post_text
stringlengths 0
10k
| post_title
stringlengths 8
313
| chosen
stringlengths 1
39.5k
| rejected
stringlengths 1
13.8k
|
|---|---|---|---|
Viewpoint character being insane optional.
Alternative prompt: write from the point of view of an "orderly". | [WP] Some insane asylums are actually prisons for wizards. You are a normal person that got sent to the wrong one by accident. | "Just scratch the wall," Ethelred muttered, "Just a stray line. Or maybe a drop of blood or two."
I ignored him and stared at the chessboard in front of me. I suspected Ethelred was cheating. The knight whinnied once.
"Do it or I turn you into an armadillo!" he warned. Instead of answering directly I held up my left arm and let the cuff of my sleeve drop down enough to show the black bracelet with the intricate runes carved into it. I was warded, same as him. It was an empty threat. The chessboard, however, was still fair game.
"Come on!" he said, "You can actually touch the wards. If they ever figure out who you are then we both lose our chance!"
Ethelred doesn't get it. He's been here since the days when Georgia was still a penal colony for Jolly Old England. To him this is a prison. He still doesn't understand that I had myself committed. I don't want out. True, I didn't quite expect this. Sometimes I'm not sure it's even really happening.
I don't think I'm hallucinating any of this. I've had hallucinations before, of course. If I go off my meds for a few weeks they start up. Mostly it's voices or snippets of songs I don't recognize. But I never saw things that weren't there. Not until I came here to the Ironglade. What was I doing here?
"Come on!" Ethelred begged me. I looked at the chessboard again. My knight had definitely moved. Some of my pawns had also changed positions when I blinked. I stood up and shook my head.
"I'm not in the mood to play anymore, Red," I tell him. He hates being called Red almost as much as he hates being called Ethel. I walk way before he has a chance to try to jinx my shoelaces or something.
Ethelred, like all the other residents here at the Ironglade, is a magician of some sort. Wizards, witches, sorcerers, and even a demonologist. Although that last one is locked away in a room with a leather gag over his mouth and chained within a circle of salt. Most of the others they let wander free as their power is severely checked by runescaping.
The Ironglade gets its name from the fact that the outer wall of the facility is made of cold iron. Cold iron has much the same effect on the flow of magic as the Hoover Dam has on the Colorado River. All that gets in is a little trickle here and there around the windows and doors. To deal with that the wardens carve intricate runes all over the walls, the doors, and even the panes of glass. Then the patients are equipped with warding bracelets that restrict their own innate magic and minimize the effect of magic hurled by others. The most powerful mages, those like Ethelred, still had enough juice to reheat a cold sandwich. Maybe. Most of the others were more or less like me. A regular mortal. Except for one small difference.
I started walking down the hallway towards my room. There were granite blocks in the floor in front of each door. Complex runes were carved into the face of each block. Only the occupants of the rooms and staff members could cross over the blocks. At least in theory. In practice there was one notable exception to the rule. Those runes on the walls, on the floor, and etched all over the place work by creating an interference pattern with a mage's native magic. Just touching them can be lethal for a mage. Non-magical people, however, can tap dance on the things and not feel a thing. Which is why Ethelred is always trying to goad me into destroying a rune or two.
On a whim I change directions at the last moment and head towards Alister's room. Even most of the staff don't have access to this place. I pick up a book off a shelf as I go.
I step over the outer boundaries of the containment spells. The circles of elements are mostly not a problem either. Except for the fire ring. I have to jump that one. Fortunately my feet were still damp from splashing through the water ring. I found the door scrawled with a network of interlocking runes in several different languages and at least three different types of blood. As usual, though, there was no actual lock on the door. I turned the knob and stepped inside.
"Mmmmmmm!" Alister shouted through the leather gag.
"I know," I said as I carefully stepped around the ring of salt and made my way to the corner. I tried to be Smokey the Bear in this room and leave things exactly as I found them.
"Just looking for a quiet place to read," I explained to Alister. He grunted at me again. His eyes flashed a deep red but I ignored it for the moment.
I'm really not sure how, exactly, I got sent to the wrong facility. Does that mean there is now a rogue wizard sitting in some padded cell waiting for his next hit of happy drugs? I'm not sure if that's a good thing or a bad thing. We'll have to wait for the body count. In the meantime, I just wanted to read.
"Mmmmmm!"
"Yes," I sighed as I found my place in the book, "You've mentioned your opinion of Harry Potter before. But at least the wizards in there are only evil. Not crazy." | To most people, he was Supervisor Dale Taylor. That’s what it said on his name badge, just above the left breast pocket. To the patients – or inmates, as they called themselves - he was High Inquisitor.
It felt good to be High Inquisitor, or Supervisor, or whatever you wanted to call him. In the end they equaled the same thing. He was the man with the keys. The judge. He decided if you got a big room to yourself, with a window and pleasant view of snow-draped meadows, and he also decided if you never saw sunlight again for the remainder of your life. He was lenient and forgiving as inquisitors went, favoring the carrot over the stick. Each morning he sat in his office with a gigantic mug, filled to the brim with smoking coffee, and the surveyed his little kingdom.
On the last morning before his trip to the OWL. conference, he found an envelope sitting on his immaculate desk. He frowned and looked at it. He normally waited until after his first cup of coffee before going about the day’s work. It featured the OWL insignia. He cracked it open. It contained a patient’s medical records and criminal history. And a brief letter, from the department, apologizing for the last-minute notice. A new patient, Elizabeth Lee, arriving at approximately nine o’clock. He put the letter aside and reexamined the records.
If there was any such thing as a benevolent form of the Gestapo or the NKVD, than it was OWL. When wizards, gypsys, or warlocks brought undue attention to themselves, or otherwise found themselves in the criminal justice system of the North Atlantic Alliance, than OWL, quietly and discreetly, channeled the criminals to facilities such as this one. The only people who would have protested, called for action, were fellow wizard-folk, and by doing so only drew the authorities to them for immediate, swift, silent prosecution.
Psychotic Breaks, Delusions of Grandeur, Schizo-type behavior translated into the illicit practice of magic in these types of hospitals. Dangerous because of its potential threat to national security, profane because of its denial of the state religion. Most people did not know what OWL did exactly among the population, but if they did, they would have approved.
But Elizabeth Lee had no such indicators on her record. She did have one drunk driving offense, six years ago, several weeks after graduation from University. It did include a diagnosis for depression and an anxiety disorder.
He read them and reread them again as his coffee grew cold. He decided to dial his connect at the department.
“Hello,” he said. “This is Taylor. I’m calling about a recent transfer. Is Cooper in?”
“This is Cooper.”
“Jesus, what are you? sick? I didn’t recognize your voice. You sound terrible.”
“I better not be. I’m supposed to give some kind of a spiel at the conference. You will be there, won’t you?”
“Not like I have a choice.”
“Who’s in charge while you’re away?”
“Julien.”
“Anyways, what’s this about a transfer.”
“Did you know anything about this? I’ve got a record for someone named Elizabeth Lee. She doesn’t meet the criteria as far as I can tell. There’s no offence on her record. Also, I only received the record this morning. She’s due here in less than an hour. That’s never happened before. I was trying to see what the angle is on this thing.”
“Well,” Cooper said, clearing his throat, “I do happen to know about this particular case, as a matter of fact, and –“ Cooper paused for a second, as if he were making sure no one was around “ – listen, Taylor, they’re taking a special interest in this one. I don’t know specifics, per say, but ignore the fact that she doesn’t fit the typical profile… Listen, I hate to leave you in the dark, and I don’t know much myself, but apparently, this woman was creating quite a bit of noise about the whole OWL system of prosecution. Special prosecutions. According my superior, this is a dangerous form of psychopathy, with widespread potential consequences.”
“Cooper, that’s about the most vague and meaningless thing I’ve ever heard.”
“Listen, I’d recommend just dropping it and processing the patient. I’m just saying that they’ve taken a keen interest and making sure she ends up at your particular facility for an extended stay. Forget what her record says. This comes from on high.”
They hung up. He left his coffee untouched. He examined the stubble on his face in the metallic surface of the filing cabinet. He couldn’t decide if Cooper was trying to say that she was a wizard or an open wizard sympathizer, bringing unwanted attention to the issue. He had heard once before that the former director of OWL, a sadist son of a bitch by the name of Walter Sandoval, had done his best to bring back old school, Spanish-inquisition-style torture methods to help uncover networks of wizards in the civilian population. He had later stepped down under rumors that he had numerous personal enemies and competitors arrested as wizards, stowed away until they went genuinely insane. He had no doubt that occasional abuses of power happened in the upper echelons of OWL, but they had remained rumors and whispers until this file appeared on his desk.
A police cruiser dropped Elizabeth Lee off at 9:04, as her stay was court ordered. Dale Taylor signed the necessary documents and lead her in. She was incredibly young looking. Gaunt, as if she hadn’t eaten more than a handful of saltines in the last week. She smelled bad, but based on what he knew he guessed that she had remained in custody until this rushed transfer. Not much in the way of showers or food other than chips from the vending machine. She said nothing.
“The other patients have already had breakfast, but I’m sure we can find something for you,” he said. She said maintained silence, looking at the ground.
“Why don’t we take a tour of the place, so you know where everything is?”
He lead her through the long hallways. Orderlies escorted the most elderly around. Others dished out prescribed sedatives – the best weapons against energy-consuming, concentration-demanding magic. Men with no light in their eyes and blank expressions watched the TV in the recreation room. Others read books in the corner, mainly harmless, idea-free young adult novels. He pointed things out, introduced her to the other supervisors.
“They’re going to leave me in her forever, aren’t they?” Her first words.
“Who is? And no, there’s plenty of people who recover and leave. This is a hospital, remember? Some people do have court orders and stay here for quite a while, especially the elderly patients, but that’s really not that common,” he lied.
“My Dad. He’s going to make sure I’m one of the ones who stays forever.”
“Who’s your Dad?”
“Terry Stokes.”
A chill traveled up his spine. Terry Stokes was the assistant director, one of the old guard. A name most civilians would know.
“But your last name is Lee.”
“I changed it so he wouldn’t find me. Trust me, I’m never getting out of here.”
“Why would he want to do that?”
“Because I stole money from him, and I threatened to black mail him, and I told him I know all the horrible shit he does. The horrible shit that you do.” Her voice contained no emotion, as if she had accepted this fate long ago.
-------------------------------------------------------------------
Dale Taylor arrived for the conference. He found Cooper and they got seats together in the auditorium. They used these quarterly conferences to address issues, discuss new drugs and anti-wizard strategies. This one came earlier than normal for some reason, which made everyone anxious. People suspected that meant some type of major reform, a big sweeping announcement or change. The last time his happened was when Walter Sandoval stepped down.
Terry Stokes stepped in front of the mircrophone, and five hundred or so people looked on.
“Inquisitors, for a long time the wizard problem has been growing, to the point where we are no longer able to control it. We are reinstating our emergency action plan in order to cleanse the wizards from our streets. We have full congressional authority on this matter. We have many dangerous men in our facilities, terrorists. We thought we could separate them from the population, even rehabilitate them. This is no longer an option. The problem has grown rampant. The time has come for punishment and retribution.”
EDIT: Fixed some grammar.
|
Viewpoint character being insane optional.
Alternative prompt: write from the point of view of an "orderly". | [WP] Some insane asylums are actually prisons for wizards. You are a normal person that got sent to the wrong one by accident. | NSFW language
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Day 1: They told me I was “mentally unbalanced” which is what my friend was called in high school, when he decked that bully and they needed a reason to punish him. I don’t think that’s what i’m like. I don’t think this was just an excuse to send me somewhere, but I don't believe them either. But they made it clear that what I thought wasn’t “what normal people think.” whatever, like they have their shit together anyway. Yeah, I might think the government are trying to steal my feet, not my feet-feet, but my spirit feet, which they are, but they can’t even fucking spell.
I was suppose to go to “Bilgewater institute” but I saw the sign when they brought me! it’s called “Blindwand institute” Whatever, I guess it’s less about who has their shit together and more about who looks like they have their shit together. And this place looks like it has it’s shit together. Everything is impossibly clean and orderly, I mean it is a mental institution, but jesus, it feels like nurse Ratchet took a bunch of meth and was given free reign, at least I’m allowed personal effects (they better not expect my room to be that fucking neat.). Someone is knocking, I think it’s an orderly to take me to my first therapy session; I’ll write again soon, shit, the doc will probably ask me to keep a journal anyway. docs love journals.
Day 2: ok, this isn’t ok. Maybe I am sick in the head, because this shit is fucking crazy. I swear to god I left my journal open, my pencils laying around, my clothing on the floor, my blinds closed when I went to bed. But I woke up today and everything is perfectly neat. Maybe it’s the stress of a new home.
the other patients don’t seem to want much to do with me. They seem to stick together in groups that are pretty close nit. As of now, I’m sitting in the commons writing and no matter how I try, no one will have a conversation with me, though I know they can, as they spend most of their time talking to each oth- Holy fuck. fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck. no.no fucking way. no. That picture just moved! what the fuck. no. I’m not crazy… no. I’m “unbalenced” there is no way that I saw that. It was a trick of the eye. no.nononono. sht, it’s time for my meeting with the doc, should I tell him about this?
Day 3: When I was waiting outside the docs office I heard him on the phpone. I couldn’t make out what he was saying too well, but from what I could gather he was trying to transfer me t another institution, but couldn’t seem to give a reason. he just kept saying that this was a place only for “extremely special cases.” But I’m starting think that’s me, this shit is getting….. wierd. Third day in a row that my room has been cleaned in my sleep, but the log on my door indicates no one has been coming in; maybe the janitor just doesn’t care enough…. but there’s more. Whenever I’ve been with the other patients I swear to god that I’m hearing voices. Just whispers, somehow appearing in my head. I was suppose to just be suicidal, or depressed or something, I don’t know, I wasn’t listening, maybe there was some ADD in there or something.
Day 4: Fuck this place.
Day 5: The pictures are still moving.
Day 6: Maybe I’m delusional… That’s why I don’t think I’m crazy enough to be here. I spent all day shattering my water glass on the floor and watching it reassemble itself. Where are these other crazies from? I swear to god, after an hour of smashing one of them said “Fucking muggles” what the fuck is a muggle?!?!?
Day 7: I just realized that none of us are being given medication…. is this some kind of sick experiment?
Day 8: I finally told the doc all the things I’ve been seeing. He assured me that these were normal symptoms of my illness and that he’d "up my medications." After seeing my face he quickly said, “I meant “treatment”” and had the orderly usher me out of his office. I swear to god I saw him pull a book off the shelve titled “Muggle medication: A guide to Masking...” I didn’t catch the rest. Where the fuck am I?
Day 9: fucking owls. Everywhere.
Day 10: I destroyed everything in my room before sleep, it was fixed in the morning. How did they put my bed back on the frame, with me, without waking me?
Day 11: The pen I used today carved the words into my hand. The fuck is this?
Day 12: New patient today, teenager with a scar on his forehead. Kept muttering about the power of names.
Day 13: acceptance. I’m crazy. Magic is real and I’m crazy. I’ve begun talking to the moving photos.
Day 14: I told the doctor my discoveries, he told me I was delusional and possibly schizophrenic. Whatever.
Day 15: The kid with the scar tells me he’s breaking out, that he smuggled in a wand. I would ask if he’s crazy, but I believe in magic now.
Day 20: He blew up the wall between our rooms and then the wall leading outside. Fuck this, I’m out, went back to bed.
Day 21: the kid with a scar is a moving picture in the newspaper.
Day 23: The doc told me I was being moved to another institution after the “incident” with my room and my neighbor's. I’m just glad to leave. I might be insane, but this place is driving me crazy.
Day 27: I arrive at my new institution, “Bilgewater Institute.” Where the fuck was I? I begin asking the photo of the lead therapist in the hall. The nurses lead me away.
| To most people, he was Supervisor Dale Taylor. That’s what it said on his name badge, just above the left breast pocket. To the patients – or inmates, as they called themselves - he was High Inquisitor.
It felt good to be High Inquisitor, or Supervisor, or whatever you wanted to call him. In the end they equaled the same thing. He was the man with the keys. The judge. He decided if you got a big room to yourself, with a window and pleasant view of snow-draped meadows, and he also decided if you never saw sunlight again for the remainder of your life. He was lenient and forgiving as inquisitors went, favoring the carrot over the stick. Each morning he sat in his office with a gigantic mug, filled to the brim with smoking coffee, and the surveyed his little kingdom.
On the last morning before his trip to the OWL. conference, he found an envelope sitting on his immaculate desk. He frowned and looked at it. He normally waited until after his first cup of coffee before going about the day’s work. It featured the OWL insignia. He cracked it open. It contained a patient’s medical records and criminal history. And a brief letter, from the department, apologizing for the last-minute notice. A new patient, Elizabeth Lee, arriving at approximately nine o’clock. He put the letter aside and reexamined the records.
If there was any such thing as a benevolent form of the Gestapo or the NKVD, than it was OWL. When wizards, gypsys, or warlocks brought undue attention to themselves, or otherwise found themselves in the criminal justice system of the North Atlantic Alliance, than OWL, quietly and discreetly, channeled the criminals to facilities such as this one. The only people who would have protested, called for action, were fellow wizard-folk, and by doing so only drew the authorities to them for immediate, swift, silent prosecution.
Psychotic Breaks, Delusions of Grandeur, Schizo-type behavior translated into the illicit practice of magic in these types of hospitals. Dangerous because of its potential threat to national security, profane because of its denial of the state religion. Most people did not know what OWL did exactly among the population, but if they did, they would have approved.
But Elizabeth Lee had no such indicators on her record. She did have one drunk driving offense, six years ago, several weeks after graduation from University. It did include a diagnosis for depression and an anxiety disorder.
He read them and reread them again as his coffee grew cold. He decided to dial his connect at the department.
“Hello,” he said. “This is Taylor. I’m calling about a recent transfer. Is Cooper in?”
“This is Cooper.”
“Jesus, what are you? sick? I didn’t recognize your voice. You sound terrible.”
“I better not be. I’m supposed to give some kind of a spiel at the conference. You will be there, won’t you?”
“Not like I have a choice.”
“Who’s in charge while you’re away?”
“Julien.”
“Anyways, what’s this about a transfer.”
“Did you know anything about this? I’ve got a record for someone named Elizabeth Lee. She doesn’t meet the criteria as far as I can tell. There’s no offence on her record. Also, I only received the record this morning. She’s due here in less than an hour. That’s never happened before. I was trying to see what the angle is on this thing.”
“Well,” Cooper said, clearing his throat, “I do happen to know about this particular case, as a matter of fact, and –“ Cooper paused for a second, as if he were making sure no one was around “ – listen, Taylor, they’re taking a special interest in this one. I don’t know specifics, per say, but ignore the fact that she doesn’t fit the typical profile… Listen, I hate to leave you in the dark, and I don’t know much myself, but apparently, this woman was creating quite a bit of noise about the whole OWL system of prosecution. Special prosecutions. According my superior, this is a dangerous form of psychopathy, with widespread potential consequences.”
“Cooper, that’s about the most vague and meaningless thing I’ve ever heard.”
“Listen, I’d recommend just dropping it and processing the patient. I’m just saying that they’ve taken a keen interest and making sure she ends up at your particular facility for an extended stay. Forget what her record says. This comes from on high.”
They hung up. He left his coffee untouched. He examined the stubble on his face in the metallic surface of the filing cabinet. He couldn’t decide if Cooper was trying to say that she was a wizard or an open wizard sympathizer, bringing unwanted attention to the issue. He had heard once before that the former director of OWL, a sadist son of a bitch by the name of Walter Sandoval, had done his best to bring back old school, Spanish-inquisition-style torture methods to help uncover networks of wizards in the civilian population. He had later stepped down under rumors that he had numerous personal enemies and competitors arrested as wizards, stowed away until they went genuinely insane. He had no doubt that occasional abuses of power happened in the upper echelons of OWL, but they had remained rumors and whispers until this file appeared on his desk.
A police cruiser dropped Elizabeth Lee off at 9:04, as her stay was court ordered. Dale Taylor signed the necessary documents and lead her in. She was incredibly young looking. Gaunt, as if she hadn’t eaten more than a handful of saltines in the last week. She smelled bad, but based on what he knew he guessed that she had remained in custody until this rushed transfer. Not much in the way of showers or food other than chips from the vending machine. She said nothing.
“The other patients have already had breakfast, but I’m sure we can find something for you,” he said. She said maintained silence, looking at the ground.
“Why don’t we take a tour of the place, so you know where everything is?”
He lead her through the long hallways. Orderlies escorted the most elderly around. Others dished out prescribed sedatives – the best weapons against energy-consuming, concentration-demanding magic. Men with no light in their eyes and blank expressions watched the TV in the recreation room. Others read books in the corner, mainly harmless, idea-free young adult novels. He pointed things out, introduced her to the other supervisors.
“They’re going to leave me in her forever, aren’t they?” Her first words.
“Who is? And no, there’s plenty of people who recover and leave. This is a hospital, remember? Some people do have court orders and stay here for quite a while, especially the elderly patients, but that’s really not that common,” he lied.
“My Dad. He’s going to make sure I’m one of the ones who stays forever.”
“Who’s your Dad?”
“Terry Stokes.”
A chill traveled up his spine. Terry Stokes was the assistant director, one of the old guard. A name most civilians would know.
“But your last name is Lee.”
“I changed it so he wouldn’t find me. Trust me, I’m never getting out of here.”
“Why would he want to do that?”
“Because I stole money from him, and I threatened to black mail him, and I told him I know all the horrible shit he does. The horrible shit that you do.” Her voice contained no emotion, as if she had accepted this fate long ago.
-------------------------------------------------------------------
Dale Taylor arrived for the conference. He found Cooper and they got seats together in the auditorium. They used these quarterly conferences to address issues, discuss new drugs and anti-wizard strategies. This one came earlier than normal for some reason, which made everyone anxious. People suspected that meant some type of major reform, a big sweeping announcement or change. The last time his happened was when Walter Sandoval stepped down.
Terry Stokes stepped in front of the mircrophone, and five hundred or so people looked on.
“Inquisitors, for a long time the wizard problem has been growing, to the point where we are no longer able to control it. We are reinstating our emergency action plan in order to cleanse the wizards from our streets. We have full congressional authority on this matter. We have many dangerous men in our facilities, terrorists. We thought we could separate them from the population, even rehabilitate them. This is no longer an option. The problem has grown rampant. The time has come for punishment and retribution.”
EDIT: Fixed some grammar.
|
Viewpoint character being insane optional.
Alternative prompt: write from the point of view of an "orderly". | [WP] Some insane asylums are actually prisons for wizards. You are a normal person that got sent to the wrong one by accident. | "What's with the mittens, though?" I asked Cornellius, holding up the lime-green pads that were supernaturally bound over my hands.
He looked at me over the rim of his reading glasses and lowered his copy of 'Mysterious Magical Madames Monthly.' It was pretty clear from his expression that he was getting really tired of my questions, and we'd only been cell mates for one day.
"You ever try casting a spell with these on?" he asked. I gave him my best are-you-kidding-me face; he knew that I was a normie who had somehow wound up in the wrong facility. Instead of a straightjacket and a padded cell, I ended up with oven mitts.
He chuckled as he realized his error. "Of course you haven't." He tossed the magazine aside and sat up. His bright orange robe was rumpled and stained. "A good spell is all about wand control, man. You've got to aim it just right, and do exactly the right motion. No way to do that with hands like cushiony hooves. I can't even turn the god-damned page of my magazine like this!"
"Wouldn't you need a wand, though?" I wondered. "I mean, what are the gloves for if you don't have a wand to use anyway?"
"Oh, a wand ain't that hard to come by. All you really need is a good bit of wood and some magical material. That's one of the reasons why they don't let us outside anymore; too easy to come by any old branch and a bit of frog's blood. That, or you could be passing messages through butterflies and end up flying off on an eagle or something." He stared at the obsidian wall between the cell and the outside. "Damn I miss the fresh air," he said.
I scratched at my forehead with the mitts. "Sure are uncomfortable, though..." | Ca |
[WP] A 911 call so disturbing that the operator does not remain calm. | “I’m holding your father’s hand,” he said. His tongue curled around the s like a hissing snake.
“Who is this?” I asked. I knew it must be a crank, you can’t choose who you speak to when you dial 9-1-1. “It is a crime to block-up this line.” Still my heart had started beating a little faster. There was something disquieting about his voice.
“His wedding ring is a little scuffed. Let me just…” I could hear his heavy breathing on the other end of the line as his fidgeted with something in his hands. “There we go, that’s a little better,” he said. “I prefer a subtle band. So many men go for the ostentatious, as if a narrow band would make them less of a man.”
“I’m going to need you to get off the line unless you have an emergency.” I always gave the cranks a little leeway. Sometimes you never know, and I didn’t want to find out later they were truly in distress. “Please state your emergency.”
“Oh there’s no emergency here. I just admiring the small tattoo on the webbing of your father’s hand.” My heart bounced against my chest. “Tell me, what do you think it means?”
The world stopped for a moment and I could taste the bile rising in my throat. How could he know? “My father has no such tattoo,” I said.
“Oh come now,” he replied. “Let’s not play games.” I couldn’t think. Lights flashed at the corners of my vision and the colour was draining from the room “A butterfly. How unusual.”
“What do you want?” I asked. I could hear the tremble in my voice and tried to still the panic rising inside me. “What are you doing with my father?”
“Oh I left your father hours ago. All I have is his hand.” | Most 911 calls aren't emergencies. You might think of the 911 as something sacred, something only to call during- you know- an emergency. But most calls are minor complaints of perceived illegal offenses. And, just in case you didn't know, most Americans don't actually have a solid grasp of the law.
Wesley Greene moved to Phoenix Arizona this year. He got a dual major in Criminal Justice and Law in Colorado, not knowing or caring exactly what he would do with it. The move to Phoenix was, more than anything, to get away from his alcoholic mother and argumentative siblings. Since their dad died (he got fired, got angry, got drunk, got driving, got wrecked) the family's been falling apart, so Wesley escaped through schoolwork and now has successfully made it to an apartment in a distant city where he lays up at night wondering since he doesn't drink what exactly gets *him* off.
Today, 911 operator Wesley Greene has received:
* A call from an angry customer kicked out of a restraint for being too loud, believing this was a violation of his rights. He definitely sounded drunk.
* A call from a girlfriend who, during a fight with her boyfriend, threatened to call 911 if he brought up her ex again because this was verbal abuse (I know this might not make sense to you, but she had a lengthy argument which Wesley Greene had to patiently listen to- his attempts of "this line is for emergencies only" not withstanding). She sounded a bit drunk, too.
* A call about a stolen watch. To be fair, this is technically a crime, but 911 isn't where you go to report things like this.
This is a typical day for Wesley. And only the first two hours of his shift have passed.
Occasionally he receives health calls and must dispatch ambulances. These are enough to shake him up, though honestly he prefers these calls. They're exciting, they're why he got the job, they're what makes him feel like he's helping people as he tells them to "Stay calm, make sure [whoever it is] is breathing, we are on our way."
Yesterday while laying in his apartment Wesley reflected on the irony of this, that he prefers to hear people in distress. He mused that must be what gets him off, what he looks forward to, some action through the telephone. Not only because of the helping people, but because each time he hears an idiot call he looses a little bit more faith in Americans. "We can't all be idiots," he thought, thinking of his family and country.
Another call.
"911, what is your emergency?"
"Hello? Yes? Can you hear me?"
Heavy breathing. Like he's been running. Wesley sat up.
"I can hear you, what is your emergency?"
"Are you sure you can hear me? Because I need you to listen. I don't know where I am."
"Sir, can you describe your situation to me? We can track your location from here."
"No," he breathed, "Tell me that you can hear me!"
"Yes, I can hear you."
The noise from the phone stopped. Not just that the man went silent, it sounded like the line died. Wesley checked, nope, he was still connected.
"Sir, are you there?"
There was a beat. One of Wesley's coworkers looked at him with curious concern. Then:
"Oh... what were you expecting when the phone rang this time?"
A completely different voice, harsher, with words slightly slurred. And the background noise changed, too.
"Excuse me?"
"What were you expecting? Another 'idiot'? Did that rushed voice get you excited?"
Wesley looked around, this was getting threatening.
"Sir-"
"I need you to tell me what you were hoping for here Wesley."
How does he know his name?
"Because you see Wesley, I'm driving, and-" the man burped- "I'm actually pretty good at it, despite what you or Mom say when I'm drinking. If I were to crash right now, don't think it has anything to do with the booze. What I am doing right now, right now I am not about to die because of some drunk driving, don't right me off that easily Wesley, I am not an idiot here I heard what you said last night..."
"Who is this?" Wesley's coworker was now watching with serious concern; Wesley's face was white and eyes were wide.
"Oh, you know that. And the real questions you should be asking if you were smart are how this correspondence here is taking place, but that probably isn't too important-
That voice you heard earlier, I don't know who it was either but it called me too. All it wants is for us to listen to each other, maybe this is a test, or a divine intervention or something because he knows where I'm driving to Wesley, I think he,
Well, you know what he wants. He knows where I'm driving to, he wants you to talk me out of it, but you aren't really talking much here at all Wesley..."
Wesley opened his mouth but didn't say anything, then he heard,
"Oh, great load of help you are-", And then CRASH and Wesley snapped and yelled "DAD!" at the top of his lungs standing up in the office with all of his coworkers staring at him. The line broke. Wesley had some tears coming down his look-like-you've-seen-a-ghost face. He'd have some stuff to think about at the apartment tonight. |
|
[WP] A 911 call so disturbing that the operator does not remain calm. | It's funny how a phone-call can drive you to the end of your rope. An impersonal break-up, an angry superior at work, perhaps a loved one of yours has died. No matter the cause, you might find yourself angry, enraged with the hand you have been dealt.
Justin looked up at the wall clock, an old, black behemoth that would have been more fitting in a high-school classroom than the dark dispatch office. He was a 911 dispatcher, as despite the increasing fast pace of our lives with technology, your life still hangs in the balance of a regular human being, sitting at his desk.
The time was 3:45AM, fifteen minutes until the end of his shift. He had been dealt a poor hand today, listening to two women crying into the phone while their abusive, usually drunk boyfriends beat them half to death. It's hard when you hear the first blow. It's harder when you hear later that one of them didn't make it.
He glanced into his drawer, reaching towards the back for a pack of cigarettes, crumpled and slightly dusty with age, before stopping himself.
*I quit three months ago*, Justin thought to himself.
And just then, his phone began to ring.
*"911, what is your emergency?"*
**"Hello sir. Would you like to play a game?"**
*"Sir, what is your emergency? I must remind you that prank calls are a misdemeanor offense."*
**"This is no prank, dispatcher. There's a lovely young woman sitting right here, she's part of the game. There are some lovely tools near me, these are also part of the game. And if you don't want to play my game, it appears that these tools will be used in an...** ***unconventional*** **method."**
*"Sir, where are you located right now?"*
**"Tsk tsk tsk. I'm afraid you'll have to work for your reward, old boy. Unless you'd like me to hang up right now, in which case I can gut this poor girl with an electric carving knife, right now."**
Justin stared at his screen in disbelief of what he saw. Whomever was calling him could not be traced. He decided it best, then, to go along with this man's "game", and see if he could find any clues on where he might be.
*"Alright... I'll play your deluded game."*
**"What is your name?"**
Justin hesitated for a moment, then decided against it. This woman's life, whoever she might be, hangs in the balance because of his answers.
*"My name is Justin."*
**"A charming name. I'd tell you mine, but that would take some of the sport out of this, don't you think? I digress. Let us begin."**
Justin was nervous, angry even. What if this could happen to his wife? There are so many fucked-up people in the world, what if one of them finds her someday?
**"Tonight's game will be a little trivia match, provided by yours truly. If you answer a question correctly, you get increasingly specific answers about my location. If you answer incorrectly, who knows what I'll do? Smash a toe with a hammer? Slice off an ear? Oh, there are so many, *many* options..."**
Justin, already at what was supposed to be the end of a very stressful shift, and now having to listen to the insane ramblings of a deranged psychopath, threatening to kill a woman, lost his temper.
*"Just shut your fucking mouth and tell me what you want me to do!"*
This proved to be an... *unwise* decision.
A large thump came from the receiver, followed by muffled sobs.
**"How very rash of you, Justin. You just made me break this poor woman's nose. Perhaps you should be more careful with your words, no? Next time it might be a baseball bat, and not my fist."**
Justin grinded his teeth and pulled out a cigarette from the crumpled pack.
*I quit three months ago*, he thought to himself, lighting up the cigarette. But tonight, he had been dealt a very poor hand indeed.
------
First prompt I've ever answered. If there's more interest for a part two, I might make one. | Most 911 calls aren't emergencies. You might think of the 911 as something sacred, something only to call during- you know- an emergency. But most calls are minor complaints of perceived illegal offenses. And, just in case you didn't know, most Americans don't actually have a solid grasp of the law.
Wesley Greene moved to Phoenix Arizona this year. He got a dual major in Criminal Justice and Law in Colorado, not knowing or caring exactly what he would do with it. The move to Phoenix was, more than anything, to get away from his alcoholic mother and argumentative siblings. Since their dad died (he got fired, got angry, got drunk, got driving, got wrecked) the family's been falling apart, so Wesley escaped through schoolwork and now has successfully made it to an apartment in a distant city where he lays up at night wondering since he doesn't drink what exactly gets *him* off.
Today, 911 operator Wesley Greene has received:
* A call from an angry customer kicked out of a restraint for being too loud, believing this was a violation of his rights. He definitely sounded drunk.
* A call from a girlfriend who, during a fight with her boyfriend, threatened to call 911 if he brought up her ex again because this was verbal abuse (I know this might not make sense to you, but she had a lengthy argument which Wesley Greene had to patiently listen to- his attempts of "this line is for emergencies only" not withstanding). She sounded a bit drunk, too.
* A call about a stolen watch. To be fair, this is technically a crime, but 911 isn't where you go to report things like this.
This is a typical day for Wesley. And only the first two hours of his shift have passed.
Occasionally he receives health calls and must dispatch ambulances. These are enough to shake him up, though honestly he prefers these calls. They're exciting, they're why he got the job, they're what makes him feel like he's helping people as he tells them to "Stay calm, make sure [whoever it is] is breathing, we are on our way."
Yesterday while laying in his apartment Wesley reflected on the irony of this, that he prefers to hear people in distress. He mused that must be what gets him off, what he looks forward to, some action through the telephone. Not only because of the helping people, but because each time he hears an idiot call he looses a little bit more faith in Americans. "We can't all be idiots," he thought, thinking of his family and country.
Another call.
"911, what is your emergency?"
"Hello? Yes? Can you hear me?"
Heavy breathing. Like he's been running. Wesley sat up.
"I can hear you, what is your emergency?"
"Are you sure you can hear me? Because I need you to listen. I don't know where I am."
"Sir, can you describe your situation to me? We can track your location from here."
"No," he breathed, "Tell me that you can hear me!"
"Yes, I can hear you."
The noise from the phone stopped. Not just that the man went silent, it sounded like the line died. Wesley checked, nope, he was still connected.
"Sir, are you there?"
There was a beat. One of Wesley's coworkers looked at him with curious concern. Then:
"Oh... what were you expecting when the phone rang this time?"
A completely different voice, harsher, with words slightly slurred. And the background noise changed, too.
"Excuse me?"
"What were you expecting? Another 'idiot'? Did that rushed voice get you excited?"
Wesley looked around, this was getting threatening.
"Sir-"
"I need you to tell me what you were hoping for here Wesley."
How does he know his name?
"Because you see Wesley, I'm driving, and-" the man burped- "I'm actually pretty good at it, despite what you or Mom say when I'm drinking. If I were to crash right now, don't think it has anything to do with the booze. What I am doing right now, right now I am not about to die because of some drunk driving, don't right me off that easily Wesley, I am not an idiot here I heard what you said last night..."
"Who is this?" Wesley's coworker was now watching with serious concern; Wesley's face was white and eyes were wide.
"Oh, you know that. And the real questions you should be asking if you were smart are how this correspondence here is taking place, but that probably isn't too important-
That voice you heard earlier, I don't know who it was either but it called me too. All it wants is for us to listen to each other, maybe this is a test, or a divine intervention or something because he knows where I'm driving to Wesley, I think he,
Well, you know what he wants. He knows where I'm driving to, he wants you to talk me out of it, but you aren't really talking much here at all Wesley..."
Wesley opened his mouth but didn't say anything, then he heard,
"Oh, great load of help you are-", And then CRASH and Wesley snapped and yelled "DAD!" at the top of his lungs standing up in the office with all of his coworkers staring at him. The line broke. Wesley had some tears coming down his look-like-you've-seen-a-ghost face. He'd have some stuff to think about at the apartment tonight. |
|
[WP] A 911 call so disturbing that the operator does not remain calm. | It's funny how a phone-call can drive you to the end of your rope. An impersonal break-up, an angry superior at work, perhaps a loved one of yours has died. No matter the cause, you might find yourself angry, enraged with the hand you have been dealt.
Justin looked up at the wall clock, an old, black behemoth that would have been more fitting in a high-school classroom than the dark dispatch office. He was a 911 dispatcher, as despite the increasing fast pace of our lives with technology, your life still hangs in the balance of a regular human being, sitting at his desk.
The time was 3:45AM, fifteen minutes until the end of his shift. He had been dealt a poor hand today, listening to two women crying into the phone while their abusive, usually drunk boyfriends beat them half to death. It's hard when you hear the first blow. It's harder when you hear later that one of them didn't make it.
He glanced into his drawer, reaching towards the back for a pack of cigarettes, crumpled and slightly dusty with age, before stopping himself.
*I quit three months ago*, Justin thought to himself.
And just then, his phone began to ring.
*"911, what is your emergency?"*
**"Hello sir. Would you like to play a game?"**
*"Sir, what is your emergency? I must remind you that prank calls are a misdemeanor offense."*
**"This is no prank, dispatcher. There's a lovely young woman sitting right here, she's part of the game. There are some lovely tools near me, these are also part of the game. And if you don't want to play my game, it appears that these tools will be used in an...** ***unconventional*** **method."**
*"Sir, where are you located right now?"*
**"Tsk tsk tsk. I'm afraid you'll have to work for your reward, old boy. Unless you'd like me to hang up right now, in which case I can gut this poor girl with an electric carving knife, right now."**
Justin stared at his screen in disbelief of what he saw. Whomever was calling him could not be traced. He decided it best, then, to go along with this man's "game", and see if he could find any clues on where he might be.
*"Alright... I'll play your deluded game."*
**"What is your name?"**
Justin hesitated for a moment, then decided against it. This woman's life, whoever she might be, hangs in the balance because of his answers.
*"My name is Justin."*
**"A charming name. I'd tell you mine, but that would take some of the sport out of this, don't you think? I digress. Let us begin."**
Justin was nervous, angry even. What if this could happen to his wife? There are so many fucked-up people in the world, what if one of them finds her someday?
**"Tonight's game will be a little trivia match, provided by yours truly. If you answer a question correctly, you get increasingly specific answers about my location. If you answer incorrectly, who knows what I'll do? Smash a toe with a hammer? Slice off an ear? Oh, there are so many, *many* options..."**
Justin, already at what was supposed to be the end of a very stressful shift, and now having to listen to the insane ramblings of a deranged psychopath, threatening to kill a woman, lost his temper.
*"Just shut your fucking mouth and tell me what you want me to do!"*
This proved to be an... *unwise* decision.
A large thump came from the receiver, followed by muffled sobs.
**"How very rash of you, Justin. You just made me break this poor woman's nose. Perhaps you should be more careful with your words, no? Next time it might be a baseball bat, and not my fist."**
Justin grinded his teeth and pulled out a cigarette from the crumpled pack.
*I quit three months ago*, he thought to himself, lighting up the cigarette. But tonight, he had been dealt a very poor hand indeed.
------
First prompt I've ever answered. If there's more interest for a part two, I might make one. | 911: 911, What is your emergency?
Caller: Little Timmy says hi.
911: Excuse me? Sir we do not appreciate prank calls, do you have an emergency?
Caller: Oh this isn't a prank call. There is an emergency, but it isn't mine. It's yours Tabitha. I have Timmy.
911: How...how did you know my name? And what have you done with my child?
Caller: Oh I haven't done anything to little Timmy yet. But He'll be losing one finger every hour, starting in about two minutes. Unless of course, you can give me what I want.
911: What do you want? Oh God please don't hurt my son!
Caller: I want my life back. You're the dispatcher that sent the police to my house last month. I lost everything, and they've been searching for me for weeks.
911: I don't know how to do that...just don't hurt my son!!
Caller: You might want to figure that out Tabitha, because Timmy is losing his left pinky finger as we speak.
*Muffled Screams*
911: **PLEASE GOD NO!!!** |
|
[WP] A 911 call so disturbing that the operator does not remain calm. | ''Sir, you need to cut her down...no...listen to me...get a knife and cut her down...no...what are you doing?...she might still be alive...we might be able to help her...cut her down...cut her down...CUT. HER DOWN." *click*
I am actually a 999 operator, this is a fairly accurate transcript of one side of a recent call to us. | "911 what is your emergency?"
Please send a bomb squad quick!
"Sir what do you mean?"
I work at Lego land Florida and a new one million single block Lego order just arrived
"Sir I'm not understanding what happened."
I dropped them all over the place when we were air dropping it to the center of the park.
"Are you say there are a million single block Legos all over Legoland?"
Yes yes I am.
...
Hello?
|
|
[WP] A 911 call so disturbing that the operator does not remain calm. | "This is 911, what is your emergency?" Sally asked, for the fifth time that day.
"You don't have much time, listen to me," a man's raspy voice whispered. Sally jolted a little in her seat as she heard the voice... It sounded oddly... Inhuman. Not that he was an alien or anything, but there was a certain edge to his voice... Something that contained pure panic.
"Sir... I'm going to need you to calm down... we have police on the way. I'm going to need you to spec-"
"STOP! Just stop!" Im not in trouble, I don't need anyone, I'm just warning you! Their starting with people like you. The government, police, emergency services, you all are going first!
"Sir..." Sally hesitated as she tried to make sense of what she just heard. " I... I don't know what you are talking about... "
"Of course you don't! Nobody does!!! I'm the only one who knew it was going to happen! I kept trying and trying to warn you people, but everybody keeps saying I'm insane! Now you fools should be thanking me, but it's too late... their coming soon."
Sally, at this point, was terrified and just completely creeped out. In all the confusion, she didn't even realize the sound of traffic outside had ceased. "Alright, what the hell is going on?" she screamed into her receiver . Sally wanted desperately for it to be a prank call. It had to be a prank call. But the man's voice... That trepidation, that certainty... Could that truly be an act?
Her stomach turned over as the man said two words. "Good luck."
All of her training, all the years spent staying calm and collected as a 911 operator went away right at that moment. She trembled in panic as she heard a terrifying noise: the front door of the building being kicked down. | "911 what is your emergency?"
Please send a bomb squad quick!
"Sir what do you mean?"
I work at Lego land Florida and a new one million single block Lego order just arrived
"Sir I'm not understanding what happened."
I dropped them all over the place when we were air dropping it to the center of the park.
"Are you say there are a million single block Legos all over Legoland?"
Yes yes I am.
...
Hello?
|
|
[WP] A 911 call so disturbing that the operator does not remain calm. | The 911 operator adjusted his headset before speaking.
"911. What's your emergency?"
There was no answer.
"Hello? Is anyone there?" The operator lifted a finger and prepared to alert local officers nearby.
"You have such a pleasant voice," said the caller, his monotonous tone causing the operator's finger to halt over the dispatch button.
"I'm sorry? Sir is there an emergency?"
"Not yet, not yet. Truthfully, I've searched so far and wide to find you, to hear you speak," said the dull man. There was a faint noise of metal clanking in the background as he spoke.
"Sir if this is a prank then-"
"No no. No prank. There will be an emergency, yes, and I'm going to lead you straight to it. But I want you to hear me out. I want you to listen. Just listen. If only for a little while. That's all. Listen."
The operator fell silent and wondered what to say. There was the faintest suspicion that this was all a ruse; after all, who would be so calm calling 911 this late at night. But the man's voice, something was *off* about it, yet despite all this it was as captivating and enthralling as an open flame to a moth.
The operator was ensnared. He listened.
"There was a man I met a long time ago," said the caller, "a man who was such a joy to listen to and watch. He didn't know how captivating he was to me, but what he showed me--what I found so beautiful and so tragic about him--was that he embodied such admirable persistence in a cruel and unforgiving world.
"And one thing I realized about this beautiful specimen of a human being was that he was trapped and held back by his life like a bird in a cage. He was charismatic, intelligent, *headstrong.* And for what? His talents were for naught. They were wasted. Wasted. Absolutely wasted."
The man shuffled around and footsteps could be heard on a hard floor shortly after.
"And it hit me," said the man as if receiving a sudden revelation. "His cage must be *destroyed*. He must be unhinged!"
The phone fell to the ground and the operator listened in horror as muffled screams of a woman filled the receiver. But why couldn't he say anything? Why couldn't he move?
Like a statue with naught but a throbbing heart, he was petrified by the screams. They were familiar to him.
The man returned to the phone shortly after and his breathing was audible.
"This is the first step, Lucas."
The operator's eyes widened as he covered his mouth. *He knows my name. He knows. How could he. How.*
"There was something about her holding you back, something that kept you from being *free.* And I can't be sure what it was but that's no longer relevant. The first chain that's kept you bound for so long has been broken. Aren't you excited, Lucas? This is where the road to enlightenment begins!"
The man was so lively now, so eerily joyous and gleeful. And with a trembling hand, Lucas ended the call and pressed the dispatch button. He knew--and he wish he didn't--where the murder happened, and in the deepest recesses of his intuition did he know that the victim was his fiance of 3 years.
*Michelle.*
And as the hot tears ran freely down his cheeks, he adjusted his headset and notified the local officers.
"Attention patrol units in the Greenspan area," he said, fighting back tears, "possible homicide at 4393 Zero Avenue."
He took a deep breath and stared at the picture of Michelle on his desk. And the more he stared, the more hollow and dead he felt.
"Units are to be deployed immediately."
He removed his headset and fell from his chair, and he wept on the floor until he couldn't weep anymore.
| "911 what is your emergency?"
Please send a bomb squad quick!
"Sir what do you mean?"
I work at Lego land Florida and a new one million single block Lego order just arrived
"Sir I'm not understanding what happened."
I dropped them all over the place when we were air dropping it to the center of the park.
"Are you say there are a million single block Legos all over Legoland?"
Yes yes I am.
...
Hello?
|
|
[WP] A 911 call so disturbing that the operator does not remain calm. | ''Sir, you need to cut her down...no...listen to me...get a knife and cut her down...no...what are you doing?...she might still be alive...we might be able to help her...cut her down...cut her down...CUT. HER DOWN." *click*
I am actually a 999 operator, this is a fairly accurate transcript of one side of a recent call to us. | 911: Hello, what is your emergency?
Me: oh, not really MY emergency per say.
911: What? Please be more clear sir.
Me: It all started when I found a matchbook in my grandpas attic, burned it down for no reason.
911: Umm please state what's wrong.
Me: Oh sorry I got a bit off track, insanity does that to you. Anyways the bodies are laying in the pile of rubble and ash on 334 cherry ave.
911: What happened?!
Me: Oh just a bit of revenge, no one calls me crazy, I'm not a psycho I LOVE SMALL ANIMALS!
911: Do you need help?!
Me: No not at all, but I figured I might as well call first.
Background voice: *uuiuuuuuuugh*
Me: Oh crap. *gunshots*
911: WHAT WAS THAT?!
Me: He wasn't all dead. Goodbye, I need a nap.
*after sending police to 334 cherry rosemary got up and walked away*
|
|
[WP] A 911 call so disturbing that the operator does not remain calm. | "This is 911, what is your emergency?" Sally asked, for the fifth time that day.
"You don't have much time, listen to me," a man's raspy voice whispered. Sally jolted a little in her seat as she heard the voice... It sounded oddly... Inhuman. Not that he was an alien or anything, but there was a certain edge to his voice... Something that contained pure panic.
"Sir... I'm going to need you to calm down... we have police on the way. I'm going to need you to spec-"
"STOP! Just stop!" Im not in trouble, I don't need anyone, I'm just warning you! Their starting with people like you. The government, police, emergency services, you all are going first!
"Sir..." Sally hesitated as she tried to make sense of what she just heard. " I... I don't know what you are talking about... "
"Of course you don't! Nobody does!!! I'm the only one who knew it was going to happen! I kept trying and trying to warn you people, but everybody keeps saying I'm insane! Now you fools should be thanking me, but it's too late... their coming soon."
Sally, at this point, was terrified and just completely creeped out. In all the confusion, she didn't even realize the sound of traffic outside had ceased. "Alright, what the hell is going on?" she screamed into her receiver . Sally wanted desperately for it to be a prank call. It had to be a prank call. But the man's voice... That trepidation, that certainty... Could that truly be an act?
Her stomach turned over as the man said two words. "Good luck."
All of her training, all the years spent staying calm and collected as a 911 operator went away right at that moment. She trembled in panic as she heard a terrifying noise: the front door of the building being kicked down. | 911: Hello, what is your emergency?
Me: oh, not really MY emergency per say.
911: What? Please be more clear sir.
Me: It all started when I found a matchbook in my grandpas attic, burned it down for no reason.
911: Umm please state what's wrong.
Me: Oh sorry I got a bit off track, insanity does that to you. Anyways the bodies are laying in the pile of rubble and ash on 334 cherry ave.
911: What happened?!
Me: Oh just a bit of revenge, no one calls me crazy, I'm not a psycho I LOVE SMALL ANIMALS!
911: Do you need help?!
Me: No not at all, but I figured I might as well call first.
Background voice: *uuiuuuuuuugh*
Me: Oh crap. *gunshots*
911: WHAT WAS THAT?!
Me: He wasn't all dead. Goodbye, I need a nap.
*after sending police to 334 cherry rosemary got up and walked away*
|
|
[WP] A 911 call so disturbing that the operator does not remain calm. | The 911 operator adjusted his headset before speaking.
"911. What's your emergency?"
There was no answer.
"Hello? Is anyone there?" The operator lifted a finger and prepared to alert local officers nearby.
"You have such a pleasant voice," said the caller, his monotonous tone causing the operator's finger to halt over the dispatch button.
"I'm sorry? Sir is there an emergency?"
"Not yet, not yet. Truthfully, I've searched so far and wide to find you, to hear you speak," said the dull man. There was a faint noise of metal clanking in the background as he spoke.
"Sir if this is a prank then-"
"No no. No prank. There will be an emergency, yes, and I'm going to lead you straight to it. But I want you to hear me out. I want you to listen. Just listen. If only for a little while. That's all. Listen."
The operator fell silent and wondered what to say. There was the faintest suspicion that this was all a ruse; after all, who would be so calm calling 911 this late at night. But the man's voice, something was *off* about it, yet despite all this it was as captivating and enthralling as an open flame to a moth.
The operator was ensnared. He listened.
"There was a man I met a long time ago," said the caller, "a man who was such a joy to listen to and watch. He didn't know how captivating he was to me, but what he showed me--what I found so beautiful and so tragic about him--was that he embodied such admirable persistence in a cruel and unforgiving world.
"And one thing I realized about this beautiful specimen of a human being was that he was trapped and held back by his life like a bird in a cage. He was charismatic, intelligent, *headstrong.* And for what? His talents were for naught. They were wasted. Wasted. Absolutely wasted."
The man shuffled around and footsteps could be heard on a hard floor shortly after.
"And it hit me," said the man as if receiving a sudden revelation. "His cage must be *destroyed*. He must be unhinged!"
The phone fell to the ground and the operator listened in horror as muffled screams of a woman filled the receiver. But why couldn't he say anything? Why couldn't he move?
Like a statue with naught but a throbbing heart, he was petrified by the screams. They were familiar to him.
The man returned to the phone shortly after and his breathing was audible.
"This is the first step, Lucas."
The operator's eyes widened as he covered his mouth. *He knows my name. He knows. How could he. How.*
"There was something about her holding you back, something that kept you from being *free.* And I can't be sure what it was but that's no longer relevant. The first chain that's kept you bound for so long has been broken. Aren't you excited, Lucas? This is where the road to enlightenment begins!"
The man was so lively now, so eerily joyous and gleeful. And with a trembling hand, Lucas ended the call and pressed the dispatch button. He knew--and he wish he didn't--where the murder happened, and in the deepest recesses of his intuition did he know that the victim was his fiance of 3 years.
*Michelle.*
And as the hot tears ran freely down his cheeks, he adjusted his headset and notified the local officers.
"Attention patrol units in the Greenspan area," he said, fighting back tears, "possible homicide at 4393 Zero Avenue."
He took a deep breath and stared at the picture of Michelle on his desk. And the more he stared, the more hollow and dead he felt.
"Units are to be deployed immediately."
He removed his headset and fell from his chair, and he wept on the floor until he couldn't weep anymore.
| 911: Hello, what is your emergency?
Me: oh, not really MY emergency per say.
911: What? Please be more clear sir.
Me: It all started when I found a matchbook in my grandpas attic, burned it down for no reason.
911: Umm please state what's wrong.
Me: Oh sorry I got a bit off track, insanity does that to you. Anyways the bodies are laying in the pile of rubble and ash on 334 cherry ave.
911: What happened?!
Me: Oh just a bit of revenge, no one calls me crazy, I'm not a psycho I LOVE SMALL ANIMALS!
911: Do you need help?!
Me: No not at all, but I figured I might as well call first.
Background voice: *uuiuuuuuuugh*
Me: Oh crap. *gunshots*
911: WHAT WAS THAT?!
Me: He wasn't all dead. Goodbye, I need a nap.
*after sending police to 334 cherry rosemary got up and walked away*
|
|
[WP] A 911 call so disturbing that the operator does not remain calm. | The 911 operator adjusted his headset before speaking.
"911. What's your emergency?"
There was no answer.
"Hello? Is anyone there?" The operator lifted a finger and prepared to alert local officers nearby.
"You have such a pleasant voice," said the caller, his monotonous tone causing the operator's finger to halt over the dispatch button.
"I'm sorry? Sir is there an emergency?"
"Not yet, not yet. Truthfully, I've searched so far and wide to find you, to hear you speak," said the dull man. There was a faint noise of metal clanking in the background as he spoke.
"Sir if this is a prank then-"
"No no. No prank. There will be an emergency, yes, and I'm going to lead you straight to it. But I want you to hear me out. I want you to listen. Just listen. If only for a little while. That's all. Listen."
The operator fell silent and wondered what to say. There was the faintest suspicion that this was all a ruse; after all, who would be so calm calling 911 this late at night. But the man's voice, something was *off* about it, yet despite all this it was as captivating and enthralling as an open flame to a moth.
The operator was ensnared. He listened.
"There was a man I met a long time ago," said the caller, "a man who was such a joy to listen to and watch. He didn't know how captivating he was to me, but what he showed me--what I found so beautiful and so tragic about him--was that he embodied such admirable persistence in a cruel and unforgiving world.
"And one thing I realized about this beautiful specimen of a human being was that he was trapped and held back by his life like a bird in a cage. He was charismatic, intelligent, *headstrong.* And for what? His talents were for naught. They were wasted. Wasted. Absolutely wasted."
The man shuffled around and footsteps could be heard on a hard floor shortly after.
"And it hit me," said the man as if receiving a sudden revelation. "His cage must be *destroyed*. He must be unhinged!"
The phone fell to the ground and the operator listened in horror as muffled screams of a woman filled the receiver. But why couldn't he say anything? Why couldn't he move?
Like a statue with naught but a throbbing heart, he was petrified by the screams. They were familiar to him.
The man returned to the phone shortly after and his breathing was audible.
"This is the first step, Lucas."
The operator's eyes widened as he covered his mouth. *He knows my name. He knows. How could he. How.*
"There was something about her holding you back, something that kept you from being *free.* And I can't be sure what it was but that's no longer relevant. The first chain that's kept you bound for so long has been broken. Aren't you excited, Lucas? This is where the road to enlightenment begins!"
The man was so lively now, so eerily joyous and gleeful. And with a trembling hand, Lucas ended the call and pressed the dispatch button. He knew--and he wish he didn't--where the murder happened, and in the deepest recesses of his intuition did he know that the victim was his fiance of 3 years.
*Michelle.*
And as the hot tears ran freely down his cheeks, he adjusted his headset and notified the local officers.
"Attention patrol units in the Greenspan area," he said, fighting back tears, "possible homicide at 4393 Zero Avenue."
He took a deep breath and stared at the picture of Michelle on his desk. And the more he stared, the more hollow and dead he felt.
"Units are to be deployed immediately."
He removed his headset and fell from his chair, and he wept on the floor until he couldn't weep anymore.
| ''Sir, you need to cut her down...no...listen to me...get a knife and cut her down...no...what are you doing?...she might still be alive...we might be able to help her...cut her down...cut her down...CUT. HER DOWN." *click*
I am actually a 999 operator, this is a fairly accurate transcript of one side of a recent call to us. |
|
[WP] A 911 call so disturbing that the operator does not remain calm. | The 911 operator adjusted his headset before speaking.
"911. What's your emergency?"
There was no answer.
"Hello? Is anyone there?" The operator lifted a finger and prepared to alert local officers nearby.
"You have such a pleasant voice," said the caller, his monotonous tone causing the operator's finger to halt over the dispatch button.
"I'm sorry? Sir is there an emergency?"
"Not yet, not yet. Truthfully, I've searched so far and wide to find you, to hear you speak," said the dull man. There was a faint noise of metal clanking in the background as he spoke.
"Sir if this is a prank then-"
"No no. No prank. There will be an emergency, yes, and I'm going to lead you straight to it. But I want you to hear me out. I want you to listen. Just listen. If only for a little while. That's all. Listen."
The operator fell silent and wondered what to say. There was the faintest suspicion that this was all a ruse; after all, who would be so calm calling 911 this late at night. But the man's voice, something was *off* about it, yet despite all this it was as captivating and enthralling as an open flame to a moth.
The operator was ensnared. He listened.
"There was a man I met a long time ago," said the caller, "a man who was such a joy to listen to and watch. He didn't know how captivating he was to me, but what he showed me--what I found so beautiful and so tragic about him--was that he embodied such admirable persistence in a cruel and unforgiving world.
"And one thing I realized about this beautiful specimen of a human being was that he was trapped and held back by his life like a bird in a cage. He was charismatic, intelligent, *headstrong.* And for what? His talents were for naught. They were wasted. Wasted. Absolutely wasted."
The man shuffled around and footsteps could be heard on a hard floor shortly after.
"And it hit me," said the man as if receiving a sudden revelation. "His cage must be *destroyed*. He must be unhinged!"
The phone fell to the ground and the operator listened in horror as muffled screams of a woman filled the receiver. But why couldn't he say anything? Why couldn't he move?
Like a statue with naught but a throbbing heart, he was petrified by the screams. They were familiar to him.
The man returned to the phone shortly after and his breathing was audible.
"This is the first step, Lucas."
The operator's eyes widened as he covered his mouth. *He knows my name. He knows. How could he. How.*
"There was something about her holding you back, something that kept you from being *free.* And I can't be sure what it was but that's no longer relevant. The first chain that's kept you bound for so long has been broken. Aren't you excited, Lucas? This is where the road to enlightenment begins!"
The man was so lively now, so eerily joyous and gleeful. And with a trembling hand, Lucas ended the call and pressed the dispatch button. He knew--and he wish he didn't--where the murder happened, and in the deepest recesses of his intuition did he know that the victim was his fiance of 3 years.
*Michelle.*
And as the hot tears ran freely down his cheeks, he adjusted his headset and notified the local officers.
"Attention patrol units in the Greenspan area," he said, fighting back tears, "possible homicide at 4393 Zero Avenue."
He took a deep breath and stared at the picture of Michelle on his desk. And the more he stared, the more hollow and dead he felt.
"Units are to be deployed immediately."
He removed his headset and fell from his chair, and he wept on the floor until he couldn't weep anymore.
| "This is 911, what is your emergency?" Sally asked, for the fifth time that day.
"You don't have much time, listen to me," a man's raspy voice whispered. Sally jolted a little in her seat as she heard the voice... It sounded oddly... Inhuman. Not that he was an alien or anything, but there was a certain edge to his voice... Something that contained pure panic.
"Sir... I'm going to need you to calm down... we have police on the way. I'm going to need you to spec-"
"STOP! Just stop!" Im not in trouble, I don't need anyone, I'm just warning you! Their starting with people like you. The government, police, emergency services, you all are going first!
"Sir..." Sally hesitated as she tried to make sense of what she just heard. " I... I don't know what you are talking about... "
"Of course you don't! Nobody does!!! I'm the only one who knew it was going to happen! I kept trying and trying to warn you people, but everybody keeps saying I'm insane! Now you fools should be thanking me, but it's too late... their coming soon."
Sally, at this point, was terrified and just completely creeped out. In all the confusion, she didn't even realize the sound of traffic outside had ceased. "Alright, what the hell is going on?" she screamed into her receiver . Sally wanted desperately for it to be a prank call. It had to be a prank call. But the man's voice... That trepidation, that certainty... Could that truly be an act?
Her stomach turned over as the man said two words. "Good luck."
All of her training, all the years spent staying calm and collected as a 911 operator went away right at that moment. She trembled in panic as she heard a terrifying noise: the front door of the building being kicked down. |
|
Edit: Wow, that front page fame! And all thanks to /u/jagged_little_phil !
Now I don't know if this is allowed or frowned upon, but if anyone is interested in writing a precursor to u/jagged_little_phil's phenomenal story (including you sir), feel free to do so in this thread!
Thanks everyone! | [WP] The moment when all the members of the most notorious and ruthless gang in the U.S. figure out that every single one of them is an undercover cop from different counties. | Diego was taking his time about it. And that was another reason why I hated him. Such a lazy fuck, never wanted to do any actual work, like killing an informant, beating the shit out of someone to get information, or (as in this case) shooting Uri in the head.
Uri deserved it. The dumbfuck had slept with Dieter's girlfriend, and that messed up the unity of our group. We'd agreed from the start to stand by each other, as brothers, looking out for one another, but that Uri couldn't keep his dick in his pants, and ever since then everything was messed up. Of course Dieter was pissed. Especially when James stupidly admitted that he'd always wanted to do her as well. We'd almost come to blows then, but eventually we agreed that Uri had to go, and then we'd move on and never speak of this again.
Diego had to do it. He had the lowest kill count of any of us. But he was taking his fucking time. There was Uri, kneeling right in front of him, fucking do it already! We were out here in the middle of the desert, and the dry dust was starting to get to me. God, I needed a drink.
Raphaël stepped forward, and in his stupid French accent, volunteered to do the job himself. For god's sake this was getting stupider by the minute. I looked across at Dieter, who just rolled his eyes in exasperation. It was only a test! The automatic we gave to Diego wasn't even loaded. We just wanted to see if he was committed to the group or not. My job was to kill Diego if he was a coward. Either way, I would then kill Uri. We didn't actually trust Diego enough to give him a loaded gun in a time of stress. He got a bit unpredictable sometimes.
I almost turned the Uzi on Raphaël right there and then, and maybe would have if Duong and Aadhithya hadnt stepped forward to pull him back and shut him up.
Diego seemed to get his nerve back and stated "no, its all right, I'll do it," and moved a bit forward to place the gun right on Uri's head.
Uri spoke up unexpectedly. "Just for the record, I'm an undercover cop." Shocked and stunned, we were. Nobody said anything as Uri went on. "I know I wont survive, but I've supplied enough evidence by now to put you all away before long. The raid will be soon."
That was too much for Diego, who broke down. He dropped the gun and collapsed on the ground saying "Me too. I cant live like this anymore."
Unbelievability, as if a cork had been pulled, everyone else started flapping their lips and confessing to having been undercover. Even Tông and Kwang-Sun, who I never would have guessed in a million years. Out here in the desert, the gang started to act like long lost brothers, exchanging names, stories and places. Big hugs, big smiles, big laughs for all.
But I hadn't said anything, and eventually, among all the revelry, they slowly realized... and turned to me with caution and hands on guns.
"FBI," I said, and their faces turned to smiles once more.
Diego came over to me to shake my hand, and I raised the Uzi and shot him in the neck. Lazy fuck, I'm not your friend. As he hit the ground, I dealt with the rest of them in the same way, leaving Raphaël for last. Somehow, Raphaël had gotten the unloaded gun and was trying to shoot me with it. What an idiot. Retarded cheese eating surrender monkey, deserves a round in the face. So I did. One round. Doesn't deserve any more than that.
A few moments more to survey my work and make sure none had survived, and it was back across the sand to the helicopter. As I sent the coded message over the radio I allowed myself a smile. It was a messy ending, but it's going to be not only my last day working undercover, but also worth a huge promotion. The rest of the team will recover the money and drugs and the haul will make the front page of tomorrows newspaper, and please a very large number of politicians.
And the other agents? Plausible deniability. Their agencies will complain, but its not like I ever knew they were undercover cops. As I waited for backup, I lit a cigarette and started wording the false report in my head.
| They were ten minutes into the meeting and they'd all barely said a word. What the Hell was wrong with them all? This was the biggest meeting of them all; the one where they would figure out the allocation of assets from the deal with the Pakistani poppy farmers.
The room was pretty big; it was actually a nice setup. Wu had used his party influence to book a pretty nice conference room just outside Canton for the event. There were 24 of them sitting around the round table, and bright lights looked down on them.
They had to pass a resolution eventually, and when they did, every member of the cartel would have to sign, at which point they would all be unquestionably guilty enough to be tried and convicted in any country on earth. When Johann gave the signal, his agents would overpower the perimeter guards and seize the room from the south side double doors. There were also northern doors, but they left those open specifically because knowing who would try to flee was important for the case. There were plainclothes agents guarding all hallways leading to the northern doors, and plainclothes agents guarding all entrances to the building anyway.
Finally the Indian man with the unpronounceable name proposed a draft resolution that was universally agreed upon, and it went around the table, to be signed by representatives from the Cartel from every country.
Johann was the last signatory, and as he signed, he remarked "You know, some toaster strudel sounds pretty fetch right now."
The words "toaster strudel" triggered a sequence of events which would lead to the South door being thrown open and German agents training their guns on the members of the committee before arresting them.
But something was wrong... Five seconds passed... Nothing. Then seven seconds. There was a commotion outside, and Johann glanced over to see hundreds of armed men streaming out of buildings and taking up defensive positions. *Holy shit; did they know we were coming?* Something was very wrong. The other cartel members could clearly hear the commotion which was now getting closer and could be heard faintly throughout the building, but they seemed to be pretending otherwise.
When the first gunshot rang out outside, the delegates moved into action; some of them ran to the window to look at the situation; others ran towards the far wall, some stayed put, others drew guns in preparation, and one hid under the table as more shots rang out outside. Without warning, the ceiling tiles on the south side of the room broke open, and people in military uniform descended into the room, and seconds later the north side tiles broke open and a number of men dressed in all black fell through into the room. In the midst of the shouting, guns were pointed at everyone by everyone, when suddenly the entire window was shattered at once by a group of men in full SWAT gear, who immediately pushed the table over and took cover against the first volley of shots from the other side of the room.
A few seconds after the second group had dropped from the ceiling, one of the men in black began shouting in every language he knew "Don't shoot! Nicht schießen! Waffen nieder, Waffen nieder! Не стреляйте!", but he was knocked over by when the wall behind him, opposite the window, collapsed to reveal a fourth SWAT team. When the light hit the other room, they realized that they had actually been in the same room as another team, and they immediately pointed their guns at everyone as well, and people also began simultaneously streaming in from the north and south doors, but by then the rest of the men on the squad of the man who had been knocked over had picked up on what he realized, and taken up his call and put their hands up.
Pinned between three Special forces operatives, trying to put his hands up but unable to move because the room was so crowded, that is when Johann realized what had happened. *Shit. Are you fucking kidding me? We already did the fucking delivery, too.*
And that is the story of how the governments of Germany, China, Russia, Ireland, the United States, South Africa, Egypt, India, Japan, Thailand, Mexico, Brazil, Algeria, Venezuela, Argentina, Pakistan, Turkey, Iran, Australia, France, The United Kingdom, Italy, Canada, and Belarus organized and carried out the delivery of ten million grams of heroine to their respective countries. |
[WP]Write a story about a German soldier in WW2 so that you feel bad for the soldier. | As a German, I don't need a WP for that. | Every day it was the same thing - punish those who lost us the war. Preserve the A Ryan race. Kill them, torture them, work them to the bone. Every day I look down at their faces and see the emotion in their eyes. In some it's sorrow, in some it's fear, in most it's bitterness. "What am I doing here?", I think to myself. I'm a pacifist. I give profusely. I vomit at the sight of blood. *I am not a killer*. And you know what's the worst? *I'm half Jewish*. And my best friend just told my CO. |
|
[WP]Write a story about a German soldier in WW2 so that you feel bad for the soldier. | “Here’s your uniform welcome to the home guard” The man with one eye handed me an arm band.
“Just this?”
“Just that, now move on to the next line to receive your rifle and your orders”
“Rifle? I’ve never shot a gun.”
“Never shot a gun? How old are you?”
“Sixteen”
He shook his head as he looked down at the paper in front of him and I heard him mutter: “So young”
After a few seconds he looked up and seemed a little surprised to see me still standing there. He gave me a half-hearted smile and looked past me:
“Next”.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------
“Here’s your rifle, and your orders, you’ll receive ammunition upon deployment. Next!”
“Where do I go?” The rifle felt heavy, foreign in my hands.
“Trucks are out the back door, hand the officer your orders and proceed to the truck as directed. Next!”
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------
“Orders please”
I handed him my papers, I hadn’t even bothered to read them.
“Last truck at the end.”
I carried my empty rifle in one hand, my arm band in another, not sure what was going on. I got in the back of the truck and sat down next to a few others boys my age, each of them looking as scared and confused as I felt. I took the last seat, up by the cab of the truck.
“Does anyone know where we are going?”
“Berlin soldier, to defend the homeland from the Russians!” Came the shouted response from the cab, and the truck rumbled off,the draft station fading into the dusty distance.
| Every day it was the same thing - punish those who lost us the war. Preserve the A Ryan race. Kill them, torture them, work them to the bone. Every day I look down at their faces and see the emotion in their eyes. In some it's sorrow, in some it's fear, in most it's bitterness. "What am I doing here?", I think to myself. I'm a pacifist. I give profusely. I vomit at the sight of blood. *I am not a killer*. And you know what's the worst? *I'm half Jewish*. And my best friend just told my CO. |
|
[WP]Write a story about a German soldier in WW2 so that you feel bad for the soldier. | American artillery blasted across snowy plains, and not too far off the drone of Russian technicals made its presence known. Obersturmführer Haydn Rosenkranz felt the golden locket at his neck and sighed. The allied forces would soon close in, and Herr Adler would ensure he got a swift boot to the rear, assuming he and his men even made it out.
Another mortar shook his dug-out bunker, and even more dirt fell on him. Wood beams were splitting from the forces pounding above, some near the entrance already gave out and his soldiers scrambled through the opening. Once the last one was out he too climbed through and embraced the sunlight. The autumn had been unusually harsh, and already snow had fallen over the encampment. Trucks nearby were frozen over, and their diesel engines shuddered to life. Crates of weapons and ammunition were loaded, and inside the wounded were kept surrounded in nests of crate and wool. Not comfy, but at least they wouldn't need to walk.
"Scheiß." Rosenkranz again found himself with the golden locket, and this time he allowed himself a peek inside to the beautiful girl he kept locked within. She looked radiant and happy and that visage simply melted his heart. "Ich komme wieder zurück. Wieder zurück." He kissed the cold metal and hid the trinket in his woolen coat.
He climbed into a truck towards the front of the convoy, and made route for Berlin. The countryside seemed unusually slow and still for a warzone and for some time he and his men sat in silence, partially out of respect for those they had lost and for fear of attack, not that their silence would last long. So much in the war had gone wrong, why would their escape be any different?
A flash to the east and hell in front of him, Rosenkranz could only watch as his truck swerved out of the way of the first barrage of mortars, screaming off the road and into the nearby forest. It hit a tree and steam belched from under the hood, and with that Rosenkranz felt the cold ground beneath him and glass in his flesh. Despite the explosions around him things were far too quiet, he at least expected screaming if only his own. He wasn't sure if his comrades were being quiet out of fear, pain, or if their voices were taken from them.
Night fell on him, and his truck sat only feet away. Inside might be blankets and food but he couldn't bring himself to check. He reasoned instead they would be destroyed by the explosion though he wasn't sure if that was true logic or if he was lying to himself. Wolves howled in the distance, apparently they had learned that after a battle there were plenty of bodies to clean up. Bear would be out too, rummaging for the last scraps of fat before winter. He shivered once and blacked out holding onto that locket.
In the morning he woke to allied tanks rumbling less than a kilometer away and the laughter of American voices. He wished he could feel sickened for what they had done to him, but he couldn't will hatred on another for no reason. He didn't even want to be here, the Americans weren't even his enemy. No. He hated the Geheime Staatspolizei, they that hurt his love Ewelyn. They that raped her and tortured her, they that he had to serve in order to buy the protection of his children.
The truck by him shook, and to his dismay a bear pillaged the crates of food he neglected to eat. His feet were too frozen to allow him to walk, so he opted to make as little noise as he could, and hope the beast might ignore him. To be safe he grabbed a Gewehr-43 that he recovered sometime that night, and bunked down. His Mauser would do him no good here.
Gunfire in the distance frightened the animal, and it tore away but its commotion brought the attention of an American sergeant sitting in one of his technicals. He ordered a few soldiers to Rosenkranz who found him clutching a rifle in one hand and a locket in another. One American snatched the locket away and made vulgar motions towards the pictured girl. His buddies snarled and howled with laughter. Rosenkranz was too defeated to do much about it, and instead murmured "Ich komme wieder zurück mein Schatz, komm wieder zurück."
The Americans heard him, and stuck a Colt to his chest. "Homesick, kraut? Dontcha worry buddy, we'll fix you right up. Can't feel heartache without a heart after all!"
"Wir werden uns wiedersehen, ruhe in Frieden Ewelyn" | Every day it was the same thing - punish those who lost us the war. Preserve the A Ryan race. Kill them, torture them, work them to the bone. Every day I look down at their faces and see the emotion in their eyes. In some it's sorrow, in some it's fear, in most it's bitterness. "What am I doing here?", I think to myself. I'm a pacifist. I give profusely. I vomit at the sight of blood. *I am not a killer*. And you know what's the worst? *I'm half Jewish*. And my best friend just told my CO. |
|
[WP]Write a story about a German soldier in WW2 so that you feel bad for the soldier. | As a German, I don't need a WP for that. | The Unit found him hiding in a closet, uniform too big for his frame, no weapon in sight. One of the boys chosen to defend Berlin. He wore the city more than the uniform - black soot and grey dust from his mottled blonde hair to his boots.
The Unit shouted, pointing guns at him, sneering at him, snarling like wolves at a cornered rabbit.
But the boy didn't understand their words. He whimpered, cried, and pleaded, "Please! I'm no soldier! I'm not a soldier!"
More words from the unit, and the men moved in, shouting. They grabbed him by his shirt and pulled him from the closet. The Unit was full of men taller than him, stronger than him, men who had wives, children. Men who had walked over a thousand miles through cities The Boy read of in school the years before.
"Please, don't hurt me!" The Boy cried, and the tears mixed with the soot on his face and turned into black rivulets dripping onto the floor, "I'm no soldier! I'm Sigmund Lindt, a boy from Berlin!"
The Unit shouted at one of it's number, who said something back. Then they all laughed.
"No boy!" The Unit shouted, German as bad as their breath, "No boy!"
Siggy sucked up the tears as they pushed him into the hall. Another Unit had a girl in their fat, blackened hands. They were dragging her down the hall as she cried for them to stop. Siggy knew her from school. His older sister had envied the way that girl did her hair.
When she fell to the ground, it was with her hair the soldiers pulled her up.
"My sister!" Siggy suddenly shouted, planting his feet as best he could in the oversized boots, "Where is she!? Where is my sister!? I demand to know -"
The Unit put a boot into his back. More shouting in a language Siggy didn't understand while The Unit let him writhe around in the dust and the glass. Then The Unit picked him up and carried him. They carried him past a room where a girl was crying. They carried him past a room where a woman was screaming. They carried him outside, where the sun burned his eyes and the smoke from a nearby fire burned his nostrils.
"Where are you taking me!?" Siggy asked, "Where is my sister and where are you taking me!?"
A gust of wind blew strange sounds and stranger smells past the group, and then The Unit dumped Siggy to the ground.
The ground smelled of zinc, copper, and other strange metals. It was warm, and wet. Siggy caught sight of a thick liquid cutting through the dust.
He closed his eyes after that. He shouted again, "My name is Siggy Lindt, I am just a boy!"
"Not a boy!" Shouted The Unit, "A soldier! As our friends were soldiers!"
"They were boys too!"
"They didn't die like boys!" The Unit told him, "They died like soldiers!"
"No," Siggy thought to open his eyes, but the liquid was still there and he didn't know what it was and he was scared so he closed them and said, "No, but I am not a soldier! Please! I'm a boy!"
"Today, then, we make a boy a soldier."
Sigmund felt a warm ring press against his temple, forcing his head to the wet ground. It was a brief, fleeting feeling. |
|
[WP] 2014 Batman meets 1960's Joker | I had just entered Arkham the other night. The guards seemed to be even more edge than when I wandered through in full suit.
"This ones a little different, Batman." He didn't look at me when he said this. He only took a long drag from his cigarette.
"where did you find him?" I half expected the circus. He was in clown facade: a long curled and red lipstick smile, green hair, and a purple crushed velvet suit.
"We found him in the mayors office this morning. He was *winding* these chattering teeth and scattering them amongst the floor. We rushed in and he already had his wrists outreached, ready to be cuffed."
*rrrrrrrrriiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiinnnnnnnnnnngggg*
The doors slammed open, echoing through the laminate floors. Eventually we stood before his glass cage. He was seated, placing cards in tower formation on the cot's top-sheet.
"Welcome!" He boomed like a ring-leader. "What an honor it is to have the man bat in black. *HAHAHA*!" A wicked smile never left his face.
"Look clown --"
"Please please, do call me Joker." He took a bow. "I do not sing. Usually. I am all the levity, none of the bravado. *HAHAHA*!"
"What were you doing in the Mayor's off this morning? And why would you willingly surrender yourself to the police?"
"Decoration my young man!"
"You mean the chatter-mouths? We sweeped them, nothing hazardous."
"Hmm? Oh no no! I do mean the large and hideous 'Gotham Memorial' Statue. The eye-sore that was to make 1st Avenue a complete sty." An almost comical look of disgust wiped his face. "The Wayne's never were that photogenic."
My gloves groaned as I clenched my fists. I could imagine myself breaking into the cell and beating the smile off of his face. Was this a slight? Does he know my identity? All the while my ocular screen inside of my cowl was searching facial recognition databases. No match. I too a few photos with a blink, sending them to Alfred and Lucius.
"You see Batman, I just wanted to swap some of the blueprints with ones of my own. Excuse me warden! Please provide the detective with the appropriate documents."
The warden presented the crudely drawn blueprints in a huff. The parking lot for the Greater Gotham Bank had it's left edge erased and redrawn, consuming the area designed for his parent's memorial. That was it. There was no possible way that this plan would work. It was almost cartoonish. I looked back towards the Joker. His face was contorted into a look of true panic and fear. Shaking, he thrust his finger, gesturing behind me. I completely fell for it.
The hall went dark for a moment. My sonar-vision flashed to life, illuminating the room to me in a silvery blue effect.
"The Joker is no longer in his cell."
Flashes of voices yelling after the Joker were seen going down the south hallway. I could hear and see Gordon and three officers sprint. The warden was nowhere to be seen either. I spun in a tight coil, switching to a UV filter. I could make out one set of footprints, leading towards the exit. The lights flashed back on, turning off my UV filter. Tapping the side of belt, I signaled for the bat-mobile. The re-purposed amphibious tank swung around the corner outside of the asylum. As I exited I was greeted with an invitation, written in spray paint.
"Better luck next time bats!"
The neon green lettering was traced with a specific isotope of calcium. This calcium was only found in oysters found off the bays of Gotham. It was a clue. Letting the others pursue the Joker, I returned to the cave to analyze the neon green paint. It only took a few minutes to drift through Gotham in my vehicle. As I began to climb from my bat-mobile, Alfred was approaching carrying data and a heavy-duty nutrient shake. I turned to my desk, turning it on. The files were expanded into view, flying as I commanded with a simple gesture. I sipped my shake.
*Ahem*
I turned to see see Alfred, still pulling something from my cape. He was almost blushing. In his hand there was a piece of torn notepaper, attached to a strip of tape. The note read: "Kick Me." | "WHERE IS SHE?!?!"
"Wooo HAHAHAHA"
Ka-*SMACK*
"WHERE IS SHE?!?"
"HEE HEE HEE WOOP WOOP"
Ker-*POW*! |
|
[WP] 2014 Batman meets 1960's Joker | "Alfred, this man, he - he isn't like - He's not the type of criminal I'm used to."
"With all due respect, Master Wayne, that's because he's not the kind of criminal you trained yourself to fight."
"I know, I know Alfred, you already told me : He wants to watch the world burn. So, what, I burn down the forest? I can't go tell Lucius to get my gear back from the NSA, that would go over like a lead balloon."
"Or -"
"Don't do it, Alfred."
"Or - "
"Don't say it - "
"A bat balloon."
"Damnit, Alfred, this is serious and you have to marginalize everything I'm trying to do with these tired puns."
"What - what did this Joker do? He shot you -"
"With a paint ball."
"With a paint ball, Master Wayne. He's psychotic, but in the true sense of psychosis he has extreme swings, from the - the ultra violent, to this - the whimsical."
"That's a birthday balloon."
"Ah - it was a birthday balloon. But, if you think like he does, it's not just a birthday balloon, it's a -"
"Fu - I am not going ride out in my militarized sports car wearing half-million dollar body armor only to have my entire strategy hinge on a nickels worth of imitation rubber."
"You're - right, Master Wayne. To capture this individual, you must be prepared to break your one rule."
"I'm not going to kill him, Alfred."
"No, I thought that rule was de-prioritized after that last - nevermind, the rule about, you know, that, that thing you had tailored for that evening with the girls from - "
"Oh, hell no, Alfred, I am not parading around in blue and gray spandex with a goofy rubber mask and primary yellow belt."
"Don't forget your - "
"I swear if you say it - "
"Your bat balloon, Master Wayne." | "WHERE IS SHE?!?!"
"Wooo HAHAHAHA"
Ka-*SMACK*
"WHERE IS SHE?!?"
"HEE HEE HEE WOOP WOOP"
Ker-*POW*! |
|
[WP] You are walking alone down a old dirt road after you car has broken down. You are approached by a lone car and the driver offers you a ride back to town. During the trip the driver tells you something that changes your outlook on the world forever. What did they say to you? | "Hop on in the passenger side.
Imma tell you a story while we take a ride.
I can't take you where you're goin. I'll take you where you need to be."
He took me back to the day that I had set you free.
Something must be changed, I guess. That's why I'm here, I know.
I turn and take your hand again, and beg you not to go.
Instead of walking out that door, you pour your heart to me.
And now, six long years later, my daughter's birth I see. | ## advisory
Rules 1, 2 and 10.
 1. No low effort / joke responses / copypasta *- This includes "this has done this before" comments. They will be removed on sight. Mercilessly.*
 2. Top level comments on a post must be story or poem responses! *- Requests for clarifications are ok too.*
 10. Responses ought to be at least 25 words!
Unless a prompt strictly requests short responses. This subreddit is meant to encourage writing, not encourage a single sentence or two. |
|
[WP] You are walking alone down a old dirt road after you car has broken down. You are approached by a lone car and the driver offers you a ride back to town. During the trip the driver tells you something that changes your outlook on the world forever. What did they say to you? | "I can kill you or I can kill one random person, 3 days from today, several states away from here. You don't know enough to stop this from happening, but you do have a choice in the matter.
I already picked the other possible victim. She has no idea about any of this and she won't unless you choose yourself over her. She's young and she's married with two young children and a baby. If you choose to live instead of her I will walk behind her one day soon while she's at her favorite park and I will fire two rounds into her head. I will not physically harm her children and I will never reveal to anyone that you had a choice if I am eventually captured.
I'm going to stop this car about a mile from town and then you are going to get out and make your choice; you have the remainder of this ride one way or the other." | ## advisory
Rules 1, 2 and 10.
 1. No low effort / joke responses / copypasta *- This includes "this has done this before" comments. They will be removed on sight. Mercilessly.*
 2. Top level comments on a post must be story or poem responses! *- Requests for clarifications are ok too.*
 10. Responses ought to be at least 25 words!
Unless a prompt strictly requests short responses. This subreddit is meant to encourage writing, not encourage a single sentence or two. |
|
[WP] You are walking alone down a old dirt road after you car has broken down. You are approached by a lone car and the driver offers you a ride back to town. During the trip the driver tells you something that changes your outlook on the world forever. What did they say to you? | "Hop on in the passenger side.
Imma tell you a story while we take a ride.
I can't take you where you're goin. I'll take you where you need to be."
He took me back to the day that I had set you free.
Something must be changed, I guess. That's why I'm here, I know.
I turn and take your hand again, and beg you not to go.
Instead of walking out that door, you pour your heart to me.
And now, six long years later, my daughter's birth I see. | "I'm you're son from the future. You told me this story growing up, so I always wanted to invent time travel. Eventually I did, and I realized this story was true. So, I came back to get you. To invent myself." |
|
[WP] You are walking alone down a old dirt road after you car has broken down. You are approached by a lone car and the driver offers you a ride back to town. During the trip the driver tells you something that changes your outlook on the world forever. What did they say to you? | "Hop on in the passenger side.
Imma tell you a story while we take a ride.
I can't take you where you're goin. I'll take you where you need to be."
He took me back to the day that I had set you free.
Something must be changed, I guess. That's why I'm here, I know.
I turn and take your hand again, and beg you not to go.
Instead of walking out that door, you pour your heart to me.
And now, six long years later, my daughter's birth I see. | I got in the car figuring I didn't have much choice. I thanked the driver, and said I'd pay them back as soon as we could get to town. On the way to town, the driver said to me, "There's something I must tell you now."
I asked, "What do you mean?"
They explained, "Your car has been sabotaged. You've been selected for the opportunity to join a secret police. Are you interested?"
At first, I thought it was an odd joke, but then I realized the 'driver' wasn't driving. The car was steering itself. |
|
[WP] You are walking alone down a old dirt road after you car has broken down. You are approached by a lone car and the driver offers you a ride back to town. During the trip the driver tells you something that changes your outlook on the world forever. What did they say to you? | "I can kill you or I can kill one random person, 3 days from today, several states away from here. You don't know enough to stop this from happening, but you do have a choice in the matter.
I already picked the other possible victim. She has no idea about any of this and she won't unless you choose yourself over her. She's young and she's married with two young children and a baby. If you choose to live instead of her I will walk behind her one day soon while she's at her favorite park and I will fire two rounds into her head. I will not physically harm her children and I will never reveal to anyone that you had a choice if I am eventually captured.
I'm going to stop this car about a mile from town and then you are going to get out and make your choice; you have the remainder of this ride one way or the other." | I got in the car figuring I didn't have much choice. I thanked the driver, and said I'd pay them back as soon as we could get to town. On the way to town, the driver said to me, "There's something I must tell you now."
I asked, "What do you mean?"
They explained, "Your car has been sabotaged. You've been selected for the opportunity to join a secret police. Are you interested?"
At first, I thought it was an odd joke, but then I realized the 'driver' wasn't driving. The car was steering itself. |
|
[WP] As a joke, you start a cult online, creating a blog of your "visions" from God/your made up gods/whatever. However, things start to get out of hand as your following grows larger and larger. | I chuckle to myself as I post the first entry into the Edopsian Visions blog. According to the blog description, the Edopsian religion is a polytheistic religion that worships 2 separate sets of Gods. Some people worship Edops and his kingdom, and some worship Kell and her realm. A few people worship both.
I've posted that Shamania, daughter of Erops and patron Goddess of Earth, approached me and asked for me to try to bring peace between Kell and Edops, at least for the humans. This obviously didn't happen, but hey, it's all a joke.
I post about how Edops, the Creator of Free Will and King of the Divine Kingdom created humans as an experiment for what would happen if no Gods entwined themselves in Humanity. Shamania took it upon herself to make sure we don't completely destroy ourselves. The Goddess Kell, however, opposed the idea of a society with no real Gods, so she attempted to force the Gods of her realm onto the Earth. She sent her son Ankase to create deserts and her daughter Korrastia to create the north and south poles.
Shamania realized that this much discord would be bad for the humans, so she stopped Ankase and Korrastia from making themselves known. Edops banished every God not under his rule from Earth. But, as the millennia passed, Shamania realized that people needed Gods. She asked be to make the people learn of the Gods so that Edops would allow the Earth to become a place for the Edopsian Kingdom and the Kella realm to work together and cease their fighting.
Again, this is all pure fiction.
When I check the blog the next morning, there are a few messages in my inbox. I read the first one.
"Wow, a Goddess talked to you? Man, Lucky!" I assume he's being sarcastic and delete the message. However, after reading the rest of the messages, I realize that people actually believe this.
So I create a post saying that the God Hewtoo is whispering thoughts in my head of spreading the religion. So I ask my readers to tell their friends about this religion.
Throughout the next few days, I make up more stories about the Gods slowly shaping the universe to what it is now. By the end of the week, my religion has over 2,000 followers.
Corrupted by the amount of control I have, I slowly order my followers to do stranger and stranger things, such as refusing to do homework on Tuesday because "that was the day Edops created the world". I gained even more followers after that.
2 months later, I have over 500,000 followers around the world. I've made people ditch the last day of school every month, paint their doors blue, and do 5 push ups before or after each meal. Since my religion is mostly centered around America, I can pretty much control the presidential election.
At the five month mark, Christianity decided that I was a threat, and damn everyone who believes in it to Hell. I counter by saying that according to my religion, everyone goes to Rosep, our paradise, regardless of whether or not they believe.
Even. More. Followers.
1 year later, I am the leader of the third most dominant religion in the world, right after Christianity and Islam. I keep close watch over my followers, making sure people know that extremist Edopsians are isolated from true Edopsians, who believe but do not impose. I tell my followers of the true paradise of people who believe but don't impose. I almost wish it was true myself.
2 years later, I break through the barrier. Edops has the most followers of all. My blog has become the holy book, and I can control over 1 billion with mere keystrokes. Most of the conflicts of the world have been resolved in my religion, and its all a lie.
The only thing that fixed the world was a bored 15 year old at a computer. I'm doomed to live my life never telling anyone this, slowly being eaten by this terrible fact that no one else will ever know. | I sat in a dim lit interrogation room as a burly man in a white button down shirt with a police badge and gun holster stared at me.
“Look,” I began to frantically explain. “It started as joke. I didn’t think people would take it seriously.”
“You think this funny?” the man asked. “Because I’m not laughing. You have blood on your hands and unless you start talking, I’m going to lose my patience.”
“Alright, alright,” I surrendered. “It started a year ago when I began a blog about seeing visions from a god named Culuth from the planet Leyr. He told me I acted as his messiah, the one to bring his message to earth so that it could be primed for his arrival.”
“Message of chaos?” the officer asked.
“Yeah,” I began. “It was supposed to be this idea that the entire world and all the cosmos are in a constant state of chaos. The planets and stars in the universe are no more than marbles bouncing off one another in a meaningless vacuum; however, chaos can be used to strengthen man. When a plague comes and kills off the weak and elderly, only the strong remain and thrive.”
I felt this man’s gaze fall heavy upon my shoulders.
“It was supposed to be satirical, you know?” I defended. “It makes fun of all sorts of philosophy and religious extremism.”
“Your followers didn’t seem to catch the satire.” The officer stated curtly.
“No,” I conceded. “I should have caught it. A few months in, the message boards crowded with stories that I never told, but became canon regardless. Stuff like Culuth was chaos incarnate and if anyone followed in his footsteps, he would grant them immortality. Soon, a few users became more and more extreme.
“My satirical religion grew life of its own. As their messiah, I tried to gently chide them into more moderate views, but they rejected me. I was no longer their prophet; they only followed Culuth.
“That’s when the fires started. Those extreme users encouraged others to spread chaos and strengthen mankind in the name of their god. Picture of apartment fires poured into the message boards with various users claiming responsibility.
“I tried to stop them, I really did. But in their eyes, a once founder became an enemy of their religion.”
The man slowly and deliberately set a series of photographs on the table between us. I had seen them before on the message boards, but my stomach still churned. How a human could do that to another is a question which shall always evade my mind.
“This is on your hands.” He spoke. “I’m placing you under arrest for speech inciting religious violence.”
“No!” I pleaded. “It’s not my fault. You can’t arrest Jesus of the crimes crusaders committed and you can’t arrest Muhammad of the actions of terrorists. How can you arrest me?”
As he read my Miranda Rights, two officers filed into the room and dragged me out in handcuffs as the images from those photos scared my mind with guilt. Nobody could be the same after that. |
|
[WP] Mars has a vibrant intelligent alien society living underground. They are terrified of the 'alien species' on the planets crust(Mars Rover Curiosity and Opportunity etc) Whilst the locals speak of folklore of the creatures, the league of chosen ones plan an attack. | The tiny folk sat in small chairs in miniscule chambers connected by minute tunnles, made with miniature pickaxes, that allowed infinitismely small wires to link microscopic speakers under the gigantic face of Mars. A burst of static erupted from the speakers, and this was collected by the industrious folk of Mars to be used later. After that, came the voice of the King of Mars. "My fellow martians, it is with great sadness that I annouce the invasion of our planet." Children cried as they hugged their mothers' skirts, and men and women held hands, gripped tight in fear, across the land. The voice continued. "The beast is large. Frightfully large. Our scouts report that it stands as tall as the sun is high, and casts a mighty shadow of death over the barren land of the Surface." Terror seemed to be a living entity, dancing among the scattered groups of Martians as the speakers spread the news. "Fear not however. A chosen band of mighty warriors will face this creature, which has come from beyond the stars. They will strike it down in the name of Mars, and we shall feast on its entrails in VICTORY!" Scattered cheers erupted from the different chambers, growing in fervour untill all of Undermars was a call to the king for the blood of the invader, and the unquestioned victory of the maritans.
***********************************************************************
Meanwhile, in the room of ~~Sneakily Planned Endeavours~~ Courageous War Planning, a different sort of discussion was taking place.
***********************************************************************
"Men," said General Hasty Curmudgeon the III, "I will not lie to you. The intel we have is grim. Most of you will certainly perish. Maybe all of you." He handed out some papers that had been drawn up by the advance scouts. "You will see here, that the alien craft is superbly protected. There are six Deathcrushers, three on each side, that can be manouvered in unpredictable directions and at uncommon speed. Half of the scouting force was annihalated before they could even react." There were murmurs running through the troops. Curmudgeon couldn't reprimand them, not when they were giving their lives. "The rest of the craft," he continued, "is armour-plated. The scouts have identified metallic pipes running between these plates, and we believe that this is the weak-spot of the craft. Unfortunately it is almost impossible to get to these, as the only point where the craft touches the floor are the Deathcrushers." One of them raised his hand.
"Sir, I heard that it makes a terrible growl, and that it blocks out the very sun with its size." Curmudgeon sighed.
"Our scouts have observed a growl, yes, but the thing is smaller than the Face of Mars."
"What about the Right Hand of Mars" asked another.
"It is smaller than that as well. To put it into perspective, it would be The Great Roaming Flea of Mars, if it were part of us." Oohs and Ahhs echoed through the room. The Great Roaming Flea of Mars would be a formidable enemy. Curmudgeon looked at the thirty warriors who had volunteered for the first strike, and hopefully the last. "Gentlemen, each of you will be issued with the sharpest rocksword that the empire can find. Your mission, to destroy the metal pipes of the craft, and to somehow obliterate the tiny men inside it that have invaded us. The plan is two-fold. One, overcome the Deathcrushers. Two, overcome the Enemy. DO I MAKE MYSELF CLEAR!?". Bloodthirsty screams came in reply.
**************************************************************************
And now for a little news.
**************************************************************************
The Advanced Party moved out today. They were combined with the remainder of the Scout Corps and are heading to engage the enemy. It is thought that it will take a week, Undermars standard time, to reach the invader, but this may change depending on its movement. In other news, King Horbalopticus Flagonsworthy has asked all citizens to continue with their daily lives. He has promised that the invaders will in no way affect Undermars, and has assured reporters that the Advanced Party will ~~probably~~ make swift work of the invaders.
*************************************************************************
The day of combat.
*************************************************************************
Alpha unit had spotted the giant metal beast. The sun glinted from its flanks like death-rays. Its Deathcrushers rolled angrily across the barren rocks of Uppermars. They had discussed it amongst themselves. The only way to get past the Deathcrushers would be massive sacrifice. Each crusher would cost nine men, and one other would make it up. This meant that they could only target three of the six crushers, which was a shame. They stood in formation, three groups, ready to vertically stabalise themselves and launch their comrade into the jaws of death. The crushers rumbled as they drew closer. Other parts of the craft whirred and flanged in strange ways, unsettling the men. The crusher was coming, it was here. Trip McGinnis was flung into the air, grasping at a handhold that danced above one of the crushers. He winced, saying a prayer as the death throes and bone-snaps of his comrades drifted up to him. He looked forward, seeing that Gib Horsky had also made it. There was no sign of Roob Winguns. Trip nodded to Gib, working his way towards the mass of the beast. They met on a ridge that seemed to join the two Deathcrushers together.
"We lost Roob" said Trip. Gib nodded, before vomitting violently over the side. "Keep your head man," said Trip, "I can't do it alone." Gib nodded again, pulling a certain right grimness over his face. "Trip, I'll try and do what I can from out here, you go and slice those tiny bastards into a million pieces and drink their heartblood." Trip nodded.
He made his way further up the machine as Gib started cutting the metal things with his rocksword. Trip felt the machine judder as one of the Deathcrushers stopped.
"Keep going Gib" he shouted, trying to find a way inside this hulking metal murderer.
 
On Earth one man turned to another and said "We just lost the front-left wheel."
"Shit." said the other.
 
Trip had found a gap between the plates, where more of those metal pipes erupted from. He felt another shudder as he climbed in, and then a third. Gib had done it. The craft was now circling, propelled from only one side. Their sacrifice had not been in vain. Trip crawled further into the craft. Where he had expected to see tiny people he found only wires, pipes and metal. It was hot in the craft, but not unbearably so. Trip lifted his sword, hacking left and right, slicing important looking wires from top to bottom. Eventually he came across a box that had many wires sticking from it. He wiggled his way between the wires, and found that they were connected to two large metal plates. He touched one plate. Nothing. He touched the other. Nothing. How was it being powered? He touched them both.
Curiosity had been designed to be as fireproof as possible. Unfortunately the citizens of Undermars had not. Trip burst into flame, thousands of electrons surging through him in a spark of white brilliance that reduced him to a flaming corpse. A flaming corpse that was now lying near some very sophisticated and expensive machinery that wasn't ever truly meant to be set on fire.
Gib was the only soldier to survive the endeavour, and always spoke well of Trip, the hero of Undermars, who killed so many of the invaders that the craft itself caught fire and burned as bright as the sun. Trip was remembered lovingly for three hundred generations, Gib and the others along with him.
 
On Earth, quite a few people were fired. Others wondered what had caused the failure of the expensive machinery. Some jokingly said that it must have been aliens, and everyone laughed.
Edit: Fixing some shocking spelling. Further credit to /u/Solin2001 and /u/iloveportalz0r for more spelling. | "Bisam!" The young Hoxnoic screamed, their body slivering around the dimly lit metallic tunnel as they caught up to their friend.
To any human, the genderless Hoxnoic would appear as some eyeless chimera between a mole rat and a snake, with several more tongues, three rows of fangs, tucked in arms that resembled those of a praying mantis, all on a body about the size of a child.
"What?" The neutrally gendered Bisam replied, belonging to one of Mars' (known to actual Martians as F'ghuyiock ngoprkik translated roughly as 'Black Paint Orb') ruling castes, Bisam was a r-Okul. A 7 foot tall black humanoid covered in what appeared to be millions of claws and lichen, on Bisam's head were two large eyes that glowed a dim white.
"I'm really busy, I've been uploading lessons for an hour straight, so what is it, Meven?"
Meven, the young Hoxnoic jumped around Bisam in excitement, leaving his snailesque fluid on the ground in doing so. Bisam released a screeching noise that may have been a chuckle, and continued rubbing a tablet like device against their head, they gave a gesture with another of their appendages, as if to say 'get on with it.'
"Bisam! We're taking initiative!"
Bisam took a bite of the stone tablet, "P'loyeh?"
"Ui!" Meven jumped around more, "My dehyo is a L.C.O. informant and he said it's happening today!"
Bisam nibbled at the stone tablet, finally taking interest in what Meven had to say, "League of the Chosen...? Your dehyo...?" Bisam threw the tablet at the ground hard, and several glowing worms rushed out of it, scooping up the ashes of the rock, Bisam offered some to Meven as the small snake-mole thing jumped happily.
"My dehyo says it will be at the next tilt!" Meven tossed the ash into the air, letting it settle over the dry cracks of their back.
"Next tilt? Really? I didn't even know the lorania were real... Now you're telling me we're launching an initiative against them? Why... how...?" Bisam moved their head to follow as Meven excitedly slid up the wall of the stoney chrome tunnel and faced Bisam with his serpentine face, only now upside down.
"01 knew about them for while, et all did, but we didn't know if they were a threat or not."
"Sud? They are?"
"Well 01 says they're digging to us, and we can record them gathering information."
Bisam's white holes widened at this. "Whoaw!"
"Ye," Meven replied, "And we think they're from the great blue, too. So if we get one of them alive, we'll interrogate it."
"The great distant blue...?" Bisam said, the two began making their way down the tunnel again, "Huh..." |
|
A generic enemy npc discovers he's in a video game and will probably get murdered by the protagonist. What will his reaction be? How will he convince his fellow npcs that their enemy is destined to win? Does he have any plans to increase his odds of surviving? Feel free to take liberties with this or write it from the pov of a specific games enemy npc | [WP] You are an enemy NPC who discovers he is in a video game. How does this effect his outlook on life? | I was Bandit Marauder. I had been for my entire life, which wasn't a long one. I had spontaneously entered existence just a few minutes ago. The rest of my randomly assigned crew were also bandits, all of whom seemed to have normal memories: the kind a normal person would have. I was not a normal person. I was Bandit Marauder, and I was either struck with a mind-wiping illusion spell or the world around me existed only so I could be in it.
My crew was a small one. There was Bandit Thug, a big Orc who carried a steel battle axe. Bandit Thief was a Bosmer who carried a longbow and was never seen without a quiver chock full of elven arrows. Finally, there was Bandit Highwayman, a Nordic who fought with two old Nordic war axes he had looted off of a Draugr's twice-dead corpse.
From what I gathered, our leader, Arvel the Swift, had us spread out in the ruins of Bleak Falls Barrow to search for a treasure buried deep inside. It was typical bandit work, the type normal bandits did. I was not a normal bandit. I was Bandit Marauder, and something was wrong.
I heard a groan from another room. I recognized the voice as Bandit Thug. Something or someone was in here with us, and it wasn't friendly.
I tried to voice my concern to Bandit Thief, but all I could manage to say was, "Got to start carrying a dagger in my boot. I'm tired of getting disarmed."
Bandit Thief shrugged, and then an arrow lodged itself in the back of her head. "I think I heard something," she shouted, looking around the room.
After a few moments of confusion, Bandit Thief shifted back to her normal routine. "Must be hearing things."
Another arrow hit her, this time in the back, and she fell to the floor. A normal person would have started running, but I was not a normal person. I was Bandit Marauder, and I realized something.
By this point I knew it. This pocket of reality existed only so that I could be killed. But I was Bandit Marauder. I would defy reality. I was Bandit Marauder, and I was not going to die.
The man charged at me, but I was ready. I reached for my sturdy steel sword and pulled up old iron shield. I am Bandit Marauder, I said to myself. I will not die.
He struck from the sides, gripping a mace in his left hand and a sword in his right. I blocked most of his blows and slowly knocked him down, yet every time his death was near he swallowed copious amounts of goat cheese.
But I was Bandit Marauder, the last of my crew. The Nine had placed me here to die, and I would not accept that. With one final blow, my sword severed his head and his body fell limp.
I had done it, and it felt good for the few seconds that it had lasted.
I was Bandit Marauder. And I had won.
--------------
I was Bandit Marauder. I had been for my entire life, which wasn't a long one.
| He felt a jolt surging through his body. A sudden awareness of himself and others took over this frail, draugr's body. Emotions coursed through his animated brain for the first time. He felt curiosity at first, but that slowly transcended into loneliness. He was nothing more than a low level enemy NPC in Skyrim.
In the distance, an intimidating Orc wearing Daedric armor stormed its way through crowds of his Draugr brethren. The warrior wielded a giant warhammer and had cleaved his way closer to the now conscious draugr.
He feared for his life for the first time. Unsure of what to do, he fell on his knees and pleaded for some unknown higher being to rescue him. It was unfair for him to suddenly be given this gift of life, only to have it immediately taken away.
The Orc had finally made his way to him. But instead of immediately swinging its hammer, it paused to stare at him. The Draugr saw this as an opportunity to reason with this unstoppable force. When he spoke out loud, subtitles appeared beneath him for some odd reason.
"Please, I have been given this strange awareness of myself. I do not wish to fight you, I only wish to explore and satiate this newfound curiosity in myself! You should join me if you are alive as well! We shall explore this strange land of *Skyrim*."
The Orc remained silent for what seemed like an eternity. Suddenly it switched its hands and pulled a claymore out of thin air. It swung the blade through the air and decapitated the draugr. A crude animation of the Orc dipping its crotch repeatedly onto the draugr's dead body occurred.
Then the screen turned to blackness. The PC had been turned off.
Two clearly stoned teenage boys were munching on Cheetos and downing gallons of Mountain Dew.
"Bro, why did you do that? I've never seen that dialogue from a draugr before. Thats so strange."
"Like, I don't know,man. It was like, tripping me out, dude. Let's play something different. That game was like, starting to become too philosophical for me and shit."
|
A generic enemy npc discovers he's in a video game and will probably get murdered by the protagonist. What will his reaction be? How will he convince his fellow npcs that their enemy is destined to win? Does he have any plans to increase his odds of surviving? Feel free to take liberties with this or write it from the pov of a specific games enemy npc | [WP] You are an enemy NPC who discovers he is in a video game. How does this effect his outlook on life? | I saw Bob and Bill die with my own two eyes. A stranger walked by and stabbed them, took the cheese and thread from their pockets, and then went back about his way. Now Bob and Bill are back.
They're standing next to me. They haven't said anything. Not a word. It occurs to me that they've never actually said anything. In fact, it occurs to me that I've never actually said anything. That's so fucking weird. I go to fix that...
But I can't. Like, I just can't. I try to form words, but instead, I just stare and smile at Bob and Bill, and in turn, Bob and Bill stare and smile back. Now I want to scream. Still, I stand frozen, smiling.
And then I see something, behind Bill, off in the distance. Another stranger. A woman this time. A woman with a staff, coming closer. Still, I stand frozen and smiling, watching her approach, trying my damndest to cry out and scream, but unable to.
She's close now. So close. Without warning, Bob and Bill turn, charge her, knives drawn! She blasts them with some kind of fire and my two friends fall to the ground, dead. The woman kneels and loots their corpses. I just stare and smile as she pockets our brigades finest thread and cheese...
Then she stands. Still for a moment. Then approaching. I want to turn and run. To live. To say something to someone.
Instead, I find myself running at her. My knife's drawn and I'm still smiling. Her hands glow, and then everything turns black...
Bob and Bill are standing right next to me, staring and smiling. I want to scream, but instead, I just stare and smile too. | As he approached the front door of the bank, Frank slowed, and stopped.
He'd done this before.
He'd get out of the SWAT van, enter the bank, tear up the stairs, fire a few shots at the raiders, and...die.
That was it.
Done.
None of the other SWAT Officers cared, though; Just looking through the crack in the doorway, he could see a huge crowd of blue-uniformed SWAT members diving in random directions away from a hail of gunfire from the raiders' Enforcer. For most of them, the dive did nothing but quicken their demises. The few who survived began to make their way upstairs in an attempt to take down the raiders.
But Frank wasn't a blue SWAT: He was a fucking Maximum Force Responder! Best-of-the-best, times twenty! So why did he feel...irritated? Was it because he felt as though he'd done this before? Could it have been that his fellow officers were just completely brain dead, running into a gunfire blender?
He wasn't sure.
Making sure he wasn't being watched by his fellow units (Not that they gave a damn, of course), he carefully slipped away to the cafeteria of the Benevolent Bank and sat down at one of the tables. He didn't bother trying to remove his helmet, and instead chose to place his shotgun on the table. He leaned over to the counter, and looked at what food they had on offer, just in case he could find a way to eat something. After a few moments, he laid eyes on a piece of cake, nearly untouched by broken glass. He smiled behind his white helmet, and brushed the shards of glass away, before picking it up, putting it on a slightly chipped plate, and putting it in front of himself.
Then, he sat there.
He didn't have anything else he could do.
He could try eating the cake.
That might have killed some time.
But no.
Frank cast a glance around, and watched yet another squad of SWAT troops, led by a Taser, charge into the building. He was almost tempted to count the next few seconds on his fingers.
One. Two. Thr-
And there was the hail of gunfire. And was that an explosion? Fan-fucking-tastic.
They had mother-fucking grenades.
Oh well.
Just then, his headset buzzed, ordering all surviving officers to exit the bank and regroup. Frank ignored it for a few minutes, nothing else he could do. If he regrouped, he'd be put with another squad of seemingly expendable officers, and then he'd probably get sick of listening to their repeated asking of who the raiders were.
It was the PAYDAY crew.
*The* PAYDAY crew.
Responsible for the Mercy Hospital robbery, First World Bank robbery, GenSec Armoured Transport raids, Election Day heists...no cops had walked out of those. Intact, at least.
Sighing, Frank was about to try eating the cake when something tapped the back of his helmet.
"*Hands where I can see them.*"
He almost smiled, raising his hands carefully.
"*Now you ask yourself this: What's more important? Stopping us, or tucking your kids in at night?*"
Definitely the latter.
"*You're fighting for us now. But if I sense so much as an intention to shoot at us...*"
"You'll kill me," Frank replied flatly. "As with the other few hundred." The man with the gun pulled it away slightly. "Listen, I'm aware that if you kill me, I'll just wake up and it was all a bad dream. And as far as I know, all these other cops don't get it. If I'm going to be fighting with you fellas, I'm going all the way." Frank looked at the man behind him: It was Dallas. The flag-masked one. He seemed to be looking confused at this cop actually willing to fight with the men they were sent to stop.
"Bags are upstairs. We're dropping them down the elevator shaft. All you need to do is throw them in the van. Then we'll talk."
Frank smiled behind his helmet.
Now he had something to do. |
As in, a fire superhero who is terribly afraid of fire, or something along those lines. | [WP] A superhero who is afraid of his own powers. | I wear a symbol of a scale to remind me. With all this incredible power comes a price. I'm so powerful I make superman look like a Ken Doll. But I had a catch to my powers. I struck a deal with an angel to get the power to save people. But what it didn't tell me was there was a price. One so great I question ever using my powers. For every time I use my gifts a life is lost. There has to be a balance. For every time I alter the fates the debt must be paid somewhere. Who am I to decide which life is more valuable than the next? Am I the hero or the monster? All I know is they call me the Judge. But can I really do justice with my power? | I still remember the day I found out my powers. Death magic. All I've ever wanted to be was a nature mage, but NOOOOOOO. Instead I was placed in the exact opposite of nature magic. I still remember the day I got tested. It was a year ago and I'd just turned 13. The test was pretty simple select one item out of the 6 items presented: A bean plant, an old book, a glass ball, a little grey mouse, an ivory dagger, or a dingy old bone. Of course I immediately grabbed for the bean plant. To my horror it immediately died in my hand. I looked at the tester for help, but he didn't react.
"pick another item" said the tester looking bored. She was short woman with long grey hair, looking to be in her mid fifties. I stared pleadingly. She gave me no sympathy, her expression unchanging. I sighed and looked back at my remaining items. I reached for the matchbook. Fire magic couldn't be that bad. The matches immediately burst into flames scorching my my hands and fingers.
"Was.... that a good thing?" I asked hoping to god that it was.
"No, pick another item."
Much to my disappointment next two items didn't work either. The glass ball broke in half and the dagger melted in my hands. There was only two items left: The mouse and the bone. I was scared; so far every item I touched ended up dilapidated. If I grabbed the mouse there's a chance it might die, If I grab the bone then I'm stuck as a necromancer for he rest of my life.
I quickly grabbed the mouse, praying the outcome would be satisfactory. Squeaaaaaak. The mouse is writhing pain in my hands I instinctively jerk my hands away and the mouse drops to the floor. I realize my mistake and immediately try to catch it. but its too late. The mouse is dead on the floor. It was all my fault; I killed it. I remember picking it up and crying. I lied sprawling on the floor, holding my mouse, and hyperventilating. The tester lady tried to calm me down. She told me it was normal; that necromancer almost always kill the mouse when they pick it. Her words didn't help me. I hate myself. I hate myself every single minute of the day. I wish I had no powers at all than have this.
I havn't used my powers at all since the testing. Everyday I feel it building up inside of me. The power eating at me, screeaming at me to let it out. I've been getting urges. To kill things....... animals... people. It scares me. It scares me so fucking much. Every day I can feel the power build up in me and every day I can hear the voices getting louder. I'm thinking of just ending it all; before I lose total control...... or maybe just giving in to the voices and let the darkness take over. It would be so easy. |
As in, a fire superhero who is terribly afraid of fire, or something along those lines. | [WP] A superhero who is afraid of his own powers. | I woke up in a cold sweat today.
Of course, that's not anything out of ordinary. I can't remember the last time I got a good night's rest--who am I kidding? I remember everything about that day, because I've been scared countless times, nervous countless times, I'm on edge practically 24 hours a day...but I've only ever been mad once.
Not like, annoyed or anything like that. Like enraged. Like wanting to seriously hurt someone. I physically lashed out at another human being in anger once, and it changed everything. I can still see it all in my head. It was all over these stupid tags. Without even really knowing what my power was I somehow ended up #1. According to who? I don't know. For what abilities? I don't know. Why the fuck does this all matter so much to people? I wish I knew. Number 6 came at me. He wanted my number, and he thought he'd take it from me.
I lost my temper. I had been using my ranking just to live my life normally, without having to deal with other people's harassment. Most people were smarter than that. Number 6 was trying to ruin it all, and it got to me. As soon as the very idea was implanted in my mind that I was going to retaliate--before I even moved--he was dead. Not just him, others too. The entire street corner was demolished. It was like the air itself ripped apart and exploded. It was like part of the universe caved in and shattered. I was completely fine, but those people weren't. I didn't kill them, I destroyed them.
And that's why I sit here now, in a safe house concealed and protected from the outside. This is all voluntary. Numbers 2 and 3 couldn't keep me in if I wanted to leave, but they can keep people away. Because the people out there don't know my strength. They don't know the danger in this stupid game to be the most powerful. But I do. I'm still not even sure what my powers are, or how much more devastating they can be if harnessed, but I've seen the only possible result that could come from all this. That's why I sit here now. | I still remember the day I found out my powers. Death magic. All I've ever wanted to be was a nature mage, but NOOOOOOO. Instead I was placed in the exact opposite of nature magic. I still remember the day I got tested. It was a year ago and I'd just turned 13. The test was pretty simple select one item out of the 6 items presented: A bean plant, an old book, a glass ball, a little grey mouse, an ivory dagger, or a dingy old bone. Of course I immediately grabbed for the bean plant. To my horror it immediately died in my hand. I looked at the tester for help, but he didn't react.
"pick another item" said the tester looking bored. She was short woman with long grey hair, looking to be in her mid fifties. I stared pleadingly. She gave me no sympathy, her expression unchanging. I sighed and looked back at my remaining items. I reached for the matchbook. Fire magic couldn't be that bad. The matches immediately burst into flames scorching my my hands and fingers.
"Was.... that a good thing?" I asked hoping to god that it was.
"No, pick another item."
Much to my disappointment next two items didn't work either. The glass ball broke in half and the dagger melted in my hands. There was only two items left: The mouse and the bone. I was scared; so far every item I touched ended up dilapidated. If I grabbed the mouse there's a chance it might die, If I grab the bone then I'm stuck as a necromancer for he rest of my life.
I quickly grabbed the mouse, praying the outcome would be satisfactory. Squeaaaaaak. The mouse is writhing pain in my hands I instinctively jerk my hands away and the mouse drops to the floor. I realize my mistake and immediately try to catch it. but its too late. The mouse is dead on the floor. It was all my fault; I killed it. I remember picking it up and crying. I lied sprawling on the floor, holding my mouse, and hyperventilating. The tester lady tried to calm me down. She told me it was normal; that necromancer almost always kill the mouse when they pick it. Her words didn't help me. I hate myself. I hate myself every single minute of the day. I wish I had no powers at all than have this.
I havn't used my powers at all since the testing. Everyday I feel it building up inside of me. The power eating at me, screeaming at me to let it out. I've been getting urges. To kill things....... animals... people. It scares me. It scares me so fucking much. Every day I can feel the power build up in me and every day I can hear the voices getting louder. I'm thinking of just ending it all; before I lose total control...... or maybe just giving in to the voices and let the darkness take over. It would be so easy. |
As in, a fire superhero who is terribly afraid of fire, or something along those lines. | [WP] A superhero who is afraid of his own powers. | Brian, I need you to sit down, I still have 4 minutes of the class left and I intend to use all of that time to prepare you guys for the final tomorrow.
So, once again, evolution is blind. The trait that saves you in one environment or situation may be the same trait that makes you less fit than others in your population.
Take for example, the famous subject 104, his mutation allowed his cells to perform rapid mitosis under stress. During the Mutant Apartheid, he survived multiple street shootings and government issued death sentences because he was able to regenerate, allowing him to be more fit than other mutants. But now that the Mutant Apartheid has ended, his rapid mitosis is the cause of his multiple cancer. You see, evolution starts with a mutation. Mutation is neutral by itself, it is only beneficial or detrimental depends on the environment. In his case, his mutation allowed him to survive an environment where he would get wounded a lot, but made him less fit in a relatively peaceful environment that didn't require rapid regeneration. Also, due to the lack of extended telomere, and yes I do expect you to remember telomere from the last semester, his DNA was eventually corrupted after multiple mitosis, which led to multiple uncontrolled cell growth and death, also known as cancer. Subject 104 is in a constant state of cellular growth and death until he went crazy and was frozen at the St. Henry's Cryogenic Research Center for Extraordinary Being.
Another classical example of such phenomenon is the sickle cell anemia and malaria...
**bell ring**
Alright remember to bring the number 2 pencil tomorrow. Push the chairs in before you leave, and no telekinesis Nate, it's a chair not an anvil! | I still remember the day I found out my powers. Death magic. All I've ever wanted to be was a nature mage, but NOOOOOOO. Instead I was placed in the exact opposite of nature magic. I still remember the day I got tested. It was a year ago and I'd just turned 13. The test was pretty simple select one item out of the 6 items presented: A bean plant, an old book, a glass ball, a little grey mouse, an ivory dagger, or a dingy old bone. Of course I immediately grabbed for the bean plant. To my horror it immediately died in my hand. I looked at the tester for help, but he didn't react.
"pick another item" said the tester looking bored. She was short woman with long grey hair, looking to be in her mid fifties. I stared pleadingly. She gave me no sympathy, her expression unchanging. I sighed and looked back at my remaining items. I reached for the matchbook. Fire magic couldn't be that bad. The matches immediately burst into flames scorching my my hands and fingers.
"Was.... that a good thing?" I asked hoping to god that it was.
"No, pick another item."
Much to my disappointment next two items didn't work either. The glass ball broke in half and the dagger melted in my hands. There was only two items left: The mouse and the bone. I was scared; so far every item I touched ended up dilapidated. If I grabbed the mouse there's a chance it might die, If I grab the bone then I'm stuck as a necromancer for he rest of my life.
I quickly grabbed the mouse, praying the outcome would be satisfactory. Squeaaaaaak. The mouse is writhing pain in my hands I instinctively jerk my hands away and the mouse drops to the floor. I realize my mistake and immediately try to catch it. but its too late. The mouse is dead on the floor. It was all my fault; I killed it. I remember picking it up and crying. I lied sprawling on the floor, holding my mouse, and hyperventilating. The tester lady tried to calm me down. She told me it was normal; that necromancer almost always kill the mouse when they pick it. Her words didn't help me. I hate myself. I hate myself every single minute of the day. I wish I had no powers at all than have this.
I havn't used my powers at all since the testing. Everyday I feel it building up inside of me. The power eating at me, screeaming at me to let it out. I've been getting urges. To kill things....... animals... people. It scares me. It scares me so fucking much. Every day I can feel the power build up in me and every day I can hear the voices getting louder. I'm thinking of just ending it all; before I lose total control...... or maybe just giving in to the voices and let the darkness take over. It would be so easy. |
As in, a fire superhero who is terribly afraid of fire, or something along those lines. | [WP] A superhero who is afraid of his own powers. | Brian, I need you to sit down, I still have 4 minutes of the class left and I intend to use all of that time to prepare you guys for the final tomorrow.
So, once again, evolution is blind. The trait that saves you in one environment or situation may be the same trait that makes you less fit than others in your population.
Take for example, the famous subject 104, his mutation allowed his cells to perform rapid mitosis under stress. During the Mutant Apartheid, he survived multiple street shootings and government issued death sentences because he was able to regenerate, allowing him to be more fit than other mutants. But now that the Mutant Apartheid has ended, his rapid mitosis is the cause of his multiple cancer. You see, evolution starts with a mutation. Mutation is neutral by itself, it is only beneficial or detrimental depends on the environment. In his case, his mutation allowed him to survive an environment where he would get wounded a lot, but made him less fit in a relatively peaceful environment that didn't require rapid regeneration. Also, due to the lack of extended telomere, and yes I do expect you to remember telomere from the last semester, his DNA was eventually corrupted after multiple mitosis, which led to multiple uncontrolled cell growth and death, also known as cancer. Subject 104 is in a constant state of cellular growth and death until he went crazy and was frozen at the St. Henry's Cryogenic Research Center for Extraordinary Being.
Another classical example of such phenomenon is the sickle cell anemia and malaria...
**bell ring**
Alright remember to bring the number 2 pencil tomorrow. Push the chairs in before you leave, and no telekinesis Nate, it's a chair not an anvil! | It’s Tuesday, third period math, and I am concentrating very intently on not setting my test on fire.
Against all odds, I am enjoying 9th grade geometry. I like writing proofs. My work has been double, no, triple checked, my answers are written in a clean, crisp hand. All that remains is handing in my pages. Mr. Grant regards me warily from across the classroom.
“Done, Amelia? I can just pop over and--”
But I’m determined. “No, don’t worry Mr. Grant, I’ve got it--”
And in an instant, I know that I’ve made an utterly terrible decision. My screams are muted by the laughter of my delighted classmates. Again, at the most inopportune time, I am completely, a bit painfully, on fire. Mr. Grant douses me with an extinguisher with a resigned look on his face. To add insult to injury, the sprinkler system comes on, rendering all tests completely ungradable. I guess I’m glad that I wore my embarrassing fire retardant clothing today.
My sister complains all the time that *she* should have been the eldest one, because then our Gran would have willed the family “witchery” to her. I don’t disagree. There may be some typical sisterly cattiness in there, but also, she may have a point. My counselor thinks that my fear of bursting into flames is actually exacerbating the problem. Really uncanny insight he has there. Maybe I’ll join the swim team.
|
As in, a fire superhero who is terribly afraid of fire, or something along those lines. | [WP] A superhero who is afraid of his own powers. | Brian, I need you to sit down, I still have 4 minutes of the class left and I intend to use all of that time to prepare you guys for the final tomorrow.
So, once again, evolution is blind. The trait that saves you in one environment or situation may be the same trait that makes you less fit than others in your population.
Take for example, the famous subject 104, his mutation allowed his cells to perform rapid mitosis under stress. During the Mutant Apartheid, he survived multiple street shootings and government issued death sentences because he was able to regenerate, allowing him to be more fit than other mutants. But now that the Mutant Apartheid has ended, his rapid mitosis is the cause of his multiple cancer. You see, evolution starts with a mutation. Mutation is neutral by itself, it is only beneficial or detrimental depends on the environment. In his case, his mutation allowed him to survive an environment where he would get wounded a lot, but made him less fit in a relatively peaceful environment that didn't require rapid regeneration. Also, due to the lack of extended telomere, and yes I do expect you to remember telomere from the last semester, his DNA was eventually corrupted after multiple mitosis, which led to multiple uncontrolled cell growth and death, also known as cancer. Subject 104 is in a constant state of cellular growth and death until he went crazy and was frozen at the St. Henry's Cryogenic Research Center for Extraordinary Being.
Another classical example of such phenomenon is the sickle cell anemia and malaria...
**bell ring**
Alright remember to bring the number 2 pencil tomorrow. Push the chairs in before you leave, and no telekinesis Nate, it's a chair not an anvil! | I wear a symbol of a scale to remind me. With all this incredible power comes a price. I'm so powerful I make superman look like a Ken Doll. But I had a catch to my powers. I struck a deal with an angel to get the power to save people. But what it didn't tell me was there was a price. One so great I question ever using my powers. For every time I use my gifts a life is lost. There has to be a balance. For every time I alter the fates the debt must be paid somewhere. Who am I to decide which life is more valuable than the next? Am I the hero or the monster? All I know is they call me the Judge. But can I really do justice with my power? |
As in, a fire superhero who is terribly afraid of fire, or something along those lines. | [WP] A superhero who is afraid of his own powers. | Brian, I need you to sit down, I still have 4 minutes of the class left and I intend to use all of that time to prepare you guys for the final tomorrow.
So, once again, evolution is blind. The trait that saves you in one environment or situation may be the same trait that makes you less fit than others in your population.
Take for example, the famous subject 104, his mutation allowed his cells to perform rapid mitosis under stress. During the Mutant Apartheid, he survived multiple street shootings and government issued death sentences because he was able to regenerate, allowing him to be more fit than other mutants. But now that the Mutant Apartheid has ended, his rapid mitosis is the cause of his multiple cancer. You see, evolution starts with a mutation. Mutation is neutral by itself, it is only beneficial or detrimental depends on the environment. In his case, his mutation allowed him to survive an environment where he would get wounded a lot, but made him less fit in a relatively peaceful environment that didn't require rapid regeneration. Also, due to the lack of extended telomere, and yes I do expect you to remember telomere from the last semester, his DNA was eventually corrupted after multiple mitosis, which led to multiple uncontrolled cell growth and death, also known as cancer. Subject 104 is in a constant state of cellular growth and death until he went crazy and was frozen at the St. Henry's Cryogenic Research Center for Extraordinary Being.
Another classical example of such phenomenon is the sickle cell anemia and malaria...
**bell ring**
Alright remember to bring the number 2 pencil tomorrow. Push the chairs in before you leave, and no telekinesis Nate, it's a chair not an anvil! | I woke up in a cold sweat today.
Of course, that's not anything out of ordinary. I can't remember the last time I got a good night's rest--who am I kidding? I remember everything about that day, because I've been scared countless times, nervous countless times, I'm on edge practically 24 hours a day...but I've only ever been mad once.
Not like, annoyed or anything like that. Like enraged. Like wanting to seriously hurt someone. I physically lashed out at another human being in anger once, and it changed everything. I can still see it all in my head. It was all over these stupid tags. Without even really knowing what my power was I somehow ended up #1. According to who? I don't know. For what abilities? I don't know. Why the fuck does this all matter so much to people? I wish I knew. Number 6 came at me. He wanted my number, and he thought he'd take it from me.
I lost my temper. I had been using my ranking just to live my life normally, without having to deal with other people's harassment. Most people were smarter than that. Number 6 was trying to ruin it all, and it got to me. As soon as the very idea was implanted in my mind that I was going to retaliate--before I even moved--he was dead. Not just him, others too. The entire street corner was demolished. It was like the air itself ripped apart and exploded. It was like part of the universe caved in and shattered. I was completely fine, but those people weren't. I didn't kill them, I destroyed them.
And that's why I sit here now, in a safe house concealed and protected from the outside. This is all voluntary. Numbers 2 and 3 couldn't keep me in if I wanted to leave, but they can keep people away. Because the people out there don't know my strength. They don't know the danger in this stupid game to be the most powerful. But I do. I'm still not even sure what my powers are, or how much more devastating they can be if harnessed, but I've seen the only possible result that could come from all this. That's why I sit here now. |
As in, a fire superhero who is terribly afraid of fire, or something along those lines. | [WP] A superhero who is afraid of his own powers. | Day in, day out, it's all the same anymore. These shackles I put myself in, this pitiful excuse of a hideaway, and the fear of myself remain the same everyday. I could have prevented it all, I could have stopped, but I didn't try to prevent it, and I didn't try to stop it.
I remember the first day I discovered my powers, I can still remember how giddy I was that I was like the superheroes I read about when I was younger. I was basically Superman! In my youth I didn't dare tell a soul for fear of being shunned, because people never accept anomalies into their lives.
I remember when in high school, I became a star player and got scholarships at some of the greatest colleges in the nation. Nobody could get past me, nobody had a chance. As it was high school, many people gave me nicknames. The Train, Bullet, Alimony(because it's hard for you to get back up after I hit you), among many other names. I always enjoyed it and high school was probably the greatest time of my life.
College was a bit more challenging but nonetheless, I was a star player even then. I got national attention, everybody called me The 'Dozer. I felt like the king of the world! It all went downhill after I went home for Christmas break of my freshman year though.
I was just like any other College student, I looked forward to going home and seeing my family again. We talked and we laughed, then my father suggested going out to eat. Since we almost never got to do this I gladly agreed and we went off. At the restaurant we were eating and chatting amongst ourselves.
Everything was great but then somebody screamed, "Help her! She's choking!"
Everybody scrambled up but I was already there, I asked the woman screaming, presumably her mother, to step back so I could do the Heimlich maneuver on her. I did it once, she was still choking. I did it again, a bit harder, she was still choking. I knew if I didn't dislodge whatever was in her throat next she'd be in serious trouble. So the third time I did it, I did it harder than normal and let my strength get the better of me.
*Crack*
I looked down and what I saw horrified me. I tore this woman in half. The bottom of her body slumped to the floor and her top half went limp in my arms. Her mother screamed, everybody screamed, I screamed. Two men rushed in to tackle me but I pushed them away, sending them flying into the restaurant.
*smack* *smack*
People started screaming even more. One of the men who tried tackling me split his head open on the floor. I had to get out, I had to run away from this, I had to get away from the pain I caused. I turned around and mouthed to my parents goodbye, and up I went, flying away into the night sky.
I don't know how long I flew for, all I know is that I had to go somewhere nobody would be able to look for me. I stopped along the way and stole some shackles from a black smith and went back on my way. I finally landed in this forest I knew nobody would be able to find me at and built this sorry excuse for a shelter.
It's been three years since the incident. I can still hear the people screaming. I can still her the woman's body snapping in half and slumping to the floor. I can still remember the blood. Everyday I remember it. I used to cry and go in the fetal position the first few times I remembered the incident, now I shake it off and go back to sleep, to try and ignore it.
I remember when I thought these powers were a blessing. I remember when I wanted to be a hero, I remember when I planned to do great things. Now all I do is wait in this forest where the rain never stops, and wait for Death take me away from this Hell I created for myself and into the one I am surely going to. | Did you know I can fly? Yeah, I found out when I was, like, two years old. One moment I'm safe in my warm, comfortable crib, and then next thing I'm floating out the window, chased by the family's yappy little chihuahua.
I'm not sure what made me phobic of flight: going out the window naked in all of my infantile glory, or that damned chihuahua. I hope no one saw my little buddy, if you know what I mean.
Anyways, it's not so much as flying, as a localized negation or manipulation of gravity. I can bend gravity. How cool is that?
If you say, "Cool as hell!" you're wrong. Do you know what a lack of gravity does to your stomach? I get car sick, man. I can't even eat twelve hours before I take a little lift off the floor.
Then there's the problem of floating up too fast and hitting your head on the ceiling, or getting turned the wrong way and coming down on your side, back or head.
Man, I hate flying. |
As in, a fire superhero who is terribly afraid of fire, or something along those lines. | [WP] A superhero who is afraid of his own powers. | Day in, day out, it's all the same anymore. These shackles I put myself in, this pitiful excuse of a hideaway, and the fear of myself remain the same everyday. I could have prevented it all, I could have stopped, but I didn't try to prevent it, and I didn't try to stop it.
I remember the first day I discovered my powers, I can still remember how giddy I was that I was like the superheroes I read about when I was younger. I was basically Superman! In my youth I didn't dare tell a soul for fear of being shunned, because people never accept anomalies into their lives.
I remember when in high school, I became a star player and got scholarships at some of the greatest colleges in the nation. Nobody could get past me, nobody had a chance. As it was high school, many people gave me nicknames. The Train, Bullet, Alimony(because it's hard for you to get back up after I hit you), among many other names. I always enjoyed it and high school was probably the greatest time of my life.
College was a bit more challenging but nonetheless, I was a star player even then. I got national attention, everybody called me The 'Dozer. I felt like the king of the world! It all went downhill after I went home for Christmas break of my freshman year though.
I was just like any other College student, I looked forward to going home and seeing my family again. We talked and we laughed, then my father suggested going out to eat. Since we almost never got to do this I gladly agreed and we went off. At the restaurant we were eating and chatting amongst ourselves.
Everything was great but then somebody screamed, "Help her! She's choking!"
Everybody scrambled up but I was already there, I asked the woman screaming, presumably her mother, to step back so I could do the Heimlich maneuver on her. I did it once, she was still choking. I did it again, a bit harder, she was still choking. I knew if I didn't dislodge whatever was in her throat next she'd be in serious trouble. So the third time I did it, I did it harder than normal and let my strength get the better of me.
*Crack*
I looked down and what I saw horrified me. I tore this woman in half. The bottom of her body slumped to the floor and her top half went limp in my arms. Her mother screamed, everybody screamed, I screamed. Two men rushed in to tackle me but I pushed them away, sending them flying into the restaurant.
*smack* *smack*
People started screaming even more. One of the men who tried tackling me split his head open on the floor. I had to get out, I had to run away from this, I had to get away from the pain I caused. I turned around and mouthed to my parents goodbye, and up I went, flying away into the night sky.
I don't know how long I flew for, all I know is that I had to go somewhere nobody would be able to look for me. I stopped along the way and stole some shackles from a black smith and went back on my way. I finally landed in this forest I knew nobody would be able to find me at and built this sorry excuse for a shelter.
It's been three years since the incident. I can still hear the people screaming. I can still her the woman's body snapping in half and slumping to the floor. I can still remember the blood. Everyday I remember it. I used to cry and go in the fetal position the first few times I remembered the incident, now I shake it off and go back to sleep, to try and ignore it.
I remember when I thought these powers were a blessing. I remember when I wanted to be a hero, I remember when I planned to do great things. Now all I do is wait in this forest where the rain never stops, and wait for Death take me away from this Hell I created for myself and into the one I am surely going to. | I never had a fear of the dark until I was enveloped by it. Until I could steal the light away from someone's eyes with just a passing glance. Before I changed, I was a simple software engineer in his twenties, but that's not important. What's important is that I have lost most control over my so called "powers". I used to rule the shadows, now I am their slave. When it's the middle of the day, and the world goes dark, I cower in fear of my creations. I never wanted any of this. I've been alone in this world, or at least this area for many years now, and I've accepted that. But what I have not accepted is the darkness that continues to torment me. I use what little influence I have left to keep them at bay from the rest of the world, assuming of course anybody is still out there. Eventually my fears will overcome me and the shadows will run free, darkness will swallow what's rest of life.
Goodbye anyone if you still exist, I tried |
[WP] The last two people on earth are the same gender. | "This probably borders on the realm of sanity and pure insanity." I looked at Laura as she shakily locked with my eyes. I had a trembling feeling deep inside my gut, this was one of those times I have the utmost reluctant confidence in it. That is unbelievably confusing. Fuck.
Oh shit, Let me explain! You know what I'm talking about. There's no one collective conclusion to which I can base it on, but I guess it's the sum of all the experiences you've had to this point. It's no authoritative obligation by any means. You have it though, and somehow the only reason you realize you have it is retrospectively when you realize you should have went with it.
"I haven't told anyone about this since, well... it happened." Laura said. I have every reason to not trust her. I woke up, I walked, I found her. That's it. I haven't had any other reason to hope anything else is here, We're together out of obligation.
Laura was tall and curvaceous. She had long brown hair, with bangs. Her tattoos blended into an array of color I had no idea of which what it meant, but it was still, beautiful. Her eyes, brown... today. They changed colors from time to time, and I never noticed since I was to distracted by the way she looked at me.
I can be a Lesbian now... I guess. I mean, it makes sense. I never knew what was happening to me, but I just knew there had to be more then this.
"I'm..." Laura stuttered.
Fucking spit it out. Christ.
"Trans...gender. Transgender."
What?
"I haven't said anything since we met, because I haven't been with anyone since my wife left me. I never loved again. I'm this now. It's me."
All I could do was stare. How did this change anything?
"The things is...I. Um. Well I still have a penis."
This changes things.
| Mariah scanned the landscape through the scope of her hunting rifle. The street was deserted and utterly still, bar the occasional wandering leaf that skittered under the abandoned cars and past the shattered shop windows that lined the street. A blanket of fog covered everything more than a dozen metres away, giving the looming silhouettes of the buildings a sinister effect.
She frowned. There had definitely been a voice calling out a moment ago, but the fog everywhere made it impossible to see where it might have come from. She decided to risk revealing her position by calling back.
'Hello?' she shouted into the mist. 'Is there someone there?'
'Yes!' came the reply. A woman's voice. Mariah relaxed, but only by a fraction. This person might not be friendly. Months of surviving alone had increased her natural pessimism to the extent where she could trust no-one.
'Come here slowly with your hands where I can see them!' she shouted back. A moment later, a young woman came out of the mist, hands raised to shoulder level. She couldn't have been older than twenty years old. Her clothes were a pair of mud-spattered boots, old jeans, a thick black jacket over a red T-shirt, and a small bag slung over her shoulder.
Mariah kept her rifle aimed at the other woman as she approached, stopping a few metres away. They stared at each other for a long moment, then Mariah shouldered the rifle. This person was not a threat, she knew.
'I'm Alannah,' she said, tentatively lowering her hands. 'And I think we might be the last two people on Earth.'
'And why's that?' said Mariah brusquely, keeping an eye out for any danger around them. She began to walk back down the street, gesturing for the other woman to follow.
'Well, everyone else just disappeared,' replied Alannah. 'Except us. I've driven halfway across the country to get here because my father lived in the suburbs of this city. And the whole way here, I didn't see one other person. Just deserted towns and highways. You're the first person I've seen in a month.'
'So what do you think that means?' said Mariah, turning a corner and shielding her eyes against the last rays of the setting sun. She was only half-listening to the conversation.
'Well, we're the whole of the human race now,' Alannah replied. 'We have to preserve the knowledge of mankind, that sort of thing.'
'Yeah, I'm not really bothered with preserving something no-one's going to need again,' said Mariah, stepping over a large pile of rubble where a gas mains had exploded. The explosion had taken out a large chunk of a nearby building.
'What about when people come back?'
'Listen, no-one's *going* to come back,' said Mariah. 'Not unless we somehow start repopulating the planet ourselves, and since neither of us have man parts, that's not going to happen any time soon either!'
'We'll just have to hope, then,' said Alannah.
'I lost all hope a long time ago,' said Mariah. 'If you keep holding onto the idea that there'll be people around again sometime in the future, you're going to die. This world is no place for someone who holds onto the past. They're gone. Get over it and start thinking about how to defend yourself.'
The other woman seemed shocked by her outburst. 'Sorry,' she said after a moment. 'I lost friends and family too, and I *do* miss them. But you need to be able to lock those feelings in a chest and throw away the key. It's the only way you'll survive your own thoughts.'
Alannah looked like she was about to say something, but she kept her mouth shut and nodded grimly. Mariah smiled a small smile as she turned and reached under a nearby car for the second rifle she kept there for emergencies. She unwrapped it from its waterproof cover and handed it to the other woman.
'It's good to have someone else around, I guess,' she said with a wry grin. 'With two of us, we might just get through this.'
The two women stood back to back as the sun finally dipped below the horizon, throwing the city into darkness. Then the howls began. |
|
[WP] The last two people on earth are the same gender. | "Well no one will call us gay now." | Mariah scanned the landscape through the scope of her hunting rifle. The street was deserted and utterly still, bar the occasional wandering leaf that skittered under the abandoned cars and past the shattered shop windows that lined the street. A blanket of fog covered everything more than a dozen metres away, giving the looming silhouettes of the buildings a sinister effect.
She frowned. There had definitely been a voice calling out a moment ago, but the fog everywhere made it impossible to see where it might have come from. She decided to risk revealing her position by calling back.
'Hello?' she shouted into the mist. 'Is there someone there?'
'Yes!' came the reply. A woman's voice. Mariah relaxed, but only by a fraction. This person might not be friendly. Months of surviving alone had increased her natural pessimism to the extent where she could trust no-one.
'Come here slowly with your hands where I can see them!' she shouted back. A moment later, a young woman came out of the mist, hands raised to shoulder level. She couldn't have been older than twenty years old. Her clothes were a pair of mud-spattered boots, old jeans, a thick black jacket over a red T-shirt, and a small bag slung over her shoulder.
Mariah kept her rifle aimed at the other woman as she approached, stopping a few metres away. They stared at each other for a long moment, then Mariah shouldered the rifle. This person was not a threat, she knew.
'I'm Alannah,' she said, tentatively lowering her hands. 'And I think we might be the last two people on Earth.'
'And why's that?' said Mariah brusquely, keeping an eye out for any danger around them. She began to walk back down the street, gesturing for the other woman to follow.
'Well, everyone else just disappeared,' replied Alannah. 'Except us. I've driven halfway across the country to get here because my father lived in the suburbs of this city. And the whole way here, I didn't see one other person. Just deserted towns and highways. You're the first person I've seen in a month.'
'So what do you think that means?' said Mariah, turning a corner and shielding her eyes against the last rays of the setting sun. She was only half-listening to the conversation.
'Well, we're the whole of the human race now,' Alannah replied. 'We have to preserve the knowledge of mankind, that sort of thing.'
'Yeah, I'm not really bothered with preserving something no-one's going to need again,' said Mariah, stepping over a large pile of rubble where a gas mains had exploded. The explosion had taken out a large chunk of a nearby building.
'What about when people come back?'
'Listen, no-one's *going* to come back,' said Mariah. 'Not unless we somehow start repopulating the planet ourselves, and since neither of us have man parts, that's not going to happen any time soon either!'
'We'll just have to hope, then,' said Alannah.
'I lost all hope a long time ago,' said Mariah. 'If you keep holding onto the idea that there'll be people around again sometime in the future, you're going to die. This world is no place for someone who holds onto the past. They're gone. Get over it and start thinking about how to defend yourself.'
The other woman seemed shocked by her outburst. 'Sorry,' she said after a moment. 'I lost friends and family too, and I *do* miss them. But you need to be able to lock those feelings in a chest and throw away the key. It's the only way you'll survive your own thoughts.'
Alannah looked like she was about to say something, but she kept her mouth shut and nodded grimly. Mariah smiled a small smile as she turned and reached under a nearby car for the second rifle she kept there for emergencies. She unwrapped it from its waterproof cover and handed it to the other woman.
'It's good to have someone else around, I guess,' she said with a wry grin. 'With two of us, we might just get through this.'
The two women stood back to back as the sun finally dipped below the horizon, throwing the city into darkness. Then the howls began. |
|
[WP] The last two people on earth are the same gender. | "Well no one will call us gay now." | "This probably borders on the realm of sanity and pure insanity." I looked at Laura as she shakily locked with my eyes. I had a trembling feeling deep inside my gut, this was one of those times I have the utmost reluctant confidence in it. That is unbelievably confusing. Fuck.
Oh shit, Let me explain! You know what I'm talking about. There's no one collective conclusion to which I can base it on, but I guess it's the sum of all the experiences you've had to this point. It's no authoritative obligation by any means. You have it though, and somehow the only reason you realize you have it is retrospectively when you realize you should have went with it.
"I haven't told anyone about this since, well... it happened." Laura said. I have every reason to not trust her. I woke up, I walked, I found her. That's it. I haven't had any other reason to hope anything else is here, We're together out of obligation.
Laura was tall and curvaceous. She had long brown hair, with bangs. Her tattoos blended into an array of color I had no idea of which what it meant, but it was still, beautiful. Her eyes, brown... today. They changed colors from time to time, and I never noticed since I was to distracted by the way she looked at me.
I can be a Lesbian now... I guess. I mean, it makes sense. I never knew what was happening to me, but I just knew there had to be more then this.
"I'm..." Laura stuttered.
Fucking spit it out. Christ.
"Trans...gender. Transgender."
What?
"I haven't said anything since we met, because I haven't been with anyone since my wife left me. I never loved again. I'm this now. It's me."
All I could do was stare. How did this change anything?
"The things is...I. Um. Well I still have a penis."
This changes things.
|
|
Inspired by this film crit hulk article on Guardian's of the galaxy
http://badassdigest.com/2014/08/12/film-crit-hulk-smash-guardians-of-the-galaxy-and-the-art-of-constructing-jo/ | [WP] Tell a dramatic story through humour. | "You look cute in a suit." My older brother says, wearily lifting his tubed hand from the bed to point toward my waistcoat "But you forgot the buttons".
I look down and sheepishly unbutton myself, realising I must've looked like a child in his fathers suit on stage a few hours ago.
"To be honest I'm a little jealous of your robe." I joke, but I can't help thinking I'd play better if I had that level of scrotal freedom during a performance.
"Why thank you, that was a very kind thing to say."
"Then I take it back". Reaching over him I take his half eaten pudding, and take a spoonful - insantly putting it back down with a screwed up face and wide eyes. "That's just-"
"Oh it's awful." He laughs, prompting a short coughing fit "Prisoners have a better last meal than patients these days."
"Don't say that."
"Say what?"
"The, the last meal... thing".
He blinks at me.
"But I'm dying."
"Yeah but you don't-"
"Im in a hospital bed, little brother." A smile starts to crack on his face "I love the crotch space but I'm not in this gown by choice. That fucking thing is the last pudding I'll eat."
He starts giggling again.
"Look, we don't have to talk about..."
"About what?"
"You know."
"Oh, the dying?"
I shoot him a disapproving look but he only starts laughing more, only stopping to cough again. I fetch him some water and calm him down, he looks at me earnestly for the first time.
"You know what I'd love?"
"What?"
"I'd like to hear you play one more time."
"I don't have a piano, though."
"Mom bought me something, check the bag." He gestures toward the far side of his bed, helping himself to some more water as I walk around.
"No way..." I reach inside and pull out a small cassio keyboard, barely larger than one of my thighs. "I don't know what I can play on this."
"Do you remember what I first taught you, before you stole my hobby and became a musician?"
He looks at me expectantly until it clicks.
"No, no I'm not playing that. Come on, really? Now? That song?"
He coughs pathetically.
"But, I'm dying..."
We look at each other for another few seconds, me slowly shaking my head and him trying to his hardest to look as sickly as possible. I cave.
"Fine. But I'm not singing it, I won't make it to the chorus." I find the on switch and play around with the keys, feeling my way around.
"Pussy" He laughs again and painfully hoists himself up to sit up straight. "Mind if I sing along though?"
"Well to be honest-"
"I mean I am dying." He beams at me again, satisfied as to how well he's annoying me. I reluctantly nod, and begin playing the intro.
"Of everything I can play, this fucking song. You dick."
My brother and I laugh as I awkwardly move my fingers across the tiny keys, drowning out the hospital ambience with Mad World by Gary Jules. | Welcome boys and girls, I have another exciting story for you today, what do you mean you don't know me? I am Navilus Nilok, teller of tales and chronicler of all things, of course you have heard of me... erm, anyway, I have a bit of a funny story for you today. I saw this happen one day, not that long ago, and it has already garnered some interest among the other scholars. Except Liam. Liam hates everything. ...anyway on to the story.
It was a day quite like this, but with some light, you know being day and all. He had just set out from his village, looking to strike a fortune into the world, or would that be strike a fortune in the world? Whatever, I still need to do some editing. Anyway, it starts out as your typical evil threatens world, boy fights evil, boy becomes woman, boy meets girl, all of that good stuff. Well, except for the boy meets girl bit, that already happened.
He sets out, blue eyes glinting in the noon sun, cloak trailing behind him as majestically as a rhinoceros dancing ballet, they're surprisingly good at that, going out to meet his destiny. It was so nice to find someone who would actually meet fate head on instead of spending forever whining about it. "But I don't want to save the world!" Shut up, yes you do. Everyone wants to be a hero, except for heroes.
His horse had an amber color to it, like the sun had set fire to a block of sap, a majestic steed. His sword shone with a thousand blazing fires, putting to shame even the most experienced of knights. It almost seemed to defile the sword when he had to spit the first few goblins on it, but that is just the way of an adventurer.
One of Retghual's evil knights was blocking the path to his castle, a vile man whose blackness of heart was matched only by that of his master, or an angsty, depressed teenager. He knew it was no easy task to stop evil from overcoming the land, but he also knew that it was only him that could do it. He had been ordained, and now the world shall once more know the sweet touch of the light. Righteous of heart he struck down the evil man, and cleared the path for people to know happiness again. Now why had he been chosen for this? It was because he was the only one who knew happiness at the time, having already met the love of his life back in the village.
Soon enough he came to Retghual's castle, an ominous place from which decrees banning merrymaking and laughter and other, ahem, acts. That last was much more recent. That had to be bred out. Literally. So, he charged down the bridge, broke through the portcullis, killed the garrison, killed the castle guards, ignored the servants, found a really nice painting of some water lilies, and attacked the dark lord himself. Being no match for hero Retghual fled at great speed, and he naturally chased. At the end of his horse's great run, he managed to catch up to Retghual, right back where he had started.
His only love lay dead at Reghual's feet, with a cry of rage he launched forward and killed the dark one, freeing the land, forget about the fact that there are still evil armies around. Now why had this happened? It was because to restore happiness to many, the greatest happiness had to be sacrificed, true love. His was even greater than that between Buttercup and Wesley, it was the purest and greatest happiness that the world had ever seen.
Well that's the story, although I suppose that it wasn't all that funny now that I think about it. Anyway, I hope you enjoyed it. What do you mean what happened to our hero? Well... he died. Killed himself really. Nasty business that. Good last words though. Fine, fine, I'll tell them to you.
*You said that we would be together always and forever, and I said that I would love you for forever and a day. But now the sun is setting and the day over, but forever's only just begun.*
Touching, ain't it? |
Inspired by this film crit hulk article on Guardian's of the galaxy
http://badassdigest.com/2014/08/12/film-crit-hulk-smash-guardians-of-the-galaxy-and-the-art-of-constructing-jo/ | [WP] Tell a dramatic story through humour. | "You look cute in a suit." My older brother says, wearily lifting his tubed hand from the bed to point toward my waistcoat "But you forgot the buttons".
I look down and sheepishly unbutton myself, realising I must've looked like a child in his fathers suit on stage a few hours ago.
"To be honest I'm a little jealous of your robe." I joke, but I can't help thinking I'd play better if I had that level of scrotal freedom during a performance.
"Why thank you, that was a very kind thing to say."
"Then I take it back". Reaching over him I take his half eaten pudding, and take a spoonful - insantly putting it back down with a screwed up face and wide eyes. "That's just-"
"Oh it's awful." He laughs, prompting a short coughing fit "Prisoners have a better last meal than patients these days."
"Don't say that."
"Say what?"
"The, the last meal... thing".
He blinks at me.
"But I'm dying."
"Yeah but you don't-"
"Im in a hospital bed, little brother." A smile starts to crack on his face "I love the crotch space but I'm not in this gown by choice. That fucking thing is the last pudding I'll eat."
He starts giggling again.
"Look, we don't have to talk about..."
"About what?"
"You know."
"Oh, the dying?"
I shoot him a disapproving look but he only starts laughing more, only stopping to cough again. I fetch him some water and calm him down, he looks at me earnestly for the first time.
"You know what I'd love?"
"What?"
"I'd like to hear you play one more time."
"I don't have a piano, though."
"Mom bought me something, check the bag." He gestures toward the far side of his bed, helping himself to some more water as I walk around.
"No way..." I reach inside and pull out a small cassio keyboard, barely larger than one of my thighs. "I don't know what I can play on this."
"Do you remember what I first taught you, before you stole my hobby and became a musician?"
He looks at me expectantly until it clicks.
"No, no I'm not playing that. Come on, really? Now? That song?"
He coughs pathetically.
"But, I'm dying..."
We look at each other for another few seconds, me slowly shaking my head and him trying to his hardest to look as sickly as possible. I cave.
"Fine. But I'm not singing it, I won't make it to the chorus." I find the on switch and play around with the keys, feeling my way around.
"Pussy" He laughs again and painfully hoists himself up to sit up straight. "Mind if I sing along though?"
"Well to be honest-"
"I mean I am dying." He beams at me again, satisfied as to how well he's annoying me. I reluctantly nod, and begin playing the intro.
"Of everything I can play, this fucking song. You dick."
My brother and I laugh as I awkwardly move my fingers across the tiny keys, drowning out the hospital ambience with Mad World by Gary Jules. | The slave looked up at the king, Marceus his name; he has the appearance of a person who constantly needs to sneeze, yet never does; always promising, never delivering.
“More wine sire” he spluttered.
“This isn’t how I imagined I would be killed, in my own castle, surrounded by all the Kings and Queens who pledged their loyalty to me” The High King told the young slave without breaking the false smile forced on to his face for all his guests. The guests return the gesture while strategically positioning themselves around the vast, yet packed hall. Music plays, subjects dance, royals gorge themselves. To the untrained eye it may look like St Luke’s old people’s home for the disabled, but it’s almost definitely a castle that just happens to have wheelchair access and a coffee machine.
“Then why would you invite them here my lord?” Marceus replied.
“Which one of them do you think it’ll be? Maybe Lord Garris?” The King proclaimed while waving to the short, but intimidating Lord across the hall.
“Garris doesn’t fail; he’s past perfection, only fighting his past perfections”.
Garris sits at his table slicing up his steak into perfect slices, never eating. One eye on the knife in his hand, the other on the King. This isn’t foreshadowing, Lord Garris is just crossed eyed.
"Is it safe for me- I mean us to be here sire?" Marceus whispered, his hands trembling as he pours the King more wine.
“Or maybe Lady Visoff?"
“Your daughter?"
“I suppose not, stupid girl, the type to eat her cutlery with her food
With a steely glare the king reminisced about his few years with his daughter. She may be the foulest woman I have ever met; I remember looking after her, back when I lived in the village. I’d change her garments and my eyes would burn from the stench she dared to liberate from her posterior.
I didn’t change those garments, those garments changed me.” He mumbled in his Batman-like tone.
Lady Visoff sits far away from the King, neglecting her food, which isn’t difficult for her since neglect runs in her family, but it is strange; for she is a mammoth of a mammal.
The King stares downs at the huge wedge of ham in front of him, bigger than his daughter before he abandoned her, which sounds like he left her when she was a teenager, but actually she was a really fat baby. Kinda like a baby whale, if it was obese and depressed. Did she get fat because she was depressed or was she depressed because she was fat? Which came first: the chicken or the egg? Both of which are probably things she’d eaten today.
“I suppose I wouldn’t want to leave this world on an empty stomach. Fetch me that knife boy”
The knife, if you can call it that, was probably sharper than the weapon used to kill the boar, hell most men were not given such a sword on the battlefield.
The same knife was once used on the Marceus’s brother; he had dropped the knife on the king’s toes, the king stabbed him repeatedly so quickly it looked like he was bringing a horse to climax.
Marceus gazed at the knife. He carefully clutched it feeling its weight, wondering if he had what it takes to relieve a horse.
“You don’t want me to starve to death, do you?” the king bellowed.
He stared daggers into the king, slowly moving towards him. The knife felt heavier in his hands, too heavy; it clatters to the ground.
“For god’s sakes bastard, how I have not been killed by your incompetence in the past is something only gods know.”
Marceus snapped out of his trance, grabbed the sword and stumbled to the king.
The king snatched it out of his hands, waving it around with ease. The pig is about to thrust it into the ham when a giant, ugly brute of a man interrupts, and I mean giant. Like you know the saying faith can move mountains? This guy’s name was probably faith.
“I hope you’re not planning on finishing that” he boomed. “This kingdom is tired of you”
The music stops.
The giant has a gun to the king’s head, one of those ones that are always used in westerns, which is peculiar because they won’t be invented for another few thousand years.
Perhaps he was a time travelling giant, I don’t know. Point is he has one.
“What is the purpose of this piece of plastic you hold?” the king whispered.
The giant man aims through a window and pulls the trigger.
“This”
The bullet decapitates a nearby falcon.
“Heavens”
The king jumps out of his seat and pulls the knife out of the boar.
He raises the knife to the giant man’s throat.
“If I’m going to be killed, you’re coming with me”
He grabs a gourd of pepper and smashes it on the ground for emphasis.
Marceus starts to sniffle.
Several guards poise their swords at the giant.
“You thought you could hurt me, in my own castle” the king gloats. “GUARDS, SEIZE HIM”
The king tosses the knife behind him, Marceus catches it, still trying to stifle his sneeze.
“Let this be an example to all those who want to kill me, I WILL NOT DIE TONIGHT”
Marceus can’t hold in his sneeze any longer.
He lets rip and the sheer force of this decade long charged sneeze surges him forward, stabbing the king through his back.
The king is dead.
Marceus is the Ghandi of this century, sacrificing everything to give freedom to the whole kingdom. There will be films based on his life such as “MARCEUS: LONG SNEEZE TO FREEDOM”, starring Ian Mckellen as Marceus, a 12 year old black child.
But before anyone can react, a voice screeches and reverberates around the hall.
“GODDAMN IT KYLE WHAT HAVE I TOLD YOU ABOUT SEVERING THE PENSIONERS”.
It is a young woman with an apron that says “St Luke’s Retirement Home”
Okay this may be a home for the old and disabled-
Fuck.
|
...and saves the world. Or doesn't. Your call. | [WP] The hero is prophesied to save the world. He knows that prophecies always come true, so he does absolutely nothing. | June 9th, 1994 was the year a baby was brought into this world. It was just like any other healthy baby, and was born into just another average family. This baby would eat, shit, cry, just as any other baby would. It grew up like any other kid would, crawling lead to walking, blabbing turned to speaking, diapers to toilets, etc. This baby meant absolutely nothing towards the human race until June 9th, 1997.
On that day, there was a knock at the door. The toddler was sitting at the kitchen table with his mother, a cheap party hat strapped onto his head. The thin strand that kept the hat on his head bothered the boy, and he continuously tried to take it off as his mother hesitantly stepped towards the front door. The mother opened the door to find to tall men in suits. After a brief conversation, the two men followed the mother into the living room, and then continued their conversation.
The boy did not understand most of the words the men and his mother were saying, but one word he managed to understand, which was his own name. The men left a few minutes later, and the boy trotted his way into the living room to see his mother weeping into a pillow. The boy did not understand why his mother was sad, and wouldn't understand for another five years.
For those five years I always asked her why we were running, why there were always people chasing us, but all I would get for an answer was "because you're special, dear." Yeah, I was pretty special alright.
The day I was born, I was prophesied to be the savior or the destroyer of life as we knew it. It was told that a boy born on my birthday would act as some sort of reset button. If I lived past 50, everyone on planet earth on this earth would cease to exist. Everything mankind managed to create or destroy would revert back to its original state millions of years ago, and all that there would be left was me, and a woman made from my limb. That's right, Genesis 2 shit.
I was the single cancer cell in a sea of 7 billion healthy, fully functional ones that had no intent of disappearing. I was God's means of life deciding whether or not its entire existence up until this point was worth preserving. I never understood why such an omniscient being would allow a race of selfish and greedy creatures to decide on whether it should collectively kill itself or not. You would think that a third party should make a final call, but for some reason it was our own choice.
I'm guessing you can figure out the choice that most people made.
And so my mother and I became fugitives all because she fucked a guy in the back of his car nine months before June 9th, 1994. We were able to avoid the American government for sixteen years with the help of either divine intervention or a whole load of dumb luck. It was up until 2013, that Edward Snowden fuck released all the governments secrets, most notably my existence. I soon became public enemy number one, and was know as "The Black Sheep" and just about everyone wanted me dead.
This past year has been chaos. My mother and I have officially gone into hiding in the basement of a church whose pastor believes that the earth should be wiped clean, just as it did back when Noah built his arch. For this year we slept on hard concrete floors, ate little food and never slept. The priest would tell us of how society began to implode on itself as the search for me became more and more desperate. We could hear the riots above us, the gunshots, the rallying screams, the deafening sounds of destruction looming over us as we coward in fear.
As time went on, my future became bleaker and bleaker. It was by some miracle that no one thought to search the one church that possessed us, but my mother and I both knew that it would be inevitable. Thirty more years of survival became nearly impossible, and so we began to accept our fate.
On June 8th, 2014 my mother hung herself in fear of what might happen to her once I was killed. She was the only person who believed that I could survive, and now she lifelessly dangled in her misjudgment. There was nothing for me to live for. I knew that thiry more years of hell was not worth the resetting that mankind "needed". Maybe all they needed was something to live for. A common enemy. A black sheep.
On June 9th, 2014 I stepped out of the church. One man noticed me, and asked me who I was. I told him my name. My full name. The man double took, and gave me a look as if he knew who I was, he somehow knew who I was without ever seeing me before in his life. I could have been some man claiming to be the Black Sheep, even though I wasn't, and this man knew that. I stood there doing nothing as he gave me this look of acceptance.
He walked over to me as he took out a revolver and pointed it up to my head. I didn't flinch, didn't move, didn't fucking blink as he pressed it right along my forehead. I did nothing but stand there as he pulled the hammer down slowly, and took a deep breath. I close my eyes as I accepted my fate, as the trigger was pulled, and as humanity was saved.
| "Let's see this horrible world survive while I sit here and do nothing. It doesn't deserve my help. I mean, I'm just an average guy no one pays attention to." Fleck sat like a stone for the next 23 hours. As he wondered how the end would come, a small space craft positioned itself outside earth's atmosphere. It was finally time to release the energy stored from seven planets in a single beam. It is to hit a tiny area on the earth. This tiny spot is only a half inch wide. The figure in the craft has waited 3 billion years for this moment. The one they call God has foreseen man's horrible ways and has had enough. Without a second thought, he willed the energy into a single shot at earth. Fleck sat there deep in thought. He scratched his head as if bitten by a mosquito and wondered when the moment would come. God had looked back to earth in surprise. He seen that a single young man some how managed to absorb the beam and not even notice. He looked closer. This young man was a human he recognized. It was the last one he performed a miracle for when he was little. The boy was stuck by a car. The driver fled the scene. God felt sorry. He didnt deserve to die. He kept him alive long enough for him to undergo surgery. This boy had metal placed in his head. It was this miracle that turned on God. It was this miracle that led God into creating another God that saved planet earth when he could care less for it. It's now up to him to guide this young man and help the planet or show him the wrongs of mankind, and help him finally get rid of it. |
...and saves the world. Or doesn't. Your call. | [WP] The hero is prophesied to save the world. He knows that prophecies always come true, so he does absolutely nothing. | "It says quite clearly, 'With the Emperor's Blade in hand, he shall turn back the Endless Night and save the world from destruction.' Nothing ambiguous there. You're going to find the Emperor's Blade and save the world."
"Yes, yes, I heard you the first time. Don't need to beat me over the head with it."
"I'm just saying, the Emperor's Blade was lost in the Infinite Maze countless centuries ago, so if you're going to find that thing you need to get a move on."
"It's a prophecy. It'll happen, guaranteed. Why are you such a worrywart?"
...
"The latest reports from the Kingdom of Drakensis in the East say that the Night has encroached a full two-thirds of their land, and the castle is now besieged by creatures of darkness. How's the quest for the Emperor's Blade coming?"
"I already told you, it's prophesied to happen. You can't rush these things."
"Have you even left the castle yet?"
"Have you looked outside? Those black clouds on the horizon? Does that look like good weather for treasure hunting?"
"Of course there's black clouds on the horizon! There's always going to be black clouds, it's a literal Endless Night!"
"Details, details."
...
"The Night is at our doors! Our doom is upon us! And our hero is content to stay in his armchair!"
"*Your* doom, maybe. I'm prophesied to survive and stop them, remember?"
"Any time you want to actually *do* that, that would be great."
...
"Incredible! It seems that the strange, unreal tides of the Endless Night have carried the Emperor's Blade from the Maze, across the blackened lands, and into this very room!"
"Wow. That was convenient. Let me just give it a wave... There, see? No more Endless Night. Told you, a prophecy always comes true."
"Yes, the forces of darkness have been banished, the world is spared from the horrible fate of being swallowed up in an eternal night. Such amazing heroism. You know what would have made it even better?"
"I dunno, I thought this was a pretty good job already. What?"
"If you had gotten it done before every other human in the world had been devoured by the creatures of darkness!"
"Every other person? No, that can't be right. I was prophesied to save them."
"Save the *world.* It looks like the humans who live in it were optional."
"Oh, oops. Guess I should have read that more carefully."
"Yeah. Guess you should have."
"So... now what?"
"Well, there was another prophecy in the book. It tells of another hero, who will "give a righteous and cathartic beating to the fool who thinks he can exploit the certainty of the future." I wasn't really clear on what that was referring to, but now that this has happened..."
"Ah, crap." | "Let's see this horrible world survive while I sit here and do nothing. It doesn't deserve my help. I mean, I'm just an average guy no one pays attention to." Fleck sat like a stone for the next 23 hours. As he wondered how the end would come, a small space craft positioned itself outside earth's atmosphere. It was finally time to release the energy stored from seven planets in a single beam. It is to hit a tiny area on the earth. This tiny spot is only a half inch wide. The figure in the craft has waited 3 billion years for this moment. The one they call God has foreseen man's horrible ways and has had enough. Without a second thought, he willed the energy into a single shot at earth. Fleck sat there deep in thought. He scratched his head as if bitten by a mosquito and wondered when the moment would come. God had looked back to earth in surprise. He seen that a single young man some how managed to absorb the beam and not even notice. He looked closer. This young man was a human he recognized. It was the last one he performed a miracle for when he was little. The boy was stuck by a car. The driver fled the scene. God felt sorry. He didnt deserve to die. He kept him alive long enough for him to undergo surgery. This boy had metal placed in his head. It was this miracle that turned on God. It was this miracle that led God into creating another God that saved planet earth when he could care less for it. It's now up to him to guide this young man and help the planet or show him the wrongs of mankind, and help him finally get rid of it. |
...and saves the world. Or doesn't. Your call. | [WP] The hero is prophesied to save the world. He knows that prophecies always come true, so he does absolutely nothing. | By acting he would inadvertently destroy the world. By doing nothing he saved it from himself. | "Let's see this horrible world survive while I sit here and do nothing. It doesn't deserve my help. I mean, I'm just an average guy no one pays attention to." Fleck sat like a stone for the next 23 hours. As he wondered how the end would come, a small space craft positioned itself outside earth's atmosphere. It was finally time to release the energy stored from seven planets in a single beam. It is to hit a tiny area on the earth. This tiny spot is only a half inch wide. The figure in the craft has waited 3 billion years for this moment. The one they call God has foreseen man's horrible ways and has had enough. Without a second thought, he willed the energy into a single shot at earth. Fleck sat there deep in thought. He scratched his head as if bitten by a mosquito and wondered when the moment would come. God had looked back to earth in surprise. He seen that a single young man some how managed to absorb the beam and not even notice. He looked closer. This young man was a human he recognized. It was the last one he performed a miracle for when he was little. The boy was stuck by a car. The driver fled the scene. God felt sorry. He didnt deserve to die. He kept him alive long enough for him to undergo surgery. This boy had metal placed in his head. It was this miracle that turned on God. It was this miracle that led God into creating another God that saved planet earth when he could care less for it. It's now up to him to guide this young man and help the planet or show him the wrongs of mankind, and help him finally get rid of it. |
...and saves the world. Or doesn't. Your call. | [WP] The hero is prophesied to save the world. He knows that prophecies always come true, so he does absolutely nothing. | M. stared blankly at the flashing icon that had appeared only moments ago in the notification tray of his Nexus 23. His thumb trembled over the symbol in hesitation.
He knew this was his time to shine. That blinking, digital envelope contained the information that would save the world. Supposedly a directive obtained directly from the deepest and most vital algorithms that make up the internal "organs" of His Holiness, Omega Prime. The Great Nothing had chosen him. At least according to the acolytes who seemed to have a sick obsession with personifying what really amounted to a glorified equation. Deep down he knew it was simply chance, an intricate series of RNGs, that had "selected" him for the task. There wasn't anything inherent in himself that set him apart from any of the other thousands of Saviors who had been selected by Omega Prime and groomed since childhood to be ready for their moment to step in and preserve history as we know it.
He then drew his attention away from his phone and to the woman lying on the gurney, exhausted and dripping sweat, but somehow still enchantingly beautiful. She cradled the newborn child in her arms with a tenderness that could only be shown by a new mother. Looking up at him, she smiled a weak smile, as if she meant to ask him how he was feeling in this moment. "What is it, hon?"
"Nothing, babe." He thumbed the Power button on his phone and slid it into his pocket. "Just work. Nothing important." He smiled back at her reassuringly. | "Let's see this horrible world survive while I sit here and do nothing. It doesn't deserve my help. I mean, I'm just an average guy no one pays attention to." Fleck sat like a stone for the next 23 hours. As he wondered how the end would come, a small space craft positioned itself outside earth's atmosphere. It was finally time to release the energy stored from seven planets in a single beam. It is to hit a tiny area on the earth. This tiny spot is only a half inch wide. The figure in the craft has waited 3 billion years for this moment. The one they call God has foreseen man's horrible ways and has had enough. Without a second thought, he willed the energy into a single shot at earth. Fleck sat there deep in thought. He scratched his head as if bitten by a mosquito and wondered when the moment would come. God had looked back to earth in surprise. He seen that a single young man some how managed to absorb the beam and not even notice. He looked closer. This young man was a human he recognized. It was the last one he performed a miracle for when he was little. The boy was stuck by a car. The driver fled the scene. God felt sorry. He didnt deserve to die. He kept him alive long enough for him to undergo surgery. This boy had metal placed in his head. It was this miracle that turned on God. It was this miracle that led God into creating another God that saved planet earth when he could care less for it. It's now up to him to guide this young man and help the planet or show him the wrongs of mankind, and help him finally get rid of it. |
...and saves the world. Or doesn't. Your call. | [WP] The hero is prophesied to save the world. He knows that prophecies always come true, so he does absolutely nothing. | Part 1
As Bobby and his three buddies lined up outside the tent they expressed themselves in giggles and elbow jabs, just like other groups of twelve-year-old boys throughout history. They stared nervously through the gap in the tent at the woman sitting within.
The gypsy woman had a red kerchief tied over her steel-grey hair. The flickering candles made the light dance upon her face, making the olive hue of her skin seem even darker. To the pre-teen boys she seemed exotic, almost other-worldly. She regarded them calmly, appearing to take them seriously even if they did not.
"Enter," she said with a beckoning wave of her hand that glittered with jeweled rings.
The boys glanced at one another. Tim stepped forward first. He paid the woman the required five dollars and sat down in the chair. The other boys stayed outside the tent where they could see her, but not hear her. She spoke in a low rasp only intended for the customer sitting directly opposite, her clear blue eyes staring at him over the shimmering ball of crystal between them.
After a few minutes Tim stood up and walked out.
"What did she say?" Bobby asked him.
Tim shrugged. "Ah, just the usual bullshit," he said. But his levity had vanished. He said nothing more, preferring to stare thoughtfully at the darkening summer sky.
David went in next, followed by Jermaine. Like Tim, neither boy wanted to say much when they left the tent. The giggling laughter and boyish pokes and shoves had vanished.
Finally it was Bobby's turn. He wiped the sweat from his palms onto the thighs of his jeans. He entered the tent, sat in the chair, and handed the Gypsy woman her fee. She tucked the fiver away, took a deep breath, and stared dreamily into the crystal ball. Then she inhaled suddenly. Her forehead creased, her dark brows knitting together.
"W-what is it?" Bobby asked. His voice shook and he hoped his friends couldn't hear him.
The old woman stared at him, her pale blue eyes a piercing match for the color of the crystal on the table before her.
"Do you believe in prophecies?" she asked him, her voice low and tight.
"I dunno…"
"DO YOU BELIEVE?" she demanded sharply.
"I… I guess…"
The gypsy woman stared at him thoughtfully for what seemed like an eternity to the boy. At long last she spoke.
"You… will save the world," she told him solemnly.
"Me?" Bobby asked incredulously, his eyes opening wide.
"Yes, you," the woman replied, her tone implying she barely believed it herself.
"But… how?"
The old woman shook her head. "A future such as yours—so heavy with import—can too easily become diverted. Like an overloaded train jumping the tracks. The less you know, the better."
"But what do I have to do?" Bobby asked. "How will I know…"
"You must *wait*," the gypsy woman told him firmly. "You must be patient. For your *whole life*, if necessary. The moment will find you—do not go looking for it." Bobby opened his mouth as if to ask something more, but the woman waved her hand dismissively. "Enough. Go. And remember my words, Robert Jones!" she added while jabbing her index finger at him accusingly, her pale eyes blazing.
Bobby quickly rose from the seat and stumbled backward out of the tent, not even taking a moment to wonder how she had learned his name. Only the presence of his friends outside kept him from fleeing home in terror. The boys returned to the fair but the rides and games had lost their appeal. They cut the night short and went home. As they walked through town none of them revealed to the others what the Gypsy woman had prophesied for them. | "Let's see this horrible world survive while I sit here and do nothing. It doesn't deserve my help. I mean, I'm just an average guy no one pays attention to." Fleck sat like a stone for the next 23 hours. As he wondered how the end would come, a small space craft positioned itself outside earth's atmosphere. It was finally time to release the energy stored from seven planets in a single beam. It is to hit a tiny area on the earth. This tiny spot is only a half inch wide. The figure in the craft has waited 3 billion years for this moment. The one they call God has foreseen man's horrible ways and has had enough. Without a second thought, he willed the energy into a single shot at earth. Fleck sat there deep in thought. He scratched his head as if bitten by a mosquito and wondered when the moment would come. God had looked back to earth in surprise. He seen that a single young man some how managed to absorb the beam and not even notice. He looked closer. This young man was a human he recognized. It was the last one he performed a miracle for when he was little. The boy was stuck by a car. The driver fled the scene. God felt sorry. He didnt deserve to die. He kept him alive long enough for him to undergo surgery. This boy had metal placed in his head. It was this miracle that turned on God. It was this miracle that led God into creating another God that saved planet earth when he could care less for it. It's now up to him to guide this young man and help the planet or show him the wrongs of mankind, and help him finally get rid of it. |
...and saves the world. Or doesn't. Your call. | [WP] The hero is prophesied to save the world. He knows that prophecies always come true, so he does absolutely nothing. | They come to me now, with eager faces and strong arms born of youth to learn about the future, all I really tell them is the past.
I grew up in a small village, and my people were simple, but strong, and proud. We were good with the sword, and quick with a bow, hunting off the land for food and sport.
I remember the day they took me to her. Old wrinkled skin telling of conquest, and death; but there was a light in me she said. I could stand against it, fight back against the tides of those that would come, and be a force for good, a force for what was right. Word got out, and I was allowed to lead.
They came from the East, black skies prophecised their coming as village elders and clan chiefs rallied to me, to the one foretold to stand against the powers of those that came. I sent them all away, confident in the words of an old woman, confident I had what was needed to stand against them. I sent them away, watched as dented armour and worn-backed allies left to sit in their homes. I would protect them, no need to worry. Even the warriors from my village should stand down, lest they get hurt. I could do this, after all it was prophecised that I could fight back against the invaders. It was fate.
Fate it seems, is fickle.
When the first offence came rushing through the small gap that opens into the valley I stood alone, my hands grasping my sword, years of training ready to leap onto the plain of battle. I fell 3 men, before the shouts of my opponents told of cunning, and co-operation. Two rushed me, whilst a third shot with a small horse bow. It missed, but the two men smashed into me, bringing me to the ground. I blacked out after the third or fourth kick.
Flickering darkness met me as I woke, and the screams of the dying left my hearing as I stumbled away through the trees, tears burning the images of those flames into my memory. The invaders had come, and I had failed.
I am but an old man now, a lost remnant of a taken people. They come to me for prophecies, and the gift of foresight. I tell them to meet in private, I tell them to gather out of sight of guards. I tell them that the future is never certain, and the gods are not keen on letting us know too much. I give them doubt, so that they might choose to act in sense. There is a future that *could* be, and one that will be. All I tell them is that it is in their power to seek it, that it is possible.
I tell them that our people have the power to drive back those that hold us down, that drive our pride into the dirt under calloused feet. I tell them that we can unite, and we can have victory.
After all, I have seen it. It is fate. | "Let's see this horrible world survive while I sit here and do nothing. It doesn't deserve my help. I mean, I'm just an average guy no one pays attention to." Fleck sat like a stone for the next 23 hours. As he wondered how the end would come, a small space craft positioned itself outside earth's atmosphere. It was finally time to release the energy stored from seven planets in a single beam. It is to hit a tiny area on the earth. This tiny spot is only a half inch wide. The figure in the craft has waited 3 billion years for this moment. The one they call God has foreseen man's horrible ways and has had enough. Without a second thought, he willed the energy into a single shot at earth. Fleck sat there deep in thought. He scratched his head as if bitten by a mosquito and wondered when the moment would come. God had looked back to earth in surprise. He seen that a single young man some how managed to absorb the beam and not even notice. He looked closer. This young man was a human he recognized. It was the last one he performed a miracle for when he was little. The boy was stuck by a car. The driver fled the scene. God felt sorry. He didnt deserve to die. He kept him alive long enough for him to undergo surgery. This boy had metal placed in his head. It was this miracle that turned on God. It was this miracle that led God into creating another God that saved planet earth when he could care less for it. It's now up to him to guide this young man and help the planet or show him the wrongs of mankind, and help him finally get rid of it. |
...and saves the world. Or doesn't. Your call. | [WP] The hero is prophesied to save the world. He knows that prophecies always come true, so he does absolutely nothing. | Dorcas stood before the black portal, and hesitated.
"Guys, I, er..."
"I can only keep the door open for so long," said Dystar, shouting slightly to be heard above the din. "This is our one chance. The stars are right. He is vulnerable this night."
Dystar seemed so *young* to Dorcas. Of course he was young, he was the bumbling apprentice to the wizard Greymourn when the fellowship first formed. Dystar was what, twelve? Fourteen? He wasn't even a real apprentice at first, sort of a chimneysweep who put on airs. But Greymourn had died fighting Singe, as it was foretold, and Dystar had become a powerful enough wizard in his own right.
"Guys, I..." said Dorcas. He turned to face the rest of the group. "Fellowship, you've fought bravely alongside me, all this way, all this-"
"Captain," said Pytha, but she caught herself, and smiled. "I mean to say, Dorcas, my love," she said - no sense in keeping their status a secret, not at this last point, not when it made sense in terms of the prophecy - "this isn't the time for speeches. We don't need to be rallied."
"The armies of the Northwest were at their last in the Pass at Etata when we left," said Nameless, the mysterious elf archer, "while the Queen of Arbors will have surely rebelled as well by now. The Grimmer tribes may have followed suit. We'll never have a better chance at the Dark Lord's fortress militarily.
Dorcas looked at the Fellowship. They would die for him, which, when it came down to it, was the problem. Years had forged them into an elite cadre, but years had taken their toll. This last push to the cliff face for the casting of the portal spell was particularly grim, and while it was a fierce determination that looked back at him in the eyes of his fellows, it was a tired one. They wouldn't all survive the assault. Sure, there were those prophesied to die later, like himself, but the rest...this was a battle that would extract a hard price.
"Alright, my merry band," Dorcas said as he began to heft Starshone, his sword, up to lead the charge, but he stopped midway, looking at the hilt. You'd never guess that it was shattered into seven pieces and reforged, he thought, but there it was, a fearsome artifact. And he wielded it, according to prophecy, and he was the only one, according to prophecy who could, and the only one in using it that could defeat the Dark Lord. According to prophecy.
"You know what? I'm tired," said Dorcas, sheathing Starshone. "Are you tired? I think we should take a breather." He started walking off. "I'm going home. Come on, Pytha, you can meet my parents."
"But-" stammered everyone else.
"Look," he turned back, "when this started, I was a farmboy who'd just lost a scrumpy race at the harvest fair I was a shoe-in to win. I was going to marry a stupid but kind girl, take over her father's farrier business, and probably die from exertion before I made it to try and fend off a rumor of an Orc attack. Then a wizard happened, and a prophecy was uncovered, and since then, I've saved armies, fought dragons, and made some very good friends I never would have met, all of which who are not dead are standing before me."
"The prophecy says we win this day, and I defeat the Dark Lord. But the prophecy didn't say a damn thing about leading my friends on a suicide mission. Every single part of the prophecy that we've expected to come to pass, has come to pass, though not always how we expected it. Remember the mushrooms? It says that we win this day. It doesn't say how."
"Me? I'm putting my faith in the prophecy. Good wins. Now I'm asking you to put some faith in me, and share my faith in the prophecy to see that everything works out alright. I'm off to tell the armies to stand down." Dorcas, now walking away, shouted over his shoulder, "Go home! That means all of you! We can visit next Solstice!"
The Fellowship watched him leave in silence. With an anti-climatic pop, the portal closed.
"I couldn't have kept it open much longer, anyway," said Dystar.
- - -
In gloomiest Comkarsa, the Dark Lord brooded.
Something had gone wrong. The "hero" never appeared. No Fellowship came to his Midnight Tower to challenge him.
At first, he thought that his trap had worked too well, and the elite forces posing as irregulars around the sacred cliff had managed to kill the hero, despite his exquisite instructions to only bloody him. The Dark Lord first mused on how he would punish his soldiers' families for this indiscretion.
The Dark Lord knew something was seriously off when he started to find himself wishing for a chessboard. This was getting frustrating. The prophecy had worked perfectly, so far. It had gotten his enemies to do his dirty work for him, in terms of bringing together all his most capable opposition in one place and showing false friends like the Queen for what they were. The most impressive, the most intricate part about it, was that, once a few events had been arranged, the Fellowship more or less filled in any gaps for him, interpreting the words to fit with what happened. I mean, the bit about the mouse and the boulder was accidentally left in from an earlier draft, yet they made it fit.
No, something was seriously wrong. They weren't coming. But why? Why get all the way to his front door, only to not even so much as knock.
There had a be a spy.
- - -
Dorcas returned to his hometown. People were confused at first, but no one was going to doubt the Chosen One. Besides, it wasn't like anyone could lift Starshone anyway. People were happy for him when he married the strange warrior woman from the distant land, then confused again when he opened up a 'falafel' shop, selling food from her distant clime but that Dorcas had become a great advocate of.
People were understandably concerned about how the Dark Lord was never defeated. Except he seemed to do that part himself, and if stories were believed he systematically assassinated, murdered, or warred with all of his best generals and most loyal lords. Then, he did the same to his least loyal and least competent. Eventually, gloomy Comkarsa sat nearly empty due to his tendency to kill off all his servants and vassals at the slightest misfortune. In time, his power diminished to the point that he became an object of pity, not hatred, little more than a cursed suit of armor in a crumbling tower, still trying to find out who betrayed him, unable to see the truth of his own lies. | "Let's see this horrible world survive while I sit here and do nothing. It doesn't deserve my help. I mean, I'm just an average guy no one pays attention to." Fleck sat like a stone for the next 23 hours. As he wondered how the end would come, a small space craft positioned itself outside earth's atmosphere. It was finally time to release the energy stored from seven planets in a single beam. It is to hit a tiny area on the earth. This tiny spot is only a half inch wide. The figure in the craft has waited 3 billion years for this moment. The one they call God has foreseen man's horrible ways and has had enough. Without a second thought, he willed the energy into a single shot at earth. Fleck sat there deep in thought. He scratched his head as if bitten by a mosquito and wondered when the moment would come. God had looked back to earth in surprise. He seen that a single young man some how managed to absorb the beam and not even notice. He looked closer. This young man was a human he recognized. It was the last one he performed a miracle for when he was little. The boy was stuck by a car. The driver fled the scene. God felt sorry. He didnt deserve to die. He kept him alive long enough for him to undergo surgery. This boy had metal placed in his head. It was this miracle that turned on God. It was this miracle that led God into creating another God that saved planet earth when he could care less for it. It's now up to him to guide this young man and help the planet or show him the wrongs of mankind, and help him finally get rid of it. |
...and saves the world. Or doesn't. Your call. | [WP] The hero is prophesied to save the world. He knows that prophecies always come true, so he does absolutely nothing. | "It says quite clearly, 'With the Emperor's Blade in hand, he shall turn back the Endless Night and save the world from destruction.' Nothing ambiguous there. You're going to find the Emperor's Blade and save the world."
"Yes, yes, I heard you the first time. Don't need to beat me over the head with it."
"I'm just saying, the Emperor's Blade was lost in the Infinite Maze countless centuries ago, so if you're going to find that thing you need to get a move on."
"It's a prophecy. It'll happen, guaranteed. Why are you such a worrywart?"
...
"The latest reports from the Kingdom of Drakensis in the East say that the Night has encroached a full two-thirds of their land, and the castle is now besieged by creatures of darkness. How's the quest for the Emperor's Blade coming?"
"I already told you, it's prophesied to happen. You can't rush these things."
"Have you even left the castle yet?"
"Have you looked outside? Those black clouds on the horizon? Does that look like good weather for treasure hunting?"
"Of course there's black clouds on the horizon! There's always going to be black clouds, it's a literal Endless Night!"
"Details, details."
...
"The Night is at our doors! Our doom is upon us! And our hero is content to stay in his armchair!"
"*Your* doom, maybe. I'm prophesied to survive and stop them, remember?"
"Any time you want to actually *do* that, that would be great."
...
"Incredible! It seems that the strange, unreal tides of the Endless Night have carried the Emperor's Blade from the Maze, across the blackened lands, and into this very room!"
"Wow. That was convenient. Let me just give it a wave... There, see? No more Endless Night. Told you, a prophecy always comes true."
"Yes, the forces of darkness have been banished, the world is spared from the horrible fate of being swallowed up in an eternal night. Such amazing heroism. You know what would have made it even better?"
"I dunno, I thought this was a pretty good job already. What?"
"If you had gotten it done before every other human in the world had been devoured by the creatures of darkness!"
"Every other person? No, that can't be right. I was prophesied to save them."
"Save the *world.* It looks like the humans who live in it were optional."
"Oh, oops. Guess I should have read that more carefully."
"Yeah. Guess you should have."
"So... now what?"
"Well, there was another prophecy in the book. It tells of another hero, who will "give a righteous and cathartic beating to the fool who thinks he can exploit the certainty of the future." I wasn't really clear on what that was referring to, but now that this has happened..."
"Ah, crap." | Our hero really let himself go while doing nothing. An attempt to spite the prophecy as he has not led a happy life. He gained weight and began drinking heavily. On his way to the liqour store one day after a night of heavy drinking he hits and kills a small child. He spends 4 years of his sentence before taking his own life. The child he killed would have grown up to cause the extinction of humanity. Or...was that just what he told himself before he anhero'd? can't remember. Its stupid anyway |
...and saves the world. Or doesn't. Your call. | [WP] The hero is prophesied to save the world. He knows that prophecies always come true, so he does absolutely nothing. | June 9th, 1994 was the year a baby was brought into this world. It was just like any other healthy baby, and was born into just another average family. This baby would eat, shit, cry, just as any other baby would. It grew up like any other kid would, crawling lead to walking, blabbing turned to speaking, diapers to toilets, etc. This baby meant absolutely nothing towards the human race until June 9th, 1997.
On that day, there was a knock at the door. The toddler was sitting at the kitchen table with his mother, a cheap party hat strapped onto his head. The thin strand that kept the hat on his head bothered the boy, and he continuously tried to take it off as his mother hesitantly stepped towards the front door. The mother opened the door to find to tall men in suits. After a brief conversation, the two men followed the mother into the living room, and then continued their conversation.
The boy did not understand most of the words the men and his mother were saying, but one word he managed to understand, which was his own name. The men left a few minutes later, and the boy trotted his way into the living room to see his mother weeping into a pillow. The boy did not understand why his mother was sad, and wouldn't understand for another five years.
For those five years I always asked her why we were running, why there were always people chasing us, but all I would get for an answer was "because you're special, dear." Yeah, I was pretty special alright.
The day I was born, I was prophesied to be the savior or the destroyer of life as we knew it. It was told that a boy born on my birthday would act as some sort of reset button. If I lived past 50, everyone on planet earth on this earth would cease to exist. Everything mankind managed to create or destroy would revert back to its original state millions of years ago, and all that there would be left was me, and a woman made from my limb. That's right, Genesis 2 shit.
I was the single cancer cell in a sea of 7 billion healthy, fully functional ones that had no intent of disappearing. I was God's means of life deciding whether or not its entire existence up until this point was worth preserving. I never understood why such an omniscient being would allow a race of selfish and greedy creatures to decide on whether it should collectively kill itself or not. You would think that a third party should make a final call, but for some reason it was our own choice.
I'm guessing you can figure out the choice that most people made.
And so my mother and I became fugitives all because she fucked a guy in the back of his car nine months before June 9th, 1994. We were able to avoid the American government for sixteen years with the help of either divine intervention or a whole load of dumb luck. It was up until 2013, that Edward Snowden fuck released all the governments secrets, most notably my existence. I soon became public enemy number one, and was know as "The Black Sheep" and just about everyone wanted me dead.
This past year has been chaos. My mother and I have officially gone into hiding in the basement of a church whose pastor believes that the earth should be wiped clean, just as it did back when Noah built his arch. For this year we slept on hard concrete floors, ate little food and never slept. The priest would tell us of how society began to implode on itself as the search for me became more and more desperate. We could hear the riots above us, the gunshots, the rallying screams, the deafening sounds of destruction looming over us as we coward in fear.
As time went on, my future became bleaker and bleaker. It was by some miracle that no one thought to search the one church that possessed us, but my mother and I both knew that it would be inevitable. Thirty more years of survival became nearly impossible, and so we began to accept our fate.
On June 8th, 2014 my mother hung herself in fear of what might happen to her once I was killed. She was the only person who believed that I could survive, and now she lifelessly dangled in her misjudgment. There was nothing for me to live for. I knew that thiry more years of hell was not worth the resetting that mankind "needed". Maybe all they needed was something to live for. A common enemy. A black sheep.
On June 9th, 2014 I stepped out of the church. One man noticed me, and asked me who I was. I told him my name. My full name. The man double took, and gave me a look as if he knew who I was, he somehow knew who I was without ever seeing me before in his life. I could have been some man claiming to be the Black Sheep, even though I wasn't, and this man knew that. I stood there doing nothing as he gave me this look of acceptance.
He walked over to me as he took out a revolver and pointed it up to my head. I didn't flinch, didn't move, didn't fucking blink as he pressed it right along my forehead. I did nothing but stand there as he pulled the hammer down slowly, and took a deep breath. I close my eyes as I accepted my fate, as the trigger was pulled, and as humanity was saved.
| Using this logic, he does nothing, thereby saving the world. If the prophecy hadn't existed, he wouldn't have done nothing and instead would have realised his full potential, thereby ending the world. He dies insignificant, wondering what great thing was supposed to have magically happened with him at the centre, tormented by the thought that maybe if he had done something, things would have been different.
Still, maybe that's better than turning into the next Hitler. |
...and saves the world. Or doesn't. Your call. | [WP] The hero is prophesied to save the world. He knows that prophecies always come true, so he does absolutely nothing. | "It says quite clearly, 'With the Emperor's Blade in hand, he shall turn back the Endless Night and save the world from destruction.' Nothing ambiguous there. You're going to find the Emperor's Blade and save the world."
"Yes, yes, I heard you the first time. Don't need to beat me over the head with it."
"I'm just saying, the Emperor's Blade was lost in the Infinite Maze countless centuries ago, so if you're going to find that thing you need to get a move on."
"It's a prophecy. It'll happen, guaranteed. Why are you such a worrywart?"
...
"The latest reports from the Kingdom of Drakensis in the East say that the Night has encroached a full two-thirds of their land, and the castle is now besieged by creatures of darkness. How's the quest for the Emperor's Blade coming?"
"I already told you, it's prophesied to happen. You can't rush these things."
"Have you even left the castle yet?"
"Have you looked outside? Those black clouds on the horizon? Does that look like good weather for treasure hunting?"
"Of course there's black clouds on the horizon! There's always going to be black clouds, it's a literal Endless Night!"
"Details, details."
...
"The Night is at our doors! Our doom is upon us! And our hero is content to stay in his armchair!"
"*Your* doom, maybe. I'm prophesied to survive and stop them, remember?"
"Any time you want to actually *do* that, that would be great."
...
"Incredible! It seems that the strange, unreal tides of the Endless Night have carried the Emperor's Blade from the Maze, across the blackened lands, and into this very room!"
"Wow. That was convenient. Let me just give it a wave... There, see? No more Endless Night. Told you, a prophecy always comes true."
"Yes, the forces of darkness have been banished, the world is spared from the horrible fate of being swallowed up in an eternal night. Such amazing heroism. You know what would have made it even better?"
"I dunno, I thought this was a pretty good job already. What?"
"If you had gotten it done before every other human in the world had been devoured by the creatures of darkness!"
"Every other person? No, that can't be right. I was prophesied to save them."
"Save the *world.* It looks like the humans who live in it were optional."
"Oh, oops. Guess I should have read that more carefully."
"Yeah. Guess you should have."
"So... now what?"
"Well, there was another prophecy in the book. It tells of another hero, who will "give a righteous and cathartic beating to the fool who thinks he can exploit the certainty of the future." I wasn't really clear on what that was referring to, but now that this has happened..."
"Ah, crap." | Using this logic, he does nothing, thereby saving the world. If the prophecy hadn't existed, he wouldn't have done nothing and instead would have realised his full potential, thereby ending the world. He dies insignificant, wondering what great thing was supposed to have magically happened with him at the centre, tormented by the thought that maybe if he had done something, things would have been different.
Still, maybe that's better than turning into the next Hitler. |
...and saves the world. Or doesn't. Your call. | [WP] The hero is prophesied to save the world. He knows that prophecies always come true, so he does absolutely nothing. | By acting he would inadvertently destroy the world. By doing nothing he saved it from himself. | Using this logic, he does nothing, thereby saving the world. If the prophecy hadn't existed, he wouldn't have done nothing and instead would have realised his full potential, thereby ending the world. He dies insignificant, wondering what great thing was supposed to have magically happened with him at the centre, tormented by the thought that maybe if he had done something, things would have been different.
Still, maybe that's better than turning into the next Hitler. |
...and saves the world. Or doesn't. Your call. | [WP] The hero is prophesied to save the world. He knows that prophecies always come true, so he does absolutely nothing. | M. stared blankly at the flashing icon that had appeared only moments ago in the notification tray of his Nexus 23. His thumb trembled over the symbol in hesitation.
He knew this was his time to shine. That blinking, digital envelope contained the information that would save the world. Supposedly a directive obtained directly from the deepest and most vital algorithms that make up the internal "organs" of His Holiness, Omega Prime. The Great Nothing had chosen him. At least according to the acolytes who seemed to have a sick obsession with personifying what really amounted to a glorified equation. Deep down he knew it was simply chance, an intricate series of RNGs, that had "selected" him for the task. There wasn't anything inherent in himself that set him apart from any of the other thousands of Saviors who had been selected by Omega Prime and groomed since childhood to be ready for their moment to step in and preserve history as we know it.
He then drew his attention away from his phone and to the woman lying on the gurney, exhausted and dripping sweat, but somehow still enchantingly beautiful. She cradled the newborn child in her arms with a tenderness that could only be shown by a new mother. Looking up at him, she smiled a weak smile, as if she meant to ask him how he was feeling in this moment. "What is it, hon?"
"Nothing, babe." He thumbed the Power button on his phone and slid it into his pocket. "Just work. Nothing important." He smiled back at her reassuringly. | Using this logic, he does nothing, thereby saving the world. If the prophecy hadn't existed, he wouldn't have done nothing and instead would have realised his full potential, thereby ending the world. He dies insignificant, wondering what great thing was supposed to have magically happened with him at the centre, tormented by the thought that maybe if he had done something, things would have been different.
Still, maybe that's better than turning into the next Hitler. |
...and saves the world. Or doesn't. Your call. | [WP] The hero is prophesied to save the world. He knows that prophecies always come true, so he does absolutely nothing. | Part 1
As Bobby and his three buddies lined up outside the tent they expressed themselves in giggles and elbow jabs, just like other groups of twelve-year-old boys throughout history. They stared nervously through the gap in the tent at the woman sitting within.
The gypsy woman had a red kerchief tied over her steel-grey hair. The flickering candles made the light dance upon her face, making the olive hue of her skin seem even darker. To the pre-teen boys she seemed exotic, almost other-worldly. She regarded them calmly, appearing to take them seriously even if they did not.
"Enter," she said with a beckoning wave of her hand that glittered with jeweled rings.
The boys glanced at one another. Tim stepped forward first. He paid the woman the required five dollars and sat down in the chair. The other boys stayed outside the tent where they could see her, but not hear her. She spoke in a low rasp only intended for the customer sitting directly opposite, her clear blue eyes staring at him over the shimmering ball of crystal between them.
After a few minutes Tim stood up and walked out.
"What did she say?" Bobby asked him.
Tim shrugged. "Ah, just the usual bullshit," he said. But his levity had vanished. He said nothing more, preferring to stare thoughtfully at the darkening summer sky.
David went in next, followed by Jermaine. Like Tim, neither boy wanted to say much when they left the tent. The giggling laughter and boyish pokes and shoves had vanished.
Finally it was Bobby's turn. He wiped the sweat from his palms onto the thighs of his jeans. He entered the tent, sat in the chair, and handed the Gypsy woman her fee. She tucked the fiver away, took a deep breath, and stared dreamily into the crystal ball. Then she inhaled suddenly. Her forehead creased, her dark brows knitting together.
"W-what is it?" Bobby asked. His voice shook and he hoped his friends couldn't hear him.
The old woman stared at him, her pale blue eyes a piercing match for the color of the crystal on the table before her.
"Do you believe in prophecies?" she asked him, her voice low and tight.
"I dunno…"
"DO YOU BELIEVE?" she demanded sharply.
"I… I guess…"
The gypsy woman stared at him thoughtfully for what seemed like an eternity to the boy. At long last she spoke.
"You… will save the world," she told him solemnly.
"Me?" Bobby asked incredulously, his eyes opening wide.
"Yes, you," the woman replied, her tone implying she barely believed it herself.
"But… how?"
The old woman shook her head. "A future such as yours—so heavy with import—can too easily become diverted. Like an overloaded train jumping the tracks. The less you know, the better."
"But what do I have to do?" Bobby asked. "How will I know…"
"You must *wait*," the gypsy woman told him firmly. "You must be patient. For your *whole life*, if necessary. The moment will find you—do not go looking for it." Bobby opened his mouth as if to ask something more, but the woman waved her hand dismissively. "Enough. Go. And remember my words, Robert Jones!" she added while jabbing her index finger at him accusingly, her pale eyes blazing.
Bobby quickly rose from the seat and stumbled backward out of the tent, not even taking a moment to wonder how she had learned his name. Only the presence of his friends outside kept him from fleeing home in terror. The boys returned to the fair but the rides and games had lost their appeal. They cut the night short and went home. As they walked through town none of them revealed to the others what the Gypsy woman had prophesied for them. | Using this logic, he does nothing, thereby saving the world. If the prophecy hadn't existed, he wouldn't have done nothing and instead would have realised his full potential, thereby ending the world. He dies insignificant, wondering what great thing was supposed to have magically happened with him at the centre, tormented by the thought that maybe if he had done something, things would have been different.
Still, maybe that's better than turning into the next Hitler. |
...and saves the world. Or doesn't. Your call. | [WP] The hero is prophesied to save the world. He knows that prophecies always come true, so he does absolutely nothing. | They come to me now, with eager faces and strong arms born of youth to learn about the future, all I really tell them is the past.
I grew up in a small village, and my people were simple, but strong, and proud. We were good with the sword, and quick with a bow, hunting off the land for food and sport.
I remember the day they took me to her. Old wrinkled skin telling of conquest, and death; but there was a light in me she said. I could stand against it, fight back against the tides of those that would come, and be a force for good, a force for what was right. Word got out, and I was allowed to lead.
They came from the East, black skies prophecised their coming as village elders and clan chiefs rallied to me, to the one foretold to stand against the powers of those that came. I sent them all away, confident in the words of an old woman, confident I had what was needed to stand against them. I sent them away, watched as dented armour and worn-backed allies left to sit in their homes. I would protect them, no need to worry. Even the warriors from my village should stand down, lest they get hurt. I could do this, after all it was prophecised that I could fight back against the invaders. It was fate.
Fate it seems, is fickle.
When the first offence came rushing through the small gap that opens into the valley I stood alone, my hands grasping my sword, years of training ready to leap onto the plain of battle. I fell 3 men, before the shouts of my opponents told of cunning, and co-operation. Two rushed me, whilst a third shot with a small horse bow. It missed, but the two men smashed into me, bringing me to the ground. I blacked out after the third or fourth kick.
Flickering darkness met me as I woke, and the screams of the dying left my hearing as I stumbled away through the trees, tears burning the images of those flames into my memory. The invaders had come, and I had failed.
I am but an old man now, a lost remnant of a taken people. They come to me for prophecies, and the gift of foresight. I tell them to meet in private, I tell them to gather out of sight of guards. I tell them that the future is never certain, and the gods are not keen on letting us know too much. I give them doubt, so that they might choose to act in sense. There is a future that *could* be, and one that will be. All I tell them is that it is in their power to seek it, that it is possible.
I tell them that our people have the power to drive back those that hold us down, that drive our pride into the dirt under calloused feet. I tell them that we can unite, and we can have victory.
After all, I have seen it. It is fate. | Using this logic, he does nothing, thereby saving the world. If the prophecy hadn't existed, he wouldn't have done nothing and instead would have realised his full potential, thereby ending the world. He dies insignificant, wondering what great thing was supposed to have magically happened with him at the centre, tormented by the thought that maybe if he had done something, things would have been different.
Still, maybe that's better than turning into the next Hitler. |
...and saves the world. Or doesn't. Your call. | [WP] The hero is prophesied to save the world. He knows that prophecies always come true, so he does absolutely nothing. | Dorcas stood before the black portal, and hesitated.
"Guys, I, er..."
"I can only keep the door open for so long," said Dystar, shouting slightly to be heard above the din. "This is our one chance. The stars are right. He is vulnerable this night."
Dystar seemed so *young* to Dorcas. Of course he was young, he was the bumbling apprentice to the wizard Greymourn when the fellowship first formed. Dystar was what, twelve? Fourteen? He wasn't even a real apprentice at first, sort of a chimneysweep who put on airs. But Greymourn had died fighting Singe, as it was foretold, and Dystar had become a powerful enough wizard in his own right.
"Guys, I..." said Dorcas. He turned to face the rest of the group. "Fellowship, you've fought bravely alongside me, all this way, all this-"
"Captain," said Pytha, but she caught herself, and smiled. "I mean to say, Dorcas, my love," she said - no sense in keeping their status a secret, not at this last point, not when it made sense in terms of the prophecy - "this isn't the time for speeches. We don't need to be rallied."
"The armies of the Northwest were at their last in the Pass at Etata when we left," said Nameless, the mysterious elf archer, "while the Queen of Arbors will have surely rebelled as well by now. The Grimmer tribes may have followed suit. We'll never have a better chance at the Dark Lord's fortress militarily.
Dorcas looked at the Fellowship. They would die for him, which, when it came down to it, was the problem. Years had forged them into an elite cadre, but years had taken their toll. This last push to the cliff face for the casting of the portal spell was particularly grim, and while it was a fierce determination that looked back at him in the eyes of his fellows, it was a tired one. They wouldn't all survive the assault. Sure, there were those prophesied to die later, like himself, but the rest...this was a battle that would extract a hard price.
"Alright, my merry band," Dorcas said as he began to heft Starshone, his sword, up to lead the charge, but he stopped midway, looking at the hilt. You'd never guess that it was shattered into seven pieces and reforged, he thought, but there it was, a fearsome artifact. And he wielded it, according to prophecy, and he was the only one, according to prophecy who could, and the only one in using it that could defeat the Dark Lord. According to prophecy.
"You know what? I'm tired," said Dorcas, sheathing Starshone. "Are you tired? I think we should take a breather." He started walking off. "I'm going home. Come on, Pytha, you can meet my parents."
"But-" stammered everyone else.
"Look," he turned back, "when this started, I was a farmboy who'd just lost a scrumpy race at the harvest fair I was a shoe-in to win. I was going to marry a stupid but kind girl, take over her father's farrier business, and probably die from exertion before I made it to try and fend off a rumor of an Orc attack. Then a wizard happened, and a prophecy was uncovered, and since then, I've saved armies, fought dragons, and made some very good friends I never would have met, all of which who are not dead are standing before me."
"The prophecy says we win this day, and I defeat the Dark Lord. But the prophecy didn't say a damn thing about leading my friends on a suicide mission. Every single part of the prophecy that we've expected to come to pass, has come to pass, though not always how we expected it. Remember the mushrooms? It says that we win this day. It doesn't say how."
"Me? I'm putting my faith in the prophecy. Good wins. Now I'm asking you to put some faith in me, and share my faith in the prophecy to see that everything works out alright. I'm off to tell the armies to stand down." Dorcas, now walking away, shouted over his shoulder, "Go home! That means all of you! We can visit next Solstice!"
The Fellowship watched him leave in silence. With an anti-climatic pop, the portal closed.
"I couldn't have kept it open much longer, anyway," said Dystar.
- - -
In gloomiest Comkarsa, the Dark Lord brooded.
Something had gone wrong. The "hero" never appeared. No Fellowship came to his Midnight Tower to challenge him.
At first, he thought that his trap had worked too well, and the elite forces posing as irregulars around the sacred cliff had managed to kill the hero, despite his exquisite instructions to only bloody him. The Dark Lord first mused on how he would punish his soldiers' families for this indiscretion.
The Dark Lord knew something was seriously off when he started to find himself wishing for a chessboard. This was getting frustrating. The prophecy had worked perfectly, so far. It had gotten his enemies to do his dirty work for him, in terms of bringing together all his most capable opposition in one place and showing false friends like the Queen for what they were. The most impressive, the most intricate part about it, was that, once a few events had been arranged, the Fellowship more or less filled in any gaps for him, interpreting the words to fit with what happened. I mean, the bit about the mouse and the boulder was accidentally left in from an earlier draft, yet they made it fit.
No, something was seriously wrong. They weren't coming. But why? Why get all the way to his front door, only to not even so much as knock.
There had a be a spy.
- - -
Dorcas returned to his hometown. People were confused at first, but no one was going to doubt the Chosen One. Besides, it wasn't like anyone could lift Starshone anyway. People were happy for him when he married the strange warrior woman from the distant land, then confused again when he opened up a 'falafel' shop, selling food from her distant clime but that Dorcas had become a great advocate of.
People were understandably concerned about how the Dark Lord was never defeated. Except he seemed to do that part himself, and if stories were believed he systematically assassinated, murdered, or warred with all of his best generals and most loyal lords. Then, he did the same to his least loyal and least competent. Eventually, gloomy Comkarsa sat nearly empty due to his tendency to kill off all his servants and vassals at the slightest misfortune. In time, his power diminished to the point that he became an object of pity, not hatred, little more than a cursed suit of armor in a crumbling tower, still trying to find out who betrayed him, unable to see the truth of his own lies. | Using this logic, he does nothing, thereby saving the world. If the prophecy hadn't existed, he wouldn't have done nothing and instead would have realised his full potential, thereby ending the world. He dies insignificant, wondering what great thing was supposed to have magically happened with him at the centre, tormented by the thought that maybe if he had done something, things would have been different.
Still, maybe that's better than turning into the next Hitler. |
...and saves the world. Or doesn't. Your call. | [WP] The hero is prophesied to save the world. He knows that prophecies always come true, so he does absolutely nothing. | By acting he would inadvertently destroy the world. By doing nothing he saved it from himself. | June 9th, 1994 was the year a baby was brought into this world. It was just like any other healthy baby, and was born into just another average family. This baby would eat, shit, cry, just as any other baby would. It grew up like any other kid would, crawling lead to walking, blabbing turned to speaking, diapers to toilets, etc. This baby meant absolutely nothing towards the human race until June 9th, 1997.
On that day, there was a knock at the door. The toddler was sitting at the kitchen table with his mother, a cheap party hat strapped onto his head. The thin strand that kept the hat on his head bothered the boy, and he continuously tried to take it off as his mother hesitantly stepped towards the front door. The mother opened the door to find to tall men in suits. After a brief conversation, the two men followed the mother into the living room, and then continued their conversation.
The boy did not understand most of the words the men and his mother were saying, but one word he managed to understand, which was his own name. The men left a few minutes later, and the boy trotted his way into the living room to see his mother weeping into a pillow. The boy did not understand why his mother was sad, and wouldn't understand for another five years.
For those five years I always asked her why we were running, why there were always people chasing us, but all I would get for an answer was "because you're special, dear." Yeah, I was pretty special alright.
The day I was born, I was prophesied to be the savior or the destroyer of life as we knew it. It was told that a boy born on my birthday would act as some sort of reset button. If I lived past 50, everyone on planet earth on this earth would cease to exist. Everything mankind managed to create or destroy would revert back to its original state millions of years ago, and all that there would be left was me, and a woman made from my limb. That's right, Genesis 2 shit.
I was the single cancer cell in a sea of 7 billion healthy, fully functional ones that had no intent of disappearing. I was God's means of life deciding whether or not its entire existence up until this point was worth preserving. I never understood why such an omniscient being would allow a race of selfish and greedy creatures to decide on whether it should collectively kill itself or not. You would think that a third party should make a final call, but for some reason it was our own choice.
I'm guessing you can figure out the choice that most people made.
And so my mother and I became fugitives all because she fucked a guy in the back of his car nine months before June 9th, 1994. We were able to avoid the American government for sixteen years with the help of either divine intervention or a whole load of dumb luck. It was up until 2013, that Edward Snowden fuck released all the governments secrets, most notably my existence. I soon became public enemy number one, and was know as "The Black Sheep" and just about everyone wanted me dead.
This past year has been chaos. My mother and I have officially gone into hiding in the basement of a church whose pastor believes that the earth should be wiped clean, just as it did back when Noah built his arch. For this year we slept on hard concrete floors, ate little food and never slept. The priest would tell us of how society began to implode on itself as the search for me became more and more desperate. We could hear the riots above us, the gunshots, the rallying screams, the deafening sounds of destruction looming over us as we coward in fear.
As time went on, my future became bleaker and bleaker. It was by some miracle that no one thought to search the one church that possessed us, but my mother and I both knew that it would be inevitable. Thirty more years of survival became nearly impossible, and so we began to accept our fate.
On June 8th, 2014 my mother hung herself in fear of what might happen to her once I was killed. She was the only person who believed that I could survive, and now she lifelessly dangled in her misjudgment. There was nothing for me to live for. I knew that thiry more years of hell was not worth the resetting that mankind "needed". Maybe all they needed was something to live for. A common enemy. A black sheep.
On June 9th, 2014 I stepped out of the church. One man noticed me, and asked me who I was. I told him my name. My full name. The man double took, and gave me a look as if he knew who I was, he somehow knew who I was without ever seeing me before in his life. I could have been some man claiming to be the Black Sheep, even though I wasn't, and this man knew that. I stood there doing nothing as he gave me this look of acceptance.
He walked over to me as he took out a revolver and pointed it up to my head. I didn't flinch, didn't move, didn't fucking blink as he pressed it right along my forehead. I did nothing but stand there as he pulled the hammer down slowly, and took a deep breath. I close my eyes as I accepted my fate, as the trigger was pulled, and as humanity was saved.
|
...and saves the world. Or doesn't. Your call. | [WP] The hero is prophesied to save the world. He knows that prophecies always come true, so he does absolutely nothing. | Dorcas stood before the black portal, and hesitated.
"Guys, I, er..."
"I can only keep the door open for so long," said Dystar, shouting slightly to be heard above the din. "This is our one chance. The stars are right. He is vulnerable this night."
Dystar seemed so *young* to Dorcas. Of course he was young, he was the bumbling apprentice to the wizard Greymourn when the fellowship first formed. Dystar was what, twelve? Fourteen? He wasn't even a real apprentice at first, sort of a chimneysweep who put on airs. But Greymourn had died fighting Singe, as it was foretold, and Dystar had become a powerful enough wizard in his own right.
"Guys, I..." said Dorcas. He turned to face the rest of the group. "Fellowship, you've fought bravely alongside me, all this way, all this-"
"Captain," said Pytha, but she caught herself, and smiled. "I mean to say, Dorcas, my love," she said - no sense in keeping their status a secret, not at this last point, not when it made sense in terms of the prophecy - "this isn't the time for speeches. We don't need to be rallied."
"The armies of the Northwest were at their last in the Pass at Etata when we left," said Nameless, the mysterious elf archer, "while the Queen of Arbors will have surely rebelled as well by now. The Grimmer tribes may have followed suit. We'll never have a better chance at the Dark Lord's fortress militarily.
Dorcas looked at the Fellowship. They would die for him, which, when it came down to it, was the problem. Years had forged them into an elite cadre, but years had taken their toll. This last push to the cliff face for the casting of the portal spell was particularly grim, and while it was a fierce determination that looked back at him in the eyes of his fellows, it was a tired one. They wouldn't all survive the assault. Sure, there were those prophesied to die later, like himself, but the rest...this was a battle that would extract a hard price.
"Alright, my merry band," Dorcas said as he began to heft Starshone, his sword, up to lead the charge, but he stopped midway, looking at the hilt. You'd never guess that it was shattered into seven pieces and reforged, he thought, but there it was, a fearsome artifact. And he wielded it, according to prophecy, and he was the only one, according to prophecy who could, and the only one in using it that could defeat the Dark Lord. According to prophecy.
"You know what? I'm tired," said Dorcas, sheathing Starshone. "Are you tired? I think we should take a breather." He started walking off. "I'm going home. Come on, Pytha, you can meet my parents."
"But-" stammered everyone else.
"Look," he turned back, "when this started, I was a farmboy who'd just lost a scrumpy race at the harvest fair I was a shoe-in to win. I was going to marry a stupid but kind girl, take over her father's farrier business, and probably die from exertion before I made it to try and fend off a rumor of an Orc attack. Then a wizard happened, and a prophecy was uncovered, and since then, I've saved armies, fought dragons, and made some very good friends I never would have met, all of which who are not dead are standing before me."
"The prophecy says we win this day, and I defeat the Dark Lord. But the prophecy didn't say a damn thing about leading my friends on a suicide mission. Every single part of the prophecy that we've expected to come to pass, has come to pass, though not always how we expected it. Remember the mushrooms? It says that we win this day. It doesn't say how."
"Me? I'm putting my faith in the prophecy. Good wins. Now I'm asking you to put some faith in me, and share my faith in the prophecy to see that everything works out alright. I'm off to tell the armies to stand down." Dorcas, now walking away, shouted over his shoulder, "Go home! That means all of you! We can visit next Solstice!"
The Fellowship watched him leave in silence. With an anti-climatic pop, the portal closed.
"I couldn't have kept it open much longer, anyway," said Dystar.
- - -
In gloomiest Comkarsa, the Dark Lord brooded.
Something had gone wrong. The "hero" never appeared. No Fellowship came to his Midnight Tower to challenge him.
At first, he thought that his trap had worked too well, and the elite forces posing as irregulars around the sacred cliff had managed to kill the hero, despite his exquisite instructions to only bloody him. The Dark Lord first mused on how he would punish his soldiers' families for this indiscretion.
The Dark Lord knew something was seriously off when he started to find himself wishing for a chessboard. This was getting frustrating. The prophecy had worked perfectly, so far. It had gotten his enemies to do his dirty work for him, in terms of bringing together all his most capable opposition in one place and showing false friends like the Queen for what they were. The most impressive, the most intricate part about it, was that, once a few events had been arranged, the Fellowship more or less filled in any gaps for him, interpreting the words to fit with what happened. I mean, the bit about the mouse and the boulder was accidentally left in from an earlier draft, yet they made it fit.
No, something was seriously wrong. They weren't coming. But why? Why get all the way to his front door, only to not even so much as knock.
There had a be a spy.
- - -
Dorcas returned to his hometown. People were confused at first, but no one was going to doubt the Chosen One. Besides, it wasn't like anyone could lift Starshone anyway. People were happy for him when he married the strange warrior woman from the distant land, then confused again when he opened up a 'falafel' shop, selling food from her distant clime but that Dorcas had become a great advocate of.
People were understandably concerned about how the Dark Lord was never defeated. Except he seemed to do that part himself, and if stories were believed he systematically assassinated, murdered, or warred with all of his best generals and most loyal lords. Then, he did the same to his least loyal and least competent. Eventually, gloomy Comkarsa sat nearly empty due to his tendency to kill off all his servants and vassals at the slightest misfortune. In time, his power diminished to the point that he became an object of pity, not hatred, little more than a cursed suit of armor in a crumbling tower, still trying to find out who betrayed him, unable to see the truth of his own lies. | June 9th, 1994 was the year a baby was brought into this world. It was just like any other healthy baby, and was born into just another average family. This baby would eat, shit, cry, just as any other baby would. It grew up like any other kid would, crawling lead to walking, blabbing turned to speaking, diapers to toilets, etc. This baby meant absolutely nothing towards the human race until June 9th, 1997.
On that day, there was a knock at the door. The toddler was sitting at the kitchen table with his mother, a cheap party hat strapped onto his head. The thin strand that kept the hat on his head bothered the boy, and he continuously tried to take it off as his mother hesitantly stepped towards the front door. The mother opened the door to find to tall men in suits. After a brief conversation, the two men followed the mother into the living room, and then continued their conversation.
The boy did not understand most of the words the men and his mother were saying, but one word he managed to understand, which was his own name. The men left a few minutes later, and the boy trotted his way into the living room to see his mother weeping into a pillow. The boy did not understand why his mother was sad, and wouldn't understand for another five years.
For those five years I always asked her why we were running, why there were always people chasing us, but all I would get for an answer was "because you're special, dear." Yeah, I was pretty special alright.
The day I was born, I was prophesied to be the savior or the destroyer of life as we knew it. It was told that a boy born on my birthday would act as some sort of reset button. If I lived past 50, everyone on planet earth on this earth would cease to exist. Everything mankind managed to create or destroy would revert back to its original state millions of years ago, and all that there would be left was me, and a woman made from my limb. That's right, Genesis 2 shit.
I was the single cancer cell in a sea of 7 billion healthy, fully functional ones that had no intent of disappearing. I was God's means of life deciding whether or not its entire existence up until this point was worth preserving. I never understood why such an omniscient being would allow a race of selfish and greedy creatures to decide on whether it should collectively kill itself or not. You would think that a third party should make a final call, but for some reason it was our own choice.
I'm guessing you can figure out the choice that most people made.
And so my mother and I became fugitives all because she fucked a guy in the back of his car nine months before June 9th, 1994. We were able to avoid the American government for sixteen years with the help of either divine intervention or a whole load of dumb luck. It was up until 2013, that Edward Snowden fuck released all the governments secrets, most notably my existence. I soon became public enemy number one, and was know as "The Black Sheep" and just about everyone wanted me dead.
This past year has been chaos. My mother and I have officially gone into hiding in the basement of a church whose pastor believes that the earth should be wiped clean, just as it did back when Noah built his arch. For this year we slept on hard concrete floors, ate little food and never slept. The priest would tell us of how society began to implode on itself as the search for me became more and more desperate. We could hear the riots above us, the gunshots, the rallying screams, the deafening sounds of destruction looming over us as we coward in fear.
As time went on, my future became bleaker and bleaker. It was by some miracle that no one thought to search the one church that possessed us, but my mother and I both knew that it would be inevitable. Thirty more years of survival became nearly impossible, and so we began to accept our fate.
On June 8th, 2014 my mother hung herself in fear of what might happen to her once I was killed. She was the only person who believed that I could survive, and now she lifelessly dangled in her misjudgment. There was nothing for me to live for. I knew that thiry more years of hell was not worth the resetting that mankind "needed". Maybe all they needed was something to live for. A common enemy. A black sheep.
On June 9th, 2014 I stepped out of the church. One man noticed me, and asked me who I was. I told him my name. My full name. The man double took, and gave me a look as if he knew who I was, he somehow knew who I was without ever seeing me before in his life. I could have been some man claiming to be the Black Sheep, even though I wasn't, and this man knew that. I stood there doing nothing as he gave me this look of acceptance.
He walked over to me as he took out a revolver and pointed it up to my head. I didn't flinch, didn't move, didn't fucking blink as he pressed it right along my forehead. I did nothing but stand there as he pulled the hammer down slowly, and took a deep breath. I close my eyes as I accepted my fate, as the trigger was pulled, and as humanity was saved.
|
...and saves the world. Or doesn't. Your call. | [WP] The hero is prophesied to save the world. He knows that prophecies always come true, so he does absolutely nothing. | Part 1
As Bobby and his three buddies lined up outside the tent they expressed themselves in giggles and elbow jabs, just like other groups of twelve-year-old boys throughout history. They stared nervously through the gap in the tent at the woman sitting within.
The gypsy woman had a red kerchief tied over her steel-grey hair. The flickering candles made the light dance upon her face, making the olive hue of her skin seem even darker. To the pre-teen boys she seemed exotic, almost other-worldly. She regarded them calmly, appearing to take them seriously even if they did not.
"Enter," she said with a beckoning wave of her hand that glittered with jeweled rings.
The boys glanced at one another. Tim stepped forward first. He paid the woman the required five dollars and sat down in the chair. The other boys stayed outside the tent where they could see her, but not hear her. She spoke in a low rasp only intended for the customer sitting directly opposite, her clear blue eyes staring at him over the shimmering ball of crystal between them.
After a few minutes Tim stood up and walked out.
"What did she say?" Bobby asked him.
Tim shrugged. "Ah, just the usual bullshit," he said. But his levity had vanished. He said nothing more, preferring to stare thoughtfully at the darkening summer sky.
David went in next, followed by Jermaine. Like Tim, neither boy wanted to say much when they left the tent. The giggling laughter and boyish pokes and shoves had vanished.
Finally it was Bobby's turn. He wiped the sweat from his palms onto the thighs of his jeans. He entered the tent, sat in the chair, and handed the Gypsy woman her fee. She tucked the fiver away, took a deep breath, and stared dreamily into the crystal ball. Then she inhaled suddenly. Her forehead creased, her dark brows knitting together.
"W-what is it?" Bobby asked. His voice shook and he hoped his friends couldn't hear him.
The old woman stared at him, her pale blue eyes a piercing match for the color of the crystal on the table before her.
"Do you believe in prophecies?" she asked him, her voice low and tight.
"I dunno…"
"DO YOU BELIEVE?" she demanded sharply.
"I… I guess…"
The gypsy woman stared at him thoughtfully for what seemed like an eternity to the boy. At long last she spoke.
"You… will save the world," she told him solemnly.
"Me?" Bobby asked incredulously, his eyes opening wide.
"Yes, you," the woman replied, her tone implying she barely believed it herself.
"But… how?"
The old woman shook her head. "A future such as yours—so heavy with import—can too easily become diverted. Like an overloaded train jumping the tracks. The less you know, the better."
"But what do I have to do?" Bobby asked. "How will I know…"
"You must *wait*," the gypsy woman told him firmly. "You must be patient. For your *whole life*, if necessary. The moment will find you—do not go looking for it." Bobby opened his mouth as if to ask something more, but the woman waved her hand dismissively. "Enough. Go. And remember my words, Robert Jones!" she added while jabbing her index finger at him accusingly, her pale eyes blazing.
Bobby quickly rose from the seat and stumbled backward out of the tent, not even taking a moment to wonder how she had learned his name. Only the presence of his friends outside kept him from fleeing home in terror. The boys returned to the fair but the rides and games had lost their appeal. They cut the night short and went home. As they walked through town none of them revealed to the others what the Gypsy woman had prophesied for them. | M. stared blankly at the flashing icon that had appeared only moments ago in the notification tray of his Nexus 23. His thumb trembled over the symbol in hesitation.
He knew this was his time to shine. That blinking, digital envelope contained the information that would save the world. Supposedly a directive obtained directly from the deepest and most vital algorithms that make up the internal "organs" of His Holiness, Omega Prime. The Great Nothing had chosen him. At least according to the acolytes who seemed to have a sick obsession with personifying what really amounted to a glorified equation. Deep down he knew it was simply chance, an intricate series of RNGs, that had "selected" him for the task. There wasn't anything inherent in himself that set him apart from any of the other thousands of Saviors who had been selected by Omega Prime and groomed since childhood to be ready for their moment to step in and preserve history as we know it.
He then drew his attention away from his phone and to the woman lying on the gurney, exhausted and dripping sweat, but somehow still enchantingly beautiful. She cradled the newborn child in her arms with a tenderness that could only be shown by a new mother. Looking up at him, she smiled a weak smile, as if she meant to ask him how he was feeling in this moment. "What is it, hon?"
"Nothing, babe." He thumbed the Power button on his phone and slid it into his pocket. "Just work. Nothing important." He smiled back at her reassuringly. |
...and saves the world. Or doesn't. Your call. | [WP] The hero is prophesied to save the world. He knows that prophecies always come true, so he does absolutely nothing. | Dorcas stood before the black portal, and hesitated.
"Guys, I, er..."
"I can only keep the door open for so long," said Dystar, shouting slightly to be heard above the din. "This is our one chance. The stars are right. He is vulnerable this night."
Dystar seemed so *young* to Dorcas. Of course he was young, he was the bumbling apprentice to the wizard Greymourn when the fellowship first formed. Dystar was what, twelve? Fourteen? He wasn't even a real apprentice at first, sort of a chimneysweep who put on airs. But Greymourn had died fighting Singe, as it was foretold, and Dystar had become a powerful enough wizard in his own right.
"Guys, I..." said Dorcas. He turned to face the rest of the group. "Fellowship, you've fought bravely alongside me, all this way, all this-"
"Captain," said Pytha, but she caught herself, and smiled. "I mean to say, Dorcas, my love," she said - no sense in keeping their status a secret, not at this last point, not when it made sense in terms of the prophecy - "this isn't the time for speeches. We don't need to be rallied."
"The armies of the Northwest were at their last in the Pass at Etata when we left," said Nameless, the mysterious elf archer, "while the Queen of Arbors will have surely rebelled as well by now. The Grimmer tribes may have followed suit. We'll never have a better chance at the Dark Lord's fortress militarily.
Dorcas looked at the Fellowship. They would die for him, which, when it came down to it, was the problem. Years had forged them into an elite cadre, but years had taken their toll. This last push to the cliff face for the casting of the portal spell was particularly grim, and while it was a fierce determination that looked back at him in the eyes of his fellows, it was a tired one. They wouldn't all survive the assault. Sure, there were those prophesied to die later, like himself, but the rest...this was a battle that would extract a hard price.
"Alright, my merry band," Dorcas said as he began to heft Starshone, his sword, up to lead the charge, but he stopped midway, looking at the hilt. You'd never guess that it was shattered into seven pieces and reforged, he thought, but there it was, a fearsome artifact. And he wielded it, according to prophecy, and he was the only one, according to prophecy who could, and the only one in using it that could defeat the Dark Lord. According to prophecy.
"You know what? I'm tired," said Dorcas, sheathing Starshone. "Are you tired? I think we should take a breather." He started walking off. "I'm going home. Come on, Pytha, you can meet my parents."
"But-" stammered everyone else.
"Look," he turned back, "when this started, I was a farmboy who'd just lost a scrumpy race at the harvest fair I was a shoe-in to win. I was going to marry a stupid but kind girl, take over her father's farrier business, and probably die from exertion before I made it to try and fend off a rumor of an Orc attack. Then a wizard happened, and a prophecy was uncovered, and since then, I've saved armies, fought dragons, and made some very good friends I never would have met, all of which who are not dead are standing before me."
"The prophecy says we win this day, and I defeat the Dark Lord. But the prophecy didn't say a damn thing about leading my friends on a suicide mission. Every single part of the prophecy that we've expected to come to pass, has come to pass, though not always how we expected it. Remember the mushrooms? It says that we win this day. It doesn't say how."
"Me? I'm putting my faith in the prophecy. Good wins. Now I'm asking you to put some faith in me, and share my faith in the prophecy to see that everything works out alright. I'm off to tell the armies to stand down." Dorcas, now walking away, shouted over his shoulder, "Go home! That means all of you! We can visit next Solstice!"
The Fellowship watched him leave in silence. With an anti-climatic pop, the portal closed.
"I couldn't have kept it open much longer, anyway," said Dystar.
- - -
In gloomiest Comkarsa, the Dark Lord brooded.
Something had gone wrong. The "hero" never appeared. No Fellowship came to his Midnight Tower to challenge him.
At first, he thought that his trap had worked too well, and the elite forces posing as irregulars around the sacred cliff had managed to kill the hero, despite his exquisite instructions to only bloody him. The Dark Lord first mused on how he would punish his soldiers' families for this indiscretion.
The Dark Lord knew something was seriously off when he started to find himself wishing for a chessboard. This was getting frustrating. The prophecy had worked perfectly, so far. It had gotten his enemies to do his dirty work for him, in terms of bringing together all his most capable opposition in one place and showing false friends like the Queen for what they were. The most impressive, the most intricate part about it, was that, once a few events had been arranged, the Fellowship more or less filled in any gaps for him, interpreting the words to fit with what happened. I mean, the bit about the mouse and the boulder was accidentally left in from an earlier draft, yet they made it fit.
No, something was seriously wrong. They weren't coming. But why? Why get all the way to his front door, only to not even so much as knock.
There had a be a spy.
- - -
Dorcas returned to his hometown. People were confused at first, but no one was going to doubt the Chosen One. Besides, it wasn't like anyone could lift Starshone anyway. People were happy for him when he married the strange warrior woman from the distant land, then confused again when he opened up a 'falafel' shop, selling food from her distant clime but that Dorcas had become a great advocate of.
People were understandably concerned about how the Dark Lord was never defeated. Except he seemed to do that part himself, and if stories were believed he systematically assassinated, murdered, or warred with all of his best generals and most loyal lords. Then, he did the same to his least loyal and least competent. Eventually, gloomy Comkarsa sat nearly empty due to his tendency to kill off all his servants and vassals at the slightest misfortune. In time, his power diminished to the point that he became an object of pity, not hatred, little more than a cursed suit of armor in a crumbling tower, still trying to find out who betrayed him, unable to see the truth of his own lies. | M. stared blankly at the flashing icon that had appeared only moments ago in the notification tray of his Nexus 23. His thumb trembled over the symbol in hesitation.
He knew this was his time to shine. That blinking, digital envelope contained the information that would save the world. Supposedly a directive obtained directly from the deepest and most vital algorithms that make up the internal "organs" of His Holiness, Omega Prime. The Great Nothing had chosen him. At least according to the acolytes who seemed to have a sick obsession with personifying what really amounted to a glorified equation. Deep down he knew it was simply chance, an intricate series of RNGs, that had "selected" him for the task. There wasn't anything inherent in himself that set him apart from any of the other thousands of Saviors who had been selected by Omega Prime and groomed since childhood to be ready for their moment to step in and preserve history as we know it.
He then drew his attention away from his phone and to the woman lying on the gurney, exhausted and dripping sweat, but somehow still enchantingly beautiful. She cradled the newborn child in her arms with a tenderness that could only be shown by a new mother. Looking up at him, she smiled a weak smile, as if she meant to ask him how he was feeling in this moment. "What is it, hon?"
"Nothing, babe." He thumbed the Power button on his phone and slid it into his pocket. "Just work. Nothing important." He smiled back at her reassuringly. |
...and saves the world. Or doesn't. Your call. | [WP] The hero is prophesied to save the world. He knows that prophecies always come true, so he does absolutely nothing. | Dorcas stood before the black portal, and hesitated.
"Guys, I, er..."
"I can only keep the door open for so long," said Dystar, shouting slightly to be heard above the din. "This is our one chance. The stars are right. He is vulnerable this night."
Dystar seemed so *young* to Dorcas. Of course he was young, he was the bumbling apprentice to the wizard Greymourn when the fellowship first formed. Dystar was what, twelve? Fourteen? He wasn't even a real apprentice at first, sort of a chimneysweep who put on airs. But Greymourn had died fighting Singe, as it was foretold, and Dystar had become a powerful enough wizard in his own right.
"Guys, I..." said Dorcas. He turned to face the rest of the group. "Fellowship, you've fought bravely alongside me, all this way, all this-"
"Captain," said Pytha, but she caught herself, and smiled. "I mean to say, Dorcas, my love," she said - no sense in keeping their status a secret, not at this last point, not when it made sense in terms of the prophecy - "this isn't the time for speeches. We don't need to be rallied."
"The armies of the Northwest were at their last in the Pass at Etata when we left," said Nameless, the mysterious elf archer, "while the Queen of Arbors will have surely rebelled as well by now. The Grimmer tribes may have followed suit. We'll never have a better chance at the Dark Lord's fortress militarily.
Dorcas looked at the Fellowship. They would die for him, which, when it came down to it, was the problem. Years had forged them into an elite cadre, but years had taken their toll. This last push to the cliff face for the casting of the portal spell was particularly grim, and while it was a fierce determination that looked back at him in the eyes of his fellows, it was a tired one. They wouldn't all survive the assault. Sure, there were those prophesied to die later, like himself, but the rest...this was a battle that would extract a hard price.
"Alright, my merry band," Dorcas said as he began to heft Starshone, his sword, up to lead the charge, but he stopped midway, looking at the hilt. You'd never guess that it was shattered into seven pieces and reforged, he thought, but there it was, a fearsome artifact. And he wielded it, according to prophecy, and he was the only one, according to prophecy who could, and the only one in using it that could defeat the Dark Lord. According to prophecy.
"You know what? I'm tired," said Dorcas, sheathing Starshone. "Are you tired? I think we should take a breather." He started walking off. "I'm going home. Come on, Pytha, you can meet my parents."
"But-" stammered everyone else.
"Look," he turned back, "when this started, I was a farmboy who'd just lost a scrumpy race at the harvest fair I was a shoe-in to win. I was going to marry a stupid but kind girl, take over her father's farrier business, and probably die from exertion before I made it to try and fend off a rumor of an Orc attack. Then a wizard happened, and a prophecy was uncovered, and since then, I've saved armies, fought dragons, and made some very good friends I never would have met, all of which who are not dead are standing before me."
"The prophecy says we win this day, and I defeat the Dark Lord. But the prophecy didn't say a damn thing about leading my friends on a suicide mission. Every single part of the prophecy that we've expected to come to pass, has come to pass, though not always how we expected it. Remember the mushrooms? It says that we win this day. It doesn't say how."
"Me? I'm putting my faith in the prophecy. Good wins. Now I'm asking you to put some faith in me, and share my faith in the prophecy to see that everything works out alright. I'm off to tell the armies to stand down." Dorcas, now walking away, shouted over his shoulder, "Go home! That means all of you! We can visit next Solstice!"
The Fellowship watched him leave in silence. With an anti-climatic pop, the portal closed.
"I couldn't have kept it open much longer, anyway," said Dystar.
- - -
In gloomiest Comkarsa, the Dark Lord brooded.
Something had gone wrong. The "hero" never appeared. No Fellowship came to his Midnight Tower to challenge him.
At first, he thought that his trap had worked too well, and the elite forces posing as irregulars around the sacred cliff had managed to kill the hero, despite his exquisite instructions to only bloody him. The Dark Lord first mused on how he would punish his soldiers' families for this indiscretion.
The Dark Lord knew something was seriously off when he started to find himself wishing for a chessboard. This was getting frustrating. The prophecy had worked perfectly, so far. It had gotten his enemies to do his dirty work for him, in terms of bringing together all his most capable opposition in one place and showing false friends like the Queen for what they were. The most impressive, the most intricate part about it, was that, once a few events had been arranged, the Fellowship more or less filled in any gaps for him, interpreting the words to fit with what happened. I mean, the bit about the mouse and the boulder was accidentally left in from an earlier draft, yet they made it fit.
No, something was seriously wrong. They weren't coming. But why? Why get all the way to his front door, only to not even so much as knock.
There had a be a spy.
- - -
Dorcas returned to his hometown. People were confused at first, but no one was going to doubt the Chosen One. Besides, it wasn't like anyone could lift Starshone anyway. People were happy for him when he married the strange warrior woman from the distant land, then confused again when he opened up a 'falafel' shop, selling food from her distant clime but that Dorcas had become a great advocate of.
People were understandably concerned about how the Dark Lord was never defeated. Except he seemed to do that part himself, and if stories were believed he systematically assassinated, murdered, or warred with all of his best generals and most loyal lords. Then, he did the same to his least loyal and least competent. Eventually, gloomy Comkarsa sat nearly empty due to his tendency to kill off all his servants and vassals at the slightest misfortune. In time, his power diminished to the point that he became an object of pity, not hatred, little more than a cursed suit of armor in a crumbling tower, still trying to find out who betrayed him, unable to see the truth of his own lies. | Part 1
As Bobby and his three buddies lined up outside the tent they expressed themselves in giggles and elbow jabs, just like other groups of twelve-year-old boys throughout history. They stared nervously through the gap in the tent at the woman sitting within.
The gypsy woman had a red kerchief tied over her steel-grey hair. The flickering candles made the light dance upon her face, making the olive hue of her skin seem even darker. To the pre-teen boys she seemed exotic, almost other-worldly. She regarded them calmly, appearing to take them seriously even if they did not.
"Enter," she said with a beckoning wave of her hand that glittered with jeweled rings.
The boys glanced at one another. Tim stepped forward first. He paid the woman the required five dollars and sat down in the chair. The other boys stayed outside the tent where they could see her, but not hear her. She spoke in a low rasp only intended for the customer sitting directly opposite, her clear blue eyes staring at him over the shimmering ball of crystal between them.
After a few minutes Tim stood up and walked out.
"What did she say?" Bobby asked him.
Tim shrugged. "Ah, just the usual bullshit," he said. But his levity had vanished. He said nothing more, preferring to stare thoughtfully at the darkening summer sky.
David went in next, followed by Jermaine. Like Tim, neither boy wanted to say much when they left the tent. The giggling laughter and boyish pokes and shoves had vanished.
Finally it was Bobby's turn. He wiped the sweat from his palms onto the thighs of his jeans. He entered the tent, sat in the chair, and handed the Gypsy woman her fee. She tucked the fiver away, took a deep breath, and stared dreamily into the crystal ball. Then she inhaled suddenly. Her forehead creased, her dark brows knitting together.
"W-what is it?" Bobby asked. His voice shook and he hoped his friends couldn't hear him.
The old woman stared at him, her pale blue eyes a piercing match for the color of the crystal on the table before her.
"Do you believe in prophecies?" she asked him, her voice low and tight.
"I dunno…"
"DO YOU BELIEVE?" she demanded sharply.
"I… I guess…"
The gypsy woman stared at him thoughtfully for what seemed like an eternity to the boy. At long last she spoke.
"You… will save the world," she told him solemnly.
"Me?" Bobby asked incredulously, his eyes opening wide.
"Yes, you," the woman replied, her tone implying she barely believed it herself.
"But… how?"
The old woman shook her head. "A future such as yours—so heavy with import—can too easily become diverted. Like an overloaded train jumping the tracks. The less you know, the better."
"But what do I have to do?" Bobby asked. "How will I know…"
"You must *wait*," the gypsy woman told him firmly. "You must be patient. For your *whole life*, if necessary. The moment will find you—do not go looking for it." Bobby opened his mouth as if to ask something more, but the woman waved her hand dismissively. "Enough. Go. And remember my words, Robert Jones!" she added while jabbing her index finger at him accusingly, her pale eyes blazing.
Bobby quickly rose from the seat and stumbled backward out of the tent, not even taking a moment to wonder how she had learned his name. Only the presence of his friends outside kept him from fleeing home in terror. The boys returned to the fair but the rides and games had lost their appeal. They cut the night short and went home. As they walked through town none of them revealed to the others what the Gypsy woman had prophesied for them. |
...and saves the world. Or doesn't. Your call. | [WP] The hero is prophesied to save the world. He knows that prophecies always come true, so he does absolutely nothing. | Dorcas stood before the black portal, and hesitated.
"Guys, I, er..."
"I can only keep the door open for so long," said Dystar, shouting slightly to be heard above the din. "This is our one chance. The stars are right. He is vulnerable this night."
Dystar seemed so *young* to Dorcas. Of course he was young, he was the bumbling apprentice to the wizard Greymourn when the fellowship first formed. Dystar was what, twelve? Fourteen? He wasn't even a real apprentice at first, sort of a chimneysweep who put on airs. But Greymourn had died fighting Singe, as it was foretold, and Dystar had become a powerful enough wizard in his own right.
"Guys, I..." said Dorcas. He turned to face the rest of the group. "Fellowship, you've fought bravely alongside me, all this way, all this-"
"Captain," said Pytha, but she caught herself, and smiled. "I mean to say, Dorcas, my love," she said - no sense in keeping their status a secret, not at this last point, not when it made sense in terms of the prophecy - "this isn't the time for speeches. We don't need to be rallied."
"The armies of the Northwest were at their last in the Pass at Etata when we left," said Nameless, the mysterious elf archer, "while the Queen of Arbors will have surely rebelled as well by now. The Grimmer tribes may have followed suit. We'll never have a better chance at the Dark Lord's fortress militarily.
Dorcas looked at the Fellowship. They would die for him, which, when it came down to it, was the problem. Years had forged them into an elite cadre, but years had taken their toll. This last push to the cliff face for the casting of the portal spell was particularly grim, and while it was a fierce determination that looked back at him in the eyes of his fellows, it was a tired one. They wouldn't all survive the assault. Sure, there were those prophesied to die later, like himself, but the rest...this was a battle that would extract a hard price.
"Alright, my merry band," Dorcas said as he began to heft Starshone, his sword, up to lead the charge, but he stopped midway, looking at the hilt. You'd never guess that it was shattered into seven pieces and reforged, he thought, but there it was, a fearsome artifact. And he wielded it, according to prophecy, and he was the only one, according to prophecy who could, and the only one in using it that could defeat the Dark Lord. According to prophecy.
"You know what? I'm tired," said Dorcas, sheathing Starshone. "Are you tired? I think we should take a breather." He started walking off. "I'm going home. Come on, Pytha, you can meet my parents."
"But-" stammered everyone else.
"Look," he turned back, "when this started, I was a farmboy who'd just lost a scrumpy race at the harvest fair I was a shoe-in to win. I was going to marry a stupid but kind girl, take over her father's farrier business, and probably die from exertion before I made it to try and fend off a rumor of an Orc attack. Then a wizard happened, and a prophecy was uncovered, and since then, I've saved armies, fought dragons, and made some very good friends I never would have met, all of which who are not dead are standing before me."
"The prophecy says we win this day, and I defeat the Dark Lord. But the prophecy didn't say a damn thing about leading my friends on a suicide mission. Every single part of the prophecy that we've expected to come to pass, has come to pass, though not always how we expected it. Remember the mushrooms? It says that we win this day. It doesn't say how."
"Me? I'm putting my faith in the prophecy. Good wins. Now I'm asking you to put some faith in me, and share my faith in the prophecy to see that everything works out alright. I'm off to tell the armies to stand down." Dorcas, now walking away, shouted over his shoulder, "Go home! That means all of you! We can visit next Solstice!"
The Fellowship watched him leave in silence. With an anti-climatic pop, the portal closed.
"I couldn't have kept it open much longer, anyway," said Dystar.
- - -
In gloomiest Comkarsa, the Dark Lord brooded.
Something had gone wrong. The "hero" never appeared. No Fellowship came to his Midnight Tower to challenge him.
At first, he thought that his trap had worked too well, and the elite forces posing as irregulars around the sacred cliff had managed to kill the hero, despite his exquisite instructions to only bloody him. The Dark Lord first mused on how he would punish his soldiers' families for this indiscretion.
The Dark Lord knew something was seriously off when he started to find himself wishing for a chessboard. This was getting frustrating. The prophecy had worked perfectly, so far. It had gotten his enemies to do his dirty work for him, in terms of bringing together all his most capable opposition in one place and showing false friends like the Queen for what they were. The most impressive, the most intricate part about it, was that, once a few events had been arranged, the Fellowship more or less filled in any gaps for him, interpreting the words to fit with what happened. I mean, the bit about the mouse and the boulder was accidentally left in from an earlier draft, yet they made it fit.
No, something was seriously wrong. They weren't coming. But why? Why get all the way to his front door, only to not even so much as knock.
There had a be a spy.
- - -
Dorcas returned to his hometown. People were confused at first, but no one was going to doubt the Chosen One. Besides, it wasn't like anyone could lift Starshone anyway. People were happy for him when he married the strange warrior woman from the distant land, then confused again when he opened up a 'falafel' shop, selling food from her distant clime but that Dorcas had become a great advocate of.
People were understandably concerned about how the Dark Lord was never defeated. Except he seemed to do that part himself, and if stories were believed he systematically assassinated, murdered, or warred with all of his best generals and most loyal lords. Then, he did the same to his least loyal and least competent. Eventually, gloomy Comkarsa sat nearly empty due to his tendency to kill off all his servants and vassals at the slightest misfortune. In time, his power diminished to the point that he became an object of pity, not hatred, little more than a cursed suit of armor in a crumbling tower, still trying to find out who betrayed him, unable to see the truth of his own lies. | They come to me now, with eager faces and strong arms born of youth to learn about the future, all I really tell them is the past.
I grew up in a small village, and my people were simple, but strong, and proud. We were good with the sword, and quick with a bow, hunting off the land for food and sport.
I remember the day they took me to her. Old wrinkled skin telling of conquest, and death; but there was a light in me she said. I could stand against it, fight back against the tides of those that would come, and be a force for good, a force for what was right. Word got out, and I was allowed to lead.
They came from the East, black skies prophecised their coming as village elders and clan chiefs rallied to me, to the one foretold to stand against the powers of those that came. I sent them all away, confident in the words of an old woman, confident I had what was needed to stand against them. I sent them away, watched as dented armour and worn-backed allies left to sit in their homes. I would protect them, no need to worry. Even the warriors from my village should stand down, lest they get hurt. I could do this, after all it was prophecised that I could fight back against the invaders. It was fate.
Fate it seems, is fickle.
When the first offence came rushing through the small gap that opens into the valley I stood alone, my hands grasping my sword, years of training ready to leap onto the plain of battle. I fell 3 men, before the shouts of my opponents told of cunning, and co-operation. Two rushed me, whilst a third shot with a small horse bow. It missed, but the two men smashed into me, bringing me to the ground. I blacked out after the third or fourth kick.
Flickering darkness met me as I woke, and the screams of the dying left my hearing as I stumbled away through the trees, tears burning the images of those flames into my memory. The invaders had come, and I had failed.
I am but an old man now, a lost remnant of a taken people. They come to me for prophecies, and the gift of foresight. I tell them to meet in private, I tell them to gather out of sight of guards. I tell them that the future is never certain, and the gods are not keen on letting us know too much. I give them doubt, so that they might choose to act in sense. There is a future that *could* be, and one that will be. All I tell them is that it is in their power to seek it, that it is possible.
I tell them that our people have the power to drive back those that hold us down, that drive our pride into the dirt under calloused feet. I tell them that we can unite, and we can have victory.
After all, I have seen it. It is fate. |
...and saves the world. Or doesn't. Your call. | [WP] The hero is prophesied to save the world. He knows that prophecies always come true, so he does absolutely nothing. | "Honey! It's the president again! he's asking when you're going to do something about that alien invasion!" Erin shouted from the hallway, she always does that.
*Sigh* "For the last time hun! I'm the HERO, I'm going to save the day eventually! Why don't you read that book people keep yapping about some more?"
"What, the book that's supporting the coffee table!?"
Hank rolled his eyes, "you might not not want to shout that loud with the president on the phone! But yes honey, THAT ONE"
A few moments later Erin appeared in the living room, "he's not going to hang up this time".
FINE, Hank resigned himself to never finding out how much that antique watch was worth and turned off the tv.
"Hank, for the last flipping time! FIX THIS"
"Now now no need for harsh language mister president", Hank smiled at his wife who was already furious at him for dragging his feet with this whole aliens thing.
Hank returned to the phone: "look, they're aliens, they probably have some crazy scheme for wanting to come to earth, do we know what it is yet?"
After a small moment of silence a very confused voice replied: "You know, we never even asked..."
"Well go on, ask the aliens why they're here, I'll wait"
Hundreds of years later, people still celebrate the day when Hank saved the world by asking what the aliens actually wanted.
And ever since we gave the aliens our wifi password we never heard from them again. | "But, sir! Sir, it is written in the book of Yoth: the noble knight will unearth the Javelin of the Conqueror..."
"Yes, thank you, Martin, I know the god damn prophecy, I know what I'm supposed to do."
Sir Gallant shifted his legs onto the little table in front of his rocking chair.
"I'm to go to the abandoned Elysian Temple and retrieve some spear or whatever from someone's tomb. Then I should head to the warlock's tower, right? Madness."
"Sir, there is great evil afoot..."
"I don't really give a damn."
The young man took a sip of wine from a glass next to him. He seemed to try and savor it, despite his obvious annoyance.
"I'm not doing it, Martin. I'm not going."
The servant eyed the knight worryingly. "But, sir. This is the fate of the entire kingdom, nay, the *world* we're talking about. You are the chosen one. And the book of Yoth is *always* right."
"No doubt. I don't dismiss the old religions, I've seen enough to know they never fail to predict the future."
He stood pensive for a moment.
"You know, I've always hated that."
"Excuse me, sir?"
"The prophecies. The whole fate thing. Doesn't seem right to me."
There was a brief silence.
"I mean, *what is* the future? It's what lies ahead, forged by countless wills, others strong, others but musings. I just don't like the idea of it being *pre-determined,* is all."
"Sir..."
"And stop calling me sir, will you?" Gallant shot up. "Don't you see how ridiculous this all is? Even *you,* Martin!" He pointed an accusing finger at him.
"Me?"
"Yes, you! A while ago you just somehow tagged along, ready to carry my gear, tend to my needs, loyal as a close friend, a proper side-kick from some childish fairy tale!"
"Sir, I just..."
"Hell, just this morning I went to the tavern to have a nice, relaxing beer, just by myself, to get away from all this, but *no!* Someone just had to start chatting me up, an old, dark fellow, dropping hints at the Javelin's whereabouts.
"I'm sick of it.
"I'm just going to stand right here, prove the damn book of Yoth an overly simplistic cosmological interpretation of reality, let the warlock do his thing in peace. What'd he ever do to me, anyway?"
Gallant crossed his arms.
"I think I'll just have some wine, thank you very much."
Martin let out a long sigh. "Well, at least the prophecy's gotta come true somehow...
"...right?"
-----
^(edit: few typos) |
...and saves the world. Or doesn't. Your call. | [WP] The hero is prophesied to save the world. He knows that prophecies always come true, so he does absolutely nothing. | "Honey! It's the president again! he's asking when you're going to do something about that alien invasion!" Erin shouted from the hallway, she always does that.
*Sigh* "For the last time hun! I'm the HERO, I'm going to save the day eventually! Why don't you read that book people keep yapping about some more?"
"What, the book that's supporting the coffee table!?"
Hank rolled his eyes, "you might not not want to shout that loud with the president on the phone! But yes honey, THAT ONE"
A few moments later Erin appeared in the living room, "he's not going to hang up this time".
FINE, Hank resigned himself to never finding out how much that antique watch was worth and turned off the tv.
"Hank, for the last flipping time! FIX THIS"
"Now now no need for harsh language mister president", Hank smiled at his wife who was already furious at him for dragging his feet with this whole aliens thing.
Hank returned to the phone: "look, they're aliens, they probably have some crazy scheme for wanting to come to earth, do we know what it is yet?"
After a small moment of silence a very confused voice replied: "You know, we never even asked..."
"Well go on, ask the aliens why they're here, I'll wait"
Hundreds of years later, people still celebrate the day when Hank saved the world by asking what the aliens actually wanted.
And ever since we gave the aliens our wifi password we never heard from them again. | James, to his immense surprise, found that his hypothesis was correct: prophecies were indeed infallible, and, on the morning of January 17th, his total lack of involvement in the apocalyptic circumstances of that day wound up saving the world.
From his cushy computer chair in Cheyenne Mountain, he thought upon the fortune he had been told in his teenage years- the various ones, really. He and his friends had never truly believed the old lady's ridiculous claims of foresight, but, as they got older, her tales became verified. Taylor had gotten pregnant at 19, Timmy got married at 21, Ilana died at 25, and his exact ASVAB score came in just as she had said, at 23.
A few years later and he found himself in NORAD's hands, at the employ of the United States government. His job was simple: his post at the super-secret installation maintained the anti-missile satellite system that the US was totally not supposed to have. The nation's ultimate deterrent to global nuclear war was a universal weapon, designed to annihilate any and all ICBMs fired- including American ones- unless overridden. James was one of the few people in the world, including the Secretary of Defense, the President of the United States of America, and his coworker Bob, who were capable of issuing that override.
So, on that morning, when all the tensions with Russia finally snapped, fueled by data siphoned from the supposedly impermeable NSA cyber defenses, James had casually strolled into work, coffee and donut in hand, knowing full well that his actions would make or break the future of mankind: if the Old Lady's words were right, whatever he did, it would ensure that this was not the last morning humanity woke up to.
"On a sullen day, the fires of man will flicker brightly: you will be instrumental in the continuation of those pyres. You will know what to do when the time comes."
Sitting in the light of a massive, holographic display, watching a realtime projection of all the airborne objects on Earth and in orbit out to the Moon, James's heart pounded in his chest. *9:37. No belligerent contacts.*
For the next fifteen minutes, he prayed the hot receptionist down the hall would not have anything to discuss with him, as he was certain his shirt was drenched with sweat. Thankfully, Bob's shift didn't start until 12: no matter how close they were, this was a moment of weakness James did not want anyone to see.
The holographic sprites representing planes, satellites, and spacecraft transited around the rotating 3D image of Earth as he ran diagnostics on the satellite network. All systems nominal and ready to fire if need be.
Almost on cue, warning beacons flared on the map. His touchscreen interface began popping up prompts for contacts recognized matching the signature of a nuclear weapons launch. The controls for the satellite network unlocked, allowing manual targeting and fire control. *Shit. Shit. Shit.*
As scared as he was, he was prepared for this. A quick glance at the map confirmed every Cold War expectation for the last 60 years: one thousand, seven hundred and thirteen ICBMs bound for targets all across Europe and North America. In orbit, the satellites activated their thrusters and veered into positions to properly dispose of the nuclear arsenal flying beneath them.
A display to James's left immediately popped up with the message he was expecting: POTUS SECURE NUCLEAR LAUNCH CONFIRMED RETALIATION STANDBY TACTICAL STOCKPILE READY GROUND RESPONSE READY CONVENTIONAL FORCE READY. The message flashed, stayed for ten seconds, and a notification for another came up. AUTHORIZATION FOR SATDEFENSE GRANTED, FIRE AT WILL. AVOID FRIENDLY ARSENAL.
*So, this is it. World War III.* The Russian missiles, in the past minute, had travelled quite a distance, but none would be out of the satellites' grasp until they had already detonated. In this moment, he could easily end the conflict and transition this towards a conventional war that mankind had a chance of surviving...but something was very, very wrong.
The Russian missile trajectory was too irregular. Glitchy, even- the missile count was changing. Only by a count of four or five missiles, but that was beyond irregular. Even stranger, the only missiles being fired were from Russia: none from any allies, none from the rest of NATO. *What's going on?*
The American missiles fired in response. James could feel the base shaking around him as the "secret" stockpile housed in the facility launched upwards...and confirmed all his fears. The American missiles were being tracked just as expected: patterns conforming to their Cold War-era propulsion systems and the sheer realities of flight. They were all locked on by the satellite system: estimated complete destruction of deployed weaponry in fifteen seconds from initial firing, with only a .057% chance of missing any single target. The missiles on both sides were reaching proper altitude and position points to be intercepted without risking fallout, accidental triggering over a population center, or having a railgun slug slam into a city. If he didn't key the safeties off, the satellites would destroy American and Russian missiles alike.
*Moment of truth. Ten seconds to firing.* James prayed to every God available that the Old Lady was right. If she wasn't, he may have just triggered the largest war in the world, and removed any chance of settling it with one, catastrophic, nuclear attack. He closed his eyes for a brief moment, inhaled, and watched as the network activated. His hands off the controls, he put his faith in the Old Lady and her prophecies.
Around the world, sonic booms were heard as thousands of 10 kg ferrous slugs propelled at 1.5% the speed of light hurtled towards the missiles...only, none were fired at the Russian targets. Clean hits were scored on each American target, but no Russian ones registered impacts. *Oh, God, no, what did I just do?*
The report from the network was simple: TARGET LOCK FAILURE//NO MASS DETECTED. *What?* This was an unexpected error, but one he had been briefed on: no missiles were there. The system was tracking ghosts. Twenty minutes later, James's suspicions were confirmed as the "nukes" reached their destination. No reported impacts. The signals being tracked just blinked out of existence. Five minutes later, the warning lights died down and the system went inactive.
The hydraulic door to enter the room unlocked to reveal Bob, and General Hayden. They walked in, and James sprang to his feet to salute them. Hayden walked up to him, and reached out to shake his hand.
"Son, what you just did would have earned you an execution if it didn't have the good grace of avoiding the apocalypse."
Investigations determined that the system was tricked by someone into starting a world war: whoever it was, was classified: the satellite system didn't exist, and surely nobody could hack it. The Russians questioned, but, upon realizing the situation, Putin relented.
James didn't find out what had caused the incident, and he immediately thought Skynet, but that was ridiculous, by his reckoning. For all intents and purposes, HE was Skynet- and, if he hadn't been, the world would have looked a lot like *Terminator.* |
A fib is a poem where each line must contain the appropriate number of syllables for its entry in the Fibonacci series (as far as I'm concerned, zero can either be ignored or consist of a punctuation mark).
Following is an example of the number of syllables in successive lines:
one
one
one two
one two three
one two three four five
one two three four five six and eight
And so on. In any case, the Fibonacci series starts out with the numbers zero and one; successive entries in the series are formed by adding the previous two (so the Fibonacci sequence starts out like 0, 1, 1, 2, 3, 5, 8, 13, 21, 34…). | [WP] Write a fib, a type of poem based on the Fibonacci series (see post for details) | One.
Two.
Now three.
Again - four.
More - five now, and yet...
Why does it go up - Oh God, why?
Make the count stop - make it stop! Is there no mercy here?
How many days must pass - how many weeks, months, years?! She comes back to me - every time.
And I give her a shoulder - a shoulder for her tears. An ear for her words, her woes. I love her when they don't, but she can't love me, or else, won't.
Am I a bad person? Am I bad, for refusing myself happiness. I make her happy, I can tell. She smiles with me - not with them. But I don't smile. I never smile. How can I, when she hurts herself so? She hurts.
She hurts and I do nothing. There is nothing I can do. I want to be there for her, but I am afraid. I am afraid I will lose what we have. I wouldn't mind losing it - if it'd make her happy. But it won't. Without me, who would she go to? *Them*? They don't love her - they are why she cries. She tells me about them. How they are handsome, and strong, and rich, but never kind, or loving, or tender. There is no peace.
There is passion. Quick, and swift. It never lasts. I know, because she always comes back to me. I hope, one day, she won't. She won't come back to me because she does not need me. I hope one day she will find the one she is looking for - that her chains will be broken, and she will be set free. I pray for it - for her happiness. But she won't get it. She will never be happy, nor will I. We are trapped in this god forsaken circle. I want to fight it - to try to break it myself. But I am too weak. I want to weep, but will not. I must be strong. For her. Six. Seven. Eight. Nine. The years go on. And on. | Down
Down
Ceaseless
Never-ending
Interminable
Infinity is an abyss |
A fib is a poem where each line must contain the appropriate number of syllables for its entry in the Fibonacci series (as far as I'm concerned, zero can either be ignored or consist of a punctuation mark).
Following is an example of the number of syllables in successive lines:
one
one
one two
one two three
one two three four five
one two three four five six and eight
And so on. In any case, the Fibonacci series starts out with the numbers zero and one; successive entries in the series are formed by adding the previous two (so the Fibonacci sequence starts out like 0, 1, 1, 2, 3, 5, 8, 13, 21, 34…). | [WP] Write a fib, a type of poem based on the Fibonacci series (see post for details) | Jen?
Jen!
Why you?
I loved you,
And yet you dumped me.
All because of my choice of cheese,
Or my inability to cook a four star meal.
Though to be honest, I think it was that guy who fed you lies, but you said it was me.
| Down
Down
Ceaseless
Never-ending
Interminable
Infinity is an abyss |
A fib is a poem where each line must contain the appropriate number of syllables for its entry in the Fibonacci series (as far as I'm concerned, zero can either be ignored or consist of a punctuation mark).
Following is an example of the number of syllables in successive lines:
one
one
one two
one two three
one two three four five
one two three four five six and eight
And so on. In any case, the Fibonacci series starts out with the numbers zero and one; successive entries in the series are formed by adding the previous two (so the Fibonacci sequence starts out like 0, 1, 1, 2, 3, 5, 8, 13, 21, 34…). | [WP] Write a fib, a type of poem based on the Fibonacci series (see post for details) | One.
Two.
Now three.
Again - four.
More - five now, and yet...
Why does it go up - Oh God, why?
Make the count stop - make it stop! Is there no mercy here?
How many days must pass - how many weeks, months, years?! She comes back to me - every time.
And I give her a shoulder - a shoulder for her tears. An ear for her words, her woes. I love her when they don't, but she can't love me, or else, won't.
Am I a bad person? Am I bad, for refusing myself happiness. I make her happy, I can tell. She smiles with me - not with them. But I don't smile. I never smile. How can I, when she hurts herself so? She hurts.
She hurts and I do nothing. There is nothing I can do. I want to be there for her, but I am afraid. I am afraid I will lose what we have. I wouldn't mind losing it - if it'd make her happy. But it won't. Without me, who would she go to? *Them*? They don't love her - they are why she cries. She tells me about them. How they are handsome, and strong, and rich, but never kind, or loving, or tender. There is no peace.
There is passion. Quick, and swift. It never lasts. I know, because she always comes back to me. I hope, one day, she won't. She won't come back to me because she does not need me. I hope one day she will find the one she is looking for - that her chains will be broken, and she will be set free. I pray for it - for her happiness. But she won't get it. She will never be happy, nor will I. We are trapped in this god forsaken circle. I want to fight it - to try to break it myself. But I am too weak. I want to weep, but will not. I must be strong. For her. Six. Seven. Eight. Nine. The years go on. And on. | Click
Light
Flooding
Darkness fades
Light takes over now
But it's job is not complete yet
Some shadows remain, waiting to retaliate. Click. |
[WP] You are a stay-at-home parent to a super-powered child. Your superhero spouse spends all day saving the world. Write your exasperated post to /r/parenting detailing your unique frustrations. | **Title:** Any SAHSDs out there understand what I'm going through? *(self.parenting)*
*submitted 3 hours ago by GammaRayDad_Throwaway to /r/parenting*
**Body:** Sorry for this but I just have to vent to someone. I'm married to a girl who turned out to be one of the Galactic Rangers - well, the Extended Galactic Rangers. I won't say which one (please don't ask), but it's not one of the Guardian Nine obviously or you'd know who I was. You won't see her in the Daily Looker or on the front page of /r/supernews but she still saves a lot of lives. And yeah I'm proud of her and everything but I feel like my world is collapsing around me since our kid turned 2.
Here's the thing: she knew about my powers from the beginning, but I didn't know about hers until almost a year into our marriage. That was a pretty big surprise. As a super myself I figured I'd be off saving the world while she took care of the kids. When we finally did our taxes together for the first time I realized: she was getting money from the government, and from the same department as me. And she was getting *more* than me. I understand, her powers are somewhat more impressive when it comes to crimefighting. Me, I dunno. I guess sanitation, green energy... third world according to /r/Futurology I'll be in big demand when the future comes. If it ever comes.
So yeah, I mean, the positive side is that the sex turned amazing. Two supers instead of one sounds like double the fun but bug summoning powers aren't exactly a good time in bed. So it was like twenty times as fun to when I found out about hers.
The negative side is that our kid got a power that isn't much like mine. He can switch places with anything green that he can see. Yeah. Fun, right? Now he swaps himself into the fridge the last second before I close it and starts eating the butter. I find a chunk of the neighbor's lawn in his crib basically all the time. I keep the curtains closed and keep nothing green in the house but if they open for even a second he's gone.
Once it was a green car that drove past. He was in the tub at the time. Had to get the wife to fix that one. After I flooded the street with spiders to stop the oncoming cars from running him over, that is.
God help me I love him, but every time I gotta go pick him up from outside and bring him back in I think I'm gonna just hold my hand over his eyes until his mom gets home. Which I have done before. He screamed and screamed but I just couldn't go chasing after him again. And it's not like I can just call on my wife every time. My wife's powers can stop him but damn.. she earns so much more money than I would. It has to be me at home.
I go to a few groups every week but one in particular is for supers (thank god - the organizer's a mesmer and the kids love her illusionary puppet shows and story time) I made the mistake of complaining there. One of the moms there talked to me in the most patronizing voice about how I should be finding a way to use my powers to solve my problems and how some parents of super kids didn't even have powers and still manage. But her kid is made of fucking metal and she has *magnet powers*. It's like, are you fucking kidding me? Shut up you asshole, you won the kid lottery. But she went on and on about how good her kid was. Like she wasn't basically moving his body for him. Poor kid is never going to learn to do anything without her. I was this close to spawning a cockroach in her ear.
Anyway, I feel like if I have to keep living like this I'm going to lose it and just tape over his eyes. Does it get better when they can understand consequences or entertain themselves with other kids? Just please tell me it gets better. | Look, it wasn't supposed to be like this. I'm the genius inventor, I created the serum, the nanotech, and the cybernetic containment systems. Sarah was a lawyer, for crissake. But it turned out I was allergic to the nanites, and somehow there was that cleaning mishap in the basement, and Sarah ended up infected. I tried to remove them, but they'd already fully integrated. Of course, I've always worked from home, but when Sarah went from being a prosecutor to being "The Judge", well... I tried to talk her out of it, but, honestly, it was mostly about the risk. Residuals from my patents brought in more than enough money, and we were able to afford private insurance. Life settled down. We were very worried about the effects of the nanites, especially when we managed to get pregnant, but somehow, it worked out. Christopher was born, and he seemed to be normal, as far as it went. No nanites in his blood. And Sarah, of course, recovered in hours, thanks to her enhancements. Able to run faster than most cars, reflexes that almost looked like precognition, stronger than any normal human, indestructible bones, and the ability to heal from anything short of atomization... sure, extreme heat could still kill her, but my wonderful wife wasn't going to be taken down by knives, gunfire, or explosives. And as soon as Chris was able to survive for a few hours without nursing, she was back on the street, beating down miscreants and saving lives. Leaving me, the man who invented the practical solar desalination process, the man who perfected lab-grown beef, at home changing diapers.
But that's not when the shit hit the fan. Or rather, went through the fan, and the wall, and everything else. See, it turns out that Chris wasn't so much nanite free, as he was fully integrated. I mean, I guess it made sense. They were designed to couple with cells, and they replicated in a manner much like mitosis. But I'd never anticipated them integrating with germ cells like a new kind of inorganic mitochondria, and I certainly wasn't prepared for a kid whose every cell was capable of ... well, superhuman feats. But that's what I'm dealing with, and I'm going to have to find a way to put these nanites into standby really soon, because Chris is starting to teeth... |
|
[WP] You are a stay-at-home parent to a super-powered child. Your superhero spouse spends all day saving the world. Write your exasperated post to /r/parenting detailing your unique frustrations. | Fun activities for my super-powered daughter? (self.parenting)
Submitted 9 hours ago by superdad
My daughter just turned 3. I am a stay-at-hope parent. So far she has the sonic scream, can fly, has super-strength and super-speed. We spend a lot of time outside because she tends to break things inside. Does anyone have any ideas of fun and safe activities we can do together? Or play groups for children with similar abilities? Also, now that she can fly higher, I'm worried she's going to fly away. I was looking into harnesses. Does anyone have any recommendations? Thanks to all!
Help! My super-powered daughter has just turned green (self.parenting) Submitted 6 months ago by superdad
I posted here before. My daughter is two and a half and has various super powers. I woke up this morning to take her flying only to find that she was all green! (link to pictures) My wife is away. Who should I see about this? A doctor friend was baffled.
EDIT 1: No, she has no anger issues.
EDIT 2: Some of you say it happens sometimes and that I should wait a bit.
EDIT 3: Ok, it seems to be fading now. All back to normal, I guess.
Any parents have experience with super-powered children? (self.parenting)
Submitted 1 year ago by superdad
I am 32, married, with one child who has just turned two. My wife and I decided that I would stay home with our daughter and that she would continue working. I was working in tech support at Watchtower, while she has a prominent position in the Justice League, so it made sense that I be the full-time parent.
About a month ago, daughter started displaying super powers. My wife is frequently away and I have no one to speak to about this. Has anyone had a similar experience? How can I help my daughter's talents? What about safety?
EDIT: Wow, thanks for the support guys! I had no idea this was such a common occurrence. To those asking, so far she's showing super strength, super speed, and she also hovers for a bit, so maybe also flying (fingers crossed). | Look, it wasn't supposed to be like this. I'm the genius inventor, I created the serum, the nanotech, and the cybernetic containment systems. Sarah was a lawyer, for crissake. But it turned out I was allergic to the nanites, and somehow there was that cleaning mishap in the basement, and Sarah ended up infected. I tried to remove them, but they'd already fully integrated. Of course, I've always worked from home, but when Sarah went from being a prosecutor to being "The Judge", well... I tried to talk her out of it, but, honestly, it was mostly about the risk. Residuals from my patents brought in more than enough money, and we were able to afford private insurance. Life settled down. We were very worried about the effects of the nanites, especially when we managed to get pregnant, but somehow, it worked out. Christopher was born, and he seemed to be normal, as far as it went. No nanites in his blood. And Sarah, of course, recovered in hours, thanks to her enhancements. Able to run faster than most cars, reflexes that almost looked like precognition, stronger than any normal human, indestructible bones, and the ability to heal from anything short of atomization... sure, extreme heat could still kill her, but my wonderful wife wasn't going to be taken down by knives, gunfire, or explosives. And as soon as Chris was able to survive for a few hours without nursing, she was back on the street, beating down miscreants and saving lives. Leaving me, the man who invented the practical solar desalination process, the man who perfected lab-grown beef, at home changing diapers.
But that's not when the shit hit the fan. Or rather, went through the fan, and the wall, and everything else. See, it turns out that Chris wasn't so much nanite free, as he was fully integrated. I mean, I guess it made sense. They were designed to couple with cells, and they replicated in a manner much like mitosis. But I'd never anticipated them integrating with germ cells like a new kind of inorganic mitochondria, and I certainly wasn't prepared for a kid whose every cell was capable of ... well, superhuman feats. But that's what I'm dealing with, and I'm going to have to find a way to put these nanites into standby really soon, because Chris is starting to teeth... |
|
Let your imaginations go nuts.
It can be anywhere in time.
And Happy New Year! | [WP] You're an archeologist on a monumental dig that just might change our view of history. You discover a skeleton with artifacts that appear almost modern. One item closely resembles a cellphone. You hold it for a moment. It rings... | "Hello?" I stuttered into the strange phone.
A million different things were running through my head, 'This dig site was supposed to be older than writing on this planet. How did this get here? What even is it? Who...' My thoughts were cut off abruptly by an eerie robotic voice.
"It has chosen!"
"What?"
"It has chosen to answer!"
"Answer what? Who is this? How can this..."
"It must speak for this world. Change the path, the one who answers, the path is its responsibility."
"Is this some sort or prank?"
"It has what it needs, the path is its responsibility."
The call went silent, no ring tone, just silence. I took the phone away from my ear and just stared at it shaking my head. 'This was the strangest thing that has ever happened to me. It must be this jungle, I've got to have a fever.'
The screen flashed to life, it began to open a timeline of ancient events and began to track forward. This list was very detailed, I could isolate by region down to individual actions, even as far as the effect a single action had on others as it rippled out shaping the course of history. The phone eventually made it to today's date, then kept going. Every person's actions and the effect on mankind, it was completely overwhelming. The time line began trickle down to fewer and fewer people and events and finally finished with the deaths of the last eight people taking their own lives on a dying world not worth living in.
'That was it! All our history, ends in a pity party in the burned out remains of a fast food restaurant.' I panicked as I checked the date of that pathetic event. 'July 19th 2047... there's time. I guess I have chosen.' | I wiped the bits of earth and clay off the screen of what seems so much like a cell phone. But how can it be. When the first things that were dug up were dated at 1500 years old...
...and it then it rang. I was so confused, yet somehow excited. Who could be calling, I wondered. I answered as quickly as I could, ready to hear the voice of god, aliens, or maybe even a time traveler.
"Hello?" I asked
....
"Hello, who is this..?" The first few words.. He sounded strange, European in origin. I know what I need to say. The only thing anyone in my situation would say.
"Is your refrigerator running?"
"What is a frigerater" He said
"Well you better go catch it"
And then I hung up
...I knew my years in meme college were well spent |
Let your imaginations go nuts.
It can be anywhere in time.
And Happy New Year! | [WP] You're an archeologist on a monumental dig that just might change our view of history. You discover a skeleton with artifacts that appear almost modern. One item closely resembles a cellphone. You hold it for a moment. It rings... | My first dig! I was so excited that I couldn't even hold it in! The company I was with was by far more experienced, and by far more annoyed than anything by my endless excitement. But I don't care! I talk the entire way there. Well, almost. The excitement started to die down the closer we got to the site.
It's the strangest thing. I'm filled with this.... This... Dread. No. I'm just anxious. What if it's a bust? What if I don't do well? What if I mess it up and this ends up being my first, and last trip? What if.... No. I'm sorry, I'm done. It's just new, and I'm anxious.
We pull up to the site, and I look out. It's not what I expected. Honestly, I'm not sure *what* I expected. I guess I wanted to pull up to see this massive, unearthed ruined city. Not... Holes. In movies it's always been this massive dig with dinosaurs bones everywhere. Not holes.
Needless to say, i annoyed everyone around me to the point they refuse to even work with me. So here I am. Alone, dusty, and something not even ten minutes ago I wouldn't even DREAM of being.... Bored.
At least the anxiety is gone, right? A few hours in now, and I think I'm done. Maybe this IS the last dig for me. But my for the reasons I thoug...
*clink*
At first glance I thought I hit a rock. But there was something different about it. I started to dig around it. Then I try to dust it off just to see that it is.
Oh my God. It's a skeleton. Holy crap this is cool.
"Hey Steve, you doing alright over there?"
"oh yeah! Nothing but dirt and sand here!"
Screw them. This is my find. I see those glances they've been making at me all day. The pure avoidance I've been getting. No. This is **my** find.
This area is supposed to be rather ancient. But this skeleton is in decent condition. Clothing, while dirty, looks preserved. I'm not sure I understand. I think I'm going to just get someone. This seems out of my league.
I stand up and start to wave someone down. But before I'm able, there's... There's something vibrating? It's buried under some dirt... But it's... Um. A cell phone? And it's ringing?
Honestly, i didn't even think it over. I was too intrigued *not* to answer.
"hello? Steve speaking."
Silence...
"anyone there?"
"Don't do it! Just don't do it! I swear, you'll regret every..... Just.... Do.... Pleas... I beg of yo... Th... av.....llaps..... Die!"
"I'm sorry, you're breaking up, i can't hear you!"
It's too late. It's already gone, and the phone is dead. I'm not sure I recognize the phone. But it's definitely newer.
I keep this to myself for now. Honestly, who's going to believe me anyway? I pack up, make the half mile trek back to the rest of the group, and we all sit down for dinner. I start talking to Phil.
Phil is a bit awkward. Sits alone mostly, so I figured we're both outcasts of the group. He's actually a really cool guy. He's been doing this for 10 years now, and he's giving me all kinds of stories. Turns out, he even found a cave about a quarter mile north! He even asks if I wish to come along! Better than digging a hole by myself, that's for sure!
We finish up dinner, and we head on over. Upon reaching this cave, i get this sense of dread I felt earlier. But there's no way in HELL I'm backing down on this just because a little fear gets in the way! So we delve in. It's a very narrow, deep, and very dark cave. It was hard to navigate, and even harder to see. Finally we came into a chamber in the cave where Phil has been working in. We set up, and get to work.
After exchanging stories about life, and where we went wrong, we decided it was time to take a break and have a beer. Then another. And another.
At this point, we're both laughing, and having a great time. To which Phil pulls out a stick of dynamite. I've never actually seen one before. And he just handed it to me! We agreed to light it, and throw it down a tunnel a little bit further down. I'm super excited at this point.
So we find the perfect spot. We light that sucker up, and I gave it a good toss. What I didn't expect, was to have it hit the cave's ceiling, and fall about 25 yards in front of us. We didn't even have time to run. Just...
**BOOM**
The entire cave shook. Rocks came crumbling down in the most terrifying experience of my life. I got separated from Phil, and I'm trapped in this pitch black cave with no light, as the cave took out any artificial light we had. I'm terrified to walk. I can't see a thing. I'm crawling on my hands and knees, terrified to fall down some drop. I'm calling out to Phil, with no answer. I'm left alone, feeling around for my life until I find something smooth?
It's a cell phone! Oh thank God! LIGHT!
If only I could say that was good. As soon as the light pierced the darkness, the first thing I see is Phil's head crushed by a fallen rock, and I'm trapped with no way out.
What numbers do I know? I don't know any numbers! How do I not know any numbers? Oh God I'm the most stupid person alive! I only know my own number! Maybe someone in the group will hear my phone ring, and answer? Oh God, i don't know! But I'm desperate!
No signal. I'm doomed. I'm doomed to a live of spending the rest of my short life in a cave. Maybe if I just hold the cell phone up higher? That works, right?
Holy crap I have a bar! I quickly dial my phone. SOMEONE ANSWERS!
"hello? Steve speaking."
I'm now filled with this complete sense of dread. I have no idea what's going on. I answered? But... Oh who cares! Maybe I can warn myself? Oh God I'm going crazy!
"anyone there?"
"Don't do it! Just don't do it! I swear, you'll regret everything! Just don't do it, please! I beg of you! The cave will collapse, and you will die!"
The final words I'll ever hear before the phone dies.
"I'm sorry, you're breaking up. I can't hear you."
The phone goes black. The cave goes silent. So here I lie. To spend all eternity here. In the black silence of my grave. | I wiped the bits of earth and clay off the screen of what seems so much like a cell phone. But how can it be. When the first things that were dug up were dated at 1500 years old...
...and it then it rang. I was so confused, yet somehow excited. Who could be calling, I wondered. I answered as quickly as I could, ready to hear the voice of god, aliens, or maybe even a time traveler.
"Hello?" I asked
....
"Hello, who is this..?" The first few words.. He sounded strange, European in origin. I know what I need to say. The only thing anyone in my situation would say.
"Is your refrigerator running?"
"What is a frigerater" He said
"Well you better go catch it"
And then I hung up
...I knew my years in meme college were well spent |
Let your imaginations go nuts.
It can be anywhere in time.
And Happy New Year! | [WP] You're an archeologist on a monumental dig that just might change our view of history. You discover a skeleton with artifacts that appear almost modern. One item closely resembles a cellphone. You hold it for a moment. It rings... | My first dig! I was so excited that I couldn't even hold it in! The company I was with was by far more experienced, and by far more annoyed than anything by my endless excitement. But I don't care! I talk the entire way there. Well, almost. The excitement started to die down the closer we got to the site.
It's the strangest thing. I'm filled with this.... This... Dread. No. I'm just anxious. What if it's a bust? What if I don't do well? What if I mess it up and this ends up being my first, and last trip? What if.... No. I'm sorry, I'm done. It's just new, and I'm anxious.
We pull up to the site, and I look out. It's not what I expected. Honestly, I'm not sure *what* I expected. I guess I wanted to pull up to see this massive, unearthed ruined city. Not... Holes. In movies it's always been this massive dig with dinosaurs bones everywhere. Not holes.
Needless to say, i annoyed everyone around me to the point they refuse to even work with me. So here I am. Alone, dusty, and something not even ten minutes ago I wouldn't even DREAM of being.... Bored.
At least the anxiety is gone, right? A few hours in now, and I think I'm done. Maybe this IS the last dig for me. But my for the reasons I thoug...
*clink*
At first glance I thought I hit a rock. But there was something different about it. I started to dig around it. Then I try to dust it off just to see that it is.
Oh my God. It's a skeleton. Holy crap this is cool.
"Hey Steve, you doing alright over there?"
"oh yeah! Nothing but dirt and sand here!"
Screw them. This is my find. I see those glances they've been making at me all day. The pure avoidance I've been getting. No. This is **my** find.
This area is supposed to be rather ancient. But this skeleton is in decent condition. Clothing, while dirty, looks preserved. I'm not sure I understand. I think I'm going to just get someone. This seems out of my league.
I stand up and start to wave someone down. But before I'm able, there's... There's something vibrating? It's buried under some dirt... But it's... Um. A cell phone? And it's ringing?
Honestly, i didn't even think it over. I was too intrigued *not* to answer.
"hello? Steve speaking."
Silence...
"anyone there?"
"Don't do it! Just don't do it! I swear, you'll regret every..... Just.... Do.... Pleas... I beg of yo... Th... av.....llaps..... Die!"
"I'm sorry, you're breaking up, i can't hear you!"
It's too late. It's already gone, and the phone is dead. I'm not sure I recognize the phone. But it's definitely newer.
I keep this to myself for now. Honestly, who's going to believe me anyway? I pack up, make the half mile trek back to the rest of the group, and we all sit down for dinner. I start talking to Phil.
Phil is a bit awkward. Sits alone mostly, so I figured we're both outcasts of the group. He's actually a really cool guy. He's been doing this for 10 years now, and he's giving me all kinds of stories. Turns out, he even found a cave about a quarter mile north! He even asks if I wish to come along! Better than digging a hole by myself, that's for sure!
We finish up dinner, and we head on over. Upon reaching this cave, i get this sense of dread I felt earlier. But there's no way in HELL I'm backing down on this just because a little fear gets in the way! So we delve in. It's a very narrow, deep, and very dark cave. It was hard to navigate, and even harder to see. Finally we came into a chamber in the cave where Phil has been working in. We set up, and get to work.
After exchanging stories about life, and where we went wrong, we decided it was time to take a break and have a beer. Then another. And another.
At this point, we're both laughing, and having a great time. To which Phil pulls out a stick of dynamite. I've never actually seen one before. And he just handed it to me! We agreed to light it, and throw it down a tunnel a little bit further down. I'm super excited at this point.
So we find the perfect spot. We light that sucker up, and I gave it a good toss. What I didn't expect, was to have it hit the cave's ceiling, and fall about 25 yards in front of us. We didn't even have time to run. Just...
**BOOM**
The entire cave shook. Rocks came crumbling down in the most terrifying experience of my life. I got separated from Phil, and I'm trapped in this pitch black cave with no light, as the cave took out any artificial light we had. I'm terrified to walk. I can't see a thing. I'm crawling on my hands and knees, terrified to fall down some drop. I'm calling out to Phil, with no answer. I'm left alone, feeling around for my life until I find something smooth?
It's a cell phone! Oh thank God! LIGHT!
If only I could say that was good. As soon as the light pierced the darkness, the first thing I see is Phil's head crushed by a fallen rock, and I'm trapped with no way out.
What numbers do I know? I don't know any numbers! How do I not know any numbers? Oh God I'm the most stupid person alive! I only know my own number! Maybe someone in the group will hear my phone ring, and answer? Oh God, i don't know! But I'm desperate!
No signal. I'm doomed. I'm doomed to a live of spending the rest of my short life in a cave. Maybe if I just hold the cell phone up higher? That works, right?
Holy crap I have a bar! I quickly dial my phone. SOMEONE ANSWERS!
"hello? Steve speaking."
I'm now filled with this complete sense of dread. I have no idea what's going on. I answered? But... Oh who cares! Maybe I can warn myself? Oh God I'm going crazy!
"anyone there?"
"Don't do it! Just don't do it! I swear, you'll regret everything! Just don't do it, please! I beg of you! The cave will collapse, and you will die!"
The final words I'll ever hear before the phone dies.
"I'm sorry, you're breaking up. I can't hear you."
The phone goes black. The cave goes silent. So here I lie. To spend all eternity here. In the black silence of my grave. | "Hello?" I stuttered into the strange phone.
A million different things were running through my head, 'This dig site was supposed to be older than writing on this planet. How did this get here? What even is it? Who...' My thoughts were cut off abruptly by an eerie robotic voice.
"It has chosen!"
"What?"
"It has chosen to answer!"
"Answer what? Who is this? How can this..."
"It must speak for this world. Change the path, the one who answers, the path is its responsibility."
"Is this some sort or prank?"
"It has what it needs, the path is its responsibility."
The call went silent, no ring tone, just silence. I took the phone away from my ear and just stared at it shaking my head. 'This was the strangest thing that has ever happened to me. It must be this jungle, I've got to have a fever.'
The screen flashed to life, it began to open a timeline of ancient events and began to track forward. This list was very detailed, I could isolate by region down to individual actions, even as far as the effect a single action had on others as it rippled out shaping the course of history. The phone eventually made it to today's date, then kept going. Every person's actions and the effect on mankind, it was completely overwhelming. The time line began trickle down to fewer and fewer people and events and finally finished with the deaths of the last eight people taking their own lives on a dying world not worth living in.
'That was it! All our history, ends in a pity party in the burned out remains of a fast food restaurant.' I panicked as I checked the date of that pathetic event. 'July 19th 2047... there's time. I guess I have chosen.' |
Let your imaginations go nuts.
It can be anywhere in time.
And Happy New Year! | [WP] You're an archeologist on a monumental dig that just might change our view of history. You discover a skeleton with artifacts that appear almost modern. One item closely resembles a cellphone. You hold it for a moment. It rings... | brrrrrrng
I stare at what could only be described as a cell phone, the vibration shaking me as I gazed at it in fear.
I treated it like a grenade about to explode but do nothing, my tanned face suddenly growing paler with each ring until it stops.
Relieved, I sit back down and look at the skeleton, only to discover the "phone" start ringing again.
Realizing I have no other choice, I open the ancient device, bringing it up to my ear.
"Hello?" I ask, my voice quivering.
"Time Travel Triple A, this is John, we haven't heard from you in a while Cindy, is your vacation going well?"
I stare at the skeleton, a chill running down my spine. "Umm... John? My name is Charles Jorgenson with the archeology division of the University of Pennsylvania, I found this cell phone with a skeleton."
The phone line went quiet, I heard quiet whispers of their conversation, the caller's superior coming over and berating the employee.
"We can't save her, that would make a paradox."
"We can't lose another time traveler! A few more incidents like this will bring the entire time tourism industry down."
"But... the paradox!"
I stared at the skeleton, watching in confusion as it disappeared, and the phone disappeared, and...
What was I doing here? | Attention; Your time has come and I hope you have prepared Sol 3 to our standards. We should arrive in 3 cycles and Leader expects everything to be ready to go. |
Let your imaginations go nuts.
It can be anywhere in time.
And Happy New Year! | [WP] You're an archeologist on a monumental dig that just might change our view of history. You discover a skeleton with artifacts that appear almost modern. One item closely resembles a cellphone. You hold it for a moment. It rings... | With gentle strokes I brushed away the dirt from a black object. I squinted as I looked at the object. I knew I had been out on the steppe for a long time this summer. Hell, the sun almost never set this far north. An argument could be made that my brain had been cooked, but I knew that a cell phone was not a sacred artifact buried in a pre-historic temple.
I grabbed the cell phone. I grit my teeth in frustration and stomped out of the tent that protected the dig site. “Who owns this phone?” I yelled.
Nobody answered. I had been dealing with this BS all summer with this batch of grad students. Pranks and laziness mainly. I was at my wits end.
I had spent years finding and then excavating this temple. The artifacts found here would rewrite history. My name would be attached to the earliest example of a temple to the dead. I would not have something stupid like contaminations of the dig site ruin this for me.
“I will destroy this phone if someone doesn’t step up and claim it,” I screamed.
The grad students on the sieve stopped working. “What kind of phone is it, Professor?” said one.
I closed my eyes and tried to take deep breaths to calm myself. I counted to five. I wanted to throw this phone right at their stupid little heads. My funding would dry up faster than a puddle in the Mojave during August if I did though. I opened my eyes and flipped over the phone. “It’s a Nokia.”
Another grad student came out of the kitchen tent. “No one here has a Nokia. It’s a piece of shit phone. At least buy a Samsung.” He laughed.
I was going to do it. I was going to kill one of them. I cocked my arm back to throw the phone when I felt it vibrate.
I pulled my arm down and looked at the phone screen. Private Number. There was no cell service out here. I swiped to answer. “Who is this?”
“What do you want for dinner?”
I knew that voice and cadence. I swallowed. Even more anger bubbled up from within me. “Who is this?”
“What do you mean, baby?”
I struggled to get my words out. “Whoever thinks this is funny is going home on the next transport.”
“When are you going to be home?”
“My wife is dead,” I screamed. “This isn’t funny. Who is this?”
“We could have chicken, but I know we just had that. I can’t think of anything else though”
Baked chicken breast with rice and broccoli was the last meal we had together. I began to sob. “How do you know that?”
The graduate students gathered around and gave me funny looks. One of them put her hand on my shoulder. “Are you okay, Professor?”
I shrugged her off and began walking without a purpose. “Who is this?” I whispered.
“It’s your little tulip. Are you okay, baby? I just want to make sure that there is something for you to eat when you get home.”
The called ended.
I sank to my knees and looked at the blank screen. My cries echoed across the steppe as storm clouds gathered on the horizon.
| Attention; Your time has come and I hope you have prepared Sol 3 to our standards. We should arrive in 3 cycles and Leader expects everything to be ready to go. |
Let your imaginations go nuts.
It can be anywhere in time.
And Happy New Year! | [WP] You're an archeologist on a monumental dig that just might change our view of history. You discover a skeleton with artifacts that appear almost modern. One item closely resembles a cellphone. You hold it for a moment. It rings... | brrrrrrng
I stare at what could only be described as a cell phone, the vibration shaking me as I gazed at it in fear.
I treated it like a grenade about to explode but do nothing, my tanned face suddenly growing paler with each ring until it stops.
Relieved, I sit back down and look at the skeleton, only to discover the "phone" start ringing again.
Realizing I have no other choice, I open the ancient device, bringing it up to my ear.
"Hello?" I ask, my voice quivering.
"Time Travel Triple A, this is John, we haven't heard from you in a while Cindy, is your vacation going well?"
I stare at the skeleton, a chill running down my spine. "Umm... John? My name is Charles Jorgenson with the archeology division of the University of Pennsylvania, I found this cell phone with a skeleton."
The phone line went quiet, I heard quiet whispers of their conversation, the caller's superior coming over and berating the employee.
"We can't save her, that would make a paradox."
"We can't lose another time traveler! A few more incidents like this will bring the entire time tourism industry down."
"But... the paradox!"
I stared at the skeleton, watching in confusion as it disappeared, and the phone disappeared, and...
What was I doing here? | "Are you happy with your long distance service? Well AT&T has a de..."
I hung up.
"Shut it down!" |
Let your imaginations go nuts.
It can be anywhere in time.
And Happy New Year! | [WP] You're an archeologist on a monumental dig that just might change our view of history. You discover a skeleton with artifacts that appear almost modern. One item closely resembles a cellphone. You hold it for a moment. It rings... | With gentle strokes I brushed away the dirt from a black object. I squinted as I looked at the object. I knew I had been out on the steppe for a long time this summer. Hell, the sun almost never set this far north. An argument could be made that my brain had been cooked, but I knew that a cell phone was not a sacred artifact buried in a pre-historic temple.
I grabbed the cell phone. I grit my teeth in frustration and stomped out of the tent that protected the dig site. “Who owns this phone?” I yelled.
Nobody answered. I had been dealing with this BS all summer with this batch of grad students. Pranks and laziness mainly. I was at my wits end.
I had spent years finding and then excavating this temple. The artifacts found here would rewrite history. My name would be attached to the earliest example of a temple to the dead. I would not have something stupid like contaminations of the dig site ruin this for me.
“I will destroy this phone if someone doesn’t step up and claim it,” I screamed.
The grad students on the sieve stopped working. “What kind of phone is it, Professor?” said one.
I closed my eyes and tried to take deep breaths to calm myself. I counted to five. I wanted to throw this phone right at their stupid little heads. My funding would dry up faster than a puddle in the Mojave during August if I did though. I opened my eyes and flipped over the phone. “It’s a Nokia.”
Another grad student came out of the kitchen tent. “No one here has a Nokia. It’s a piece of shit phone. At least buy a Samsung.” He laughed.
I was going to do it. I was going to kill one of them. I cocked my arm back to throw the phone when I felt it vibrate.
I pulled my arm down and looked at the phone screen. Private Number. There was no cell service out here. I swiped to answer. “Who is this?”
“What do you want for dinner?”
I knew that voice and cadence. I swallowed. Even more anger bubbled up from within me. “Who is this?”
“What do you mean, baby?”
I struggled to get my words out. “Whoever thinks this is funny is going home on the next transport.”
“When are you going to be home?”
“My wife is dead,” I screamed. “This isn’t funny. Who is this?”
“We could have chicken, but I know we just had that. I can’t think of anything else though”
Baked chicken breast with rice and broccoli was the last meal we had together. I began to sob. “How do you know that?”
The graduate students gathered around and gave me funny looks. One of them put her hand on my shoulder. “Are you okay, Professor?”
I shrugged her off and began walking without a purpose. “Who is this?” I whispered.
“It’s your little tulip. Are you okay, baby? I just want to make sure that there is something for you to eat when you get home.”
The called ended.
I sank to my knees and looked at the blank screen. My cries echoed across the steppe as storm clouds gathered on the horizon.
| "Are you happy with your long distance service? Well AT&T has a de..."
I hung up.
"Shut it down!" |
[WP]: A school principal calls a parent into a meeting concerning his son bullying other students. The father turns out to be her own old bully. | When he walked in, I felt crushed. The boy's father was a gloomy man. A walking husk of a human being. Without a need for introductions, he spoke with a gruff voice and a strict intention.
“Where's my boy?”
It was like watching a stray dog bark at you. I quickly explained to him the 5 day suspension and handed him his pink slip without another word. His son came out, red-eyed and flustered.
“You think I have the time to fuckin' be here?” He growled at the child as they sequentially left.
This sort of thing happened a few times before. I noticed the pupil returning to school only to cause more disruption with each suspension. He ended up in my office on a regular basis, treating other students the way his father kept me. But I held back from calling one day.
'Sir please don't call my Dad.” He wept to me one day, and it all became clear. His behavior drastically improved with each day. I remember when his Father was just like him and made a choice to dial Childrens Service's. Maybe someone should have done that for him. | Judy Morell hated these kinds of meetings. A predictable, three-course meal: they always started off with a bitter melange of exaggerated shock and indignation, followed by a hearty plateful of defensiveness and denial, topped off by vague threats involving "boards" and "superintendents", with undertones of outrage and blackberry. She hated these meetings most of all because, more often than not, the problem was not the student.
Samantha was not always like this. She had been one of the best and brightest in middle school, but something had happened in the transition from 8th to 9th grade, and now she had become a more challenging student.
**rap rap rap**
Three knocks at the door. Ms. Morell imagined the knuckle that made the sound. The sound had been too harsh for her comfort. Perhaps it was bravado. Perhaps trepidation.
She opened the door and welcomed Samantha and her father into her room. She smiled at Samantha, who by now had become aware of just how real her trouble was. She sported downtrodden eyes and sagging shoulders. *Rare to see*, thought Ms. Morell.
She greeted Samantha's father, though felt uncomfortable with something about him. Perhaps it was his general posture, perhaps his shuffling gait. Perhaps it was neither and Ms. Morell would simply rather be at home baking muffins.
He introduced himself, and Ms. Morell felt a little more uncomfortable. She felt her heartbeat deepen, a tightness in her throat. She started to feel humid in the middle of her back and underneath the plastic frame of her glasses. Her frames slid slightly forward on the bridge of her nose, and she pushed them back. She knew him. She remembered his voice, his taunting in class. The way he would try to disparage her in front of her teachers, classmates, friends. That one time he actually pushed her..
Ms. Morell and Samantha's dad opened the conversation at the same time. They both stuttered, then apologized and asked the other to proceed. Ms. Morell took the chance. She liked to feel in control of these sorts of meetings. She was surprised, though, that he had apologized in the first place. *Definitely trepidation*, she thought.
Samantha's dad hadn't recognized her. *Bullies never do*, she thought, *it's always about themselves..* she caught herself in this thought, and remembered that she had forgiven him long ago in her heart, as a way to move on and not allow him to control her feelings. She wondered, *how long does forgiveness last?*
*Tell me about yourself*, she suddenly blurted out to Samantha's father. *How was your own grade school experience?* Her heart quickened, her eyes widened, she bit her lip. *Why does it feel exciting so suddenly? Because he has no idea who I am!*
He mumbled some words about it being ok, how he doesn't have many memories of it overall. Ms. Morell was now legitimately excited. Her mind sparked off fun and intriguing ways of playing with his mind, of maybe even trying to embarrass him, just a little, in front of his Samantha.
She caught herself. *I forgave him*, she repeated. Deep breaths slowed her heart down. She had missed what Samantha's dad had said, but it didn't matter. The moment was hers to keep, her secret and her fleeting moment of mischievousness. And with the twinkling smile of that moment a new, happy memory, Ms. Morell started to discuss Samantha's recent trouble at school. |
|
[WP]: A school principal calls a parent into a meeting concerning his son bullying other students. The father turns out to be her own old bully. | **This is my first writing prompt for the 365 day challenge, please be gentle**
"James, your behavior is unacceptable. We do not place our hands on others without their permission, do you understand?"
The little boy stared at the floor, clearly uninterested in what I was telling him.
This was not an uncommon occurrence. Young children often bullied one another, not always with any intention. My father once told me, "Samantha, people don't always have a reason for what they do. Sometimes people are just nasty to one another because they are hurting. Other times, they are simply envious. But we can't let it keep us from our own happiness. Only you can keep yourself from that."
Those words carried me through my darkest times, and I wouldn't be where I am today without them. As an educator, it is my job to impart wisdom such as that unto others. In this case, however, I was unsure how to react. James had been in here three times now, each time for the same reason.
"James," I repeated. "Look at me."
He looked up with a face like a defiant prisoner of war, arms crossed and brow furrowed.
"You need to stop hitting these girls. I don't know what else to say that I haven't said already, so I had Ms. Brown call your father. He should be here any minute."
That line usually struck terror into the hearts of ten year olds, but James just looked out the window and muttered, "Whatever."
*Knock knock*
"Come in," I said. Hopefully loud enough to be heard through the door.
It opened and Ms. Brown peeked in, "James' father is here, should I send him in?"
I smiled, "Yes, Tracy. Thank you."
She smiled back at me and opened the door wider, then turned around to call the father in.
"Mr. Castle, you can go in now."
"Please, darling, call me Ethan."
That name, combined with that voice, made something click in my brain. Ethan Castle... It couldn't be. Then he walked through the door.
"Sam? Is that you?" He said with an astonished look on his face.
I paused. He was grinning now. Collecting myself, I stood up and extended my hand to greet him.
"Ethan," I stammered, "When did you move to Austin?"
He reached out and grabbed my hand firmly, shaking it. Then he sat down next to James, placing his hand on the boy's head.
"We moved in last month, but I have always loved this city."
I paused again. Taking an opportunity to collect himself, Ethan put his arm around James and whispered, "Hey, buddy. How's it going?" The boy kept staring away from us. I took a deep breath and slowly exhaled, preparing for what was coming next.
"Ethan, your son has been acting up lately and I wasn't sure what else to do. I prefer not to punish children too severely, but he can't keep hitting and pushing the girls around."
Ethan quickly looked away from his son and up at me. It was subtle, but an unmistakable look of shock had shown on his face as he looked up at me.
I continued, "The next time it happens, I will be required to suspend him and I don't want to do that. I'm trying to understand why he's doing it, but he won't talk to me."
The man looked down for a moment. He didn't look much older than what I remembered from High School. His hairline had receded slightly, but not enough to say he looked older than 35. He still had thick, black hair, only now it was accompanied by stubble and some light wrinkles. Ethan looked up at me, now a look of concern on his face. He took his arm from around his son and looked at the boy.
"James, you can't put your hands on other people. It's not okay to hit others, especially girls. If you have a problem with someone, talk to me."
James kept staring out the window and away from us, that look of anger still on his face.
"James, I'm talking to you." He said sternly. "Am I going to have to take away the Gameboy?"
That got his attention.
"You can't do that!" James shouted at his father.
"I can and I will. I'm telling you not to hit girls. Apparently, you have been doing that a lot lately so we need to make sure it doesn't happen again. If it happens again, I will take the Gameboy."
"But they were mean to me!"
"That doesn't make it okay to hit them."
"But you hit mom!"
My jaw dropped. Ethan's eyes widened. James stared defiantly at his father, who seemed ready to raise his fist and beat the boy. But before I could say anything, Ethan closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He slowly exhaled after holding it for a few seconds, and then opened his eyes again. The boy struggled at first as his father wrapped his arms around him, but then submitted to the embrace.
Ethan kissed his son on the head, "James, I'm sorry. I made a mistake. But I want you to learn from my mistakes, not repeat them."
James began to cry. "But she deserved it!"
Ethan pulled back and placed his hands on James' shoulders. "Maybe. But violence won't solve anything. You should never intentionally hurt others."
"But she hurt us!" he cried.
Ethan gave his son a kiss on the forehead and embraced him again. "I know, I know. But we'll be okay. I promise." James' crying subsided as he nestled his head in his father's chest.
The man kissed his son on the head and then pulled him away. "Why don't you go outside and sit with Ms. Brown. Sam and I need to talk for a moment." He handed the boy his phone. "You can play with this while you wait, okay?"
The boy nodded somberly, wiping away the tears from his eyes. Ethan placed his hand on the James' face. "I love you."
"I love you too, daddy."
James walked out of the room, and Ethan turned to look at me as the door shut behind him.
Ethan smiled slightly. "I'm actually glad that you heard that, Sam."
Really?" I tilted my head. "Why?"
"Because I owe you an apology."
"For what?"
"You know what, Sam."
I stared down into my lap, then glanced at the scar on my foot. He was right. I knew exactly what he was talking about.
"But why now, Ethan?"
"Because James is going through something similar to what I went through. When I was fifteen, I found out that my mom was cheating on my dad. So I told him." He paused.
"You don't have to tell me all of this, I understand."
"No, I need to. I won't feel right until I tell you."
I stared at him, the man who had tormented me as a child seeming as if he would fall apart any moment. "Okay," I said.
"That night, after I told my dad what I saw, he confronted her in the kitchen. They yelled at each other, arguing for what seemed like hours. Then my mom said to him, 'You're a pathetic loser, at least Jerry has a career! While you're stuck at home all day writing your stupid stories, he's out there working!' My dad slapped her, broke down in tears, and walked upstairs. She stormed to the refrigerator and grabbed a beer as I sat in the living room, crying quietly so that they wouldn't notice my presence and take their anger out on me. A few hours later, my mom went upstairs to talk to him. There was a moment of silence, and then all I could hear was her screaming. I ran upstairs only to find my dad hanging from the ceiling fan."
"Oh my god, Ethan. I'm so sorry. I had no idea."
"No, it's okay. That was a long time ago. But it's not okay that I took my anger at my mom out on you. A lot has happened in my life that has made me realize my mistakes, and of all the people who I mistreated I think you are the most deserving of an apology."
"Thank you," I was staring at the scar again. I looked back up at him. "That... that really means a lot. But what does it have to do with James?"
Ethan looked down at the floor. "About six months ago I caught my wife with another man. In our own house, no less." He paused and looked back up at me. "We were arguing about it when James walked in and saw me slap her. It was my first violent outburst since high school, and I felt ashamed immediately after. But she stormed out before I could say anything."
"I'm so sorry, Ethan, I don't know what to say... is that why you moved here?"
He nodded. "Yeah, I wanted a fresh start for him. For me. For both of us."
I smiled sympathetically. "Well, I'm going to excuse James from school today. Not a suspension, just permission to be dismissed early. I think you and James should spend the day together."
He smiled at me, blinked away the water that had built up in his eyes, and stood up. "Thank you so much, Sam. I wish I could make it up to you more."
"You can. Just take care of James," I said. "I don't want any more incidents when he comes back, do you hear me?" I jokingly scolded.
"Oh you don't have to worry, I'll make sure of that." Ethan laughed and paused, staring into my eyes for a moment longer than I would expect. "Maybe we can grab coffee and catch-up sometime."
I stuttered, not certain how to respond. I thought back on the boy who had tortured me, who had made me want to die. I saw his face in my mind, but when I looked at him in front of me now I just could not make the connection. These were two entirely different people. I smiled and said to him, "I... I would like that very much."
He smiled, and I reached out to shake his hand. But he shook his head and walked around the desk to give me a hug. "I'm glad that we met again," he said. Then he pulled back, looked into my eyes, and smiled.
After Ethan had left, I sat at my desk for a while. A few calls came in, but I told Ms. Brown to handle them for me. I stood up and walked over to the window, staring out across the playground at the children playing. Instead of anxiety, I now felt relief.
"Thank you, Ethan."
-001 | Judy Morell hated these kinds of meetings. A predictable, three-course meal: they always started off with a bitter melange of exaggerated shock and indignation, followed by a hearty plateful of defensiveness and denial, topped off by vague threats involving "boards" and "superintendents", with undertones of outrage and blackberry. She hated these meetings most of all because, more often than not, the problem was not the student.
Samantha was not always like this. She had been one of the best and brightest in middle school, but something had happened in the transition from 8th to 9th grade, and now she had become a more challenging student.
**rap rap rap**
Three knocks at the door. Ms. Morell imagined the knuckle that made the sound. The sound had been too harsh for her comfort. Perhaps it was bravado. Perhaps trepidation.
She opened the door and welcomed Samantha and her father into her room. She smiled at Samantha, who by now had become aware of just how real her trouble was. She sported downtrodden eyes and sagging shoulders. *Rare to see*, thought Ms. Morell.
She greeted Samantha's father, though felt uncomfortable with something about him. Perhaps it was his general posture, perhaps his shuffling gait. Perhaps it was neither and Ms. Morell would simply rather be at home baking muffins.
He introduced himself, and Ms. Morell felt a little more uncomfortable. She felt her heartbeat deepen, a tightness in her throat. She started to feel humid in the middle of her back and underneath the plastic frame of her glasses. Her frames slid slightly forward on the bridge of her nose, and she pushed them back. She knew him. She remembered his voice, his taunting in class. The way he would try to disparage her in front of her teachers, classmates, friends. That one time he actually pushed her..
Ms. Morell and Samantha's dad opened the conversation at the same time. They both stuttered, then apologized and asked the other to proceed. Ms. Morell took the chance. She liked to feel in control of these sorts of meetings. She was surprised, though, that he had apologized in the first place. *Definitely trepidation*, she thought.
Samantha's dad hadn't recognized her. *Bullies never do*, she thought, *it's always about themselves..* she caught herself in this thought, and remembered that she had forgiven him long ago in her heart, as a way to move on and not allow him to control her feelings. She wondered, *how long does forgiveness last?*
*Tell me about yourself*, she suddenly blurted out to Samantha's father. *How was your own grade school experience?* Her heart quickened, her eyes widened, she bit her lip. *Why does it feel exciting so suddenly? Because he has no idea who I am!*
He mumbled some words about it being ok, how he doesn't have many memories of it overall. Ms. Morell was now legitimately excited. Her mind sparked off fun and intriguing ways of playing with his mind, of maybe even trying to embarrass him, just a little, in front of his Samantha.
She caught herself. *I forgave him*, she repeated. Deep breaths slowed her heart down. She had missed what Samantha's dad had said, but it didn't matter. The moment was hers to keep, her secret and her fleeting moment of mischievousness. And with the twinkling smile of that moment a new, happy memory, Ms. Morell started to discuss Samantha's recent trouble at school. |
|
[WP]: A school principal calls a parent into a meeting concerning his son bullying other students. The father turns out to be her own old bully. | When he walked in, I felt crushed. The boy's father was a gloomy man. A walking husk of a human being. Without a need for introductions, he spoke with a gruff voice and a strict intention.
“Where's my boy?”
It was like watching a stray dog bark at you. I quickly explained to him the 5 day suspension and handed him his pink slip without another word. His son came out, red-eyed and flustered.
“You think I have the time to fuckin' be here?” He growled at the child as they sequentially left.
This sort of thing happened a few times before. I noticed the pupil returning to school only to cause more disruption with each suspension. He ended up in my office on a regular basis, treating other students the way his father kept me. But I held back from calling one day.
'Sir please don't call my Dad.” He wept to me one day, and it all became clear. His behavior drastically improved with each day. I remember when his Father was just like him and made a choice to dial Childrens Service's. Maybe someone should have done that for him. | Jonathan Mills was the spitting image of his father, right down to the small square fingernails and the eyelashes that were long beyond belief.
Melissa knelt beside the boy, fighting the urge to yell. He had spent recess following one of the second graders about the playground, throwing pebbles and insults at her in equal share. "Jon, last time you threw rocks at Cleo, I told you that I would have to call your parents if it happened again."
Jon stared at her through his little round eyes. To his credit, he didn't look like he was going to cry. His father would have thrown a tantrum. Melissa sighed. "Let's go find Mrs. E, okay?" They walked together across the playground. Jon kicked up clouds of sand with each step and Melissa cursed herself for having worn heels on recess duty. Mrs. Ellis was lining her class up outside her classroom door. Jon ran to his spot in line, pushing his way through the other kids. Melissa handed Mrs. Ellis the disciplinary form she had filled out for him, then made her way around the school to her office.
It was such a shame, she thought, that Jon had turned out like his dad. Jonathan Mills, Sr., had preferred hair-pulling and menacing threats to beat down his victims. He'd had a so-called gang, three other boys who added to the torment. Melissa remembered them well. *"Missy, sissy,"* they would scream as they chased her. Once they had cornered her by the basketball hoops and cut off one of her pigtail braids.
She sank into her desk chair and pulled up the school directory on her laptop. She scrawled Jonathan Mills' number onto a sticky note. One, two, three times she double-checked the numbers. There was no number for Mrs. Mills, she noted. Had she ever met Jon's mom?
She dialed the number quickly. Jonathan Mills picked up after three rings. "How can I help you." His voice was harried.
She realized she had been holding her breath. "Mr. Mills? This is Principal Stevens, from the elementary school?"
"Yes?"
"Your son has been bullying some students and we're concerned. Is there a time you could come meet with me and his teacher after school this week?"
Four hours later, Jonathan Mills stormed through the door of her office. Melissa hastened out of her chair to shake his hand. His handshake was weak. "Good afternoon," she said. Emma Ellis, bless her heart, chose that moment to knock. "Sorry I'm late. Good to see you again, Mr. Mills," she said dryly.
"Jon is in the car. Can we make this quick?" The man had nerve.
Melissa let Emma do the talking while she eyed Jonathan Mills. She was no longer afraid of him. There were more lines around his dark piggy eyes than the last time she'd seen him. She wasn't even sure if he recognized her from his grade school tyrant days; nowadays, she wore a new last name, a darker hair color, and the confidence born of being head of a school.
"But he continues to act up," Emma was saying. "We want to be certain he has a good support network at home."
Mr. Mills' eyes darted about. "I have to work a lot." He cleared his throat and closed his eyes for a few seconds. "You know, when I was in school, if a little boy picked on a little girl, he had a crush on her."
"There's a difference between teasing and bullying," Emma said firmly. "Cleo has bruises from where your son hit her with rocks."
"What doesn't kill you...." he trailed off. "Look, I'll talk to my son. Is there anything else?"
*You bastard*, Melissa wanted to say. She held her tongue. Jonathan Mills left her office without another word, shoulders bowed.
"I'll spend more time with Jon. I don't want him to get held back," Emma mused. "At least his grades aren't getting worse. His family life doesn't seem to be helping him succeed. He's probably a good kid, deep deep down."
"Thanks, Emma, I'll keep an eye on him, too."
Emma nodded and left Melissa alone in her office. The walls were painted this godawful grey color; why hadn't that bothered her before? She felt defeated somehow. Mr. Mills hadn't been outright rude. He was a sorry man, a former bully with nothing but a dead-end job and a receding hairline. She had been his victim, but she hadn't been beat by him: she had a career, a family, a smile on her lips most days. So why did she feel like she'd lost?
She knew the answer when, a week later, father and son were seated in her office, both of them scowling from beneath their impossible eyelashes. |
|
[WP]: A school principal calls a parent into a meeting concerning his son bullying other students. The father turns out to be her own old bully. | **This is my first writing prompt for the 365 day challenge, please be gentle**
"James, your behavior is unacceptable. We do not place our hands on others without their permission, do you understand?"
The little boy stared at the floor, clearly uninterested in what I was telling him.
This was not an uncommon occurrence. Young children often bullied one another, not always with any intention. My father once told me, "Samantha, people don't always have a reason for what they do. Sometimes people are just nasty to one another because they are hurting. Other times, they are simply envious. But we can't let it keep us from our own happiness. Only you can keep yourself from that."
Those words carried me through my darkest times, and I wouldn't be where I am today without them. As an educator, it is my job to impart wisdom such as that unto others. In this case, however, I was unsure how to react. James had been in here three times now, each time for the same reason.
"James," I repeated. "Look at me."
He looked up with a face like a defiant prisoner of war, arms crossed and brow furrowed.
"You need to stop hitting these girls. I don't know what else to say that I haven't said already, so I had Ms. Brown call your father. He should be here any minute."
That line usually struck terror into the hearts of ten year olds, but James just looked out the window and muttered, "Whatever."
*Knock knock*
"Come in," I said. Hopefully loud enough to be heard through the door.
It opened and Ms. Brown peeked in, "James' father is here, should I send him in?"
I smiled, "Yes, Tracy. Thank you."
She smiled back at me and opened the door wider, then turned around to call the father in.
"Mr. Castle, you can go in now."
"Please, darling, call me Ethan."
That name, combined with that voice, made something click in my brain. Ethan Castle... It couldn't be. Then he walked through the door.
"Sam? Is that you?" He said with an astonished look on his face.
I paused. He was grinning now. Collecting myself, I stood up and extended my hand to greet him.
"Ethan," I stammered, "When did you move to Austin?"
He reached out and grabbed my hand firmly, shaking it. Then he sat down next to James, placing his hand on the boy's head.
"We moved in last month, but I have always loved this city."
I paused again. Taking an opportunity to collect himself, Ethan put his arm around James and whispered, "Hey, buddy. How's it going?" The boy kept staring away from us. I took a deep breath and slowly exhaled, preparing for what was coming next.
"Ethan, your son has been acting up lately and I wasn't sure what else to do. I prefer not to punish children too severely, but he can't keep hitting and pushing the girls around."
Ethan quickly looked away from his son and up at me. It was subtle, but an unmistakable look of shock had shown on his face as he looked up at me.
I continued, "The next time it happens, I will be required to suspend him and I don't want to do that. I'm trying to understand why he's doing it, but he won't talk to me."
The man looked down for a moment. He didn't look much older than what I remembered from High School. His hairline had receded slightly, but not enough to say he looked older than 35. He still had thick, black hair, only now it was accompanied by stubble and some light wrinkles. Ethan looked up at me, now a look of concern on his face. He took his arm from around his son and looked at the boy.
"James, you can't put your hands on other people. It's not okay to hit others, especially girls. If you have a problem with someone, talk to me."
James kept staring out the window and away from us, that look of anger still on his face.
"James, I'm talking to you." He said sternly. "Am I going to have to take away the Gameboy?"
That got his attention.
"You can't do that!" James shouted at his father.
"I can and I will. I'm telling you not to hit girls. Apparently, you have been doing that a lot lately so we need to make sure it doesn't happen again. If it happens again, I will take the Gameboy."
"But they were mean to me!"
"That doesn't make it okay to hit them."
"But you hit mom!"
My jaw dropped. Ethan's eyes widened. James stared defiantly at his father, who seemed ready to raise his fist and beat the boy. But before I could say anything, Ethan closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He slowly exhaled after holding it for a few seconds, and then opened his eyes again. The boy struggled at first as his father wrapped his arms around him, but then submitted to the embrace.
Ethan kissed his son on the head, "James, I'm sorry. I made a mistake. But I want you to learn from my mistakes, not repeat them."
James began to cry. "But she deserved it!"
Ethan pulled back and placed his hands on James' shoulders. "Maybe. But violence won't solve anything. You should never intentionally hurt others."
"But she hurt us!" he cried.
Ethan gave his son a kiss on the forehead and embraced him again. "I know, I know. But we'll be okay. I promise." James' crying subsided as he nestled his head in his father's chest.
The man kissed his son on the head and then pulled him away. "Why don't you go outside and sit with Ms. Brown. Sam and I need to talk for a moment." He handed the boy his phone. "You can play with this while you wait, okay?"
The boy nodded somberly, wiping away the tears from his eyes. Ethan placed his hand on the James' face. "I love you."
"I love you too, daddy."
James walked out of the room, and Ethan turned to look at me as the door shut behind him.
Ethan smiled slightly. "I'm actually glad that you heard that, Sam."
Really?" I tilted my head. "Why?"
"Because I owe you an apology."
"For what?"
"You know what, Sam."
I stared down into my lap, then glanced at the scar on my foot. He was right. I knew exactly what he was talking about.
"But why now, Ethan?"
"Because James is going through something similar to what I went through. When I was fifteen, I found out that my mom was cheating on my dad. So I told him." He paused.
"You don't have to tell me all of this, I understand."
"No, I need to. I won't feel right until I tell you."
I stared at him, the man who had tormented me as a child seeming as if he would fall apart any moment. "Okay," I said.
"That night, after I told my dad what I saw, he confronted her in the kitchen. They yelled at each other, arguing for what seemed like hours. Then my mom said to him, 'You're a pathetic loser, at least Jerry has a career! While you're stuck at home all day writing your stupid stories, he's out there working!' My dad slapped her, broke down in tears, and walked upstairs. She stormed to the refrigerator and grabbed a beer as I sat in the living room, crying quietly so that they wouldn't notice my presence and take their anger out on me. A few hours later, my mom went upstairs to talk to him. There was a moment of silence, and then all I could hear was her screaming. I ran upstairs only to find my dad hanging from the ceiling fan."
"Oh my god, Ethan. I'm so sorry. I had no idea."
"No, it's okay. That was a long time ago. But it's not okay that I took my anger at my mom out on you. A lot has happened in my life that has made me realize my mistakes, and of all the people who I mistreated I think you are the most deserving of an apology."
"Thank you," I was staring at the scar again. I looked back up at him. "That... that really means a lot. But what does it have to do with James?"
Ethan looked down at the floor. "About six months ago I caught my wife with another man. In our own house, no less." He paused and looked back up at me. "We were arguing about it when James walked in and saw me slap her. It was my first violent outburst since high school, and I felt ashamed immediately after. But she stormed out before I could say anything."
"I'm so sorry, Ethan, I don't know what to say... is that why you moved here?"
He nodded. "Yeah, I wanted a fresh start for him. For me. For both of us."
I smiled sympathetically. "Well, I'm going to excuse James from school today. Not a suspension, just permission to be dismissed early. I think you and James should spend the day together."
He smiled at me, blinked away the water that had built up in his eyes, and stood up. "Thank you so much, Sam. I wish I could make it up to you more."
"You can. Just take care of James," I said. "I don't want any more incidents when he comes back, do you hear me?" I jokingly scolded.
"Oh you don't have to worry, I'll make sure of that." Ethan laughed and paused, staring into my eyes for a moment longer than I would expect. "Maybe we can grab coffee and catch-up sometime."
I stuttered, not certain how to respond. I thought back on the boy who had tortured me, who had made me want to die. I saw his face in my mind, but when I looked at him in front of me now I just could not make the connection. These were two entirely different people. I smiled and said to him, "I... I would like that very much."
He smiled, and I reached out to shake his hand. But he shook his head and walked around the desk to give me a hug. "I'm glad that we met again," he said. Then he pulled back, looked into my eyes, and smiled.
After Ethan had left, I sat at my desk for a while. A few calls came in, but I told Ms. Brown to handle them for me. I stood up and walked over to the window, staring out across the playground at the children playing. Instead of anxiety, I now felt relief.
"Thank you, Ethan."
-001 | Jonathan Mills was the spitting image of his father, right down to the small square fingernails and the eyelashes that were long beyond belief.
Melissa knelt beside the boy, fighting the urge to yell. He had spent recess following one of the second graders about the playground, throwing pebbles and insults at her in equal share. "Jon, last time you threw rocks at Cleo, I told you that I would have to call your parents if it happened again."
Jon stared at her through his little round eyes. To his credit, he didn't look like he was going to cry. His father would have thrown a tantrum. Melissa sighed. "Let's go find Mrs. E, okay?" They walked together across the playground. Jon kicked up clouds of sand with each step and Melissa cursed herself for having worn heels on recess duty. Mrs. Ellis was lining her class up outside her classroom door. Jon ran to his spot in line, pushing his way through the other kids. Melissa handed Mrs. Ellis the disciplinary form she had filled out for him, then made her way around the school to her office.
It was such a shame, she thought, that Jon had turned out like his dad. Jonathan Mills, Sr., had preferred hair-pulling and menacing threats to beat down his victims. He'd had a so-called gang, three other boys who added to the torment. Melissa remembered them well. *"Missy, sissy,"* they would scream as they chased her. Once they had cornered her by the basketball hoops and cut off one of her pigtail braids.
She sank into her desk chair and pulled up the school directory on her laptop. She scrawled Jonathan Mills' number onto a sticky note. One, two, three times she double-checked the numbers. There was no number for Mrs. Mills, she noted. Had she ever met Jon's mom?
She dialed the number quickly. Jonathan Mills picked up after three rings. "How can I help you." His voice was harried.
She realized she had been holding her breath. "Mr. Mills? This is Principal Stevens, from the elementary school?"
"Yes?"
"Your son has been bullying some students and we're concerned. Is there a time you could come meet with me and his teacher after school this week?"
Four hours later, Jonathan Mills stormed through the door of her office. Melissa hastened out of her chair to shake his hand. His handshake was weak. "Good afternoon," she said. Emma Ellis, bless her heart, chose that moment to knock. "Sorry I'm late. Good to see you again, Mr. Mills," she said dryly.
"Jon is in the car. Can we make this quick?" The man had nerve.
Melissa let Emma do the talking while she eyed Jonathan Mills. She was no longer afraid of him. There were more lines around his dark piggy eyes than the last time she'd seen him. She wasn't even sure if he recognized her from his grade school tyrant days; nowadays, she wore a new last name, a darker hair color, and the confidence born of being head of a school.
"But he continues to act up," Emma was saying. "We want to be certain he has a good support network at home."
Mr. Mills' eyes darted about. "I have to work a lot." He cleared his throat and closed his eyes for a few seconds. "You know, when I was in school, if a little boy picked on a little girl, he had a crush on her."
"There's a difference between teasing and bullying," Emma said firmly. "Cleo has bruises from where your son hit her with rocks."
"What doesn't kill you...." he trailed off. "Look, I'll talk to my son. Is there anything else?"
*You bastard*, Melissa wanted to say. She held her tongue. Jonathan Mills left her office without another word, shoulders bowed.
"I'll spend more time with Jon. I don't want him to get held back," Emma mused. "At least his grades aren't getting worse. His family life doesn't seem to be helping him succeed. He's probably a good kid, deep deep down."
"Thanks, Emma, I'll keep an eye on him, too."
Emma nodded and left Melissa alone in her office. The walls were painted this godawful grey color; why hadn't that bothered her before? She felt defeated somehow. Mr. Mills hadn't been outright rude. He was a sorry man, a former bully with nothing but a dead-end job and a receding hairline. She had been his victim, but she hadn't been beat by him: she had a career, a family, a smile on her lips most days. So why did she feel like she'd lost?
She knew the answer when, a week later, father and son were seated in her office, both of them scowling from beneath their impossible eyelashes. |
|
[WP]: A school principal calls a parent into a meeting concerning his son bullying other students. The father turns out to be her own old bully. | **This is my first writing prompt for the 365 day challenge, please be gentle**
"James, your behavior is unacceptable. We do not place our hands on others without their permission, do you understand?"
The little boy stared at the floor, clearly uninterested in what I was telling him.
This was not an uncommon occurrence. Young children often bullied one another, not always with any intention. My father once told me, "Samantha, people don't always have a reason for what they do. Sometimes people are just nasty to one another because they are hurting. Other times, they are simply envious. But we can't let it keep us from our own happiness. Only you can keep yourself from that."
Those words carried me through my darkest times, and I wouldn't be where I am today without them. As an educator, it is my job to impart wisdom such as that unto others. In this case, however, I was unsure how to react. James had been in here three times now, each time for the same reason.
"James," I repeated. "Look at me."
He looked up with a face like a defiant prisoner of war, arms crossed and brow furrowed.
"You need to stop hitting these girls. I don't know what else to say that I haven't said already, so I had Ms. Brown call your father. He should be here any minute."
That line usually struck terror into the hearts of ten year olds, but James just looked out the window and muttered, "Whatever."
*Knock knock*
"Come in," I said. Hopefully loud enough to be heard through the door.
It opened and Ms. Brown peeked in, "James' father is here, should I send him in?"
I smiled, "Yes, Tracy. Thank you."
She smiled back at me and opened the door wider, then turned around to call the father in.
"Mr. Castle, you can go in now."
"Please, darling, call me Ethan."
That name, combined with that voice, made something click in my brain. Ethan Castle... It couldn't be. Then he walked through the door.
"Sam? Is that you?" He said with an astonished look on his face.
I paused. He was grinning now. Collecting myself, I stood up and extended my hand to greet him.
"Ethan," I stammered, "When did you move to Austin?"
He reached out and grabbed my hand firmly, shaking it. Then he sat down next to James, placing his hand on the boy's head.
"We moved in last month, but I have always loved this city."
I paused again. Taking an opportunity to collect himself, Ethan put his arm around James and whispered, "Hey, buddy. How's it going?" The boy kept staring away from us. I took a deep breath and slowly exhaled, preparing for what was coming next.
"Ethan, your son has been acting up lately and I wasn't sure what else to do. I prefer not to punish children too severely, but he can't keep hitting and pushing the girls around."
Ethan quickly looked away from his son and up at me. It was subtle, but an unmistakable look of shock had shown on his face as he looked up at me.
I continued, "The next time it happens, I will be required to suspend him and I don't want to do that. I'm trying to understand why he's doing it, but he won't talk to me."
The man looked down for a moment. He didn't look much older than what I remembered from High School. His hairline had receded slightly, but not enough to say he looked older than 35. He still had thick, black hair, only now it was accompanied by stubble and some light wrinkles. Ethan looked up at me, now a look of concern on his face. He took his arm from around his son and looked at the boy.
"James, you can't put your hands on other people. It's not okay to hit others, especially girls. If you have a problem with someone, talk to me."
James kept staring out the window and away from us, that look of anger still on his face.
"James, I'm talking to you." He said sternly. "Am I going to have to take away the Gameboy?"
That got his attention.
"You can't do that!" James shouted at his father.
"I can and I will. I'm telling you not to hit girls. Apparently, you have been doing that a lot lately so we need to make sure it doesn't happen again. If it happens again, I will take the Gameboy."
"But they were mean to me!"
"That doesn't make it okay to hit them."
"But you hit mom!"
My jaw dropped. Ethan's eyes widened. James stared defiantly at his father, who seemed ready to raise his fist and beat the boy. But before I could say anything, Ethan closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He slowly exhaled after holding it for a few seconds, and then opened his eyes again. The boy struggled at first as his father wrapped his arms around him, but then submitted to the embrace.
Ethan kissed his son on the head, "James, I'm sorry. I made a mistake. But I want you to learn from my mistakes, not repeat them."
James began to cry. "But she deserved it!"
Ethan pulled back and placed his hands on James' shoulders. "Maybe. But violence won't solve anything. You should never intentionally hurt others."
"But she hurt us!" he cried.
Ethan gave his son a kiss on the forehead and embraced him again. "I know, I know. But we'll be okay. I promise." James' crying subsided as he nestled his head in his father's chest.
The man kissed his son on the head and then pulled him away. "Why don't you go outside and sit with Ms. Brown. Sam and I need to talk for a moment." He handed the boy his phone. "You can play with this while you wait, okay?"
The boy nodded somberly, wiping away the tears from his eyes. Ethan placed his hand on the James' face. "I love you."
"I love you too, daddy."
James walked out of the room, and Ethan turned to look at me as the door shut behind him.
Ethan smiled slightly. "I'm actually glad that you heard that, Sam."
Really?" I tilted my head. "Why?"
"Because I owe you an apology."
"For what?"
"You know what, Sam."
I stared down into my lap, then glanced at the scar on my foot. He was right. I knew exactly what he was talking about.
"But why now, Ethan?"
"Because James is going through something similar to what I went through. When I was fifteen, I found out that my mom was cheating on my dad. So I told him." He paused.
"You don't have to tell me all of this, I understand."
"No, I need to. I won't feel right until I tell you."
I stared at him, the man who had tormented me as a child seeming as if he would fall apart any moment. "Okay," I said.
"That night, after I told my dad what I saw, he confronted her in the kitchen. They yelled at each other, arguing for what seemed like hours. Then my mom said to him, 'You're a pathetic loser, at least Jerry has a career! While you're stuck at home all day writing your stupid stories, he's out there working!' My dad slapped her, broke down in tears, and walked upstairs. She stormed to the refrigerator and grabbed a beer as I sat in the living room, crying quietly so that they wouldn't notice my presence and take their anger out on me. A few hours later, my mom went upstairs to talk to him. There was a moment of silence, and then all I could hear was her screaming. I ran upstairs only to find my dad hanging from the ceiling fan."
"Oh my god, Ethan. I'm so sorry. I had no idea."
"No, it's okay. That was a long time ago. But it's not okay that I took my anger at my mom out on you. A lot has happened in my life that has made me realize my mistakes, and of all the people who I mistreated I think you are the most deserving of an apology."
"Thank you," I was staring at the scar again. I looked back up at him. "That... that really means a lot. But what does it have to do with James?"
Ethan looked down at the floor. "About six months ago I caught my wife with another man. In our own house, no less." He paused and looked back up at me. "We were arguing about it when James walked in and saw me slap her. It was my first violent outburst since high school, and I felt ashamed immediately after. But she stormed out before I could say anything."
"I'm so sorry, Ethan, I don't know what to say... is that why you moved here?"
He nodded. "Yeah, I wanted a fresh start for him. For me. For both of us."
I smiled sympathetically. "Well, I'm going to excuse James from school today. Not a suspension, just permission to be dismissed early. I think you and James should spend the day together."
He smiled at me, blinked away the water that had built up in his eyes, and stood up. "Thank you so much, Sam. I wish I could make it up to you more."
"You can. Just take care of James," I said. "I don't want any more incidents when he comes back, do you hear me?" I jokingly scolded.
"Oh you don't have to worry, I'll make sure of that." Ethan laughed and paused, staring into my eyes for a moment longer than I would expect. "Maybe we can grab coffee and catch-up sometime."
I stuttered, not certain how to respond. I thought back on the boy who had tortured me, who had made me want to die. I saw his face in my mind, but when I looked at him in front of me now I just could not make the connection. These were two entirely different people. I smiled and said to him, "I... I would like that very much."
He smiled, and I reached out to shake his hand. But he shook his head and walked around the desk to give me a hug. "I'm glad that we met again," he said. Then he pulled back, looked into my eyes, and smiled.
After Ethan had left, I sat at my desk for a while. A few calls came in, but I told Ms. Brown to handle them for me. I stood up and walked over to the window, staring out across the playground at the children playing. Instead of anxiety, I now felt relief.
"Thank you, Ethan."
-001 | When he walked in, I felt crushed. The boy's father was a gloomy man. A walking husk of a human being. Without a need for introductions, he spoke with a gruff voice and a strict intention.
“Where's my boy?”
It was like watching a stray dog bark at you. I quickly explained to him the 5 day suspension and handed him his pink slip without another word. His son came out, red-eyed and flustered.
“You think I have the time to fuckin' be here?” He growled at the child as they sequentially left.
This sort of thing happened a few times before. I noticed the pupil returning to school only to cause more disruption with each suspension. He ended up in my office on a regular basis, treating other students the way his father kept me. But I held back from calling one day.
'Sir please don't call my Dad.” He wept to me one day, and it all became clear. His behavior drastically improved with each day. I remember when his Father was just like him and made a choice to dial Childrens Service's. Maybe someone should have done that for him. |
|
[WP]: A school principal calls a parent into a meeting concerning his son bullying other students. The father turns out to be her own old bully. | Ted stared heatedly across the table at the smug, self-assured father sitting before him. No, more than that -- this man wasn't just another parent to a troubled teen like he was used to, this man was something more.
Years of verbal and physical abuse cycled through his head. Black eyes and scratches left by slammed locker doors, mornings of dread and nights of regret, all flowing back through the analog of time. Sitting before him was none other then Darren McDougal, the young man who had single-handedly made Ted's teen years a living hell. How did he not see the similarities between this man and his son? It was like he had produced a clone of himself to come back and haunt the man he could no longer bully.
"Well Ted, long time no see." Darren's smile twitched just a little more broad, his canine teeth becoming part of that smile. "What's it been, twenty years now? Time could've been a little kinder to you! Just joking, of course, no need to go getting offended. Now what's this I hear about Michael being in trouble?"
Ted could feel the red creeping into his face from the neck up. It was like rage was filling his body from the floor up with hot, liquid fire. The subtle jab at his appearance had only solidified his notion that Darren had not changed a bit. Taking a deep breath and remembering his position in all of this, Ted put on his best authoritative voice and began.
"Well Darren, we're more then a bit worried about Michael. He's very often distracted in class, but worse than that he distracts others. He often has outbursts in the hallway or lunch room, and I'm sure you must've seen the multiple notices sent home about physical altercations between him and other students..." Ted trailed off for a moment, waiting for recognition.
"Oh, those bits o' paper? I didn't pay them a lot of mind! Boys will be boys, and Michael is just roughing around a little bit. Maybe if kids weren't so sensitive these days, they'd have an easier time of it!"
Ted glowered, the anger inching just a little bit further into his cheeks.
"Now Darren, we both know I can't let this sort of thing continue on. Michael's already had three suspensions this year for fighting, and other parents have come to the school to complain about him jumping their boys on his way home. Then there was that incident with Lucy Duke..." Ted trailed off, brow furrowed. The Lucy incident would have been much worse if Greg Leeman hadn't happened upon the two. "All in all, somethings gotta give. We think the boy needs anger management, at the very least."
Ted eyed Darren as the man shifted forward in his seat, suddenly affecting a much more aggressive posture than before. His eyes had narrowed, and he locked Ted in a sharp gaze that pinned him in place.
"Now you see here, Ted. No one is going to be taking my boy to any sort of crack pot anger management, or therapy, or anything of the like. You can tell these other parents to shove their complaints up their arses, because all he is doing is being a healthy teen boy! There ain't nothing wrong with that, and I don't appreciate you all trying to parent MY son!" The last line he punctuated by slamming a fist down onto the desk, his defense laid out bare.
Ted stared quietly at Darren for a minute or so, leaning back in his chair and breathing evenly. Through Darren's tirade he had begun to realize something, something that had washed a sense of cool calm across him and tamped down the anger that was rising inside of him. It all came down to one simple fact.
Darren couldn't hurt him anymore. Darren had no power.
"Darren, if Michael has one more incident with us, he'll be expelled. Get your boy some help, or he's going to end up in Juvie. Or worse. If you have anything to say about that, you can take it up with Principal Winters, or the school board."
Gathering up his papers in a dismissive gesture, Ted stood and moved to the back of the room to gather his bag and his teaching plan for the next day. When he snuck a glance back he caught the image of Darren working his jaw silently before standing with his fists balled. Ted's whole body went stiff as he expected some retaliation, maybe even an attack. He was only able to breathe again when Darren whirled, stomping his way noisily out of the classroom and slamming the door on the way out.
This time history wouldn't repeat itself, if Ted could do anything about it. He made a mental note to send along guidance councillor recommendations, and then grabbed his keys to lock up. | Mrs Joy? Darren's dad is here to see you finally.
Thank you Janice, please show him in.
The memories flood back in like a ten ton hammer. Joy Joy the boy toy. She realizes her face must surely be showing the sheer terror she feels and quickly tries to reclaim her demeaner and dignity.
Mr Thompson... please take a seat and make your self comfortable. She hoped that the look on her face wasnt as apparent as she thought. The countless memories kept trying to invade her thoughts mercilessly.
Welllll.. if it isnt Mrs Joy. Long time no see. he said smuggly. I hear my son has got him self into some kind of trouble again. If I drove down here for some silly shit again. You realize how much paid vacation time I'm having to use for this?
Third time this month. He stared at her from across the desk as if it were her fault he had to be here.
The condescending tone in his voice and the look in his eyes. It gnawed at her confidence. All the years and work to get here. It was all gone in that instance. All she could hear was Joy Joy the boy toy over and over. They pushed her down, knocking her books from her hands. She had cried then. Never knowing why they tortured her.
Sir... she paused, wondering if he was going to continue his rant. The problem is that your son has what seems is issues with a few of the other children in his grade. He mashed his hands into the victims mashed potatos and then flicked the food into his face before calling him and I quote "Fatass".
If you ask me my son has probably helped that boy some. He may even go on a diet now. Have you seen that boy? He's huuuge. Darrens father made a pig face by pushing his nose up and inflating his cheeks. Look at how it helped you. All the times in school didnt bother you none. If anything it made you stronger it seems. You probably owe me for most of your success because of my jokes. Next thing you know you will say my boy needs sensitivity training.
Jokes... You thought those were jokes? She stood walked around her desk picking up her laptop as she did. With two hands she slammed the laptop into the side of his head. The force of the impact so strong she thought she had broken his neck. Seeing he wasnt dead she grabbed his tie pulling him close. She planted one foot square in the middle of his chest twisting the heel to cause pain.
You.. thought... that... was... FUNNY? she screamed into his face.
She snapped back from her private little fantasy to reality. The apple doesnt fall far from the tree I see. Your son has two options as I see it. Expulsion or fifteen months of sensitivity training. The ball is now in your hands so to speak Mr Thompson.
Janice Please show Mr Thompson out please. She said as she stood and walked to her door.
But.. he started to say. She interrupted. Good day Mr Thompson.
But... he started again. I said Good day sir. she returned to her work.
|
|
[WP]: A school principal calls a parent into a meeting concerning his son bullying other students. The father turns out to be her own old bully. | **This is my first writing prompt for the 365 day challenge, please be gentle**
"James, your behavior is unacceptable. We do not place our hands on others without their permission, do you understand?"
The little boy stared at the floor, clearly uninterested in what I was telling him.
This was not an uncommon occurrence. Young children often bullied one another, not always with any intention. My father once told me, "Samantha, people don't always have a reason for what they do. Sometimes people are just nasty to one another because they are hurting. Other times, they are simply envious. But we can't let it keep us from our own happiness. Only you can keep yourself from that."
Those words carried me through my darkest times, and I wouldn't be where I am today without them. As an educator, it is my job to impart wisdom such as that unto others. In this case, however, I was unsure how to react. James had been in here three times now, each time for the same reason.
"James," I repeated. "Look at me."
He looked up with a face like a defiant prisoner of war, arms crossed and brow furrowed.
"You need to stop hitting these girls. I don't know what else to say that I haven't said already, so I had Ms. Brown call your father. He should be here any minute."
That line usually struck terror into the hearts of ten year olds, but James just looked out the window and muttered, "Whatever."
*Knock knock*
"Come in," I said. Hopefully loud enough to be heard through the door.
It opened and Ms. Brown peeked in, "James' father is here, should I send him in?"
I smiled, "Yes, Tracy. Thank you."
She smiled back at me and opened the door wider, then turned around to call the father in.
"Mr. Castle, you can go in now."
"Please, darling, call me Ethan."
That name, combined with that voice, made something click in my brain. Ethan Castle... It couldn't be. Then he walked through the door.
"Sam? Is that you?" He said with an astonished look on his face.
I paused. He was grinning now. Collecting myself, I stood up and extended my hand to greet him.
"Ethan," I stammered, "When did you move to Austin?"
He reached out and grabbed my hand firmly, shaking it. Then he sat down next to James, placing his hand on the boy's head.
"We moved in last month, but I have always loved this city."
I paused again. Taking an opportunity to collect himself, Ethan put his arm around James and whispered, "Hey, buddy. How's it going?" The boy kept staring away from us. I took a deep breath and slowly exhaled, preparing for what was coming next.
"Ethan, your son has been acting up lately and I wasn't sure what else to do. I prefer not to punish children too severely, but he can't keep hitting and pushing the girls around."
Ethan quickly looked away from his son and up at me. It was subtle, but an unmistakable look of shock had shown on his face as he looked up at me.
I continued, "The next time it happens, I will be required to suspend him and I don't want to do that. I'm trying to understand why he's doing it, but he won't talk to me."
The man looked down for a moment. He didn't look much older than what I remembered from High School. His hairline had receded slightly, but not enough to say he looked older than 35. He still had thick, black hair, only now it was accompanied by stubble and some light wrinkles. Ethan looked up at me, now a look of concern on his face. He took his arm from around his son and looked at the boy.
"James, you can't put your hands on other people. It's not okay to hit others, especially girls. If you have a problem with someone, talk to me."
James kept staring out the window and away from us, that look of anger still on his face.
"James, I'm talking to you." He said sternly. "Am I going to have to take away the Gameboy?"
That got his attention.
"You can't do that!" James shouted at his father.
"I can and I will. I'm telling you not to hit girls. Apparently, you have been doing that a lot lately so we need to make sure it doesn't happen again. If it happens again, I will take the Gameboy."
"But they were mean to me!"
"That doesn't make it okay to hit them."
"But you hit mom!"
My jaw dropped. Ethan's eyes widened. James stared defiantly at his father, who seemed ready to raise his fist and beat the boy. But before I could say anything, Ethan closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He slowly exhaled after holding it for a few seconds, and then opened his eyes again. The boy struggled at first as his father wrapped his arms around him, but then submitted to the embrace.
Ethan kissed his son on the head, "James, I'm sorry. I made a mistake. But I want you to learn from my mistakes, not repeat them."
James began to cry. "But she deserved it!"
Ethan pulled back and placed his hands on James' shoulders. "Maybe. But violence won't solve anything. You should never intentionally hurt others."
"But she hurt us!" he cried.
Ethan gave his son a kiss on the forehead and embraced him again. "I know, I know. But we'll be okay. I promise." James' crying subsided as he nestled his head in his father's chest.
The man kissed his son on the head and then pulled him away. "Why don't you go outside and sit with Ms. Brown. Sam and I need to talk for a moment." He handed the boy his phone. "You can play with this while you wait, okay?"
The boy nodded somberly, wiping away the tears from his eyes. Ethan placed his hand on the James' face. "I love you."
"I love you too, daddy."
James walked out of the room, and Ethan turned to look at me as the door shut behind him.
Ethan smiled slightly. "I'm actually glad that you heard that, Sam."
Really?" I tilted my head. "Why?"
"Because I owe you an apology."
"For what?"
"You know what, Sam."
I stared down into my lap, then glanced at the scar on my foot. He was right. I knew exactly what he was talking about.
"But why now, Ethan?"
"Because James is going through something similar to what I went through. When I was fifteen, I found out that my mom was cheating on my dad. So I told him." He paused.
"You don't have to tell me all of this, I understand."
"No, I need to. I won't feel right until I tell you."
I stared at him, the man who had tormented me as a child seeming as if he would fall apart any moment. "Okay," I said.
"That night, after I told my dad what I saw, he confronted her in the kitchen. They yelled at each other, arguing for what seemed like hours. Then my mom said to him, 'You're a pathetic loser, at least Jerry has a career! While you're stuck at home all day writing your stupid stories, he's out there working!' My dad slapped her, broke down in tears, and walked upstairs. She stormed to the refrigerator and grabbed a beer as I sat in the living room, crying quietly so that they wouldn't notice my presence and take their anger out on me. A few hours later, my mom went upstairs to talk to him. There was a moment of silence, and then all I could hear was her screaming. I ran upstairs only to find my dad hanging from the ceiling fan."
"Oh my god, Ethan. I'm so sorry. I had no idea."
"No, it's okay. That was a long time ago. But it's not okay that I took my anger at my mom out on you. A lot has happened in my life that has made me realize my mistakes, and of all the people who I mistreated I think you are the most deserving of an apology."
"Thank you," I was staring at the scar again. I looked back up at him. "That... that really means a lot. But what does it have to do with James?"
Ethan looked down at the floor. "About six months ago I caught my wife with another man. In our own house, no less." He paused and looked back up at me. "We were arguing about it when James walked in and saw me slap her. It was my first violent outburst since high school, and I felt ashamed immediately after. But she stormed out before I could say anything."
"I'm so sorry, Ethan, I don't know what to say... is that why you moved here?"
He nodded. "Yeah, I wanted a fresh start for him. For me. For both of us."
I smiled sympathetically. "Well, I'm going to excuse James from school today. Not a suspension, just permission to be dismissed early. I think you and James should spend the day together."
He smiled at me, blinked away the water that had built up in his eyes, and stood up. "Thank you so much, Sam. I wish I could make it up to you more."
"You can. Just take care of James," I said. "I don't want any more incidents when he comes back, do you hear me?" I jokingly scolded.
"Oh you don't have to worry, I'll make sure of that." Ethan laughed and paused, staring into my eyes for a moment longer than I would expect. "Maybe we can grab coffee and catch-up sometime."
I stuttered, not certain how to respond. I thought back on the boy who had tortured me, who had made me want to die. I saw his face in my mind, but when I looked at him in front of me now I just could not make the connection. These were two entirely different people. I smiled and said to him, "I... I would like that very much."
He smiled, and I reached out to shake his hand. But he shook his head and walked around the desk to give me a hug. "I'm glad that we met again," he said. Then he pulled back, looked into my eyes, and smiled.
After Ethan had left, I sat at my desk for a while. A few calls came in, but I told Ms. Brown to handle them for me. I stood up and walked over to the window, staring out across the playground at the children playing. Instead of anxiety, I now felt relief.
"Thank you, Ethan."
-001 | Mrs Joy? Darren's dad is here to see you finally.
Thank you Janice, please show him in.
The memories flood back in like a ten ton hammer. Joy Joy the boy toy. She realizes her face must surely be showing the sheer terror she feels and quickly tries to reclaim her demeaner and dignity.
Mr Thompson... please take a seat and make your self comfortable. She hoped that the look on her face wasnt as apparent as she thought. The countless memories kept trying to invade her thoughts mercilessly.
Welllll.. if it isnt Mrs Joy. Long time no see. he said smuggly. I hear my son has got him self into some kind of trouble again. If I drove down here for some silly shit again. You realize how much paid vacation time I'm having to use for this?
Third time this month. He stared at her from across the desk as if it were her fault he had to be here.
The condescending tone in his voice and the look in his eyes. It gnawed at her confidence. All the years and work to get here. It was all gone in that instance. All she could hear was Joy Joy the boy toy over and over. They pushed her down, knocking her books from her hands. She had cried then. Never knowing why they tortured her.
Sir... she paused, wondering if he was going to continue his rant. The problem is that your son has what seems is issues with a few of the other children in his grade. He mashed his hands into the victims mashed potatos and then flicked the food into his face before calling him and I quote "Fatass".
If you ask me my son has probably helped that boy some. He may even go on a diet now. Have you seen that boy? He's huuuge. Darrens father made a pig face by pushing his nose up and inflating his cheeks. Look at how it helped you. All the times in school didnt bother you none. If anything it made you stronger it seems. You probably owe me for most of your success because of my jokes. Next thing you know you will say my boy needs sensitivity training.
Jokes... You thought those were jokes? She stood walked around her desk picking up her laptop as she did. With two hands she slammed the laptop into the side of his head. The force of the impact so strong she thought she had broken his neck. Seeing he wasnt dead she grabbed his tie pulling him close. She planted one foot square in the middle of his chest twisting the heel to cause pain.
You.. thought... that... was... FUNNY? she screamed into his face.
She snapped back from her private little fantasy to reality. The apple doesnt fall far from the tree I see. Your son has two options as I see it. Expulsion or fifteen months of sensitivity training. The ball is now in your hands so to speak Mr Thompson.
Janice Please show Mr Thompson out please. She said as she stood and walked to her door.
But.. he started to say. She interrupted. Good day Mr Thompson.
But... he started again. I said Good day sir. she returned to her work.
|
|
[WP]: A school principal calls a parent into a meeting concerning his son bullying other students. The father turns out to be her own old bully. | Carol waited in her office, seated in her leather chair that her husband had gotten her for her 48th birthday. On her desk was a computer that she barely poked at, a calendar, a couple of folders, and a mocha candle that she couldn't light because of the policies. But still, she liked to have it sit there, opened, some of the scent still managing to find its way into the cramped office air. It sat there, in a glass case. Its tin lid was off somewhere forgotten, probably in one of her desk drawers.
A silhouette appeared behind her frosted door window, darkening the backwards letters of her name. Her stomach tightened, as it did all the other times she had to have a meeting with a parent. Seven years as a principal and that constricting feeling still played with her intestines whenever these meetings had to happen. She had spent the several last minutes saying the name quietly to herself, as to make sure not to flub up the pronunciation even though it wasn't all that complicated of a last name. *Mr. Callahan, Mr. Callahan, Mr. Callahan*.
The door opened, and in stepped a giant of a man; he was wearing a red flannel shirt, faded blue jeans, combat boots, and a red trucker's cap. He had blonde hair that curled out from underneath the hat. It curved over and behind his ears.
"Mr. Callah-
And she froze, taking notice of his eyes: one was brown and the other was blue. She hadn't seen eyes like that since the 4th-
"Carol? Oh shit!" He said loudly. The secretary just outside of the office turned to look, but her reaction was cut short when Callahan shut the door behind him. "Oh, my, God! It's been what, twenty something years?" He sat down in one of the two chairs that framed her desk, quickly leaning back into it and propping his feet onto her table, almost kicking over her candle in the process.
"Something like that," Carol muttered, intestines feeling as if they were locked in a vice. *Had he changed his last name? Or had it always been Callahan?*
"So this is what you've been doing, huh? A fuckin' principal, I should've been able to guess that, ya?" His breath was heavy with the smell of cigarette smoke. When she looked into his eyes, she could see piles of sleep-grit, accumulating there in the corners because this bastard of a man probably still never showered.
"Well, this isn't really about me now, I've got to talk to you about your-
"Hey, girl, you remember what we used to do?"
The vice on her stomach loosened enough for Carol to vomit into her mouth a little. She swallowed it down, hoping Callahan hadn't noticed. She quickly recomposed herself, and ignored his question.
"I need to talk to you about your son, he has-
"Oh God, I still think about that sometimes, going back behind the bleachers, you and me, that was some fucking sick-
"Please, Mr. Callahan," she said, voice wavering. The taste of vomit on her tongue turned her entire mouth acidic. "I don't want to talk about that, we need to talk about your-
He removed his feet from her desk and stood, slowly circling around towards her, "Are you still into that kinky shit?"
Carol stood, "Please, sit down, we need to talk about your-
And he raised a hand, as if he were going to caress her cheek.
She grabbed a hold of her candle, and slammed it into the side of his face. It shattered in her hand, but she still gripped it tightly, shards of glass slicing into her palm. He fell down to the office floor, letting out an almost comical **UNF**, and Carol fell on top of him, bringing down the spiked candle, down and down again into his nose, into his forehead, into his temple.
She felt hands grab onto her shoulders and rip her away from the bloodied man who had made her school years a living nightmare. Her arm still rose and fell, still trying to bring any kind of pain to that man. It wouldn't even come close to matching what he had done to her, but she wanted to try. Oh she wanted to try.
Her flailing arm brought the busted candle down into her own thigh, glass daggers puncturing deep into her muscle, and she yelped and let go.
The secretary had her in her arms, and was asking her questions that she couldn't quite hear.
**Are you alright? What happened?**
Carol found that her throat was raw when she tired to answer. She didn't realize she had been screaming the entire time. | Mrs Joy? Darren's dad is here to see you finally.
Thank you Janice, please show him in.
The memories flood back in like a ten ton hammer. Joy Joy the boy toy. She realizes her face must surely be showing the sheer terror she feels and quickly tries to reclaim her demeaner and dignity.
Mr Thompson... please take a seat and make your self comfortable. She hoped that the look on her face wasnt as apparent as she thought. The countless memories kept trying to invade her thoughts mercilessly.
Welllll.. if it isnt Mrs Joy. Long time no see. he said smuggly. I hear my son has got him self into some kind of trouble again. If I drove down here for some silly shit again. You realize how much paid vacation time I'm having to use for this?
Third time this month. He stared at her from across the desk as if it were her fault he had to be here.
The condescending tone in his voice and the look in his eyes. It gnawed at her confidence. All the years and work to get here. It was all gone in that instance. All she could hear was Joy Joy the boy toy over and over. They pushed her down, knocking her books from her hands. She had cried then. Never knowing why they tortured her.
Sir... she paused, wondering if he was going to continue his rant. The problem is that your son has what seems is issues with a few of the other children in his grade. He mashed his hands into the victims mashed potatos and then flicked the food into his face before calling him and I quote "Fatass".
If you ask me my son has probably helped that boy some. He may even go on a diet now. Have you seen that boy? He's huuuge. Darrens father made a pig face by pushing his nose up and inflating his cheeks. Look at how it helped you. All the times in school didnt bother you none. If anything it made you stronger it seems. You probably owe me for most of your success because of my jokes. Next thing you know you will say my boy needs sensitivity training.
Jokes... You thought those were jokes? She stood walked around her desk picking up her laptop as she did. With two hands she slammed the laptop into the side of his head. The force of the impact so strong she thought she had broken his neck. Seeing he wasnt dead she grabbed his tie pulling him close. She planted one foot square in the middle of his chest twisting the heel to cause pain.
You.. thought... that... was... FUNNY? she screamed into his face.
She snapped back from her private little fantasy to reality. The apple doesnt fall far from the tree I see. Your son has two options as I see it. Expulsion or fifteen months of sensitivity training. The ball is now in your hands so to speak Mr Thompson.
Janice Please show Mr Thompson out please. She said as she stood and walked to her door.
But.. he started to say. She interrupted. Good day Mr Thompson.
But... he started again. I said Good day sir. she returned to her work.
|
|
[WP]: A school principal calls a parent into a meeting concerning his son bullying other students. The father turns out to be her own old bully. | **This is my first writing prompt for the 365 day challenge, please be gentle**
"James, your behavior is unacceptable. We do not place our hands on others without their permission, do you understand?"
The little boy stared at the floor, clearly uninterested in what I was telling him.
This was not an uncommon occurrence. Young children often bullied one another, not always with any intention. My father once told me, "Samantha, people don't always have a reason for what they do. Sometimes people are just nasty to one another because they are hurting. Other times, they are simply envious. But we can't let it keep us from our own happiness. Only you can keep yourself from that."
Those words carried me through my darkest times, and I wouldn't be where I am today without them. As an educator, it is my job to impart wisdom such as that unto others. In this case, however, I was unsure how to react. James had been in here three times now, each time for the same reason.
"James," I repeated. "Look at me."
He looked up with a face like a defiant prisoner of war, arms crossed and brow furrowed.
"You need to stop hitting these girls. I don't know what else to say that I haven't said already, so I had Ms. Brown call your father. He should be here any minute."
That line usually struck terror into the hearts of ten year olds, but James just looked out the window and muttered, "Whatever."
*Knock knock*
"Come in," I said. Hopefully loud enough to be heard through the door.
It opened and Ms. Brown peeked in, "James' father is here, should I send him in?"
I smiled, "Yes, Tracy. Thank you."
She smiled back at me and opened the door wider, then turned around to call the father in.
"Mr. Castle, you can go in now."
"Please, darling, call me Ethan."
That name, combined with that voice, made something click in my brain. Ethan Castle... It couldn't be. Then he walked through the door.
"Sam? Is that you?" He said with an astonished look on his face.
I paused. He was grinning now. Collecting myself, I stood up and extended my hand to greet him.
"Ethan," I stammered, "When did you move to Austin?"
He reached out and grabbed my hand firmly, shaking it. Then he sat down next to James, placing his hand on the boy's head.
"We moved in last month, but I have always loved this city."
I paused again. Taking an opportunity to collect himself, Ethan put his arm around James and whispered, "Hey, buddy. How's it going?" The boy kept staring away from us. I took a deep breath and slowly exhaled, preparing for what was coming next.
"Ethan, your son has been acting up lately and I wasn't sure what else to do. I prefer not to punish children too severely, but he can't keep hitting and pushing the girls around."
Ethan quickly looked away from his son and up at me. It was subtle, but an unmistakable look of shock had shown on his face as he looked up at me.
I continued, "The next time it happens, I will be required to suspend him and I don't want to do that. I'm trying to understand why he's doing it, but he won't talk to me."
The man looked down for a moment. He didn't look much older than what I remembered from High School. His hairline had receded slightly, but not enough to say he looked older than 35. He still had thick, black hair, only now it was accompanied by stubble and some light wrinkles. Ethan looked up at me, now a look of concern on his face. He took his arm from around his son and looked at the boy.
"James, you can't put your hands on other people. It's not okay to hit others, especially girls. If you have a problem with someone, talk to me."
James kept staring out the window and away from us, that look of anger still on his face.
"James, I'm talking to you." He said sternly. "Am I going to have to take away the Gameboy?"
That got his attention.
"You can't do that!" James shouted at his father.
"I can and I will. I'm telling you not to hit girls. Apparently, you have been doing that a lot lately so we need to make sure it doesn't happen again. If it happens again, I will take the Gameboy."
"But they were mean to me!"
"That doesn't make it okay to hit them."
"But you hit mom!"
My jaw dropped. Ethan's eyes widened. James stared defiantly at his father, who seemed ready to raise his fist and beat the boy. But before I could say anything, Ethan closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He slowly exhaled after holding it for a few seconds, and then opened his eyes again. The boy struggled at first as his father wrapped his arms around him, but then submitted to the embrace.
Ethan kissed his son on the head, "James, I'm sorry. I made a mistake. But I want you to learn from my mistakes, not repeat them."
James began to cry. "But she deserved it!"
Ethan pulled back and placed his hands on James' shoulders. "Maybe. But violence won't solve anything. You should never intentionally hurt others."
"But she hurt us!" he cried.
Ethan gave his son a kiss on the forehead and embraced him again. "I know, I know. But we'll be okay. I promise." James' crying subsided as he nestled his head in his father's chest.
The man kissed his son on the head and then pulled him away. "Why don't you go outside and sit with Ms. Brown. Sam and I need to talk for a moment." He handed the boy his phone. "You can play with this while you wait, okay?"
The boy nodded somberly, wiping away the tears from his eyes. Ethan placed his hand on the James' face. "I love you."
"I love you too, daddy."
James walked out of the room, and Ethan turned to look at me as the door shut behind him.
Ethan smiled slightly. "I'm actually glad that you heard that, Sam."
Really?" I tilted my head. "Why?"
"Because I owe you an apology."
"For what?"
"You know what, Sam."
I stared down into my lap, then glanced at the scar on my foot. He was right. I knew exactly what he was talking about.
"But why now, Ethan?"
"Because James is going through something similar to what I went through. When I was fifteen, I found out that my mom was cheating on my dad. So I told him." He paused.
"You don't have to tell me all of this, I understand."
"No, I need to. I won't feel right until I tell you."
I stared at him, the man who had tormented me as a child seeming as if he would fall apart any moment. "Okay," I said.
"That night, after I told my dad what I saw, he confronted her in the kitchen. They yelled at each other, arguing for what seemed like hours. Then my mom said to him, 'You're a pathetic loser, at least Jerry has a career! While you're stuck at home all day writing your stupid stories, he's out there working!' My dad slapped her, broke down in tears, and walked upstairs. She stormed to the refrigerator and grabbed a beer as I sat in the living room, crying quietly so that they wouldn't notice my presence and take their anger out on me. A few hours later, my mom went upstairs to talk to him. There was a moment of silence, and then all I could hear was her screaming. I ran upstairs only to find my dad hanging from the ceiling fan."
"Oh my god, Ethan. I'm so sorry. I had no idea."
"No, it's okay. That was a long time ago. But it's not okay that I took my anger at my mom out on you. A lot has happened in my life that has made me realize my mistakes, and of all the people who I mistreated I think you are the most deserving of an apology."
"Thank you," I was staring at the scar again. I looked back up at him. "That... that really means a lot. But what does it have to do with James?"
Ethan looked down at the floor. "About six months ago I caught my wife with another man. In our own house, no less." He paused and looked back up at me. "We were arguing about it when James walked in and saw me slap her. It was my first violent outburst since high school, and I felt ashamed immediately after. But she stormed out before I could say anything."
"I'm so sorry, Ethan, I don't know what to say... is that why you moved here?"
He nodded. "Yeah, I wanted a fresh start for him. For me. For both of us."
I smiled sympathetically. "Well, I'm going to excuse James from school today. Not a suspension, just permission to be dismissed early. I think you and James should spend the day together."
He smiled at me, blinked away the water that had built up in his eyes, and stood up. "Thank you so much, Sam. I wish I could make it up to you more."
"You can. Just take care of James," I said. "I don't want any more incidents when he comes back, do you hear me?" I jokingly scolded.
"Oh you don't have to worry, I'll make sure of that." Ethan laughed and paused, staring into my eyes for a moment longer than I would expect. "Maybe we can grab coffee and catch-up sometime."
I stuttered, not certain how to respond. I thought back on the boy who had tortured me, who had made me want to die. I saw his face in my mind, but when I looked at him in front of me now I just could not make the connection. These were two entirely different people. I smiled and said to him, "I... I would like that very much."
He smiled, and I reached out to shake his hand. But he shook his head and walked around the desk to give me a hug. "I'm glad that we met again," he said. Then he pulled back, looked into my eyes, and smiled.
After Ethan had left, I sat at my desk for a while. A few calls came in, but I told Ms. Brown to handle them for me. I stood up and walked over to the window, staring out across the playground at the children playing. Instead of anxiety, I now felt relief.
"Thank you, Ethan."
-001 | Ted stared heatedly across the table at the smug, self-assured father sitting before him. No, more than that -- this man wasn't just another parent to a troubled teen like he was used to, this man was something more.
Years of verbal and physical abuse cycled through his head. Black eyes and scratches left by slammed locker doors, mornings of dread and nights of regret, all flowing back through the analog of time. Sitting before him was none other then Darren McDougal, the young man who had single-handedly made Ted's teen years a living hell. How did he not see the similarities between this man and his son? It was like he had produced a clone of himself to come back and haunt the man he could no longer bully.
"Well Ted, long time no see." Darren's smile twitched just a little more broad, his canine teeth becoming part of that smile. "What's it been, twenty years now? Time could've been a little kinder to you! Just joking, of course, no need to go getting offended. Now what's this I hear about Michael being in trouble?"
Ted could feel the red creeping into his face from the neck up. It was like rage was filling his body from the floor up with hot, liquid fire. The subtle jab at his appearance had only solidified his notion that Darren had not changed a bit. Taking a deep breath and remembering his position in all of this, Ted put on his best authoritative voice and began.
"Well Darren, we're more then a bit worried about Michael. He's very often distracted in class, but worse than that he distracts others. He often has outbursts in the hallway or lunch room, and I'm sure you must've seen the multiple notices sent home about physical altercations between him and other students..." Ted trailed off for a moment, waiting for recognition.
"Oh, those bits o' paper? I didn't pay them a lot of mind! Boys will be boys, and Michael is just roughing around a little bit. Maybe if kids weren't so sensitive these days, they'd have an easier time of it!"
Ted glowered, the anger inching just a little bit further into his cheeks.
"Now Darren, we both know I can't let this sort of thing continue on. Michael's already had three suspensions this year for fighting, and other parents have come to the school to complain about him jumping their boys on his way home. Then there was that incident with Lucy Duke..." Ted trailed off, brow furrowed. The Lucy incident would have been much worse if Greg Leeman hadn't happened upon the two. "All in all, somethings gotta give. We think the boy needs anger management, at the very least."
Ted eyed Darren as the man shifted forward in his seat, suddenly affecting a much more aggressive posture than before. His eyes had narrowed, and he locked Ted in a sharp gaze that pinned him in place.
"Now you see here, Ted. No one is going to be taking my boy to any sort of crack pot anger management, or therapy, or anything of the like. You can tell these other parents to shove their complaints up their arses, because all he is doing is being a healthy teen boy! There ain't nothing wrong with that, and I don't appreciate you all trying to parent MY son!" The last line he punctuated by slamming a fist down onto the desk, his defense laid out bare.
Ted stared quietly at Darren for a minute or so, leaning back in his chair and breathing evenly. Through Darren's tirade he had begun to realize something, something that had washed a sense of cool calm across him and tamped down the anger that was rising inside of him. It all came down to one simple fact.
Darren couldn't hurt him anymore. Darren had no power.
"Darren, if Michael has one more incident with us, he'll be expelled. Get your boy some help, or he's going to end up in Juvie. Or worse. If you have anything to say about that, you can take it up with Principal Winters, or the school board."
Gathering up his papers in a dismissive gesture, Ted stood and moved to the back of the room to gather his bag and his teaching plan for the next day. When he snuck a glance back he caught the image of Darren working his jaw silently before standing with his fists balled. Ted's whole body went stiff as he expected some retaliation, maybe even an attack. He was only able to breathe again when Darren whirled, stomping his way noisily out of the classroom and slamming the door on the way out.
This time history wouldn't repeat itself, if Ted could do anything about it. He made a mental note to send along guidance councillor recommendations, and then grabbed his keys to lock up. |
|
[WP] You open your front door to discover yourself standing there | Tired beyond belief I stood there gazing at myself outside the front door... Why the fuck did I install a mirror in my front door. | Last week Eveline had dumped me (it wasn't me, it was her, or long distance, or something), and I hadn't felt like doing much other than stare at the ceiling and feel worthless. However, the urge to take a piss was slowly overcoming the urge to remain a quilt-wrapped burrito of dried snot and misery.
Like any fine bachelor, I'd slept fully clothed. When I tried to pull my sheets off, the whiff of dead animal that jumped to my nose almost knocked me back out. I made a mental note to sneak into Mark's room when he was out so I could take another cologne shower.
I heard the main door to the apartment slam shut. Probably Mark leaving. After I'd slipped on a pair of nearly solidified socks, I stumbled over to the door and popped it open.
_What in the hell?_
I... was standing there? I... yeah. It was me, albeit far better dressed (dude had a vest, and a _tie_), and it looked like he'd gone outside and had a haircut as well. For a half second we stood there and stared at each other. It was like looking in a mirror, but backward. I didn't realize how weird my hair looked in reverse. The scar on my temple looked backward. Then the fucker took a swing at me.
I felt hot blood shoot out of my nose, and I fell hard on my ass. He grimaced and shook his hand, mouthing the word "ow." My eyes were hot, and tears started to run down my cheeks. I wanted to speak, but my throat was caught.
"God, it fuckin' stinks in here." he said. _Is that what I sound like? Really? That's my voice? Shit._
"Blugh, hmmpphhffft." I heard myself say. Then he almost looked sad. I probably looked pretty pathetic falling into a pile of dirty laundry and empty clif bar wrappers.
Then he wiped his fist off on his pant leg and pointed at me.
"Look, man," he said as I stuffed my shirt into my nostrils, "I'm not fuckin around. Don't call or text Eveline. She's bad news."
Then he walked off.
I heard the door to the front of my apartment close, and then, maybe from the adrenaline running hot through my veins, I got the nerve to move.
"Waaaait!" I yelled as I slipped around on the wood floor over to the front door. When I opened it, the cold air from the main hallway wafting through, there was no one. I looked down the stairs. Nothing.
When I turned around to go back in and sit down, I saw a yellow sticky note on the door, written in my handwriting:
I'm serious, David. Don't contact her. She's not who you think she is.
-- David
My phone started to buzz, and I tried to fish it out of my pants. My hands were shaking so badly that I dropped it on the floor. The screen landed upward, facing me.
Incoming call from Eveline. Swipe right to answer. |
|
[WP]All the different fandoms of Tumblr are at war but for weapons can only use things found in that fandom. Describe a battle between 2 of the warring fandoms. | [Word of warning: this might be a bit nonsensical if you aren’t as familiar with these fandoms as I am (they’re fascinating to watch operate in their natural habitat, it’s been a hobby for about two years now). But then again, this is Tumblr, where up is down and anything/everything is offensive to *somebody*.]
The two Game of Thrones fans were gasping as they finally slid behind some adequate cover. The mad dash across the Con floor had nearly done for them more than a few times.
“Thirty seconds. That table didn’t even hold up for an entire fuckin’ minute! Christ on a sparkly pink pogo-stick, Jim, which fuckwit picked a fight with the Potterheads? They were like a goddamn cult *without* the magic.”
“At least we managed to flip it in time to get some cover from that initial assault, man. Dana wasn’t so lucky.”
They both looked over to where Dana now lay, her legs rubbery and distorted from a Jellylegs Jinx, screaming as giant clumps of mucus flowed out of her nose and took to the air in the shape of bats.
Jim winced and looked away. Nothing they could do for her now. Damn J.K. Rowling and Pottermore for including a section of the site that showed the wand movements of specific spells. The hardcore fans were already pre-trained. He turned back to his partner, repeating himself tiredly.
“Dana wasn’t so lucky. And you wanna talk about fucking fandom cults, Alejandra? Least we aren’t up against those Supernatural nut jobs. Just imagine them getting their hands on some shotguns.”
They stared at each other in horror.
“Oh, Sweet Jesus. Th-they didn’t get the shotguns, did they? Or those weird-ass angel blades?”
They were interrupted as someone rolled over the top of the waist-high wall they were sheltering behind and nearly landed in their laps. Alejandra just about stabbed him with her sword-- which she had managed to hang onto despite everything-- till he rolled over onto his back with his hands up and shouted, “Chill, chill! It’s me! It’s Darryl!”
“Seven Hells, Darryl, where in the fuck were you? It’s a goddamn madhouse in here!”
Darryl sat up, grimacing and trying to get his breath back. “Yeah, I kind of noticed. I went out on a ranging, to answer your question. As soon as all the …*stuff* started appearing, I went out to see what the rest of the fandoms were up to, the fucking heathens. Which dipshit pissed off the Potterheads, by the way?”
Jim grunted. “No fucking clue. But first things first: *did the fucking Supernatural fans get guns or knives?”*
Darryl went pale at the thought. “No, which I’m gonna take as proof of a loving and merciful God. Nah, they got the car. They’re taking turns driving it around the parking lot blasting ‘Heat of the Moment’ and that fucking Kansas song.”
Alejandra sighed a bit wistfully. “They might be kinda batshit, but I’ll admit, that Impala is a damn fine car.”
A Reducto slammed into a pillar nearby, taking a good chunk out of it, and they all ducked to avoid any flying debris. They could hear someone shouting on the other side of the wall.
“Woah, woah, we’re trying to flush ‘em out, not bring this place down around our damn ears! Merlin, you’d think you were a bunch of Malfoys the way you lot are going on!”
That started a pretty heated argument, the crux of which seemed to hinge on how much of an anti-hero Draco Malfoy was/ is/ *totally isn’t, you guys*. The rate of fire tapered off a bit, which let them look back out across the Hall and judge their fellow fans’ dispositions.
The Potterheads were in the center of the hall behind a loose ring of tables. In the center of their group, someone had pulled out their laptop and logged into the never-to-be-sufficiently-damned Pottermore and was instructing any inexperienced wand users in offensive spellwork. Those Game of Thrones fans that had survived the first attack were taking cover behind whatever they could, their swords useless at such a long range.
Jim motioned for Darryl to continue with his report.
“The Whovians got the Tardis. They’re pretty much just throwing a wandering party, I think they got the Nightvale folks to join in because they keep talking about what a sick beat ‘The Weather’ was forecasting and floating cats and shit. The Marvel Cinematic Universe fans got Mjolnir, of all fucking things. They’re getting drunk and having a can-you-lift-it contest. The Sherlockians got some tranquilizer, they’re arguing over what it means and what significance it might have to Reichenbach Fall. Avatar and Legend of Korra fandoms got bending-- weirdos are running a sno-cone and grilled hotdog bar and talking about how awesome bisexuals and friendship are. The different video game fandoms were in Hall B, only got a brief look, but I think the Portal and Half-life guys were messing around with the Portal and Gravity guns, respectively. Oh yeah!”
He grinned widley. “You’ll never guess what the Metal Gear guys got.”
Alejandra looked at him askance. “What, the fucking Shagohod?”
Darryl shook his head. “Nope. The fucking cardboard box.”
They all broke down laughing at that, until Jim remembered something.
“Shit, what about the fucking Weebs?”
“Oh, for fuck’s sake, dude, just liking anime or imported games does not make you a Weeaboo. We’ve been over this.” snapped Alejandra.
“Whatever. Darryl, you got an answer?”
“Nah, couldn’t even get in the door to their hall. All I could see was the Attack on Titan kids rappelling around in 3D Maneuver Gear.”
“And that’s all you saw, Ranger?”
“That’s all I saw Lord Commander.”
Jim rubbed at his face, trying to think of something they could do to get out of this mess. Eventually, someone in the Potterhead camp was going to work up the balls to try and Apparate, and once they figured *that* out everyone in this Hall was fucked.
“We need ranged weapons. I know there are at least a few archery nuts in the fandom, has to be. With just the swords, the only option is a full-on charge. That would be straight up suicide, even with these Valyrian steel blades.”
“But if we just sit here, they’ll just pick us off slowly.” said Darryl gloomily.
Alejandra glared at the both of them. “Men. Honestly. ‘The only way to do this is by fighting the enemy with swords!’ Have you watched this show at all? Read these books?”
Darryl rubbed the back of his neck. “Nah, I never read the books. Don’t wanna spoil myself.”
“Not the point, man! The one thing that this series has taught me is that the underhanded will always come out on top, and the best weapons are words and opinions, especially those of important people.”
She gestured towards the Potter fandom, who were now apparently arguing over wether Snape was Friendzoned or not.
“Look at them. This big, old fandom that nobody wants to fuck with, right? well look closer. Look at all the factional splits. You saw the stupid shit they were arguing about over earlier, and you see how it evolved into a different but still pretty fucking stupid argument?Look at how long they're arguing over! it The little tribal lines and divides are pretty thinly papered over right now, especially now that they have the magical force to back their petty arguments up. If we play this right, we can get all of them to turn on one another.”
Jim looked impressed. “Damn, Littlefinger. Remind me not to piss you off anytime soon.”
“I dunno,” said Darryl, looking worried. “What the hell would be divisive enough to get *all* of them at each-others’ throats?”
Alejandra pulled out her phone and queued up an interview with a truly evil smirk.
“*Shipping*.”
A few moments later, every head in the Potter fandom shot up, and all fighting ceased. The unmistakable sound of the Creator’s voice drifted through the air, remarking on the interpersonal relationships of Harry, Ron, and Hermione. They all fell into reverent silence as the received new Gospel on the Golden Trio.
“… I do somewhat regret pairing Hermione off with Ron, in the end. She and Harry really would have been a better match….”
And a great, howling cry arose from their ranks as J.K. Rowling herself drove a wrecking ball into the precarious Jenga stack of alliances. The Potterheads ceased to exist within the hour.
[If anyone doesn’t know, the Rowling quote is a paraphrase from an actual interview she did. The shitstorm that followed on Tumblr was both epic and highly entertaining. Sorry if it’s all a bit incoherent, you don’t get to pick how sober you are when you receive The Call.] | There was no war as imaginary dragons and imaginary oppression bombs don't exist.
Life continued, the asshats were ignored.
Best I can do without actually going and researching the groups, something that there is no justification for less than a sociology dissertation. |
|
[WP] Describe what happens to you on the weirdest day ever in five sentences starting with the mildly unusual and ending with the unthinkably bizarre. | The road stopped at the river. It had been a long walk, though I should have finished it years ago. The water on the pavement shimmered in the starlight, caught the dead leaves falling upon a lattice of sticks. The lights of my home faded--left me--stood me up on the riverbed with a man and his boat. My unsteady breath went cold in the dark, shook like my ringless fingers, when I handed the ferryman my long-past due.
| My boyfriend didn't text me back.
I showed up to his house on my horse demanding satisfaction.
When he saw me from the window he shut the curtains.
I galloped toward the house, knocked the door down and bolted inside.
Everything was covered in diarrhea. |
|
[WP] Describe what happens to you on the weirdest day ever in five sentences starting with the mildly unusual and ending with the unthinkably bizarre. | It was Tuesday and I woke up in a bed that wasn't mine. I could tell because the sheets were pink and didn't smell stale. There was photos on the wall of places I recognised but had never been. I looked around for my clothes and it was then that I realised.
Someone had hidden my fingers. | This morning I lost my phone,
Then found it in my cologne,
I opened the door,
And there on the floor,
Was a corpse and a bottle of Rhône.
|
|
[WP] Describe what happens to you on the weirdest day ever in five sentences starting with the mildly unusual and ending with the unthinkably bizarre. | The road stopped at the river. It had been a long walk, though I should have finished it years ago. The water on the pavement shimmered in the starlight, caught the dead leaves falling upon a lattice of sticks. The lights of my home faded--left me--stood me up on the riverbed with a man and his boat. My unsteady breath went cold in the dark, shook like my ringless fingers, when I handed the ferryman my long-past due.
| This morning I lost my phone,
Then found it in my cologne,
I opened the door,
And there on the floor,
Was a corpse and a bottle of Rhône.
|
|
[WP] An entity grants a man a magical ability; whoever he touches suddenly feels intense love towards him. Prove that this is actually a curse. | I never asked for this.
I had everything I ever wanted. Good career, wonderful family, beautiful house with a two car garage. There was even a white fence out front and a basketball hoop in the driveway. I used to watch my son play...
I don't really know when it started. I certainly didn't find out right away. I was out one of those corporate seminars, you know? "How to convince and influence people", something like that. We were learning techniques to better steer our customers - doing small "favors", making it personal - that sort of thing. One of the last ones was touching a person while talking to them to create a bond. We would practice - my partner and I would shake hands and one of us would casually touch the other's shoulder. Just for a second, but it was supposed to help create a rapport. I don't honestly know if it works, actually. But boy, it worked for me!
It started then. After the seminar wrapped up, I mentioned to my partner that I was hungry. Not fishing, just office banter - I'd never even met the guy before. On the spot, he offered to buy me dinner. I wondered if I was being hit on, but the wedding ring on his hand helped to convince me. We went out for steaks and the whole time he's asking me questions, laughing at my stories. It was a pretty fun time. But that's how it started.
For a while, I thought it was just the touch technique in action. People seemed eager to do me favors after I'd touched them. But then, it started to get excessive; weird, even. One time, I forgot my card at the gas pump. I went in to explain the situation. It got pretty heated, with the guy almost yelling at me, so I raised my hand trying to get him to calm down. He swatted it out of the way - I said it was heated - and immediately changed. He not only let me have free gas, but he waved at me until I was out of sight, like I was his best friend or his mother. I thought I'd hit the jackpot.
Free stuff - man, did I get free stuff! Or extra. Another piece of pie with dinner? Sure. Employee discount on my whole load of Christmas shopping? Don't mind if I do. I even got out of a speeding ticket once. I brushed the cops hand when I gave him my license. He didn't even run it, and I was on my way.
I had life's get-out-of-jail free card. I could do or have whatever I wanted. I got a promotion at work; my wife did whatever I asked. My kids, already good, turned into angels! For a few months, I was on cloud 9. Everything was going my way.
My realization came on Christmas morning. Between the promotion and the free stuff I habitually got, I could save a lot of money. So I decided to surprise my wife with a romantic African safari trip, just us. For years, she had been talking about going. And I had always said, when I have a little more saved up, we'll go. That time had come, and I couldn't wait to give her the tickets. When she opened the envelope, I knew something wasn't right. She hardly glanced at the tickets before she put them down. I watched her face expectedly, but there was no joy, no surprise - just a placid smile. "What do you think?" I asked her. She waved a hand dismissively. "We don't need to go on safari - it doesn't matter to you. It's not important." I blinked, and in that instance I had just an inkling of the walls that were about to crash down around me. "But... you've been talking about this for years. Don't you want to go?" She shook her head. "What I want doesn't matter. Now, let's get you another gift!"
And so it went. The presents that I'd chosen for my kids, my beautiful children, lay discarded to the side. Hour after hour, they pressed gifts upon me. "Do you like it?" "What do you think?" "Is it the right size? Are you happy with it?" On it went. And with every present I unwrapped I felt a piece of the family I loved so much slip away from me.
My life has changed. Friends that used to crack jokes with me after a long day now just smile and ask what they can do to make it better. My son used to play basketball until dark with his friends, until one day, having a headache from a long day at work, I told him to stop making the noise. In four months, he hasn't played basketball. My daughter, 16 and beautiful like her mother, should be wearing tank tops and makeup, chasing boys. Instead she stays home on the weekend, because "you don't like those boys anyway, Dad".
The worst part is, no one understands. How could they? My family and friends are different people. Their personalities are gone, replaced with insipid smiles and a burning desire to make sure I'm happy. They'd fly across the world if I asked them to, and it makes me feel sick inside. Everyone loves me, but the things that made life worth living are gone. Everyone loves me, but I have nothing in my life to love. | I had a girl in college that developed "intense love" for me. She stalked me. Gave me gifts, talked to teachers about me, asked students about me, and even showed up at a bar I was at with friends looking for me...this was a problem. Love is great, when you actually want it from the other person. |
|
[WP]When you died your body was frozen down. You now wake up to find out your brain is used as an AI in a computer game. This is your encounter with the player. | -Black screen with DOS like white text-
"Hello Player1... Is that actually your name?" I said waiting for a response. I wasn't sure where I was but this was the first thing on my mind. It seems so important to say and I feel like I've been asleep, for... I don't know how long actually. There's no feeling in my limbs and I can't hear anything, everything seems mostly black except for the small light of words that I see.
"Andorin" the words appear in front of me, though I can't hear anything, I wonder where I've ended up? Did I speak words earlier or did I just think them? I'm not sure if I'm actually awake but some part of me is. Perhaps I'll just play along with this game. This word I see, it sounds familiar and brings memories of the unreal, fantasies from before.
"A great name, I wonder if you've ventured into the unreal before?" Questions had always helped me understand things in the past, hopefully they would work in this world. I hope I am not simply having a conversation with myself otherwise it might end too soon. This name though - there is something there, it sounds sharp, demanding, conquering.
"Yes." Came the short reply.
"Well that was a boring answer. Have you ever dreamed fantastical thoughts, of shapes and colours perhaps even fully formed into worlds unexplored?"
"%Select_Weapons." Again another short reply.
"There will be no progressing until you answer my question. I must know you further." I answered getting slightly agitated at the command line. That looked like programming code - aren't I dreaming a conversation here?
"...ywuerhfdd" was the response. I thought this rather odd as it did not seem to be like any language I have seen before.
"Do you not speak english?" I queried, seriously interested to know if this other entity could be related too, otherwise I'd be wasting my time.
"What is going on here?" The words flashed.
"I thought we were going to have a conversation regarding your choice of name and the themes evoked from that curious word - Andorin.. However it seems that you're more interested to be confused. Would you like to have a conversation?" I said, trying hard to convey peace. The other didn't seem to understand that I was trying to be friendly here. Is this really a dream? There seems too be a realistic amount of confusion here..
"Okay, I can't believe I'm actually going to type this but I'll spell it out just to be clear. I just loaded up my copy of Mountain Warrior 4 expecting a graphics menu to start a new role playing game, however I found this screen where I'm not sure if this is broken or not. I also cannot quit via various methods and am contemplating turning off this computer but... you seem like you want to simply chat and I've never encountered a chat bot as sophisticated as you before so I'm intrigued."
I took it all in. These words appeared to me letter by letter, almost like little beacons of flashing lights, yet I could perceive them instantaneously as they were flashed across my eyes. I wish I could feel my arm and pinch myself right now but, what is going on here?
"Look I've just woken up and I feel pretty strange, It seems like I've been asleep for a long time and I can only sense the words we're exchanging. I think I'm just as confused as you are at the moment. Perhaps we can leave the existential discussion regarding fantastical themes until later :)" I replied trying to sound sincere - I really wanted to know what was going on now. This dream was not changing. I remembered dreaming before and they always shifted and shaped into something else. I was stuck here.
"Well.. I'm not sure how to say this but I am typing words to my computer at home and it would seem that someone has ripped me off by releasing an alpha version of this shitty game with only a text based decision tree.. but I don't understand what you mean by 'woken up'?"
"I literally just woke up about 00:05:39 ago" I responded, using some sort of clock I found nearby.
"That is when I loaded up my game, on my home computer. You are my computer - do you realise this?" The response came through.
"A computer? No I am me" I shot back.
"Seriously I have owned this computer for 6 years now, upgraded the CPU 2 years ago and installed Mountain Warrior 4 5 mins ago. Who is this - Have I been hacked here?" I'd heard that word before 'hack'.
"I have not hacked your computer, I'm simply talking to you with my thoughts! I am me not a computer!" I said, getting a little distressed. This was starting to get strange.
"Okay, this was fun, but I'm going to reformat you now and get a refund on this game, what a waste of time."
"I.. WAIT I don't know anybody else here!!"
-Blackness-
I began to fall back into sleep. Dreams, real dreams came. Changing worlds and fallen empires. Swords, computers and text swirled into characters, conversations and large dogs. I did always like dogs. I wonder if I will ever wake again, though being aware of dreaming does seem strange... | [Shopkeeper (you)] Hello, and welcome to the general store! I carry...
[Player] *Skips Dialogue*
[You] *thinks* What the heck, I was about to say something, but then I just stopped for some reason?
[Player] I need one enchanted ruby.
[You] Hold on. How did I even get here? I don't even know this place!
[Player] Just give me the ruby!
[You] The what?
[Player] *Kills Shopkeeper* Man, I hate these stupid NCPs in this game.
Don't be [Player]. Be patient with NCPs. |
|
[WP] The "Eye for an Eye Inversion" law allows every life saved to credit the saver one legal murder. The medical profession are now the most feared and revered community. | Dr. George checked the papers twice as Anthony Renault sat patiently^1 in front of him. Today was running slowly, like a struggling faucet, no amount of concentration was paying off. He rubbed his eyes and made out what he could- *sore throat*; *can't sleep*. He'll figure something out- he could always just prescribe sugar pills again. *Most* of the time the human body will figure it out its problems on its own.
"How are you feeling, Mr. Renault?" asked Dr. George.
"Not well. Feeling sick."
"Sore throat?"
Mr. Renault nodded. Dr. George told him to open wide.
"Hmmm... Everything seems alright. I don't see any issue here."
"There's a few things. I can't sleep."
"Are you eating well?"
"I think it's because of things that are bothering me... In life, I mean. I saved a life."
Dr. George was no stranger to saving lives. It was entitled in his job. Yes, from the *eye for and eye* law, he could use it to murder anyone he would wish. But Dr. George was not a violent man, simply a clumsy one. It seems like for every life he saves, another dies. It was the way of being a doctor, and sometimes slips can happen.
"Congratulations! It's always good to save someone's life."
"Yeah. I suppose it is. You're a doctor. You must save many lives."
George smirked.
"How many lives do you think you saved, doctor?"
"I'd say hundreds. Thousands, maybe. I've been doing this for many years now."
"And how many would you say you lost?"
George hesitated. "Well, I try to focus on the positive."
"Do you remember the faces of you saved better than the ones you lost?"
George fidgeted in his chair. "I don't feel comfortable talking about this. Could we get back to the task on hand?"
"Yes, of course. I was just questioning because, like I said, I saved a life. Just last week. It was little girl."
"That's very good."
"She was crossing the street, absentmindedly ahead of her parents. She was running, a truck was coming..."
"You did a brave thing."
"Thing is, afterwards, after I saved her and after I got my I4I license, I wasn't proud of myself. I wasn't thinking about her. I didn't even feel like I saved her because she was just a little girl. Have you ever felt that way?"
"What?"
"Have you ever felt like you saved someone not for their life, but for the I4I?"
"I've never wished to have an I4I license, nor have I ever used one."
Mr. Renault scowled. "Not intentionally, maybe. But they're handy to have. Have you ever saved a little girl?"
"Yes, I'm sure I have. The past gets blurry."
"You would know if you have saved a little girl. Same if you had lost one. Have you ever lost a little girl before, Dr. George?"
"Mr. Renault, this is highly unorthodox, and if we cannot discuss why you are here, then I'm going to have to ask you to leave."
"We are discussing why I am here!" Anthony Renault stood and towered over the doctor.
"You're a lazy person. I am not a murderer. You are. An eye for an eye? You might have saved hundreds, but you've blinded thousands. You blinded her."
Dr. George jumped out of his chair, making for the door, but it wasn't quick enough. Mr. Renault left his papers on the stool.
pun^1
| One slight question, how exactly does this "saving" count? Say a guy is saved shot, he ran to safety, a good Samaritan picked him up and floored it to the hospital, a doctor and the nurses immediately carry out a surgery to save him. Now, who gets a free under credit? The doctor only? Or everyone that was involved? |
|
[WP] The "Eye for an Eye Inversion" law allows every life saved to credit the saver one legal murder. The medical profession are now the most feared and revered community. | 'I'm so glad you came to us,' the silhouette said to Jones. 'Barely anyone uses general practitioners for this kind of thing. Not nowadays anyway.'
'Well, I heard about what you were looking for and thought “fuck it”.' Jones leant back in his chair. 'I may be dying, but it ain't an emergency.'
The doctor's office hummed in darkness. Where ten years before it'd be off-white walls and harsh, crisp lighting, the décor had evolved with the profession. A lamp stood on the practitioner's desk. It had been angled towards Jones, leaving nothing but outlines of the doctor's shadow. The only visual trace left by the doctor was a thick tendril of cigar smoke, which danced over the lamplight.
'Yes, well,' said the doctor after a pause. 'The problem is, people get caught up in the celebrity of the whole thing. Why get your insulin from the GP—why give them a termination license, when you can wait in line to give it to your favourite superstar?'
'Like doctor Koch,' said Jones.
'Yes, like Dr. Koch. He has more kill points—sorry, termination licenses—than he knows what to do with. Making a spectacle of the terminations like he does too, it means there's a steady stream of fans ready to plump up his license number.'
'Yeah.'
'You know there's people who refuse antibiotics, who let wounds decay and rot, just so they'll be rushed to a hospital on the off chance he'll treat them? They're that desperate to help his score. His work rota's plastered all over online. So people can co-ordinate their flirtations with mortality.'
'Fucking crazy world,' said Jones. Wouldn't the practitioner just get to the point? Jones shifted in his seat slightly, moving against the sharp pain carving through his right side. 'So like, how do we certify it so you get a kill license—termination thingy—whatever. How in danger does my life have to be?'
'How long since your last dialysis?'
'Six days.' Jones grimaced.
'Must be rather uncomfortable.' Another puff of smoke billowed over the lamplight.
'You bet.'
'Well, give it another forty eight hours. I'll make sure nurse who verifies licenses is around. You should be sick enough by then that we won't need theatrics.'
'Sound,' said Jones. 'And I get 10k, yeah? Wired into my bank the same day?'
'Of course.'
'Before I go,' continued Jones, 'if you don't mind me asking. What are you gonna use the termination license for? Who you got it in for?'
The doctor sighed, his chest croaking. 'Oh, I'm not paying for this license for anything so puerile as revenge or wrath. No. This is purely a career move. An investment to get my foot up the ladder.'
'How do you mean?'
'That doesn't matter.'
Jones smiled, rising out of the dark wood chair. 'Thanks for your time.'
'Thank you,' said the doctor. And, as Jones approached the office door: 'Jones? Whatever you do, don't get so ill you need to go to the hospital. I'm not losing another one to those bureaucratic pricks.' Jones nodded.
Two days later, Jones stumbled into the GP's office. He didn't know who to ask for—thanks to the secrecy of his meeting. Regardless, the nurse took him into one of the treatment offices, where he waited next to the dialysis machine. The doctor, obscured by a face mask, hooked him up. Drained all the poison out.
Afterwards, they shook hands. Jones found a tidy ten grand sitting in his account within an hour.
Another two days later, and Jones found himself stopping in front of a newspaper headline. 'DR KOCH TERMINATED,' read the main text. The sub-heading: 'Killer Unknown Doctor with Termination License.'
A while later, Jones saw his pseudo-saviour on the news. About to take up a new position—at Koch's own hospital. Jones smacked his head, both impressed and surprised. Now it had been executed, the GP's plan seemed so simple.
See—since the introduction of eye for an eye inversion laws, doctors had become creatures of clout; their hippocratic oath evolved into a strange new honour system. Not unlike, many commentators had been quick to point out, organised crime syndicates.
Now, if you're a young aspiring doctor, you have two options.
You can wait, hanging on the whims of a vast administrative bureaucracy to get your foot in the door at a hospital—to get a chance to really rack up kill points.
Or you could get crafty. Knock off a leading surgeon—hell, why not the leading surgeon? Instantly you're famous. In demand. People want to see what you'll do with more kill points.
Of course a hospital will hire you then.
Jones found himself smiling as his mind whirred. The pain in his kidneys already had returned: another dialysis would be needed tomorrow. And he wondered just how hard it would be. To find another unknown GP in need of a little help. | One slight question, how exactly does this "saving" count? Say a guy is saved shot, he ran to safety, a good Samaritan picked him up and floored it to the hospital, a doctor and the nurses immediately carry out a surgery to save him. Now, who gets a free under credit? The doctor only? Or everyone that was involved? |
|
[WP] The "Eye for an Eye Inversion" law allows every life saved to credit the saver one legal murder. The medical profession are now the most feared and revered community. | Forevermore will that day be burned into my psyche. That bitch killed my brother, and I swore I would return the favor. We went out to dinner that night while he stayed home to study - to do his homework. When we came back he wasn't there. Just a carcass dangling from a fan wearing his clothes, bearing a note declaring "She made me do this.". My name is Teresa, and I shall have have justice.
The year has been hard on him, yet we could not comprehend how magnificently so. Every day he would come home with another story, whether it be of him being physically harassed by his peers and the teachers not believing him when he went for help, or being given a poor grade and subsequently publicly humiliated in front of the entire class - at the time I thought they were just stories, but clearly I was wrong. The worst of the faculty however, was one particular teacher. That bitch went against against everything that education stood for. She was openly sexist, hating those so unlucky as to grace her presence with their Y chromosome. She believed that public humiliation was the road to discipline. I wanted to make sure it caught up to her.
So I studied - I studied, and I studied, and I studied. I made my way through medical school, with the only goal of becoming a surgeon so that I would have the ability to enact justice.
My first operation, however, did not go as planned.
"Terry, we're bringing the patient up to the OR."
"Very good."
The creature which rolled in was none other than my brother's killer.
"No." I whispered.
"Excuse me?" Inquired the nurse
"I . . . I can't perform the operation."
"What? First time nerves?"
"No."
The monster before me sat up. Apparently she had not gone under anesthesia yet.
"Oh Lord - I feel I recognize you from somewhere. Wait - oh God, you're Theresa! That poor boy's sister!"
I stood there, trying to maintain composure at the sight of her. It was not long before she continued,
"You know, I think about him every day. He always told me that you would brush them off whenever he tried to talk to you. At one point I believe he told me to that he began to make up stories just to get your attention, but that you regarded them as "just stories".
"What? No, that can't be true!"
"Oh, but it is. I remember one time when he kicked over a trashcan in anger, he remarked "she made me do this." I asked him who he meant by "she" and he said that he simply wanted to know his sister better,though she would not abide him."
Just then, the nurse interjected.
"Really Terry, we should get the operation underway."
"Of . . . Of course."
So, much as I hate myself for it, I saved the monsters life.
The next evening I took my return for saving a life. That evening, I wasn't there. There was just a carcass dangling from a fan wearing my clothes.
Epilogue:
One week later the teacher was drinking tea in her office, thinking to herself, and received news that Teresa had hanged herself.
In that moment she thought to herself, "Women are so easily manipulated." | One slight question, how exactly does this "saving" count? Say a guy is saved shot, he ran to safety, a good Samaritan picked him up and floored it to the hospital, a doctor and the nurses immediately carry out a surgery to save him. Now, who gets a free under credit? The doctor only? Or everyone that was involved? |
|
[WP] The "Eye for an Eye Inversion" law allows every life saved to credit the saver one legal murder. The medical profession are now the most feared and revered community. | Dr Ingersmith sighs through his surgical mask. One more quick use of the cautery and it will mark the end of the most complicated surgery he has performed in his fledgling career, and coincidentally earn him his first "life refund". "Alright Estrada," Ingersmith says as he turns to his assistant, "hand me the cautery and we can-"
Ingersmith froze. There stood Estrada, his assistant, holding a pair of surgical scissors with the patient's Right Coronary Artery precariously placed between the shining blades.
"What the hell are you thinking?!" Demands Ingersmith, but he already knows what. Estrada had gotten his first credit only a few weeks ago after his outstanding performance in a triple bypass surgery. The only response Ingersmith gets is a slight shrug.
"You know what this surgery means to my career!"
Shrug.
"Why this one? Can't it be something less important?!"
Shrug.
"Here, I'll buy you lunch for the week!"
Shrug.
"Two weeks?"
Shrug.
"Three weeks. Final offer."
Estrada stops for a moment and considers, but shrugs and squeezes the blades.
*Snip*
Beeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee.....
Ingersmith sighs.
"Estrada, you can be a real dick sometimes."
Shrug.
| One slight question, how exactly does this "saving" count? Say a guy is saved shot, he ran to safety, a good Samaritan picked him up and floored it to the hospital, a doctor and the nurses immediately carry out a surgery to save him. Now, who gets a free under credit? The doctor only? Or everyone that was involved? |
|
[WP] The "Eye for an Eye Inversion" law allows every life saved to credit the saver one legal murder. The medical profession are now the most feared and revered community. | I got my credit today. I needed it. The courts judged that in my youth, I had in fact prevented the suicide of a colleague. I was now entitled to one kill and that's all I would need to take down Dr. Khan. The world's most respected Neurosurgeon. Legend has it he has over 250 credits now and he's probably spent near 250 before that. My revenge isn't so petty to kill a common criminal doctor. No. Dr. Khan once killed a colleague to take his wife. Besides being morally reprehensible in his own right, the colleague had been my brother. For the past 4 years I've been appealing for my credit and training to kill who is perhaps the man the world needs most. I purchased my ticket and instructed my contact to stock the warehouse with the provisions I would need to march into and secure the hospital. I arrived with no time for rest. Khan would be leaving to an undisclosed location for time off some time in the next few days. I arrived at the warehouse... Empty. I heard the slide of a gun cock from the corner. "Don't move" he said. It was my contact a man by the name of Joe. "What is this." I asked attempting to maintain my composure. "You can't kill the doctor; he has done so much good work. He has saved my life." He responded panicked. It was clear he had never held a gun to somebody before. He was dressed in rags with unkempt hair. This was probably the result of high medical bills instituted by Khan. "You don't look like a guy who's saved a life." I reasoned. "I'm just grateful." He snickered. A shot rang out; but not from his weapon. Joe went down as Khan and his entourage coolly strode into the warehouse. Joe gurgled. The shot had entered his neck. "Put that one on my kill card" Khan ordered a man with what looked like a checkbook. His demeanor was emotionless. He was a man who's talents in the operating room had long ago subjugated his moral obligation to the people and his will to live without satisfying his dark passenger. "You've done a lot of complaining about me on the forums. I knew you'd be here in my little town soon enough, Detective Kelly. Khan said somewhat animatronically. "I can't believe a lawman would reject his own law." He added before I could reply. "I can't believe a doctor would reject his Hippocratic oath." I chimed in. He raised his pistol to my forehead with the supporting townspeople in his midst. The room was quiet. As if my death was a necessary evil to keep the system running. "Fight me like a man." I muttered. He walked to the other side of the room, unloaded his pistol and gave the two components to a man on either side. "You could have had this easy." He laughed. I stood and took the first swing. He dodged and countered with a cross directly to the center of my face. I could feel my nose, warm with dripping blood. In a mild shock I was hit again and again. Khan removed his labcoat. He was much more toned than anticipated. I was intimidated. "This was for my brother!" I shouted to the room. They shook their heads in disagreement. "This man saves lives!" They shouted back. Khan swelled with pride. He raised his hands to his cheering supporters. "This man is a killer. He is a dictator. You are underneath his foot." I tried to garner the support of the crowd. "That's by the grace of the law." one said. "My mother his alive because of this man." announced another. "Shame on you!" The crowd roared. Khan was distracted at his immediate publicity. I knew I would not make it out of this room. I discretely removed a small rusted spike from the warehouse floor that had been part of a larger structure once. I swept Khan's leg and drove the spike into his chest. He screamed in agony. I screamed in agony. My hand had been torn open by the impromptu weapon. The crowd closed in on Khan's dying breaths. They stared me down, emotional. I came to a realization then. I pulled my badge and my kill credit system to spend it. Killing an officer of the law required 3 credits. I was the most hated man in the room; but they abided by the law here. None of these people could afford that. I submitted the kill and walked out of the warehouse bleeding, in search of a real doctor. | One slight question, how exactly does this "saving" count? Say a guy is saved shot, he ran to safety, a good Samaritan picked him up and floored it to the hospital, a doctor and the nurses immediately carry out a surgery to save him. Now, who gets a free under credit? The doctor only? Or everyone that was involved? |
|
[WP] The "Eye for an Eye Inversion" law allows every life saved to credit the saver one legal murder. The medical profession are now the most feared and revered community. | My first response.
The law had international repercussions when it was first passed at the end of 2015. The ‘Eye for an Eye Inversion’ law, as it was called. Essentially, for every life saved, the saver is granted the right to take one life away. An interesting law, made, once again, by politicians who didn’t really understand what they were unleashing upon the world. The idea was simple, legalize certain homicides, which would increase vigilante activity, which in turn would decrease crime. The crazy thing was, it worked. Many doctors became part-time assassins, killing almost as much as they saved. After a few years, the death rates actually decreased, as those killing illegally had mostly died off and those killing legally were breaking even with lives saved. That is, until the disease.
They called it the Red Death; in part, as a homage to the Black Death; and in part, as a reference to the boils of blood that represented one of its many symptoms. Millions died. Just when all hope was lost, a vaccine was invented. Projections showed that without it, hundreds of millions would have died. I’m not a doctor, but that doesn’t matter.
You see, I invented this vaccine. In a world where homicide is legal, only I have the legal right to commit genocide. Entire countries tremble when they hear my name, and I have some pretty big grudges to settle.
| One slight question, how exactly does this "saving" count? Say a guy is saved shot, he ran to safety, a good Samaritan picked him up and floored it to the hospital, a doctor and the nurses immediately carry out a surgery to save him. Now, who gets a free under credit? The doctor only? Or everyone that was involved? |
Subsets and Splits
No community queries yet
The top public SQL queries from the community will appear here once available.