash of light where he jumped and he just disappeared. | I appreciate the effort put in to submit a prompt, but I can't get behind this one or others like it. You could have a prompt such as, "Write about a newborn's first words", and that'd be fine. I feel like OP as well as others, have an idea about a specific story and then generalize it to a prompt when it's really more suited to a specific instance of a prompt. |
Feel free to use this however you want, whether it be a direct quote, starting from where this stops, or anything else you can think of. | [WP] Your newborn's first words are "Dammit, I've played this level before!" | For the first couple years of his life my son seemed like any other child. He seemed to learn through failure and repetition as most of us, if not all of us do. It was when he finally began to speak that it became apparent he was different. His first sentence, “what’s for breakfast?” not only shocked us due his use of contraction and the conciseness of the question itself, but was strangely familiar. It was as if he was speaking to a friend, rather than his parents. My wife and I did our best not to react with shock or judgment because the look in his eyes was that of expectation; there was nothing blank in this expression at all. As parents we did our best to nurture critical thinking and reason, and to not respond with incredulity towards our son, this was quite the test. It was only moments later that he said “do we have any berries? Some fruit sounds pretty good.” This time we could not hide our shock. We weren’t horrified by any means, it was more worry than anything. Quickly, irrational thoughts came to mind: “Is he autistic? Some kind of idiot savant? No - he has been totally normal up to this point…"
He realized my hesitation, “I’m sorry, I don’t know how else to explain this, and I know you are expecting me to struggle as I learn to speak, but I already know everything you’ve tried to teach me… well except a few things. I didn’t know much about computers last time around. Actually, thanks for not treating me like some kind of small disabled human this past year and a half.”
My wife was utterly speechless, I can’t imagine how she felt having given life to and nursed what now seemed to be such an alien yet still profound part of her.
All I could mutter was, “How…can you… speak like…well, like an adult?” I always held the goal of treating any children I might have, well all children actually, like they were tiny adults. I suppose that was the only reason I had been able to form a half coherent sentence; I had been talking to him like this, more or less, since he was born.
“Well…” he said, “I guess the best way to describe this is that I’ve simply lived another life… before this one. It’s kind of like a dream, actually. I know certain details, and others are foggy - but the rudimentary stuff: speech, thought, math, reading - I know. Actually I had been waiting for my mouth and tongue to develop before speaking at all. I knew that I couldn’t pretend to learn to speak, to learn numbers, the alphabet, to read, all over again without going crazy. Strangely I don’t remember the details of my old life, for lack of a better word. I don’t ever know what my name was, but I do like Dimitri - it’s a good name I think. I know this is probably freaking you out right now, and you should know I’ve been thinking about what to say for the past few months. I might have overdone it a bit now that I think about it, but I know that I couldn’t bullshit the both of you for too long either.”
I had thought about this before, what it would be like to grow up with the knowledge acquired from a previous life. I had read it somewhere… one of the Dune books I think. Logically I had dismissed the idea as an interesting thought experiment at best. I didn’t believe in the afterlife after all.
My wife on the other hand was more of a spiritual person, which is why I think she was able to ask “How…should we treat you?”
“You two have done better than I was expecting, to be honest. I was never a parent and I always figured having a child would be the most tedious and annoying set of responsibilities one could imagine… but I never felt that from either of you. I’ve been thinking about how to respond to a question like this… I guess all I can really say is think of me as more of a friend than a child… if that’s possible.”
My wife’s eyes started to well up, I could hardly blame her. I tended towards stoicism whenever anyone around me cried, not out of bravery rather more of a long learned coping mechanism from my own childhood. Dimitri immediately noticed our reactions.
“Oh I didn’t mean it like that - I know I am your son, and honestly I really, really like the both of you. I love you both actually, but not in the blind way a child loves a parent regardless of quality; the blind love that can persist through abuse and neglect. No, I love you both for exactly what you have done and for the respect and responsibility you have shown towards me. I know this is hard to swallow, but I think you’ll get used to it soon…after all we will be able to talk about quite a few more things now.”
Despite the pitch of his voice Dimitri’s tone was mature and developed, his words held an irony, a gentle sarcasm, that made me smile even though my face was too paralyzed to show it. He himself held the faintest of smirks.
“You know I’ll always see you as my son…”, my wife said.
I nodded, ”Me too”, even though I knew it would probably be a bit easier for me to eventually see him as his own individual. I knew he already saw me as such. It had taken me about 25 years to see my parents and individuals and not ‘parents’.
“I understand, and so far that’s worked out really well”, Dimitri smiled - the smile of a toddler who doesn’t quite know what he’s smiling at, although in this case I knew better.
I had to ask. Fuck it, I thought, I’m going to roll with this, one-hundred percent.
“Why did you ask ‘whats for breakfast?’ as your… first words. To us at least.”
Dimitri laughed - a child’s laugh still, in pitch and timbre, but also a laugh of knowing what the humor is.
“Should I have said, ‘Father, Mother, we must have words’?”
The three of us laughed. Dimitri went on to explain that he thought it was a funny way to broach the subject and also the only way he could think of. We agreed that we couldn’t think of a better way.
We ate breakfast in silence, each of us taking the time to gather ourselves. I would later learn that this first conversation was a source of severe stress and anxiety for Dimitri. He pointed out that for a while he was worried that we would take him to doctors or shrinks, that we would commit him somewhere, but that eventually, based on how we had treated him up until then, we were “as ready as they’d get”.
One day, a couple years later, I found him playing Super Mario Bros. 3 on the Nintendo I kept hooked up alongside the Super Nintendo and Sega Genesis. I didn’t own a modern console, being mostly PC gamer when I had the time. I watched him start from the beginning, world 1-1. Without hesitation he jumped up on the white box platform, held down for a few seconds, fell behind it and ran behind the foreground of the level.
“Hey how did you know how to do that?!”, I asked confusedly but immediately realizing what his response would be. It was always his response anytime I forgot about his peculiar situation.
“Did you forget again? I’ve played this level before, dammit!”
Edit: Formatting, grammar
| The only noise in the operating room was the experienced mother's frantic breaths and her heart's vocalized pulse, courtesy of a nearby EKG.
Stunned, the husband looked from the baby, to the doctor, to his wife, to the baby, to the doctor, so on and so forth, until his gaze locked permanently on to his new son.
The mother, who, already had two children prior and was accustomed to delivering by now, was catching her breath finally but still struggling to make sense of the baby's perfectly articulated, slightly crass first words.
"Did... Did he just say... 'Dammit, I've played this level before'?"
The doctors and his slew of various nurses remained silent, their bloodstained gloves shaking almost off of their once steady hands.
"... Perhaps it was a burp?", blurted one of the less bright nurses.
The father whipped his gaze to the unfortunate delivery room assistant. "A burp?", he asked, rage for the inexplicable in his voice. "Did that sound like a burp? Did that perfectly enunciated exclamation sound like a burp to you? I'm not sure you've burped recently, but that," he now shook violently, "that was no burp."
"What even is a 'video game'?" asked the mother, her breath slowly evening out.
At this no one could even wager a guess.
Eventually, however, as the baby refused to utter anything else of eccentric origin, the incident was forgotten and its life resumed a more normal path. He received a normal upbringing and lived a life that would have never incited curiosity in those he interacted with.
Well, never, until he took up the Call of Duty and miraculously eliminated hundreds if not thousands of soldiers representing the Nazi army in such a manner akin to a one man killing machine. |
Feel free to use this however you want, whether it be a direct quote, starting from where this stops, or anything else you can think of. | [WP] Your newborn's first words are "Dammit, I've played this level before!" | For the first couple years of his life my son seemed like any other child. He seemed to learn through failure and repetition as most of us, if not all of us do. It was when he finally began to speak that it became apparent he was different. His first sentence, “what’s for breakfast?” not only shocked us due his use of contraction and the conciseness of the question itself, but was strangely familiar. It was as if he was speaking to a friend, rather than his parents. My wife and I did our best not to react with shock or judgment because the look in his eyes was that of expectation; there was nothing blank in this expression at all. As parents we did our best to nurture critical thinking and reason, and to not respond with incredulity towards our son, this was quite the test. It was only moments later that he said “do we have any berries? Some fruit sounds pretty good.” This time we could not hide our shock. We weren’t horrified by any means, it was more worry than anything. Quickly, irrational thoughts came to mind: “Is he autistic? Some kind of idiot savant? No - he has been totally normal up to this point…"
He realized my hesitation, “I’m sorry, I don’t know how else to explain this, and I know you are expecting me to struggle as I learn to speak, but I already know everything you’ve tried to teach me… well except a few things. I didn’t know much about computers last time around. Actually, thanks for not treating me like some kind of small disabled human this past year and a half.”
My wife was utterly speechless, I can’t imagine how she felt having given life to and nursed what now seemed to be such an alien yet still profound part of her.
All I could mutter was, “How…can you… speak like…well, like an adult?” I always held the goal of treating any children I might have, well all children actually, like they were tiny adults. I suppose that was the only reason I had been able to form a half coherent sentence; I had been talking to him like this, more or less, since he was born.
“Well…” he said, “I guess the best way to describe this is that I’ve simply lived another life… before this one. It’s kind of like a dream, actually. I know certain details, and others are foggy - but the rudimentary stuff: speech, thought, math, reading - I know. Actually I had been waiting for my mouth and tongue to develop before speaking at all. I knew that I couldn’t pretend to learn to speak, to learn numbers, the alphabet, to read, all over again without going crazy. Strangely I don’t remember the details of my old life, for lack of a better word. I don’t ever know what my name was, but I do like Dimitri - it’s a good name I think. I know this is probably freaking you out right now, and you should know I’ve been thinking about what to say for the past few months. I might have overdone it a bit now that I think about it, but I know that I couldn’t bullshit the both of you for too long either.”
I had thought about this before, what it would be like to grow up with the knowledge acquired from a previous life. I had read it somewhere… one of the Dune books I think. Logically I had dismissed the idea as an interesting thought experiment at best. I didn’t believe in the afterlife after all.
My wife on the other hand was more of a spiritual person, which is why I think she was able to ask “How…should we treat you?”
“You two have done better than I was expecting, to be honest. I was never a parent and I always figured having a child would be the most tedious and annoying set of responsibilities one could imagine… but I never felt that from either of you. I’ve been thinking about how to respond to a question like this… I guess all I can really say is think of me as more of a friend than a child… if that’s possible.”
My wife’s eyes started to well up, I could hardly blame her. I tended towards stoicism whenever anyone around me cried, not out of bravery rather more of a long learned coping mechanism from my own childhood. Dimitri immediately noticed our reactions.
“Oh I didn’t mean it like that - I know I am your son, and honestly I really, really like the both of you. I love you both actually, but not in the blind way a child loves a parent regardless of quality; the blind love that can persist through abuse and neglect. No, I love you both for exactly what you have done and for the respect and responsibility you have shown towards me. I know this is hard to swallow, but I think you’ll get used to it soon…after all we will be able to talk about quite a few more things now.”
Despite the pitch of his voice Dimitri’s tone was mature and developed, his words held an irony, a gentle sarcasm, that made me smile even though my face was too paralyzed to show it. He himself held the faintest of smirks.
“You know I’ll always see you as my son…”, my wife said.
I nodded, ”Me too”, even though I knew it would probably be a bit easier for me to eventually see him as his own individual. I knew he already saw me as such. It had taken me about 25 years to see my parents and individuals and not ‘parents’.
“I understand, and so far that’s worked out really well”, Dimitri smiled - the smile of a toddler who doesn’t quite know what he’s smiling at, although in this case I knew better.
I had to ask. Fuck it, I thought, I’m going to roll with this, one-hundred percent.
“Why did you ask ‘whats for breakfast?’ as your… first words. To us at least.”
Dimitri laughed - a child’s laugh still, in pitch and timbre, but also a laugh of knowing what the humor is.
“Should I have said, ‘Father, Mother, we must have words’?”
The three of us laughed. Dimitri went on to explain that he thought it was a funny way to broach the subject and also the only way he could think of. We agreed that we couldn’t think of a better way.
We ate breakfast in silence, each of us taking the time to gather ourselves. I would later learn that this first conversation was a source of severe stress and anxiety for Dimitri. He pointed out that for a while he was worried that we would take him to doctors or shrinks, that we would commit him somewhere, but that eventually, based on how we had treated him up until then, we were “as ready as they’d get”.
One day, a couple years later, I found him playing Super Mario Bros. 3 on the Nintendo I kept hooked up alongside the Super Nintendo and Sega Genesis. I didn’t own a modern console, being mostly PC gamer when I had the time. I watched him start from the beginning, world 1-1. Without hesitation he jumped up on the white box platform, held down for a few seconds, fell behind it and ran behind the foreground of the level.
“Hey how did you know how to do that?!”, I asked confusedly but immediately realizing what his response would be. It was always his response anytime I forgot about his peculiar situation.
“Did you forget again? I’ve played this level before, dammit!”
Edit: Formatting, grammar
| He could see the first streaks of light, like the loading screen before another new level. With his unbridled excitement, he waited to reach this level finally and felt himself squeezed through, getting closer to the light slowly. While his descent, he thought about the long time he has been in this cozy warm place, heard all the bodily sounds. And the distance mumblings. It was finally time to start this new chapter and he was psyched!
Few minutes into it and he started feeling the pressure on his head and finally with a plop his head was out!
His eyes trying to focus through the blinding brightness and the wet goo over his eyes. Finally the moment has arrived, when he could see! But wait... No this cannot be.. This has to be mistake. He was mortified. He had played this level before, he had been here. And he hated this particular level!
His mind went numb for a few seconds. And then, with all the rage he could muster, he screamed, "Dammit, I've played this level before! How the fuck do I restart this thing! All this wait for so long! I imagined this would be something new and wonderful and you give me the same old piece of garbage! God dammit, I want a new fucking level! Right fucking now!" he kept on screaming at everyone he saw. Just so someone would understand his anguish.
But strangely, all he saw was everyone smiling at him. "What the hell is wrong with you people!", he screamed some more.
Suddenly, he felt a bump near his lips and some old primitive reflex kicked in and he started suckling on this bump. Next thing he knew, he was feeling drowsy. His eyes were getting heavier. He could not make a coherent thought.
He then remembered the old prophecy and it echoed in his head, "Do not drink the white drug. No one ever has made it to the other side. Do not drink the white drug and you will prevail. You will rule them all. Your destiny is in your hand."
*Too late now, he thought, I have fallen through the old trick too and will lead a life of a common man with no memory of this past life...*
The atmosphere is the hospital room was a cheerful one. Everyone was happy, the baby boy was a healthy 3 lbs. He came out crying and latched on to the nipple in one go. This was as smooth a delivery as there can be. And thus, the secret lives of babylandians remained hidden from the world. |
Feel free to use this however you want, whether it be a direct quote, starting from where this stops, or anything else you can think of. | [WP] Your newborn's first words are "Dammit, I've played this level before!" | The baby was born premature. Not a cry, not even a whimper. The doctors have placed him in an incubation unit to monitor his vitals. He hasn't even opened his eyes yet.
Days passed. Finally the child woke up with tubes going through him and yells "Dammit, I've played this level before!"
The nurse screams and leaves the room. By the time the doctors and parents enter the room there are no signs of the baby. It's like he vanished into thin air.
8 months later, miles across the country another baby was born premature. This time, right when he came out he said "Are you fucking kidding me? This respawn system is shit in this game. Im done."
The baby froze in place and an "attempting to reconnect" sign flashed above his head. Seconds later, "poof", he vanished. The doctors decided never to talk about this again. | For nine months, all throughout Jennifer’s pregnancy, I had been told the same thing. “That moment,” people said, “when you look down and see your child for the first time. It will change you forever.”
Nothing, people said, will ever be the same.
I had nodded when I heard this, accepted it without thinking about it much. Of course that’s true, I thought. Obviously.
But until now, until this moment when I stand here in the birthing room and my wife, tired and haggard with the ordeal, smiles at me through tears, and cradles that tiny form to her breast, until now I had only been nodding along. Until now I had no idea.
The baby was small and squirming and purple as a bruised fruit. I could not believe that such a thing had come out of Jennifer. Had come from Jennifer and *me*. All the years, all the dreams, all the hopes dashed and hopes fulfilled, since that crucial day in college when we’d both accepted an offer of a ride to Boston for Thanksgiving break from the same Xeroxed sheet tacked up in the student union.
Yes, children, that was how we did it in those days.
All the miles of that drive, down I-93 through sleet and rain, while the driver—who turned out to be something of a douche—blathered on about the band he was getting together and Jennifer and I bonded by rolling our eyes at each other. And all the years since then, graduating college, and moving to the city together, and starting out in our careers. And the time Jennifer got sick and I prayed, for the first time in years, for God, or the Universe, or the Great Whoever to give her back to me. And the time I simply could not go into that office and do that soulless, mindless, deadening job for one more day and Jennifer said, “Quit, babe. Quit today. Quit right now. Find what makes you happy.”
And all the years when we had tried to have a child. But month after month, no baby had come, until that awful day, in the doctor’s office when we had been given the news. It wasn’t going to happen for us. It was *never* going to happen for us.
And then, finally, shockingly at our age, just when we had irrevocably given up hope, the medical miracle. The thing we had wanted for so long, the thing for which we had hoped and dreamed and prayed.
We were going to have a baby.
All those years, all those things, have all come together in this one, singular, spectacular moment as I stand, crying, shaking, staring down at this tiny, terrifying, fragile, mewling, perfect little being.
“Babe, meet your son,” Jennifer says. She is crying and I am crying and she hands the baby to me and I take him up. So gently. He is so soft and small and delicate and I think, right then and there, that there was nothing I will not do, nothing I will not endure, no sacrifice I will not make, no crime I will not commit, to protect him, and her, for as long as I have breath in my lungs.
“Hello there, little man,” I say.
And that’s when I hear the voice.
It is not a baby’s voice. It is not a man’s voice either. It’s something else, some horrible amalgam. Something not quite human. Raspy and breathy and filled with spite.
“What the hell? I already played this level.”
At first, of course, I think that it is my mind playing tricks on me. I laugh. I turn to my wife, saying, “You’re not going to believe what I thought I just heard.”
But then I see it—a shocked and stricken look. Her face frozen in horror. And looking around the room, I see it in the face of the doctor, in faces of the nurses.
They heard it, too.
I look at the child. Small and wrinkled, squirming, twisting in my arms. His eyes, wide open and staring. Angry. Very angry. These are not the eyes of a baby.
“Jesus Christ,” my son says. “I already played this level. How the fuck do I restart this thing?”
They were right, of course, in the end. All those people who told me. All those busy-bodies with their helpful hints.
Nothing is ever going to be the same.
|
Surprise me with the thing that makes the protagonist(s) fall in love.
EDIT: Thanks for all the great replies guys. Seeing the divirsity and creativity poured into this really shows the talent we have on this site. I am still fairly new to WP, so I really enjoyed having a prompt this highly upvoted, and with several golds awarded for the stories. | [WP] You meet with the person who is scientifically proven to be your ideal match. Only you don't really like him/her, and you sense the feeling is mutual. The is until... | “NO! Absolutely not! This is a mistake. I won’t do this. I won’t waste my time on…on…that!” She said and pointed to the man sitting in the corner of the room on the least comfortable chair trying to make himself appear as small as possible. A difficult task as he was six foot four, at least 250lbs, had tattoos circling his neck and arms, and wearing a bright orange prison jump suit.
“Ms. Leon please just look at the science. It’s all here. You are a match there is no doubt about it. You would be perfect together.”
“Is this some kind of a sick joke?” She shrieked near hysteria now. Is there some media conspiracy behind this? Can you imagine the headlines? No! This can never get out. Destroy all of the data. Erase the fact that I was ever in your office, or even had an account with you people. I would rather be dead than matched with a convicted felon! A mass murdering felon at that! How does a felon in prison even get an account may I ask?” She barked turning sharply on her heel to face the scientist with the clipboard her finger pointed at his face accusing him directly.
“Well Ma’am DATAMatch used prisoners as the first test cases. They were eager to help as sitting in a room with scientists meant less time doing chores and more time that counted towards good behavior. I will say though it is very rare that a prisoner is matched with anyone as their enlarged and mutated amygdala makes them hard to match with members of today’s accepted society.”
“So then tell me how this thing was matched with a United States Senator?” She screamed.
“Um… well…” The scientist hesitated. “I’m assuming *cough* by your …um…over reaction to all of this that you yourself may have some murderous tendencies Ms. Leon.”
With that the large brain shaped paperweight that had been sitting on the desk in front of Ms. Leon was now hurtling through the air. The scientist tried to duck, but it was too late the paperweight connected with his right temple. His body folded to the ground in a sad heap.
The senator looked at the convict. The convict sprang into action. He moved the desk and rolled the body up into the throw rug that used to lay under the desk. He then went to the closet found some packing tape and secured the rug tight making sure to tape the ends shut as well. He replaced the desk to its previous location and when finished he heaved the rug and body up onto his shoulder.
“Lead the way Ma’am.”
“I guess the science was right after all.” She said amused. “You and I are going to rule the world.”
| "Human designated B-1338, male, you are designated to mate with Human N-3342, female, at 2130, 24-segment native planet time. Report to chamber designated 35F, Sector 6-L at given time."
They did what they could to communicate clearly with our species, but they could never quite replicate our specific timber. Our ambassador, B-2282i, or as we knew him, Henry Breen, assured us that our overlords had our best interests in mind, but I was always skeptical of their selective mating choices. Breen said that their algorithms were optimally designed to catapult our species into greatness, but I was always skeptical.
My skepticism and cynicism were confirmed when I saw her. The moment you anxiously waited for for years....and this.... There wasn't anything specific, but I immediately wanted to get away. She looked upon me with a slight, but noticeable scowl. "So, we are selected to have optimal offspring..." "I would appear so." Clearly neither of us was enthused about the situation, but the penalty for failure to mate is highly restricted and possible cancellation of all mating simulation activity, and no one wanted that.
We took the granted 72 native planet hours to attempt to develop rapport but to no avail. On the night of hour 68, we returned to the chamber and finally willed ourselves to copulate sheerly to avoid punishment. This was the easy part. The hard part it seems would be jointly caring for our offspring....
I thought back on all of these thoughts and pondered my judgements. I remember my young naivete. Today, I recall these thoughts and shake my head, acknowledging that perhaps I was wrong. Today, my...our offspring, human designated Q-1142, male, became the first human to win the local systems full combat tournament. Perhaps Breen is right. Perhaps our leaders have plans for our species and wish to elevate us to a higher plane in their empire. I look upon my Q-1142 and am grateful. |
Surprise me with the thing that makes the protagonist(s) fall in love.
EDIT: Thanks for all the great replies guys. Seeing the divirsity and creativity poured into this really shows the talent we have on this site. I am still fairly new to WP, so I really enjoyed having a prompt this highly upvoted, and with several golds awarded for the stories. | [WP] You meet with the person who is scientifically proven to be your ideal match. Only you don't really like him/her, and you sense the feeling is mutual. The is until... | *Stupid stupid stupid...*
It was ridiculous, the whole system. Why I had even gone through with it was beyond me. The government representative that had come to our little corner of the food processing plant had made the process sound easy, even fun. A guaranteed mate, compatible in all ways, chosen by *SCIENCE*. How could it go wrong?
*"Stupid fucking... Waste of time... YOU LITTLE COCK BITE WOULD YOU JUST LET... IT... GO!"*
With a wet sucking sound the little piece of metal finally came loose. It flew across the room, hit the wall, and skittered across the floor. I'd find it later. My knuckle was bleeding from having to dig - if I'd taken care of my equipment properly, like I normally did on Friday nights, the work wouldn't be so damned hard. But noooo. I'd listened to that little rat fink from the Matching agency and lost my Friday on the most god-awful date in all of my dating history. I'd had shitty dates in the past - it was pretty par for the course actually - but this had taken the cake.
A donation of blood, the most invasive questionnaires since the Spanish Inquisition given over a course of weeks, and finally a little postcard had arrived in my PO Box with a time, date, and location. I'd been nervous, excited, anxious. I'd brushed my hair til my scalp ached. Scrubbed my cheeks til just before they would have bled. I'd chosen the cleanest and least repaired of my work jumpsuits - usually reserved for weddings and funerals. I'd never felt so dolled up in my life. But when i saw him, the amount of time I spent primping seemed like such a waste.
There he was. All 6'4" of him. Lean and beautiful, smooth and perfect - not an ebony hair out of place, not a wrinkle to be seen. His skin was tanned and healthy, his eyes clear and pale green. He was so clean and exotic he stood out like an LED light in a room full of flashlights. He was sitting at a table in the middle of the damned eatery with a large sign propped up on a stick in the middle, the same red curly '6' that had been stamped on my postcard written in glowing ink. He was looking around, scanning the crowd, looking for... well, for me.
I tried to back out. Nice and slow, I'd managed two steps before his gaze fell on me, pinning me with a narrowed gaze. i froze. What the fuck was I supposed to do? Make a run for it? His eyes widened slightly, then rolled up towards the ceiling. He sighed so loudly I could hear it from the entry way. He gave me a lazy 'come on' wave, like I was a burden he was eager to be free of.
Fuck that.
I frowned, looking down at the postcard in my hand.
"Fucking waste..." I muttered. I watched his snotty little face, eyes widening in surprise, as I ripped up the postcard and dumped it in the flower pot near the seating desk. He stood, but I walked out before he could reach me. I turned once as I walked towards the bus but didn't see him behind me. Most likely he'd ordered something gross and disgusting from the eatery and had to wait to pay. I hoped it made him ill. The smell of potentially contaminated foodstuffs lingered around me from just standing in the entry of the eatery. My stomach rolled and I fought not to vomit as I caught the bus just as it went to pull away from the curb.
Back at home, I felt more relaxed. I could chalk this up to a learning experience, another example of why the government couldn't be trusted.
I had packed everything away on the off chance I would be bringing my scientifically compatible mate home for some scientifically compatible fucking, but had quickly pulled everything back out and continued working. Fuck my jumpsuit. Fuck my tools. I just needed to *work*, release some stress, and get some real food into me.
I had filled several containers and set them to the side when someone began beating on my door. I frowned. My work was really too spread out and too far along to be able to hide neatly. But I wasn't expecting guests, so I tried to ignore it. The beating continued, followed by a muffled voice. The safety door had been a great investment - I hadn't been robbed since I'd purchased it. But the knocking on the outside tended to echo on the inside. Ignoring it was hard - I already had a headache from dry heaving over my toilet when I'd gotten home. The oily smell of overcooked food and too many spices had bled into my clothes and I couldn't get out of them fast enough to keep myself from smelling them.
I pulled a tarp over the whole thing, using a towel to wipe off as much as I could, then walked to the door. I looked through the peephole.
Nothing.
Frowning, I turned to go back when I heard the loud banging again. It wasn't coming from the door, but from the connecting kitchen walls. Great. The neighbor. The asshole worked opposite shifts as me, and if this was a regular night I would be at work and they could thump around to their hearts content. But not tonight - I had a fucking headache.
"Shut the fuck up!" I shouted, banging on the wall with my fist. There was a pause, silence, then shouting, then silence again. A few thumps, softer than before, then silence. Finally.
I walked back into the living room, sighing at the sight of some of the liquid coming through the tarp., That was my favorite tarp. I lifted it, trying to fold it so the fluids didn't spread, when suddenly there was a loud *BANG*, followed by what I *knew* was someone banging on my door this time. I grabbed a wrench from the toolbox by the now too wet to save tarp and walked back to the door. When i looked through the peephole, someone's eye was staring back at me.
"Get away from my door!" i shouted.
*"PLEASE!"* a woman's voice, not so muffled now that I was so close, "*PLEASE HELP ME! PLEASE!*"
"Help you what?" I asked. I didn't want to open the door. i was kind of in the middle of something. She kept banging and screaming. She finally backed away from the peephole and I could see her - white shirt, black pants, nametag on the left breast pocket, blood dripping from a wound on her hand and the side of her head. Shit.
"Back up and I'll open the door," I said. She whimpered and complied, looking to her right.
*"Please hurry, please let me-"*
As I opened the door, there was a loud *THUMP*, then a *Thud*. I lifted the wrench up, ready to strike - and there he was. His nice dress shirt was smeared with blood, his hair mussed, his tie gone. He held a meat tenderizing hammer in his hand, and from the woman now prone on the floor it was easy to see what had happened. He looked at me, and I looked at him, both of us holding our weapons ready.
"Ah," he said, sniffing slightly and nodding towards the woman, "Did you hit her?"
"What?" I asked, shaking me head. He frowned, nodding towards my wrench.
" 'S blood on your thing there."
I looked up. Fuck. I hadn't wiped off the wrench on the way to the door. We both stared at each other a minute, then down at the woman on the floor. Slowly, we both lowered our arms. He shuffled his feet nervously, trying to brush away the drying blood on his arms. I looked down and gave myself the once over. No way he didn't know what I was doing in there.
"So," I said, gesturing towards the woman, "You, ah... well...."
"Science, huh?" he chuckled. I nodded. The silence in the hallway was broken by the woman making a strange grunting noise. Not unusual for head injuries - that's why I tended to cut throats as soon as possible. Cut down on the weird noises.
"I wasn't going to make you eat there, at that place," he said suddenly, rubbing the back of his head, nervously, "I mean, you could have, if you wanted to -"
"I would never eat that food," I said quickly.
"Oh! Oh me neither," he said with a great gust of air, as if he'd been holding his breathe that whole time, waiting for me to say that. He suddenly didn't seem so snobby. Hair all mussed up, picking hair off the end of his mallet - it was kind of cute.
"Weird we've lived next door to each other for, what, two years?" I asked. He nodded. I nodded back. The hallway was not the best place to be having this conversation. I looked back into my apartment.
"Listen... Um, I'm sorry I ran out, but you were... I mean, you looked like...."
"A jerk?" he offered, snorting and nodding, "Yeah. i was... I didn't sign up. My mother signed me up. She was worried I was alone too much. I was hoping I could drive you off with a shitty evening. And I did. And now..." he gestured towards the woman on the floor.
I took a step back and gestured towards my open apartment.
"I don't know what you have going on over there, but I have some buckets already prepped for processing, and a tarp all ready to go," I shrugged, "Wouldn't take long to cut up and cook some cutlets. If you wanted to... come over. You know. For a real dinner date."
He smiled.
"I'd like that. You wanna grab her arms, and I'll get the feet?" | "Human designated B-1338, male, you are designated to mate with Human N-3342, female, at 2130, 24-segment native planet time. Report to chamber designated 35F, Sector 6-L at given time."
They did what they could to communicate clearly with our species, but they could never quite replicate our specific timber. Our ambassador, B-2282i, or as we knew him, Henry Breen, assured us that our overlords had our best interests in mind, but I was always skeptical of their selective mating choices. Breen said that their algorithms were optimally designed to catapult our species into greatness, but I was always skeptical.
My skepticism and cynicism were confirmed when I saw her. The moment you anxiously waited for for years....and this.... There wasn't anything specific, but I immediately wanted to get away. She looked upon me with a slight, but noticeable scowl. "So, we are selected to have optimal offspring..." "I would appear so." Clearly neither of us was enthused about the situation, but the penalty for failure to mate is highly restricted and possible cancellation of all mating simulation activity, and no one wanted that.
We took the granted 72 native planet hours to attempt to develop rapport but to no avail. On the night of hour 68, we returned to the chamber and finally willed ourselves to copulate sheerly to avoid punishment. This was the easy part. The hard part it seems would be jointly caring for our offspring....
I thought back on all of these thoughts and pondered my judgements. I remember my young naivete. Today, I recall these thoughts and shake my head, acknowledging that perhaps I was wrong. Today, my...our offspring, human designated Q-1142, male, became the first human to win the local systems full combat tournament. Perhaps Breen is right. Perhaps our leaders have plans for our species and wish to elevate us to a higher plane in their empire. I look upon my Q-1142 and am grateful. |
Surprise me with the thing that makes the protagonist(s) fall in love.
EDIT: Thanks for all the great replies guys. Seeing the divirsity and creativity poured into this really shows the talent we have on this site. I am still fairly new to WP, so I really enjoyed having a prompt this highly upvoted, and with several golds awarded for the stories. | [WP] You meet with the person who is scientifically proven to be your ideal match. Only you don't really like him/her, and you sense the feeling is mutual. The is until... | “Equal” he recalled saying. His brother had met a girl, *the* girl, got engaged, and married in the space of a year thanks to the new ‘Lastmatch’ service everyone was raving about. It was named such as the creators claimed that it was the last matching service a user would ever need, whoever the algorithm picked would be the one you fell for, and that would be it. His brother had tried to get him to sign up, and he had resisted stubbornly, as he always had with online dating in general.
Yet, his brother continued to pester him with the notion, and so he came up with new ways to resist. Until one day it came pouring out, that very personal description of the ideal person he wanted to find, along with a bunch of angry retorts describing how ‘no algorithm, no machine’ could find such a person. “Equal” he remembered muttering, “My intellectual equal, thats what I dream of!”. “Someone to share the morning papers with, to talk about the world with, to read with, to read to our children…”. He clammed up shortly after that, already aware he had said too much. But it was enough, his brother had worn him down such that he agreed to sign up and try just once.
So here he was, A nondescript cafe where the system had told him to wait and meet a woman who he knew barely anything about. With all of New York to choose from, the system picked this place, and the fact he couldn’t fathom its reasoning infuriated him. He had never been a child prodigy, but he had always had intelligence in abundance. He swallowed books whole like other people drank water, his teenage and college years a whirlwind of a thousand essays, books read and more graduations than both of his parents put together.
‘Are you here for Lastmatch?’ a shy voice said. He snapped back to reality, and saw her standing by the table. ‘Sarah’ was her name, and that was just about all he knew. She looked rather pretty standing there, he thought quietly, wearing a floral dress with her brown hair glinting in the New York sunshine. ‘Yes, I’m here for Lastmatch’ he replied, somewhat begrudgingly.
She sat down and they ordered Lunch. After small talk and initial pleasantries, the conversation moved to what he thought was the heart of the matter. ‘So what college did you go to? Private or Public?’
She looked away from him, as if embarrassed, suddenly closing her arms around herself like a shield ‘I…er…I didn’t go to college’. He spluttered on his water, then composed himself. This ‘lastmatch’ system clearly wasn’t all it was cracked up to be if picked someone without even a basic college education for him. ‘I mean’ she whispered, growing shyer and more withdrawn with every word, ‘I’ve attended some community college courses since moving to the City, to help with the secretarial work, but not a degree. My family didn’t have the money for that, and probably wouldn’t have wanted me to go anyway…’.
Through gritted teeth he tried to come up with another angle. ‘Ok then. So what’s your favourite book then?’. ‘Well, my family were very conservative see, and we were farmers, so going to the far away bookstores or the public library were kind of not on the table often….’. He struggled to come up with a response. ‘By the way, how long were you abroad for? Japan?’ she said, interrupting his train of thought. ‘How could you…how did you guess that?’ he whispered, taken aback as to how someone apparently so ill educated could of worked out he’d been recently. ‘Oh, nothing special really. Your watch has 2 faces, and one of them is still set to East Asian time by the looks of it. I saw it earlier when you were talking to the waiter. Nice watch, by the way!’. He sat there, staring at her, stunned ‘So she’s bright, sharp in fact, very sharp, just never had the chance to take it further, to walk the halls of a university…’ he mused silently.
Without saying another word, he reached for his bag and rummaged around, pulling a handful of books out and laying them on the table. So what if the girl wasn’t his ‘soulmate’, he was sure as hell going to show her how to educate herself, to better herself, no one deserved to stumble in the dark like this. ‘I got all of these from the library earlier, just before I came here’. ‘I don’t think the computers matched us together correctly, but let me show you something, you're in the city now, and you should know, you **have** to know that you can read as much as you want!’.
He threw a few bills on the table and grabbed her hand, pulling her with him. The New York Public library was round the corner, that was the best place to start. She walked reluctantly, somewhat crestfallen at the notion that this date wasn’t really going anywhere. Still, she came with him, and he led her into the main hall of the New York Public Library. Desk after desk in the centre, and shelf after shelf of books lined the walls. Old books, new books, periodicals, magazines. For readers and bookworms, this was the time machine, the portal to adventure, the people’s university, and it was all free.
Her eye’s widened. He saw that look on her face, the ‘kid in a sweetshop’ expression he knew so well from his visits to the library over the years. The slack jawed wonder at seeing more reading material than you could ever finish, and knowing you could have any of it. ‘I…I didn’t think it was this big, I’ve only ever really read the odd newspaper and whats on my phone…I…have you read most of this? All of this?!”. She was thinking at a million miles an hour, the words tumbling out faster than she could say them clearly, and he enjoyed, no, he loved seeing it happen. “No one can read all of this, at least I don’t think so. I’ve read a lot of it though, and I have my favourites” he whispered, smiling when he thought of those favourite tomes. ‘Show me!” she sputtered, ‘Show me your favourites!”.
He ran to the shelves and started picking out book after book, piling them on a desk, so deep in thought he forgot she was even there. Books from childhood, books from college, books read under trees in the sunshine, books read indoors during the driving rain. When he was done, he stood there, slightly tired just from the effort of picking just a dozen books from around the room and bringing them to the table.
Then she did something he never expected, something his analytical brain would never have predicted. She flung her arms around him, and one foot in the air, kissed him on the cheek. He was the consummate thinker, always thinking of the world as one giant chess game, but this was like someone taking the whole board and flinging it out of the window. ‘Thank you’ she whispered, with her face pressed against his coat.
It was then he realised the system had done just what it had promised. It had found him what he dreamed of, an intellectual equal to share his life with. She just didn’t know it yet.
‘Sarah, this is just the start’, he murmured, not quite sure where the thought was even coming from, ‘let me show you this,’ he gestured to the entire room, ‘let me show you everything’.
[Sorry for the length! I let the thoughts kind of run riot while writing this. A little leniency please, this is only my second attempt at Writing Prompts] | "Human designated B-1338, male, you are designated to mate with Human N-3342, female, at 2130, 24-segment native planet time. Report to chamber designated 35F, Sector 6-L at given time."
They did what they could to communicate clearly with our species, but they could never quite replicate our specific timber. Our ambassador, B-2282i, or as we knew him, Henry Breen, assured us that our overlords had our best interests in mind, but I was always skeptical of their selective mating choices. Breen said that their algorithms were optimally designed to catapult our species into greatness, but I was always skeptical.
My skepticism and cynicism were confirmed when I saw her. The moment you anxiously waited for for years....and this.... There wasn't anything specific, but I immediately wanted to get away. She looked upon me with a slight, but noticeable scowl. "So, we are selected to have optimal offspring..." "I would appear so." Clearly neither of us was enthused about the situation, but the penalty for failure to mate is highly restricted and possible cancellation of all mating simulation activity, and no one wanted that.
We took the granted 72 native planet hours to attempt to develop rapport but to no avail. On the night of hour 68, we returned to the chamber and finally willed ourselves to copulate sheerly to avoid punishment. This was the easy part. The hard part it seems would be jointly caring for our offspring....
I thought back on all of these thoughts and pondered my judgements. I remember my young naivete. Today, I recall these thoughts and shake my head, acknowledging that perhaps I was wrong. Today, my...our offspring, human designated Q-1142, male, became the first human to win the local systems full combat tournament. Perhaps Breen is right. Perhaps our leaders have plans for our species and wish to elevate us to a higher plane in their empire. I look upon my Q-1142 and am grateful. |
Surprise me with the thing that makes the protagonist(s) fall in love.
EDIT: Thanks for all the great replies guys. Seeing the divirsity and creativity poured into this really shows the talent we have on this site. I am still fairly new to WP, so I really enjoyed having a prompt this highly upvoted, and with several golds awarded for the stories. | [WP] You meet with the person who is scientifically proven to be your ideal match. Only you don't really like him/her, and you sense the feeling is mutual. The is until... | “Equal” he recalled saying. His brother had met a girl, *the* girl, got engaged, and married in the space of a year thanks to the new ‘Lastmatch’ service everyone was raving about. It was named such as the creators claimed that it was the last matching service a user would ever need, whoever the algorithm picked would be the one you fell for, and that would be it. His brother had tried to get him to sign up, and he had resisted stubbornly, as he always had with online dating in general.
Yet, his brother continued to pester him with the notion, and so he came up with new ways to resist. Until one day it came pouring out, that very personal description of the ideal person he wanted to find, along with a bunch of angry retorts describing how ‘no algorithm, no machine’ could find such a person. “Equal” he remembered muttering, “My intellectual equal, thats what I dream of!”. “Someone to share the morning papers with, to talk about the world with, to read with, to read to our children…”. He clammed up shortly after that, already aware he had said too much. But it was enough, his brother had worn him down such that he agreed to sign up and try just once.
So here he was, A nondescript cafe where the system had told him to wait and meet a woman who he knew barely anything about. With all of New York to choose from, the system picked this place, and the fact he couldn’t fathom its reasoning infuriated him. He had never been a child prodigy, but he had always had intelligence in abundance. He swallowed books whole like other people drank water, his teenage and college years a whirlwind of a thousand essays, books read and more graduations than both of his parents put together.
‘Are you here for Lastmatch?’ a shy voice said. He snapped back to reality, and saw her standing by the table. ‘Sarah’ was her name, and that was just about all he knew. She looked rather pretty standing there, he thought quietly, wearing a floral dress with her brown hair glinting in the New York sunshine. ‘Yes, I’m here for Lastmatch’ he replied, somewhat begrudgingly.
She sat down and they ordered Lunch. After small talk and initial pleasantries, the conversation moved to what he thought was the heart of the matter. ‘So what college did you go to? Private or Public?’
She looked away from him, as if embarrassed, suddenly closing her arms around herself like a shield ‘I…er…I didn’t go to college’. He spluttered on his water, then composed himself. This ‘lastmatch’ system clearly wasn’t all it was cracked up to be if picked someone without even a basic college education for him. ‘I mean’ she whispered, growing shyer and more withdrawn with every word, ‘I’ve attended some community college courses since moving to the City, to help with the secretarial work, but not a degree. My family didn’t have the money for that, and probably wouldn’t have wanted me to go anyway…’.
Through gritted teeth he tried to come up with another angle. ‘Ok then. So what’s your favourite book then?’. ‘Well, my family were very conservative see, and we were farmers, so going to the far away bookstores or the public library were kind of not on the table often….’. He struggled to come up with a response. ‘By the way, how long were you abroad for? Japan?’ she said, interrupting his train of thought. ‘How could you…how did you guess that?’ he whispered, taken aback as to how someone apparently so ill educated could of worked out he’d been recently. ‘Oh, nothing special really. Your watch has 2 faces, and one of them is still set to East Asian time by the looks of it. I saw it earlier when you were talking to the waiter. Nice watch, by the way!’. He sat there, staring at her, stunned ‘So she’s bright, sharp in fact, very sharp, just never had the chance to take it further, to walk the halls of a university…’ he mused silently.
Without saying another word, he reached for his bag and rummaged around, pulling a handful of books out and laying them on the table. So what if the girl wasn’t his ‘soulmate’, he was sure as hell going to show her how to educate herself, to better herself, no one deserved to stumble in the dark like this. ‘I got all of these from the library earlier, just before I came here’. ‘I don’t think the computers matched us together correctly, but let me show you something, you're in the city now, and you should know, you **have** to know that you can read as much as you want!’.
He threw a few bills on the table and grabbed her hand, pulling her with him. The New York Public library was round the corner, that was the best place to start. She walked reluctantly, somewhat crestfallen at the notion that this date wasn’t really going anywhere. Still, she came with him, and he led her into the main hall of the New York Public Library. Desk after desk in the centre, and shelf after shelf of books lined the walls. Old books, new books, periodicals, magazines. For readers and bookworms, this was the time machine, the portal to adventure, the people’s university, and it was all free.
Her eye’s widened. He saw that look on her face, the ‘kid in a sweetshop’ expression he knew so well from his visits to the library over the years. The slack jawed wonder at seeing more reading material than you could ever finish, and knowing you could have any of it. ‘I…I didn’t think it was this big, I’ve only ever really read the odd newspaper and whats on my phone…I…have you read most of this? All of this?!”. She was thinking at a million miles an hour, the words tumbling out faster than she could say them clearly, and he enjoyed, no, he loved seeing it happen. “No one can read all of this, at least I don’t think so. I’ve read a lot of it though, and I have my favourites” he whispered, smiling when he thought of those favourite tomes. ‘Show me!” she sputtered, ‘Show me your favourites!”.
He ran to the shelves and started picking out book after book, piling them on a desk, so deep in thought he forgot she was even there. Books from childhood, books from college, books read under trees in the sunshine, books read indoors during the driving rain. When he was done, he stood there, slightly tired just from the effort of picking just a dozen books from around the room and bringing them to the table.
Then she did something he never expected, something his analytical brain would never have predicted. She flung her arms around him, and one foot in the air, kissed him on the cheek. He was the consummate thinker, always thinking of the world as one giant chess game, but this was like someone taking the whole board and flinging it out of the window. ‘Thank you’ she whispered, with her face pressed against his coat.
It was then he realised the system had done just what it had promised. It had found him what he dreamed of, an intellectual equal to share his life with. She just didn’t know it yet.
‘Sarah, this is just the start’, he murmured, not quite sure where the thought was even coming from, ‘let me show you this,’ he gestured to the entire room, ‘let me show you everything’.
[Sorry for the length! I let the thoughts kind of run riot while writing this. A little leniency please, this is only my second attempt at Writing Prompts] | I sat in a chair in a large room, surrounded by pristine tables filled with couples doting upon each other. As I play with the frayed edges of my dress, I couldn’t help but be jealous; all of these people seemed so in love, and this was only their second meeting. Here I sat, alone, watching for my Mate to arrive.
Our first meeting was something that most matchmakers would call an anomaly. Our DNA was to have the perfect compatibility, a destiny to last a lifetime and bring two perfect, healthy children to raise together. Yet the instant I saw my Mate, repulsion swept through my body. Whereas I was athletic, my job out in the fields keeping my body trim and tan, he led a much more sedentary lifestyle. His hair was dark and looked as if 3 days prior had been his last bath. When he sat and opened his mouth to speak, I saw his teeth were crooked and full of gaps. His conversation proved to be less than stimulating, musing about some plant he was modifying. Throughout the whole meeting, he failed to ask me a single question other than, "What's your name?" Throughout our meal, I could see that he had the same look on his face, “How could this person be my Mate?”
I look on through the crowd and feel my face burn red. Though I had no interest in my "Mate," the humiliation of being stood up was almost more than I could bear. I looked longingly at the door, hoping that he would cross through the entrance just to spare me this embarrassment, yet the longer I looked, the more my heart sank, for I knew he would not be coming.
My walk home was no easier than my time at the second meeting hall. Dotted along the streets were couples holding hands. Though it was forbidden to do so, most enforcers let it slide after an event as big as the second meeting. I hastened my pace so that I could reach my apartment faster and decided to take a short-cut through the park.
The park, as expected, was filled. Couples holding hands, snuggling up to one another, finding dark areas in which to enjoy each other’s company more. My body surged with jealousy. I should be one of them.
Distracted in my thoughts, my foot caught a rock and ripped my heel from my shoe. Hobbling over to the nearest bench, I sat, desperately searching my purse for glue. As I sat and repaired my heel, my mind kept thinking about my Mate. His hair was greasy, but I never noticed a bad smell. In fact, I would say that he actually smelled quite nice. He had never asked me a question, but was that because he could see my disinterest. Yes, he was overweight, but his job was in a lab, not the field. Though I was first taken aback by the state of his teeth, I remember his voice being smooth to the point of sending shivers down my spine. I suppose, in a way, he wasn’t so bad. He just had flaws, like all of us do. When I thought upon this, my embarrassment and anger turned to sadness—my Mate wasn’t here. Tears welled up in my eyes, and before I knew it, were flowing down my cheeks—my Mate had stood me up. I tried to stifle the tears, which turned to deep, and painful gasps—my Mate had left me. We weren’t an anomaly, I was just too foolish to see, but he never came back to meet me, and now I had no Mate. I had no Mate that I know I would love, and cherish, and raise children with.
I calm myself down, and forced myself to go back to my apartment. I opened my door and flipped on the lights, tossing my bags and shoes haphazardly across the apartment. As I took in my familiar surroundings, I noticed something quite out of place—a beautiful rose, with what seemed to be a myriad of colors splashed on the petals. Beneath the flower, was a note:
*“I’m sorry I missed out date. I was trying to finish this before we met. Will I see you at the third meeting?”*
A smile played across my face as I clutched the note to my heart. I picked up the rose and inhaled deeply and my smile grew wider—the rose smelled of him.
|
Surprise me with the thing that makes the protagonist(s) fall in love.
EDIT: Thanks for all the great replies guys. Seeing the divirsity and creativity poured into this really shows the talent we have on this site. I am still fairly new to WP, so I really enjoyed having a prompt this highly upvoted, and with several golds awarded for the stories. | [WP] You meet with the person who is scientifically proven to be your ideal match. Only you don't really like him/her, and you sense the feeling is mutual. The is until... | “Equal” he recalled saying. His brother had met a girl, *the* girl, got engaged, and married in the space of a year thanks to the new ‘Lastmatch’ service everyone was raving about. It was named such as the creators claimed that it was the last matching service a user would ever need, whoever the algorithm picked would be the one you fell for, and that would be it. His brother had tried to get him to sign up, and he had resisted stubbornly, as he always had with online dating in general.
Yet, his brother continued to pester him with the notion, and so he came up with new ways to resist. Until one day it came pouring out, that very personal description of the ideal person he wanted to find, along with a bunch of angry retorts describing how ‘no algorithm, no machine’ could find such a person. “Equal” he remembered muttering, “My intellectual equal, thats what I dream of!”. “Someone to share the morning papers with, to talk about the world with, to read with, to read to our children…”. He clammed up shortly after that, already aware he had said too much. But it was enough, his brother had worn him down such that he agreed to sign up and try just once.
So here he was, A nondescript cafe where the system had told him to wait and meet a woman who he knew barely anything about. With all of New York to choose from, the system picked this place, and the fact he couldn’t fathom its reasoning infuriated him. He had never been a child prodigy, but he had always had intelligence in abundance. He swallowed books whole like other people drank water, his teenage and college years a whirlwind of a thousand essays, books read and more graduations than both of his parents put together.
‘Are you here for Lastmatch?’ a shy voice said. He snapped back to reality, and saw her standing by the table. ‘Sarah’ was her name, and that was just about all he knew. She looked rather pretty standing there, he thought quietly, wearing a floral dress with her brown hair glinting in the New York sunshine. ‘Yes, I’m here for Lastmatch’ he replied, somewhat begrudgingly.
She sat down and they ordered Lunch. After small talk and initial pleasantries, the conversation moved to what he thought was the heart of the matter. ‘So what college did you go to? Private or Public?’
She looked away from him, as if embarrassed, suddenly closing her arms around herself like a shield ‘I…er…I didn’t go to college’. He spluttered on his water, then composed himself. This ‘lastmatch’ system clearly wasn’t all it was cracked up to be if picked someone without even a basic college education for him. ‘I mean’ she whispered, growing shyer and more withdrawn with every word, ‘I’ve attended some community college courses since moving to the City, to help with the secretarial work, but not a degree. My family didn’t have the money for that, and probably wouldn’t have wanted me to go anyway…’.
Through gritted teeth he tried to come up with another angle. ‘Ok then. So what’s your favourite book then?’. ‘Well, my family were very conservative see, and we were farmers, so going to the far away bookstores or the public library were kind of not on the table often….’. He struggled to come up with a response. ‘By the way, how long were you abroad for? Japan?’ she said, interrupting his train of thought. ‘How could you…how did you guess that?’ he whispered, taken aback as to how someone apparently so ill educated could of worked out he’d been recently. ‘Oh, nothing special really. Your watch has 2 faces, and one of them is still set to East Asian time by the looks of it. I saw it earlier when you were talking to the waiter. Nice watch, by the way!’. He sat there, staring at her, stunned ‘So she’s bright, sharp in fact, very sharp, just never had the chance to take it further, to walk the halls of a university…’ he mused silently.
Without saying another word, he reached for his bag and rummaged around, pulling a handful of books out and laying them on the table. So what if the girl wasn’t his ‘soulmate’, he was sure as hell going to show her how to educate herself, to better herself, no one deserved to stumble in the dark like this. ‘I got all of these from the library earlier, just before I came here’. ‘I don’t think the computers matched us together correctly, but let me show you something, you're in the city now, and you should know, you **have** to know that you can read as much as you want!’.
He threw a few bills on the table and grabbed her hand, pulling her with him. The New York Public library was round the corner, that was the best place to start. She walked reluctantly, somewhat crestfallen at the notion that this date wasn’t really going anywhere. Still, she came with him, and he led her into the main hall of the New York Public Library. Desk after desk in the centre, and shelf after shelf of books lined the walls. Old books, new books, periodicals, magazines. For readers and bookworms, this was the time machine, the portal to adventure, the people’s university, and it was all free.
Her eye’s widened. He saw that look on her face, the ‘kid in a sweetshop’ expression he knew so well from his visits to the library over the years. The slack jawed wonder at seeing more reading material than you could ever finish, and knowing you could have any of it. ‘I…I didn’t think it was this big, I’ve only ever really read the odd newspaper and whats on my phone…I…have you read most of this? All of this?!”. She was thinking at a million miles an hour, the words tumbling out faster than she could say them clearly, and he enjoyed, no, he loved seeing it happen. “No one can read all of this, at least I don’t think so. I’ve read a lot of it though, and I have my favourites” he whispered, smiling when he thought of those favourite tomes. ‘Show me!” she sputtered, ‘Show me your favourites!”.
He ran to the shelves and started picking out book after book, piling them on a desk, so deep in thought he forgot she was even there. Books from childhood, books from college, books read under trees in the sunshine, books read indoors during the driving rain. When he was done, he stood there, slightly tired just from the effort of picking just a dozen books from around the room and bringing them to the table.
Then she did something he never expected, something his analytical brain would never have predicted. She flung her arms around him, and one foot in the air, kissed him on the cheek. He was the consummate thinker, always thinking of the world as one giant chess game, but this was like someone taking the whole board and flinging it out of the window. ‘Thank you’ she whispered, with her face pressed against his coat.
It was then he realised the system had done just what it had promised. It had found him what he dreamed of, an intellectual equal to share his life with. She just didn’t know it yet.
‘Sarah, this is just the start’, he murmured, not quite sure where the thought was even coming from, ‘let me show you this,’ he gestured to the entire room, ‘let me show you everything’.
[Sorry for the length! I let the thoughts kind of run riot while writing this. A little leniency please, this is only my second attempt at Writing Prompts] | *Stupid stupid stupid...*
It was ridiculous, the whole system. Why I had even gone through with it was beyond me. The government representative that had come to our little corner of the food processing plant had made the process sound easy, even fun. A guaranteed mate, compatible in all ways, chosen by *SCIENCE*. How could it go wrong?
*"Stupid fucking... Waste of time... YOU LITTLE COCK BITE WOULD YOU JUST LET... IT... GO!"*
With a wet sucking sound the little piece of metal finally came loose. It flew across the room, hit the wall, and skittered across the floor. I'd find it later. My knuckle was bleeding from having to dig - if I'd taken care of my equipment properly, like I normally did on Friday nights, the work wouldn't be so damned hard. But noooo. I'd listened to that little rat fink from the Matching agency and lost my Friday on the most god-awful date in all of my dating history. I'd had shitty dates in the past - it was pretty par for the course actually - but this had taken the cake.
A donation of blood, the most invasive questionnaires since the Spanish Inquisition given over a course of weeks, and finally a little postcard had arrived in my PO Box with a time, date, and location. I'd been nervous, excited, anxious. I'd brushed my hair til my scalp ached. Scrubbed my cheeks til just before they would have bled. I'd chosen the cleanest and least repaired of my work jumpsuits - usually reserved for weddings and funerals. I'd never felt so dolled up in my life. But when i saw him, the amount of time I spent primping seemed like such a waste.
There he was. All 6'4" of him. Lean and beautiful, smooth and perfect - not an ebony hair out of place, not a wrinkle to be seen. His skin was tanned and healthy, his eyes clear and pale green. He was so clean and exotic he stood out like an LED light in a room full of flashlights. He was sitting at a table in the middle of the damned eatery with a large sign propped up on a stick in the middle, the same red curly '6' that had been stamped on my postcard written in glowing ink. He was looking around, scanning the crowd, looking for... well, for me.
I tried to back out. Nice and slow, I'd managed two steps before his gaze fell on me, pinning me with a narrowed gaze. i froze. What the fuck was I supposed to do? Make a run for it? His eyes widened slightly, then rolled up towards the ceiling. He sighed so loudly I could hear it from the entry way. He gave me a lazy 'come on' wave, like I was a burden he was eager to be free of.
Fuck that.
I frowned, looking down at the postcard in my hand.
"Fucking waste..." I muttered. I watched his snotty little face, eyes widening in surprise, as I ripped up the postcard and dumped it in the flower pot near the seating desk. He stood, but I walked out before he could reach me. I turned once as I walked towards the bus but didn't see him behind me. Most likely he'd ordered something gross and disgusting from the eatery and had to wait to pay. I hoped it made him ill. The smell of potentially contaminated foodstuffs lingered around me from just standing in the entry of the eatery. My stomach rolled and I fought not to vomit as I caught the bus just as it went to pull away from the curb.
Back at home, I felt more relaxed. I could chalk this up to a learning experience, another example of why the government couldn't be trusted.
I had packed everything away on the off chance I would be bringing my scientifically compatible mate home for some scientifically compatible fucking, but had quickly pulled everything back out and continued working. Fuck my jumpsuit. Fuck my tools. I just needed to *work*, release some stress, and get some real food into me.
I had filled several containers and set them to the side when someone began beating on my door. I frowned. My work was really too spread out and too far along to be able to hide neatly. But I wasn't expecting guests, so I tried to ignore it. The beating continued, followed by a muffled voice. The safety door had been a great investment - I hadn't been robbed since I'd purchased it. But the knocking on the outside tended to echo on the inside. Ignoring it was hard - I already had a headache from dry heaving over my toilet when I'd gotten home. The oily smell of overcooked food and too many spices had bled into my clothes and I couldn't get out of them fast enough to keep myself from smelling them.
I pulled a tarp over the whole thing, using a towel to wipe off as much as I could, then walked to the door. I looked through the peephole.
Nothing.
Frowning, I turned to go back when I heard the loud banging again. It wasn't coming from the door, but from the connecting kitchen walls. Great. The neighbor. The asshole worked opposite shifts as me, and if this was a regular night I would be at work and they could thump around to their hearts content. But not tonight - I had a fucking headache.
"Shut the fuck up!" I shouted, banging on the wall with my fist. There was a pause, silence, then shouting, then silence again. A few thumps, softer than before, then silence. Finally.
I walked back into the living room, sighing at the sight of some of the liquid coming through the tarp., That was my favorite tarp. I lifted it, trying to fold it so the fluids didn't spread, when suddenly there was a loud *BANG*, followed by what I *knew* was someone banging on my door this time. I grabbed a wrench from the toolbox by the now too wet to save tarp and walked back to the door. When i looked through the peephole, someone's eye was staring back at me.
"Get away from my door!" i shouted.
*"PLEASE!"* a woman's voice, not so muffled now that I was so close, "*PLEASE HELP ME! PLEASE!*"
"Help you what?" I asked. I didn't want to open the door. i was kind of in the middle of something. She kept banging and screaming. She finally backed away from the peephole and I could see her - white shirt, black pants, nametag on the left breast pocket, blood dripping from a wound on her hand and the side of her head. Shit.
"Back up and I'll open the door," I said. She whimpered and complied, looking to her right.
*"Please hurry, please let me-"*
As I opened the door, there was a loud *THUMP*, then a *Thud*. I lifted the wrench up, ready to strike - and there he was. His nice dress shirt was smeared with blood, his hair mussed, his tie gone. He held a meat tenderizing hammer in his hand, and from the woman now prone on the floor it was easy to see what had happened. He looked at me, and I looked at him, both of us holding our weapons ready.
"Ah," he said, sniffing slightly and nodding towards the woman, "Did you hit her?"
"What?" I asked, shaking me head. He frowned, nodding towards my wrench.
" 'S blood on your thing there."
I looked up. Fuck. I hadn't wiped off the wrench on the way to the door. We both stared at each other a minute, then down at the woman on the floor. Slowly, we both lowered our arms. He shuffled his feet nervously, trying to brush away the drying blood on his arms. I looked down and gave myself the once over. No way he didn't know what I was doing in there.
"So," I said, gesturing towards the woman, "You, ah... well...."
"Science, huh?" he chuckled. I nodded. The silence in the hallway was broken by the woman making a strange grunting noise. Not unusual for head injuries - that's why I tended to cut throats as soon as possible. Cut down on the weird noises.
"I wasn't going to make you eat there, at that place," he said suddenly, rubbing the back of his head, nervously, "I mean, you could have, if you wanted to -"
"I would never eat that food," I said quickly.
"Oh! Oh me neither," he said with a great gust of air, as if he'd been holding his breathe that whole time, waiting for me to say that. He suddenly didn't seem so snobby. Hair all mussed up, picking hair off the end of his mallet - it was kind of cute.
"Weird we've lived next door to each other for, what, two years?" I asked. He nodded. I nodded back. The hallway was not the best place to be having this conversation. I looked back into my apartment.
"Listen... Um, I'm sorry I ran out, but you were... I mean, you looked like...."
"A jerk?" he offered, snorting and nodding, "Yeah. i was... I didn't sign up. My mother signed me up. She was worried I was alone too much. I was hoping I could drive you off with a shitty evening. And I did. And now..." he gestured towards the woman on the floor.
I took a step back and gestured towards my open apartment.
"I don't know what you have going on over there, but I have some buckets already prepped for processing, and a tarp all ready to go," I shrugged, "Wouldn't take long to cut up and cook some cutlets. If you wanted to... come over. You know. For a real dinner date."
He smiled.
"I'd like that. You wanna grab her arms, and I'll get the feet?" |
Surprise me with the thing that makes the protagonist(s) fall in love.
EDIT: Thanks for all the great replies guys. Seeing the divirsity and creativity poured into this really shows the talent we have on this site. I am still fairly new to WP, so I really enjoyed having a prompt this highly upvoted, and with several golds awarded for the stories. | [WP] You meet with the person who is scientifically proven to be your ideal match. Only you don't really like him/her, and you sense the feeling is mutual. The is until... | He had gotten the email that afternoon; The System had found a match and set a date for that evening. He was to meet her on a park bench not two blocks from his work precisely at 7. The System had decided this was going to be a blind date, which was unusual but not unheard of. In just 4 hours he would meet her, and if the adverts were true, fall madly in love. Maybe, maybe not, but it was a gamble he was eager to make.
---
Her sister had forwarded her the email at 4:30 but it wasn't until 5:45 that she read it. The System, that wonderful new algorithm that everyone was raving about, had found her match. It didn't list his name, age, hobbies, *anything*. Great. She had gotten out of her sister's past three attempts by finding something wrong with the suitors but she couldn't find fault with *nothing*. 7 at a park bench. Fine, she would go tonight, cut it short around 7:30, and then tell her sister off afterwards. Just 2 hours until she could be done with this.
---
He arrived first and sat on the bench. A church in the distance rang 7. Good, he had made it on time. He had stopped to get flowers on the way here and was afraid he was going to be late.
Five minutes passed. Then ten. Finally a woman hurriedly approached the bench and sat down. She had worn a simple blue dress, minimal makeup, and was staring rather intently at him.
"Look, I'm here because my sister insists on setting me up on dates. In an effort not waste either of our time, I'm going to skip all the formalities and let you know that I have no intention of being here more than ten minutes. I don't need to know your name, your job, or how many children you have. All I need from you is some serious discussion on some topic we don't agree on so I can reject you and cite that as why our date ended badly. Can you do that for me?"
He tried to laugh it off. "Wow, that's the fastest I've been rejected." She didn't smile. "Oh you're serious? Well, let's see then. I've signed up to five dating websites now and I go on a date about once a week. Given your demeanour and resentment towards me and dating in general, you obviously don't do the same. So there's one thing."
"That won't be enough. My sister will just say that compared to me, everyone's a hopeless romantic. We've got to get into something controversial."
He shrugged and lay the flowers between them. "Abortion? I'm pro-life."
"I'm pro-choice and I even had an abortion when I was younger. But that's no good either; my sister will just complain that I'm dismissing you too hastily." Her voice took a mocking tone. "Why would you reject a guy on abortion when you're not having babies with him yet? You always dismiss-"
"While I'm sure that's a perfect impression of your sister, you can't just say you got an abortion and leave it at that."
"Oh really? Last I heard I get to choose what I tell you."
"If you're going to demand I skip over all the small talk, then I figure I can make some demands too. So tell me why."
She crossed her arms. "Fine. I'm not ashamed of it. I was twenty-three and had just finished university. I was out celebrating on graduation night and had a one-night stand with another graduate. We woke up, went our separate ways and that was that. A few weeks later I found out I was pregnant, and seeing as how the two of us weren't getting married and I had just started a new job, I had an abortion."
"So it was a career move then."
"I had a huge student debt and I was on a three month trial period at my job. Employers may not be able to fire you for being pregnant, but they can drum up other reasons. So if I had stayed pregnant, I would have lost my job, had to find some work as a three-month pregnant woman, and then take time off to raise the child. It wouldn't have been a good situation for me or the kid."
He shrugged his shoulders. "I wasn't there so I can't judge and I'm sorry that you went through that. But couldn't you have challenged the company if they fired you?"
"Legally, yes, but that wouldn't have gone anywhere. And it's beside the point; the decision was made and there's no use thinking about what could have been. Let's get back to you: are you religious?"
"No though I expect that's no different than you."
"I am actually, christian. But enough about me; how can you been an atheist and believe be pro-life?"
"Because when does it become a pile?" She looked at him, confused, and he grinned. "There's a thought experiment involving grains of sand. If I put down one grain of sand, it's not a pile. If I put down a second it's still not a pile. Yet if I keep putting down more and more sand, it will eventually become a pile. When does that happen? The tenth grain? The hundredth? It's the same with a human life; if we take an embryo and keep giving it food and time, it will eventually grow into a human being that can breath and crawl and walk and talk and even sit next to me on a park bench and tell me I'm wrong." He winked at her. "I don't know when it starts being a human life and so I don't want to end it. But that's just my opinion and I won't force it on anyone else."
She shifted uncomfortably on the bench and looked down in thought. "You're very laid back, aren't you?"
"I am. I may have strong opinions but they're mine and it's fine if people disagree. It seems like you have more of an issue with that."
"Yes. If someone's wrong, I want to tell them. I want to pick apart their argument so it's left in shambles and they can see what a fool they were. What good is it to have strong opinions if you aren't going to defend them?"
"Opinions don't need to have a use. These flowers don't have a use but they're pretty nonetheless."
She looked at the flowers briefly before turning back to him and talking quickly. "Your opinion on drugs?"
"No personal opinion but I'm for regulation."
"I want them banned. Economics?"
"Free trade and free markets."
"I want to tax the rich and help the poor. I'm also in favour of healthcare for everyone."
"I wish we had the money to do it. I'm pro gay marriage."
"I reject the premise; marriage used to be a religious ceremony but now there are tax cuts associated with it. Get the politics out of marriage and I'll be against gay marriage but until then it's a stupid argument. Teaching intelligent design in schools?"
"I'm for teaching critical thinking skills. Let it be an exercise in that class first; let the students decide what they believe separate from what other people tell them."
"It's not science though, so it shouldn't be in a science class," she retorted.
"Israel?"
The two of them were silent as they turned to find a third person in their midst.
"I'm sorry to interrupt but The System said you'd be in the thick of things by now and that I should stop by."
"Who are you?" she asked.
"As you stated before, names don't matter. And don't get all defensive about how I listened in on your conversation. As you've obviously forgotten, you're in a park."
They looked around, remembering where they were, him with a slight grin while she was indifferent. "You still haven't answered my date's question."
"You're quite right. Consider me an extension of The System. And before you ask, no, I'm not the man behind the curtain, setting people up one by one. I'm one of the people in front of the curtain, tweaking things as needed. And you two need a little tweak." He handed them both a business card.
They took it and read it. "This is the fight of your life; don't lose it," it read. She looked up at their guest. "What do you mean, the fight of our life? I've disagreed before."
"Yes, but not on everything, and not to someone who will fight you on every point."
"But we even disagree on how passionate we should be. I want to tell everyone they're wrong while he doesn't care."
"So? He still met every thrust with a parry, every quip with a retort." He paused for a moment before continuing. "You two both have the same desire, to find someone who will fight you and give you a stimulating discussion every day. You disagree on the big issues and that's what you thrive on. You," he turned to the male, "have been trying to find someone to date for years now but you've always found them boring and uninteresting. They never challenged you like she will. And you," he turned to the female, "have withdrawn from people because they would always back down from you. You would spend hours finding flaws with people so you could dismiss them."
The man looked skeptical. "Let me get this straight. The System matched us together because we both need someone to fight, and then goaded us to continue by saying not to lose? I'm a pacifist-"
"Of course you are," she scoffed.
He grinned. "-and so I don't have an issue with 'losing'. I'm happy to disagree."
Their guest reached into their front pocket and consulted his cell phone before laughing. "You must forgive The System, it thought a little wordplay would be advisable. It's this fight you two are having. The System wanted you to see how much you both need it and to cherish it. It's rare to find a connection like this. Don't lose it: that connection. Don't stop fighting."
They looked at each other for a moment, processing the last ten minutes. She thought about how passionate she had been and how she wanted to continue; he thought about how much fun it had been to have his beliefs prodded so forcefully. He picked up the flowers and offered them to her. "How about we get dinner and you can tell me how much you despise my pacifist nature?"
She smiled and took the flowers. "Fine, but only if you let me pay for dinner. It wouldn't be right accepting your gift without offering one in return."
They both stood up and he smirked. "I'll need to add some amendments to that proposal but I accept it on the whole." They nodded to their guest and walked off to dinner.
He stood there for a moment, watching them leave. He looked at his cell phone before hailing a cab; it was 7:32. | “But it can’t be wrong.”
“Of course it can” he let out an exasperated gasp and mumbled, “For fucks sake.”
“But its…you know…science.”
“Its science, not magic. Science isn’t perfect. That’s how it works. You know- trial and error.”
“Well when is the last time you heard of it not matching someone perfectly?” she asked.
He stammered for a moment before letting up, “Never.”
They sat in a mournful silence. They stared down at the fine china and white linens. Around them waiters and waitresses shuffled endlessly, serving the happy couples. From every table poured saccharine sap of requited love. But all were to enraptured in their own escapades too be sickened by the others cooing and camp. All except these two. These two looked at nothing but the table, equally ignoring everyone’s joy and their own misery.
“Well maybe they got our names mixed up with someone else or something?” she offered.
“It seems a little convenient that there would be a mix up and we’d happen to both get each other’s names.”
Just then, their waiter glided up with most serene expression and inquired, “And how is the miracle of modern science work for you two lovely people?”
“It fuckin ain’t,” he spat back at the waiter. Casting a glance across the table he asked, “Is it?”
“No, I guess it’s not,” came the reply.
The waiter stood aghast, mouth open and brows upturned. The shock the poor man’s system was too much for him to bare and found it impossible to move or speak.
The man at the table stood up. Shoving a wade of money in the waiter’s breast pocket he told him, “Listen, you can cancel all that fancy overpriced shit we order. We’re leaving.” He took the woman by the wrist and fairly dragged her out the door. Most the patrons were too enraptured to notice the commotion. Those that did assumed they were simply overcome with passion and had to…leave.
Once in the street they quickly hailed a taxi. He directed the driver to the TrueMatch building then sat in silence. They were lucky the driver had a limited English vocabulary. His eyes constantly in the rearview mirror betrayed that he was intrigued by this disgustedly couple. The woman stared at the picture of the dark beauty perched upon the dash board.
Finally, the man gave a chuckle. “Did you see the look on that pompous waiter’s face?”
“Yeah,” she answered with a faint smile, “I believe that’s what they call nonplused.” They almost looked at each other.
After what had seemed like eons, they arrived at their destination. The man charged up to the door but found it locked. He shook the door with all his might. For a moment it seemed the door would shatter but it did not yield.
She came walking up slowly behind him. “The sign says they’re open till seven,” she reported.
“Well they ain’t,” he shouted at the empty building before letting out a heavy sigh, “Assholes.”
“Fuckin dickbags,” she confirmed. Finally they shared a laugh, a moment of relief that this farce was finally over.
“Well I better go home and eat something, I’m starving,”
“Fuckin Right,” she confirmed. He turned to leave but she caught his arm.
“Hey, you want to grab some tacos?”
“Fuckin Right.”
Edit: Words are hard
|
Surprise me with the thing that makes the protagonist(s) fall in love.
EDIT: Thanks for all the great replies guys. Seeing the divirsity and creativity poured into this really shows the talent we have on this site. I am still fairly new to WP, so I really enjoyed having a prompt this highly upvoted, and with several golds awarded for the stories. | [WP] You meet with the person who is scientifically proven to be your ideal match. Only you don't really like him/her, and you sense the feeling is mutual. The is until... | I was honestly disappointed. While sitting across from her, a phrase kept repeating itself in my head: "Be careful with what you wish for, you might just get it."
It wasn't her plain visage and drab attire that bothered me. Neither was it her small face, freckled with a jawline that protruded outwards making her look like a squirrel who overstuffed its mouth. She was nothing special. And that bothered me.
I decided to speak up.
"So. Apparently, we're a match."
"An *ideal* match," she returned, with the least bit of affection in her voice. I couldn't blame her, I am no knight in shining armor.
"Do you think they made a mistake? I was expec---"
"Yes, they made a mistake." Her comment cut me sharp, more viscerally than I expected. I wanted to agree, get up and leave. I was most likely wasting my time, but I remembered what Brea told me before she died.
*Just because things aren't perfect doesn't mean they can't be good.*
I decided to take a wager and keep myself glued to the seat. There was a reason why she and I were here together, fated as night meets day. I could say that a lot of people were not as lucky as us two. Often times, the Bureau of Eugenics could not find matches for people and they were relegated to finding sub-optimal partners. Brea never accepted that but I knew better, yet even still, I loved her. I loved her like the body thirsted for water and hungered for food, and I needed every bit of her just as much. I needed her like the sun needed the sky and I was sure to her just as much as the return of spring after winter.
But I gave her up.
She studied me as I tried to make light conversation. *Where are you from* was met with *around here*. *What do you like to do* was answered with *my hobbies*. I regretted my decision to not walk out the door.
After a moment of silence, she looked into my eyes and said,
"Who was she?"
I stared back at her, not giving her an inch. I saw it in her eyes. In those green-blue eyes, I could see her, lucid and *sharp*. But it did not also betray my reflection. The question was *who was he?*
"Someone special. My soulmate." Her face nor disposition budged.
"It must've been hard to lose your soulmate."
"It is," I said. "As you know."
Her pursed lips slowly loosen into a nostalgic smile and she looked straight through me, past the walls that enclosed us, and past the horizon that bounded this small, little planet. Her green-blue eyes that stared at nothing and enveloped my entire universe were filled with a ruminating sadness, yet I could see that they were not accustomed to shedding tears. They were like a mirror, and I couldn't help but see myself.
"He was a stupid boy. So, so stupid." Her attention gravitated back to our conversation. "I never suffered stupid people, but he was different. One time, he purposely deprogrammed my visor just so he could fix it. I knew it all along and the look on his face when I rerouted the power conduit---" She laughed. "And the day when I told him that I liked him... I wished I'd never gave him the satisfaction. He told me that he'd smiled non-stop for weeks and that his dreams were butterscotch and licorice. There is truly nothing half as foolish as a man in love."
I felt the ice break but the truth was, I could only think of Brea in response to her sonderous monologue.
"She... Was wild and free like the wind." I relented and tried not to use too many metaphors. "Her hair was brown and her eyes were brown."
She smiled across the table, with the smile this time meant for me. "Did you love her something fierce?"
"I loved her more than we complemented each other." Reactionarily, I balled my fist and held my cheek against it. "I loved her enough that I was willing to work at it."
"What a wistful thing to say," she said, half-amused and half-devastated. "Do you think you two were perfect for each other?"
"I don't think things could've ever been perfect for us," I admitted.
Then she smiled and said,
"Just because things aren't perfect doesn't mean they can't be good."
| “But it can’t be wrong.”
“Of course it can” he let out an exasperated gasp and mumbled, “For fucks sake.”
“But its…you know…science.”
“Its science, not magic. Science isn’t perfect. That’s how it works. You know- trial and error.”
“Well when is the last time you heard of it not matching someone perfectly?” she asked.
He stammered for a moment before letting up, “Never.”
They sat in a mournful silence. They stared down at the fine china and white linens. Around them waiters and waitresses shuffled endlessly, serving the happy couples. From every table poured saccharine sap of requited love. But all were to enraptured in their own escapades too be sickened by the others cooing and camp. All except these two. These two looked at nothing but the table, equally ignoring everyone’s joy and their own misery.
“Well maybe they got our names mixed up with someone else or something?” she offered.
“It seems a little convenient that there would be a mix up and we’d happen to both get each other’s names.”
Just then, their waiter glided up with most serene expression and inquired, “And how is the miracle of modern science work for you two lovely people?”
“It fuckin ain’t,” he spat back at the waiter. Casting a glance across the table he asked, “Is it?”
“No, I guess it’s not,” came the reply.
The waiter stood aghast, mouth open and brows upturned. The shock the poor man’s system was too much for him to bare and found it impossible to move or speak.
The man at the table stood up. Shoving a wade of money in the waiter’s breast pocket he told him, “Listen, you can cancel all that fancy overpriced shit we order. We’re leaving.” He took the woman by the wrist and fairly dragged her out the door. Most the patrons were too enraptured to notice the commotion. Those that did assumed they were simply overcome with passion and had to…leave.
Once in the street they quickly hailed a taxi. He directed the driver to the TrueMatch building then sat in silence. They were lucky the driver had a limited English vocabulary. His eyes constantly in the rearview mirror betrayed that he was intrigued by this disgustedly couple. The woman stared at the picture of the dark beauty perched upon the dash board.
Finally, the man gave a chuckle. “Did you see the look on that pompous waiter’s face?”
“Yeah,” she answered with a faint smile, “I believe that’s what they call nonplused.” They almost looked at each other.
After what had seemed like eons, they arrived at their destination. The man charged up to the door but found it locked. He shook the door with all his might. For a moment it seemed the door would shatter but it did not yield.
She came walking up slowly behind him. “The sign says they’re open till seven,” she reported.
“Well they ain’t,” he shouted at the empty building before letting out a heavy sigh, “Assholes.”
“Fuckin dickbags,” she confirmed. Finally they shared a laugh, a moment of relief that this farce was finally over.
“Well I better go home and eat something, I’m starving,”
“Fuckin Right,” she confirmed. He turned to leave but she caught his arm.
“Hey, you want to grab some tacos?”
“Fuckin Right.”
Edit: Words are hard
|
Surprise me with the thing that makes the protagonist(s) fall in love.
EDIT: Thanks for all the great replies guys. Seeing the divirsity and creativity poured into this really shows the talent we have on this site. I am still fairly new to WP, so I really enjoyed having a prompt this highly upvoted, and with several golds awarded for the stories. | [WP] You meet with the person who is scientifically proven to be your ideal match. Only you don't really like him/her, and you sense the feeling is mutual. The is until... | I was honestly disappointed. While sitting across from her, a phrase kept repeating itself in my head: "Be careful with what you wish for, you might just get it."
It wasn't her plain visage and drab attire that bothered me. Neither was it her small face, freckled with a jawline that protruded outwards making her look like a squirrel who overstuffed its mouth. She was nothing special. And that bothered me.
I decided to speak up.
"So. Apparently, we're a match."
"An *ideal* match," she returned, with the least bit of affection in her voice. I couldn't blame her, I am no knight in shining armor.
"Do you think they made a mistake? I was expec---"
"Yes, they made a mistake." Her comment cut me sharp, more viscerally than I expected. I wanted to agree, get up and leave. I was most likely wasting my time, but I remembered what Brea told me before she died.
*Just because things aren't perfect doesn't mean they can't be good.*
I decided to take a wager and keep myself glued to the seat. There was a reason why she and I were here together, fated as night meets day. I could say that a lot of people were not as lucky as us two. Often times, the Bureau of Eugenics could not find matches for people and they were relegated to finding sub-optimal partners. Brea never accepted that but I knew better, yet even still, I loved her. I loved her like the body thirsted for water and hungered for food, and I needed every bit of her just as much. I needed her like the sun needed the sky and I was sure to her just as much as the return of spring after winter.
But I gave her up.
She studied me as I tried to make light conversation. *Where are you from* was met with *around here*. *What do you like to do* was answered with *my hobbies*. I regretted my decision to not walk out the door.
After a moment of silence, she looked into my eyes and said,
"Who was she?"
I stared back at her, not giving her an inch. I saw it in her eyes. In those green-blue eyes, I could see her, lucid and *sharp*. But it did not also betray my reflection. The question was *who was he?*
"Someone special. My soulmate." Her face nor disposition budged.
"It must've been hard to lose your soulmate."
"It is," I said. "As you know."
Her pursed lips slowly loosen into a nostalgic smile and she looked straight through me, past the walls that enclosed us, and past the horizon that bounded this small, little planet. Her green-blue eyes that stared at nothing and enveloped my entire universe were filled with a ruminating sadness, yet I could see that they were not accustomed to shedding tears. They were like a mirror, and I couldn't help but see myself.
"He was a stupid boy. So, so stupid." Her attention gravitated back to our conversation. "I never suffered stupid people, but he was different. One time, he purposely deprogrammed my visor just so he could fix it. I knew it all along and the look on his face when I rerouted the power conduit---" She laughed. "And the day when I told him that I liked him... I wished I'd never gave him the satisfaction. He told me that he'd smiled non-stop for weeks and that his dreams were butterscotch and licorice. There is truly nothing half as foolish as a man in love."
I felt the ice break but the truth was, I could only think of Brea in response to her sonderous monologue.
"She... Was wild and free like the wind." I relented and tried not to use too many metaphors. "Her hair was brown and her eyes were brown."
She smiled across the table, with the smile this time meant for me. "Did you love her something fierce?"
"I loved her more than we complemented each other." Reactionarily, I balled my fist and held my cheek against it. "I loved her enough that I was willing to work at it."
"What a wistful thing to say," she said, half-amused and half-devastated. "Do you think you two were perfect for each other?"
"I don't think things could've ever been perfect for us," I admitted.
Then she smiled and said,
"Just because things aren't perfect doesn't mean they can't be good."
| "Jack Derrymoore, nice to meet you" I said as I shake the lean hand of a lady my age.
 
"Orca White, it's a pleasure".
 
So we're both here, at the finest dining restaurant in the city. We both spent quite a sum of money in order to find each other. Apparently, she is, scientifically proven, to be my 'ideal match'. I found that hard to believe, since I've dated tens of other girls and I just found all of them to be equally bland.
 
She's a sheltered, 17 years old girl, who's very educated and comes from a well-off family. She's interested in travelling, competitive gaming, animal conservation and politics. Her background is terrifyingly similar to mine, aside from the fact that she's Finnish and I'm American-Indonesian.
 
"So, yea, nice weather eh?" She said to me, awkwardly.
 
"Yea, it's really sunny, good day for a walk. How are you doing?"
 
"I'm very fine, thank you. How are you?"
 
"It's been alright, you know, with the country economy on a shatter my family has been going a little bit insane. Government and stuff, you know." I said, trying to start a conversation that will piqued her interest.
 
Our dine arrived. Two classic steaks. She have an old red wine to accompany it while I have my glass of water.
 
"So what's your thoughts on Feminism?" she said as she cuts her food.
 
"That's... An odd way to start a conversation"
 
"Oh I'm sorry, I just don't want to get boring with the small talks. I mean, we both know where we stand in politics and that path of conversation would just lead me thinking that you're an idiot and you will think the same of me. Both you and I know that's pretty much the only thing we have our difference in, at least if we're reading off the same data"
 
"Interesting way of thinking" I proclaimed, then I continued on, "Well Feminism was useful in its early days, but now its just stupid. We should stop discussing about it and start tackling inequality problems the same for men and women."
 
"Exactly my opinion"
 
"What about philosophy then, you know anything interesting philosophically?"
 
"Oh, I read very interesting discussions about in what sense does numbers exist" her eyes widen and her eyebrows risen.
 
"Yes, where it boils down to three different schools of thought?"
 
"One of them being Platonism, where they basically says that numbers do exist. They're things, they're objects, but they're abstract objects. They exist outside of space and time. Their basic argument is basically if numbers are proven to work in the real world, then numbers has got to be exist. They believe that it is a proven fact that there's a number between 3 and 5, then the number has got to be exist"
 
"Ah, the most complicated view to comprehend" I said as I am pleased with her knowledge, although I read the data about it already. "True, true. However, the question that was raised then was how can mathematicians easily access that world of 'abstract objects'. How could they just accidentally stumble upon these 'new dimension' and use them so reliably?"
 
"Stand point number two. Numbers are just describing things that exist. It's like a metaphor. When you're saying 2 + 2 = 4, what you're saying is basically "two objects, added by two objects is equal to four objects". Like, 'if I buy 2 carrots, then I buy another 2 carrots, I would have 4 carrots' sort of thing."
 
"Nominalism, yes. Then the famous counter argument was what's the real-object equivalent of numbers like -1, or i, or irrational numbers. I mean, you can't show me that you have a -1 or something, nor that you can show me that you have a 1.66 repeating amount of something as what you have would always be measurably whereas 1.66 repeating is not. To Platonism, -1, i, irrational numbers and all sort of other numbers are just... Another number."
 
"You're right, and then there's the last one." She said seriously.
 
"Fictionalism," I said, "where they believe that numbers doesn't exist and it's all just a metaphor. There's no real proof that numbers exist, no witness, no anything. That simply means that numbers doesn't exist. It ultimately is, just a metaphor for real life things."
 
"And the counter-argument in that is that how can then the metaphors be so perfect? If I was writing a story about a Lion going through a jungle, how can then you know that the jungle will rain in about two hours, just by reading my metaphors? How can you measure objects in real world and apply mathematics if numbers are just metaphors that we made ourselves?"
 
She was obviously very knowledgeable. Impressed me, but, I've seen this before too. Nothing really special.
 
"So where do you stand on this? Which school of thought do you take?"
 
"None."
 
"Because the whole argument is useless and doesn't have any significant impact at all" she says, as if she have known me for a very long time.
 
"Exactly" I claimed.
 
Silence. Our conversation was pretty intense, however stupidly boring. I know all of the things that she knows, and we both pretty much have the same opinion. There was no room for disagreement, therefore, no room for exciting arguments. She's very predictable.
 
"You know, you're pretty much like me," she confess, "it's scary how similar we are. I thought I was at least special of having a character of my own."
 
"I know. I know what you're thinking."
 
"You're about to tell me about how boring this conversation is, and how predictable I am. I was thinking the same about you."
 
"Yes."
 
"I hate it. I hate you. You make me feel that me, myself are bland as it turns out there's a person who's exactly like me. You're also predictable, and boring and we have nothing to learn off each other."
 
"Exactly. It appears that we have both wasted $450,000."
 
"Can we not? I dated a lot of men and not one I'm interested in. This time I spent quite a large sum of money and went through a complicated process. I would hate it if it turns out to be a big waste."
 
"You would prefer all of it to go to charity."
 
"Yes. See, that's exactly what I hate about you," she mutters, "you're a kid born in a rich family with an unbelievably high expectancy. Every day you do as they told you to and you have a huge burden on your shoulder to carry on your family's name. You're exactly the same as me. How can I not know you well?" she continues.
 
To my surprise, she mutters on, "you're so fucking predictable. Can you not be so predictable?" She said, visibly annoyed at me for nothing I'm accountable for. I was annoyed with her too.
 
I splashed my glass of water to her face.
 
"I'm sorry, you said you want me to be unpredictable"
 
**"YOUR MOTHER'S A CUNT AND YOUR DAD WAS A COCK SUCKING BITCH!"** She yelled unpredictably, with a smile. Attracting the attention of the whole restaurant. I got her notion.
 
"WELL YOU ARE A RICH BIG BABY WHO GOT PAMPERED BY YO-"
 
"Oh coming back with another insult?! How VERY predictable of you. It'll take a lot more to impress me Mr. Jack Derrymo-"
 
I slapped her hard. I laughed.
 
The whole restaurant gasped. Then silence.
 
She laughs uncontrollably.
 
She then proceeds to throw her steak-sauce to my face. I blocked it with my arm.
 
"Oh WOW that fucking burns!" I yelled as I attempt to clean off the sauce and control my huge grin.
 
"Oh my God I am so sorry! It's just way too much fun to do! I am so sorry. It's just that I've been doing things I've been expected to in life and I was just, oh my God" She said as she's giggling and covering her eyes with her hands.
 
"Let me help yo-!" she said as she opens up her face.
 
 
 
I kissed her.
 
 
 
***
I know, it's weird. I apologize for it. Also, I'm not a native English speaker so if there's any grammatical error please point them out! (I'm also very new in writing in English)
Any, I mean any constructive criticism would be appreciated. Personally, I think the 'flow' of my story this time is still weirdly paced. And my vocabulary is obviously lacking. I don't know, what do you think?
Also, I mingled around with a couple of popular thoughts such as Feminism and Number Existentialism. I would like to admit that I haven't done an in-depth research about those two, so I would like to apologize if I have somehow offended somebody, or if I have misinterpreted the views.
Thank you for reading! |
What the joke is doesn't matter as long as it's a lame one that a dad would tell | [WP] A serious story that ends in a dad joke | Benny never took anything lightly. He was specifically taking nothing lightly as he scanned the beach for seashells. It was serious work, finding seashells, considering it was how Benny made his living. This particular day seemed like any other--a silver dollar here, half of a clam shell there. It was such an average, mundane day that Benny suspected nothing when he noticed the edge of a copper rod sticking out of the sand.
*More trash*, thought Benny, as he reached down to pull the rod from its place on the shore. He often discovered the leavings of less considerate beach goers on his journeys along the beach, and took it upon himself to remove the garbage that might distract him from future shell cultivation. As he pulled at the rod it slipped from his fingers, as if he was trying to lift a full cup which he expected it to be empty. Trying again, this time with the full force of his arm, he withdrew the copper rod and discovered that it was neither copper, nor a rod. It was the tip of a bronze object that Benny barely recognized, but could recall from a bygone era. An oil lamp. Not unlike one that his grandfather had kept on a shelf in his den, but more closely resembling the oil lamps of India that he had seen in history books and antique shops.
A wave of excitement came over Benny as he rinsed the artifact in a particularly powerful wave that indicated the evening high tide. There was an inscription on the side of it that Benny could scarcely make out, much less read (as Benny had no knowledge of Sanskrit, or Arabic, or whatever the case may have been), but as he brushed away the sand which obscured it, a very curious thing happened. The lamp began to shake violently in his hands, it became bright and alive, its corroded body seemed to pull itself away from Benny's hands as if it were a bird struggling to take flight. In fear, Benny relinquished, and the bronze lamp emitted a sputtering of smoke and gas.
Before it had hit the ground, Benny was standing face to face with a man dressed in garb as ancient as the lamp. He was foreign, Benny knew that much. Perhaps of the same origin as the lamp. His shoes and pants were made of a hand sewn linen and seemed to be as old and worn as the man himself, who was white haired with a full, long beard and dark, deep set eyes.
"Holy hell who are you and where did you come from?!" gasped Benny, as another wave hit his legs, yet seemed not to wet the man before him.
"I am al-Jinn," said the man, "And I come from a dimension beyond your world."
"No shit," replied Benny, "and I suppose you're here to grant me three wishes?"
"Only one," said al-Jinn, unblinkingly. Benny was convinced that he was hallucinating, or dreaming. *This kind of B.S. only happens to folks on drugs*, he thought. He brought his hand to his chin, and remembered that he seldom took anything lightly, even his most lucid dreams.
*If this is really happening, I ought not waste a perfectly good wish*, he mused. "Alright, Mr. Al Gin, I know what I want to wish for."
"Very well, but know this: Your wish and your life will last only as long as you do not cut the hair of your face. A single deliberate clip will result in your death. Now, what do you desire?"
"I wish for wealth," said Benny, practically ignoring the words of the Jinn. No sooner than the words had parsed his lips, both lamp and man were vanished, as if into thin air.
*Good lord*, thought Benny, *I must have stepped on a hypodermic needle with something still in it*. He rushed home to his beach shack and scrubbed his body in the shower before hopping into bed and falling into a deep, deep sleep.
When he awakened, Benny was surrounded by a harem of beautiful women.
"It's time to get up, master." Benny looked around and did not recognize his surroundings.
*Oh god, I'm still on drugs*. He dove from the bed and ran to what he believed was the nearest exit, a glass door through which the light of a setting sun shined. As he burst through the door he realized that he was on a balcony, three stories above the spot where his beach shack had once been planted.
"Master, are you alright?" asked another member of the bevy of gorgeous women who pursued him.
"NO, I AM NOT ALRIGHT, WHAT IS HAPPENING?"
"Master, don't you recognize your own home?"
Benny was in disbelief. *What kind of drug is this powerful and lasts this long?* he wondered.
And so it went. For the first week, and into the first month of Benny being wealthy beyond his wildest dreams, Benny lived in disbelief. His shells sold as if they were the artwork of a renaissance painter. The home which had disappeared beneath a vast mansion became a memory in the wake of his new life with his harem.
The money, the women, the ... wealth. It was all, indeed, beyond his wildest dreams. For that reason, Benny let his facial hair grow unhindered. The silly words of the man on the beach became a commandment, and Benny dared not cut the hair of his face, lest he lose the life which he had come to love. For thirty years, Benny lived the life he had always dreamed of, wished for--wealthy beyond his imagination. Now his beard was longer, whiter than the beard belonging to the man on the beach. But it was dirty and decrepit, nasty and unkempt from untouched decades of growth. On this day, a third of a century past his fateful wish, Benny was relaxing in his Jacuzzi with a handful of favorite beauties from his harem.
"Come on Benny, I want to see what you would look like."
"Yeah Ben, please shave it! How could one shave hurt you?"
"Big Ben, if you will at least trim that beard Sharon and I will let you do that thing you've always wanted to do but we would never let you," said one girl with a wink.
"Alright," said Benny, "I've lived a long and full life, and hell, I doubt that guy still has any hold over me, I can shave if I want!"
"Do it! Do it! Do it!" pronounced the chorus of feminine voices from the Jacuzzi. Benny marched into one of several bathrooms on the first floor of his beach mansion and grabbed a razor meant for women's legs from the shower. Unceremoniously, he cut and trimmed and shaved until he was as clean shaven as the day he made the wish. With a swagger in his step, Benny walked out to the Jacuzzi and presented his baby soft face to his adoring fans.
"How do I look?" asked Benny.
"So handsome!"
"My word!"
"I've never seen you like this!" said the women. Cheers and whistles of adoration were cut short when Benny burst into a sputtering of smoke and gas. There before the handful of favored women lay a bronze urn in Benny's place.
Benny had taken the single condition of his wish just a little too lightly, it seemed. An inscription was etched into the side of the urn. It didn't say his full name, or the dates of his birth and death, nor was it in Sanskrit, or Arabic, or whatever the case may have been. It was in English, and it was only a single sentence. The epigraph on that lonesome bronze jar read, "A Benny shaved is a Benny urned." And that is the moral of the story. | "Shut the fuck up, Sid."
"Hmmph?" came the muffled reply, followed by a repulsing, clear gulp. "Whatcha doin' now?"
"Chew with your goddam mouth shut and listen!"
"Chaaarleeesss..." The voice was faint.
"Huh, thas pretty cool, how ya doin that?" said Sid in his clumsy manner, mouth full of cold pizza.
"That's not me you goddam moron! Stay quiet and listen." The two men sat together in the dimly lit apartment room. Their faces said that they were thinking, however their eyes said differently. After a couple minutes sitting in awkward silence the voice returned.
"Chaarleeesss..." The voice was raspy, and the volume increased at the end of the 's' , as if it were a shouted whisper.
"H-h-how ya think it knows your name?"
"I don't fucking care."
"Is comin' from out there" Sid stamme.red as he gestured toward the door that led to the hallway.
"No shit Sherlock. We are going to go out there and find who is messing with us at 2 fucking o'clock in the goddam morning."
"W-w-we?" Sid managed to spit out slowly backing up to the wall.
"C'mon, don't tell me you're scared you big wus. What's some teenage punk gonna do to a big ole guy like you?"
"Chaaarleeesss..." The voice came again.
"That don sound like any teenager I know of."
"Get the fuck out here with me" Charles said as he opened the door. The hallway was an erie place at this hour. The single light flickered on and off with its papery white glow on the concrete walls and floor. The skylights were no help. Charles gestured for them to stay quiet and still. The waited a minute. Two minutes. Five minutes. "Aight see Sid we scared them of-"
"Chaaarlesss..." The voice was noticeably louder than before.
"Shit. Sid, Let's go."
"Nuh-uh"
"Sid!"
"No Charlie I ent goin' witchu no more"
"Sid get your ass over here!" Like a puppy who had just been scolded, Sid slowly walked over, face down. "Let's go." The two walked down the hall for ten paces and stopped.
"Chaarlesss..." The voice grew louder and faster. Another ten paces. Again the voice would call out to Charles, a little bit louder and a little bit clearer than the previous time. This repeated until the two reached the door at the end of the hall.
In the faintest whisper Sid said behind Charles. "Ok Charlie don't ya think wes should be goin' back now?"
To which Charles replied at equal volume. "Yeah Sid I'm going to agree with you now, let's head back."
The two began to tiptoe back but as they turned it happened one last time.
"Charles." The voice was no longer a whisper, but at normal conversational volume. There was no mistake that the noise was behind the door. Charles looked at Sid, made eye contact, nodded, and reached for the door knob. It was unlocked.
"I'm scared" whispered Sid, dripping in sweat as the door opened.
"Hello scared," the voice replied, "I'm Dad."
|
What the joke is doesn't matter as long as it's a lame one that a dad would tell | [WP] A serious story that ends in a dad joke |
July 4th, we all know the day, fireworks, the kabaams, kazaams, houdini magic all over the place, things get hectic. This year was a bit different, only the old man laid on the couch of the July morning, no Ma this year. He looked kinda sad, my pops I mean, gloomy on such a fun holiday must suck. I felt pretty sad too, but only momentarily.
Anywho, the day went on as normal, pops had invited some buds over, had a beer or two, played air hockey, watched some sports, I even got a bit tipsy, now that Ma wasn't around no more. And then night followed through.
Fireworks began blasting through the clouds at ten-ish or so; red, green, yellow, it was nice. But of course, I, the dumb kid I was, had other plans for the evening. Stashed deep in my pockets, the master key of the school, and a napsack full of fireworks. I was tingling with excitement.
My old man gave me the O.K. Man, he was a buzzkill, not even watching the fireworks from the roof like years before. He just sat there, gloomy-faced watching the tele.
'Come on, lets go.' I tugged on his red-black plaid shirt, 'We're leaving this house tonight, we're gonna celebrate.' He looked at me emotionless, 'Come on, for Ma, she loved the fireworks, even more than me. He nodded with an effort, at least he was on-board I supposed.
So we headed to the school, parked ourselves a block away, and entered through the three-storied building from the back. We made our way up to Mr.Krennel's room, at the east end of the room, third floor. No question about it, it had the best view of the entire school. The large grassfield below, the cityscape afar, the mountains ahead.
'Well, let's start, shall we?' Pops had been silent the whole ride there and the whole walk up, he must've still been thinking. I went on and opened up the window, the warm summer breeze, so gentle... so-- nostalgic. I placed a two against the windowsill and took out a lighter.
The lighter flared up the material and BOOM, off they went. The array of lights front and center, the best of views. We blasted off another dozen or so, before he went over one of the seats and sat himself down. Hunched over, head low in his arms.
'Hey-- HEY! Don't do this to me!' I screamed. It was unfair, why did he get to sulk... Why couldn't I? 'You don't do this right now, you understand young man?' God, I felt like the grown-up here. 'Y-You... You don't...' I could feel my throat tense up, 'Why...' before I broke down and hugged him. 'Why is the world so unfair dad?'
He wiped his tears and wrapped his arms around me, 'It's alright son... it's alright.' I calmed myself down and took a seat next to him. Then we began to talk, a hearty talk. He talked of Ma's homemade eggs, her picky attitude, the naggity nags. He talked about the day I came into the world and was best day of her life, he said.
'You know, we met right here in this class.' He said. 'Not at these exact seats, but at the blackboard up there.' He pointed to the whiteboard,
'Dad, that's a whiteboard.' He raised a brow.
'Huh, I guess your right. Well, don't expect me to know. Son, if you didn't notice, I'm an old man. He continued to stare at the whiteboard, looking at it with awe as the fireworks sounded from a distance.
'Hey, you alright dad?'
'Huh? Oh ya, I was just thinking, that whiteboard... Is remarkable.' | "Shut the fuck up, Sid."
"Hmmph?" came the muffled reply, followed by a repulsing, clear gulp. "Whatcha doin' now?"
"Chew with your goddam mouth shut and listen!"
"Chaaarleeesss..." The voice was faint.
"Huh, thas pretty cool, how ya doin that?" said Sid in his clumsy manner, mouth full of cold pizza.
"That's not me you goddam moron! Stay quiet and listen." The two men sat together in the dimly lit apartment room. Their faces said that they were thinking, however their eyes said differently. After a couple minutes sitting in awkward silence the voice returned.
"Chaarleeesss..." The voice was raspy, and the volume increased at the end of the 's' , as if it were a shouted whisper.
"H-h-how ya think it knows your name?"
"I don't fucking care."
"Is comin' from out there" Sid stamme.red as he gestured toward the door that led to the hallway.
"No shit Sherlock. We are going to go out there and find who is messing with us at 2 fucking o'clock in the goddam morning."
"W-w-we?" Sid managed to spit out slowly backing up to the wall.
"C'mon, don't tell me you're scared you big wus. What's some teenage punk gonna do to a big ole guy like you?"
"Chaaarleeesss..." The voice came again.
"That don sound like any teenager I know of."
"Get the fuck out here with me" Charles said as he opened the door. The hallway was an erie place at this hour. The single light flickered on and off with its papery white glow on the concrete walls and floor. The skylights were no help. Charles gestured for them to stay quiet and still. The waited a minute. Two minutes. Five minutes. "Aight see Sid we scared them of-"
"Chaaarlesss..." The voice was noticeably louder than before.
"Shit. Sid, Let's go."
"Nuh-uh"
"Sid!"
"No Charlie I ent goin' witchu no more"
"Sid get your ass over here!" Like a puppy who had just been scolded, Sid slowly walked over, face down. "Let's go." The two walked down the hall for ten paces and stopped.
"Chaarlesss..." The voice grew louder and faster. Another ten paces. Again the voice would call out to Charles, a little bit louder and a little bit clearer than the previous time. This repeated until the two reached the door at the end of the hall.
In the faintest whisper Sid said behind Charles. "Ok Charlie don't ya think wes should be goin' back now?"
To which Charles replied at equal volume. "Yeah Sid I'm going to agree with you now, let's head back."
The two began to tiptoe back but as they turned it happened one last time.
"Charles." The voice was no longer a whisper, but at normal conversational volume. There was no mistake that the noise was behind the door. Charles looked at Sid, made eye contact, nodded, and reached for the door knob. It was unlocked.
"I'm scared" whispered Sid, dripping in sweat as the door opened.
"Hello scared," the voice replied, "I'm Dad."
|
What the joke is doesn't matter as long as it's a lame one that a dad would tell | [WP] A serious story that ends in a dad joke | Benny never took anything lightly. He was specifically taking nothing lightly as he scanned the beach for seashells. It was serious work, finding seashells, considering it was how Benny made his living. This particular day seemed like any other--a silver dollar here, half of a clam shell there. It was such an average, mundane day that Benny suspected nothing when he noticed the edge of a copper rod sticking out of the sand.
*More trash*, thought Benny, as he reached down to pull the rod from its place on the shore. He often discovered the leavings of less considerate beach goers on his journeys along the beach, and took it upon himself to remove the garbage that might distract him from future shell cultivation. As he pulled at the rod it slipped from his fingers, as if he was trying to lift a full cup which he expected it to be empty. Trying again, this time with the full force of his arm, he withdrew the copper rod and discovered that it was neither copper, nor a rod. It was the tip of a bronze object that Benny barely recognized, but could recall from a bygone era. An oil lamp. Not unlike one that his grandfather had kept on a shelf in his den, but more closely resembling the oil lamps of India that he had seen in history books and antique shops.
A wave of excitement came over Benny as he rinsed the artifact in a particularly powerful wave that indicated the evening high tide. There was an inscription on the side of it that Benny could scarcely make out, much less read (as Benny had no knowledge of Sanskrit, or Arabic, or whatever the case may have been), but as he brushed away the sand which obscured it, a very curious thing happened. The lamp began to shake violently in his hands, it became bright and alive, its corroded body seemed to pull itself away from Benny's hands as if it were a bird struggling to take flight. In fear, Benny relinquished, and the bronze lamp emitted a sputtering of smoke and gas.
Before it had hit the ground, Benny was standing face to face with a man dressed in garb as ancient as the lamp. He was foreign, Benny knew that much. Perhaps of the same origin as the lamp. His shoes and pants were made of a hand sewn linen and seemed to be as old and worn as the man himself, who was white haired with a full, long beard and dark, deep set eyes.
"Holy hell who are you and where did you come from?!" gasped Benny, as another wave hit his legs, yet seemed not to wet the man before him.
"I am al-Jinn," said the man, "And I come from a dimension beyond your world."
"No shit," replied Benny, "and I suppose you're here to grant me three wishes?"
"Only one," said al-Jinn, unblinkingly. Benny was convinced that he was hallucinating, or dreaming. *This kind of B.S. only happens to folks on drugs*, he thought. He brought his hand to his chin, and remembered that he seldom took anything lightly, even his most lucid dreams.
*If this is really happening, I ought not waste a perfectly good wish*, he mused. "Alright, Mr. Al Gin, I know what I want to wish for."
"Very well, but know this: Your wish and your life will last only as long as you do not cut the hair of your face. A single deliberate clip will result in your death. Now, what do you desire?"
"I wish for wealth," said Benny, practically ignoring the words of the Jinn. No sooner than the words had parsed his lips, both lamp and man were vanished, as if into thin air.
*Good lord*, thought Benny, *I must have stepped on a hypodermic needle with something still in it*. He rushed home to his beach shack and scrubbed his body in the shower before hopping into bed and falling into a deep, deep sleep.
When he awakened, Benny was surrounded by a harem of beautiful women.
"It's time to get up, master." Benny looked around and did not recognize his surroundings.
*Oh god, I'm still on drugs*. He dove from the bed and ran to what he believed was the nearest exit, a glass door through which the light of a setting sun shined. As he burst through the door he realized that he was on a balcony, three stories above the spot where his beach shack had once been planted.
"Master, are you alright?" asked another member of the bevy of gorgeous women who pursued him.
"NO, I AM NOT ALRIGHT, WHAT IS HAPPENING?"
"Master, don't you recognize your own home?"
Benny was in disbelief. *What kind of drug is this powerful and lasts this long?* he wondered.
And so it went. For the first week, and into the first month of Benny being wealthy beyond his wildest dreams, Benny lived in disbelief. His shells sold as if they were the artwork of a renaissance painter. The home which had disappeared beneath a vast mansion became a memory in the wake of his new life with his harem.
The money, the women, the ... wealth. It was all, indeed, beyond his wildest dreams. For that reason, Benny let his facial hair grow unhindered. The silly words of the man on the beach became a commandment, and Benny dared not cut the hair of his face, lest he lose the life which he had come to love. For thirty years, Benny lived the life he had always dreamed of, wished for--wealthy beyond his imagination. Now his beard was longer, whiter than the beard belonging to the man on the beach. But it was dirty and decrepit, nasty and unkempt from untouched decades of growth. On this day, a third of a century past his fateful wish, Benny was relaxing in his Jacuzzi with a handful of favorite beauties from his harem.
"Come on Benny, I want to see what you would look like."
"Yeah Ben, please shave it! How could one shave hurt you?"
"Big Ben, if you will at least trim that beard Sharon and I will let you do that thing you've always wanted to do but we would never let you," said one girl with a wink.
"Alright," said Benny, "I've lived a long and full life, and hell, I doubt that guy still has any hold over me, I can shave if I want!"
"Do it! Do it! Do it!" pronounced the chorus of feminine voices from the Jacuzzi. Benny marched into one of several bathrooms on the first floor of his beach mansion and grabbed a razor meant for women's legs from the shower. Unceremoniously, he cut and trimmed and shaved until he was as clean shaven as the day he made the wish. With a swagger in his step, Benny walked out to the Jacuzzi and presented his baby soft face to his adoring fans.
"How do I look?" asked Benny.
"So handsome!"
"My word!"
"I've never seen you like this!" said the women. Cheers and whistles of adoration were cut short when Benny burst into a sputtering of smoke and gas. There before the handful of favored women lay a bronze urn in Benny's place.
Benny had taken the single condition of his wish just a little too lightly, it seemed. An inscription was etched into the side of the urn. It didn't say his full name, or the dates of his birth and death, nor was it in Sanskrit, or Arabic, or whatever the case may have been. It was in English, and it was only a single sentence. The epigraph on that lonesome bronze jar read, "A Benny shaved is a Benny urned." And that is the moral of the story. | Warning: this is a serious story about race, and it may offend some.
Dew had already soaked the grass by the time the two boys had crept into the neighborhood. The night was much colder than the nights that preceded it and crickets everywhere seemed to voice their complaints to the bright moon overhead.
"It's cold as hell out here, Curt," Steven whispered. Curt slugged him in the shoulder and hushed him.
"Keep yer mouth shut, Steve. These coons have hearing like bats," Curt hissed.
They sneaked a bit further and Steve mumbled, "Bats are blind. Not deaf."
Curt pulled his hand up, and Steven flinched away from him.
"I'm not gon' hit you, ya puss. This fuckin' cross is just heavier'n shit. Give me a hand, would ya?"
Steve sighed and grit his teeth, but finally he lifted the back end so it would stop dragging.
"Are you sure we should be doin' this?" Steve asked timidly.
Curt sighed in exasperation and said, "Course we should. Now shut up I said. That's the house up there." He pointed up to a large house at the end of the street. Light from a large window in the front illuminated the porch and swing that wrapped around the front of the house.
"There's a light on, Curt," Steven said.
"Never mind that. We'll be gone by the time they realize what done happened to 'em." Curt laughed and slowly entered the house's front yard.
Steven let the cross fall to the ground and Curt shot him a look that could kill.
"I can't do this, Curt. We don't know these people. We shouldn't do this to them."
Curt spit tobacco on the ground and sighed in disgruntlement again. "Look, boy. They niggers. And they ain't no such thing as a nigger that don't deserve nothing bad. This is just us givin' them what they got comin' to 'em. So shut yer face and help me set up the cross. We'll set it on fire, and git. Quit bein' such a fuckin' pussy."
Steven looked past Curt and up at the house. He admired the beautiful hanging plants they had put up and thought of the ones his mother had hanging at home. He clenched his jaw and said, "No, Curt. They ain't done nothin' to us. We don't know 'em. I'm not doin' this."
Curt rolled his eyes and spat, "Fine, you backstabbin' piece of shit. I don't need yer help. I'll do it alone."
Steve raised his eyebrow as he looked down at the nearly 7 foot cross. "You're going to put it up yourself?" Steve asked him.
Curt sighed and rolled his eyes once more. "No, you queer. Dont be stupid. I'm gon' put it up in their yard here." |
First in a series of turning terrible opening lines into interesting stories. | [WP] Make an interesting story out of a horrible opening line. "You see, I have this candle..." | "You see, I have this candle. It doesn't go out. Just keeps on burning."
"Is that it?"
"Is that it? Seems paranormal enough to me. Won't go out with water or anything. Sounds like a good job for a Paranormal Investigator, wouldn't you agree?"
"I don't know, I was expecting something a bit more exciting. I mean, the first paranormal object I found was an empty-eyed doll that moved when you weren't looking, and it's only gone up from there."
"Who cares how bloody exciting it is? It's still paranormal, isn't it?"
"It's *borderline* paranormal. Slightly occult. Marginally spooky. It's not really something I can *investigate*, you see?"
"Look, I don't know what more you want. It's a candle that refuses to go out in defiance of common sense and natural law. What do you want, a twisted candle of horror with Queen Elizabeth's soul trapped in it?"
"Why not? I looked into a folding chair haunted by Charles II the other week."
"Well, I've got to do *something* with this candle. Can't have it just sitting around the house. That's a fire hazard, that is."
"Sorry, but you won't get a full Paranormal Investigator for a little everlasting candle when there's ghosts of dead royalty to look into. Take my advice, head over to Whittaker Street and get a Slightly Occult Investigator for it."
"A *Slightly Occult* Investigator? They're scam artists, the lot of them! You may as well ask me to have the Neighborhood Watch investigate it."
"There's a lot of scammers, but I know some good men in that field. Actually, the owner of James' Artifacts could probably rate as a Particularly Spooky Investigator, he just prefers to work the smaller cases."
"Alright, I'll try there. Thanks for your time."
"Not a problem. Oh, and if it turns out your candle really is haunted by Queen Elizabeth, do give me a call, I'd love to see that." | "You see, I have this candle..."
Silence, and a confused stare. Joey waits a few seconds then begins.
"It's...a joke. It's dark, and the candle produces light. And you can see. Because I have th-"
"Joey, just stop. That was lame."
"I know."
They both chuckle, and continue down the now illuminated hallway. This was the first abandoned mansion they've sneaked into, but tensions weren't terribly high. They "practiced" this by playing a few horror games, and both Joey and Kyle stayed relatively calm throughout, with only a few jumps from Kyle. They couldn't find a lantern, so they stuck with a simple candle for this adventure. Of course their phone lights would be of much better use, but what fun is that?
A creak is heard above them, and Kyle gasps. Joey, unaffected, ventures forward into the next room.
"It was probably just a ghost, don't worry" he says, turning his head to direct his voice at Kyle. While doing this, he failed to notice that a figure appeared in front of him, and he crashes into it.
Joey and the figure stumble forward, or backwards for the figure, and crash on the floor. The first thing he notices in that his shirt is now soaking wet. He tries his best to get up, putting his hands next to the thing's head, but his wrists are grabbed by it.
He stares at it from a planking position. It's eyes are transfixed on his, and it's mouth is small. Almost solemn. He would think that it's just a realistic mannequin, but the hands ensnaring him say otherwise.
"JESUS CHRIST!" Joey shouts, as Kyle rushes forward to him. The grip is intense, then finally lets go. Joey stumbles backwards from the sudden release, into Kyle, who tries catching him. The thing on the ground lays there, not moving. The two notice this, and escape as quickly as they can. Kyle pulls Joey up, and they burst through the front door, a few rooms down. Once at the street, beyond the mansion's fence, the two stop. Bending over to catch their breaths, Joey notices the mass of blood on his shirt.
"Dear God. What the Hell was that?" Kyle asks in between breaths. They both turn to the mansion, and see the figure in the window.
Her hair is long and white, but her face is that of a young persons. Her shirt has many visible cuts in it, with blood seeping out. She still has the transfixed stare, aiming towards Joey, whose blood turns cold.
"We...we should go." Joey says, and sprints off to the car a few blocks down. Kyle follows suit, leaving the girl in the window to stare.
She smiles, meekly, and manages to speak a word.
"Marked."
And as the car drives off, she fades into the walls of the house, awaiting his return. |
First in a series of turning terrible opening lines into interesting stories. | [WP] Make an interesting story out of a horrible opening line. "You see, I have this candle..." | "You see, I have this candle. It doesn't go out. Just keeps on burning."
"Is that it?"
"Is that it? Seems paranormal enough to me. Won't go out with water or anything. Sounds like a good job for a Paranormal Investigator, wouldn't you agree?"
"I don't know, I was expecting something a bit more exciting. I mean, the first paranormal object I found was an empty-eyed doll that moved when you weren't looking, and it's only gone up from there."
"Who cares how bloody exciting it is? It's still paranormal, isn't it?"
"It's *borderline* paranormal. Slightly occult. Marginally spooky. It's not really something I can *investigate*, you see?"
"Look, I don't know what more you want. It's a candle that refuses to go out in defiance of common sense and natural law. What do you want, a twisted candle of horror with Queen Elizabeth's soul trapped in it?"
"Why not? I looked into a folding chair haunted by Charles II the other week."
"Well, I've got to do *something* with this candle. Can't have it just sitting around the house. That's a fire hazard, that is."
"Sorry, but you won't get a full Paranormal Investigator for a little everlasting candle when there's ghosts of dead royalty to look into. Take my advice, head over to Whittaker Street and get a Slightly Occult Investigator for it."
"A *Slightly Occult* Investigator? They're scam artists, the lot of them! You may as well ask me to have the Neighborhood Watch investigate it."
"There's a lot of scammers, but I know some good men in that field. Actually, the owner of James' Artifacts could probably rate as a Particularly Spooky Investigator, he just prefers to work the smaller cases."
"Alright, I'll try there. Thanks for your time."
"Not a problem. Oh, and if it turns out your candle really is haunted by Queen Elizabeth, do give me a call, I'd love to see that." | "You see, I have this candle..." Mr Jones said. I had to find a way out of this place. I tugged at the ropes binding my hands to no avail.
"And the flame here, I could blow out. But, of course, I don't. It keeps the room bright and slightly warmer. However..." The lights hanging above me flicked on with a clap of his hands. " Now the flame is irrelevant" The madman blew it out. " I am the light. You are the candle. I will render you irrelevant with a press of a button."
I tryed to tip the chair but the henchmen gave me a swift slap round the face.He leaned in towards my face. "Tommorow at the break of dawn I shall fire the sixth nuclear weapon to be used in combat towards chicago."
"No....." I mumbled.
"This will cause Nuclear war amongst the major powers of the world and the demise of society.Why you may ask? Because I despise society. Racism, homaphobia and sexism run rampant in america. So I shall destroy it and rebuild anew. I will becom-"
"NO!..." I screamed.
"Yes" He pushed the button. And then there was darkness.
|
First in a series of turning terrible opening lines into interesting stories. | [WP] Make an interesting story out of a horrible opening line. "You see, I have this candle..." | "You see, I have this candle. It doesn't go out. Just keeps on burning."
"Is that it?"
"Is that it? Seems paranormal enough to me. Won't go out with water or anything. Sounds like a good job for a Paranormal Investigator, wouldn't you agree?"
"I don't know, I was expecting something a bit more exciting. I mean, the first paranormal object I found was an empty-eyed doll that moved when you weren't looking, and it's only gone up from there."
"Who cares how bloody exciting it is? It's still paranormal, isn't it?"
"It's *borderline* paranormal. Slightly occult. Marginally spooky. It's not really something I can *investigate*, you see?"
"Look, I don't know what more you want. It's a candle that refuses to go out in defiance of common sense and natural law. What do you want, a twisted candle of horror with Queen Elizabeth's soul trapped in it?"
"Why not? I looked into a folding chair haunted by Charles II the other week."
"Well, I've got to do *something* with this candle. Can't have it just sitting around the house. That's a fire hazard, that is."
"Sorry, but you won't get a full Paranormal Investigator for a little everlasting candle when there's ghosts of dead royalty to look into. Take my advice, head over to Whittaker Street and get a Slightly Occult Investigator for it."
"A *Slightly Occult* Investigator? They're scam artists, the lot of them! You may as well ask me to have the Neighborhood Watch investigate it."
"There's a lot of scammers, but I know some good men in that field. Actually, the owner of James' Artifacts could probably rate as a Particularly Spooky Investigator, he just prefers to work the smaller cases."
"Alright, I'll try there. Thanks for your time."
"Not a problem. Oh, and if it turns out your candle really is haunted by Queen Elizabeth, do give me a call, I'd love to see that." | "You see, I have this candle..."
"Look Gary, nobody gives a damn about your scented candles!"
|
First in a series of turning terrible opening lines into interesting stories. | [WP] Make an interesting story out of a horrible opening line. "You see, I have this candle..." | "You see, I have this candle. It doesn't go out. Just keeps on burning."
"Is that it?"
"Is that it? Seems paranormal enough to me. Won't go out with water or anything. Sounds like a good job for a Paranormal Investigator, wouldn't you agree?"
"I don't know, I was expecting something a bit more exciting. I mean, the first paranormal object I found was an empty-eyed doll that moved when you weren't looking, and it's only gone up from there."
"Who cares how bloody exciting it is? It's still paranormal, isn't it?"
"It's *borderline* paranormal. Slightly occult. Marginally spooky. It's not really something I can *investigate*, you see?"
"Look, I don't know what more you want. It's a candle that refuses to go out in defiance of common sense and natural law. What do you want, a twisted candle of horror with Queen Elizabeth's soul trapped in it?"
"Why not? I looked into a folding chair haunted by Charles II the other week."
"Well, I've got to do *something* with this candle. Can't have it just sitting around the house. That's a fire hazard, that is."
"Sorry, but you won't get a full Paranormal Investigator for a little everlasting candle when there's ghosts of dead royalty to look into. Take my advice, head over to Whittaker Street and get a Slightly Occult Investigator for it."
"A *Slightly Occult* Investigator? They're scam artists, the lot of them! You may as well ask me to have the Neighborhood Watch investigate it."
"There's a lot of scammers, but I know some good men in that field. Actually, the owner of James' Artifacts could probably rate as a Particularly Spooky Investigator, he just prefers to work the smaller cases."
"Alright, I'll try there. Thanks for your time."
"Not a problem. Oh, and if it turns out your candle really is haunted by Queen Elizabeth, do give me a call, I'd love to see that." | You see, I have this candle.
I light it every night as soon as the sun goes down, leaving all of the lights in my old, rundown house off so as to make the flame appear as bright as humanly possible. I sit by the candle all night as the flame dances, casting wavering shadows on the fading wall paper. I watch as the shadows tell stories throughout the night, and the wax slowly dribbles down the side of the slender shaft. As the hours pass, the candle dwindles down to nothingness until it is time to extinguish the flame and for me to rest my head on my oversized queen bed.
I've done this every day since my wife passed away 2 years ago. It is the only thing that keeps her memory alive, for she was the light of my life. She always brought me joy with her vivid stories and carefree dancing, even without music. She was my candle.
God, I miss her. |
First in a series of turning terrible opening lines into interesting stories. | [WP] Make an interesting story out of a horrible opening line. "You see, I have this candle..." | "You see, when I have a candle. It makes light that lets me see." he said matter-of-factly. As he holds my hand and guides me down the side walk.
"But how does the light let you see?" I ask still not understanding sight. My first time to a new planet and the dominant species here, who are called "humans", have a much different way of observation.
"When its dark you can't see and then the light lets you see" he replies obviously irritated that i don't understand. "Ask my dad he knows everything."
I have ascertained that this human is a child and he is taking me to see his parents so that i may communicate with them about our species and introduce them to their first alien race. It is the first assignment i have revived from the tribunal and a huge responsibility. I ask him to describe me with his sight. I hear nothing for a while and then he says " your short and green with long fingers and a big head and legs like a frog!" then he laughs. We finally reach the door to his house. And he opens it up. "Mom i made a new friend!" | "Hey, babe, how's it goin'?" he slurs what passes for a compliment past his twelfth beer. He eyes her up and down, a perfect ten out of ten.
She returns the statement with a frown, and returns to her friend.
"Hey, don't leave me!" he grabs her wrist as she tries to shy away. He is too intoxicated with her youth and with alcohol to think. "You smell good."
She screams, people begin to take notice. He sees the bartender motioning to a hulk of a man in the back. Only then does he realise she does not look eighteen. This realisation means little as the alcohol forces him to continue.
"That's lavender, isn't it?" The ground moves away from him. He feels lighter - lifted up by the man. He doesn't notice. "I knew it was lavender! You see, I have this candle..."
He lands on his arse outside. |
First in a series of turning terrible opening lines into interesting stories. | [WP] Make an interesting story out of a horrible opening line. "You see, I have this candle..." | "You see, I have this candle. It doesn't go out. Just keeps on burning."
"Is that it?"
"Is that it? Seems paranormal enough to me. Won't go out with water or anything. Sounds like a good job for a Paranormal Investigator, wouldn't you agree?"
"I don't know, I was expecting something a bit more exciting. I mean, the first paranormal object I found was an empty-eyed doll that moved when you weren't looking, and it's only gone up from there."
"Who cares how bloody exciting it is? It's still paranormal, isn't it?"
"It's *borderline* paranormal. Slightly occult. Marginally spooky. It's not really something I can *investigate*, you see?"
"Look, I don't know what more you want. It's a candle that refuses to go out in defiance of common sense and natural law. What do you want, a twisted candle of horror with Queen Elizabeth's soul trapped in it?"
"Why not? I looked into a folding chair haunted by Charles II the other week."
"Well, I've got to do *something* with this candle. Can't have it just sitting around the house. That's a fire hazard, that is."
"Sorry, but you won't get a full Paranormal Investigator for a little everlasting candle when there's ghosts of dead royalty to look into. Take my advice, head over to Whittaker Street and get a Slightly Occult Investigator for it."
"A *Slightly Occult* Investigator? They're scam artists, the lot of them! You may as well ask me to have the Neighborhood Watch investigate it."
"There's a lot of scammers, but I know some good men in that field. Actually, the owner of James' Artifacts could probably rate as a Particularly Spooky Investigator, he just prefers to work the smaller cases."
"Alright, I'll try there. Thanks for your time."
"Not a problem. Oh, and if it turns out your candle really is haunted by Queen Elizabeth, do give me a call, I'd love to see that." | "Hey, babe, how's it goin'?" he slurs what passes for a compliment past his twelfth beer. He eyes her up and down, a perfect ten out of ten.
She returns the statement with a frown, and returns to her friend.
"Hey, don't leave me!" he grabs her wrist as she tries to shy away. He is too intoxicated with her youth and with alcohol to think. "You smell good."
She screams, people begin to take notice. He sees the bartender motioning to a hulk of a man in the back. Only then does he realise she does not look eighteen. This realisation means little as the alcohol forces him to continue.
"That's lavender, isn't it?" The ground moves away from him. He feels lighter - lifted up by the man. He doesn't notice. "I knew it was lavender! You see, I have this candle..."
He lands on his arse outside. |
First in a series of turning terrible opening lines into interesting stories. | [WP] Make an interesting story out of a horrible opening line. "You see, I have this candle..." | You see, I have this candle.
It was a gift from my students the year I stopped teaching; it's more of a sculpture than a candle, a fantasy construct of orange and red, which sort of looks like a tower from one side, and a dragon from the other. There's a wick in the middle, somewhere. I took it home, put it on a dresser in the hallway, meaning to give it my niece who likes that sort of thing. But my niece lives in a state of flux, it was never a good time to take it (understandable, the thing is a foot wide and at least two feet tall). So it's been sitting there, gathering dust, for almost a year. The hallway gets lots of sunlight; consequently the wax is in a constant state of flux, too. It's wilted a bit, and the dust has merged with the surface. It is no longer the magnificent waste of space that it once was. It's time for it to go.
You know how you don't notice something for a year, and suddenly you do, and it keeps drawing your eye? Well, maybe you don't. But that's what happened. No sooner had I started looking for a box big enough to house this thing, than I started feeling a bit wary of walking past it. I'd find myself standing in the kitchen door, looking at it, and realise that I didn't want to walk past it to go upstairs, or out of the house. Weird. I put off finding a box, which was weirder; you'd think if it was giving me the heebies, I'd be quick to get rid of it. Instead, I just sort of started circling it carefully.
I stopped keeping my keys in the dish next to it; I moved the dish to the coffee table in the lounge. When I came in, I stayed near the right hand wall, and noticed after a week or two that I'd begun to rub off a patch of wallpaper in doing so. I tried to moderate my behaviour, force myself to forget about it, but instead I started dreaming about it.
In my dream it was never a dragon or a tower. Most often, it was a face - a twisted, melty wax face, howling silently, or a marbled mass that dripped off the hallway dresser and *up* the stairs, making it's way towards my room with excruciating slowness.
Three weeks of this; telling myself I was going to get a box, and then to forget the box and just throw it in the car, or to forget donating it and just throw it in the bin. But it had become clear that I really didn't want to touch it. I hadn't touched it in a year, and I couldn't remember how it felt, but I was sure I could imagine… sticky, dusty, clammy… no, those weren't the right words. *Horrifying.* There.
Sometimes, standing in the doorway, contemplating it, I'd try to see the dragon or the castle. They'd become difficult to find. Some part of it had collapsed under it's own weight in the over-warm sun that flooded the hallway in the mornings, and now it looked like a tunnel that ended in a room in hell, all sly angles and jagged crevices.
It still had teeth.
Things came to head one evening when I'd come back from a beer with Bill, a professor at the college. He could have retired too (and perhaps been gifted his own peculiar wax sculpture), but chose to remain another five years. He'd been keeping me up-to-date on all the gossip people of our age shouldn't care about, and I'd suddenly started telling him that I had something in my house that was freaking me out, and could he come and help me with it. Sure! Bill's a good guy, he didn't even ask questions, just grabbed us a cab and came on back to my place.
When we walked through the door, he did a double take.
"What the fuck is that?"
"It's a candle, numbnuts, but it's also a headliner in my dreams… do me a favour and take it out of here so I can go crazy over the neighbours kids being noisy or robots infiltrating the government or something. I don't like that thing."
"I … I don't blame you. It sort of looks like this girl I used to know. She overdosed in her apartment and I had to leave her there. She was underage." I guess I must have been looking at him, because he replayed what he had just told me in his head and abruptly turned towards the kitchen. "Let's get a bag or something to throw over this thing." I gaped after him, and decided I hadn't heard what I thought I heard.
He was out there a long time. I suppose I should have checked or gone out to show him where I kept the refuse bags, but I was sort of mesmerised, looking at this wax grotesquerie, and *seeing* the girl he was talking about, lying over the edge of her bed, arms and legs and bits of clothing cut sharply in lines of orange and red. I might have stayed there, entranced, for almost twenty minutes before I blinked and looked about me. Bill had been helping me. Good old Bill.
He'd cut his wrists in the kitchen. There was blood everywhere, as though he'd spun in circles afterwards. Silently, because despite my distraction, I'm sure I'd have heard him call for help. In all my life, I've never felt like the world had been tilted quite that far, quite that suddenly before. I was about to slide off.
So yes, it was arson. I set fire to the bloody house. From outside. I tried inside, but couldn't stop looking at the candle, which looked like Bill now. So I got out of there, walked to the gas station and got some supplies. The night air cleared my head, and starting the fire was easy.
The hard part was thinking about the shapes the candle might have made as it melted wildly. I'm never going to have to see it again, and I've got a dead guy in my house, which I mostly burnt down, but my biggest problem still feels like the shapes of that candle are inside my head. Lighting a fire around it might have destroyed its integrity, but before it went it danced and twisted and looped, and I have a feeling I'm going to see everything it wanted to show me. | "Hey, babe, how's it goin'?" he slurs what passes for a compliment past his twelfth beer. He eyes her up and down, a perfect ten out of ten.
She returns the statement with a frown, and returns to her friend.
"Hey, don't leave me!" he grabs her wrist as she tries to shy away. He is too intoxicated with her youth and with alcohol to think. "You smell good."
She screams, people begin to take notice. He sees the bartender motioning to a hulk of a man in the back. Only then does he realise she does not look eighteen. This realisation means little as the alcohol forces him to continue.
"That's lavender, isn't it?" The ground moves away from him. He feels lighter - lifted up by the man. He doesn't notice. "I knew it was lavender! You see, I have this candle..."
He lands on his arse outside. |
[WP] there is a god for everything. Light, sinks, walking, whatever you can think of. How does one unexpected god suddenly become the most powerful god? | "How? How is this happening?" The God of Frying Pans cried out amongst the chaos in the Household Palace.
"Beats me!" The God of Pillows shouted back, dodging the falling debris.
"I think I have an idea what's happening," The God of Windows glanced upwards and the voice of The God of Toilet Bowls boomed from the oncoming brown cloud.
"I HAVE BEEN TAKING EVERYONE'S SHIT FOR AGES. IT'S NOW TIME FOR EVERYONE TO FEEL MY WRATH." | My popularity was always fairly low; I'm a young god, and not many people used to worship me. A few people here and there, sometimes a few for a little while. But slowly more and more people started praying, more people recognizing my 'usefulness', more people wanting my blessing. My power started increasing exponentially, and before long everyone will know of me.
I am the god of viral videos. |
|
[WP] there is a god for everything. Light, sinks, walking, whatever you can think of. How does one unexpected god suddenly become the most powerful god? | "Really? I don't think this will solve our problems."
Yles watched the timeless faces around her. She stood before the High Council in their Hallowed Hall. The six most powerful gods in existence peered down at her from thrones of white marble, oak, and gold. A seventh throne, taller and grander than all others, stood empty.
Twitor, the god of hashtags, spoke up.
"The rules are clear, Yles. Our power comes from our followers. The High Council must always be comprised of the strongest of our kin, and you are the strongest of us all. #ItIsYourDestiny"
Yles sighed. "I know, but I **really** don't think this is the way to go. What about Lisserax? He's a-"
A clap of thunder rang through the Hall. Yles turned to face the sound. It was Lokatmi, the goddess of selfies.
"We are *dying*, Yles!", she roared through pursed lips. "Man's faith in us grows weaker every day! *You* are the only one of us who still possesses any real power. *You* are the only one who can save us."
The other members of the High Council murmured their agreement.
"#TheChosenOne", Twitor said.
The Hall fell into silence.
"Okay, fine", Yles said, throwing up her arms. "If you say so."
She made her way up the marble steps to take her throne. As she ascended, the other gods rose from their seats and started chanting something in an ancient tongue. Yles felt the throne hum and buzz with power. The hairs on her arm stood up as she stretched out her hand. She sat down. Immediately, the chanting stopped. Lokatmi trumpeted a fanfare.
"HAIL!", the others cried. "HAIL YLES, THE GODDESS OF ATHEISM!"
Yles buried her face in her hands. "This is fucking stupid", she muttered. | My popularity was always fairly low; I'm a young god, and not many people used to worship me. A few people here and there, sometimes a few for a little while. But slowly more and more people started praying, more people recognizing my 'usefulness', more people wanting my blessing. My power started increasing exponentially, and before long everyone will know of me.
I am the god of viral videos. |
|
[WP] there is a god for everything. Light, sinks, walking, whatever you can think of. How does one unexpected god suddenly become the most powerful god? | "How? How is this happening?" The God of Frying Pans cried out amongst the chaos in the Household Palace.
"Beats me!" The God of Pillows shouted back, dodging the falling debris.
"I think I have an idea what's happening," The God of Windows glanced upwards and the voice of The God of Toilet Bowls boomed from the oncoming brown cloud.
"I HAVE BEEN TAKING EVERYONE'S SHIT FOR AGES. IT'S NOW TIME FOR EVERYONE TO FEEL MY WRATH." | The Gods are fickle beings. Constantly falling in and out of existence just like the things they represent. Some Gods are eternal, like the God of Light, or the God of Electrons and so on and so forth. Some Gods come and go just like fads. Examples include the God of Cross fit, and the Goddess of Pinterest.
All of these Gods and Goddesses range in power however. Usually ending up with Gods of Fads becoming servants to the Eternal Gods and serving them until they cease to exist. It has always been this way. No god born after the Eternals had ever risen above them in terms of power. It's not so that all Gods born after the Eternals are weak, in fact some Gods, like those of emotions, are extremely powerful, however most of them lack the will to do anything with their power.
Will is a strange thing isn't it. It allows us to create, to destroy, to do whatever we please. I may seem odd to you, but not all Gods have a will to speak of. They merely exist like the objects or ideas they represent. This is what makes me unique however, for I am the God of Will. I contain the will of all living things in the universe. The stronger their will, the more powerful I become. My will allows me challenge the Eternals, to make them uncomfortable on their complacent thrones.
I am the will of all things that are and ever will be. I am the Will of the universe. I will become stronger than the Eternals and end their tyrannous rule. Through the will of all things I shall succeed. |
|
[WP] there is a god for everything. Light, sinks, walking, whatever you can think of. How does one unexpected god suddenly become the most powerful god? | "Really? I don't think this will solve our problems."
Yles watched the timeless faces around her. She stood before the High Council in their Hallowed Hall. The six most powerful gods in existence peered down at her from thrones of white marble, oak, and gold. A seventh throne, taller and grander than all others, stood empty.
Twitor, the god of hashtags, spoke up.
"The rules are clear, Yles. Our power comes from our followers. The High Council must always be comprised of the strongest of our kin, and you are the strongest of us all. #ItIsYourDestiny"
Yles sighed. "I know, but I **really** don't think this is the way to go. What about Lisserax? He's a-"
A clap of thunder rang through the Hall. Yles turned to face the sound. It was Lokatmi, the goddess of selfies.
"We are *dying*, Yles!", she roared through pursed lips. "Man's faith in us grows weaker every day! *You* are the only one of us who still possesses any real power. *You* are the only one who can save us."
The other members of the High Council murmured their agreement.
"#TheChosenOne", Twitor said.
The Hall fell into silence.
"Okay, fine", Yles said, throwing up her arms. "If you say so."
She made her way up the marble steps to take her throne. As she ascended, the other gods rose from their seats and started chanting something in an ancient tongue. Yles felt the throne hum and buzz with power. The hairs on her arm stood up as she stretched out her hand. She sat down. Immediately, the chanting stopped. Lokatmi trumpeted a fanfare.
"HAIL!", the others cried. "HAIL YLES, THE GODDESS OF ATHEISM!"
Yles buried her face in her hands. "This is fucking stupid", she muttered. | The Gods are fickle beings. Constantly falling in and out of existence just like the things they represent. Some Gods are eternal, like the God of Light, or the God of Electrons and so on and so forth. Some Gods come and go just like fads. Examples include the God of Cross fit, and the Goddess of Pinterest.
All of these Gods and Goddesses range in power however. Usually ending up with Gods of Fads becoming servants to the Eternal Gods and serving them until they cease to exist. It has always been this way. No god born after the Eternals had ever risen above them in terms of power. It's not so that all Gods born after the Eternals are weak, in fact some Gods, like those of emotions, are extremely powerful, however most of them lack the will to do anything with their power.
Will is a strange thing isn't it. It allows us to create, to destroy, to do whatever we please. I may seem odd to you, but not all Gods have a will to speak of. They merely exist like the objects or ideas they represent. This is what makes me unique however, for I am the God of Will. I contain the will of all living things in the universe. The stronger their will, the more powerful I become. My will allows me challenge the Eternals, to make them uncomfortable on their complacent thrones.
I am the will of all things that are and ever will be. I am the Will of the universe. I will become stronger than the Eternals and end their tyrannous rule. Through the will of all things I shall succeed. |
|
[WP] there is a god for everything. Light, sinks, walking, whatever you can think of. How does one unexpected god suddenly become the most powerful god? | "Really? I don't think this will solve our problems."
Yles watched the timeless faces around her. She stood before the High Council in their Hallowed Hall. The six most powerful gods in existence peered down at her from thrones of white marble, oak, and gold. A seventh throne, taller and grander than all others, stood empty.
Twitor, the god of hashtags, spoke up.
"The rules are clear, Yles. Our power comes from our followers. The High Council must always be comprised of the strongest of our kin, and you are the strongest of us all. #ItIsYourDestiny"
Yles sighed. "I know, but I **really** don't think this is the way to go. What about Lisserax? He's a-"
A clap of thunder rang through the Hall. Yles turned to face the sound. It was Lokatmi, the goddess of selfies.
"We are *dying*, Yles!", she roared through pursed lips. "Man's faith in us grows weaker every day! *You* are the only one of us who still possesses any real power. *You* are the only one who can save us."
The other members of the High Council murmured their agreement.
"#TheChosenOne", Twitor said.
The Hall fell into silence.
"Okay, fine", Yles said, throwing up her arms. "If you say so."
She made her way up the marble steps to take her throne. As she ascended, the other gods rose from their seats and started chanting something in an ancient tongue. Yles felt the throne hum and buzz with power. The hairs on her arm stood up as she stretched out her hand. She sat down. Immediately, the chanting stopped. Lokatmi trumpeted a fanfare.
"HAIL!", the others cried. "HAIL YLES, THE GODDESS OF ATHEISM!"
Yles buried her face in her hands. "This is fucking stupid", she muttered. | "How? How is this happening?" The God of Frying Pans cried out amongst the chaos in the Household Palace.
"Beats me!" The God of Pillows shouted back, dodging the falling debris.
"I think I have an idea what's happening," The God of Windows glanced upwards and the voice of The God of Toilet Bowls boomed from the oncoming brown cloud.
"I HAVE BEEN TAKING EVERYONE'S SHIT FOR AGES. IT'S NOW TIME FOR EVERYONE TO FEEL MY WRATH." |
|
[WP] You go into a small shop on the outskirts of town. The shop owner introduces you to a dusty old brown crate. He tells you before you open it that it's the most valuable thing you will ever own in your life but it may surprise you. What do you find? | "It's money." I moved my hand over the edge of the crate, letting my skin brush across the cotton paper and taking in the familiar sounds and scrapes it made as it grazed the edge of the crisp notes. The old man behind the counter shrugged and shook his head at me, looked at me with those sunken, hard eyes of his that had hammered the gravity of my coming revelation into me just a minute earlier.
"It's just money," I continued, "a lot of it, for sure, but still just money." It just seemed too easy. I had done so much more for so much less. Now it was all so close, and suddenly I felt like I was the one who was far away, though from what I couldn't tell.
"Disappointed?"
"Yes, well, no, I mean, I suppose I was expecting something, you know... More profound."
"Well, money makes the world go round, son. The box never lies," the old man offered. He had gone on for some time before I had opened it, and now I felt cheated. He seemed somehow larger than life, like something out of a novel or film, but the box was exactly the right size and much too small.
"There's probably a year's wages in here. Maybe a college fund, or house, maybe a wedding and a honeymoon," I continued, but he broke me off with his old man voice, all full of whiskey and cigarettes and portent.
"It ain't a paper or a deed or a ring, son. It ain't tickets or a name or a place. It's cash."
"But surely it could turn into one of those?" I started, and he halted me.
"Then it would have."
"So that's it, then."
"Seems like it. I seen a lot of things pulled outta that box over the years, son, and far as I know I been right every time. What's there's all yours, it's your measure. All yours for the takin', most valuable thing you'll ever own."
I sighed. I closed the lid on the box and grabbed my hat, turning to face him. "Mine to take, huh?"
"Yes sir," he said, and nodded his head, "yours to take." He finished like it was somehow half a sentence. I nodded back, straightened my coat, and headed for the exit. I opened it up and put my hat on, sliding it around on my head for a second until it found its place, then turned to look at the man once I was over the threshold.
"But if I do," I said, and let the door swing closed. | Surely what's in this crate can't be *that* important. It's just an old crate and the old man is pulling my leg. However, my curiosity could kill a whole herd of cats.
It's not hard to open up, it actually swings open quite easily. Inside is a smaller box. This one is fireproof and filled with photo sleeves, with hastily written titles.
Fifth birthday.
Graduation.
Wedding.
Grandma.
Mom and Dad's wedding.
My heart stops for a moment. Back in my apartment there is a box of old photos, fleeting memories captured on film and forgotten.
Beyond the photo sleeves there are also slots for film and memory cards. A whole life time of memories, ready to be put away and protected.
I had expected money, or some sort of jewellery, but somehow this little fireproof box, empty save for a few suggestions is far more valuable than that, with room for my whole life and maybe a few others inside. |
|
[WP] A doctor waging the war on cancer dies with (surgical) blade in hand. Somehow his spirit enters Valhalla. | "Welcome to Valhalla!" The Viking said. He was flanked by two beautiful valkyrie women, and behind him stood a city that looked like it had been torn straight out of the *Thor: The Dark World* concept art book.
He should be happy. He stood in a heavenly kingdom of eternal happiness. Not the one he'd been expecting, but every day would be as exciting as possible and he'd never have to be afraid of dying or losing any loved ones. From what he knew about Viking culture, there would also be women here and they would be treated as equals.
The valkyries came up to him and tried to guide him though the city, but he pulled away.
"Sir, there's just one problem."
The viking god and valkyries turned back and looked at him. "There's a problem. I'm gay."
"That's not a problem," the Valkyrie said.
The viking frowned. "Do you *really* think you're the only gay man to have died fighting a great foe?" | A surgical tool doesn't get you into Valhalla. Massive axes, brutal hammers, spears, nets, cannons--did they have cannons in Ancient Greece?--and *weapons* of any sort, historically, have earned--you know--actual warriors a place in Valhalla.
I pictured the place as a flat green disc with Ionic columns, different mythical beasts, and huge gladiators spread about the surface. A nice, blue, cloudy Greek sky and white Greek buildings. Maybe a giant snake hanging around a garden somewhere. I believe in Valhalla. I think the spirits over time become just memories, perhaps living an extended life as beings of different kinds. But it wasn't heaven; I didn't think of the Greeks as being allowed into heaven or having a real concept of it in their mythology.
But here I am.
|
|
[WP] A doctor waging the war on cancer dies with (surgical) blade in hand. Somehow his spirit enters Valhalla. | It was over.
As I came to my senses, this was the first thought in my head.
I felt the hand on my head.
"Rest, it is over. "
I slunk back into the bed. Fuck. I did not even need to open my eyes. I had written the proposals myself.
"I collapsed in the operating theatre? "
"Yes. "
A warm voice. Nurse? My eyes felt heavy.
I heard a bit of giggling in a corner. The operation had taken more then 23 hours.
"You know it's not my fault...."
"I know. "
Maybe it was just a nursing student. The feeling of her hand on my head reminded me of Clara. My wife. So many years ago, and all was gone. She just did not understand that I loved her, but I loved saving peoples lifes as well.....
I felt something was expected of me. Advice. Being a man. Telling of deeds. It was not unnormal to sludge, to break down, but you had to get up afterwards.
"The patient made it? "
"Yes. "
A slight hint of an accent. Not bad. Germanic, or something. And boy, she smelled so nice....
"He was just a child. You know? They claimed it was inoperable. "
Mumbling in the lower ranks. Other female voices? I creaked one eye open, and saw at least a few other silouettes standing there. Definitively female. By the gods, they must be those vodka fed girls I heard so much about...
"You girls like harassing an old man? Good grief, Just say it. I collapsed on the floor. But feck, I pulled a 23 hour operation. Patient safe. Giggle bout that, if you want. "
Hushed whispering in this language. Never had an ear for languages, or gave them much interest.
A door opening, and a male voice. "I am going to complain! That is an outrage! You, like, can't do this! I am Michael, for god s sake...."
"Girls, need a hand..."
More , agitated talking, mostly the germanic language again, and the sound of a scuffle, and a man being removed.
One eye open, I saw how one of the bigger girls marched outside. Heck, double d's. At the very least. The must build them like that in that lovely nordic country...
Then, I heard the sounds of scuffle.
"You girls will make it big. Never knew a nurse that could enforce the sanctity of the wakeup room with violence. "
"Hildr has a bit of a temper. "
The voice was new. It must have snuck in through the door. I raised one eye.
"Ok, sisters, sorry for the wait, I had to get through a bit of a scuffle with the documentation. So, let me see the patient. "
Barely 16. At least according to the voice. Hell, you could even hear the valley girl slang. I sighed. A teaching hospital. The Nice good smelling nurses .... and now that loud one..... Whyyyyyyy....
"Ortlinde, Helmwige, Göndull, and Kara, out, and watch the door. We have to hurry up a bit, Hildr beat this chippendales reject up something fierce, and he is bound to get help. Remember what I told you. Girl power, and if they come in force, kick them between the legs. "
"Wir haben das schon seit Anbegin der Zeiten getan. Sprich wenigstens die sprache deiner Ahnen, Maid. Ich verlange nicht viel, aber wenn du mit uns redest, muss es nicht englisch sein. "
"Shut your face, I want him to understand this. After all, we are in America. God, you want this job, or not?"
Scurrying, as several of the ladies left the room. Thankfully, not the nice smelling one.
I heard the scuffling, and did not even need to open my eyes.
"Nice how you dealt with your "sisters. ". Proper doctor has to make himself clear in that regard. You hear me? Respect the nurses, but don't be hostile against them. Now, you have questions, right? I remember my name, Robert Frost, it must be the 20.th of august, and the current president is Obama. "
Scribbling. Taking notes. Good. Reminded me of myself. Will have a future, if she can get rid of that perfume, and don proper scrubs.
"Very well. You remember what happened? "
"Puh.... 23 hour surgery, on a patient. Male, 20 something. Brain tumor. Operable, but fickle. I still remember checking the vitals.... After that, pretty much nothing. "
I could hear nodding, and scribbling of notes.
"Are you aware that you fell holding a scalpell? "
"So what? 23 hours. Heck, I will not open my eyes, because I earned that rest. Nobody else volunteered. Feck, boy had a proper history of fighting an uphill battle, with all the complications. So, yea, I am Kind of proud of the fact that I fell with my scalpel in hand. "
Scribble scribble
"You yourself would describe that as a battle? A valiant one even?"
"Hell yea? Poor kid, with the brain tumor. Had his whole life in front of him. Would have been a pitty to not operate on him. Heck, that is what I do. I safe lifes. And yes, it's a battle every step of the way. "
More scribbling. My head itched, and as if on command, the soft woman moved her thumb, and scritched it. Allmost like you would scritch a big cat...
"Ok, that concludes this point. Well, we didn't realize that the kid was christian..."
"Christian? Heck, I know that Obama fella is president, but did we sink so low? Let people be..."
"I am sorry, I believe it may have come over a bit strong. No longer our responsibility. "
"No longer your responsibility, Girl, let me tell you..."
Exactly the kind of behavior I hated. Being a doctor just for the rank. No real passion to help. I was about to give her a piece of my mind, when I stopped, blinking, stariung ath the figure at the foot of my bed.
"Warum macht er das? Juckt es ihn da?"
"Weiß ick auch nicht...Doc, not for nothing, but what do you do with your arm? "
"Checking for an IV. Because These must be some excellent new drugs, because don't take this the wrong way, but you have wings..... "
I finished the search, looking at her. Yer, scrubs, yes, nice, petite face, but behind her, on her back, those were ...
"Ok, no IV. Have they given me something? "
"Doc, stay calm, I believe I have some bad news for you. "
I slunk back. Yep. Brain trauma. Why else had they mentioned the thing with the scalpell? Only explanation for this...
"Ok, I am calm. "
"Liar, but ok. Could you close your eyes, and point at your nose, without touching it? Just to show you what the problem is. "
I accepted. Pointing at my nose, I felt....
"Now open your eyes, and look what you are pointing at. "
I followed my orders, and looked at myself. It was kind of heady, and disturbing. But slowly the details sank in. This was not the wake up room, and this was not a simple case....
I was staring at me, lying next to me, looking at the roof. Dead.
"If this is a joke, I am going to sue. "
"Go ahead, but I am afraid you caught a very bad case of dead. "
"Bullshit. "
"AAh, a sceptic. In this case, could you please tell me what is on your navel? "
I looked down. A silvery line, kind of like an umbillical cord. Connecting me to the .... other me.
"We call that a soul line. Comes to the best of us. Connects body and soul. "
"I can't be dead! I only took a little fall!"
"Well, wasn't the fall that killed you. Or the fact that you worked 23 hour shifts. Or the fact that you smoked a pack a day. Or the fact that you were a bit overweight. Stroke. Would have bet on something different, but yea. Dead before you hit the floor. "
I was stunned.
"So, you are ... Angels? "
"Allmost. Valkyres. "
I had to laugh. It made too much sense. The double D figures, the toned bodies, the good smell.
"If this is a prank, it is a good one. So, cut to the case. "
(cont) | A surgical tool doesn't get you into Valhalla. Massive axes, brutal hammers, spears, nets, cannons--did they have cannons in Ancient Greece?--and *weapons* of any sort, historically, have earned--you know--actual warriors a place in Valhalla.
I pictured the place as a flat green disc with Ionic columns, different mythical beasts, and huge gladiators spread about the surface. A nice, blue, cloudy Greek sky and white Greek buildings. Maybe a giant snake hanging around a garden somewhere. I believe in Valhalla. I think the spirits over time become just memories, perhaps living an extended life as beings of different kinds. But it wasn't heaven; I didn't think of the Greeks as being allowed into heaven or having a real concept of it in their mythology.
But here I am.
|
|
[WP] A doctor waging the war on cancer dies with (surgical) blade in hand. Somehow his spirit enters Valhalla. | Howard had not expected to die.
He was a young, fit, man, not the sort of person predisposed to a heart attack, but it seemed that was what happened. One moment, he had been in the surgery one moment, cutting out a tumor from the skin of a patient, and the next he was sitting in a painfully spartan office with a blank-eyed man staring at him vacantly from behind a desk next to a door marked 'Orientation' and another marked 'Armory'.
Howard stared back.
"Who are you?" asked the man.
"Howard Vendt." replied Howard. It occurred to him that perhaps he should have said something a bit more flashy, but he was too intrigued by their surroundings.
He appeared to be seated in the waiting room of a dentists office, admittedly one that had been designed to minimise possible damage to the furniture, with bolted down steel chairs and coffee tables apparently being a staple of the room's design.
As Howard was pondering various genres of design, he missed something the man had said.
"I'm sorry, what?" Howard asked.
"I said," replied the man rather impatiently "Could you clarify your regiment and/or fighting force? Because this bloody thing," he said, waving vaguely at a clipboard "Says that you're from the 'National Cancer Treatment Task-force'."
Howard was very confused. As far as he knew, he had never participated in the military efforts of his country.
"I'm not from a military background, I'm afraid." Howard responded.
"Then what are you doing here?" queried the man.
"What is here?"
"You aren't the sharpest blade on the blacksmiths wall, are you?"
"I'll have you know, I'm a medical doctor and surgeon, who graduated top of my class! I will not be-"
"Oh, you're a doctor?" interrupted the man, his demeanor suddenly changing from crass and impatient to almost sickeningly polite in seconds. "You, err... know how to fix an axe wound?" he asked sheepishly.
"Yes, why?" questioned Howard.
As the man opened his mouth to speak, a massive, heavily built man crashed through the wall of the room, a spear as long as Howard was tall sticking out of his back. Howard gave an (annoyingly) effeminate shriek, and leapt up onto one of the chairs.
"Ahh, perfect!" exclaimed the man behind the desk "Bjorn, apparently this posh fella's a doctor!"
The man apparently called Bjorn jumped up and spun around to Howard in one smooth motion. "Perfick!" he boomed, his voice (somehow) echoing around the tiny room. "Help me out with this would you?" he asked, spinning round to stick the butt of the huge spear approximately five millimetres from Howards nose.
Howard gingerly leant forward, and pulled the spear out of Bjorn's back. "Ermm," he said as he threw the spear at the floor "I don't suppose you could tell me where I am, could you?"
Bjorn looked at Howard incredulously then looked at the man behind the desk. "Odin's beard, he really isn't the sharpest dagger in the belt is he?"
He looked back out a Howard.
"You're in Valhalla mate. And we need doctors." | A surgical tool doesn't get you into Valhalla. Massive axes, brutal hammers, spears, nets, cannons--did they have cannons in Ancient Greece?--and *weapons* of any sort, historically, have earned--you know--actual warriors a place in Valhalla.
I pictured the place as a flat green disc with Ionic columns, different mythical beasts, and huge gladiators spread about the surface. A nice, blue, cloudy Greek sky and white Greek buildings. Maybe a giant snake hanging around a garden somewhere. I believe in Valhalla. I think the spirits over time become just memories, perhaps living an extended life as beings of different kinds. But it wasn't heaven; I didn't think of the Greeks as being allowed into heaven or having a real concept of it in their mythology.
But here I am.
|
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[WP] A doctor waging the war on cancer dies with (surgical) blade in hand. Somehow his spirit enters Valhalla. | (I'm more of a exposition guy and too lazy to write prose...)
The doctor emerges in the micro-universe of Valhalla, as opposed to the macro one everyone expects. The pyschopomp/valkyrie explains that doctors were the greatest warriors in "The Unseen War" of Germ Warfare; fighting the virus and bacteria that have been plaguing the 9 worlds and particularly Midgard for ages. In this dimension within Valhalla, he must battle with valiant/sentient/anthropomorphic red/white blood cells, T-cells, antogens, et al to prepare for Ragnarök. The plot twist: they are within Odin's body... | A surgical tool doesn't get you into Valhalla. Massive axes, brutal hammers, spears, nets, cannons--did they have cannons in Ancient Greece?--and *weapons* of any sort, historically, have earned--you know--actual warriors a place in Valhalla.
I pictured the place as a flat green disc with Ionic columns, different mythical beasts, and huge gladiators spread about the surface. A nice, blue, cloudy Greek sky and white Greek buildings. Maybe a giant snake hanging around a garden somewhere. I believe in Valhalla. I think the spirits over time become just memories, perhaps living an extended life as beings of different kinds. But it wasn't heaven; I didn't think of the Greeks as being allowed into heaven or having a real concept of it in their mythology.
But here I am.
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[WP] A doctor waging the war on cancer dies with (surgical) blade in hand. Somehow his spirit enters Valhalla. | Paul awoke in the grass. *Wait, grass? Wasn't I just in my operating room, trying to fix..*
Then he remembered the pain in his arm, the sharp stabbing feeling in his chest. Paul had known it was a heart attack, but he did not know that it would strike so quickly.
He tried to think of what he looked like now, crumpled on the ground, blade in hand....
He still had the blade. *Am I dead or not? What's going on? If I died, I shouldn't have this blade...*
Paul finally stood up, unsure of how to think of his current situation. He finally managed to get a bearing of his surroundings. Rolling hills, tall grass, about 6 inches high, a few crumbling castles, muscled men fighting, clear skies, little cl-
*Wait, why are there people fighting? Where am-*
Pauls thoughts were interrupted by a rude arrow. As Paul slumped to the ground, again, he thought he heard "Haha! I got the newbie!"
Paul awoke in a bed. He quickly stood up, his mind in a strange mess of thoughts. He scanned his surroundings: He was in a long hall with plenty of beds and a large feasting table. The beds were all empty, but the feasting table, which was about as long as a football field, was about half-filled with huge, muscled men. All were armed. Paul's stomach twisted in a knot. What was this place?
A huge man with a golden beard approached him.
"Ah boys, we've found our newest fighter, Paul!" He exclaimed. "In his life, he waged war on an enemy that he knew nothing about! I bet he has more courage than all of you louts!"
A large cry of disapproval filled the air from the many at the feasting table. Paul recoiled backwards.
"Where am I?! Am I dead? I died of a heart attack, and then died again from an arrow to my head in some huge battlefield! Why am I alive yet again?!"
The man with the beard laughed mightily, "Hahaha, Yetholos got you? I hate that damned archer! He always interrupts my fights with his stupid arrows! Every time I take the bastards head, my day gets brighter."
Pauls eyes widened. *Of course. I was fighting an unknown enemy. Cancer. I was pretty close to curing it too. The man I was cutting open might have been our hope. But I died, blade in hand, close to defeating it. I awoke on a battlefield, died again, and am now surrounded with lightly armored men with axes, swords, hammers...*
"Ah, right!" The bearded man said, "You are in Valhalla! We fight and die all day and drink, feast, and sleep all night!" The mans eyes fell onto his surgical knife. "Don't tell me that you're actually going to fight with that, are you? That butter knife?"
Paul heated up. "This butter knife is made of Obsidian, and a good slice could cut you open from your neck to belly!" He threatened. Paul realized what he had just done. *Nononono, me and my stupid mouth, not again, not again*
The bearded man smiled and laughed. "Hahaha! See boys, I told you this guy has backbone! It's a challenge, then! Great! We'll fight in 5 minutes. Suit up! Me, Odin, versus Paul, the newcomer! This will be a good fight!"
Paul gulped.
Well, like any profession, fighting takes determined practice and training to do it well. His punishment was the pain of death....over and over and over again. But it was okay, because he had an eternity.
| A surgical tool doesn't get you into Valhalla. Massive axes, brutal hammers, spears, nets, cannons--did they have cannons in Ancient Greece?--and *weapons* of any sort, historically, have earned--you know--actual warriors a place in Valhalla.
I pictured the place as a flat green disc with Ionic columns, different mythical beasts, and huge gladiators spread about the surface. A nice, blue, cloudy Greek sky and white Greek buildings. Maybe a giant snake hanging around a garden somewhere. I believe in Valhalla. I think the spirits over time become just memories, perhaps living an extended life as beings of different kinds. But it wasn't heaven; I didn't think of the Greeks as being allowed into heaven or having a real concept of it in their mythology.
But here I am.
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[WP] A doctor waging the war on cancer dies with (surgical) blade in hand. Somehow his spirit enters Valhalla. | One moment Dr. Gumatao was in the operating room and the next, he was standing on a grassy hill gently sloping towards a long wooden building. Noel felt a presence to his side. He turned, and saw the tallest woman he had ever seen. She stood a full head over him, and she was wore a multi-hued tunic and brass bangles on her wrists and ankles. On her left she propped up a wooden shield almost as tall as she was. Instinctively he held up his hand with the thing that he gripped there. It was a moment before he realized, with much embarrassment, that it was his scalpel. A tiny scalpel.
The woman flashed a wide toothy smile. "Greetings, Awang, and welcome!"
Awang? He had not been called that since he was a child, and only by Nana, who never accepted his Christian name. "How do you know...?"
"Here you are known by your true name."
"Where is here? What is this place? Why am I here?"
"Here is Cibolan. In your heart of hearts you know what this place is. You are here because you have been found worthy."
Cibolan? His people's heaven? Such were the tales that he heard from Nana. Such was the final reward of Datu Sama, of Timawen, of Warawara, and all the other mythical warriors of his people. But they were only fairy tales!
I am dreaming, thought Dr. Gumatao. Hallucinating.
"I don't belong here," Dr. Gumatao said.
"You are bagani," the woman said. "You died a valiant death, in battle."
"In battle?" Dr. Gumatao laughed. "I am a doctor, a healer, not a warrior."
The woman said nothing. She merely looked at him with placid eyes, as if the truth would come to him soon enough.
It did.
The operating room. It was a delicate procedure. The patient, anesthetized, lay on the table. The sternum had been cut and held open by clamps and forceps. The bypass machine beat its steady rhythm. Around him, the nurses and assisting doctors moved in practiced steps.
He had completed the grafts. He inspected his handiwork, going through his mental checklist. Everything had gone perfectly. He stepped aside briefly so Dr. Quitaen could verify the work. Dr. Quitaen nodded. It was time to close the patient up.
"Prepare to restart the heart. In 3...2...1..."
From the hallway came loud noises and shouts. What was going on? He blocked out the commotion. He waited for the cue from the nurse but it didn't come. He pushed down his rising anger and prompted: "Heart status?"
The nurse hesitated, then replied with a tremble in his voice. "40 bpm. Doctor...there's..."
"Lockdown! Lockdown!" He heard the announcement faintly over the PA system. There were screams.
"There's a shooter in the hospital," Dr. Quitaen said. Two shots rang out. They were very close.
"God-dammit..... Focus, people! We're going to lose the patient." He looked up and around the operating room. There was fear in their eyes. They were no good to him now. "I need two volunteers to finish the operation. The rest of you, get out."
There was a rush of feet heading out of the operating room. Dr. Quitaen took over the chief nurse's station. One other brave soul remained at the instrumentation, calling out the readings.
The commotion was very close now. It was right outside.
"Disengage bypass."
"Bypass disengaged."
He began wiring the chest cavity closed. He worked steadily, unmindful of the banging and screams outside. More shots.
He had finished closing the patient when the door to the OR burst open. A wild-eyed man entered, shouting obscenities. In his hands was a rifle. Dr. Quitaen and the nurse scrambled to the far corner of the room and dove down to the floor.
Dr. Gumatao turned around. He gripped his scalpel in his hand. His eyes met the shooter's. For a brief moment, the shooter stood dumbly.
"Get out of here," Dr. Gumatao ordered.
The shooter stepped back and seemed to obey. Then, he screamed again and pointed the rifle at him. He felt a jerk on his side, then a radiating stab of pain.
He staggered a step, lunged forward. His left hand grabbed the barrel of the shooter's rifle and brought it up. The shooter fired again.
Dr. Gumatao brought the point of the scalpel up against the chin of the shooter. He slashed downward. Blood came spurting out. The shooter went down to his knees, and Dr. Gumatao went down with him.
The OR doors burst open again. Men in dark blue uniforms poured in. His vision became hazy. They were shouting but he couldn't understand what they were saying.
Over to the side, he heard a familiar voice. "Noel...." It was Dr. Quitaen.
"Phil.... The patient?"
And then, everything went black.
"I am not a warrior," he repeated, but more to himself now, than to the woman. "I am..."
The woman smiled, then turned and started to walk up the meeting hall. She beckoned for him to follow. | A surgical tool doesn't get you into Valhalla. Massive axes, brutal hammers, spears, nets, cannons--did they have cannons in Ancient Greece?--and *weapons* of any sort, historically, have earned--you know--actual warriors a place in Valhalla.
I pictured the place as a flat green disc with Ionic columns, different mythical beasts, and huge gladiators spread about the surface. A nice, blue, cloudy Greek sky and white Greek buildings. Maybe a giant snake hanging around a garden somewhere. I believe in Valhalla. I think the spirits over time become just memories, perhaps living an extended life as beings of different kinds. But it wasn't heaven; I didn't think of the Greeks as being allowed into heaven or having a real concept of it in their mythology.
But here I am.
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[WP] A doctor waging the war on cancer dies with (surgical) blade in hand. Somehow his spirit enters Valhalla. | Death is not easy and he has seen many kinds. The slow asphyxiation as a girl's lungs stop expanding, her ribcage too heavy. Or torn artery and the fear and panic and blood and forty five seconds later a cooling body on a slick floor.
He has never seen a quiet death. In the last moments the body fights, instinctively, for life. Standing in the suite he can feel the second his heart stuttered. The moment is insignificant. It had been coming on stronger the past few days. A product of too much fatty meat and little sleep. He'd take the weekend off, go to the lake with Maria. Turn off the alarm clock. The gloves are massive.
The tumor is oblong. Under the lights it looks alien a mucus coated mass of hard tissue and bulging veins. A kick in the chest then. His hands are bloated. The scalpel is fidgety, fragile. His heart feelings *tight*. Like heart burn but something is blocked... And he staggers... And the tile is cool on his face... And he feels the damp breeze the comes off a northern lake.
Someone hauls him to his feet. They smell of wet sheep, leather, sweat. The warm dusty whiff of horses and the sharp hint of pine. Mostly dirty though. Unwashed.
More in habit than though his hands off the blade and strips the gloves. The blood on his gown is tacky. In front of him is a group of men. The youngest he'd out at seventeen. That's how old Matt is. The oldest is at lest eighty, with a film over the eyes and teeth. Most are in their mid thirties.
There is a crippling panic that overtakes him. He has the embarrassing urge to cry in front of strangers. It takes him a second to calm down.
"Hello." He tries to shake. They don't respond. They view him with suspicion, some muttering to each other like school boys. | A surgical tool doesn't get you into Valhalla. Massive axes, brutal hammers, spears, nets, cannons--did they have cannons in Ancient Greece?--and *weapons* of any sort, historically, have earned--you know--actual warriors a place in Valhalla.
I pictured the place as a flat green disc with Ionic columns, different mythical beasts, and huge gladiators spread about the surface. A nice, blue, cloudy Greek sky and white Greek buildings. Maybe a giant snake hanging around a garden somewhere. I believe in Valhalla. I think the spirits over time become just memories, perhaps living an extended life as beings of different kinds. But it wasn't heaven; I didn't think of the Greeks as being allowed into heaven or having a real concept of it in their mythology.
But here I am.
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[WP] A doctor waging the war on cancer dies with (surgical) blade in hand. Somehow his spirit enters Valhalla. | He wasn't quite sure how he had died. As a doctor, he had made for a terrible patient, but last time he had checked, he had been alive and not sick at all. And, how was it that he had died in a hospital, in the middle of preparing to operate on a patient? Who was going to operate on the patient now? He knew he wasn't so easily replaced.
Were those horses coming down from the sky? It was bad enough that he could feel he was dead and could see his dead body lying right next to him, but now there were flying horses? As a practitioner of science, it destroyed all the laws of physics that he had learned... or at least could remember.
When he saw ladies descend from the horses, he couldn't help but flush furiously. They were ethereal and had large... assets that shouldn't have worked on bodies such as theirs without seriously harming their back.
"So. Uh... How can I help you?" he asked, scratching the back of his neck. He mustered up a weak smile in an attempt be friendly.
"Eir, this man doesn't look like a warrior. Are you sure this is the right man? Look at him! Surely this is a mistake. Look at that piddly knife and the lack of muscles!"
"Göll! Don't be like that. This is most assuredly the man that has been fated to enter Valhalla. However small a knife he has in his hands, it is still a weapon. Plus, I believe he fell in a war against cancer?"
"Pah, I still say he doesn't look like a warrior. Humans these days just get worse and worse. And their naming sense is horrid! What is this cancer? Why, back in Odin's day, it was something like Battle of Svolder. It was-"
"Uh, ladies, who are you?" he managed to cut in. "Why am I dead?"
Göll laughed maniacally as she pointed her sword at the man.
"See! He's timid and his voice isn't any louder than a squeak of a rodent! You call this man a warrior? You are spineless, nay argr! Fight me if you wish to prove yourself a man."
"Göll! Stop this instant."
"But-"
"The Norns have foretold him entering Valhalla. Do you dare tell them that you disagreed with their fate for this man? Do you not recall what happened the last time a Valkyrie did it?"
Göll looked shocked at even the mere thought of ignoring the Norns. "But, there has never been a Valkyrie who has disobeyed the Norns."
"Exactly. Do you wish to be the first one and suffer a horrid punishment?"
"No... but..."
"I must say that I agree with you but, we must drag this man to Valhalla. We can deal with him once he's in Valhalla."
Göll perked up at the thought of this. "Oh, sister, you are simply the best! Come, let's take him!
The man shrunk back as the two Valkyries advanced upon him. "Now, listen, I greatly dislike being-! PUT ME DOWN, PLEASE-----------"
He screamed as he was carted off by the Valkyries to Valhalla. He was going to hell. | A surgical tool doesn't get you into Valhalla. Massive axes, brutal hammers, spears, nets, cannons--did they have cannons in Ancient Greece?--and *weapons* of any sort, historically, have earned--you know--actual warriors a place in Valhalla.
I pictured the place as a flat green disc with Ionic columns, different mythical beasts, and huge gladiators spread about the surface. A nice, blue, cloudy Greek sky and white Greek buildings. Maybe a giant snake hanging around a garden somewhere. I believe in Valhalla. I think the spirits over time become just memories, perhaps living an extended life as beings of different kinds. But it wasn't heaven; I didn't think of the Greeks as being allowed into heaven or having a real concept of it in their mythology.
But here I am.
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[WP] A doctor waging the war on cancer dies with (surgical) blade in hand. Somehow his spirit enters Valhalla. | "But I'm not a Viking! I've never even been to Europe! My dad makes Cheese in Wisconsin! Surely there has been some kind of mistake?"
"Are you not Johann Erikson, Son of Alek Erikson?” said the lead Viking
“I am, but thats not the point….”
The Viking turned to the rest of the hall and filled it with his booming voice, “BEHOLD! Johann Erikson, Son of Alek Erikson The Cheesemaker of Wisconsin!”
“Where is this Wisconsin Place? Are there great battles there?”, a voice called out from the back of the crowd.
Johann tried to interrupt, but the lead viking ignored him, “He is of the new world! Great-Grandson of one of our people who left across the great eastern ocean generations ago!”
The hall cheered and roared with approval, with blades and swords raised to the Sky.
“Wait, what, is this to do with my great grand-dad?” Johann asked, still befuddled as to how dying after a long life as a cancer surgeon could lead him to end up in what looked suspiciously like the tales of Valhalla his father had told him about when he was just a boy.
“Your great grandfather left our homeland for the New World long ago, he was of Viking blood, as are you. This is your natural home in the afterlife! You fought many a battle in life, and will fight them forever in death!”
“Fought battles?”. “I was a doctor, I fought no battles! I tried to treat cancer for a living! I mean I hunted deer in the summer for sport sometimes but…”
“THEN IT IS SETTLED!” the lead viking roared, almost blowing Johann over. “WELCOME! Johann Erikson Of The New World! Son of the Wisconsin Cheesemaker! Killer of the Cancer and hunter of the deer!”. “Arm yourself! You must work up an appetite in battle before the feast!”
Johann looked down, and saw a small surgical scalpel in his right hand. “Battle? With THIS?!?”. He gestured to his scalpel, so inconsequential compared to the vast war hammers and axes the vikings were carrying.
“Hmmm…you are correct. This will not do. This simply will NOT do….” the viking murmured. The viking twirled his battle axe in his hand, and a bolt of lightning emerged from it, striking Johann’s scalpel. Suddenly, the scalpel grew larger, and kept growing, until it was the length of a knights sword. At the base, Johann watched in awe as the Scalpel grew a sword-like handle, before finally settling and ceasing to change. Where the scalpel had been, was now a scalpel shaped sword, as if someone had taken the fantasies of a medical student at a renaissance fair and brought them to life.
Johann looked around, as he slowly came to accept that this was his lot. To fight among his Viking kin for all eternity.
“By the way! I am Hamdir! Lord of the forgotten islands and revered Viking! Many of my descendants travelled to this ‘Wisconsin’ place that you speak of. Your great-grandfather was one of them!”. Hamdir then raised his battle axe, and Johann knew that the time for pleasantries were over.
In the back of his mind, he wondered what would of happened if he’d been born to Irish immigrants instead of Danish, perhaps an eternity spent in a blissful country pub where the guinness overflowed the cups, he thought. He stopped daydreaming, and noticed Hamdir, his presumably great-great-great-great-ad-infinitum grandfather, was now charging at him.
“Oh what the hell, why not”, he muttered. He raised his sword-scalpel to the sky as he charged forwards, his Doctors white coat fluttering in the wind, a stark contrast to the norse clothing of those around him. “DEATH TO CANCER! DEATH TO DISEASE!” he cried, as the sword-scalpel and Hamdirs battle-axe clashed for the first time, the sound of metal on metal ringing in the air… | A surgical tool doesn't get you into Valhalla. Massive axes, brutal hammers, spears, nets, cannons--did they have cannons in Ancient Greece?--and *weapons* of any sort, historically, have earned--you know--actual warriors a place in Valhalla.
I pictured the place as a flat green disc with Ionic columns, different mythical beasts, and huge gladiators spread about the surface. A nice, blue, cloudy Greek sky and white Greek buildings. Maybe a giant snake hanging around a garden somewhere. I believe in Valhalla. I think the spirits over time become just memories, perhaps living an extended life as beings of different kinds. But it wasn't heaven; I didn't think of the Greeks as being allowed into heaven or having a real concept of it in their mythology.
But here I am.
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[WP] A doctor waging the war on cancer dies with (surgical) blade in hand. Somehow his spirit enters Valhalla. | "...the fuck?" Dr. Olsen said, as he pushed himself up out of the deep snow that he found himself mysteriously laying in. "Nurse? Nurse!" His voice boomed but was quickly blown away by the torrent of wind and snow breaking across jagged and rocky peaks nearby. Stunned into a state of stupor it took the Doctor what seemed to be ages to snap out of it and check himself and his surroundings.
"Where am I?" He asked, to no one in particular, as he glanced at his location. He was standing on a plateau on, or near, the top of a mountain. The wind drove heavy snow from the north causing visibility to lurch from visible to white out in fits and starts. It wasn't until he was checking his clothing, of which he still wore his scrubs and held the still bloody surgical blade in his right hand, that he realized that he wasn't cold. He didn't feel any temperature at all. Another long moment of thought was broken again by a shattering of sound to the west of the plateau. Heading that way, Dr. Olsen found a snakelike path that wound it's way down to a huge open plain.
"No fucking way!"
At the terminus of the path lay the obvious source of the sound the doctor heard. A enormous gathering of men and women all dressed in clothing that looked like they walked out of a Renaissance Faire engaged each other in merciless slaughter. From his vantage point the good Doctor could see the blood splatter in red streaks across the pure white snow in a macabre mockery of a 'new age' painting technique. Howls of joy, pain, and guttural exertions wafted upwards to him in a way that only could be described as harmonious.
"Henrik Olsen, welcome!" Boomed a voice from behind and above the doctor. He turned and fell backwards onto the snow again, too stunned to speak.
"Henrik Olsen, welcome to the halls of your fathers, and your father's fathers, and their father's fathers. Great Wodin has heard of your battle against a great and dangerous foe. I, Göndul, welcome you as einherjar in our Great Father's Hall." Göndul sat astride a massive horse and held a massive mug in her right hand which she gestured with. "To the Mead Hall before the great fights!"
The Doctor stared at the woman uncomprehending before turning his head. Behind him, previously hidden from view, was a huge old wooden hall with a open air roof. Smoke, the smell roasting meat, the sounds of sex and laughter flowed from the roof.
"What have I gotten myself into?" | A surgical tool doesn't get you into Valhalla. Massive axes, brutal hammers, spears, nets, cannons--did they have cannons in Ancient Greece?--and *weapons* of any sort, historically, have earned--you know--actual warriors a place in Valhalla.
I pictured the place as a flat green disc with Ionic columns, different mythical beasts, and huge gladiators spread about the surface. A nice, blue, cloudy Greek sky and white Greek buildings. Maybe a giant snake hanging around a garden somewhere. I believe in Valhalla. I think the spirits over time become just memories, perhaps living an extended life as beings of different kinds. But it wasn't heaven; I didn't think of the Greeks as being allowed into heaven or having a real concept of it in their mythology.
But here I am.
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[WP] A doctor waging the war on cancer dies with (surgical) blade in hand. Somehow his spirit enters Valhalla. | "There must be some mistake... I...I." The doctor muttered
"Are you not the one known as Kenneth Anderson son of Grant Anderson?" The man in Cherokee headdress asked with a fierce expression.
"I am but..."
"Is it not true that 23 men have fallen under your blade?"
"I wasn't trying to..."
"Ha, not even here five minutes and this whelp already bragging. What is it ya slay these men in your sleep." said a very large blond man with a braided beard.
"Thats not... I was trying to save..."
"Its okay now, I too fought bravely to save my village but the white man used cowards weapons and attacked at night." The chief said as his fierce expression changed to one of understanding.
"Oh here we go with this again." The viking perched in. "Don't blame my descendants because you weren't strong enough to accomplish your goals."
The chief smirked "Tough talk from a man who had my spear through his eye yesterday."
"Ooohhhh sounds like a challenge if I ever heard one." The blond man said lifting his Axe.
and with that two men gleefully attacked one another. As the hall around the doctor descended into a battlefield the doctor approached what appeared to be a wounded Roman Legionnaire it seems some type of foreign projectile was protruding from his gut. Before he realized it a medical kit was in his hands. The doctor simply shrugged at least now he had all of eternity to practice his craft.
| A surgical tool doesn't get you into Valhalla. Massive axes, brutal hammers, spears, nets, cannons--did they have cannons in Ancient Greece?--and *weapons* of any sort, historically, have earned--you know--actual warriors a place in Valhalla.
I pictured the place as a flat green disc with Ionic columns, different mythical beasts, and huge gladiators spread about the surface. A nice, blue, cloudy Greek sky and white Greek buildings. Maybe a giant snake hanging around a garden somewhere. I believe in Valhalla. I think the spirits over time become just memories, perhaps living an extended life as beings of different kinds. But it wasn't heaven; I didn't think of the Greeks as being allowed into heaven or having a real concept of it in their mythology.
But here I am.
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[WP] A doctor waging the war on cancer dies with (surgical) blade in hand. Somehow his spirit enters Valhalla. | "This is a mistake, I'm not supposed to be here!"
"Well" Odin said in his deep booming voice, "You died fighting a powerful enemy with blade in hand, that gets you into Valhalla."
"But I never even believed in any of this!"
"That doesn't matter, besides, why should you complain, you get to fight all day and feast all night and the Valkyries will attend to your every need."
"This... this just wasn't what I was expecting"
"Well you will be in good company, you will be revered as a hero here."
"I'm no hero, I didn't die in battle, I had a heart attack while performing surgery!"
"Don't be so modest, this place is for those who fought and slayed the unjust, and what enemy is more unjust than cancer?"
Odin began speaking with excitement, as if even a god were in awe of this mere mortal.
"The most unjust enemy, it kills at random, it slowly and painfully tortures it's victims, and you fought it through hours upon hours in the operating room, and not for the first time! You died a greater hero than many a viking warrior, now you have a place at the table of heroes, now drink your mead and revel in the company of those who fought the good fight!"
Odin put his hand on my shoulder and directed me to a table in his great hall. My eyes widened in wonder as I saw who was seated there. Faces I only knew from pictures in the history books, Hippocrates, Louis Pasteur, Jonas Salk and every other doctor who had saved countless human lives throughout history.
"Behold, the table of true heroes!" Odin proclaimed. Now take your place among them!
Edit: Thanks for the gold kind stranger! I had no idea this story would get so much support, my mind is thoroughly blown. | A surgical tool doesn't get you into Valhalla. Massive axes, brutal hammers, spears, nets, cannons--did they have cannons in Ancient Greece?--and *weapons* of any sort, historically, have earned--you know--actual warriors a place in Valhalla.
I pictured the place as a flat green disc with Ionic columns, different mythical beasts, and huge gladiators spread about the surface. A nice, blue, cloudy Greek sky and white Greek buildings. Maybe a giant snake hanging around a garden somewhere. I believe in Valhalla. I think the spirits over time become just memories, perhaps living an extended life as beings of different kinds. But it wasn't heaven; I didn't think of the Greeks as being allowed into heaven or having a real concept of it in their mythology.
But here I am.
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[WP] A doctor waging the war on cancer dies with (surgical) blade in hand. Somehow his spirit enters Valhalla. | "Welcome to Valhalla!" The Viking said. He was flanked by two beautiful valkyrie women, and behind him stood a city that looked like it had been torn straight out of the *Thor: The Dark World* concept art book.
He should be happy. He stood in a heavenly kingdom of eternal happiness. Not the one he'd been expecting, but every day would be as exciting as possible and he'd never have to be afraid of dying or losing any loved ones. From what he knew about Viking culture, there would also be women here and they would be treated as equals.
The valkyries came up to him and tried to guide him though the city, but he pulled away.
"Sir, there's just one problem."
The viking god and valkyries turned back and looked at him. "There's a problem. I'm gay."
"That's not a problem," the Valkyrie said.
The viking frowned. "Do you *really* think you're the only gay man to have died fighting a great foe?" | This thread has been linked to from elsewhere on reddit.
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[WP] A doctor waging the war on cancer dies with (surgical) blade in hand. Somehow his spirit enters Valhalla. | It was over.
As I came to my senses, this was the first thought in my head.
I felt the hand on my head.
"Rest, it is over. "
I slunk back into the bed. Fuck. I did not even need to open my eyes. I had written the proposals myself.
"I collapsed in the operating theatre? "
"Yes. "
A warm voice. Nurse? My eyes felt heavy.
I heard a bit of giggling in a corner. The operation had taken more then 23 hours.
"You know it's not my fault...."
"I know. "
Maybe it was just a nursing student. The feeling of her hand on my head reminded me of Clara. My wife. So many years ago, and all was gone. She just did not understand that I loved her, but I loved saving peoples lifes as well.....
I felt something was expected of me. Advice. Being a man. Telling of deeds. It was not unnormal to sludge, to break down, but you had to get up afterwards.
"The patient made it? "
"Yes. "
A slight hint of an accent. Not bad. Germanic, or something. And boy, she smelled so nice....
"He was just a child. You know? They claimed it was inoperable. "
Mumbling in the lower ranks. Other female voices? I creaked one eye open, and saw at least a few other silouettes standing there. Definitively female. By the gods, they must be those vodka fed girls I heard so much about...
"You girls like harassing an old man? Good grief, Just say it. I collapsed on the floor. But feck, I pulled a 23 hour operation. Patient safe. Giggle bout that, if you want. "
Hushed whispering in this language. Never had an ear for languages, or gave them much interest.
A door opening, and a male voice. "I am going to complain! That is an outrage! You, like, can't do this! I am Michael, for god s sake...."
"Girls, need a hand..."
More , agitated talking, mostly the germanic language again, and the sound of a scuffle, and a man being removed.
One eye open, I saw how one of the bigger girls marched outside. Heck, double d's. At the very least. The must build them like that in that lovely nordic country...
Then, I heard the sounds of scuffle.
"You girls will make it big. Never knew a nurse that could enforce the sanctity of the wakeup room with violence. "
"Hildr has a bit of a temper. "
The voice was new. It must have snuck in through the door. I raised one eye.
"Ok, sisters, sorry for the wait, I had to get through a bit of a scuffle with the documentation. So, let me see the patient. "
Barely 16. At least according to the voice. Hell, you could even hear the valley girl slang. I sighed. A teaching hospital. The Nice good smelling nurses .... and now that loud one..... Whyyyyyyy....
"Ortlinde, Helmwige, Göndull, and Kara, out, and watch the door. We have to hurry up a bit, Hildr beat this chippendales reject up something fierce, and he is bound to get help. Remember what I told you. Girl power, and if they come in force, kick them between the legs. "
"Wir haben das schon seit Anbegin der Zeiten getan. Sprich wenigstens die sprache deiner Ahnen, Maid. Ich verlange nicht viel, aber wenn du mit uns redest, muss es nicht englisch sein. "
"Shut your face, I want him to understand this. After all, we are in America. God, you want this job, or not?"
Scurrying, as several of the ladies left the room. Thankfully, not the nice smelling one.
I heard the scuffling, and did not even need to open my eyes.
"Nice how you dealt with your "sisters. ". Proper doctor has to make himself clear in that regard. You hear me? Respect the nurses, but don't be hostile against them. Now, you have questions, right? I remember my name, Robert Frost, it must be the 20.th of august, and the current president is Obama. "
Scribbling. Taking notes. Good. Reminded me of myself. Will have a future, if she can get rid of that perfume, and don proper scrubs.
"Very well. You remember what happened? "
"Puh.... 23 hour surgery, on a patient. Male, 20 something. Brain tumor. Operable, but fickle. I still remember checking the vitals.... After that, pretty much nothing. "
I could hear nodding, and scribbling of notes.
"Are you aware that you fell holding a scalpell? "
"So what? 23 hours. Heck, I will not open my eyes, because I earned that rest. Nobody else volunteered. Feck, boy had a proper history of fighting an uphill battle, with all the complications. So, yea, I am Kind of proud of the fact that I fell with my scalpel in hand. "
Scribble scribble
"You yourself would describe that as a battle? A valiant one even?"
"Hell yea? Poor kid, with the brain tumor. Had his whole life in front of him. Would have been a pitty to not operate on him. Heck, that is what I do. I safe lifes. And yes, it's a battle every step of the way. "
More scribbling. My head itched, and as if on command, the soft woman moved her thumb, and scritched it. Allmost like you would scritch a big cat...
"Ok, that concludes this point. Well, we didn't realize that the kid was christian..."
"Christian? Heck, I know that Obama fella is president, but did we sink so low? Let people be..."
"I am sorry, I believe it may have come over a bit strong. No longer our responsibility. "
"No longer your responsibility, Girl, let me tell you..."
Exactly the kind of behavior I hated. Being a doctor just for the rank. No real passion to help. I was about to give her a piece of my mind, when I stopped, blinking, stariung ath the figure at the foot of my bed.
"Warum macht er das? Juckt es ihn da?"
"Weiß ick auch nicht...Doc, not for nothing, but what do you do with your arm? "
"Checking for an IV. Because These must be some excellent new drugs, because don't take this the wrong way, but you have wings..... "
I finished the search, looking at her. Yer, scrubs, yes, nice, petite face, but behind her, on her back, those were ...
"Ok, no IV. Have they given me something? "
"Doc, stay calm, I believe I have some bad news for you. "
I slunk back. Yep. Brain trauma. Why else had they mentioned the thing with the scalpell? Only explanation for this...
"Ok, I am calm. "
"Liar, but ok. Could you close your eyes, and point at your nose, without touching it? Just to show you what the problem is. "
I accepted. Pointing at my nose, I felt....
"Now open your eyes, and look what you are pointing at. "
I followed my orders, and looked at myself. It was kind of heady, and disturbing. But slowly the details sank in. This was not the wake up room, and this was not a simple case....
I was staring at me, lying next to me, looking at the roof. Dead.
"If this is a joke, I am going to sue. "
"Go ahead, but I am afraid you caught a very bad case of dead. "
"Bullshit. "
"AAh, a sceptic. In this case, could you please tell me what is on your navel? "
I looked down. A silvery line, kind of like an umbillical cord. Connecting me to the .... other me.
"We call that a soul line. Comes to the best of us. Connects body and soul. "
"I can't be dead! I only took a little fall!"
"Well, wasn't the fall that killed you. Or the fact that you worked 23 hour shifts. Or the fact that you smoked a pack a day. Or the fact that you were a bit overweight. Stroke. Would have bet on something different, but yea. Dead before you hit the floor. "
I was stunned.
"So, you are ... Angels? "
"Allmost. Valkyres. "
I had to laugh. It made too much sense. The double D figures, the toned bodies, the good smell.
"If this is a prank, it is a good one. So, cut to the case. "
(cont) | This thread has been linked to from elsewhere on reddit.
- [/r/asatru] [Thought this was interesting: (x-post from r/WritingPrompts) A doctor waging the war on cancer dies with (surgical) blade in hand. Somehow his spirit enters Valhalla.](http://np.reddit.com/r/asatru/comments/2ecpmj/thought_this_was_interesting_xpost_from/)
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[WP] A doctor waging the war on cancer dies with (surgical) blade in hand. Somehow his spirit enters Valhalla. | Howard had not expected to die.
He was a young, fit, man, not the sort of person predisposed to a heart attack, but it seemed that was what happened. One moment, he had been in the surgery one moment, cutting out a tumor from the skin of a patient, and the next he was sitting in a painfully spartan office with a blank-eyed man staring at him vacantly from behind a desk next to a door marked 'Orientation' and another marked 'Armory'.
Howard stared back.
"Who are you?" asked the man.
"Howard Vendt." replied Howard. It occurred to him that perhaps he should have said something a bit more flashy, but he was too intrigued by their surroundings.
He appeared to be seated in the waiting room of a dentists office, admittedly one that had been designed to minimise possible damage to the furniture, with bolted down steel chairs and coffee tables apparently being a staple of the room's design.
As Howard was pondering various genres of design, he missed something the man had said.
"I'm sorry, what?" Howard asked.
"I said," replied the man rather impatiently "Could you clarify your regiment and/or fighting force? Because this bloody thing," he said, waving vaguely at a clipboard "Says that you're from the 'National Cancer Treatment Task-force'."
Howard was very confused. As far as he knew, he had never participated in the military efforts of his country.
"I'm not from a military background, I'm afraid." Howard responded.
"Then what are you doing here?" queried the man.
"What is here?"
"You aren't the sharpest blade on the blacksmiths wall, are you?"
"I'll have you know, I'm a medical doctor and surgeon, who graduated top of my class! I will not be-"
"Oh, you're a doctor?" interrupted the man, his demeanor suddenly changing from crass and impatient to almost sickeningly polite in seconds. "You, err... know how to fix an axe wound?" he asked sheepishly.
"Yes, why?" questioned Howard.
As the man opened his mouth to speak, a massive, heavily built man crashed through the wall of the room, a spear as long as Howard was tall sticking out of his back. Howard gave an (annoyingly) effeminate shriek, and leapt up onto one of the chairs.
"Ahh, perfect!" exclaimed the man behind the desk "Bjorn, apparently this posh fella's a doctor!"
The man apparently called Bjorn jumped up and spun around to Howard in one smooth motion. "Perfick!" he boomed, his voice (somehow) echoing around the tiny room. "Help me out with this would you?" he asked, spinning round to stick the butt of the huge spear approximately five millimetres from Howards nose.
Howard gingerly leant forward, and pulled the spear out of Bjorn's back. "Ermm," he said as he threw the spear at the floor "I don't suppose you could tell me where I am, could you?"
Bjorn looked at Howard incredulously then looked at the man behind the desk. "Odin's beard, he really isn't the sharpest dagger in the belt is he?"
He looked back out a Howard.
"You're in Valhalla mate. And we need doctors." | This thread has been linked to from elsewhere on reddit.
- [/r/asatru] [Thought this was interesting: (x-post from r/WritingPrompts) A doctor waging the war on cancer dies with (surgical) blade in hand. Somehow his spirit enters Valhalla.](http://np.reddit.com/r/asatru/comments/2ecpmj/thought_this_was_interesting_xpost_from/)
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[WP] A doctor waging the war on cancer dies with (surgical) blade in hand. Somehow his spirit enters Valhalla. | (I'm more of a exposition guy and too lazy to write prose...)
The doctor emerges in the micro-universe of Valhalla, as opposed to the macro one everyone expects. The pyschopomp/valkyrie explains that doctors were the greatest warriors in "The Unseen War" of Germ Warfare; fighting the virus and bacteria that have been plaguing the 9 worlds and particularly Midgard for ages. In this dimension within Valhalla, he must battle with valiant/sentient/anthropomorphic red/white blood cells, T-cells, antogens, et al to prepare for Ragnarök. The plot twist: they are within Odin's body... | This thread has been linked to from elsewhere on reddit.
- [/r/asatru] [Thought this was interesting: (x-post from r/WritingPrompts) A doctor waging the war on cancer dies with (surgical) blade in hand. Somehow his spirit enters Valhalla.](http://np.reddit.com/r/asatru/comments/2ecpmj/thought_this_was_interesting_xpost_from/)
*^If ^you ^follow ^any ^of ^the ^above ^links, ^respect ^the ^rules ^of ^reddit ^and ^don't ^vote ^or ^comment. ^Questions? ^Abuse? [^Message ^me ^here.](http://www.reddit.com/message/compose?to=%2Fr%2Fmeta_bot_mailbag)*
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[WP] A doctor waging the war on cancer dies with (surgical) blade in hand. Somehow his spirit enters Valhalla. | One moment Dr. Gumatao was in the operating room and the next, he was standing on a grassy hill gently sloping towards a long wooden building. Noel felt a presence to his side. He turned, and saw the tallest woman he had ever seen. She stood a full head over him, and she was wore a multi-hued tunic and brass bangles on her wrists and ankles. On her left she propped up a wooden shield almost as tall as she was. Instinctively he held up his hand with the thing that he gripped there. It was a moment before he realized, with much embarrassment, that it was his scalpel. A tiny scalpel.
The woman flashed a wide toothy smile. "Greetings, Awang, and welcome!"
Awang? He had not been called that since he was a child, and only by Nana, who never accepted his Christian name. "How do you know...?"
"Here you are known by your true name."
"Where is here? What is this place? Why am I here?"
"Here is Cibolan. In your heart of hearts you know what this place is. You are here because you have been found worthy."
Cibolan? His people's heaven? Such were the tales that he heard from Nana. Such was the final reward of Datu Sama, of Timawen, of Warawara, and all the other mythical warriors of his people. But they were only fairy tales!
I am dreaming, thought Dr. Gumatao. Hallucinating.
"I don't belong here," Dr. Gumatao said.
"You are bagani," the woman said. "You died a valiant death, in battle."
"In battle?" Dr. Gumatao laughed. "I am a doctor, a healer, not a warrior."
The woman said nothing. She merely looked at him with placid eyes, as if the truth would come to him soon enough.
It did.
The operating room. It was a delicate procedure. The patient, anesthetized, lay on the table. The sternum had been cut and held open by clamps and forceps. The bypass machine beat its steady rhythm. Around him, the nurses and assisting doctors moved in practiced steps.
He had completed the grafts. He inspected his handiwork, going through his mental checklist. Everything had gone perfectly. He stepped aside briefly so Dr. Quitaen could verify the work. Dr. Quitaen nodded. It was time to close the patient up.
"Prepare to restart the heart. In 3...2...1..."
From the hallway came loud noises and shouts. What was going on? He blocked out the commotion. He waited for the cue from the nurse but it didn't come. He pushed down his rising anger and prompted: "Heart status?"
The nurse hesitated, then replied with a tremble in his voice. "40 bpm. Doctor...there's..."
"Lockdown! Lockdown!" He heard the announcement faintly over the PA system. There were screams.
"There's a shooter in the hospital," Dr. Quitaen said. Two shots rang out. They were very close.
"God-dammit..... Focus, people! We're going to lose the patient." He looked up and around the operating room. There was fear in their eyes. They were no good to him now. "I need two volunteers to finish the operation. The rest of you, get out."
There was a rush of feet heading out of the operating room. Dr. Quitaen took over the chief nurse's station. One other brave soul remained at the instrumentation, calling out the readings.
The commotion was very close now. It was right outside.
"Disengage bypass."
"Bypass disengaged."
He began wiring the chest cavity closed. He worked steadily, unmindful of the banging and screams outside. More shots.
He had finished closing the patient when the door to the OR burst open. A wild-eyed man entered, shouting obscenities. In his hands was a rifle. Dr. Quitaen and the nurse scrambled to the far corner of the room and dove down to the floor.
Dr. Gumatao turned around. He gripped his scalpel in his hand. His eyes met the shooter's. For a brief moment, the shooter stood dumbly.
"Get out of here," Dr. Gumatao ordered.
The shooter stepped back and seemed to obey. Then, he screamed again and pointed the rifle at him. He felt a jerk on his side, then a radiating stab of pain.
He staggered a step, lunged forward. His left hand grabbed the barrel of the shooter's rifle and brought it up. The shooter fired again.
Dr. Gumatao brought the point of the scalpel up against the chin of the shooter. He slashed downward. Blood came spurting out. The shooter went down to his knees, and Dr. Gumatao went down with him.
The OR doors burst open again. Men in dark blue uniforms poured in. His vision became hazy. They were shouting but he couldn't understand what they were saying.
Over to the side, he heard a familiar voice. "Noel...." It was Dr. Quitaen.
"Phil.... The patient?"
And then, everything went black.
"I am not a warrior," he repeated, but more to himself now, than to the woman. "I am..."
The woman smiled, then turned and started to walk up the meeting hall. She beckoned for him to follow. | This thread has been linked to from elsewhere on reddit.
- [/r/asatru] [Thought this was interesting: (x-post from r/WritingPrompts) A doctor waging the war on cancer dies with (surgical) blade in hand. Somehow his spirit enters Valhalla.](http://np.reddit.com/r/asatru/comments/2ecpmj/thought_this_was_interesting_xpost_from/)
*^If ^you ^follow ^any ^of ^the ^above ^links, ^respect ^the ^rules ^of ^reddit ^and ^don't ^vote ^or ^comment. ^Questions? ^Abuse? [^Message ^me ^here.](http://www.reddit.com/message/compose?to=%2Fr%2Fmeta_bot_mailbag)*
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[WP] A doctor waging the war on cancer dies with (surgical) blade in hand. Somehow his spirit enters Valhalla. | "But I'm not a Viking! I've never even been to Europe! My dad makes Cheese in Wisconsin! Surely there has been some kind of mistake?"
"Are you not Johann Erikson, Son of Alek Erikson?” said the lead Viking
“I am, but thats not the point….”
The Viking turned to the rest of the hall and filled it with his booming voice, “BEHOLD! Johann Erikson, Son of Alek Erikson The Cheesemaker of Wisconsin!”
“Where is this Wisconsin Place? Are there great battles there?”, a voice called out from the back of the crowd.
Johann tried to interrupt, but the lead viking ignored him, “He is of the new world! Great-Grandson of one of our people who left across the great eastern ocean generations ago!”
The hall cheered and roared with approval, with blades and swords raised to the Sky.
“Wait, what, is this to do with my great grand-dad?” Johann asked, still befuddled as to how dying after a long life as a cancer surgeon could lead him to end up in what looked suspiciously like the tales of Valhalla his father had told him about when he was just a boy.
“Your great grandfather left our homeland for the New World long ago, he was of Viking blood, as are you. This is your natural home in the afterlife! You fought many a battle in life, and will fight them forever in death!”
“Fought battles?”. “I was a doctor, I fought no battles! I tried to treat cancer for a living! I mean I hunted deer in the summer for sport sometimes but…”
“THEN IT IS SETTLED!” the lead viking roared, almost blowing Johann over. “WELCOME! Johann Erikson Of The New World! Son of the Wisconsin Cheesemaker! Killer of the Cancer and hunter of the deer!”. “Arm yourself! You must work up an appetite in battle before the feast!”
Johann looked down, and saw a small surgical scalpel in his right hand. “Battle? With THIS?!?”. He gestured to his scalpel, so inconsequential compared to the vast war hammers and axes the vikings were carrying.
“Hmmm…you are correct. This will not do. This simply will NOT do….” the viking murmured. The viking twirled his battle axe in his hand, and a bolt of lightning emerged from it, striking Johann’s scalpel. Suddenly, the scalpel grew larger, and kept growing, until it was the length of a knights sword. At the base, Johann watched in awe as the Scalpel grew a sword-like handle, before finally settling and ceasing to change. Where the scalpel had been, was now a scalpel shaped sword, as if someone had taken the fantasies of a medical student at a renaissance fair and brought them to life.
Johann looked around, as he slowly came to accept that this was his lot. To fight among his Viking kin for all eternity.
“By the way! I am Hamdir! Lord of the forgotten islands and revered Viking! Many of my descendants travelled to this ‘Wisconsin’ place that you speak of. Your great-grandfather was one of them!”. Hamdir then raised his battle axe, and Johann knew that the time for pleasantries were over.
In the back of his mind, he wondered what would of happened if he’d been born to Irish immigrants instead of Danish, perhaps an eternity spent in a blissful country pub where the guinness overflowed the cups, he thought. He stopped daydreaming, and noticed Hamdir, his presumably great-great-great-great-ad-infinitum grandfather, was now charging at him.
“Oh what the hell, why not”, he muttered. He raised his sword-scalpel to the sky as he charged forwards, his Doctors white coat fluttering in the wind, a stark contrast to the norse clothing of those around him. “DEATH TO CANCER! DEATH TO DISEASE!” he cried, as the sword-scalpel and Hamdirs battle-axe clashed for the first time, the sound of metal on metal ringing in the air… | This thread has been linked to from elsewhere on reddit.
- [/r/asatru] [Thought this was interesting: (x-post from r/WritingPrompts) A doctor waging the war on cancer dies with (surgical) blade in hand. Somehow his spirit enters Valhalla.](http://np.reddit.com/r/asatru/comments/2ecpmj/thought_this_was_interesting_xpost_from/)
*^If ^you ^follow ^any ^of ^the ^above ^links, ^respect ^the ^rules ^of ^reddit ^and ^don't ^vote ^or ^comment. ^Questions? ^Abuse? [^Message ^me ^here.](http://www.reddit.com/message/compose?to=%2Fr%2Fmeta_bot_mailbag)*
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[WP] A doctor waging the war on cancer dies with (surgical) blade in hand. Somehow his spirit enters Valhalla. | One moment Dr. Gumatao was in the operating room and the next, he was standing on a grassy hill gently sloping towards a long wooden building. Noel felt a presence to his side. He turned, and saw the tallest woman he had ever seen. She stood a full head over him, and she was wore a multi-hued tunic and brass bangles on her wrists and ankles. On her left she propped up a wooden shield almost as tall as she was. Instinctively he held up his hand with the thing that he gripped there. It was a moment before he realized, with much embarrassment, that it was his scalpel. A tiny scalpel.
The woman flashed a wide toothy smile. "Greetings, Awang, and welcome!"
Awang? He had not been called that since he was a child, and only by Nana, who never accepted his Christian name. "How do you know...?"
"Here you are known by your true name."
"Where is here? What is this place? Why am I here?"
"Here is Cibolan. In your heart of hearts you know what this place is. You are here because you have been found worthy."
Cibolan? His people's heaven? Such were the tales that he heard from Nana. Such was the final reward of Datu Sama, of Timawen, of Warawara, and all the other mythical warriors of his people. But they were only fairy tales!
I am dreaming, thought Dr. Gumatao. Hallucinating.
"I don't belong here," Dr. Gumatao said.
"You are bagani," the woman said. "You died a valiant death, in battle."
"In battle?" Dr. Gumatao laughed. "I am a doctor, a healer, not a warrior."
The woman said nothing. She merely looked at him with placid eyes, as if the truth would come to him soon enough.
It did.
The operating room. It was a delicate procedure. The patient, anesthetized, lay on the table. The sternum had been cut and held open by clamps and forceps. The bypass machine beat its steady rhythm. Around him, the nurses and assisting doctors moved in practiced steps.
He had completed the grafts. He inspected his handiwork, going through his mental checklist. Everything had gone perfectly. He stepped aside briefly so Dr. Quitaen could verify the work. Dr. Quitaen nodded. It was time to close the patient up.
"Prepare to restart the heart. In 3...2...1..."
From the hallway came loud noises and shouts. What was going on? He blocked out the commotion. He waited for the cue from the nurse but it didn't come. He pushed down his rising anger and prompted: "Heart status?"
The nurse hesitated, then replied with a tremble in his voice. "40 bpm. Doctor...there's..."
"Lockdown! Lockdown!" He heard the announcement faintly over the PA system. There were screams.
"There's a shooter in the hospital," Dr. Quitaen said. Two shots rang out. They were very close.
"God-dammit..... Focus, people! We're going to lose the patient." He looked up and around the operating room. There was fear in their eyes. They were no good to him now. "I need two volunteers to finish the operation. The rest of you, get out."
There was a rush of feet heading out of the operating room. Dr. Quitaen took over the chief nurse's station. One other brave soul remained at the instrumentation, calling out the readings.
The commotion was very close now. It was right outside.
"Disengage bypass."
"Bypass disengaged."
He began wiring the chest cavity closed. He worked steadily, unmindful of the banging and screams outside. More shots.
He had finished closing the patient when the door to the OR burst open. A wild-eyed man entered, shouting obscenities. In his hands was a rifle. Dr. Quitaen and the nurse scrambled to the far corner of the room and dove down to the floor.
Dr. Gumatao turned around. He gripped his scalpel in his hand. His eyes met the shooter's. For a brief moment, the shooter stood dumbly.
"Get out of here," Dr. Gumatao ordered.
The shooter stepped back and seemed to obey. Then, he screamed again and pointed the rifle at him. He felt a jerk on his side, then a radiating stab of pain.
He staggered a step, lunged forward. His left hand grabbed the barrel of the shooter's rifle and brought it up. The shooter fired again.
Dr. Gumatao brought the point of the scalpel up against the chin of the shooter. He slashed downward. Blood came spurting out. The shooter went down to his knees, and Dr. Gumatao went down with him.
The OR doors burst open again. Men in dark blue uniforms poured in. His vision became hazy. They were shouting but he couldn't understand what they were saying.
Over to the side, he heard a familiar voice. "Noel...." It was Dr. Quitaen.
"Phil.... The patient?"
And then, everything went black.
"I am not a warrior," he repeated, but more to himself now, than to the woman. "I am..."
The woman smiled, then turned and started to walk up the meeting hall. She beckoned for him to follow. | Howard had not expected to die.
He was a young, fit, man, not the sort of person predisposed to a heart attack, but it seemed that was what happened. One moment, he had been in the surgery one moment, cutting out a tumor from the skin of a patient, and the next he was sitting in a painfully spartan office with a blank-eyed man staring at him vacantly from behind a desk next to a door marked 'Orientation' and another marked 'Armory'.
Howard stared back.
"Who are you?" asked the man.
"Howard Vendt." replied Howard. It occurred to him that perhaps he should have said something a bit more flashy, but he was too intrigued by their surroundings.
He appeared to be seated in the waiting room of a dentists office, admittedly one that had been designed to minimise possible damage to the furniture, with bolted down steel chairs and coffee tables apparently being a staple of the room's design.
As Howard was pondering various genres of design, he missed something the man had said.
"I'm sorry, what?" Howard asked.
"I said," replied the man rather impatiently "Could you clarify your regiment and/or fighting force? Because this bloody thing," he said, waving vaguely at a clipboard "Says that you're from the 'National Cancer Treatment Task-force'."
Howard was very confused. As far as he knew, he had never participated in the military efforts of his country.
"I'm not from a military background, I'm afraid." Howard responded.
"Then what are you doing here?" queried the man.
"What is here?"
"You aren't the sharpest blade on the blacksmiths wall, are you?"
"I'll have you know, I'm a medical doctor and surgeon, who graduated top of my class! I will not be-"
"Oh, you're a doctor?" interrupted the man, his demeanor suddenly changing from crass and impatient to almost sickeningly polite in seconds. "You, err... know how to fix an axe wound?" he asked sheepishly.
"Yes, why?" questioned Howard.
As the man opened his mouth to speak, a massive, heavily built man crashed through the wall of the room, a spear as long as Howard was tall sticking out of his back. Howard gave an (annoyingly) effeminate shriek, and leapt up onto one of the chairs.
"Ahh, perfect!" exclaimed the man behind the desk "Bjorn, apparently this posh fella's a doctor!"
The man apparently called Bjorn jumped up and spun around to Howard in one smooth motion. "Perfick!" he boomed, his voice (somehow) echoing around the tiny room. "Help me out with this would you?" he asked, spinning round to stick the butt of the huge spear approximately five millimetres from Howards nose.
Howard gingerly leant forward, and pulled the spear out of Bjorn's back. "Ermm," he said as he threw the spear at the floor "I don't suppose you could tell me where I am, could you?"
Bjorn looked at Howard incredulously then looked at the man behind the desk. "Odin's beard, he really isn't the sharpest dagger in the belt is he?"
He looked back out a Howard.
"You're in Valhalla mate. And we need doctors." |
|
[WP] A doctor waging the war on cancer dies with (surgical) blade in hand. Somehow his spirit enters Valhalla. | "But I'm not a Viking! I've never even been to Europe! My dad makes Cheese in Wisconsin! Surely there has been some kind of mistake?"
"Are you not Johann Erikson, Son of Alek Erikson?” said the lead Viking
“I am, but thats not the point….”
The Viking turned to the rest of the hall and filled it with his booming voice, “BEHOLD! Johann Erikson, Son of Alek Erikson The Cheesemaker of Wisconsin!”
“Where is this Wisconsin Place? Are there great battles there?”, a voice called out from the back of the crowd.
Johann tried to interrupt, but the lead viking ignored him, “He is of the new world! Great-Grandson of one of our people who left across the great eastern ocean generations ago!”
The hall cheered and roared with approval, with blades and swords raised to the Sky.
“Wait, what, is this to do with my great grand-dad?” Johann asked, still befuddled as to how dying after a long life as a cancer surgeon could lead him to end up in what looked suspiciously like the tales of Valhalla his father had told him about when he was just a boy.
“Your great grandfather left our homeland for the New World long ago, he was of Viking blood, as are you. This is your natural home in the afterlife! You fought many a battle in life, and will fight them forever in death!”
“Fought battles?”. “I was a doctor, I fought no battles! I tried to treat cancer for a living! I mean I hunted deer in the summer for sport sometimes but…”
“THEN IT IS SETTLED!” the lead viking roared, almost blowing Johann over. “WELCOME! Johann Erikson Of The New World! Son of the Wisconsin Cheesemaker! Killer of the Cancer and hunter of the deer!”. “Arm yourself! You must work up an appetite in battle before the feast!”
Johann looked down, and saw a small surgical scalpel in his right hand. “Battle? With THIS?!?”. He gestured to his scalpel, so inconsequential compared to the vast war hammers and axes the vikings were carrying.
“Hmmm…you are correct. This will not do. This simply will NOT do….” the viking murmured. The viking twirled his battle axe in his hand, and a bolt of lightning emerged from it, striking Johann’s scalpel. Suddenly, the scalpel grew larger, and kept growing, until it was the length of a knights sword. At the base, Johann watched in awe as the Scalpel grew a sword-like handle, before finally settling and ceasing to change. Where the scalpel had been, was now a scalpel shaped sword, as if someone had taken the fantasies of a medical student at a renaissance fair and brought them to life.
Johann looked around, as he slowly came to accept that this was his lot. To fight among his Viking kin for all eternity.
“By the way! I am Hamdir! Lord of the forgotten islands and revered Viking! Many of my descendants travelled to this ‘Wisconsin’ place that you speak of. Your great-grandfather was one of them!”. Hamdir then raised his battle axe, and Johann knew that the time for pleasantries were over.
In the back of his mind, he wondered what would of happened if he’d been born to Irish immigrants instead of Danish, perhaps an eternity spent in a blissful country pub where the guinness overflowed the cups, he thought. He stopped daydreaming, and noticed Hamdir, his presumably great-great-great-great-ad-infinitum grandfather, was now charging at him.
“Oh what the hell, why not”, he muttered. He raised his sword-scalpel to the sky as he charged forwards, his Doctors white coat fluttering in the wind, a stark contrast to the norse clothing of those around him. “DEATH TO CANCER! DEATH TO DISEASE!” he cried, as the sword-scalpel and Hamdirs battle-axe clashed for the first time, the sound of metal on metal ringing in the air… | Howard had not expected to die.
He was a young, fit, man, not the sort of person predisposed to a heart attack, but it seemed that was what happened. One moment, he had been in the surgery one moment, cutting out a tumor from the skin of a patient, and the next he was sitting in a painfully spartan office with a blank-eyed man staring at him vacantly from behind a desk next to a door marked 'Orientation' and another marked 'Armory'.
Howard stared back.
"Who are you?" asked the man.
"Howard Vendt." replied Howard. It occurred to him that perhaps he should have said something a bit more flashy, but he was too intrigued by their surroundings.
He appeared to be seated in the waiting room of a dentists office, admittedly one that had been designed to minimise possible damage to the furniture, with bolted down steel chairs and coffee tables apparently being a staple of the room's design.
As Howard was pondering various genres of design, he missed something the man had said.
"I'm sorry, what?" Howard asked.
"I said," replied the man rather impatiently "Could you clarify your regiment and/or fighting force? Because this bloody thing," he said, waving vaguely at a clipboard "Says that you're from the 'National Cancer Treatment Task-force'."
Howard was very confused. As far as he knew, he had never participated in the military efforts of his country.
"I'm not from a military background, I'm afraid." Howard responded.
"Then what are you doing here?" queried the man.
"What is here?"
"You aren't the sharpest blade on the blacksmiths wall, are you?"
"I'll have you know, I'm a medical doctor and surgeon, who graduated top of my class! I will not be-"
"Oh, you're a doctor?" interrupted the man, his demeanor suddenly changing from crass and impatient to almost sickeningly polite in seconds. "You, err... know how to fix an axe wound?" he asked sheepishly.
"Yes, why?" questioned Howard.
As the man opened his mouth to speak, a massive, heavily built man crashed through the wall of the room, a spear as long as Howard was tall sticking out of his back. Howard gave an (annoyingly) effeminate shriek, and leapt up onto one of the chairs.
"Ahh, perfect!" exclaimed the man behind the desk "Bjorn, apparently this posh fella's a doctor!"
The man apparently called Bjorn jumped up and spun around to Howard in one smooth motion. "Perfick!" he boomed, his voice (somehow) echoing around the tiny room. "Help me out with this would you?" he asked, spinning round to stick the butt of the huge spear approximately five millimetres from Howards nose.
Howard gingerly leant forward, and pulled the spear out of Bjorn's back. "Ermm," he said as he threw the spear at the floor "I don't suppose you could tell me where I am, could you?"
Bjorn looked at Howard incredulously then looked at the man behind the desk. "Odin's beard, he really isn't the sharpest dagger in the belt is he?"
He looked back out a Howard.
"You're in Valhalla mate. And we need doctors." |
|
[WP] A doctor waging the war on cancer dies with (surgical) blade in hand. Somehow his spirit enters Valhalla. | One moment Dr. Gumatao was in the operating room and the next, he was standing on a grassy hill gently sloping towards a long wooden building. Noel felt a presence to his side. He turned, and saw the tallest woman he had ever seen. She stood a full head over him, and she was wore a multi-hued tunic and brass bangles on her wrists and ankles. On her left she propped up a wooden shield almost as tall as she was. Instinctively he held up his hand with the thing that he gripped there. It was a moment before he realized, with much embarrassment, that it was his scalpel. A tiny scalpel.
The woman flashed a wide toothy smile. "Greetings, Awang, and welcome!"
Awang? He had not been called that since he was a child, and only by Nana, who never accepted his Christian name. "How do you know...?"
"Here you are known by your true name."
"Where is here? What is this place? Why am I here?"
"Here is Cibolan. In your heart of hearts you know what this place is. You are here because you have been found worthy."
Cibolan? His people's heaven? Such were the tales that he heard from Nana. Such was the final reward of Datu Sama, of Timawen, of Warawara, and all the other mythical warriors of his people. But they were only fairy tales!
I am dreaming, thought Dr. Gumatao. Hallucinating.
"I don't belong here," Dr. Gumatao said.
"You are bagani," the woman said. "You died a valiant death, in battle."
"In battle?" Dr. Gumatao laughed. "I am a doctor, a healer, not a warrior."
The woman said nothing. She merely looked at him with placid eyes, as if the truth would come to him soon enough.
It did.
The operating room. It was a delicate procedure. The patient, anesthetized, lay on the table. The sternum had been cut and held open by clamps and forceps. The bypass machine beat its steady rhythm. Around him, the nurses and assisting doctors moved in practiced steps.
He had completed the grafts. He inspected his handiwork, going through his mental checklist. Everything had gone perfectly. He stepped aside briefly so Dr. Quitaen could verify the work. Dr. Quitaen nodded. It was time to close the patient up.
"Prepare to restart the heart. In 3...2...1..."
From the hallway came loud noises and shouts. What was going on? He blocked out the commotion. He waited for the cue from the nurse but it didn't come. He pushed down his rising anger and prompted: "Heart status?"
The nurse hesitated, then replied with a tremble in his voice. "40 bpm. Doctor...there's..."
"Lockdown! Lockdown!" He heard the announcement faintly over the PA system. There were screams.
"There's a shooter in the hospital," Dr. Quitaen said. Two shots rang out. They were very close.
"God-dammit..... Focus, people! We're going to lose the patient." He looked up and around the operating room. There was fear in their eyes. They were no good to him now. "I need two volunteers to finish the operation. The rest of you, get out."
There was a rush of feet heading out of the operating room. Dr. Quitaen took over the chief nurse's station. One other brave soul remained at the instrumentation, calling out the readings.
The commotion was very close now. It was right outside.
"Disengage bypass."
"Bypass disengaged."
He began wiring the chest cavity closed. He worked steadily, unmindful of the banging and screams outside. More shots.
He had finished closing the patient when the door to the OR burst open. A wild-eyed man entered, shouting obscenities. In his hands was a rifle. Dr. Quitaen and the nurse scrambled to the far corner of the room and dove down to the floor.
Dr. Gumatao turned around. He gripped his scalpel in his hand. His eyes met the shooter's. For a brief moment, the shooter stood dumbly.
"Get out of here," Dr. Gumatao ordered.
The shooter stepped back and seemed to obey. Then, he screamed again and pointed the rifle at him. He felt a jerk on his side, then a radiating stab of pain.
He staggered a step, lunged forward. His left hand grabbed the barrel of the shooter's rifle and brought it up. The shooter fired again.
Dr. Gumatao brought the point of the scalpel up against the chin of the shooter. He slashed downward. Blood came spurting out. The shooter went down to his knees, and Dr. Gumatao went down with him.
The OR doors burst open again. Men in dark blue uniforms poured in. His vision became hazy. They were shouting but he couldn't understand what they were saying.
Over to the side, he heard a familiar voice. "Noel...." It was Dr. Quitaen.
"Phil.... The patient?"
And then, everything went black.
"I am not a warrior," he repeated, but more to himself now, than to the woman. "I am..."
The woman smiled, then turned and started to walk up the meeting hall. She beckoned for him to follow. | (I'm more of a exposition guy and too lazy to write prose...)
The doctor emerges in the micro-universe of Valhalla, as opposed to the macro one everyone expects. The pyschopomp/valkyrie explains that doctors were the greatest warriors in "The Unseen War" of Germ Warfare; fighting the virus and bacteria that have been plaguing the 9 worlds and particularly Midgard for ages. In this dimension within Valhalla, he must battle with valiant/sentient/anthropomorphic red/white blood cells, T-cells, antogens, et al to prepare for Ragnarök. The plot twist: they are within Odin's body... |
|
[WP] A doctor waging the war on cancer dies with (surgical) blade in hand. Somehow his spirit enters Valhalla. | One moment Dr. Gumatao was in the operating room and the next, he was standing on a grassy hill gently sloping towards a long wooden building. Noel felt a presence to his side. He turned, and saw the tallest woman he had ever seen. She stood a full head over him, and she was wore a multi-hued tunic and brass bangles on her wrists and ankles. On her left she propped up a wooden shield almost as tall as she was. Instinctively he held up his hand with the thing that he gripped there. It was a moment before he realized, with much embarrassment, that it was his scalpel. A tiny scalpel.
The woman flashed a wide toothy smile. "Greetings, Awang, and welcome!"
Awang? He had not been called that since he was a child, and only by Nana, who never accepted his Christian name. "How do you know...?"
"Here you are known by your true name."
"Where is here? What is this place? Why am I here?"
"Here is Cibolan. In your heart of hearts you know what this place is. You are here because you have been found worthy."
Cibolan? His people's heaven? Such were the tales that he heard from Nana. Such was the final reward of Datu Sama, of Timawen, of Warawara, and all the other mythical warriors of his people. But they were only fairy tales!
I am dreaming, thought Dr. Gumatao. Hallucinating.
"I don't belong here," Dr. Gumatao said.
"You are bagani," the woman said. "You died a valiant death, in battle."
"In battle?" Dr. Gumatao laughed. "I am a doctor, a healer, not a warrior."
The woman said nothing. She merely looked at him with placid eyes, as if the truth would come to him soon enough.
It did.
The operating room. It was a delicate procedure. The patient, anesthetized, lay on the table. The sternum had been cut and held open by clamps and forceps. The bypass machine beat its steady rhythm. Around him, the nurses and assisting doctors moved in practiced steps.
He had completed the grafts. He inspected his handiwork, going through his mental checklist. Everything had gone perfectly. He stepped aside briefly so Dr. Quitaen could verify the work. Dr. Quitaen nodded. It was time to close the patient up.
"Prepare to restart the heart. In 3...2...1..."
From the hallway came loud noises and shouts. What was going on? He blocked out the commotion. He waited for the cue from the nurse but it didn't come. He pushed down his rising anger and prompted: "Heart status?"
The nurse hesitated, then replied with a tremble in his voice. "40 bpm. Doctor...there's..."
"Lockdown! Lockdown!" He heard the announcement faintly over the PA system. There were screams.
"There's a shooter in the hospital," Dr. Quitaen said. Two shots rang out. They were very close.
"God-dammit..... Focus, people! We're going to lose the patient." He looked up and around the operating room. There was fear in their eyes. They were no good to him now. "I need two volunteers to finish the operation. The rest of you, get out."
There was a rush of feet heading out of the operating room. Dr. Quitaen took over the chief nurse's station. One other brave soul remained at the instrumentation, calling out the readings.
The commotion was very close now. It was right outside.
"Disengage bypass."
"Bypass disengaged."
He began wiring the chest cavity closed. He worked steadily, unmindful of the banging and screams outside. More shots.
He had finished closing the patient when the door to the OR burst open. A wild-eyed man entered, shouting obscenities. In his hands was a rifle. Dr. Quitaen and the nurse scrambled to the far corner of the room and dove down to the floor.
Dr. Gumatao turned around. He gripped his scalpel in his hand. His eyes met the shooter's. For a brief moment, the shooter stood dumbly.
"Get out of here," Dr. Gumatao ordered.
The shooter stepped back and seemed to obey. Then, he screamed again and pointed the rifle at him. He felt a jerk on his side, then a radiating stab of pain.
He staggered a step, lunged forward. His left hand grabbed the barrel of the shooter's rifle and brought it up. The shooter fired again.
Dr. Gumatao brought the point of the scalpel up against the chin of the shooter. He slashed downward. Blood came spurting out. The shooter went down to his knees, and Dr. Gumatao went down with him.
The OR doors burst open again. Men in dark blue uniforms poured in. His vision became hazy. They were shouting but he couldn't understand what they were saying.
Over to the side, he heard a familiar voice. "Noel...." It was Dr. Quitaen.
"Phil.... The patient?"
And then, everything went black.
"I am not a warrior," he repeated, but more to himself now, than to the woman. "I am..."
The woman smiled, then turned and started to walk up the meeting hall. She beckoned for him to follow. | Paul awoke in the grass. *Wait, grass? Wasn't I just in my operating room, trying to fix..*
Then he remembered the pain in his arm, the sharp stabbing feeling in his chest. Paul had known it was a heart attack, but he did not know that it would strike so quickly.
He tried to think of what he looked like now, crumpled on the ground, blade in hand....
He still had the blade. *Am I dead or not? What's going on? If I died, I shouldn't have this blade...*
Paul finally stood up, unsure of how to think of his current situation. He finally managed to get a bearing of his surroundings. Rolling hills, tall grass, about 6 inches high, a few crumbling castles, muscled men fighting, clear skies, little cl-
*Wait, why are there people fighting? Where am-*
Pauls thoughts were interrupted by a rude arrow. As Paul slumped to the ground, again, he thought he heard "Haha! I got the newbie!"
Paul awoke in a bed. He quickly stood up, his mind in a strange mess of thoughts. He scanned his surroundings: He was in a long hall with plenty of beds and a large feasting table. The beds were all empty, but the feasting table, which was about as long as a football field, was about half-filled with huge, muscled men. All were armed. Paul's stomach twisted in a knot. What was this place?
A huge man with a golden beard approached him.
"Ah boys, we've found our newest fighter, Paul!" He exclaimed. "In his life, he waged war on an enemy that he knew nothing about! I bet he has more courage than all of you louts!"
A large cry of disapproval filled the air from the many at the feasting table. Paul recoiled backwards.
"Where am I?! Am I dead? I died of a heart attack, and then died again from an arrow to my head in some huge battlefield! Why am I alive yet again?!"
The man with the beard laughed mightily, "Hahaha, Yetholos got you? I hate that damned archer! He always interrupts my fights with his stupid arrows! Every time I take the bastards head, my day gets brighter."
Pauls eyes widened. *Of course. I was fighting an unknown enemy. Cancer. I was pretty close to curing it too. The man I was cutting open might have been our hope. But I died, blade in hand, close to defeating it. I awoke on a battlefield, died again, and am now surrounded with lightly armored men with axes, swords, hammers...*
"Ah, right!" The bearded man said, "You are in Valhalla! We fight and die all day and drink, feast, and sleep all night!" The mans eyes fell onto his surgical knife. "Don't tell me that you're actually going to fight with that, are you? That butter knife?"
Paul heated up. "This butter knife is made of Obsidian, and a good slice could cut you open from your neck to belly!" He threatened. Paul realized what he had just done. *Nononono, me and my stupid mouth, not again, not again*
The bearded man smiled and laughed. "Hahaha! See boys, I told you this guy has backbone! It's a challenge, then! Great! We'll fight in 5 minutes. Suit up! Me, Odin, versus Paul, the newcomer! This will be a good fight!"
Paul gulped.
Well, like any profession, fighting takes determined practice and training to do it well. His punishment was the pain of death....over and over and over again. But it was okay, because he had an eternity.
|
|
[WP] A doctor waging the war on cancer dies with (surgical) blade in hand. Somehow his spirit enters Valhalla. | "But I'm not a Viking! I've never even been to Europe! My dad makes Cheese in Wisconsin! Surely there has been some kind of mistake?"
"Are you not Johann Erikson, Son of Alek Erikson?” said the lead Viking
“I am, but thats not the point….”
The Viking turned to the rest of the hall and filled it with his booming voice, “BEHOLD! Johann Erikson, Son of Alek Erikson The Cheesemaker of Wisconsin!”
“Where is this Wisconsin Place? Are there great battles there?”, a voice called out from the back of the crowd.
Johann tried to interrupt, but the lead viking ignored him, “He is of the new world! Great-Grandson of one of our people who left across the great eastern ocean generations ago!”
The hall cheered and roared with approval, with blades and swords raised to the Sky.
“Wait, what, is this to do with my great grand-dad?” Johann asked, still befuddled as to how dying after a long life as a cancer surgeon could lead him to end up in what looked suspiciously like the tales of Valhalla his father had told him about when he was just a boy.
“Your great grandfather left our homeland for the New World long ago, he was of Viking blood, as are you. This is your natural home in the afterlife! You fought many a battle in life, and will fight them forever in death!”
“Fought battles?”. “I was a doctor, I fought no battles! I tried to treat cancer for a living! I mean I hunted deer in the summer for sport sometimes but…”
“THEN IT IS SETTLED!” the lead viking roared, almost blowing Johann over. “WELCOME! Johann Erikson Of The New World! Son of the Wisconsin Cheesemaker! Killer of the Cancer and hunter of the deer!”. “Arm yourself! You must work up an appetite in battle before the feast!”
Johann looked down, and saw a small surgical scalpel in his right hand. “Battle? With THIS?!?”. He gestured to his scalpel, so inconsequential compared to the vast war hammers and axes the vikings were carrying.
“Hmmm…you are correct. This will not do. This simply will NOT do….” the viking murmured. The viking twirled his battle axe in his hand, and a bolt of lightning emerged from it, striking Johann’s scalpel. Suddenly, the scalpel grew larger, and kept growing, until it was the length of a knights sword. At the base, Johann watched in awe as the Scalpel grew a sword-like handle, before finally settling and ceasing to change. Where the scalpel had been, was now a scalpel shaped sword, as if someone had taken the fantasies of a medical student at a renaissance fair and brought them to life.
Johann looked around, as he slowly came to accept that this was his lot. To fight among his Viking kin for all eternity.
“By the way! I am Hamdir! Lord of the forgotten islands and revered Viking! Many of my descendants travelled to this ‘Wisconsin’ place that you speak of. Your great-grandfather was one of them!”. Hamdir then raised his battle axe, and Johann knew that the time for pleasantries were over.
In the back of his mind, he wondered what would of happened if he’d been born to Irish immigrants instead of Danish, perhaps an eternity spent in a blissful country pub where the guinness overflowed the cups, he thought. He stopped daydreaming, and noticed Hamdir, his presumably great-great-great-great-ad-infinitum grandfather, was now charging at him.
“Oh what the hell, why not”, he muttered. He raised his sword-scalpel to the sky as he charged forwards, his Doctors white coat fluttering in the wind, a stark contrast to the norse clothing of those around him. “DEATH TO CANCER! DEATH TO DISEASE!” he cried, as the sword-scalpel and Hamdirs battle-axe clashed for the first time, the sound of metal on metal ringing in the air… | Paul awoke in the grass. *Wait, grass? Wasn't I just in my operating room, trying to fix..*
Then he remembered the pain in his arm, the sharp stabbing feeling in his chest. Paul had known it was a heart attack, but he did not know that it would strike so quickly.
He tried to think of what he looked like now, crumpled on the ground, blade in hand....
He still had the blade. *Am I dead or not? What's going on? If I died, I shouldn't have this blade...*
Paul finally stood up, unsure of how to think of his current situation. He finally managed to get a bearing of his surroundings. Rolling hills, tall grass, about 6 inches high, a few crumbling castles, muscled men fighting, clear skies, little cl-
*Wait, why are there people fighting? Where am-*
Pauls thoughts were interrupted by a rude arrow. As Paul slumped to the ground, again, he thought he heard "Haha! I got the newbie!"
Paul awoke in a bed. He quickly stood up, his mind in a strange mess of thoughts. He scanned his surroundings: He was in a long hall with plenty of beds and a large feasting table. The beds were all empty, but the feasting table, which was about as long as a football field, was about half-filled with huge, muscled men. All were armed. Paul's stomach twisted in a knot. What was this place?
A huge man with a golden beard approached him.
"Ah boys, we've found our newest fighter, Paul!" He exclaimed. "In his life, he waged war on an enemy that he knew nothing about! I bet he has more courage than all of you louts!"
A large cry of disapproval filled the air from the many at the feasting table. Paul recoiled backwards.
"Where am I?! Am I dead? I died of a heart attack, and then died again from an arrow to my head in some huge battlefield! Why am I alive yet again?!"
The man with the beard laughed mightily, "Hahaha, Yetholos got you? I hate that damned archer! He always interrupts my fights with his stupid arrows! Every time I take the bastards head, my day gets brighter."
Pauls eyes widened. *Of course. I was fighting an unknown enemy. Cancer. I was pretty close to curing it too. The man I was cutting open might have been our hope. But I died, blade in hand, close to defeating it. I awoke on a battlefield, died again, and am now surrounded with lightly armored men with axes, swords, hammers...*
"Ah, right!" The bearded man said, "You are in Valhalla! We fight and die all day and drink, feast, and sleep all night!" The mans eyes fell onto his surgical knife. "Don't tell me that you're actually going to fight with that, are you? That butter knife?"
Paul heated up. "This butter knife is made of Obsidian, and a good slice could cut you open from your neck to belly!" He threatened. Paul realized what he had just done. *Nononono, me and my stupid mouth, not again, not again*
The bearded man smiled and laughed. "Hahaha! See boys, I told you this guy has backbone! It's a challenge, then! Great! We'll fight in 5 minutes. Suit up! Me, Odin, versus Paul, the newcomer! This will be a good fight!"
Paul gulped.
Well, like any profession, fighting takes determined practice and training to do it well. His punishment was the pain of death....over and over and over again. But it was okay, because he had an eternity.
|
|
[WP] A doctor waging the war on cancer dies with (surgical) blade in hand. Somehow his spirit enters Valhalla. | He wasn't quite sure how he had died. As a doctor, he had made for a terrible patient, but last time he had checked, he had been alive and not sick at all. And, how was it that he had died in a hospital, in the middle of preparing to operate on a patient? Who was going to operate on the patient now? He knew he wasn't so easily replaced.
Were those horses coming down from the sky? It was bad enough that he could feel he was dead and could see his dead body lying right next to him, but now there were flying horses? As a practitioner of science, it destroyed all the laws of physics that he had learned... or at least could remember.
When he saw ladies descend from the horses, he couldn't help but flush furiously. They were ethereal and had large... assets that shouldn't have worked on bodies such as theirs without seriously harming their back.
"So. Uh... How can I help you?" he asked, scratching the back of his neck. He mustered up a weak smile in an attempt be friendly.
"Eir, this man doesn't look like a warrior. Are you sure this is the right man? Look at him! Surely this is a mistake. Look at that piddly knife and the lack of muscles!"
"Göll! Don't be like that. This is most assuredly the man that has been fated to enter Valhalla. However small a knife he has in his hands, it is still a weapon. Plus, I believe he fell in a war against cancer?"
"Pah, I still say he doesn't look like a warrior. Humans these days just get worse and worse. And their naming sense is horrid! What is this cancer? Why, back in Odin's day, it was something like Battle of Svolder. It was-"
"Uh, ladies, who are you?" he managed to cut in. "Why am I dead?"
Göll laughed maniacally as she pointed her sword at the man.
"See! He's timid and his voice isn't any louder than a squeak of a rodent! You call this man a warrior? You are spineless, nay argr! Fight me if you wish to prove yourself a man."
"Göll! Stop this instant."
"But-"
"The Norns have foretold him entering Valhalla. Do you dare tell them that you disagreed with their fate for this man? Do you not recall what happened the last time a Valkyrie did it?"
Göll looked shocked at even the mere thought of ignoring the Norns. "But, there has never been a Valkyrie who has disobeyed the Norns."
"Exactly. Do you wish to be the first one and suffer a horrid punishment?"
"No... but..."
"I must say that I agree with you but, we must drag this man to Valhalla. We can deal with him once he's in Valhalla."
Göll perked up at the thought of this. "Oh, sister, you are simply the best! Come, let's take him!
The man shrunk back as the two Valkyries advanced upon him. "Now, listen, I greatly dislike being-! PUT ME DOWN, PLEASE-----------"
He screamed as he was carted off by the Valkyries to Valhalla. He was going to hell. | Death is not easy and he has seen many kinds. The slow asphyxiation as a girl's lungs stop expanding, her ribcage too heavy. Or torn artery and the fear and panic and blood and forty five seconds later a cooling body on a slick floor.
He has never seen a quiet death. In the last moments the body fights, instinctively, for life. Standing in the suite he can feel the second his heart stuttered. The moment is insignificant. It had been coming on stronger the past few days. A product of too much fatty meat and little sleep. He'd take the weekend off, go to the lake with Maria. Turn off the alarm clock. The gloves are massive.
The tumor is oblong. Under the lights it looks alien a mucus coated mass of hard tissue and bulging veins. A kick in the chest then. His hands are bloated. The scalpel is fidgety, fragile. His heart feelings *tight*. Like heart burn but something is blocked... And he staggers... And the tile is cool on his face... And he feels the damp breeze the comes off a northern lake.
Someone hauls him to his feet. They smell of wet sheep, leather, sweat. The warm dusty whiff of horses and the sharp hint of pine. Mostly dirty though. Unwashed.
More in habit than though his hands off the blade and strips the gloves. The blood on his gown is tacky. In front of him is a group of men. The youngest he'd out at seventeen. That's how old Matt is. The oldest is at lest eighty, with a film over the eyes and teeth. Most are in their mid thirties.
There is a crippling panic that overtakes him. He has the embarrassing urge to cry in front of strangers. It takes him a second to calm down.
"Hello." He tries to shake. They don't respond. They view him with suspicion, some muttering to each other like school boys. |
|
[WP] A doctor waging the war on cancer dies with (surgical) blade in hand. Somehow his spirit enters Valhalla. | "But I'm not a Viking! I've never even been to Europe! My dad makes Cheese in Wisconsin! Surely there has been some kind of mistake?"
"Are you not Johann Erikson, Son of Alek Erikson?” said the lead Viking
“I am, but thats not the point….”
The Viking turned to the rest of the hall and filled it with his booming voice, “BEHOLD! Johann Erikson, Son of Alek Erikson The Cheesemaker of Wisconsin!”
“Where is this Wisconsin Place? Are there great battles there?”, a voice called out from the back of the crowd.
Johann tried to interrupt, but the lead viking ignored him, “He is of the new world! Great-Grandson of one of our people who left across the great eastern ocean generations ago!”
The hall cheered and roared with approval, with blades and swords raised to the Sky.
“Wait, what, is this to do with my great grand-dad?” Johann asked, still befuddled as to how dying after a long life as a cancer surgeon could lead him to end up in what looked suspiciously like the tales of Valhalla his father had told him about when he was just a boy.
“Your great grandfather left our homeland for the New World long ago, he was of Viking blood, as are you. This is your natural home in the afterlife! You fought many a battle in life, and will fight them forever in death!”
“Fought battles?”. “I was a doctor, I fought no battles! I tried to treat cancer for a living! I mean I hunted deer in the summer for sport sometimes but…”
“THEN IT IS SETTLED!” the lead viking roared, almost blowing Johann over. “WELCOME! Johann Erikson Of The New World! Son of the Wisconsin Cheesemaker! Killer of the Cancer and hunter of the deer!”. “Arm yourself! You must work up an appetite in battle before the feast!”
Johann looked down, and saw a small surgical scalpel in his right hand. “Battle? With THIS?!?”. He gestured to his scalpel, so inconsequential compared to the vast war hammers and axes the vikings were carrying.
“Hmmm…you are correct. This will not do. This simply will NOT do….” the viking murmured. The viking twirled his battle axe in his hand, and a bolt of lightning emerged from it, striking Johann’s scalpel. Suddenly, the scalpel grew larger, and kept growing, until it was the length of a knights sword. At the base, Johann watched in awe as the Scalpel grew a sword-like handle, before finally settling and ceasing to change. Where the scalpel had been, was now a scalpel shaped sword, as if someone had taken the fantasies of a medical student at a renaissance fair and brought them to life.
Johann looked around, as he slowly came to accept that this was his lot. To fight among his Viking kin for all eternity.
“By the way! I am Hamdir! Lord of the forgotten islands and revered Viking! Many of my descendants travelled to this ‘Wisconsin’ place that you speak of. Your great-grandfather was one of them!”. Hamdir then raised his battle axe, and Johann knew that the time for pleasantries were over.
In the back of his mind, he wondered what would of happened if he’d been born to Irish immigrants instead of Danish, perhaps an eternity spent in a blissful country pub where the guinness overflowed the cups, he thought. He stopped daydreaming, and noticed Hamdir, his presumably great-great-great-great-ad-infinitum grandfather, was now charging at him.
“Oh what the hell, why not”, he muttered. He raised his sword-scalpel to the sky as he charged forwards, his Doctors white coat fluttering in the wind, a stark contrast to the norse clothing of those around him. “DEATH TO CANCER! DEATH TO DISEASE!” he cried, as the sword-scalpel and Hamdirs battle-axe clashed for the first time, the sound of metal on metal ringing in the air… | Death is not easy and he has seen many kinds. The slow asphyxiation as a girl's lungs stop expanding, her ribcage too heavy. Or torn artery and the fear and panic and blood and forty five seconds later a cooling body on a slick floor.
He has never seen a quiet death. In the last moments the body fights, instinctively, for life. Standing in the suite he can feel the second his heart stuttered. The moment is insignificant. It had been coming on stronger the past few days. A product of too much fatty meat and little sleep. He'd take the weekend off, go to the lake with Maria. Turn off the alarm clock. The gloves are massive.
The tumor is oblong. Under the lights it looks alien a mucus coated mass of hard tissue and bulging veins. A kick in the chest then. His hands are bloated. The scalpel is fidgety, fragile. His heart feelings *tight*. Like heart burn but something is blocked... And he staggers... And the tile is cool on his face... And he feels the damp breeze the comes off a northern lake.
Someone hauls him to his feet. They smell of wet sheep, leather, sweat. The warm dusty whiff of horses and the sharp hint of pine. Mostly dirty though. Unwashed.
More in habit than though his hands off the blade and strips the gloves. The blood on his gown is tacky. In front of him is a group of men. The youngest he'd out at seventeen. That's how old Matt is. The oldest is at lest eighty, with a film over the eyes and teeth. Most are in their mid thirties.
There is a crippling panic that overtakes him. He has the embarrassing urge to cry in front of strangers. It takes him a second to calm down.
"Hello." He tries to shake. They don't respond. They view him with suspicion, some muttering to each other like school boys. |
|
[WP] A doctor waging the war on cancer dies with (surgical) blade in hand. Somehow his spirit enters Valhalla. | "...the fuck?" Dr. Olsen said, as he pushed himself up out of the deep snow that he found himself mysteriously laying in. "Nurse? Nurse!" His voice boomed but was quickly blown away by the torrent of wind and snow breaking across jagged and rocky peaks nearby. Stunned into a state of stupor it took the Doctor what seemed to be ages to snap out of it and check himself and his surroundings.
"Where am I?" He asked, to no one in particular, as he glanced at his location. He was standing on a plateau on, or near, the top of a mountain. The wind drove heavy snow from the north causing visibility to lurch from visible to white out in fits and starts. It wasn't until he was checking his clothing, of which he still wore his scrubs and held the still bloody surgical blade in his right hand, that he realized that he wasn't cold. He didn't feel any temperature at all. Another long moment of thought was broken again by a shattering of sound to the west of the plateau. Heading that way, Dr. Olsen found a snakelike path that wound it's way down to a huge open plain.
"No fucking way!"
At the terminus of the path lay the obvious source of the sound the doctor heard. A enormous gathering of men and women all dressed in clothing that looked like they walked out of a Renaissance Faire engaged each other in merciless slaughter. From his vantage point the good Doctor could see the blood splatter in red streaks across the pure white snow in a macabre mockery of a 'new age' painting technique. Howls of joy, pain, and guttural exertions wafted upwards to him in a way that only could be described as harmonious.
"Henrik Olsen, welcome!" Boomed a voice from behind and above the doctor. He turned and fell backwards onto the snow again, too stunned to speak.
"Henrik Olsen, welcome to the halls of your fathers, and your father's fathers, and their father's fathers. Great Wodin has heard of your battle against a great and dangerous foe. I, Göndul, welcome you as einherjar in our Great Father's Hall." Göndul sat astride a massive horse and held a massive mug in her right hand which she gestured with. "To the Mead Hall before the great fights!"
The Doctor stared at the woman uncomprehending before turning his head. Behind him, previously hidden from view, was a huge old wooden hall with a open air roof. Smoke, the smell roasting meat, the sounds of sex and laughter flowed from the roof.
"What have I gotten myself into?" | Death is not easy and he has seen many kinds. The slow asphyxiation as a girl's lungs stop expanding, her ribcage too heavy. Or torn artery and the fear and panic and blood and forty five seconds later a cooling body on a slick floor.
He has never seen a quiet death. In the last moments the body fights, instinctively, for life. Standing in the suite he can feel the second his heart stuttered. The moment is insignificant. It had been coming on stronger the past few days. A product of too much fatty meat and little sleep. He'd take the weekend off, go to the lake with Maria. Turn off the alarm clock. The gloves are massive.
The tumor is oblong. Under the lights it looks alien a mucus coated mass of hard tissue and bulging veins. A kick in the chest then. His hands are bloated. The scalpel is fidgety, fragile. His heart feelings *tight*. Like heart burn but something is blocked... And he staggers... And the tile is cool on his face... And he feels the damp breeze the comes off a northern lake.
Someone hauls him to his feet. They smell of wet sheep, leather, sweat. The warm dusty whiff of horses and the sharp hint of pine. Mostly dirty though. Unwashed.
More in habit than though his hands off the blade and strips the gloves. The blood on his gown is tacky. In front of him is a group of men. The youngest he'd out at seventeen. That's how old Matt is. The oldest is at lest eighty, with a film over the eyes and teeth. Most are in their mid thirties.
There is a crippling panic that overtakes him. He has the embarrassing urge to cry in front of strangers. It takes him a second to calm down.
"Hello." He tries to shake. They don't respond. They view him with suspicion, some muttering to each other like school boys. |
|
[WP] A doctor waging the war on cancer dies with (surgical) blade in hand. Somehow his spirit enters Valhalla. | "There must be some mistake... I...I." The doctor muttered
"Are you not the one known as Kenneth Anderson son of Grant Anderson?" The man in Cherokee headdress asked with a fierce expression.
"I am but..."
"Is it not true that 23 men have fallen under your blade?"
"I wasn't trying to..."
"Ha, not even here five minutes and this whelp already bragging. What is it ya slay these men in your sleep." said a very large blond man with a braided beard.
"Thats not... I was trying to save..."
"Its okay now, I too fought bravely to save my village but the white man used cowards weapons and attacked at night." The chief said as his fierce expression changed to one of understanding.
"Oh here we go with this again." The viking perched in. "Don't blame my descendants because you weren't strong enough to accomplish your goals."
The chief smirked "Tough talk from a man who had my spear through his eye yesterday."
"Ooohhhh sounds like a challenge if I ever heard one." The blond man said lifting his Axe.
and with that two men gleefully attacked one another. As the hall around the doctor descended into a battlefield the doctor approached what appeared to be a wounded Roman Legionnaire it seems some type of foreign projectile was protruding from his gut. Before he realized it a medical kit was in his hands. The doctor simply shrugged at least now he had all of eternity to practice his craft.
| Death is not easy and he has seen many kinds. The slow asphyxiation as a girl's lungs stop expanding, her ribcage too heavy. Or torn artery and the fear and panic and blood and forty five seconds later a cooling body on a slick floor.
He has never seen a quiet death. In the last moments the body fights, instinctively, for life. Standing in the suite he can feel the second his heart stuttered. The moment is insignificant. It had been coming on stronger the past few days. A product of too much fatty meat and little sleep. He'd take the weekend off, go to the lake with Maria. Turn off the alarm clock. The gloves are massive.
The tumor is oblong. Under the lights it looks alien a mucus coated mass of hard tissue and bulging veins. A kick in the chest then. His hands are bloated. The scalpel is fidgety, fragile. His heart feelings *tight*. Like heart burn but something is blocked... And he staggers... And the tile is cool on his face... And he feels the damp breeze the comes off a northern lake.
Someone hauls him to his feet. They smell of wet sheep, leather, sweat. The warm dusty whiff of horses and the sharp hint of pine. Mostly dirty though. Unwashed.
More in habit than though his hands off the blade and strips the gloves. The blood on his gown is tacky. In front of him is a group of men. The youngest he'd out at seventeen. That's how old Matt is. The oldest is at lest eighty, with a film over the eyes and teeth. Most are in their mid thirties.
There is a crippling panic that overtakes him. He has the embarrassing urge to cry in front of strangers. It takes him a second to calm down.
"Hello." He tries to shake. They don't respond. They view him with suspicion, some muttering to each other like school boys. |
|
[WP] A doctor waging the war on cancer dies with (surgical) blade in hand. Somehow his spirit enters Valhalla. | "This is a mistake, I'm not supposed to be here!"
"Well" Odin said in his deep booming voice, "You died fighting a powerful enemy with blade in hand, that gets you into Valhalla."
"But I never even believed in any of this!"
"That doesn't matter, besides, why should you complain, you get to fight all day and feast all night and the Valkyries will attend to your every need."
"This... this just wasn't what I was expecting"
"Well you will be in good company, you will be revered as a hero here."
"I'm no hero, I didn't die in battle, I had a heart attack while performing surgery!"
"Don't be so modest, this place is for those who fought and slayed the unjust, and what enemy is more unjust than cancer?"
Odin began speaking with excitement, as if even a god were in awe of this mere mortal.
"The most unjust enemy, it kills at random, it slowly and painfully tortures it's victims, and you fought it through hours upon hours in the operating room, and not for the first time! You died a greater hero than many a viking warrior, now you have a place at the table of heroes, now drink your mead and revel in the company of those who fought the good fight!"
Odin put his hand on my shoulder and directed me to a table in his great hall. My eyes widened in wonder as I saw who was seated there. Faces I only knew from pictures in the history books, Hippocrates, Louis Pasteur, Jonas Salk and every other doctor who had saved countless human lives throughout history.
"Behold, the table of true heroes!" Odin proclaimed. Now take your place among them!
Edit: Thanks for the gold kind stranger! I had no idea this story would get so much support, my mind is thoroughly blown. | Death is not easy and he has seen many kinds. The slow asphyxiation as a girl's lungs stop expanding, her ribcage too heavy. Or torn artery and the fear and panic and blood and forty five seconds later a cooling body on a slick floor.
He has never seen a quiet death. In the last moments the body fights, instinctively, for life. Standing in the suite he can feel the second his heart stuttered. The moment is insignificant. It had been coming on stronger the past few days. A product of too much fatty meat and little sleep. He'd take the weekend off, go to the lake with Maria. Turn off the alarm clock. The gloves are massive.
The tumor is oblong. Under the lights it looks alien a mucus coated mass of hard tissue and bulging veins. A kick in the chest then. His hands are bloated. The scalpel is fidgety, fragile. His heart feelings *tight*. Like heart burn but something is blocked... And he staggers... And the tile is cool on his face... And he feels the damp breeze the comes off a northern lake.
Someone hauls him to his feet. They smell of wet sheep, leather, sweat. The warm dusty whiff of horses and the sharp hint of pine. Mostly dirty though. Unwashed.
More in habit than though his hands off the blade and strips the gloves. The blood on his gown is tacky. In front of him is a group of men. The youngest he'd out at seventeen. That's how old Matt is. The oldest is at lest eighty, with a film over the eyes and teeth. Most are in their mid thirties.
There is a crippling panic that overtakes him. He has the embarrassing urge to cry in front of strangers. It takes him a second to calm down.
"Hello." He tries to shake. They don't respond. They view him with suspicion, some muttering to each other like school boys. |
|
[WP] A doctor waging the war on cancer dies with (surgical) blade in hand. Somehow his spirit enters Valhalla. | "But I'm not a Viking! I've never even been to Europe! My dad makes Cheese in Wisconsin! Surely there has been some kind of mistake?"
"Are you not Johann Erikson, Son of Alek Erikson?” said the lead Viking
“I am, but thats not the point….”
The Viking turned to the rest of the hall and filled it with his booming voice, “BEHOLD! Johann Erikson, Son of Alek Erikson The Cheesemaker of Wisconsin!”
“Where is this Wisconsin Place? Are there great battles there?”, a voice called out from the back of the crowd.
Johann tried to interrupt, but the lead viking ignored him, “He is of the new world! Great-Grandson of one of our people who left across the great eastern ocean generations ago!”
The hall cheered and roared with approval, with blades and swords raised to the Sky.
“Wait, what, is this to do with my great grand-dad?” Johann asked, still befuddled as to how dying after a long life as a cancer surgeon could lead him to end up in what looked suspiciously like the tales of Valhalla his father had told him about when he was just a boy.
“Your great grandfather left our homeland for the New World long ago, he was of Viking blood, as are you. This is your natural home in the afterlife! You fought many a battle in life, and will fight them forever in death!”
“Fought battles?”. “I was a doctor, I fought no battles! I tried to treat cancer for a living! I mean I hunted deer in the summer for sport sometimes but…”
“THEN IT IS SETTLED!” the lead viking roared, almost blowing Johann over. “WELCOME! Johann Erikson Of The New World! Son of the Wisconsin Cheesemaker! Killer of the Cancer and hunter of the deer!”. “Arm yourself! You must work up an appetite in battle before the feast!”
Johann looked down, and saw a small surgical scalpel in his right hand. “Battle? With THIS?!?”. He gestured to his scalpel, so inconsequential compared to the vast war hammers and axes the vikings were carrying.
“Hmmm…you are correct. This will not do. This simply will NOT do….” the viking murmured. The viking twirled his battle axe in his hand, and a bolt of lightning emerged from it, striking Johann’s scalpel. Suddenly, the scalpel grew larger, and kept growing, until it was the length of a knights sword. At the base, Johann watched in awe as the Scalpel grew a sword-like handle, before finally settling and ceasing to change. Where the scalpel had been, was now a scalpel shaped sword, as if someone had taken the fantasies of a medical student at a renaissance fair and brought them to life.
Johann looked around, as he slowly came to accept that this was his lot. To fight among his Viking kin for all eternity.
“By the way! I am Hamdir! Lord of the forgotten islands and revered Viking! Many of my descendants travelled to this ‘Wisconsin’ place that you speak of. Your great-grandfather was one of them!”. Hamdir then raised his battle axe, and Johann knew that the time for pleasantries were over.
In the back of his mind, he wondered what would of happened if he’d been born to Irish immigrants instead of Danish, perhaps an eternity spent in a blissful country pub where the guinness overflowed the cups, he thought. He stopped daydreaming, and noticed Hamdir, his presumably great-great-great-great-ad-infinitum grandfather, was now charging at him.
“Oh what the hell, why not”, he muttered. He raised his sword-scalpel to the sky as he charged forwards, his Doctors white coat fluttering in the wind, a stark contrast to the norse clothing of those around him. “DEATH TO CANCER! DEATH TO DISEASE!” he cried, as the sword-scalpel and Hamdirs battle-axe clashed for the first time, the sound of metal on metal ringing in the air… | He wasn't quite sure how he had died. As a doctor, he had made for a terrible patient, but last time he had checked, he had been alive and not sick at all. And, how was it that he had died in a hospital, in the middle of preparing to operate on a patient? Who was going to operate on the patient now? He knew he wasn't so easily replaced.
Were those horses coming down from the sky? It was bad enough that he could feel he was dead and could see his dead body lying right next to him, but now there were flying horses? As a practitioner of science, it destroyed all the laws of physics that he had learned... or at least could remember.
When he saw ladies descend from the horses, he couldn't help but flush furiously. They were ethereal and had large... assets that shouldn't have worked on bodies such as theirs without seriously harming their back.
"So. Uh... How can I help you?" he asked, scratching the back of his neck. He mustered up a weak smile in an attempt be friendly.
"Eir, this man doesn't look like a warrior. Are you sure this is the right man? Look at him! Surely this is a mistake. Look at that piddly knife and the lack of muscles!"
"Göll! Don't be like that. This is most assuredly the man that has been fated to enter Valhalla. However small a knife he has in his hands, it is still a weapon. Plus, I believe he fell in a war against cancer?"
"Pah, I still say he doesn't look like a warrior. Humans these days just get worse and worse. And their naming sense is horrid! What is this cancer? Why, back in Odin's day, it was something like Battle of Svolder. It was-"
"Uh, ladies, who are you?" he managed to cut in. "Why am I dead?"
Göll laughed maniacally as she pointed her sword at the man.
"See! He's timid and his voice isn't any louder than a squeak of a rodent! You call this man a warrior? You are spineless, nay argr! Fight me if you wish to prove yourself a man."
"Göll! Stop this instant."
"But-"
"The Norns have foretold him entering Valhalla. Do you dare tell them that you disagreed with their fate for this man? Do you not recall what happened the last time a Valkyrie did it?"
Göll looked shocked at even the mere thought of ignoring the Norns. "But, there has never been a Valkyrie who has disobeyed the Norns."
"Exactly. Do you wish to be the first one and suffer a horrid punishment?"
"No... but..."
"I must say that I agree with you but, we must drag this man to Valhalla. We can deal with him once he's in Valhalla."
Göll perked up at the thought of this. "Oh, sister, you are simply the best! Come, let's take him!
The man shrunk back as the two Valkyries advanced upon him. "Now, listen, I greatly dislike being-! PUT ME DOWN, PLEASE-----------"
He screamed as he was carted off by the Valkyries to Valhalla. He was going to hell. |
|
[WP] A doctor waging the war on cancer dies with (surgical) blade in hand. Somehow his spirit enters Valhalla. | "This is a mistake, I'm not supposed to be here!"
"Well" Odin said in his deep booming voice, "You died fighting a powerful enemy with blade in hand, that gets you into Valhalla."
"But I never even believed in any of this!"
"That doesn't matter, besides, why should you complain, you get to fight all day and feast all night and the Valkyries will attend to your every need."
"This... this just wasn't what I was expecting"
"Well you will be in good company, you will be revered as a hero here."
"I'm no hero, I didn't die in battle, I had a heart attack while performing surgery!"
"Don't be so modest, this place is for those who fought and slayed the unjust, and what enemy is more unjust than cancer?"
Odin began speaking with excitement, as if even a god were in awe of this mere mortal.
"The most unjust enemy, it kills at random, it slowly and painfully tortures it's victims, and you fought it through hours upon hours in the operating room, and not for the first time! You died a greater hero than many a viking warrior, now you have a place at the table of heroes, now drink your mead and revel in the company of those who fought the good fight!"
Odin put his hand on my shoulder and directed me to a table in his great hall. My eyes widened in wonder as I saw who was seated there. Faces I only knew from pictures in the history books, Hippocrates, Louis Pasteur, Jonas Salk and every other doctor who had saved countless human lives throughout history.
"Behold, the table of true heroes!" Odin proclaimed. Now take your place among them!
Edit: Thanks for the gold kind stranger! I had no idea this story would get so much support, my mind is thoroughly blown. | "...the fuck?" Dr. Olsen said, as he pushed himself up out of the deep snow that he found himself mysteriously laying in. "Nurse? Nurse!" His voice boomed but was quickly blown away by the torrent of wind and snow breaking across jagged and rocky peaks nearby. Stunned into a state of stupor it took the Doctor what seemed to be ages to snap out of it and check himself and his surroundings.
"Where am I?" He asked, to no one in particular, as he glanced at his location. He was standing on a plateau on, or near, the top of a mountain. The wind drove heavy snow from the north causing visibility to lurch from visible to white out in fits and starts. It wasn't until he was checking his clothing, of which he still wore his scrubs and held the still bloody surgical blade in his right hand, that he realized that he wasn't cold. He didn't feel any temperature at all. Another long moment of thought was broken again by a shattering of sound to the west of the plateau. Heading that way, Dr. Olsen found a snakelike path that wound it's way down to a huge open plain.
"No fucking way!"
At the terminus of the path lay the obvious source of the sound the doctor heard. A enormous gathering of men and women all dressed in clothing that looked like they walked out of a Renaissance Faire engaged each other in merciless slaughter. From his vantage point the good Doctor could see the blood splatter in red streaks across the pure white snow in a macabre mockery of a 'new age' painting technique. Howls of joy, pain, and guttural exertions wafted upwards to him in a way that only could be described as harmonious.
"Henrik Olsen, welcome!" Boomed a voice from behind and above the doctor. He turned and fell backwards onto the snow again, too stunned to speak.
"Henrik Olsen, welcome to the halls of your fathers, and your father's fathers, and their father's fathers. Great Wodin has heard of your battle against a great and dangerous foe. I, Göndul, welcome you as einherjar in our Great Father's Hall." Göndul sat astride a massive horse and held a massive mug in her right hand which she gestured with. "To the Mead Hall before the great fights!"
The Doctor stared at the woman uncomprehending before turning his head. Behind him, previously hidden from view, was a huge old wooden hall with a open air roof. Smoke, the smell roasting meat, the sounds of sex and laughter flowed from the roof.
"What have I gotten myself into?" |
|
[WP] A doctor waging the war on cancer dies with (surgical) blade in hand. Somehow his spirit enters Valhalla. | "There must be some mistake... I...I." The doctor muttered
"Are you not the one known as Kenneth Anderson son of Grant Anderson?" The man in Cherokee headdress asked with a fierce expression.
"I am but..."
"Is it not true that 23 men have fallen under your blade?"
"I wasn't trying to..."
"Ha, not even here five minutes and this whelp already bragging. What is it ya slay these men in your sleep." said a very large blond man with a braided beard.
"Thats not... I was trying to save..."
"Its okay now, I too fought bravely to save my village but the white man used cowards weapons and attacked at night." The chief said as his fierce expression changed to one of understanding.
"Oh here we go with this again." The viking perched in. "Don't blame my descendants because you weren't strong enough to accomplish your goals."
The chief smirked "Tough talk from a man who had my spear through his eye yesterday."
"Ooohhhh sounds like a challenge if I ever heard one." The blond man said lifting his Axe.
and with that two men gleefully attacked one another. As the hall around the doctor descended into a battlefield the doctor approached what appeared to be a wounded Roman Legionnaire it seems some type of foreign projectile was protruding from his gut. Before he realized it a medical kit was in his hands. The doctor simply shrugged at least now he had all of eternity to practice his craft.
| Another day at work for Doctor Hubert Sprinklejizz. How he ever got this job is a mystery, lost least on himself. He barely passed medical school, if it hadn't been for that short act of fellatio upon professor Fuddlepuck, he wouldn't have garnered the necessary "extra credit" to have continued his career. He shuddered, how close he had been to working his fathers fruit stall instead!
His ineptitude had befouled him before. His short time as a paediatrician had ended in a storm of malpractice lawsuits, unnecessary surgeries and violent, angry parents. Forced to leave Bangladesh, he set course for America, that golden gilded paradise of opportunity.
After twenty years of practice his opportunities had evaporated. No self-respecting hospital would take him. The NRA had a bounty on his head, the CRIPs and Bloods had put their differences aside to try to stop him. The lower 48 were off limits.
Which is how he found himself in Alaska. Fortunately Alaskan scientists hadn't yet discovered the internet, and his reputation was clear, for now.
A sharp pain gripped his chest.
The ceiling of the theatre tore open, and before it the sky itself. Ten-thousand busty valkeries poured around him, gingerly lifting him upon their fingertips into the sky above.
A great hall. All of the great conquerors of history sat around an equally great table, Genghis Khan, Alexander, Tamerlane, Robin Williams, with Odin at the head. "HUBERT!!" Odin's voice boomed "TRULY YOU ARE THE GREATEST OF US ALL!"... |
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[WP] A doctor waging the war on cancer dies with (surgical) blade in hand. Somehow his spirit enters Valhalla. | "This is a mistake, I'm not supposed to be here!"
"Well" Odin said in his deep booming voice, "You died fighting a powerful enemy with blade in hand, that gets you into Valhalla."
"But I never even believed in any of this!"
"That doesn't matter, besides, why should you complain, you get to fight all day and feast all night and the Valkyries will attend to your every need."
"This... this just wasn't what I was expecting"
"Well you will be in good company, you will be revered as a hero here."
"I'm no hero, I didn't die in battle, I had a heart attack while performing surgery!"
"Don't be so modest, this place is for those who fought and slayed the unjust, and what enemy is more unjust than cancer?"
Odin began speaking with excitement, as if even a god were in awe of this mere mortal.
"The most unjust enemy, it kills at random, it slowly and painfully tortures it's victims, and you fought it through hours upon hours in the operating room, and not for the first time! You died a greater hero than many a viking warrior, now you have a place at the table of heroes, now drink your mead and revel in the company of those who fought the good fight!"
Odin put his hand on my shoulder and directed me to a table in his great hall. My eyes widened in wonder as I saw who was seated there. Faces I only knew from pictures in the history books, Hippocrates, Louis Pasteur, Jonas Salk and every other doctor who had saved countless human lives throughout history.
"Behold, the table of true heroes!" Odin proclaimed. Now take your place among them!
Edit: Thanks for the gold kind stranger! I had no idea this story would get so much support, my mind is thoroughly blown. | Another day at work for Doctor Hubert Sprinklejizz. How he ever got this job is a mystery, lost least on himself. He barely passed medical school, if it hadn't been for that short act of fellatio upon professor Fuddlepuck, he wouldn't have garnered the necessary "extra credit" to have continued his career. He shuddered, how close he had been to working his fathers fruit stall instead!
His ineptitude had befouled him before. His short time as a paediatrician had ended in a storm of malpractice lawsuits, unnecessary surgeries and violent, angry parents. Forced to leave Bangladesh, he set course for America, that golden gilded paradise of opportunity.
After twenty years of practice his opportunities had evaporated. No self-respecting hospital would take him. The NRA had a bounty on his head, the CRIPs and Bloods had put their differences aside to try to stop him. The lower 48 were off limits.
Which is how he found himself in Alaska. Fortunately Alaskan scientists hadn't yet discovered the internet, and his reputation was clear, for now.
A sharp pain gripped his chest.
The ceiling of the theatre tore open, and before it the sky itself. Ten-thousand busty valkeries poured around him, gingerly lifting him upon their fingertips into the sky above.
A great hall. All of the great conquerors of history sat around an equally great table, Genghis Khan, Alexander, Tamerlane, Robin Williams, with Odin at the head. "HUBERT!!" Odin's voice boomed "TRULY YOU ARE THE GREATEST OF US ALL!"... |
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[WP] A doctor waging the war on cancer dies with (surgical) blade in hand. Somehow his spirit enters Valhalla. | "This is a mistake, I'm not supposed to be here!"
"Well" Odin said in his deep booming voice, "You died fighting a powerful enemy with blade in hand, that gets you into Valhalla."
"But I never even believed in any of this!"
"That doesn't matter, besides, why should you complain, you get to fight all day and feast all night and the Valkyries will attend to your every need."
"This... this just wasn't what I was expecting"
"Well you will be in good company, you will be revered as a hero here."
"I'm no hero, I didn't die in battle, I had a heart attack while performing surgery!"
"Don't be so modest, this place is for those who fought and slayed the unjust, and what enemy is more unjust than cancer?"
Odin began speaking with excitement, as if even a god were in awe of this mere mortal.
"The most unjust enemy, it kills at random, it slowly and painfully tortures it's victims, and you fought it through hours upon hours in the operating room, and not for the first time! You died a greater hero than many a viking warrior, now you have a place at the table of heroes, now drink your mead and revel in the company of those who fought the good fight!"
Odin put his hand on my shoulder and directed me to a table in his great hall. My eyes widened in wonder as I saw who was seated there. Faces I only knew from pictures in the history books, Hippocrates, Louis Pasteur, Jonas Salk and every other doctor who had saved countless human lives throughout history.
"Behold, the table of true heroes!" Odin proclaimed. Now take your place among them!
Edit: Thanks for the gold kind stranger! I had no idea this story would get so much support, my mind is thoroughly blown. | "There must be some mistake... I...I." The doctor muttered
"Are you not the one known as Kenneth Anderson son of Grant Anderson?" The man in Cherokee headdress asked with a fierce expression.
"I am but..."
"Is it not true that 23 men have fallen under your blade?"
"I wasn't trying to..."
"Ha, not even here five minutes and this whelp already bragging. What is it ya slay these men in your sleep." said a very large blond man with a braided beard.
"Thats not... I was trying to save..."
"Its okay now, I too fought bravely to save my village but the white man used cowards weapons and attacked at night." The chief said as his fierce expression changed to one of understanding.
"Oh here we go with this again." The viking perched in. "Don't blame my descendants because you weren't strong enough to accomplish your goals."
The chief smirked "Tough talk from a man who had my spear through his eye yesterday."
"Ooohhhh sounds like a challenge if I ever heard one." The blond man said lifting his Axe.
and with that two men gleefully attacked one another. As the hall around the doctor descended into a battlefield the doctor approached what appeared to be a wounded Roman Legionnaire it seems some type of foreign projectile was protruding from his gut. Before he realized it a medical kit was in his hands. The doctor simply shrugged at least now he had all of eternity to practice his craft.
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[WP] The captain always goes down with the star ship. | *The Captain always goes down with the starship*.
That's the price, y'see. The Order warned me that this would happen. Just as they warned me about the inevitable flood of memories that'll start when the reality sinks in. But that's just words. They pass on dry facts, not the raw impact of the situation.
Right now, I can feel the passengers abandoning ship. They don't know anything more than what the Order stewards are telling them. Mechanical malfunction, ship in distress, get to the lifeboats. Yes, another cruiser is nearby. Yes, rescue is on the way. No, you cannot go back to your cabin.
It's true, that mechanical malfunction. From a certain point of view. Ahh, there's a reason we love those movies.
*Solar Glory* and I are old, old friends. Older than most of our passengers realize. I was barely nineteen when I stowed away on that first liner. I thought I was so smart. I did the calculations and figured out that no-one ever went to the lower decks, or if they did, they spent so little time there that they obviously didn't search it. So therefore, I reasoned, I could hide out in there and hitch a free starship ride.
Hah. There's a reason no-one goes to the lower decks. Well, almost no-one. That's where you find out the truth about the starships. I found out in a dimly-lit bay when the newly created organo-metallic lifeform latched onto me as its Captain.
They're alive. All of them. All seven hundred and thirty-two Starships that ply the lanes between the Colonies. People think they're machines, and the plans available on the info-nets are full of impressive technological calculations. They're a source of pride for Humanity - We Made This. Except we didn't.
It's all a front. The Order keeps it secret. They were dying - hunted almost to extinction by the aggressive Pannach. They found us, and we hid them. We hid them well. We gave them metal shells. We ensured they would never travel alone. We built an interstellar trade network and lied to a trillion people, all to keep them safe.
But biological machines age. We creak, we groan, we break. We die.
Three hundred years ago, I didn't know that. All I knew was that my clever hiding place in the ductwork was discovered and there was an alien *something* that could peer into my mind.
*<Joy, Joy. Happiness. Eager.>*
*<Yeah, we were kid, weren't we? Took us a bit to understand each other.>*
*<Rueful Acknowledgement>*
I ran from an alien being that I could almost feel breathing down my neck. Every time I stopped, I could sense it was behind me. I could hear it in my mind. I was a sobbing wreck when the Order finally found me, and I was ashamed of it. Later on, I found out that was a typical reaction to a Bonding.
The Master of the Chapter gave me a dressing-down and then inducted me into their ranks as a Captain. When the ships are born, there is an instant bond between the newborn and a nearby human. But they're terrible at telling people apart, and I just happened to be crawling through a duct that put me closer than the Order representative they had groomed for the position.
That's how I became Captain of a Starship. Every voyage, the kids inevitably ask me how. I tell them it's hard work and long hours at the Academy. But really it's a matter of being in the right place and the right time.
*<Nervous Anticipation. Query: Sorrow/Anger?>*
*<I am happy for you,* Solar Glory*, I really am. Old memories. We get emotional over them a lot.>*
Three hundred years of the universe's best friend. *Glory* is the one confidant - the one person in the entire cosmos whom I could tell anything and everything. A mate who not only knows how you think, but can see you thinking.
We've shipped so many families around the galaxy - from newlyweds to elderly couples. I've never married another human myself, but I...I can relate to their descriptions of a soulmate. Of a being who you know is always there for you, and you will be always there for them.
There was that lovely pair from the Procyon Habitats who were on a retirement cruise. *Glory* and I spent an hour listening as they told me of their years together. I must have let recognition show on my face, and at the end of the talk, the wife told me I was very lucky to have someone I obviously loved so deeply.
That soaring splendor of true commitment is what I feel with *Solar Glory* every day.
Even today. *Especially today*
The star Cygnus-55 burns brightly ahead of us. We're going to impact in another sixteen hours. *Glory* has shut down her engines for the final time. Her heart has given it's final beat, the biological mechanism fallen prey to the malfunction called Old Age.
We won't be sun-skimming like the early Adrenaline Tours days. No basking like our time under the colors of Solar Vacations. We're going to hit it. Both of us. Together.
It'll be fast and clean. There'll be no betraying corpse for the Pannach to find.
Sixteen hours is a long time, even at the end of three hundred years. I should easily have enough time to stroll on down to the launch bay on Deck Five and take the last shuttle off. But I can't. That's the price. I cannot physically leave the ship.
*Glory* and I are neurally intertwined. I leave her, and we both shut down. IF I'm not brought back on board within twelve hours, then the damage is permanent, and we both die. Not that I want to anyway. There is no way I would ever want to miss this exact moment.
*<Attention, Attention. Look!>*
I flip up the screens to show a dark cavern in our lower decks. The Order is there, and their chosen is standing in front of the Child-Pod. The new Captain looks nervous. She's got the shaven head of a new recruit, and the tattoos betray her as someone much like I was - a runaway that no-one would miss.
The pod splits open, and the silvery mass of a newborn ship tumbles out. It's about the size of a large dog right now - a vaguely slug-like thing. The Order is already attaching the nutrient packs as the new Captain sinks to her knees and begins weeping.
The bond has been made, and through *Glory* I can feel the whispered edges of the newborn child's eager conversation with it's new partner. I smile to an empty Command Deck, and *Glory* gives a pleasurable twitch.
Forewarned, I'm able to switch the view fast enough to watch a rich-list passenger cease arguing with an Order steward and make a beeline for the closest lifepod as the ship quakes around him.
I can both see the Cygnus Navy ship coming alongside, as well as sense it's metallic hull. *Thackeron* is its name, and *Glory* relays our sincere thanks as it extends a boarding tube to take the Child and its Captain aboard. They'll spend the next few decades growing before the final shell is fitted, and the fleet will "build" another Starship.
*Thackeron* moves away, precious cargo aboard, and I feel the final wrench as the last pod leaves. Everybody bar one is now away. It'll take the Order another carefully scripted twenty hours to "discover" that I never made it a lifepod.
But that's OK. There's nowhere else I can be....and nowhere else I want to be.
After all, the Captain always goes down with the Starship.
| *This is it.*
The last of the surviving crew had jettisoned. The flagship of the victorious Coalition was in ruins, it would take at least two weeks for the survivors to get a rescue ship out here. In less than half that time, the oxygen would run out. Luckily for the captain, they left the armory untouched, if he so desired. It was just him, his baby, and his thoughts. *Why were they fighting? We won.* The Gren Collective had formally surrendered, marking the end of the first intergalactic war. *There have always been holdouts. Every major war.* Why should an intergalactic war be any different? *Besides, who knows if their communications even worked out here, ours barely do. Well, did. If only we had been able to get into contact with them. Even if they did not believe the surrender, they could’ve taken us under watch until they heard about it. Instead, they all died, and I’m here, alone.*
*I’m not even a military captain, I purposefully avoided the war. I don’t like fighting. The only “combat” I’ve ever encountered was a tiny group of pirates who surrendered almost immediately after coming under fire. But why did they have me pilot this, the best ship in the entire fleet? I’m one of the best commercial captains in the Coalition Galaxies, but I have no idea what to do under fire. If the cargo was as high priority as they said, they should’ve left someone else in charge.*
I*t’s funny, we humans have the entire universe to ourselves, and yet we still have that desire to own it all. We just love conflict I suppose. Or maybe we don’t. Maybe some of use just lust for power, and quenching that thirst tends to cause conflict.* Things were great for nearly a millennium, the Spectrum Coalition and the Gren Collective existed peacefully at worst, symbiotically at best. The Coalition specialized in creating new technologies, while the Grens focused on the production and applications of such technologies and as a result, the Coalition tended to be better off, its citizens especially so.
Things started to go downhill not even a year before the war. Coalition scientists had created robotic “super soldiers” which were no longer cost prohibitive, the key factor which had kept them from mass production. The problem lied in the fact that the Coalition would have overrides for the soldiers, even if the Grens would purchase and employ them for their own army. The citizens were upset, but the leaders, including the president, were behind the implementation of the soldiers. A little grease from the Coalition never hurt anyone. Then the “terrorist attacks” came factories were bombed (sometimes by the workers themselves), a few made their way to Coalition soil and carried out a few, though that method became ineffective after immigration and travel between the two was made nigh impossible.
This angst gave rise to the People’s Party which swept the following Gren elections, headed by a young, hot headed, yet charismatic president. Sweeping changes were made. Gren factories were no longer allowed to produce anything for the Coalition, funding was diverted from all aspects into the training of scientists and innovations of new technologies. Then, out of nowhere, an agreement was made, the Coalition would get the production back, and the Gren would have access to the overrides.
The ceremonial signing did not go as planned. Things got heated, the Gren leader pulled out a gun, Coalition bodyguards dispatched him, Gren’s retaliated, leaving both alliances without their heads. This power vacuum, no matter how brief it might have been, allowed for the generals of both sides to assume control over their respective governments, leading to an all-out war, which left the universe in shambles.
*I try to avoid war at all costs, and even when it no longer exists, it still finds me.*
*I might as well see what kind of cargo I’m carrying, I’ll be dead before any repercussions can find me.* In the hold, the valuable cargo sits adorned with labels announcing “WARNING” and “CLASSIFIED” and “DANGER” as if that would actually stop anyone. Taking a plasma cutter from the workshop, the captain removes the case around the cargo revealing what appears to be a massive bomb.
The attached paperwork confirmed that yes, it was a bomb. One destined for the capital of the Gren Collective, a Trojan horse. It had more than enough firepower to wipe the entire planet off the map.
*There’s only one thing to do* the captain thought
####This was the first story I've written in probably 4 years. Any constructive criticism is very welcome. It's late and I went way off on a tangent, I know. |
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[WP]In 2016 the US has elected reddit as acting president. | I sat there, euphoric. Reddit as president, we did it. I had to wonder what the site itself looked like now.
"M'country," I said to myself, stroking my neckbeard while www.reddit.com loaded.
The page reads "Due to our new position in the U.S. government, the standard website is permanently disabled. All existing accounts have been deleted, and each citizen will be granted a single new account."
One link existed on the page. I clicked. *discontinuity*
Light. Applause. A mouth opens.
#We are /u/karmanaut
| Social Media Site "Reddit" Elected POTUS by Electoral College, Not Popular Vote.- CNN Breaking News 11/20/16
UN Worried About Election of Reddit Acting President- Reuters 11/26/16
Reddit Usership Hits Fifty Million, Americans Clamber for "True Direct Democracy."- USA Today 11/28/16
Redditors Decry New Members After Presidential Election- CNN 11/28/16
Atlanta Area Redditor Kills Eight Over "Usurping the True Reddit."- Atlanta Journal Constitution 11/31/16
Has The USA Been Usurped By Student Revolutionaries? It's Like Paris 1968 All Over Again- Many Blondes on Fox News
Has America Finally Been Ushered Into A Hyper-Progressive Sweden-esque Society?- Salon 12/3/16
PM Cameron Will Not Accept Reddit as Pres- Telegraph 12/6/16
Cameron, Merkel, Renzi Threaten End to NATO, Citing "Lack of American Perspective."- Der Spiegel 12/8/16
72% of Americans Find Reddit Too Extreme On Religion, Foreign Policy, and Economics- ABC News Australia 12/10/16
89% of Non-Redditors Feel "Uncomfortable" Over Specific Reddit Policies- New York Times 12/16/16
Oklahoma Threatens Secession Over Reddit Led Guaranteed Minimum Income Bill- LA Times 12/17/16
Chuck Hagel: "Reddit cannot be the true President."- Wall Street Journal 12/21/16
The True Generation Gap: The Lack of Age Diversity on Reddit- Fox News 12/23/16
Reddit Sworn In With Cat Pic Festival- Le Monde 1/20/17
Reddit announces "Congressional Purge" on /r/politics- BBC World Service 1/23/16
Congress Murdered In Cold Blood!!!-New York Post 1/29/17
Army Units Go Missing From Fort Bragg, Fort Benning, Other Military Installations.- Al Jazeera Breaking News 2/4/17
US Army Spokesman: "Reddit Can Never Represent All of America."-CNN Breaking News 2/4/17
Reddit Servers Down: Army Takes Washington By Storm- MSNBC Breaking News 2/4/17
Prominent Redditors Disappear From Homes, US Military Announces Coup- Xinhua Daily- 2/4/17
American Streets Bathe In Blood As Military Purges Citizens- RT 2/5/17
2000 Redditors Dead Nationwide, Rest on Perpetual Net Surveillance- CBC 2/6/17
Army Announces Emergency 2018 Election As The Nation Grieves For the Dead.- TIME 2/10/17
11 Ways This Child Literally Can't Even Deal With the Military Junta- BuzzFeed 2/11/24 |
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[WP]In 2016 the US has elected reddit as acting president. | I sat there, euphoric. Reddit as president, we did it. I had to wonder what the site itself looked like now.
"M'country," I said to myself, stroking my neckbeard while www.reddit.com loaded.
The page reads "Due to our new position in the U.S. government, the standard website is permanently disabled. All existing accounts have been deleted, and each citizen will be granted a single new account."
One link existed on the page. I clicked. *discontinuity*
Light. Applause. A mouth opens.
#We are /u/karmanaut
| The corporations thought they had outsmarted us. They spent years lobbying and gaming the system to stack the deck against the common man. They believed that they had it all sorted out. I guess their greatest coup was the Supreme Court. By its very nature, the long con had to be on in order to get the right people in place at just the right time and no opportunity could be missed. First came Citizen's United, then Hobby Lobby, they were very close to garnering all the protections they would need in order to be immune against the stupid consumer. The sheep would finally be powerless and they would be in full control. Too bad we had better ideas.
The initial idea was first tossed around as a running gag in various threads. Reddit: Hope for 2016. Like any meme we thought it would ebb and flow in popularity and soon fall to the back of Reddit's collective consciousness as tends to be their fate. Something happened however that no one was expecting. Some of the Law subreddit's began hosting serious discussions about the feasibility of a "Reddit Campaign." I truly believe at first it was just intended to be an exercise in law and hopefully generate some meaningful discussion but as they began to dig into the matter it started to get traction.
The foundations that corporations had been laying for years with various court rulings had solidified the idea of a corporate entity as a 'person.' They had religious rights and could donate ad nausea to campaigns, so why couldn't they run for office? The technical terminology being thrown around was a tad bit above my head but so long as the majority of Reddit's servers were located in the United States at a physical address and the company was registered here as well, the criteria for citizenship seemed to be met. The post highlighting the exact next steps to take went down as the largest, longest running post in reddit history.
The first ad appeared on The Colbert Show to raucous applause. Between Colbert and Stewart, the Reddit campaign had a very real mouth piece in the public domain. No matter how much the mass media tried to keep us down, the ratings being generated by the sheer audacity of the community was too good to pass up. Soon CNN started "The Reddit Referendum: 2016" which ran continuously, 24 hours a day. Individual user's posts were dissected with a remarkable degree of scrutiny on national television. It was really something to behold.
Then came the debates. Man, you should have seen the debates. Imagine people as knowledgeable as Unidan in each of their specific sub-specialities being able to chime in and respond to the questions being put forth by the moderator. It brought a tear to my eye. The other folks on the stage looks like they had an elementary education on the matters being discussed while Reddit was masterful. Eloquent and understandable, how couldn't the masses love us.
The legal attacks started shortly afterward. I think they thought it was a fun distraction at first, but now we were a threat. They threw the kitchen sink at Reddit. They began throttling its speeds, submitting copyright infringement claims against nearly all the content, and targeting individual redditors for things as inane as unpaid parking tickets. It got really crazy around this time, but to the community's credit, everyone tried to support everyone else.
The night of the election I couldn't sleep. I had voted earlier in the day. I was having some problems with the touch screen of the Voting Machine but when I saw the big black box with "Reddit - Independent" flash on the screen I couldn't stop smiling. It was actually happening. The news coverage was pandemonium. Every sensationalist headline you could imagine was flying around the tickers. Like usual, each station wanted to be the first to call a state so there were some early scares on the east coast. New Jersey was almost called immediately for one of the competitors and my heart almost sank into my feet. Nearly 30 eternal seconds later the same anchor chimed back in that he had been premature and the 30% of precincts which were reporting seemed to be heavily concentrated in non-Reddit strongholds. The data coming from other precincts seemed to be experiencing some data delays. Go figure.
By 10pm EST Reddit had swept the East Coast. I was in euphoria. We did it! We actually did it. We used their stupid rules against them and had beat them at their own game. When all was said and done we had only lost four states. It was truly a dominant display and in one evening the entire political landscape of the United States had been re-written.
Now we just had one question...who was going to put their hand on the bible at the swearing in?
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[WP] Use "Death, death comes for us all" in a happy story with a happy ending | In awe, Nathan gazed across the sea of people before him. The sight
never failed to astound him. Lighters and glowsticks floated in the crowd like fireflies, and the sound was like waves, roaring and crashing. His heavy face paint was beginning to run despite its quality; no make up could stand up to the combination of harsh stage lighting and tight, tight leather. Arms raised, Nathan lifted his head and screamed into his microphone;
"*ONE MORE SONG?!*"
The crowd's response was just phenomenal, they went insane, a tsunami of sheer noise, a little terrifying. Well, very terrifying. He adored it.
Nathan fleetingly remembered where he was three years ago; doing sets with the band in his parents' garage for his friends - and neighbours. Their hit song - the one they'd perform now - skyrocketed them from near anonymity to near stardom. It was the classic, unlikely story of rags to riches. Nathan didn't care; he believed his mindset was what had carried him and his friends to fame. He believed in looking forwards and letting the past push him on. It seemed to work.
Behind him, his drummer band mate clashed his drumsticks together and the guitarist - his brother - exploded into a raging chord. Nathan took a breath, raised his mic to his mouth, and sang:
"*Death...death comes for us all...*"
As he opened the song, Nathan thought how ironic the hit single was when compared to how he felt. Death comes for us all, but Nathan, well, on that stage he felt like he could never stop living. | They got their son a fine education, academically and at home. It wasn't always easy but now the son had established himself as an expert in his vocation and this pleased them. They were mostly risk-averse, about as willing to take up financial risk as the next middle-class family. But in the twilight of their careers, this move away from the city to start an inn was a decision that belied the risk appetite they had exhibited through their marriage.
"We have nothing left to be afraid of", he said calmly. She was skeptical at first, but gave in quite easily once she saw the location of the inn he was about to purchase.
"We've run busy lives in the city all these years. It's time for us to lay back in the rural sun. To serve wary travelers and curious visitors. To serve every one of them until that very last one", he explained to her.
"And who is that?", she asked.
His calmness belied the morbidity of his response, "Death, death comes for us all. One day. But that day is far away. We have galloped through so many years of our lives. There will be many more, of course. We spent many a day working hard, returning to each other at the end of the day, and then enjoying the evening so much that we would hope for a few hours of twilight more for us to enjoy.
We will have many years in the evening of our lives to revel in. I owe this to you. To us."
He was right. They did have a wonderful evening to their marriage, to their lives. Away from the prying eyes of the metropolis. In the idyllic town where they would watch the sun dive behind the distant hills every evening. And he would hold her hand firmly as they would watch twilight turn to night. |
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[WP] Use "Death, death comes for us all" in a happy story with a happy ending | Despite all the bustle and movement around him, Calvin could hear nothing but the steady beeping of the heart monitor. He turned his head slightly to the right to look at the machine, it was white like his bed frame, his bedsheets, his gown and most of his hospital room. It continued to beep, slowly but steadily. Calvin listened to the beeping, content with the noise and slightly hypnotized by the way the lines bounced up with every slow pump of his old weary heart.
A doctor in white was speaking beside him, but he could not hear her. A lunch trolley rolled pass his hospital room, clanging and clanking, but he could not hear it. The nurse at the other side of his room dropped his clipboard and it clattered to the floor, but he could not hear it.
Calvin must have dozed off to sleep because he was woken by a soft paw touching his cheeks. “Hobbes? How did you get here?”
“Susie brought me,” Hobbes said. He sat down sadly at the foot of Calvin’s bed, by his old, worn feet. “She was here an hour ago. She stayed, but you weren’t responsive.”
“What did she do?” Calvin rasped.
“She talked to you,” Hobbes said, curling his now ragged and droopy tail around his torso. “She didn’t cry. You know Susie, she doesn’t cry.”
“What did she say?” Calvin asked, his old wrinkly eyes lighting up for a second.
“She talked about that summer you tried to hit her with a snowball you saved in your freezer but missed,” Hobbes laughed softly.
“I was an idiot for missing,” Calvin said, the light in his eyes sparkled even brighter as he remembered the better days.
“She didn’t miss though,” Hobbes reminded him.
“No she didn’t.”
There was silent for a while. Calvin took a glance at the heart monitor beside his bed again. It seem to look a little less white, a little fainter. Was it his imagination or did the lines that bounced were getting slower.
“Hobbes?”
“Yeah?”
“Am I dying?”
“I think so.”
“Is that why I can hear you again?”
“I think so. Calvin?”
“Yeah?”
“I’m sorry for pouncing on you all the time when you got home from school,” a single tear was trickling through the matted hair on the tiger’s face. He wiped it clumsily away with his paw. “I was just so excited to see you.”
“It’s alright,” Calvin smiled gently. “I may have acted although I hated it. But really, I felt loved. Hobbes?”
“Yeah?”
“I’m scared.”
“Me too.”
“What will happen to you when I go?” Calvin tried to sit up but couldn’t, so Hobbes climbed over the covers, still as nimble as ever, to hold an old friend’s hands.
“I’ve been spending a lot of time with James,” Hobbes said.
“With little James?” the light in the old man’s eyes shone bright again as he thought of his grandson.
“Yeah,” the tiger said. “He tried to run away to Yukon too.”
“He did?”
“Just last week,” the tiger chuckled, “Susie said he couldn’t have cookies before dinner so he got his snowshoes and set off for Yukon.”
“Did you go with him?”
“Of course.”
“Hobbes?”
“Yeah?”
“I think after all these years, I’m finally going to get to Yukon tonight.”
“Death, death comes for us all.”
“That’s okay, I’m not scared anymore.”
“Why not?”
“Because you’re here, Hobbes. Because you’re here.” | They got their son a fine education, academically and at home. It wasn't always easy but now the son had established himself as an expert in his vocation and this pleased them. They were mostly risk-averse, about as willing to take up financial risk as the next middle-class family. But in the twilight of their careers, this move away from the city to start an inn was a decision that belied the risk appetite they had exhibited through their marriage.
"We have nothing left to be afraid of", he said calmly. She was skeptical at first, but gave in quite easily once she saw the location of the inn he was about to purchase.
"We've run busy lives in the city all these years. It's time for us to lay back in the rural sun. To serve wary travelers and curious visitors. To serve every one of them until that very last one", he explained to her.
"And who is that?", she asked.
His calmness belied the morbidity of his response, "Death, death comes for us all. One day. But that day is far away. We have galloped through so many years of our lives. There will be many more, of course. We spent many a day working hard, returning to each other at the end of the day, and then enjoying the evening so much that we would hope for a few hours of twilight more for us to enjoy.
We will have many years in the evening of our lives to revel in. I owe this to you. To us."
He was right. They did have a wonderful evening to their marriage, to their lives. Away from the prying eyes of the metropolis. In the idyllic town where they would watch the sun dive behind the distant hills every evening. And he would hold her hand firmly as they would watch twilight turn to night. |
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[WP] Use "Death, death comes for us all" in a happy story with a happy ending | He felt regret as he knocked on his dad's door. Nothing. It had been many years since they had talked. He feared the worst and was on the verge of tears, a tear came out of his eye, one of sadness. An old man came to the door and opened it, his eyes lit up when he saw the middle aged man before him. The middle aged man began to cry now, but no longer tears of sadness; those of happiness instead. The old man spoke slowly to make sure his son heard him.
"My son." a tear came out "Death, death comes for us all. But you came before it got to me" | They got their son a fine education, academically and at home. It wasn't always easy but now the son had established himself as an expert in his vocation and this pleased them. They were mostly risk-averse, about as willing to take up financial risk as the next middle-class family. But in the twilight of their careers, this move away from the city to start an inn was a decision that belied the risk appetite they had exhibited through their marriage.
"We have nothing left to be afraid of", he said calmly. She was skeptical at first, but gave in quite easily once she saw the location of the inn he was about to purchase.
"We've run busy lives in the city all these years. It's time for us to lay back in the rural sun. To serve wary travelers and curious visitors. To serve every one of them until that very last one", he explained to her.
"And who is that?", she asked.
His calmness belied the morbidity of his response, "Death, death comes for us all. One day. But that day is far away. We have galloped through so many years of our lives. There will be many more, of course. We spent many a day working hard, returning to each other at the end of the day, and then enjoying the evening so much that we would hope for a few hours of twilight more for us to enjoy.
We will have many years in the evening of our lives to revel in. I owe this to you. To us."
He was right. They did have a wonderful evening to their marriage, to their lives. Away from the prying eyes of the metropolis. In the idyllic town where they would watch the sun dive behind the distant hills every evening. And he would hold her hand firmly as they would watch twilight turn to night. |
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[WP] Use "Death, death comes for us all" in a happy story with a happy ending | The tribe had been performing this ritual for as long as anyone could remember. They would take the old man to the tent and strip him of all his clothing. Then they would dip their fingers in the paint, a vivid electric blue that seemed to glow and paint on his skin, in whorls and strange designs that seemed to pulse and stutter with their own kinetic energy.
Upon completion the young men of the village would place him on a litter and carry him up to the cliff and set the litter down.
The old man rises to his feet, joints creaking and popping with the effort, blind eyes blinking slowly.
His first step halting, frail, his muscles contracting painfully with the strain.
His foot settling on the soft grass, the dew making it slick under his feet, digging his arthritic toes into the dirt for purchase.
His second step is different somehow, he manages to uncurl his toes and places his foot flat on the ground, lifiting his heel and using the ball of his foot to push off.
The old man begins to totter off at something of jog, the young men of the village to begin chant slowly.
Each step of the old man becomes easier, and suddenly without warning, the milky white color of his eyes drain away to reveal a startlingly deep green.
The muscles in his legs no longer cramping, his stride lengthening as he now begins to move faster, the muscles in his neck and back relaxing and unknotting.
The young men now far behind him smile with warmth and sadness mixed equally as they continue to chant.
The young man suddenly remembers it and begins to chant and laugh in time with it as it floats over the wind to greet him.
And he is young now, no longer old, no longer infirm, the paint on his body pulses stronger now, whorling frantically, each step bringing him closer to the edge of the cliff.
He runs now fast, faster than he has ever run in his life, the wind touches his face its sweet breath cools his skin, the sun is bright and shining and there at the edge of the cliff he sees them all again for the first time in a long time. His mother, his father, the line of his people all the way back to the beginning and as his foot hits the edge and he launches himself high into the air, arms out spread. The whorls of paint explode in a flash of blue that for a moment makes the sun seem pale in comparison, blinding the young men waiting far behind.
Their chant never stops though and its words echo across the hills..."Death, death comes for us all." | They got their son a fine education, academically and at home. It wasn't always easy but now the son had established himself as an expert in his vocation and this pleased them. They were mostly risk-averse, about as willing to take up financial risk as the next middle-class family. But in the twilight of their careers, this move away from the city to start an inn was a decision that belied the risk appetite they had exhibited through their marriage.
"We have nothing left to be afraid of", he said calmly. She was skeptical at first, but gave in quite easily once she saw the location of the inn he was about to purchase.
"We've run busy lives in the city all these years. It's time for us to lay back in the rural sun. To serve wary travelers and curious visitors. To serve every one of them until that very last one", he explained to her.
"And who is that?", she asked.
His calmness belied the morbidity of his response, "Death, death comes for us all. One day. But that day is far away. We have galloped through so many years of our lives. There will be many more, of course. We spent many a day working hard, returning to each other at the end of the day, and then enjoying the evening so much that we would hope for a few hours of twilight more for us to enjoy.
We will have many years in the evening of our lives to revel in. I owe this to you. To us."
He was right. They did have a wonderful evening to their marriage, to their lives. Away from the prying eyes of the metropolis. In the idyllic town where they would watch the sun dive behind the distant hills every evening. And he would hold her hand firmly as they would watch twilight turn to night. |
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[WP] Use "Death, death comes for us all" in a happy story with a happy ending | Every year around Valentine’s day my dad has some big business meeting and goes away for a couple of weeks. That leaves me in charge of my brother and my two sisters while he is away. They are well behaved usually but its been really busy at my dad’s office so I’ve been watching them five to six days a week. The twins Sara and Mara play field hockey, so everyday my brother Phil and I walk over from the high school to the junior high and cheer them on. We always save a seat for dad, but he never shows up because the one time he did one of the coaches got hit with the ball and it was some big fiasco with an ambulance and everything. Phil is in a band so most days after the game he leaves with his friends and me and the girls walk home where I make mac and cheese for dinner. “Hey Baxter” I look back from the dishes to see Mara sitting on the counter. “What’s up?” I respond knowing exactly what this conversation will be about. “When do you think dad will be home?” she asks in her sweetest voice as if her tone will change the answer I give her every night. “You know he works late, especially this week. Valentine’s is tomorrow and I doubt he will be home until the end of this week.” Mara sighs, hops off the counter and grabs my cell phone off the counter. “Can I call him, pleeeeeeease?” I wipe my hands dry, turn around and grab my phone from her. “Yeah, just use the house phone. I have to use mine to get a hold of Phil, he was supposed to be home by now.” Mumbling under my breath I walk back into the badly decorated living room. I really wish dad would start dating again. This place could use a womans touch, after mom passed away he decided to “redecorate the parlor”. He put a couple of animal head mounts and some weird paintings up along with a fresh coat of black paint. I pull up a seat on the leather sofa next to Sara who is watching some lame horror movie while I’m waiting for Phil to answer. “Hello?” he says, the noise in the background makes his voice barely audible. “Phil, where the hell are you?” I ask, trying to sound as intimidating as I can. In between howls of guitar riffs he responds, “Almost done, I’ll be headed out in ten—” My other ear is suddenly interrupted by Mara yelling my name. “BAXTER! Dad wants to talk to you!” With a huge groan I tell Phil to hurry up and I get up to grab the corded phone from Mara. “Hello?” I say almost stuttering, its been weeks since dad asked to speak with me over the phone. “Hey sport!” he says in the cheeriest voice I only remember him having while mom was around. “I wanted to let you know that I’m working on a big project and I’ll be home on the 21st! I can’t wait to see you guys, I missed you so much. The boss even said I can have a vacation if I pull this project off!” I’m filled with as much excitement that a 17 year old boy can have. I can’t wait to hug him when he walks through the door and show him how everything has been under my control since he left; he will be so proud. “Really?” I ask in almost in disbelief. “Yeah buddy, lets do something as a family when I’m home. We can go to an amusement park or go to the movies or even the new ice cream shoppe your sister told me about!” I tell him how amazing that would be and ask him what his project he’s working on. He tells me its for a night club in Rhode Island and its going to change the way people look at all clubs. We hang up and for the first time in a year and a half he tells me he loves me. It’s the night of the twentieth and all of us are gathered around the tv waiting for dad’s big project to be aired, he told Sara last night it was going to be so epic that all the news teams in New England were going to air it. A little after 11 the news casters break for a developing story in Rhode Island. This is it! Dad’s big project he wanted us to see! The newscasters are speaking almost anxiously as they say “Breaking news at Station Night Club…” All of us move closer to the edge of the couch. “Has burned down this evening. 165 people died in a fire that was started by pyrotechnics”. The door opens and dad walks in dressed to the nines in his pitch black suit and bone white tie. We all jump to our feet and give him the biggest family hug. Death, death comes for us all; but tonight he’s spending time with his family at the drive in movie theater with all of his kids. I love my dad. | They got their son a fine education, academically and at home. It wasn't always easy but now the son had established himself as an expert in his vocation and this pleased them. They were mostly risk-averse, about as willing to take up financial risk as the next middle-class family. But in the twilight of their careers, this move away from the city to start an inn was a decision that belied the risk appetite they had exhibited through their marriage.
"We have nothing left to be afraid of", he said calmly. She was skeptical at first, but gave in quite easily once she saw the location of the inn he was about to purchase.
"We've run busy lives in the city all these years. It's time for us to lay back in the rural sun. To serve wary travelers and curious visitors. To serve every one of them until that very last one", he explained to her.
"And who is that?", she asked.
His calmness belied the morbidity of his response, "Death, death comes for us all. One day. But that day is far away. We have galloped through so many years of our lives. There will be many more, of course. We spent many a day working hard, returning to each other at the end of the day, and then enjoying the evening so much that we would hope for a few hours of twilight more for us to enjoy.
We will have many years in the evening of our lives to revel in. I owe this to you. To us."
He was right. They did have a wonderful evening to their marriage, to their lives. Away from the prying eyes of the metropolis. In the idyllic town where they would watch the sun dive behind the distant hills every evening. And he would hold her hand firmly as they would watch twilight turn to night. |
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[WP] Use "Death, death comes for us all" in a happy story with a happy ending | For the longest time I had been waiting. Waiting for what I didn't know. Something more perhaps. Or some kind of meaning. And when it didn't come I became one of those old grumps that curses at you when you step in front of them to get on the bus.
I watched everyone I knew fall to the wayside and it wasn't long before I was alone. But still the years dragged on. With my pension I could afford what I needed, and I didn't need to replace the wallpaper that hung from the ceiling above my bed in long strips. I could afford milk, and eggs, and bread.
But now tonight, tucked up snug in my bed, I feel somehow relieved. You see, there's a pressure in my chest - something that that's been building for weeks now. And tonight I am filled with expectation. There was nothing for me on this side of mortality, perhaps I will become in death what eluded me in life.
For some, death is a tragedy. For me, I am hoping, it will be a rebirth. It is fitting and just that death comes for us all. | They got their son a fine education, academically and at home. It wasn't always easy but now the son had established himself as an expert in his vocation and this pleased them. They were mostly risk-averse, about as willing to take up financial risk as the next middle-class family. But in the twilight of their careers, this move away from the city to start an inn was a decision that belied the risk appetite they had exhibited through their marriage.
"We have nothing left to be afraid of", he said calmly. She was skeptical at first, but gave in quite easily once she saw the location of the inn he was about to purchase.
"We've run busy lives in the city all these years. It's time for us to lay back in the rural sun. To serve wary travelers and curious visitors. To serve every one of them until that very last one", he explained to her.
"And who is that?", she asked.
His calmness belied the morbidity of his response, "Death, death comes for us all. One day. But that day is far away. We have galloped through so many years of our lives. There will be many more, of course. We spent many a day working hard, returning to each other at the end of the day, and then enjoying the evening so much that we would hope for a few hours of twilight more for us to enjoy.
We will have many years in the evening of our lives to revel in. I owe this to you. To us."
He was right. They did have a wonderful evening to their marriage, to their lives. Away from the prying eyes of the metropolis. In the idyllic town where they would watch the sun dive behind the distant hills every evening. And he would hold her hand firmly as they would watch twilight turn to night. |
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[WP] Use "Death, death comes for us all" in a happy story with a happy ending | **Colourful Night**
I first met Hugo in a bar in some quiet little town in the West – He was raising up a holler, and I can remember three things about him; Firstly, he loved his women. Secondly, he loved his drink. Thirdly, he loved the world. He came into town in a fucked up Ford Ranger that might’ve cost two hundred dollars - might as well have been born that way, too - and across the tailgate were the scratched and worn words:
‘Death is an old man who went to sleep.’
I could talk to you about Hugo for weeks, he was a crazy spirit born out of time. I could tell you about his brief stay in the army before he was kicked for disorderly conduct. I could tell you about his time on an Atlantic cruise, where he raged and raged like the animal he was. I could tell you about his son, and his wife, and the scraps of dollars he somehow finds to send them every week – I think his name is Carl, but he calls him Brando because he loves Streetcar most out of all of Tennessee Williams’ plays. I could tell you about his jobs that mostly ended in fun and violence, about his penchant for gambling and lucky streaks (which didn’t mix well with his violent joy) or even about his brothers – he has eleven brothers, of three mothers. Paul, Chriss, Jackob, Michael (or Mikey), Dean, Mark, Donny, Jack, Peter, Sean and Hurley. He has a sister, too, but she moved away to become a lawyer or something, and they don’t talk now. He never told me her name.
No, I won’t talk about his life – just about one night, when he came to a rare stop, in a beautiful clearing in Canada in a nameless place. We’d been hiking like madmen through the cold having spotted a bear some ways off above us by a cliff, and this was the moment when we’d cleared the trees for an instant, and taken cold drinks of water that we’d chilled in the ice. We both slumped our packs against the trees, and were lying on our backs staring at the stars. I was a city boy growing up, but had family in Scotland – they’d taken me to see the stars one night, a night not so cold as this, and not quite so stupid, but there they’d been just as majestic and cold and colourful. *Colourful* – you knew you’d left the city when the night sky was *Colourful*. Hugo hadn't seen a Colourful night before, and he just stared and stared. We had one conversation that night. Hugo was a man of a thousand stories, a million jokes and thoughts, but tonight he just said;
‘Do you know why I scratched that little sentence into the back of my car?’ I didn’t; I said so. ‘Well’, he breathed – his words trembled and hung like ghosts – ‘I was walking a ways back into Sacramento, along the 80, when there was this little old man. He was sitting in a chair, by the side of the road, and he was smiling. I was exhausted; no food, no water, I was plain-shit dumb back then. Maybe sixteen? Well, he was there, and I was there, and I stopped for a while to get my breath and study him a little. Thin – thinner than bones. I remember thinking he was a paper man, with brown paper skin, and envelopes for lips and eyes that must’ve been pure white underneath his lids – you know, like blind. Anyway, he was there, and I was there, and I just waited for the longest time. Cars drove by – one even stopped for a while, thinking I was hitching. I let it go, and just waited. After about thirty minutes, I move closer to him, sit on the ground by his feet. I turn to him, and I ask, ‘Are you even alive?’ and that tickles him something savage, I mean – he’s practically rolling, exploding with laughter. It’s dark and cold, and I’m thinking, ‘I’ve only gone and murdered this gentle-man with a question’, and he was gentle, and creased like paper, and brown. He finally settles down, and says, ‘No, son – but if I was, I’d still be just as happy.’ Death is a miserable thing when you’re young – you don’t even really feel that, really, you just accept the fact of it like a gift. I said so, I was nearly crying with the earnest of it. He keeps smiling, eyes closed, and says, ‘imagine completing just one thing in your life, just one thing – the means are exponential, the stories go on and on, but at the end of it all, you can say simply that, ‘I was happy’. You do that, and then come back here, and sit a while on it.’’
We pondered this. I looked at him; he was looking up at the greens and the purples, finding written there something captivating. I liked Hugo tremendously, but I knew that he was a crazy creature, all fury and fire – and vulnerable, desperately vulnerable.
A match in a storm; but oh, such a match.
‘Death; death comes for us all. I left him on the roadside, to be picked up by a lonely soul – or not, I don’t know. But I’ll one day go back there, and sit a while. I think I want to be buried there. Maybe, if I’d looked up, I’d have seen the stars. Maybe that’s what he really wanted me to do, right then. Maybe. That’s why I took you along, Johnny, that’s why I took you with me. I wanted you to do some things that you’d have wished you’d done later, when you were falling asleep as well.’
I hung around with Hugo for about another year after that, and then he went racing into New York to write poetry for his wife and stories for his son. I heard nothing of him, until he died about five years ago. Death is an old man who went to sleep. Hugo was determined to go to sleep with a smile on his face, and I’m sure he did. I drive past his grave sometimes, though I’m living in Europe and it inconveniences me greatly. His grave is a little ways out of Sacramento, right off the road. It’s just a stick in the ground, and sometimes I have to return it, because the police think it’s vandalism to put wood in the ground unless it’s a coffin. I don’t put flowers on his grave – I put stories instead. | They got their son a fine education, academically and at home. It wasn't always easy but now the son had established himself as an expert in his vocation and this pleased them. They were mostly risk-averse, about as willing to take up financial risk as the next middle-class family. But in the twilight of their careers, this move away from the city to start an inn was a decision that belied the risk appetite they had exhibited through their marriage.
"We have nothing left to be afraid of", he said calmly. She was skeptical at first, but gave in quite easily once she saw the location of the inn he was about to purchase.
"We've run busy lives in the city all these years. It's time for us to lay back in the rural sun. To serve wary travelers and curious visitors. To serve every one of them until that very last one", he explained to her.
"And who is that?", she asked.
His calmness belied the morbidity of his response, "Death, death comes for us all. One day. But that day is far away. We have galloped through so many years of our lives. There will be many more, of course. We spent many a day working hard, returning to each other at the end of the day, and then enjoying the evening so much that we would hope for a few hours of twilight more for us to enjoy.
We will have many years in the evening of our lives to revel in. I owe this to you. To us."
He was right. They did have a wonderful evening to their marriage, to their lives. Away from the prying eyes of the metropolis. In the idyllic town where they would watch the sun dive behind the distant hills every evening. And he would hold her hand firmly as they would watch twilight turn to night. |
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[WP] Use "Death, death comes for us all" in a happy story with a happy ending | Trapped in a shell, I can barely see and speak. My brain has been robbed from me. I cannot hold anything, I cannot walk. I wait for death, year after year. I watch my daughter grow, the last good thing I did. She's an innocent little girl, an angry teen, now a beautiful young woman. She visits me sometimes, as rarely as she can, it's too painful for her. I try to remember her name, but I cannot.
In a hospital bed I now lie, breathing becomes harder. I cannot drink any more. They make me comfortable.
I am happy now, finally free.
[For my mum.] | They got their son a fine education, academically and at home. It wasn't always easy but now the son had established himself as an expert in his vocation and this pleased them. They were mostly risk-averse, about as willing to take up financial risk as the next middle-class family. But in the twilight of their careers, this move away from the city to start an inn was a decision that belied the risk appetite they had exhibited through their marriage.
"We have nothing left to be afraid of", he said calmly. She was skeptical at first, but gave in quite easily once she saw the location of the inn he was about to purchase.
"We've run busy lives in the city all these years. It's time for us to lay back in the rural sun. To serve wary travelers and curious visitors. To serve every one of them until that very last one", he explained to her.
"And who is that?", she asked.
His calmness belied the morbidity of his response, "Death, death comes for us all. One day. But that day is far away. We have galloped through so many years of our lives. There will be many more, of course. We spent many a day working hard, returning to each other at the end of the day, and then enjoying the evening so much that we would hope for a few hours of twilight more for us to enjoy.
We will have many years in the evening of our lives to revel in. I owe this to you. To us."
He was right. They did have a wonderful evening to their marriage, to their lives. Away from the prying eyes of the metropolis. In the idyllic town where they would watch the sun dive behind the distant hills every evening. And he would hold her hand firmly as they would watch twilight turn to night. |
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[WP] Use "Death, death comes for us all" in a happy story with a happy ending | [Warning: NSFW]
"So what's your story?" I said as I unzipped my pants.
"Mortician by day, something else by night," she moaned, flickering a smile. "Not the most obvious combination."
"Well, that's...odd. Wonder how that came about."
"It's a long story."
"Something else is becoming a long story, if you know what I mean."
"Don't flatter yourself. Half an hour for a hand, right?"
"My kinda happy ending," I grinned.
About ten minutes later, she's put her t-shirt and jeans back on and was walking out of my apartment, careful not to step on the clothes and pizza boxes scattered on the floor. She pocketed the hundred dollar bill and, before leaving, took one last look at me, her last customer for the night. Naked and slumped on the couch, I wore a euphoric expression. Her face, from what I could tell, showed a slight disappointment.
Before she went, I called her name. "Could I ask you a personal question?" I asked.
She checked the time. "Sure."
"What made you want to be a...what do you call it?" I said, still a bit dazed.
"A mortician."
"Yeah, that."
Her face lit up. She stopped and thought for a while. I guess nobody's been that interested in her day job before.
"Death," she said, "death comes for us all. It's that one thing I'm absolutely certain everyone goes through. And in a way, death brings people closer together. And I find that interesting. Beautiful, even."
"Wow," I smiled, speechless. Gorgeous *and* smart. After a short silence, I remember: "My cousin owns a funeral home, actually."
"Really?"
"Yeah."
She crept back into the room and closed the door. We sat and talked for the longest time. About a dozen dates later, I found out that she was The One. And to my surprise, I was hers too.
And that, kids, is how I met your mother.
| They got their son a fine education, academically and at home. It wasn't always easy but now the son had established himself as an expert in his vocation and this pleased them. They were mostly risk-averse, about as willing to take up financial risk as the next middle-class family. But in the twilight of their careers, this move away from the city to start an inn was a decision that belied the risk appetite they had exhibited through their marriage.
"We have nothing left to be afraid of", he said calmly. She was skeptical at first, but gave in quite easily once she saw the location of the inn he was about to purchase.
"We've run busy lives in the city all these years. It's time for us to lay back in the rural sun. To serve wary travelers and curious visitors. To serve every one of them until that very last one", he explained to her.
"And who is that?", she asked.
His calmness belied the morbidity of his response, "Death, death comes for us all. One day. But that day is far away. We have galloped through so many years of our lives. There will be many more, of course. We spent many a day working hard, returning to each other at the end of the day, and then enjoying the evening so much that we would hope for a few hours of twilight more for us to enjoy.
We will have many years in the evening of our lives to revel in. I owe this to you. To us."
He was right. They did have a wonderful evening to their marriage, to their lives. Away from the prying eyes of the metropolis. In the idyllic town where they would watch the sun dive behind the distant hills every evening. And he would hold her hand firmly as they would watch twilight turn to night. |
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[WP] Use "Death, death comes for us all" in a happy story with a happy ending | He felt regret as he knocked on his dad's door. Nothing. It had been many years since they had talked. He feared the worst and was on the verge of tears, a tear came out of his eye, one of sadness. An old man came to the door and opened it, his eyes lit up when he saw the middle aged man before him. The middle aged man began to cry now, but no longer tears of sadness; those of happiness instead. The old man spoke slowly to make sure his son heard him.
"My son." a tear came out "Death, death comes for us all. But you came before it got to me" | Death flipped open his phone and checked his messages.
"Death! Dude it's Wrath! I'm at Lust's birthday party down in Hell and it's off the chain! Everybody wants you down here! Call me back!"
Death hit reply.
"Death? Where you at, bro? You comin?"
"Sure thing, Wrath. I'm on my way now".
After hanging up, Death's phone rang.
"Death? It's me, tooth fairy. Look, I know it's short notice, but we're moving some stuff in the tooth palace and I was wondering if I could get your help."
"Sure, tooth fairy. I can be there in a few minutes."
"You're the best, Death! I'm sure there's some old rare skulls or something in there you can grab if you want. I haven't cleaned that place in, like, millenia!"
Death began floating down the road, when his phone rang again. The caller-ID said God.
"Death? Hey, it's God, how are you?"
"I'm doing well, God."
"I'm really sorry about this, Death, but there's been an Earthquake and there's a lot of people to sort here. I know it's your day off, but I might need you to come in to the office to help sort some people, and then maybe a little bit of field work. I've got some angels to help sort some stuff out but I'd really like your expertise."
"Not a problem, God. Have them start with the standard morality checks and I should be there before you finish."
"You're a lifesaver, Death!"
"That's a good one, God."
"Oh my... I totally didn't even realize I- Hey, you're going to Lust's birthday party? And you're helping toothfairy?"
"Yeah, God. Death comes for all. How did you know?"
"Well, I'm God. I'm omniscient. How are you able to do all this?"
"Well, I'm Death. I'm omnipresent."
"Ah, right. Well, I appreciate you taking the time anyway. You're a good guy."
"Aw, I'm just doing my job God. Hey, I'll see you in a bit."
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[WP] Use "Death, death comes for us all" in a happy story with a happy ending | The tribe had been performing this ritual for as long as anyone could remember. They would take the old man to the tent and strip him of all his clothing. Then they would dip their fingers in the paint, a vivid electric blue that seemed to glow and paint on his skin, in whorls and strange designs that seemed to pulse and stutter with their own kinetic energy.
Upon completion the young men of the village would place him on a litter and carry him up to the cliff and set the litter down.
The old man rises to his feet, joints creaking and popping with the effort, blind eyes blinking slowly.
His first step halting, frail, his muscles contracting painfully with the strain.
His foot settling on the soft grass, the dew making it slick under his feet, digging his arthritic toes into the dirt for purchase.
His second step is different somehow, he manages to uncurl his toes and places his foot flat on the ground, lifiting his heel and using the ball of his foot to push off.
The old man begins to totter off at something of jog, the young men of the village to begin chant slowly.
Each step of the old man becomes easier, and suddenly without warning, the milky white color of his eyes drain away to reveal a startlingly deep green.
The muscles in his legs no longer cramping, his stride lengthening as he now begins to move faster, the muscles in his neck and back relaxing and unknotting.
The young men now far behind him smile with warmth and sadness mixed equally as they continue to chant.
The young man suddenly remembers it and begins to chant and laugh in time with it as it floats over the wind to greet him.
And he is young now, no longer old, no longer infirm, the paint on his body pulses stronger now, whorling frantically, each step bringing him closer to the edge of the cliff.
He runs now fast, faster than he has ever run in his life, the wind touches his face its sweet breath cools his skin, the sun is bright and shining and there at the edge of the cliff he sees them all again for the first time in a long time. His mother, his father, the line of his people all the way back to the beginning and as his foot hits the edge and he launches himself high into the air, arms out spread. The whorls of paint explode in a flash of blue that for a moment makes the sun seem pale in comparison, blinding the young men waiting far behind.
Their chant never stops though and its words echo across the hills..."Death, death comes for us all." | Death flipped open his phone and checked his messages.
"Death! Dude it's Wrath! I'm at Lust's birthday party down in Hell and it's off the chain! Everybody wants you down here! Call me back!"
Death hit reply.
"Death? Where you at, bro? You comin?"
"Sure thing, Wrath. I'm on my way now".
After hanging up, Death's phone rang.
"Death? It's me, tooth fairy. Look, I know it's short notice, but we're moving some stuff in the tooth palace and I was wondering if I could get your help."
"Sure, tooth fairy. I can be there in a few minutes."
"You're the best, Death! I'm sure there's some old rare skulls or something in there you can grab if you want. I haven't cleaned that place in, like, millenia!"
Death began floating down the road, when his phone rang again. The caller-ID said God.
"Death? Hey, it's God, how are you?"
"I'm doing well, God."
"I'm really sorry about this, Death, but there's been an Earthquake and there's a lot of people to sort here. I know it's your day off, but I might need you to come in to the office to help sort some people, and then maybe a little bit of field work. I've got some angels to help sort some stuff out but I'd really like your expertise."
"Not a problem, God. Have them start with the standard morality checks and I should be there before you finish."
"You're a lifesaver, Death!"
"That's a good one, God."
"Oh my... I totally didn't even realize I- Hey, you're going to Lust's birthday party? And you're helping toothfairy?"
"Yeah, God. Death comes for all. How did you know?"
"Well, I'm God. I'm omniscient. How are you able to do all this?"
"Well, I'm Death. I'm omnipresent."
"Ah, right. Well, I appreciate you taking the time anyway. You're a good guy."
"Aw, I'm just doing my job God. Hey, I'll see you in a bit."
|
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[WP] Use "Death, death comes for us all" in a happy story with a happy ending | Every year around Valentine’s day my dad has some big business meeting and goes away for a couple of weeks. That leaves me in charge of my brother and my two sisters while he is away. They are well behaved usually but its been really busy at my dad’s office so I’ve been watching them five to six days a week. The twins Sara and Mara play field hockey, so everyday my brother Phil and I walk over from the high school to the junior high and cheer them on. We always save a seat for dad, but he never shows up because the one time he did one of the coaches got hit with the ball and it was some big fiasco with an ambulance and everything. Phil is in a band so most days after the game he leaves with his friends and me and the girls walk home where I make mac and cheese for dinner. “Hey Baxter” I look back from the dishes to see Mara sitting on the counter. “What’s up?” I respond knowing exactly what this conversation will be about. “When do you think dad will be home?” she asks in her sweetest voice as if her tone will change the answer I give her every night. “You know he works late, especially this week. Valentine’s is tomorrow and I doubt he will be home until the end of this week.” Mara sighs, hops off the counter and grabs my cell phone off the counter. “Can I call him, pleeeeeeease?” I wipe my hands dry, turn around and grab my phone from her. “Yeah, just use the house phone. I have to use mine to get a hold of Phil, he was supposed to be home by now.” Mumbling under my breath I walk back into the badly decorated living room. I really wish dad would start dating again. This place could use a womans touch, after mom passed away he decided to “redecorate the parlor”. He put a couple of animal head mounts and some weird paintings up along with a fresh coat of black paint. I pull up a seat on the leather sofa next to Sara who is watching some lame horror movie while I’m waiting for Phil to answer. “Hello?” he says, the noise in the background makes his voice barely audible. “Phil, where the hell are you?” I ask, trying to sound as intimidating as I can. In between howls of guitar riffs he responds, “Almost done, I’ll be headed out in ten—” My other ear is suddenly interrupted by Mara yelling my name. “BAXTER! Dad wants to talk to you!” With a huge groan I tell Phil to hurry up and I get up to grab the corded phone from Mara. “Hello?” I say almost stuttering, its been weeks since dad asked to speak with me over the phone. “Hey sport!” he says in the cheeriest voice I only remember him having while mom was around. “I wanted to let you know that I’m working on a big project and I’ll be home on the 21st! I can’t wait to see you guys, I missed you so much. The boss even said I can have a vacation if I pull this project off!” I’m filled with as much excitement that a 17 year old boy can have. I can’t wait to hug him when he walks through the door and show him how everything has been under my control since he left; he will be so proud. “Really?” I ask in almost in disbelief. “Yeah buddy, lets do something as a family when I’m home. We can go to an amusement park or go to the movies or even the new ice cream shoppe your sister told me about!” I tell him how amazing that would be and ask him what his project he’s working on. He tells me its for a night club in Rhode Island and its going to change the way people look at all clubs. We hang up and for the first time in a year and a half he tells me he loves me. It’s the night of the twentieth and all of us are gathered around the tv waiting for dad’s big project to be aired, he told Sara last night it was going to be so epic that all the news teams in New England were going to air it. A little after 11 the news casters break for a developing story in Rhode Island. This is it! Dad’s big project he wanted us to see! The newscasters are speaking almost anxiously as they say “Breaking news at Station Night Club…” All of us move closer to the edge of the couch. “Has burned down this evening. 165 people died in a fire that was started by pyrotechnics”. The door opens and dad walks in dressed to the nines in his pitch black suit and bone white tie. We all jump to our feet and give him the biggest family hug. Death, death comes for us all; but tonight he’s spending time with his family at the drive in movie theater with all of his kids. I love my dad. | Death flipped open his phone and checked his messages.
"Death! Dude it's Wrath! I'm at Lust's birthday party down in Hell and it's off the chain! Everybody wants you down here! Call me back!"
Death hit reply.
"Death? Where you at, bro? You comin?"
"Sure thing, Wrath. I'm on my way now".
After hanging up, Death's phone rang.
"Death? It's me, tooth fairy. Look, I know it's short notice, but we're moving some stuff in the tooth palace and I was wondering if I could get your help."
"Sure, tooth fairy. I can be there in a few minutes."
"You're the best, Death! I'm sure there's some old rare skulls or something in there you can grab if you want. I haven't cleaned that place in, like, millenia!"
Death began floating down the road, when his phone rang again. The caller-ID said God.
"Death? Hey, it's God, how are you?"
"I'm doing well, God."
"I'm really sorry about this, Death, but there's been an Earthquake and there's a lot of people to sort here. I know it's your day off, but I might need you to come in to the office to help sort some people, and then maybe a little bit of field work. I've got some angels to help sort some stuff out but I'd really like your expertise."
"Not a problem, God. Have them start with the standard morality checks and I should be there before you finish."
"You're a lifesaver, Death!"
"That's a good one, God."
"Oh my... I totally didn't even realize I- Hey, you're going to Lust's birthday party? And you're helping toothfairy?"
"Yeah, God. Death comes for all. How did you know?"
"Well, I'm God. I'm omniscient. How are you able to do all this?"
"Well, I'm Death. I'm omnipresent."
"Ah, right. Well, I appreciate you taking the time anyway. You're a good guy."
"Aw, I'm just doing my job God. Hey, I'll see you in a bit."
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[WP] Use "Death, death comes for us all" in a happy story with a happy ending | He felt regret as he knocked on his dad's door. Nothing. It had been many years since they had talked. He feared the worst and was on the verge of tears, a tear came out of his eye, one of sadness. An old man came to the door and opened it, his eyes lit up when he saw the middle aged man before him. The middle aged man began to cry now, but no longer tears of sadness; those of happiness instead. The old man spoke slowly to make sure his son heard him.
"My son." a tear came out "Death, death comes for us all. But you came before it got to me" | Like lightning the pain came again. White, the pain was a wall of blinding bright white. The feeling of being torn appart stopped for a moment then again a flash of pure white. “Death.. death comes to us all” a quiet voice said in her head, almost clinical in the assessment. She accepted what the voice had to say, it made sense as another blinding confusing flash. Then black as something was put in her arms. |
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[WP] Use "Death, death comes for us all" in a happy story with a happy ending | The tribe had been performing this ritual for as long as anyone could remember. They would take the old man to the tent and strip him of all his clothing. Then they would dip their fingers in the paint, a vivid electric blue that seemed to glow and paint on his skin, in whorls and strange designs that seemed to pulse and stutter with their own kinetic energy.
Upon completion the young men of the village would place him on a litter and carry him up to the cliff and set the litter down.
The old man rises to his feet, joints creaking and popping with the effort, blind eyes blinking slowly.
His first step halting, frail, his muscles contracting painfully with the strain.
His foot settling on the soft grass, the dew making it slick under his feet, digging his arthritic toes into the dirt for purchase.
His second step is different somehow, he manages to uncurl his toes and places his foot flat on the ground, lifiting his heel and using the ball of his foot to push off.
The old man begins to totter off at something of jog, the young men of the village to begin chant slowly.
Each step of the old man becomes easier, and suddenly without warning, the milky white color of his eyes drain away to reveal a startlingly deep green.
The muscles in his legs no longer cramping, his stride lengthening as he now begins to move faster, the muscles in his neck and back relaxing and unknotting.
The young men now far behind him smile with warmth and sadness mixed equally as they continue to chant.
The young man suddenly remembers it and begins to chant and laugh in time with it as it floats over the wind to greet him.
And he is young now, no longer old, no longer infirm, the paint on his body pulses stronger now, whorling frantically, each step bringing him closer to the edge of the cliff.
He runs now fast, faster than he has ever run in his life, the wind touches his face its sweet breath cools his skin, the sun is bright and shining and there at the edge of the cliff he sees them all again for the first time in a long time. His mother, his father, the line of his people all the way back to the beginning and as his foot hits the edge and he launches himself high into the air, arms out spread. The whorls of paint explode in a flash of blue that for a moment makes the sun seem pale in comparison, blinding the young men waiting far behind.
Their chant never stops though and its words echo across the hills..."Death, death comes for us all." | Like lightning the pain came again. White, the pain was a wall of blinding bright white. The feeling of being torn appart stopped for a moment then again a flash of pure white. “Death.. death comes to us all” a quiet voice said in her head, almost clinical in the assessment. She accepted what the voice had to say, it made sense as another blinding confusing flash. Then black as something was put in her arms. |
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[WP] Use "Death, death comes for us all" in a happy story with a happy ending | Every year around Valentine’s day my dad has some big business meeting and goes away for a couple of weeks. That leaves me in charge of my brother and my two sisters while he is away. They are well behaved usually but its been really busy at my dad’s office so I’ve been watching them five to six days a week. The twins Sara and Mara play field hockey, so everyday my brother Phil and I walk over from the high school to the junior high and cheer them on. We always save a seat for dad, but he never shows up because the one time he did one of the coaches got hit with the ball and it was some big fiasco with an ambulance and everything. Phil is in a band so most days after the game he leaves with his friends and me and the girls walk home where I make mac and cheese for dinner. “Hey Baxter” I look back from the dishes to see Mara sitting on the counter. “What’s up?” I respond knowing exactly what this conversation will be about. “When do you think dad will be home?” she asks in her sweetest voice as if her tone will change the answer I give her every night. “You know he works late, especially this week. Valentine’s is tomorrow and I doubt he will be home until the end of this week.” Mara sighs, hops off the counter and grabs my cell phone off the counter. “Can I call him, pleeeeeeease?” I wipe my hands dry, turn around and grab my phone from her. “Yeah, just use the house phone. I have to use mine to get a hold of Phil, he was supposed to be home by now.” Mumbling under my breath I walk back into the badly decorated living room. I really wish dad would start dating again. This place could use a womans touch, after mom passed away he decided to “redecorate the parlor”. He put a couple of animal head mounts and some weird paintings up along with a fresh coat of black paint. I pull up a seat on the leather sofa next to Sara who is watching some lame horror movie while I’m waiting for Phil to answer. “Hello?” he says, the noise in the background makes his voice barely audible. “Phil, where the hell are you?” I ask, trying to sound as intimidating as I can. In between howls of guitar riffs he responds, “Almost done, I’ll be headed out in ten—” My other ear is suddenly interrupted by Mara yelling my name. “BAXTER! Dad wants to talk to you!” With a huge groan I tell Phil to hurry up and I get up to grab the corded phone from Mara. “Hello?” I say almost stuttering, its been weeks since dad asked to speak with me over the phone. “Hey sport!” he says in the cheeriest voice I only remember him having while mom was around. “I wanted to let you know that I’m working on a big project and I’ll be home on the 21st! I can’t wait to see you guys, I missed you so much. The boss even said I can have a vacation if I pull this project off!” I’m filled with as much excitement that a 17 year old boy can have. I can’t wait to hug him when he walks through the door and show him how everything has been under my control since he left; he will be so proud. “Really?” I ask in almost in disbelief. “Yeah buddy, lets do something as a family when I’m home. We can go to an amusement park or go to the movies or even the new ice cream shoppe your sister told me about!” I tell him how amazing that would be and ask him what his project he’s working on. He tells me its for a night club in Rhode Island and its going to change the way people look at all clubs. We hang up and for the first time in a year and a half he tells me he loves me. It’s the night of the twentieth and all of us are gathered around the tv waiting for dad’s big project to be aired, he told Sara last night it was going to be so epic that all the news teams in New England were going to air it. A little after 11 the news casters break for a developing story in Rhode Island. This is it! Dad’s big project he wanted us to see! The newscasters are speaking almost anxiously as they say “Breaking news at Station Night Club…” All of us move closer to the edge of the couch. “Has burned down this evening. 165 people died in a fire that was started by pyrotechnics”. The door opens and dad walks in dressed to the nines in his pitch black suit and bone white tie. We all jump to our feet and give him the biggest family hug. Death, death comes for us all; but tonight he’s spending time with his family at the drive in movie theater with all of his kids. I love my dad. | Like lightning the pain came again. White, the pain was a wall of blinding bright white. The feeling of being torn appart stopped for a moment then again a flash of pure white. “Death.. death comes to us all” a quiet voice said in her head, almost clinical in the assessment. She accepted what the voice had to say, it made sense as another blinding confusing flash. Then black as something was put in her arms. |
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[WP] Use "Death, death comes for us all" in a happy story with a happy ending | He felt regret as he knocked on his dad's door. Nothing. It had been many years since they had talked. He feared the worst and was on the verge of tears, a tear came out of his eye, one of sadness. An old man came to the door and opened it, his eyes lit up when he saw the middle aged man before him. The middle aged man began to cry now, but no longer tears of sadness; those of happiness instead. The old man spoke slowly to make sure his son heard him.
"My son." a tear came out "Death, death comes for us all. But you came before it got to me" | Charlie climbed into my lap, her blonde curls getting caught in my mouth. We hugged and her little fingers dug into my skin.
"Are you playing today?" I asked, pushing her back a little. Not far, just enough so I could see her face, and to pull the hair out.
She shook her head. "Mama says we gotta do the job."
"Well, it is hard to do on my own." I straightened her shirt. It had gotten pulled up while we hugged. The green words, "Death, death comes for us all," were barely readable on the white shirt. She was too small for the shirt.
"Is this your mother's joke?" I asked, straightening the shirt so I could read it, to make sure it really said that.
She shrugged, not understanding, but that was OK. Hopefully it would show on the pictures and she would see it when she was older, and then it would help her understand and not think less of her mother.
After a few seconds she started squirming, and my legs flared a little. Not much. I kept from wincing, but I nudged her a little, and she worked her way down. I took a deep breath, relieved, then looked around the room. It was ready. The pictures lined everywhere. The white balloons. The TV rolling silent slideshows of pictures no one had anymore other than on those little sticks. It was good to see the smiles. Looking at them, I saw again why my parents had done this.
I was thankful for the opportunity.
"Do you have to go?" Charlie asked. She was walking along the dresser, running her finger along the edge, lightly touching and bumping the pictures, shifting them ever so slightly, but I kept my tongue. Kids touch. It's how they learn. She knew to be soft, at least. Better than her mother.
"Yes, ma'am."
"Why?"
"Because my body won't last much longer, and I want to be able to give you a hug goodbye, and listen to your voice, and see your face." God, what a wonderful gift. Could we have really done this differently?
"Can't you just go to the doctor?"
"They wouldn't do anything except draw it out. I've had a lot of fun. Didn't we have a lot of fun?"
She nodded.
"Good. Now get your mother and tell her to get the doctor. I'm ready to dance."
"You're going to *dance*?"
"I'm going to dance the most peaceful and wonderful dance. And it will last forever, and as long as you remember me smiling, I want you to remember that as me dancing and loving you. Can you do that?"
"How long?"
"As long as you want."
After a few seconds she nodded, smiling.
"Ah," I said. "You know how to dance, too."
"I'm very good at it. Will I get to do this, too?"
"Of course you will, darling." I pointed to her shirt. "Death, you see, Death comes for us all."
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[WP] Use "Death, death comes for us all" in a happy story with a happy ending | The tribe had been performing this ritual for as long as anyone could remember. They would take the old man to the tent and strip him of all his clothing. Then they would dip their fingers in the paint, a vivid electric blue that seemed to glow and paint on his skin, in whorls and strange designs that seemed to pulse and stutter with their own kinetic energy.
Upon completion the young men of the village would place him on a litter and carry him up to the cliff and set the litter down.
The old man rises to his feet, joints creaking and popping with the effort, blind eyes blinking slowly.
His first step halting, frail, his muscles contracting painfully with the strain.
His foot settling on the soft grass, the dew making it slick under his feet, digging his arthritic toes into the dirt for purchase.
His second step is different somehow, he manages to uncurl his toes and places his foot flat on the ground, lifiting his heel and using the ball of his foot to push off.
The old man begins to totter off at something of jog, the young men of the village to begin chant slowly.
Each step of the old man becomes easier, and suddenly without warning, the milky white color of his eyes drain away to reveal a startlingly deep green.
The muscles in his legs no longer cramping, his stride lengthening as he now begins to move faster, the muscles in his neck and back relaxing and unknotting.
The young men now far behind him smile with warmth and sadness mixed equally as they continue to chant.
The young man suddenly remembers it and begins to chant and laugh in time with it as it floats over the wind to greet him.
And he is young now, no longer old, no longer infirm, the paint on his body pulses stronger now, whorling frantically, each step bringing him closer to the edge of the cliff.
He runs now fast, faster than he has ever run in his life, the wind touches his face its sweet breath cools his skin, the sun is bright and shining and there at the edge of the cliff he sees them all again for the first time in a long time. His mother, his father, the line of his people all the way back to the beginning and as his foot hits the edge and he launches himself high into the air, arms out spread. The whorls of paint explode in a flash of blue that for a moment makes the sun seem pale in comparison, blinding the young men waiting far behind.
Their chant never stops though and its words echo across the hills..."Death, death comes for us all." | Charlie climbed into my lap, her blonde curls getting caught in my mouth. We hugged and her little fingers dug into my skin.
"Are you playing today?" I asked, pushing her back a little. Not far, just enough so I could see her face, and to pull the hair out.
She shook her head. "Mama says we gotta do the job."
"Well, it is hard to do on my own." I straightened her shirt. It had gotten pulled up while we hugged. The green words, "Death, death comes for us all," were barely readable on the white shirt. She was too small for the shirt.
"Is this your mother's joke?" I asked, straightening the shirt so I could read it, to make sure it really said that.
She shrugged, not understanding, but that was OK. Hopefully it would show on the pictures and she would see it when she was older, and then it would help her understand and not think less of her mother.
After a few seconds she started squirming, and my legs flared a little. Not much. I kept from wincing, but I nudged her a little, and she worked her way down. I took a deep breath, relieved, then looked around the room. It was ready. The pictures lined everywhere. The white balloons. The TV rolling silent slideshows of pictures no one had anymore other than on those little sticks. It was good to see the smiles. Looking at them, I saw again why my parents had done this.
I was thankful for the opportunity.
"Do you have to go?" Charlie asked. She was walking along the dresser, running her finger along the edge, lightly touching and bumping the pictures, shifting them ever so slightly, but I kept my tongue. Kids touch. It's how they learn. She knew to be soft, at least. Better than her mother.
"Yes, ma'am."
"Why?"
"Because my body won't last much longer, and I want to be able to give you a hug goodbye, and listen to your voice, and see your face." God, what a wonderful gift. Could we have really done this differently?
"Can't you just go to the doctor?"
"They wouldn't do anything except draw it out. I've had a lot of fun. Didn't we have a lot of fun?"
She nodded.
"Good. Now get your mother and tell her to get the doctor. I'm ready to dance."
"You're going to *dance*?"
"I'm going to dance the most peaceful and wonderful dance. And it will last forever, and as long as you remember me smiling, I want you to remember that as me dancing and loving you. Can you do that?"
"How long?"
"As long as you want."
After a few seconds she nodded, smiling.
"Ah," I said. "You know how to dance, too."
"I'm very good at it. Will I get to do this, too?"
"Of course you will, darling." I pointed to her shirt. "Death, you see, Death comes for us all."
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[WP] Use "Death, death comes for us all" in a happy story with a happy ending | Every year around Valentine’s day my dad has some big business meeting and goes away for a couple of weeks. That leaves me in charge of my brother and my two sisters while he is away. They are well behaved usually but its been really busy at my dad’s office so I’ve been watching them five to six days a week. The twins Sara and Mara play field hockey, so everyday my brother Phil and I walk over from the high school to the junior high and cheer them on. We always save a seat for dad, but he never shows up because the one time he did one of the coaches got hit with the ball and it was some big fiasco with an ambulance and everything. Phil is in a band so most days after the game he leaves with his friends and me and the girls walk home where I make mac and cheese for dinner. “Hey Baxter” I look back from the dishes to see Mara sitting on the counter. “What’s up?” I respond knowing exactly what this conversation will be about. “When do you think dad will be home?” she asks in her sweetest voice as if her tone will change the answer I give her every night. “You know he works late, especially this week. Valentine’s is tomorrow and I doubt he will be home until the end of this week.” Mara sighs, hops off the counter and grabs my cell phone off the counter. “Can I call him, pleeeeeeease?” I wipe my hands dry, turn around and grab my phone from her. “Yeah, just use the house phone. I have to use mine to get a hold of Phil, he was supposed to be home by now.” Mumbling under my breath I walk back into the badly decorated living room. I really wish dad would start dating again. This place could use a womans touch, after mom passed away he decided to “redecorate the parlor”. He put a couple of animal head mounts and some weird paintings up along with a fresh coat of black paint. I pull up a seat on the leather sofa next to Sara who is watching some lame horror movie while I’m waiting for Phil to answer. “Hello?” he says, the noise in the background makes his voice barely audible. “Phil, where the hell are you?” I ask, trying to sound as intimidating as I can. In between howls of guitar riffs he responds, “Almost done, I’ll be headed out in ten—” My other ear is suddenly interrupted by Mara yelling my name. “BAXTER! Dad wants to talk to you!” With a huge groan I tell Phil to hurry up and I get up to grab the corded phone from Mara. “Hello?” I say almost stuttering, its been weeks since dad asked to speak with me over the phone. “Hey sport!” he says in the cheeriest voice I only remember him having while mom was around. “I wanted to let you know that I’m working on a big project and I’ll be home on the 21st! I can’t wait to see you guys, I missed you so much. The boss even said I can have a vacation if I pull this project off!” I’m filled with as much excitement that a 17 year old boy can have. I can’t wait to hug him when he walks through the door and show him how everything has been under my control since he left; he will be so proud. “Really?” I ask in almost in disbelief. “Yeah buddy, lets do something as a family when I’m home. We can go to an amusement park or go to the movies or even the new ice cream shoppe your sister told me about!” I tell him how amazing that would be and ask him what his project he’s working on. He tells me its for a night club in Rhode Island and its going to change the way people look at all clubs. We hang up and for the first time in a year and a half he tells me he loves me. It’s the night of the twentieth and all of us are gathered around the tv waiting for dad’s big project to be aired, he told Sara last night it was going to be so epic that all the news teams in New England were going to air it. A little after 11 the news casters break for a developing story in Rhode Island. This is it! Dad’s big project he wanted us to see! The newscasters are speaking almost anxiously as they say “Breaking news at Station Night Club…” All of us move closer to the edge of the couch. “Has burned down this evening. 165 people died in a fire that was started by pyrotechnics”. The door opens and dad walks in dressed to the nines in his pitch black suit and bone white tie. We all jump to our feet and give him the biggest family hug. Death, death comes for us all; but tonight he’s spending time with his family at the drive in movie theater with all of his kids. I love my dad. | Charlie climbed into my lap, her blonde curls getting caught in my mouth. We hugged and her little fingers dug into my skin.
"Are you playing today?" I asked, pushing her back a little. Not far, just enough so I could see her face, and to pull the hair out.
She shook her head. "Mama says we gotta do the job."
"Well, it is hard to do on my own." I straightened her shirt. It had gotten pulled up while we hugged. The green words, "Death, death comes for us all," were barely readable on the white shirt. She was too small for the shirt.
"Is this your mother's joke?" I asked, straightening the shirt so I could read it, to make sure it really said that.
She shrugged, not understanding, but that was OK. Hopefully it would show on the pictures and she would see it when she was older, and then it would help her understand and not think less of her mother.
After a few seconds she started squirming, and my legs flared a little. Not much. I kept from wincing, but I nudged her a little, and she worked her way down. I took a deep breath, relieved, then looked around the room. It was ready. The pictures lined everywhere. The white balloons. The TV rolling silent slideshows of pictures no one had anymore other than on those little sticks. It was good to see the smiles. Looking at them, I saw again why my parents had done this.
I was thankful for the opportunity.
"Do you have to go?" Charlie asked. She was walking along the dresser, running her finger along the edge, lightly touching and bumping the pictures, shifting them ever so slightly, but I kept my tongue. Kids touch. It's how they learn. She knew to be soft, at least. Better than her mother.
"Yes, ma'am."
"Why?"
"Because my body won't last much longer, and I want to be able to give you a hug goodbye, and listen to your voice, and see your face." God, what a wonderful gift. Could we have really done this differently?
"Can't you just go to the doctor?"
"They wouldn't do anything except draw it out. I've had a lot of fun. Didn't we have a lot of fun?"
She nodded.
"Good. Now get your mother and tell her to get the doctor. I'm ready to dance."
"You're going to *dance*?"
"I'm going to dance the most peaceful and wonderful dance. And it will last forever, and as long as you remember me smiling, I want you to remember that as me dancing and loving you. Can you do that?"
"How long?"
"As long as you want."
After a few seconds she nodded, smiling.
"Ah," I said. "You know how to dance, too."
"I'm very good at it. Will I get to do this, too?"
"Of course you will, darling." I pointed to her shirt. "Death, you see, Death comes for us all."
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[WP] Use "Death, death comes for us all" in a happy story with a happy ending | He felt regret as he knocked on his dad's door. Nothing. It had been many years since they had talked. He feared the worst and was on the verge of tears, a tear came out of his eye, one of sadness. An old man came to the door and opened it, his eyes lit up when he saw the middle aged man before him. The middle aged man began to cry now, but no longer tears of sadness; those of happiness instead. The old man spoke slowly to make sure his son heard him.
"My son." a tear came out "Death, death comes for us all. But you came before it got to me" | Death, death comes for us all. This is a happy story with a happy ending. Jim was 20, no wait, Jim was 25, or perhaps Jim was just Jim. I think. See Jim had this interesting problem. Jim could not look at the world through rose coloured glasses. They sat crooked on his nose and impaired his vision something awful. Jim would often sit there, in that exact place, and picture a world where he could not die. This, of course not the problem, in so far as Jim could perceive it. The problem was this; in this perfect world that Jim created, he was, in fact, Death. Now his cloak was worn, and quite honestly, the curve of his scythe matched the curve of his back almost completely. So in this world Jim is Death and Jim met Sam. Sam met Death.
"Who are you?" asked Sam
"Why I am Death." Said JimDeath
"But, why?"
"Ahh, an elegant question, why are weasels weasels?"
"well I assume its because they are so good at getting out of sticky situations."
Jim mused. An odd one this Sam was, He had solved his first riddle with such unquestionable logic. Pressing on he presently told Sam that Sam was dead.
"You are dying." Stated Jim
"I thought I was dead?" asked Sam
"I mean, you will be, soon. Dead that is." said Death
"Why?" Sam asked
JimDeath crumpled up his face in consternation. "Well, because I am here and I am Death, and if I am here then it must be so."
"I guess that makes sense." said Sam "How will I die then?"
"By bullet." Said JimDeath, giving Sam a look of well practiced, motherly concern.
"But I am only a troubled street-tough who has had no opportunities to avoid this speeding bullet." Stated Sam
JimDeath sighed, unrolled his rolled scroll and scrutinized it under his great big furrowed brows. "Well it says here that you wrote 'TOMS MOM HAS A FAT PUSY' in big green letters on the side of that local convenience store that all you hooligans all hang around."
"Pussy" stated Sam
"No, it quite clearly says PUSY here."
"Well I was in a rush and besides, she does." Stated Sam plainly
This was true, JimDeath knew all.
"And besides, Tom bared his teeth at me the other day and I read that this was a sign of aggression in animals." Said Sam
"Oh," mumbled JimDeath "well I didn't know that. Still, your time has come."
"Can't you just forget about me and go back home?" Sam asked
JimDeath was on the verge of tears now. Like Sam knew anything about his home life. The fighting had gotten worse. His wife and children hated him. Partly because he was Death, partly because he was Jim.
"I have made exceptions before, but not for naught. What can you give me?" asked JimDeath
Sam unzipped his backpack, pulled out a half used can of green spray paint and offered it to JimDeath.
"Disposing of the evidence eh" JimDeath said with raised eyebrows. The perfect crime, or not, I suppose since Sam was about to be fed a bullet by the very man whose mother he insulted. The gesture touched him nonetheless. Sam had nothing but this spray can and was willing to give it up for something as trivial as life.
"Keep it," stated JimDeath, his chin held an inch higher by thoughts of his soon to be charity "and you know what, keep your life as well, it's not like I get any satisfaction from killing you, nor does it affect my christmas bonus. When you deal in billions, one life hardly makes an impact.
"Thanks, I guess." said Sam, clutching the green spray can in his hand "well, I suppose I should be off now, trouble-making and such. I just have to ask one question, how are you going to stop Tom from shooting me?"
"I suppose I will just have his mother hit by a car or something, that should pull his attention away from you, either way, you needn't concern yourself with the details." JimDeath said
"OK then, well, see you around I suppose." said Sam
"Yeah, Yeah." Said JimDeath, looking at the young youth. Somehow he felt that he would be seeing Sam again very soon.
As Sam rounded the corner, ducking into the nearest alleyway, eyes alert for any open canvas, he paused at the back of the local supermart, pressed his finger to the nozzle of his spray can and wrote "TOMS MOM HAD A FAT PUSSY" in big bold green lettering.
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[WP] Use "Death, death comes for us all" in a happy story with a happy ending | The tribe had been performing this ritual for as long as anyone could remember. They would take the old man to the tent and strip him of all his clothing. Then they would dip their fingers in the paint, a vivid electric blue that seemed to glow and paint on his skin, in whorls and strange designs that seemed to pulse and stutter with their own kinetic energy.
Upon completion the young men of the village would place him on a litter and carry him up to the cliff and set the litter down.
The old man rises to his feet, joints creaking and popping with the effort, blind eyes blinking slowly.
His first step halting, frail, his muscles contracting painfully with the strain.
His foot settling on the soft grass, the dew making it slick under his feet, digging his arthritic toes into the dirt for purchase.
His second step is different somehow, he manages to uncurl his toes and places his foot flat on the ground, lifiting his heel and using the ball of his foot to push off.
The old man begins to totter off at something of jog, the young men of the village to begin chant slowly.
Each step of the old man becomes easier, and suddenly without warning, the milky white color of his eyes drain away to reveal a startlingly deep green.
The muscles in his legs no longer cramping, his stride lengthening as he now begins to move faster, the muscles in his neck and back relaxing and unknotting.
The young men now far behind him smile with warmth and sadness mixed equally as they continue to chant.
The young man suddenly remembers it and begins to chant and laugh in time with it as it floats over the wind to greet him.
And he is young now, no longer old, no longer infirm, the paint on his body pulses stronger now, whorling frantically, each step bringing him closer to the edge of the cliff.
He runs now fast, faster than he has ever run in his life, the wind touches his face its sweet breath cools his skin, the sun is bright and shining and there at the edge of the cliff he sees them all again for the first time in a long time. His mother, his father, the line of his people all the way back to the beginning and as his foot hits the edge and he launches himself high into the air, arms out spread. The whorls of paint explode in a flash of blue that for a moment makes the sun seem pale in comparison, blinding the young men waiting far behind.
Their chant never stops though and its words echo across the hills..."Death, death comes for us all." | Death, death comes for us all. This is a happy story with a happy ending. Jim was 20, no wait, Jim was 25, or perhaps Jim was just Jim. I think. See Jim had this interesting problem. Jim could not look at the world through rose coloured glasses. They sat crooked on his nose and impaired his vision something awful. Jim would often sit there, in that exact place, and picture a world where he could not die. This, of course not the problem, in so far as Jim could perceive it. The problem was this; in this perfect world that Jim created, he was, in fact, Death. Now his cloak was worn, and quite honestly, the curve of his scythe matched the curve of his back almost completely. So in this world Jim is Death and Jim met Sam. Sam met Death.
"Who are you?" asked Sam
"Why I am Death." Said JimDeath
"But, why?"
"Ahh, an elegant question, why are weasels weasels?"
"well I assume its because they are so good at getting out of sticky situations."
Jim mused. An odd one this Sam was, He had solved his first riddle with such unquestionable logic. Pressing on he presently told Sam that Sam was dead.
"You are dying." Stated Jim
"I thought I was dead?" asked Sam
"I mean, you will be, soon. Dead that is." said Death
"Why?" Sam asked
JimDeath crumpled up his face in consternation. "Well, because I am here and I am Death, and if I am here then it must be so."
"I guess that makes sense." said Sam "How will I die then?"
"By bullet." Said JimDeath, giving Sam a look of well practiced, motherly concern.
"But I am only a troubled street-tough who has had no opportunities to avoid this speeding bullet." Stated Sam
JimDeath sighed, unrolled his rolled scroll and scrutinized it under his great big furrowed brows. "Well it says here that you wrote 'TOMS MOM HAS A FAT PUSY' in big green letters on the side of that local convenience store that all you hooligans all hang around."
"Pussy" stated Sam
"No, it quite clearly says PUSY here."
"Well I was in a rush and besides, she does." Stated Sam plainly
This was true, JimDeath knew all.
"And besides, Tom bared his teeth at me the other day and I read that this was a sign of aggression in animals." Said Sam
"Oh," mumbled JimDeath "well I didn't know that. Still, your time has come."
"Can't you just forget about me and go back home?" Sam asked
JimDeath was on the verge of tears now. Like Sam knew anything about his home life. The fighting had gotten worse. His wife and children hated him. Partly because he was Death, partly because he was Jim.
"I have made exceptions before, but not for naught. What can you give me?" asked JimDeath
Sam unzipped his backpack, pulled out a half used can of green spray paint and offered it to JimDeath.
"Disposing of the evidence eh" JimDeath said with raised eyebrows. The perfect crime, or not, I suppose since Sam was about to be fed a bullet by the very man whose mother he insulted. The gesture touched him nonetheless. Sam had nothing but this spray can and was willing to give it up for something as trivial as life.
"Keep it," stated JimDeath, his chin held an inch higher by thoughts of his soon to be charity "and you know what, keep your life as well, it's not like I get any satisfaction from killing you, nor does it affect my christmas bonus. When you deal in billions, one life hardly makes an impact.
"Thanks, I guess." said Sam, clutching the green spray can in his hand "well, I suppose I should be off now, trouble-making and such. I just have to ask one question, how are you going to stop Tom from shooting me?"
"I suppose I will just have his mother hit by a car or something, that should pull his attention away from you, either way, you needn't concern yourself with the details." JimDeath said
"OK then, well, see you around I suppose." said Sam
"Yeah, Yeah." Said JimDeath, looking at the young youth. Somehow he felt that he would be seeing Sam again very soon.
As Sam rounded the corner, ducking into the nearest alleyway, eyes alert for any open canvas, he paused at the back of the local supermart, pressed his finger to the nozzle of his spray can and wrote "TOMS MOM HAD A FAT PUSSY" in big bold green lettering.
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