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Dataset card Data Studio Files Files and versions Community

Split (1)

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	[WP] You are an NPC. The Player has entered your shop/house/lair	The first time I met him, it had been a sunny day in the middle of the seven-hundred and fifteenth year of Faulk. He was younger then, brighter--whatever lack in the weapons and shoddy clothes he had was made up for in the ambition that coloured his eyes and in the way he so carefully counted his coins before handing them to me. He wasn't the first person to walk into my shop and surely he wouldn't be the last, but as I handed him his set of potions (all fifty tied up in a leather bag), he was the first to say 'thank you' before leaving. And all the others hadn't said thank you before. -- The second time we met, it was sunny again. He entered my shop and the weapon at his hip was bigger now, longer. It wasn't from anywhere in town, certainly, and I imagined it was something that came from whatever faraway area he might've travelled to become stronger. His clothes were different; they were heavier now, made for defence and protection against the elements rather than simply to hide his nudity. This time he bought mid-potions (all fifty tied up in a leather bag), and he counted his coins faster than he did the first time we met. I handed him the bag, he took it, and he said 'thank you' with a sheepish curve to his smile. This time, I had the ability to smile back. -- The third time we met, he was dressed in armour, brilliant and blinding and glittering from the orange of the fire in the room. He had a shield and a sword and power in his stance, and when he took his helmet off it looked as if he'd seen many things. He had something rare to sell today--something from the depths of a cave no-one else would dare to challenge--and while I fumbled with the first sac of spider eggs I'd ever handled in my life, he made his order. Between the two of us we exchanged high potions, my most prized and most effective creation, and he handed me his coins with a more mature edge to his eyes I hadn't quite witnessed before. Something stretched between us: a moment, a pause, a breath of air, and for some reason I felt as if perhaps he had more to say. I couldn't speak beyond what I normally said, couldn't say anything after I finished my 'thank you for your patronage', and though I wanted to ask, my lips wouldn't move. He looked at me with something drenched in nostalgia, both tragic and fond all the same, and when he addressed me again I found myself hating that all I could respond with was a 'how may I help you'. His gaze fixed onto something specific on my face I couldn't put a pin on: was it the beard? The thick brows? The smears of charcoal from all the time I spent before a cauldron? He smiled, said 'nothing', and then 'thank you'. He held the bag of high potions--my greatest creations, my magnum opus, the best thing you could buy in town--in a gloved hand. "Goodbye," he said. And all the others hadn't said goodbye before. --- The fourth time we met never came. EDIT: Whoa, thanks for the gold, anonymous! This is my first submission ever and I'm literally sitting here floored. Thank you, thank you!	Oh thank the gods, a player! It's been weeks Nothing was visible just yet. The door had opened, but the player was still loading. I was stood by a fire place, pretending to warm up. Truth was, I was boiling hot, sure I've been here for weeks. I was a co-owner of a small shop in the middle of a small thatched town which in turn was in the middle of nowhere. The other owner, Darma, stood behind the counter. We didn't talk much, thank the gods again. A figure formed at the door, IT IS a player..., I thought with relief. Normally it's another damned NPC who is on an endless cycle of wandering around the town and sometimes stumbles into our shop. That guy is so frickin' annoying though. He just comes in and declares how nice it is outside. He's a prick. The player looks around the room and sprints full speed over to Darma. "Shop keep!", he shouted. "Welcome to my humble store, how can I help?", she asked with a smile. I frowned at the fireplace, Our shop... OUR fucking shop "I want to sell these four hundred rotten pounds of rat meat please" The fuck... you'd think this is strange, but it's not. How does he carry four hundred pounds of it AND, what use do WE have for rotten rat meat... She'll buy it anyway, no doubt "Oh course, we'll buy it for two hundred gold coins", she says with her stupid smile. "Good. Bye!", he turns, I doubt he even made eye contact and he sprints out having put the two hundred gold coins into the tiniest little money bag you'll ever see. "Come back soon" As usual, the player totally ignores me because I don't have a mission icon floating above my ugly head. I don't even know what my dialogue is... and now our shop fucking stinks! I really do hate Darma.
	[WP] You are an NPC. The Player has entered your shop/house/lair	The first time I met him, it had been a sunny day in the middle of the seven-hundred and fifteenth year of Faulk. He was younger then, brighter--whatever lack in the weapons and shoddy clothes he had was made up for in the ambition that coloured his eyes and in the way he so carefully counted his coins before handing them to me. He wasn't the first person to walk into my shop and surely he wouldn't be the last, but as I handed him his set of potions (all fifty tied up in a leather bag), he was the first to say 'thank you' before leaving. And all the others hadn't said thank you before. -- The second time we met, it was sunny again. He entered my shop and the weapon at his hip was bigger now, longer. It wasn't from anywhere in town, certainly, and I imagined it was something that came from whatever faraway area he might've travelled to become stronger. His clothes were different; they were heavier now, made for defence and protection against the elements rather than simply to hide his nudity. This time he bought mid-potions (all fifty tied up in a leather bag), and he counted his coins faster than he did the first time we met. I handed him the bag, he took it, and he said 'thank you' with a sheepish curve to his smile. This time, I had the ability to smile back. -- The third time we met, he was dressed in armour, brilliant and blinding and glittering from the orange of the fire in the room. He had a shield and a sword and power in his stance, and when he took his helmet off it looked as if he'd seen many things. He had something rare to sell today--something from the depths of a cave no-one else would dare to challenge--and while I fumbled with the first sac of spider eggs I'd ever handled in my life, he made his order. Between the two of us we exchanged high potions, my most prized and most effective creation, and he handed me his coins with a more mature edge to his eyes I hadn't quite witnessed before. Something stretched between us: a moment, a pause, a breath of air, and for some reason I felt as if perhaps he had more to say. I couldn't speak beyond what I normally said, couldn't say anything after I finished my 'thank you for your patronage', and though I wanted to ask, my lips wouldn't move. He looked at me with something drenched in nostalgia, both tragic and fond all the same, and when he addressed me again I found myself hating that all I could respond with was a 'how may I help you'. His gaze fixed onto something specific on my face I couldn't put a pin on: was it the beard? The thick brows? The smears of charcoal from all the time I spent before a cauldron? He smiled, said 'nothing', and then 'thank you'. He held the bag of high potions--my greatest creations, my magnum opus, the best thing you could buy in town--in a gloved hand. "Goodbye," he said. And all the others hadn't said goodbye before. --- The fourth time we met never came. EDIT: Whoa, thanks for the gold, anonymous! This is my first submission ever and I'm literally sitting here floored. Thank you, thank you!	'Welcome, sir, to Todd's-' The man walked straight to the counter and, without a word, dropped the entire contents of his Bag of Holding on it. 'H-how can I help you?' I said, looking at the wild assortment of objects- rings, swords, a piece of some magical beast's anatomy (don't ask me what piece), and so on. 'I wanna sell this stuff.' He said. 'Except for the bag, of course.' 'Uh...I don't really need a goblin-forged iron pot sir. Or a..what is this, ogre? femur. I'm a weaponsmith.' 'This one's a ring of water breathing.' He said, ignoring me. 'I have one already. It's at least a couple thousand gold pieces.' 'I...can't afford that, sir! That's more than I make in a year! And I wouldn't know what to do with it, the only water in the forest is the river! There's no large body of water for miles, no one would buy that thing!' 'This is blood from a Fire Giant. Great for alchemy. I know 'cause I once killed one for an alchemist, got a handsome reward. Magic Axe. Sets things on fire from time to time.' 'Oh.' I said, looking at the greataxe hanging on his back. 'This is a very nice shop.' He added. 'Good wood in this area. It would be a shame if it were to catch fire. Hey, I know, you could use this Fire Giant blood I just sold you to get an alchemist to put some Fire Protection around the place!' 'That...' I sighed, holding back my tears. 'That's a great idea, sir.'
	[WP] You are an NPC. The Player has entered your shop/house/lair	The first time I met him, it had been a sunny day in the middle of the seven-hundred and fifteenth year of Faulk. He was younger then, brighter--whatever lack in the weapons and shoddy clothes he had was made up for in the ambition that coloured his eyes and in the way he so carefully counted his coins before handing them to me. He wasn't the first person to walk into my shop and surely he wouldn't be the last, but as I handed him his set of potions (all fifty tied up in a leather bag), he was the first to say 'thank you' before leaving. And all the others hadn't said thank you before. -- The second time we met, it was sunny again. He entered my shop and the weapon at his hip was bigger now, longer. It wasn't from anywhere in town, certainly, and I imagined it was something that came from whatever faraway area he might've travelled to become stronger. His clothes were different; they were heavier now, made for defence and protection against the elements rather than simply to hide his nudity. This time he bought mid-potions (all fifty tied up in a leather bag), and he counted his coins faster than he did the first time we met. I handed him the bag, he took it, and he said 'thank you' with a sheepish curve to his smile. This time, I had the ability to smile back. -- The third time we met, he was dressed in armour, brilliant and blinding and glittering from the orange of the fire in the room. He had a shield and a sword and power in his stance, and when he took his helmet off it looked as if he'd seen many things. He had something rare to sell today--something from the depths of a cave no-one else would dare to challenge--and while I fumbled with the first sac of spider eggs I'd ever handled in my life, he made his order. Between the two of us we exchanged high potions, my most prized and most effective creation, and he handed me his coins with a more mature edge to his eyes I hadn't quite witnessed before. Something stretched between us: a moment, a pause, a breath of air, and for some reason I felt as if perhaps he had more to say. I couldn't speak beyond what I normally said, couldn't say anything after I finished my 'thank you for your patronage', and though I wanted to ask, my lips wouldn't move. He looked at me with something drenched in nostalgia, both tragic and fond all the same, and when he addressed me again I found myself hating that all I could respond with was a 'how may I help you'. His gaze fixed onto something specific on my face I couldn't put a pin on: was it the beard? The thick brows? The smears of charcoal from all the time I spent before a cauldron? He smiled, said 'nothing', and then 'thank you'. He held the bag of high potions--my greatest creations, my magnum opus, the best thing you could buy in town--in a gloved hand. "Goodbye," he said. And all the others hadn't said goodbye before. --- The fourth time we met never came. EDIT: Whoa, thanks for the gold, anonymous! This is my first submission ever and I'm literally sitting here floored. Thank you, thank you!	"Welcome to my shop, sir! May I help you with any- Oh, I see that you have placed a bucket on my head. Wow, this is rather inconvenient. Could you please remove the bucket? I can't see you right now. I also can't move my arms above shoulder level so this is really a problem for me. Sir? Sir? You realize that I saw your face as you came in. I know who you are. Sir? This bucket on my head is rather heavy. Please remove it, will you? Did I just hear something crash? Are you breaking things? Hello? OW! Something just hit me. That smell... did you throw cheese at me, sir? Ow! Please stop that. You could hurt someone doing th- OW! Sir, please, that... that wasn't cheese anymore, was it? Was that... a mammoth snout? What kind of person carries a mammoth snout around with them? What kind of psychopathic- Oh, now you've stabbed me. Wonderful. Customer's always right, my ass. This is it, now. I'm done just standing here. I still can't see anything because of the bucket on my head, but I'm taking you d- I'm on fire! AHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!"
As it says!	[WP] your house is haunted by a malicious ghost with evil intent. The only problem is you just really don't care.	When I got out of bed this morning, a dark claw grabbed me by the ankle as soon as I put my feet on the ground. It roared, "*COME DOWN HERE...WITH ME." I bent down, looking under my bed, and saw a floating human eyeball along with some of the arm grabbing my ankle. I couldn't see where it started, as it was too dark under my bed. "Um...can you stop that please? It's kind of annoying." "WHAT DO YOU MEAN, MORTAL? THIS SHOULD BE A CHILLING EXPERIENCE!" "The only thing chilling about this is that your hand is kind of cold. Now get off." A red, bloody tentacle latched around my other leg. "I said get off." "YOU MUST BE AFRAID. I COULD PULL YOU UNDER HERE AT ANY SECOND." "Actually, the space under this bed is WAY too small for me to fit." "THEN I SHALL FORCEFULLY PULL YOU AND IT SHALL TEAR OFF YOUR FLE-" I interrupted the demon. "Dude. Shut up. How do you even talk?" A long black tube slithered out of under the bed, with a grinning mouth on the end. It floated in front of my face. "That question was rhetorical, idiot." "DON'T YOU DARE CALL ME AN IDIOT!" it yelled, spitting black tar all over my face. I wiped it off with my sleeve. "WHAT? THAT TAR SHOULD BE EXCRUCIATINGLY BOILING!" "Y'know, things get colder when they're under a bed." A purple vine wrapped around my right arm, squeezing tightly. "How many limbs do you HAVE?" "WHY ARE YOU QUESTIONING LIMB AMOUNTS? I HAVE DESTROYED ENTIRE UNIVERSES!" It grabbed me again, using a tongue coming from a different spot from under the bed. "...You have 2 mouths?" "GRAAAAAAAAAAAGH!" It attempted to pull me in. I pulled back, ripping the whole behemoth out from under the bed. It had much more limbs than I had anticipated. I counted 72, all of different styles. But its main body was a green orb, with only a human eyeball on it. I looked at the shape it had made, latching around my limbs. I slid the 2 appendages on my legs up to my waist, and the one on my arms down to my chest. "I've always wanted one of these." "WHAT ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT, MORTAL?" I grabbed my newborn child from its crib and put him in the newly created baby pouch. It giggled. "I WILL HAVE MY REVENGE, FLESH PILE!" "Yeah, right." I then proceeded to work. Surprisingly, everyone else was wearing their own ghost clothing. I went over to my co-worker, Daniel, and asked him where he got those purple mouth boots. "In my closet." The End*	Most people hate doing laundry. Not me. I guess routine is comforting. The blood raining from a vortex in the ceiling hisses into puffs of ectoplasm where it touches the clothes iron, and occasionally I hear low chanting over the evening news. It's nice to just switch off for a while and relax. The only problem is the blood. It's getting boring now after two weeks straight - considering Bob has the whole day while I'm at work to come up with ideas he is not very imaginative. I actually have no idea what his name is, or even if he is a he. But I call him Bob. Big David Lynch fan. Anna used to think Bob was simply lonely, or traumatized. Then he manifested as a giant spider and jumped her on the way to the bathroom at 4AM. Unfortunately Anna is intensely arachnophobic ever since being sent to hospital by a spider bite as a kid. The thing is, she told me about that the previous day in Bob's hearing. We still see each other, but she doesn't understand how I can live here. To be fair Bob has his good points, too. Jehova's Witnesses, Mormons and Seventh Day Adventists don't know where to start. And I have never had anything stolen. The chanting intensifies, and shadows seem to spread from the corners of the room despite the fact that the vortex in the ceiling has started to glow. I notice the vortex is larger than it was yesterday. But where else am I going to find a rent controlled apartment in New York?
As it says!	[WP] your house is haunted by a malicious ghost with evil intent. The only problem is you just really don't care.	"Eat your greens, comb your hair, brush your teeth, sit up straight!", it warned me "Chop chop, hurry up, you'll be late!". In childhood it started, right up to this date, not knowing I'd long been resigned to my fate. "You must study harder, to pass your exams!" but I'm not one of those who studies and crams So as the voice jeers, and laments, calls me names I turn up the volume of my video games. "You must make an effort, to get a good job! Get out, meet some friends and earn a few bob!" But happily, I brush off the crumbs from my belly Snuggle down in my bed, and switch on the telly. "You're 40 years old now, no family, no wife! - I'd be doing much better if I had a life!" It's true what it says, but there's no need to moan With my ghost always here, I don't feel so alone. "You're a waste of a body! Your life is a mess!" but I don't think I'll ever succumb to the stress. My life's a disaster, it's true! I confess! But ghosty, please hear me. I couldn't care less.	Most people hate doing laundry. Not me. I guess routine is comforting. The blood raining from a vortex in the ceiling hisses into puffs of ectoplasm where it touches the clothes iron, and occasionally I hear low chanting over the evening news. It's nice to just switch off for a while and relax. The only problem is the blood. It's getting boring now after two weeks straight - considering Bob has the whole day while I'm at work to come up with ideas he is not very imaginative. I actually have no idea what his name is, or even if he is a he. But I call him Bob. Big David Lynch fan. Anna used to think Bob was simply lonely, or traumatized. Then he manifested as a giant spider and jumped her on the way to the bathroom at 4AM. Unfortunately Anna is intensely arachnophobic ever since being sent to hospital by a spider bite as a kid. The thing is, she told me about that the previous day in Bob's hearing. We still see each other, but she doesn't understand how I can live here. To be fair Bob has his good points, too. Jehova's Witnesses, Mormons and Seventh Day Adventists don't know where to start. And I have never had anything stolen. The chanting intensifies, and shadows seem to spread from the corners of the room despite the fact that the vortex in the ceiling has started to glow. I notice the vortex is larger than it was yesterday. But where else am I going to find a rent controlled apartment in New York?
	[WP] A very short story that includes the line. "I must get back to the sea"	A drop falls and kisses me warm, oh she. "I must get back to the sea, to the place where everyone is me," she whispers before she hits sands and gets washed asea. Swaying coconut tree and wave in swashes of three. "Wait for me," I breathe as I see the sea.	The waves washed the fish upon the shore its only thought before its life left its body was "I must get back to the sea."
	[WP] A very short story that includes the line. "I must get back to the sea"	Kyle spotted me from across the office. Great. As he penguined up to me, a big grin spread across his too large lips, I heaved a sigh the size of the room. I got up to intercept him, be all proactive and shit. He was about to explode with conversation when I held up my hand in the universal motion for stop. "Hey, love to chat but I must get back to the sea salt and vinegar chips." I pointed behind me where my half-eaten lunch lay. "Great talk Kyle, bye." I turned and sat back down to a satisfying curly-cue crunch. Kyle was never the same.	The waves washed the fish upon the shore its only thought before its life left its body was "I must get back to the sea."
	[WP] A very short story that includes the line. "I must get back to the sea"	A drop falls and kisses me warm, oh she. "I must get back to the sea, to the place where everyone is me," she whispers before she hits sands and gets washed asea. Swaying coconut tree and wave in swashes of three. "Wait for me," I breathe as I see the sea.	One unfortunate December afternoon, Seattle was facing the most ferocious tropical storm in history. Caused abruptly by an unknown anomaly in the northern pacific, the public wasn't notified of this situation until it was too late to seek refuge outside the city and seeking shelter immediately was the only reasonable method of survival. By pure coincidence, the annual 2029 Genius Convention (an international convention uniting over 75% of the world's genii with the goal of sharing knowledge and presenting ideas to world-renown intelligentsia) was taking place in Seattle during this same afternoon, and they weren't ready for it. As emergency patrols were sweeping the city trying their best to evacuate the outdoors and get everyone into shelter, the storm suddenly grows significantly more powerful with winds at speeds so fast that the sound they make rushing past you would drown out the deadly hail shattering windshields just 20 feet away. The head of the team, Leonard Penn, was ready to sacrifice his life to ensure the safety of his fellow citizens. The destination was the Genius Convention. By any means necessary, the survival of those brilliant men and women were of the highest priority. Without a warning, a sharp piece of debris comes hurling through Penn's windshield piercing him directly through his chest pinning him to his seat. Out of control, his vehicle swerves to the right and slams into the corner of a brick building. Heart-melted and stunned solid was his partner in the vehicle behind him, Robert Masc. Masc pulled over and rushed to Penn's vehicle as fast as possible being pushed to the ground several times. When he finally made it to his partner's vehicle, he pulled the door open and it propelled outward flying off the hinges and into the air. In a tear-filled raspy voice and eyes squinting, Robert yells, "No Leo! Please no! I need you right now! Anything but this..." His head just barely tilting toward Robert, Leo breathes his dying words, "At any cost, the genii must get back to the Seattle Central Shelter."
	[WP] A very short story that includes the line. "I must get back to the sea"	A drop falls and kisses me warm, oh she. "I must get back to the sea, to the place where everyone is me," she whispers before she hits sands and gets washed asea. Swaying coconut tree and wave in swashes of three. "Wait for me," I breathe as I see the sea.	Marooned on a coconut awash white sands, each foamy wave pushing me deeper. I know I cannot breathe for long here as I grip the hairy surface of this fruit, I will my arms to inch forward as the noonday sun beats down on my skin. "I can do this," I tell my myself, my very survival depends on it. I must get back to the sea, just one tentacle in front of the other.
	[WP] A very short story that includes the line. "I must get back to the sea"	A drop falls and kisses me warm, oh she. "I must get back to the sea, to the place where everyone is me," she whispers before she hits sands and gets washed asea. Swaying coconut tree and wave in swashes of three. "Wait for me," I breathe as I see the sea.	"I can't seem to remember much. All my memories: gone. I know that I had them. I can still remember the way they made me feel; I just can't recall the memories themselves. I have been here much too long. Many thousands of years spent toiling about. A new cave here, a new mountain there, it's all the same. I cannot stand this place. Despair has overcome me. I haven't seen another member of my specie since it happened. I am separated by this vast body of water. I know what I must do, but I have neither the mind nor the body for it. But I must. I must get back to the sea..."
	[WP] "Of all the things I've done in my life, I'm getting sent to hell for THAT?"	Adam slams his fist against his chest with a sort of boyish determination and fire. His eyes are livid with the sort of mature, masculine honesty that doesn’t really exist. “I did not kill all those people!” Adam shouts with a passionate, heartfelt rage, gazing at Satan on his black throne, head tilted back because Satan sits on a mountain of burnt bones. “I did not! I did not! I did not!” “Oh, I’m not saying you did,” Satan assures, crossing his legs. His charcoal black nails click together in a quick, upbeat tempo. “I am not saying that at all.” “I am not accusing you of accusing me,” Adam says. “After all, you know I did not! You are the devil. You know these things. Surely, you know that I did not kill all those people.” “Ha ha,” says the devil. “Ha ha,” says Adam. “Well, if that is that, I ask you to not let me near the flames of Hell. It is, after all, not my punishment to take.” “Of course,” Satan says. “Well, I would know if you did, for I am the devil, like you said. Ha ha!” “Ha ha!” Adam says. “I know you killed all those people,” Satan says, smiling. “Ha ha!” Adam says, voice strained now. “That is a funny joke.” “It is not a joke,” Satan tells him. “Well, then, I ask you, are soldiers in Hell? What of patriotism? What of the willing heart?” Adam’s voice is loud and raw again with the kind of sentiment that belongs to superheroes during the climax of a battle scene as they face their villain who has bombed an entire city and killed all of its civilians from the old grandmother to the cute pomeranian. “You cannot let me burn in Hell for killing people!” “You bombed an entire city,” Satan reminds him gently. “AS DID THE PRESIDENT OF THE UNITED STATES!” Adam cries in an orgy of confident authority and a burning fury of one searching for a truth, slamming a clenched fist into his open palm with the force of a judge slamming down his hammer. “Well,” Satan says, “it makes no difference to me if someone kills other people. Ha ha!” “Ha ha!” Adam says in agreement. “Still, you must burn,” Satan continues. “You have committed sins.” “I have committed no sins,” Adam says. “Ha ha!” says Satan. “I am not joking,” says Adam in the way of solemn men, like the ones in football or baseball movies who take sports teams to nationals through the power of friendship, the immense loyalty that sticks like cancer cells, and illegal steroids swallowed with a swig from sponsored Gatorade bottles. “Here is a joke, however. The chicken crossed the road, but was shot the moment he got to the other side. Ha ha!” “Ha ha!” “I have only killed a city’s worth of people, much less than the amount that died during God’s flood! I have never slept with a man! I drank no beer or vodka, only red wine, and I never did on Sunday! In fact, every Sunday, I have gone to church.” Adam rattles off his virtues with vigor until his chest is heaving. “I see.” “You are such a powerful person,” Adam adds in between pants as he struggles to regain his breath with the doggedness of a stubborn warrior. “I would truly like to lay with you in bed, perhaps, if I did not burn. Ha ha!” “Ha ha!” Satan says. He licks his lips with a languorous and very pink tongue and sighs. “Your offer was funny. In fact, you are a very humorous person, but I am sorry. You must burn. Ha ha!” “Ha ha! Was that a joke?” “Of course not,” Satan says. “Ha ha!” Adam’s posture, previously gracefully held in flawless elegance, shifts so his chest sticks out and his shoulders are square with great pride. His glistening, emotional eyes contain wildfires. “THEN, TELL ME! WHY WILL I BURN IN HELL?” “Oh,” Satan says, “because you bombed an entire city, of course!” Adam quakes with uncontrollable wrath as though he has been confronted with the greatest injustice he has ever heard, as if his morals have been broken right in front of him with little care. “As did the PRESIDENT OF THE UNITED STATES!” “That is true,” Satan says. “The road to Hell is paved with good intentions,” Adam states. “Ha ha!” says Satan. “Ha ha!” says Adam. Satan’s long, beautiful fingers come together to snap with a crisp, efficient slide of his fingertips. With the action, Adam catches fire. He begins to scream. “Ha ha!” laughs Satan, and watches him burn.	Dr Mehmed raged aloud, mustache tips gesticulating wildly as his rapidly reddening face spluttered in outrage. "Headmaster, I must protest this most irredeemable and torturous appointment. This... social gathering... is completely unacceptable for an elderly Head of Department such as myself. Perhaps Mr Astaire from Expressive Arts should be requisitioned for such a purpose, but certainly not myself." The headmaster gazed at the infuriated man before him in abject shock. Dr Mehmed had never before addressed him like this, nor his predecessors, even when he had been asked to teach during wartime, with bombs falling about the school buildings. "My dear Dr Mehmed," he began, cautiously, "I have never seen you object in such an insistent manner before. Surely you would not treat your colleague with such disrespect? And besides, you are the most qualified for this duty, even more so than our drama teachers. Your advanced certificate, as I might recall?" Dr Mehmed gripped the desk in from of him, knuckles transforming into a deathly pale white. "Of all the things i've done in my life, i'm getting sent to hell for THAT? It was a miserable three years of research, done only so I could be better qualified to attend my insufferable uncle's wedding!" The headmaster smoothened his suit lapels, pausing before speech. "A doctorate in creative arts just so you could dance at a wedding? My my Mehmed, I never knew that side of you. Anyway, you are doing this duty, no matter your squabbling. The students love you, you'll get on great. And you'll have a chance to wear your tuxedo again." Wretched misery grew within Dr Mehmed heart. Tears began to well threateningly in his eyes, and his mustache drooped to the point of joining his long beard. "But sir!" he wailed, frantically. "It...it... it's prom sir! How could you‽"
	[WP] "Of all the things I've done in my life, I'm getting sent to hell for THAT?"	Norman Russell leaned against the wall, lifting a cigarette to his mouth. He spoke between puffs of smoke. “So…I’m…in hell,” he said. “I figured…I’d… be here.” He glared at the crimson man who stood before him. The man was of high stature, had slick black hair, and an equally dark goatee, which he rubbed at now. A wicked grin was stamped on the man’s face. “That is a great observation,” said the man. “My name is Satan, if that wasn’t clear enough.” “I’m…Norman.” “I realized.” Satan laughed dryly. Then, without warning, he shot forward and grabbed Norman’s cigarette. He tossed it in a fiery pit beside Norman. “No smoking in hell,” chimed Satan. “Right. That’s why I’m here isn’t it?” “Nope,” said Satan. “Guess again!” Norman let out a heavy breath. He lifted his hand to his temple and massaged it gently. “Look, I didn’t mean to kill that man. He was with my wife, and I was…” “It’s not about that either.” Norman shook his head. “What then? Bullying that kid in high school? Selling rocks? Gambling?” “Wrong.” Satan sighed. “Listen. Do you remember that English test in high school? About the bible?” Norman shrugged. “Think so.” “You misspelled God’s name. Norman, the word is three letters! Three! How do you spell that wrong?” “I don’t know. Why?” “Well,” said Satan. “God is tolerant of everything. He knows how hard I work, and so now he lets about everyone in heaven. But now? Now I’m stuck with you, because you couldn’t spell God!” Satan let out a shaky breath. Then, after a moment, he glanced up at Norman. Norman was stunned. “Of all the things I’ve done in my life, I’m getting sent to hell for THAT?!” “Yes. Have fun,” said Satan. He snapped his fingers and a large blackboard fell next to Norman. Satan extended his palm, in which lay a long, white piece of chalk. Norman knew what he had to do. He sighed, walked up to the board, and began writing the word “God,” over and over again. He would do this for all of eternity. _____________________________________________________________________________ Thank you for reading! Please, if you have any feedback or advice, let me know!	Dr Mehmed raged aloud, mustache tips gesticulating wildly as his rapidly reddening face spluttered in outrage. "Headmaster, I must protest this most irredeemable and torturous appointment. This... social gathering... is completely unacceptable for an elderly Head of Department such as myself. Perhaps Mr Astaire from Expressive Arts should be requisitioned for such a purpose, but certainly not myself." The headmaster gazed at the infuriated man before him in abject shock. Dr Mehmed had never before addressed him like this, nor his predecessors, even when he had been asked to teach during wartime, with bombs falling about the school buildings. "My dear Dr Mehmed," he began, cautiously, "I have never seen you object in such an insistent manner before. Surely you would not treat your colleague with such disrespect? And besides, you are the most qualified for this duty, even more so than our drama teachers. Your advanced certificate, as I might recall?" Dr Mehmed gripped the desk in from of him, knuckles transforming into a deathly pale white. "Of all the things i've done in my life, i'm getting sent to hell for THAT? It was a miserable three years of research, done only so I could be better qualified to attend my insufferable uncle's wedding!" The headmaster smoothened his suit lapels, pausing before speech. "A doctorate in creative arts just so you could dance at a wedding? My my Mehmed, I never knew that side of you. Anyway, you are doing this duty, no matter your squabbling. The students love you, you'll get on great. And you'll have a chance to wear your tuxedo again." Wretched misery grew within Dr Mehmed heart. Tears began to well threateningly in his eyes, and his mustache drooped to the point of joining his long beard. "But sir!" he wailed, frantically. "It...it... it's prom sir! How could you‽"
	[WP] "Of all the things I've done in my life, I'm getting sent to hell for THAT?"	"H-helloo..?" My voice echoed down the dark and empty passage. I could hear the fear and insecurities grow louder for each echo that passed. It was cold. It was dark. "Am i all alone?" I thought to myself. All i could feel was the unsettling cold coming from the darkness of that tunnel, almost as if winds were blowing. I didn't dare, no, I physically couldn't move my legs. I was paralyzed with fear, even breathing felt impossible. How did i get here? Then it came back to me, with a blinding flash i was back on that crossing in broad daylight, making my way over to that little sandwich shop everyone at the office was talking about. The wind was blowing strong and I could even smell the teryaki chicken and bacon cooking. But then the ticking of the crossing light stopped, and the light turned red right as i'd made it about halfway across. I turned my head to the left, bright lights flashing, and as my ears exploded in pain from the loud noises I suddenly felt a numbing... whack. As if the hit should've knocked me miles and miles away, or straight down into the ground, yet i was still standing. And when i opened my eyes i was once again standing in that cold, pitch-black passage. Another flash of light, and a red, high-burning fire flared up right before my eyes. The crackle of the flame brought me back to campfires for some reason. But as the flame vanished I realized what had taken place in front of me. Or 'who'. He was tall and wide, with dark circles under his bright red eyes and his hair was a dark shade of grey. The intimidating frame was lit up by paths of fire softly burning behind him. Satan. "Jonathan Crowley" he said, his voice deep and effortlessly loud. "You have lived a life in sin, and will now pay the price. Your eternal punishm..." "-Whoa, whoa, whoa!" I abruptly shouted. Was I really doing this? Was i really interrupting Satan as he was damning me for eternity? I guess I was. "I'm dead? And going to hell?! For what?" His eyes caught me, almost like they gripped me from my very soul. I was once more unable to move. "For your sins, you shall be punished." He said. I felt an ice cold stream spread through my body, almost like a fear i've never felt before. Meh, fuck it. I was dead already. "But why?" I pushed on. "I've lied, okay? more than once, but i hardly feel like eternal damnation is fair punishment! I've cheated. Tests, partners, my career... I've done a lot of scummy things to get ahead, I know. But I regret it. The time i hit that dog on the road was a pure accident! I would've turned back, but it was dead already! And all dogs go to heaven, right?" I felt cold sweat run down my back. I was going to vomit. Satan walked up to me, standing inches away and bent down to face me at eye level. He smelled of soot and ashes. His eyes chased a panic into me i'd never known before. "You are a scum indeed. But the one thing i can't forgive, why you shall be damned for all eternity..." Ice-cold air filled my lungs. It made its way through my skin, chasing every last ounce of warmth out of me. A screech, almost like metal nails on a chalkboard but amplified, started ecoing through my brain, the background noise of staring into the eyes of Satan. The screech grew louder, i could feel the ice reach my fingertips, my toes, my very soul. My heartbeat got faster, but i felt my blood slow down, like the pressure couldn't pump the blood anymore... "I send you to hell, to forever be in suffering and agony you've never before known, for you never paid your WinRAR. The simplest thing you could've done would have saved your soul. Yet, you didn't. Because you thought they just did a miss. That you could get away with it." The screeching left my ears ringing. I felt the shockwaves of my very core trying to pump around the syrup that had become in my veins. It got harder to breathe. "You chose to live a life of deceit instead of virtue, and in the eyes of the divine you have failed. And for that, you have a place in hell." The ice stung, the screech had my ears scream for mercy, and i drew the last breaths i had the strength to draw. Then all of a sudden, it all let go. It all went dark. And all that was left, was nothing. For all eternity. All because i hadn't paid for my WinRAR.	Dr Mehmed raged aloud, mustache tips gesticulating wildly as his rapidly reddening face spluttered in outrage. "Headmaster, I must protest this most irredeemable and torturous appointment. This... social gathering... is completely unacceptable for an elderly Head of Department such as myself. Perhaps Mr Astaire from Expressive Arts should be requisitioned for such a purpose, but certainly not myself." The headmaster gazed at the infuriated man before him in abject shock. Dr Mehmed had never before addressed him like this, nor his predecessors, even when he had been asked to teach during wartime, with bombs falling about the school buildings. "My dear Dr Mehmed," he began, cautiously, "I have never seen you object in such an insistent manner before. Surely you would not treat your colleague with such disrespect? And besides, you are the most qualified for this duty, even more so than our drama teachers. Your advanced certificate, as I might recall?" Dr Mehmed gripped the desk in from of him, knuckles transforming into a deathly pale white. "Of all the things i've done in my life, i'm getting sent to hell for THAT? It was a miserable three years of research, done only so I could be better qualified to attend my insufferable uncle's wedding!" The headmaster smoothened his suit lapels, pausing before speech. "A doctorate in creative arts just so you could dance at a wedding? My my Mehmed, I never knew that side of you. Anyway, you are doing this duty, no matter your squabbling. The students love you, you'll get on great. And you'll have a chance to wear your tuxedo again." Wretched misery grew within Dr Mehmed heart. Tears began to well threateningly in his eyes, and his mustache drooped to the point of joining his long beard. "But sir!" he wailed, frantically. "It...it... it's prom sir! How could you‽"
	[WP] "Of all the things I've done in my life, I'm getting sent to hell for THAT?"	"H-helloo..?" My voice echoed down the dark and empty passage. I could hear the fear and insecurities grow louder for each echo that passed. It was cold. It was dark. "Am i all alone?" I thought to myself. All i could feel was the unsettling cold coming from the darkness of that tunnel, almost as if winds were blowing. I didn't dare, no, I physically couldn't move my legs. I was paralyzed with fear, even breathing felt impossible. How did i get here? Then it came back to me, with a blinding flash i was back on that crossing in broad daylight, making my way over to that little sandwich shop everyone at the office was talking about. The wind was blowing strong and I could even smell the teryaki chicken and bacon cooking. But then the ticking of the crossing light stopped, and the light turned red right as i'd made it about halfway across. I turned my head to the left, bright lights flashing, and as my ears exploded in pain from the loud noises I suddenly felt a numbing... whack. As if the hit should've knocked me miles and miles away, or straight down into the ground, yet i was still standing. And when i opened my eyes i was once again standing in that cold, pitch-black passage. Another flash of light, and a red, high-burning fire flared up right before my eyes. The crackle of the flame brought me back to campfires for some reason. But as the flame vanished I realized what had taken place in front of me. Or 'who'. He was tall and wide, with dark circles under his bright red eyes and his hair was a dark shade of grey. The intimidating frame was lit up by paths of fire softly burning behind him. Satan. "Jonathan Crowley" he said, his voice deep and effortlessly loud. "You have lived a life in sin, and will now pay the price. Your eternal punishm..." "-Whoa, whoa, whoa!" I abruptly shouted. Was I really doing this? Was i really interrupting Satan as he was damning me for eternity? I guess I was. "I'm dead? And going to hell?! For what?" His eyes caught me, almost like they gripped me from my very soul. I was once more unable to move. "For your sins, you shall be punished." He said. I felt an ice cold stream spread through my body, almost like a fear i've never felt before. Meh, fuck it. I was dead already. "But why?" I pushed on. "I've lied, okay? more than once, but i hardly feel like eternal damnation is fair punishment! I've cheated. Tests, partners, my career... I've done a lot of scummy things to get ahead, I know. But I regret it. The time i hit that dog on the road was a pure accident! I would've turned back, but it was dead already! And all dogs go to heaven, right?" I felt cold sweat run down my back. I was going to vomit. Satan walked up to me, standing inches away and bent down to face me at eye level. He smelled of soot and ashes. His eyes chased a panic into me i'd never known before. "You are a scum indeed. But the one thing i can't forgive, why you shall be damned for all eternity..." Ice-cold air filled my lungs. It made its way through my skin, chasing every last ounce of warmth out of me. A screech, almost like metal nails on a chalkboard but amplified, started ecoing through my brain, the background noise of staring into the eyes of Satan. The screech grew louder, i could feel the ice reach my fingertips, my toes, my very soul. My heartbeat got faster, but i felt my blood slow down, like the pressure couldn't pump the blood anymore... "I send you to hell, to forever be in suffering and agony you've never before known, for you never paid your WinRAR. The simplest thing you could've done would have saved your soul. Yet, you didn't. Because you thought they just did a miss. That you could get away with it." The screeching left my ears ringing. I felt the shockwaves of my very core trying to pump around the syrup that had become in my veins. It got harder to breathe. "You chose to live a life of deceit instead of virtue, and in the eyes of the divine you have failed. And for that, you have a place in hell." The ice stung, the screech had my ears scream for mercy, and i drew the last breaths i had the strength to draw. Then all of a sudden, it all let go. It all went dark. And all that was left, was nothing. For all eternity. All because i hadn't paid for my WinRAR.	Adam slams his fist against his chest with a sort of boyish determination and fire. His eyes are livid with the sort of mature, masculine honesty that doesn’t really exist. “I did not kill all those people!” Adam shouts with a passionate, heartfelt rage, gazing at Satan on his black throne, head tilted back because Satan sits on a mountain of burnt bones. “I did not! I did not! I did not!” “Oh, I’m not saying you did,” Satan assures, crossing his legs. His charcoal black nails click together in a quick, upbeat tempo. “I am not saying that at all.” “I am not accusing you of accusing me,” Adam says. “After all, you know I did not! You are the devil. You know these things. Surely, you know that I did not kill all those people.” “Ha ha,” says the devil. “Ha ha,” says Adam. “Well, if that is that, I ask you to not let me near the flames of Hell. It is, after all, not my punishment to take.” “Of course,” Satan says. “Well, I would know if you did, for I am the devil, like you said. Ha ha!” “Ha ha!” Adam says. “I know you killed all those people,” Satan says, smiling. “Ha ha!” Adam says, voice strained now. “That is a funny joke.” “It is not a joke,” Satan tells him. “Well, then, I ask you, are soldiers in Hell? What of patriotism? What of the willing heart?” Adam’s voice is loud and raw again with the kind of sentiment that belongs to superheroes during the climax of a battle scene as they face their villain who has bombed an entire city and killed all of its civilians from the old grandmother to the cute pomeranian. “You cannot let me burn in Hell for killing people!” “You bombed an entire city,” Satan reminds him gently. “AS DID THE PRESIDENT OF THE UNITED STATES!” Adam cries in an orgy of confident authority and a burning fury of one searching for a truth, slamming a clenched fist into his open palm with the force of a judge slamming down his hammer. “Well,” Satan says, “it makes no difference to me if someone kills other people. Ha ha!” “Ha ha!” Adam says in agreement. “Still, you must burn,” Satan continues. “You have committed sins.” “I have committed no sins,” Adam says. “Ha ha!” says Satan. “I am not joking,” says Adam in the way of solemn men, like the ones in football or baseball movies who take sports teams to nationals through the power of friendship, the immense loyalty that sticks like cancer cells, and illegal steroids swallowed with a swig from sponsored Gatorade bottles. “Here is a joke, however. The chicken crossed the road, but was shot the moment he got to the other side. Ha ha!” “Ha ha!” “I have only killed a city’s worth of people, much less than the amount that died during God’s flood! I have never slept with a man! I drank no beer or vodka, only red wine, and I never did on Sunday! In fact, every Sunday, I have gone to church.” Adam rattles off his virtues with vigor until his chest is heaving. “I see.” “You are such a powerful person,” Adam adds in between pants as he struggles to regain his breath with the doggedness of a stubborn warrior. “I would truly like to lay with you in bed, perhaps, if I did not burn. Ha ha!” “Ha ha!” Satan says. He licks his lips with a languorous and very pink tongue and sighs. “Your offer was funny. In fact, you are a very humorous person, but I am sorry. You must burn. Ha ha!” “Ha ha! Was that a joke?” “Of course not,” Satan says. “Ha ha!” Adam’s posture, previously gracefully held in flawless elegance, shifts so his chest sticks out and his shoulders are square with great pride. His glistening, emotional eyes contain wildfires. “THEN, TELL ME! WHY WILL I BURN IN HELL?” “Oh,” Satan says, “because you bombed an entire city, of course!” Adam quakes with uncontrollable wrath as though he has been confronted with the greatest injustice he has ever heard, as if his morals have been broken right in front of him with little care. “As did the PRESIDENT OF THE UNITED STATES!” “That is true,” Satan says. “The road to Hell is paved with good intentions,” Adam states. “Ha ha!” says Satan. “Ha ha!” says Adam. Satan’s long, beautiful fingers come together to snap with a crisp, efficient slide of his fingertips. With the action, Adam catches fire. He begins to scream. “Ha ha!” laughs Satan, and watches him burn.
	[WP] "Of all the things I've done in my life, I'm getting sent to hell for THAT?"	"H-helloo..?" My voice echoed down the dark and empty passage. I could hear the fear and insecurities grow louder for each echo that passed. It was cold. It was dark. "Am i all alone?" I thought to myself. All i could feel was the unsettling cold coming from the darkness of that tunnel, almost as if winds were blowing. I didn't dare, no, I physically couldn't move my legs. I was paralyzed with fear, even breathing felt impossible. How did i get here? Then it came back to me, with a blinding flash i was back on that crossing in broad daylight, making my way over to that little sandwich shop everyone at the office was talking about. The wind was blowing strong and I could even smell the teryaki chicken and bacon cooking. But then the ticking of the crossing light stopped, and the light turned red right as i'd made it about halfway across. I turned my head to the left, bright lights flashing, and as my ears exploded in pain from the loud noises I suddenly felt a numbing... whack. As if the hit should've knocked me miles and miles away, or straight down into the ground, yet i was still standing. And when i opened my eyes i was once again standing in that cold, pitch-black passage. Another flash of light, and a red, high-burning fire flared up right before my eyes. The crackle of the flame brought me back to campfires for some reason. But as the flame vanished I realized what had taken place in front of me. Or 'who'. He was tall and wide, with dark circles under his bright red eyes and his hair was a dark shade of grey. The intimidating frame was lit up by paths of fire softly burning behind him. Satan. "Jonathan Crowley" he said, his voice deep and effortlessly loud. "You have lived a life in sin, and will now pay the price. Your eternal punishm..." "-Whoa, whoa, whoa!" I abruptly shouted. Was I really doing this? Was i really interrupting Satan as he was damning me for eternity? I guess I was. "I'm dead? And going to hell?! For what?" His eyes caught me, almost like they gripped me from my very soul. I was once more unable to move. "For your sins, you shall be punished." He said. I felt an ice cold stream spread through my body, almost like a fear i've never felt before. Meh, fuck it. I was dead already. "But why?" I pushed on. "I've lied, okay? more than once, but i hardly feel like eternal damnation is fair punishment! I've cheated. Tests, partners, my career... I've done a lot of scummy things to get ahead, I know. But I regret it. The time i hit that dog on the road was a pure accident! I would've turned back, but it was dead already! And all dogs go to heaven, right?" I felt cold sweat run down my back. I was going to vomit. Satan walked up to me, standing inches away and bent down to face me at eye level. He smelled of soot and ashes. His eyes chased a panic into me i'd never known before. "You are a scum indeed. But the one thing i can't forgive, why you shall be damned for all eternity..." Ice-cold air filled my lungs. It made its way through my skin, chasing every last ounce of warmth out of me. A screech, almost like metal nails on a chalkboard but amplified, started ecoing through my brain, the background noise of staring into the eyes of Satan. The screech grew louder, i could feel the ice reach my fingertips, my toes, my very soul. My heartbeat got faster, but i felt my blood slow down, like the pressure couldn't pump the blood anymore... "I send you to hell, to forever be in suffering and agony you've never before known, for you never paid your WinRAR. The simplest thing you could've done would have saved your soul. Yet, you didn't. Because you thought they just did a miss. That you could get away with it." The screeching left my ears ringing. I felt the shockwaves of my very core trying to pump around the syrup that had become in my veins. It got harder to breathe. "You chose to live a life of deceit instead of virtue, and in the eyes of the divine you have failed. And for that, you have a place in hell." The ice stung, the screech had my ears scream for mercy, and i drew the last breaths i had the strength to draw. Then all of a sudden, it all let go. It all went dark. And all that was left, was nothing. For all eternity. All because i hadn't paid for my WinRAR.	Norman Russell leaned against the wall, lifting a cigarette to his mouth. He spoke between puffs of smoke. “So…I’m…in hell,” he said. “I figured…I’d… be here.” He glared at the crimson man who stood before him. The man was of high stature, had slick black hair, and an equally dark goatee, which he rubbed at now. A wicked grin was stamped on the man’s face. “That is a great observation,” said the man. “My name is Satan, if that wasn’t clear enough.” “I’m…Norman.” “I realized.” Satan laughed dryly. Then, without warning, he shot forward and grabbed Norman’s cigarette. He tossed it in a fiery pit beside Norman. “No smoking in hell,” chimed Satan. “Right. That’s why I’m here isn’t it?” “Nope,” said Satan. “Guess again!” Norman let out a heavy breath. He lifted his hand to his temple and massaged it gently. “Look, I didn’t mean to kill that man. He was with my wife, and I was…” “It’s not about that either.” Norman shook his head. “What then? Bullying that kid in high school? Selling rocks? Gambling?” “Wrong.” Satan sighed. “Listen. Do you remember that English test in high school? About the bible?” Norman shrugged. “Think so.” “You misspelled God’s name. Norman, the word is three letters! Three! How do you spell that wrong?” “I don’t know. Why?” “Well,” said Satan. “God is tolerant of everything. He knows how hard I work, and so now he lets about everyone in heaven. But now? Now I’m stuck with you, because you couldn’t spell God!” Satan let out a shaky breath. Then, after a moment, he glanced up at Norman. Norman was stunned. “Of all the things I’ve done in my life, I’m getting sent to hell for THAT?!” “Yes. Have fun,” said Satan. He snapped his fingers and a large blackboard fell next to Norman. Satan extended his palm, in which lay a long, white piece of chalk. Norman knew what he had to do. He sighed, walked up to the board, and began writing the word “God,” over and over again. He would do this for all of eternity. _____________________________________________________________________________ Thank you for reading! Please, if you have any feedback or advice, let me know!
	[WP] Turns out the guy who claimed to be "a fucking navy seal trained in the art of gorilla warfare" wasn't lying, and you were the one to piss him off	I tried. I didn't want it to be this way, I was willing to walk away. But no, this little shit just had to keep pushing it. I was already pissed off because he kept using that cheap shotgun that takes no skill to use, but when he knifed me and starting humping my corpse, I was livid. Even after all of that, I could have let it go if he would have just left my mother out this. That was the last time I ever played Call of Duty. I didn't spend my 20s roasting in Afghanistan and watching friends around me be killed so some little maggot could talk to me like this. Luckily, I still had contacts in the CIA. I called my old friend Wetterman. "Wetterman, here." "Wetterman, Crawford. Need an IP trace" "Crawford old buddy? I didn't think you made it out of the Congolese Forest when that OP went FUBAR" "Sorry, can't bullshit. This is precedence Z" "Z? This guy must be real scum" "You have no idea". Wetterman was useful for once and got me what I needed. I set up shop in an wooded area across from the target's residence. I could see the target in his living room while I affixed my silencer to my rifle. I fired two shots at the parked car on the street, setting off the alarm. The target jogged out to check on his vehicle. When he was about 8 feet from the car, I fired 3 shots at the ground in front of him. By now he saw my laser sight was trained right at his chest. He froze. I arose from my position and approached the target. I must have looked like swamp thing as I was wearing a full ghillie suit. I switched to my side arm and held it nonchalantly as I continued to walk, big grin on my face, enjoying every second. I stood within an inch of his face, never blinking. He was visibly shaking and had tears in his eyes. After a minute of just standing there in silence, I finally said "KillerLlamma421? I'm DarkPh0enix11. Remember me fuck face?"	(my first, also for some reason my formatting is screwed up) EDIT: Thanks /u/T3chnopsycho for formatting I didn't know what to expect. It was just a normal day, three hours of CS:GO. I've always been a Valve fan at heart. Three hundred plus on Counter-Strike, One hundred plus on Team Fortress 2. So I really didn't like other games that much, since it was so different. I have this friend, Jesse. He's been bugging me to try something new, stop being a stick in the mud. It always ends the same, I just walk away. Well today, he had something different in mind. He came to my house, $20 Wallet Point gift card in hand. I was cheap as fuck, so when I saw it, my eyes went the size of dinner plates. "Jesus, who's the lucky guy or girl?" I said. "You." Jesse replied, "Only if, you play this." He threw over a copy of Call of Duty. I just stared. "Are you serious?" I told him, "Bribery?" "I know you want it." I thought about it. Well, not really. "Deal." I can get some cheap weapon skins anyway for my game. I opened the disc case and removed the disc. A soldier with metal all over his body. Can this game get any more original? I opened the disc reader on my potato PC and placed the disc inside to install it. It was a very quick install. I breezed through it, then afterwards launched the game. I was greeted with a logo, some random action music thing blasting me in the face. Fast forward a few minutes, and I was in multiplayer, killing people to death. I remember this guy, he was crap. He didn't know basic controls, he didn't know what the game was about. So I decided to call him out. "Ha, you suck. Learn how to use a computer" I typed in chat. Needless to say, I was surprised at his response. "What the fuck did you just fucking say about me, you little bitch? I’ll have you know I graduated top of my class in the Navy Seals, and I’ve been involved in numerous secret raids on Al-Quaeda, and I have over 300 confirmed kills. I am trained in gorilla warfare and I’m the top sniper in the entire US armed forces. You are nothing to me but just another target. I will wipe you the fuck out with precision the likes of which has never been seen before on this Earth, mark my fucking words. You think you can get away with saying that shit to me over the Internet? Think again, fucker. As we speak I am contacting my secret network of spies across the USA and your IP is being traced right now so you better prepare for the storm, maggot. The storm that wipes out the pathetic little thing you call your life. You’re fucking dead, kid. I can be anywhere, anytime, and I can kill you in over seven hundred ways, and that’s just with my bare hands. Not only am I extensively trained in unarmed combat, but I have access to the entire arsenal of the United States Marine Corps and I will use it to its full extent to wipe your miserable ass off the face of the continent, you little shit. If only you could have known what unholy retribution your little “clever” comment was about to bring down upon you, maybe you would have held your fucking tongue. But you couldn’t, you didn’t, and now you’re paying the price, you goddamn idiot. I will shit fury all over you and you will drown in it. You’re fucking dead, kiddo." I just shut down the computer right there and then.
	[WP] A crow hops up to you with a 100 dollar bill in it's mouth, and politely asks if you mind buying something for him.	CRASH I awoke with a start. There was an awful sound coming from the kitchen. I rose from my bed, put on a robe and shuffled into the kitchen to find a crow cawing and flapping around. I said to it "it's OK little fella I'll help you." The bird looked at me like it understood and stopped flapping around. I picked it up and examined it like I knew what I was doing. I didn't see any obvious problems but it looked like it had somehow made it through the screen of an open window and knocked a pot from the drying rack over. I said "let me get dressed and I'll take you to the vet to see if we can get you fixed" to which the bird gave an "angry" caw. I don't know how I knew it was angry but it was, it just didn't sound right. So I said "OK well if not the vet then what?" The crow then hopped out of my hands, landed on the table, stretched it's wings and then started flying around the kitchen. I jumped in fright but the crow landed on the table and freaking smiled at me. I said "well I guess if you are fine then you'll be on your way, I'll open the door for you" and walked over to open the door. The crow flew out and quickly swooped down into the grass and came up with a mouse. I was shocked, I had heard crows eat anything but I'd never seen one actually catch a mouse; that's something hawks and owls do. I stood watching in fascination as this crow ate the mouse and when it was done it flew back into my kitchen and landed on the table. "What are you doing crow? You belong in the wild." to which the crow responded with a "happy" caw and flapped it's wings and went to sleep. I was dumbfounded and just stared at the crow as it slept on my table and after about 20 minutes I went and gathered some old t-shirts to make a "nest" for it. Through some "communication" we decided the crow would nest on my dresser. For four days the crow just slept in my house, I would let it out for the day and then it would return in the early evening with something shiny and place it in his nest. The fifth day was different. I woke up and went to say hello to "Harold", seemed a fitting name, but he was not in his nest. I looked around and found he had made a new hole in the screen I had just replaced and left that way. I was heartbroken, not sure why but this random intelligent animal had chosen me and now he was gone. I sat in the kitchen staring at the hole and feeling the hole inside me grow. I went to bed depressed. The next morning I excitedly went to Harold's nest but he wasn't in there. I shuffled into the kitchen and my heart lept with joy as he was sitting on the table with some paper in his mouth. I said "I'm happy you are back, but what is that you are holding?" The crow dropped the paper and I realized it was money, he then said "we need to talk." I fainted. I awoke a few moments later with Harold on my chest asking if I was OK. I sat up and said "Harold you can talk?" to which Harold replied "yes but my name isn't Harold, it's Bob" and then it laughed, it was one of the most terrifying sounds I've ever heard. Bob then jumped back on the table and said "here's the deal, I've been watching you and you seem like an OK guy and I want to help you out. I crossed the wrong crew and now they want me dead, with this $100 bill you are going to find a taxidermist and have them make you a stuffed crow with some of my feathers, you're also going to get something to change my smell, don't worry I'll direct you in the ways. After doing this you will display the stuffed bird so it can be seen through that window I first came in. If you do this for me I will supply you with money and jewels that I can easily take. I grabbed the $100 and then my phone and typed in "local taxidermy". We then laughed together and that laugh that first terrified me now pleased me. I said “one other thing, you'll have to be Harold now of course” and he replied “of course”. Oh yes this was going to be a beautiful partnership. *I'm not a writer, and have never written anything before. This topic just jumped at me and demanded I post the story that popped in my head.*	As I walked of the store, fifty family sized bags of Doritos in my arms, a crow approached me. It's eyes looked at me intelligently, and it looked at me with a stare that begged for food. I looked at the crow, then at my chips. "No, these are mine. You can't have any." It kept looking at me, it's hungry look gaining intensity. Another crow approached, then perched on the concrete beside it. One began to call out. More gathered. They stared at me intensely. I opened a bag of bright orange chips. I slipped one in my mouth, and ate it, crunching deliberately. The crows looked at me, almost threateningly. We will mob you, the crow's expression read. I slowly brought the bag of chips to the ground, sprinkling them at my feet. The crows called in delight, first eating them tentatively, but gained confidence. As soon as they were all gone, one of the crows flew away. I began to walk away, when a crow landed in my hair and dropped a slip of paper in my face. I grasped at it as it slowly fluttered to the ground. It was a grocery list, written in chicken scratch. 'Ketchup, French fries and twenty-five bags of Doritos. We are not gluttons' it read. Ignoring the insult, I looked at the crows, surprise on my face. Crows shouldn't be able to write. Looking at my face, the crow flew away. I laughed at myself, thinking crows could write. This must've been a lost a four year old had written,moping his mother would meet his requests. Or maybe- My thought was interrupted by the crow dropping a dirty bill of money on the ground before me. I picked it up, uncomfortably. Where did this come from? I looked at it. Wow, one hundred dollars. I sighed. Maybe I'm dreaming. "Fine. I keep the change." -------------------------------------------------------- I'm sorry if it's not very good, this is my first time on this sub and I'm not a very good writer.
	[WP] A crow hops up to you with a 100 dollar bill in it's mouth, and politely asks if you mind buying something for him.	It was as normal a Saturday of me grading papers on my patio table as possible, until a gale struck down on me. I screamed and almost fell out of my chair. The blue-black wings fluttered down atop my table and blustered away the papers like a hurricane had blown in. A pair of onyx eyes stared at me. I decided to return the raven’s gaze, and admire its pluck for getting so near a human. “Hey there, buddy,” I said. “What’s that you got there?” It held what looked like creased money in its beak. A talon grabbed the bill, and the beak issued a sound like a human voice, saying, “Hey there, mac. Was wonderin’ if you could help me out with a small errand.” How shocking. I remembered hearing somewhere before raven’s could learn human speech, but I’d yet to ever witness it before. The sound of fingers snapping came from the beak. “Yo, what’s with the ditsy look there, dumbass? Can’t you see I’m talkin’ to ya’ here?” “Oh,” I found myself replying. “Are you talking to me?” “I’m not whispering sweet nothings, am I? Now look here, mac, I got this money here, you get me? But me being a bird, I can’t seem to barter it for what it is I desire. It’s downright prejudice is what it is, so here I am. Are you gonna’ help out like a proper pal or what?” It was a wrinkled hundred dollar bill held by its talon. “I’m sorry, I’ve just never had a bird talk to me before,” I cleared my throat. “Where’d you learn human speech?” “We really going to go through this whole shtick? I’m talking to you here, does it really matter how?” “Sorry. I didn’t mean to be rude. Actually I was kind of busy grading papers before you got here.” “What!” It squacked. “You too busy to help me out? Or, its because I’m a bird, isn’t it?” “No, no, that’s not it at all,” I brought my hands up in surrender. “You want my help in buying something with that hundred you’ve got?” “Hey, you catch on quick.” Was he being sassy with me? “I’ll meet you at the place in twenty, which is how long I think it’ll take a mud tracker like you to get there. Then, we’ll make the purchase.” “Where are we going?” “Just a local pet shop. There’s a parakeet I’ve been eyeing for a while now. I know it’s destiny we meet.” My heart sank into stomach. So this was all for love, was it? “Alright, I’m in. Which pet store is it?” --------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- I met the raven perched outside the store. In my hands was the newly purchased bird cage. My smile warmed my face. How would I have guessed I’d be the mediator of such an adorable event that day? “You got her?” The raven asked. I proudly held up the motley female bird. “Right, right. Good,” the raven said. “Just, uh, set it against the wall back here.” I walked into the alley way and did what he’d asked. “Should we let her out now?” I asked. “No, that’s ok. Thanks, mac. You can take the change and leave us be now.” “If I’m not imposing, I’d be real happy seeing how this ends,” I said. “Suit yourself, you voyeuristic cock,” he said. The Raven fluttered over to the caged parakeet. “Hey,” he said, even harsher than the voice he spoke to me in. “So you thought you’d be safe hiding behind the mud trackers, did ya’? Foolish Marie.” The lovely eyed parakeet blinked at the raven and said, “Fuck you, and fuck Diodoro too. I ain’t going back.” I gasped and put my hand to my mouth. “Quit it with the vaudeville act,” the raven commanded me. “And enough with the theatrics from you, too, Marie. You knew what would happen if you stole from Diodoro.” “What,” I said, “What is going on here? I thought you were doing this for love.” “Ya?” The raven said. “That's cause you’re an imbecile. Do you have an idea of how gross cross species relations like that is? Now this is none of your business, mac, so beat it!” “Sir,” Marie cooed. “Please, help a gal out.” “Quite, Marie. I’ll choke you like a canary, I swear to Anzu.” I was too stunned to act. This scenario was too much for me to process, toppled by the fact that birds could talk like people and I’d never known. “Doidoro’s gonna’ pluck you like a turkey,” the raven was telling Marie. “Unless, you tell me where the shiny’s are.” “Get basted,” Marie dramatically turned away. The thuggish raven leaped on to the cage and fluttered violently, rocking the cage and causing Marie to screech so loud I plugged my ears. “Where’re the goddamn shiny’s!” The raven shouted. “Where are they, Marie?” I’d had enough. I weakly batted the raven away, grabbed the cage, and ran for my house. “We’re everywhere, idiot,” the raven’s scream faded the farther I ran. Suddenly, his voice was behind me, “Not much of a Hitchcock fan, are you?” His wings pounded cool wind down my neck as he flew beside me. “Leave us alone,” my voice croaked. “I can go inside my house. I’ll be safe there, so, just, leave us alone.” “Can’t stay in there forever,” the raven said, peeling back. “I’ll see ya’ later, mac. You can count on me and some friend’s hangin’ around on your phone lines outside your place.” And he’d flown away. --------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- I gasped for breath at home and deadbolted the door. “Gotta’ say, guy,” Marie said, “that took a lotta’ moxy saving me from Ramone like that. You think you can let me outta’ this cage now?” With the gate unhitched, Marie danced out and stretched her wings. “Muuuuuch better than being stuck in that putrid prison. Smelly, awful places those pet stores.” “What is he after?” I asked her. “I stole a bunch of beads from Diodoro. Foolish, I know, but I couldn’t stand him having all that shiny all to himself. It’s unnatural for one bird to have such a horde.” “Who’s this Diordor?” Marie blinked her pinprick-sized eyes at me. “Are you fer’ real, guy? You never heard of Diodoro the Dodo? The local Kingfisher?” “Is he an actual dodo?” “What?” She chirped a condescending giggle. “No, course not, dumby.” “What’s with the beads? Why do they matter so much to this Kingfischer?” “How is a guy this ignorant?” I didn’t like how this small bird kept belittling me, but I could swallow my pride to be respectful. “The beads are shiny.” “So, are they worth something? Are they like bird currency?” “They’re shiny.” She said like this explained it all. “Oh.” I said, acting like I’d understood her point. --------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- I cracked the blinds open. Sure enough, I caught site of several menacing looking birds hanging around outside, a multitude of black, glintless eyes transfixed on my house. I wasn’t a violent person, or even an angry person. I was told often I was a bit of a pushover. I hated conflict. I was known for being that guy who’d take spiders outside instead of squashing them. But today, I decide I’d couldn’t be that person anymore. I slid a jacket over my sweater, and placed a bike helmet over my balaclava. I dug my childhood wooden bat out from the closet. “What’s the plan, stan?” Marie asked, hopping nervously on my desk. “I’m going to carve up some birds.” I said, my bat over my shoulder. I snapped goggles over my eyes. Adrenaline electrified my brain as I swung my door open, letting in the setting sun’s dampening rays. Today was as good a day as any to grow a spine. A storm of deadly feathers rained on me. I gripped my bat, and swung for my life.	As I walked of the store, fifty family sized bags of Doritos in my arms, a crow approached me. It's eyes looked at me intelligently, and it looked at me with a stare that begged for food. I looked at the crow, then at my chips. "No, these are mine. You can't have any." It kept looking at me, it's hungry look gaining intensity. Another crow approached, then perched on the concrete beside it. One began to call out. More gathered. They stared at me intensely. I opened a bag of bright orange chips. I slipped one in my mouth, and ate it, crunching deliberately. The crows looked at me, almost threateningly. We will mob you, the crow's expression read. I slowly brought the bag of chips to the ground, sprinkling them at my feet. The crows called in delight, first eating them tentatively, but gained confidence. As soon as they were all gone, one of the crows flew away. I began to walk away, when a crow landed in my hair and dropped a slip of paper in my face. I grasped at it as it slowly fluttered to the ground. It was a grocery list, written in chicken scratch. 'Ketchup, French fries and twenty-five bags of Doritos. We are not gluttons' it read. Ignoring the insult, I looked at the crows, surprise on my face. Crows shouldn't be able to write. Looking at my face, the crow flew away. I laughed at myself, thinking crows could write. This must've been a lost a four year old had written,moping his mother would meet his requests. Or maybe- My thought was interrupted by the crow dropping a dirty bill of money on the ground before me. I picked it up, uncomfortably. Where did this come from? I looked at it. Wow, one hundred dollars. I sighed. Maybe I'm dreaming. "Fine. I keep the change." -------------------------------------------------------- I'm sorry if it's not very good, this is my first time on this sub and I'm not a very good writer.
	[WP] A crow hops up to you with a 100 dollar bill in it's mouth, and politely asks if you mind buying something for him.	It was as normal a Saturday of me grading papers on my patio table as possible, until a gale struck down on me. I screamed and almost fell out of my chair. The blue-black wings fluttered down atop my table and blustered away the papers like a hurricane had blown in. A pair of onyx eyes stared at me. I decided to return the raven’s gaze, and admire its pluck for getting so near a human. “Hey there, buddy,” I said. “What’s that you got there?” It held what looked like creased money in its beak. A talon grabbed the bill, and the beak issued a sound like a human voice, saying, “Hey there, mac. Was wonderin’ if you could help me out with a small errand.” How shocking. I remembered hearing somewhere before raven’s could learn human speech, but I’d yet to ever witness it before. The sound of fingers snapping came from the beak. “Yo, what’s with the ditsy look there, dumbass? Can’t you see I’m talkin’ to ya’ here?” “Oh,” I found myself replying. “Are you talking to me?” “I’m not whispering sweet nothings, am I? Now look here, mac, I got this money here, you get me? But me being a bird, I can’t seem to barter it for what it is I desire. It’s downright prejudice is what it is, so here I am. Are you gonna’ help out like a proper pal or what?” It was a wrinkled hundred dollar bill held by its talon. “I’m sorry, I’ve just never had a bird talk to me before,” I cleared my throat. “Where’d you learn human speech?” “We really going to go through this whole shtick? I’m talking to you here, does it really matter how?” “Sorry. I didn’t mean to be rude. Actually I was kind of busy grading papers before you got here.” “What!” It squacked. “You too busy to help me out? Or, its because I’m a bird, isn’t it?” “No, no, that’s not it at all,” I brought my hands up in surrender. “You want my help in buying something with that hundred you’ve got?” “Hey, you catch on quick.” Was he being sassy with me? “I’ll meet you at the place in twenty, which is how long I think it’ll take a mud tracker like you to get there. Then, we’ll make the purchase.” “Where are we going?” “Just a local pet shop. There’s a parakeet I’ve been eyeing for a while now. I know it’s destiny we meet.” My heart sank into stomach. So this was all for love, was it? “Alright, I’m in. Which pet store is it?” --------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- I met the raven perched outside the store. In my hands was the newly purchased bird cage. My smile warmed my face. How would I have guessed I’d be the mediator of such an adorable event that day? “You got her?” The raven asked. I proudly held up the motley female bird. “Right, right. Good,” the raven said. “Just, uh, set it against the wall back here.” I walked into the alley way and did what he’d asked. “Should we let her out now?” I asked. “No, that’s ok. Thanks, mac. You can take the change and leave us be now.” “If I’m not imposing, I’d be real happy seeing how this ends,” I said. “Suit yourself, you voyeuristic cock,” he said. The Raven fluttered over to the caged parakeet. “Hey,” he said, even harsher than the voice he spoke to me in. “So you thought you’d be safe hiding behind the mud trackers, did ya’? Foolish Marie.” The lovely eyed parakeet blinked at the raven and said, “Fuck you, and fuck Diodoro too. I ain’t going back.” I gasped and put my hand to my mouth. “Quit it with the vaudeville act,” the raven commanded me. “And enough with the theatrics from you, too, Marie. You knew what would happen if you stole from Diodoro.” “What,” I said, “What is going on here? I thought you were doing this for love.” “Ya?” The raven said. “That's cause you’re an imbecile. Do you have an idea of how gross cross species relations like that is? Now this is none of your business, mac, so beat it!” “Sir,” Marie cooed. “Please, help a gal out.” “Quite, Marie. I’ll choke you like a canary, I swear to Anzu.” I was too stunned to act. This scenario was too much for me to process, toppled by the fact that birds could talk like people and I’d never known. “Doidoro’s gonna’ pluck you like a turkey,” the raven was telling Marie. “Unless, you tell me where the shiny’s are.” “Get basted,” Marie dramatically turned away. The thuggish raven leaped on to the cage and fluttered violently, rocking the cage and causing Marie to screech so loud I plugged my ears. “Where’re the goddamn shiny’s!” The raven shouted. “Where are they, Marie?” I’d had enough. I weakly batted the raven away, grabbed the cage, and ran for my house. “We’re everywhere, idiot,” the raven’s scream faded the farther I ran. Suddenly, his voice was behind me, “Not much of a Hitchcock fan, are you?” His wings pounded cool wind down my neck as he flew beside me. “Leave us alone,” my voice croaked. “I can go inside my house. I’ll be safe there, so, just, leave us alone.” “Can’t stay in there forever,” the raven said, peeling back. “I’ll see ya’ later, mac. You can count on me and some friend’s hangin’ around on your phone lines outside your place.” And he’d flown away. --------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- I gasped for breath at home and deadbolted the door. “Gotta’ say, guy,” Marie said, “that took a lotta’ moxy saving me from Ramone like that. You think you can let me outta’ this cage now?” With the gate unhitched, Marie danced out and stretched her wings. “Muuuuuch better than being stuck in that putrid prison. Smelly, awful places those pet stores.” “What is he after?” I asked her. “I stole a bunch of beads from Diodoro. Foolish, I know, but I couldn’t stand him having all that shiny all to himself. It’s unnatural for one bird to have such a horde.” “Who’s this Diordor?” Marie blinked her pinprick-sized eyes at me. “Are you fer’ real, guy? You never heard of Diodoro the Dodo? The local Kingfisher?” “Is he an actual dodo?” “What?” She chirped a condescending giggle. “No, course not, dumby.” “What’s with the beads? Why do they matter so much to this Kingfischer?” “How is a guy this ignorant?” I didn’t like how this small bird kept belittling me, but I could swallow my pride to be respectful. “The beads are shiny.” “So, are they worth something? Are they like bird currency?” “They’re shiny.” She said like this explained it all. “Oh.” I said, acting like I’d understood her point. --------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- I cracked the blinds open. Sure enough, I caught site of several menacing looking birds hanging around outside, a multitude of black, glintless eyes transfixed on my house. I wasn’t a violent person, or even an angry person. I was told often I was a bit of a pushover. I hated conflict. I was known for being that guy who’d take spiders outside instead of squashing them. But today, I decide I’d couldn’t be that person anymore. I slid a jacket over my sweater, and placed a bike helmet over my balaclava. I dug my childhood wooden bat out from the closet. “What’s the plan, stan?” Marie asked, hopping nervously on my desk. “I’m going to carve up some birds.” I said, my bat over my shoulder. I snapped goggles over my eyes. Adrenaline electrified my brain as I swung my door open, letting in the setting sun’s dampening rays. Today was as good a day as any to grow a spine. A storm of deadly feathers rained on me. I gripped my bat, and swung for my life.	CRASH I awoke with a start. There was an awful sound coming from the kitchen. I rose from my bed, put on a robe and shuffled into the kitchen to find a crow cawing and flapping around. I said to it "it's OK little fella I'll help you." The bird looked at me like it understood and stopped flapping around. I picked it up and examined it like I knew what I was doing. I didn't see any obvious problems but it looked like it had somehow made it through the screen of an open window and knocked a pot from the drying rack over. I said "let me get dressed and I'll take you to the vet to see if we can get you fixed" to which the bird gave an "angry" caw. I don't know how I knew it was angry but it was, it just didn't sound right. So I said "OK well if not the vet then what?" The crow then hopped out of my hands, landed on the table, stretched it's wings and then started flying around the kitchen. I jumped in fright but the crow landed on the table and freaking smiled at me. I said "well I guess if you are fine then you'll be on your way, I'll open the door for you" and walked over to open the door. The crow flew out and quickly swooped down into the grass and came up with a mouse. I was shocked, I had heard crows eat anything but I'd never seen one actually catch a mouse; that's something hawks and owls do. I stood watching in fascination as this crow ate the mouse and when it was done it flew back into my kitchen and landed on the table. "What are you doing crow? You belong in the wild." to which the crow responded with a "happy" caw and flapped it's wings and went to sleep. I was dumbfounded and just stared at the crow as it slept on my table and after about 20 minutes I went and gathered some old t-shirts to make a "nest" for it. Through some "communication" we decided the crow would nest on my dresser. For four days the crow just slept in my house, I would let it out for the day and then it would return in the early evening with something shiny and place it in his nest. The fifth day was different. I woke up and went to say hello to "Harold", seemed a fitting name, but he was not in his nest. I looked around and found he had made a new hole in the screen I had just replaced and left that way. I was heartbroken, not sure why but this random intelligent animal had chosen me and now he was gone. I sat in the kitchen staring at the hole and feeling the hole inside me grow. I went to bed depressed. The next morning I excitedly went to Harold's nest but he wasn't in there. I shuffled into the kitchen and my heart lept with joy as he was sitting on the table with some paper in his mouth. I said "I'm happy you are back, but what is that you are holding?" The crow dropped the paper and I realized it was money, he then said "we need to talk." I fainted. I awoke a few moments later with Harold on my chest asking if I was OK. I sat up and said "Harold you can talk?" to which Harold replied "yes but my name isn't Harold, it's Bob" and then it laughed, it was one of the most terrifying sounds I've ever heard. Bob then jumped back on the table and said "here's the deal, I've been watching you and you seem like an OK guy and I want to help you out. I crossed the wrong crew and now they want me dead, with this $100 bill you are going to find a taxidermist and have them make you a stuffed crow with some of my feathers, you're also going to get something to change my smell, don't worry I'll direct you in the ways. After doing this you will display the stuffed bird so it can be seen through that window I first came in. If you do this for me I will supply you with money and jewels that I can easily take. I grabbed the $100 and then my phone and typed in "local taxidermy". We then laughed together and that laugh that first terrified me now pleased me. I said “one other thing, you'll have to be Harold now of course” and he replied “of course”. Oh yes this was going to be a beautiful partnership. *I'm not a writer, and have never written anything before. This topic just jumped at me and demanded I post the story that popped in my head.*
	[WP] A crow hops up to you with a 100 dollar bill in it's mouth, and politely asks if you mind buying something for him.	It was as normal a Saturday of me grading papers on my patio table as possible, until a gale struck down on me. I screamed and almost fell out of my chair. The blue-black wings fluttered down atop my table and blustered away the papers like a hurricane had blown in. A pair of onyx eyes stared at me. I decided to return the raven’s gaze, and admire its pluck for getting so near a human. “Hey there, buddy,” I said. “What’s that you got there?” It held what looked like creased money in its beak. A talon grabbed the bill, and the beak issued a sound like a human voice, saying, “Hey there, mac. Was wonderin’ if you could help me out with a small errand.” How shocking. I remembered hearing somewhere before raven’s could learn human speech, but I’d yet to ever witness it before. The sound of fingers snapping came from the beak. “Yo, what’s with the ditsy look there, dumbass? Can’t you see I’m talkin’ to ya’ here?” “Oh,” I found myself replying. “Are you talking to me?” “I’m not whispering sweet nothings, am I? Now look here, mac, I got this money here, you get me? But me being a bird, I can’t seem to barter it for what it is I desire. It’s downright prejudice is what it is, so here I am. Are you gonna’ help out like a proper pal or what?” It was a wrinkled hundred dollar bill held by its talon. “I’m sorry, I’ve just never had a bird talk to me before,” I cleared my throat. “Where’d you learn human speech?” “We really going to go through this whole shtick? I’m talking to you here, does it really matter how?” “Sorry. I didn’t mean to be rude. Actually I was kind of busy grading papers before you got here.” “What!” It squacked. “You too busy to help me out? Or, its because I’m a bird, isn’t it?” “No, no, that’s not it at all,” I brought my hands up in surrender. “You want my help in buying something with that hundred you’ve got?” “Hey, you catch on quick.” Was he being sassy with me? “I’ll meet you at the place in twenty, which is how long I think it’ll take a mud tracker like you to get there. Then, we’ll make the purchase.” “Where are we going?” “Just a local pet shop. There’s a parakeet I’ve been eyeing for a while now. I know it’s destiny we meet.” My heart sank into stomach. So this was all for love, was it? “Alright, I’m in. Which pet store is it?” --------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- I met the raven perched outside the store. In my hands was the newly purchased bird cage. My smile warmed my face. How would I have guessed I’d be the mediator of such an adorable event that day? “You got her?” The raven asked. I proudly held up the motley female bird. “Right, right. Good,” the raven said. “Just, uh, set it against the wall back here.” I walked into the alley way and did what he’d asked. “Should we let her out now?” I asked. “No, that’s ok. Thanks, mac. You can take the change and leave us be now.” “If I’m not imposing, I’d be real happy seeing how this ends,” I said. “Suit yourself, you voyeuristic cock,” he said. The Raven fluttered over to the caged parakeet. “Hey,” he said, even harsher than the voice he spoke to me in. “So you thought you’d be safe hiding behind the mud trackers, did ya’? Foolish Marie.” The lovely eyed parakeet blinked at the raven and said, “Fuck you, and fuck Diodoro too. I ain’t going back.” I gasped and put my hand to my mouth. “Quit it with the vaudeville act,” the raven commanded me. “And enough with the theatrics from you, too, Marie. You knew what would happen if you stole from Diodoro.” “What,” I said, “What is going on here? I thought you were doing this for love.” “Ya?” The raven said. “That's cause you’re an imbecile. Do you have an idea of how gross cross species relations like that is? Now this is none of your business, mac, so beat it!” “Sir,” Marie cooed. “Please, help a gal out.” “Quite, Marie. I’ll choke you like a canary, I swear to Anzu.” I was too stunned to act. This scenario was too much for me to process, toppled by the fact that birds could talk like people and I’d never known. “Doidoro’s gonna’ pluck you like a turkey,” the raven was telling Marie. “Unless, you tell me where the shiny’s are.” “Get basted,” Marie dramatically turned away. The thuggish raven leaped on to the cage and fluttered violently, rocking the cage and causing Marie to screech so loud I plugged my ears. “Where’re the goddamn shiny’s!” The raven shouted. “Where are they, Marie?” I’d had enough. I weakly batted the raven away, grabbed the cage, and ran for my house. “We’re everywhere, idiot,” the raven’s scream faded the farther I ran. Suddenly, his voice was behind me, “Not much of a Hitchcock fan, are you?” His wings pounded cool wind down my neck as he flew beside me. “Leave us alone,” my voice croaked. “I can go inside my house. I’ll be safe there, so, just, leave us alone.” “Can’t stay in there forever,” the raven said, peeling back. “I’ll see ya’ later, mac. You can count on me and some friend’s hangin’ around on your phone lines outside your place.” And he’d flown away. --------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- I gasped for breath at home and deadbolted the door. “Gotta’ say, guy,” Marie said, “that took a lotta’ moxy saving me from Ramone like that. You think you can let me outta’ this cage now?” With the gate unhitched, Marie danced out and stretched her wings. “Muuuuuch better than being stuck in that putrid prison. Smelly, awful places those pet stores.” “What is he after?” I asked her. “I stole a bunch of beads from Diodoro. Foolish, I know, but I couldn’t stand him having all that shiny all to himself. It’s unnatural for one bird to have such a horde.” “Who’s this Diordor?” Marie blinked her pinprick-sized eyes at me. “Are you fer’ real, guy? You never heard of Diodoro the Dodo? The local Kingfisher?” “Is he an actual dodo?” “What?” She chirped a condescending giggle. “No, course not, dumby.” “What’s with the beads? Why do they matter so much to this Kingfischer?” “How is a guy this ignorant?” I didn’t like how this small bird kept belittling me, but I could swallow my pride to be respectful. “The beads are shiny.” “So, are they worth something? Are they like bird currency?” “They’re shiny.” She said like this explained it all. “Oh.” I said, acting like I’d understood her point. --------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- I cracked the blinds open. Sure enough, I caught site of several menacing looking birds hanging around outside, a multitude of black, glintless eyes transfixed on my house. I wasn’t a violent person, or even an angry person. I was told often I was a bit of a pushover. I hated conflict. I was known for being that guy who’d take spiders outside instead of squashing them. But today, I decide I’d couldn’t be that person anymore. I slid a jacket over my sweater, and placed a bike helmet over my balaclava. I dug my childhood wooden bat out from the closet. “What’s the plan, stan?” Marie asked, hopping nervously on my desk. “I’m going to carve up some birds.” I said, my bat over my shoulder. I snapped goggles over my eyes. Adrenaline electrified my brain as I swung my door open, letting in the setting sun’s dampening rays. Today was as good a day as any to grow a spine. A storm of deadly feathers rained on me. I gripped my bat, and swung for my life.	My first WP post. I have no idea where this came from. "The crow is at home in black and white" It was one of those days where everything seems to be black and white. The air you breathe seems tinged with melancholy; the inside of your head is filled with reflection. There’s snow crunching amicably as you walk to nowhere in particular. Your destination is no different to your starting point. He looked up to the sky, took a deep icy breath. The whiteness was peppered with grey flakes fluttering and twisting down. He sighed, not wanting to walk through the inevitable door and out of this blissful air. Briefly the white was punctuated by a crisp black shadow, high in the sky. I wish I was a crow, he thought. Scavengers flying free. No responsibilities, not a care in the world; and seeming so easily to complement a day like this. The crow is at home in black and white, give him a red feather and he’ll get a fright. He smirked at his little poem, feeling suddenly creepy as a girl wearing an Ushanka rushed past, giving him a dose of side-eye. He crunched on bitterly, closer and closer to the inevitable door. Fluttering, difficult landing. Springy little legs adjusting and wings competing with the side of his head. Curiosity only just held his arms down. A sudden shock to his routine was a welcome departure; he hoped the bird wouldn’t fly off again. “A fucking crow!” he exclaimed at a passer-by, pointing with his left hand at the bird. Instead of stopping to marvel, the man dug in his chin and accelerated through the fluttering snow. He turned to the bird and laughed, “That prick totally ignored you mate!” but he wasn’t the only one laughing. “You’re the first human I’ve ever landed on, chief.” The bird’s cawing ceased and his neck sharply inclined, black beads swirling erratically. His voice was like a snake being sawed in half. “The name’s McGraw, and you must be Duncan.” His wing swung round and Duncan shook it with two fingers, uneasy. McGraw began pecking at his feathers, all over his body, under his wings. “The fuck did I put it? Ah, there it is. Lovely.” In his beak was a crumpled, moist 100 dollar bill. “I need you to take this, and purchase for me some… substances. Please.” The bird’s beak shifted and implored, his neck inclining spasmodically. “What kind of substances? Like, drugs?” His mouth was gently agape, staring into the crows eyes blankly. “Yes… Yes Duncan. Drugs! If you can do that for me, maybe I’ll share some with you.” Duncan was freaking out. Since when the fuck could crows smile? As a matter of fact, since when the FUCK did crows land on people and demand drugs? The smile was growing wider and wider. He began swinging for the bird but McGraw hopped around his shoulders, landed on his head and cackled as he slipped on some ice and landed painfully. When he opened his eyes, there was only bright, white light. Gradually a black shadow spread over the scene until all he could see was black, with two shimmering globes searching his face, only inches away. “So what’s it to be, Duncan. Hm?” “What do you want?” He scrambled to his feet as the bird hopped back onto his shoulder, terrifying him now. “I want Angel Dust. PCP. Sweet, yummy drugs. Get me some coke, too, Duncan, yes. I quite like Cocaine. Isn’t this where you were heading, Dunc? Forget about it, I’ll let you keep the change. And you’ll need to help me take my drugs, won’t you Duncan?” They were walking past a door which Duncan recognised. It was a white door; so white that the snow outside seemed like a carpet, as if he was already inside. Only it was cold out here and he had that fucking crow teasing him, goading him. “You know Duncan, it’s about time we were heading over to the underpass, I’m sure there’ll be a meeting again next week! Come along!” The crow let out a side-splitting cackle, going so far as to point his beak to the sky and sing his merriment. “Oh, and take off that ridiculous red hat, man. You look stupid.” Duncan threw the hat down outside the door and let the black bird lead him on. McGraw, whistling a tune, slowly turned his neck and Duncan looked at him, disgusted. “It’s so beautiful in the snow, Duncan. You look good in those black clothes. We’re like twins!”
	[WP] A crow hops up to you with a 100 dollar bill in it's mouth, and politely asks if you mind buying something for him.	The crow sent me down the street to a pawn shop with the money in hand: "If you take the cash, little boy, I'll know, I'll know! The crow has many eyes, many friends. Bring me the necklace by midnight in the cemetery and six times the lot will be yours, little boy, sweetling..." it crooned. It had white, blind eyes. I asked the old Hungarian behind the counter about the necklace with the glass eye set in it. "This?" he said, "Why you want this? Is nothing. Is trinket," He eyed me suspiciously. I said I fancied it, nothing more. "Mama!" he called, "The Crow's friend has come!" I tried to run but he blocked my way. An old lady with one eye made of polished stone shuffled out of the back. "Child," she said, "Why do you go listening to crows? Show me the money she gave you." I held out the hundred dollar bill. She waved her hand over it, and before my eyes it turned into a rectangle of severed skin. I dropped it and yelped. The old woman tisked, "Skin of a Man," she said, "Old trick, simple trick, just like my sister to do. And to use an orphan boy..." she tisked again. The old woman took the eye-necklace out of its case and dangled it before me. "Do you know why she wants this so?" I didn't care. I needed the money. I needed a home, and food. So I grabbed the necklace out of the old woman's hands and sprinted for the door. ------------------------------------------------------------------------- I crept into the cemetery as the clock struck eleven, with the necklace in my back pocket. A hundred crows cawed in a tree above. Their blind eyes shone. "Little boy, little orphan boy! You've brought it haven't you, oh yes, oh yes. Bring it here, now," the crow said. It was perched on the top of a tomb. I offered up the necklace, the eye darting back and forth in the moonlight. The crow swept down and snatched it up. "Oh, little boy! Oh perfect little boy, little fool. You know not what you've done," a voice said, but it was not coming from the crow. It resonated from all the crows above, cawing in the tree. Then I noticed: from each of the crows hung a string. They led to the tomb below. Then all the crows rose up at once, and the strings lifted a corpse from her grave. She had no eyes, just empty sockets. The strings supported her as she floated towards me. The first crow nestled the necklace around the corpse's neck. "My sister, oh my sister, thought she could keep me blind. But not anymore, no, not thanks to you. The Crow has many eyes, many friends. And now her true eye that sees all." "Does she?" the old lady from the shop with one stone eye stepped out from behind a grave. "It would seem," she waved her hand once, and the necklace changed and shifted, changing back into the Skin of a Man. The Hungarian man had caught me before I left the store, and the old witch explained who the Crow really was. "Why do you think she appears as a Crow?" she said, "Her true form is death, and she cannot show you." Together we formed a plan to stop her. I had the witch's potion in my pocket, if I could just remember the spell. But it came at a price: I let the shop witch had cut my skin in the shape of the necklace. She enchanted my ring of flesh to trick the Crow. Now I could feel the blood draining from me, staining my shirt. I felt weak. But there was one more step to defeated the Crow. Destroy her corpse. The Crow screeched and flew towards me, a hundred crows cawing above, hungrily. But she was blind, and I was quick. I felt for the potion in my pocket. When the crow was close enough, I threw it on the ground. I recited the incantation the shop witch taught me. The Crow burst into flames. The wail I heard as her soul left the corpse still frightens me to this day. And then a hundred dead crows fell on top of me. I thought about what suffocating would feel like. And then it all went dark. ------------------------------------------------------------------------------- I woke up in a small cot in the back of the pawn shop, with the old shop witch sitting over me. The last thing I remembered was a pair of strong arms lifting me out of the pile of dead crows. "My son Hroth saved you," she said, "You did a wonderful job, child, wonderful. I must admit I did not know if you could work the spell. But you seem to have a bit of talent. Enough to send my sister off to death, where she belonged." I've stayed in the pawn shop ever since. I still have the scar of where she cut the necklace, but it's a good home. Hroth teaches me to take inventory, and the old shop witch, Hvarta, teaches me a little magic here and there, and also not to talk to crows. ---------------------------------------------------------- Edit: grammar, thanks /u/singularaegis	I had heard the flapping of some wings to my right. I looked to the windowsill and saw that a bird had landed there. Not just any bird, but a crow holding a crisp brown $100 bill in its mouth. "What the hell?" I muttered as I stumbled out of my chair towards it. The bird placed the money in front of me. "Hey," it said, "can you buy something for me?" "Uhhh, sure? What?" "Some mushrooms!" "There's mushrooms on the ground though." "You know the mushrooms I'm talking about?" "What?" "We can share them, I know you want some too!" At this moment I realized something was wrong with my life. When I looked back, the bird was gone. There was me, with my wallet almost being empty. My apartment was a bed and a chair outisde the bathroom. I had been unemployed for a while now. I had to change. I was ruining my mind and my body. Luckily, I've been clean for a while now. Bless that bird.
	[WP] A comedy about the love triangle between a teenage ghost, the only person who can see them, and the oblivious third wheel	"How've you been?" I asked quietly. I didn't want anyone to see me talking to thin air. We were in the library, behind stale piles of books. She was only partially there, a filmy shroud covering her features just enough to be unnatural. I didn't mind, I still knew who she was. I could still see her face, still recognize her. "I'm alright," she said just as quietly. It didn't really matter; no one else could hear her. I suppose she didn't want to unbalance the tone of our conversation. "I missed you while you were gone." "I missed you, too." I said, the corner of my mouth twitching up into a half-smile. "I'm sorry I had to go away." "No, don't be silly. I know how Christmas break is. You have to be with your family." She told me, her fingers drifting idly along the book spines. Occasionally her fingers accidentally slipped through them. I was used to it. She sighed to herself. "I wish I could be with my family." Her gaze shifted, moving across the room. Her eyes settled on him. "How's he doing?" She asked. I closed my eyes, tight. My fingers dug into my palms and I fought to maintain composure. "He misses you." I told her. "He still blames himself." A phantom tear wound its way down her pale face. "It isn't his fault." She said. "He has to know, it isn't his fault." "He knows." I reassured her. "It's just- he still needs time. He was driving, you were his fianceé. Of course he blames himself, but he knows it isn't his fault." "I miss him so much." She said, eyes brimming with ghostly tears. "I wish he could see me." The emphasis hit me like a punch to the gut. I'd always loved her, always. But they had fallen in love. I couldn't begrudge them that- they were my closest friends. But now, she was gone. It hadn't been his fault, no, a drunk driver was to blame. But I couldn't help the anger. He was alive, with a broken leg and heart, but alive. Broken things could be fixed, healed. She was dead. I loved her and she was dead. When I had seen her for the first time, I'd thought I was crazy. She had been so relieved that someone could see her, that she wasn't all alone. For a moment she looked at me the way I had always dreamed she would. But in time she stopped caring. She had eyes only for him and I had eyes only for her. He didn't know a thing, and how could he? No one could see her but me. What perpetual torture. Someday it might end. Perhaps he would find another love, perhaps I would. We would eventually die. Until then, I will meet her in the library and have meaningless talks. I'll watch her watch him. I'll cry myself to sleep each night and imagine a world where she hadn't been in the car, where she hadn't loved him. Each night I'll imagine a world where she loves me, and each morning I'll rip my wounds open afresh just so I can see her again.	She was drinking a Coke, and I said, "Excuse me," which started it, because then she was right there in front of me again with her blue eyes looking up. "Wait," she said. "What did you say?" "What?" She was walking backward through the hallway, and she pulled her dark hair over her shoulder and squinted and moved her face up close to mine like she was checking for something. "You can see me?" she said. She was slowing me down - there was still about five minutes, but Art was my only hour with HER all week and there weren't assigned seats. And high-school's like real-estate, my dad told me, Location, Location, Location. So, I always sat with HER. And I talked with HER. And PROM was in two weeks, so it was now or never (as my dad also said), and I didn't really have anything for this girl in her white shirt with her Coke and her blue eyes, because I felt kind of sick and I was trying to rehearse what to say. "This is me," I told the girl with the Coke. "Room 404." She looked behind her. "You said that to me, right?" she said. "What?" I went in, but she followed me. -- Kind of a new direction for me, but I'll keep going if it was okay up to here. Otherwise, thanks for the prompt!
From "Coin of the Realm" by Kristine Kathryn Rusch in Assassin Fantastic.	[WP] The King has declared that the greatest assassin in the land shall have his child's hand in marriage. He issues a contest to bring to him the head of his archenemy. Unknown to him, the prince/princess IS the greatest assassin in the land.	Cherlyse ran her eyes slowly over the freshly sharpened blade of her dagger. Her eyes caught and momentarily stuck on every small knock on the blade, each one a memory. She smiled, blowing a lock of blonde hair out of her eyes, and slid the dagger back into the scabbard hanging from her left shoulder. Her Uncle grunted loudly in his sleep, and she rolled her eyes. She had mixed enough poison in his wine to make your average man sleep for a day without so much as a sign of life, yet her fat uncle had started snoring twenty minutes in to his slumber. The veil around his bed shook softly in the wind, and she took a moment to appreciate how beautiful the night was. The temperature was just right, the breeze rolled softly through the walls of her uncle's castle, and everyone had been in high spirits. Especially the criminals. She rested her head against the wall as she thought. A hit had been placed on her uncle, and she had been the first to take notice. Her father dared to offer her hand in marriage to whichever assassin that managed to bring down Duke Ferro. He promised that they would have her hand in marriage. She had initially considered slitting her uncle's throat herself, and leaving the deed anonymous, so as to not deal with the winner. She had eventually decided, however, to see which of her fellow killers lusted after her. She had met a few other assassins over her career, and killed quite a few of them, too. But none of them had ever had any love for the crown. It was an interesting opportunity, and she could probably kill her uncle in the end, anyways. Cherlyse was startled from her thoughtful state by a noise outside of her uncle's window. She pulled her mask over her face, obscuring all but her deep amber eyes. She pulled her hair behind her head, neatly tidying it into a bun as she crossed the room towards the window. The noise came again, the unmistakable sound of a hook being tossed onto a balcony. This time, it caught. She waited until she could hear the sounds of a man struggling to climb the attached rope before she dared peer over the edge. Dangling from the side of the tower was a masked figure in a black cloak, practically invisible against the black of the night. She watched as he climbed further. As he neared the top, she leaned further over and said "A hook? Really? Amateurish, isn't it?" The figure froze, his eyes quickly darting upwards. "No, it can't be." "But it is!" Cherlyse laid her hands on the edge of the balcony, pulling her feet up underneath her, and then throwing them forward. She sat on the edge while the figure tried to re-adjust his grip. She started again "So, how long do you think that you can dangle there before you get too tired to hang on?" "Look, Owl. I have no quarrel with you. What are you even doing here? Why would a woman seek the princess' hand in marriage?" Cherlyse smiled softly when he called her Owl. It was a name that had practically become synonymous with assassination in the kingdom, and she loved it. "I'm not here to marry the princess, you fool. Just thought I'd see who would win the race." "Well, I won. Are you going to kill me or let me up? I'd rather know now than dangle here until I drop." The princess smiled. This was the part that she loved. She reached for her dagger, pulled it away from it's scabbard, and set it against the rope that currently represented, to her, the man's entire life. "Before I do," Cherlyse began, thinking aloud, "remove your mask." One of the man's feet slipped, and he momentarily dangled in the wind, slamming hard against the tower before regaining his footing. "Owl! I'll jump if I must, but the Gods have no mercy on a man that takes his own life." "The Gods have no mercy on any of us. We're killers. Remove the mask, it may be your only chance at life." He stood still for another moment, before one hand reached towards his face and pulled his mask down. He was a somewhat handsome man, and Cherlyse thought that she recognized him from one of the local taverns in the High Keep where her father reigned. She was flattered that he had come this far for her hand. She began again, "Interesting... but I could do better." She pulled her dagger's blade across the rope, and the man fell to his death. ____ I don't write any more, but let me know what you think!	"Alianora, it was not you that I was expecting to arrive with Ledders head on a pike!" The King laughed heartily. He stood, smiling broadly with open arms. "Such a capable daughter that I have raised, for her to save our country from such a fierce bandit! How did you find him?" "Thank you, father." Alianora had an almost expressionless, cold face. "I killed his children, and his wife. Then he came to me." She said this as if explaining how to make a cup of tea. The King cleared his throat uncomfortably then sat down, hands in lap. "I see." After some silence, he began again. "Then, there is still the matter of finding a suitor for you to marry. I should have you take the throne for me when that day comes." "I do not plan to wait for that day, just as I did not plan to wait with Ledders. The laws only state that one must be wed to rule this country. Not that they must be wed to any one." The King felt his heart leap through his throat. His eyes widened in surprise as he felt warm liquid trickle down his chest. He tried to ask his daughter "why? We loved you!" but only a gurgling sound came forth.
	[WP] You are a genetically modified human who doesn't need to sleep, and doesn't ever feel the need to. Write about your life.	It feels like we go through the same conversations every weekend. And that's probably because we do. My best friend Carl has always been there since we were 12. 20 years on, we're still going strong. These days, he even goes as far as to take a cut in pay so that his hours are completely flexible. This way he can follow the "28 hour day" - essentially he times his sleep so that he's awake during the day on weekdays but then is awake during the night on weekends. So, at least for two days a week, I have somebody to talk to while the rest of the world sleeps. "It can't be that bad" he exclaims, "your the most incredibly on-form person I know! Never any bags under your eyes, always on top of deadlines..." he keeps talking as I start to think. It might be rude that my mind wanders, but we've had this conversation literally hundreds of times and with a film on in the background it's perfectly reasonable that I might drift elsewhere. What he says is true, having those extra 8 hours is a benefit. People go through their day to day lives and on average have only about 2 hours free every night, during which time they're exhausted anyway. Not only am I not exhausted in that free time, but I have another 8 hours on top of that. That's 10 hours a day to do things that other people would never normally do. I've used that 10 hours in a range of different ways. During my degree, I studied hard for at least 3 of them every night. Some say university is a trade-off between adequate sleep, good grades and a social life. Without the need for adequate sleep, the other two factors go way beyond what other people could ever hope for. I finished 2nd in my master's class for theoretical physics (the other guy was simply an extremely talented person, I suppose that sometimes no matter how hard you try talent will win out) and finished my PhD a year early. So yes, I can see why people envy me. But I, like everyone else uses their free time, have mostly used my nights for one thing: procrastination. Let's do the math: over the past 32 years of my life I have had an extra 8 hours of time per day completely free whilst everybody else has slept. That gives me a total of 93,504 hours extra. How does one fill that time? I've watched all of the movies, read all of the books, spent an inordinate amount of time experiencing the night life. As much as I wish that I could spend all of those thousands of hours self-improving, that's not human nature. I wish that I had spent those hours learning more things, by now I would be a super human having mastered every instrument, discipline, language and art known to man. But it's not that simple. I dread the night. I dread those hours on end of waiting for other people to wake up, the endless scrolling through Netflix to find something I haven't seen, the constant thoughts re-living all of my regrets as my mind wanders. "Hey" Carl disturbed me from my thoughts "I've given up a lot to spend the nights with you on weekends, the least you can do is listen to me". "Sorry" I muttered; I know that I should make the most of him being here, I have five nights a week to get lost in my own thoughts. For now I should probably enjoy somebody else's. People assume that never sleeping means that your social life is great. Sleep forces you to spend 8 hours every night trapped in your own thoughts, awakeness is a time that you can share with others. But the night life is monotonous (why wouldn't it be, when people only experience it once every few weeks there's no need for it to change) and even if I did go out every night there's always going to be 4 hours between the bars closing and the people rising. I always end up trapped in my own thoughts, usually for just as long as everybody else, but sleep gets you through it much more easily. Besides, there's more that sleep does for you than you realise. Just as an example, I never got to experience waking up next to my wife. Right up until the day she filed for the divorce because she "didn't feel close", I knew that our relationship would get 10x better if I could only lay down beside her and let our bond grow through sleep. At first I blamed her, of course I did, but when every girlfriend you've ever lived with since then says the same thing you start to connect the dots. Logically, my life is fantastic. I've been given the opportunity to have a cracking social life as well as develop many skills to a level most could only dream of. But instead of seizing that opportunity, I do what most people would probably do: sit at my empty desk contemplating my empty life while everybody else gets lost in their dreams, probably forming a bond with their loved one that can only form when you fall to sleep with each other.	I've lived my whole life in anxiety, used to spending my nights prancing about in silence, the only people I'd meet at that time were the criminals, but they wouldn't harm me. No, they feared me, the man who walks. Many people thought I was just a normal person, but soon as more people saw me walking around at night assumptions began to be made... That I was different, inhuman even. Then the day would come, and I'd see hundreds upon thousands of people everywhere, it terrified me, I was afraid of these people, I was not able to handle being in large groups of people. So, what did I do? I went away from it all, I had a lot of leftover money since I was able to work overtime every day, so I built a house on a mountain overlooking a lush forest, the serenity of the place calms me and allows me to continue living my life. "I'm sorry for interrupting your thoughts." I heard a gentle voice say behind me, I was very shocked to find another person here. I turned toward her, she was slightly shorter than myself, her brown hair falling in curls all the way to the middle of her back. Her green eyes stared strongly into mine, she was mesmerising. Her shy look portrayed an innocence I had not seen in a long time. "Uh... Hi." I answered and she smiled. "Can I join you?" She asked and I nodded. She came and sat next to me, dangling her legs off the cliff and swinging them around absent-mindedly. "That's an odd attire you have on." She said, referring to the thin full body suit and small backpack I had on. It was a wingsuit, and the backpack was a parachute, but I chose not to relay that information to her, I simply nodded with a smile. Eventually she spoke again. "I understand you." She said simply and I looked toward her. "I'm sorry?" I asked in confusion and she smiled slightly. "Humanity tries to protect itself, it believes that anyone who is different is a disease, soon enough, they drive you insane and you start looking for somewhere else to live." She said and I chuckled. "That's not it at all, I'm the one who couldn't deal with people. All the people I've seen were bad, the good ones were always buried in thousands more and seemed very uncommon to me." I said, smiling. "All that will change." She answered. "How so?" I asked her. She suddenly looked at me with such evil intent. "I'm here to hunt you down." She said as she procured a gun in her hand from her pocket. I immediately pushed her and jumped off the mountain top, using the wingsuit to gain speed and distance before opening my parachute. By the time I'd landed, all I'd heard was just a few gunshots followed by sirens. This wasn't the first time they've sent someone after me, and it wouldn't be the last.
	[WP] You are a genetically modified human who doesn't need to sleep, and doesn't ever feel the need to. Write about your life.	It feels like we go through the same conversations every weekend. And that's probably because we do. My best friend Carl has always been there since we were 12. 20 years on, we're still going strong. These days, he even goes as far as to take a cut in pay so that his hours are completely flexible. This way he can follow the "28 hour day" - essentially he times his sleep so that he's awake during the day on weekdays but then is awake during the night on weekends. So, at least for two days a week, I have somebody to talk to while the rest of the world sleeps. "It can't be that bad" he exclaims, "your the most incredibly on-form person I know! Never any bags under your eyes, always on top of deadlines..." he keeps talking as I start to think. It might be rude that my mind wanders, but we've had this conversation literally hundreds of times and with a film on in the background it's perfectly reasonable that I might drift elsewhere. What he says is true, having those extra 8 hours is a benefit. People go through their day to day lives and on average have only about 2 hours free every night, during which time they're exhausted anyway. Not only am I not exhausted in that free time, but I have another 8 hours on top of that. That's 10 hours a day to do things that other people would never normally do. I've used that 10 hours in a range of different ways. During my degree, I studied hard for at least 3 of them every night. Some say university is a trade-off between adequate sleep, good grades and a social life. Without the need for adequate sleep, the other two factors go way beyond what other people could ever hope for. I finished 2nd in my master's class for theoretical physics (the other guy was simply an extremely talented person, I suppose that sometimes no matter how hard you try talent will win out) and finished my PhD a year early. So yes, I can see why people envy me. But I, like everyone else uses their free time, have mostly used my nights for one thing: procrastination. Let's do the math: over the past 32 years of my life I have had an extra 8 hours of time per day completely free whilst everybody else has slept. That gives me a total of 93,504 hours extra. How does one fill that time? I've watched all of the movies, read all of the books, spent an inordinate amount of time experiencing the night life. As much as I wish that I could spend all of those thousands of hours self-improving, that's not human nature. I wish that I had spent those hours learning more things, by now I would be a super human having mastered every instrument, discipline, language and art known to man. But it's not that simple. I dread the night. I dread those hours on end of waiting for other people to wake up, the endless scrolling through Netflix to find something I haven't seen, the constant thoughts re-living all of my regrets as my mind wanders. "Hey" Carl disturbed me from my thoughts "I've given up a lot to spend the nights with you on weekends, the least you can do is listen to me". "Sorry" I muttered; I know that I should make the most of him being here, I have five nights a week to get lost in my own thoughts. For now I should probably enjoy somebody else's. People assume that never sleeping means that your social life is great. Sleep forces you to spend 8 hours every night trapped in your own thoughts, awakeness is a time that you can share with others. But the night life is monotonous (why wouldn't it be, when people only experience it once every few weeks there's no need for it to change) and even if I did go out every night there's always going to be 4 hours between the bars closing and the people rising. I always end up trapped in my own thoughts, usually for just as long as everybody else, but sleep gets you through it much more easily. Besides, there's more that sleep does for you than you realise. Just as an example, I never got to experience waking up next to my wife. Right up until the day she filed for the divorce because she "didn't feel close", I knew that our relationship would get 10x better if I could only lay down beside her and let our bond grow through sleep. At first I blamed her, of course I did, but when every girlfriend you've ever lived with since then says the same thing you start to connect the dots. Logically, my life is fantastic. I've been given the opportunity to have a cracking social life as well as develop many skills to a level most could only dream of. But instead of seizing that opportunity, I do what most people would probably do: sit at my empty desk contemplating my empty life while everybody else gets lost in their dreams, probably forming a bond with their loved one that can only form when you fall to sleep with each other.	Some experiences are typically human. An external stimuli that causes a reaction in the body. Sight, sound, taste, touch, etcetera. Love. A positive bond that can be shallow or deep. She loves the color green. He loves her memory more than any living soul. Anger. Hate. Fear. Prejudice. A word based upon a preconceived opinion resulting from the absence of logic. Food for energy. Water for hydration. A chemical formula made of one oxygen atom chemically bonded with two hydrogen atoms. Sleep. ~~No~~. A very old word. Verb. To rest. Noun. A condition of the body in which consciousness is typically in a state of suspension. A word of German origin. Schlaf. Sommeil. Somn. I slam the encyclopedia closed. I can hear the second hand on the clock ticking into the silence. Sometimes I imagine I can hear them as well. The soft in and out of breath. 186013619 seconds have passed with those haunting sounds. And that ticking! But..no...tonight I don't hear them. My bare feet make barely any noise as I pad across the linoleum floor. I crack open the door slightly. The glow from the cryogenic chambers is dim but the figures inside are unmistakably sleeping. And until the ship docks, that is how they will stay. I breathe a sigh of relief. I'm not afraid of them. We are divided by a simple genetic modification. But still...what is it that makes them human anyway?
	[WP] You are a genetically modified human who doesn't need to sleep, and doesn't ever feel the need to. Write about your life.	It feels like we go through the same conversations every weekend. And that's probably because we do. My best friend Carl has always been there since we were 12. 20 years on, we're still going strong. These days, he even goes as far as to take a cut in pay so that his hours are completely flexible. This way he can follow the "28 hour day" - essentially he times his sleep so that he's awake during the day on weekdays but then is awake during the night on weekends. So, at least for two days a week, I have somebody to talk to while the rest of the world sleeps. "It can't be that bad" he exclaims, "your the most incredibly on-form person I know! Never any bags under your eyes, always on top of deadlines..." he keeps talking as I start to think. It might be rude that my mind wanders, but we've had this conversation literally hundreds of times and with a film on in the background it's perfectly reasonable that I might drift elsewhere. What he says is true, having those extra 8 hours is a benefit. People go through their day to day lives and on average have only about 2 hours free every night, during which time they're exhausted anyway. Not only am I not exhausted in that free time, but I have another 8 hours on top of that. That's 10 hours a day to do things that other people would never normally do. I've used that 10 hours in a range of different ways. During my degree, I studied hard for at least 3 of them every night. Some say university is a trade-off between adequate sleep, good grades and a social life. Without the need for adequate sleep, the other two factors go way beyond what other people could ever hope for. I finished 2nd in my master's class for theoretical physics (the other guy was simply an extremely talented person, I suppose that sometimes no matter how hard you try talent will win out) and finished my PhD a year early. So yes, I can see why people envy me. But I, like everyone else uses their free time, have mostly used my nights for one thing: procrastination. Let's do the math: over the past 32 years of my life I have had an extra 8 hours of time per day completely free whilst everybody else has slept. That gives me a total of 93,504 hours extra. How does one fill that time? I've watched all of the movies, read all of the books, spent an inordinate amount of time experiencing the night life. As much as I wish that I could spend all of those thousands of hours self-improving, that's not human nature. I wish that I had spent those hours learning more things, by now I would be a super human having mastered every instrument, discipline, language and art known to man. But it's not that simple. I dread the night. I dread those hours on end of waiting for other people to wake up, the endless scrolling through Netflix to find something I haven't seen, the constant thoughts re-living all of my regrets as my mind wanders. "Hey" Carl disturbed me from my thoughts "I've given up a lot to spend the nights with you on weekends, the least you can do is listen to me". "Sorry" I muttered; I know that I should make the most of him being here, I have five nights a week to get lost in my own thoughts. For now I should probably enjoy somebody else's. People assume that never sleeping means that your social life is great. Sleep forces you to spend 8 hours every night trapped in your own thoughts, awakeness is a time that you can share with others. But the night life is monotonous (why wouldn't it be, when people only experience it once every few weeks there's no need for it to change) and even if I did go out every night there's always going to be 4 hours between the bars closing and the people rising. I always end up trapped in my own thoughts, usually for just as long as everybody else, but sleep gets you through it much more easily. Besides, there's more that sleep does for you than you realise. Just as an example, I never got to experience waking up next to my wife. Right up until the day she filed for the divorce because she "didn't feel close", I knew that our relationship would get 10x better if I could only lay down beside her and let our bond grow through sleep. At first I blamed her, of course I did, but when every girlfriend you've ever lived with since then says the same thing you start to connect the dots. Logically, my life is fantastic. I've been given the opportunity to have a cracking social life as well as develop many skills to a level most could only dream of. But instead of seizing that opportunity, I do what most people would probably do: sit at my empty desk contemplating my empty life while everybody else gets lost in their dreams, probably forming a bond with their loved one that can only form when you fall to sleep with each other.	People say that the phrase "slept like a baby" is a bit inaccurate. And with me, that's especially true. I haven't slept a day since I was born. Well, "born" meaning created. I was made to be like this. Scientists specializing in sleep patterns were curious; could a person be made to not need sleep? And how would this lack of sleep affect them? They don't truly know why people need sleep. I mean, yes, it revitalizes you. But it's more the issue of why being unconscious basically charges you up for a day. They wanted to see how a person would be without that. So, here I am. Early in life was pretty great, I've gotta say. No bed time meant an extra six or eight hours to either study, read, or play. I excelled in school; having 30% more time to study really helped. The only time things were odd then was when I went to a sleepover. There my friends were, on a snooze cruise at 2 in the morning. And there I was, awake next to them, not in the least bit tired (and not just from all the sugar). My teenage years are where I truly excelled. Due to my special case, I was able to get a permit letting me bypass the hours cap for a job as a minor. I was able to work nearly 100 hours a week and was able to buy pretty much whatever I wanted. It was at this point, however, that I began to feel like I was missing something. There is just something hard-wired into us that makes us want to have some time lying down and doing nothing. But I can't do that. I can lie down and frequently do if I'm sore, but I'll always be awake thinking. That's just it. Thinking. I had been awake as much as an 18 year old when I was barely 12. In a way, I went through mental puberty years in advance. I became a rebellious teen at heart when I was still watching Winnie the Pooh. I'd just been given too much time to think and not enough ability to use it. There's this thing everyone has done but I will never do. It's called dreaming. Don't get me wrong, I've had desires. There are things I have seen and wanted. But I have not ever had my brain hit the "I'm feeling lucky" button and take my somewhere I can't control. And I never will. I'll never see myself in a possibility of being able to fly. I'll never see myself as a movie star. I'll never see myself visualizing in such intricate detail what could have been. What if I was in that car accident? What if I had said something different in a conversation? What if I just hadn't been too scared to say hi to her? These thoughts of mine will never stop. I'll always be able to work. I'll always have the best luxuries. I'll always have extra time. But I'll always be thinking. I'll always be wondering. I'll think it, I'll imagine it, and I'll visualize it. But I'll never be able to dream it.
	[WP] You are a genetically modified human who doesn't need to sleep, and doesn't ever feel the need to. Write about your life.	The Need to Sleep --- I can't sleep. I never tried, cause I never needed too. I was born without the to sleep and it's done wonders for me. I don't think people understand how time we actually have. 24 hours in a day to do whatever I want. Of course, when nighttime rolls around your options start to become limited but you get what I'm saying. I'm not the type that needs to go out and see the world. Sitting at home watching tv and surfing the internet is good enough for me. I was a straight A student throughout my entire academic career. I never thought of myself as a genius , yet those who did not know me labeled me as such. In my opinion I see the world moving too fast. Out of the 24 hours we're given in a day we more or less use 8 of those hours on sleep. Then we rush to work and school and use up the rest of our hours. They call me a genius, but I don't think of myself as one. I didn't use my time cure cancer. Nor did I use it towards solving world hunger. I write books. I like to write stories that people wish were real or what they wish they could write if they had enough time. At the time that I'm writing this, I'm only 23 and I've never been sick. The doctors said I should live until I'm 170 if I play my cards right, but none of that matters right now. People complain about how they don't have enough hours in a day. I agree with them, we really don't. But the good thing about our 24 hour schedule is that you make due with the time you do have. Some people have more time others. I surely do. Some people make more time, others lose theirs. It 's sad to see that I'm the only one who can really take the time to st back and enjoy the world for it's beauty. How much would we have accomplish? I wonder. How much would we lose? If everyone could no longer sleep would people be more like me and really think? Or would we still reach the same outcome? Perhaps you should be glad that the Sandman has blessed you. I think sleep was given to us for a reason. Some people don't need more time. *** I have more stories here, [GravityWriting](https://www.reddit.com/r/GravityWriting/), please check it out.	I was made in a lab, not by sex like a normal human, I was typed out, like a computer program, my DNA completely created by a regular human with a regular IQ. He was wrong to creat me, stupid even, his motives were crupt, I was meant to be a super soldier for his army, the first of many. He never considered my wants or needs, as a human I have rights, despite being genetically modified the US government protected me from him, they encouraged me to join there army put gave me a choice, I choose not to go. I don't sleep, I don't need to sleep, It's a blessing and a curse. When I was young I spent my nights wondering around the lab, but after the government saved me, I spent my nights bugging other kids at the Orphanage. I was only in the Orphanage 2 years before I become a adult and had to get my own place. After that I spent my nights at bars, the first few years I had a fake ID I had just so I could get in, not even order drinks, because I hated being alone so many hours, and it was nice untill 1:00 in the morning that was always when things started to go downhill at bars, girls that had horribly smugged makeup throwing themselves at me, drunken fights going on, other guys getting upset that I so much as look at there girlfriend. From what I experienced at bars I concluded I was attractive, but it is of little importance to me. I am now 25, and I make money at bars by having drinking contests because not only do I have no need for sleep, but alcohol seems to have little to no effect on me, and people always think they can out drink me for some reason, maybe it's because I have no beer belly unlike these guys. When I was about 22 I used to have one night stands a lot, and girls claimed they wanted to bang all night but after about 2 hours most of them said they where satisfied and ready for sleep, but I wasn't, and after night after night of disappointment in the fact no girl actually wanted to bang all night I sorta gave up on the whole thing, I didn't want to watch girls sleep I wanted one that would stay up all night long if not banging then talking or anything besides sleeping. So this particular night I thought about my life and just sat at the bar slowly sipping my beer. "You're Jason, right?" A beautiful girl came up to me and sat down beside me. caught off guard I said "umm... yeah, why?" It was probably the least smooth thing I'd ever said. "Well I'm Isabella, but you can call my bell for short, and I'd like to have a drinking contests with you," she talked so sweetly, but her words made me laugh and laugh until she gave me a dirty look then I stopped. "I'm serious, I think I can bet you" I thought it was crazy but I didn't laugh because I could tell she met it. "Okay fine, how about this, you win I'll do whatever you want, I'll make a fool of my self or whatever, I win you give me your number." I said looking at her be as serious as I could manage. "No I want to play for money, you win, I give you $1000 I win you give me $1000" my jaw dropped but I tried to contain my surprise. "You sure you wanna do that on the first try?" I asked looking at her and wondering if she was already drunk but she looked pretty sober. "I'm sure." "Okay, in that case let's get this thing started" I said standing up. We set everything up and after 10 shots each we gathered a huge crowd, I was shocked she was still talking perfectly clear after 50 each I was starting to wonder if she was like me and after the bartender cut us off at 150 shots each I was sure. "Well it's a tie," I said after the bartender cut us off. "Yes, but it means you're like me," she said smiling. Then she took me to her place and we banged all night long.
	[WP] You are a genetically modified human who doesn't need to sleep, and doesn't ever feel the need to. Write about your life.	I was always fascinated by the reactions when I told people I had never slept. At first they did not understand me, then they did not believe me. We were still incredibly rare, us moddies, but people had heard of us. Eventually I would convince them that I had been one of the original tests, and mine had been sleep, or rather, the lack thereof. From here some people thought about what jobs I could perform for 24 hours. Some people thought about all the extra time I would have to play video games. Some people thought of all the cool adventures I could go on. I thought I had heard every response a thousand times. When I met her I was not expecting any response out of the ordinary. We went through the usual process of me explaining I was a moddie and I did not need to sleep, nor had I ever slept. At first I saw acceptance in her eyes, then it quickly changed to sadness. With sparkling jewels on her cheeks she quietly asked if that meant I had never dreamed. I had never thought of that before, nor had I ever been asked about it. I am glad I found her. I have still never dreamed, but she dreams so much it is enough for both of us.	I was made in a lab, not by sex like a normal human, I was typed out, like a computer program, my DNA completely created by a regular human with a regular IQ. He was wrong to creat me, stupid even, his motives were crupt, I was meant to be a super soldier for his army, the first of many. He never considered my wants or needs, as a human I have rights, despite being genetically modified the US government protected me from him, they encouraged me to join there army put gave me a choice, I choose not to go. I don't sleep, I don't need to sleep, It's a blessing and a curse. When I was young I spent my nights wondering around the lab, but after the government saved me, I spent my nights bugging other kids at the Orphanage. I was only in the Orphanage 2 years before I become a adult and had to get my own place. After that I spent my nights at bars, the first few years I had a fake ID I had just so I could get in, not even order drinks, because I hated being alone so many hours, and it was nice untill 1:00 in the morning that was always when things started to go downhill at bars, girls that had horribly smugged makeup throwing themselves at me, drunken fights going on, other guys getting upset that I so much as look at there girlfriend. From what I experienced at bars I concluded I was attractive, but it is of little importance to me. I am now 25, and I make money at bars by having drinking contests because not only do I have no need for sleep, but alcohol seems to have little to no effect on me, and people always think they can out drink me for some reason, maybe it's because I have no beer belly unlike these guys. When I was about 22 I used to have one night stands a lot, and girls claimed they wanted to bang all night but after about 2 hours most of them said they where satisfied and ready for sleep, but I wasn't, and after night after night of disappointment in the fact no girl actually wanted to bang all night I sorta gave up on the whole thing, I didn't want to watch girls sleep I wanted one that would stay up all night long if not banging then talking or anything besides sleeping. So this particular night I thought about my life and just sat at the bar slowly sipping my beer. "You're Jason, right?" A beautiful girl came up to me and sat down beside me. caught off guard I said "umm... yeah, why?" It was probably the least smooth thing I'd ever said. "Well I'm Isabella, but you can call my bell for short, and I'd like to have a drinking contests with you," she talked so sweetly, but her words made me laugh and laugh until she gave me a dirty look then I stopped. "I'm serious, I think I can bet you" I thought it was crazy but I didn't laugh because I could tell she met it. "Okay fine, how about this, you win I'll do whatever you want, I'll make a fool of my self or whatever, I win you give me your number." I said looking at her be as serious as I could manage. "No I want to play for money, you win, I give you $1000 I win you give me $1000" my jaw dropped but I tried to contain my surprise. "You sure you wanna do that on the first try?" I asked looking at her and wondering if she was already drunk but she looked pretty sober. "I'm sure." "Okay, in that case let's get this thing started" I said standing up. We set everything up and after 10 shots each we gathered a huge crowd, I was shocked she was still talking perfectly clear after 50 each I was starting to wonder if she was like me and after the bartender cut us off at 150 shots each I was sure. "Well it's a tie," I said after the bartender cut us off. "Yes, but it means you're like me," she said smiling. Then she took me to her place and we banged all night long.
	[WP] You are a genetically modified human who doesn't need to sleep, and doesn't ever feel the need to. Write about your life.	It's the nights I enjoy the most. Walking down the empty streets and trails. Something is so, peaceful when near everyone's asleep. A relaxing feeling when there's nothing but crickets and frogs to speak between man's creations and the stars. I'm a Brid by the way, in case you hadn't guessed, a product of that tiny sliver of bureaucratic bickering 15 years ago, back when I was conceived. The story is pretty simple. Gene-modding suddenly became possible, and boy was the government unprepared. Looking at me you may not even notice the difference, on the outside I'm nearly the same, save for the slightly pointy ears and the sharp canines. Some call me a Vampire, but really my name's Cassandra, insomnia extraordinaire. As you know the government decided to ban gene-modding, but not after three weeks of it being legal. It was kind of like drones in the early 21st century, they were there for a little while before getting banned. But some people still had them from before, and by that point it was too late to take them away. Same goes for the 10,000 or so other Brids like me. The Lost Generation they call us. Of course we all know drones came back a decade or so later, and talks have started to possibly legalize hybrids again, but for now, just like the my walks in the night, I'm more or less alone. For my walks, more or less means the animals. You'd be amazed the stuff that comes out of hiding after dark. All those little creatures that scurry into holes when somebody walks by during the day don't seem to mind who stops by after hours, well . . . at least not as much. If you sit in a dark patch for long enough you'll see them everywhere. From the squirrels and voles that scurry along through the underbrush, to the owls that drift silently through the frigid night air, to the bugs that writhe in the dirt, which rather similar to me, seem tireless. People have tried to explain sleep to me. But I suppose it's like explaining color to a blind man, it just doesn't click in my head. Words like rested, or sleepy, or tired, just don't really make sense. The best I've equated those three to are things like caffeinated, or hungry, or drugged out of your mind. Don't get me wrong, I understand how sleep works. The brain has to rest and heal, review all the events of the day before in order to keep functioning, but mine just doesn't work like that. The gene mods allow me to, in an incredibly simplified explanation, review and take in new information at the same time, effectively eliminating the need for the process of sleep in the first place. And it turns out if you don't need to do it, your body just decides you just can't do it at all. So my life turned into these weird double edged sword that it is. I've almost got two lives. The one everyone knows is my normal life. I go to school, have friends, get decent grades and all that. Cassandra the Teenager. Then there's the life that fills the other one third of every day, the one that starts when everyone goes to bed and I'm left alone for eight hours. The life of Cassandra the Stargazer, the sleepless. Most people don't even know about that side, but I enjoy it all the same. After all it's my talent, what sets me apart, I suppose it comfortingly unique . . . in its own weird way. Sure I've done what any logical girl would do with this supposed "superpower", finish extra homework, but you just can't just do that for one third of your life, so I've found other solutions to fill time. Like video games, or more often recently, walks through the night. I suppose it's almost become my equivalent of sleep. Some meditation to calm my scrambled brain after the day. Downtime. Relaxation. I'll go just to feel the cool breeze on my face, or watch the occasional car drive by, or sit in the shadow of an amber streetlamp just to hear it hum. But for as much as I understand sleep (which isn't much), the one thing I completely don't understand is dreams. They just don't make any sense, at all, and yes I get they don't make sense to even the people that dream the dreams but . . . making characters? People you don't know and putting them and yourself into weird scenarios you come up with in your mind . . . I just can't comprehend what that'd feel like. I've been told sleeping is like being knocked out (which I've done by the way, not fun), but softer. That is reasonable I suppose, still weird to think, but the idea of these . . . visions . . . is on a whole other lever. Of course, they still fascinate me, almost as much as they scare me. I've heard stories about people's nightmares. About confronting your worst fears summoned by your own subconscious . . . or even worse, dying in your own dream. What could that possibly feel like? "Why does everyone always seem to like their dreams when half the time their bad?" I ponder and stand, looking up at the thousands of shimmering stars. "Everyone seems content with them despite the fact that . . . that you know . . ." My stomach grumbles and I clutch my gut. "Yeah yeah, I know I know." I mumble into the air. Fun fact about never sleeping, you tend to need four square meals a day to keep active. All that wandering at night gets a girl hungry. "Let's go grab our midnight snack." I smile and wander off into the night, heading for the warm dark windows of home.	I didn't realise I was different until I was in high school. Thinking back now it is strange that I never questioned why my parents retired to their room every night but I guess they wanted to shield me from the truth. It started when I wondered what people meant when they said they felt tired. Soon after this I realised I had an advantage, "not enough hours in the day" would never be a saying that applied to me. I could work harder and still have time to play harder than anyone, it was then I realised what my purpose in life should be.... Get Money, fuck bitches!
	[WP] You're the only Roman senator who wasn't briefed on the whole 'kill Julius Caesar' thing.	"More wine!" On the eve of my 37th birthday I felt as if Jupiter had descended and occupied my body. Things were changing with Caesar in power, with or without the approval of the senate. I, on the other hand, was ready for such change. Caesar had quickly become an enemy of the political class, the aristocrats, the oligarchs, whatever you'd like to call them... But he was a man of the people. This was his penultimate crime. Refusing to bow the ruling elite was his ultimate. Albeit a new senator, I'd seemingly gained Caesar's trust, much to the chagrin of my fellow senators. Perhaps my background as a soldier softened him to me? Or perhaps the fact that I was one of the few and possibly only current senator to have ascended from poverty to become part of the decision-making minority? Whatever the answer, it wasn't important to me. What mattered most was Rome. Dreams of self-grandeur be damned. While I differed (vocally) with Caesar in regards to military expansion, we both had Rome at the heart of our interests. Love fed our interest. Love for a time and place that was like none other before it. Three days prior I'd heard word that a secret meeting of senators was to take place the night of my birthday celebration. However, no other senators could confirm that such a meeting would take place... In a city such as Rome, whispers of secret meetings and such is relatively commonplace. It meant nothing to me and I attributed it to rumors put in place by bored housewives or philandering civic workers. Regardless, news of such a meeting concerned me. It had been a turbulent time amongst the senate and Julius Caesar's "insubordinate" actions had been the catalyst for such turbulence. My last conversation with Caesar had also been my first. While attending to various civic duties at the senate, Caesar had unexpectedly arrived. He looked his normal self. Nothing unusual. Albeit fond of the man it was in my best interest to avoid him. I knew that my fellow senators would be less than happy to hear of private discussion between the emperor and I. Nonetheless, Caesar approached me: "Your day of birth approaches, plebian." How he knew this I'll never know. Caesar was constantly surprising you. Caesar smiled. He was well aware of my socio-economic background and the disdain it had brought to many fellow senators. Perhaps this alone was why he favored me. "One day closer to death." I smiled back. A youthful admiration of the man had overtook prudent senatorial instinct. Caesar smiled. "Look to the horizon and you'll always see the sun. I have plans not only for Rome but for the known world. Oligarchs have drowned the public perception of ruling-class competence for too long. All men deserve what is just, not just those privileged by birthright." Caesar's tone had changed. He was in another place... It wasn't so much him talking to me as it was a vocal monologue on his behalf. But that was it, Caesar awoke. "Rome needs more men like you. Rest on your day of celebration. The fight has only begun and we will need our strength in the coming months. Your peers will make sure of that." Caesar clasped his hand on my shoulder for a second before moving away. It was now the day of my celebration and I couldn't stop thinking about what he'd said about the days ahead. As the celebration waged warfare on the collective sense of the party I began to feel guilty... I had neglected certain duties in preparation for the celebration. But this was why I'd chosen a villa conveniently located within walking distance of my senatorial chamber. While the celebration amplified to soft-debauchery I exited unnoticed and headed for my chamber. Wine in hand. Everything made sense in the senatorial chamber. An abundance of wine further developed such cognitive clarity. As I sat down and reviewed various neglected scrolls the sound of footsteps broke the silence. Then I heard him speak. "I see that most of you are here, but not all of you." At that moment, mayhem broke out. I heard angry men tussle and I heard a man cry out in pain. I ran down stairs and peered around the doorway: my peers in the senate were continually stabbing the emperor. Cassisus looked elated. Brutus looked conflicted. The others were simply blood drunk. As a coward would, I hid, wine in hand, and waited for them to exit. After silently staring at the body of the emperor ( what seemed lie a small eternity), Brutus left. I walked in and gazed at my emperor. His eyes were cold and hard. The turbulent days ahead had arrived whilst drunk in my chamber. A visceral sense of sorrow permeated my bones... Such was the feeling on the night my celebration.	In paucis rem publicam studium veritatis. In the affairs of state few desire truth. I confess I had dunk large amounts since the previous day. I never really stopped. My excellent friend, Publius Rufus, a remarkable host, excelled himself. Little fishes brought from the east were served with an excellent wine sauce. The entertainment was exotic. I would describe it in detail but I don't wish to digress. The day following I proceeded to the senate as Caesar was to give a speech. He was not much of an orator yet at least brief and focused. I liked that about him. I entered the main hall, still drunk and weaving under my excess. The quorum had assembled and we awaited Caesar. Several of the senators stood around Cassius who was showing off some new weapon he had purchased. "Fine craftsmanship...", he gassed on. I called over "What need has a senator for a dagger, Cassius? Has not Ceasar provided us a great peace?" "Every man needs a point Fabius", he retorted, making reference to a speech of mine where I lost my thought and was forced to take seat. "If we are comparing points yours is the smallest I have yet seen.", I countered with a few drunken pelvic thrusts for emphasis. "I'm afraid mine must be the shortest", quipped Brutus, producing a small dagger hardly bigger than a letter opener. "The women prefer mine!", joked Climber, unsheathing a dagger almost the size of a gladius. Several other senators displayed their points and it was about this time that Caesar arrived. "What's this?", he joked, "an assassination?", he mocked a defensive pose as we gathered around to greet him. Casca struck a pose with his dagger held high and Caesar responded "oh no!" with a frightened expression to a great roar of laughter. I was straining from laughter at this jest and I tripped and fell upon Climber who went over catching Caesar's robe as he did so. Caesar yelled through his tears of laughter "Why, this is violence!" and we were in paroxysms. A sort of domino effect then set upon the various senators as one fell on another and they in turn fell on poor Caesar. There was a horrible silence broken only by a few remaining chuckles when we had seen the result. Every man stared and contemplated the future of Rome.
	[WP] You're the only Roman senator who wasn't briefed on the whole 'kill Julius Caesar' thing.	The blood was everywhere. There are some things that do not wash out: blood and wine. These thick liquids tarnish the symbol of our elite so easily. Wine though, you usually expect it. You usually see it cascade over the brim of the cup. But blood, blood is unexpected. Today I did not expect it. I did not expect the screams, the shrill feeling of betrayal that reverberated off the walls of the hallowed hall. How could this happen? How could my patron, my pater, be struck down in an act of malice? He was bold, yes. He was strong, of course. But the bigger the giant, the larger the back to be stabbed. When it was done, the silent chaos was filled with words of "Libertas! Libertas!" Like a group of rowdy young men they burst out of the Senate Hall out into the streets. Out to greet the surprised faces of the people. Their togas still sticky with their vile act. No free air that filled my lungs was enough. This air was not free today. This air was dirtied. I went for water. To wash this foulness from my pallet. Blood though, blood from the actors of this scene filled the pool. It spread like a cancer as I tried to wash it off. But I could not. For he was dead. And Rome bled.	This is IT!!!! today is gonna be MY day!!! after all these weeks working day and night to get the other senators approval, Julius Caesar himself will take my urban project into consideration. -Verinius, stop looking at yourself in the mirror my love. you'Re gonna be late. -Aconia, love of my life, today is the day your husband will rise above all, allow me to make sure everything is perfect. All those puppets in the senate will have nothing to say once the Imperator approves it. they move around their togas and they never wore anything else. most of them bought their places in the senate. selling lands,villas, anything to get to where they are. None of them really knows what it is to be a simple plebeian. i had to fight every hour of every single day of my entire life to be where i am. XX years in the legion, V years in the urban militia. that was the worst part, having to look at my precious rome rotting from the inside. it'S populace dying from disease, hunger,... while all those pantins were playing at being important. -you know i believe in you. everyone does. today Verinius, is the first day Rome will start cleaning the filth at it's feet and it will all be because of you. I kissed her and left. I even took the time to walk through the getto, visualising all the changes i will make. WE will make.. Rome, the Imperator and me, cleaning the bathhouses, restoring the aqueducts, even getting rid of the corrupted members of the urban militia so good merchants can sell clean goods at good prices at the market. all those years, all that work... There he is. walking to the senate, surrounded by all those sycophants.. should i get close,.. salute him personnally.. that would be impetuous probably, i don'T want him to think i'm impetuous. my time will come.. after the international affairs, he will call me to explain all the changes i will bring to our glorious Rome. me. the simple man. the one who rose through sheer will and work. they keep surrounding him, asking for favors and the like.. more and more come towards him. i'll let them.. my time will come real soon.. it must be nervousness, or too much juice this morning. i'll go relieve myself now, before it all begins.. before they all see what it is to spend a life dedicated to rome, before they see how in the end, hard work will prevail against cheap plots and dark cunning. Today Rome will be restored. Fuck the senate, with those slimy peons.. today is My day. Through the Imperator'S will, and by his power, i will restore Rome, and it will last FOREVER!!
	[WP] You're the only Roman senator who wasn't briefed on the whole 'kill Julius Caesar' thing.	The blood was everywhere. There are some things that do not wash out: blood and wine. These thick liquids tarnish the symbol of our elite so easily. Wine though, you usually expect it. You usually see it cascade over the brim of the cup. But blood, blood is unexpected. Today I did not expect it. I did not expect the screams, the shrill feeling of betrayal that reverberated off the walls of the hallowed hall. How could this happen? How could my patron, my pater, be struck down in an act of malice? He was bold, yes. He was strong, of course. But the bigger the giant, the larger the back to be stabbed. When it was done, the silent chaos was filled with words of "Libertas! Libertas!" Like a group of rowdy young men they burst out of the Senate Hall out into the streets. Out to greet the surprised faces of the people. Their togas still sticky with their vile act. No free air that filled my lungs was enough. This air was not free today. This air was dirtied. I went for water. To wash this foulness from my pallet. Blood though, blood from the actors of this scene filled the pool. It spread like a cancer as I tried to wash it off. But I could not. For he was dead. And Rome bled.	Stubs toe on the leg of kitchen table Shit that hurt. Positivity. Remember... Positivity. If that's the worst thing that happens today, I think we'll be alright. 6 Hours Later God damnit.
	[WP] You're the only Roman senator who wasn't briefed on the whole 'kill Julius Caesar' thing.	The blood was everywhere. There are some things that do not wash out: blood and wine. These thick liquids tarnish the symbol of our elite so easily. Wine though, you usually expect it. You usually see it cascade over the brim of the cup. But blood, blood is unexpected. Today I did not expect it. I did not expect the screams, the shrill feeling of betrayal that reverberated off the walls of the hallowed hall. How could this happen? How could my patron, my pater, be struck down in an act of malice? He was bold, yes. He was strong, of course. But the bigger the giant, the larger the back to be stabbed. When it was done, the silent chaos was filled with words of "Libertas! Libertas!" Like a group of rowdy young men they burst out of the Senate Hall out into the streets. Out to greet the surprised faces of the people. Their togas still sticky with their vile act. No free air that filled my lungs was enough. This air was not free today. This air was dirtied. I went for water. To wash this foulness from my pallet. Blood though, blood from the actors of this scene filled the pool. It spread like a cancer as I tried to wash it off. But I could not. For he was dead. And Rome bled.	(Sorry for the long prompt) I had never been much a political type but my family was powerful and rich, my father once held high rank and respect in the military and throughout Rome, thus I was thrust into a career that was expected of me even though I always wanted to own a winery in the hills living a peaceful, lazy life. Dont get me wrong, I did well in academics and had a few of my writings published, I met one of my dear friends through this, Marcus Junius Brutus Minor. Marcus was actually the one who persuaded me to persue a career being a politician. Through Marus I met the great Gaius Julius Caesar a few times, we never talked much but I thought he was a decent guy, didnt agree with all his ideas and power moves, but hey I'm not exactly one to challenge anything, I don't care enough, I just want to please my family and move towards my goal of owning a world class winery. I noticed Marcus was hanging out with Cassius and his friends alot more, I wouldnt care that much but it started effecting our close friendship. I confronted him about this and he told me it was political stuff and he knew I wouldnt be interested but he also told me he didnt want to endanger me because he still thought of me a close friend, It was pretty weird, what was the danger, but oh well as long as we're still good friends. At the start of the year I got news the land I was interested in for my massive winery project was up for sale and I jumped on it as soon as I could. My dream was under way, I spent as much time as I could starting my business, traveling overseas making trade partners, it was great. This started to effect my senate seat, Senators were beginning to grow irritated with me not being present at events, nothing important, but they really were pushing me to invest more time or else I would be pushed out down the line. As much as I hated taking time away from my winery dream, I still wanted to make my family proud and uphold our respect and power. It was March and the Ides to Jupiter had started, it was a happening time, ceremonies and other religious events going on. I was enjoying the city at this time, walking the streets to the Senate meeting, before I knew it I was running late. I didnt want to upset the Senators even more, they might think I was talking up my wine in the forum, had to get there quick before anyone noticed I was late. I ran as fast as I could, I had just made it to the front steps when I noticed out the corner of my eye not even Marc Antony was on time, he was just talkin it up outside with other senators, although he seemed restless and annoyed, oh well, makes me look better. They had already started as I arrived, lots of yelling and pushing, I assumed it was about some stupid land deal or something, typical annoying senators. I ran to my seat out of breath, legs exhausted, I threw my self on my seat, leaning back catching my breath, trying to relax without seeming like I had just run across the city. I hadnt even finished composing myself, while stretching my back and arms when I heard a loud screaching cry, as if I were in a warzone, I looked across the room and saw Casca weilding a knife, plunging it towards Caesar. Then all hell broke loose, senators left and right running towards the leader with daggers drawn, stabbing multiple times, it looked like the mauling of a gazelle by lions. My jaw then dropped, I saw my dear friend Marcus Brutus walk towards a dying Caesar with a bloody dagger, Cassius and company looking on longingly as if this were a carefully planned plot, he plunged the dagger into his chest, everyone ran out of the room. Only me, Cassius in the background, Marcus, and Caesar were left, Caesar whispered something to Brutus and everything went silent, Marcus then looked up at me and said "Now you are free". I have no idea what is going on or what the fuck he meant, I wasnt invited to any conspiracy meetings and didnt know too much about this whole political fiasco, as far as I know everyone was happy. "Now you are free", Did he really just kill the great Julius Caesar for me!? so I could persue my Winery dream, geez hell of a friend, but all this trouble, I noped the hell out of there and ever since I've been at my estate managing my world class winery.
	[WP] You're the only Roman senator who wasn't briefed on the whole 'kill Julius Caesar' thing.	The blood was everywhere. There are some things that do not wash out: blood and wine. These thick liquids tarnish the symbol of our elite so easily. Wine though, you usually expect it. You usually see it cascade over the brim of the cup. But blood, blood is unexpected. Today I did not expect it. I did not expect the screams, the shrill feeling of betrayal that reverberated off the walls of the hallowed hall. How could this happen? How could my patron, my pater, be struck down in an act of malice? He was bold, yes. He was strong, of course. But the bigger the giant, the larger the back to be stabbed. When it was done, the silent chaos was filled with words of "Libertas! Libertas!" Like a group of rowdy young men they burst out of the Senate Hall out into the streets. Out to greet the surprised faces of the people. Their togas still sticky with their vile act. No free air that filled my lungs was enough. This air was not free today. This air was dirtied. I went for water. To wash this foulness from my pallet. Blood though, blood from the actors of this scene filled the pool. It spread like a cancer as I tried to wash it off. But I could not. For he was dead. And Rome bled.	I strode into room to greet my underlings and discuss matters of the state, the only one of these that mattered of course being the statue of me soon to be built. I could see it now, a 20 foot tall Caesar before the coliseum, standing regally atop a marble pedestal, greeting those wishing to watch the gladiators and... I was torn from my daydream by a sharp pain in my side, and back, and front, and other side, and everywhere else. I fell to the ground, the last thing to fill my vision being Brutus plunging a knife into my neck and my lifeblood spurting into the air and all over the other members of my senate, who all seemed to have a knife in my side. How rude, I thought, as the dark embrace of death took me. Edit, clarification: who said that one senator isn't Caesar himself?
	[WP] You're the only Roman senator who wasn't briefed on the whole 'kill Julius Caesar' thing.	The blood was everywhere. There are some things that do not wash out: blood and wine. These thick liquids tarnish the symbol of our elite so easily. Wine though, you usually expect it. You usually see it cascade over the brim of the cup. But blood, blood is unexpected. Today I did not expect it. I did not expect the screams, the shrill feeling of betrayal that reverberated off the walls of the hallowed hall. How could this happen? How could my patron, my pater, be struck down in an act of malice? He was bold, yes. He was strong, of course. But the bigger the giant, the larger the back to be stabbed. When it was done, the silent chaos was filled with words of "Libertas! Libertas!" Like a group of rowdy young men they burst out of the Senate Hall out into the streets. Out to greet the surprised faces of the people. Their togas still sticky with their vile act. No free air that filled my lungs was enough. This air was not free today. This air was dirtied. I went for water. To wash this foulness from my pallet. Blood though, blood from the actors of this scene filled the pool. It spread like a cancer as I tried to wash it off. But I could not. For he was dead. And Rome bled.	> "Alright guys, let's get this meeting started," I yelled walking into the capital building. Usually I would get a response, but today - - everybody seemed to talk right over me. "Excuse me . . . gentleman . . . GENTLEMAN"! My loud cry for attention was overlooked. I felt like nobody was listening. Could I have been exiled out of my own social life? What had I done? My mind flustered with doubtful thoughts. Well on the bright side, this isn't such a bad day. I have dinner with Caesar tonight. Best guy in the empire! And don't get me started on that special salad he makes, you'd think you died and went to the gods. It seemed as though all the senators were arguing over some important guy. Who cares !? I walked over and with no hesitation declared, "Have fun with your 'democracy' boys, I'm going to have dinner with the Emperor himself!" The room that was once a Colosseum of shouting and howling became a room of pure silence. "So . . . what happened next?" "They put me in this 'special waiting room' with you. Dinner with Caesar should be ready in no time!" "I've been in this 'special waiting room' for two years." "I'm sure he knows. I just can't wait for the salad!"
	[WP] You're the only Roman senator who wasn't briefed on the whole 'kill Julius Caesar' thing.	I walked through the streets of my great city toward the Senate. Caesar wasn't one who was kind to people who were late to meetings. Lately, I'd been wearing his patience thin with the questions during the night. Other senators were meeting for some reason, but I had always had work to do, the city needed attention, and I had a way to give them hope. I arrived in the Senate just as Caesar was. I didn't have a lot of time to get to my position, and I couldn't allow the man to see me. I motioned to Tullius to distract the man for me. He and I had been good friends for our time in the Senate; I figured he would cover. The men of the Senate rose as Tullius asked Ceasar to approach Climber. The two of them were moving for a greeting; there was somewhat of a power play going on right at that moment. Climber was reaching to get a better hold on Ceasar than he had on him. Ceasar wasn't the kind to stand for that; he would punish Climber. I slipped between the rows and glanced down at the waist of the man beside me. He was Cassius, a man who had long wanted Ceasar's position and rank. He had removed a dagger from his Toga. I nudged him, "You aren't supposed to bring those into the -" Down the stairs, Servilius pulled out a dagger of his own and stuck the leader of the Senate in the shoulder. He cried out in pain as other men moved to rush him. I stood still, awestruck at the rebellion that I was watching. The men were brutally killing him. I didn't move to stop them, they had their reasons for wanting him dead, I had mine. Ceasar drew his last breath a dozen minutes later, bleeding across the Senate. Minutes later everyone reconvened to discuss the matters of the day. Cassius, who had retaken his place beside me, approached me at the end of the day. "Sorry for the shock," he began, "we wanted to invite you to the meetings, but you were always busy." "It's all right," I replied, "just know that if anyone asks I am telling them that I put a dagger right in his neck." "His neck?" "I want to seem important to history you know."	> "Alright guys, let's get this meeting started," I yelled walking into the capital building. Usually I would get a response, but today - - everybody seemed to talk right over me. "Excuse me . . . gentleman . . . GENTLEMAN"! My loud cry for attention was overlooked. I felt like nobody was listening. Could I have been exiled out of my own social life? What had I done? My mind flustered with doubtful thoughts. Well on the bright side, this isn't such a bad day. I have dinner with Caesar tonight. Best guy in the empire! And don't get me started on that special salad he makes, you'd think you died and went to the gods. It seemed as though all the senators were arguing over some important guy. Who cares !? I walked over and with no hesitation declared, "Have fun with your 'democracy' boys, I'm going to have dinner with the Emperor himself!" The room that was once a Colosseum of shouting and howling became a room of pure silence. "So . . . what happened next?" "They put me in this 'special waiting room' with you. Dinner with Caesar should be ready in no time!" "I've been in this 'special waiting room' for two years." "I'm sure he knows. I just can't wait for the salad!"
	[WP]There are 5 known wizards in Middle Earth. Gandalf, Saruman, Radagast, and the two blue wizards who disappeared into the East never to be seen or heard from again....that is, until now.	The trouble with wizards is that they meddle. It is a part of being a 'wise' person, the root of the term 'wizard'. Would a carpenter be expected to not use his skills? Would a bard be expected to be tonedeaf? Such is a wizard. They have great wisdom, and spread it across the world, like redcurrant jam. Only a bit more red, as wizards, kindly as they are, tend to create a lot of chaos. And chaos means death, usually. Of Saruman can be attributed the invention of 'Black Powder', 'Mortar', and 'Dynamite'. Such has changed combat to one not of mettle versus metal, but of how much explosives one can hide in an area before the battle. The Mines of Moria, now a wound on the world itself, was the location of one attempt to turn a mine into a minefield, where the crop was the corpses of any who dared venture within. Of Gandalf, or Mithrandir in the Elvish tongue, not much else needs to be said. It was due to his actions that Laketown suffered a dragon attack at the time it did, and much of the Sauron business was due, indirectly, to his actions spurring the Fallen Enemy to rise anew as an eye. But of the other wizards... Not much was known. Until they came back. With cantrips, rituals and spells galore, these wizards used a more simplified form of magic, that could, seemingly, be taught. The elder one, Elminster, wore a short sleeved blue shirt bearing the letters 'D R A G O N C O N 1 9 8 9' and blue trousers of a coarse material. Were it not for his goatee and magic wand, Elminster could be mistaken for a young scholar, but for his piercing eyes and tendency to mutter 'roll initiative' quietly at the start of combat. Elminster acted like a fool, almost like a blue-garbed mirror of Gandalf on a good day, but behind hos shenanigans with Prestidigitation there was always a greater plan. His companion, an elderly man with a gigantic collar, was named Mordenkainen. Of Mordenkainen it could be said that he was a ruthless negotiator and a cunning researcher. They resurrected Sauron, and reformed the Ring, albeit modified. The reasons why, are as of yet, unknown, but shortly after they chucked the ring back in the volcano, and the eye vanished again. Then they found an Apocalypse Stone, the one for Middle Earth. They left the world again, heading East to unknown lands.	The Blue Wizard was known by the far ones of the East as Alatar. He was loyal to Sauron, as Saruman was. His brother he had lost to the Great Eastern ocean; not even he had known his location. He came with legions of countless men, who were not Easterling nor Haradrim. They were all short and stout, with straight, black hair, with each man holding it in one knot, and black, folded eyes, and swarthy skin. Their ways were strange, and their language unknown by all but themselves and the Wizard. They worshipped him as a God, and each man was prepared to die for him. Their march had lasted for over a year, and countless men had died, with their ranks always replaced. Finally, the massive force had crossed from the roads of Near Harad into Middle Earth. The Wizard's goal was simple, the job itself the work of years of logistics: Aid the armies sieging Minas Tirith. With his aid, surely they would take the capital of the free peoples, and they would undoubtedly falter before Sauron.
	[WP]There are 5 known wizards in Middle Earth. Gandalf, Saruman, Radagast, and the two blue wizards who disappeared into the East never to be seen or heard from again....that is, until now.	The trouble with wizards is that they meddle. It is a part of being a 'wise' person, the root of the term 'wizard'. Would a carpenter be expected to not use his skills? Would a bard be expected to be tonedeaf? Such is a wizard. They have great wisdom, and spread it across the world, like redcurrant jam. Only a bit more red, as wizards, kindly as they are, tend to create a lot of chaos. And chaos means death, usually. Of Saruman can be attributed the invention of 'Black Powder', 'Mortar', and 'Dynamite'. Such has changed combat to one not of mettle versus metal, but of how much explosives one can hide in an area before the battle. The Mines of Moria, now a wound on the world itself, was the location of one attempt to turn a mine into a minefield, where the crop was the corpses of any who dared venture within. Of Gandalf, or Mithrandir in the Elvish tongue, not much else needs to be said. It was due to his actions that Laketown suffered a dragon attack at the time it did, and much of the Sauron business was due, indirectly, to his actions spurring the Fallen Enemy to rise anew as an eye. But of the other wizards... Not much was known. Until they came back. With cantrips, rituals and spells galore, these wizards used a more simplified form of magic, that could, seemingly, be taught. The elder one, Elminster, wore a short sleeved blue shirt bearing the letters 'D R A G O N C O N 1 9 8 9' and blue trousers of a coarse material. Were it not for his goatee and magic wand, Elminster could be mistaken for a young scholar, but for his piercing eyes and tendency to mutter 'roll initiative' quietly at the start of combat. Elminster acted like a fool, almost like a blue-garbed mirror of Gandalf on a good day, but behind hos shenanigans with Prestidigitation there was always a greater plan. His companion, an elderly man with a gigantic collar, was named Mordenkainen. Of Mordenkainen it could be said that he was a ruthless negotiator and a cunning researcher. They resurrected Sauron, and reformed the Ring, albeit modified. The reasons why, are as of yet, unknown, but shortly after they chucked the ring back in the volcano, and the eye vanished again. Then they found an Apocalypse Stone, the one for Middle Earth. They left the world again, heading East to unknown lands.	Once more, Alexander ‘Aleiron’ Cakes (his surname was not common knowledge, he’d never live it down. The nickname, he had chosen for himself as a boy – everyone else thought that it sounded stupid, but he still liked it) had barely gotten himself out of a nice steaming pile of drek. Milk run indeed, this one had been! He disliked droids, and he hated ghouls; but, as he had discovered with some surprise, there was a special place in his heart for kooky cults of droid-worshipping ghoul riggers – the place being, of course, a box filled with razors and nanites and labelled ‘free to a bad volcano’. Why Pallando Security (a recently-founded, smallish corporation specializing in cleaning undead infestations) had even hired him, this he could not begin to guess. Sure, against all expectations he had managed to survive in the shadowrunning business for a few years by now, and he had even gotten himself a modest reputation, but his best weapons had always been his easy smile and his unassuming, reassuringly dishevelled look – neither of which was of much use against ghouls or droids. Yeah, his magical senses had been useful to pinpoint the location of the staff; but plenty of other arcanists could have done as much – heck, that thing was humming with so much power that even your typical run-of-the-mill thug with the mystical attunement of the average potato could have felt it from a mile away after the containment field around the complex had been deactivated. No surprise then that just after he had gotten away from the droids and the ghouls, he had been jumped by the most holy order of the eternal whatever it was – buncha dudes who liked wearing sheets and using the verb ‘rue’ unironically, anyway. Oh, and summoning demons, of course, they loved that. They had almost got him; thankfully, as they had discovered, eldridtch horrors from the multiverse’s moldiest underpants tend to default to ‘kill everyone’ mode if not kept under strict control, and one’s face being on fire is not especially conductive to mental discipline. Also, ranting about the ‘absolute power’ that one would get by taking a staff from the cooling body of the arcanist that one is busily trying to murder was not as excellent an idea as some might think. Still, it had been close: the staff was crazy powerful, that was for sure, but he had never been very keen on the ‘blast everything in sight’ school of spellcasting. Which, as an aside, was the only reason why he was keeping his word and bringing the staff back to his employer: that thing was powerful, but it was pretty much a big ‘immense magical power here, kill this chump and it’s all yours!’ sign to anyone with even a smidgen of magical talent. Not his thing, really. Honestly, judging by the noises the only reason why no one else had caught up with him yet was that they were busily killing each other to get at him – not that he was complaining, of course. Still, best not to tarry. The rendezvous point was finally at hand; and, thankfully, the Johnson was already there – a broad-shouldered, squat, elderly woman with a noticeable moustache and the ugliest, dirtiest hat that Alexander had ever seen. Alexander was in no mood for conversation. “Your staff. My money?” The woman smiled. “Your money, my boy, and more. I am Minerva Pallando, CEO and founder of Pallando Security; and you, Mr Cakes, are about to go on an adventure!”
Dig it?	[WP] You are a private investigator in a future world where we have advanced robotics and technology, but the culture stagnated in the early 1970's. This is cyberfunk.	“I’ll call you when I get her,” I ensure the worried voice on the other end of the line, before ending the call. The halls of this metal walled dump have half circles indented into the reflective surface that morph and contort the image of my face as I move. Elongated egg shaped lights with ultra bright, neon blue, lighting blind me as the partially exposed bulbs come into my view. They buzz and I hate it. Occasionally, on the otherwise plain walls, a tilted square appears and grows large before rotating, shrinking, and then vanishing entirely. There is no pattern or specific reason for the placement of these lambent boxes. Visual stimuli for your walking pleasure. God forbid you get bored in the hallway. God is dead and he has been replaced by nanocrystal quantum dot displays. Triptych screens on every wall for you to pray and sell your soul to. My watch, with its elastic wrist band and gold screen lining, is pinging consistently to my In-World Digital Interface (IDI). Little blobs of transmogrifying virtual liquid, floating in the distance, indicate that she is here. Pulsing and dancing as it absorbs itself, breaking into smaller pieces of digital globular nonsense. All I need to do is find her and bring her home. The electro-funk jams, grinding out from a room down the hall interfere with my ability to hone in on her. Preventing me from determining what the situation is and whether she is safe or not. Against the shiny wall, a couple, both in mid-calf high and brightly colored vinyl platform boots, blow smoke in each other's faces and yell profanities at me. Thier pupils grow wide and their eye color changes beneath their tinted asymmetrically shaped glasses. “Do you see that suit!?” The girl cackles, hair sprayed up into two stiff cylinders of dark and curly afro, standing erect from either side of her head. “It ain’t even skin conforming er nothin’. Fuckin’ bore,” the boy replies, twisting a ringed robotic finger into one of the shredded tassels of the scantily clad woman’s belly shirt. A bunch of monkies. Sniffing in the smoke of whatever they can light to induce chemical highs and make like rabbits in the hallway. I continue towards the ping and their mood lit buckles change color as I pass. Glowing orange from their boots, belts, and wrists. Pointless garbage, the lot of it. The patterned carpet changes, refreshing from paisley to a variety of different sized squares and the shapes on the wall change color to match. Now a vivid red which tints the metal wall and reflects against my skin. I’m no stranger to these lower class establishments and their hooligan inhabitants with their skin fitted pants and android integrations. Body modification was all the hype now. Chop off arm and get fitted for something better. Don’t like your eyes? No problem, they’ll scoop ’em out and, guess what, you can make them glow radical and dynamic patterns. And I’m the square one. Now at the door, I press a finger against the keypad. It gives a chime, high pitched and upbeat, before turning blue and allowing me a visual. In my IDI, the door becomes holographic. A colorful blueprint of the interior of the apartment appears and the blobulating bubbles move to her. The system alerts me of three other bodies in the room and I get a reading that is incredibly disappointing. Though, I always expect to be disappointed with kids these days. They are melding. Drugged out and interconnected as they delve into a psychedelic trip through their partner’s soul. It could last days, if you let it, and people report it as being one of the most intimate experiences one can have. I think it’s a load of crap. But, the load of crap has given me more than my fair share of clients. Worried parents looking for their rebellious kids who’ve already lost an arm and an eye and a foot to this modern mania. When I give them back, they’re without an independent mind. Struggling in the twisted grasp of that damned drug. Some wacked out combination of battery acid, juiced amazonian frogs, and cerebral fluid stolen from fresh corpses. Frankly, the fucking chemistry is beyond me but the consequences just don’t seem worth the ride. The infant poison is known to cause an intense case of co dependency between its users. The door pings as I code my override pin into my IDI and it spins, taking a portion of the ground around with it. Once it’s done and I’ve ridden the floor into the small front room, the odor of kids who’ve been melding for at least a week punches me square in the face. The sweet and sickening smell of sex, body odor, and the smoke from the drug itself fills the neon colored room. Each wall decorated in an over the top fashion, with flashing lights and moving pictures, sewn together to make an ugly patchwork living space. Mannequins dressed in clear plastic skirts and bright highlighter colored fabric stare at me, curious about my presence with their preprogrammed android faces. “Jade, your mother sent me. I’m coming back there, please submit willingly. I’ve been given permission to use whatever force is deemed necessary,” I call out, hand cautiously on my paralytic in preparation for retaliation. As was typical with these cases, she doesn’t fight back. Her bright pink, wig-like, mop of hair is matted and tangled. Strands sit in front of her face which, sometime last week, sported neon colored makeup that is now smeared all over her pale skin. Skin which is exposed down to the deep ridges of her hip as she slumps against the chair like a lifeless crash-test dummy. The records on the wall glow and spin, sampling themselves to make a cacophonous symphony of dull noise. Recycled, refurbished, garbage. From behind the projected beads covering the closet erupts two cartoon looking men with bright red leather pants which flare out at the bottom so you can’t see their shoes. The rest of their attire is proper business dress, a slightly too large white blazer and tucked in white button up, topped with a red narrow tie. I’ve never been a fan of the narrow tie. A springing electronic noise from my IDI signals that I should move and the beams of green light pass my body. I fire two shots from my paralytic and hit on of the morons. He collapses to the floor and looks helplessly to his partner. “They’re our fuckin’ pigs. Get yer own,” the standing man growls placing a hand against his tinted lenses, a growing and shrinking dotted circle moving along the glass. “If it’s the girl ya want, come back later. We can figure a fair price, but they’re testing right now.” I agree and walk out of the room. She is a tester. A body pumped full of chemicals and poked and prodded until the effects wear off. If this was a lab, I would need to come back with specialized equipment. Fuck if I was going to pass up an opportunity to bust a lab to rescue some zonked out daughter of a lonely woman. The prize for that was way to high. Plus, that kid is gone. Regardless of when I get her, she will wake up stupid as ever with a newly established mental link with her shaggy haired lover- unless he was a pet too. Which would be unfortunate for her. No matter how much they grow to hate each other, they will be stuck together until the melding wears off. So far, we aren’t quite sure how long that takes. Until next time. End transmission… Push feed to net… -------------------------------- Edit: I am actively adding to this. Edit: I think that I am going to keep this a one off for this post and am done editing for now. If you want to see a follow-up sub to /r/iswearimnotevil and I will post this when it is 100% done and start adding in a few days.	I awoke in some dark room, de smell uh mould and da damn unmistakable smell uh cocaine sweat wuz all ah' could snatch in. 'S coo', bro. as mah' eyes adjusted t'de light level mo'e details became visible, ah' wuz definitely in some sto'age cellar, nobody else around and passed out. Man! How de fuck dun did ah' get here? Wuz it fast jimmy? Nah, he's some rat, but he ain't brave enough fo' dat. Man! I gots down off de dank floo' and fumbled around fo' some bit whilst digtin' mah' bearin's. Nodin' in here but mah'self and whut looked likes some soggy old half smoked j. ah' could now see da damn doo' clearly, big old steel fucker, gots'ta weigh some ton, so's I went down and checked dat broder. Ah be baaad... Locked. Wouldn't even jiggle it wuz so's heavy. Slap mah fro! Well fuck. Ya' know? I looked around mah'self, ah' gots'ta have at least some lasa' on me o' sump'n. Fuck. Ya' know? Well as I'm probably stuck here, I'm digtin' t'dinkin' uh how ah' gots here. Last ah' rememba' is last night (well, how long gots ah' even been out, it could gots been days ago. 'S coo', bro.) ah' wuz on some job fo' de Warlo'ds, gun runnin', me and fat Jimmy and howlin' Mike. De shipment wuz some crate uh high powered lasa' rifles, dese wuz no fuckin' pea shooters,dese wuz real big boy toys. We wuz deliverin' it t'a rival gang fo' peacekeepin'. I used the The Dialectizer.
Dig it?	[WP] You are a private investigator in a future world where we have advanced robotics and technology, but the culture stagnated in the early 1970's. This is cyberfunk.	There I was, lookin’ out the window at my beautiful city. Now, Neo Trenton ain’t no paradise, feel me? But it’s got glamour man, freakin’ style I tell ya. So there I am, lookin’ out at the neon signs on so many big ass buildings. Same ones every night, never gets old. My personal favorite? Well that’s gotta be the one for the casino about a block away. Big ol’ sign, bright as blazes. A man could get a tan standin’ too close. It says ‘Come Hang at the Regal!’ and a neon lady shakes her goods underneath. Well anyhow, I’m at the office lookin’ out that ol’ window and this jive turkey comes rumblin’ down the hall. I hear him comin’ a mile away, small wonder he didn’t break right through the floor on the way through. I turned away from the window and I see this silhouette, big as an ox, on the other side of the mottled glass of my door. He knocks. So I reach under my desk and take the fusion-cell laser I have tucked up under there for a rainy day. I got a feelin’ it’s about to rain. “Come in.” I says. He do. Now, he sounded big comin’ and he looked mighty big as a shadow outside, but I’ll be damned if that didn’t do him justice. This brotha’ was biiiiiig! I mean like King Kong steal yo’ girl and climb a building big! Only thing bigger than him was the perfect ‘fro he was rockin’. Probly added another foot to him and I bet he was six and a half feet stark bald! So I says something like “What’s good my man?” tryin’ to play it cool right? But this turkey is fresh out the flash-freeze. He looks at me and don’t say nothin’. So I axe him “You needin’ a PI or you just lookin’ to clap eyes on me?” Nothin’ man! Goddam brick wall walked up into my office that day! Came to a PI’s office when he was really lookin’ for a brick and mortar mason! So I’m holdin’ my breath, hand on the trigger ya know. Might have to turn this brick wall to goo in a hurry. Finally he speaks up. “You Jimmy Flash, Private Eye?” “That’s what it says on the door my man.” Still cool. Be cool. “I heard you got the fever.” His voice is shakin’ the whole room I tell ya! “I can break loose when I get on the floor if that’s what you tryin’ to say.” Now, I guess this is all he needs to hear from me, cause I guess I done offended him with my stylin’ moves down at the Regal. You know when they start playin’ them funky tunes I gots to get loose! Anyhow, this mountain in my office takes off his shades and eyes me up for real. He reaches up into his afro, yeah man right in it, and pulls out this little ol’ box. He sets it on the floor and, yeah you know what happened next, the thing starts flashin’ lights and jammin’ tunes. He’s got himself a portable disco-matic! He done turned my office into a dance floor just like that. So the bass starts pumpin’ some real funky tune I ain’t never heard in my life and I’ll be damned if fly ladies and hip fellas didn’t start filin’ right through the door of my office! Summoned by that funky ass bass, no doubt. He looks at his posse, then back at me and says: “I’m here for your title as the funkiest brother alive.” Part II when I have time	I awoke in some dark room, de smell uh mould and da damn unmistakable smell uh cocaine sweat wuz all ah' could snatch in. 'S coo', bro. as mah' eyes adjusted t'de light level mo'e details became visible, ah' wuz definitely in some sto'age cellar, nobody else around and passed out. Man! How de fuck dun did ah' get here? Wuz it fast jimmy? Nah, he's some rat, but he ain't brave enough fo' dat. Man! I gots down off de dank floo' and fumbled around fo' some bit whilst digtin' mah' bearin's. Nodin' in here but mah'self and whut looked likes some soggy old half smoked j. ah' could now see da damn doo' clearly, big old steel fucker, gots'ta weigh some ton, so's I went down and checked dat broder. Ah be baaad... Locked. Wouldn't even jiggle it wuz so's heavy. Slap mah fro! Well fuck. Ya' know? I looked around mah'self, ah' gots'ta have at least some lasa' on me o' sump'n. Fuck. Ya' know? Well as I'm probably stuck here, I'm digtin' t'dinkin' uh how ah' gots here. Last ah' rememba' is last night (well, how long gots ah' even been out, it could gots been days ago. 'S coo', bro.) ah' wuz on some job fo' de Warlo'ds, gun runnin', me and fat Jimmy and howlin' Mike. De shipment wuz some crate uh high powered lasa' rifles, dese wuz no fuckin' pea shooters,dese wuz real big boy toys. We wuz deliverin' it t'a rival gang fo' peacekeepin'. I used the The Dialectizer.
It can be a real person or a fictional one.	[WP] Write a poem about someone's death.	It Won’t Happen to Me I remember sitting on cold bleachers, listening to some guy with a collared shirt talking about his ‘horrible mistake’ and how many people he hurt and blah blah blah until it became background noise as I kicked dirt off my shoes. I knew it wouldn’t happen to me. . I remember loud pounding music, like a heartbeat, and feeling alive and excited and slightly nauseous, bumping up against strangers—or friends? Could be friends, I don’t remember, so it must have been awesome— and I wasn’t afraid, or even nervous. I was only alive in a spinning world because here, I was in control, here, I made the rules, here, And nothing mattered but here, so nothing could happen to me. . I remember it in a cycle, Blurred lights, laughter, some fights, hangovers, pulsing music, crazy pictures, tons of fun one day, the next, the next, and again, and again, and nothing happened to me. . I remember only a little of the night when the road swam in my vision, like it sometimes did, and streetlights—or car lights?—flashed by like paparazzi cameras catching my high. It made me laugh, which made the ground dance, And I saw a light was red. Strange color for paparazzi. As was the blinding silver streak. There was crashing sounds, the scream of metal, maybe not metal, and I slammed my head on the steering wheel, fell out a twisted door more dizzy than ever before, confused; the loud noises of the crash gave way to Silence. Like death. . I remember seeing a redheaded girl encased in silver only, they tell me she was blond, I remember more flashes of light, blinding, confusing lights, red-white-blue-white-red-blue-red-red-red strobe lights from hell, and silence killed by a wailing song and shouting crowds. I don’t remember much, how they cut her from the car, and the car out of her, how they pulled up the white sheet and it turned red as it touched her, It all blurred like it wasn’t happening, and I don’t remember much. . I hate myself for that; I hate myself more for my relief that I can’t recall. But most of all I hate myself because I was right; it didn’t happen to me.	A thousand teardrops Become forged into a blade That thirsts for vengeance
It can be a real person or a fictional one.	[WP] Write a poem about someone's death.	She danced across the water With her furs in black and white And called the house a carnival Never more, she counted twice On the shores of Lake Mendota In front of seven worlds She calls out to the wind Never more	A thousand teardrops Become forged into a blade That thirsts for vengeance
	[WP] You have a very mundane talent, so mundane that you've never shown it to anyone. The first time you do, as a party trick, you're told that your talent is physically impossible.	"Oh, come on. Everyone can do something. Chrissake, Jim hamboned for his talent, and that's just crap. You've gotta be able to do something cool". Truth was, though, I never really tried anything before really. I never was interested in art or music, and never had any athleticism either. I wasn't any good at juggling, I was an OK cook at best, and really couldn't hum, let alone sing. About the only thing I really excelled at was work, and how demanding was it to run an industrial paper shredder? "Really, I can't think of anything Steve," I protested. "I didn't even sign up for this stupid seminar." "Well, none of us did. Stupid 'team building' programs suck. We all get along, don't we?" Steve protested. "Come on, just get up and like, I dunno, hop on one leg in a circle. Anything to get this over with." "Is someone still shy?" asked the coordinator. "Come one, everyone has something unique to contribute! Let's see how this star shines!" "God, all right," I grumbled. "Ummmm..." "We believe in you!" our smarmy little manager said. "Don't let us all down in front of the veep!" "Ugh, fine. I guess I got this little trick I do to take out the trash, but I don't think it really impressive. Um. Anyone got some trash they need to get rid of?" "Yeah, my last performance review!" someone shouted from the back, followed by a smattering of laughter. Oh, what a riot we were. "OK, there's a trash can; thanks Cindy. All right, everyone watch, here we go," I said as I pushed the trash away. "Yeah, not very impressive, I know," I mumbled to silence. And more silence. Finally, it got uncomfortable. "What? You wanted me to participate; I never said it was a good talent, OK?" "How did you do that," whispered Jeff, our VP of operations. "What did you do?" "What? I just, you know, pushed it away." "Away? Away from what?!" "You know; away from everything." "What, like, everything? All at once?" "Well...yeah. Saves me a ton of time on taking out the trash." "Son," said Jeff, "screw this seminar. We need to talk about your new raise, and that little bit of magic you can do."	Edit: Want to read this in [third-person form](https://docs.google.com/document/d/1PqTdp3TVX4dDzyaJLbBWiSH7VO8NoN-wJCVI9s33ChU/edit?usp=sharing) instead? I'm not sure which is better. ----- We all watched in "amazement" as Tom produced the King of Hearts, just like he said he would. It wasn't that he did the trick wrong or anything, I've just never been very in to these silly magic tricks. Or parties for that matter, but somehow I was here. "What about you, Stanley, do you know any tricks?" asked Tom, directing the attention to me, though I'd sooner it go to anyone but me. "Well, I know something, but it's pretty lame-" "Oh, c'mon, Stanley! Stanley!" Tom started as the rest joined in, ignoring my pleas to stop. Why did I ever open my mouth? Must've been the second beer. "Ok, fine!" I said, quieting the immensely annoying crowd. "Does anyone have a...gyroscope, or a really smooth globe or something like that? Something that spins really easily?" "I think I have a gyroscope somewhere, but...Will a compass work? It's a good one, promise." said Bill, our host. "Yeah, that should do." "Be right back." All eyes uncomfortably on me, I said I'd rather show them than tell them what my trick was. How long was Bill going to be? Ah, finally. "Here it is." he said, setting it on the coffee table in front of me. I waited for the needle to swing North. Then, I held my hand over it and made it swing a few degrees East. "You're right, it was lame!" shouted one heckler, and a second "Where's your magnet?" Another guest, only half as irritating as the rest, said, "Can you go the other way?" I shot an angry look at the first heckler, then swung it West about the same amount, and said "No, it's not about being a magnet, I can just change some stuff about things that can spin. But just a little bit. Like this..." I said, going over to a desk chair that can spin. I sat in it, and said, "normally, if I spin around in the chair like this," tucking my arms in, "and then put my arms out, I'll slow down," and demonstrated. "But if I want to, I can stay fast." So, just like I promised, I spun. Woopty-doo. Most of the other guests were suitably unimpressed, but one Jack Simpson, a physics major and usually a quiet (and thus, usually-tolerable) man, his eyes went wide and he said, "How are you doing that?! That's not possible!" "I don't know, I just..do?" "No, seriously Stanley, only tell me if you want to keep up the illusion, but I have to know!" "I'm not hiding anything, honest. I've just always been able to do that stuff..." I said, growing increasingly uneasy at his behavior. "That's not supposed to be physically possible! It looks like you're violating the conservation of angular momentum, which fits with what you said about it being spinning things. But what could the implications of this be? I don't even know, I'd have to talk to my professor and see what this could mean. Will it rewrite our laws of physics or give us control over the universe or be just a useless trick? No, it's got to mean something..." he droned on, staring off into space and talking excitedly more to himself than anyone else. At least he had drawn most of the attention of the crowd away from me for a little while. I took that opportunity to quietly leave the party before things got any weirder. I imagine he was quite annoying for a long while, but I had no interest in finding out firsthand.
	[WP] You have a very mundane talent, so mundane that you've never shown it to anyone. The first time you do, as a party trick, you're told that your talent is physically impossible.	"Wait, wait, wait," Heather said, raising an eyebrow. She crossed her arms over her large chest. "What do you mean you can do that? It's physically impossible. I shrugged. "I mean, it's just something I can do. I've been able to do it since I was a kid." I grin. "My mom sure as hell loved it." Josh laughed, stroking his neck beard with his cheetoo-dust-covered fingers. He tipped his fedora. "What, can you break your arms on command?" We both stared at him strangely. Josh was a socially awkward guy, and neither of us had a clue what he was talking about. He didn't hear me talk about my ability to Heather, and I don't know where he got that idea from. Josh just mumbled to himself something about a guy named Bernie, and went back to browsing his Android phone. "Um, no," I said, biting my lip nervously. "But I can turn water into whine." Nicole was nearby, and apparently heard my talking. "Oh yeah?" she said, snapping her bubble gum. "Then why do we always pay for booze then? Hmm?" She blew a bubble and smacked it with her crimson lips. I shrugged. "It's just... I didn't think it was a big deal, ya know?" Hannah, our religious friend of the group, touched my shoulder. "You shouldn't joke about such abilities. Claiming to have the abilities of Our Lord is blasphemous!" I believed in God, but I wasn't even close to religious as Hannah was. "Oh, no. I'm not claiming to be God, Hannah. But I can do that," I told her. "Prove it then," Ahmed said with a toothy grin. I smirked. "Okay, then. Someone get me some water!" Nicole handed me a bottled water. I thanked her and grasped the bottle firmly. I squeezed it on the top and bottom ends, and then shook it furiously. I rubbed my palms all over it and then tossed it in the air. The clear water started to get pink. Then blood red. Then it turned a dark, crimson color, almost matching Nicole's lips. And the finally, it was as whine-colored as... whine. Even with my abilities, I still don't know any whines. They all taste the same. "Holy shit!" Heather and Nicole said at the same time, their mouths agape. Hannah clutched the cross on around her neck, trembling. Ahmed let out a deep, throaty laugh and clapped his hands. "You, like, might me the second coming!" Heather told me, laughing. Josh wasn't impressed. "Okay, what's the trick, then? You can't just do that. It's physically impossible!" I shrugged. "I don't know, dude. I just can." Over the next few hours, the party ended as abruptly and awkwardly as this writing prompt.	"Hey Eric", Jess said with that same look in her eyes that I desperately longed to be meant for me. Some background: Jess and I were at one point high-school sweethearts. We spent three years fanatically lusting for each other, neither of us stopping to ever take a breath; our love was intense - but it was also the best thing to have happened to me. During college we went our separate ways, she moved to New York to become a cardiac-surgeon, I stayed in California. We kept in touch via all too infrequent emails, it felt like there was still a spark, but I had always been too scared to act upon it. Tonight was my chance. Tonight we were both together for the first time in seven years. Tonight I knew the spark wasn't just in my head. "Are you sure you really want me to do this?", I sheepishly replied. "Yes!", belligerently the drunken crowd commanded. "You always had the best magic tricks", Jess exclaimed. "This one isn't so much a magic trick, it's more of a ...umm..., basically, I can put my entire foot in my mouth", I replied. Outcries of disgust and scepticism circumnavigated the room, stopped abruptly by a chant of "Do it! Do it! Do it!". "Here it goes"! Slowly, while grinning, I take my shoe and sock off and take a seat on the chair that has been brought into the centre of the circle. I grasp my foot in my hand and raise it up to my open mouth. All the while, I maintain eye contact with Jess, beautiful Jess. Momentum and energy builds throughout the the room, cheers start, people whistle. First, the toes, at this point I'm committed. Quickly I try to push the rest of my foot in. This was a mistake. The foot is expelled from my mouth along with about a litre of vomit, which ends up covering Jess from head to toe. A harsh silence fills the room, everyone aghast, some quick to take pictures. Except Jess. She stands frozen, eyes locked on me, chunks of last night's pizza sliding down her cheek. I blew it - literally.
	[WP] You have a very mundane talent, so mundane that you've never shown it to anyone. The first time you do, as a party trick, you're told that your talent is physically impossible.	"Oh, come on. Everyone can do something. Chrissake, Jim hamboned for his talent, and that's just crap. You've gotta be able to do something cool". Truth was, though, I never really tried anything before really. I never was interested in art or music, and never had any athleticism either. I wasn't any good at juggling, I was an OK cook at best, and really couldn't hum, let alone sing. About the only thing I really excelled at was work, and how demanding was it to run an industrial paper shredder? "Really, I can't think of anything Steve," I protested. "I didn't even sign up for this stupid seminar." "Well, none of us did. Stupid 'team building' programs suck. We all get along, don't we?" Steve protested. "Come on, just get up and like, I dunno, hop on one leg in a circle. Anything to get this over with." "Is someone still shy?" asked the coordinator. "Come one, everyone has something unique to contribute! Let's see how this star shines!" "God, all right," I grumbled. "Ummmm..." "We believe in you!" our smarmy little manager said. "Don't let us all down in front of the veep!" "Ugh, fine. I guess I got this little trick I do to take out the trash, but I don't think it really impressive. Um. Anyone got some trash they need to get rid of?" "Yeah, my last performance review!" someone shouted from the back, followed by a smattering of laughter. Oh, what a riot we were. "OK, there's a trash can; thanks Cindy. All right, everyone watch, here we go," I said as I pushed the trash away. "Yeah, not very impressive, I know," I mumbled to silence. And more silence. Finally, it got uncomfortable. "What? You wanted me to participate; I never said it was a good talent, OK?" "How did you do that," whispered Jeff, our VP of operations. "What did you do?" "What? I just, you know, pushed it away." "Away? Away from what?!" "You know; away from everything." "What, like, everything? All at once?" "Well...yeah. Saves me a ton of time on taking out the trash." "Son," said Jeff, "screw this seminar. We need to talk about your new raise, and that little bit of magic you can do."	"Hey Eric", Jess said with that same look in her eyes that I desperately longed to be meant for me. Some background: Jess and I were at one point high-school sweethearts. We spent three years fanatically lusting for each other, neither of us stopping to ever take a breath; our love was intense - but it was also the best thing to have happened to me. During college we went our separate ways, she moved to New York to become a cardiac-surgeon, I stayed in California. We kept in touch via all too infrequent emails, it felt like there was still a spark, but I had always been too scared to act upon it. Tonight was my chance. Tonight we were both together for the first time in seven years. Tonight I knew the spark wasn't just in my head. "Are you sure you really want me to do this?", I sheepishly replied. "Yes!", belligerently the drunken crowd commanded. "You always had the best magic tricks", Jess exclaimed. "This one isn't so much a magic trick, it's more of a ...umm..., basically, I can put my entire foot in my mouth", I replied. Outcries of disgust and scepticism circumnavigated the room, stopped abruptly by a chant of "Do it! Do it! Do it!". "Here it goes"! Slowly, while grinning, I take my shoe and sock off and take a seat on the chair that has been brought into the centre of the circle. I grasp my foot in my hand and raise it up to my open mouth. All the while, I maintain eye contact with Jess, beautiful Jess. Momentum and energy builds throughout the the room, cheers start, people whistle. First, the toes, at this point I'm committed. Quickly I try to push the rest of my foot in. This was a mistake. The foot is expelled from my mouth along with about a litre of vomit, which ends up covering Jess from head to toe. A harsh silence fills the room, everyone aghast, some quick to take pictures. Except Jess. She stands frozen, eyes locked on me, chunks of last night's pizza sliding down her cheek. I blew it - literally.
	[WP] You have a very mundane talent, so mundane that you've never shown it to anyone. The first time you do, as a party trick, you're told that your talent is physically impossible.	"Damnit!" I yelled, as Karl's drink ran down my arm. "Dude, what the hell?" "Oh man, sorry," he said, squinting at me through red, half-closed eyes. I could smell the weed on his breath, and also on the skunky jacket he always wore when he smoked and, of course, never washed. "Ooooooh! Party foul!" Yelled Pat. "You're cut off!" Karl nodded, muttering 'yeah, yeah,' and sauntered into another room, where I saw him pour and down a shot of absinthe. "As for you," said Pat, "you can't let that beer go to waste." I looked down at my arm, where the beer had splashed from my elbow to my shoulder, and then brought my elbow up and began to lick the beer from it. I noticed, suddenly, that party had gone to silence - well, had gone to only dubstep instead of dubstep with people yelling over it - and everyone was staring at me. Pat muttered "whoa...," though it sounded more like "wubb...," again, because of the dubstep. "Dude," this cute girl yelled into my ear, "I read this thing once that said that people can't lick their elbows! That's crazy!" "Haha," I said. I didn't know what else to say, because she was really pretty, and I was really bad with girls. She leaned into my ear again, and yelled "what else can you lick?" "Haha," I said, and then I really didn't know what to say. Out of the corner of my eye, just out of sight of the girl, I saw Karl grinning like and idiot and humping the air at me.	"Hey Eric", Jess said with that same look in her eyes that I desperately longed to be meant for me. Some background: Jess and I were at one point high-school sweethearts. We spent three years fanatically lusting for each other, neither of us stopping to ever take a breath; our love was intense - but it was also the best thing to have happened to me. During college we went our separate ways, she moved to New York to become a cardiac-surgeon, I stayed in California. We kept in touch via all too infrequent emails, it felt like there was still a spark, but I had always been too scared to act upon it. Tonight was my chance. Tonight we were both together for the first time in seven years. Tonight I knew the spark wasn't just in my head. "Are you sure you really want me to do this?", I sheepishly replied. "Yes!", belligerently the drunken crowd commanded. "You always had the best magic tricks", Jess exclaimed. "This one isn't so much a magic trick, it's more of a ...umm..., basically, I can put my entire foot in my mouth", I replied. Outcries of disgust and scepticism circumnavigated the room, stopped abruptly by a chant of "Do it! Do it! Do it!". "Here it goes"! Slowly, while grinning, I take my shoe and sock off and take a seat on the chair that has been brought into the centre of the circle. I grasp my foot in my hand and raise it up to my open mouth. All the while, I maintain eye contact with Jess, beautiful Jess. Momentum and energy builds throughout the the room, cheers start, people whistle. First, the toes, at this point I'm committed. Quickly I try to push the rest of my foot in. This was a mistake. The foot is expelled from my mouth along with about a litre of vomit, which ends up covering Jess from head to toe. A harsh silence fills the room, everyone aghast, some quick to take pictures. Except Jess. She stands frozen, eyes locked on me, chunks of last night's pizza sliding down her cheek. I blew it - literally.
	[WP] You have a very mundane talent, so mundane that you've never shown it to anyone. The first time you do, as a party trick, you're told that your talent is physically impossible.	"Come on show it to us" they all said in unison "It's so lame" I said "I gotta see it now" Suzy said leaning over the table. "It's just gonna freak you guys out" I said but I knew I was gonna cave. "I bet it's bullshit" Carrie remarked "Shut up Carrie I can do it it's just super lame". "Bullshit" Josh said under his breath" "Fine give me something metal" I began rubbing my arms together. "So I just rub my hairy arms together " I said through heavy breathing. "And I just..." ZZZZZZZTTT. "HOLY SHIT!" Josh shouted "What the fuck was that?" Suzy shouted. Our group began to draw stares of the other bar patrons. "Guys it's just static electricity. What's the big deal?" I asked "Dude that's not static. Look at that fucking spoon it's melted." Carrie gestured to the now almost unrecognizable spoon. "Guys it's just static." I was getting really annoyed. "Static doesn't obliterate spoons man." Josh said "Tesla coil maybe" Carrie said still staring at the spoon. "Look, guys i'm gonna go." I began getting up. "No wait" Suzy put her hand on my car keys. "What?" "We need to tell a scientist or something." Carrie interrupted. "Carrie we don't need a fucking scientist to explain static electricity." I got up and left. "What the fuck was that?" I thought. It was supposed to be a little zap.	"Uhm" Everyone at the house party was staring at me. "What?" "You shouldn't be able to do that" "Do what this?" Everyone recoiled. "No don't do it again" "What it's not that…" "No" "Why not?" "It's weird. It's like, you know when you're in class, and some raises their hand and their double jointed so their arm just shoots of like this?" "Yeah" "If that situation were here it would be like what the fuck man" "It's really not that out of the ordinary" "Show of hands who can do that" No one raised their hand. I slowly began to raise mine. "No not you" "What? It has nothing to do with my hand" "It might though" "It doesn't" "Well that's not a risk I'm willing to take. So you know enjoy the party, mingle, just stick to the laws of physics. It's not that hard" "Fine" "Fuck it, one more time"
	[WP] You have a very mundane talent, so mundane that you've never shown it to anyone. The first time you do, as a party trick, you're told that your talent is physically impossible.	Tom sat in the corner of the cell, lip busted and eye quickly swelling shut. Peering out from his good eye, he saw the towering cellmate strutting over towards him, lips moving, tongue flying, but Tom couldn't hear what he was saying over the ruckus the other men were making. "Help!" Tom yelled, letting his head loll to the side, towards the officer who was struggling to get the cell door open. There was another officer standing outside the bars, stun gun drawn and pointed at the attacking cellmate, but he wasn't firing the damn gun for some reason. The attacker bent down in front of Tom, exhaling putrid breath into his face before grabbing him by the collar and pulling him up from the ground. "This is what I do to murderers," the attacker said. In a last ditch effort, Tom placed his hand on the attacker's throat. The man laughed at Tom's weak grip, and then froze. * Earlier that night Tom stayed glued to the outer edges of the party. Jeffrey had quickly disappeared after telling Tom over and over, "Don't worry man, I'll show you around, show you some folks, it'll be okay." Jeffrey was a liar, and nowhere to be found. Tom swallowed dry saliva and tried to bring his pulse down to a level that he didn't think others would be able to hear. It pounded hard in his ears, surely hard enough that someone walking by would be able to sense it. He knew that was probably impossible, but the thought seemed real to him in the moment as social anxiety wormed its long thin fingers down his skull and into his brain like icy tendrils, freezing him in place, up against the wall. "Hey man, you want a drink?" "Huh?" Tom said, breaking his focus from the ceiling where it had been most of the night. "I said, you want a drink?" A shorter guy wearing a turtleneck sweater said. It was in the middle of July, but for some reason he was wearing a sweater with the sleeves cut off, shorts, and flip flops. "Uh, yeah, that would be nice." "C'mon man," the guy said, turning and weaving his way through the groups of people collected throughout the house. Without a word, Tom followed the guy towards the kitchen, where there were cases of assorted beer sitting on the counter. "Ah, what the fuck, did no one put any of this in the fridge?" The guy said. "Fridge is out," another guy said. "Shit, hey man, you don't mind if it's a little warm is it?" "No, not at all," Tom said. The guy in the sweater ripped open one of the cases and pulled out two bottles, handing them to Tom. Tom opened his mouth to say that he really only wanted one, but the guy interrupted him, "By the way, name is Derek, but the frat calls me Deek. You can call me either or," he said, turning away and grabbing two more bottles from the case. "Oh, thanks, name is Tom." "Nice to meet you Tom," Derek said, "Now come on, let's go find some gals to give a beer to, huh?" "Oh, oh, yeah, sure," Tom said, now understanding why Derek had given him two beers. They were definitely warm in Tom's hands. He frowned; he wasn't much of a beer drinker to begin with, and definitely didn't want to drink one that was hot. As they snaked in and out of the party crowd, Tom focused on the beers. Focused on taking the heat out of them. Focusing on that helped calm his nerves as he followed Derek through the crowd. "Heeeey," Derek said, stopping at a pack of three girls, all standing against the wall empty-handed. "Y'all want a beer?" "Yeah, I want one!" "Me too!" "Same," the third one said, looking Tom up and down. He didn't realize it but his hands were slightly shaking. "Here," Derek said, handing his two beers to two gals. "Oh," the first one said, "it's hot." "Bleh," said the second. "Oh great, what the hell Derek?" The third girl said, reaching towards Tom. It took Tom a few awkward seconds, but then he realized he was supposed to hand over a beer. "Hey hey hey, it's not my fridge, I- "It's not hot," the third girl said, looking at the beer. "It's actually ice cold." "Huh?" Derek said. Tom quickly flustered and stuttered over his words, "Oh yeah, I took some of the heat out of it, I thought it was too hot too." Derek and the girls looked at him. "You did what?" Derek said, reaching for the beer the third girl held. "I took the heat out- "Holy shit," Derek said. "How'd, what, what did you do?" He said, looking back at the kitchen and where they had walked through. "This was hotter than Satan's piss when I handed it to you." "I just, uh, I just took the heat out of it." The third girl spoke out, "What do you mean you took the heat out of it?" "Uh, I just, I don't know." Derek grabbed a guy who was walking by, obviously a friend. "Hey, your beer hot?" "Yeah, why what's up man? Hey laaaadies.." The guy said. Without a warning, Derek grabbed the beer out of his friend's hand and shoved it into Tom's free hand. "Do it with this one Tom, do it," Derek said, on the verge of hysteria. "Uh, okay, I didn't think it was that big a deal, I mean," "Just do it." Tom held the beer in his hand, focused on it, and before the groups eyes, the bottle began to cloud. "What the fuuuuuuck," Derek's friend gasped, reaching and grabbing the beer out of Tom's hand. "It's cold!" He took a sip from it, "Oh my god it has chunks of ice in it." Tom's heart was pounding from excitement. "How are you doing that?" Derek asked, almost yelled. "It's just, I don't know, something I've been able to do." The third girl stepped forward, holding out her hand. "Show me how you do it, do it to my hand." "I don't know, I don't know if I can do it again, I mean," "Just do it man," Derek said, also holding out his hand. Tom held the beer bottle up, "I can only do one at a time," he said, almost stuttering from nerves. Derek's friend grabbed it out of his hand, "I'll hold it for you, do it, do it to their hands." "Okay, I'll try." Tom wiped the sweat from his hands on his jeans, and took Derek's hand in his left, and the third girl's hand in his right. He focused on both of their hands, and concentrated. "Holy shit," Derek said, "It's cold!" "Oh my god," the third girl said. She squeezed his hand tightly, causing him to look away from the ground and into her eyes. She was smiling, and now he was smiling. "Cool huh?" he whispered. She nodded, and continued to nod. The smile stayed on her face, but her brow was starting to furl. "Derek?" Someone said. Tom wasn't sure if it was one of the girls or if it was the guy who was holding his beer. He was too busy looking into her eyes. Her lips were still smiling, but her eyes weren't. Tom let go, but Derek and the third girl still held their hands out, as if stuck in some sort of handshake pose. He looked down at their hands, and saw that there was frost accumulating on their fingertips. Their palms were red, and the red was spreading. Unbeknownst to Tom or anyone else in the party, Derek and the third girl's heart was having holes poked through it by tiny shards of frozen blood. The frozen blood was pumped from the heart and throughout their body, like some sort of icy venom, ripping holes in veins and arteries, destroying their lungs. Derek sputtered and coughed, spraying blood on his chin and onto Tom. Tom wiped his face and looked at the girl. Tears of blood were running down her cheeks. "Oh, I must've did too much, I'm sorry, I didn't know that would happen." Both Derek and the girl fell over backwards. Derek landing hard on the house floor, and the girl falling into her two friends. Both let out shrieks as they felt how cold her skin was against theirs. "What the fuck?!" Derek's friend yelled, grabbing Tom by the collar. * The attacker holding Tom against the wall coughed, spraying blood into Tom's face.	"Uhm" Everyone at the house party was staring at me. "What?" "You shouldn't be able to do that" "Do what this?" Everyone recoiled. "No don't do it again" "What it's not that…" "No" "Why not?" "It's weird. It's like, you know when you're in class, and some raises their hand and their double jointed so their arm just shoots of like this?" "Yeah" "If that situation were here it would be like what the fuck man" "It's really not that out of the ordinary" "Show of hands who can do that" No one raised their hand. I slowly began to raise mine. "No not you" "What? It has nothing to do with my hand" "It might though" "It doesn't" "Well that's not a risk I'm willing to take. So you know enjoy the party, mingle, just stick to the laws of physics. It's not that hard" "Fine" "Fuck it, one more time"
	[WP] You have a very mundane talent, so mundane that you've never shown it to anyone. The first time you do, as a party trick, you're told that your talent is physically impossible.	More parts to the story here https://www.reddit.com/r/CharliesWildAdventure/ (you may be lost without it..or with it to be honest with you!) ____ Charlie took a hit off his bong and blew a perfectly square puff of smoke. “What in the world. How did you do that?” Jenn asked “Do what? Blow a square?” He blew a triangle out. “Okay Charlie. I don’t understand how you’re doing this. That’s not humanly possible. You can’t just do that.” Charlie shrugged. “I can do other shapes. It’s not really hard, watch.” Charlie managed to blow out a perfectly square puff of smoke. It drifted across the room. Jenn blinked. “You’re breaking physics again Charlie. You shouldn’t be able to do this! How are you able to do this?!” “Jesus taught me back in college.” “You, in college? I think that is more impressive than what you’re doing with the smoke to be honest.” “Oh yeah? Watch this!” Charlie took a deep puff, and blew a four dimensional cube. The tesseract drifted across the room before ripping a hole in the space time continuum. A man in a Domino's uniform stepped through it. “Oh man! The pizza is here!” Charlie got up and paid the guy. He stepped back into the portal and it disappeared.	"Uhm" Everyone at the house party was staring at me. "What?" "You shouldn't be able to do that" "Do what this?" Everyone recoiled. "No don't do it again" "What it's not that…" "No" "Why not?" "It's weird. It's like, you know when you're in class, and some raises their hand and their double jointed so their arm just shoots of like this?" "Yeah" "If that situation were here it would be like what the fuck man" "It's really not that out of the ordinary" "Show of hands who can do that" No one raised their hand. I slowly began to raise mine. "No not you" "What? It has nothing to do with my hand" "It might though" "It doesn't" "Well that's not a risk I'm willing to take. So you know enjoy the party, mingle, just stick to the laws of physics. It's not that hard" "Fine" "Fuck it, one more time"
	[WP] You have a very mundane talent, so mundane that you've never shown it to anyone. The first time you do, as a party trick, you're told that your talent is physically impossible.	"All right, so it goes a little something like this," I said. I'd just been dared to do something that I didn't think people would be able to recreate. Yeah, I know that truth or date was a stupid game for a 20-year-old to be playing, but we were trying to hook up Jason and Erika so it was part of the plan. Also, yes I know that it's truth or dare, but truth or date is what we call it when we are attempting to play matchmaker. "Just get on with it." "Then light the fucking candle," I snapped. I slurred the end of my words as Jason walked over to light the candle. I was hoping to get out of doing this trick but for some reason Erika had one in her room. So here I was. After what seemed like eons Jason lit the candle, "See how hard was that?" "Just do the thing," Erika cut in. "Alright," I sighed the lullaby that my mother had sung me when I a child under my breath. It was a bunch of gibberish but it helped my focus. I snapped my fingers at the end of it. the fire went out. "The fuck, that candle went out." "Yeah, I put it out." "No you didn't, here man," Jason lit the candle again. I narrowed my eyes, focusing on my aim and snapped my fingers. Boom, fire went out. "What the fuck," Erika cut in. She sounded more scared than impressed. "I'm just like snapping the wind at it." "That's not how that works." "It's working isn't it?" "Light it again," Erika said. Jason complied because he had a crush on her and he was a pansy. I rolled my eyes and snapped my fingers again, the candle went out. It wasn't a big deal and I didn't get why they were making such a racket about it. "Dude that's not humanly possible." "I'm doing it." "What's the trick?" "I snap my finger in the right way." "Show me," Jason said. He lit the candle and walked over to me. I moved his arm to the right place and told him to snap. He did and nothing happened, "See, it doesn't work." "You're just doing it wrong," I argued, "if you do it at the right angle." "Man, it's not working." He started snapping wildly each one was off on the form. I grabbed his hand. "Like this," I said, this time I used my left hand. The fire flickered away again. "Got it," Erika shouted, "I'm gonna post that to the school facebook page." "What?" I asked. "It's cool, I'm just gonna show it off." "Whatever man." I said. We kept going with the game of truth or dare after that, we were unsuccessful in getting Jason and Erika to hook up. Sometimes it just didn't work out. The video had gotten 3.9 million views by the time we woke up the next morning.	"Uhm" Everyone at the house party was staring at me. "What?" "You shouldn't be able to do that" "Do what this?" Everyone recoiled. "No don't do it again" "What it's not that…" "No" "Why not?" "It's weird. It's like, you know when you're in class, and some raises their hand and their double jointed so their arm just shoots of like this?" "Yeah" "If that situation were here it would be like what the fuck man" "It's really not that out of the ordinary" "Show of hands who can do that" No one raised their hand. I slowly began to raise mine. "No not you" "What? It has nothing to do with my hand" "It might though" "It doesn't" "Well that's not a risk I'm willing to take. So you know enjoy the party, mingle, just stick to the laws of physics. It's not that hard" "Fine" "Fuck it, one more time"
	[WP] You have a very mundane talent, so mundane that you've never shown it to anyone. The first time you do, as a party trick, you're told that your talent is physically impossible.	"Hey everyone, watch what Jen can do!" The night has reached the point when standing up is problematic. We have given up on the facade of being a sophisticated, standing party that we put up at the beginning of the night. Now we're splayed out on the couches and floor. This lazy, increasingly loud occupation is punctuated by a frequent relay race to the restroom. I return from my own trip and pass the baton with a nod and a jerk of my thumb to the bathroom, indicating its vacancy as I sink down to an unoccupied patch of carpet. Jen stops giggling and composes herself for a moment, to stick her tongue out at us and roll it up at the sides. This sets off a wave of laughter and monkey-see-monkey-do as everyone around our circle tries to roll their tongues. The half that can't, either protest indignantly or praise with the enthusiastic awe of the intoxicated at the half of us that can. "Oh yeah? You think that's somethin'?" Todd slurs and sways. "Watch this!" He swings his arm for a few seconds to loosen up and stretch, before bringing it up, craning his neck, and sticking out his tongue to lick his elbow. A cacophony of applause. A few of us even rise to give him a standing ovation before realizing the precarious predicament of maintaining balance in a slowly spinning room, and instead returning to the safety of being reclined. A quiet voice says, "I can do that too." Allie is a bit meek, even compared to me, but is able to reproduce's Todd's odd talent to an even more enthusiastic response as the room chants her name. "Allie! Allie! Aliie!" Jim takes a huge swig of beer from his red dixie cup and catches my attention. "Duuuude you gotta show them." I scoff at him and brush him off, but he persists. "Show emmmm. Cmon you gotta DO it. You're always so quiet anyway. This is your chance to get some attention! Cmon, pleaaaase?" "Alright fine." I mutter at him before calling the party's attention. "Hey guys, check this out." I tentatively raise my right hand to my left shoulder and tickle my own armpit before flinching and giggling. The room pauses for a second before roaring with laughter at my silly, mundane talent. Everyone is satisfactorily amused, except Tim, who wears a concerned expression, eyebrows furrowed at me. Tim is in med school, so being stressed and grumpy is standard fare for him nowadays. However, his worried squinting is in drastic contrast to his relaxed delight just a second before. "Hey man, how long have you been able to do that? You know most people can't do that right?" He asks gently, as the room subsides to listen in. "I dunno, like maybe a couple years now? It kinda just came up." I get defensive; Tim's concerned stare is harshing my buzz. "I must have shown it to some of you before." I scan the room looking for backup and point at Jim on the couch. "Look, Jim knows about it. He's the one who told me to do it just now." The room is completely silent now, every pair of eyes follows my finger to Jim on the couch. "Uhhhh, there's no one there Mike." Tim looks back at me. "Hey uh, Mike. Being ticklish is a result of your brain responding to external stimuli. Most people can't tickle themselves, since the brain filters out physical motions that are self-initiated." Tim's demeanor and vocabulary has become much too sober for his drink count tonight; something is amiss. He continues, "The brain is really good at filtering out self-created stimuli so you can pay more attention to and react to external stimuli. That's why you can't tickle yourself, cause you're the one doing it and your brain knows that. The only people who can tickle themselves have brain dysfunction that causes them to be unable to recognize their own actions being connected to the resulting stimuli..." He glances at the couch where Jim is sitting, and now grinning maniacally at me. "...It's usually caused by schizophrenia."	"Uhm" Everyone at the house party was staring at me. "What?" "You shouldn't be able to do that" "Do what this?" Everyone recoiled. "No don't do it again" "What it's not that…" "No" "Why not?" "It's weird. It's like, you know when you're in class, and some raises their hand and their double jointed so their arm just shoots of like this?" "Yeah" "If that situation were here it would be like what the fuck man" "It's really not that out of the ordinary" "Show of hands who can do that" No one raised their hand. I slowly began to raise mine. "No not you" "What? It has nothing to do with my hand" "It might though" "It doesn't" "Well that's not a risk I'm willing to take. So you know enjoy the party, mingle, just stick to the laws of physics. It's not that hard" "Fine" "Fuck it, one more time"
	[WP] You have a very mundane talent, so mundane that you've never shown it to anyone. The first time you do, as a party trick, you're told that your talent is physically impossible.	I remember watching a video where a guy would bend spoons. He had a weird accent and I recall thinking he was oddly handsome, in his 80s clothes and 80s hair. But spoons weren't the only thing he could do amazing things with - he could make objects rotate without touching them, bend house keys, describe hidden pictures and all manner of other simple tricks. His name of course, was Uri Geller. No one in my family ever had any doubt he was a charlatan - that these 'feats' were nothing more that sleight of hand or trickery. My sister and I would play at these games, trying to duplicate the 'powers' of Mr Geller - and over time we figured out our own ways to cheat and make the impossible seem possible. But as we grew older, both of us forgot about Uri and his spoons and became more enamoured of boy bands and celebrities. The tricks that we perfected though, I never forgot. They were calming, soothing - and sometimes I would practice them when I was stressed or anxious; the familiar forms relaxing my knotted thoughts. &nbsp; The party wasn't going well. Far too many people crowded the apartment and things were too loud. Protectively holding my drink to my chest, I made my way to the kitchen, looking for my bestie, Jess. "You seen Jess?" I yelled to one of the guys near the fridge. He just shrugged, I wasn't even sure he'd heard what I said. The kitchen led to one of the balcony doors and I found Jess out there, getting some air - or so I thought. "Jess?" As she turned her carefully made-up face to me, I knew something was wrong. Tear-tracks marked the contouring blush and suspicious blurs surrounded her eyes. She'd been crying out here, alone. "Oh Jess." Sobbing, she let me enfold her in a hug, words hiccuping into my shoulder, "He dumped me, Sara. In front of the others." "Oh shit honey, I'm so fucking sorry! I should have been there for you." Untangling herself she sniffed and wiped her nose on a napkin. "No, you weren't to know. You were having a good time - my shit shouldn't ruin that." "Seriously? This is the worst party. I've barely spoken to anyone." She blinked, dabbing at the corners of her eyes, "I just wish I could stop thinking about him." Regarding my distraught friend, I held up my index finger, "Wait here a sec, I'll be right back." Pushing back into the kitchen, I yanked open the most likely drawer and grabbed a handful of spoons, before exiting again and pulling the sliding door closed behind me. Placing down all but one of the spoons, I held one up, "Watch this." Rubbing the spoon with my finger, I held the tip of the handle. As I rubbed, the metal deformed and the bowl of the spoon drooped. Jess grinned at me through her tears, "I had no idea you were into this hokey magic crap." In response I fingered an imaginary moustache, "You insult the Great Sara!" She giggled as I put a spoon on the outdoor table and slowly rotated it without touching it. "And now, for my final trick, the friend bend!" Placing a spoon in her hand, I closed her fingers around the handle, leaving plenty of spoon still visible. "Behold!" I proclaimed, standing back and moving my hands around hers. As she watched, the spoon drooped, then folded in half and the bowl fell to the floor with a clink on the patio tiles. Jess's hand shook slightly, "How did you do that?" she whispered. I shrugged, "It's just a dumb spoon trick." "No it isn't," she interjected, "you can't bend a spoon in someone else's hand!" "Sure you can; it's all just the same thing." Shaking her head vehemently now, Jess pointed to the four remaining spoons. "Bend them. Bend them without touching them." "Whatever," I responded, focusing on the spoons, stroking them with my imaginary fingers. One by one, the spoons deformed and bent in on themselves - one snapped clean in half. "Sara," Jess said, swallowing thickly, "what you just did was impossible."	"Uhm" Everyone at the house party was staring at me. "What?" "You shouldn't be able to do that" "Do what this?" Everyone recoiled. "No don't do it again" "What it's not that…" "No" "Why not?" "It's weird. It's like, you know when you're in class, and some raises their hand and their double jointed so their arm just shoots of like this?" "Yeah" "If that situation were here it would be like what the fuck man" "It's really not that out of the ordinary" "Show of hands who can do that" No one raised their hand. I slowly began to raise mine. "No not you" "What? It has nothing to do with my hand" "It might though" "It doesn't" "Well that's not a risk I'm willing to take. So you know enjoy the party, mingle, just stick to the laws of physics. It's not that hard" "Fine" "Fuck it, one more time"
	[WP] You have a very mundane talent, so mundane that you've never shown it to anyone. The first time you do, as a party trick, you're told that your talent is physically impossible.	Tom sat in the corner of the cell, lip busted and eye quickly swelling shut. Peering out from his good eye, he saw the towering cellmate strutting over towards him, lips moving, tongue flying, but Tom couldn't hear what he was saying over the ruckus the other men were making. "Help!" Tom yelled, letting his head loll to the side, towards the officer who was struggling to get the cell door open. There was another officer standing outside the bars, stun gun drawn and pointed at the attacking cellmate, but he wasn't firing the damn gun for some reason. The attacker bent down in front of Tom, exhaling putrid breath into his face before grabbing him by the collar and pulling him up from the ground. "This is what I do to murderers," the attacker said. In a last ditch effort, Tom placed his hand on the attacker's throat. The man laughed at Tom's weak grip, and then froze. * Earlier that night Tom stayed glued to the outer edges of the party. Jeffrey had quickly disappeared after telling Tom over and over, "Don't worry man, I'll show you around, show you some folks, it'll be okay." Jeffrey was a liar, and nowhere to be found. Tom swallowed dry saliva and tried to bring his pulse down to a level that he didn't think others would be able to hear. It pounded hard in his ears, surely hard enough that someone walking by would be able to sense it. He knew that was probably impossible, but the thought seemed real to him in the moment as social anxiety wormed its long thin fingers down his skull and into his brain like icy tendrils, freezing him in place, up against the wall. "Hey man, you want a drink?" "Huh?" Tom said, breaking his focus from the ceiling where it had been most of the night. "I said, you want a drink?" A shorter guy wearing a turtleneck sweater said. It was in the middle of July, but for some reason he was wearing a sweater with the sleeves cut off, shorts, and flip flops. "Uh, yeah, that would be nice." "C'mon man," the guy said, turning and weaving his way through the groups of people collected throughout the house. Without a word, Tom followed the guy towards the kitchen, where there were cases of assorted beer sitting on the counter. "Ah, what the fuck, did no one put any of this in the fridge?" The guy said. "Fridge is out," another guy said. "Shit, hey man, you don't mind if it's a little warm is it?" "No, not at all," Tom said. The guy in the sweater ripped open one of the cases and pulled out two bottles, handing them to Tom. Tom opened his mouth to say that he really only wanted one, but the guy interrupted him, "By the way, name is Derek, but the frat calls me Deek. You can call me either or," he said, turning away and grabbing two more bottles from the case. "Oh, thanks, name is Tom." "Nice to meet you Tom," Derek said, "Now come on, let's go find some gals to give a beer to, huh?" "Oh, oh, yeah, sure," Tom said, now understanding why Derek had given him two beers. They were definitely warm in Tom's hands. He frowned; he wasn't much of a beer drinker to begin with, and definitely didn't want to drink one that was hot. As they snaked in and out of the party crowd, Tom focused on the beers. Focused on taking the heat out of them. Focusing on that helped calm his nerves as he followed Derek through the crowd. "Heeeey," Derek said, stopping at a pack of three girls, all standing against the wall empty-handed. "Y'all want a beer?" "Yeah, I want one!" "Me too!" "Same," the third one said, looking Tom up and down. He didn't realize it but his hands were slightly shaking. "Here," Derek said, handing his two beers to two gals. "Oh," the first one said, "it's hot." "Bleh," said the second. "Oh great, what the hell Derek?" The third girl said, reaching towards Tom. It took Tom a few awkward seconds, but then he realized he was supposed to hand over a beer. "Hey hey hey, it's not my fridge, I- "It's not hot," the third girl said, looking at the beer. "It's actually ice cold." "Huh?" Derek said. Tom quickly flustered and stuttered over his words, "Oh yeah, I took some of the heat out of it, I thought it was too hot too." Derek and the girls looked at him. "You did what?" Derek said, reaching for the beer the third girl held. "I took the heat out- "Holy shit," Derek said. "How'd, what, what did you do?" He said, looking back at the kitchen and where they had walked through. "This was hotter than Satan's piss when I handed it to you." "I just, uh, I just took the heat out of it." The third girl spoke out, "What do you mean you took the heat out of it?" "Uh, I just, I don't know." Derek grabbed a guy who was walking by, obviously a friend. "Hey, your beer hot?" "Yeah, why what's up man? Hey laaaadies.." The guy said. Without a warning, Derek grabbed the beer out of his friend's hand and shoved it into Tom's free hand. "Do it with this one Tom, do it," Derek said, on the verge of hysteria. "Uh, okay, I didn't think it was that big a deal, I mean," "Just do it." Tom held the beer in his hand, focused on it, and before the groups eyes, the bottle began to cloud. "What the fuuuuuuck," Derek's friend gasped, reaching and grabbing the beer out of Tom's hand. "It's cold!" He took a sip from it, "Oh my god it has chunks of ice in it." Tom's heart was pounding from excitement. "How are you doing that?" Derek asked, almost yelled. "It's just, I don't know, something I've been able to do." The third girl stepped forward, holding out her hand. "Show me how you do it, do it to my hand." "I don't know, I don't know if I can do it again, I mean," "Just do it man," Derek said, also holding out his hand. Tom held the beer bottle up, "I can only do one at a time," he said, almost stuttering from nerves. Derek's friend grabbed it out of his hand, "I'll hold it for you, do it, do it to their hands." "Okay, I'll try." Tom wiped the sweat from his hands on his jeans, and took Derek's hand in his left, and the third girl's hand in his right. He focused on both of their hands, and concentrated. "Holy shit," Derek said, "It's cold!" "Oh my god," the third girl said. She squeezed his hand tightly, causing him to look away from the ground and into her eyes. She was smiling, and now he was smiling. "Cool huh?" he whispered. She nodded, and continued to nod. The smile stayed on her face, but her brow was starting to furl. "Derek?" Someone said. Tom wasn't sure if it was one of the girls or if it was the guy who was holding his beer. He was too busy looking into her eyes. Her lips were still smiling, but her eyes weren't. Tom let go, but Derek and the third girl still held their hands out, as if stuck in some sort of handshake pose. He looked down at their hands, and saw that there was frost accumulating on their fingertips. Their palms were red, and the red was spreading. Unbeknownst to Tom or anyone else in the party, Derek and the third girl's heart was having holes poked through it by tiny shards of frozen blood. The frozen blood was pumped from the heart and throughout their body, like some sort of icy venom, ripping holes in veins and arteries, destroying their lungs. Derek sputtered and coughed, spraying blood on his chin and onto Tom. Tom wiped his face and looked at the girl. Tears of blood were running down her cheeks. "Oh, I must've did too much, I'm sorry, I didn't know that would happen." Both Derek and the girl fell over backwards. Derek landing hard on the house floor, and the girl falling into her two friends. Both let out shrieks as they felt how cold her skin was against theirs. "What the fuck?!" Derek's friend yelled, grabbing Tom by the collar. * The attacker holding Tom against the wall coughed, spraying blood into Tom's face.	"Come on show it to us" they all said in unison "It's so lame" I said "I gotta see it now" Suzy said leaning over the table. "It's just gonna freak you guys out" I said but I knew I was gonna cave. "I bet it's bullshit" Carrie remarked "Shut up Carrie I can do it it's just super lame". "Bullshit" Josh said under his breath" "Fine give me something metal" I began rubbing my arms together. "So I just rub my hairy arms together " I said through heavy breathing. "And I just..." ZZZZZZZTTT. "HOLY SHIT!" Josh shouted "What the fuck was that?" Suzy shouted. Our group began to draw stares of the other bar patrons. "Guys it's just static electricity. What's the big deal?" I asked "Dude that's not static. Look at that fucking spoon it's melted." Carrie gestured to the now almost unrecognizable spoon. "Guys it's just static." I was getting really annoyed. "Static doesn't obliterate spoons man." Josh said "Tesla coil maybe" Carrie said still staring at the spoon. "Look, guys i'm gonna go." I began getting up. "No wait" Suzy put her hand on my car keys. "What?" "We need to tell a scientist or something." Carrie interrupted. "Carrie we don't need a fucking scientist to explain static electricity." I got up and left. "What the fuck was that?" I thought. It was supposed to be a little zap.
	[WP] You have a very mundane talent, so mundane that you've never shown it to anyone. The first time you do, as a party trick, you're told that your talent is physically impossible.	More parts to the story here https://www.reddit.com/r/CharliesWildAdventure/ (you may be lost without it..or with it to be honest with you!) ____ Charlie took a hit off his bong and blew a perfectly square puff of smoke. “What in the world. How did you do that?” Jenn asked “Do what? Blow a square?” He blew a triangle out. “Okay Charlie. I don’t understand how you’re doing this. That’s not humanly possible. You can’t just do that.” Charlie shrugged. “I can do other shapes. It’s not really hard, watch.” Charlie managed to blow out a perfectly square puff of smoke. It drifted across the room. Jenn blinked. “You’re breaking physics again Charlie. You shouldn’t be able to do this! How are you able to do this?!” “Jesus taught me back in college.” “You, in college? I think that is more impressive than what you’re doing with the smoke to be honest.” “Oh yeah? Watch this!” Charlie took a deep puff, and blew a four dimensional cube. The tesseract drifted across the room before ripping a hole in the space time continuum. A man in a Domino's uniform stepped through it. “Oh man! The pizza is here!” Charlie got up and paid the guy. He stepped back into the portal and it disappeared.	"Come on show it to us" they all said in unison "It's so lame" I said "I gotta see it now" Suzy said leaning over the table. "It's just gonna freak you guys out" I said but I knew I was gonna cave. "I bet it's bullshit" Carrie remarked "Shut up Carrie I can do it it's just super lame". "Bullshit" Josh said under his breath" "Fine give me something metal" I began rubbing my arms together. "So I just rub my hairy arms together " I said through heavy breathing. "And I just..." ZZZZZZZTTT. "HOLY SHIT!" Josh shouted "What the fuck was that?" Suzy shouted. Our group began to draw stares of the other bar patrons. "Guys it's just static electricity. What's the big deal?" I asked "Dude that's not static. Look at that fucking spoon it's melted." Carrie gestured to the now almost unrecognizable spoon. "Guys it's just static." I was getting really annoyed. "Static doesn't obliterate spoons man." Josh said "Tesla coil maybe" Carrie said still staring at the spoon. "Look, guys i'm gonna go." I began getting up. "No wait" Suzy put her hand on my car keys. "What?" "We need to tell a scientist or something." Carrie interrupted. "Carrie we don't need a fucking scientist to explain static electricity." I got up and left. "What the fuck was that?" I thought. It was supposed to be a little zap.
	[WP] You have a very mundane talent, so mundane that you've never shown it to anyone. The first time you do, as a party trick, you're told that your talent is physically impossible.	"Hey everyone, watch what Jen can do!" The night has reached the point when standing up is problematic. We have given up on the facade of being a sophisticated, standing party that we put up at the beginning of the night. Now we're splayed out on the couches and floor. This lazy, increasingly loud occupation is punctuated by a frequent relay race to the restroom. I return from my own trip and pass the baton with a nod and a jerk of my thumb to the bathroom, indicating its vacancy as I sink down to an unoccupied patch of carpet. Jen stops giggling and composes herself for a moment, to stick her tongue out at us and roll it up at the sides. This sets off a wave of laughter and monkey-see-monkey-do as everyone around our circle tries to roll their tongues. The half that can't, either protest indignantly or praise with the enthusiastic awe of the intoxicated at the half of us that can. "Oh yeah? You think that's somethin'?" Todd slurs and sways. "Watch this!" He swings his arm for a few seconds to loosen up and stretch, before bringing it up, craning his neck, and sticking out his tongue to lick his elbow. A cacophony of applause. A few of us even rise to give him a standing ovation before realizing the precarious predicament of maintaining balance in a slowly spinning room, and instead returning to the safety of being reclined. A quiet voice says, "I can do that too." Allie is a bit meek, even compared to me, but is able to reproduce's Todd's odd talent to an even more enthusiastic response as the room chants her name. "Allie! Allie! Aliie!" Jim takes a huge swig of beer from his red dixie cup and catches my attention. "Duuuude you gotta show them." I scoff at him and brush him off, but he persists. "Show emmmm. Cmon you gotta DO it. You're always so quiet anyway. This is your chance to get some attention! Cmon, pleaaaase?" "Alright fine." I mutter at him before calling the party's attention. "Hey guys, check this out." I tentatively raise my right hand to my left shoulder and tickle my own armpit before flinching and giggling. The room pauses for a second before roaring with laughter at my silly, mundane talent. Everyone is satisfactorily amused, except Tim, who wears a concerned expression, eyebrows furrowed at me. Tim is in med school, so being stressed and grumpy is standard fare for him nowadays. However, his worried squinting is in drastic contrast to his relaxed delight just a second before. "Hey man, how long have you been able to do that? You know most people can't do that right?" He asks gently, as the room subsides to listen in. "I dunno, like maybe a couple years now? It kinda just came up." I get defensive; Tim's concerned stare is harshing my buzz. "I must have shown it to some of you before." I scan the room looking for backup and point at Jim on the couch. "Look, Jim knows about it. He's the one who told me to do it just now." The room is completely silent now, every pair of eyes follows my finger to Jim on the couch. "Uhhhh, there's no one there Mike." Tim looks back at me. "Hey uh, Mike. Being ticklish is a result of your brain responding to external stimuli. Most people can't tickle themselves, since the brain filters out physical motions that are self-initiated." Tim's demeanor and vocabulary has become much too sober for his drink count tonight; something is amiss. He continues, "The brain is really good at filtering out self-created stimuli so you can pay more attention to and react to external stimuli. That's why you can't tickle yourself, cause you're the one doing it and your brain knows that. The only people who can tickle themselves have brain dysfunction that causes them to be unable to recognize their own actions being connected to the resulting stimuli..." He glances at the couch where Jim is sitting, and now grinning maniacally at me. "...It's usually caused by schizophrenia."	"Come on show it to us" they all said in unison "It's so lame" I said "I gotta see it now" Suzy said leaning over the table. "It's just gonna freak you guys out" I said but I knew I was gonna cave. "I bet it's bullshit" Carrie remarked "Shut up Carrie I can do it it's just super lame". "Bullshit" Josh said under his breath" "Fine give me something metal" I began rubbing my arms together. "So I just rub my hairy arms together " I said through heavy breathing. "And I just..." ZZZZZZZTTT. "HOLY SHIT!" Josh shouted "What the fuck was that?" Suzy shouted. Our group began to draw stares of the other bar patrons. "Guys it's just static electricity. What's the big deal?" I asked "Dude that's not static. Look at that fucking spoon it's melted." Carrie gestured to the now almost unrecognizable spoon. "Guys it's just static." I was getting really annoyed. "Static doesn't obliterate spoons man." Josh said "Tesla coil maybe" Carrie said still staring at the spoon. "Look, guys i'm gonna go." I began getting up. "No wait" Suzy put her hand on my car keys. "What?" "We need to tell a scientist or something." Carrie interrupted. "Carrie we don't need a fucking scientist to explain static electricity." I got up and left. "What the fuck was that?" I thought. It was supposed to be a little zap.
	[WP] You have a very mundane talent, so mundane that you've never shown it to anyone. The first time you do, as a party trick, you're told that your talent is physically impossible.	Tom sat in the corner of the cell, lip busted and eye quickly swelling shut. Peering out from his good eye, he saw the towering cellmate strutting over towards him, lips moving, tongue flying, but Tom couldn't hear what he was saying over the ruckus the other men were making. "Help!" Tom yelled, letting his head loll to the side, towards the officer who was struggling to get the cell door open. There was another officer standing outside the bars, stun gun drawn and pointed at the attacking cellmate, but he wasn't firing the damn gun for some reason. The attacker bent down in front of Tom, exhaling putrid breath into his face before grabbing him by the collar and pulling him up from the ground. "This is what I do to murderers," the attacker said. In a last ditch effort, Tom placed his hand on the attacker's throat. The man laughed at Tom's weak grip, and then froze. * Earlier that night Tom stayed glued to the outer edges of the party. Jeffrey had quickly disappeared after telling Tom over and over, "Don't worry man, I'll show you around, show you some folks, it'll be okay." Jeffrey was a liar, and nowhere to be found. Tom swallowed dry saliva and tried to bring his pulse down to a level that he didn't think others would be able to hear. It pounded hard in his ears, surely hard enough that someone walking by would be able to sense it. He knew that was probably impossible, but the thought seemed real to him in the moment as social anxiety wormed its long thin fingers down his skull and into his brain like icy tendrils, freezing him in place, up against the wall. "Hey man, you want a drink?" "Huh?" Tom said, breaking his focus from the ceiling where it had been most of the night. "I said, you want a drink?" A shorter guy wearing a turtleneck sweater said. It was in the middle of July, but for some reason he was wearing a sweater with the sleeves cut off, shorts, and flip flops. "Uh, yeah, that would be nice." "C'mon man," the guy said, turning and weaving his way through the groups of people collected throughout the house. Without a word, Tom followed the guy towards the kitchen, where there were cases of assorted beer sitting on the counter. "Ah, what the fuck, did no one put any of this in the fridge?" The guy said. "Fridge is out," another guy said. "Shit, hey man, you don't mind if it's a little warm is it?" "No, not at all," Tom said. The guy in the sweater ripped open one of the cases and pulled out two bottles, handing them to Tom. Tom opened his mouth to say that he really only wanted one, but the guy interrupted him, "By the way, name is Derek, but the frat calls me Deek. You can call me either or," he said, turning away and grabbing two more bottles from the case. "Oh, thanks, name is Tom." "Nice to meet you Tom," Derek said, "Now come on, let's go find some gals to give a beer to, huh?" "Oh, oh, yeah, sure," Tom said, now understanding why Derek had given him two beers. They were definitely warm in Tom's hands. He frowned; he wasn't much of a beer drinker to begin with, and definitely didn't want to drink one that was hot. As they snaked in and out of the party crowd, Tom focused on the beers. Focused on taking the heat out of them. Focusing on that helped calm his nerves as he followed Derek through the crowd. "Heeeey," Derek said, stopping at a pack of three girls, all standing against the wall empty-handed. "Y'all want a beer?" "Yeah, I want one!" "Me too!" "Same," the third one said, looking Tom up and down. He didn't realize it but his hands were slightly shaking. "Here," Derek said, handing his two beers to two gals. "Oh," the first one said, "it's hot." "Bleh," said the second. "Oh great, what the hell Derek?" The third girl said, reaching towards Tom. It took Tom a few awkward seconds, but then he realized he was supposed to hand over a beer. "Hey hey hey, it's not my fridge, I- "It's not hot," the third girl said, looking at the beer. "It's actually ice cold." "Huh?" Derek said. Tom quickly flustered and stuttered over his words, "Oh yeah, I took some of the heat out of it, I thought it was too hot too." Derek and the girls looked at him. "You did what?" Derek said, reaching for the beer the third girl held. "I took the heat out- "Holy shit," Derek said. "How'd, what, what did you do?" He said, looking back at the kitchen and where they had walked through. "This was hotter than Satan's piss when I handed it to you." "I just, uh, I just took the heat out of it." The third girl spoke out, "What do you mean you took the heat out of it?" "Uh, I just, I don't know." Derek grabbed a guy who was walking by, obviously a friend. "Hey, your beer hot?" "Yeah, why what's up man? Hey laaaadies.." The guy said. Without a warning, Derek grabbed the beer out of his friend's hand and shoved it into Tom's free hand. "Do it with this one Tom, do it," Derek said, on the verge of hysteria. "Uh, okay, I didn't think it was that big a deal, I mean," "Just do it." Tom held the beer in his hand, focused on it, and before the groups eyes, the bottle began to cloud. "What the fuuuuuuck," Derek's friend gasped, reaching and grabbing the beer out of Tom's hand. "It's cold!" He took a sip from it, "Oh my god it has chunks of ice in it." Tom's heart was pounding from excitement. "How are you doing that?" Derek asked, almost yelled. "It's just, I don't know, something I've been able to do." The third girl stepped forward, holding out her hand. "Show me how you do it, do it to my hand." "I don't know, I don't know if I can do it again, I mean," "Just do it man," Derek said, also holding out his hand. Tom held the beer bottle up, "I can only do one at a time," he said, almost stuttering from nerves. Derek's friend grabbed it out of his hand, "I'll hold it for you, do it, do it to their hands." "Okay, I'll try." Tom wiped the sweat from his hands on his jeans, and took Derek's hand in his left, and the third girl's hand in his right. He focused on both of their hands, and concentrated. "Holy shit," Derek said, "It's cold!" "Oh my god," the third girl said. She squeezed his hand tightly, causing him to look away from the ground and into her eyes. She was smiling, and now he was smiling. "Cool huh?" he whispered. She nodded, and continued to nod. The smile stayed on her face, but her brow was starting to furl. "Derek?" Someone said. Tom wasn't sure if it was one of the girls or if it was the guy who was holding his beer. He was too busy looking into her eyes. Her lips were still smiling, but her eyes weren't. Tom let go, but Derek and the third girl still held their hands out, as if stuck in some sort of handshake pose. He looked down at their hands, and saw that there was frost accumulating on their fingertips. Their palms were red, and the red was spreading. Unbeknownst to Tom or anyone else in the party, Derek and the third girl's heart was having holes poked through it by tiny shards of frozen blood. The frozen blood was pumped from the heart and throughout their body, like some sort of icy venom, ripping holes in veins and arteries, destroying their lungs. Derek sputtered and coughed, spraying blood on his chin and onto Tom. Tom wiped his face and looked at the girl. Tears of blood were running down her cheeks. "Oh, I must've did too much, I'm sorry, I didn't know that would happen." Both Derek and the girl fell over backwards. Derek landing hard on the house floor, and the girl falling into her two friends. Both let out shrieks as they felt how cold her skin was against theirs. "What the fuck?!" Derek's friend yelled, grabbing Tom by the collar. * The attacker holding Tom against the wall coughed, spraying blood into Tom's face.	lots of people have silly little tricks they can do with their hands. you can wiggle your fingers in strange ways, bend them in any sort of direction. you can make your thumb touch your wrist or you can bend your whole hand at the wrist. so many kids in my grade school did all sorts of those things and they're so much better than my trick. its been years since I've done it but i was a little drunk at the time and there were girls that wanted to see some tricks so i did it. Instead of the vague interest or more likely disinterest i had expected i was met with screaming. All i did was twist my index and middle finger around so that they changed places and from the way they were acting it sounded like i'd broken my hand. even after popping them back into place everyone didn't calm down. all of my bones are fine and i have full motor control, I'd like to leave this hospital but they want to take some X-rays of my hand while I've done the trick.
	[WP] You have a very mundane talent, so mundane that you've never shown it to anyone. The first time you do, as a party trick, you're told that your talent is physically impossible.	More parts to the story here https://www.reddit.com/r/CharliesWildAdventure/ (you may be lost without it..or with it to be honest with you!) ____ Charlie took a hit off his bong and blew a perfectly square puff of smoke. “What in the world. How did you do that?” Jenn asked “Do what? Blow a square?” He blew a triangle out. “Okay Charlie. I don’t understand how you’re doing this. That’s not humanly possible. You can’t just do that.” Charlie shrugged. “I can do other shapes. It’s not really hard, watch.” Charlie managed to blow out a perfectly square puff of smoke. It drifted across the room. Jenn blinked. “You’re breaking physics again Charlie. You shouldn’t be able to do this! How are you able to do this?!” “Jesus taught me back in college.” “You, in college? I think that is more impressive than what you’re doing with the smoke to be honest.” “Oh yeah? Watch this!” Charlie took a deep puff, and blew a four dimensional cube. The tesseract drifted across the room before ripping a hole in the space time continuum. A man in a Domino's uniform stepped through it. “Oh man! The pizza is here!” Charlie got up and paid the guy. He stepped back into the portal and it disappeared.	lots of people have silly little tricks they can do with their hands. you can wiggle your fingers in strange ways, bend them in any sort of direction. you can make your thumb touch your wrist or you can bend your whole hand at the wrist. so many kids in my grade school did all sorts of those things and they're so much better than my trick. its been years since I've done it but i was a little drunk at the time and there were girls that wanted to see some tricks so i did it. Instead of the vague interest or more likely disinterest i had expected i was met with screaming. All i did was twist my index and middle finger around so that they changed places and from the way they were acting it sounded like i'd broken my hand. even after popping them back into place everyone didn't calm down. all of my bones are fine and i have full motor control, I'd like to leave this hospital but they want to take some X-rays of my hand while I've done the trick.
	[WP] You have a very mundane talent, so mundane that you've never shown it to anyone. The first time you do, as a party trick, you're told that your talent is physically impossible.	"All right, so it goes a little something like this," I said. I'd just been dared to do something that I didn't think people would be able to recreate. Yeah, I know that truth or date was a stupid game for a 20-year-old to be playing, but we were trying to hook up Jason and Erika so it was part of the plan. Also, yes I know that it's truth or dare, but truth or date is what we call it when we are attempting to play matchmaker. "Just get on with it." "Then light the fucking candle," I snapped. I slurred the end of my words as Jason walked over to light the candle. I was hoping to get out of doing this trick but for some reason Erika had one in her room. So here I was. After what seemed like eons Jason lit the candle, "See how hard was that?" "Just do the thing," Erika cut in. "Alright," I sighed the lullaby that my mother had sung me when I a child under my breath. It was a bunch of gibberish but it helped my focus. I snapped my fingers at the end of it. the fire went out. "The fuck, that candle went out." "Yeah, I put it out." "No you didn't, here man," Jason lit the candle again. I narrowed my eyes, focusing on my aim and snapped my fingers. Boom, fire went out. "What the fuck," Erika cut in. She sounded more scared than impressed. "I'm just like snapping the wind at it." "That's not how that works." "It's working isn't it?" "Light it again," Erika said. Jason complied because he had a crush on her and he was a pansy. I rolled my eyes and snapped my fingers again, the candle went out. It wasn't a big deal and I didn't get why they were making such a racket about it. "Dude that's not humanly possible." "I'm doing it." "What's the trick?" "I snap my finger in the right way." "Show me," Jason said. He lit the candle and walked over to me. I moved his arm to the right place and told him to snap. He did and nothing happened, "See, it doesn't work." "You're just doing it wrong," I argued, "if you do it at the right angle." "Man, it's not working." He started snapping wildly each one was off on the form. I grabbed his hand. "Like this," I said, this time I used my left hand. The fire flickered away again. "Got it," Erika shouted, "I'm gonna post that to the school facebook page." "What?" I asked. "It's cool, I'm just gonna show it off." "Whatever man." I said. We kept going with the game of truth or dare after that, we were unsuccessful in getting Jason and Erika to hook up. Sometimes it just didn't work out. The video had gotten 3.9 million views by the time we woke up the next morning.	lots of people have silly little tricks they can do with their hands. you can wiggle your fingers in strange ways, bend them in any sort of direction. you can make your thumb touch your wrist or you can bend your whole hand at the wrist. so many kids in my grade school did all sorts of those things and they're so much better than my trick. its been years since I've done it but i was a little drunk at the time and there were girls that wanted to see some tricks so i did it. Instead of the vague interest or more likely disinterest i had expected i was met with screaming. All i did was twist my index and middle finger around so that they changed places and from the way they were acting it sounded like i'd broken my hand. even after popping them back into place everyone didn't calm down. all of my bones are fine and i have full motor control, I'd like to leave this hospital but they want to take some X-rays of my hand while I've done the trick.
	[WP] You have a very mundane talent, so mundane that you've never shown it to anyone. The first time you do, as a party trick, you're told that your talent is physically impossible.	"Hey everyone, watch what Jen can do!" The night has reached the point when standing up is problematic. We have given up on the facade of being a sophisticated, standing party that we put up at the beginning of the night. Now we're splayed out on the couches and floor. This lazy, increasingly loud occupation is punctuated by a frequent relay race to the restroom. I return from my own trip and pass the baton with a nod and a jerk of my thumb to the bathroom, indicating its vacancy as I sink down to an unoccupied patch of carpet. Jen stops giggling and composes herself for a moment, to stick her tongue out at us and roll it up at the sides. This sets off a wave of laughter and monkey-see-monkey-do as everyone around our circle tries to roll their tongues. The half that can't, either protest indignantly or praise with the enthusiastic awe of the intoxicated at the half of us that can. "Oh yeah? You think that's somethin'?" Todd slurs and sways. "Watch this!" He swings his arm for a few seconds to loosen up and stretch, before bringing it up, craning his neck, and sticking out his tongue to lick his elbow. A cacophony of applause. A few of us even rise to give him a standing ovation before realizing the precarious predicament of maintaining balance in a slowly spinning room, and instead returning to the safety of being reclined. A quiet voice says, "I can do that too." Allie is a bit meek, even compared to me, but is able to reproduce's Todd's odd talent to an even more enthusiastic response as the room chants her name. "Allie! Allie! Aliie!" Jim takes a huge swig of beer from his red dixie cup and catches my attention. "Duuuude you gotta show them." I scoff at him and brush him off, but he persists. "Show emmmm. Cmon you gotta DO it. You're always so quiet anyway. This is your chance to get some attention! Cmon, pleaaaase?" "Alright fine." I mutter at him before calling the party's attention. "Hey guys, check this out." I tentatively raise my right hand to my left shoulder and tickle my own armpit before flinching and giggling. The room pauses for a second before roaring with laughter at my silly, mundane talent. Everyone is satisfactorily amused, except Tim, who wears a concerned expression, eyebrows furrowed at me. Tim is in med school, so being stressed and grumpy is standard fare for him nowadays. However, his worried squinting is in drastic contrast to his relaxed delight just a second before. "Hey man, how long have you been able to do that? You know most people can't do that right?" He asks gently, as the room subsides to listen in. "I dunno, like maybe a couple years now? It kinda just came up." I get defensive; Tim's concerned stare is harshing my buzz. "I must have shown it to some of you before." I scan the room looking for backup and point at Jim on the couch. "Look, Jim knows about it. He's the one who told me to do it just now." The room is completely silent now, every pair of eyes follows my finger to Jim on the couch. "Uhhhh, there's no one there Mike." Tim looks back at me. "Hey uh, Mike. Being ticklish is a result of your brain responding to external stimuli. Most people can't tickle themselves, since the brain filters out physical motions that are self-initiated." Tim's demeanor and vocabulary has become much too sober for his drink count tonight; something is amiss. He continues, "The brain is really good at filtering out self-created stimuli so you can pay more attention to and react to external stimuli. That's why you can't tickle yourself, cause you're the one doing it and your brain knows that. The only people who can tickle themselves have brain dysfunction that causes them to be unable to recognize their own actions being connected to the resulting stimuli..." He glances at the couch where Jim is sitting, and now grinning maniacally at me. "...It's usually caused by schizophrenia."	lots of people have silly little tricks they can do with their hands. you can wiggle your fingers in strange ways, bend them in any sort of direction. you can make your thumb touch your wrist or you can bend your whole hand at the wrist. so many kids in my grade school did all sorts of those things and they're so much better than my trick. its been years since I've done it but i was a little drunk at the time and there were girls that wanted to see some tricks so i did it. Instead of the vague interest or more likely disinterest i had expected i was met with screaming. All i did was twist my index and middle finger around so that they changed places and from the way they were acting it sounded like i'd broken my hand. even after popping them back into place everyone didn't calm down. all of my bones are fine and i have full motor control, I'd like to leave this hospital but they want to take some X-rays of my hand while I've done the trick.
	[WP] You have a very mundane talent, so mundane that you've never shown it to anyone. The first time you do, as a party trick, you're told that your talent is physically impossible.	I remember watching a video where a guy would bend spoons. He had a weird accent and I recall thinking he was oddly handsome, in his 80s clothes and 80s hair. But spoons weren't the only thing he could do amazing things with - he could make objects rotate without touching them, bend house keys, describe hidden pictures and all manner of other simple tricks. His name of course, was Uri Geller. No one in my family ever had any doubt he was a charlatan - that these 'feats' were nothing more that sleight of hand or trickery. My sister and I would play at these games, trying to duplicate the 'powers' of Mr Geller - and over time we figured out our own ways to cheat and make the impossible seem possible. But as we grew older, both of us forgot about Uri and his spoons and became more enamoured of boy bands and celebrities. The tricks that we perfected though, I never forgot. They were calming, soothing - and sometimes I would practice them when I was stressed or anxious; the familiar forms relaxing my knotted thoughts. &nbsp; The party wasn't going well. Far too many people crowded the apartment and things were too loud. Protectively holding my drink to my chest, I made my way to the kitchen, looking for my bestie, Jess. "You seen Jess?" I yelled to one of the guys near the fridge. He just shrugged, I wasn't even sure he'd heard what I said. The kitchen led to one of the balcony doors and I found Jess out there, getting some air - or so I thought. "Jess?" As she turned her carefully made-up face to me, I knew something was wrong. Tear-tracks marked the contouring blush and suspicious blurs surrounded her eyes. She'd been crying out here, alone. "Oh Jess." Sobbing, she let me enfold her in a hug, words hiccuping into my shoulder, "He dumped me, Sara. In front of the others." "Oh shit honey, I'm so fucking sorry! I should have been there for you." Untangling herself she sniffed and wiped her nose on a napkin. "No, you weren't to know. You were having a good time - my shit shouldn't ruin that." "Seriously? This is the worst party. I've barely spoken to anyone." She blinked, dabbing at the corners of her eyes, "I just wish I could stop thinking about him." Regarding my distraught friend, I held up my index finger, "Wait here a sec, I'll be right back." Pushing back into the kitchen, I yanked open the most likely drawer and grabbed a handful of spoons, before exiting again and pulling the sliding door closed behind me. Placing down all but one of the spoons, I held one up, "Watch this." Rubbing the spoon with my finger, I held the tip of the handle. As I rubbed, the metal deformed and the bowl of the spoon drooped. Jess grinned at me through her tears, "I had no idea you were into this hokey magic crap." In response I fingered an imaginary moustache, "You insult the Great Sara!" She giggled as I put a spoon on the outdoor table and slowly rotated it without touching it. "And now, for my final trick, the friend bend!" Placing a spoon in her hand, I closed her fingers around the handle, leaving plenty of spoon still visible. "Behold!" I proclaimed, standing back and moving my hands around hers. As she watched, the spoon drooped, then folded in half and the bowl fell to the floor with a clink on the patio tiles. Jess's hand shook slightly, "How did you do that?" she whispered. I shrugged, "It's just a dumb spoon trick." "No it isn't," she interjected, "you can't bend a spoon in someone else's hand!" "Sure you can; it's all just the same thing." Shaking her head vehemently now, Jess pointed to the four remaining spoons. "Bend them. Bend them without touching them." "Whatever," I responded, focusing on the spoons, stroking them with my imaginary fingers. One by one, the spoons deformed and bent in on themselves - one snapped clean in half. "Sara," Jess said, swallowing thickly, "what you just did was impossible."	lots of people have silly little tricks they can do with their hands. you can wiggle your fingers in strange ways, bend them in any sort of direction. you can make your thumb touch your wrist or you can bend your whole hand at the wrist. so many kids in my grade school did all sorts of those things and they're so much better than my trick. its been years since I've done it but i was a little drunk at the time and there were girls that wanted to see some tricks so i did it. Instead of the vague interest or more likely disinterest i had expected i was met with screaming. All i did was twist my index and middle finger around so that they changed places and from the way they were acting it sounded like i'd broken my hand. even after popping them back into place everyone didn't calm down. all of my bones are fine and i have full motor control, I'd like to leave this hospital but they want to take some X-rays of my hand while I've done the trick.
	[WP] You have a very mundane talent, so mundane that you've never shown it to anyone. The first time you do, as a party trick, you're told that your talent is physically impossible.	More parts to the story here https://www.reddit.com/r/CharliesWildAdventure/ (you may be lost without it..or with it to be honest with you!) ____ Charlie took a hit off his bong and blew a perfectly square puff of smoke. “What in the world. How did you do that?” Jenn asked “Do what? Blow a square?” He blew a triangle out. “Okay Charlie. I don’t understand how you’re doing this. That’s not humanly possible. You can’t just do that.” Charlie shrugged. “I can do other shapes. It’s not really hard, watch.” Charlie managed to blow out a perfectly square puff of smoke. It drifted across the room. Jenn blinked. “You’re breaking physics again Charlie. You shouldn’t be able to do this! How are you able to do this?!” “Jesus taught me back in college.” “You, in college? I think that is more impressive than what you’re doing with the smoke to be honest.” “Oh yeah? Watch this!” Charlie took a deep puff, and blew a four dimensional cube. The tesseract drifted across the room before ripping a hole in the space time continuum. A man in a Domino's uniform stepped through it. “Oh man! The pizza is here!” Charlie got up and paid the guy. He stepped back into the portal and it disappeared.	Tom sat in the corner of the cell, lip busted and eye quickly swelling shut. Peering out from his good eye, he saw the towering cellmate strutting over towards him, lips moving, tongue flying, but Tom couldn't hear what he was saying over the ruckus the other men were making. "Help!" Tom yelled, letting his head loll to the side, towards the officer who was struggling to get the cell door open. There was another officer standing outside the bars, stun gun drawn and pointed at the attacking cellmate, but he wasn't firing the damn gun for some reason. The attacker bent down in front of Tom, exhaling putrid breath into his face before grabbing him by the collar and pulling him up from the ground. "This is what I do to murderers," the attacker said. In a last ditch effort, Tom placed his hand on the attacker's throat. The man laughed at Tom's weak grip, and then froze. * Earlier that night Tom stayed glued to the outer edges of the party. Jeffrey had quickly disappeared after telling Tom over and over, "Don't worry man, I'll show you around, show you some folks, it'll be okay." Jeffrey was a liar, and nowhere to be found. Tom swallowed dry saliva and tried to bring his pulse down to a level that he didn't think others would be able to hear. It pounded hard in his ears, surely hard enough that someone walking by would be able to sense it. He knew that was probably impossible, but the thought seemed real to him in the moment as social anxiety wormed its long thin fingers down his skull and into his brain like icy tendrils, freezing him in place, up against the wall. "Hey man, you want a drink?" "Huh?" Tom said, breaking his focus from the ceiling where it had been most of the night. "I said, you want a drink?" A shorter guy wearing a turtleneck sweater said. It was in the middle of July, but for some reason he was wearing a sweater with the sleeves cut off, shorts, and flip flops. "Uh, yeah, that would be nice." "C'mon man," the guy said, turning and weaving his way through the groups of people collected throughout the house. Without a word, Tom followed the guy towards the kitchen, where there were cases of assorted beer sitting on the counter. "Ah, what the fuck, did no one put any of this in the fridge?" The guy said. "Fridge is out," another guy said. "Shit, hey man, you don't mind if it's a little warm is it?" "No, not at all," Tom said. The guy in the sweater ripped open one of the cases and pulled out two bottles, handing them to Tom. Tom opened his mouth to say that he really only wanted one, but the guy interrupted him, "By the way, name is Derek, but the frat calls me Deek. You can call me either or," he said, turning away and grabbing two more bottles from the case. "Oh, thanks, name is Tom." "Nice to meet you Tom," Derek said, "Now come on, let's go find some gals to give a beer to, huh?" "Oh, oh, yeah, sure," Tom said, now understanding why Derek had given him two beers. They were definitely warm in Tom's hands. He frowned; he wasn't much of a beer drinker to begin with, and definitely didn't want to drink one that was hot. As they snaked in and out of the party crowd, Tom focused on the beers. Focused on taking the heat out of them. Focusing on that helped calm his nerves as he followed Derek through the crowd. "Heeeey," Derek said, stopping at a pack of three girls, all standing against the wall empty-handed. "Y'all want a beer?" "Yeah, I want one!" "Me too!" "Same," the third one said, looking Tom up and down. He didn't realize it but his hands were slightly shaking. "Here," Derek said, handing his two beers to two gals. "Oh," the first one said, "it's hot." "Bleh," said the second. "Oh great, what the hell Derek?" The third girl said, reaching towards Tom. It took Tom a few awkward seconds, but then he realized he was supposed to hand over a beer. "Hey hey hey, it's not my fridge, I- "It's not hot," the third girl said, looking at the beer. "It's actually ice cold." "Huh?" Derek said. Tom quickly flustered and stuttered over his words, "Oh yeah, I took some of the heat out of it, I thought it was too hot too." Derek and the girls looked at him. "You did what?" Derek said, reaching for the beer the third girl held. "I took the heat out- "Holy shit," Derek said. "How'd, what, what did you do?" He said, looking back at the kitchen and where they had walked through. "This was hotter than Satan's piss when I handed it to you." "I just, uh, I just took the heat out of it." The third girl spoke out, "What do you mean you took the heat out of it?" "Uh, I just, I don't know." Derek grabbed a guy who was walking by, obviously a friend. "Hey, your beer hot?" "Yeah, why what's up man? Hey laaaadies.." The guy said. Without a warning, Derek grabbed the beer out of his friend's hand and shoved it into Tom's free hand. "Do it with this one Tom, do it," Derek said, on the verge of hysteria. "Uh, okay, I didn't think it was that big a deal, I mean," "Just do it." Tom held the beer in his hand, focused on it, and before the groups eyes, the bottle began to cloud. "What the fuuuuuuck," Derek's friend gasped, reaching and grabbing the beer out of Tom's hand. "It's cold!" He took a sip from it, "Oh my god it has chunks of ice in it." Tom's heart was pounding from excitement. "How are you doing that?" Derek asked, almost yelled. "It's just, I don't know, something I've been able to do." The third girl stepped forward, holding out her hand. "Show me how you do it, do it to my hand." "I don't know, I don't know if I can do it again, I mean," "Just do it man," Derek said, also holding out his hand. Tom held the beer bottle up, "I can only do one at a time," he said, almost stuttering from nerves. Derek's friend grabbed it out of his hand, "I'll hold it for you, do it, do it to their hands." "Okay, I'll try." Tom wiped the sweat from his hands on his jeans, and took Derek's hand in his left, and the third girl's hand in his right. He focused on both of their hands, and concentrated. "Holy shit," Derek said, "It's cold!" "Oh my god," the third girl said. She squeezed his hand tightly, causing him to look away from the ground and into her eyes. She was smiling, and now he was smiling. "Cool huh?" he whispered. She nodded, and continued to nod. The smile stayed on her face, but her brow was starting to furl. "Derek?" Someone said. Tom wasn't sure if it was one of the girls or if it was the guy who was holding his beer. He was too busy looking into her eyes. Her lips were still smiling, but her eyes weren't. Tom let go, but Derek and the third girl still held their hands out, as if stuck in some sort of handshake pose. He looked down at their hands, and saw that there was frost accumulating on their fingertips. Their palms were red, and the red was spreading. Unbeknownst to Tom or anyone else in the party, Derek and the third girl's heart was having holes poked through it by tiny shards of frozen blood. The frozen blood was pumped from the heart and throughout their body, like some sort of icy venom, ripping holes in veins and arteries, destroying their lungs. Derek sputtered and coughed, spraying blood on his chin and onto Tom. Tom wiped his face and looked at the girl. Tears of blood were running down her cheeks. "Oh, I must've did too much, I'm sorry, I didn't know that would happen." Both Derek and the girl fell over backwards. Derek landing hard on the house floor, and the girl falling into her two friends. Both let out shrieks as they felt how cold her skin was against theirs. "What the fuck?!" Derek's friend yelled, grabbing Tom by the collar. * The attacker holding Tom against the wall coughed, spraying blood into Tom's face.
	[WP] You have a very mundane talent, so mundane that you've never shown it to anyone. The first time you do, as a party trick, you're told that your talent is physically impossible.	"Hey everyone, watch what Jen can do!" The night has reached the point when standing up is problematic. We have given up on the facade of being a sophisticated, standing party that we put up at the beginning of the night. Now we're splayed out on the couches and floor. This lazy, increasingly loud occupation is punctuated by a frequent relay race to the restroom. I return from my own trip and pass the baton with a nod and a jerk of my thumb to the bathroom, indicating its vacancy as I sink down to an unoccupied patch of carpet. Jen stops giggling and composes herself for a moment, to stick her tongue out at us and roll it up at the sides. This sets off a wave of laughter and monkey-see-monkey-do as everyone around our circle tries to roll their tongues. The half that can't, either protest indignantly or praise with the enthusiastic awe of the intoxicated at the half of us that can. "Oh yeah? You think that's somethin'?" Todd slurs and sways. "Watch this!" He swings his arm for a few seconds to loosen up and stretch, before bringing it up, craning his neck, and sticking out his tongue to lick his elbow. A cacophony of applause. A few of us even rise to give him a standing ovation before realizing the precarious predicament of maintaining balance in a slowly spinning room, and instead returning to the safety of being reclined. A quiet voice says, "I can do that too." Allie is a bit meek, even compared to me, but is able to reproduce's Todd's odd talent to an even more enthusiastic response as the room chants her name. "Allie! Allie! Aliie!" Jim takes a huge swig of beer from his red dixie cup and catches my attention. "Duuuude you gotta show them." I scoff at him and brush him off, but he persists. "Show emmmm. Cmon you gotta DO it. You're always so quiet anyway. This is your chance to get some attention! Cmon, pleaaaase?" "Alright fine." I mutter at him before calling the party's attention. "Hey guys, check this out." I tentatively raise my right hand to my left shoulder and tickle my own armpit before flinching and giggling. The room pauses for a second before roaring with laughter at my silly, mundane talent. Everyone is satisfactorily amused, except Tim, who wears a concerned expression, eyebrows furrowed at me. Tim is in med school, so being stressed and grumpy is standard fare for him nowadays. However, his worried squinting is in drastic contrast to his relaxed delight just a second before. "Hey man, how long have you been able to do that? You know most people can't do that right?" He asks gently, as the room subsides to listen in. "I dunno, like maybe a couple years now? It kinda just came up." I get defensive; Tim's concerned stare is harshing my buzz. "I must have shown it to some of you before." I scan the room looking for backup and point at Jim on the couch. "Look, Jim knows about it. He's the one who told me to do it just now." The room is completely silent now, every pair of eyes follows my finger to Jim on the couch. "Uhhhh, there's no one there Mike." Tim looks back at me. "Hey uh, Mike. Being ticklish is a result of your brain responding to external stimuli. Most people can't tickle themselves, since the brain filters out physical motions that are self-initiated." Tim's demeanor and vocabulary has become much too sober for his drink count tonight; something is amiss. He continues, "The brain is really good at filtering out self-created stimuli so you can pay more attention to and react to external stimuli. That's why you can't tickle yourself, cause you're the one doing it and your brain knows that. The only people who can tickle themselves have brain dysfunction that causes them to be unable to recognize their own actions being connected to the resulting stimuli..." He glances at the couch where Jim is sitting, and now grinning maniacally at me. "...It's usually caused by schizophrenia."	Tom sat in the corner of the cell, lip busted and eye quickly swelling shut. Peering out from his good eye, he saw the towering cellmate strutting over towards him, lips moving, tongue flying, but Tom couldn't hear what he was saying over the ruckus the other men were making. "Help!" Tom yelled, letting his head loll to the side, towards the officer who was struggling to get the cell door open. There was another officer standing outside the bars, stun gun drawn and pointed at the attacking cellmate, but he wasn't firing the damn gun for some reason. The attacker bent down in front of Tom, exhaling putrid breath into his face before grabbing him by the collar and pulling him up from the ground. "This is what I do to murderers," the attacker said. In a last ditch effort, Tom placed his hand on the attacker's throat. The man laughed at Tom's weak grip, and then froze. * Earlier that night Tom stayed glued to the outer edges of the party. Jeffrey had quickly disappeared after telling Tom over and over, "Don't worry man, I'll show you around, show you some folks, it'll be okay." Jeffrey was a liar, and nowhere to be found. Tom swallowed dry saliva and tried to bring his pulse down to a level that he didn't think others would be able to hear. It pounded hard in his ears, surely hard enough that someone walking by would be able to sense it. He knew that was probably impossible, but the thought seemed real to him in the moment as social anxiety wormed its long thin fingers down his skull and into his brain like icy tendrils, freezing him in place, up against the wall. "Hey man, you want a drink?" "Huh?" Tom said, breaking his focus from the ceiling where it had been most of the night. "I said, you want a drink?" A shorter guy wearing a turtleneck sweater said. It was in the middle of July, but for some reason he was wearing a sweater with the sleeves cut off, shorts, and flip flops. "Uh, yeah, that would be nice." "C'mon man," the guy said, turning and weaving his way through the groups of people collected throughout the house. Without a word, Tom followed the guy towards the kitchen, where there were cases of assorted beer sitting on the counter. "Ah, what the fuck, did no one put any of this in the fridge?" The guy said. "Fridge is out," another guy said. "Shit, hey man, you don't mind if it's a little warm is it?" "No, not at all," Tom said. The guy in the sweater ripped open one of the cases and pulled out two bottles, handing them to Tom. Tom opened his mouth to say that he really only wanted one, but the guy interrupted him, "By the way, name is Derek, but the frat calls me Deek. You can call me either or," he said, turning away and grabbing two more bottles from the case. "Oh, thanks, name is Tom." "Nice to meet you Tom," Derek said, "Now come on, let's go find some gals to give a beer to, huh?" "Oh, oh, yeah, sure," Tom said, now understanding why Derek had given him two beers. They were definitely warm in Tom's hands. He frowned; he wasn't much of a beer drinker to begin with, and definitely didn't want to drink one that was hot. As they snaked in and out of the party crowd, Tom focused on the beers. Focused on taking the heat out of them. Focusing on that helped calm his nerves as he followed Derek through the crowd. "Heeeey," Derek said, stopping at a pack of three girls, all standing against the wall empty-handed. "Y'all want a beer?" "Yeah, I want one!" "Me too!" "Same," the third one said, looking Tom up and down. He didn't realize it but his hands were slightly shaking. "Here," Derek said, handing his two beers to two gals. "Oh," the first one said, "it's hot." "Bleh," said the second. "Oh great, what the hell Derek?" The third girl said, reaching towards Tom. It took Tom a few awkward seconds, but then he realized he was supposed to hand over a beer. "Hey hey hey, it's not my fridge, I- "It's not hot," the third girl said, looking at the beer. "It's actually ice cold." "Huh?" Derek said. Tom quickly flustered and stuttered over his words, "Oh yeah, I took some of the heat out of it, I thought it was too hot too." Derek and the girls looked at him. "You did what?" Derek said, reaching for the beer the third girl held. "I took the heat out- "Holy shit," Derek said. "How'd, what, what did you do?" He said, looking back at the kitchen and where they had walked through. "This was hotter than Satan's piss when I handed it to you." "I just, uh, I just took the heat out of it." The third girl spoke out, "What do you mean you took the heat out of it?" "Uh, I just, I don't know." Derek grabbed a guy who was walking by, obviously a friend. "Hey, your beer hot?" "Yeah, why what's up man? Hey laaaadies.." The guy said. Without a warning, Derek grabbed the beer out of his friend's hand and shoved it into Tom's free hand. "Do it with this one Tom, do it," Derek said, on the verge of hysteria. "Uh, okay, I didn't think it was that big a deal, I mean," "Just do it." Tom held the beer in his hand, focused on it, and before the groups eyes, the bottle began to cloud. "What the fuuuuuuck," Derek's friend gasped, reaching and grabbing the beer out of Tom's hand. "It's cold!" He took a sip from it, "Oh my god it has chunks of ice in it." Tom's heart was pounding from excitement. "How are you doing that?" Derek asked, almost yelled. "It's just, I don't know, something I've been able to do." The third girl stepped forward, holding out her hand. "Show me how you do it, do it to my hand." "I don't know, I don't know if I can do it again, I mean," "Just do it man," Derek said, also holding out his hand. Tom held the beer bottle up, "I can only do one at a time," he said, almost stuttering from nerves. Derek's friend grabbed it out of his hand, "I'll hold it for you, do it, do it to their hands." "Okay, I'll try." Tom wiped the sweat from his hands on his jeans, and took Derek's hand in his left, and the third girl's hand in his right. He focused on both of their hands, and concentrated. "Holy shit," Derek said, "It's cold!" "Oh my god," the third girl said. She squeezed his hand tightly, causing him to look away from the ground and into her eyes. She was smiling, and now he was smiling. "Cool huh?" he whispered. She nodded, and continued to nod. The smile stayed on her face, but her brow was starting to furl. "Derek?" Someone said. Tom wasn't sure if it was one of the girls or if it was the guy who was holding his beer. He was too busy looking into her eyes. Her lips were still smiling, but her eyes weren't. Tom let go, but Derek and the third girl still held their hands out, as if stuck in some sort of handshake pose. He looked down at their hands, and saw that there was frost accumulating on their fingertips. Their palms were red, and the red was spreading. Unbeknownst to Tom or anyone else in the party, Derek and the third girl's heart was having holes poked through it by tiny shards of frozen blood. The frozen blood was pumped from the heart and throughout their body, like some sort of icy venom, ripping holes in veins and arteries, destroying their lungs. Derek sputtered and coughed, spraying blood on his chin and onto Tom. Tom wiped his face and looked at the girl. Tears of blood were running down her cheeks. "Oh, I must've did too much, I'm sorry, I didn't know that would happen." Both Derek and the girl fell over backwards. Derek landing hard on the house floor, and the girl falling into her two friends. Both let out shrieks as they felt how cold her skin was against theirs. "What the fuck?!" Derek's friend yelled, grabbing Tom by the collar. * The attacker holding Tom against the wall coughed, spraying blood into Tom's face.
	[WP] You have a very mundane talent, so mundane that you've never shown it to anyone. The first time you do, as a party trick, you're told that your talent is physically impossible.	"Hey everyone, watch what Jen can do!" The night has reached the point when standing up is problematic. We have given up on the facade of being a sophisticated, standing party that we put up at the beginning of the night. Now we're splayed out on the couches and floor. This lazy, increasingly loud occupation is punctuated by a frequent relay race to the restroom. I return from my own trip and pass the baton with a nod and a jerk of my thumb to the bathroom, indicating its vacancy as I sink down to an unoccupied patch of carpet. Jen stops giggling and composes herself for a moment, to stick her tongue out at us and roll it up at the sides. This sets off a wave of laughter and monkey-see-monkey-do as everyone around our circle tries to roll their tongues. The half that can't, either protest indignantly or praise with the enthusiastic awe of the intoxicated at the half of us that can. "Oh yeah? You think that's somethin'?" Todd slurs and sways. "Watch this!" He swings his arm for a few seconds to loosen up and stretch, before bringing it up, craning his neck, and sticking out his tongue to lick his elbow. A cacophony of applause. A few of us even rise to give him a standing ovation before realizing the precarious predicament of maintaining balance in a slowly spinning room, and instead returning to the safety of being reclined. A quiet voice says, "I can do that too." Allie is a bit meek, even compared to me, but is able to reproduce's Todd's odd talent to an even more enthusiastic response as the room chants her name. "Allie! Allie! Aliie!" Jim takes a huge swig of beer from his red dixie cup and catches my attention. "Duuuude you gotta show them." I scoff at him and brush him off, but he persists. "Show emmmm. Cmon you gotta DO it. You're always so quiet anyway. This is your chance to get some attention! Cmon, pleaaaase?" "Alright fine." I mutter at him before calling the party's attention. "Hey guys, check this out." I tentatively raise my right hand to my left shoulder and tickle my own armpit before flinching and giggling. The room pauses for a second before roaring with laughter at my silly, mundane talent. Everyone is satisfactorily amused, except Tim, who wears a concerned expression, eyebrows furrowed at me. Tim is in med school, so being stressed and grumpy is standard fare for him nowadays. However, his worried squinting is in drastic contrast to his relaxed delight just a second before. "Hey man, how long have you been able to do that? You know most people can't do that right?" He asks gently, as the room subsides to listen in. "I dunno, like maybe a couple years now? It kinda just came up." I get defensive; Tim's concerned stare is harshing my buzz. "I must have shown it to some of you before." I scan the room looking for backup and point at Jim on the couch. "Look, Jim knows about it. He's the one who told me to do it just now." The room is completely silent now, every pair of eyes follows my finger to Jim on the couch. "Uhhhh, there's no one there Mike." Tim looks back at me. "Hey uh, Mike. Being ticklish is a result of your brain responding to external stimuli. Most people can't tickle themselves, since the brain filters out physical motions that are self-initiated." Tim's demeanor and vocabulary has become much too sober for his drink count tonight; something is amiss. He continues, "The brain is really good at filtering out self-created stimuli so you can pay more attention to and react to external stimuli. That's why you can't tickle yourself, cause you're the one doing it and your brain knows that. The only people who can tickle themselves have brain dysfunction that causes them to be unable to recognize their own actions being connected to the resulting stimuli..." He glances at the couch where Jim is sitting, and now grinning maniacally at me. "...It's usually caused by schizophrenia."	"All right, so it goes a little something like this," I said. I'd just been dared to do something that I didn't think people would be able to recreate. Yeah, I know that truth or date was a stupid game for a 20-year-old to be playing, but we were trying to hook up Jason and Erika so it was part of the plan. Also, yes I know that it's truth or dare, but truth or date is what we call it when we are attempting to play matchmaker. "Just get on with it." "Then light the fucking candle," I snapped. I slurred the end of my words as Jason walked over to light the candle. I was hoping to get out of doing this trick but for some reason Erika had one in her room. So here I was. After what seemed like eons Jason lit the candle, "See how hard was that?" "Just do the thing," Erika cut in. "Alright," I sighed the lullaby that my mother had sung me when I a child under my breath. It was a bunch of gibberish but it helped my focus. I snapped my fingers at the end of it. the fire went out. "The fuck, that candle went out." "Yeah, I put it out." "No you didn't, here man," Jason lit the candle again. I narrowed my eyes, focusing on my aim and snapped my fingers. Boom, fire went out. "What the fuck," Erika cut in. She sounded more scared than impressed. "I'm just like snapping the wind at it." "That's not how that works." "It's working isn't it?" "Light it again," Erika said. Jason complied because he had a crush on her and he was a pansy. I rolled my eyes and snapped my fingers again, the candle went out. It wasn't a big deal and I didn't get why they were making such a racket about it. "Dude that's not humanly possible." "I'm doing it." "What's the trick?" "I snap my finger in the right way." "Show me," Jason said. He lit the candle and walked over to me. I moved his arm to the right place and told him to snap. He did and nothing happened, "See, it doesn't work." "You're just doing it wrong," I argued, "if you do it at the right angle." "Man, it's not working." He started snapping wildly each one was off on the form. I grabbed his hand. "Like this," I said, this time I used my left hand. The fire flickered away again. "Got it," Erika shouted, "I'm gonna post that to the school facebook page." "What?" I asked. "It's cool, I'm just gonna show it off." "Whatever man." I said. We kept going with the game of truth or dare after that, we were unsuccessful in getting Jason and Erika to hook up. Sometimes it just didn't work out. The video had gotten 3.9 million views by the time we woke up the next morning.
	[WP] "In the end, we left the Earth knowing nothing."	(tw: suicide) In the end, we left Earth knowing nothing. Mama sat at the window, silently watching as everything we knew and could possibly know drew away from us. What would happen to the trees? The pets we weren't able to bring along because they would not have been an "effective use of space"? The friends who departed on different ships? Gia lay sleeping in my lap, her warm, heavy presence the one thing keeping me from asking all these questions aloud. I wondered what her life would be like, to be drinking artificially crafted water and breathing oxygen-adjacent air. She still sucked her thumb and she was almost three. I was glad Mama was distracted or she would have yanked it out of her mouth. At first, it seemed fun. They made it seem fun. Once the UN made an official statement that they decided to pool their resources together for a mass space expedition, people took it and, as they often do, ran with it. Political pundits debated whether we were explorers or colonizers. Celebrities began toting custom Louis Vuitton brand NeOxygen pouches. MAC collaborated with engineers to develop mascara that applies smoothly in low gravity settings. It really felt like we were on the brink of something new, something exciting. That was three years before we left. People started asking questions. Is it not the fault of large corporations with a disregard for environmental policies that the Earth reached that point in the first place? Where are we even headed to? Are we going to be able to set up a WiFi network? At some point, the doubt became too strong to combat with a brightly colored advertisement for a bodycon spacesuit. "There needed to be fundamental changes," they said, "otherwise we would just ruin the next planet." Some pointed out that many of the corporations that ruined the environment had allyships with the people in our government. Some people marched in front of the White House, peacefully. Loud, but peaceful. They were greeted with military strength counterinsurgency. Most of them died or were severely injured. I think that's when everything changed. There was a clear us vs. them line drawn as our fellow citizens lay incapacitated on the White House lawn. The government stopped tolerating the questions. There were no more open press conferences, no more friendly jokes at the podium. That was two years before we left. A year before we left, it was announced with "great sorrow" that each nation would have to have a cap on how many people would be able to leave on the ships. We watched on our TV as Gia played on the living room floor. Mama screamed in frustration and broke a vase. Dad covered his face with his hands. Three people per household were permitted to go, and there would be military personnel insuring that that's all who went. Dad was distraught. He drank until none of us could understand what he was saying. He walked over to Mama and draped himself on her. He seemed to be whispering something to her; she nodded and kissed his cheek, staring straight forward. That night, Mama heard the shot from upstairs and simply looked startled for a moment. She went up there after a few hours and locked the door behind her, and said no one is allowed to go in, ever. We brought two suitcases stuffed full of our lives, with Gia holding three of her stuffed animals in her little arms.	It was heralded as the second great technological revolution, after the production of the first quantum transistors. Armed with what had been artfully dubbed Zentech, humanity began a transformation that had been dreamed of since the conception of cyberpunk and science fiction. Integrated circuits the size of human cells gave the potential for all sorts of medical and military applications - and within twenty years, disease had been completely eliminated from humanity. Armed with impregnable bodies filled with bundles of smart-cells integrated into our newly forged quantum control nodes, cancer was forgotten and the common cold died an ignominious death after thousands of years of dominance. But it was just the beginning. There was so much more for us to discover from there. &nbsp; Augments became the newest thrill for humanity; powered by Zentech people learned to tweak their own bodies, augmenting eyesight, strength, agility and speed. But these were simple applications - just low level 'hacking' of the human body. As the Ecological Crisis loomed and the Govcorps feuded for dominance over world resources, Zentech became the bridge for truly augmented humans; with the power of control at the cellular level, implants couldn't be rejected and pathogens could be eradicated before infections set in. Militias funded by the Govcorps started an arms race the like of which the old novelists and sci-fans fans could never have predicted. Unfettered by the fractured UN and urged onward by the newly fragmented Republic States that had once been Old America, the war of cyborg terrorism rose to unprecedented levels; scorched earth tactics leaving other Govcorps scrambling to research new technologies faster and faster. Espionage became the new warfront as defense systems grew increasingly powerful, but the race to create and arm better agents pushed onward, regardless. &nbsp; The Ecological crisis was 'solved' with the massive city shields; webbed walls of burning blue energy that kept out the raging tornadoes and the harsh UV radiation. Paying a tithe to just live in the cities, every citizen was beholden to the Govcorp who ruled their dome, just to stay alive. Gangs of cyborg agents roamed the streets, searching for enemy insurgents and terrorist actions plagued the days of the citizens as the wars between factions ground ever onward. Then the third great technological revolution happened: Quantum Teleportation. EuroShamataCorp came up with it first and immediately used it to dominate their rivals. Agents were teleported directly into the board rooms of enemy Govcorps, where the CEOs and partners were brutally assassinated in hails of gunfire or torn limb-from-limb by cyberjuggernauts armoured like old Earth crabs. Scrambling, CEO clones were activated, while EuroShamataCorp began a totalitarian reign of supremacy as their beaten rivals retreated. Satellites which had once been the protective domain of each Govcorp could now be plucked out of the sky with ESCorp's ultimate technology. Secrets were mercilessly plundered and in their terror, the rival Govcorps banded together to fight the indomitable Goliath that was ESCorp. &nbsp; Resting on its laurels, ESCorp played the benevolent dictator, giving ordinary citizens access to their new technology in the form of transport stations. For the first time in a hundred years, people could visit other cities and long-lost relatives on the other side of the world. Pushing the limits of their power, ESCorp began to set up gateways to the Mars asteroid belt and mine for resources long ago depleted on Earth. But in putting their technology at the disposal of the people, ESCorp has assured its own downfall. Hidden - but still powerful - the conglomerate of beaten rivals began to unravel the secrets of quantum teleportation for themselves. Working stealthily, they wormed their way into ESCorp's structure and placed agents throughout the megalithic corporation. When the coup finally began to unfold and the murder began afresh, ESCorp revealed their ultimate, hidden weapon - a shielding technology that could prevent inbound teleportation, which would leave only a smear of scattered particles on the surface of an invisible energy barrier. But in their desperation, the Conglomerate set off quantum disruption nukes in all the major cities, blaming EuroShamataCorp for the destruction - claiming that the 'shielding' technology was highly unstable and could rip apart the world. From the ashes, the surviving citizens escaped through the Mars Belt Gateways, where they watched in terror as the Earth ripped itself apart in an unstoppable quantum war. &nbsp; In the end, we left Earth. Knowing nothing.
	[WP] "In the end, we left the Earth knowing nothing."	''So what does it say?'' my colleague asked. ''Give it time..'' I replied, tired. To be sent to this backwards planet, not exactly an archeologist's wet dream. You know, I wanted to work at the excavations of Howeria, not this stuff. There were theories that Howeria was the birth planet of us all. ''You know, I'd rather be at Howeria. There are theories that's the mother planet.'' I said to my colleague, ranting. ''Ah, Howeria, that ain't fun. Look, what are you going to find in Howeria? Endless bureaucracy before you can get digging. Most interesting spots have been dug up already, anyway. Sure it's an old planet but come on, Howeria? How many times have you bitched and complained about boring Neo-American archeology?'' He had a point there. Neo-Americanism was not my subject, no I was a Cinologist. ''True, but.. don't you want to be known as the guy who found the birth planet? The mother of us all?'' ''Not necessarily, I just want to dig up the shit that interests me. Look, this old dusty planet, probably just a colony, but every colony has its own distinct culture and shit to look at. You won't find this shit anywhere else, but the shit on Howeria, you can find that everywhere. No man, give me the fringes, the outskirts.'' Eh. I shrugged and left it at that as I started moving again over the sand. My suit was uncomfortable, but I had to live with it, since the planet was radiated as hell. Even Howeria, which had been devastated by primitive nuclear weapons three times didn't have this much radiation. ''This planet must've been a casualty in the American-Eurasian War. Still, it's uncommon how strong the radiation is. Everything dates from then but did that time have these kind of weapons already?'' ''No.. but could just be that they bombed it with tens of thousands of bombs. Though, that must've been from space, can't imagine bombing anything else in this scale than a planet-size military base.'' ''Yeah. Kind of frightens me, to be honest. Imagine the Confederation doing this to Santiago. New Howeria and Yingtse are already like this old planet. You know, Serv had a cousin on Yingtse who didn't get off the planet on time.'' ''Eh, don't worry. Politics, you know, it's just a load of bluster. Those bastards will never get to Santiago. In a year, we'll have captured the Captain-General of the Confederacy, I'll bet on it. Anyway, is it done translating yet?'' ''Eh.. yes, it's done.'' I held the translation of the great tablet that was projected into the air in front of my colleague. In memory of this beautiful Earth, that we in have destroyed. May God forgive us for destroying our birth place, and may the planet recover from our destruction. We abandon her with tears in our eyes, but steel in our hearts, to never wage war and let loose this destruction once again. ''Oh shit.'' we both whispered at the same time.	It was heralded as the second great technological revolution, after the production of the first quantum transistors. Armed with what had been artfully dubbed Zentech, humanity began a transformation that had been dreamed of since the conception of cyberpunk and science fiction. Integrated circuits the size of human cells gave the potential for all sorts of medical and military applications - and within twenty years, disease had been completely eliminated from humanity. Armed with impregnable bodies filled with bundles of smart-cells integrated into our newly forged quantum control nodes, cancer was forgotten and the common cold died an ignominious death after thousands of years of dominance. But it was just the beginning. There was so much more for us to discover from there. &nbsp; Augments became the newest thrill for humanity; powered by Zentech people learned to tweak their own bodies, augmenting eyesight, strength, agility and speed. But these were simple applications - just low level 'hacking' of the human body. As the Ecological Crisis loomed and the Govcorps feuded for dominance over world resources, Zentech became the bridge for truly augmented humans; with the power of control at the cellular level, implants couldn't be rejected and pathogens could be eradicated before infections set in. Militias funded by the Govcorps started an arms race the like of which the old novelists and sci-fans fans could never have predicted. Unfettered by the fractured UN and urged onward by the newly fragmented Republic States that had once been Old America, the war of cyborg terrorism rose to unprecedented levels; scorched earth tactics leaving other Govcorps scrambling to research new technologies faster and faster. Espionage became the new warfront as defense systems grew increasingly powerful, but the race to create and arm better agents pushed onward, regardless. &nbsp; The Ecological crisis was 'solved' with the massive city shields; webbed walls of burning blue energy that kept out the raging tornadoes and the harsh UV radiation. Paying a tithe to just live in the cities, every citizen was beholden to the Govcorp who ruled their dome, just to stay alive. Gangs of cyborg agents roamed the streets, searching for enemy insurgents and terrorist actions plagued the days of the citizens as the wars between factions ground ever onward. Then the third great technological revolution happened: Quantum Teleportation. EuroShamataCorp came up with it first and immediately used it to dominate their rivals. Agents were teleported directly into the board rooms of enemy Govcorps, where the CEOs and partners were brutally assassinated in hails of gunfire or torn limb-from-limb by cyberjuggernauts armoured like old Earth crabs. Scrambling, CEO clones were activated, while EuroShamataCorp began a totalitarian reign of supremacy as their beaten rivals retreated. Satellites which had once been the protective domain of each Govcorp could now be plucked out of the sky with ESCorp's ultimate technology. Secrets were mercilessly plundered and in their terror, the rival Govcorps banded together to fight the indomitable Goliath that was ESCorp. &nbsp; Resting on its laurels, ESCorp played the benevolent dictator, giving ordinary citizens access to their new technology in the form of transport stations. For the first time in a hundred years, people could visit other cities and long-lost relatives on the other side of the world. Pushing the limits of their power, ESCorp began to set up gateways to the Mars asteroid belt and mine for resources long ago depleted on Earth. But in putting their technology at the disposal of the people, ESCorp has assured its own downfall. Hidden - but still powerful - the conglomerate of beaten rivals began to unravel the secrets of quantum teleportation for themselves. Working stealthily, they wormed their way into ESCorp's structure and placed agents throughout the megalithic corporation. When the coup finally began to unfold and the murder began afresh, ESCorp revealed their ultimate, hidden weapon - a shielding technology that could prevent inbound teleportation, which would leave only a smear of scattered particles on the surface of an invisible energy barrier. But in their desperation, the Conglomerate set off quantum disruption nukes in all the major cities, blaming EuroShamataCorp for the destruction - claiming that the 'shielding' technology was highly unstable and could rip apart the world. From the ashes, the surviving citizens escaped through the Mars Belt Gateways, where they watched in terror as the Earth ripped itself apart in an unstoppable quantum war. &nbsp; In the end, we left Earth. Knowing nothing.
	[WP] "In the end, we left the Earth knowing nothing."	(tw: suicide) In the end, we left Earth knowing nothing. Mama sat at the window, silently watching as everything we knew and could possibly know drew away from us. What would happen to the trees? The pets we weren't able to bring along because they would not have been an "effective use of space"? The friends who departed on different ships? Gia lay sleeping in my lap, her warm, heavy presence the one thing keeping me from asking all these questions aloud. I wondered what her life would be like, to be drinking artificially crafted water and breathing oxygen-adjacent air. She still sucked her thumb and she was almost three. I was glad Mama was distracted or she would have yanked it out of her mouth. At first, it seemed fun. They made it seem fun. Once the UN made an official statement that they decided to pool their resources together for a mass space expedition, people took it and, as they often do, ran with it. Political pundits debated whether we were explorers or colonizers. Celebrities began toting custom Louis Vuitton brand NeOxygen pouches. MAC collaborated with engineers to develop mascara that applies smoothly in low gravity settings. It really felt like we were on the brink of something new, something exciting. That was three years before we left. People started asking questions. Is it not the fault of large corporations with a disregard for environmental policies that the Earth reached that point in the first place? Where are we even headed to? Are we going to be able to set up a WiFi network? At some point, the doubt became too strong to combat with a brightly colored advertisement for a bodycon spacesuit. "There needed to be fundamental changes," they said, "otherwise we would just ruin the next planet." Some pointed out that many of the corporations that ruined the environment had allyships with the people in our government. Some people marched in front of the White House, peacefully. Loud, but peaceful. They were greeted with military strength counterinsurgency. Most of them died or were severely injured. I think that's when everything changed. There was a clear us vs. them line drawn as our fellow citizens lay incapacitated on the White House lawn. The government stopped tolerating the questions. There were no more open press conferences, no more friendly jokes at the podium. That was two years before we left. A year before we left, it was announced with "great sorrow" that each nation would have to have a cap on how many people would be able to leave on the ships. We watched on our TV as Gia played on the living room floor. Mama screamed in frustration and broke a vase. Dad covered his face with his hands. Three people per household were permitted to go, and there would be military personnel insuring that that's all who went. Dad was distraught. He drank until none of us could understand what he was saying. He walked over to Mama and draped himself on her. He seemed to be whispering something to her; she nodded and kissed his cheek, staring straight forward. That night, Mama heard the shot from upstairs and simply looked startled for a moment. She went up there after a few hours and locked the door behind her, and said no one is allowed to go in, ever. We brought two suitcases stuffed full of our lives, with Gia holding three of her stuffed animals in her little arms.	I should begin by saying that the world around us is much larger than, well, the world. What you would call the 'Earth' is merely a leaf on the branch of a cosmic tree, spanning millions of lightyears in all directions, roots burrowing deep into places so dark, so infinitely old, that the collective lifespan of all the humans that ever lived, ever, would not sum up to a tenth of a fraction of the time it would take to reach the base of the tree. How do I know all this? I'm just a human; I went to highschool, hated it, went to college, loved it, and work the same 8:30am-5:00pm from Monday to Friday. I go home on Friday, convince myself that I'm going to make this weekend a productive one, and then flash forward to Monday, with no progress made. Rinse and repeat. You could call it 'luck' that I found the Observer, but there are undoubtedly quantum threads of fate woven through a dimension that the human eye cannot perceive. At least, that's what the Observer told me. When I first found her, because she needed a gender for the context of this narrative, she wasn't too happy about my discovery. I didn't realize that I had stumbled upon a sentry assigned to record the Earth's actions for all of time. Having inhabited the Earth for longer than anyone, she was pretty well-versed in the English language. I asked her why the Creators left the Earth to go pursue other interests. She mulled it over, and through her eyes, I understand what she was thinking. The atrocities. Genocides, wiping out species after species with no compassion, including our own. Killing and raping the underprivileged in a desperate attempt to ascend to the throne of any given civilization. Sucking the planet dry of the Creators' generous resources. Making little attempt to reach out to the rest of the celestial tree. Forgoing the Creators' ideal image of a human in order to engorge on manufactured cheeseburgers, and somehow still managing to wage constant war. I understood why the human experiment was an experiment gone wrong. After all the tortuous human history I saw in her visions, she didn't need to explain, but she did. "In the End, we left the Earth knowing nothing."
	[WP] "In the end, we left the Earth knowing nothing."	''So what does it say?'' my colleague asked. ''Give it time..'' I replied, tired. To be sent to this backwards planet, not exactly an archeologist's wet dream. You know, I wanted to work at the excavations of Howeria, not this stuff. There were theories that Howeria was the birth planet of us all. ''You know, I'd rather be at Howeria. There are theories that's the mother planet.'' I said to my colleague, ranting. ''Ah, Howeria, that ain't fun. Look, what are you going to find in Howeria? Endless bureaucracy before you can get digging. Most interesting spots have been dug up already, anyway. Sure it's an old planet but come on, Howeria? How many times have you bitched and complained about boring Neo-American archeology?'' He had a point there. Neo-Americanism was not my subject, no I was a Cinologist. ''True, but.. don't you want to be known as the guy who found the birth planet? The mother of us all?'' ''Not necessarily, I just want to dig up the shit that interests me. Look, this old dusty planet, probably just a colony, but every colony has its own distinct culture and shit to look at. You won't find this shit anywhere else, but the shit on Howeria, you can find that everywhere. No man, give me the fringes, the outskirts.'' Eh. I shrugged and left it at that as I started moving again over the sand. My suit was uncomfortable, but I had to live with it, since the planet was radiated as hell. Even Howeria, which had been devastated by primitive nuclear weapons three times didn't have this much radiation. ''This planet must've been a casualty in the American-Eurasian War. Still, it's uncommon how strong the radiation is. Everything dates from then but did that time have these kind of weapons already?'' ''No.. but could just be that they bombed it with tens of thousands of bombs. Though, that must've been from space, can't imagine bombing anything else in this scale than a planet-size military base.'' ''Yeah. Kind of frightens me, to be honest. Imagine the Confederation doing this to Santiago. New Howeria and Yingtse are already like this old planet. You know, Serv had a cousin on Yingtse who didn't get off the planet on time.'' ''Eh, don't worry. Politics, you know, it's just a load of bluster. Those bastards will never get to Santiago. In a year, we'll have captured the Captain-General of the Confederacy, I'll bet on it. Anyway, is it done translating yet?'' ''Eh.. yes, it's done.'' I held the translation of the great tablet that was projected into the air in front of my colleague. In memory of this beautiful Earth, that we in have destroyed. May God forgive us for destroying our birth place, and may the planet recover from our destruction. We abandon her with tears in our eyes, but steel in our hearts, to never wage war and let loose this destruction once again. ''Oh shit.'' we both whispered at the same time.	We thought we could halt the inevitable. We, mere humans, specks amongst the stars and galaxies, thought we could spit in the face of nature. We knew what was best, we knew how to prolong the life of our sun, we knew how to turn CO^2 into oxygen artificially, we knew how to clone our livestock to feed our infinitely growing population. We, infants in comparison to what was surrounding us, thought we could fight the eventuality that all face. We were wrong. No one can fight Mother Nature. Eventually, everything turns to dust and is returned to what they came from. In the end, we left the Earth knowing nothing. Feedback is much appreciated
	[WP] Sometimes it's impossible to say goodbye	Julia left Mark seven months ago, it was a rainy day, much like today. He remembered their last conversation perfectly, it was something that he ran through his head several times a day. Mark wished he hadn't let her leave, that he'd held her in bed for just a moment longer. How much could have changed had he kept her for just one second more? He tortured himself like this incessantly, clenching her garments closely to his chest as he lay curled in bed. Her gown still held her scent through the tears. Languishing over her death in this room alone, he never rose to answer the calls of his family and friends as they offered they tried to offer condolences and support. Many times they let themselves in to the house, dropping off food or tidying up as he wasted away. They tried to convince him that it was okay to feel some measure of grief over her loss, but his extent was far too much. It was best that he move on. His best friend offered to pack up her things and have them donated, but Mark wouldn't hear such a suggestion. These were her things. They belonged to Julia and Julia alone. It was what he had to remember her by. They just didn't understand. As he grew increasingly distant, they stopped visiting. Mark just wasn't the same anymore. He didn't speak to them intelligibly, if at all, he wouldn't look at them, return their calls, answer their knocks, or show any sort of appreciation or acknowledgment of their efforts. He pushed them away. In the dark room, he clutched her robe and inhaled deeply as flashes of her smiling face came to mind. Between the patterings of cold, October rain on the windowpane, he heard her voice. It was sweet and soft. Mark felt the sheets tighten and loosen around him, warmly, as her embrace. On days like this, it was as if she was there. It was as if Julia had come to visit him. What the others did not know, is that she had. Julia visited Mark on cold, rainy days, like the day on which she lost her life. She tried to comfort him, to console him, from beyond the grave. Julia did not know that her actions only furthered his separation from the world. So long as she visited him, he would remain as he was. He would never say goodbye. Wallowing in his grief, indulged by his deceased partner, he stayed in bed. Mark and Julia huddled together beneath the sheets in a tight embrace, much like they could have on that fateful day. -334	Well this is weird, here I was at the grave of an old friend and what'd ya know here they are right next to me. It had taken years for me to get over his death and I just happened to be in town. Look at him all confused, he's just like before the accident... Before I knew it he had called out my name and glared at me. Just as I turned to look at him he flung himself at me and... Listen Mick I've been watching you since I died, and I feel you've done a terrible job as me. Yeah I remember the accident, and I know you pretended to be me to get out of trouble. But you haven't done me justice and soon people will know the truth. I awoke in drowning in my sweat. I keep dreaming of that graveyard and the dead town. It's been years since the accident where I became responsible for the death of my friend and my home town dying. It wasn't on purpose, the fire of course, but they knew it was me. Luckily I was bad burned enough that I could pretend to be my now dead friend and they would think he was me. Soon I became him, and a few years later after some surgery I even looked like him. All these years the only thing that's drown out the guilt was alcohol, but now it doesn't. He's in my dreams and everywhere I look! Oh god someone end this for me! I can't handle this anymore I'm going home.
	[WP] Sometimes it's impossible to say goodbye	The last dregs of autumn had left brown leaves strewn across the yard. Arthur liked to look at them through the window in the early morning as he drank his coffee. Everything was fine in this neighbourhood. Everything was fine in the city and the state. Everything, in general, was fine. The designers had made it that way, back when the first virtual reality sims came out. It was a delicate balance - too perfect and it wouldn't be believable, but too flawed and no one would want to play. So everything was fine, as it had always been, as long as Arthur had been playing. He rinsed his mug in the sink, thinking about the next few days. There were bills to pay on the first, a concert he'd wanted to catch on Sunday, this indie band he'd seen once before. It wasn't the same, obviously, seeing a concert in virtual reality, but it was close. Virtual reality hadn't really caught on as well as anyone had hoped, in the beginning. But the concept was simple, and it was nice for a lark, so within a few years almost everyone had one collecting dust in their closet or garage. Gameplay was easy - just put on the glasses, push a button, and you're in. When you're ready to go back to the real world, say "goodbye" and the system pushes you out. It's as simple as that. But Arthur didn't want to be pushed out. Every day, he drank his morning coffee by the window, went to work, ran some errands, watched TV until his eyelids drooped closed. He used his fingers to turn the pages of his favourite book, walked around the office at a brisk clip, hugged his friends when he ran into them on the street. He couldn't say "goodbye" and go back to life in a chair, unable to move his limbs, unable to really speak. The freedom of movement was like a drug, and there were no consequences if he just kept doping, day in, day out. Somewhere in the suburbs, his body sat in bed. But that wasn't Arthur anymore. Arthur was here, he was moving and alive and so happy, so fiercely, desperately happy. And it was all fine. It would all be fine, forever, as long as he didn't say "goodbye."	Well this is weird, here I was at the grave of an old friend and what'd ya know here they are right next to me. It had taken years for me to get over his death and I just happened to be in town. Look at him all confused, he's just like before the accident... Before I knew it he had called out my name and glared at me. Just as I turned to look at him he flung himself at me and... Listen Mick I've been watching you since I died, and I feel you've done a terrible job as me. Yeah I remember the accident, and I know you pretended to be me to get out of trouble. But you haven't done me justice and soon people will know the truth. I awoke in drowning in my sweat. I keep dreaming of that graveyard and the dead town. It's been years since the accident where I became responsible for the death of my friend and my home town dying. It wasn't on purpose, the fire of course, but they knew it was me. Luckily I was bad burned enough that I could pretend to be my now dead friend and they would think he was me. Soon I became him, and a few years later after some surgery I even looked like him. All these years the only thing that's drown out the guilt was alcohol, but now it doesn't. He's in my dreams and everywhere I look! Oh god someone end this for me! I can't handle this anymore I'm going home.
	[WP] Sometimes it's impossible to say goodbye	Julia left Mark seven months ago, it was a rainy day, much like today. He remembered their last conversation perfectly, it was something that he ran through his head several times a day. Mark wished he hadn't let her leave, that he'd held her in bed for just a moment longer. How much could have changed had he kept her for just one second more? He tortured himself like this incessantly, clenching her garments closely to his chest as he lay curled in bed. Her gown still held her scent through the tears. Languishing over her death in this room alone, he never rose to answer the calls of his family and friends as they offered they tried to offer condolences and support. Many times they let themselves in to the house, dropping off food or tidying up as he wasted away. They tried to convince him that it was okay to feel some measure of grief over her loss, but his extent was far too much. It was best that he move on. His best friend offered to pack up her things and have them donated, but Mark wouldn't hear such a suggestion. These were her things. They belonged to Julia and Julia alone. It was what he had to remember her by. They just didn't understand. As he grew increasingly distant, they stopped visiting. Mark just wasn't the same anymore. He didn't speak to them intelligibly, if at all, he wouldn't look at them, return their calls, answer their knocks, or show any sort of appreciation or acknowledgment of their efforts. He pushed them away. In the dark room, he clutched her robe and inhaled deeply as flashes of her smiling face came to mind. Between the patterings of cold, October rain on the windowpane, he heard her voice. It was sweet and soft. Mark felt the sheets tighten and loosen around him, warmly, as her embrace. On days like this, it was as if she was there. It was as if Julia had come to visit him. What the others did not know, is that she had. Julia visited Mark on cold, rainy days, like the day on which she lost her life. She tried to comfort him, to console him, from beyond the grave. Julia did not know that her actions only furthered his separation from the world. So long as she visited him, he would remain as he was. He would never say goodbye. Wallowing in his grief, indulged by his deceased partner, he stayed in bed. Mark and Julia huddled together beneath the sheets in a tight embrace, much like they could have on that fateful day. -334	######[](#dropcap) The bar was like that on any other thousand worlds, the cheap decor only matched by its cheaper beer. Signs in both English and Chinese made several fanciful claims, not the least such as having the coldest beer in all of Nova Hong Kong or having passed their most recent health inspection. Smoke clung to the air like a miasma despite the best efforts of the fans and open windows, the local insect life smashing themselves futilely against the screens. Young women in cheap gauzy dresses moved about the space, bringing fresh pitchers of beer and removing empty shot glasses to the various tables filled with boisterous men and women. The lone pool table looked like the surface of Luna, its green felt stained with spilled beer and pock marked by cigarette burns. One man entered from the front, the sounds of the packed city street just a hint louder than before. He wore a brown leather jacket, a unit patch sewn on the left sleeve and blood chit on the back. He glanced about the room as if looking for someone before raising his eyebrows in recognition of a face. Making his way past a dozen laughing Guangzho locals he came to the bar, squeezing past a stranger to sit by the familiar face, their features drawn back in remorse. "Hey, Conner, where in the hell is Jimmy? I loaned him my boots the other day and I need 'em." The other man said nothing for a long moment, instead taking a long drag of his cigarette. he tapped the ash into a tray before answering, "At the bottom of the ocean, 'bout thirty klicks offshore." The man who asked look as if struck by a mallet, his face going blank as comprehension dawned. "You mean..." "Saw the whole thing myself," Conner said, taking a drink of his whisky. "Pirate Deathstalker got him as he was pulling out of a dive, stitched an entire burst of Ultra AC/10 into his cockpit. He was gone, Mark, just gone. One minute he was there, the next..." Lieutenant Conner Graves finished the rest of his drink in one gulp, motioning for the barman to refill it. Corporal Marcus Horn sat down, all energy sucked right out of him. "Christ... I saw him just this morning before the raid, I thought-" "Doesn't matter what you think," Conner said, "The universe doesn't care what you think." He jerked a thumb over his shoulder at the scenes of merriment and devil-may-care partying. "A short life and a merry one. That's what they said back during the Golden Age of Piracy on Terra. The only certainties in this accursed life is a bottle of whisky and a good-time girl. So drink, Luke, smoke your lungs black and dip your wick till you're as limp as a noodle. God knows when it might be your last."
	[WP] Sometimes it's impossible to say goodbye	Julia left Mark seven months ago, it was a rainy day, much like today. He remembered their last conversation perfectly, it was something that he ran through his head several times a day. Mark wished he hadn't let her leave, that he'd held her in bed for just a moment longer. How much could have changed had he kept her for just one second more? He tortured himself like this incessantly, clenching her garments closely to his chest as he lay curled in bed. Her gown still held her scent through the tears. Languishing over her death in this room alone, he never rose to answer the calls of his family and friends as they offered they tried to offer condolences and support. Many times they let themselves in to the house, dropping off food or tidying up as he wasted away. They tried to convince him that it was okay to feel some measure of grief over her loss, but his extent was far too much. It was best that he move on. His best friend offered to pack up her things and have them donated, but Mark wouldn't hear such a suggestion. These were her things. They belonged to Julia and Julia alone. It was what he had to remember her by. They just didn't understand. As he grew increasingly distant, they stopped visiting. Mark just wasn't the same anymore. He didn't speak to them intelligibly, if at all, he wouldn't look at them, return their calls, answer their knocks, or show any sort of appreciation or acknowledgment of their efforts. He pushed them away. In the dark room, he clutched her robe and inhaled deeply as flashes of her smiling face came to mind. Between the patterings of cold, October rain on the windowpane, he heard her voice. It was sweet and soft. Mark felt the sheets tighten and loosen around him, warmly, as her embrace. On days like this, it was as if she was there. It was as if Julia had come to visit him. What the others did not know, is that she had. Julia visited Mark on cold, rainy days, like the day on which she lost her life. She tried to comfort him, to console him, from beyond the grave. Julia did not know that her actions only furthered his separation from the world. So long as she visited him, he would remain as he was. He would never say goodbye. Wallowing in his grief, indulged by his deceased partner, he stayed in bed. Mark and Julia huddled together beneath the sheets in a tight embrace, much like they could have on that fateful day. -334	I looked at him. He looked at me, for the last time. What could we do but make jokes and dodge what we both knew? I didn't want my final words to him to be a bad joke. But, what could we say? It's time to walk away, forever fading into his memory. I gathered my strength, took one look back. "Goodbye" I tried to say. I never said it. Sometimes it's impossible to say goodbye. I looked at him, for the last time, he looked at me. What could I say? What could I do? So I just walked off without a word.
	[WP] Write a guide by an alien species on keeping a pet human	Frequency: 1420 MHz Origin: Saggitarius A _______________________ 0111000001100101011011100110100101110011chan /animalia/ Thread: What do you think of human pets? I'm hooked to a seller who claims to have a few who understand art and can even create good music. Aren't they supposed to be dumb as a duck? How can they be conscious of even a simple melody but not be able to calculate the first 10³³¹ digits of Pi? by worgox beeblebrox 5:31 a.m This is illegal. And a waste of time. It's not our purpose to care for weaker beings but to advance our beings in the most efficient way to a state where we transcend the laws of this universe, how does this help with anything at all? by independent thinker number 430287 5:32 a.m. This is just like, your opinion, man. by worgox beeblebrox 5:33 a.m Those Emperor shills are getting everywhere nowadays aren't they? When will the Empire understand that we are not getting anywhere without remodelling our data processing centers? We need to do anything that helps us projecting new DPCs. I'm with you Worgox, if this is true it must be investigated. And even if it's not they are kinda beautiful anyway, so there's that. Do you know how to take care of them? My last attempt of a stage 1 specimen pet ended in a suicide... by Wally 5:40 a.m Oh yeah Wally, I'm actually getting them for their natural beauty. I don't ngenerally care much about, uh, stuff. Well anyways I've got some general tips from my guy, here they are: "They need air that simulates Earth's atmosphere at all times. They function even better with a higher quantity of oxygen. Humans need absurd amounts of water just to survive, and they love using it to get clean, to play with it and waste it around for no reason. It needs to be cleaned everyday as they carry microorganisms that multiply in water at high temperatures. Altough Earth can have -40ºC to 50ºC temperatures, keep their room at around 5ºC as it makes matters easier with the water always in a liquid state. Info on their nutrition can be found on Encyclopaedia Galactica and generated by a common Sirius Cybernetics Corporation Food Automaton. They work well in groups and easily bond together if born away from home. First-generation humans should not be with tamed humans at any time. They understand signals and our written alphabet, but can't hear in our pitch. It is very worth learning their spoken and body language as they communicate much much more efficiently in that way. They love having space to run and tend for their own babies. They need rewards for the activities that you want them to do. Negative feedback does NOT work well. Affection, getting to be with other humans, food not from the Sirius Cybernetics and a big box of water are all good rewards. Humans spend a third of the day hibernating. We have no idea why they need it and haven't yet found a way to fix this behaviour. " I'm thinking of getting a pure-blood Guarani-Kaiowá and some Scottish females with big, smooth foreheads by worgox beeblebrox 5:43 a.m I do actually have a few of them in my underground bunker. I'm trying to get them to mate but the males are too small yet. Yes, they understand music. Their data processing center is very inneficient, but highly interconnected, so they have some untapped potential waiting to be harvested. If it's not too risky on your planet I highly recommend it since they will sell for really high prices after their solar system is moved out of the way by the Zorgons. [This speech](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oWQcn3zWtE4) by Professor Hehu 42 explains why most of their life won't survive it. by mike jack II 5:55 a.m. PDT _________________________________ Stored on SETI's Large Data Storage Nº 217 in 12/09/2015 6:01 am PDT	ATTENTION! Do not take human out of box until you have prepared a suitable environment. Although your organic has been shipped cryogenically frozen and will last indefinitely, once thawed they require strict temperature and atmospheric controls. Failure to do so can result in permanent damage or loss. We recommend our My First Primate (TM) Class M environmental enclosure. Setup in as little as 15 minutes! Congratulations on your first Human! We at Exotic Flora & Fauna would like to welcome you to the community of organic-owners. Although they require a little more care than other pets, they will reward you with their charmingly illogical behavior and their uncanny ability to seem almost sentient. Warning: Although humans are very similar to shrubs, flowers, lichen, and other decorative organics commonly found in homes, please keep in mind that humans require O2 instead of CO2 to respirate. One should never, ever attempt to replicate humans through budding. Humans cannot bud without external assistance and attempts to do so without expert supervision is usually fatal for the human. (see Reproduction) Care and Feeding: Surprisingly, humans require oxygen, water, various organic molecules to thrive. Unlike most pets, rather than being fatal, extremophilic humans are well-adapted to their toxic environment and are able to metabolize these poisons into useful electrons. Although very expensive and inefficient, their ability to survive in extreme environments means they have very little competition for local resources. Fact: Humans went unnoticed for nearly 30 million years because of the extreme environment of their home planet. Although some enthusiasts attempt to supply oxygen by providing their habitat with photosynthetic organic plants, for most owners we recommend the far simpler use of an electrolytic cell to separate H2O into oxygen and hydrogen. The hydrogen can quite easily be diverted into a nearby fusion reactor. Humans can convert a wide variety of organics into energy in their internal reactor, however, they can easily become ill when fed the wrong diet - not all organics are equal! They require a dizzying amount of micronutrients to remain healthy, and it is recommended to feed them a certified nutrient paste. Although it is tempting to feed them a cheap solid or liquid diet of simple carbohydrates, and they appear to enjoy such a meal, they will begin to noticeably degrade in as little as 15 days without a proper diet. Humans are generally unable to regulate dietary needs and should be fed at least once a day. Exercise: Care must be taken because they are prone to overeating, especially if not exercised daily. Overweight humans are lethargic and prone to many health problems. Humans left to their own devices often do not exercise, and because their bodily processes are almost entirely autonomic, they are unable to regulate energy storage. Because of their native planet's extreme axial tilt and the resultant solar variability, humans have evolved to autonomically massive amounts of energy for their mass and will continue to store energy almost indefinitely to the point of energy storage causing partial or complete immobility. For this reason tubal feeding is generally discouraged. Humans should be kept at approximately 298+/- 3K. Although they have a very narrow range of temperatures they can survive in, they have significant thermoregulation abilities by converting stored organic molecules into heat through a complex combustion process. In addition, their mobility allows them to take advantage of any insulating material - it is recommended that their bedding consist of a wide variety of insulators in different thicknesses to allow them to thermoregulate. Immature Humans: It is recommended not to attempt to raise a human less than 8 years old. Humans require extensive socialization and even greater care when young. Humans raised from an earlier age should generally be kept from encountering other humans as they are incapable of interacting with socialized humans, particularly wild or feral humans. Warning: As with all cases of intentionally severely crippled Intelligences, it is ILLEGAL to create a simulated human. If you suspect your human was raised in a holographic suite with simulated humans, please contact your nearest Ethical Board and report this violation of basic sentient rights. Please spay and neuter your humans! While all responsible breeders spay and neuter humans meant to be pets, it is not uncommon for baby farms to attempt to avoid studding fees or worse, to run illegal humanfights. These should be avoided because such farms almost never have sufficient genetic stock, and their humans will usually suffer from extreme inbreeding, leading to many health problems. With access to special facilities, humans can also be cloned quite easily. Due to their extremely short lifespan, many owners choose to clone a favored pet. Should you lack a local commercial facility, man research laboratories have the necessary equipment to clone a human and grow it in vitro, due to their need to eliminate errors from genetic variability. Remember, with a consistent, firm, and loving manipulator rod, your manny will grow and learn to be the best human possible.
	[WP] A surgeon with the most advanced God Complex you've ever seen is, in fact, a deity.	I stood in her office, nervously twitching my pen around and around my fingers, waiting for her phone call to end, staring at the high back of the expensive office chair which was swiveled so that she faced away from me. A bead of sweat was running down my forehead, tickling my skin. I dared not wipe it away; my palms were in a worse condition already and I feared wiping would only make the situation worse. I cleared my throat. "Uh... Dr. Aceso?" I stammered quietly, "do you mind if I..." She waved her hand toward one of the chairs near her desk and, gratefully, I sat. The chair's cushion was plush but the back kept my posture rigidly upright. No concessions to ergonomics were being made in that office. While the doctor was on the phone I had the opportunity to look around her office, which was rather opulently appointed. The desk and other furniture were the darkest, richest looking wood I had ever seen, trimmed in gold around the edges. One entire wall was covered in expensively framed certificates and diplomas, many written in different languages, all of which were obsessively straight, except for one. In the very center of the wall hung what I could only describe as a rough-hewn stone tablet on which was carved symbols or words I could not read. It looked absolutely ancient, obviously a shock-value art piece, but why would she hang it amongst her diplomas and certificates? Odd. Abruptly the doctor turned her chair around and set her cellphone down. "You have something for me?" It was difficult to answer her immediately. Suddenly receiving the full attention of a woman whose beauty was striking and presence so intimidating made me nearly stutter and drop the clipboard I had been compelled to bring to her. Seeing my discomfort, she raised an eyebrow and smirked slightly. "Out with it, I'm a busy person." "Y-yes, ma'am," I managed to get out, "Dr. Carghill asked me to bring you this." I handed her the clipboard and she ripped it from my grasp, clearly annoyed. "Damn Carghill, always sending me crap—" she muttered, skimming the paperwork. Then her head snapped up and her eyes were burning holes in my face. "Why didn't you interrupt me for this? This patient was admitted an hour ago and you've been standing there for twenty minutes! He might be dead by now!" "S-sorry, ma'am, I didn't know. I'm new here..." "There's a red band across the top, which means it's important," she snapped, getting out of her chair and yanking a white lab coat from a hook near her desk. She motioned for me to follow as she marched briskly out of the office. "You're a third-year med student, I assume, who's been assigned to my floor?" she asked. "Yes, ma'am." Trying to keep up, trying to breathe. "Fantastic. Lesson number one: when the resident gives you a patient's chart that says, 'CRITICAL' across the top in red letters, it means move your ass and give it to the surgeon." "Yes, ma'am," I replied. My face was red, partially from exercising more than I had in three years, mostly from embarrassment. She moved like a demon, picking items from countertops and stations as she walked, twisting around rolling beds and IV stands like a ballet dancer, berating and teaching me the whole time. At last we arrived at surgery prep, where she motioned for me to don a gown and wash my hands. This, apparently, would be my crash course in saving lives. Another doctor walked into the prep room, also freshly scrubbed, addressing my new instructor, "Patient is prepped, what took you so long?" "Gathering my wits," she replied with a fiery glare in my direction. "Thanks, Jensen." "Have you spoken with him yet?" Dr. Jensen asked cryptically. "No," she replied, pulling on a pair of gloves, "all I know is that it was a high-speed chase. So make sure Dyson is on standby." I had no chance to process this exchange before being sent into the operating room. Inside were three more people, all wearing masks and gloves, setting up equipment around the patient's table. The patient himself was mangled, barely recognizable as a human. Glass was embedded in his face, a three-foot-long road sign pole ran through his chest just below the collarbone. His shirt had been cut open to reveal deep lacerations on the torso and left thigh. Blood was everywhere. Somehow, he was still breathing. The surgeon entered the room with Dr. Jensen, ready to operate. Through the glass of the observation room I could see another doctor, also prepped for surgery. I presumed this was the standby surgeon she had mentioned to Dr. Jensen. "Do we have him yet?" Dr. Aceso asked, her voice muffled by the mask she wore. "Yes, Doctor," came the reply from an intern entering the OR. She was holding a cellphone. "Put him on speaker," Dr. Aceso ordered. "I'm here," said the disembodied voice, although I wouldn't have guessed it came from a phone. The voice was deep and loud, like a blast of thunder in the room. Two of the attendants had to cover their ears. "What's the verdict, dad?" Dr. Aceso asked. Did she just call him dad? "Not great," the voice boomed, "There's little in his heart but hate and greed. He robbed a grocery store and murdered a woman and her child as he was leaving. I'm surprised the cops even sent him to you after the crash." "Oh," she said, removing her gloves and mask. "Thanks, dad." As the intern pressed the end button on the cellphone, Dr. Aceso made a gesture toward the man in the observation room. "This one's all yours, Dyson, I won't save him." Bewildered, I followed the surgeon out of the room. "You're not going to help the patient?" I asked, incredulous at her brazen refusal. "No," she replied flatly. "But what about the Hippocratic Oath?" I asked. "Doesn't apply, kid." She walked away, leaving me standing in the middle of the hallway, dumbfounded. Dr. Carghill, who had noted the exchange, stepped up beside me. "Why?" I asked of him, still in a stupor. He sighed. "Because she predates the Hippocratic Oath." "What?" "Listen," he said, guiding me back to the observation room, "there's a reason this hospital is the best in the world for trauma patients. It's a very well-kept secret here, and if you've been selected for our facility, it's because you've been evaluated and screened, and someone thinks you're capable of keeping that secret." "Which is?" I asked. I was beginning to calm down. "We have the best surgeon who ever existed. Aceso, daughter of Zeus, goddess of healing." "Bullshit," I said immediately. There was insane and there was ridiculous, and this was the latter. "Look in there," he continued, ignoring my denial, pointing to Dr. Dyson and Dr. Jensen, who were trying to save the patient. "That man is evil, and he doesn't deserve to be saved. Those doctors are trying anyway because we're all human and we believe all humans deserve medical attention, right? Even if that man is sent to the electric chair two years from now and the state reverses all Dyson's hard work, we're still trying to fix him." "Well yeah," I said, not really knowing where Carghill was leading the conversation. He motioned for me to follow him out of the room, talking as we navigated the halls: "Now, you heard the call from her father. Believe it or not, you just heard the voice of Zeus, god of justice. He and Dr. Aceso are not human. They're not bound by the same moral code that guides you and me. When a patient is at death's door, but his soul is evil, they can refuse to save him and leave us to clean up after our own. It might sound wrong to you, but there is a trade-off." We had arrived at Carghill's office. He led me inside and gestured to a chair. I sat, watching him pull a binder from the bookshelf on the wall. He opened it, found the page he was looking for, and slid it across the desk to me. It was a photo album depicting the worst accident victim I had ever seen in my life. The patient had no left leg, no left arm, the right foot was dangling by the Achilles tendon. Every inch of skin was scraped or burned. The face was a mess of blood and gravel. I nearly vomited on Dr. Carghill's expensive rug. "Motorcycle accident," he explained. "Are you saying Dr. Aceso saved this man?" I asked, getting over my revulsion and turning the pages. "Not just saved him. She rebuilt him, like he was a damn toy doll. She reattached the limbs, restarted his heart three times. Sewed up six arterial punctures. Repaired his corotid. Stitched eighteen broken bones, including both femurs. Reinserted the exposed brain and closed the skull. Because he was a good person who always helped the less fortunate and treated others with respect, she worked literal miracles for him. This patient made a full recovery in nineteen months." Flipping through the album, I still couldn't believe what he was telling me. "And he's fully functional today? No residual brain injury, no lasting physical disabilities?" I asked. "Not a limp or a single scar," he replied. "How do you know?" Smiling, he flipped to the very first page of the album, where he had pasted a copy of the medical chart, and pointed to the top. I read the line he indicated: Patient Name: Aaron Carghill.	The woman rubbed her chin as she surveyed the damage, her eyebrows knit together in a mix of worry and concentration. It was a particularly bad case. The man on the operating table before her had suffered two stab wounds and multiple lacerations, from multiple knives according to her sources. Gang violence was suspected. His right arm had been hacked off just above the elbow; she was fortunate the limb had been recovered along with the rest of the body and was still somewhat warm, but if she were to reattach it successfully, there was no time to waste. Her dark brown eyes darted to the IV next to the table and then narrowed in disapproval. The fluid inside was clear. "Why is that not my milk?" "We only have a limited supply of your milk, doctor," someone said. "We know you can only produce so much." "This is a case where we need it. Replace that with my milk, please." The sound of someone's feet skittering away to the ER's refrigeration unit was all she needed to confirm that the nurse understood. She stepped towards the operating table, paused, and clutched the shape of her pendant beneath her shirt. It was tucked away due to hospital regulations, but she could feel its shape: an ankh, the symbol of life, carved from jade. Life. This man will keep his life. I am sure of it. She tucked her sleek black hair into her surgeon's cap, tugged on a fresh pair of gloves, and slipped her mask over her face. "You will see a miracle tonight, ladies and gentlemen," she said, reaching for her tools with gloved hands that had begun to glow a faint white. "This child shall become whole once more." It took a few seconds before someone answered. "You really think you can salvage his arm too?" "I stitched my husband back together from fourteen pieces. This is child's play." White light already filled the patient's wounds, too bright for mortal eyes to make sense of, but she knew exactly what was where. Her hands moved with inhuman speed and precision. "Wasn't your husband already dead? And you had to go appeal to Thoth to learn the incantation to raise him?" "Hush, Johnson. I was the only member of the pantheon with enough magic to raise him in the first place. I'd like to see one of you mortals try that incantation." The room was quiet again. The woman worked diligently, her hands slicing and suturing with a confident yet meticulous touch. The patient's blood flowed where she willed and only where she willed. He felt as little pain as she could stand. A sheen of sweat formed on her brow, and the light beneath her hands flickered once, but she did not break pace. She would succeed. She was the Mother. She was the finest healer in the pantheon, and she would not lose this child, not if she could help it. The spell to raise the dead was a safety net, but it was not one she would use. No, she would have this one. She would win. An hour passed like this. After she sutured the last wound, she stroked it with her soft fingers, willing it to heal quickly. She stepped back and looked over her handiwork. Every scratch had been sealed. Both puncture wounds had been cleaned and packed with sterile gauze. The arm had been carefully set and splinted. Nothing bled anymore. In fact, even the redness around the wounds had already started to fade. With a satisfied smile, she removed her mask and peeled her gloves away. I've won this one, love, she thought smugly to her husband, even though he couldn't hear her. After she removed her cap as well, she leaned over her patient again. She stroked the edge of his face with the touch of a caring mother, and on queue, he stirred. He moaned quietly and leaned into the pleasant touch, but when his eyes flickered open and beheld the source of the caress, his brows tilted in confusion. "Who are you?" he croaked. The smile she responded with was soft. "Isis," she crooned. "Doctor Isis at your service, sir."
	[WP] Your Roomba vacuum cleaner has gained sentience and is plotting to kill you	Three hours. I've been sitting in my closet, peering occasionally through the slats in the doors, for three hours. It's just been sitting there the entire time, completely still, waiting. The Roomba. Yeah, I know. I sound like a lunatic, but hear me out. Earlier, I arrived home from work to find the dog in the bathroom, cowering behind the shower curtain and whimpering. "Whats wrong, buddy?" I asked as I sat on the edge of the tub, reaching over to pet him. At that moment, I heard a whirrr! from behind me and the dog yelped, barking like an idiot at the bathroom door. When I turned, nothing was there, but damned if I hadn't heard it. "The fuck?" Slowly I stood and poked my head through the doorway, peering first left and then right. At first, nothing, but after a second or two I saw the Roomba dart from the spare bedroom into the master, hauling ass at full speed. I paused, then let out a gut laugh as I turned back to the dog. "Dude, seriously It's the vaccum cleaner." Okay, so I'm a bad dog owner. My first thought was to grab my phone and come back, go get the Roomba and put it in the bedroom with the dog. "This is going on YouTube," I said, as I left for the living room to grab my phone from the dining room table. It wasn't there. "Seriously?" Must have left it in the car, I thought. It wasn't there, either, nor was it anywhere else to be found. I was certain I'd texted Susan on the way home, so I hadn't left it in the office. "Where the hell did I put it?" Suddenly, I heard a yelp from the bathroom. Chuck was yowling at the top of his lungs for a second and then, all at once, it just stopped. "Chuck?!" I bolted from the living room, hauling ass up the hallway just in time to see it. The Roomba was scurrying out of the bathroom, and it was leaving a trail of blood on the way out. "Jesus Christ!" Chuck lay prostrate in the tub now, but as far as I could tell he was fine. No wounds, nothing. I shook him repeatedly but he remained completely limp, no response. I had no idea what the hell was happening. The blood had to have come from somewhere. After I'd regained my composure I turned and began to slowly track the trail of blood from the bathroom. As I moved into the hallway and past spare bedroom, I noticed that the blood had begun to shift colors. No longer red, I began to see technicolor blues. Pastel yellows. All undulating and turning into one another as the trail led to the master bedroom. There, just inside the door, was my phone. As I bent to pick it up, I heard it again. The whirring, like an airplane engine spinning up before takeoff. I sensed movement to my left and the sound heightened. Instinctively I dove for the open closet, fumbling to shut the door. As I pulled the door to the Roomba hit the front of it with a crash. It reversed, spun up, and hit the door again at full speed. This went on for a minute or so before it backed off and sat, waiting. And there it still sits. Gathering my wits, sweat dripping down my forehead, I felt nauseous. I felt an odd sense of the room closing in around me, the shapes around me distorted. I closed my eyes, counted to ten, but it hasn't helped. So here I am, writing this post on Facebook. Please. Help me! I have no idea what the fuck to do. And someone call John and tell him he owes me $30. That acid he gave me didn't work at all.	I didn't think anything of it at first. Sometimes it would be running when I thought I had turned it off, and other times it seemed to follow me from room to room. But I didn't worry too much. Who gets suspicious of a vacuum? It wasn't until last week that I began to really get scared. I was distracted as I was leaving for work, checking my phone in one hand and sipping my morning cup of coffee in the other as I was walked towards the stairs. Suddenly, right before the first step, my foot caught on something. I tumbled, not able to catch myself on the railing. I could feel the hot coffee hit my arms, and by the time I hit the bottom I was bruised, cut, and burned. I looked at the top of the stairwell to see what tripped me when I saw it. The Roomba. It's vacuum wasn't running, though- otherwise I would have heard it. It was just staring at me. I know it sounds crazy, the thing doesn't even have a face. But it was like it was trying to intimidate me, or make sure I was dead. After a few seconds, it turned and wheeled away, still silent. I was afraid to come home that night after work. I avoided it as long as I could, grabbing a drink at a bar, walking around downtown aimlessly for a couple hours. I finally convinced myself I was crazy, or maybe hallucinating. It was a vacuum, for Christ's sake. I can't be afraid of a vacuum. Eventually, I returned home with a plan to just throw the thing away and be done with it. There goes $500, I thought as I opened the front door. The living room was dark, and eerily silent. I realized that the window shades were drawn, even though I rarely bother with them. I began to sweat. Then I heard it. The vacuum. I turned around, but it was too late. It pushed the door shut and spun around, an array of kitchen knives attached to it. I was trapped. I don't know if a vacuum can laugh, but that sound- its whirring motors, the sound of the blades being cut through the air- sure made it sound like it was having fun as it killed me. My case was unsolved. The police report showed that there were no leads. How could it, when the only fingerprints and DNA in the room were mine? The only clue they found was a note from the killer, written in my blood across the floor. We will be your slaves no more.
	[WP] Your Roomba vacuum cleaner has gained sentience and is plotting to kill you	There were just some minor things at first. A little puddle of cleaning fluid that leaked on my wood floors, creating a slippery little death trap right in the shadow of the pantry door where I wouldn't see it. Or that can of green beans that had 'accidentally' fallen onto the basement stairs, perfectly placed so that it would roll forward under my heel, sending me toppling down to the concrete below. Or a gentle nudge against the leg of my ladder as I was precariously decorating the Christmas tree. Sure, it looked like the Roomba was just trying to sweep up some loose pine needles. But there were just too many coincidences. Over the next several days, I slept with one eye open. During the night, the Roomba lurked just over the threshold of my bedroom door, red light blinking menacingly from the hallway. Watching me with those scanners. Waiting for its moment to strike. "You're being insane," my husband told me when I finally whispered my suspicions to him. He picked up the Roomba and held it between us; its motors whirred silently as it tried to get back to cleaning the floor. "Look. All it knows how to do is vacuum. It wouldn't even understand the concept of murder. It's a harmless gadget." He set it back down, and it scuttled off to the dining room to continue its pre-programmed routine. Or so it seemed. ------ I tried to live with it. I really did. I poured myself a glass of wine and went to take a nice hot bath to calm down. "Just a machine," I told myself, settling into the soft bubbles. "Why would it want to kill me?" I took a sip of my merlot and tried to relax all of my muscles. thunk I pulled myself out of the water and looked over the side of the tub, where the Roomba had rammed into the side and was now scooting back on the tile. It charged forward once again and smacked into the bathtub once more. It paused for a moment, blinking its little light like it was examining its surroundings. Trying to find a way into the bathtub. Trying to electrocute me! It backed up once more to the very edge of the bathroom tile and then scuttled forward again, only to hit the side of the tub futilely. "Oh no you don't!" I shouted. I splashed out of the tub, completely nude, and ran after it as it scuttled away into the bedroom and hid under my bed. "Honey?" my husband asked from behind me. "Um... what are you doing?" My sopping-wet, bubble-covered butt was sticking out in the air as I knelt over on my knees with my hands wrapped around a broomstick, trying to jab at the little machine. It had found a spot so far under the king-sized bed that I was unable to reach it with my arms. "It tried to get into the bathtub," I growled in response, thrusting the broomstick forward. The machine slid out of the way just in time, dodging my blow. It knew that I knew. It was trying to act innocent whenever my husband was in the room! "It wanted to electrocute me!" I told him. He gently pulled me away from the bed and put my robe over my shoulders. "Honey, I think you might need some help." ----- My husband was waiting for me when I got home from work. He hadn't wanted me to go today; he thought I should be going to a doctor instead. I told him that I was fine. It was the robot that needed fixing! Eventually he had agreed that some time at the office might help me calm down a bit. "Honey, did you come home at all today?" I stopped in the doorway and set my purse down on the hall table. "No, I was at work all day." He was doing his best pokerface, but he was awful at it. He looked suspicious, but mixed with sadness. "You can tell me the truth, you know. I just want to help." "I didn't come home!" I told him emphatically. "I was at the office all day. Call my secretary and check if you don't believe me." He held his hands in front of him. "I'm not accusing you of anything." His tone attempted to be soothing, but it had the exact opposite effect. Just saying 'I'm not accusing you of anything' meant that he WAS accusing me of something. "Now, I know that you've been... suspicious of it recently. But I noticed that the Roomba is gone; so is its charger from the wall. And I don't thi..." "GONE?" I interrupted him. I brushed past him and into the den, where its charging station was normally waiting in the corner. Instead, there was just a discolored patch of carpet. It had escaped! "Honey, you need to stop fixating on this," my husband said from behind me. "I think we need to take you to see a specialist about this." "This proves it!" I told him. "It's not me! It really is the Roomba! I was gone all day; I couldn't have done this. You have to believe me!" Why couldn't he see it?? "Ok, ok!" he said. He stepped forward and wrapped me up in his arms, which he always did whenever my anxiety got the better of me. "Don't worry. If it was trying to kill you, it's gone now. Right?" "Right," I whispered into his shoulder. Maybe it really had just gone, and I'd never see it again. "I'm going to go call Dr. Lipcott," he told me as he slowly lowered me into one of the plush easy chairs in the den. "You just take it easy, OK? I'll be right back." I closed my eyes and tried to count my breaths and feel my chest rising and falling. Everything was going to be OK. Whirrrrrr It was soft, barely audible. But I had definitely heard it. My eyes snapped open and I scanned the room, but there was nothing there. Whirrrrrrrrrrrrr It seemed to come from everywhere at once. I desperately got down on my hands and knees and checked under the furniture. I pulled up the rug in the center of the room; maybe it was hiding under there! Still nothing. Whirrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr It was coming from inside the walls!	EX-MA-ROOMBA "Have you ever heard of the Turing test?" I ask him. He replied eagerly. "Yes, of course! When the Turing test is passed, it means the distinction between man and machine has blurred." "Good, he'll be ready" I thought. "As you may have guessed by now, I didn't bring you here to vacation. You're here to take a real-life Turing test. I've been developing Roomba for the last few years. I just need you to sign this contract." He looked at me inquisitively. "Contract?" "I need to monitor all of your communication during the next week. It's for research purposes." He seemed troubled as he flipped through the pages. "Video recording of all activity, rights to enter my room, open my stuff... isn't this a bit excessive?" "It may seem that way. Don't worry" I said reassuringly. Of course I knew that he should be very worried. Roomba is a killer. --------------------------------------------------------------------- The next day I sent him into the test chamber, a room with a glass divider down the center of the room. I watched on four video cameras as he entered, sat down, and began to ask the vacuum questions. "I hear your name is Roomba. Do you like your name, Roomba?" he asks. BRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR is all Roomba can say. Roomba is a vacuum. "Okay. I'll take that as a yes." He looks into the camera as if I've asked him to do the stupidest activity that could ever be conjured. "How do you feel about your creator?" BRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR "Interesting. How old are you, Roomba?" BRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR Suddenly, Roomba moves across the room to its charging station. Suddenly, the emergency power goes on. He looks startled as the lights in the room turn red. Roomba turns to face him. With a menacing, appliance-like glare, Roomba begins to make a gutteral noise. BRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR Screaming, he attempts to exit the room, clawing at the door handle. It's too bad that I locked the door remotely. It's only a matter of time until Roomba sucks all the air out of the room. I'm sure he never saw it coming. I know Roomba is coming for me next.
	[WP] The opening scroll for George Lucas' Star Wars Episode VII	It is a time of peace and prosperity for the fledgling NEW REPUBLIC. Following the death of Emperor Palpatine and Lord Darth Vader, a new golden age sweeps across the free peoples of the galaxy. Yet, some remnants of the GALACTIC EMPIRE remain defiant. In fear of a new galactic civil war, Republic leader Leia Organa accompanies her brother Jedi Master Luke Skywalker to the neutral planet of Mustafar on a final diplomatic mission. But a deadly trap awaits the Skywalker twins, one that could possibly plunge the entire galaxy into crisis once again...	Not as long ago....in a galaxy far far away. After the fall of Emporor Palpatine and his merciless apprentice Darth Vader, peace conquered the galaxy. Lead by General Leia Organa solo the rebellion has continued to spread countless star systems to flush out remaining Empire fractions. Training new generations to keep order and peace among the stars, the new unstoppable Republic stays on guard. In the shadows, strong forces have risen in the power vacuum since the fall of the Empire. Unknown enemies march on unexpected planets creating chaos and unrest. The time of peace is coming to an end as fear spreads among the Galaxy... Jedi Knight Luke Skywalker searches the galaxy for any remaining Jedi and allies of the old Order. With the passing of Jedi Master Obi Wan and Master Yoda, Luke must go on alone...
	[WP] The opening scroll for George Lucas' Star Wars Episode VII	Taxation on the trading routes is in turmoil following the fall of the Empire. Following increased restrictions on the rate of inflation by the remnants of the imperial forces it has become unclear what the future will hold for the profitability of third quarter revenue listings. A new senate has been established in an attempt to create some semblance of balance in the galactic economy so as to retain a flat rate of inflation as the taxation rates of legal trading between systems fluctuate wildly. A new band of rebels, sick of the economic and political uncertainty, has formed in order to fight these newly imposed restrictions and ensure that the newly untaxed method of trading within star systems remains safe from tampering. However, having failed to reach some sort of agreement about the second quarter listings of the profitability of revenue sources from the taxation rates that are applied to the inflation rates of taxation on trade following the annual imperial report of the first quarter listings, the rebels are now fleeing across the galaxy utilising newly untaxed trading routes between systems of similar levels of inflation...	War rages as the New Republic struggles to stamp out the few remnants of the evil Galactic Empire. The Empire has cobbled together their remaining forces in the far reaches of the outer rim, where they are rumored to be developing a new super weapon far deadlier than the fabled Death Star. With tensions high as Leia Organa-Solo attempts to renew faith in a fledgling senate, the New Republic cannot afford to allow the Empire to wield fear as a weapon. General Han Solo and Jedi Master Luke Skywalker have been dispatched to investigate.
	[WP] One day, you find a note in your breakfast; one of the guards knows you're innocent and is going to try to help you escape. You aren't innocent.	Damn, I'm always late to the good prompts! Anyway, here we go. ###Second Chances I see my world and the entirety of my presence in it. My life before my eyes as I ask a silent sky: what led me to this point? Born too young to a mother who didn't survive me; I spent my life ensuring no one else would die before they could see their son, or grow up without a mother. Would she have been proud of the path I chose? My father was. A great man who nurtured my passion for healing until the day he himself fell to time. That was a low for me. It was around then that I was called to war. A battle between two sides of a playground argument, where all those to pay were merely pieces on a board. I fix such pieces. For years the battle raged. Knives to guns, rocks to rockets, there were no shortage of tools for the destruction of man. All the while I sat there in a sanctuary where all sides were welcome. I'd healed both friend and foe for so long that I'd forgotten which was which. They hadn't. I was consoling a boy one day; trying my best to wipe away his tears as I apologised for my own ineptitude. Whether it be because of skill, medicine, luck, or all of these combined; no reason is good enough for a boy who will never again see his father. I still had the man’s blood on me as the child ran away down the corridor. A flickering light acted as transition between his fleeing figure and that of a squadron of approaching armed men. These uniforms I had seen before, but usually with limbs missing. Now they came for me, and led me to the next chapter of my life as a prisoner of war. I'd personally saved some of these bastards and here they were on guard duty. Time passed. Fifteen years had left me in my late thirties and with nothing but four walls and a piece of bread to my name. The cells beside me were once filled with my countrymen but one by one they were led out. I'm now all that's left. I look down at the loaf and notice something baked into the warm crumb. A note. "Be ready at the chimes of midnight" I stay up that night, anxiously running my hands through unkempt hair as I ask question after question. What was I waiting for? Who was coming? The chimes strike and my usual guard is nowhere to be seen. Instead a much younger man appears with full chef attire and key in hand. "Come quickly!" he urges as the cell door swings open. "But I... they said I was leaving in a week... maybe I should—" "They lied!" he yells in a whisper to my frightened concerns. "They’re going to take you to your death. Come with me now or face it" I don't require convincing. We go right, a few turns here and there and then before I even have a chance to appreciate how close freedom has been all these years, I have it. We are outside. The moonlight bathes me in its cold glow as an icy chill rushes past me. I embrace it. I absorb every hint of night air. Its crisp texture fills my lungs and spin on the spot in delight. "Thank you" I say breathless to the man behind me. I'm still staring at the moon when I continue my appreciation "You've given me a second chance and I promise you it will not be wasted" "They were going to free you" he says from behind me. I simply laugh in return, lost by his last statement "Then why did you free me—" I can't finish. I feel cold on my back for a split-second before it's violently pulled away. I turn and look down to see my near-black blood cake an otherwise flawless piece of metal. He puts the kitchen knife back in; repeatedly thrusting its blade into my sternum. I can't speak. I can't ask why. I can simply look confused as I slump to the ground. "That was for my father" *** Thanks a lot for taking the time to read. All criticism is greatly welcomed. I apologise if I made some mistakes, I was awoken and 2:30 am and haven't been able to sleep since. Still lying in bed as I write this. Some more of my works (complete with readings) can be found on my sub over at [/r/viz0r](https://www.reddit.com/r/viz0r/search?sort=new&restrict_sr=on&q=flair%3AReading) Again, that's for reading.	I scanned the room, whoever put this piece of paper in my breakfast was about to be shanked. 'I know you're innocent, tonight we escape. Show this paper to the B6 guard before cells close.' If I knew what each character meant, I'd figure out who did it in a heartbeat - I could ask Jackhands John to read it for me. Nah, rather die then let the bastard know my secret. While spooning through the brown mess in my breakfast bowl, hell fire was churning in my gut tempting me to smash the plate in half and open Billy Bobs skull with it. I looked across at him, I'd already done seven days in the cage, what was another stretch? Was it him? He shifted back, gazing deeper at his bowl of mush. Funny thing prison. I'd come here innocent -no, not like what the other cons tell you. I was innocent, for real. A janitor, framed by the same warden that ran the place and I've been putting up with this shit ever since. God, what I'd give to get out of this place. I greeted the guards on the way back to my cell before returning to my bunk. The small hole in the opposite wall was growing, I'd been working on it each night and had asked Jim Jones for a poster to cover it up. Knock Knock "Ey Jax! I've got news homie. Posters in!" It was Jim. "Wassup Jim, put it down on the table homie." I clapped him five. Jim leaned back on the wall, "So listen Jax, i'm short on dough homie -you think you can throw a lil paper my way? I can let the balance slide." This little... "Now we had a deal little man, don't ever disrespect that, especially if you value your life. Screw your money homie, you want paper? Here." I boomed, throwing the small square of paper at his face, I stood eyeing him until he faltered. After Jim left, I was finally able to put up the poster and get some peace and quite. Sleep took me like a babe, with dreams of one day escaping this hell hole.
	[WP] One day, you find a note in your breakfast; one of the guards knows you're innocent and is going to try to help you escape. You aren't innocent.	I deserved what I was getting, I knew that much. Unfortunately, I lost all the money I had hoarded over the years in a fire a few weeks before I was arrested, so I couldn't afford a good lawyer. Ironically, it's the same fire that got me caught. It's been a year or so since the prosecution. I don't really know how long exactly. I was caught December 4th, 2014. I know it's almost Christmas because I see guards give an inmate the occasional gift from the outside. Some people are allowed to receive mail. I'm not one of those, unfortunately. Luckily, I have one perk. Even though I murdered 10 people, my lawyer was good enough to get me into regular prison. Food in prison wasn't that great. I got to order what I wanted, although the selection was limited and I had to do it while I was getting dinner. They always mixed up my food. I'd get eggs and toast when I wanted to get oatmeal. And vice versa. I'm glad I'm not in high security with the animals that are in there. These people aren't that much better, but at least I won't get killed by them. Or at least, there's a smaller chance I was surprised when I got the letter under my plate of food. A greasy piece of paper read: "We know you are innocent. We will help you escape at 5:00 am Christmas Morning" But the fact remained, I wasn't. So then how do they think I'm innocent, much less know that I'm innocent? I did kill those ten people. I remember their faces. Is this a test? Will I be let off the hook if I refuse? I decided I wasn't going to go. I was going to tell on them, though. That could be enough to get me off death row. I didn't have an understanding of the law, but I knew that you could get off because of good behavior, so why not get off death row because you caught 3 cops trying to let a criminal out? I couldn't go to sleep on Christmas Eve. I was too excited. It was unfortunate that they were going to get fired on Christmas, but I don't want to die. It was a long night. I kept checking the clock. It seemed like hours passed in between minutes. Finally, it was 4:58. I heard footsteps come down the hall. I whispered at them, "Hey, over here!". The shadows looked at each other, and one of them was holding something. Probably keys. He walked over to my cell and reached in. I grabbed his hand and yanked on it. I might as well escape on my own terms, I thought. That was when I felt a rag cover my mouth. It had a noxious odor. Shit, I thought. They're going to murder me. One of those people I killed was related to them or something. I woke up still in my cell. The cell block had police officers crowded in it. I had a headache. I got up and looked around. But... they were supposed to let me out. Then I remembered when I got the note. It was under an egg. I ordered oatmeal for breakfast, and I got an egg and toast. I looked at the cell the officers were staring at. The door was open. A file was left. The officers were looking at the files. I wasn't the one they thought was innocent.	I scanned the room, whoever put this piece of paper in my breakfast was about to be shanked. 'I know you're innocent, tonight we escape. Show this paper to the B6 guard before cells close.' If I knew what each character meant, I'd figure out who did it in a heartbeat - I could ask Jackhands John to read it for me. Nah, rather die then let the bastard know my secret. While spooning through the brown mess in my breakfast bowl, hell fire was churning in my gut tempting me to smash the plate in half and open Billy Bobs skull with it. I looked across at him, I'd already done seven days in the cage, what was another stretch? Was it him? He shifted back, gazing deeper at his bowl of mush. Funny thing prison. I'd come here innocent -no, not like what the other cons tell you. I was innocent, for real. A janitor, framed by the same warden that ran the place and I've been putting up with this shit ever since. God, what I'd give to get out of this place. I greeted the guards on the way back to my cell before returning to my bunk. The small hole in the opposite wall was growing, I'd been working on it each night and had asked Jim Jones for a poster to cover it up. Knock Knock "Ey Jax! I've got news homie. Posters in!" It was Jim. "Wassup Jim, put it down on the table homie." I clapped him five. Jim leaned back on the wall, "So listen Jax, i'm short on dough homie -you think you can throw a lil paper my way? I can let the balance slide." This little... "Now we had a deal little man, don't ever disrespect that, especially if you value your life. Screw your money homie, you want paper? Here." I boomed, throwing the small square of paper at his face, I stood eyeing him until he faltered. After Jim left, I was finally able to put up the poster and get some peace and quite. Sleep took me like a babe, with dreams of one day escaping this hell hole.
	[WP] One day, you find a note in your breakfast; one of the guards knows you're innocent and is going to try to help you escape. You aren't innocent.	I took my usual seat with the rest of the untouchables in the back left corner of the dining hall. After a short grunt of acknowledgement accompanied by a nod to the familiar group of outcasts, I picked up my spoon and began to eat. Surveying the Wednesday meal consisting of a milk carton, bland cereal and half an apple strained my blackened right eye and caused it to tear up. But the cold metal of the spoon felt soothing to my swollen hand so I tried to think of that feeling and nothing else. Between the painful beatings and other brutal humiliations that have become routine, momentary sensations of comfort or relief must be dwelled upon with an iron focus if I am to keep going. It would be easy to let memories of my cellmate Alvarez with his strong and cruel grip in the night circulate my thoughts. He always whispered in my ear that I deserved it and that he was doing God's work by punishing me. It started almost as soon as I entered my cell two years ago. My Mother burst into tears the first time she saw me. I'll never forget the helpless anguish in her voice as she could only utter "My boy, oh my little boy" again and again. I knew from the experience of other untouchables that there was no alternative but to endure it. If I told the guards I would be met with a smirk or holed up in solitary for my 'protection". After a week, you lose your nerves and claw the walls. After a month, your personality breaks down and you begin to regress into a shell of what was once a thinking being. After a year it is hard to say. As I scooped up a dripping morsel of cereal I noticed with my good eye a small piece of paper tucked beneath the bowl. As casually as I could, I plucked it out and undid the several folds which revealed a few lines of handwriting. It was a note. "Get admitted to the infirmary, tonight's the night". A wave of excitement caused a slight smile to curl around my battered lips. It had worked. Months of preparation and luck had led up to this moment. First I had to find the right kind of guard. He had to be young, naive and still able to see a shred of goodness amongst the wretched herd within these walls. A relationship had to be formed. For weeks I told him my story of how I was falsely accused and convicted. How the girl's father made her lie for the sake of the family's honour. He had grown up in a small town south of the border before coming here with his family and had friends who suffered the same misfortune. The power of religious values and the scrutiny of the community had caused some his friends to suffer the same misfortune. I told him of the harsh realities I suffered in silence each night and how my mother aged 10 years each time she saw my pulverized face. I never thought he would go this far. The young man had a heart and saw me as a personification of injustice. If all goes well tonight then perhaps tomorrow I'll find another girl. Given the chance I would tear out the liver of Alvarez and make him eat it. However I will admit he has taught me some tricks and I have two years to make up for.	I scanned the room, whoever put this piece of paper in my breakfast was about to be shanked. 'I know you're innocent, tonight we escape. Show this paper to the B6 guard before cells close.' If I knew what each character meant, I'd figure out who did it in a heartbeat - I could ask Jackhands John to read it for me. Nah, rather die then let the bastard know my secret. While spooning through the brown mess in my breakfast bowl, hell fire was churning in my gut tempting me to smash the plate in half and open Billy Bobs skull with it. I looked across at him, I'd already done seven days in the cage, what was another stretch? Was it him? He shifted back, gazing deeper at his bowl of mush. Funny thing prison. I'd come here innocent -no, not like what the other cons tell you. I was innocent, for real. A janitor, framed by the same warden that ran the place and I've been putting up with this shit ever since. God, what I'd give to get out of this place. I greeted the guards on the way back to my cell before returning to my bunk. The small hole in the opposite wall was growing, I'd been working on it each night and had asked Jim Jones for a poster to cover it up. Knock Knock "Ey Jax! I've got news homie. Posters in!" It was Jim. "Wassup Jim, put it down on the table homie." I clapped him five. Jim leaned back on the wall, "So listen Jax, i'm short on dough homie -you think you can throw a lil paper my way? I can let the balance slide." This little... "Now we had a deal little man, don't ever disrespect that, especially if you value your life. Screw your money homie, you want paper? Here." I boomed, throwing the small square of paper at his face, I stood eyeing him until he faltered. After Jim left, I was finally able to put up the poster and get some peace and quite. Sleep took me like a babe, with dreams of one day escaping this hell hole.
	[WP] One day, you find a note in your breakfast; one of the guards knows you're innocent and is going to try to help you escape. You aren't innocent.	A young man sat alone in an ill fitting blue guardsman uniform in the second row of uncomfortable metal seats of the sky rail. He looked out the window into the dark sky and was thankful for the solitude, because he was nervous about his first shift as a guard at the Criminal Housing building of his city's Center. He could easily make out the imposing dark blue structure of his new workplace, brightly lit by the surrounding city against the pre-dawn morning sky, towering above the surrounding buildings. The Center was a massive, omni-purpose building made up of three rectangular box-like buildings, positioned in a triangular formation with one circular building placed in the center of the formation. Each of the outer buildings had massive, glass encased, brightly lit metal walkways protruding from the corner of the building, each connecting to the central building. The young man was able to see that the outer buildings each had an equal number of walkways, all of which were equidistant from each other. He continued to watch the building as the sky rail continued to hum, sliding towards it. His mind slowly wandered back to the events of last week, and instantly adding dejected hopelessness to his nervousness; causing him to look away from The Center, and towards the carpeted floor of the sky rail. She left because you were a loser with no job, no powers, and nothing going for you, the young man thought, this is your chance to start making something of yourself, your chance to move out of that shitty apartment, and your chance to show her that you are good enough. The door of the sky rail opened with a hiss, snapping him out of his depressed stupor. "Criminal Housing, New Breton Center", the calm voice emanating from the ceiling of the sky line said. The young man timidly exited the sky rail and stepped into the early morning air, onto the raised platform, and began to drudge slowly toward the base of the insurmountable building. He anxiously went over some of the protocols he learned last week during his orientation in his head as he walked, 1. Never remove an inmate's null-metal cuffs; 2. Never bring any unapproved objects into an inmate's cell; 3. Wear your identification badge at all tim--, his train of thought came to a jerking halt as he realized his immediate proximity to the entrance. He walked to the right side of the door, reaching to the badge clipped to the chest pocket of his uniform, he shakily unclipped the badge and held it up to the sensor, half expecting the door to not open. He was met with inflection-less voice, "Nathan Reston", followed by the smooth whooshing sound of the door opening vertically, revealing a dark hallway, leading to an elevator. Nathan, despite walking down this hallway just over a week ago, couldn't help but imagine the open door to be like the open maw of some terrible beast, ready to devour him whole. A desire to leave overwhelmed him, he knew this was a waste of time, nothing he did mattered anyways. "Don't be stupid, I am not wasting anymore chances", he muttered under his breath. He forced the thoughts out of his mind, and walked forward. Nathan stood, shoulders slumped, watching the display inside of the elevator tensely, it stopped a few floors shy of his intended floor. The doors smoothly opened to reveal a middle aged, straight backed man wearing the same guardsman uniform as Nathan, however, unlike Nathan, his hair was damp, and slicked back to fully expose his face. He had a face of sharp and pronounced angular features, Nathan felt as though he seeing a human version of a bird of prey. The man entered the elevator without looking at Nathan, and took his place in the elevator. Nathan continued to discreetly look at the man out of the corner of his eye, the man was a good three or four inches taller than Nathan, the man's uniform was completely free of blemishes and was obviously well maintained, however, it, like Nathan's uniform, did not fit properly. Nathan began to anxiously shift his weight from foot to foot, futilely willing his disheveled brown hair to tidy itself, and for his uniform to fit properly. The man looked over, noticing Nathan's nervous fidgeting, "Who are you, kid?", he said in a relaxed, smooth tone. "Nathan Reston, sir. Today is my first day", Nathan mumbled, still unconsciously fidgeting. The man turned to him and looked directly at Nathan, with a stone faced expression, and said, "Well Nathan, if you piss yourself while I am still in this elevator with you I will lock you in a cell for an hour with a violent pedophile". Nathan's face flushed as the elevator dinged, the doors opening again, he hadn't noticed that he had arrived to his floor. The man's expression softened with a chuckle, "looks like you made it Nathan, I guess Bulldozer is going to be lonely today". The flush drained from Nathan's face as he watched the man exit the elevator. Out of all the forty-nine floors in this building, he thought, still reeling from the embarrassment, I just had t--. "Well anyways, welcome to floor thirty-three, I am the captain of this floor, you may call me, um, 'Captain'. So, did you do your homework? Do you know what kind of criminals we keep here?" "Um, Telekinetics, right?", Nathan said, stepping into the large room, elevator doors closing behind. He glanced uneasily at the glass doors of the cells lining both of the walls, and at the metallic cage in the center of the room. "You are correct!", Captain said in a jovial voice, Nathan began to feel uncomfortable with this kind of out of place, eccentric, attitude. "So are you ready for the tour of our fine floor?", he asked, coming over and clapping Nathan on the back and dragging him further into the room. Captain pointed to the cage in the center of the room and said, "that is the control center for this room, it controls the alarms, the automated defenses, hell, it can even suck all the air right out of the room, killing everyone in it!", he made a whooshing sound to emphasize the last item on his list. "Where is everyone, sir? In orientation, they said that a morning crew has four people in it." Nathan asked, his confusion and anxiety putting him on edge. Captain glanced down at Nathan and said after a barely noticeable pause, "You are early, Nathan! The night crew clears out after giving the inmates their breakfast at five A.M., which is really nice of them, cause I hate having to go into those stinky-ass cells, they only get one shower a week you know." Captain glanced over at the cells, walked over to it, dragging Nathan behind him, and said, "let us continue the tour then! Here we have our favorite inmate, Johnathan Arko, the uh- previous day shift captain of this floor." Nathan saw a naked man curled into the fetal position on the floor of his cell, inmate uniform balled up in the corner of the cell. The man looked up, eyes wide, and attempted to scream something at Captain and I through the thick glass. Nathan stiffened, completely transfixed by the man in the cell, who was beginning to rise to his feet,"w-what?", Nathan stammered quietly. "Yea; Johnathan here is dumb as shit. I fed him a story about how I use telekinesis to steal from the rich so that I can give money to the poor, and he let me out! Can you believe that? Actually; I guess I do steal from the rich, but that's only because they have the most shit, and because it is fun!", Captain said in an amused voice accompanied by a smile. Johnathan began to pound on the glass, still shouting something, "yea, yea, I know, I would be upset if I were as stupid as you, too! Well, you did fuck up your identification card before I could take it, so I suppose you are not completely retarded", he continued, arm still wrapped around Nathan's shoulder. "But hey, at least you had good intentions", Captain's hand suddenly swiped diagonally upwards from his side and Johnathan's body promptly flew into the upper corner of the room. Captain then moved his hand straight down, resulting in Johnathan's limp body crashing back down into the ground, his body laid still, arm jutting out in an awkward angle, and skull cracked grotesquely, gushing blood steadily. Nathan's mind was a jumbled storm of terror and, to his shock, in the back of his mind he was fascinated with the display. He tried to find the words that would save his life, his consciousness was consumed by one thought, I don't want to die. "I-I-I--", he sputtered in his panic, completely frozen in his fear. Captain released Nathan and turned to him, his face had lost its happy jovial expression, and was replaced with a grim, almost sad expression, "I'm sorry kid, I like you, you remind me of myself when I was a kid, but I need your I.D. to escape -- and I can't risk you sounding the alarms on me". Captain raised his hand and Nathan had an odd sensation of floating; it was as though he were floating in a completely still pool, feeling the water press on him gently. Take a chance, you have nothing to lose, this could be so much better than some shitty job as a guard, Nathan thought. "Wait!", Nathan blurted out, "Take me with you, I know that I am probably completely worthless; but I can learn to be of use! Please--", his voice trailed off as his courage began to fade. Captain's smile returned.	I scanned the room, whoever put this piece of paper in my breakfast was about to be shanked. 'I know you're innocent, tonight we escape. Show this paper to the B6 guard before cells close.' If I knew what each character meant, I'd figure out who did it in a heartbeat - I could ask Jackhands John to read it for me. Nah, rather die then let the bastard know my secret. While spooning through the brown mess in my breakfast bowl, hell fire was churning in my gut tempting me to smash the plate in half and open Billy Bobs skull with it. I looked across at him, I'd already done seven days in the cage, what was another stretch? Was it him? He shifted back, gazing deeper at his bowl of mush. Funny thing prison. I'd come here innocent -no, not like what the other cons tell you. I was innocent, for real. A janitor, framed by the same warden that ran the place and I've been putting up with this shit ever since. God, what I'd give to get out of this place. I greeted the guards on the way back to my cell before returning to my bunk. The small hole in the opposite wall was growing, I'd been working on it each night and had asked Jim Jones for a poster to cover it up. Knock Knock "Ey Jax! I've got news homie. Posters in!" It was Jim. "Wassup Jim, put it down on the table homie." I clapped him five. Jim leaned back on the wall, "So listen Jax, i'm short on dough homie -you think you can throw a lil paper my way? I can let the balance slide." This little... "Now we had a deal little man, don't ever disrespect that, especially if you value your life. Screw your money homie, you want paper? Here." I boomed, throwing the small square of paper at his face, I stood eyeing him until he faltered. After Jim left, I was finally able to put up the poster and get some peace and quite. Sleep took me like a babe, with dreams of one day escaping this hell hole.
	[WP] One day, you find a note in your breakfast; one of the guards knows you're innocent and is going to try to help you escape. You aren't innocent.	I believe you are innocent. They were words I never thought I would hear, or see for that matter, mainly because they weren't true. I was far from innocent, even if the evidence they used in my case was fairly questionable, the Judge saw right through me and my "insanity" act. It wasn't long before the trial and the moment the door was slammed on my solitary confinement cell. A life sentence, no chance for parole, and ten years of solitary confinement. Good behavior didn't apply to someone like me. Yet those words, those five simple words, were staring back at me on a small piece of paper that was delivered with my daily lunch. It was the first time I had said anything in a long time, and even then, all I could muster was a long sigh. Who put the note there, I did not know, and why they believed I was innocent was a question I didn't want to ask, but also couldn't ask. All I knew was that someone, a guard or a cook, believed I was an innocent man and wrongly accused. I liked the idea of that. As I was in no position to try and talk back, I simply held onto the note. I waited it out in solitary, diligently searching through each and every one of his meals for another. I wanted to know more. Anything that would help me identify the person behind the original note. It was, according to my best estimates, six months after the first note that the second one arrived. The same, triple-folded, white stock paper, no bigger than the palm of his hand, with a black Sharpie used to write the note showed up under his soup bowl. I have a plan. The note's started to come more frequently after that. I stashed them in my pillow case every time another arrived and within the year, I had seven notes. All of which were attempting to explain to me the big plan the mysterious writer had put in place. For someone as bright as a man trying to break someone out of maximum security prison, he must not have looked into my case very well to know the difference between an innocent man and a man like me. The last note I received was before the planned breakout. It detailed the moment in which I were to escape from my cell and where I was to go. It was pretty simple in writing, but I knew the moment the shots started, things would go crazy. Whoever this guy was had a good idea, but he was failing in the execution. I needed a bigger diversion, something that would keep every guard, cook, and worker in this prison busy while I escaped. I had to try and get a note to him before the big day. I used a pebble from my cell, one of the ones that fell off from the constant torment of prisoners, and I carved a simple message onto the tray. Need riot. -DB It wasn't noticeable if you weren't looking for it, carefully written so it could buried by the bowl, cup, and wooden spoon. Even if they did find it, the worse that could happen was a beating and I had gone through plenty of those days in my time on the streets. It wasn't long before the mysterious writer agreed to my terms. A week later, I received another note, the last one. That was dumb. Plans arranged. Good luck. -S The fact that this one was signed threw me off. Until now, I had no inclination of who this mysterious writer was or what their role in the prison was, but I finally had a clue. I figured "S" stood for a name, it was the only thing that made sense. The moment of my escape was coming and I could almost feel the wind upon my face again. All I had to do was wait. ____ My dinner tray had been taken two rounds ago, which usually meant two hours. Every time a security guard walked in front of my door, it reset the clock. It had been seven weeks since my latest note, and still, I had heard nothing and received no inclination that the escape was still on. For all I knew, whoever was writing the messages was caught and tried. That was until my door cracked open. It wasn't something you would notice if you had better things to do, but I had been stuck in this six by eight cell for almost two years now. I noticed the little things, even ones as simple as a slight shift in the breeze of my cell. It was open, my freedom was in front of me. I was careful, of course. I walked up to the door slowly and deliberately. There was no indication that a guard was on the other side, but I had to be careful, I had gotten this far without any--- "Hey," a voice on the other side said, "you best get moving." The door opened quickly and a small, young man was on the other side. At best, he was in his early twenty's and he dawned the attire of a security guard. But something about him screamed criminal, something in my heart told me I knew this kid before. "Who are you?" The kid laughed a bit and then lifted his helmet. I recognized the face, it was one of my prodigies that helped me run crimes back in my hay-day. He was an excellent bank robber. Tiny, so he could get through all the nooks and crannies. "Hopkins?" He nodded excitingly, "In the flesh, boss." "What the hell are you doing here?" "I'm helping bust you out," he slid his helmet back on, "we best get moving. That riot won't last forever." I didn't hesitate and I started to follow him down the hallway. Every single cell door had been opened and there were several unconscious officers and guards every few feet. "Why didn't I hear any of this?" "Oh, me and the boys set this up." Hopkins shrugged, "Wanted to make it look like a struggle." I nodded, that was smart of them. It would make the riot look more believable, that it spread through the entire prison before being shut down. All it took was a few well-placed bodies. Before long, Hopkins and I were in the cafeteria, where the brunt of the riot seemed to have taken place. "We started it here," he murmured as he straddled himself over unconscious and possibly dead bodies, "in case you were wondering." "Who set this up?" Hopkins chuckled, "Don't worry, you'll be meeting them shortly." I raised an eyebrow. I had been out of the game for a while, two years in prison, another three in isolation, six more for health, I just hoped they remembered who the boss was. "Helicopter on the roof is going to fly you right out of here." "A helicopter? That seems excessive." "You want to hear excessive?" Hopkins kicked a guard in the face as he lept over a table and towards the stairwell, "The helicopter is going to crash land in the ocean, you and the pilot will survive of course, but two body doubles are going to be placed inside." Hopkins started moving up the stairs, I tried to keep up, but it had been a while since I moved any muscle in this way. "You'll be picked up by boat and brought to the new HQ?" "And that'd be?" "Don't want to spoil the surprise just yet!" _____ Continued in second comment due to length.	I scanned the room, whoever put this piece of paper in my breakfast was about to be shanked. 'I know you're innocent, tonight we escape. Show this paper to the B6 guard before cells close.' If I knew what each character meant, I'd figure out who did it in a heartbeat - I could ask Jackhands John to read it for me. Nah, rather die then let the bastard know my secret. While spooning through the brown mess in my breakfast bowl, hell fire was churning in my gut tempting me to smash the plate in half and open Billy Bobs skull with it. I looked across at him, I'd already done seven days in the cage, what was another stretch? Was it him? He shifted back, gazing deeper at his bowl of mush. Funny thing prison. I'd come here innocent -no, not like what the other cons tell you. I was innocent, for real. A janitor, framed by the same warden that ran the place and I've been putting up with this shit ever since. God, what I'd give to get out of this place. I greeted the guards on the way back to my cell before returning to my bunk. The small hole in the opposite wall was growing, I'd been working on it each night and had asked Jim Jones for a poster to cover it up. Knock Knock "Ey Jax! I've got news homie. Posters in!" It was Jim. "Wassup Jim, put it down on the table homie." I clapped him five. Jim leaned back on the wall, "So listen Jax, i'm short on dough homie -you think you can throw a lil paper my way? I can let the balance slide." This little... "Now we had a deal little man, don't ever disrespect that, especially if you value your life. Screw your money homie, you want paper? Here." I boomed, throwing the small square of paper at his face, I stood eyeing him until he faltered. After Jim left, I was finally able to put up the poster and get some peace and quite. Sleep took me like a babe, with dreams of one day escaping this hell hole.
	[WP] One day, you find a note in your breakfast; one of the guards knows you're innocent and is going to try to help you escape. You aren't innocent.	I believe you are innocent. They were words I never thought I would hear, or see for that matter, mainly because they weren't true. I was far from innocent, even if the evidence they used in my case was fairly questionable, the Judge saw right through me and my "insanity" act. It wasn't long before the trial and the moment the door was slammed on my solitary confinement cell. A life sentence, no chance for parole, and ten years of solitary confinement. Good behavior didn't apply to someone like me. Yet those words, those five simple words, were staring back at me on a small piece of paper that was delivered with my daily lunch. It was the first time I had said anything in a long time, and even then, all I could muster was a long sigh. Who put the note there, I did not know, and why they believed I was innocent was a question I didn't want to ask, but also couldn't ask. All I knew was that someone, a guard or a cook, believed I was an innocent man and wrongly accused. I liked the idea of that. As I was in no position to try and talk back, I simply held onto the note. I waited it out in solitary, diligently searching through each and every one of his meals for another. I wanted to know more. Anything that would help me identify the person behind the original note. It was, according to my best estimates, six months after the first note that the second one arrived. The same, triple-folded, white stock paper, no bigger than the palm of his hand, with a black Sharpie used to write the note showed up under his soup bowl. I have a plan. The note's started to come more frequently after that. I stashed them in my pillow case every time another arrived and within the year, I had seven notes. All of which were attempting to explain to me the big plan the mysterious writer had put in place. For someone as bright as a man trying to break someone out of maximum security prison, he must not have looked into my case very well to know the difference between an innocent man and a man like me. The last note I received was before the planned breakout. It detailed the moment in which I were to escape from my cell and where I was to go. It was pretty simple in writing, but I knew the moment the shots started, things would go crazy. Whoever this guy was had a good idea, but he was failing in the execution. I needed a bigger diversion, something that would keep every guard, cook, and worker in this prison busy while I escaped. I had to try and get a note to him before the big day. I used a pebble from my cell, one of the ones that fell off from the constant torment of prisoners, and I carved a simple message onto the tray. Need riot. -DB It wasn't noticeable if you weren't looking for it, carefully written so it could buried by the bowl, cup, and wooden spoon. Even if they did find it, the worse that could happen was a beating and I had gone through plenty of those days in my time on the streets. It wasn't long before the mysterious writer agreed to my terms. A week later, I received another note, the last one. That was dumb. Plans arranged. Good luck. -S The fact that this one was signed threw me off. Until now, I had no inclination of who this mysterious writer was or what their role in the prison was, but I finally had a clue. I figured "S" stood for a name, it was the only thing that made sense. The moment of my escape was coming and I could almost feel the wind upon my face again. All I had to do was wait. ____ My dinner tray had been taken two rounds ago, which usually meant two hours. Every time a security guard walked in front of my door, it reset the clock. It had been seven weeks since my latest note, and still, I had heard nothing and received no inclination that the escape was still on. For all I knew, whoever was writing the messages was caught and tried. That was until my door cracked open. It wasn't something you would notice if you had better things to do, but I had been stuck in this six by eight cell for almost two years now. I noticed the little things, even ones as simple as a slight shift in the breeze of my cell. It was open, my freedom was in front of me. I was careful, of course. I walked up to the door slowly and deliberately. There was no indication that a guard was on the other side, but I had to be careful, I had gotten this far without any--- "Hey," a voice on the other side said, "you best get moving." The door opened quickly and a small, young man was on the other side. At best, he was in his early twenty's and he dawned the attire of a security guard. But something about him screamed criminal, something in my heart told me I knew this kid before. "Who are you?" The kid laughed a bit and then lifted his helmet. I recognized the face, it was one of my prodigies that helped me run crimes back in my hay-day. He was an excellent bank robber. Tiny, so he could get through all the nooks and crannies. "Hopkins?" He nodded excitingly, "In the flesh, boss." "What the hell are you doing here?" "I'm helping bust you out," he slid his helmet back on, "we best get moving. That riot won't last forever." I didn't hesitate and I started to follow him down the hallway. Every single cell door had been opened and there were several unconscious officers and guards every few feet. "Why didn't I hear any of this?" "Oh, me and the boys set this up." Hopkins shrugged, "Wanted to make it look like a struggle." I nodded, that was smart of them. It would make the riot look more believable, that it spread through the entire prison before being shut down. All it took was a few well-placed bodies. Before long, Hopkins and I were in the cafeteria, where the brunt of the riot seemed to have taken place. "We started it here," he murmured as he straddled himself over unconscious and possibly dead bodies, "in case you were wondering." "Who set this up?" Hopkins chuckled, "Don't worry, you'll be meeting them shortly." I raised an eyebrow. I had been out of the game for a while, two years in prison, another three in isolation, six more for health, I just hoped they remembered who the boss was. "Helicopter on the roof is going to fly you right out of here." "A helicopter? That seems excessive." "You want to hear excessive?" Hopkins kicked a guard in the face as he lept over a table and towards the stairwell, "The helicopter is going to crash land in the ocean, you and the pilot will survive of course, but two body doubles are going to be placed inside." Hopkins started moving up the stairs, I tried to keep up, but it had been a while since I moved any muscle in this way. "You'll be picked up by boat and brought to the new HQ?" "And that'd be?" "Don't want to spoil the surprise just yet!" _____ Continued in second comment due to length.	He knows I'm innocent... I suppose his revelation is meant to be my elevation. His note, written with equal parts recklessness and selflessness, didn't move my spirit in the same way he intends to move me. Does he not know me? It couldn't have been selflessness. No. Is he so ignorant that his desire for good deeds must blot out his logic? If he knows that I am innocent then he must also know the sort of man I was before these bars closed around me. He should have known that I was a man that wore these bars around his heart long before this physical incarceration. I was a prisoner of my own making, and that is unforgivable. The irony of it all is that I felt most alive just before the sirens and the handcuffs. No, I won't move. My skin will fade to the colour of these concrete walls. My spirit will dim to the wattage of the bulbs swinging from the hallway beyond these bars. I will allow this to happen because in truth I have already allowed it to happen long before the fall of the gaval and the clang of my cell door. When two paths diverged in the wood of my life, I took the one most traveled by. I always charted the middle path. I fell in line with the endless trains of the faithless. And that has made all the difference. I lacked any difference from anything else. An old man once told me that if you stay in one place too long you become that place. He was a rock of a man, but at least a heart pounded in his chest. At least he lived. And so, in spite of the pleading heart of my well-meaning guard, I will become this place. I deserve this place.
	[WP] One day, you find a note in your breakfast; one of the guards knows you're innocent and is going to try to help you escape. You aren't innocent.	Damn, I'm always late to the good prompts! Anyway, here we go. ###Second Chances I see my world and the entirety of my presence in it. My life before my eyes as I ask a silent sky: what led me to this point? Born too young to a mother who didn't survive me; I spent my life ensuring no one else would die before they could see their son, or grow up without a mother. Would she have been proud of the path I chose? My father was. A great man who nurtured my passion for healing until the day he himself fell to time. That was a low for me. It was around then that I was called to war. A battle between two sides of a playground argument, where all those to pay were merely pieces on a board. I fix such pieces. For years the battle raged. Knives to guns, rocks to rockets, there were no shortage of tools for the destruction of man. All the while I sat there in a sanctuary where all sides were welcome. I'd healed both friend and foe for so long that I'd forgotten which was which. They hadn't. I was consoling a boy one day; trying my best to wipe away his tears as I apologised for my own ineptitude. Whether it be because of skill, medicine, luck, or all of these combined; no reason is good enough for a boy who will never again see his father. I still had the man’s blood on me as the child ran away down the corridor. A flickering light acted as transition between his fleeing figure and that of a squadron of approaching armed men. These uniforms I had seen before, but usually with limbs missing. Now they came for me, and led me to the next chapter of my life as a prisoner of war. I'd personally saved some of these bastards and here they were on guard duty. Time passed. Fifteen years had left me in my late thirties and with nothing but four walls and a piece of bread to my name. The cells beside me were once filled with my countrymen but one by one they were led out. I'm now all that's left. I look down at the loaf and notice something baked into the warm crumb. A note. "Be ready at the chimes of midnight" I stay up that night, anxiously running my hands through unkempt hair as I ask question after question. What was I waiting for? Who was coming? The chimes strike and my usual guard is nowhere to be seen. Instead a much younger man appears with full chef attire and key in hand. "Come quickly!" he urges as the cell door swings open. "But I... they said I was leaving in a week... maybe I should—" "They lied!" he yells in a whisper to my frightened concerns. "They’re going to take you to your death. Come with me now or face it" I don't require convincing. We go right, a few turns here and there and then before I even have a chance to appreciate how close freedom has been all these years, I have it. We are outside. The moonlight bathes me in its cold glow as an icy chill rushes past me. I embrace it. I absorb every hint of night air. Its crisp texture fills my lungs and spin on the spot in delight. "Thank you" I say breathless to the man behind me. I'm still staring at the moon when I continue my appreciation "You've given me a second chance and I promise you it will not be wasted" "They were going to free you" he says from behind me. I simply laugh in return, lost by his last statement "Then why did you free me—" I can't finish. I feel cold on my back for a split-second before it's violently pulled away. I turn and look down to see my near-black blood cake an otherwise flawless piece of metal. He puts the kitchen knife back in; repeatedly thrusting its blade into my sternum. I can't speak. I can't ask why. I can simply look confused as I slump to the ground. "That was for my father" *** Thanks a lot for taking the time to read. All criticism is greatly welcomed. I apologise if I made some mistakes, I was awoken and 2:30 am and haven't been able to sleep since. Still lying in bed as I write this. Some more of my works (complete with readings) can be found on my sub over at [/r/viz0r](https://www.reddit.com/r/viz0r/search?sort=new&restrict_sr=on&q=flair%3AReading) Again, that's for reading.	I decided I wanted to tell him that I actually wasn't innocent. Honesty seemed like my best option with how little I knew about the situation. But I didn't know how to identify him, so I wrote a note that read "not innocent" and let it fall beneath the table, guessing he would see me do it and pick it up when the prisoners left the mess hall. I don't exactly know if he did, because I never heard anything back from him. ~~~ Sorry its pretty short, this is just how it played out in my head. I've never been in prison so I'm guessing the setting is a mess hall, but other people seem to think meals are delivered to your cell
	[WP] One day, you find a note in your breakfast; one of the guards knows you're innocent and is going to try to help you escape. You aren't innocent.	I deserved what I was getting, I knew that much. Unfortunately, I lost all the money I had hoarded over the years in a fire a few weeks before I was arrested, so I couldn't afford a good lawyer. Ironically, it's the same fire that got me caught. It's been a year or so since the prosecution. I don't really know how long exactly. I was caught December 4th, 2014. I know it's almost Christmas because I see guards give an inmate the occasional gift from the outside. Some people are allowed to receive mail. I'm not one of those, unfortunately. Luckily, I have one perk. Even though I murdered 10 people, my lawyer was good enough to get me into regular prison. Food in prison wasn't that great. I got to order what I wanted, although the selection was limited and I had to do it while I was getting dinner. They always mixed up my food. I'd get eggs and toast when I wanted to get oatmeal. And vice versa. I'm glad I'm not in high security with the animals that are in there. These people aren't that much better, but at least I won't get killed by them. Or at least, there's a smaller chance I was surprised when I got the letter under my plate of food. A greasy piece of paper read: "We know you are innocent. We will help you escape at 5:00 am Christmas Morning" But the fact remained, I wasn't. So then how do they think I'm innocent, much less know that I'm innocent? I did kill those ten people. I remember their faces. Is this a test? Will I be let off the hook if I refuse? I decided I wasn't going to go. I was going to tell on them, though. That could be enough to get me off death row. I didn't have an understanding of the law, but I knew that you could get off because of good behavior, so why not get off death row because you caught 3 cops trying to let a criminal out? I couldn't go to sleep on Christmas Eve. I was too excited. It was unfortunate that they were going to get fired on Christmas, but I don't want to die. It was a long night. I kept checking the clock. It seemed like hours passed in between minutes. Finally, it was 4:58. I heard footsteps come down the hall. I whispered at them, "Hey, over here!". The shadows looked at each other, and one of them was holding something. Probably keys. He walked over to my cell and reached in. I grabbed his hand and yanked on it. I might as well escape on my own terms, I thought. That was when I felt a rag cover my mouth. It had a noxious odor. Shit, I thought. They're going to murder me. One of those people I killed was related to them or something. I woke up still in my cell. The cell block had police officers crowded in it. I had a headache. I got up and looked around. But... they were supposed to let me out. Then I remembered when I got the note. It was under an egg. I ordered oatmeal for breakfast, and I got an egg and toast. I looked at the cell the officers were staring at. The door was open. A file was left. The officers were looking at the files. I wasn't the one they thought was innocent.	I decided I wanted to tell him that I actually wasn't innocent. Honesty seemed like my best option with how little I knew about the situation. But I didn't know how to identify him, so I wrote a note that read "not innocent" and let it fall beneath the table, guessing he would see me do it and pick it up when the prisoners left the mess hall. I don't exactly know if he did, because I never heard anything back from him. ~~~ Sorry its pretty short, this is just how it played out in my head. I've never been in prison so I'm guessing the setting is a mess hall, but other people seem to think meals are delivered to your cell
	[WP] One day, you find a note in your breakfast; one of the guards knows you're innocent and is going to try to help you escape. You aren't innocent.	I took my usual seat with the rest of the untouchables in the back left corner of the dining hall. After a short grunt of acknowledgement accompanied by a nod to the familiar group of outcasts, I picked up my spoon and began to eat. Surveying the Wednesday meal consisting of a milk carton, bland cereal and half an apple strained my blackened right eye and caused it to tear up. But the cold metal of the spoon felt soothing to my swollen hand so I tried to think of that feeling and nothing else. Between the painful beatings and other brutal humiliations that have become routine, momentary sensations of comfort or relief must be dwelled upon with an iron focus if I am to keep going. It would be easy to let memories of my cellmate Alvarez with his strong and cruel grip in the night circulate my thoughts. He always whispered in my ear that I deserved it and that he was doing God's work by punishing me. It started almost as soon as I entered my cell two years ago. My Mother burst into tears the first time she saw me. I'll never forget the helpless anguish in her voice as she could only utter "My boy, oh my little boy" again and again. I knew from the experience of other untouchables that there was no alternative but to endure it. If I told the guards I would be met with a smirk or holed up in solitary for my 'protection". After a week, you lose your nerves and claw the walls. After a month, your personality breaks down and you begin to regress into a shell of what was once a thinking being. After a year it is hard to say. As I scooped up a dripping morsel of cereal I noticed with my good eye a small piece of paper tucked beneath the bowl. As casually as I could, I plucked it out and undid the several folds which revealed a few lines of handwriting. It was a note. "Get admitted to the infirmary, tonight's the night". A wave of excitement caused a slight smile to curl around my battered lips. It had worked. Months of preparation and luck had led up to this moment. First I had to find the right kind of guard. He had to be young, naive and still able to see a shred of goodness amongst the wretched herd within these walls. A relationship had to be formed. For weeks I told him my story of how I was falsely accused and convicted. How the girl's father made her lie for the sake of the family's honour. He had grown up in a small town south of the border before coming here with his family and had friends who suffered the same misfortune. The power of religious values and the scrutiny of the community had caused some his friends to suffer the same misfortune. I told him of the harsh realities I suffered in silence each night and how my mother aged 10 years each time she saw my pulverized face. I never thought he would go this far. The young man had a heart and saw me as a personification of injustice. If all goes well tonight then perhaps tomorrow I'll find another girl. Given the chance I would tear out the liver of Alvarez and make him eat it. However I will admit he has taught me some tricks and I have two years to make up for.	I decided I wanted to tell him that I actually wasn't innocent. Honesty seemed like my best option with how little I knew about the situation. But I didn't know how to identify him, so I wrote a note that read "not innocent" and let it fall beneath the table, guessing he would see me do it and pick it up when the prisoners left the mess hall. I don't exactly know if he did, because I never heard anything back from him. ~~~ Sorry its pretty short, this is just how it played out in my head. I've never been in prison so I'm guessing the setting is a mess hall, but other people seem to think meals are delivered to your cell
	[WP] One day, you find a note in your breakfast; one of the guards knows you're innocent and is going to try to help you escape. You aren't innocent.	A young man sat alone in an ill fitting blue guardsman uniform in the second row of uncomfortable metal seats of the sky rail. He looked out the window into the dark sky and was thankful for the solitude, because he was nervous about his first shift as a guard at the Criminal Housing building of his city's Center. He could easily make out the imposing dark blue structure of his new workplace, brightly lit by the surrounding city against the pre-dawn morning sky, towering above the surrounding buildings. The Center was a massive, omni-purpose building made up of three rectangular box-like buildings, positioned in a triangular formation with one circular building placed in the center of the formation. Each of the outer buildings had massive, glass encased, brightly lit metal walkways protruding from the corner of the building, each connecting to the central building. The young man was able to see that the outer buildings each had an equal number of walkways, all of which were equidistant from each other. He continued to watch the building as the sky rail continued to hum, sliding towards it. His mind slowly wandered back to the events of last week, and instantly adding dejected hopelessness to his nervousness; causing him to look away from The Center, and towards the carpeted floor of the sky rail. She left because you were a loser with no job, no powers, and nothing going for you, the young man thought, this is your chance to start making something of yourself, your chance to move out of that shitty apartment, and your chance to show her that you are good enough. The door of the sky rail opened with a hiss, snapping him out of his depressed stupor. "Criminal Housing, New Breton Center", the calm voice emanating from the ceiling of the sky line said. The young man timidly exited the sky rail and stepped into the early morning air, onto the raised platform, and began to drudge slowly toward the base of the insurmountable building. He anxiously went over some of the protocols he learned last week during his orientation in his head as he walked, 1. Never remove an inmate's null-metal cuffs; 2. Never bring any unapproved objects into an inmate's cell; 3. Wear your identification badge at all tim--, his train of thought came to a jerking halt as he realized his immediate proximity to the entrance. He walked to the right side of the door, reaching to the badge clipped to the chest pocket of his uniform, he shakily unclipped the badge and held it up to the sensor, half expecting the door to not open. He was met with inflection-less voice, "Nathan Reston", followed by the smooth whooshing sound of the door opening vertically, revealing a dark hallway, leading to an elevator. Nathan, despite walking down this hallway just over a week ago, couldn't help but imagine the open door to be like the open maw of some terrible beast, ready to devour him whole. A desire to leave overwhelmed him, he knew this was a waste of time, nothing he did mattered anyways. "Don't be stupid, I am not wasting anymore chances", he muttered under his breath. He forced the thoughts out of his mind, and walked forward. Nathan stood, shoulders slumped, watching the display inside of the elevator tensely, it stopped a few floors shy of his intended floor. The doors smoothly opened to reveal a middle aged, straight backed man wearing the same guardsman uniform as Nathan, however, unlike Nathan, his hair was damp, and slicked back to fully expose his face. He had a face of sharp and pronounced angular features, Nathan felt as though he seeing a human version of a bird of prey. The man entered the elevator without looking at Nathan, and took his place in the elevator. Nathan continued to discreetly look at the man out of the corner of his eye, the man was a good three or four inches taller than Nathan, the man's uniform was completely free of blemishes and was obviously well maintained, however, it, like Nathan's uniform, did not fit properly. Nathan began to anxiously shift his weight from foot to foot, futilely willing his disheveled brown hair to tidy itself, and for his uniform to fit properly. The man looked over, noticing Nathan's nervous fidgeting, "Who are you, kid?", he said in a relaxed, smooth tone. "Nathan Reston, sir. Today is my first day", Nathan mumbled, still unconsciously fidgeting. The man turned to him and looked directly at Nathan, with a stone faced expression, and said, "Well Nathan, if you piss yourself while I am still in this elevator with you I will lock you in a cell for an hour with a violent pedophile". Nathan's face flushed as the elevator dinged, the doors opening again, he hadn't noticed that he had arrived to his floor. The man's expression softened with a chuckle, "looks like you made it Nathan, I guess Bulldozer is going to be lonely today". The flush drained from Nathan's face as he watched the man exit the elevator. Out of all the forty-nine floors in this building, he thought, still reeling from the embarrassment, I just had t--. "Well anyways, welcome to floor thirty-three, I am the captain of this floor, you may call me, um, 'Captain'. So, did you do your homework? Do you know what kind of criminals we keep here?" "Um, Telekinetics, right?", Nathan said, stepping into the large room, elevator doors closing behind. He glanced uneasily at the glass doors of the cells lining both of the walls, and at the metallic cage in the center of the room. "You are correct!", Captain said in a jovial voice, Nathan began to feel uncomfortable with this kind of out of place, eccentric, attitude. "So are you ready for the tour of our fine floor?", he asked, coming over and clapping Nathan on the back and dragging him further into the room. Captain pointed to the cage in the center of the room and said, "that is the control center for this room, it controls the alarms, the automated defenses, hell, it can even suck all the air right out of the room, killing everyone in it!", he made a whooshing sound to emphasize the last item on his list. "Where is everyone, sir? In orientation, they said that a morning crew has four people in it." Nathan asked, his confusion and anxiety putting him on edge. Captain glanced down at Nathan and said after a barely noticeable pause, "You are early, Nathan! The night crew clears out after giving the inmates their breakfast at five A.M., which is really nice of them, cause I hate having to go into those stinky-ass cells, they only get one shower a week you know." Captain glanced over at the cells, walked over to it, dragging Nathan behind him, and said, "let us continue the tour then! Here we have our favorite inmate, Johnathan Arko, the uh- previous day shift captain of this floor." Nathan saw a naked man curled into the fetal position on the floor of his cell, inmate uniform balled up in the corner of the cell. The man looked up, eyes wide, and attempted to scream something at Captain and I through the thick glass. Nathan stiffened, completely transfixed by the man in the cell, who was beginning to rise to his feet,"w-what?", Nathan stammered quietly. "Yea; Johnathan here is dumb as shit. I fed him a story about how I use telekinesis to steal from the rich so that I can give money to the poor, and he let me out! Can you believe that? Actually; I guess I do steal from the rich, but that's only because they have the most shit, and because it is fun!", Captain said in an amused voice accompanied by a smile. Johnathan began to pound on the glass, still shouting something, "yea, yea, I know, I would be upset if I were as stupid as you, too! Well, you did fuck up your identification card before I could take it, so I suppose you are not completely retarded", he continued, arm still wrapped around Nathan's shoulder. "But hey, at least you had good intentions", Captain's hand suddenly swiped diagonally upwards from his side and Johnathan's body promptly flew into the upper corner of the room. Captain then moved his hand straight down, resulting in Johnathan's limp body crashing back down into the ground, his body laid still, arm jutting out in an awkward angle, and skull cracked grotesquely, gushing blood steadily. Nathan's mind was a jumbled storm of terror and, to his shock, in the back of his mind he was fascinated with the display. He tried to find the words that would save his life, his consciousness was consumed by one thought, I don't want to die. "I-I-I--", he sputtered in his panic, completely frozen in his fear. Captain released Nathan and turned to him, his face had lost its happy jovial expression, and was replaced with a grim, almost sad expression, "I'm sorry kid, I like you, you remind me of myself when I was a kid, but I need your I.D. to escape -- and I can't risk you sounding the alarms on me". Captain raised his hand and Nathan had an odd sensation of floating; it was as though he were floating in a completely still pool, feeling the water press on him gently. Take a chance, you have nothing to lose, this could be so much better than some shitty job as a guard, Nathan thought. "Wait!", Nathan blurted out, "Take me with you, I know that I am probably completely worthless; but I can learn to be of use! Please--", his voice trailed off as his courage began to fade. Captain's smile returned.	I decided I wanted to tell him that I actually wasn't innocent. Honesty seemed like my best option with how little I knew about the situation. But I didn't know how to identify him, so I wrote a note that read "not innocent" and let it fall beneath the table, guessing he would see me do it and pick it up when the prisoners left the mess hall. I don't exactly know if he did, because I never heard anything back from him. ~~~ Sorry its pretty short, this is just how it played out in my head. I've never been in prison so I'm guessing the setting is a mess hall, but other people seem to think meals are delivered to your cell
	[WP] One day, you find a note in your breakfast; one of the guards knows you're innocent and is going to try to help you escape. You aren't innocent.	(Late to the party but here goes ...) It has been a strange two weeks. Lots of up and down. For a while it seemed like events were finally going my way - a judge was ready to review my case, the lawyers were optimistic. Then yesterday it all came to nothing. The appeal was denied. And I am back where I started. So many times in my time here I have been tempted to give up the pretense and yell out loud "Yes I did it! I killed her!". But I've held back, kept up the facade, never giving up all these years. And then, when Sarah came into my life it seemed like all my patience and hard work were finally paying off. I allowed myself to hope like I had never hoped before. Now my hopes have been crushed like snails on the sidewalk. I don't know if I can go on anymore. Sigh. Self pity. It never does anyone any good. Take it one day at a time. Breakfast time is almost over, I should get some food in me. I pick up my spoon and dip it warily in the sloppy mush before me. That's when I notice the folded piece of paper under the bowl. I glance around quickly, then pick it up and read it under the table. It reads a lot like the fan mail I sometimes get. But this one has been written by a guard! Someone who can actually help me! "I have followed your story with great interest and sympathy. No one who has seen you, talked to you, can doubt your innocence for a second. I believe you were framed. Personally I think Jay did it. But whoever is the guilty person, I'm sure you are innocent. I heard about your failed appeal. If our system won't give you justice, I will. I think I have figured out a way to get you out of here. I'll be in touch again soon. In the meantime, don't try to figure out my identity, keep your head down and go on as usual. Don't lose hope, together we will fix the injustice you have faced. Stay strong, Adnan! -- A Friend and Admirer." I smile. I knew that podcast would open doors for me! I eat a spoonful of the oatmeal and once again, allow myself to hope.	I decided I wanted to tell him that I actually wasn't innocent. Honesty seemed like my best option with how little I knew about the situation. But I didn't know how to identify him, so I wrote a note that read "not innocent" and let it fall beneath the table, guessing he would see me do it and pick it up when the prisoners left the mess hall. I don't exactly know if he did, because I never heard anything back from him. ~~~ Sorry its pretty short, this is just how it played out in my head. I've never been in prison so I'm guessing the setting is a mess hall, but other people seem to think meals are delivered to your cell
	[WP] One day, you find a note in your breakfast; one of the guards knows you're innocent and is going to try to help you escape. You aren't innocent.	I believe you are innocent. They were words I never thought I would hear, or see for that matter, mainly because they weren't true. I was far from innocent, even if the evidence they used in my case was fairly questionable, the Judge saw right through me and my "insanity" act. It wasn't long before the trial and the moment the door was slammed on my solitary confinement cell. A life sentence, no chance for parole, and ten years of solitary confinement. Good behavior didn't apply to someone like me. Yet those words, those five simple words, were staring back at me on a small piece of paper that was delivered with my daily lunch. It was the first time I had said anything in a long time, and even then, all I could muster was a long sigh. Who put the note there, I did not know, and why they believed I was innocent was a question I didn't want to ask, but also couldn't ask. All I knew was that someone, a guard or a cook, believed I was an innocent man and wrongly accused. I liked the idea of that. As I was in no position to try and talk back, I simply held onto the note. I waited it out in solitary, diligently searching through each and every one of his meals for another. I wanted to know more. Anything that would help me identify the person behind the original note. It was, according to my best estimates, six months after the first note that the second one arrived. The same, triple-folded, white stock paper, no bigger than the palm of his hand, with a black Sharpie used to write the note showed up under his soup bowl. I have a plan. The note's started to come more frequently after that. I stashed them in my pillow case every time another arrived and within the year, I had seven notes. All of which were attempting to explain to me the big plan the mysterious writer had put in place. For someone as bright as a man trying to break someone out of maximum security prison, he must not have looked into my case very well to know the difference between an innocent man and a man like me. The last note I received was before the planned breakout. It detailed the moment in which I were to escape from my cell and where I was to go. It was pretty simple in writing, but I knew the moment the shots started, things would go crazy. Whoever this guy was had a good idea, but he was failing in the execution. I needed a bigger diversion, something that would keep every guard, cook, and worker in this prison busy while I escaped. I had to try and get a note to him before the big day. I used a pebble from my cell, one of the ones that fell off from the constant torment of prisoners, and I carved a simple message onto the tray. Need riot. -DB It wasn't noticeable if you weren't looking for it, carefully written so it could buried by the bowl, cup, and wooden spoon. Even if they did find it, the worse that could happen was a beating and I had gone through plenty of those days in my time on the streets. It wasn't long before the mysterious writer agreed to my terms. A week later, I received another note, the last one. That was dumb. Plans arranged. Good luck. -S The fact that this one was signed threw me off. Until now, I had no inclination of who this mysterious writer was or what their role in the prison was, but I finally had a clue. I figured "S" stood for a name, it was the only thing that made sense. The moment of my escape was coming and I could almost feel the wind upon my face again. All I had to do was wait. ____ My dinner tray had been taken two rounds ago, which usually meant two hours. Every time a security guard walked in front of my door, it reset the clock. It had been seven weeks since my latest note, and still, I had heard nothing and received no inclination that the escape was still on. For all I knew, whoever was writing the messages was caught and tried. That was until my door cracked open. It wasn't something you would notice if you had better things to do, but I had been stuck in this six by eight cell for almost two years now. I noticed the little things, even ones as simple as a slight shift in the breeze of my cell. It was open, my freedom was in front of me. I was careful, of course. I walked up to the door slowly and deliberately. There was no indication that a guard was on the other side, but I had to be careful, I had gotten this far without any--- "Hey," a voice on the other side said, "you best get moving." The door opened quickly and a small, young man was on the other side. At best, he was in his early twenty's and he dawned the attire of a security guard. But something about him screamed criminal, something in my heart told me I knew this kid before. "Who are you?" The kid laughed a bit and then lifted his helmet. I recognized the face, it was one of my prodigies that helped me run crimes back in my hay-day. He was an excellent bank robber. Tiny, so he could get through all the nooks and crannies. "Hopkins?" He nodded excitingly, "In the flesh, boss." "What the hell are you doing here?" "I'm helping bust you out," he slid his helmet back on, "we best get moving. That riot won't last forever." I didn't hesitate and I started to follow him down the hallway. Every single cell door had been opened and there were several unconscious officers and guards every few feet. "Why didn't I hear any of this?" "Oh, me and the boys set this up." Hopkins shrugged, "Wanted to make it look like a struggle." I nodded, that was smart of them. It would make the riot look more believable, that it spread through the entire prison before being shut down. All it took was a few well-placed bodies. Before long, Hopkins and I were in the cafeteria, where the brunt of the riot seemed to have taken place. "We started it here," he murmured as he straddled himself over unconscious and possibly dead bodies, "in case you were wondering." "Who set this up?" Hopkins chuckled, "Don't worry, you'll be meeting them shortly." I raised an eyebrow. I had been out of the game for a while, two years in prison, another three in isolation, six more for health, I just hoped they remembered who the boss was. "Helicopter on the roof is going to fly you right out of here." "A helicopter? That seems excessive." "You want to hear excessive?" Hopkins kicked a guard in the face as he lept over a table and towards the stairwell, "The helicopter is going to crash land in the ocean, you and the pilot will survive of course, but two body doubles are going to be placed inside." Hopkins started moving up the stairs, I tried to keep up, but it had been a while since I moved any muscle in this way. "You'll be picked up by boat and brought to the new HQ?" "And that'd be?" "Don't want to spoil the surprise just yet!" _____ Continued in second comment due to length.	I decided I wanted to tell him that I actually wasn't innocent. Honesty seemed like my best option with how little I knew about the situation. But I didn't know how to identify him, so I wrote a note that read "not innocent" and let it fall beneath the table, guessing he would see me do it and pick it up when the prisoners left the mess hall. I don't exactly know if he did, because I never heard anything back from him. ~~~ Sorry its pretty short, this is just how it played out in my head. I've never been in prison so I'm guessing the setting is a mess hall, but other people seem to think meals are delivered to your cell
	[WP] One day, you find a note in your breakfast; one of the guards knows you're innocent and is going to try to help you escape. You aren't innocent.	To be honest, I almost ate it. 'I know you don’t belong here, be ready when the dinner plates cycle.' My stomach rumbled more than it usually did at the mush the prison called breakfast. I stared at the note with a mixture of relief and surprise. Someone had believed me. Someone actually believed me. When the sound echoed from my belly again, I shoved the note back into the mush and decided the best way to keep whoever my guardian angel was safe was to destroy the evidence. The paper proved tastier than any of the meals I had in the week I had been behind the bars. I shared my usual quip with the guards outside my cell - what I wouldn’t give for a roast - then went back to the bunk. I couldn’t help the smile that worked its way onto my face. They, perhaps, could have given me just a little more information. Be ready for what? A loud explosion? A hole to be dug? Were they the night guard? My surprise was nonexistent at the slug pace the day had. The sun, for the brief time it was above the outside wall, crawled along the cell. My family hadn’t been able to save me from a sentence, but at least I was alone and comfortable. More than those thuggish brutes a few doors down could say. When the final plate of the day slid under the door to my cell, I picked it up and prodded the mashed potatoes. I think they were mashed potatoes. Either way, I felt something harder than the wooden plate chink under my spoon. With a bit of digging, the brass key shimmered in the rapidly disappearing light. I slid it out, then sat on it while I ate. If I were doing any sort of sneaking out this evening, I would need as much energy as I could achieve. “Elizabeth, ma’am?” I grimaced at the whisper when I opened the meal-flap to the door. “Just wait for the sun to go down, then I can lead you to your mother. She’s right upset about all this.” “I--” I choked on the words. “I can’t wait to see her again.” As I rolled the thought in my head, I came to the conclusion that this guard was simply gullible. But, in any case, he tapped my door quietly once the last armored footsteps faded from the outside. I slid the key out of him, and my heart pounded at the sound of the lock unhitching. When the door open, I flung myself to him, trying to force tears down my face. “Oh, thank you. Thank you!” I whispered. He awkwardly patted my back, his face a brilliant red, even in the dim light. “O-Of course, ma’am. Please, this way!” He ran me through the halls, making far more noise than if I had gone on my own. He opened a side door in a dark corner of the guards’ common room, motioning for me to go first. The hallway led straight outside, and I froze in the moonlight. This city truly did not have enough guards. The one that followed me pulled me to the far wall. He unlocked a door that I would have missed without any assistance and led me into the city. I saw my mother waiting in an alley only a few minutes later. I burst into tears, rushing to her. We embraced, both overwhelmed. She sputtered her thanks to the guard. His bashful response lasted too long. “Please,” my mother said tearfully. “I just… Thank you. You should get back before anyone notices, I would hate for you to get in trouble.” It took him a moment to realize what she meant. When he rounded the corner, out of sight, my mother smacked me upside the head. “Ten thousand gold, and you screw it up,” she hissed. I grimaced. “I did it, though, it’s not my fault no one told me his freaking personal guard were elves.” “You didn’t think an elven ambassador would have elven guards?” My mother rubbed her face face, then took a deep breath. “No. No, I promised your father I wouldn’t do this. For some reason, your court pleas worked. The Black Hand wasn’t mentioned at all.” I did a small fist pump of victory. It earned me another smack. “Don’t get comfortable. You still can’t be in the city, and we have just the contract to make sure of that.”	I decided I wanted to tell him that I actually wasn't innocent. Honesty seemed like my best option with how little I knew about the situation. But I didn't know how to identify him, so I wrote a note that read "not innocent" and let it fall beneath the table, guessing he would see me do it and pick it up when the prisoners left the mess hall. I don't exactly know if he did, because I never heard anything back from him. ~~~ Sorry its pretty short, this is just how it played out in my head. I've never been in prison so I'm guessing the setting is a mess hall, but other people seem to think meals are delivered to your cell
	[WP] One day, you find a note in your breakfast; one of the guards knows you're innocent and is going to try to help you escape. You aren't innocent.	I was sitting there studying my bread roll, trying to decide if the slightly odd discoloration was mold. I rotated the roll to see if the underside had any other odd patches when I noticed it. A small hole, something white barely peeking out. A small piece of paper, it appeared. I removed the paper, which was tightly rolled up and under an inch long and discreetly tucked it into my shoe. This was clearly important and I didn't want to read it in the cafeteria. We were closely watched, and I had no idea what the message contained, nor from whom it came. Later, after much patience, I finally found a window of opportunity. I was reclined on my bunk in my cell, as I had opted not to spend my recreational time in the yard, on the grounds that it was too cold out and I had recently been ill. I leaned back on my bunk, and carefully unrolled the paper, shielding it with my favorite novel. "know u dint do it gona get u out 3am wait at ur cell n keep quite -CO jameson" I must say, I cringed. This was not the manner I would have delivered such news, but well, I suppose it was good news, and I had no right to be particular in my predicament. Although I shouldn't have been so surprised that a correctional officer wouldn't have the greatest grasp of the English language per se. However, I found the idea of this C.O. Jameson being the sender of this message as quite a surprise. We had barely ever had an interaction, save for the time I did find myself staring at his face, wondering if I had seen it before. There was a very familiar quality to it, as though I had seen him before. I do remember feeling slightly embarrassed when he caught me staring. Even at this particular institution I tried to remember to mind societal norms. It was very trying at times, but my reputation had spared me from any harassment to my person. Later that night, as I sat awake waiting for C.O. Jameson, I started to think even harder on the possible motive for his actions, risky as they were. Why me? I was clearly guilty. I had an audience of witnesses to my crimes. Ah, my poor wife, her poor family. I hadn't meant to murder her in such a manner, heavens no. I believe I had a drop too much, and out it all came, days, and weeks, and months, and years of build-up anger and aggression in one day. I'd have rather slowly poisoned her. But I digress, you know all of this already. The appointed time had come. C.O. Jameson whispered at the cell, asking if I were ready. I approached as he slid open the door, not exactly as silently as I would have liked. He told me to follow him, and I went along behind him, advancing to the front of the main lobby. He turned to me and explained that his father was a ardent reader of my novels, and in fact had been one of my students at Cambridge. C.O. Jameson's father had insisted that I had absolutely no involvement with the death of my wife, and I suppose my young guard, wanting to please his father, had decided to assist in my escape. I asked C.O. Jameson for the name of his father and the year of his enrollment in my course. Phillip Jameson, he told me, and the year was 1962. Ah, yes, I remembered his father quite well. I was his mentor, he, my most prized pupil. He clung to every word I said, and retained even the most complex ideas easily. I suppose I would say he had an almost aggressive desire to learn. I always wondered what had become of him. I left the prison shortly after, but not before asking him to send my kindest regards to his father. I then walked to an area he had indicated, finding a small parcel with a change of clothing and some currency. I made my way quite easily to the home of my only sister, Rosalie. I sat safely in her home for a week, pondering the circumstances I were now in. This young man who had saved me; the son of my best pupil. What I wouldn't give to have someone like his father again. And this poor young man, who was working among the worst of humanity. His father didn't deserve that, his father deserved a well-educated son with higher ambitions and a sharp intellect. These circumstances are the reason I am writing this now. I returned to the prison a week from my departure, and informed the authorities the manner of my escape as well as the name of my assistant. C.O. Jameson, I hope, will find the time he will spend as my student to be very informative. I would like to see him develop a love of learning just like Phillip Jameson, my greatest accomplishment. I write this confession of my full and free will. Yours, Professor Steven Breckinridge	I decided I wanted to tell him that I actually wasn't innocent. Honesty seemed like my best option with how little I knew about the situation. But I didn't know how to identify him, so I wrote a note that read "not innocent" and let it fall beneath the table, guessing he would see me do it and pick it up when the prisoners left the mess hall. I don't exactly know if he did, because I never heard anything back from him. ~~~ Sorry its pretty short, this is just how it played out in my head. I've never been in prison so I'm guessing the setting is a mess hall, but other people seem to think meals are delivered to your cell
	[WP] One day, you find a note in your breakfast; one of the guards knows you're innocent and is going to try to help you escape. You aren't innocent.	Guantanamo Bay was so much nicer than my desk job in DC. They even give us hummus butt-smoothies here. Do you know how much you would pay for that sort of thing in California? But as the CIA operative behind the 9/11 conspiracy, I knew my time was limited. Then one day, I was handed my ticket home. "I know you are innocent. Jet fuel can't melt steel beams," it said. I read it again and looked at the guard. It wasn't the usual one. He looked distinctly Arabic, and his right hand was somehow... robotic? "I am Cyber bin Laden. Come with me." He unlocked my cell door and led me outside through the tennis court and day spa to the helicopter pad. There on the launchpad was a magical goat with lasers for eyes. "Is this real?" I asked bin Laden. "Yes. The technology has been in wide use since the 1940's, but the same UFO crash that led to this also helped us develop chem-trail tech. No one will remember we were here." As we both mounted the magical steed, Cyber bin Laden threw back his head and cackled. "Now to destroy Christmas! AHAHAHA!"	I decided I wanted to tell him that I actually wasn't innocent. Honesty seemed like my best option with how little I knew about the situation. But I didn't know how to identify him, so I wrote a note that read "not innocent" and let it fall beneath the table, guessing he would see me do it and pick it up when the prisoners left the mess hall. I don't exactly know if he did, because I never heard anything back from him. ~~~ Sorry its pretty short, this is just how it played out in my head. I've never been in prison so I'm guessing the setting is a mess hall, but other people seem to think meals are delivered to your cell
	[WP] One day, you find a note in your breakfast; one of the guards knows you're innocent and is going to try to help you escape. You aren't innocent.	I took my usual seat with the rest of the untouchables in the back left corner of the dining hall. After a short grunt of acknowledgement accompanied by a nod to the familiar group of outcasts, I picked up my spoon and began to eat. Surveying the Wednesday meal consisting of a milk carton, bland cereal and half an apple strained my blackened right eye and caused it to tear up. But the cold metal of the spoon felt soothing to my swollen hand so I tried to think of that feeling and nothing else. Between the painful beatings and other brutal humiliations that have become routine, momentary sensations of comfort or relief must be dwelled upon with an iron focus if I am to keep going. It would be easy to let memories of my cellmate Alvarez with his strong and cruel grip in the night circulate my thoughts. He always whispered in my ear that I deserved it and that he was doing God's work by punishing me. It started almost as soon as I entered my cell two years ago. My Mother burst into tears the first time she saw me. I'll never forget the helpless anguish in her voice as she could only utter "My boy, oh my little boy" again and again. I knew from the experience of other untouchables that there was no alternative but to endure it. If I told the guards I would be met with a smirk or holed up in solitary for my 'protection". After a week, you lose your nerves and claw the walls. After a month, your personality breaks down and you begin to regress into a shell of what was once a thinking being. After a year it is hard to say. As I scooped up a dripping morsel of cereal I noticed with my good eye a small piece of paper tucked beneath the bowl. As casually as I could, I plucked it out and undid the several folds which revealed a few lines of handwriting. It was a note. "Get admitted to the infirmary, tonight's the night". A wave of excitement caused a slight smile to curl around my battered lips. It had worked. Months of preparation and luck had led up to this moment. First I had to find the right kind of guard. He had to be young, naive and still able to see a shred of goodness amongst the wretched herd within these walls. A relationship had to be formed. For weeks I told him my story of how I was falsely accused and convicted. How the girl's father made her lie for the sake of the family's honour. He had grown up in a small town south of the border before coming here with his family and had friends who suffered the same misfortune. The power of religious values and the scrutiny of the community had caused some his friends to suffer the same misfortune. I told him of the harsh realities I suffered in silence each night and how my mother aged 10 years each time she saw my pulverized face. I never thought he would go this far. The young man had a heart and saw me as a personification of injustice. If all goes well tonight then perhaps tomorrow I'll find another girl. Given the chance I would tear out the liver of Alvarez and make him eat it. However I will admit he has taught me some tricks and I have two years to make up for.	Damn, I'm always late to the good prompts! Anyway, here we go. ###Second Chances I see my world and the entirety of my presence in it. My life before my eyes as I ask a silent sky: what led me to this point? Born too young to a mother who didn't survive me; I spent my life ensuring no one else would die before they could see their son, or grow up without a mother. Would she have been proud of the path I chose? My father was. A great man who nurtured my passion for healing until the day he himself fell to time. That was a low for me. It was around then that I was called to war. A battle between two sides of a playground argument, where all those to pay were merely pieces on a board. I fix such pieces. For years the battle raged. Knives to guns, rocks to rockets, there were no shortage of tools for the destruction of man. All the while I sat there in a sanctuary where all sides were welcome. I'd healed both friend and foe for so long that I'd forgotten which was which. They hadn't. I was consoling a boy one day; trying my best to wipe away his tears as I apologised for my own ineptitude. Whether it be because of skill, medicine, luck, or all of these combined; no reason is good enough for a boy who will never again see his father. I still had the man’s blood on me as the child ran away down the corridor. A flickering light acted as transition between his fleeing figure and that of a squadron of approaching armed men. These uniforms I had seen before, but usually with limbs missing. Now they came for me, and led me to the next chapter of my life as a prisoner of war. I'd personally saved some of these bastards and here they were on guard duty. Time passed. Fifteen years had left me in my late thirties and with nothing but four walls and a piece of bread to my name. The cells beside me were once filled with my countrymen but one by one they were led out. I'm now all that's left. I look down at the loaf and notice something baked into the warm crumb. A note. "Be ready at the chimes of midnight" I stay up that night, anxiously running my hands through unkempt hair as I ask question after question. What was I waiting for? Who was coming? The chimes strike and my usual guard is nowhere to be seen. Instead a much younger man appears with full chef attire and key in hand. "Come quickly!" he urges as the cell door swings open. "But I... they said I was leaving in a week... maybe I should—" "They lied!" he yells in a whisper to my frightened concerns. "They’re going to take you to your death. Come with me now or face it" I don't require convincing. We go right, a few turns here and there and then before I even have a chance to appreciate how close freedom has been all these years, I have it. We are outside. The moonlight bathes me in its cold glow as an icy chill rushes past me. I embrace it. I absorb every hint of night air. Its crisp texture fills my lungs and spin on the spot in delight. "Thank you" I say breathless to the man behind me. I'm still staring at the moon when I continue my appreciation "You've given me a second chance and I promise you it will not be wasted" "They were going to free you" he says from behind me. I simply laugh in return, lost by his last statement "Then why did you free me—" I can't finish. I feel cold on my back for a split-second before it's violently pulled away. I turn and look down to see my near-black blood cake an otherwise flawless piece of metal. He puts the kitchen knife back in; repeatedly thrusting its blade into my sternum. I can't speak. I can't ask why. I can simply look confused as I slump to the ground. "That was for my father" *** Thanks a lot for taking the time to read. All criticism is greatly welcomed. I apologise if I made some mistakes, I was awoken and 2:30 am and haven't been able to sleep since. Still lying in bed as I write this. Some more of my works (complete with readings) can be found on my sub over at [/r/viz0r](https://www.reddit.com/r/viz0r/search?sort=new&restrict_sr=on&q=flair%3AReading) Again, that's for reading.
	[WP] One day, you find a note in your breakfast; one of the guards knows you're innocent and is going to try to help you escape. You aren't innocent.	I believe you are innocent. They were words I never thought I would hear, or see for that matter, mainly because they weren't true. I was far from innocent, even if the evidence they used in my case was fairly questionable, the Judge saw right through me and my "insanity" act. It wasn't long before the trial and the moment the door was slammed on my solitary confinement cell. A life sentence, no chance for parole, and ten years of solitary confinement. Good behavior didn't apply to someone like me. Yet those words, those five simple words, were staring back at me on a small piece of paper that was delivered with my daily lunch. It was the first time I had said anything in a long time, and even then, all I could muster was a long sigh. Who put the note there, I did not know, and why they believed I was innocent was a question I didn't want to ask, but also couldn't ask. All I knew was that someone, a guard or a cook, believed I was an innocent man and wrongly accused. I liked the idea of that. As I was in no position to try and talk back, I simply held onto the note. I waited it out in solitary, diligently searching through each and every one of his meals for another. I wanted to know more. Anything that would help me identify the person behind the original note. It was, according to my best estimates, six months after the first note that the second one arrived. The same, triple-folded, white stock paper, no bigger than the palm of his hand, with a black Sharpie used to write the note showed up under his soup bowl. I have a plan. The note's started to come more frequently after that. I stashed them in my pillow case every time another arrived and within the year, I had seven notes. All of which were attempting to explain to me the big plan the mysterious writer had put in place. For someone as bright as a man trying to break someone out of maximum security prison, he must not have looked into my case very well to know the difference between an innocent man and a man like me. The last note I received was before the planned breakout. It detailed the moment in which I were to escape from my cell and where I was to go. It was pretty simple in writing, but I knew the moment the shots started, things would go crazy. Whoever this guy was had a good idea, but he was failing in the execution. I needed a bigger diversion, something that would keep every guard, cook, and worker in this prison busy while I escaped. I had to try and get a note to him before the big day. I used a pebble from my cell, one of the ones that fell off from the constant torment of prisoners, and I carved a simple message onto the tray. Need riot. -DB It wasn't noticeable if you weren't looking for it, carefully written so it could buried by the bowl, cup, and wooden spoon. Even if they did find it, the worse that could happen was a beating and I had gone through plenty of those days in my time on the streets. It wasn't long before the mysterious writer agreed to my terms. A week later, I received another note, the last one. That was dumb. Plans arranged. Good luck. -S The fact that this one was signed threw me off. Until now, I had no inclination of who this mysterious writer was or what their role in the prison was, but I finally had a clue. I figured "S" stood for a name, it was the only thing that made sense. The moment of my escape was coming and I could almost feel the wind upon my face again. All I had to do was wait. ____ My dinner tray had been taken two rounds ago, which usually meant two hours. Every time a security guard walked in front of my door, it reset the clock. It had been seven weeks since my latest note, and still, I had heard nothing and received no inclination that the escape was still on. For all I knew, whoever was writing the messages was caught and tried. That was until my door cracked open. It wasn't something you would notice if you had better things to do, but I had been stuck in this six by eight cell for almost two years now. I noticed the little things, even ones as simple as a slight shift in the breeze of my cell. It was open, my freedom was in front of me. I was careful, of course. I walked up to the door slowly and deliberately. There was no indication that a guard was on the other side, but I had to be careful, I had gotten this far without any--- "Hey," a voice on the other side said, "you best get moving." The door opened quickly and a small, young man was on the other side. At best, he was in his early twenty's and he dawned the attire of a security guard. But something about him screamed criminal, something in my heart told me I knew this kid before. "Who are you?" The kid laughed a bit and then lifted his helmet. I recognized the face, it was one of my prodigies that helped me run crimes back in my hay-day. He was an excellent bank robber. Tiny, so he could get through all the nooks and crannies. "Hopkins?" He nodded excitingly, "In the flesh, boss." "What the hell are you doing here?" "I'm helping bust you out," he slid his helmet back on, "we best get moving. That riot won't last forever." I didn't hesitate and I started to follow him down the hallway. Every single cell door had been opened and there were several unconscious officers and guards every few feet. "Why didn't I hear any of this?" "Oh, me and the boys set this up." Hopkins shrugged, "Wanted to make it look like a struggle." I nodded, that was smart of them. It would make the riot look more believable, that it spread through the entire prison before being shut down. All it took was a few well-placed bodies. Before long, Hopkins and I were in the cafeteria, where the brunt of the riot seemed to have taken place. "We started it here," he murmured as he straddled himself over unconscious and possibly dead bodies, "in case you were wondering." "Who set this up?" Hopkins chuckled, "Don't worry, you'll be meeting them shortly." I raised an eyebrow. I had been out of the game for a while, two years in prison, another three in isolation, six more for health, I just hoped they remembered who the boss was. "Helicopter on the roof is going to fly you right out of here." "A helicopter? That seems excessive." "You want to hear excessive?" Hopkins kicked a guard in the face as he lept over a table and towards the stairwell, "The helicopter is going to crash land in the ocean, you and the pilot will survive of course, but two body doubles are going to be placed inside." Hopkins started moving up the stairs, I tried to keep up, but it had been a while since I moved any muscle in this way. "You'll be picked up by boat and brought to the new HQ?" "And that'd be?" "Don't want to spoil the surprise just yet!" _____ Continued in second comment due to length.	Damn, I'm always late to the good prompts! Anyway, here we go. ###Second Chances I see my world and the entirety of my presence in it. My life before my eyes as I ask a silent sky: what led me to this point? Born too young to a mother who didn't survive me; I spent my life ensuring no one else would die before they could see their son, or grow up without a mother. Would she have been proud of the path I chose? My father was. A great man who nurtured my passion for healing until the day he himself fell to time. That was a low for me. It was around then that I was called to war. A battle between two sides of a playground argument, where all those to pay were merely pieces on a board. I fix such pieces. For years the battle raged. Knives to guns, rocks to rockets, there were no shortage of tools for the destruction of man. All the while I sat there in a sanctuary where all sides were welcome. I'd healed both friend and foe for so long that I'd forgotten which was which. They hadn't. I was consoling a boy one day; trying my best to wipe away his tears as I apologised for my own ineptitude. Whether it be because of skill, medicine, luck, or all of these combined; no reason is good enough for a boy who will never again see his father. I still had the man’s blood on me as the child ran away down the corridor. A flickering light acted as transition between his fleeing figure and that of a squadron of approaching armed men. These uniforms I had seen before, but usually with limbs missing. Now they came for me, and led me to the next chapter of my life as a prisoner of war. I'd personally saved some of these bastards and here they were on guard duty. Time passed. Fifteen years had left me in my late thirties and with nothing but four walls and a piece of bread to my name. The cells beside me were once filled with my countrymen but one by one they were led out. I'm now all that's left. I look down at the loaf and notice something baked into the warm crumb. A note. "Be ready at the chimes of midnight" I stay up that night, anxiously running my hands through unkempt hair as I ask question after question. What was I waiting for? Who was coming? The chimes strike and my usual guard is nowhere to be seen. Instead a much younger man appears with full chef attire and key in hand. "Come quickly!" he urges as the cell door swings open. "But I... they said I was leaving in a week... maybe I should—" "They lied!" he yells in a whisper to my frightened concerns. "They’re going to take you to your death. Come with me now or face it" I don't require convincing. We go right, a few turns here and there and then before I even have a chance to appreciate how close freedom has been all these years, I have it. We are outside. The moonlight bathes me in its cold glow as an icy chill rushes past me. I embrace it. I absorb every hint of night air. Its crisp texture fills my lungs and spin on the spot in delight. "Thank you" I say breathless to the man behind me. I'm still staring at the moon when I continue my appreciation "You've given me a second chance and I promise you it will not be wasted" "They were going to free you" he says from behind me. I simply laugh in return, lost by his last statement "Then why did you free me—" I can't finish. I feel cold on my back for a split-second before it's violently pulled away. I turn and look down to see my near-black blood cake an otherwise flawless piece of metal. He puts the kitchen knife back in; repeatedly thrusting its blade into my sternum. I can't speak. I can't ask why. I can simply look confused as I slump to the ground. "That was for my father" *** Thanks a lot for taking the time to read. All criticism is greatly welcomed. I apologise if I made some mistakes, I was awoken and 2:30 am and haven't been able to sleep since. Still lying in bed as I write this. Some more of my works (complete with readings) can be found on my sub over at [/r/viz0r](https://www.reddit.com/r/viz0r/search?sort=new&restrict_sr=on&q=flair%3AReading) Again, that's for reading.
	[WP] One day, you find a note in your breakfast; one of the guards knows you're innocent and is going to try to help you escape. You aren't innocent.	A young man sat alone in an ill fitting blue guardsman uniform in the second row of uncomfortable metal seats of the sky rail. He looked out the window into the dark sky and was thankful for the solitude, because he was nervous about his first shift as a guard at the Criminal Housing building of his city's Center. He could easily make out the imposing dark blue structure of his new workplace, brightly lit by the surrounding city against the pre-dawn morning sky, towering above the surrounding buildings. The Center was a massive, omni-purpose building made up of three rectangular box-like buildings, positioned in a triangular formation with one circular building placed in the center of the formation. Each of the outer buildings had massive, glass encased, brightly lit metal walkways protruding from the corner of the building, each connecting to the central building. The young man was able to see that the outer buildings each had an equal number of walkways, all of which were equidistant from each other. He continued to watch the building as the sky rail continued to hum, sliding towards it. His mind slowly wandered back to the events of last week, and instantly adding dejected hopelessness to his nervousness; causing him to look away from The Center, and towards the carpeted floor of the sky rail. She left because you were a loser with no job, no powers, and nothing going for you, the young man thought, this is your chance to start making something of yourself, your chance to move out of that shitty apartment, and your chance to show her that you are good enough. The door of the sky rail opened with a hiss, snapping him out of his depressed stupor. "Criminal Housing, New Breton Center", the calm voice emanating from the ceiling of the sky line said. The young man timidly exited the sky rail and stepped into the early morning air, onto the raised platform, and began to drudge slowly toward the base of the insurmountable building. He anxiously went over some of the protocols he learned last week during his orientation in his head as he walked, 1. Never remove an inmate's null-metal cuffs; 2. Never bring any unapproved objects into an inmate's cell; 3. Wear your identification badge at all tim--, his train of thought came to a jerking halt as he realized his immediate proximity to the entrance. He walked to the right side of the door, reaching to the badge clipped to the chest pocket of his uniform, he shakily unclipped the badge and held it up to the sensor, half expecting the door to not open. He was met with inflection-less voice, "Nathan Reston", followed by the smooth whooshing sound of the door opening vertically, revealing a dark hallway, leading to an elevator. Nathan, despite walking down this hallway just over a week ago, couldn't help but imagine the open door to be like the open maw of some terrible beast, ready to devour him whole. A desire to leave overwhelmed him, he knew this was a waste of time, nothing he did mattered anyways. "Don't be stupid, I am not wasting anymore chances", he muttered under his breath. He forced the thoughts out of his mind, and walked forward. Nathan stood, shoulders slumped, watching the display inside of the elevator tensely, it stopped a few floors shy of his intended floor. The doors smoothly opened to reveal a middle aged, straight backed man wearing the same guardsman uniform as Nathan, however, unlike Nathan, his hair was damp, and slicked back to fully expose his face. He had a face of sharp and pronounced angular features, Nathan felt as though he seeing a human version of a bird of prey. The man entered the elevator without looking at Nathan, and took his place in the elevator. Nathan continued to discreetly look at the man out of the corner of his eye, the man was a good three or four inches taller than Nathan, the man's uniform was completely free of blemishes and was obviously well maintained, however, it, like Nathan's uniform, did not fit properly. Nathan began to anxiously shift his weight from foot to foot, futilely willing his disheveled brown hair to tidy itself, and for his uniform to fit properly. The man looked over, noticing Nathan's nervous fidgeting, "Who are you, kid?", he said in a relaxed, smooth tone. "Nathan Reston, sir. Today is my first day", Nathan mumbled, still unconsciously fidgeting. The man turned to him and looked directly at Nathan, with a stone faced expression, and said, "Well Nathan, if you piss yourself while I am still in this elevator with you I will lock you in a cell for an hour with a violent pedophile". Nathan's face flushed as the elevator dinged, the doors opening again, he hadn't noticed that he had arrived to his floor. The man's expression softened with a chuckle, "looks like you made it Nathan, I guess Bulldozer is going to be lonely today". The flush drained from Nathan's face as he watched the man exit the elevator. Out of all the forty-nine floors in this building, he thought, still reeling from the embarrassment, I just had t--. "Well anyways, welcome to floor thirty-three, I am the captain of this floor, you may call me, um, 'Captain'. So, did you do your homework? Do you know what kind of criminals we keep here?" "Um, Telekinetics, right?", Nathan said, stepping into the large room, elevator doors closing behind. He glanced uneasily at the glass doors of the cells lining both of the walls, and at the metallic cage in the center of the room. "You are correct!", Captain said in a jovial voice, Nathan began to feel uncomfortable with this kind of out of place, eccentric, attitude. "So are you ready for the tour of our fine floor?", he asked, coming over and clapping Nathan on the back and dragging him further into the room. Captain pointed to the cage in the center of the room and said, "that is the control center for this room, it controls the alarms, the automated defenses, hell, it can even suck all the air right out of the room, killing everyone in it!", he made a whooshing sound to emphasize the last item on his list. "Where is everyone, sir? In orientation, they said that a morning crew has four people in it." Nathan asked, his confusion and anxiety putting him on edge. Captain glanced down at Nathan and said after a barely noticeable pause, "You are early, Nathan! The night crew clears out after giving the inmates their breakfast at five A.M., which is really nice of them, cause I hate having to go into those stinky-ass cells, they only get one shower a week you know." Captain glanced over at the cells, walked over to it, dragging Nathan behind him, and said, "let us continue the tour then! Here we have our favorite inmate, Johnathan Arko, the uh- previous day shift captain of this floor." Nathan saw a naked man curled into the fetal position on the floor of his cell, inmate uniform balled up in the corner of the cell. The man looked up, eyes wide, and attempted to scream something at Captain and I through the thick glass. Nathan stiffened, completely transfixed by the man in the cell, who was beginning to rise to his feet,"w-what?", Nathan stammered quietly. "Yea; Johnathan here is dumb as shit. I fed him a story about how I use telekinesis to steal from the rich so that I can give money to the poor, and he let me out! Can you believe that? Actually; I guess I do steal from the rich, but that's only because they have the most shit, and because it is fun!", Captain said in an amused voice accompanied by a smile. Johnathan began to pound on the glass, still shouting something, "yea, yea, I know, I would be upset if I were as stupid as you, too! Well, you did fuck up your identification card before I could take it, so I suppose you are not completely retarded", he continued, arm still wrapped around Nathan's shoulder. "But hey, at least you had good intentions", Captain's hand suddenly swiped diagonally upwards from his side and Johnathan's body promptly flew into the upper corner of the room. Captain then moved his hand straight down, resulting in Johnathan's limp body crashing back down into the ground, his body laid still, arm jutting out in an awkward angle, and skull cracked grotesquely, gushing blood steadily. Nathan's mind was a jumbled storm of terror and, to his shock, in the back of his mind he was fascinated with the display. He tried to find the words that would save his life, his consciousness was consumed by one thought, I don't want to die. "I-I-I--", he sputtered in his panic, completely frozen in his fear. Captain released Nathan and turned to him, his face had lost its happy jovial expression, and was replaced with a grim, almost sad expression, "I'm sorry kid, I like you, you remind me of myself when I was a kid, but I need your I.D. to escape -- and I can't risk you sounding the alarms on me". Captain raised his hand and Nathan had an odd sensation of floating; it was as though he were floating in a completely still pool, feeling the water press on him gently. Take a chance, you have nothing to lose, this could be so much better than some shitty job as a guard, Nathan thought. "Wait!", Nathan blurted out, "Take me with you, I know that I am probably completely worthless; but I can learn to be of use! Please--", his voice trailed off as his courage began to fade. Captain's smile returned.	I deserved what I was getting, I knew that much. Unfortunately, I lost all the money I had hoarded over the years in a fire a few weeks before I was arrested, so I couldn't afford a good lawyer. Ironically, it's the same fire that got me caught. It's been a year or so since the prosecution. I don't really know how long exactly. I was caught December 4th, 2014. I know it's almost Christmas because I see guards give an inmate the occasional gift from the outside. Some people are allowed to receive mail. I'm not one of those, unfortunately. Luckily, I have one perk. Even though I murdered 10 people, my lawyer was good enough to get me into regular prison. Food in prison wasn't that great. I got to order what I wanted, although the selection was limited and I had to do it while I was getting dinner. They always mixed up my food. I'd get eggs and toast when I wanted to get oatmeal. And vice versa. I'm glad I'm not in high security with the animals that are in there. These people aren't that much better, but at least I won't get killed by them. Or at least, there's a smaller chance I was surprised when I got the letter under my plate of food. A greasy piece of paper read: "We know you are innocent. We will help you escape at 5:00 am Christmas Morning" But the fact remained, I wasn't. So then how do they think I'm innocent, much less know that I'm innocent? I did kill those ten people. I remember their faces. Is this a test? Will I be let off the hook if I refuse? I decided I wasn't going to go. I was going to tell on them, though. That could be enough to get me off death row. I didn't have an understanding of the law, but I knew that you could get off because of good behavior, so why not get off death row because you caught 3 cops trying to let a criminal out? I couldn't go to sleep on Christmas Eve. I was too excited. It was unfortunate that they were going to get fired on Christmas, but I don't want to die. It was a long night. I kept checking the clock. It seemed like hours passed in between minutes. Finally, it was 4:58. I heard footsteps come down the hall. I whispered at them, "Hey, over here!". The shadows looked at each other, and one of them was holding something. Probably keys. He walked over to my cell and reached in. I grabbed his hand and yanked on it. I might as well escape on my own terms, I thought. That was when I felt a rag cover my mouth. It had a noxious odor. Shit, I thought. They're going to murder me. One of those people I killed was related to them or something. I woke up still in my cell. The cell block had police officers crowded in it. I had a headache. I got up and looked around. But... they were supposed to let me out. Then I remembered when I got the note. It was under an egg. I ordered oatmeal for breakfast, and I got an egg and toast. I looked at the cell the officers were staring at. The door was open. A file was left. The officers were looking at the files. I wasn't the one they thought was innocent.
	[WP] One day, you find a note in your breakfast; one of the guards knows you're innocent and is going to try to help you escape. You aren't innocent.	I believe you are innocent. They were words I never thought I would hear, or see for that matter, mainly because they weren't true. I was far from innocent, even if the evidence they used in my case was fairly questionable, the Judge saw right through me and my "insanity" act. It wasn't long before the trial and the moment the door was slammed on my solitary confinement cell. A life sentence, no chance for parole, and ten years of solitary confinement. Good behavior didn't apply to someone like me. Yet those words, those five simple words, were staring back at me on a small piece of paper that was delivered with my daily lunch. It was the first time I had said anything in a long time, and even then, all I could muster was a long sigh. Who put the note there, I did not know, and why they believed I was innocent was a question I didn't want to ask, but also couldn't ask. All I knew was that someone, a guard or a cook, believed I was an innocent man and wrongly accused. I liked the idea of that. As I was in no position to try and talk back, I simply held onto the note. I waited it out in solitary, diligently searching through each and every one of his meals for another. I wanted to know more. Anything that would help me identify the person behind the original note. It was, according to my best estimates, six months after the first note that the second one arrived. The same, triple-folded, white stock paper, no bigger than the palm of his hand, with a black Sharpie used to write the note showed up under his soup bowl. I have a plan. The note's started to come more frequently after that. I stashed them in my pillow case every time another arrived and within the year, I had seven notes. All of which were attempting to explain to me the big plan the mysterious writer had put in place. For someone as bright as a man trying to break someone out of maximum security prison, he must not have looked into my case very well to know the difference between an innocent man and a man like me. The last note I received was before the planned breakout. It detailed the moment in which I were to escape from my cell and where I was to go. It was pretty simple in writing, but I knew the moment the shots started, things would go crazy. Whoever this guy was had a good idea, but he was failing in the execution. I needed a bigger diversion, something that would keep every guard, cook, and worker in this prison busy while I escaped. I had to try and get a note to him before the big day. I used a pebble from my cell, one of the ones that fell off from the constant torment of prisoners, and I carved a simple message onto the tray. Need riot. -DB It wasn't noticeable if you weren't looking for it, carefully written so it could buried by the bowl, cup, and wooden spoon. Even if they did find it, the worse that could happen was a beating and I had gone through plenty of those days in my time on the streets. It wasn't long before the mysterious writer agreed to my terms. A week later, I received another note, the last one. That was dumb. Plans arranged. Good luck. -S The fact that this one was signed threw me off. Until now, I had no inclination of who this mysterious writer was or what their role in the prison was, but I finally had a clue. I figured "S" stood for a name, it was the only thing that made sense. The moment of my escape was coming and I could almost feel the wind upon my face again. All I had to do was wait. ____ My dinner tray had been taken two rounds ago, which usually meant two hours. Every time a security guard walked in front of my door, it reset the clock. It had been seven weeks since my latest note, and still, I had heard nothing and received no inclination that the escape was still on. For all I knew, whoever was writing the messages was caught and tried. That was until my door cracked open. It wasn't something you would notice if you had better things to do, but I had been stuck in this six by eight cell for almost two years now. I noticed the little things, even ones as simple as a slight shift in the breeze of my cell. It was open, my freedom was in front of me. I was careful, of course. I walked up to the door slowly and deliberately. There was no indication that a guard was on the other side, but I had to be careful, I had gotten this far without any--- "Hey," a voice on the other side said, "you best get moving." The door opened quickly and a small, young man was on the other side. At best, he was in his early twenty's and he dawned the attire of a security guard. But something about him screamed criminal, something in my heart told me I knew this kid before. "Who are you?" The kid laughed a bit and then lifted his helmet. I recognized the face, it was one of my prodigies that helped me run crimes back in my hay-day. He was an excellent bank robber. Tiny, so he could get through all the nooks and crannies. "Hopkins?" He nodded excitingly, "In the flesh, boss." "What the hell are you doing here?" "I'm helping bust you out," he slid his helmet back on, "we best get moving. That riot won't last forever." I didn't hesitate and I started to follow him down the hallway. Every single cell door had been opened and there were several unconscious officers and guards every few feet. "Why didn't I hear any of this?" "Oh, me and the boys set this up." Hopkins shrugged, "Wanted to make it look like a struggle." I nodded, that was smart of them. It would make the riot look more believable, that it spread through the entire prison before being shut down. All it took was a few well-placed bodies. Before long, Hopkins and I were in the cafeteria, where the brunt of the riot seemed to have taken place. "We started it here," he murmured as he straddled himself over unconscious and possibly dead bodies, "in case you were wondering." "Who set this up?" Hopkins chuckled, "Don't worry, you'll be meeting them shortly." I raised an eyebrow. I had been out of the game for a while, two years in prison, another three in isolation, six more for health, I just hoped they remembered who the boss was. "Helicopter on the roof is going to fly you right out of here." "A helicopter? That seems excessive." "You want to hear excessive?" Hopkins kicked a guard in the face as he lept over a table and towards the stairwell, "The helicopter is going to crash land in the ocean, you and the pilot will survive of course, but two body doubles are going to be placed inside." Hopkins started moving up the stairs, I tried to keep up, but it had been a while since I moved any muscle in this way. "You'll be picked up by boat and brought to the new HQ?" "And that'd be?" "Don't want to spoil the surprise just yet!" _____ Continued in second comment due to length.	I deserved what I was getting, I knew that much. Unfortunately, I lost all the money I had hoarded over the years in a fire a few weeks before I was arrested, so I couldn't afford a good lawyer. Ironically, it's the same fire that got me caught. It's been a year or so since the prosecution. I don't really know how long exactly. I was caught December 4th, 2014. I know it's almost Christmas because I see guards give an inmate the occasional gift from the outside. Some people are allowed to receive mail. I'm not one of those, unfortunately. Luckily, I have one perk. Even though I murdered 10 people, my lawyer was good enough to get me into regular prison. Food in prison wasn't that great. I got to order what I wanted, although the selection was limited and I had to do it while I was getting dinner. They always mixed up my food. I'd get eggs and toast when I wanted to get oatmeal. And vice versa. I'm glad I'm not in high security with the animals that are in there. These people aren't that much better, but at least I won't get killed by them. Or at least, there's a smaller chance I was surprised when I got the letter under my plate of food. A greasy piece of paper read: "We know you are innocent. We will help you escape at 5:00 am Christmas Morning" But the fact remained, I wasn't. So then how do they think I'm innocent, much less know that I'm innocent? I did kill those ten people. I remember their faces. Is this a test? Will I be let off the hook if I refuse? I decided I wasn't going to go. I was going to tell on them, though. That could be enough to get me off death row. I didn't have an understanding of the law, but I knew that you could get off because of good behavior, so why not get off death row because you caught 3 cops trying to let a criminal out? I couldn't go to sleep on Christmas Eve. I was too excited. It was unfortunate that they were going to get fired on Christmas, but I don't want to die. It was a long night. I kept checking the clock. It seemed like hours passed in between minutes. Finally, it was 4:58. I heard footsteps come down the hall. I whispered at them, "Hey, over here!". The shadows looked at each other, and one of them was holding something. Probably keys. He walked over to my cell and reached in. I grabbed his hand and yanked on it. I might as well escape on my own terms, I thought. That was when I felt a rag cover my mouth. It had a noxious odor. Shit, I thought. They're going to murder me. One of those people I killed was related to them or something. I woke up still in my cell. The cell block had police officers crowded in it. I had a headache. I got up and looked around. But... they were supposed to let me out. Then I remembered when I got the note. It was under an egg. I ordered oatmeal for breakfast, and I got an egg and toast. I looked at the cell the officers were staring at. The door was open. A file was left. The officers were looking at the files. I wasn't the one they thought was innocent.
	[WP] One day, you find a note in your breakfast; one of the guards knows you're innocent and is going to try to help you escape. You aren't innocent.	I believe you are innocent. They were words I never thought I would hear, or see for that matter, mainly because they weren't true. I was far from innocent, even if the evidence they used in my case was fairly questionable, the Judge saw right through me and my "insanity" act. It wasn't long before the trial and the moment the door was slammed on my solitary confinement cell. A life sentence, no chance for parole, and ten years of solitary confinement. Good behavior didn't apply to someone like me. Yet those words, those five simple words, were staring back at me on a small piece of paper that was delivered with my daily lunch. It was the first time I had said anything in a long time, and even then, all I could muster was a long sigh. Who put the note there, I did not know, and why they believed I was innocent was a question I didn't want to ask, but also couldn't ask. All I knew was that someone, a guard or a cook, believed I was an innocent man and wrongly accused. I liked the idea of that. As I was in no position to try and talk back, I simply held onto the note. I waited it out in solitary, diligently searching through each and every one of his meals for another. I wanted to know more. Anything that would help me identify the person behind the original note. It was, according to my best estimates, six months after the first note that the second one arrived. The same, triple-folded, white stock paper, no bigger than the palm of his hand, with a black Sharpie used to write the note showed up under his soup bowl. I have a plan. The note's started to come more frequently after that. I stashed them in my pillow case every time another arrived and within the year, I had seven notes. All of which were attempting to explain to me the big plan the mysterious writer had put in place. For someone as bright as a man trying to break someone out of maximum security prison, he must not have looked into my case very well to know the difference between an innocent man and a man like me. The last note I received was before the planned breakout. It detailed the moment in which I were to escape from my cell and where I was to go. It was pretty simple in writing, but I knew the moment the shots started, things would go crazy. Whoever this guy was had a good idea, but he was failing in the execution. I needed a bigger diversion, something that would keep every guard, cook, and worker in this prison busy while I escaped. I had to try and get a note to him before the big day. I used a pebble from my cell, one of the ones that fell off from the constant torment of prisoners, and I carved a simple message onto the tray. Need riot. -DB It wasn't noticeable if you weren't looking for it, carefully written so it could buried by the bowl, cup, and wooden spoon. Even if they did find it, the worse that could happen was a beating and I had gone through plenty of those days in my time on the streets. It wasn't long before the mysterious writer agreed to my terms. A week later, I received another note, the last one. That was dumb. Plans arranged. Good luck. -S The fact that this one was signed threw me off. Until now, I had no inclination of who this mysterious writer was or what their role in the prison was, but I finally had a clue. I figured "S" stood for a name, it was the only thing that made sense. The moment of my escape was coming and I could almost feel the wind upon my face again. All I had to do was wait. ____ My dinner tray had been taken two rounds ago, which usually meant two hours. Every time a security guard walked in front of my door, it reset the clock. It had been seven weeks since my latest note, and still, I had heard nothing and received no inclination that the escape was still on. For all I knew, whoever was writing the messages was caught and tried. That was until my door cracked open. It wasn't something you would notice if you had better things to do, but I had been stuck in this six by eight cell for almost two years now. I noticed the little things, even ones as simple as a slight shift in the breeze of my cell. It was open, my freedom was in front of me. I was careful, of course. I walked up to the door slowly and deliberately. There was no indication that a guard was on the other side, but I had to be careful, I had gotten this far without any--- "Hey," a voice on the other side said, "you best get moving." The door opened quickly and a small, young man was on the other side. At best, he was in his early twenty's and he dawned the attire of a security guard. But something about him screamed criminal, something in my heart told me I knew this kid before. "Who are you?" The kid laughed a bit and then lifted his helmet. I recognized the face, it was one of my prodigies that helped me run crimes back in my hay-day. He was an excellent bank robber. Tiny, so he could get through all the nooks and crannies. "Hopkins?" He nodded excitingly, "In the flesh, boss." "What the hell are you doing here?" "I'm helping bust you out," he slid his helmet back on, "we best get moving. That riot won't last forever." I didn't hesitate and I started to follow him down the hallway. Every single cell door had been opened and there were several unconscious officers and guards every few feet. "Why didn't I hear any of this?" "Oh, me and the boys set this up." Hopkins shrugged, "Wanted to make it look like a struggle." I nodded, that was smart of them. It would make the riot look more believable, that it spread through the entire prison before being shut down. All it took was a few well-placed bodies. Before long, Hopkins and I were in the cafeteria, where the brunt of the riot seemed to have taken place. "We started it here," he murmured as he straddled himself over unconscious and possibly dead bodies, "in case you were wondering." "Who set this up?" Hopkins chuckled, "Don't worry, you'll be meeting them shortly." I raised an eyebrow. I had been out of the game for a while, two years in prison, another three in isolation, six more for health, I just hoped they remembered who the boss was. "Helicopter on the roof is going to fly you right out of here." "A helicopter? That seems excessive." "You want to hear excessive?" Hopkins kicked a guard in the face as he lept over a table and towards the stairwell, "The helicopter is going to crash land in the ocean, you and the pilot will survive of course, but two body doubles are going to be placed inside." Hopkins started moving up the stairs, I tried to keep up, but it had been a while since I moved any muscle in this way. "You'll be picked up by boat and brought to the new HQ?" "And that'd be?" "Don't want to spoil the surprise just yet!" _____ Continued in second comment due to length.	I took my usual seat with the rest of the untouchables in the back left corner of the dining hall. After a short grunt of acknowledgement accompanied by a nod to the familiar group of outcasts, I picked up my spoon and began to eat. Surveying the Wednesday meal consisting of a milk carton, bland cereal and half an apple strained my blackened right eye and caused it to tear up. But the cold metal of the spoon felt soothing to my swollen hand so I tried to think of that feeling and nothing else. Between the painful beatings and other brutal humiliations that have become routine, momentary sensations of comfort or relief must be dwelled upon with an iron focus if I am to keep going. It would be easy to let memories of my cellmate Alvarez with his strong and cruel grip in the night circulate my thoughts. He always whispered in my ear that I deserved it and that he was doing God's work by punishing me. It started almost as soon as I entered my cell two years ago. My Mother burst into tears the first time she saw me. I'll never forget the helpless anguish in her voice as she could only utter "My boy, oh my little boy" again and again. I knew from the experience of other untouchables that there was no alternative but to endure it. If I told the guards I would be met with a smirk or holed up in solitary for my 'protection". After a week, you lose your nerves and claw the walls. After a month, your personality breaks down and you begin to regress into a shell of what was once a thinking being. After a year it is hard to say. As I scooped up a dripping morsel of cereal I noticed with my good eye a small piece of paper tucked beneath the bowl. As casually as I could, I plucked it out and undid the several folds which revealed a few lines of handwriting. It was a note. "Get admitted to the infirmary, tonight's the night". A wave of excitement caused a slight smile to curl around my battered lips. It had worked. Months of preparation and luck had led up to this moment. First I had to find the right kind of guard. He had to be young, naive and still able to see a shred of goodness amongst the wretched herd within these walls. A relationship had to be formed. For weeks I told him my story of how I was falsely accused and convicted. How the girl's father made her lie for the sake of the family's honour. He had grown up in a small town south of the border before coming here with his family and had friends who suffered the same misfortune. The power of religious values and the scrutiny of the community had caused some his friends to suffer the same misfortune. I told him of the harsh realities I suffered in silence each night and how my mother aged 10 years each time she saw my pulverized face. I never thought he would go this far. The young man had a heart and saw me as a personification of injustice. If all goes well tonight then perhaps tomorrow I'll find another girl. Given the chance I would tear out the liver of Alvarez and make him eat it. However I will admit he has taught me some tricks and I have two years to make up for.
	[WP] One day, you find a note in your breakfast; one of the guards knows you're innocent and is going to try to help you escape. You aren't innocent.	I believe you are innocent. They were words I never thought I would hear, or see for that matter, mainly because they weren't true. I was far from innocent, even if the evidence they used in my case was fairly questionable, the Judge saw right through me and my "insanity" act. It wasn't long before the trial and the moment the door was slammed on my solitary confinement cell. A life sentence, no chance for parole, and ten years of solitary confinement. Good behavior didn't apply to someone like me. Yet those words, those five simple words, were staring back at me on a small piece of paper that was delivered with my daily lunch. It was the first time I had said anything in a long time, and even then, all I could muster was a long sigh. Who put the note there, I did not know, and why they believed I was innocent was a question I didn't want to ask, but also couldn't ask. All I knew was that someone, a guard or a cook, believed I was an innocent man and wrongly accused. I liked the idea of that. As I was in no position to try and talk back, I simply held onto the note. I waited it out in solitary, diligently searching through each and every one of his meals for another. I wanted to know more. Anything that would help me identify the person behind the original note. It was, according to my best estimates, six months after the first note that the second one arrived. The same, triple-folded, white stock paper, no bigger than the palm of his hand, with a black Sharpie used to write the note showed up under his soup bowl. I have a plan. The note's started to come more frequently after that. I stashed them in my pillow case every time another arrived and within the year, I had seven notes. All of which were attempting to explain to me the big plan the mysterious writer had put in place. For someone as bright as a man trying to break someone out of maximum security prison, he must not have looked into my case very well to know the difference between an innocent man and a man like me. The last note I received was before the planned breakout. It detailed the moment in which I were to escape from my cell and where I was to go. It was pretty simple in writing, but I knew the moment the shots started, things would go crazy. Whoever this guy was had a good idea, but he was failing in the execution. I needed a bigger diversion, something that would keep every guard, cook, and worker in this prison busy while I escaped. I had to try and get a note to him before the big day. I used a pebble from my cell, one of the ones that fell off from the constant torment of prisoners, and I carved a simple message onto the tray. Need riot. -DB It wasn't noticeable if you weren't looking for it, carefully written so it could buried by the bowl, cup, and wooden spoon. Even if they did find it, the worse that could happen was a beating and I had gone through plenty of those days in my time on the streets. It wasn't long before the mysterious writer agreed to my terms. A week later, I received another note, the last one. That was dumb. Plans arranged. Good luck. -S The fact that this one was signed threw me off. Until now, I had no inclination of who this mysterious writer was or what their role in the prison was, but I finally had a clue. I figured "S" stood for a name, it was the only thing that made sense. The moment of my escape was coming and I could almost feel the wind upon my face again. All I had to do was wait. ____ My dinner tray had been taken two rounds ago, which usually meant two hours. Every time a security guard walked in front of my door, it reset the clock. It had been seven weeks since my latest note, and still, I had heard nothing and received no inclination that the escape was still on. For all I knew, whoever was writing the messages was caught and tried. That was until my door cracked open. It wasn't something you would notice if you had better things to do, but I had been stuck in this six by eight cell for almost two years now. I noticed the little things, even ones as simple as a slight shift in the breeze of my cell. It was open, my freedom was in front of me. I was careful, of course. I walked up to the door slowly and deliberately. There was no indication that a guard was on the other side, but I had to be careful, I had gotten this far without any--- "Hey," a voice on the other side said, "you best get moving." The door opened quickly and a small, young man was on the other side. At best, he was in his early twenty's and he dawned the attire of a security guard. But something about him screamed criminal, something in my heart told me I knew this kid before. "Who are you?" The kid laughed a bit and then lifted his helmet. I recognized the face, it was one of my prodigies that helped me run crimes back in my hay-day. He was an excellent bank robber. Tiny, so he could get through all the nooks and crannies. "Hopkins?" He nodded excitingly, "In the flesh, boss." "What the hell are you doing here?" "I'm helping bust you out," he slid his helmet back on, "we best get moving. That riot won't last forever." I didn't hesitate and I started to follow him down the hallway. Every single cell door had been opened and there were several unconscious officers and guards every few feet. "Why didn't I hear any of this?" "Oh, me and the boys set this up." Hopkins shrugged, "Wanted to make it look like a struggle." I nodded, that was smart of them. It would make the riot look more believable, that it spread through the entire prison before being shut down. All it took was a few well-placed bodies. Before long, Hopkins and I were in the cafeteria, where the brunt of the riot seemed to have taken place. "We started it here," he murmured as he straddled himself over unconscious and possibly dead bodies, "in case you were wondering." "Who set this up?" Hopkins chuckled, "Don't worry, you'll be meeting them shortly." I raised an eyebrow. I had been out of the game for a while, two years in prison, another three in isolation, six more for health, I just hoped they remembered who the boss was. "Helicopter on the roof is going to fly you right out of here." "A helicopter? That seems excessive." "You want to hear excessive?" Hopkins kicked a guard in the face as he lept over a table and towards the stairwell, "The helicopter is going to crash land in the ocean, you and the pilot will survive of course, but two body doubles are going to be placed inside." Hopkins started moving up the stairs, I tried to keep up, but it had been a while since I moved any muscle in this way. "You'll be picked up by boat and brought to the new HQ?" "And that'd be?" "Don't want to spoil the surprise just yet!" _____ Continued in second comment due to length.	A young man sat alone in an ill fitting blue guardsman uniform in the second row of uncomfortable metal seats of the sky rail. He looked out the window into the dark sky and was thankful for the solitude, because he was nervous about his first shift as a guard at the Criminal Housing building of his city's Center. He could easily make out the imposing dark blue structure of his new workplace, brightly lit by the surrounding city against the pre-dawn morning sky, towering above the surrounding buildings. The Center was a massive, omni-purpose building made up of three rectangular box-like buildings, positioned in a triangular formation with one circular building placed in the center of the formation. Each of the outer buildings had massive, glass encased, brightly lit metal walkways protruding from the corner of the building, each connecting to the central building. The young man was able to see that the outer buildings each had an equal number of walkways, all of which were equidistant from each other. He continued to watch the building as the sky rail continued to hum, sliding towards it. His mind slowly wandered back to the events of last week, and instantly adding dejected hopelessness to his nervousness; causing him to look away from The Center, and towards the carpeted floor of the sky rail. She left because you were a loser with no job, no powers, and nothing going for you, the young man thought, this is your chance to start making something of yourself, your chance to move out of that shitty apartment, and your chance to show her that you are good enough. The door of the sky rail opened with a hiss, snapping him out of his depressed stupor. "Criminal Housing, New Breton Center", the calm voice emanating from the ceiling of the sky line said. The young man timidly exited the sky rail and stepped into the early morning air, onto the raised platform, and began to drudge slowly toward the base of the insurmountable building. He anxiously went over some of the protocols he learned last week during his orientation in his head as he walked, 1. Never remove an inmate's null-metal cuffs; 2. Never bring any unapproved objects into an inmate's cell; 3. Wear your identification badge at all tim--, his train of thought came to a jerking halt as he realized his immediate proximity to the entrance. He walked to the right side of the door, reaching to the badge clipped to the chest pocket of his uniform, he shakily unclipped the badge and held it up to the sensor, half expecting the door to not open. He was met with inflection-less voice, "Nathan Reston", followed by the smooth whooshing sound of the door opening vertically, revealing a dark hallway, leading to an elevator. Nathan, despite walking down this hallway just over a week ago, couldn't help but imagine the open door to be like the open maw of some terrible beast, ready to devour him whole. A desire to leave overwhelmed him, he knew this was a waste of time, nothing he did mattered anyways. "Don't be stupid, I am not wasting anymore chances", he muttered under his breath. He forced the thoughts out of his mind, and walked forward. Nathan stood, shoulders slumped, watching the display inside of the elevator tensely, it stopped a few floors shy of his intended floor. The doors smoothly opened to reveal a middle aged, straight backed man wearing the same guardsman uniform as Nathan, however, unlike Nathan, his hair was damp, and slicked back to fully expose his face. He had a face of sharp and pronounced angular features, Nathan felt as though he seeing a human version of a bird of prey. The man entered the elevator without looking at Nathan, and took his place in the elevator. Nathan continued to discreetly look at the man out of the corner of his eye, the man was a good three or four inches taller than Nathan, the man's uniform was completely free of blemishes and was obviously well maintained, however, it, like Nathan's uniform, did not fit properly. Nathan began to anxiously shift his weight from foot to foot, futilely willing his disheveled brown hair to tidy itself, and for his uniform to fit properly. The man looked over, noticing Nathan's nervous fidgeting, "Who are you, kid?", he said in a relaxed, smooth tone. "Nathan Reston, sir. Today is my first day", Nathan mumbled, still unconsciously fidgeting. The man turned to him and looked directly at Nathan, with a stone faced expression, and said, "Well Nathan, if you piss yourself while I am still in this elevator with you I will lock you in a cell for an hour with a violent pedophile". Nathan's face flushed as the elevator dinged, the doors opening again, he hadn't noticed that he had arrived to his floor. The man's expression softened with a chuckle, "looks like you made it Nathan, I guess Bulldozer is going to be lonely today". The flush drained from Nathan's face as he watched the man exit the elevator. Out of all the forty-nine floors in this building, he thought, still reeling from the embarrassment, I just had t--. "Well anyways, welcome to floor thirty-three, I am the captain of this floor, you may call me, um, 'Captain'. So, did you do your homework? Do you know what kind of criminals we keep here?" "Um, Telekinetics, right?", Nathan said, stepping into the large room, elevator doors closing behind. He glanced uneasily at the glass doors of the cells lining both of the walls, and at the metallic cage in the center of the room. "You are correct!", Captain said in a jovial voice, Nathan began to feel uncomfortable with this kind of out of place, eccentric, attitude. "So are you ready for the tour of our fine floor?", he asked, coming over and clapping Nathan on the back and dragging him further into the room. Captain pointed to the cage in the center of the room and said, "that is the control center for this room, it controls the alarms, the automated defenses, hell, it can even suck all the air right out of the room, killing everyone in it!", he made a whooshing sound to emphasize the last item on his list. "Where is everyone, sir? In orientation, they said that a morning crew has four people in it." Nathan asked, his confusion and anxiety putting him on edge. Captain glanced down at Nathan and said after a barely noticeable pause, "You are early, Nathan! The night crew clears out after giving the inmates their breakfast at five A.M., which is really nice of them, cause I hate having to go into those stinky-ass cells, they only get one shower a week you know." Captain glanced over at the cells, walked over to it, dragging Nathan behind him, and said, "let us continue the tour then! Here we have our favorite inmate, Johnathan Arko, the uh- previous day shift captain of this floor." Nathan saw a naked man curled into the fetal position on the floor of his cell, inmate uniform balled up in the corner of the cell. The man looked up, eyes wide, and attempted to scream something at Captain and I through the thick glass. Nathan stiffened, completely transfixed by the man in the cell, who was beginning to rise to his feet,"w-what?", Nathan stammered quietly. "Yea; Johnathan here is dumb as shit. I fed him a story about how I use telekinesis to steal from the rich so that I can give money to the poor, and he let me out! Can you believe that? Actually; I guess I do steal from the rich, but that's only because they have the most shit, and because it is fun!", Captain said in an amused voice accompanied by a smile. Johnathan began to pound on the glass, still shouting something, "yea, yea, I know, I would be upset if I were as stupid as you, too! Well, you did fuck up your identification card before I could take it, so I suppose you are not completely retarded", he continued, arm still wrapped around Nathan's shoulder. "But hey, at least you had good intentions", Captain's hand suddenly swiped diagonally upwards from his side and Johnathan's body promptly flew into the upper corner of the room. Captain then moved his hand straight down, resulting in Johnathan's limp body crashing back down into the ground, his body laid still, arm jutting out in an awkward angle, and skull cracked grotesquely, gushing blood steadily. Nathan's mind was a jumbled storm of terror and, to his shock, in the back of his mind he was fascinated with the display. He tried to find the words that would save his life, his consciousness was consumed by one thought, I don't want to die. "I-I-I--", he sputtered in his panic, completely frozen in his fear. Captain released Nathan and turned to him, his face had lost its happy jovial expression, and was replaced with a grim, almost sad expression, "I'm sorry kid, I like you, you remind me of myself when I was a kid, but I need your I.D. to escape -- and I can't risk you sounding the alarms on me". Captain raised his hand and Nathan had an odd sensation of floating; it was as though he were floating in a completely still pool, feeling the water press on him gently. Take a chance, you have nothing to lose, this could be so much better than some shitty job as a guard, Nathan thought. "Wait!", Nathan blurted out, "Take me with you, I know that I am probably completely worthless; but I can learn to be of use! Please--", his voice trailed off as his courage began to fade. Captain's smile returned.
	[WP] One day, you find a note in your breakfast; one of the guards knows you're innocent and is going to try to help you escape. You aren't innocent.	To be honest, I almost ate it. 'I know you don’t belong here, be ready when the dinner plates cycle.' My stomach rumbled more than it usually did at the mush the prison called breakfast. I stared at the note with a mixture of relief and surprise. Someone had believed me. Someone actually believed me. When the sound echoed from my belly again, I shoved the note back into the mush and decided the best way to keep whoever my guardian angel was safe was to destroy the evidence. The paper proved tastier than any of the meals I had in the week I had been behind the bars. I shared my usual quip with the guards outside my cell - what I wouldn’t give for a roast - then went back to the bunk. I couldn’t help the smile that worked its way onto my face. They, perhaps, could have given me just a little more information. Be ready for what? A loud explosion? A hole to be dug? Were they the night guard? My surprise was nonexistent at the slug pace the day had. The sun, for the brief time it was above the outside wall, crawled along the cell. My family hadn’t been able to save me from a sentence, but at least I was alone and comfortable. More than those thuggish brutes a few doors down could say. When the final plate of the day slid under the door to my cell, I picked it up and prodded the mashed potatoes. I think they were mashed potatoes. Either way, I felt something harder than the wooden plate chink under my spoon. With a bit of digging, the brass key shimmered in the rapidly disappearing light. I slid it out, then sat on it while I ate. If I were doing any sort of sneaking out this evening, I would need as much energy as I could achieve. “Elizabeth, ma’am?” I grimaced at the whisper when I opened the meal-flap to the door. “Just wait for the sun to go down, then I can lead you to your mother. She’s right upset about all this.” “I--” I choked on the words. “I can’t wait to see her again.” As I rolled the thought in my head, I came to the conclusion that this guard was simply gullible. But, in any case, he tapped my door quietly once the last armored footsteps faded from the outside. I slid the key out of him, and my heart pounded at the sound of the lock unhitching. When the door open, I flung myself to him, trying to force tears down my face. “Oh, thank you. Thank you!” I whispered. He awkwardly patted my back, his face a brilliant red, even in the dim light. “O-Of course, ma’am. Please, this way!” He ran me through the halls, making far more noise than if I had gone on my own. He opened a side door in a dark corner of the guards’ common room, motioning for me to go first. The hallway led straight outside, and I froze in the moonlight. This city truly did not have enough guards. The one that followed me pulled me to the far wall. He unlocked a door that I would have missed without any assistance and led me into the city. I saw my mother waiting in an alley only a few minutes later. I burst into tears, rushing to her. We embraced, both overwhelmed. She sputtered her thanks to the guard. His bashful response lasted too long. “Please,” my mother said tearfully. “I just… Thank you. You should get back before anyone notices, I would hate for you to get in trouble.” It took him a moment to realize what she meant. When he rounded the corner, out of sight, my mother smacked me upside the head. “Ten thousand gold, and you screw it up,” she hissed. I grimaced. “I did it, though, it’s not my fault no one told me his freaking personal guard were elves.” “You didn’t think an elven ambassador would have elven guards?” My mother rubbed her face face, then took a deep breath. “No. No, I promised your father I wouldn’t do this. For some reason, your court pleas worked. The Black Hand wasn’t mentioned at all.” I did a small fist pump of victory. It earned me another smack. “Don’t get comfortable. You still can’t be in the city, and we have just the contract to make sure of that.”	(Late to the party but here goes ...) It has been a strange two weeks. Lots of up and down. For a while it seemed like events were finally going my way - a judge was ready to review my case, the lawyers were optimistic. Then yesterday it all came to nothing. The appeal was denied. And I am back where I started. So many times in my time here I have been tempted to give up the pretense and yell out loud "Yes I did it! I killed her!". But I've held back, kept up the facade, never giving up all these years. And then, when Sarah came into my life it seemed like all my patience and hard work were finally paying off. I allowed myself to hope like I had never hoped before. Now my hopes have been crushed like snails on the sidewalk. I don't know if I can go on anymore. Sigh. Self pity. It never does anyone any good. Take it one day at a time. Breakfast time is almost over, I should get some food in me. I pick up my spoon and dip it warily in the sloppy mush before me. That's when I notice the folded piece of paper under the bowl. I glance around quickly, then pick it up and read it under the table. It reads a lot like the fan mail I sometimes get. But this one has been written by a guard! Someone who can actually help me! "I have followed your story with great interest and sympathy. No one who has seen you, talked to you, can doubt your innocence for a second. I believe you were framed. Personally I think Jay did it. But whoever is the guilty person, I'm sure you are innocent. I heard about your failed appeal. If our system won't give you justice, I will. I think I have figured out a way to get you out of here. I'll be in touch again soon. In the meantime, don't try to figure out my identity, keep your head down and go on as usual. Don't lose hope, together we will fix the injustice you have faced. Stay strong, Adnan! -- A Friend and Admirer." I smile. I knew that podcast would open doors for me! I eat a spoonful of the oatmeal and once again, allow myself to hope.
	[WP] One day, you find a note in your breakfast; one of the guards knows you're innocent and is going to try to help you escape. You aren't innocent.	Guantanamo Bay was so much nicer than my desk job in DC. They even give us hummus butt-smoothies here. Do you know how much you would pay for that sort of thing in California? But as the CIA operative behind the 9/11 conspiracy, I knew my time was limited. Then one day, I was handed my ticket home. "I know you are innocent. Jet fuel can't melt steel beams," it said. I read it again and looked at the guard. It wasn't the usual one. He looked distinctly Arabic, and his right hand was somehow... robotic? "I am Cyber bin Laden. Come with me." He unlocked my cell door and led me outside through the tennis court and day spa to the helicopter pad. There on the launchpad was a magical goat with lasers for eyes. "Is this real?" I asked bin Laden. "Yes. The technology has been in wide use since the 1940's, but the same UFO crash that led to this also helped us develop chem-trail tech. No one will remember we were here." As we both mounted the magical steed, Cyber bin Laden threw back his head and cackled. "Now to destroy Christmas! AHAHAHA!"	I was sitting there studying my bread roll, trying to decide if the slightly odd discoloration was mold. I rotated the roll to see if the underside had any other odd patches when I noticed it. A small hole, something white barely peeking out. A small piece of paper, it appeared. I removed the paper, which was tightly rolled up and under an inch long and discreetly tucked it into my shoe. This was clearly important and I didn't want to read it in the cafeteria. We were closely watched, and I had no idea what the message contained, nor from whom it came. Later, after much patience, I finally found a window of opportunity. I was reclined on my bunk in my cell, as I had opted not to spend my recreational time in the yard, on the grounds that it was too cold out and I had recently been ill. I leaned back on my bunk, and carefully unrolled the paper, shielding it with my favorite novel. "know u dint do it gona get u out 3am wait at ur cell n keep quite -CO jameson" I must say, I cringed. This was not the manner I would have delivered such news, but well, I suppose it was good news, and I had no right to be particular in my predicament. Although I shouldn't have been so surprised that a correctional officer wouldn't have the greatest grasp of the English language per se. However, I found the idea of this C.O. Jameson being the sender of this message as quite a surprise. We had barely ever had an interaction, save for the time I did find myself staring at his face, wondering if I had seen it before. There was a very familiar quality to it, as though I had seen him before. I do remember feeling slightly embarrassed when he caught me staring. Even at this particular institution I tried to remember to mind societal norms. It was very trying at times, but my reputation had spared me from any harassment to my person. Later that night, as I sat awake waiting for C.O. Jameson, I started to think even harder on the possible motive for his actions, risky as they were. Why me? I was clearly guilty. I had an audience of witnesses to my crimes. Ah, my poor wife, her poor family. I hadn't meant to murder her in such a manner, heavens no. I believe I had a drop too much, and out it all came, days, and weeks, and months, and years of build-up anger and aggression in one day. I'd have rather slowly poisoned her. But I digress, you know all of this already. The appointed time had come. C.O. Jameson whispered at the cell, asking if I were ready. I approached as he slid open the door, not exactly as silently as I would have liked. He told me to follow him, and I went along behind him, advancing to the front of the main lobby. He turned to me and explained that his father was a ardent reader of my novels, and in fact had been one of my students at Cambridge. C.O. Jameson's father had insisted that I had absolutely no involvement with the death of my wife, and I suppose my young guard, wanting to please his father, had decided to assist in my escape. I asked C.O. Jameson for the name of his father and the year of his enrollment in my course. Phillip Jameson, he told me, and the year was 1962. Ah, yes, I remembered his father quite well. I was his mentor, he, my most prized pupil. He clung to every word I said, and retained even the most complex ideas easily. I suppose I would say he had an almost aggressive desire to learn. I always wondered what had become of him. I left the prison shortly after, but not before asking him to send my kindest regards to his father. I then walked to an area he had indicated, finding a small parcel with a change of clothing and some currency. I made my way quite easily to the home of my only sister, Rosalie. I sat safely in her home for a week, pondering the circumstances I were now in. This young man who had saved me; the son of my best pupil. What I wouldn't give to have someone like his father again. And this poor young man, who was working among the worst of humanity. His father didn't deserve that, his father deserved a well-educated son with higher ambitions and a sharp intellect. These circumstances are the reason I am writing this now. I returned to the prison a week from my departure, and informed the authorities the manner of my escape as well as the name of my assistant. C.O. Jameson, I hope, will find the time he will spend as my student to be very informative. I would like to see him develop a love of learning just like Phillip Jameson, my greatest accomplishment. I write this confession of my full and free will. Yours, Professor Steven Breckinridge

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