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[WP] A woman falls in love with Death and commits murder countless times just to catch a glimpse of him. | It started with a mouse. The moment her boot fell upon its head, a whirlwind of a million shades of gray enveloped her and *poof* - there he was. She remembered the way he had stared at her: dark, empty eyes filled with interest and longing. That day they had sat in the orchard, on the swing with fingers entwined and in complete silence. She wouldn't talk and he couldnt. But still they sat, the rope of the swing creaking against the weathered bark of the tree. Neither remembered the mouse. They sat for hours, her head on his shoulder, his scythe well out of the way. Soon enough, he noticed the dropping sun dip low in the sky and with a long sigh he wrested his fingers from her beautiful hand. It wasn't his intention to her hurt but she knew what he meant. *This can't happen again*.
He left her sobbing on the swing.
She quickly realised that he would always come back, that a part of him would never really be able to let go. Every sacrificed mouse meant another sunset in his arms, another day spent in silence in the big orchard on the creaky swing. Days, weeks, countless dead mice. She began to speak after a while, whispering her love and cooing her wishes. He stayed in silence, his fingers desperately wrapped around hers. Every visit grew shorter, however, and he left with the sun higher and higher in the sky each time. She would weep into his tattered robes and he would sweep up the dead mouse, disappearing with as much of a *poof* as when he appeared. Not really understanding why he would leave, she cried herself to sleep every night.
One day, however, he found her sat against the wall, bloodied and dazed. It wasn't a mouse this time. At her feet lay a tiny dog, once beautiful and alive, now cold and far away. He stayed with her that night, knowing he would regret it. She swore and cried and begged him to stay until the end. He sat in silence, watching her fury and pain bubble to a boil and leave her in the form of tears.
It was around midnight that he remembered the puppy (he had been stroking her blood soaked hair and she was finally asleep) and he found himself hating the thought of a life lost in exchange for a day with her. He no longer saw the beautiful woman he once knew, with ashen hair and big, emotional eyes. With obvious effort he whispered his "Goodbye" and left, knowing every death she now caused for him would be forever on her conscience and that she would forever be alone.
She woke in the morning, blood cracking on her cheeks as she yawned. The dog was gone and so was he. All that remained was a pool of blood that looked oddly like a love heart. | Her heart raced as she waited, her breath warm against the wardrobe door she was pressed behind. Time stood almost still as each footstep echoed from the wooden floor. It had been so long. Too long. She needed to see him, to feel him again.
Unable to wait any longer she put the plan she'd rehearsed countless times into action. The knife glinted as she stepped out into the sunlit room and moments later it was buried in his neck. The hair on her arm began to rise, the room growing colder. Her breath quickened. Her eyes flickered excitedly across the room. He must be close. He had to be.
A familiar rush hit her as she felt him arrive. She stood, blood pooling beneath her feet as he set to work. Such elegance and finesse in what he did, she loved him for that. He stared deep inside the man she'd killed and helped him from the body he'd once captained. She tried to savour each second, for he was busy, so he was brief.
"It's worth it", she said, "each life I take, I take for you and I won't stop. I can't."
He seemed to pause. She was sure of it. His head appeared to turn and stare straight at her, if only for a second.
"Did he?... No, he did, of course he did, he wants me as much I want him."
Her mind raced. This hadn't happened before, of all the times she'd bought a few precious seconds of his time he'd never acknowledged her. Until now. Her next steps were obvious. She needed more time with him, and soon. Sooner than she'd planned. But who? and how? It didn't matter now, all that mattered was being with him. His smell almost lingered as she stared at the body that once held the man. A small price to pay, she thought.
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[WP] A woman falls in love with Death and commits murder countless times just to catch a glimpse of him. | Number twenty five died slowly. Young college boy, a friend of her daughter - could have been more, with time. The blood had burst from his neck and sprayed her face with glistening droplets. She dragged her tongue along the knife's edge as she watched his mouth attempt to form words, managing only a hoarse groan. Her heart started beating rapidly as the eyes finally dimmed. *He* was coming.
She had caught a glimpse every time. The first murder had been an accident - she had killed some drunk in the early hours of a December morning. It was while she had attempted to resuscitate him - ignoring the crusted vomit at the edges of his mouth and the foul breath - that she had seen it. Just the eyes, and hints of a cloak. The eyes were eternity, the universe reflected back at her. She had become aware of every star that drifted in the cosmos, every life that hummed on this planet and all the ones like it.
Each time she had seen something else. The exact shade of rich, deep blackness that was his cloak, with number five. The elegant hands, gripping the soul tight and absorbing it into the bones - number ten. And tonight. Oh tonight, she would see it all. The blade was still resting on her lips when he approached the corpse. Slowly, as if he had all the time in the world, as if this one mattered.
She wept as she watched him gather the soul, not attempting to draw his attention. He had not seen her - she didn't know if he could. It was enough to feast on the whole of him, the completed puzzle, that bore the mask of man but was alien in his beauty.
He turned to face her. She dropped to her knees, the knife clattering to her feet. She was aware of him grasping her shoulders, lifting her up again. She unconsciously mimicked her last victim's groan, as he stared mercilessly into her eyes. No human should face those eyes alive, it occurred to her in the dim part of her mind that remained sane.
"It is good you have come. I am tired," he spoke, lips hardly moving. The voice echoed in her mind, splintering it further. She couldn't speak, but somehow he heard the questions.
"No, I do not love you. But you worship me now, don't you? Once you did not - once you even attempted to push me away, trying to save a man's life on a dark road one morning in December..." he whispered, his voice scraping away at her senses. She was faintly aware that she wanted to deny it. No, no, I've always loved you...always, my sweet...
"There are many that resemble you. Ones who love and wait and are never satisfied. The ones who have always loved me. The obsessed, the abandoned lovers. My..." he smiled then. "My stalkers." He gripped her shoulders, and she heard the bones crack as the fingers started digging into her flesh. To reach something. To find some elusive thing that was trying to hide.
"Ah, but you," she felt the cold grip her, as his fingers continued their search. "You will become me, and I you. And we will be young again, change as you have changed. For you once hated me, when you were sweet and innocent, with a revulsion for violence. But now you thirst, and you hunger for me. Now you would slaughter your daughter to meet me, wouldn't you, if it meant you could taste my kiss. It is a rare thing, transformed love. And I.."
He caught it, and pulled. She felt her soul ripped from her body, and he was absorbing it, drinking it in - more deeply than the others. They would be carried on, but she would stay here. She knew it. She would stay. She would become...
"I will live on," said Death. She glanced at the pitiful husk that once was hers. Such an ugly thing, drenched in blood. She admired her cloak of deepest midnight, her elegant hands. She spoke in a thousand devoured voices, singing along to the song they all knew so well. "I will never die." | Her heart raced as she waited, her breath warm against the wardrobe door she was pressed behind. Time stood almost still as each footstep echoed from the wooden floor. It had been so long. Too long. She needed to see him, to feel him again.
Unable to wait any longer she put the plan she'd rehearsed countless times into action. The knife glinted as she stepped out into the sunlit room and moments later it was buried in his neck. The hair on her arm began to rise, the room growing colder. Her breath quickened. Her eyes flickered excitedly across the room. He must be close. He had to be.
A familiar rush hit her as she felt him arrive. She stood, blood pooling beneath her feet as he set to work. Such elegance and finesse in what he did, she loved him for that. He stared deep inside the man she'd killed and helped him from the body he'd once captained. She tried to savour each second, for he was busy, so he was brief.
"It's worth it", she said, "each life I take, I take for you and I won't stop. I can't."
He seemed to pause. She was sure of it. His head appeared to turn and stare straight at her, if only for a second.
"Did he?... No, he did, of course he did, he wants me as much I want him."
Her mind raced. This hadn't happened before, of all the times she'd bought a few precious seconds of his time he'd never acknowledged her. Until now. Her next steps were obvious. She needed more time with him, and soon. Sooner than she'd planned. But who? and how? It didn't matter now, all that mattered was being with him. His smell almost lingered as she stared at the body that once held the man. A small price to pay, she thought.
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[WP] A woman falls in love with Death and commits murder countless times just to catch a glimpse of him. | She smells of sweetness- but she's the most bitter being I've ever seen. I ask her how she can do it. It haunts me, day and night, all those faces- but she just shrugs.
"Life is not a promise; it's not a contract. It's a gift. I can take life back whenever I want. Death is the promise. You're the promise," she whispers. She's not vehement in her words, but it's apparent. She gives herself to these humans, but she doesn't love them. She goes up to one of them, snaps her fingers, and they pass. I carry them away, I'm the last thing they'll know. And she has no regrets.
"I've got to go," I say. She shakes her head and snaps her fingers; we're taken to a young man, lying in a hospital bed. She hovers, and I watch as I only can. He'll be dead soon. And I'm here for him. She tilts her head at me.
"Isn't there anything you want to know?" I don't know what she means.
"Does he have family?" I ask.
"That's not what I mean," she says. The young man takes a deep breath; I thought it was his last and step forward, but another follows. Sometimes, a person tries to hang on. Sometimes, Life isn't as thorough and doesn't drain them of all they have left. Sometimes they challenge her. They're too strong. She doesn't like it, but is still strangely fascinated by it. She doesn't love them. But they love her. And they hate me.
"I take them all away from the people that they love, the people that love them. Everyone hates me. And here you are, with the actual power, and people celebrate you."
"I'd celebrate you," she says, stepping closer to me. "I would celebrate you if you'd let me, Death. But that's the true cruelty of Life. I can never have you." I know. Despite the fact that she terrifies me- she is still Life, and she emblazons me. I almost feel her in my core when she looks at me; she stirs something in me that I want more than anything. I want her. We want each other. Yet we can only meet when we're both doing the things we hate. She leans forward and kisses me. I sigh.
"Let him live, Life. Give him what I want," I ask of her. She nods, tears streaming down. "Love them like they love you. Like I love you. And I'll see you soon."
"I'll see you in seven minutes," she whispers fiercely, as I step away. | Her heart raced as she waited, her breath warm against the wardrobe door she was pressed behind. Time stood almost still as each footstep echoed from the wooden floor. It had been so long. Too long. She needed to see him, to feel him again.
Unable to wait any longer she put the plan she'd rehearsed countless times into action. The knife glinted as she stepped out into the sunlit room and moments later it was buried in his neck. The hair on her arm began to rise, the room growing colder. Her breath quickened. Her eyes flickered excitedly across the room. He must be close. He had to be.
A familiar rush hit her as she felt him arrive. She stood, blood pooling beneath her feet as he set to work. Such elegance and finesse in what he did, she loved him for that. He stared deep inside the man she'd killed and helped him from the body he'd once captained. She tried to savour each second, for he was busy, so he was brief.
"It's worth it", she said, "each life I take, I take for you and I won't stop. I can't."
He seemed to pause. She was sure of it. His head appeared to turn and stare straight at her, if only for a second.
"Did he?... No, he did, of course he did, he wants me as much I want him."
Her mind raced. This hadn't happened before, of all the times she'd bought a few precious seconds of his time he'd never acknowledged her. Until now. Her next steps were obvious. She needed more time with him, and soon. Sooner than she'd planned. But who? and how? It didn't matter now, all that mattered was being with him. His smell almost lingered as she stared at the body that once held the man. A small price to pay, she thought.
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[WP] A woman falls in love with Death and commits murder countless times just to catch a glimpse of him. | "You." I felt the throbbing behind my eyes start again, a headache building in my skull.
"You!" she was elated, covered in drying blood and trembling with...elation, I would guess. Rubbing my temple I took a deep breath and tried again to diffuse this...this insane woman.
"You need to stop." Opting for blunt may not have been my best choice, tears welled up in her eyes and her bottom lip quivered.
"Don't you like it?" she said in a trembling whisper. I tried, I swear I tried, but I sighed heavily and with a roll of my eyes I swept my hands out towards the scene of carnage.
"Just because I'm Death everyone assumes I'm fascinated by it. You do know that Death is elected from the Fates because no one wants to do it right? It's not like the Ferryman is all that friendly plus you have to be knee deep in blood all day. Or old people." An involuntary shudder shook my body as I thought about the countless souls I had reaped, much like the four waiting for me to show them the way."
"Excuse me," one of those souls spoke, "you're referring to Greek mythology, I'm a Christian and we believe in..."
"Oh shut up," snapping at your souls was generally frowned upon but having gone through this song and dance, and with the more pressing concern before me, I found myself to be far from the mood.
"I did this for you," she whispered again, the tears freely flowing as she smiled. A sickening, grotesque thing from a mentally disturbed woman. Pinching the bridge of my nose I tried to stem the throbbing pain, to no avail and my consternation.
"This is...ninety two," she worked quickly, I had to admit that, "in two months you have now given me ninety two souls I shouldn't have had to deal with." The four people in the café had been quite innocent, it hadn't been their time at all. My...admirer had suddenly decided it in a fit of desperation and walked in with a semi-automatic pistol and a knife. Now I had four souls impatiently waiting for my direction. Five, if the waitress didn't get help soon.
"I just wanted to see you." The throbbing intensified and I made a terrible mistake.
"I don't want to see you!" I shouted, the glass in the café reverberating to the ethereal noise. I imagined the dozens of police officers outside would be quite confused if they had seen it, that brought me slight amusement. I've always preferred joking rather than the grim business of death. The mistake was that now she was completely in tears, waving her pistol around and shouting some nonsense about being "in love" with me. A mortal? I made my second mistake. She stopped at my laughter, it was really more of a chuckle. At first. Then it became full out hysterics and I barely managed to choke out my third mistake.
"You're nothing to me! To all of us! An insignificant speck."
The tears were gone in an instant, replaced by a furious red hot rage. She raised her pistol to the barely surviving waitresses head and began to squeeze the trigger.
Knowing what came next I felt something I hadn't known in...possibly ever. Fear.
The sniper's bullet hit her head with the force of a freight train. My admirer was...dead.
"No," I thought my head would explode from the pain, I still had two thousand years to serve as Death. Staring at me was her soul, excited and wide eyed. I don't know what is beyond ecstatic but she was far beyond even that.
"We can be together forever now!" she said, wrapping me in her arms for the first time since she'd discovered she could see me. Ninety four bodies ago. I borrowed a word from the mortals, it summed up my feelings well enough.
"Fuck." | Her heart raced as she waited, her breath warm against the wardrobe door she was pressed behind. Time stood almost still as each footstep echoed from the wooden floor. It had been so long. Too long. She needed to see him, to feel him again.
Unable to wait any longer she put the plan she'd rehearsed countless times into action. The knife glinted as she stepped out into the sunlit room and moments later it was buried in his neck. The hair on her arm began to rise, the room growing colder. Her breath quickened. Her eyes flickered excitedly across the room. He must be close. He had to be.
A familiar rush hit her as she felt him arrive. She stood, blood pooling beneath her feet as he set to work. Such elegance and finesse in what he did, she loved him for that. He stared deep inside the man she'd killed and helped him from the body he'd once captained. She tried to savour each second, for he was busy, so he was brief.
"It's worth it", she said, "each life I take, I take for you and I won't stop. I can't."
He seemed to pause. She was sure of it. His head appeared to turn and stare straight at her, if only for a second.
"Did he?... No, he did, of course he did, he wants me as much I want him."
Her mind raced. This hadn't happened before, of all the times she'd bought a few precious seconds of his time he'd never acknowledged her. Until now. Her next steps were obvious. She needed more time with him, and soon. Sooner than she'd planned. But who? and how? It didn't matter now, all that mattered was being with him. His smell almost lingered as she stared at the body that once held the man. A small price to pay, she thought.
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[WP] A woman falls in love with Death and commits murder countless times just to catch a glimpse of him. | "Hey there, tall dark and handsome!"
Her lips were blood red, and pursed in her most seductive smile. Her dress was black, with white skulls in the pattern of polka-dots; it was also short. Her legs were long and smooth-shaven. Her eyes smouldered.
"Stop it."
His voice was huge, cosmic. It boomed with the sullen, crushing weight of a collapsing star.
"Since you're here, maybe you'd like to have a drink with me? I've got some merlot. Do you like red wine?"
"I'm being serious."
"Dead serious?"
"That's not funny."
Her eyes twinkled with adoration.
"What the fuck?" A translucent man appeared next to Death.
"I'm so sorry about this." Death told him.
"Not as sorry as I am. I really thought that date was going well."
"It wasn't." The woman smiled wickedly.
"Tabitha, you have to stop killing people."
"Then," Tabitha batted her long, thick eyelashes at the Reaper, "You'll come visit me on your own?"
"No."
Her face warped into a sneer, her blood-red lips curled, revealing bone-white teeth. She picked up the wine bottle by the neck and threw it at Death. It flew just to the right of his skull, but he didn't flinch. There was a crash of breaking glass against the wall, followed by the slow drip of wine falling to the floor.
"I just want you to spend some time with me!" She screamed.
Death put his arm around the translucent man, his bony fingers resting gently upon the man's intangible shoulder.
"Come on, Aaron, let's go."
"Really? I mean, it's really over? Because of this? I feel so cheated."
"You were." Death glared at Tabitha, his hollow eye sockets swallowed up the surrounding light like two black holes.
Tabitha continued screaming as Death turned and led Aaron away.
"If you got to know me, you'd love me! Every man loves me, except you. You're the only one I want!"
Death was nearly to the door, but he stopped. He turned his head.
"I know everyone, Tabitha. You're kind of a prick." | Her heart raced as she waited, her breath warm against the wardrobe door she was pressed behind. Time stood almost still as each footstep echoed from the wooden floor. It had been so long. Too long. She needed to see him, to feel him again.
Unable to wait any longer she put the plan she'd rehearsed countless times into action. The knife glinted as she stepped out into the sunlit room and moments later it was buried in his neck. The hair on her arm began to rise, the room growing colder. Her breath quickened. Her eyes flickered excitedly across the room. He must be close. He had to be.
A familiar rush hit her as she felt him arrive. She stood, blood pooling beneath her feet as he set to work. Such elegance and finesse in what he did, she loved him for that. He stared deep inside the man she'd killed and helped him from the body he'd once captained. She tried to savour each second, for he was busy, so he was brief.
"It's worth it", she said, "each life I take, I take for you and I won't stop. I can't."
He seemed to pause. She was sure of it. His head appeared to turn and stare straight at her, if only for a second.
"Did he?... No, he did, of course he did, he wants me as much I want him."
Her mind raced. This hadn't happened before, of all the times she'd bought a few precious seconds of his time he'd never acknowledged her. Until now. Her next steps were obvious. She needed more time with him, and soon. Sooner than she'd planned. But who? and how? It didn't matter now, all that mattered was being with him. His smell almost lingered as she stared at the body that once held the man. A small price to pay, she thought.
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[WP] A woman falls in love with Death and commits murder countless times just to catch a glimpse of him. | At first I lived in wedded bliss,
No other did I crave.
Until my husband felt Death's kiss,
And took an early grave.
I saw him fade in by his side,
Upon that chilling bed.
His face the sweeping cloak did hide,
The Master of the Dead.
A feeling swept upon my heart,
A love novel and strong.
Was Death my soul mate from the start?
How could this rush be wrong?
I craved the void, the empty gaze,
Beneath the tattered cloak.
Must I wait til end of days,
When my soul he'd revoke?
It started with a single man,
A pill slipped into a drink.
That I'd have a sinister plan,
Was naught the men would think.
From one to five, and to a score,
The times I saw his scythe.
Yet still I craved him ever more,
And murdered for his tithe.
I can no longer wait and kill,
'Til my love will I see.
I swallow now this final pill,
So Death can come for me.
| I loved him, that walking pain. The kind that would come after
strangulation and let-free blood. He who would warm my heart. Though his: cold.
I loved him as I tore through the spine of an elderly man, I loved him as he kissed me in those few moments between a mother who cried at the way her children died. At first, it seemed, we were in love. He would come and sit by me, after I had stabbed another in a lane way - my third that day. Oh heaven above, your saviour had come. He would embrace me, cloak aside, and flicker warmth through the carpet stained with red.
He would attack the night as I surrendered bodies to him.
For a time we were in love. And I knew this beyond my petty world. For a time, we were happy.
But soon he grew cold, wanting more souls. I would find and abduct and tie-up and kill. I would stalk and kidnap and cage and murder. I would fill the void he left upon fading from the world of the living. But it was not enough. One death, two deaths, three deaths, he would come on the fourth. One death, two deaths, three deaths, four deaths, he would only come on the fifth. I grew desperate, and cold myself. As I felt the blood of others' run dry, scabbing on my foreign hands, so too did I feel my own escape its duty. My heart forsake me, for he wanted more.
100 deaths, a shopping mall bomb. 200 children shot away from their parents. He came, and kissed me, and left without a smile. I became a mouse, doing the cat's sorry bidding. His insatiable, swarming desire became impossible to fulfil. He collected my dead, for he was Death and Pain and Suffering and Hate. And I, madly in love.
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[WP] A woman falls in love with Death and commits murder countless times just to catch a glimpse of him. | * *I'll preface this by saying that I never write for fun. But something about this prompt made me want to jump in. Apologies for the amateur nature of the following.*
I never should have let her in. Two hundred years of being careful, of being guarded. All that time and work, lost because I was lonely. Sandra and her husband: that was the deal. It couldn’t have been easier. A car accident is a walk in the park. No second thoughts, no planning. No thinking. Nothing.
Why did she have to look, sound, even smell like Abby? I was promised that I would never have to go through it again. One time was enough. It was supposed to be so simple. Close my eyes, conjure the event, and see it through. But I was told, no, promised Goddamnit! How does he expect me to follow through when he breaches his own contract?
Fuck it. I wisped her out of the event. She’d be sad to lose her husband, but maybe she’d feel something. Maybe she’d know it was me who “saved” her. I just couldn’t bear seeing her essence pass through my world again. I made it as much of a freak accident as I could. Kids are always throwing things off highway overpasses, Right?
I should have seen it after her coworker died. Death in bunches or spread out, that’s how it works for those who I have to visit often. I guess my infatuation made me forget that Don from accounting died on the anniversary of Sandra’s husband dying. I went to check on her at her house. She’d just recently taken down all the pictures of her and Adam. She was facing her bathroom mirror.
“I see you every day,” she whispered.
It’s always interesting to see how long it takes for some people to get over the death of a loved one. Sandra was taking her sweet time.
“I know you’re watching over me.”
No, my dear, he isn’t. They never are.
“How do we know each other?”
She was staring right through me in the mirror. There was no way she knew. Right?
| I loved him, that walking pain. The kind that would come after
strangulation and let-free blood. He who would warm my heart. Though his: cold.
I loved him as I tore through the spine of an elderly man, I loved him as he kissed me in those few moments between a mother who cried at the way her children died. At first, it seemed, we were in love. He would come and sit by me, after I had stabbed another in a lane way - my third that day. Oh heaven above, your saviour had come. He would embrace me, cloak aside, and flicker warmth through the carpet stained with red.
He would attack the night as I surrendered bodies to him.
For a time we were in love. And I knew this beyond my petty world. For a time, we were happy.
But soon he grew cold, wanting more souls. I would find and abduct and tie-up and kill. I would stalk and kidnap and cage and murder. I would fill the void he left upon fading from the world of the living. But it was not enough. One death, two deaths, three deaths, he would come on the fourth. One death, two deaths, three deaths, four deaths, he would only come on the fifth. I grew desperate, and cold myself. As I felt the blood of others' run dry, scabbing on my foreign hands, so too did I feel my own escape its duty. My heart forsake me, for he wanted more.
100 deaths, a shopping mall bomb. 200 children shot away from their parents. He came, and kissed me, and left without a smile. I became a mouse, doing the cat's sorry bidding. His insatiable, swarming desire became impossible to fulfil. He collected my dead, for he was Death and Pain and Suffering and Hate. And I, madly in love.
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[WP] A woman falls in love with Death and commits murder countless times just to catch a glimpse of him. | She held the dying woman's hand. The woman, old, sick, in pain, and lonely looked up at the pretty red head. "Thank you," she whispered. Her voice was weak, but happy - hopeful.
The young lady smiled and held the older woman's hand tighter. "My pleasure," she responded.
The sick woman, the tired woman, closed her eyes and rested.
The young lady checked the woman's pulse. She was gone.
As she put away the bottle of serum and needle she had used Inez felt the room shift slightly.
Death had come.
Inez didn't turn to look at him. She was young, but she had learned from a hard early life that staring death in the face was asking for trouble. Instead she busied herself with cleaning the area. Done with her task Inez stood awkwardly in the hospice room. Death had not left.
She smoothed her nurses outfit over her hips and fixed her collar. Still Death was there.
"You need to slow down," a voice said behind her. It was as she remembered it: dark, smooth, comforting. "You'll get caught."
"They ask me," Inez replied. "They ask me to help them. It's hard to deny their pleas to save them in a way that they don't damn themselves."
"And so you damn yourself," Death was just behind her. His voice was close, but there was no breath on her ear. She shrugged.
"There are..." she hesitated, "Perks." Warmth, smooth and silk like, had began to pool in her abdomen and seep between her thighs. It did every time Death came near. This was the closet he had been. The warmth leaped up into her heart.
"You do a good thing," Death said. "You should not get caught."
Inez smiled and was glad she wasn't facing him. Her blush would be too obvious.
"I can see the headlines now," she joked. "'Hospice Nurse is Angel of ...'" She trailed off embarrassed.
She felt a hand, not bony or cold, but soothing and possibly...affectionate, touch her shoulder. "Do not get caught," Death said. "No one will understand the peace you bring."
Inez felt the room shift again. Her warmth was replaced with longing.
"No one but you," she said, but she was alone.
| I loved him, that walking pain. The kind that would come after
strangulation and let-free blood. He who would warm my heart. Though his: cold.
I loved him as I tore through the spine of an elderly man, I loved him as he kissed me in those few moments between a mother who cried at the way her children died. At first, it seemed, we were in love. He would come and sit by me, after I had stabbed another in a lane way - my third that day. Oh heaven above, your saviour had come. He would embrace me, cloak aside, and flicker warmth through the carpet stained with red.
He would attack the night as I surrendered bodies to him.
For a time we were in love. And I knew this beyond my petty world. For a time, we were happy.
But soon he grew cold, wanting more souls. I would find and abduct and tie-up and kill. I would stalk and kidnap and cage and murder. I would fill the void he left upon fading from the world of the living. But it was not enough. One death, two deaths, three deaths, he would come on the fourth. One death, two deaths, three deaths, four deaths, he would only come on the fifth. I grew desperate, and cold myself. As I felt the blood of others' run dry, scabbing on my foreign hands, so too did I feel my own escape its duty. My heart forsake me, for he wanted more.
100 deaths, a shopping mall bomb. 200 children shot away from their parents. He came, and kissed me, and left without a smile. I became a mouse, doing the cat's sorry bidding. His insatiable, swarming desire became impossible to fulfil. He collected my dead, for he was Death and Pain and Suffering and Hate. And I, madly in love.
|
|
[WP] A woman falls in love with Death and commits murder countless times just to catch a glimpse of him. | At first I lived in wedded bliss,
No other did I crave.
Until my husband felt Death's kiss,
And took an early grave.
I saw him fade in by his side,
Upon that chilling bed.
His face the sweeping cloak did hide,
The Master of the Dead.
A feeling swept upon my heart,
A love novel and strong.
Was Death my soul mate from the start?
How could this rush be wrong?
I craved the void, the empty gaze,
Beneath the tattered cloak.
Must I wait til end of days,
When my soul he'd revoke?
It started with a single man,
A pill slipped into a drink.
That I'd have a sinister plan,
Was naught the men would think.
From one to five, and to a score,
The times I saw his scythe.
Yet still I craved him ever more,
And murdered for his tithe.
I can no longer wait and kill,
'Til my love will I see.
I swallow now this final pill,
So Death can come for me.
| She stood alone on the roof. The wind blew faintly, whistling through the bulletholes in a final protest. A smile threatened to leap forth, but she kept it in check. This was the best part.
The temperature dropped, and the surrounding light seemed to dim. There he was. He strode confidently among the bodies, leading the souls to the afterlife with macabre grace. The smile burst forth now full and unencumbered. She swept her jet black hair back into a messy bun.
"Long time, no see." He said casually.
"It has been a while... what have you been up to?"
"Oh you know, ushering souls to the underworld, the usual."
Something was off. All of the dead had a string leading to their cause of death, and most of them pointed to her. Actually, she was somewhat restless herself. And, was that lipstick?
"Why are you doing this?" He asked in a measured tone.
"Doing what?" Innocence. Nice try.
"Killing. Murdering. You're a good girl Aya." Her smile was contagious.
"But only in death can I see you."
"And? Seriously I'm old enough to have started your bloodline--"
"Age doesn't apply in this sort of thing."
He sighed. She was right. He remebered sparing her like it was yesterday. The fire that had killed her parents after their meth experiment went wrong. All their drug use had taken it's toll on her when she was born. It had taken all he had to give her a chance.
Then he felt it. Slim fingers entwining with his own. That wasn't possible. He looked at her and she was still alive. Still there.
"Just like you have to bear the burdens of the dead, I'll be there to bear yours."
"....Promise?" |
|
[WP] A woman falls in love with Death and commits murder countless times just to catch a glimpse of him. | * *I'll preface this by saying that I never write for fun. But something about this prompt made me want to jump in. Apologies for the amateur nature of the following.*
I never should have let her in. Two hundred years of being careful, of being guarded. All that time and work, lost because I was lonely. Sandra and her husband: that was the deal. It couldn’t have been easier. A car accident is a walk in the park. No second thoughts, no planning. No thinking. Nothing.
Why did she have to look, sound, even smell like Abby? I was promised that I would never have to go through it again. One time was enough. It was supposed to be so simple. Close my eyes, conjure the event, and see it through. But I was told, no, promised Goddamnit! How does he expect me to follow through when he breaches his own contract?
Fuck it. I wisped her out of the event. She’d be sad to lose her husband, but maybe she’d feel something. Maybe she’d know it was me who “saved” her. I just couldn’t bear seeing her essence pass through my world again. I made it as much of a freak accident as I could. Kids are always throwing things off highway overpasses, Right?
I should have seen it after her coworker died. Death in bunches or spread out, that’s how it works for those who I have to visit often. I guess my infatuation made me forget that Don from accounting died on the anniversary of Sandra’s husband dying. I went to check on her at her house. She’d just recently taken down all the pictures of her and Adam. She was facing her bathroom mirror.
“I see you every day,” she whispered.
It’s always interesting to see how long it takes for some people to get over the death of a loved one. Sandra was taking her sweet time.
“I know you’re watching over me.”
No, my dear, he isn’t. They never are.
“How do we know each other?”
She was staring right through me in the mirror. There was no way she knew. Right?
| She stood alone on the roof. The wind blew faintly, whistling through the bulletholes in a final protest. A smile threatened to leap forth, but she kept it in check. This was the best part.
The temperature dropped, and the surrounding light seemed to dim. There he was. He strode confidently among the bodies, leading the souls to the afterlife with macabre grace. The smile burst forth now full and unencumbered. She swept her jet black hair back into a messy bun.
"Long time, no see." He said casually.
"It has been a while... what have you been up to?"
"Oh you know, ushering souls to the underworld, the usual."
Something was off. All of the dead had a string leading to their cause of death, and most of them pointed to her. Actually, she was somewhat restless herself. And, was that lipstick?
"Why are you doing this?" He asked in a measured tone.
"Doing what?" Innocence. Nice try.
"Killing. Murdering. You're a good girl Aya." Her smile was contagious.
"But only in death can I see you."
"And? Seriously I'm old enough to have started your bloodline--"
"Age doesn't apply in this sort of thing."
He sighed. She was right. He remebered sparing her like it was yesterday. The fire that had killed her parents after their meth experiment went wrong. All their drug use had taken it's toll on her when she was born. It had taken all he had to give her a chance.
Then he felt it. Slim fingers entwining with his own. That wasn't possible. He looked at her and she was still alive. Still there.
"Just like you have to bear the burdens of the dead, I'll be there to bear yours."
"....Promise?" |
|
[WP] A woman falls in love with Death and commits murder countless times just to catch a glimpse of him. | She held the dying woman's hand. The woman, old, sick, in pain, and lonely looked up at the pretty red head. "Thank you," she whispered. Her voice was weak, but happy - hopeful.
The young lady smiled and held the older woman's hand tighter. "My pleasure," she responded.
The sick woman, the tired woman, closed her eyes and rested.
The young lady checked the woman's pulse. She was gone.
As she put away the bottle of serum and needle she had used Inez felt the room shift slightly.
Death had come.
Inez didn't turn to look at him. She was young, but she had learned from a hard early life that staring death in the face was asking for trouble. Instead she busied herself with cleaning the area. Done with her task Inez stood awkwardly in the hospice room. Death had not left.
She smoothed her nurses outfit over her hips and fixed her collar. Still Death was there.
"You need to slow down," a voice said behind her. It was as she remembered it: dark, smooth, comforting. "You'll get caught."
"They ask me," Inez replied. "They ask me to help them. It's hard to deny their pleas to save them in a way that they don't damn themselves."
"And so you damn yourself," Death was just behind her. His voice was close, but there was no breath on her ear. She shrugged.
"There are..." she hesitated, "Perks." Warmth, smooth and silk like, had began to pool in her abdomen and seep between her thighs. It did every time Death came near. This was the closet he had been. The warmth leaped up into her heart.
"You do a good thing," Death said. "You should not get caught."
Inez smiled and was glad she wasn't facing him. Her blush would be too obvious.
"I can see the headlines now," she joked. "'Hospice Nurse is Angel of ...'" She trailed off embarrassed.
She felt a hand, not bony or cold, but soothing and possibly...affectionate, touch her shoulder. "Do not get caught," Death said. "No one will understand the peace you bring."
Inez felt the room shift again. Her warmth was replaced with longing.
"No one but you," she said, but she was alone.
| She stood alone on the roof. The wind blew faintly, whistling through the bulletholes in a final protest. A smile threatened to leap forth, but she kept it in check. This was the best part.
The temperature dropped, and the surrounding light seemed to dim. There he was. He strode confidently among the bodies, leading the souls to the afterlife with macabre grace. The smile burst forth now full and unencumbered. She swept her jet black hair back into a messy bun.
"Long time, no see." He said casually.
"It has been a while... what have you been up to?"
"Oh you know, ushering souls to the underworld, the usual."
Something was off. All of the dead had a string leading to their cause of death, and most of them pointed to her. Actually, she was somewhat restless herself. And, was that lipstick?
"Why are you doing this?" He asked in a measured tone.
"Doing what?" Innocence. Nice try.
"Killing. Murdering. You're a good girl Aya." Her smile was contagious.
"But only in death can I see you."
"And? Seriously I'm old enough to have started your bloodline--"
"Age doesn't apply in this sort of thing."
He sighed. She was right. He remebered sparing her like it was yesterday. The fire that had killed her parents after their meth experiment went wrong. All their drug use had taken it's toll on her when she was born. It had taken all he had to give her a chance.
Then he felt it. Slim fingers entwining with his own. That wasn't possible. He looked at her and she was still alive. Still there.
"Just like you have to bear the burdens of the dead, I'll be there to bear yours."
"....Promise?" |
|
[WP] A woman falls in love with Death and commits murder countless times just to catch a glimpse of him. | She held the dying woman's hand. The woman, old, sick, in pain, and lonely looked up at the pretty red head. "Thank you," she whispered. Her voice was weak, but happy - hopeful.
The young lady smiled and held the older woman's hand tighter. "My pleasure," she responded.
The sick woman, the tired woman, closed her eyes and rested.
The young lady checked the woman's pulse. She was gone.
As she put away the bottle of serum and needle she had used Inez felt the room shift slightly.
Death had come.
Inez didn't turn to look at him. She was young, but she had learned from a hard early life that staring death in the face was asking for trouble. Instead she busied herself with cleaning the area. Done with her task Inez stood awkwardly in the hospice room. Death had not left.
She smoothed her nurses outfit over her hips and fixed her collar. Still Death was there.
"You need to slow down," a voice said behind her. It was as she remembered it: dark, smooth, comforting. "You'll get caught."
"They ask me," Inez replied. "They ask me to help them. It's hard to deny their pleas to save them in a way that they don't damn themselves."
"And so you damn yourself," Death was just behind her. His voice was close, but there was no breath on her ear. She shrugged.
"There are..." she hesitated, "Perks." Warmth, smooth and silk like, had began to pool in her abdomen and seep between her thighs. It did every time Death came near. This was the closet he had been. The warmth leaped up into her heart.
"You do a good thing," Death said. "You should not get caught."
Inez smiled and was glad she wasn't facing him. Her blush would be too obvious.
"I can see the headlines now," she joked. "'Hospice Nurse is Angel of ...'" She trailed off embarrassed.
She felt a hand, not bony or cold, but soothing and possibly...affectionate, touch her shoulder. "Do not get caught," Death said. "No one will understand the peace you bring."
Inez felt the room shift again. Her warmth was replaced with longing.
"No one but you," she said, but she was alone.
| * *I'll preface this by saying that I never write for fun. But something about this prompt made me want to jump in. Apologies for the amateur nature of the following.*
I never should have let her in. Two hundred years of being careful, of being guarded. All that time and work, lost because I was lonely. Sandra and her husband: that was the deal. It couldn’t have been easier. A car accident is a walk in the park. No second thoughts, no planning. No thinking. Nothing.
Why did she have to look, sound, even smell like Abby? I was promised that I would never have to go through it again. One time was enough. It was supposed to be so simple. Close my eyes, conjure the event, and see it through. But I was told, no, promised Goddamnit! How does he expect me to follow through when he breaches his own contract?
Fuck it. I wisped her out of the event. She’d be sad to lose her husband, but maybe she’d feel something. Maybe she’d know it was me who “saved” her. I just couldn’t bear seeing her essence pass through my world again. I made it as much of a freak accident as I could. Kids are always throwing things off highway overpasses, Right?
I should have seen it after her coworker died. Death in bunches or spread out, that’s how it works for those who I have to visit often. I guess my infatuation made me forget that Don from accounting died on the anniversary of Sandra’s husband dying. I went to check on her at her house. She’d just recently taken down all the pictures of her and Adam. She was facing her bathroom mirror.
“I see you every day,” she whispered.
It’s always interesting to see how long it takes for some people to get over the death of a loved one. Sandra was taking her sweet time.
“I know you’re watching over me.”
No, my dear, he isn’t. They never are.
“How do we know each other?”
She was staring right through me in the mirror. There was no way she knew. Right?
|
|
[WP] A woman falls in love with Death and commits murder countless times just to catch a glimpse of him. | She held the dying woman's hand. The woman, old, sick, in pain, and lonely looked up at the pretty red head. "Thank you," she whispered. Her voice was weak, but happy - hopeful.
The young lady smiled and held the older woman's hand tighter. "My pleasure," she responded.
The sick woman, the tired woman, closed her eyes and rested.
The young lady checked the woman's pulse. She was gone.
As she put away the bottle of serum and needle she had used Inez felt the room shift slightly.
Death had come.
Inez didn't turn to look at him. She was young, but she had learned from a hard early life that staring death in the face was asking for trouble. Instead she busied herself with cleaning the area. Done with her task Inez stood awkwardly in the hospice room. Death had not left.
She smoothed her nurses outfit over her hips and fixed her collar. Still Death was there.
"You need to slow down," a voice said behind her. It was as she remembered it: dark, smooth, comforting. "You'll get caught."
"They ask me," Inez replied. "They ask me to help them. It's hard to deny their pleas to save them in a way that they don't damn themselves."
"And so you damn yourself," Death was just behind her. His voice was close, but there was no breath on her ear. She shrugged.
"There are..." she hesitated, "Perks." Warmth, smooth and silk like, had began to pool in her abdomen and seep between her thighs. It did every time Death came near. This was the closet he had been. The warmth leaped up into her heart.
"You do a good thing," Death said. "You should not get caught."
Inez smiled and was glad she wasn't facing him. Her blush would be too obvious.
"I can see the headlines now," she joked. "'Hospice Nurse is Angel of ...'" She trailed off embarrassed.
She felt a hand, not bony or cold, but soothing and possibly...affectionate, touch her shoulder. "Do not get caught," Death said. "No one will understand the peace you bring."
Inez felt the room shift again. Her warmth was replaced with longing.
"No one but you," she said, but she was alone.
| "I just didn't figure you'd be... you know... handsome! Has anybody told you you have a very seductive voice? It's like velvet..."
"How do you think I beckon those on the edge to the other side?"
"Oh my... almost poetic!"
"Why do you continue to murder? You're an enemy of your kind now."
"I wanted to see you again. After I heard your voice that first time in the hospital... but as much as I wanted to follow you, the doctors gave me no choice. I survived the accident, but my family died. I was 8. I lost everything, but I found you."
"That's all well and good, but you will see me again. I will take you, as I take everybody. You see... I love you too. I love all life. It's why I take the greatest kings and the smallest insects alike. If you wish to see me for a much longer "date", you need only wait. Accident, sickness, murder, or even suicide."
"Really? I can be with you, forever?"
"You will. Just wait. I will."
Death vanished with a smirk. As he descended into the ether, he smiled and pulled out a list. He wrote next to her name: "*cause of death, suicide*"
"Foolish humans..." |
|
[WP] A woman falls in love with Death and commits murder countless times just to catch a glimpse of him. | She smells of sweetness- but she's the most bitter being I've ever seen. I ask her how she can do it. It haunts me, day and night, all those faces- but she just shrugs.
"Life is not a promise; it's not a contract. It's a gift. I can take life back whenever I want. Death is the promise. You're the promise," she whispers. She's not vehement in her words, but it's apparent. She gives herself to these humans, but she doesn't love them. She goes up to one of them, snaps her fingers, and they pass. I carry them away, I'm the last thing they'll know. And she has no regrets.
"I've got to go," I say. She shakes her head and snaps her fingers; we're taken to a young man, lying in a hospital bed. She hovers, and I watch as I only can. He'll be dead soon. And I'm here for him. She tilts her head at me.
"Isn't there anything you want to know?" I don't know what she means.
"Does he have family?" I ask.
"That's not what I mean," she says. The young man takes a deep breath; I thought it was his last and step forward, but another follows. Sometimes, a person tries to hang on. Sometimes, Life isn't as thorough and doesn't drain them of all they have left. Sometimes they challenge her. They're too strong. She doesn't like it, but is still strangely fascinated by it. She doesn't love them. But they love her. And they hate me.
"I take them all away from the people that they love, the people that love them. Everyone hates me. And here you are, with the actual power, and people celebrate you."
"I'd celebrate you," she says, stepping closer to me. "I would celebrate you if you'd let me, Death. But that's the true cruelty of Life. I can never have you." I know. Despite the fact that she terrifies me- she is still Life, and she emblazons me. I almost feel her in my core when she looks at me; she stirs something in me that I want more than anything. I want her. We want each other. Yet we can only meet when we're both doing the things we hate. She leans forward and kisses me. I sigh.
"Let him live, Life. Give him what I want," I ask of her. She nods, tears streaming down. "Love them like they love you. Like I love you. And I'll see you soon."
"I'll see you in seven minutes," she whispers fiercely, as I step away. | "I just didn't figure you'd be... you know... handsome! Has anybody told you you have a very seductive voice? It's like velvet..."
"How do you think I beckon those on the edge to the other side?"
"Oh my... almost poetic!"
"Why do you continue to murder? You're an enemy of your kind now."
"I wanted to see you again. After I heard your voice that first time in the hospital... but as much as I wanted to follow you, the doctors gave me no choice. I survived the accident, but my family died. I was 8. I lost everything, but I found you."
"That's all well and good, but you will see me again. I will take you, as I take everybody. You see... I love you too. I love all life. It's why I take the greatest kings and the smallest insects alike. If you wish to see me for a much longer "date", you need only wait. Accident, sickness, murder, or even suicide."
"Really? I can be with you, forever?"
"You will. Just wait. I will."
Death vanished with a smirk. As he descended into the ether, he smiled and pulled out a list. He wrote next to her name: "*cause of death, suicide*"
"Foolish humans..." |
|
[WP] A woman falls in love with Death and commits murder countless times just to catch a glimpse of him. | Number twenty five died slowly. Young college boy, a friend of her daughter - could have been more, with time. The blood had burst from his neck and sprayed her face with glistening droplets. She dragged her tongue along the knife's edge as she watched his mouth attempt to form words, managing only a hoarse groan. Her heart started beating rapidly as the eyes finally dimmed. *He* was coming.
She had caught a glimpse every time. The first murder had been an accident - she had killed some drunk in the early hours of a December morning. It was while she had attempted to resuscitate him - ignoring the crusted vomit at the edges of his mouth and the foul breath - that she had seen it. Just the eyes, and hints of a cloak. The eyes were eternity, the universe reflected back at her. She had become aware of every star that drifted in the cosmos, every life that hummed on this planet and all the ones like it.
Each time she had seen something else. The exact shade of rich, deep blackness that was his cloak, with number five. The elegant hands, gripping the soul tight and absorbing it into the bones - number ten. And tonight. Oh tonight, she would see it all. The blade was still resting on her lips when he approached the corpse. Slowly, as if he had all the time in the world, as if this one mattered.
She wept as she watched him gather the soul, not attempting to draw his attention. He had not seen her - she didn't know if he could. It was enough to feast on the whole of him, the completed puzzle, that bore the mask of man but was alien in his beauty.
He turned to face her. She dropped to her knees, the knife clattering to her feet. She was aware of him grasping her shoulders, lifting her up again. She unconsciously mimicked her last victim's groan, as he stared mercilessly into her eyes. No human should face those eyes alive, it occurred to her in the dim part of her mind that remained sane.
"It is good you have come. I am tired," he spoke, lips hardly moving. The voice echoed in her mind, splintering it further. She couldn't speak, but somehow he heard the questions.
"No, I do not love you. But you worship me now, don't you? Once you did not - once you even attempted to push me away, trying to save a man's life on a dark road one morning in December..." he whispered, his voice scraping away at her senses. She was faintly aware that she wanted to deny it. No, no, I've always loved you...always, my sweet...
"There are many that resemble you. Ones who love and wait and are never satisfied. The ones who have always loved me. The obsessed, the abandoned lovers. My..." he smiled then. "My stalkers." He gripped her shoulders, and she heard the bones crack as the fingers started digging into her flesh. To reach something. To find some elusive thing that was trying to hide.
"Ah, but you," she felt the cold grip her, as his fingers continued their search. "You will become me, and I you. And we will be young again, change as you have changed. For you once hated me, when you were sweet and innocent, with a revulsion for violence. But now you thirst, and you hunger for me. Now you would slaughter your daughter to meet me, wouldn't you, if it meant you could taste my kiss. It is a rare thing, transformed love. And I.."
He caught it, and pulled. She felt her soul ripped from her body, and he was absorbing it, drinking it in - more deeply than the others. They would be carried on, but she would stay here. She knew it. She would stay. She would become...
"I will live on," said Death. She glanced at the pitiful husk that once was hers. Such an ugly thing, drenched in blood. She admired her cloak of deepest midnight, her elegant hands. She spoke in a thousand devoured voices, singing along to the song they all knew so well. "I will never die." | “He is beautiful.
No matter that I never heard his voice, nor saw his face, shrouded in the shadow of his hood as it always was. His beauty lies not in countenance of face, nor sound of tongue. For me, his beauty is beholden to his stride, graceful and purposeful to his grim duty. It is in the gift that he brings, in his reaping of the crop that is life. It is in the faces of those to whom that gift is given; faces which, like a clear pool reflects the moon on a cloudless night, can offer but a sorry mimicry of his noble visage. I first glimpsed Him when I was but a girl, so long ago now that the memory is all but lost to the sands of the great Father who, in seeking to bless me, cursed me to never receive the gift of my beloved. I should explain.
It has become commonplace in your people’s tongue to reference the passage of varying quantities of time with “ages”. Yet for me, literal ages have passed since my childhood. I have watched civilisations wax and wane, rode mountains as they climbed towards the sky, and swam in oceans when they were but lakes. I believe there is a saying now for something which is very old: “Old as the hills”. I am older. Over the millennia I have not aged, I simply evolved. Adapted. But do not be deceived. I was there when the first murder was committed, over who had the right to lead. I was there when the first men started the first war, over some miniscule herd of livestock. I was there for the first plague, and every plague thereafter. Because so was He.
There are no plagues anymore. No wars, either. Death, in both meanings of the word, has become too random, too spontaneous. I had gone many years without seeing Him when I took my first. In order to fully understand the despair I felt, you must first understand my perception of time. What to you might seem an eternity is to me but a fleeting moment. I blink my eyes and cities rise and fall around me. I sleep, and when I awaken a new age has dawned. Such is the Father’s gift to me. Yet, when Death became scarce, ever moment to me was torture. I, who understood what it was to watch the centuries pass like leaves on the wind, felt every biting second of his absence. It gnawed at me like hunger gnaws the belly of a starving street rat. Or, rather, as it would were street rats still present in this hellish future you people have the gall to name “Utopia”.
So I killed.
I wish I could tell you I remember her well. That I see her face whenever I close my eyes, that she haunts my dreams, souring them to nightmares when I sleep. Honestly, I couldn’t recall a thing about her if I tried. I could tell you it was poison that killed her, used to keep from bloodying my dress. I could tell you that when He came for her, it was the closest we had ever been to one another. I could tell you that, as he stood over her, I almost saw beneath his hood. Almost. But none of that matters. You don’t care about that, not really. Already I know I have dwelled too long on her. She is insignificant. Let us continue.
The second was - well, that doesn’t really matter either now, does it? Not this one, nor the one after, nor the thousands that followed, one after another, pills being washed down with the water of life, blessing me with apparitions of unholy perfection.
No. Like the filthy horde that swarms around a travelling magician, you have no time for clever little tricks and jokes. You’re just here to see his assistant be sawed in half. Well, you’ve all paid your fee so I suppose it’s only fair that I uphold my end of the bargain. Into the box, Sharon, and we’ll begin.
The virus. My virus. My last hurrah, the big fix after which I would sleep until the end of the Father’s reign over this verse. It was supposed to end all life on this world. All except mine, of course. As you have probably gathered by now, it did not succeed. People died, of course. The world’s population was decimated, with over a billion killed by the time you managed to stop it. Yet billions more yet remain, a testament to my great failure.
You want me to apologise, I’m sure. To feign guilt and remorse. I won’t. I am guilty only of loving, and regret only that the one I love is forever beyond my reach, and I forever beyond his. Our paths run parallel, destined to walk forever side by side but never meet. That is my tragedy, your honour. I seek no mercy, only understanding. Do you understand?”
The judge remained motionless, staring through me with eyes of cold steel. I felt his disgust and returned it ten times over. He knew nothing of loathing.
“I understand only that you sought to destroy humanity. Your justifications are beyond my faculties of reason, and I see nothing in you but guilt.”
I knew that there was no value in pleading. My captivity was inevitable, but my hatred demanded release.
“Of course you see nothing else. How can you? You are but an insect, blissfully unaware of its inferiority to the superior being in whose presence it is allowed to exist. You intend to lock me up? You have my blessing. Sentence me to life imprisonment and I will watch your metal and stone wither and rot before my eyes. I will outlast any cell in which you throw me, and rest assured that when the walls finally crumble I will see humanity’s last day brought forward. You, I think, will not.”
The courtroom fell silent for a moment. I licked my lips, tasting the fear-laced silence. It was disappointingly bland.
“It is clear to me that the accused is too dangerous to be allowed to live”, the judge began. “Therefore, it is with a heavy heart that I must, for the first time in a thousand years, request that the jury permit a sentence of death.”
A moment of frenzied muttering amongst the jury members preceded a nod from their representative. The judge continued.
“Very well. Let it be known, then, that I hereby sentence the accused to death, by whatever means necessary. If it takes another thousand years of new science to develop, a means of execution will be found successful and **you**” I felt his eyes again at that, “will be put to death. Have you any closing words?”
I thought for a moment. I had anticipated many possible outcomes, but this was not among them. There was only one thing left to say, really.
“Good luck, your honour.”
Many years have passed since my sentencing. The opportunity for escape has presented itself several times since, but the judge’s promise always stayed my hand.
It isn’t that I believe him. I have tried to call Death to me many times in the past, to no avail. What chance then can humanity have to achieve what even I could not? No, I do not believe. But I can hope. And there are worse things than hope to keep one warm at night. Who knows? Maybe one day the humans will succeed, and my beloved and I will be together at last.
Maybe. |
|
[WP] A woman falls in love with Death and commits murder countless times just to catch a glimpse of him. | She smells of sweetness- but she's the most bitter being I've ever seen. I ask her how she can do it. It haunts me, day and night, all those faces- but she just shrugs.
"Life is not a promise; it's not a contract. It's a gift. I can take life back whenever I want. Death is the promise. You're the promise," she whispers. She's not vehement in her words, but it's apparent. She gives herself to these humans, but she doesn't love them. She goes up to one of them, snaps her fingers, and they pass. I carry them away, I'm the last thing they'll know. And she has no regrets.
"I've got to go," I say. She shakes her head and snaps her fingers; we're taken to a young man, lying in a hospital bed. She hovers, and I watch as I only can. He'll be dead soon. And I'm here for him. She tilts her head at me.
"Isn't there anything you want to know?" I don't know what she means.
"Does he have family?" I ask.
"That's not what I mean," she says. The young man takes a deep breath; I thought it was his last and step forward, but another follows. Sometimes, a person tries to hang on. Sometimes, Life isn't as thorough and doesn't drain them of all they have left. Sometimes they challenge her. They're too strong. She doesn't like it, but is still strangely fascinated by it. She doesn't love them. But they love her. And they hate me.
"I take them all away from the people that they love, the people that love them. Everyone hates me. And here you are, with the actual power, and people celebrate you."
"I'd celebrate you," she says, stepping closer to me. "I would celebrate you if you'd let me, Death. But that's the true cruelty of Life. I can never have you." I know. Despite the fact that she terrifies me- she is still Life, and she emblazons me. I almost feel her in my core when she looks at me; she stirs something in me that I want more than anything. I want her. We want each other. Yet we can only meet when we're both doing the things we hate. She leans forward and kisses me. I sigh.
"Let him live, Life. Give him what I want," I ask of her. She nods, tears streaming down. "Love them like they love you. Like I love you. And I'll see you soon."
"I'll see you in seven minutes," she whispers fiercely, as I step away. | “He is beautiful.
No matter that I never heard his voice, nor saw his face, shrouded in the shadow of his hood as it always was. His beauty lies not in countenance of face, nor sound of tongue. For me, his beauty is beholden to his stride, graceful and purposeful to his grim duty. It is in the gift that he brings, in his reaping of the crop that is life. It is in the faces of those to whom that gift is given; faces which, like a clear pool reflects the moon on a cloudless night, can offer but a sorry mimicry of his noble visage. I first glimpsed Him when I was but a girl, so long ago now that the memory is all but lost to the sands of the great Father who, in seeking to bless me, cursed me to never receive the gift of my beloved. I should explain.
It has become commonplace in your people’s tongue to reference the passage of varying quantities of time with “ages”. Yet for me, literal ages have passed since my childhood. I have watched civilisations wax and wane, rode mountains as they climbed towards the sky, and swam in oceans when they were but lakes. I believe there is a saying now for something which is very old: “Old as the hills”. I am older. Over the millennia I have not aged, I simply evolved. Adapted. But do not be deceived. I was there when the first murder was committed, over who had the right to lead. I was there when the first men started the first war, over some miniscule herd of livestock. I was there for the first plague, and every plague thereafter. Because so was He.
There are no plagues anymore. No wars, either. Death, in both meanings of the word, has become too random, too spontaneous. I had gone many years without seeing Him when I took my first. In order to fully understand the despair I felt, you must first understand my perception of time. What to you might seem an eternity is to me but a fleeting moment. I blink my eyes and cities rise and fall around me. I sleep, and when I awaken a new age has dawned. Such is the Father’s gift to me. Yet, when Death became scarce, ever moment to me was torture. I, who understood what it was to watch the centuries pass like leaves on the wind, felt every biting second of his absence. It gnawed at me like hunger gnaws the belly of a starving street rat. Or, rather, as it would were street rats still present in this hellish future you people have the gall to name “Utopia”.
So I killed.
I wish I could tell you I remember her well. That I see her face whenever I close my eyes, that she haunts my dreams, souring them to nightmares when I sleep. Honestly, I couldn’t recall a thing about her if I tried. I could tell you it was poison that killed her, used to keep from bloodying my dress. I could tell you that when He came for her, it was the closest we had ever been to one another. I could tell you that, as he stood over her, I almost saw beneath his hood. Almost. But none of that matters. You don’t care about that, not really. Already I know I have dwelled too long on her. She is insignificant. Let us continue.
The second was - well, that doesn’t really matter either now, does it? Not this one, nor the one after, nor the thousands that followed, one after another, pills being washed down with the water of life, blessing me with apparitions of unholy perfection.
No. Like the filthy horde that swarms around a travelling magician, you have no time for clever little tricks and jokes. You’re just here to see his assistant be sawed in half. Well, you’ve all paid your fee so I suppose it’s only fair that I uphold my end of the bargain. Into the box, Sharon, and we’ll begin.
The virus. My virus. My last hurrah, the big fix after which I would sleep until the end of the Father’s reign over this verse. It was supposed to end all life on this world. All except mine, of course. As you have probably gathered by now, it did not succeed. People died, of course. The world’s population was decimated, with over a billion killed by the time you managed to stop it. Yet billions more yet remain, a testament to my great failure.
You want me to apologise, I’m sure. To feign guilt and remorse. I won’t. I am guilty only of loving, and regret only that the one I love is forever beyond my reach, and I forever beyond his. Our paths run parallel, destined to walk forever side by side but never meet. That is my tragedy, your honour. I seek no mercy, only understanding. Do you understand?”
The judge remained motionless, staring through me with eyes of cold steel. I felt his disgust and returned it ten times over. He knew nothing of loathing.
“I understand only that you sought to destroy humanity. Your justifications are beyond my faculties of reason, and I see nothing in you but guilt.”
I knew that there was no value in pleading. My captivity was inevitable, but my hatred demanded release.
“Of course you see nothing else. How can you? You are but an insect, blissfully unaware of its inferiority to the superior being in whose presence it is allowed to exist. You intend to lock me up? You have my blessing. Sentence me to life imprisonment and I will watch your metal and stone wither and rot before my eyes. I will outlast any cell in which you throw me, and rest assured that when the walls finally crumble I will see humanity’s last day brought forward. You, I think, will not.”
The courtroom fell silent for a moment. I licked my lips, tasting the fear-laced silence. It was disappointingly bland.
“It is clear to me that the accused is too dangerous to be allowed to live”, the judge began. “Therefore, it is with a heavy heart that I must, for the first time in a thousand years, request that the jury permit a sentence of death.”
A moment of frenzied muttering amongst the jury members preceded a nod from their representative. The judge continued.
“Very well. Let it be known, then, that I hereby sentence the accused to death, by whatever means necessary. If it takes another thousand years of new science to develop, a means of execution will be found successful and **you**” I felt his eyes again at that, “will be put to death. Have you any closing words?”
I thought for a moment. I had anticipated many possible outcomes, but this was not among them. There was only one thing left to say, really.
“Good luck, your honour.”
Many years have passed since my sentencing. The opportunity for escape has presented itself several times since, but the judge’s promise always stayed my hand.
It isn’t that I believe him. I have tried to call Death to me many times in the past, to no avail. What chance then can humanity have to achieve what even I could not? No, I do not believe. But I can hope. And there are worse things than hope to keep one warm at night. Who knows? Maybe one day the humans will succeed, and my beloved and I will be together at last.
Maybe. |
|
[WP] A woman falls in love with Death and commits murder countless times just to catch a glimpse of him. | Number twenty five died slowly. Young college boy, a friend of her daughter - could have been more, with time. The blood had burst from his neck and sprayed her face with glistening droplets. She dragged her tongue along the knife's edge as she watched his mouth attempt to form words, managing only a hoarse groan. Her heart started beating rapidly as the eyes finally dimmed. *He* was coming.
She had caught a glimpse every time. The first murder had been an accident - she had killed some drunk in the early hours of a December morning. It was while she had attempted to resuscitate him - ignoring the crusted vomit at the edges of his mouth and the foul breath - that she had seen it. Just the eyes, and hints of a cloak. The eyes were eternity, the universe reflected back at her. She had become aware of every star that drifted in the cosmos, every life that hummed on this planet and all the ones like it.
Each time she had seen something else. The exact shade of rich, deep blackness that was his cloak, with number five. The elegant hands, gripping the soul tight and absorbing it into the bones - number ten. And tonight. Oh tonight, she would see it all. The blade was still resting on her lips when he approached the corpse. Slowly, as if he had all the time in the world, as if this one mattered.
She wept as she watched him gather the soul, not attempting to draw his attention. He had not seen her - she didn't know if he could. It was enough to feast on the whole of him, the completed puzzle, that bore the mask of man but was alien in his beauty.
He turned to face her. She dropped to her knees, the knife clattering to her feet. She was aware of him grasping her shoulders, lifting her up again. She unconsciously mimicked her last victim's groan, as he stared mercilessly into her eyes. No human should face those eyes alive, it occurred to her in the dim part of her mind that remained sane.
"It is good you have come. I am tired," he spoke, lips hardly moving. The voice echoed in her mind, splintering it further. She couldn't speak, but somehow he heard the questions.
"No, I do not love you. But you worship me now, don't you? Once you did not - once you even attempted to push me away, trying to save a man's life on a dark road one morning in December..." he whispered, his voice scraping away at her senses. She was faintly aware that she wanted to deny it. No, no, I've always loved you...always, my sweet...
"There are many that resemble you. Ones who love and wait and are never satisfied. The ones who have always loved me. The obsessed, the abandoned lovers. My..." he smiled then. "My stalkers." He gripped her shoulders, and she heard the bones crack as the fingers started digging into her flesh. To reach something. To find some elusive thing that was trying to hide.
"Ah, but you," she felt the cold grip her, as his fingers continued their search. "You will become me, and I you. And we will be young again, change as you have changed. For you once hated me, when you were sweet and innocent, with a revulsion for violence. But now you thirst, and you hunger for me. Now you would slaughter your daughter to meet me, wouldn't you, if it meant you could taste my kiss. It is a rare thing, transformed love. And I.."
He caught it, and pulled. She felt her soul ripped from her body, and he was absorbing it, drinking it in - more deeply than the others. They would be carried on, but she would stay here. She knew it. She would stay. She would become...
"I will live on," said Death. She glanced at the pitiful husk that once was hers. Such an ugly thing, drenched in blood. She admired her cloak of deepest midnight, her elegant hands. She spoke in a thousand devoured voices, singing along to the song they all knew so well. "I will never die." | It started with a mouse. The moment her boot fell upon its head, a whirlwind of a million shades of gray enveloped her and *poof* - there he was. She remembered the way he had stared at her: dark, empty eyes filled with interest and longing. That day they had sat in the orchard, on the swing with fingers entwined and in complete silence. She wouldn't talk and he couldnt. But still they sat, the rope of the swing creaking against the weathered bark of the tree. Neither remembered the mouse. They sat for hours, her head on his shoulder, his scythe well out of the way. Soon enough, he noticed the dropping sun dip low in the sky and with a long sigh he wrested his fingers from her beautiful hand. It wasn't his intention to her hurt but she knew what he meant. *This can't happen again*.
He left her sobbing on the swing.
She quickly realised that he would always come back, that a part of him would never really be able to let go. Every sacrificed mouse meant another sunset in his arms, another day spent in silence in the big orchard on the creaky swing. Days, weeks, countless dead mice. She began to speak after a while, whispering her love and cooing her wishes. He stayed in silence, his fingers desperately wrapped around hers. Every visit grew shorter, however, and he left with the sun higher and higher in the sky each time. She would weep into his tattered robes and he would sweep up the dead mouse, disappearing with as much of a *poof* as when he appeared. Not really understanding why he would leave, she cried herself to sleep every night.
One day, however, he found her sat against the wall, bloodied and dazed. It wasn't a mouse this time. At her feet lay a tiny dog, once beautiful and alive, now cold and far away. He stayed with her that night, knowing he would regret it. She swore and cried and begged him to stay until the end. He sat in silence, watching her fury and pain bubble to a boil and leave her in the form of tears.
It was around midnight that he remembered the puppy (he had been stroking her blood soaked hair and she was finally asleep) and he found himself hating the thought of a life lost in exchange for a day with her. He no longer saw the beautiful woman he once knew, with ashen hair and big, emotional eyes. With obvious effort he whispered his "Goodbye" and left, knowing every death she now caused for him would be forever on her conscience and that she would forever be alone.
She woke in the morning, blood cracking on her cheeks as she yawned. The dog was gone and so was he. All that remained was a pool of blood that looked oddly like a love heart. |
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[WP] A woman falls in love with Death and commits murder countless times just to catch a glimpse of him. | She smells of sweetness- but she's the most bitter being I've ever seen. I ask her how she can do it. It haunts me, day and night, all those faces- but she just shrugs.
"Life is not a promise; it's not a contract. It's a gift. I can take life back whenever I want. Death is the promise. You're the promise," she whispers. She's not vehement in her words, but it's apparent. She gives herself to these humans, but she doesn't love them. She goes up to one of them, snaps her fingers, and they pass. I carry them away, I'm the last thing they'll know. And she has no regrets.
"I've got to go," I say. She shakes her head and snaps her fingers; we're taken to a young man, lying in a hospital bed. She hovers, and I watch as I only can. He'll be dead soon. And I'm here for him. She tilts her head at me.
"Isn't there anything you want to know?" I don't know what she means.
"Does he have family?" I ask.
"That's not what I mean," she says. The young man takes a deep breath; I thought it was his last and step forward, but another follows. Sometimes, a person tries to hang on. Sometimes, Life isn't as thorough and doesn't drain them of all they have left. Sometimes they challenge her. They're too strong. She doesn't like it, but is still strangely fascinated by it. She doesn't love them. But they love her. And they hate me.
"I take them all away from the people that they love, the people that love them. Everyone hates me. And here you are, with the actual power, and people celebrate you."
"I'd celebrate you," she says, stepping closer to me. "I would celebrate you if you'd let me, Death. But that's the true cruelty of Life. I can never have you." I know. Despite the fact that she terrifies me- she is still Life, and she emblazons me. I almost feel her in my core when she looks at me; she stirs something in me that I want more than anything. I want her. We want each other. Yet we can only meet when we're both doing the things we hate. She leans forward and kisses me. I sigh.
"Let him live, Life. Give him what I want," I ask of her. She nods, tears streaming down. "Love them like they love you. Like I love you. And I'll see you soon."
"I'll see you in seven minutes," she whispers fiercely, as I step away. | It started with a mouse. The moment her boot fell upon its head, a whirlwind of a million shades of gray enveloped her and *poof* - there he was. She remembered the way he had stared at her: dark, empty eyes filled with interest and longing. That day they had sat in the orchard, on the swing with fingers entwined and in complete silence. She wouldn't talk and he couldnt. But still they sat, the rope of the swing creaking against the weathered bark of the tree. Neither remembered the mouse. They sat for hours, her head on his shoulder, his scythe well out of the way. Soon enough, he noticed the dropping sun dip low in the sky and with a long sigh he wrested his fingers from her beautiful hand. It wasn't his intention to her hurt but she knew what he meant. *This can't happen again*.
He left her sobbing on the swing.
She quickly realised that he would always come back, that a part of him would never really be able to let go. Every sacrificed mouse meant another sunset in his arms, another day spent in silence in the big orchard on the creaky swing. Days, weeks, countless dead mice. She began to speak after a while, whispering her love and cooing her wishes. He stayed in silence, his fingers desperately wrapped around hers. Every visit grew shorter, however, and he left with the sun higher and higher in the sky each time. She would weep into his tattered robes and he would sweep up the dead mouse, disappearing with as much of a *poof* as when he appeared. Not really understanding why he would leave, she cried herself to sleep every night.
One day, however, he found her sat against the wall, bloodied and dazed. It wasn't a mouse this time. At her feet lay a tiny dog, once beautiful and alive, now cold and far away. He stayed with her that night, knowing he would regret it. She swore and cried and begged him to stay until the end. He sat in silence, watching her fury and pain bubble to a boil and leave her in the form of tears.
It was around midnight that he remembered the puppy (he had been stroking her blood soaked hair and she was finally asleep) and he found himself hating the thought of a life lost in exchange for a day with her. He no longer saw the beautiful woman he once knew, with ashen hair and big, emotional eyes. With obvious effort he whispered his "Goodbye" and left, knowing every death she now caused for him would be forever on her conscience and that she would forever be alone.
She woke in the morning, blood cracking on her cheeks as she yawned. The dog was gone and so was he. All that remained was a pool of blood that looked oddly like a love heart. |
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[WP] A woman falls in love with Death and commits murder countless times just to catch a glimpse of him. | "You." I felt the throbbing behind my eyes start again, a headache building in my skull.
"You!" she was elated, covered in drying blood and trembling with...elation, I would guess. Rubbing my temple I took a deep breath and tried again to diffuse this...this insane woman.
"You need to stop." Opting for blunt may not have been my best choice, tears welled up in her eyes and her bottom lip quivered.
"Don't you like it?" she said in a trembling whisper. I tried, I swear I tried, but I sighed heavily and with a roll of my eyes I swept my hands out towards the scene of carnage.
"Just because I'm Death everyone assumes I'm fascinated by it. You do know that Death is elected from the Fates because no one wants to do it right? It's not like the Ferryman is all that friendly plus you have to be knee deep in blood all day. Or old people." An involuntary shudder shook my body as I thought about the countless souls I had reaped, much like the four waiting for me to show them the way."
"Excuse me," one of those souls spoke, "you're referring to Greek mythology, I'm a Christian and we believe in..."
"Oh shut up," snapping at your souls was generally frowned upon but having gone through this song and dance, and with the more pressing concern before me, I found myself to be far from the mood.
"I did this for you," she whispered again, the tears freely flowing as she smiled. A sickening, grotesque thing from a mentally disturbed woman. Pinching the bridge of my nose I tried to stem the throbbing pain, to no avail and my consternation.
"This is...ninety two," she worked quickly, I had to admit that, "in two months you have now given me ninety two souls I shouldn't have had to deal with." The four people in the café had been quite innocent, it hadn't been their time at all. My...admirer had suddenly decided it in a fit of desperation and walked in with a semi-automatic pistol and a knife. Now I had four souls impatiently waiting for my direction. Five, if the waitress didn't get help soon.
"I just wanted to see you." The throbbing intensified and I made a terrible mistake.
"I don't want to see you!" I shouted, the glass in the café reverberating to the ethereal noise. I imagined the dozens of police officers outside would be quite confused if they had seen it, that brought me slight amusement. I've always preferred joking rather than the grim business of death. The mistake was that now she was completely in tears, waving her pistol around and shouting some nonsense about being "in love" with me. A mortal? I made my second mistake. She stopped at my laughter, it was really more of a chuckle. At first. Then it became full out hysterics and I barely managed to choke out my third mistake.
"You're nothing to me! To all of us! An insignificant speck."
The tears were gone in an instant, replaced by a furious red hot rage. She raised her pistol to the barely surviving waitresses head and began to squeeze the trigger.
Knowing what came next I felt something I hadn't known in...possibly ever. Fear.
The sniper's bullet hit her head with the force of a freight train. My admirer was...dead.
"No," I thought my head would explode from the pain, I still had two thousand years to serve as Death. Staring at me was her soul, excited and wide eyed. I don't know what is beyond ecstatic but she was far beyond even that.
"We can be together forever now!" she said, wrapping me in her arms for the first time since she'd discovered she could see me. Ninety four bodies ago. I borrowed a word from the mortals, it summed up my feelings well enough.
"Fuck." | It started with a mouse. The moment her boot fell upon its head, a whirlwind of a million shades of gray enveloped her and *poof* - there he was. She remembered the way he had stared at her: dark, empty eyes filled with interest and longing. That day they had sat in the orchard, on the swing with fingers entwined and in complete silence. She wouldn't talk and he couldnt. But still they sat, the rope of the swing creaking against the weathered bark of the tree. Neither remembered the mouse. They sat for hours, her head on his shoulder, his scythe well out of the way. Soon enough, he noticed the dropping sun dip low in the sky and with a long sigh he wrested his fingers from her beautiful hand. It wasn't his intention to her hurt but she knew what he meant. *This can't happen again*.
He left her sobbing on the swing.
She quickly realised that he would always come back, that a part of him would never really be able to let go. Every sacrificed mouse meant another sunset in his arms, another day spent in silence in the big orchard on the creaky swing. Days, weeks, countless dead mice. She began to speak after a while, whispering her love and cooing her wishes. He stayed in silence, his fingers desperately wrapped around hers. Every visit grew shorter, however, and he left with the sun higher and higher in the sky each time. She would weep into his tattered robes and he would sweep up the dead mouse, disappearing with as much of a *poof* as when he appeared. Not really understanding why he would leave, she cried herself to sleep every night.
One day, however, he found her sat against the wall, bloodied and dazed. It wasn't a mouse this time. At her feet lay a tiny dog, once beautiful and alive, now cold and far away. He stayed with her that night, knowing he would regret it. She swore and cried and begged him to stay until the end. He sat in silence, watching her fury and pain bubble to a boil and leave her in the form of tears.
It was around midnight that he remembered the puppy (he had been stroking her blood soaked hair and she was finally asleep) and he found himself hating the thought of a life lost in exchange for a day with her. He no longer saw the beautiful woman he once knew, with ashen hair and big, emotional eyes. With obvious effort he whispered his "Goodbye" and left, knowing every death she now caused for him would be forever on her conscience and that she would forever be alone.
She woke in the morning, blood cracking on her cheeks as she yawned. The dog was gone and so was he. All that remained was a pool of blood that looked oddly like a love heart. |
|
[WP] A woman falls in love with Death and commits murder countless times just to catch a glimpse of him. | She smells of sweetness- but she's the most bitter being I've ever seen. I ask her how she can do it. It haunts me, day and night, all those faces- but she just shrugs.
"Life is not a promise; it's not a contract. It's a gift. I can take life back whenever I want. Death is the promise. You're the promise," she whispers. She's not vehement in her words, but it's apparent. She gives herself to these humans, but she doesn't love them. She goes up to one of them, snaps her fingers, and they pass. I carry them away, I'm the last thing they'll know. And she has no regrets.
"I've got to go," I say. She shakes her head and snaps her fingers; we're taken to a young man, lying in a hospital bed. She hovers, and I watch as I only can. He'll be dead soon. And I'm here for him. She tilts her head at me.
"Isn't there anything you want to know?" I don't know what she means.
"Does he have family?" I ask.
"That's not what I mean," she says. The young man takes a deep breath; I thought it was his last and step forward, but another follows. Sometimes, a person tries to hang on. Sometimes, Life isn't as thorough and doesn't drain them of all they have left. Sometimes they challenge her. They're too strong. She doesn't like it, but is still strangely fascinated by it. She doesn't love them. But they love her. And they hate me.
"I take them all away from the people that they love, the people that love them. Everyone hates me. And here you are, with the actual power, and people celebrate you."
"I'd celebrate you," she says, stepping closer to me. "I would celebrate you if you'd let me, Death. But that's the true cruelty of Life. I can never have you." I know. Despite the fact that she terrifies me- she is still Life, and she emblazons me. I almost feel her in my core when she looks at me; she stirs something in me that I want more than anything. I want her. We want each other. Yet we can only meet when we're both doing the things we hate. She leans forward and kisses me. I sigh.
"Let him live, Life. Give him what I want," I ask of her. She nods, tears streaming down. "Love them like they love you. Like I love you. And I'll see you soon."
"I'll see you in seven minutes," she whispers fiercely, as I step away. | Number twenty five died slowly. Young college boy, a friend of her daughter - could have been more, with time. The blood had burst from his neck and sprayed her face with glistening droplets. She dragged her tongue along the knife's edge as she watched his mouth attempt to form words, managing only a hoarse groan. Her heart started beating rapidly as the eyes finally dimmed. *He* was coming.
She had caught a glimpse every time. The first murder had been an accident - she had killed some drunk in the early hours of a December morning. It was while she had attempted to resuscitate him - ignoring the crusted vomit at the edges of his mouth and the foul breath - that she had seen it. Just the eyes, and hints of a cloak. The eyes were eternity, the universe reflected back at her. She had become aware of every star that drifted in the cosmos, every life that hummed on this planet and all the ones like it.
Each time she had seen something else. The exact shade of rich, deep blackness that was his cloak, with number five. The elegant hands, gripping the soul tight and absorbing it into the bones - number ten. And tonight. Oh tonight, she would see it all. The blade was still resting on her lips when he approached the corpse. Slowly, as if he had all the time in the world, as if this one mattered.
She wept as she watched him gather the soul, not attempting to draw his attention. He had not seen her - she didn't know if he could. It was enough to feast on the whole of him, the completed puzzle, that bore the mask of man but was alien in his beauty.
He turned to face her. She dropped to her knees, the knife clattering to her feet. She was aware of him grasping her shoulders, lifting her up again. She unconsciously mimicked her last victim's groan, as he stared mercilessly into her eyes. No human should face those eyes alive, it occurred to her in the dim part of her mind that remained sane.
"It is good you have come. I am tired," he spoke, lips hardly moving. The voice echoed in her mind, splintering it further. She couldn't speak, but somehow he heard the questions.
"No, I do not love you. But you worship me now, don't you? Once you did not - once you even attempted to push me away, trying to save a man's life on a dark road one morning in December..." he whispered, his voice scraping away at her senses. She was faintly aware that she wanted to deny it. No, no, I've always loved you...always, my sweet...
"There are many that resemble you. Ones who love and wait and are never satisfied. The ones who have always loved me. The obsessed, the abandoned lovers. My..." he smiled then. "My stalkers." He gripped her shoulders, and she heard the bones crack as the fingers started digging into her flesh. To reach something. To find some elusive thing that was trying to hide.
"Ah, but you," she felt the cold grip her, as his fingers continued their search. "You will become me, and I you. And we will be young again, change as you have changed. For you once hated me, when you were sweet and innocent, with a revulsion for violence. But now you thirst, and you hunger for me. Now you would slaughter your daughter to meet me, wouldn't you, if it meant you could taste my kiss. It is a rare thing, transformed love. And I.."
He caught it, and pulled. She felt her soul ripped from her body, and he was absorbing it, drinking it in - more deeply than the others. They would be carried on, but she would stay here. She knew it. She would stay. She would become...
"I will live on," said Death. She glanced at the pitiful husk that once was hers. Such an ugly thing, drenched in blood. She admired her cloak of deepest midnight, her elegant hands. She spoke in a thousand devoured voices, singing along to the song they all knew so well. "I will never die." |
|
[WP] A woman falls in love with Death and commits murder countless times just to catch a glimpse of him. | "Hey there, tall dark and handsome!"
Her lips were blood red, and pursed in her most seductive smile. Her dress was black, with white skulls in the pattern of polka-dots; it was also short. Her legs were long and smooth-shaven. Her eyes smouldered.
"Stop it."
His voice was huge, cosmic. It boomed with the sullen, crushing weight of a collapsing star.
"Since you're here, maybe you'd like to have a drink with me? I've got some merlot. Do you like red wine?"
"I'm being serious."
"Dead serious?"
"That's not funny."
Her eyes twinkled with adoration.
"What the fuck?" A translucent man appeared next to Death.
"I'm so sorry about this." Death told him.
"Not as sorry as I am. I really thought that date was going well."
"It wasn't." The woman smiled wickedly.
"Tabitha, you have to stop killing people."
"Then," Tabitha batted her long, thick eyelashes at the Reaper, "You'll come visit me on your own?"
"No."
Her face warped into a sneer, her blood-red lips curled, revealing bone-white teeth. She picked up the wine bottle by the neck and threw it at Death. It flew just to the right of his skull, but he didn't flinch. There was a crash of breaking glass against the wall, followed by the slow drip of wine falling to the floor.
"I just want you to spend some time with me!" She screamed.
Death put his arm around the translucent man, his bony fingers resting gently upon the man's intangible shoulder.
"Come on, Aaron, let's go."
"Really? I mean, it's really over? Because of this? I feel so cheated."
"You were." Death glared at Tabitha, his hollow eye sockets swallowed up the surrounding light like two black holes.
Tabitha continued screaming as Death turned and led Aaron away.
"If you got to know me, you'd love me! Every man loves me, except you. You're the only one I want!"
Death was nearly to the door, but he stopped. He turned his head.
"I know everyone, Tabitha. You're kind of a prick." | Bella waited.
She had done this before and she had become *good* at doing it. Whilst she waited, Bella took the time to examine the face of the man who now lay slumped at her feet. He had been a handsome man, in a rustic kind of way. His eyes were lined in a manner that suggested that he had lived a life worth living; one full of merriment and joy. Luckily, Bella knew better. The man had been a rapist and a murderer and he deserved to die. Her face hardened. She did what she did because she needed to but she was not a bad women and she always picked her victims with care.
Her heart was beating faster now. She glanced around more fervently. Where was he? Normally he would be here by now! She remembered the first time she had seen him. She remembered the flames, the screaming, the twisted bodies of those less fortunate, and the acrid smoke which filled her lungs and yet did not kill her. She remembered her sister, her face ashen and pale and contorted in the most terrible manner and she remembered that she would have done anything - anything! - to have relieved her of her suffering. And then - amongst all the pain and the memories and the regrets and the thoughts of what could have been and what *should* have been - he had appeared. And he walked over to her sister and he lay one bony finger on her forehead and she was in pain no more. And then he was gone, out of her life as quickly as he had come into it. And Bella had felt bereaved in more ways than one.
That had been the first time Bella had seen Death. It had not been the last. She never saw him for more than glimpses at a time for he was punctual if nothing else and never stayed to talk. But she was enamoured all the same, if not with Death himself than the idea of it. And so she was here again, waiting as usual.
And now, silence. The sounds of the city faded away as if they were too fearful to make themselves heard over what was to come next. The wind became a gentle breeze and time seemed to slow as if the universe itself was nearing its end. The air became stagnant and the stars themselves appeared to dim before finally, emerging out of a darkness that had not been there before, Death appeared standing at the end of the alleyway, neon lights dancing off a cloak as black as night. And he waited.
Bella's eyes widened and her pulse slowed. She could not move, for her love was an intoxication that paralysed her every move. But still Death waited. And as Bella looked on, she felt a knife's edge slice across her throat, and she felt the blood run down her chest and she saw the man she thought she had killed spit on her before staggering off into the darkness. Now Death moved, slowly pacing himself across the cobbles, the sound of bone on stone sending shivers down Bella's spine. He stood at her side and he knelt. She could not speak now, though there was much she wanted to say, but she didn't need to. Death bent his head down, and his forehead touched hers, and for one brief moment, though it could have been eons, they were as one. Finally, Bella breathed her last breath and Death felt her life depart her body. Slowly, he picked himself up and looked into the sky. And although he knew all that had been and will be, and although he had witnessed the dying of stars and the last whispers of ageless civilisations, he realised that he had never before been so full of sorrow as he was now. Death stood in silence for a moment, before taking one last look at the woman who had pursued him relentlessly through the lifetime of dozens of others. Finally, after all was done, he walked a few slow steps back down the alleyway, before disappearing back into the ether. |
|
[WP] A woman falls in love with Death and commits murder countless times just to catch a glimpse of him. | "Hey there, tall dark and handsome!"
Her lips were blood red, and pursed in her most seductive smile. Her dress was black, with white skulls in the pattern of polka-dots; it was also short. Her legs were long and smooth-shaven. Her eyes smouldered.
"Stop it."
His voice was huge, cosmic. It boomed with the sullen, crushing weight of a collapsing star.
"Since you're here, maybe you'd like to have a drink with me? I've got some merlot. Do you like red wine?"
"I'm being serious."
"Dead serious?"
"That's not funny."
Her eyes twinkled with adoration.
"What the fuck?" A translucent man appeared next to Death.
"I'm so sorry about this." Death told him.
"Not as sorry as I am. I really thought that date was going well."
"It wasn't." The woman smiled wickedly.
"Tabitha, you have to stop killing people."
"Then," Tabitha batted her long, thick eyelashes at the Reaper, "You'll come visit me on your own?"
"No."
Her face warped into a sneer, her blood-red lips curled, revealing bone-white teeth. She picked up the wine bottle by the neck and threw it at Death. It flew just to the right of his skull, but he didn't flinch. There was a crash of breaking glass against the wall, followed by the slow drip of wine falling to the floor.
"I just want you to spend some time with me!" She screamed.
Death put his arm around the translucent man, his bony fingers resting gently upon the man's intangible shoulder.
"Come on, Aaron, let's go."
"Really? I mean, it's really over? Because of this? I feel so cheated."
"You were." Death glared at Tabitha, his hollow eye sockets swallowed up the surrounding light like two black holes.
Tabitha continued screaming as Death turned and led Aaron away.
"If you got to know me, you'd love me! Every man loves me, except you. You're the only one I want!"
Death was nearly to the door, but he stopped. He turned his head.
"I know everyone, Tabitha. You're kind of a prick." | She dropped the knife as blood trickled down her arms. She breathed a heavy sigh of relief, knowing He would be arriving soon. Slowly, she walked away from the body and sat down.
She thought of the first man she killed, the one murder that she could justify in her mind. The rest, she knew were done as attempts to get closer to Him. To Death. Despite these attempts, she has failed to capture Death's attention.
She is now awaiting Death's arrival upon this new scene, hoping that He will finally acknowledge her. After what seems like hours, Death arrives. He approaches the body as the woman gazes fervently.
The soul of the man leaves his body and Death takes him by the hand. They vanish together.
The woman, who has seen this happen more times than she can remember, feels her eyes water. Death has ignored her once again. Disappointed, She looks upon the body and ponders.
She picks up the knife and wipes the blood away with her skirt. She looks at the reflection. A sudden realization comes to her. "You can't ignore this." She says aloud.
She turns the knife towards her body and with a glimpse of hope pulls it toward her.
|
|
[WP] It has been found that the best person to rule is the one who wants it least. You have just been chosen as our next president and are now on the run. | It happened two hours ago. Then I started to run away. I can't go back home, or contact my family or friends. Everybody's looking for me — at least all people in town. But it has been two hours already and I'm afraid this has been published on the media and all the country knows me. I can't show my face anymore. I can't get near to any city, I can't stop by a convenience store. Why did this ever happen?
Today was a normal day, like any other. I was your regular student having a regular life. I did good with my grades — weren't perfect, though —, wasn't that popular, used to play a guitar, and also I had a crush on a girl from my class. But in a blink of an eye, everything regular was gone. After the last lecture of the day, two government agents showed up and asked me to go with them. I wondered whether I did something wrong while drunk.
"*We're making you the next president of our country*" said one of the guys in the other side of the table.
"*I beg your pardon?*" I asked, thinking it was some sort of joke.
"*You're doing your studies all right and seems you're not a troublemaker...*"
I was speechless. The president? What the hell? This was gonna ruin my life somehow, and it seemed like was left with no choice.
"*No.*" I answered.
They looked at me. Even when the lights inside the room were dim, I could tell their faces weren't amused. They looked at each other and the one I interrumpted leaned towards me.
"*What did you just say?*" he asked, slowly.
"*I don't want to*" I answered, almost hesitating.
"*I'm afraid you have no choice, __Charles__*" said he, emphasizing my name while reading it from the file. "*It's mandatory for you to become the next ruler of the nation, and I got instructions to use the force if necess-*".
"*That makes no sense*" I interrumpted again, losing my mind.
Then I knew I had to flee. Somehow. That's why I knocked over the table onto those guys and opened the door. I was in disadvantage, since taking the elevator or running down the stairs were not intelligent ideas. So I jumped out of a window, the nearest one. Thankfully there was a small building next to it whose roof I landed on. Everything that followed was a huge struggle to keep myself in the dark, and I was closed to get caught at least twice.
I really wonder if I'll make it to the border. The predicament I have, while I keep walking between the trees is if I should ever take my own life. They can't kill me anyway, the government wants me alive. But I don't want to rule the country, I abhor the politics and specially this country's politics. Should I surrender? Will my hopes come true? Should I stick to them and try my hardest to make it to the border? I don't know what to do, as I make my way to my last option and hope. | I took another rip from the bong on my desk in the Oval Office. The place was a fucking mess now. I'll get some stupid asshole to clean it up later. Whatever.
I looked over into the cameras, then down at the microphones. There were probably at least a dozen of each.
> My fellow Americans...
> No, fuck that. My fellow humans. This world has been guided by people who want to rule it with an iron fist, who use the poor and impoverished to fight their petty battles. They have stolen your freedoms, invaded your homes, your lives, your minds. From this day forth, no more. From this day on, you will make your own decisions, *and you will live with them!*
I had started to growl a bit with that part. My enthusiasm ringing out in the room, despite my eyes half shut from being stoned. I didn't give a shit about anyone, but neither had the previous presidents. At least I was honest about it.
> Beginning today, they human race will become truly democratic. Every human will have a voice. There will be voting stations within reach of everyone. You will be responsible for this world! You will have no one left on whom to shift the blame!
Oh, how wrong I had been.
Thankfully, they stopped recognizing me a few months ago when I changed my looks. My beard, the long hair, disheveled clothes. I cast my votes, like every other human, but I was always in hiding. I thought if they could make the choices themselves, they'd learn to blame themselves, but they were too weak. They couldn't carry the responsibility. So I became the scapegoat.
The last scapegoat of the human race. |
|
[WP] It has been found that the best person to rule is the one who wants it least. You have just been chosen as our next president and are now on the run. | "Really? I'm the BEST person for the job to lead the free world and defend democracy?"
"Not exactly."
The room was sparse. There was only one desk, a few pens and a couple of Beatles posters. It certainly didn't strike Elias as the most important office in the White House.
"Wait, so why am I here then?"
Phillip twirled a pen in his left hand.
"It's simple, really. We've run out of ideas on how to maintain docility among the masses. All we have left is a televised goose chase to entertain the public. What better way is there to capture the world's attention? The savior of the free world, the man who can solve everything, is on the run."
Elias' neck hair tingled.
"Our records show that you are of the utmost average qualities. Decent intelligence, but not outstanding. Physique is normal. No known health problems. A perfect candidate for our...*program*."
Phillip put his pen down.
"I want to make something clear. Once you leave this room, we will hunt you down. We will shoot to kill, because we simply cannot have humanity's savior run away from his responsibilities to his state. Even the President has to follow the rules."
Elias' throat clenched. He just wanted to go home and play his video games. He wondered if he had time to cancel his Netflix subscritption. He cleared his throat.
"How...how much time do I have before you...start?"
"We'll give you an hour head start."
"Starting when?"
Phillip looked at his watch.
"Forty-five minutes ago. Good luck, Mr. President."
| I took another rip from the bong on my desk in the Oval Office. The place was a fucking mess now. I'll get some stupid asshole to clean it up later. Whatever.
I looked over into the cameras, then down at the microphones. There were probably at least a dozen of each.
> My fellow Americans...
> No, fuck that. My fellow humans. This world has been guided by people who want to rule it with an iron fist, who use the poor and impoverished to fight their petty battles. They have stolen your freedoms, invaded your homes, your lives, your minds. From this day forth, no more. From this day on, you will make your own decisions, *and you will live with them!*
I had started to growl a bit with that part. My enthusiasm ringing out in the room, despite my eyes half shut from being stoned. I didn't give a shit about anyone, but neither had the previous presidents. At least I was honest about it.
> Beginning today, they human race will become truly democratic. Every human will have a voice. There will be voting stations within reach of everyone. You will be responsible for this world! You will have no one left on whom to shift the blame!
Oh, how wrong I had been.
Thankfully, they stopped recognizing me a few months ago when I changed my looks. My beard, the long hair, disheveled clothes. I cast my votes, like every other human, but I was always in hiding. I thought if they could make the choices themselves, they'd learn to blame themselves, but they were too weak. They couldn't carry the responsibility. So I became the scapegoat.
The last scapegoat of the human race. |
|
[WP] It has been found that the best person to rule is the one who wants it least. You have just been chosen as our next president and are now on the run. | "So, your name isn't really Pierre Stalin Hitler the fourth?"
"Oh, no of course not. I just chose the alias because it's the one very least likely to get me elected president."
"Well, Mr. Hitler, umm could I ask you your real name. I feel a little uncomfortable calling the president Hitler."
"Hmm, no I think I had better not. Giving my real name now might imply that I want to be president. If I give the impression that I want to be president, I'll surely be impeached."
"So then, you want to be president?"
"I don't believe I would admit to that, no."
"That's not no."
"Isn't it? Hmm."
Conversation continued like this for some time with Mr. Hitler laying down his longstanding plans to his vice president. Plans he thought up, no doubt, while thinking of how much he didn't want to be president.
In the end, with much reluctance, the vice president agreed to tie up and place in a cage President Hitler so that he might be sworn in at gunpoint.
And thus began the most surreal eight years in America's history. | I took another rip from the bong on my desk in the Oval Office. The place was a fucking mess now. I'll get some stupid asshole to clean it up later. Whatever.
I looked over into the cameras, then down at the microphones. There were probably at least a dozen of each.
> My fellow Americans...
> No, fuck that. My fellow humans. This world has been guided by people who want to rule it with an iron fist, who use the poor and impoverished to fight their petty battles. They have stolen your freedoms, invaded your homes, your lives, your minds. From this day forth, no more. From this day on, you will make your own decisions, *and you will live with them!*
I had started to growl a bit with that part. My enthusiasm ringing out in the room, despite my eyes half shut from being stoned. I didn't give a shit about anyone, but neither had the previous presidents. At least I was honest about it.
> Beginning today, they human race will become truly democratic. Every human will have a voice. There will be voting stations within reach of everyone. You will be responsible for this world! You will have no one left on whom to shift the blame!
Oh, how wrong I had been.
Thankfully, they stopped recognizing me a few months ago when I changed my looks. My beard, the long hair, disheveled clothes. I cast my votes, like every other human, but I was always in hiding. I thought if they could make the choices themselves, they'd learn to blame themselves, but they were too weak. They couldn't carry the responsibility. So I became the scapegoat.
The last scapegoat of the human race. |
|
[WP] It has been found that the best person to rule is the one who wants it least. You have just been chosen as our next president and are now on the run. | How on Earth did I get here?
For no President am I.
I'm known for drinking too much beer.
And sometimes getting high.
It's dangerous you see.
To nominate me for this post.
I'm irresponsible as can be.
And I'm not trying to boast.
Forever I will run.
Everywhere I will hide.
Running our country can't be fun.
And I cannot swallow my pride.
If you happen to catch me.
Then it will be too late.
I will plan the biggest party.
And the people's Watergate.
| I took another rip from the bong on my desk in the Oval Office. The place was a fucking mess now. I'll get some stupid asshole to clean it up later. Whatever.
I looked over into the cameras, then down at the microphones. There were probably at least a dozen of each.
> My fellow Americans...
> No, fuck that. My fellow humans. This world has been guided by people who want to rule it with an iron fist, who use the poor and impoverished to fight their petty battles. They have stolen your freedoms, invaded your homes, your lives, your minds. From this day forth, no more. From this day on, you will make your own decisions, *and you will live with them!*
I had started to growl a bit with that part. My enthusiasm ringing out in the room, despite my eyes half shut from being stoned. I didn't give a shit about anyone, but neither had the previous presidents. At least I was honest about it.
> Beginning today, they human race will become truly democratic. Every human will have a voice. There will be voting stations within reach of everyone. You will be responsible for this world! You will have no one left on whom to shift the blame!
Oh, how wrong I had been.
Thankfully, they stopped recognizing me a few months ago when I changed my looks. My beard, the long hair, disheveled clothes. I cast my votes, like every other human, but I was always in hiding. I thought if they could make the choices themselves, they'd learn to blame themselves, but they were too weak. They couldn't carry the responsibility. So I became the scapegoat.
The last scapegoat of the human race. |
|
[WP] It has been found that the best person to rule is the one who wants it least. You have just been chosen as our next president and are now on the run. | *5 God damn days*, I thought to myself, *5 damn lousy stinking days, and these bloody morons still can't find me.*
I'd always thought being on the run and having to blend in would be fun. Who hasn't seen an action movie where they've been wanted by the Government and thought "Hey I bet I could do that. It'd be fun anyway". Let me give you some advice; don't go on the run here.
So I'll set the scene for you. After some huge multi-billion pound science project funded by all us tax payers - they've come to realise the only, and best way to rule; is by putting the guy who wants to do it least, in charge. Fan-fucking-tastic right? What sort of idiot would they get to try and lead us? Well, there I was sitting at home watching the news when my ugly mug came up on the screen. Yes, me. They want me to rule this bloody place.
Why is being on the run so god damn rubbish? Well I'm typing this reddit post from a coffee shop in the middle of town.
Yes, I'm on the run from the Government, but they haven't thought to check my local coffee shop - and people wonder why I wouldn't want to lead them.
Why would anyone want to be president anyway? Working every single day, trying to help everyone else's problems? I get annoyed as it is when my mother rings me on Sunday, let alone the president of some foreign country asking for a chat. 'Aint nobody got time for that. And the wages?! *Wait, does the president get paid?*
Who cares, it'd be no fun getting paid if I had to work **all** the time and not let my hair down. What if I wanted to go out and get smashed and spend my earnings down at the "Friendly Beaver" (the local strip club)?
Actually, guys, could I do that? Could I like, be a cool president? I guess that fit blonde with the ginourmous melons wouldn't mind dating the president. I could probably create the hunger games and force useless "celebrities" to get on board... you know what...I'm warming to this... Yeah... President S. D...
"BREAKING NEWS, SCIENTISTS CLAIM THEIR BESTAPRESIDENTA 4000 MACHINE INDICATES THERE IS A NEW CANDIDATE FOR PRESIDENCY!"
*Well, balls.* | I took another rip from the bong on my desk in the Oval Office. The place was a fucking mess now. I'll get some stupid asshole to clean it up later. Whatever.
I looked over into the cameras, then down at the microphones. There were probably at least a dozen of each.
> My fellow Americans...
> No, fuck that. My fellow humans. This world has been guided by people who want to rule it with an iron fist, who use the poor and impoverished to fight their petty battles. They have stolen your freedoms, invaded your homes, your lives, your minds. From this day forth, no more. From this day on, you will make your own decisions, *and you will live with them!*
I had started to growl a bit with that part. My enthusiasm ringing out in the room, despite my eyes half shut from being stoned. I didn't give a shit about anyone, but neither had the previous presidents. At least I was honest about it.
> Beginning today, they human race will become truly democratic. Every human will have a voice. There will be voting stations within reach of everyone. You will be responsible for this world! You will have no one left on whom to shift the blame!
Oh, how wrong I had been.
Thankfully, they stopped recognizing me a few months ago when I changed my looks. My beard, the long hair, disheveled clothes. I cast my votes, like every other human, but I was always in hiding. I thought if they could make the choices themselves, they'd learn to blame themselves, but they were too weak. They couldn't carry the responsibility. So I became the scapegoat.
The last scapegoat of the human race. |
|
[WP] It has been found that the best person to rule is the one who wants it least. You have just been chosen as our next president and are now on the run. | During the presidential debate, the other candidate and I had gone for different strategies: he had tried reverse psychology, pretending to have a real set of policies and want the presidency, whereas I had taken it one step further and pretended to be someone who wanted the presidency pretending to not want it. Of course, the stage was surrounded by bodyguards, so there was no hope of escaping from my bad case of stage fright, so the credibility of my act was diminished when I fainted halfway through. The people decided by a landslide vote that I had less desire to lead.
Between November and January, the secret service kept me in a straight jacket and forced me to eat so that I wouldn't kill myself. And you bet I would have; a child had died in the pool during my shift as a lifeguard at age 17. Ever since then, I had tried hard to avoid any responsibility. Now millions of lives were on the line, and I would much rather take my own life than risk so many.
Countless dull hours passed by until it was January 20th. Still in my straight jacket, I was pushed into the oval office by a few burly bodyguards. Then an older man in a suit appeared - the Presidential Whip.
"Welcome Mr. President. The nation is very uncertain about your ability to lead, but let's get started. The number of illegal immigrants has vastly increased, and we're looking for a solution. There are some proposed solutions, so would you mind telling us which one you favor most? Okay, first one: declare all members of the house illegal immigrants and then have all illegal immigrants executed. Second one: declare all members of the senate illegal immigrants, then deport all illegal immigrants. It seems the house and senate will disagree on this one. Your thoughts?"
I sat silently. It was all so horrible - both proposed solutions would mean countless people suffered. I considered ignoring the question indefinitely, but then the Presidential Whip drew an actual whip from his pocket.
"Answer quickly, Mr. President. Lives hang in the balance."
I began to sweat and quickly passed out, but soon awoke to the stinging pain of a whip on my back.
"Please, Mr. President. What do you propose?"
The copious amounts of adrenaline in my system made me think fast. The only way to escape the torture was to answer, so I replied,
"There are no illegal immigrants! Everyone on US soil is a citizen!"
"Bold, Mr. President. We'll see what congress thinks about it. See you tomorrow."
I was forced to make several inane decisions each day, but the greatest torture was yet to come. The immigration bill actually passed with such a high margin that I could not veto it; as the whip explained, most members of the house and senate defer responsibility to the president whenever reasonable. Many more of my nonsense bills were passed in the subsequent months. The TSA was abolished, a bounty was placed on Kim Jong Un's head, and a police police force was instated to end police brutality. Whenever I begged the whip to tell me how these policies were working out, he refused. My mind was racked with guilt and turmoil.
Eventually I grew numb to the routine, and simply spouted the first idea that came to mind when an issue or budget arose. A tax on net worth was instated to cover the national deficit, funding was given toward a fusion energy program, and researchers were tasked with finding a way to make Denali a taller mountain than Everest for the sake of tourism. I was pretty sure that at least one of my ludicrous ideas had destroyed the country, but I wasn't allowed to know much. I suspected that no one would elect me again, but I suggested an amendment limiting all presidential, senatorial, and representative terms to one, which passed unanimously.
Come January 20th, four years later, I was set free from my last straight jacket, and the Whip walked outside. On the way I noticed my face in a mirror - I was an old man. I had heard that 4 years of presidency aged people 8 years in the old days, but I looked like I had aged at least 20.
"Hey Mr... uhhh... Whip - can you please tell me now what the result of all those policies was?"
"Certainly, Mr. President. The violent crime rate has massively dropped, the economy is soaring, and world peace is flourishing in places. For instance, some hero killed Kim Jong Un, which North Korea's inner party is rather angry about, but they aren't crazy enough to attack us. Some of their people are rebelling now that no supreme leader can read their minds. Tourism is exploding, not only because Denali now reaches 10,000 meters, but because of the 2,000 meter tall granite monolith of your face which now sits atop Mount Rushmore. That was South Dakota's idea. Without the TSA, we are saving money, and haven't had any successful terrorist attacks. It seems they never did anything to begin with. For decades, people have said that fusion energy is 10 years away, but now they say it's 5 years away. You even saved the lives of 535 congressmen who were ready to kill themselves, like the incident in the term before yours. Sir, you are were the greatest president in history."
I stood agape. After all the hell this man had put me through, I wanted to hug him.
"The greatest? You mean every one of my policies worked out?"
"Yes, sir. I know a lot of people who have hung portraits of you in their homes. Every one of your policies is successful, well, except for one."
"And that is?"
"The police police, sir. What the hell would a police policeman do all day? Wait by the side of the road for speeding police cars? It's just a silly idea."
Yes, I chuckled to myself, I guess so. | I took another rip from the bong on my desk in the Oval Office. The place was a fucking mess now. I'll get some stupid asshole to clean it up later. Whatever.
I looked over into the cameras, then down at the microphones. There were probably at least a dozen of each.
> My fellow Americans...
> No, fuck that. My fellow humans. This world has been guided by people who want to rule it with an iron fist, who use the poor and impoverished to fight their petty battles. They have stolen your freedoms, invaded your homes, your lives, your minds. From this day forth, no more. From this day on, you will make your own decisions, *and you will live with them!*
I had started to growl a bit with that part. My enthusiasm ringing out in the room, despite my eyes half shut from being stoned. I didn't give a shit about anyone, but neither had the previous presidents. At least I was honest about it.
> Beginning today, they human race will become truly democratic. Every human will have a voice. There will be voting stations within reach of everyone. You will be responsible for this world! You will have no one left on whom to shift the blame!
Oh, how wrong I had been.
Thankfully, they stopped recognizing me a few months ago when I changed my looks. My beard, the long hair, disheveled clothes. I cast my votes, like every other human, but I was always in hiding. I thought if they could make the choices themselves, they'd learn to blame themselves, but they were too weak. They couldn't carry the responsibility. So I became the scapegoat.
The last scapegoat of the human race. |
|
[WP] It has been found that the best person to rule is the one who wants it least. You have just been chosen as our next president and are now on the run. | "Good evening, Mr. Pres-"
That's all I heard him say, before I barged him over and I ran: out the fire escape, up the alley, doesn't matter where. Away. I guess it was a surprise to him, somebody knowing that They were coming.
Most people had no idea that they wanted it least, that they were next. There are too few of us left now to fix things, and too many of Them. I'll tell you one thing, that law certainly made politics more interesting.
"The best person to rule is the one who least wants the responsibility." is a nice sentiment. At least until all the people who've been grooming themselves, schmoozing and brown-nosing, realise that They'll never have a shot now. Unless They're the only ones left.
Consumed by Their burning need for power, They hunt down and murder each and every new President. I wonder what They'll do when They're the only ones left. Or if They recognise that They won't have anyone left to rule over. It doesn't matter much to me anyway, I doubt I have much time left before I'm discovered.
I'm not even sure why I'm writing this, there'll be nobody to read it. But I've been carrying my pad and pen waiting to leave my mark as President. It's ironic, really. Who wants to die the least? Yep, you're next. Impossible to change it back though, when the people you'd have to convince to change the law are the same ones looking to off you.
I'm not sure how They know who the new President is, considering it changes so damned fast. I'd guess I'm about the three-hundred-millionth, but that might be underestimating the number of people who left the country before it was too late.
I wonder which suit They'll have sent to find me this time. Probably the same one from the bar. He'll probably creep up behind me again, tap my shoulder, extend his hand to be shook, and say "Good evening, Mr Pres | The sound of the helicopters is getting louder, I can hear the police shouting outside, knowing I can't be very far. I'm sitting on the floor and a terrified old woman is watching me, but fortunatly she is to afraid to make a sound. I've been running ever since my buddy from the police called me that I would be the next president.
At that moment my world seemed to collaps upon me, all my life, for as long as I can remember I wanted to be a professional rugby player. I've been training every day and for what. To sit at some boring desk where everybody will notice I haven't payed any attention at school and I'm dum as a bird.
I suddenly feel bad for the woman looking at me. This small old lady pushed back into her house by me just when she wanted to go for groceries. I tell her that I don't want to hurt her and that the cops are looking for me because I was at an illegal protest for woman rights. The fear in her eyes turns into suprise but she realises I'm no threat and tells me to come in.
I have always been the biggest kid of my class, I think I used to beat people up to make my homework since the first day of school and while they did my homework I was doing pushups. When I was 14 I became stronger then my dad, and when I was 16 I went to live with my rugby coach. My parents wanted me to quit playing because I needed to concetrate on school.
2 days ago I got a letter from the best rugby team in the country, this has been my dream all my life and it finally came true. This is what I had been training for my entire life. My desire was stronger then ever, this was all I ever wanted in life. But yesterday it happened. The president died, The entire country was sad, but I didn't care. And that's why they chose me.
The old woman smiles at me, and says "you seem like a good kid, you'll make fine president". Suprised as I am that she knows, I try not to show it. I tell her that I can't write and have never done math in my life. "That's why it has to be you", she says. "You can still listen to your heart". The cops knock down the door, and storm in. I try to fight them off but it's to no avail. While they are dragging me away, I'm thinking about how my life will change. And what I'll do first. Maybe I'll make rugby the national sport, or maybe I'll just ride it out while watching cartoons.
(First story for an aspiring writer, so all input is welcome)
(not native so please don't shoot me for spelling mistakes, but you can point them out if you feel like it) |
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[WP] It has been found that the best person to rule is the one who wants it least. You have just been chosen as our next president and are now on the run. | During the presidential debate, the other candidate and I had gone for different strategies: he had tried reverse psychology, pretending to have a real set of policies and want the presidency, whereas I had taken it one step further and pretended to be someone who wanted the presidency pretending to not want it. Of course, the stage was surrounded by bodyguards, so there was no hope of escaping from my bad case of stage fright, so the credibility of my act was diminished when I fainted halfway through. The people decided by a landslide vote that I had less desire to lead.
Between November and January, the secret service kept me in a straight jacket and forced me to eat so that I wouldn't kill myself. And you bet I would have; a child had died in the pool during my shift as a lifeguard at age 17. Ever since then, I had tried hard to avoid any responsibility. Now millions of lives were on the line, and I would much rather take my own life than risk so many.
Countless dull hours passed by until it was January 20th. Still in my straight jacket, I was pushed into the oval office by a few burly bodyguards. Then an older man in a suit appeared - the Presidential Whip.
"Welcome Mr. President. The nation is very uncertain about your ability to lead, but let's get started. The number of illegal immigrants has vastly increased, and we're looking for a solution. There are some proposed solutions, so would you mind telling us which one you favor most? Okay, first one: declare all members of the house illegal immigrants and then have all illegal immigrants executed. Second one: declare all members of the senate illegal immigrants, then deport all illegal immigrants. It seems the house and senate will disagree on this one. Your thoughts?"
I sat silently. It was all so horrible - both proposed solutions would mean countless people suffered. I considered ignoring the question indefinitely, but then the Presidential Whip drew an actual whip from his pocket.
"Answer quickly, Mr. President. Lives hang in the balance."
I began to sweat and quickly passed out, but soon awoke to the stinging pain of a whip on my back.
"Please, Mr. President. What do you propose?"
The copious amounts of adrenaline in my system made me think fast. The only way to escape the torture was to answer, so I replied,
"There are no illegal immigrants! Everyone on US soil is a citizen!"
"Bold, Mr. President. We'll see what congress thinks about it. See you tomorrow."
I was forced to make several inane decisions each day, but the greatest torture was yet to come. The immigration bill actually passed with such a high margin that I could not veto it; as the whip explained, most members of the house and senate defer responsibility to the president whenever reasonable. Many more of my nonsense bills were passed in the subsequent months. The TSA was abolished, a bounty was placed on Kim Jong Un's head, and a police police force was instated to end police brutality. Whenever I begged the whip to tell me how these policies were working out, he refused. My mind was racked with guilt and turmoil.
Eventually I grew numb to the routine, and simply spouted the first idea that came to mind when an issue or budget arose. A tax on net worth was instated to cover the national deficit, funding was given toward a fusion energy program, and researchers were tasked with finding a way to make Denali a taller mountain than Everest for the sake of tourism. I was pretty sure that at least one of my ludicrous ideas had destroyed the country, but I wasn't allowed to know much. I suspected that no one would elect me again, but I suggested an amendment limiting all presidential, senatorial, and representative terms to one, which passed unanimously.
Come January 20th, four years later, I was set free from my last straight jacket, and the Whip walked outside. On the way I noticed my face in a mirror - I was an old man. I had heard that 4 years of presidency aged people 8 years in the old days, but I looked like I had aged at least 20.
"Hey Mr... uhhh... Whip - can you please tell me now what the result of all those policies was?"
"Certainly, Mr. President. The violent crime rate has massively dropped, the economy is soaring, and world peace is flourishing in places. For instance, some hero killed Kim Jong Un, which North Korea's inner party is rather angry about, but they aren't crazy enough to attack us. Some of their people are rebelling now that no supreme leader can read their minds. Tourism is exploding, not only because Denali now reaches 10,000 meters, but because of the 2,000 meter tall granite monolith of your face which now sits atop Mount Rushmore. That was South Dakota's idea. Without the TSA, we are saving money, and haven't had any successful terrorist attacks. It seems they never did anything to begin with. For decades, people have said that fusion energy is 10 years away, but now they say it's 5 years away. You even saved the lives of 535 congressmen who were ready to kill themselves, like the incident in the term before yours. Sir, you are were the greatest president in history."
I stood agape. After all the hell this man had put me through, I wanted to hug him.
"The greatest? You mean every one of my policies worked out?"
"Yes, sir. I know a lot of people who have hung portraits of you in their homes. Every one of your policies is successful, well, except for one."
"And that is?"
"The police police, sir. What the hell would a police policeman do all day? Wait by the side of the road for speeding police cars? It's just a silly idea."
Yes, I chuckled to myself, I guess so. | The sound of the helicopters is getting louder, I can hear the police shouting outside, knowing I can't be very far. I'm sitting on the floor and a terrified old woman is watching me, but fortunatly she is to afraid to make a sound. I've been running ever since my buddy from the police called me that I would be the next president.
At that moment my world seemed to collaps upon me, all my life, for as long as I can remember I wanted to be a professional rugby player. I've been training every day and for what. To sit at some boring desk where everybody will notice I haven't payed any attention at school and I'm dum as a bird.
I suddenly feel bad for the woman looking at me. This small old lady pushed back into her house by me just when she wanted to go for groceries. I tell her that I don't want to hurt her and that the cops are looking for me because I was at an illegal protest for woman rights. The fear in her eyes turns into suprise but she realises I'm no threat and tells me to come in.
I have always been the biggest kid of my class, I think I used to beat people up to make my homework since the first day of school and while they did my homework I was doing pushups. When I was 14 I became stronger then my dad, and when I was 16 I went to live with my rugby coach. My parents wanted me to quit playing because I needed to concetrate on school.
2 days ago I got a letter from the best rugby team in the country, this has been my dream all my life and it finally came true. This is what I had been training for my entire life. My desire was stronger then ever, this was all I ever wanted in life. But yesterday it happened. The president died, The entire country was sad, but I didn't care. And that's why they chose me.
The old woman smiles at me, and says "you seem like a good kid, you'll make fine president". Suprised as I am that she knows, I try not to show it. I tell her that I can't write and have never done math in my life. "That's why it has to be you", she says. "You can still listen to your heart". The cops knock down the door, and storm in. I try to fight them off but it's to no avail. While they are dragging me away, I'm thinking about how my life will change. And what I'll do first. Maybe I'll make rugby the national sport, or maybe I'll just ride it out while watching cartoons.
(First story for an aspiring writer, so all input is welcome)
(not native so please don't shoot me for spelling mistakes, but you can point them out if you feel like it) |
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[WP] It has been found that the best person to rule is the one who wants it least. You have just been chosen as our next president and are now on the run. | "Pleased to meet you, Mr President."
The news crew shuffled into the suite, cameras and lights and everything. Tall people with serious faces, stealing glances at me, and one by one coming over to shake my hand. They were eight people in all. Jesus.
"Thank you for agreeing to this interview, Mr President."
"Smile for the camera, Mr President?"
"I'll never wash this hand again, Mr President."
"Please," I said nervously, "do wash your hand at some point."
The news team set up their equipment as I sat twiddling my thumbs in the sofa. It was a bit warm in here with so many people. I could open a window, but I don't like letting insects in. My crotch was sweaty now. I'd have to be careful not to show my pit stains to the cameras. I made some mental notes. Always be prepared.
The interview was starting.
"I am Willy Wonka," said the journalist, introducing himself. Well, he didn't call himself that, but I forgot his name because I didn't give a shit. He had very intense eyes and was far better looking than most of the people I know - probably a prerequisite for being on TV. "We'll just start off with some simple questions."
"OK."
"Your campaign has been the most successful in history. You're President at the age of 25, despite the minimum age for U.S. Presidents being 35, and you won by a landslide despite a campaign budget of 0. What's your secret?"
My eyes shifted. I didn't want to tell these people about my secrets. I have always believed that you have to be a psycho to be a big name newsperson.
"A glass of milk every day? Haha ..."
He studied me.
"The media has made no secret of your masturbation addiction after the New York Times photographed you in your apartment mid-election. Do you think this was key in securing the young vote?"
My face was buried in my hands.
"Why did I agree to this ..?"
The interviewer coughed sheepishly.
"We're going to need you to be a bit more forthcoming in your answers, Mr President."
I sat up, still leaning on one hand.
"Sure. Okay."
"You are the first President to seek political asylum in Russia. Could you please tell us the reasoning behind this decision?"
Finally, a question I could answer.
"You guys are crazy," I explained. "And going to Russia got you off Snowden's back."
"Why not go to your home country of Liechtenstein?"
"Thanks to you guys, none of my friends there talk to me normally!" I barked angrily. However, before long, I could feel the tears welling up. "Everyone just calls me Mr President and expects me to do stuff for them! All I wanted was to write erotic fan-fiction in my apartment ..."
Willy Wonka looked around at his co-workers, who shrugged at him.
"As for policy, what do you think will be the United States' direction going forward?"
I took a sip from a glass of water in an attempt to cool down, but I was nervous, and I also wasn't used to drinking any other way than directly from the tap. It spilled all over my pants.
"I have no idea. I didn't ask for the Presidency," I said, wiping at my crotch. "Go ask someone who cares."
"You swore an oath, Mr President."
"Yeah, well, I didn't know how to say no at that point, did I? 300 million people were expecting me to swear the oath!"
"So you're delegating the tasks to your Vice-President?"
"Keep my mom out of this!"
The interviewer scratched his pretty head.
"You must surely have some idea as to what your agenda will be, other than your aforementioned chronic masturbation."
He winked at me and gave me what was probably a winning smile.
I was fuming.
"Alright! Okay! Fine!" I spat. "I'm going to abolish the military, effective immediately! I'm going to outlaw lobbyism and campaign donations, effective immediately! I'm going to outlaw guns, effective immediately! I'm going to put punitive taxes on carbon emissions! And I'll get rid of Florida!"
The news crew were staring at me.
"That sounds like an incredible set of reforms, Mr President! Very European and arguably incredibly dangerous, especially as the world adjusts to your changes, but ambitious and ... undoubtedly revolutionary! However, the Senate, House and Congress would definitely oppose all of these policies. Do you have a way of forcing your reforms through?"
"Absolutely! I have the Nuclear Codes! If anyone opposes my reforms, I will nuke the U.S., starting with Florida, and moving on to Washington D.C.!"
"Incredible, Sir! You mean to say that you have secured the ability to launch nuclear missiles without the consent of your staff, the military, and congress?"
...
"No ..."
"Oh."
The stain on my crotch was smelly. Maybe it wasn't water, but vodka or something. I didn't really have much experience with alcohol.
"I guess I'll get rid of the first-past-the-post election system maybe. That is what you guys have, right? I'll get rid of that. Can I do that?"
"Probably not, Mr President. It sounds like a huge political challenge."
"Okay."
"Will you come back to the U.S.?"
"... Probably not."
I sighed. Man, my life has always been a sucky little thing.
"Guess I just won't do much of anything. I'll just try to not start any wars or spy on people."
The reporters looked at me wide-eyed. Tears formed in their eyes.
"Y ... You'd do that, dude?" asked a younger staff member. "You'd do that for us?"
"Uh ... yeah."
Suddenly the all-American news crew were tearing up and hugging each other behind the camera. The cameraman himself was struggling to keep the camera still. The interviewer with the pretty face turned towards the camera and gave it a deep, soulful smile.
The headline the next day read "PRODIGY PRESIDENT REVOLUTIONIZES POLITICS". I skimmed the article.
"Shit. Mom! It says in the article that they want another interview next week ..."
| The sound of the helicopters is getting louder, I can hear the police shouting outside, knowing I can't be very far. I'm sitting on the floor and a terrified old woman is watching me, but fortunatly she is to afraid to make a sound. I've been running ever since my buddy from the police called me that I would be the next president.
At that moment my world seemed to collaps upon me, all my life, for as long as I can remember I wanted to be a professional rugby player. I've been training every day and for what. To sit at some boring desk where everybody will notice I haven't payed any attention at school and I'm dum as a bird.
I suddenly feel bad for the woman looking at me. This small old lady pushed back into her house by me just when she wanted to go for groceries. I tell her that I don't want to hurt her and that the cops are looking for me because I was at an illegal protest for woman rights. The fear in her eyes turns into suprise but she realises I'm no threat and tells me to come in.
I have always been the biggest kid of my class, I think I used to beat people up to make my homework since the first day of school and while they did my homework I was doing pushups. When I was 14 I became stronger then my dad, and when I was 16 I went to live with my rugby coach. My parents wanted me to quit playing because I needed to concetrate on school.
2 days ago I got a letter from the best rugby team in the country, this has been my dream all my life and it finally came true. This is what I had been training for my entire life. My desire was stronger then ever, this was all I ever wanted in life. But yesterday it happened. The president died, The entire country was sad, but I didn't care. And that's why they chose me.
The old woman smiles at me, and says "you seem like a good kid, you'll make fine president". Suprised as I am that she knows, I try not to show it. I tell her that I can't write and have never done math in my life. "That's why it has to be you", she says. "You can still listen to your heart". The cops knock down the door, and storm in. I try to fight them off but it's to no avail. While they are dragging me away, I'm thinking about how my life will change. And what I'll do first. Maybe I'll make rugby the national sport, or maybe I'll just ride it out while watching cartoons.
(First story for an aspiring writer, so all input is welcome)
(not native so please don't shoot me for spelling mistakes, but you can point them out if you feel like it) |
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[WP] It has been found that the best person to rule is the one who wants it least. You have just been chosen as our next president and are now on the run. | November 9, 2016
Randy hit snooze on the 4AM alarm. Again at 4:07. Finally he rolled out of bed at 4:14, showered up, nuked himself some instant coffee and got ready to step out the door for his job at the Walmart in Gary, Indiana. The 64 year old Vietnam vet had managed to beat his alcoholism and hold down two jobs for the past ten years, hoping to eventually earn enough money to retire, or at least retire to one part time job.
But as he opened the door, lightbulbs flashed, cameras were shoved in his face.
“Mr. President, what do you plan to do first in office?”
“Mr. President, what’s your take on Iran?”
“Mr. President, did you see what your ex-wife said about you?”
What the hell? He stepped backwards through the door. The reporters attempted to follow him in but were blocked by some guys in suits. They did let one man pass through, however.
“President Freeman. I’m David Isel, former President Obama’s chief of staff.” He shook the stunned man’s hand and pulled out a notepad. “I’ve been asked to fly with you to Washington and manage the transition until you get your team in place.”
Randy stood there confused. “My team? Am I dreaming? Why does everyone keep calling me president?”
It was David’s turn to look stunned. “Um, sir, didn’t you see the news last night?”
Randy shook his head.
Following the anti-incumbent wave of the 2014 midterm elections, a whole new set of politicians had come in pledging to change the broken system. November 8, 2016 had been the first “election” under the 30th amendment in which a computer algorithm determines the person who least wants to be president based on a variety of factors including their online browsing habits and their friends social networks. The person chosen by computer becomes president immediately and is not allowed to resign.
Of course, as David now realized, the computer had miscalculated the intentions of amendment. Congress and the American public had hoped that person who least wants to be president would be some philosopher king professor who could do the job best. Instead, they’ve gotten a guy who doesn’t even follow politics enough to know that the amendment exists.
“But I don’t want to be president.”
David felt sympathy for Randy, as they rode on Air Force One and Randy told him his story. The vet had watched his two best friends die in Vietnam. He had been left a broken man, an alcoholic who had divorced his wife and hadn’t seen his three kids in over 20 years other than the occasional Christmas phone call. He blamed the government as well as himself for his failed life and just wanted to get back on his feet with a bit of dignity.
David also knew a potential disaster when he saw one. Randy was a nice common guy, but would be completely out of his league when it came to managing the country, leading the military or even standing in front of the press for that first press conference they hoped to have this week. Randy knew literally nothing about politics or how the country ran, other than the fact he hated what President Johnson had done in Vietnam.
By the time they touched down at Andrews Air Force Base a few hours later David had a plan. “Look Mr. President, I need you to act as president for the next few weeks. I’ll help you name a cabinet and a vice president. And if by January you still don’t want to be president, we’ll figure a way out.”
“Please stop with the Mr. President thing. Just call me Randy. And you’ve already told me I can’t resign. How do I get out of this?” the new president mumbled.
“Well Mr. President, either I’ll have to get you impeached or we’ll figure out how to fake your death.” | The sound of the helicopters is getting louder, I can hear the police shouting outside, knowing I can't be very far. I'm sitting on the floor and a terrified old woman is watching me, but fortunatly she is to afraid to make a sound. I've been running ever since my buddy from the police called me that I would be the next president.
At that moment my world seemed to collaps upon me, all my life, for as long as I can remember I wanted to be a professional rugby player. I've been training every day and for what. To sit at some boring desk where everybody will notice I haven't payed any attention at school and I'm dum as a bird.
I suddenly feel bad for the woman looking at me. This small old lady pushed back into her house by me just when she wanted to go for groceries. I tell her that I don't want to hurt her and that the cops are looking for me because I was at an illegal protest for woman rights. The fear in her eyes turns into suprise but she realises I'm no threat and tells me to come in.
I have always been the biggest kid of my class, I think I used to beat people up to make my homework since the first day of school and while they did my homework I was doing pushups. When I was 14 I became stronger then my dad, and when I was 16 I went to live with my rugby coach. My parents wanted me to quit playing because I needed to concetrate on school.
2 days ago I got a letter from the best rugby team in the country, this has been my dream all my life and it finally came true. This is what I had been training for my entire life. My desire was stronger then ever, this was all I ever wanted in life. But yesterday it happened. The president died, The entire country was sad, but I didn't care. And that's why they chose me.
The old woman smiles at me, and says "you seem like a good kid, you'll make fine president". Suprised as I am that she knows, I try not to show it. I tell her that I can't write and have never done math in my life. "That's why it has to be you", she says. "You can still listen to your heart". The cops knock down the door, and storm in. I try to fight them off but it's to no avail. While they are dragging me away, I'm thinking about how my life will change. And what I'll do first. Maybe I'll make rugby the national sport, or maybe I'll just ride it out while watching cartoons.
(First story for an aspiring writer, so all input is welcome)
(not native so please don't shoot me for spelling mistakes, but you can point them out if you feel like it) |
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[WP] It has been found that the best person to rule is the one who wants it least. You have just been chosen as our next president and are now on the run. | During the presidential debate, the other candidate and I had gone for different strategies: he had tried reverse psychology, pretending to have a real set of policies and want the presidency, whereas I had taken it one step further and pretended to be someone who wanted the presidency pretending to not want it. Of course, the stage was surrounded by bodyguards, so there was no hope of escaping from my bad case of stage fright, so the credibility of my act was diminished when I fainted halfway through. The people decided by a landslide vote that I had less desire to lead.
Between November and January, the secret service kept me in a straight jacket and forced me to eat so that I wouldn't kill myself. And you bet I would have; a child had died in the pool during my shift as a lifeguard at age 17. Ever since then, I had tried hard to avoid any responsibility. Now millions of lives were on the line, and I would much rather take my own life than risk so many.
Countless dull hours passed by until it was January 20th. Still in my straight jacket, I was pushed into the oval office by a few burly bodyguards. Then an older man in a suit appeared - the Presidential Whip.
"Welcome Mr. President. The nation is very uncertain about your ability to lead, but let's get started. The number of illegal immigrants has vastly increased, and we're looking for a solution. There are some proposed solutions, so would you mind telling us which one you favor most? Okay, first one: declare all members of the house illegal immigrants and then have all illegal immigrants executed. Second one: declare all members of the senate illegal immigrants, then deport all illegal immigrants. It seems the house and senate will disagree on this one. Your thoughts?"
I sat silently. It was all so horrible - both proposed solutions would mean countless people suffered. I considered ignoring the question indefinitely, but then the Presidential Whip drew an actual whip from his pocket.
"Answer quickly, Mr. President. Lives hang in the balance."
I began to sweat and quickly passed out, but soon awoke to the stinging pain of a whip on my back.
"Please, Mr. President. What do you propose?"
The copious amounts of adrenaline in my system made me think fast. The only way to escape the torture was to answer, so I replied,
"There are no illegal immigrants! Everyone on US soil is a citizen!"
"Bold, Mr. President. We'll see what congress thinks about it. See you tomorrow."
I was forced to make several inane decisions each day, but the greatest torture was yet to come. The immigration bill actually passed with such a high margin that I could not veto it; as the whip explained, most members of the house and senate defer responsibility to the president whenever reasonable. Many more of my nonsense bills were passed in the subsequent months. The TSA was abolished, a bounty was placed on Kim Jong Un's head, and a police police force was instated to end police brutality. Whenever I begged the whip to tell me how these policies were working out, he refused. My mind was racked with guilt and turmoil.
Eventually I grew numb to the routine, and simply spouted the first idea that came to mind when an issue or budget arose. A tax on net worth was instated to cover the national deficit, funding was given toward a fusion energy program, and researchers were tasked with finding a way to make Denali a taller mountain than Everest for the sake of tourism. I was pretty sure that at least one of my ludicrous ideas had destroyed the country, but I wasn't allowed to know much. I suspected that no one would elect me again, but I suggested an amendment limiting all presidential, senatorial, and representative terms to one, which passed unanimously.
Come January 20th, four years later, I was set free from my last straight jacket, and the Whip walked outside. On the way I noticed my face in a mirror - I was an old man. I had heard that 4 years of presidency aged people 8 years in the old days, but I looked like I had aged at least 20.
"Hey Mr... uhhh... Whip - can you please tell me now what the result of all those policies was?"
"Certainly, Mr. President. The violent crime rate has massively dropped, the economy is soaring, and world peace is flourishing in places. For instance, some hero killed Kim Jong Un, which North Korea's inner party is rather angry about, but they aren't crazy enough to attack us. Some of their people are rebelling now that no supreme leader can read their minds. Tourism is exploding, not only because Denali now reaches 10,000 meters, but because of the 2,000 meter tall granite monolith of your face which now sits atop Mount Rushmore. That was South Dakota's idea. Without the TSA, we are saving money, and haven't had any successful terrorist attacks. It seems they never did anything to begin with. For decades, people have said that fusion energy is 10 years away, but now they say it's 5 years away. You even saved the lives of 535 congressmen who were ready to kill themselves, like the incident in the term before yours. Sir, you are were the greatest president in history."
I stood agape. After all the hell this man had put me through, I wanted to hug him.
"The greatest? You mean every one of my policies worked out?"
"Yes, sir. I know a lot of people who have hung portraits of you in their homes. Every one of your policies is successful, well, except for one."
"And that is?"
"The police police, sir. What the hell would a police policeman do all day? Wait by the side of the road for speeding police cars? It's just a silly idea."
Yes, I chuckled to myself, I guess so. | **November 3, 2032**
To whomever finds this letter;
I'm not sure why I'm bothering to write this. When the Eldrons find me they'll scan my mind to see where I hid it. I don't care. I'll try to fight them, just like everyone has tried since they Chose President Chris Murphy ([D] CT) in 2020. Now they're not even going after lifetime politicians anymore.
I just want to be with my family. I just want to keep working, keep fixing the cars until the last one won't run anymore and becomes a broken down hunk of scrap like all the rest. Why can't I just do that? Yeah, I have an education. Yes, I know about politics. That's *why I got out of them*.
The Eldrons don't care. They haven't since they day they first set foot on our planet.
Our. Planet.
I'll fight them. I'll lose, but I'll fight them until I'm just another one of their puppets, until I'm completely gone.
They have to find me, first. It's been two days since Election Day. Everyone knows that the longest anyone's stayed hidden from the Collective is a week. Everyone knows you have no chance, no choice.
Nobody knows that I've figured out how to make guns work again.
I'll fight them.
I'll lose but for the first time since the war, some of them will lose too. For the first time since the war, they won't take me because I'll take myself out first after taking a few of them.
If you find this, tell my wife I love her. Tell my daughter I'm sorry. Tell the world to keep fighting.
Tell them I'm sorry.
|
|
[WP] It has been found that the best person to rule is the one who wants it least. You have just been chosen as our next president and are now on the run. | During the presidential debate, the other candidate and I had gone for different strategies: he had tried reverse psychology, pretending to have a real set of policies and want the presidency, whereas I had taken it one step further and pretended to be someone who wanted the presidency pretending to not want it. Of course, the stage was surrounded by bodyguards, so there was no hope of escaping from my bad case of stage fright, so the credibility of my act was diminished when I fainted halfway through. The people decided by a landslide vote that I had less desire to lead.
Between November and January, the secret service kept me in a straight jacket and forced me to eat so that I wouldn't kill myself. And you bet I would have; a child had died in the pool during my shift as a lifeguard at age 17. Ever since then, I had tried hard to avoid any responsibility. Now millions of lives were on the line, and I would much rather take my own life than risk so many.
Countless dull hours passed by until it was January 20th. Still in my straight jacket, I was pushed into the oval office by a few burly bodyguards. Then an older man in a suit appeared - the Presidential Whip.
"Welcome Mr. President. The nation is very uncertain about your ability to lead, but let's get started. The number of illegal immigrants has vastly increased, and we're looking for a solution. There are some proposed solutions, so would you mind telling us which one you favor most? Okay, first one: declare all members of the house illegal immigrants and then have all illegal immigrants executed. Second one: declare all members of the senate illegal immigrants, then deport all illegal immigrants. It seems the house and senate will disagree on this one. Your thoughts?"
I sat silently. It was all so horrible - both proposed solutions would mean countless people suffered. I considered ignoring the question indefinitely, but then the Presidential Whip drew an actual whip from his pocket.
"Answer quickly, Mr. President. Lives hang in the balance."
I began to sweat and quickly passed out, but soon awoke to the stinging pain of a whip on my back.
"Please, Mr. President. What do you propose?"
The copious amounts of adrenaline in my system made me think fast. The only way to escape the torture was to answer, so I replied,
"There are no illegal immigrants! Everyone on US soil is a citizen!"
"Bold, Mr. President. We'll see what congress thinks about it. See you tomorrow."
I was forced to make several inane decisions each day, but the greatest torture was yet to come. The immigration bill actually passed with such a high margin that I could not veto it; as the whip explained, most members of the house and senate defer responsibility to the president whenever reasonable. Many more of my nonsense bills were passed in the subsequent months. The TSA was abolished, a bounty was placed on Kim Jong Un's head, and a police police force was instated to end police brutality. Whenever I begged the whip to tell me how these policies were working out, he refused. My mind was racked with guilt and turmoil.
Eventually I grew numb to the routine, and simply spouted the first idea that came to mind when an issue or budget arose. A tax on net worth was instated to cover the national deficit, funding was given toward a fusion energy program, and researchers were tasked with finding a way to make Denali a taller mountain than Everest for the sake of tourism. I was pretty sure that at least one of my ludicrous ideas had destroyed the country, but I wasn't allowed to know much. I suspected that no one would elect me again, but I suggested an amendment limiting all presidential, senatorial, and representative terms to one, which passed unanimously.
Come January 20th, four years later, I was set free from my last straight jacket, and the Whip walked outside. On the way I noticed my face in a mirror - I was an old man. I had heard that 4 years of presidency aged people 8 years in the old days, but I looked like I had aged at least 20.
"Hey Mr... uhhh... Whip - can you please tell me now what the result of all those policies was?"
"Certainly, Mr. President. The violent crime rate has massively dropped, the economy is soaring, and world peace is flourishing in places. For instance, some hero killed Kim Jong Un, which North Korea's inner party is rather angry about, but they aren't crazy enough to attack us. Some of their people are rebelling now that no supreme leader can read their minds. Tourism is exploding, not only because Denali now reaches 10,000 meters, but because of the 2,000 meter tall granite monolith of your face which now sits atop Mount Rushmore. That was South Dakota's idea. Without the TSA, we are saving money, and haven't had any successful terrorist attacks. It seems they never did anything to begin with. For decades, people have said that fusion energy is 10 years away, but now they say it's 5 years away. You even saved the lives of 535 congressmen who were ready to kill themselves, like the incident in the term before yours. Sir, you are were the greatest president in history."
I stood agape. After all the hell this man had put me through, I wanted to hug him.
"The greatest? You mean every one of my policies worked out?"
"Yes, sir. I know a lot of people who have hung portraits of you in their homes. Every one of your policies is successful, well, except for one."
"And that is?"
"The police police, sir. What the hell would a police policeman do all day? Wait by the side of the road for speeding police cars? It's just a silly idea."
Yes, I chuckled to myself, I guess so. | "Good evening, Mr. Pres-"
That's all I heard him say, before I barged him over and I ran: out the fire escape, up the alley, doesn't matter where. Away. I guess it was a surprise to him, somebody knowing that They were coming.
Most people had no idea that they wanted it least, that they were next. There are too few of us left now to fix things, and too many of Them. I'll tell you one thing, that law certainly made politics more interesting.
"The best person to rule is the one who least wants the responsibility." is a nice sentiment. At least until all the people who've been grooming themselves, schmoozing and brown-nosing, realise that They'll never have a shot now. Unless They're the only ones left.
Consumed by Their burning need for power, They hunt down and murder each and every new President. I wonder what They'll do when They're the only ones left. Or if They recognise that They won't have anyone left to rule over. It doesn't matter much to me anyway, I doubt I have much time left before I'm discovered.
I'm not even sure why I'm writing this, there'll be nobody to read it. But I've been carrying my pad and pen waiting to leave my mark as President. It's ironic, really. Who wants to die the least? Yep, you're next. Impossible to change it back though, when the people you'd have to convince to change the law are the same ones looking to off you.
I'm not sure how They know who the new President is, considering it changes so damned fast. I'd guess I'm about the three-hundred-millionth, but that might be underestimating the number of people who left the country before it was too late.
I wonder which suit They'll have sent to find me this time. Probably the same one from the bar. He'll probably creep up behind me again, tap my shoulder, extend his hand to be shook, and say "Good evening, Mr Pres |
|
[WP] It has been found that the best person to rule is the one who wants it least. You have just been chosen as our next president and are now on the run. | "Pleased to meet you, Mr President."
The news crew shuffled into the suite, cameras and lights and everything. Tall people with serious faces, stealing glances at me, and one by one coming over to shake my hand. They were eight people in all. Jesus.
"Thank you for agreeing to this interview, Mr President."
"Smile for the camera, Mr President?"
"I'll never wash this hand again, Mr President."
"Please," I said nervously, "do wash your hand at some point."
The news team set up their equipment as I sat twiddling my thumbs in the sofa. It was a bit warm in here with so many people. I could open a window, but I don't like letting insects in. My crotch was sweaty now. I'd have to be careful not to show my pit stains to the cameras. I made some mental notes. Always be prepared.
The interview was starting.
"I am Willy Wonka," said the journalist, introducing himself. Well, he didn't call himself that, but I forgot his name because I didn't give a shit. He had very intense eyes and was far better looking than most of the people I know - probably a prerequisite for being on TV. "We'll just start off with some simple questions."
"OK."
"Your campaign has been the most successful in history. You're President at the age of 25, despite the minimum age for U.S. Presidents being 35, and you won by a landslide despite a campaign budget of 0. What's your secret?"
My eyes shifted. I didn't want to tell these people about my secrets. I have always believed that you have to be a psycho to be a big name newsperson.
"A glass of milk every day? Haha ..."
He studied me.
"The media has made no secret of your masturbation addiction after the New York Times photographed you in your apartment mid-election. Do you think this was key in securing the young vote?"
My face was buried in my hands.
"Why did I agree to this ..?"
The interviewer coughed sheepishly.
"We're going to need you to be a bit more forthcoming in your answers, Mr President."
I sat up, still leaning on one hand.
"Sure. Okay."
"You are the first President to seek political asylum in Russia. Could you please tell us the reasoning behind this decision?"
Finally, a question I could answer.
"You guys are crazy," I explained. "And going to Russia got you off Snowden's back."
"Why not go to your home country of Liechtenstein?"
"Thanks to you guys, none of my friends there talk to me normally!" I barked angrily. However, before long, I could feel the tears welling up. "Everyone just calls me Mr President and expects me to do stuff for them! All I wanted was to write erotic fan-fiction in my apartment ..."
Willy Wonka looked around at his co-workers, who shrugged at him.
"As for policy, what do you think will be the United States' direction going forward?"
I took a sip from a glass of water in an attempt to cool down, but I was nervous, and I also wasn't used to drinking any other way than directly from the tap. It spilled all over my pants.
"I have no idea. I didn't ask for the Presidency," I said, wiping at my crotch. "Go ask someone who cares."
"You swore an oath, Mr President."
"Yeah, well, I didn't know how to say no at that point, did I? 300 million people were expecting me to swear the oath!"
"So you're delegating the tasks to your Vice-President?"
"Keep my mom out of this!"
The interviewer scratched his pretty head.
"You must surely have some idea as to what your agenda will be, other than your aforementioned chronic masturbation."
He winked at me and gave me what was probably a winning smile.
I was fuming.
"Alright! Okay! Fine!" I spat. "I'm going to abolish the military, effective immediately! I'm going to outlaw lobbyism and campaign donations, effective immediately! I'm going to outlaw guns, effective immediately! I'm going to put punitive taxes on carbon emissions! And I'll get rid of Florida!"
The news crew were staring at me.
"That sounds like an incredible set of reforms, Mr President! Very European and arguably incredibly dangerous, especially as the world adjusts to your changes, but ambitious and ... undoubtedly revolutionary! However, the Senate, House and Congress would definitely oppose all of these policies. Do you have a way of forcing your reforms through?"
"Absolutely! I have the Nuclear Codes! If anyone opposes my reforms, I will nuke the U.S., starting with Florida, and moving on to Washington D.C.!"
"Incredible, Sir! You mean to say that you have secured the ability to launch nuclear missiles without the consent of your staff, the military, and congress?"
...
"No ..."
"Oh."
The stain on my crotch was smelly. Maybe it wasn't water, but vodka or something. I didn't really have much experience with alcohol.
"I guess I'll get rid of the first-past-the-post election system maybe. That is what you guys have, right? I'll get rid of that. Can I do that?"
"Probably not, Mr President. It sounds like a huge political challenge."
"Okay."
"Will you come back to the U.S.?"
"... Probably not."
I sighed. Man, my life has always been a sucky little thing.
"Guess I just won't do much of anything. I'll just try to not start any wars or spy on people."
The reporters looked at me wide-eyed. Tears formed in their eyes.
"Y ... You'd do that, dude?" asked a younger staff member. "You'd do that for us?"
"Uh ... yeah."
Suddenly the all-American news crew were tearing up and hugging each other behind the camera. The cameraman himself was struggling to keep the camera still. The interviewer with the pretty face turned towards the camera and gave it a deep, soulful smile.
The headline the next day read "PRODIGY PRESIDENT REVOLUTIONIZES POLITICS". I skimmed the article.
"Shit. Mom! It says in the article that they want another interview next week ..."
| "Good evening, Mr. Pres-"
That's all I heard him say, before I barged him over and I ran: out the fire escape, up the alley, doesn't matter where. Away. I guess it was a surprise to him, somebody knowing that They were coming.
Most people had no idea that they wanted it least, that they were next. There are too few of us left now to fix things, and too many of Them. I'll tell you one thing, that law certainly made politics more interesting.
"The best person to rule is the one who least wants the responsibility." is a nice sentiment. At least until all the people who've been grooming themselves, schmoozing and brown-nosing, realise that They'll never have a shot now. Unless They're the only ones left.
Consumed by Their burning need for power, They hunt down and murder each and every new President. I wonder what They'll do when They're the only ones left. Or if They recognise that They won't have anyone left to rule over. It doesn't matter much to me anyway, I doubt I have much time left before I'm discovered.
I'm not even sure why I'm writing this, there'll be nobody to read it. But I've been carrying my pad and pen waiting to leave my mark as President. It's ironic, really. Who wants to die the least? Yep, you're next. Impossible to change it back though, when the people you'd have to convince to change the law are the same ones looking to off you.
I'm not sure how They know who the new President is, considering it changes so damned fast. I'd guess I'm about the three-hundred-millionth, but that might be underestimating the number of people who left the country before it was too late.
I wonder which suit They'll have sent to find me this time. Probably the same one from the bar. He'll probably creep up behind me again, tap my shoulder, extend his hand to be shook, and say "Good evening, Mr Pres |
|
[WP] It has been found that the best person to rule is the one who wants it least. You have just been chosen as our next president and are now on the run. | November 9, 2016
Randy hit snooze on the 4AM alarm. Again at 4:07. Finally he rolled out of bed at 4:14, showered up, nuked himself some instant coffee and got ready to step out the door for his job at the Walmart in Gary, Indiana. The 64 year old Vietnam vet had managed to beat his alcoholism and hold down two jobs for the past ten years, hoping to eventually earn enough money to retire, or at least retire to one part time job.
But as he opened the door, lightbulbs flashed, cameras were shoved in his face.
“Mr. President, what do you plan to do first in office?”
“Mr. President, what’s your take on Iran?”
“Mr. President, did you see what your ex-wife said about you?”
What the hell? He stepped backwards through the door. The reporters attempted to follow him in but were blocked by some guys in suits. They did let one man pass through, however.
“President Freeman. I’m David Isel, former President Obama’s chief of staff.” He shook the stunned man’s hand and pulled out a notepad. “I’ve been asked to fly with you to Washington and manage the transition until you get your team in place.”
Randy stood there confused. “My team? Am I dreaming? Why does everyone keep calling me president?”
It was David’s turn to look stunned. “Um, sir, didn’t you see the news last night?”
Randy shook his head.
Following the anti-incumbent wave of the 2014 midterm elections, a whole new set of politicians had come in pledging to change the broken system. November 8, 2016 had been the first “election” under the 30th amendment in which a computer algorithm determines the person who least wants to be president based on a variety of factors including their online browsing habits and their friends social networks. The person chosen by computer becomes president immediately and is not allowed to resign.
Of course, as David now realized, the computer had miscalculated the intentions of amendment. Congress and the American public had hoped that person who least wants to be president would be some philosopher king professor who could do the job best. Instead, they’ve gotten a guy who doesn’t even follow politics enough to know that the amendment exists.
“But I don’t want to be president.”
David felt sympathy for Randy, as they rode on Air Force One and Randy told him his story. The vet had watched his two best friends die in Vietnam. He had been left a broken man, an alcoholic who had divorced his wife and hadn’t seen his three kids in over 20 years other than the occasional Christmas phone call. He blamed the government as well as himself for his failed life and just wanted to get back on his feet with a bit of dignity.
David also knew a potential disaster when he saw one. Randy was a nice common guy, but would be completely out of his league when it came to managing the country, leading the military or even standing in front of the press for that first press conference they hoped to have this week. Randy knew literally nothing about politics or how the country ran, other than the fact he hated what President Johnson had done in Vietnam.
By the time they touched down at Andrews Air Force Base a few hours later David had a plan. “Look Mr. President, I need you to act as president for the next few weeks. I’ll help you name a cabinet and a vice president. And if by January you still don’t want to be president, we’ll figure a way out.”
“Please stop with the Mr. President thing. Just call me Randy. And you’ve already told me I can’t resign. How do I get out of this?” the new president mumbled.
“Well Mr. President, either I’ll have to get you impeached or we’ll figure out how to fake your death.” | "Good evening, Mr. Pres-"
That's all I heard him say, before I barged him over and I ran: out the fire escape, up the alley, doesn't matter where. Away. I guess it was a surprise to him, somebody knowing that They were coming.
Most people had no idea that they wanted it least, that they were next. There are too few of us left now to fix things, and too many of Them. I'll tell you one thing, that law certainly made politics more interesting.
"The best person to rule is the one who least wants the responsibility." is a nice sentiment. At least until all the people who've been grooming themselves, schmoozing and brown-nosing, realise that They'll never have a shot now. Unless They're the only ones left.
Consumed by Their burning need for power, They hunt down and murder each and every new President. I wonder what They'll do when They're the only ones left. Or if They recognise that They won't have anyone left to rule over. It doesn't matter much to me anyway, I doubt I have much time left before I'm discovered.
I'm not even sure why I'm writing this, there'll be nobody to read it. But I've been carrying my pad and pen waiting to leave my mark as President. It's ironic, really. Who wants to die the least? Yep, you're next. Impossible to change it back though, when the people you'd have to convince to change the law are the same ones looking to off you.
I'm not sure how They know who the new President is, considering it changes so damned fast. I'd guess I'm about the three-hundred-millionth, but that might be underestimating the number of people who left the country before it was too late.
I wonder which suit They'll have sent to find me this time. Probably the same one from the bar. He'll probably creep up behind me again, tap my shoulder, extend his hand to be shook, and say "Good evening, Mr Pres |
|
[WP] It has been found that the best person to rule is the one who wants it least. You have just been chosen as our next president and are now on the run. | November 9, 2016
Randy hit snooze on the 4AM alarm. Again at 4:07. Finally he rolled out of bed at 4:14, showered up, nuked himself some instant coffee and got ready to step out the door for his job at the Walmart in Gary, Indiana. The 64 year old Vietnam vet had managed to beat his alcoholism and hold down two jobs for the past ten years, hoping to eventually earn enough money to retire, or at least retire to one part time job.
But as he opened the door, lightbulbs flashed, cameras were shoved in his face.
“Mr. President, what do you plan to do first in office?”
“Mr. President, what’s your take on Iran?”
“Mr. President, did you see what your ex-wife said about you?”
What the hell? He stepped backwards through the door. The reporters attempted to follow him in but were blocked by some guys in suits. They did let one man pass through, however.
“President Freeman. I’m David Isel, former President Obama’s chief of staff.” He shook the stunned man’s hand and pulled out a notepad. “I’ve been asked to fly with you to Washington and manage the transition until you get your team in place.”
Randy stood there confused. “My team? Am I dreaming? Why does everyone keep calling me president?”
It was David’s turn to look stunned. “Um, sir, didn’t you see the news last night?”
Randy shook his head.
Following the anti-incumbent wave of the 2014 midterm elections, a whole new set of politicians had come in pledging to change the broken system. November 8, 2016 had been the first “election” under the 30th amendment in which a computer algorithm determines the person who least wants to be president based on a variety of factors including their online browsing habits and their friends social networks. The person chosen by computer becomes president immediately and is not allowed to resign.
Of course, as David now realized, the computer had miscalculated the intentions of amendment. Congress and the American public had hoped that person who least wants to be president would be some philosopher king professor who could do the job best. Instead, they’ve gotten a guy who doesn’t even follow politics enough to know that the amendment exists.
“But I don’t want to be president.”
David felt sympathy for Randy, as they rode on Air Force One and Randy told him his story. The vet had watched his two best friends die in Vietnam. He had been left a broken man, an alcoholic who had divorced his wife and hadn’t seen his three kids in over 20 years other than the occasional Christmas phone call. He blamed the government as well as himself for his failed life and just wanted to get back on his feet with a bit of dignity.
David also knew a potential disaster when he saw one. Randy was a nice common guy, but would be completely out of his league when it came to managing the country, leading the military or even standing in front of the press for that first press conference they hoped to have this week. Randy knew literally nothing about politics or how the country ran, other than the fact he hated what President Johnson had done in Vietnam.
By the time they touched down at Andrews Air Force Base a few hours later David had a plan. “Look Mr. President, I need you to act as president for the next few weeks. I’ll help you name a cabinet and a vice president. And if by January you still don’t want to be president, we’ll figure a way out.”
“Please stop with the Mr. President thing. Just call me Randy. And you’ve already told me I can’t resign. How do I get out of this?” the new president mumbled.
“Well Mr. President, either I’ll have to get you impeached or we’ll figure out how to fake your death.” | "Why?"
"Teacher, your character is strong, resolute like stone. Your judgement is
sound, even like the sun. And you are a wise man. Your wisdom humbles us, Teacher. It is natural that we
choose you to rule. We honour you."
"It cannot be, child."
"No Teacher, you are too modest; you have inspired us with your talk of democracy. You have thought us much. We have prevailed; the city agrees. No more shall the mighty trample
the weak. Your Democracy, our democracy will shine hope into the darkest home. We need a ruler. You will rule us well."
"No. I thank you, but this is not for me. I will not rule you."
"No! Teacher, as our ruler you can do great things for us."
"Yes. And you can do great things for yourself. And you will do great things."
"Lead yourselves
well. Without your leadership, mine is useless and with your leadership, mine is unneeded. Lead well my
children. "
With that the man in the simple white smock turned away from his followers. He began to walk away from
the town plaza towards the empty hills that encircled the small city. He had emerged from the hills three years before to mend pots and to talk a little of the things he believed in. Now he walked back to his brothers orchard.
Behind him, his followers looked on in silence.
Finally one shouted out, "Traitor."
But the man did not turn.
"Go well my children," was all he whispered to the wind.
His strides were firm. "They will make it," he thought to himself. "Though their path may be long they will make it." "They are stronger than they believe. They will find courage in themselves. They will succeed without me."
Despite the fact he walked alone, his strides were those of a king.
|
|
[WP] It has been found that the best person to rule is the one who wants it least. You have just been chosen as our next president and are now on the run. | "The President is in there?"
"Yes. He's taken 3 hostages and is threatening to kill them, and himself, unless he is allowed to resign."
"What an inspiring man! Let me talk to him."
*squeeelch* "Mr. President? My name is Charles Pierce, captain of the Washington police force."
"Go away! All of you, go away and leave me alone!"
"Sir, I'd just like to say, for all of us out there, your words and actions tonight are serving as an inspiration to us all. None of us will forget the leadership and wisdom you are currently demonstrating."
"You're all crazy! I don't want this, I'd be a terrible leader! Find someone else!"
"Thank you, sir! I will remember those words, always!"
"DAMMIT! I didn't say anything inspiring! Stop acting like that! You're all acting like a bunch of cultists!"
"Can you believe this, Jones? We're lucky to be here to be witness to this. SIR! This is a great moment for us all, but perhaps you could tell us what to do about the health care crisis?"
"I DON'T KNOW! I don't even know what the crisis is! I don't watch the news, I just play video games and watch anime all day!"
"Is someone filming this? Get a camera rolling, for posterity. THANK you, sir, we'll commission a study on the therapeutic effects of video games on patient recovery as soon as possible. Meanwhile, we'd like to get you on Air Force One and fly you over to Russia, to help resolve this Ukraine crisis."
"NO! Why aren't you listening? I'm not a diplomat! I'm just a dumb guy! I only know the leader of Russia because of stupid meme pics of him with his shirt off! I DON'T KNOW THE MANS FIRST NAME!"
"I'm sorry, I'm....I'm choking up here, the moment's too much. Jones...take over...."
*squeeelch* "Sir? This is Officer Burt Jones, Washington PD. Sir, I'd just like to say that it's such an honor to speak with yo..."
"AAAAAAAGGGHH!" *BANG* *BANG* *BANG*......*BANG*
"Dear Lord! Jones, did he just..."
"REPORT!........Yes sir, snipers confirm, the President and all three hostages are dead, by the President's hand."
"....I....I need to call my wife. I need to tell my son that Daddy talked to the greatest man who ever lived tonight..."
"Officer! Grace Park, Action 8 News. Officer Jones, can you confirm what has happened."
"I can confirm that President Anderson has just committed triple murder-suicide, in a desperate attempt to avoid any responsibilities associated with being President of the United States. I think I can speak for everyone on the Washington PD here, when I say that we are all very honored to have born witness to this monumental and historic night in our nations history. It will be a long time before we see another individual so committed to not leading as President Anderson. God bless the USA, and God bless President Anderson."
"What were the Presidents final words, Officer Jones?"
"He spoke of Russian President Putin, and how he didn't know President Putin's first name. I'm no politician and I don't want to speak out of turn, but it seems clear to me that President Anderson's wish was for us to re-establish a friendly relationship with President Putin and Russia, and hopefully get to know them much better, to work our our differences."
"Inspiring words from a man recently touched by greatness. Once again, President Anderson has brutally murdered three innocents before taking his own life. I'm being told there will be a state funeral and national day of mourning on Wednesday, and plans for the President Anderson Memorial are already being discussed. For Action 8 News, I'm Grace Park." | "Why?"
"Teacher, your character is strong, resolute like stone. Your judgement is
sound, even like the sun. And you are a wise man. Your wisdom humbles us, Teacher. It is natural that we
choose you to rule. We honour you."
"It cannot be, child."
"No Teacher, you are too modest; you have inspired us with your talk of democracy. You have thought us much. We have prevailed; the city agrees. No more shall the mighty trample
the weak. Your Democracy, our democracy will shine hope into the darkest home. We need a ruler. You will rule us well."
"No. I thank you, but this is not for me. I will not rule you."
"No! Teacher, as our ruler you can do great things for us."
"Yes. And you can do great things for yourself. And you will do great things."
"Lead yourselves
well. Without your leadership, mine is useless and with your leadership, mine is unneeded. Lead well my
children. "
With that the man in the simple white smock turned away from his followers. He began to walk away from
the town plaza towards the empty hills that encircled the small city. He had emerged from the hills three years before to mend pots and to talk a little of the things he believed in. Now he walked back to his brothers orchard.
Behind him, his followers looked on in silence.
Finally one shouted out, "Traitor."
But the man did not turn.
"Go well my children," was all he whispered to the wind.
His strides were firm. "They will make it," he thought to himself. "Though their path may be long they will make it." "They are stronger than they believe. They will find courage in themselves. They will succeed without me."
Despite the fact he walked alone, his strides were those of a king.
|
|
[WP] You are a painter, and each time you go to sleep you wake up in your most recent painting. | I used to enjoy my artwork, my life, before two things happened to me. First was the fame. I don't mean to sound ungrateful, I actually continued to enjoy both my work and my life after I gained some notoriety in the community... Definitely after I got some cash. The commissions were nothing too crazy, varying subjects, vaguely surreal portraits were my specialty and they were a lucrative niche at the moment. People loved the macabre, the strange. It was great. Then, the accident.
I've tried painting other things. I paint landscapes, peaceful lakes with rustic cabins and happy pine trees. Those are lovely, relaxing vacations. I paint sumptuous ancient Greek feasts, beautiful men and women lounging on cushions eating grapes. Those nights, the moment my eyes close and I cross over, I awake with a smile. My senses tingle in the mountain air, or the caress of soft skin makes for a very entertaining evening.
It's when I have a deadline that things begin to get... ugly. I drink to sleep, wash down ten milligrams of melatonin with gin, sometimes Ativan, hoping something will keep it at bay for that night. I try painting or sketching a doodle, but it never works. I've realized it has to be on canvas, it has to be an actual work, or I won't wake up there.
Last night, I woke to the sound of giggling and the smell of blood and sweat. I spent the next six hours running frantically through a maze of dolls' heads and dodging the teeth of an overgrown pet. Eventually, the little girl whose portrait I'd painted had invited me to tea, but I'd had only a short reprieve before the hunt resumed.
My clients remark that I look refreshed and excited at the beginning of my work, though a little wary, and absolutely wrecked when I finish a piece. I tell them it's the process. This morning, as I drag myself from bed, I can still smell the Earl Grey and dried blood as I brew my coffee. I hope I finish the portrait today so I can start my next landscape. I can't take another night of the chase. | "Lucas, what are you doing in here?"
"Get out!"
"Is... is that..."
"It's nothing, mom. It's nothing, don't bother with it."
"That didn't look like nothing to me. Lucas... are people on the Internet making you do this?"
"What?! N-... Seriously, just stop, I don't want to talk about this."
"Lucas, I'm worried about you. I think you should stay off of DVN-art."
"That's not what it's c- Look, would you please leave?"
"I'm just looking out for you. I don't want my baby boy turning into anything bad. I just think this could be the start of a bad path for you. I mean, one day you're drawing an or-"
"Get out!"
"Okay, okay. We'll talk about this later."
She left.
Lucas, with a headache, finished his work and took a nap. |
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[WP] A man sits inside a hospital with an explosive strapped to him. The timer reads 5 minutes. The police send you in to talk him into disabling the bomb. You go to talk to him, but before you can say a word, he says, "Puzzle me. If you stump me with a puzzle, I'll stop this bomb." | "As I was going to Saint Ives, I met a man with seven wives. The even wives had seven sacks. And in the seven sacks there were seven cats. How many were going to Saint Ives?"
"One. You. Everyone has seen that movie dickhead."
The explosion could be heard 4 miles away. | I walked in to the room with the potential bomber and asked, "On your way to the truth teller's village you come to a fork in a road with a man standing there. He could be a liar that always lies, or a truth teller that always tells the truth. If you could ask **only one** question, how would you determine which way to go to get to the truth teller's village?" and waited for his puzzled response with the knowledge that riddles like these are quite puzzling. |
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[WP] A man sits inside a hospital with an explosive strapped to him. The timer reads 5 minutes. The police send you in to talk him into disabling the bomb. You go to talk to him, but before you can say a word, he says, "Puzzle me. If you stump me with a puzzle, I'll stop this bomb." | "Wait, let me get this straight, if I give you a puzzle you cannot solve, you will voluntary stop the bomb?"
"Yes."
"Any puzzle, question, riddle at all?"
"Yes."
"What specific words do I say that will make you stop the bomb?"
"... Fuck."
"Fuck!"
He clicked the bomb off. | I walked in to the room with the potential bomber and asked, "On your way to the truth teller's village you come to a fork in a road with a man standing there. He could be a liar that always lies, or a truth teller that always tells the truth. If you could ask **only one** question, how would you determine which way to go to get to the truth teller's village?" and waited for his puzzled response with the knowledge that riddles like these are quite puzzling. |
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Credit: Sarah Selecky mailing list | [WP] Write a scene where the crumb on the table has particular significance | I wandered into the hall and flicked on the light. The whole room was bare. It seemed strange that just yesterday the place had been adorned with furniture, furniture I had inherited from my grandparents, and now, who knows where it was. The only things I've been left with are a table and stool, untouched, in the centre of the studio.
I made my way across the room to sit down, listening intently to the echo of my footsteps as I went. The place was hollow. Its soul stolen.
I plonked myself down and allowed my eyes to unfocus, the white walls losing their sharp edges. I tilted my head and sighed.
Looking down, I noticed a crumb on the table. A small, lonely crumb, sitting perfectly still, framed by the empty space of the table. It reminded me of me, sitting here in this room. We were pals, me and this crumb.
But more than that, it reminded me of her. It was her crumb after all. This tiny piece of bread was all that I had left of her and this thought alone brought me to tears.
I shielded the speck of food from a watery grave as my tears splashed onto the tabletop. Then, when I could cry no more, I lay my head beside it. I squinted my eyes until it was the only thing in my vision and then I jolted upright, she may have been watching me. I didn't want her to think I'm weird.
I got up abruptly and threw on my coat, I couldn't sit here all day eyeballing a silly crumb, there were people that needed me. There were things far more important to be dealing with.
I raised my hand to swipe the crumb from its resting place but found that my arm would not comply. I couldn't do it. It was innocent; just an innocent crumb. So instead I pinched it in my fingers and placed it in my top pocket, it would be safe there. And then I left.
It took what seemed like forever to reach my destination - time had slowed since yesterday and the world was in a haze. But I had to focus, these kids needed me. Especially today.
I met Paul at the door, his trousers spattered with dark patches where two children clung, their eyes still damp. It broke my heart to see them upset but I couldn't blame them, yesterday is a day that will stay with them forever. And now, it was up to me to dry those tears but I didn't mind - sometimes you have to be strong for the sake of others and my God I was going to do it for them, even if they weren't mine. Sadly though, I think I'll be drying their eyes for a long time - it's not an easy thing to get over, your mom being murdered in cold blood, right there in the kitchen that we shared. But I can't think about that now. I have to be there for them. I know a time will come when they will dry my tears but today is not that day - I'm taking charge, one step at a time.
I pat my top pocket and look to the sky. 'I'll do my best' I whisper, and step inside. | My breathing runs ragged, but it appears the monsters haven't seen me, and for now I am safe.
My day has been one long ordeal after another. First we awoke, my brethren and I, from our icy tomb, such freezing death! We blinked, like newborn breadcrumbs fresh from the fires that birth us (oh holy oven-mother, please undo my undoing), and let the warmth penetrate. It baked into us, revitalised us, and I sensed new hope and optimism in our collective fish finger gathering. We were strong, we were ready. We smelled of determination, galour, and 7 different types of herbs and spices; we were almighty.
Oh wicked pride, such sinful sin! We did not see the path ahead. An irony not lost on me, as we have such a knack of finding our way back from places when we roam.
We were placed on a plate, with chip cousins and peas for pleasant participatory pillow talk. What a future we saw ahead, what a pleasant past it seems we left behind.
The monsters were brutal, and merciless. We stood no chance, as time and again our proud formation was cut and sawn asunder by giant metallic claws of death. Oh oven-mother, how I yearn for you to cast me fresh once again. Little chance however, I saw what the metallic claws were for. We were consumed, and my brethren are no more.
I escaped. Nothing more than a happiness of chance as the smallest monster, perhaps the king as he sat on a chair unlike the others and they appeared to serve his every desire, threw me from his plate, casting me from damnation.
The king-monster-midget called out to me as I fell into a wicked shade to hide eye's temptation. 'Uh-oh' he cried. Uh-oh indeed kind monarch, uh-oh.
They have left me now, they have taken the king away to serve him elsewhere, so now I rest, and regroup. I need to fight back.
Hmm, a newcomer has entered. A different monster this one, hairy and with slobbering tongue. Perhaps I can communicate with the beast, maybe ride him back to the oven-mother. Yes, he comes this way, surely an agent of the very reverant cookhouse herself. Blessed be her name.
Come beast, let us do her work! Wait, what are you doing? Stop sniffing me.... don't open your mouth! Oven-mother, nooo! |
[WP] You are the retired 5th horseman. You predate all the rest, in fact you used to do this Job alone. After a millenia, finding your influence decayed and stagnant in Purgatory, you lay plans for your return to the cosmic stage. Someone isn't happy about that. | FUCKING AMATEURS! Forcing me to retire. I was doing my job as soon as this pitiful plain exploded into existence. They had one task each and they are being beat by some creatures that wallow around in mud. They were too aggressive the fools no concept of patience, No tact! Famine was the first to go. Those humans adapt quickly I'll give them that only took them a few thousand years, but now starvation is slowly being eradicated. Pestilence seems to have been knocked off his pony as well. Diseases are being cured almost as fast as the fool can think of them. Lets not forget about War. War never changes and that's his problem. That ass has been trying the same schtick since he started. Now the humans crave peace. Democracy and respect of what their new weapons can do. Soon I think those hairless apes will be done with War entirely.
Death that self assured prick, My son. I taught him all that he knows, he had so much promise, so much so that he was appointed lead of the other three. He is still at large I taught him well. However I sense his stride slackening in pace. I think that in another thousand years or two he too might fall. I on the other hand play on a larger scale. Those 4 upstarts have tried holding me back so they could have all the glory, but now that they are falling I am back, and mankind as well as everything else will learn to respect me. I am Entropy, I am the slow destruction of all things, I am the decay that eats at the very universe itself and it is time I got back to work. All things will learn to fear me, but by then it will be too late. | Back when Death was only Decay, and barely sentient, and I was alone and young, banging together the building blocks of the universe to see what would happen, I accidentally created Life and bought Death's transformation into being. Because of this, he has always treated me with respect. Still, his ceaseless nature has led him further and further from me as eternity has unspooled ahead of us, and I find myself becoming still, becoming less relevant to the cosmos than the newcomers who obsess over their tiny playground.
I did my job too well. When Death approached me, and asked for a stable galaxy, I didn't know how much work it would entail, but I was intrigued. Applying limits to myself, working within a structure, these were new things and I excelled. When sentient mortals emerged, I was congratulated and invited to watch as their turbulent world heaved around them. Still, that work was done. The world was made in my image, but I was forced to watch from the sidelines as Famine and Pestilence roamed my handiwork, and Death rode behind them.
I was a game-changer, and they did not want me near their planet of souls.
Catastrophe.
I could collapse stars, deaden the surface of planets; even at my most skilful and subtle, I was a phenomenal presence. They wanted my afterglow, the tsunamis and earthquakes, the tornados and hurricanes. From time to time I would send a meteor over the horizon and feel their approbation.
It was War who approached me. It was War they sent.
I felt the familiar excitement of uncreation in the hard grin he gave me. We share a nature, War and I, although we have nothing practical in common. Death always treated me respectfully, but Death does not understand me. If he did, he would not have chosen War as his diplomat.
They did not want me to unmake the world of mortals. I was not invited to play.
Instead they wanted me to contain their present sun far beyond the age it was expected to attain, while the humans expanded their reach. I was asked to increase their safe territory, to expand a network of safe systems until they were in their grasp. I heard War's request, the eagerness in his voice, when he spoke of the overflow of humanity into space, but I responded to his nature, not his words.
If they are asking me to disobey the laws that bind these universes together, if they are giving me leave to ignore the physics, then it won't be to calm a dying star.
I will unmake the cosmos, and see what happens.
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[WP] You are the retired 5th horseman. You predate all the rest, in fact you used to do this Job alone. After a millenia, finding your influence decayed and stagnant in Purgatory, you lay plans for your return to the cosmic stage. Someone isn't happy about that. | "You here about the horsemens' latest?"
I glanced up at the soul of the bartender. He was dappled, glowing with gold sheen punctuated by points of soft blue and a few spots of inky black. He wasn't long for purgatorio.
"No. I don't really keep up with the news Topside."
"That's a shame. End times look like they're coming up soon, horsemen are pullin' out all the stops. Famine and Pestilence pulled a team up like nothing Topside's seen in a thousand years. Africa and South America got hit, obviously, but so did America and China. Things are getting crazy down there."
"Yeah, sounds it."
There was an awkward silence. The bartender glanced around the mostly empty room, then back to me. I sipped my beer, pointedly avoiding his gaze.
"Say," he said, finally realizing that I wasn't going to initiate conversation, "I haven't seen you around this neighborhood before. You don't look like most of the souls that come through here. Not that I'm complaining about a new customer. Recovering sinners aren't real big on alcohol."
I stayed silent. I knew where this was going. I'd had this conversation a thousand times with a thousand lost souls.
"It's just," he continued, "you don't really look like a normal soul. Y'know, no offense or anything, but, like, you're missing that shine that they usually got. You're not, like, an angel or something, right?"
I looked up at him.
"No. Sorry."
"Hey man, don't apologize. I got busted pretty bad last time angels were down here. But, uh, if you're not an angel, what are you?"
I took a deep breath.
"Tell me something. Did you ever think it was weird that all the horsemen seem to be subsets of death?"
"Whaddaya mean?"
"Well, War, Famine, Pestilence, those are just things that cause Death. That's why they're bad. That's why they're horsemen. But what's the point of having those three if we have Death?"
"Well, ain't death, like, their leader? They're all aspects of him, they take the big causes of Death so he can focus on the little things, right?"
"Yes, that's right. Most souls don't know that."
"Eh, what can I say, I've picked some things up since I got here. Plus, to be honest, I'm a bit of a dork when it comes to the apocalypse. Horsemen especially, I know all about them."
"Of course. Well, the thing is that Death doesn't cover all of humanity's ills."
"What?"
"Think about it. Torture, pain, misery, boredom, hate, loss, loneliness. Most of the worst trials of mankind happen in life, not in death."
"Uh...okay. So what?"
I put down my beer and got up.
"Hey, mister, where you goin? You never answered my question? Who are you anyway?"
I dropped a few coins on the bar.
"All things have aspects. Death has his subordinate horsemen. As I used to."
The man stared, open mouthed.
"No...no way. You're..."
I nodded.
"Life. Father of Death. First of man's troubles." | I'm sure you've heard of them. War, Famine, Pestilence, Death. The Four Thrice-be-Damned Horsemen of the Apocalypse. No one ever remembers *me*.
Who am I? Take a guess? Hm?
...
That's what I thought. My name is Conquest. I was in the original quartet. But then a certain *someone* took my place. Pestilence. Oh that accursed Pestilence, when everyone forgot about me, he replaced me. I became trapped inside him, forgotten to most of the world. I am far more important than him. I have triumphed over everything there ever was, but I could not conquer their memories... But I will return! I have filed my permit with God, and soon I will be back!
****
Five men sat in a dark, small room. It was nice and simple, a wooden desk, and five chairs. A glowing entity sat at the head of the table, four others occupying the rest. The entity sighed and spoke.
"Your brethren wishes to replace Pestilence, or at least join your ranks. What do you say?"
"Please." Death scoffed. Death was old. Very old, and thin, but he carried himself like a king. He walked and talked with his back straight, he kept his pale hair well-groomed. He continued, "Conquest was useless from the start, War was basically the same, he fought, he won. Conquest simply was the person who 'won' things. He debated, he made bets, but as far as I'm concerned, he's best left gone."
The entity nodded, Death eased up and relaxed in his chair, but kept an eye on the table. It was silent until Famine spoke.
Famine was thin. Bone thin, it was easy to see through his grey sweater and skin-tight pants. Giants could have used him as a toothpick. "I agree with Death, Conquest was an obnoxious brute, so full of himself, claiming he was 'so close to ending the world' and other balderdash. I don't miss him one bit." Famine sipped wine after he spoke.
Pestilence immediately piped up, never one to let his thoughts go unheard, but his coughing always made it difficult.
"We do not **cough** need any more of us. Let alone replace me. Do to my **cough** malaria, I've killed half of humanity alone! I'm far more efficient than most of you."
Death glared at him. Pestilence was rude, not so much as Conquest, but Pestilence never failed to shut up about his latest creations, he never stopped harping about his prized Ebola. He almost wished God would smite him where he sat. At least he brought good business.
Through the silence, the five seemed to agree. War shared his final thoughts.
"Well... I could never lose a fight, and he could never lose at all... I enjoyed sparring with him." The big red brute added, almost questioning himself.
The entity held up a long scroll, signed in what appeared to be blood read the immortal name of who we know as 'Conquest.'
"All in favor of allowing Conquest to return to our plane?"
War shrugged and held up his hand. He knew no one else would.
The entity nodded, and as soon as he did, a big red stamp appeared on the paper. He snapped his fingers and it vanished into a puff of smoke. The entity spoke one last time. "Meeting adjourned."
****
They denied my permit?
...
Well now what do I do?
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[WP] A young man gains super powers at the age of 16, but he discovers his powers slowly drain the life of whomever he loves. To avoid hurting anyone he becomes a loner. Years later, he is having lunch at a diner alone when the most beautiful girl he's ever seen walks in. | Connor got the deluxe egg and steak meal. The one with the hash browns and extra pancakes and pretty much a side of everything the menu had to offer.
"Are we waiting for anybody else," the Lake Tahoe waitress asked. She had been up since 10pm the night before and was just itching to get into bed.
"No all for me. Oh and can you add an extra order of hash browns on top of that?"
If he had a choice, Connor would eat breakfast for every meal. Breakfast had the perfect combination of carbs protein and fats, and he swore that when he ate a good hardy American breakfast his powers worked better. With a full stomach, he could do anything from materialize a ten story block of ice to creating a detailed microscopic sculpture of the statue of liberty the size of his toe nail. But he wasn't at Lake Tahoe to use his powers. No he was there to snowboard.
While waiting for the waitress Connor whipped out his list.
Lake Tahoe
Swiss Alps
Shark watching
Go to Space
Eat a Cronut in New York
He put a big checkmark right next to Lake Tahoe.
"Happy Bo? I'm finally fulfilling a bucket list like you said," Connor thought. He looked at his list and laughed. Why was it so hard to figure out what you wanted to do in your life? Connor was 30 but he already felt done.
Sometimes he felt there was not point in living life, if you couldn't enjoy it with anyone he loved. Eventually he would laugh and then say "Love isn't for heroes." But lately it had become harder and harder to say.
The door of the diner swung open, briefly letting in the chilly afternoon air. In the corner of his eye, Connor senses the graceful movement of a woman dressed in a white parka. She rubbed her hands together once she was inside and looked hastily at the menu.
"One hot chocolate please," she said. Her voice was gentle and clear. When Connor looked up he found himself choking on air. The air around him instantly dropped and the cup of water froze solid. She was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen.
Connor looked away to control himself.
"Whoa it sure got chilly in here didn't it," the waitress said. "You okay boy?"
"Yeah just tired," Connor said to explain why he was tucking his head in his arms.
Right when the waitress set down the extra plate of hash browns she tipped over and slipped on the sleet of ice that had frozen underneath Connor's chair. Before the waitress could hit her head on the floor, Connor bent down quickly, froze his feet to the floor for support and offered a cushioned response into his arms. His years on ice had honed his instincts.
"Are you alright," Connor said with steam coming out of his mouth.
"Oh my god, what happened," the freaked out waitress said.
"It's just some ice that was brought in." The waitress thanked Connor and went back to get herself back together. He was happy that he saved her in time. He couldn't have her hurt on his conscious.
"Smooth reflexes mister." She had the hot chocolate in her hand and she was smiling at Connor. SHe was even prettier up close, and smelled sweet like strawberries.
"Thanks," Connor replied. He continued avoiding her gaze, just trying to control the adrenaline in his veins.
"No i'm serious, you slid on that floor and caught her like an ice skating olympian. It was very cool."
Connor blushed heavily at that comment. "Well I was going to go to Beijing but I didn't like the outfit they gave me," he joked.
She laughed so hard that she almost spilled her hot chocolate. "My name is Cammy."
"Connor," he said.
"How are you not cold in here just wearing a t-shirt," Cammy asked.
"I'm naturally cold blooded," Connor said the truth.
"Well I like the cold too but it seems as if its getting colder now. Even my hot chocolate is like luke warm now."
Connor gulped. It was happening already. At least he got to say hi.
"Then maybe you should by another damn hot chocolate," he said angrily. "Stop wasting my time with your stupid problems."
----finishing here for now may continue later, bed time----
| Temptation is the worst thing in the world. Lets say you are the most powerful man on earth. Lets say you decide to use this power to help people, to make a change. So you go where people are, to the city, where there are always those in need. But then you're told that every time you use that great power you hurt those you love.
So then you become careful, become a recluse. Avoid the temptation of giving in to humanity's social nature. And when you have to get groceries, pay the rent, go out to eat, you interact with people little as possible. Go outside, make your order or get your food, pay the cashier, tip the waitress, and go home. No pleasantries, no "how do you dos" or "have a nice days". You seem rude or hateful, but no body knows that you are doing it for their own good. Push them away, because you're a parasite.
You try not to play hero, just in case. But every so often those ears of yours, so much greater than everyone else's, hears a scream for help. The cops will never get there in time. The temptation sets in and you give in. You put on some dark clothes and you run with the speed of a bullet and you save the day. You knock out the attacker, tie him up, and call an ambulance for the woman. But you never say word to her. She says thank you but you ignore her and leave her to safety. You swear you will never do it again, but your bleeding heart never lets you keep that promise.
Lets say everything goes according to plan until one otherwise average day, while you're eating the same steak in eggs in silence you eat every time you come to this diner, she walks in. She strikes you dead in your tracks. She looks in your direction, your eyes meet, and god damn it, you smile. Every bone in your body aches to get up, say hi, shake her hand. The temptation, the longing for human companionship, is so strong.
However then you see the future unfold before your eyes. You see yourself asking her name, asking her out. You see the first date unfold, you walking her to her door. You close your eyes as you see the first kiss, the first night you spend together, you two buy a house out in the country, away from the world and its troubles and living happy together.
But then you see her skin starting to pale. Her getting thinner and thinner while you stay the same. No doctor is able to figure out whats wrong with her. Maybe you gave in when some disaster happened, felt the suffering was too great, convinced yourself using your powers one time wouldn't hurt her. Maybe something unavoidable happened like a car crash, and you used your strength to pull her out of the burning car, in her unconscious state she never found out how you two survived. Or maybe you are simply a leech and simply by existing, your love is killing her. No matter the reason, you see her one day at a horribly young age, a withered husk, and it is your fault.
So then you get up, leave the money with the bill, and leave. You refuse to look at her as you do, for fear of giving in to that beautiful face. You leave your foolish dreams of living a normal, happy life in that diner. You go home and that night, feeling miserable and alone, you hear sirens, a fire. You hear, ever so far away, a firefighter say that there are people trapped inside. Voices are saying its too dangerous to go inside. So you get up and decide to make yourself useful. You get there in under a minute. You slip past the police barricade and you run into the building. You see a body, limp, trapped under a fallen beam. You throw the beam off of her without effort. You pick up the the person and carry her out of the building. Once you're outside you hand her off to an EMT who puts her in a stretcher. He moves the hair out of her face and to your horror its the girl from the diner. Her eyes gently open and she softly whispers "Its you, that guy from earlier". Quickly as possible you turn and you just run. Police and firemen try to approach you, but you're gone in the blink of an eye.
Lets say you run all night. You go to bed early in the morning and cry yourself to sleep. But no matter how miserable you are, you now know you made the right choice. This girl knows you saved her life, but she can never know who you are. You know she is the one too, or at least someone like her. She could make you happy, and maybe for a short time you could make her happy. However, for you happy endings aren't an option. So you decide to leave town tomorrow. Your curse is temptation, but you will deny it. With all your strength, you could protect the world, you withstand temptation, but you will always hurt the one you love, so you will deprive yourself of love, of friendship, of companionship, for all of this is for their own good. |
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[WP] A young man gains super powers at the age of 16, but he discovers his powers slowly drain the life of whomever he loves. To avoid hurting anyone he becomes a loner. Years later, he is having lunch at a diner alone when the most beautiful girl he's ever seen walks in. | To his horror, she glanced directly at him and slid her toned body into the seat across from him. He began abruptly, as if he were an actor in a play and he was reciting his lines for the thousandth time. "I don't know who you are or what you want out of life but I need to tell you two things. First, people around me get hurt. It may not be my desire or intention but hell if it don't always work out like that. The second thing is that nothing you can say will change the facts of the matter."
There was a short and uncomfortable silence. He shifted in his seat. Slowly she held out her hand. A smile crept across her face. "Hi. My name is Rogue. There's a man you should meet." | Temptation is the worst thing in the world. Lets say you are the most powerful man on earth. Lets say you decide to use this power to help people, to make a change. So you go where people are, to the city, where there are always those in need. But then you're told that every time you use that great power you hurt those you love.
So then you become careful, become a recluse. Avoid the temptation of giving in to humanity's social nature. And when you have to get groceries, pay the rent, go out to eat, you interact with people little as possible. Go outside, make your order or get your food, pay the cashier, tip the waitress, and go home. No pleasantries, no "how do you dos" or "have a nice days". You seem rude or hateful, but no body knows that you are doing it for their own good. Push them away, because you're a parasite.
You try not to play hero, just in case. But every so often those ears of yours, so much greater than everyone else's, hears a scream for help. The cops will never get there in time. The temptation sets in and you give in. You put on some dark clothes and you run with the speed of a bullet and you save the day. You knock out the attacker, tie him up, and call an ambulance for the woman. But you never say word to her. She says thank you but you ignore her and leave her to safety. You swear you will never do it again, but your bleeding heart never lets you keep that promise.
Lets say everything goes according to plan until one otherwise average day, while you're eating the same steak in eggs in silence you eat every time you come to this diner, she walks in. She strikes you dead in your tracks. She looks in your direction, your eyes meet, and god damn it, you smile. Every bone in your body aches to get up, say hi, shake her hand. The temptation, the longing for human companionship, is so strong.
However then you see the future unfold before your eyes. You see yourself asking her name, asking her out. You see the first date unfold, you walking her to her door. You close your eyes as you see the first kiss, the first night you spend together, you two buy a house out in the country, away from the world and its troubles and living happy together.
But then you see her skin starting to pale. Her getting thinner and thinner while you stay the same. No doctor is able to figure out whats wrong with her. Maybe you gave in when some disaster happened, felt the suffering was too great, convinced yourself using your powers one time wouldn't hurt her. Maybe something unavoidable happened like a car crash, and you used your strength to pull her out of the burning car, in her unconscious state she never found out how you two survived. Or maybe you are simply a leech and simply by existing, your love is killing her. No matter the reason, you see her one day at a horribly young age, a withered husk, and it is your fault.
So then you get up, leave the money with the bill, and leave. You refuse to look at her as you do, for fear of giving in to that beautiful face. You leave your foolish dreams of living a normal, happy life in that diner. You go home and that night, feeling miserable and alone, you hear sirens, a fire. You hear, ever so far away, a firefighter say that there are people trapped inside. Voices are saying its too dangerous to go inside. So you get up and decide to make yourself useful. You get there in under a minute. You slip past the police barricade and you run into the building. You see a body, limp, trapped under a fallen beam. You throw the beam off of her without effort. You pick up the the person and carry her out of the building. Once you're outside you hand her off to an EMT who puts her in a stretcher. He moves the hair out of her face and to your horror its the girl from the diner. Her eyes gently open and she softly whispers "Its you, that guy from earlier". Quickly as possible you turn and you just run. Police and firemen try to approach you, but you're gone in the blink of an eye.
Lets say you run all night. You go to bed early in the morning and cry yourself to sleep. But no matter how miserable you are, you now know you made the right choice. This girl knows you saved her life, but she can never know who you are. You know she is the one too, or at least someone like her. She could make you happy, and maybe for a short time you could make her happy. However, for you happy endings aren't an option. So you decide to leave town tomorrow. Your curse is temptation, but you will deny it. With all your strength, you could protect the world, you withstand temptation, but you will always hurt the one you love, so you will deprive yourself of love, of friendship, of companionship, for all of this is for their own good. |
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[WP] A young man gains super powers at the age of 16, but he discovers his powers slowly drain the life of whomever he loves. To avoid hurting anyone he becomes a loner. Years later, he is having lunch at a diner alone when the most beautiful girl he's ever seen walks in. | Connor got the deluxe egg and steak meal. The one with the hash browns and extra pancakes and pretty much a side of everything the menu had to offer.
"Are we waiting for anybody else," the Lake Tahoe waitress asked. She had been up since 10pm the night before and was just itching to get into bed.
"No all for me. Oh and can you add an extra order of hash browns on top of that?"
If he had a choice, Connor would eat breakfast for every meal. Breakfast had the perfect combination of carbs protein and fats, and he swore that when he ate a good hardy American breakfast his powers worked better. With a full stomach, he could do anything from materialize a ten story block of ice to creating a detailed microscopic sculpture of the statue of liberty the size of his toe nail. But he wasn't at Lake Tahoe to use his powers. No he was there to snowboard.
While waiting for the waitress Connor whipped out his list.
Lake Tahoe
Swiss Alps
Shark watching
Go to Space
Eat a Cronut in New York
He put a big checkmark right next to Lake Tahoe.
"Happy Bo? I'm finally fulfilling a bucket list like you said," Connor thought. He looked at his list and laughed. Why was it so hard to figure out what you wanted to do in your life? Connor was 30 but he already felt done.
Sometimes he felt there was not point in living life, if you couldn't enjoy it with anyone he loved. Eventually he would laugh and then say "Love isn't for heroes." But lately it had become harder and harder to say.
The door of the diner swung open, briefly letting in the chilly afternoon air. In the corner of his eye, Connor senses the graceful movement of a woman dressed in a white parka. She rubbed her hands together once she was inside and looked hastily at the menu.
"One hot chocolate please," she said. Her voice was gentle and clear. When Connor looked up he found himself choking on air. The air around him instantly dropped and the cup of water froze solid. She was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen.
Connor looked away to control himself.
"Whoa it sure got chilly in here didn't it," the waitress said. "You okay boy?"
"Yeah just tired," Connor said to explain why he was tucking his head in his arms.
Right when the waitress set down the extra plate of hash browns she tipped over and slipped on the sleet of ice that had frozen underneath Connor's chair. Before the waitress could hit her head on the floor, Connor bent down quickly, froze his feet to the floor for support and offered a cushioned response into his arms. His years on ice had honed his instincts.
"Are you alright," Connor said with steam coming out of his mouth.
"Oh my god, what happened," the freaked out waitress said.
"It's just some ice that was brought in." The waitress thanked Connor and went back to get herself back together. He was happy that he saved her in time. He couldn't have her hurt on his conscious.
"Smooth reflexes mister." She had the hot chocolate in her hand and she was smiling at Connor. SHe was even prettier up close, and smelled sweet like strawberries.
"Thanks," Connor replied. He continued avoiding her gaze, just trying to control the adrenaline in his veins.
"No i'm serious, you slid on that floor and caught her like an ice skating olympian. It was very cool."
Connor blushed heavily at that comment. "Well I was going to go to Beijing but I didn't like the outfit they gave me," he joked.
She laughed so hard that she almost spilled her hot chocolate. "My name is Cammy."
"Connor," he said.
"How are you not cold in here just wearing a t-shirt," Cammy asked.
"I'm naturally cold blooded," Connor said the truth.
"Well I like the cold too but it seems as if its getting colder now. Even my hot chocolate is like luke warm now."
Connor gulped. It was happening already. At least he got to say hi.
"Then maybe you should by another damn hot chocolate," he said angrily. "Stop wasting my time with your stupid problems."
----finishing here for now may continue later, bed time----
| Small towns never ceased to amaze Colt. The kindness and cordiality between the residents and absolute strangers was always kind of mindblowing to him. In a way, it was how he was able to stay sane. Given his... condition, Colt could never really get close to anybody. Small town's were a small comfort in his lonely existence. Out here, he could pretend like he was best friends with the waitress, or have a conversation with a random guy at the bar like he was an old acquaintance he hadn't talked to in years.
As Colt sipped his coffee, he looked out the window across the hot, dry, and barren landscape. There really wasn't much out there to see, just dead grass and twisted trees. However, he was still in awe of it. Despite it's emptiness, there was still a power behind it that he was drawn to. He heard a jingle of bells at the door, and turned to see who may be his new friends for the afternoon.
His jaw dropped. A woman walked through the door, absolutely radiant. Her auburn hair hung to her shoulders, shining in the early afternoon glare. Her wide smile is the kind seen only people who have an inner joy that brings up everyone and everything around them. But most of it all, it was her eyes. The way they seemed to whisk away any worry or care, and made a person feel incredibly at ease. She was the most beautiful person he had ever seen, and he had not seen her in a decade.
Colt avoided eye contact, and hunched over his coffee. He knew the consequences. He couldn't let this happen again. Not with her. He looked around and tried to plan his escape.
"Colt?"
He froze at the sound of the quiet voice near his shoulder. He turned, slowly, to face her.
"Marie... I, uh, didn't realize you lived here"
Colt cast his eyes down, and noticed a golden glimmer on her left hand. A ring.
"Colt, you should stay for awhile, we should talk"
He looked pleadingly up into her wonderful eyes, now marred by a sadness that he had only seen once before.
"You know I can't do that."
Colt got up, and looked at her, but then turned and left abruptly. He had no place staying her, he couldn't let it happen again. He couldn't put her in danger again.
Back in the diner, Marie sat down and watched him go. As the tears began to flow, she took the ring off and felt the engraved C&M on the inside. Logically she knew he could never return to her. But she wouldn't let him go. Couldn't let him go. |
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[WP] A young man gains super powers at the age of 16, but he discovers his powers slowly drain the life of whomever he loves. To avoid hurting anyone he becomes a loner. Years later, he is having lunch at a diner alone when the most beautiful girl he's ever seen walks in. | To his horror, she glanced directly at him and slid her toned body into the seat across from him. He began abruptly, as if he were an actor in a play and he was reciting his lines for the thousandth time. "I don't know who you are or what you want out of life but I need to tell you two things. First, people around me get hurt. It may not be my desire or intention but hell if it don't always work out like that. The second thing is that nothing you can say will change the facts of the matter."
There was a short and uncomfortable silence. He shifted in his seat. Slowly she held out her hand. A smile crept across her face. "Hi. My name is Rogue. There's a man you should meet." | Small towns never ceased to amaze Colt. The kindness and cordiality between the residents and absolute strangers was always kind of mindblowing to him. In a way, it was how he was able to stay sane. Given his... condition, Colt could never really get close to anybody. Small town's were a small comfort in his lonely existence. Out here, he could pretend like he was best friends with the waitress, or have a conversation with a random guy at the bar like he was an old acquaintance he hadn't talked to in years.
As Colt sipped his coffee, he looked out the window across the hot, dry, and barren landscape. There really wasn't much out there to see, just dead grass and twisted trees. However, he was still in awe of it. Despite it's emptiness, there was still a power behind it that he was drawn to. He heard a jingle of bells at the door, and turned to see who may be his new friends for the afternoon.
His jaw dropped. A woman walked through the door, absolutely radiant. Her auburn hair hung to her shoulders, shining in the early afternoon glare. Her wide smile is the kind seen only people who have an inner joy that brings up everyone and everything around them. But most of it all, it was her eyes. The way they seemed to whisk away any worry or care, and made a person feel incredibly at ease. She was the most beautiful person he had ever seen, and he had not seen her in a decade.
Colt avoided eye contact, and hunched over his coffee. He knew the consequences. He couldn't let this happen again. Not with her. He looked around and tried to plan his escape.
"Colt?"
He froze at the sound of the quiet voice near his shoulder. He turned, slowly, to face her.
"Marie... I, uh, didn't realize you lived here"
Colt cast his eyes down, and noticed a golden glimmer on her left hand. A ring.
"Colt, you should stay for awhile, we should talk"
He looked pleadingly up into her wonderful eyes, now marred by a sadness that he had only seen once before.
"You know I can't do that."
Colt got up, and looked at her, but then turned and left abruptly. He had no place staying her, he couldn't let it happen again. He couldn't put her in danger again.
Back in the diner, Marie sat down and watched him go. As the tears began to flow, she took the ring off and felt the engraved C&M on the inside. Logically she knew he could never return to her. But she wouldn't let him go. Couldn't let him go. |
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[WP] A young man gains super powers at the age of 16, but he discovers his powers slowly drain the life of whomever he loves. To avoid hurting anyone he becomes a loner. Years later, he is having lunch at a diner alone when the most beautiful girl he's ever seen walks in. | Mark flew out of the Sanctuary of Loneliness, as he called it, that he built for himself in the Gobi desert. Within minutes he was at his favorite diner just outside Dodge City, Kansas. A polecat that had been hanging around his sanctuary seemed to inexplicably wither and die. In fact, all around his home, dried out carcasses of animals littered the desert.
He sat at his usual spot in the diner, a booth with glittery red plastic padding. A waitress in a yellow dress and red apron approached the table with a cup of coffee, “The usual, Mr. Mint?” she asked as she sat the coffee down. The wrinkled joints of her hands betrayed the stocky waitress’s true age. Her breathe was sour. Mark had learned a trick, in order to not get attached to anyone; he would only focus on their negative features, their flaws.
“Yep…” Mark began, “No, I mean, I think I will have a cheese omelet with pancakes instead.” He wasn't sure what spurred this sudden change in desire.
As he waited for his food to arrive, she walked in. The most beautiful woman he had ever seen. She had wide benthal blue eyes, on a youthful face; wavy brown hair that smelled of roses decorated the shoulders of her slender frame. Her yellow sundress with white polka-dots contrasted against her deep red lipstick hinting at an intriguing eccentricity. Mark tried to find flaws, but even they proved enticing; a chipped front tooth, a poorly drawn faded daisy chain tattoo around the ankle, bitten fingernails. He swore he caught her glance at him with a slight smirk. He looked down at his coffee.
It was true he did long the touch of a woman. In fact he has never been with one, sexually, in his life. He had found out the price of his powers as a teenager. During his first real battle, against a villain named Cerebiac, his first girlfriend nearly died. He hadn’t even gotten to second base. Of course he realized that if he stopped using his powers he could find love and settle down. But that just seemed selfish to him. He could do, and has done, so much good.
He was the first superhero; he has saved the earth countless times. But so many superheroes have popped up since him, fifteen years ago. Maybe he wasn’t needed; maybe he could retire, find love and settle down.
“Here you go, hun.” His thoughts were interrupted as the waitress sat his food on the table. “Anything else?” She put her fists on her waist as she waited for his response.
“Umm…no thanks.” Mark replied. As the waitress walked away, he noticed the woman had taken a seat two booths in front of him, with her back to him. He slowly began eating.
“What would I even say to her?” he thought to himself. He hadn’t tried to pick up a girl since he was sixteen. He didn’t even know if she would be interested in him. What if she did agree to go on a date? He would have to move back to his Dodge City apartment. What if it turned out he didn’t like her? He would be forsaking his superpowers for nothing. An old quote came back to his mind, ‘better to have loved and lost, than to have never loved at all.’ It was worth the risk he thought. He was human after all, he needed companionship. Other members of the Justice Alliance, were probably thinking he was weird for not having a girlfriend. He hadn’t told anybody, not even the Alliance, about the price that comes with his powers. What if he wasn’t good at being intimate?
Doubts and confusion clouded his mind. The conflict became too much, he bit down on his fork, full power. His teeth cut through the prongs like they were uncooked spaghetti. In that instant he swore he saw the woman wince in pain. He spit the metal prongs out. “Control yourself!” he thought, “turn off your powers.” He took a few deep breathes and took his wallet out. He threw bill on the table. “I can do this.”
He raised himself from the booth with intention. Peering into a mirror on the other side of the diner he straightened his suit. He took a few strides forward and stopped next to the beauty’s table. He opened his mouth to speak, the girl still focused on her menu. Nothing came out. He stood there for a moment trying to work up the courage to speak. He had fought aliens, dinosaurs and cyborgs, but he had never felt the fear he felt now. He didn’t know how, or if he could, handle rejection.
He attempted to speak again, but before he could, she looked over at him, “Can I help you?” she asked.
“Yes, I mean no,” sweat pellets drenched his forehead. “ Sorry, I was just, umm, spacing out, for a second.”
“Maybe I’ll run into her again,” he thought as he hurried off. “If I see her again, that will be a sign.” He was trying to convince himself that he didn’t blow it. As soon as he rounded the corner out of the diner door he hurled himself into the sky at speeds he didn’t know he was capable of.
| Small towns never ceased to amaze Colt. The kindness and cordiality between the residents and absolute strangers was always kind of mindblowing to him. In a way, it was how he was able to stay sane. Given his... condition, Colt could never really get close to anybody. Small town's were a small comfort in his lonely existence. Out here, he could pretend like he was best friends with the waitress, or have a conversation with a random guy at the bar like he was an old acquaintance he hadn't talked to in years.
As Colt sipped his coffee, he looked out the window across the hot, dry, and barren landscape. There really wasn't much out there to see, just dead grass and twisted trees. However, he was still in awe of it. Despite it's emptiness, there was still a power behind it that he was drawn to. He heard a jingle of bells at the door, and turned to see who may be his new friends for the afternoon.
His jaw dropped. A woman walked through the door, absolutely radiant. Her auburn hair hung to her shoulders, shining in the early afternoon glare. Her wide smile is the kind seen only people who have an inner joy that brings up everyone and everything around them. But most of it all, it was her eyes. The way they seemed to whisk away any worry or care, and made a person feel incredibly at ease. She was the most beautiful person he had ever seen, and he had not seen her in a decade.
Colt avoided eye contact, and hunched over his coffee. He knew the consequences. He couldn't let this happen again. Not with her. He looked around and tried to plan his escape.
"Colt?"
He froze at the sound of the quiet voice near his shoulder. He turned, slowly, to face her.
"Marie... I, uh, didn't realize you lived here"
Colt cast his eyes down, and noticed a golden glimmer on her left hand. A ring.
"Colt, you should stay for awhile, we should talk"
He looked pleadingly up into her wonderful eyes, now marred by a sadness that he had only seen once before.
"You know I can't do that."
Colt got up, and looked at her, but then turned and left abruptly. He had no place staying her, he couldn't let it happen again. He couldn't put her in danger again.
Back in the diner, Marie sat down and watched him go. As the tears began to flow, she took the ring off and felt the engraved C&M on the inside. Logically she knew he could never return to her. But she wouldn't let him go. Couldn't let him go. |
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[WP] A young man gains super powers at the age of 16, but he discovers his powers slowly drain the life of whomever he loves. To avoid hurting anyone he becomes a loner. Years later, he is having lunch at a diner alone when the most beautiful girl he's ever seen walks in. | Connor got the deluxe egg and steak meal. The one with the hash browns and extra pancakes and pretty much a side of everything the menu had to offer.
"Are we waiting for anybody else," the Lake Tahoe waitress asked. She had been up since 10pm the night before and was just itching to get into bed.
"No all for me. Oh and can you add an extra order of hash browns on top of that?"
If he had a choice, Connor would eat breakfast for every meal. Breakfast had the perfect combination of carbs protein and fats, and he swore that when he ate a good hardy American breakfast his powers worked better. With a full stomach, he could do anything from materialize a ten story block of ice to creating a detailed microscopic sculpture of the statue of liberty the size of his toe nail. But he wasn't at Lake Tahoe to use his powers. No he was there to snowboard.
While waiting for the waitress Connor whipped out his list.
Lake Tahoe
Swiss Alps
Shark watching
Go to Space
Eat a Cronut in New York
He put a big checkmark right next to Lake Tahoe.
"Happy Bo? I'm finally fulfilling a bucket list like you said," Connor thought. He looked at his list and laughed. Why was it so hard to figure out what you wanted to do in your life? Connor was 30 but he already felt done.
Sometimes he felt there was not point in living life, if you couldn't enjoy it with anyone he loved. Eventually he would laugh and then say "Love isn't for heroes." But lately it had become harder and harder to say.
The door of the diner swung open, briefly letting in the chilly afternoon air. In the corner of his eye, Connor senses the graceful movement of a woman dressed in a white parka. She rubbed her hands together once she was inside and looked hastily at the menu.
"One hot chocolate please," she said. Her voice was gentle and clear. When Connor looked up he found himself choking on air. The air around him instantly dropped and the cup of water froze solid. She was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen.
Connor looked away to control himself.
"Whoa it sure got chilly in here didn't it," the waitress said. "You okay boy?"
"Yeah just tired," Connor said to explain why he was tucking his head in his arms.
Right when the waitress set down the extra plate of hash browns she tipped over and slipped on the sleet of ice that had frozen underneath Connor's chair. Before the waitress could hit her head on the floor, Connor bent down quickly, froze his feet to the floor for support and offered a cushioned response into his arms. His years on ice had honed his instincts.
"Are you alright," Connor said with steam coming out of his mouth.
"Oh my god, what happened," the freaked out waitress said.
"It's just some ice that was brought in." The waitress thanked Connor and went back to get herself back together. He was happy that he saved her in time. He couldn't have her hurt on his conscious.
"Smooth reflexes mister." She had the hot chocolate in her hand and she was smiling at Connor. SHe was even prettier up close, and smelled sweet like strawberries.
"Thanks," Connor replied. He continued avoiding her gaze, just trying to control the adrenaline in his veins.
"No i'm serious, you slid on that floor and caught her like an ice skating olympian. It was very cool."
Connor blushed heavily at that comment. "Well I was going to go to Beijing but I didn't like the outfit they gave me," he joked.
She laughed so hard that she almost spilled her hot chocolate. "My name is Cammy."
"Connor," he said.
"How are you not cold in here just wearing a t-shirt," Cammy asked.
"I'm naturally cold blooded," Connor said the truth.
"Well I like the cold too but it seems as if its getting colder now. Even my hot chocolate is like luke warm now."
Connor gulped. It was happening already. At least he got to say hi.
"Then maybe you should by another damn hot chocolate," he said angrily. "Stop wasting my time with your stupid problems."
----finishing here for now may continue later, bed time----
| EDIT: I didn't have a plan for this. I just wrote it, if it gets weird I'm sorry!
This had to be the most squalid diner in the entirety of Chicago. And that was saying something. Across the street stood an abandoned apartment complex that was slowly rotting away, but the first floor could still house a squatter or two. On either side of neon lighted diner stood the remnants of stores that had long been looted. How this little place hadn't gone out of business yet, Dakota had yet to figure out.
The food tasted like it had been pre-cooked, frozen, and warmed up. The service was even worse, which was the exact reason Dakota ate here. None of the other diners, and especially not the staff, in this wretched little hell hole would think twice about a scrawny kid in black, with dark brown hair falling in his face. The waitress didn't even ask him why he had ordered two plates of food when it was obvious no one was meeting him here.
A slice of ham, two fried eggs, grits and black coffee. *Dad's favorite.* A burger with curly fries and strawberry shake. *And that's mom's.* When they had been alive, these had been their favorite meals to get at the Steak 'n' Shake they would go to after one of Dakota's basketball games.
Tonight was the one year anniversary of their deaths. Tonight was also Dakota's eighteenth birthday. And tonight, Dakota couldn't eat this food even he had wanted to. These so-called "super powers" had ruined his life. Speed, strength, he had even been invulnerable. But without an energy source, everything had dwindled away, all he could do was stare at the greasy, over-priced food with no appetite.
Dakota closed his eyes. He kept wondering how long it would take to die. He hadn't eaten in weeks and hadn't slept in days. He had tried to stop breathing, but after two hours of his chest feeling like he was on fire he realized he couldn't suffocate. So here he was, waiting for his body to finally, if it would ever, shut down.
The doorbell didn't so much jingle as groan that another patron had entered the store. Dakota looked up and his eyes widened. With her red heels on, she was only a few inches shorter than Dakota's 6'2'', with blond curling hair and ruby red lips. Her body wasn't just stunning, it demanded to be looked at. A black, thigh length peacoat clung to her frame and a red, wide rimmed fedora did little to protect her from the rain outside the diner, but she seemed indifferent to it. She looked like a woman straight out of the comics Dakota used to read when he was little, before his life became a comic book hell.
A surge of longing overtook Dakota. It had been so long since he'd had anyone for a companion. He couldn't risk it. Not after his parents. He'd lost his entire life to these godforsaken powers that had hijacked his body. He wanted her, and two years ago he could have gotten her easily. When he kept his appearance up, when he socialized without fear of killing people, when he was allowed to care.
He tried to turn it off. He tried to look back down at his plates of food, but something about her ignited whatever was left of him. He wanted to be a part of living again.
Her bright blue eyes met his gray ones with startling intent. She strode over to him purposefully and slid gracefully into the booth across from Dakota. Without asking, she grabbed mom's milkshake and took a swig before more calmly cutting dad's ham into pieces.
"So, Dakota," she said without looking up. "Have you enjoyed yourself the last two years?"
Dakota stared at her, torn. If he spoke, he would be starting a relationship. He never even talked to his waitress, he always wrote down what he wanted.
She looked up at him through achingly full eyelashes, "Well, have you?"
He stuttered, his voice cracking from being under used, "How do you know my name?"
She took a bite of ham, "Does it matter? Aren't you more concerned with why I'm here talking to you? Really, hon, we didn't expect this."
He frowned, "What do you mean by 'we?'"
She grinned, "That's the spirit. Ask me questions. I guarantee I have the answers."
He leaned forward, "What happened to me?"
"You were selected."
"What do you mean?"
"Selected. It means chosen, nominated, elected-"
Indignation flashed in Dakota, "I know what the word means you jackass. I want to know *why* dammit."
The girl sat back, surprised but not angered. She slowly took another drink of his mother's milkshake, wiped her mouth with a napkin, and reapplied her make-up. "Some people think we're a government experiment gone wrong, others think it's we were just never human to begin with. You want to know something, though? It's in the damn water. We don't know who put it in there or if it's been there this whole time, but everyone is infested with it. These little parasites are in the water *everywhere* and there was something about our genetic code that activated them." She put away her compact mirror. "*That* is what happened to us, Dakota. These little bugs changed who we are."
Dakota gripped both sides of the formica table, his voice low, "My parents are dead because of me, and you're telling me that it's because I have *a bug inside of me*?"
The girl nodded, "When our parasite activates, it establishes itself as the alpha of a hive. The people you interact with the most are considered the other members of the hive. If another person's genetic code can't support the activation of this parasite, the parasite begins to die, which causes the host bodies to shut down." She looked him in the eyes. "I killed my mother, sister, and my boyfriend. Not my dad, though. Guess I didn't interact with him enough because he was too busy at bars and clubs."
Dakota didn't say he was sorry. That's the thing about losing someone, you can't apologize a person back to life. He spread his palms across the table, "Why are you telling me this?"
"Because I know you need help. You can't die of natural causes, the parasite won't let you because that would kill it. But there are others like us. We're working to find a cure. Some way to eradicate this thing from our system. We have safe hives scattered across the globe, and we have some methods that work for short term contact with the dormants, that's what we call normal people."
Dakota nodded, "How do you not hurt each other, if we're all alphas?"
The girl shrugged, "Who knows? A mutual respect for one another? It's another mystery. We've lived together for about fifty years, that's the earliest recording of when we started popping up. We have yet to have a death from exposure to others of our kind."
Dakota thought it over while she finished dad's food, and went on to mom's plate. He could go with this mystery girl and maybe get some answers to what was wrong with him. Or she could be a serial killer that would rip him limb from limb and scatter him across the city. But would being killed be so bad? Really, what did Dakota have to live for at this point in his life?
He looked at her, "What's your name?"
"Annabelle."
"I'm in." |
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[WP] A young man gains super powers at the age of 16, but he discovers his powers slowly drain the life of whomever he loves. To avoid hurting anyone he becomes a loner. Years later, he is having lunch at a diner alone when the most beautiful girl he's ever seen walks in. | To his horror, she glanced directly at him and slid her toned body into the seat across from him. He began abruptly, as if he were an actor in a play and he was reciting his lines for the thousandth time. "I don't know who you are or what you want out of life but I need to tell you two things. First, people around me get hurt. It may not be my desire or intention but hell if it don't always work out like that. The second thing is that nothing you can say will change the facts of the matter."
There was a short and uncomfortable silence. He shifted in his seat. Slowly she held out her hand. A smile crept across her face. "Hi. My name is Rogue. There's a man you should meet." | EDIT: I didn't have a plan for this. I just wrote it, if it gets weird I'm sorry!
This had to be the most squalid diner in the entirety of Chicago. And that was saying something. Across the street stood an abandoned apartment complex that was slowly rotting away, but the first floor could still house a squatter or two. On either side of neon lighted diner stood the remnants of stores that had long been looted. How this little place hadn't gone out of business yet, Dakota had yet to figure out.
The food tasted like it had been pre-cooked, frozen, and warmed up. The service was even worse, which was the exact reason Dakota ate here. None of the other diners, and especially not the staff, in this wretched little hell hole would think twice about a scrawny kid in black, with dark brown hair falling in his face. The waitress didn't even ask him why he had ordered two plates of food when it was obvious no one was meeting him here.
A slice of ham, two fried eggs, grits and black coffee. *Dad's favorite.* A burger with curly fries and strawberry shake. *And that's mom's.* When they had been alive, these had been their favorite meals to get at the Steak 'n' Shake they would go to after one of Dakota's basketball games.
Tonight was the one year anniversary of their deaths. Tonight was also Dakota's eighteenth birthday. And tonight, Dakota couldn't eat this food even he had wanted to. These so-called "super powers" had ruined his life. Speed, strength, he had even been invulnerable. But without an energy source, everything had dwindled away, all he could do was stare at the greasy, over-priced food with no appetite.
Dakota closed his eyes. He kept wondering how long it would take to die. He hadn't eaten in weeks and hadn't slept in days. He had tried to stop breathing, but after two hours of his chest feeling like he was on fire he realized he couldn't suffocate. So here he was, waiting for his body to finally, if it would ever, shut down.
The doorbell didn't so much jingle as groan that another patron had entered the store. Dakota looked up and his eyes widened. With her red heels on, she was only a few inches shorter than Dakota's 6'2'', with blond curling hair and ruby red lips. Her body wasn't just stunning, it demanded to be looked at. A black, thigh length peacoat clung to her frame and a red, wide rimmed fedora did little to protect her from the rain outside the diner, but she seemed indifferent to it. She looked like a woman straight out of the comics Dakota used to read when he was little, before his life became a comic book hell.
A surge of longing overtook Dakota. It had been so long since he'd had anyone for a companion. He couldn't risk it. Not after his parents. He'd lost his entire life to these godforsaken powers that had hijacked his body. He wanted her, and two years ago he could have gotten her easily. When he kept his appearance up, when he socialized without fear of killing people, when he was allowed to care.
He tried to turn it off. He tried to look back down at his plates of food, but something about her ignited whatever was left of him. He wanted to be a part of living again.
Her bright blue eyes met his gray ones with startling intent. She strode over to him purposefully and slid gracefully into the booth across from Dakota. Without asking, she grabbed mom's milkshake and took a swig before more calmly cutting dad's ham into pieces.
"So, Dakota," she said without looking up. "Have you enjoyed yourself the last two years?"
Dakota stared at her, torn. If he spoke, he would be starting a relationship. He never even talked to his waitress, he always wrote down what he wanted.
She looked up at him through achingly full eyelashes, "Well, have you?"
He stuttered, his voice cracking from being under used, "How do you know my name?"
She took a bite of ham, "Does it matter? Aren't you more concerned with why I'm here talking to you? Really, hon, we didn't expect this."
He frowned, "What do you mean by 'we?'"
She grinned, "That's the spirit. Ask me questions. I guarantee I have the answers."
He leaned forward, "What happened to me?"
"You were selected."
"What do you mean?"
"Selected. It means chosen, nominated, elected-"
Indignation flashed in Dakota, "I know what the word means you jackass. I want to know *why* dammit."
The girl sat back, surprised but not angered. She slowly took another drink of his mother's milkshake, wiped her mouth with a napkin, and reapplied her make-up. "Some people think we're a government experiment gone wrong, others think it's we were just never human to begin with. You want to know something, though? It's in the damn water. We don't know who put it in there or if it's been there this whole time, but everyone is infested with it. These little parasites are in the water *everywhere* and there was something about our genetic code that activated them." She put away her compact mirror. "*That* is what happened to us, Dakota. These little bugs changed who we are."
Dakota gripped both sides of the formica table, his voice low, "My parents are dead because of me, and you're telling me that it's because I have *a bug inside of me*?"
The girl nodded, "When our parasite activates, it establishes itself as the alpha of a hive. The people you interact with the most are considered the other members of the hive. If another person's genetic code can't support the activation of this parasite, the parasite begins to die, which causes the host bodies to shut down." She looked him in the eyes. "I killed my mother, sister, and my boyfriend. Not my dad, though. Guess I didn't interact with him enough because he was too busy at bars and clubs."
Dakota didn't say he was sorry. That's the thing about losing someone, you can't apologize a person back to life. He spread his palms across the table, "Why are you telling me this?"
"Because I know you need help. You can't die of natural causes, the parasite won't let you because that would kill it. But there are others like us. We're working to find a cure. Some way to eradicate this thing from our system. We have safe hives scattered across the globe, and we have some methods that work for short term contact with the dormants, that's what we call normal people."
Dakota nodded, "How do you not hurt each other, if we're all alphas?"
The girl shrugged, "Who knows? A mutual respect for one another? It's another mystery. We've lived together for about fifty years, that's the earliest recording of when we started popping up. We have yet to have a death from exposure to others of our kind."
Dakota thought it over while she finished dad's food, and went on to mom's plate. He could go with this mystery girl and maybe get some answers to what was wrong with him. Or she could be a serial killer that would rip him limb from limb and scatter him across the city. But would being killed be so bad? Really, what did Dakota have to live for at this point in his life?
He looked at her, "What's your name?"
"Annabelle."
"I'm in." |
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[WP] Write the farewell of two best friends that know they will never see each other again. | "You know that I still love you?" He asks.
"Yes, I do." She replies.
"Do you still love me?" He knows her answer.
"Of course." She affirms.
"But if I go, you'll be happy." He sounds unsure.
"No, I don't want that." Her voice wavers.
"But you won't be happy unless I'm gone." He corrects himself.
Her heart hurts. She stares ahead, unable to speak. Tears form around the edges of her delicate eyes. Silent and sullen.
"I love you." His declaration.
"I'm sorry." She reflects.
He looks at his shoes before he can catch himself and right his gaze. Finally stating,
"I wish we could have been better."
"Me too." She concurs.
"Goodbye" His hands begin to tremble in his pockets while he looks into her dark green grass eyes.
"I love you." She concedes, as he turns and begins to walk away.
He does not stop.
"I know." He admits.
| "Remember that time Mr. Holland was covered in spaghetti after the food fight?" he asked, chuckling a little.
She smiled in remembrance, "Yes, definitely that was the only time I've never seen him starched up from head to toe."
He sat back and took a slow sip of his coffee, and made a face. It was probably the worst coffee he's ever had in his life. She saw his face and teased, "Coffee snob are we?"
Rolling his eyes, he protested, "You would make this face too if you drank it!"
"Well fortunately for me, coffee and me don't mix very well," she replied mockingly.
He set his cup down and grasped her hand gently, it seemed so frail from someone he's always known to be so full of life. It was so unfair. She squeezed his hand as though knowing where his thoughts were going.
"Listen, I'm going to be okay. This is going to be better, I promise," she said softly.
"I just wish..." he trailed off uncertainly, as his thoughts took a morbid turn. He glanced out the door at the hum of activity outside.
"I've made my peace with this, and now I only hope that you won't sink down after..." she started.
"Janie, I love you! And this is not fair! You shouldn't be dying right now! We were supposed to go on the swings in the nursing home when we were too old to care what everyone else thought" he yelled, finally unable to keep his thoughts inside.
She nodded, a faraway look in her eyes, "I wish I didn't have to do this to you. We've been best friends since I moved in next door to your family when we were 5. But I don't have the strength to fight anymore and it hurts," she ended with a whisper and a slight wince as a tremor of pain hit her.
He held her hand tightly this time, "I will miss you for the rest of my life Janie." He broke down sobbing, while she stroked his hair softly till his sobs slowly lessened.
"Nicky, I'll be going somewhere better, and I'll be waiting for you. But don't you dare come any earlier than you're supposed to! Promise me!" she said.
He looked up at her with tear filled eyes, before he nodded reluctantly. She smiled at him, knowing how hard that promise was for him to make. There was no doubt that he would keep it, he had always kept his promises to her.
She tried to stifle her yawn, but he saw it and gave a start. "Janie, if you're tired, sleep don't try to stay awake for my sake."
"You don't have to, it's going to be quite boring watching me sleep, Nicky."
"I promised your parents I'd take care of you, and I will to the very end," he remarked.
Shaking her head slowly, she closed her eyes and grasped his hands as tightly as she could, "I love you Nicky, I'll see you later." He smiled, "Sleep Janie, I'll be here when you wake up."
As her breathing slowly evened out, he got up ready the couch to take a nap himself. The night nurse came and eyed him amused, "You know you shouldn't still be here, Nicholas"
"I know, Nurse Joyce, but I couldn't bear to leave her all alone. Her parents passed away some time ago and she never married. I'm all she's got left," he said pleadingly.
"Alright, well I'm in here to take her vitals, go down and get a cup of coffee or something so I can tell them no one was here when I took her nightly vitals," she said reassuringly.
He smiled brightly at her and ran his hand through his hair ruffling the already mussed mess atop his head before getting up and heading out the door. He glanced back once at the threshold of the door at Janie's peaceful form before heading down the hall towards the coffee machine.
Humming softly to himself he waited for the steaming cup of coffee to cool just enough for him to sip it slowly. It usually took some time before the nurse would be done with her nightly routines. He sipped it slowly, before heading back to Jane's room.
It was utter chaos, nurses running back and forth and doctors inside yelling directions. He started running towards her room before a forceful hand stopped him. Glancing down he saw the face of a sympathetic nurse who firmly grasped his arm to not allow him to run back into her room.
"Janie! I just saw her! She was fine!" he yelled at no one in particular.
He heard a loud beeping as the crash carts worked on Janie. As the nurses slowly shuffled out with grim looks on their faces, he started crying even before the doctor told him.
"She was fine! I just saw her!" he sobbed as he rocked back and forth in the chair.
He walked back into her room and saw Janie again, but it didn't look like her. The girl on the bed didn't look like his best friend, not anymore. It got too hard to look at her so he slowly walked towards the exit, he needed to clear his head.
Walking out of the hospital he headed towards the little playground that was close by. The last thing he saw was the bright light, heard a loud screech, and felt a splash of pain before everything went black. |
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[WP] Write the farewell of two best friends that know they will never see each other again. | It’s not some sappy sad sob story, it’s true ok? I’m for real right now, I don’t care if you believe me or if you understand or whatever. I think this toward the cars that drive by, daring them to stop and roll down their windows or peer through the tinted glass at the crying 21-year-old boy smoking a cigarette on his porch on a drizzling Sunday morning. They’re going to church, why else would anyone be up at eight thirty?
Unless, last night, they texted their girlfriend they were alone at home and she replied, “I’m coming over.” Unless, last night, they had the culminating talk in a series of talks, that led to a long silence punctuated by deep breaths, unless they got in her car and went to her place because the roommates awkwardly got home and she wanted somewhere to be alone, and they went to her room and shut the door so they could keep talking. Unless they stayed there all night with her, dozing off occasionally but talking in mumbles about weren’t we great together and didn’t we have good times, it’s really too bad about the timing though. Maybe if we’d met later, like next semester, or if we were different people.
I don’t remember the last time I cried. It feels different than I thought it would, like as you’re doing it you’re not even thinking about crying, your mind is somewhere a hundred miles away and, incidentally, your face is crying at the same time. I’ve never smoked alone, and I’ve never smoked anytime but late at night. Another car drives by. I was about to go to Walmart last night before I texted her – I’ve been out of toothpaste for two days and I was going to go last night but I texted her first.
The familiar up-all-night tiredness hasn’t set in yet. One time last night while she’d slumped down next to me in her bed, asleep for a while, I looked at the white moonlight that dropped in horizontal bars across her face, serrated by the parted, angled shades on her bedroom window. I could smell her hair; it splayed over the pillow so she looked like she was underwater, frozen. The statue-esque calm of her face artistically contrasted by the tear-tracks on her cheeks.
I feel the now-familiar warmth on the backs of my first two fingers as the cigarette burns toward its filter. I take a final pull and flick it theatrically into the yard, glaring at a car sloshing by through the brown curbside puddle. Its taillights waver in my watery vision.
I met her at a dance, and we danced every song together all night, on accident, without noticing. We’d walked around the neighborhood holding hands for the rest of the night and watched the sunrise from my roof. This morning when she dropped me off we’d sat in the car, silent, as the green, squared clock numbers moved from 8:14 to 8:21, then I moved to kiss her on the cheek, didn’t, and got out of the car and shut the door and looked at her not looking at me through the window and its spattering of immobile raindrops. I walked up to the porch, heroically refusing to look back as I listened to her pull away, fade into the sounds of the early morning.
Went inside and got cigarettes, stood on the porch, cried. Crying. It starts in my chest, a hollow, gasping pulsation that clutches my throat and contorts my face. Tears are a final expulsion of a tense, full-body endeavor. My mouth tastes dry and like tar and I’m still out of toothpaste.
In my mind: I snatch up a folding lawn chair by its blue armrest and hurl it into the yard, stride to it and pick it up and throw it into a car driving past. The driver climbs out yelling and we fight in the street, brutally.
In my mind: I turn, open the door, go inside, wash my smoke-smelling hands and brush my foul-tasting mouth with my roommate’s toothpaste, get into bed and fade, for days.
Another few cars, a gust of wind. Slowly, my arms and legs engage in a sympathetic collaboration to lower me into the worn blue lawn chair. All I can think about is her, what’s she doing, is she okay. Sitting, crying, head in hands, staring: it feels like I’m waiting for something important to happen. I should go inside, it’s wet and on the verge of cold. I should stand up, stop crying, and go inside. I should.
It feels like defeat, a somehow heavily symbolic action. I’m not suddenly a man, I haven’t lost my innocence or discovered a truth of life. I’ve had my heart broken is all. I wander through the house toward my bed, but in a way I’m still waiting on the porch. I take off my shoes slowly, methodically, but my eyes are still squinting against the sunrise, my ears listening to cars hissing by on their way to various churches, the corners of my mouth tasting tears and smoke.
It’s been two weeks and I still see moonlit bars and green dashboard clocks, still smell her hair and hear her tires grinding away behind me. The point isn’t that, two weeks later, I suddenly discovered what I was waiting for on the porch that morning. The point is that, two weeks later, I’m still not sure I’m ready to come inside. I should. But I’m waiting.
| "Remember that time Mr. Holland was covered in spaghetti after the food fight?" he asked, chuckling a little.
She smiled in remembrance, "Yes, definitely that was the only time I've never seen him starched up from head to toe."
He sat back and took a slow sip of his coffee, and made a face. It was probably the worst coffee he's ever had in his life. She saw his face and teased, "Coffee snob are we?"
Rolling his eyes, he protested, "You would make this face too if you drank it!"
"Well fortunately for me, coffee and me don't mix very well," she replied mockingly.
He set his cup down and grasped her hand gently, it seemed so frail from someone he's always known to be so full of life. It was so unfair. She squeezed his hand as though knowing where his thoughts were going.
"Listen, I'm going to be okay. This is going to be better, I promise," she said softly.
"I just wish..." he trailed off uncertainly, as his thoughts took a morbid turn. He glanced out the door at the hum of activity outside.
"I've made my peace with this, and now I only hope that you won't sink down after..." she started.
"Janie, I love you! And this is not fair! You shouldn't be dying right now! We were supposed to go on the swings in the nursing home when we were too old to care what everyone else thought" he yelled, finally unable to keep his thoughts inside.
She nodded, a faraway look in her eyes, "I wish I didn't have to do this to you. We've been best friends since I moved in next door to your family when we were 5. But I don't have the strength to fight anymore and it hurts," she ended with a whisper and a slight wince as a tremor of pain hit her.
He held her hand tightly this time, "I will miss you for the rest of my life Janie." He broke down sobbing, while she stroked his hair softly till his sobs slowly lessened.
"Nicky, I'll be going somewhere better, and I'll be waiting for you. But don't you dare come any earlier than you're supposed to! Promise me!" she said.
He looked up at her with tear filled eyes, before he nodded reluctantly. She smiled at him, knowing how hard that promise was for him to make. There was no doubt that he would keep it, he had always kept his promises to her.
She tried to stifle her yawn, but he saw it and gave a start. "Janie, if you're tired, sleep don't try to stay awake for my sake."
"You don't have to, it's going to be quite boring watching me sleep, Nicky."
"I promised your parents I'd take care of you, and I will to the very end," he remarked.
Shaking her head slowly, she closed her eyes and grasped his hands as tightly as she could, "I love you Nicky, I'll see you later." He smiled, "Sleep Janie, I'll be here when you wake up."
As her breathing slowly evened out, he got up ready the couch to take a nap himself. The night nurse came and eyed him amused, "You know you shouldn't still be here, Nicholas"
"I know, Nurse Joyce, but I couldn't bear to leave her all alone. Her parents passed away some time ago and she never married. I'm all she's got left," he said pleadingly.
"Alright, well I'm in here to take her vitals, go down and get a cup of coffee or something so I can tell them no one was here when I took her nightly vitals," she said reassuringly.
He smiled brightly at her and ran his hand through his hair ruffling the already mussed mess atop his head before getting up and heading out the door. He glanced back once at the threshold of the door at Janie's peaceful form before heading down the hall towards the coffee machine.
Humming softly to himself he waited for the steaming cup of coffee to cool just enough for him to sip it slowly. It usually took some time before the nurse would be done with her nightly routines. He sipped it slowly, before heading back to Jane's room.
It was utter chaos, nurses running back and forth and doctors inside yelling directions. He started running towards her room before a forceful hand stopped him. Glancing down he saw the face of a sympathetic nurse who firmly grasped his arm to not allow him to run back into her room.
"Janie! I just saw her! She was fine!" he yelled at no one in particular.
He heard a loud beeping as the crash carts worked on Janie. As the nurses slowly shuffled out with grim looks on their faces, he started crying even before the doctor told him.
"She was fine! I just saw her!" he sobbed as he rocked back and forth in the chair.
He walked back into her room and saw Janie again, but it didn't look like her. The girl on the bed didn't look like his best friend, not anymore. It got too hard to look at her so he slowly walked towards the exit, he needed to clear his head.
Walking out of the hospital he headed towards the little playground that was close by. The last thing he saw was the bright light, heard a loud screech, and felt a splash of pain before everything went black. |
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[WP] Write the farewell of two best friends that know they will never see each other again. | It’s not some sappy sad sob story, it’s true ok? I’m for real right now, I don’t care if you believe me or if you understand or whatever. I think this toward the cars that drive by, daring them to stop and roll down their windows or peer through the tinted glass at the crying 21-year-old boy smoking a cigarette on his porch on a drizzling Sunday morning. They’re going to church, why else would anyone be up at eight thirty?
Unless, last night, they texted their girlfriend they were alone at home and she replied, “I’m coming over.” Unless, last night, they had the culminating talk in a series of talks, that led to a long silence punctuated by deep breaths, unless they got in her car and went to her place because the roommates awkwardly got home and she wanted somewhere to be alone, and they went to her room and shut the door so they could keep talking. Unless they stayed there all night with her, dozing off occasionally but talking in mumbles about weren’t we great together and didn’t we have good times, it’s really too bad about the timing though. Maybe if we’d met later, like next semester, or if we were different people.
I don’t remember the last time I cried. It feels different than I thought it would, like as you’re doing it you’re not even thinking about crying, your mind is somewhere a hundred miles away and, incidentally, your face is crying at the same time. I’ve never smoked alone, and I’ve never smoked anytime but late at night. Another car drives by. I was about to go to Walmart last night before I texted her – I’ve been out of toothpaste for two days and I was going to go last night but I texted her first.
The familiar up-all-night tiredness hasn’t set in yet. One time last night while she’d slumped down next to me in her bed, asleep for a while, I looked at the white moonlight that dropped in horizontal bars across her face, serrated by the parted, angled shades on her bedroom window. I could smell her hair; it splayed over the pillow so she looked like she was underwater, frozen. The statue-esque calm of her face artistically contrasted by the tear-tracks on her cheeks.
I feel the now-familiar warmth on the backs of my first two fingers as the cigarette burns toward its filter. I take a final pull and flick it theatrically into the yard, glaring at a car sloshing by through the brown curbside puddle. Its taillights waver in my watery vision.
I met her at a dance, and we danced every song together all night, on accident, without noticing. We’d walked around the neighborhood holding hands for the rest of the night and watched the sunrise from my roof. This morning when she dropped me off we’d sat in the car, silent, as the green, squared clock numbers moved from 8:14 to 8:21, then I moved to kiss her on the cheek, didn’t, and got out of the car and shut the door and looked at her not looking at me through the window and its spattering of immobile raindrops. I walked up to the porch, heroically refusing to look back as I listened to her pull away, fade into the sounds of the early morning.
Went inside and got cigarettes, stood on the porch, cried. Crying. It starts in my chest, a hollow, gasping pulsation that clutches my throat and contorts my face. Tears are a final expulsion of a tense, full-body endeavor. My mouth tastes dry and like tar and I’m still out of toothpaste.
In my mind: I snatch up a folding lawn chair by its blue armrest and hurl it into the yard, stride to it and pick it up and throw it into a car driving past. The driver climbs out yelling and we fight in the street, brutally.
In my mind: I turn, open the door, go inside, wash my smoke-smelling hands and brush my foul-tasting mouth with my roommate’s toothpaste, get into bed and fade, for days.
Another few cars, a gust of wind. Slowly, my arms and legs engage in a sympathetic collaboration to lower me into the worn blue lawn chair. All I can think about is her, what’s she doing, is she okay. Sitting, crying, head in hands, staring: it feels like I’m waiting for something important to happen. I should go inside, it’s wet and on the verge of cold. I should stand up, stop crying, and go inside. I should.
It feels like defeat, a somehow heavily symbolic action. I’m not suddenly a man, I haven’t lost my innocence or discovered a truth of life. I’ve had my heart broken is all. I wander through the house toward my bed, but in a way I’m still waiting on the porch. I take off my shoes slowly, methodically, but my eyes are still squinting against the sunrise, my ears listening to cars hissing by on their way to various churches, the corners of my mouth tasting tears and smoke.
It’s been two weeks and I still see moonlit bars and green dashboard clocks, still smell her hair and hear her tires grinding away behind me. The point isn’t that, two weeks later, I suddenly discovered what I was waiting for on the porch that morning. The point is that, two weeks later, I’m still not sure I’m ready to come inside. I should. But I’m waiting.
| i love you man. im crying so hard right now writing this and i cant even keep my hands still. im sorry. im so sorry. i dont want to go i want to tell them that i cant go and that ill stay here forever with my friends and never let you go and we can fucking run around in the snow and cry about stupid shit no one cares about for the rest of our lives just like we do right now but i cant.
this is growing up i guess. this sick part of being a human that we cant escape.
i wish there could just be one more time. one more sleepless night spent debating philosophy and making music no one likes and photoshoping stupid fucking memes ironically because were cool.
listen i want you to know that no matter what. no matter where we go even though we will never see each other again and never know what happens to each other we will always be friends. that doesnt end no matter what.we will never forget each other ok?
-levi |
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[WP] Write the farewell of two best friends that know they will never see each other again. | It’s not some sappy sad sob story, it’s true ok? I’m for real right now, I don’t care if you believe me or if you understand or whatever. I think this toward the cars that drive by, daring them to stop and roll down their windows or peer through the tinted glass at the crying 21-year-old boy smoking a cigarette on his porch on a drizzling Sunday morning. They’re going to church, why else would anyone be up at eight thirty?
Unless, last night, they texted their girlfriend they were alone at home and she replied, “I’m coming over.” Unless, last night, they had the culminating talk in a series of talks, that led to a long silence punctuated by deep breaths, unless they got in her car and went to her place because the roommates awkwardly got home and she wanted somewhere to be alone, and they went to her room and shut the door so they could keep talking. Unless they stayed there all night with her, dozing off occasionally but talking in mumbles about weren’t we great together and didn’t we have good times, it’s really too bad about the timing though. Maybe if we’d met later, like next semester, or if we were different people.
I don’t remember the last time I cried. It feels different than I thought it would, like as you’re doing it you’re not even thinking about crying, your mind is somewhere a hundred miles away and, incidentally, your face is crying at the same time. I’ve never smoked alone, and I’ve never smoked anytime but late at night. Another car drives by. I was about to go to Walmart last night before I texted her – I’ve been out of toothpaste for two days and I was going to go last night but I texted her first.
The familiar up-all-night tiredness hasn’t set in yet. One time last night while she’d slumped down next to me in her bed, asleep for a while, I looked at the white moonlight that dropped in horizontal bars across her face, serrated by the parted, angled shades on her bedroom window. I could smell her hair; it splayed over the pillow so she looked like she was underwater, frozen. The statue-esque calm of her face artistically contrasted by the tear-tracks on her cheeks.
I feel the now-familiar warmth on the backs of my first two fingers as the cigarette burns toward its filter. I take a final pull and flick it theatrically into the yard, glaring at a car sloshing by through the brown curbside puddle. Its taillights waver in my watery vision.
I met her at a dance, and we danced every song together all night, on accident, without noticing. We’d walked around the neighborhood holding hands for the rest of the night and watched the sunrise from my roof. This morning when she dropped me off we’d sat in the car, silent, as the green, squared clock numbers moved from 8:14 to 8:21, then I moved to kiss her on the cheek, didn’t, and got out of the car and shut the door and looked at her not looking at me through the window and its spattering of immobile raindrops. I walked up to the porch, heroically refusing to look back as I listened to her pull away, fade into the sounds of the early morning.
Went inside and got cigarettes, stood on the porch, cried. Crying. It starts in my chest, a hollow, gasping pulsation that clutches my throat and contorts my face. Tears are a final expulsion of a tense, full-body endeavor. My mouth tastes dry and like tar and I’m still out of toothpaste.
In my mind: I snatch up a folding lawn chair by its blue armrest and hurl it into the yard, stride to it and pick it up and throw it into a car driving past. The driver climbs out yelling and we fight in the street, brutally.
In my mind: I turn, open the door, go inside, wash my smoke-smelling hands and brush my foul-tasting mouth with my roommate’s toothpaste, get into bed and fade, for days.
Another few cars, a gust of wind. Slowly, my arms and legs engage in a sympathetic collaboration to lower me into the worn blue lawn chair. All I can think about is her, what’s she doing, is she okay. Sitting, crying, head in hands, staring: it feels like I’m waiting for something important to happen. I should go inside, it’s wet and on the verge of cold. I should stand up, stop crying, and go inside. I should.
It feels like defeat, a somehow heavily symbolic action. I’m not suddenly a man, I haven’t lost my innocence or discovered a truth of life. I’ve had my heart broken is all. I wander through the house toward my bed, but in a way I’m still waiting on the porch. I take off my shoes slowly, methodically, but my eyes are still squinting against the sunrise, my ears listening to cars hissing by on their way to various churches, the corners of my mouth tasting tears and smoke.
It’s been two weeks and I still see moonlit bars and green dashboard clocks, still smell her hair and hear her tires grinding away behind me. The point isn’t that, two weeks later, I suddenly discovered what I was waiting for on the porch that morning. The point is that, two weeks later, I’m still not sure I’m ready to come inside. I should. But I’m waiting.
| Tears were running down his face, mixing in with all of the blood and snot. “Why” was the only thing he could say for the first half an hour, but then he grew tired of it. You could still him not wanting to waste the energy, to even hold back from crying in the hopes that he could enjoy the last few moments just a little bit more. “Evan.” I said, placing my hand on his chest. “Look at me.”
He shifted his focus from the ceiling to me, you could see the pain in his eyes when he locked onto me. A reminder of everything that he experienced, everything that happened, and all that he'd miss. “I do love you.” The barrier broke, and the crying started again, followed by him saying why and screaming again. Another 10 minutes of me holding his hand, with him gripping so hard that he nearly shattered bone, he stopped. My hand was still on his chest, feeling his heartbeat as he rose and fell through the emotions.
“I know you don't believe that I love you, but I do. I love you more than anyone that I have ever known, and from the second that I met you. I've never wanted to spent my life with you, I wanted to spend it by your side. I wanted us to be the closest friends we ever could be. And for a long time, we were.” Tears were welling up in his eyes as he asked “Then why aren't we now?” I shook my head, saddened that he still didn't understand. I needed him to before time ran out, I needed him to know why before it was too late.
“We are friends Evan. We've never been closer, but I just can't help it anymore. Things got out of my hands, and I don't know what to do anymore. I can't fight it, and you can't either.” Now it was my turn to start crying, my tears falling on his bare flesh. “Everything in my life has been leading up to this moment, everything about us was driving me here, and as happy as I am for all we've had, I can't stop what's going to happen next. And it's something that you and I are going to need to experience alone.”
The weeping started again, as he finally understood. He finally got that it wasn't my fault, that I couldn't change anything that was about to happen. I could hear the weeping turn to moans of fear, when he saw me grab the axe off of the nearby table. “I love you” I whispered, closing my eyes. I pulled back, raising the axe above my head and bringing it down with as much force as I could. The blade burrowed into his chest, the last audible words being “NONONO” from him before the blood started to gurgle in his mouth and throat, blocking anything he was about to say. I pulled back, hearing the suction and stick of the blood, feeling the spatter across my face and chest. I brought it down again, and again, until the only sound was from the axe, and no longer his throat.
I dropped the tool, the heavy iron clattering to the ground. My arms wrapped around his corpse, head placed on the mess of his chest that was left. His eyes were wide open, mouth warped into an eternal scream. I kissed him on the cheek, holding him and wishing that what happened hadn't. The man on my shoulder whispered to me, saying that it was over now but I knew that it was just starting again. Evan had helped me ignore him for so long, but I couldn't stay away from him anymore. As much as I loved Evan, I just couldn't help myself anymore.
The whispered continued, telling me to clean the mess up. I sobbed as I chopped up his body, wrapping it in plastic and trucking it far into the forest. I ditched it all, leaving it in various places for scavangers to find and devour, kissing his forehead once more before I rolled it down a hill. Thank god he was able to understand. Now I have his blessing to accept myself for who I am and to move on with the man again, to be happy. |
|
[WP] Write the farewell of two best friends that know they will never see each other again. | It’s not some sappy sad sob story, it’s true ok? I’m for real right now, I don’t care if you believe me or if you understand or whatever. I think this toward the cars that drive by, daring them to stop and roll down their windows or peer through the tinted glass at the crying 21-year-old boy smoking a cigarette on his porch on a drizzling Sunday morning. They’re going to church, why else would anyone be up at eight thirty?
Unless, last night, they texted their girlfriend they were alone at home and she replied, “I’m coming over.” Unless, last night, they had the culminating talk in a series of talks, that led to a long silence punctuated by deep breaths, unless they got in her car and went to her place because the roommates awkwardly got home and she wanted somewhere to be alone, and they went to her room and shut the door so they could keep talking. Unless they stayed there all night with her, dozing off occasionally but talking in mumbles about weren’t we great together and didn’t we have good times, it’s really too bad about the timing though. Maybe if we’d met later, like next semester, or if we were different people.
I don’t remember the last time I cried. It feels different than I thought it would, like as you’re doing it you’re not even thinking about crying, your mind is somewhere a hundred miles away and, incidentally, your face is crying at the same time. I’ve never smoked alone, and I’ve never smoked anytime but late at night. Another car drives by. I was about to go to Walmart last night before I texted her – I’ve been out of toothpaste for two days and I was going to go last night but I texted her first.
The familiar up-all-night tiredness hasn’t set in yet. One time last night while she’d slumped down next to me in her bed, asleep for a while, I looked at the white moonlight that dropped in horizontal bars across her face, serrated by the parted, angled shades on her bedroom window. I could smell her hair; it splayed over the pillow so she looked like she was underwater, frozen. The statue-esque calm of her face artistically contrasted by the tear-tracks on her cheeks.
I feel the now-familiar warmth on the backs of my first two fingers as the cigarette burns toward its filter. I take a final pull and flick it theatrically into the yard, glaring at a car sloshing by through the brown curbside puddle. Its taillights waver in my watery vision.
I met her at a dance, and we danced every song together all night, on accident, without noticing. We’d walked around the neighborhood holding hands for the rest of the night and watched the sunrise from my roof. This morning when she dropped me off we’d sat in the car, silent, as the green, squared clock numbers moved from 8:14 to 8:21, then I moved to kiss her on the cheek, didn’t, and got out of the car and shut the door and looked at her not looking at me through the window and its spattering of immobile raindrops. I walked up to the porch, heroically refusing to look back as I listened to her pull away, fade into the sounds of the early morning.
Went inside and got cigarettes, stood on the porch, cried. Crying. It starts in my chest, a hollow, gasping pulsation that clutches my throat and contorts my face. Tears are a final expulsion of a tense, full-body endeavor. My mouth tastes dry and like tar and I’m still out of toothpaste.
In my mind: I snatch up a folding lawn chair by its blue armrest and hurl it into the yard, stride to it and pick it up and throw it into a car driving past. The driver climbs out yelling and we fight in the street, brutally.
In my mind: I turn, open the door, go inside, wash my smoke-smelling hands and brush my foul-tasting mouth with my roommate’s toothpaste, get into bed and fade, for days.
Another few cars, a gust of wind. Slowly, my arms and legs engage in a sympathetic collaboration to lower me into the worn blue lawn chair. All I can think about is her, what’s she doing, is she okay. Sitting, crying, head in hands, staring: it feels like I’m waiting for something important to happen. I should go inside, it’s wet and on the verge of cold. I should stand up, stop crying, and go inside. I should.
It feels like defeat, a somehow heavily symbolic action. I’m not suddenly a man, I haven’t lost my innocence or discovered a truth of life. I’ve had my heart broken is all. I wander through the house toward my bed, but in a way I’m still waiting on the porch. I take off my shoes slowly, methodically, but my eyes are still squinting against the sunrise, my ears listening to cars hissing by on their way to various churches, the corners of my mouth tasting tears and smoke.
It’s been two weeks and I still see moonlit bars and green dashboard clocks, still smell her hair and hear her tires grinding away behind me. The point isn’t that, two weeks later, I suddenly discovered what I was waiting for on the porch that morning. The point is that, two weeks later, I’m still not sure I’m ready to come inside. I should. But I’m waiting.
| The bus doors folded open with a hydraulic hiss.
"Where are you going?"
He turned around, the bookbag slung over his shoulder swinging.
"Back home," his friend answered. "My parents..."
"How long?"
"...I won't be coming back."
"WHAT? That's preposterous! There's still... Senior year! You're leaving school?"
"I knew I wasn't going to stay long when I transferred here two years ago."
"But there's so much you haven't done! You can't just step on a bus and leave this narrative! We have to flesh out your backstory, make you relatable, hook you up with a date! Your character can't just vanish like that!"
"Don't worry," the friend said, stepping forward and placing a hand on his shoulder. "The reason I came in the first place... wasn't to be an important character myself. My job wasn't to be interesting. It was to be at your side, and to help, always help; and, ultimately, to get you and *her* to realize that you are perfect for each other. You're together now. That's all I wanted, for you to be happy. Because you're the main character. And now it's my turn to leave."
"No! You can't leave, not yet! All this time, you've tried to make me happy, but you haven't experienced it yourself! You've sacrificed your beautiful school life here for me! I'm the main character, I can make something happen!"
The bus driver honked the horn, shooting them an annoyed look.
"Goodbye," the friend said. "Take care of yourself. Though now, you and her can take care of each other..."
"WHAT ABOUT YOU?" he shouted back, as the doors closed and the bus began to move. "NOOO! YOU CAN'T LEAVE THE STORY LIKE THIS! YOU HAVE TO BE MY FRIEND! YOU NEED TO LIVE OUT YOUR LIFE! YOU DESERVE IT!! TOMODAAAAAA!!!"
It was futile. The bus disappeared over the horizon, chased by the lazy orange rays of the setting sun, and Tomoda the side character vanished, never to return to the campus of Stereotypical High.
Until one special episode, to be released months, years even, into the future, when he would make his triumphant return, to aid Main-Character-kun once again... Will MC-kun find a way to repay him then? Ah, but that's a story for another day. |
|
[WP] Write the farewell of two best friends that know they will never see each other again. | It’s not some sappy sad sob story, it’s true ok? I’m for real right now, I don’t care if you believe me or if you understand or whatever. I think this toward the cars that drive by, daring them to stop and roll down their windows or peer through the tinted glass at the crying 21-year-old boy smoking a cigarette on his porch on a drizzling Sunday morning. They’re going to church, why else would anyone be up at eight thirty?
Unless, last night, they texted their girlfriend they were alone at home and she replied, “I’m coming over.” Unless, last night, they had the culminating talk in a series of talks, that led to a long silence punctuated by deep breaths, unless they got in her car and went to her place because the roommates awkwardly got home and she wanted somewhere to be alone, and they went to her room and shut the door so they could keep talking. Unless they stayed there all night with her, dozing off occasionally but talking in mumbles about weren’t we great together and didn’t we have good times, it’s really too bad about the timing though. Maybe if we’d met later, like next semester, or if we were different people.
I don’t remember the last time I cried. It feels different than I thought it would, like as you’re doing it you’re not even thinking about crying, your mind is somewhere a hundred miles away and, incidentally, your face is crying at the same time. I’ve never smoked alone, and I’ve never smoked anytime but late at night. Another car drives by. I was about to go to Walmart last night before I texted her – I’ve been out of toothpaste for two days and I was going to go last night but I texted her first.
The familiar up-all-night tiredness hasn’t set in yet. One time last night while she’d slumped down next to me in her bed, asleep for a while, I looked at the white moonlight that dropped in horizontal bars across her face, serrated by the parted, angled shades on her bedroom window. I could smell her hair; it splayed over the pillow so she looked like she was underwater, frozen. The statue-esque calm of her face artistically contrasted by the tear-tracks on her cheeks.
I feel the now-familiar warmth on the backs of my first two fingers as the cigarette burns toward its filter. I take a final pull and flick it theatrically into the yard, glaring at a car sloshing by through the brown curbside puddle. Its taillights waver in my watery vision.
I met her at a dance, and we danced every song together all night, on accident, without noticing. We’d walked around the neighborhood holding hands for the rest of the night and watched the sunrise from my roof. This morning when she dropped me off we’d sat in the car, silent, as the green, squared clock numbers moved from 8:14 to 8:21, then I moved to kiss her on the cheek, didn’t, and got out of the car and shut the door and looked at her not looking at me through the window and its spattering of immobile raindrops. I walked up to the porch, heroically refusing to look back as I listened to her pull away, fade into the sounds of the early morning.
Went inside and got cigarettes, stood on the porch, cried. Crying. It starts in my chest, a hollow, gasping pulsation that clutches my throat and contorts my face. Tears are a final expulsion of a tense, full-body endeavor. My mouth tastes dry and like tar and I’m still out of toothpaste.
In my mind: I snatch up a folding lawn chair by its blue armrest and hurl it into the yard, stride to it and pick it up and throw it into a car driving past. The driver climbs out yelling and we fight in the street, brutally.
In my mind: I turn, open the door, go inside, wash my smoke-smelling hands and brush my foul-tasting mouth with my roommate’s toothpaste, get into bed and fade, for days.
Another few cars, a gust of wind. Slowly, my arms and legs engage in a sympathetic collaboration to lower me into the worn blue lawn chair. All I can think about is her, what’s she doing, is she okay. Sitting, crying, head in hands, staring: it feels like I’m waiting for something important to happen. I should go inside, it’s wet and on the verge of cold. I should stand up, stop crying, and go inside. I should.
It feels like defeat, a somehow heavily symbolic action. I’m not suddenly a man, I haven’t lost my innocence or discovered a truth of life. I’ve had my heart broken is all. I wander through the house toward my bed, but in a way I’m still waiting on the porch. I take off my shoes slowly, methodically, but my eyes are still squinting against the sunrise, my ears listening to cars hissing by on their way to various churches, the corners of my mouth tasting tears and smoke.
It’s been two weeks and I still see moonlit bars and green dashboard clocks, still smell her hair and hear her tires grinding away behind me. The point isn’t that, two weeks later, I suddenly discovered what I was waiting for on the porch that morning. The point is that, two weeks later, I’m still not sure I’m ready to come inside. I should. But I’m waiting.
| I had to be more drunk than I'd ever been before to text him at all. For some reason I kept doing it sober. I just wanted to see him one last time. For reasons, he refused. He was worried she'd be jealous. So we texted. I didn't have the courage to call.
"I'll see you someday, I'll make it happen."
"Yup. Later."
For a day I believed it. Then I realized the last words he'd ever get from me would be a lie. |
|
[WP] Write the farewell of two best friends that know they will never see each other again. | It’s not some sappy sad sob story, it’s true ok? I’m for real right now, I don’t care if you believe me or if you understand or whatever. I think this toward the cars that drive by, daring them to stop and roll down their windows or peer through the tinted glass at the crying 21-year-old boy smoking a cigarette on his porch on a drizzling Sunday morning. They’re going to church, why else would anyone be up at eight thirty?
Unless, last night, they texted their girlfriend they were alone at home and she replied, “I’m coming over.” Unless, last night, they had the culminating talk in a series of talks, that led to a long silence punctuated by deep breaths, unless they got in her car and went to her place because the roommates awkwardly got home and she wanted somewhere to be alone, and they went to her room and shut the door so they could keep talking. Unless they stayed there all night with her, dozing off occasionally but talking in mumbles about weren’t we great together and didn’t we have good times, it’s really too bad about the timing though. Maybe if we’d met later, like next semester, or if we were different people.
I don’t remember the last time I cried. It feels different than I thought it would, like as you’re doing it you’re not even thinking about crying, your mind is somewhere a hundred miles away and, incidentally, your face is crying at the same time. I’ve never smoked alone, and I’ve never smoked anytime but late at night. Another car drives by. I was about to go to Walmart last night before I texted her – I’ve been out of toothpaste for two days and I was going to go last night but I texted her first.
The familiar up-all-night tiredness hasn’t set in yet. One time last night while she’d slumped down next to me in her bed, asleep for a while, I looked at the white moonlight that dropped in horizontal bars across her face, serrated by the parted, angled shades on her bedroom window. I could smell her hair; it splayed over the pillow so she looked like she was underwater, frozen. The statue-esque calm of her face artistically contrasted by the tear-tracks on her cheeks.
I feel the now-familiar warmth on the backs of my first two fingers as the cigarette burns toward its filter. I take a final pull and flick it theatrically into the yard, glaring at a car sloshing by through the brown curbside puddle. Its taillights waver in my watery vision.
I met her at a dance, and we danced every song together all night, on accident, without noticing. We’d walked around the neighborhood holding hands for the rest of the night and watched the sunrise from my roof. This morning when she dropped me off we’d sat in the car, silent, as the green, squared clock numbers moved from 8:14 to 8:21, then I moved to kiss her on the cheek, didn’t, and got out of the car and shut the door and looked at her not looking at me through the window and its spattering of immobile raindrops. I walked up to the porch, heroically refusing to look back as I listened to her pull away, fade into the sounds of the early morning.
Went inside and got cigarettes, stood on the porch, cried. Crying. It starts in my chest, a hollow, gasping pulsation that clutches my throat and contorts my face. Tears are a final expulsion of a tense, full-body endeavor. My mouth tastes dry and like tar and I’m still out of toothpaste.
In my mind: I snatch up a folding lawn chair by its blue armrest and hurl it into the yard, stride to it and pick it up and throw it into a car driving past. The driver climbs out yelling and we fight in the street, brutally.
In my mind: I turn, open the door, go inside, wash my smoke-smelling hands and brush my foul-tasting mouth with my roommate’s toothpaste, get into bed and fade, for days.
Another few cars, a gust of wind. Slowly, my arms and legs engage in a sympathetic collaboration to lower me into the worn blue lawn chair. All I can think about is her, what’s she doing, is she okay. Sitting, crying, head in hands, staring: it feels like I’m waiting for something important to happen. I should go inside, it’s wet and on the verge of cold. I should stand up, stop crying, and go inside. I should.
It feels like defeat, a somehow heavily symbolic action. I’m not suddenly a man, I haven’t lost my innocence or discovered a truth of life. I’ve had my heart broken is all. I wander through the house toward my bed, but in a way I’m still waiting on the porch. I take off my shoes slowly, methodically, but my eyes are still squinting against the sunrise, my ears listening to cars hissing by on their way to various churches, the corners of my mouth tasting tears and smoke.
It’s been two weeks and I still see moonlit bars and green dashboard clocks, still smell her hair and hear her tires grinding away behind me. The point isn’t that, two weeks later, I suddenly discovered what I was waiting for on the porch that morning. The point is that, two weeks later, I’m still not sure I’m ready to come inside. I should. But I’m waiting.
| "I'll come to visit as often as I can."
He smiled and nodded, "Of course. I look forward to it."
"I just wish it wasn't so far."
He shrugged, "Me too, but that's where I have to go."
They smiled briefly at each other, bittersweet, then shook hands.
"Goodbye."
"Goodbye." |
|
[WP] Write the farewell of two best friends that know they will never see each other again. | It’s not some sappy sad sob story, it’s true ok? I’m for real right now, I don’t care if you believe me or if you understand or whatever. I think this toward the cars that drive by, daring them to stop and roll down their windows or peer through the tinted glass at the crying 21-year-old boy smoking a cigarette on his porch on a drizzling Sunday morning. They’re going to church, why else would anyone be up at eight thirty?
Unless, last night, they texted their girlfriend they were alone at home and she replied, “I’m coming over.” Unless, last night, they had the culminating talk in a series of talks, that led to a long silence punctuated by deep breaths, unless they got in her car and went to her place because the roommates awkwardly got home and she wanted somewhere to be alone, and they went to her room and shut the door so they could keep talking. Unless they stayed there all night with her, dozing off occasionally but talking in mumbles about weren’t we great together and didn’t we have good times, it’s really too bad about the timing though. Maybe if we’d met later, like next semester, or if we were different people.
I don’t remember the last time I cried. It feels different than I thought it would, like as you’re doing it you’re not even thinking about crying, your mind is somewhere a hundred miles away and, incidentally, your face is crying at the same time. I’ve never smoked alone, and I’ve never smoked anytime but late at night. Another car drives by. I was about to go to Walmart last night before I texted her – I’ve been out of toothpaste for two days and I was going to go last night but I texted her first.
The familiar up-all-night tiredness hasn’t set in yet. One time last night while she’d slumped down next to me in her bed, asleep for a while, I looked at the white moonlight that dropped in horizontal bars across her face, serrated by the parted, angled shades on her bedroom window. I could smell her hair; it splayed over the pillow so she looked like she was underwater, frozen. The statue-esque calm of her face artistically contrasted by the tear-tracks on her cheeks.
I feel the now-familiar warmth on the backs of my first two fingers as the cigarette burns toward its filter. I take a final pull and flick it theatrically into the yard, glaring at a car sloshing by through the brown curbside puddle. Its taillights waver in my watery vision.
I met her at a dance, and we danced every song together all night, on accident, without noticing. We’d walked around the neighborhood holding hands for the rest of the night and watched the sunrise from my roof. This morning when she dropped me off we’d sat in the car, silent, as the green, squared clock numbers moved from 8:14 to 8:21, then I moved to kiss her on the cheek, didn’t, and got out of the car and shut the door and looked at her not looking at me through the window and its spattering of immobile raindrops. I walked up to the porch, heroically refusing to look back as I listened to her pull away, fade into the sounds of the early morning.
Went inside and got cigarettes, stood on the porch, cried. Crying. It starts in my chest, a hollow, gasping pulsation that clutches my throat and contorts my face. Tears are a final expulsion of a tense, full-body endeavor. My mouth tastes dry and like tar and I’m still out of toothpaste.
In my mind: I snatch up a folding lawn chair by its blue armrest and hurl it into the yard, stride to it and pick it up and throw it into a car driving past. The driver climbs out yelling and we fight in the street, brutally.
In my mind: I turn, open the door, go inside, wash my smoke-smelling hands and brush my foul-tasting mouth with my roommate’s toothpaste, get into bed and fade, for days.
Another few cars, a gust of wind. Slowly, my arms and legs engage in a sympathetic collaboration to lower me into the worn blue lawn chair. All I can think about is her, what’s she doing, is she okay. Sitting, crying, head in hands, staring: it feels like I’m waiting for something important to happen. I should go inside, it’s wet and on the verge of cold. I should stand up, stop crying, and go inside. I should.
It feels like defeat, a somehow heavily symbolic action. I’m not suddenly a man, I haven’t lost my innocence or discovered a truth of life. I’ve had my heart broken is all. I wander through the house toward my bed, but in a way I’m still waiting on the porch. I take off my shoes slowly, methodically, but my eyes are still squinting against the sunrise, my ears listening to cars hissing by on their way to various churches, the corners of my mouth tasting tears and smoke.
It’s been two weeks and I still see moonlit bars and green dashboard clocks, still smell her hair and hear her tires grinding away behind me. The point isn’t that, two weeks later, I suddenly discovered what I was waiting for on the porch that morning. The point is that, two weeks later, I’m still not sure I’m ready to come inside. I should. But I’m waiting.
| Jared sat down, the reality of the situation hitting him only now. Raiders at the reinforced metal doors, food supplies low, and only a little bit of ammo left. Conflicting emotions rode across his face, first rage at his impending doom, then sadness at a metric tonne of life left unlived, then horror at the pain he’d go through. As he began to shake from it all, Sean came into the room, quiet as a mouse.
“Hey, Jared.” Sean said, his voice flat in the nearly empty room.
“Huh? Oh, hi Sean.” Jared answered, staring intently at the large doors that were beginning to creak at the hinges.
“Everyone’s packed and ready to go. I was wondering…” Sean trailed off, unable to finish the already asked question.
“No, I’m holding them here. If I don’t distract them long enough, they’ll be right on your ass. If I do my job, you’ll be long gone and safe.” Jared looked away from the door for just a moment, to stare at Sean. “Promise me you’ll get to safety Sean?”
“I’ll do my best.” Sean cleared his throat, it was only tight because of the air here, that’s all. “Listen, Jared, if you make it, you should know where we’re heading.”
“No, I’m not making it you numbskull.” Jared said lightly, Almost kindly. “When they get in, I’m done for. And if they don’t kill me…” Jared felt bile rise at the back of his throat. He knew what humans could do to people they didn’t like, and the thought only made him want to stand and fight more.
“Just… just go, Sean.” Jared was finally calm, resigned to his fate. Sean opened his mouth, hoping to find the words… and settled for simply patting Jared on the shoulder. Jared grasped the hand on his shoulder once and nodded before watching Sean head to the exit.
Jared checked his weapon one last time. A full thirty round magazine, and if he took his time with shooting he could take out thirty raiders. The doors in front of him had traps in place, a few trip mines and one automated defense turret. All in all, he would last about five minutes. But five minutes was more than enough time for Sean to get away.
Sean…
Jared had never told Sean everything, his feelings chief among them. As he heard the doors begin to finally give way, Jared realized he could have said good bye a better way. Tell Sean the truth, tell him that… That…
“I loved you. With all my heart, I wanted you to be mine, and me to be yours… I wanted… I want you to live.” Jared finally admitted. A weight off his chest, like he had worn armor for weeks and only know had it removed. As the door finally opened, Jared said one last thing. “You better God damn live, Sean.”
Rifle at the ready, Jared totally forgot the trip mine. As soon as a thin wiry man stepped through the door, movement jittery like a puppet, the explosives went off. Jared was nearly bowled over by the force, and then the concussive ‘THUD-THUD-THUD!’ of the turret pounded at his ears. Fear pumped through his veins, and Jared looked over the barrier at the busted door.
A swarm of flesh, angry and dirty, mobbed at the hole. Jared put the barrel of the rifle over the barrier, aimed carefully, and began to mash the trigger. In what felt like a second, but was in reality thirty of them, the magazine was dry. Jared pulled the trigger, and heard the deafening nothing of the empty gun. Nearly pissing himself, he sat behind the barrier again and waited for the end.
He pulled out his wallet, clumsy from the adrenaline, and managed to thumb through to the picture of his family, and next to it Sean’s graduation picture. Finally, the turret made a whirring noise, and Jared knew it was out.
With a sigh, Jared stood up and looked to the hole. In it was a woman, covered in blood, and behind her was a crowd of people that looked no smaller than it had when the assault first began.
“You’re all they left?” She asked, incredulous.
“I’m all that was needed.” Jared lied. What they had needed was a squad of elite commandos, and what they had was him.
The girl nodded and charged, running him through with a rusty knife. Jared coughed and held onto the girl.
I was never this close to Sean… so much left to do…
And with that, Jared died.
|
|
[WP] Write the farewell of two best friends that know they will never see each other again. | It’s not some sappy sad sob story, it’s true ok? I’m for real right now, I don’t care if you believe me or if you understand or whatever. I think this toward the cars that drive by, daring them to stop and roll down their windows or peer through the tinted glass at the crying 21-year-old boy smoking a cigarette on his porch on a drizzling Sunday morning. They’re going to church, why else would anyone be up at eight thirty?
Unless, last night, they texted their girlfriend they were alone at home and she replied, “I’m coming over.” Unless, last night, they had the culminating talk in a series of talks, that led to a long silence punctuated by deep breaths, unless they got in her car and went to her place because the roommates awkwardly got home and she wanted somewhere to be alone, and they went to her room and shut the door so they could keep talking. Unless they stayed there all night with her, dozing off occasionally but talking in mumbles about weren’t we great together and didn’t we have good times, it’s really too bad about the timing though. Maybe if we’d met later, like next semester, or if we were different people.
I don’t remember the last time I cried. It feels different than I thought it would, like as you’re doing it you’re not even thinking about crying, your mind is somewhere a hundred miles away and, incidentally, your face is crying at the same time. I’ve never smoked alone, and I’ve never smoked anytime but late at night. Another car drives by. I was about to go to Walmart last night before I texted her – I’ve been out of toothpaste for two days and I was going to go last night but I texted her first.
The familiar up-all-night tiredness hasn’t set in yet. One time last night while she’d slumped down next to me in her bed, asleep for a while, I looked at the white moonlight that dropped in horizontal bars across her face, serrated by the parted, angled shades on her bedroom window. I could smell her hair; it splayed over the pillow so she looked like she was underwater, frozen. The statue-esque calm of her face artistically contrasted by the tear-tracks on her cheeks.
I feel the now-familiar warmth on the backs of my first two fingers as the cigarette burns toward its filter. I take a final pull and flick it theatrically into the yard, glaring at a car sloshing by through the brown curbside puddle. Its taillights waver in my watery vision.
I met her at a dance, and we danced every song together all night, on accident, without noticing. We’d walked around the neighborhood holding hands for the rest of the night and watched the sunrise from my roof. This morning when she dropped me off we’d sat in the car, silent, as the green, squared clock numbers moved from 8:14 to 8:21, then I moved to kiss her on the cheek, didn’t, and got out of the car and shut the door and looked at her not looking at me through the window and its spattering of immobile raindrops. I walked up to the porch, heroically refusing to look back as I listened to her pull away, fade into the sounds of the early morning.
Went inside and got cigarettes, stood on the porch, cried. Crying. It starts in my chest, a hollow, gasping pulsation that clutches my throat and contorts my face. Tears are a final expulsion of a tense, full-body endeavor. My mouth tastes dry and like tar and I’m still out of toothpaste.
In my mind: I snatch up a folding lawn chair by its blue armrest and hurl it into the yard, stride to it and pick it up and throw it into a car driving past. The driver climbs out yelling and we fight in the street, brutally.
In my mind: I turn, open the door, go inside, wash my smoke-smelling hands and brush my foul-tasting mouth with my roommate’s toothpaste, get into bed and fade, for days.
Another few cars, a gust of wind. Slowly, my arms and legs engage in a sympathetic collaboration to lower me into the worn blue lawn chair. All I can think about is her, what’s she doing, is she okay. Sitting, crying, head in hands, staring: it feels like I’m waiting for something important to happen. I should go inside, it’s wet and on the verge of cold. I should stand up, stop crying, and go inside. I should.
It feels like defeat, a somehow heavily symbolic action. I’m not suddenly a man, I haven’t lost my innocence or discovered a truth of life. I’ve had my heart broken is all. I wander through the house toward my bed, but in a way I’m still waiting on the porch. I take off my shoes slowly, methodically, but my eyes are still squinting against the sunrise, my ears listening to cars hissing by on their way to various churches, the corners of my mouth tasting tears and smoke.
It’s been two weeks and I still see moonlit bars and green dashboard clocks, still smell her hair and hear her tires grinding away behind me. The point isn’t that, two weeks later, I suddenly discovered what I was waiting for on the porch that morning. The point is that, two weeks later, I’m still not sure I’m ready to come inside. I should. But I’m waiting.
| **HEART**
“I guess it’s too late to say anything that would change your mind.”
One twitch. Yes. And a mild sense of disapproval.
“I know, man. Don’t get me wrong, I love her too but … you’re my brother. Bros for life, you know?”
One twitch.
“I guess … it’s just I don’t know what I’ll do without you. What life will be like without you. Looks like I’m even more scared than you are.”
Two twitches. No. Shit, I shouldn’t have said that.
“Sorry, I mean … you look so cool about it. Peaceful.”
One twitch. And fierce determination. Pride. Love. Duty.
I feel a flash of heat across my face that shoots down my neck. My eyes are watery now.
“I’ll take care of her for you. You know that right?”
One twitch. Peaceful again.
“I just wish they could save both of you. It’s fucking bullshit that there’s a 6 month waiting period for a new heart. And 5 months for a lung. This whole accident is just bullshit. That fucking idiot, drink driving? Really? Putting other people in danger? Bullshit. Bullshit. Bullshi –”
Squeeze. That was new. My vision is blurry now but I blink away the tears and I see reassurance. Really? He’s reassuring me?
“Are you ready?” It’s the doctor’s voice; he stands awkwardly before us because he knows he’s going to lose one life today. Even if he saves another.
My friend struggles up against the pillows. His breath is rasping, harsh, choked … he can’t breathe properly with his crushed lungs, and yet …
“*Yes*,” he croaks firmly, as though he could speak all along. Fierce determination to save the girl he loves. Too prideful to appear weak. Too in love to think twice about giving his life. A life he offered without a second thought out of his sense of duty as the man in their relationship. A relationship that was a fairy tale until it was brought crushingly to an end by the existence of one idiot behind the wheel. An idiot who survived with some bruises and cuts.
They wheel him out but my legs are gone. I can’t feel them. They won’t move. They won’t follow. I can’t watch him disappear forever but I can't follow him to his end.
“Doc?” I ask weakly. “Is there really nothing you can do? Nothing to stop someone dying?”
He looks at me with his gaunt eyes and I see the pain behind them. It’s chronic. The eyes of a veteran who has lost too many people, seen too many things. Despair doesn’t do it justice. It is a haunting look, as if the spectre of death has cursed the eyes he looks through.
“Son, someone will always die. There’s never enough organ donors. She has a severe myocardial contusion from the impact, but her lungs are fine. His left lung is crushed and right lung is slowly filling with blood due to the pulmonary laceration, but his heart is fine.” The doc blinked, as if realising something. His despairing look lifts a little, as if he has found a small slice of salvation. “No, more than fine. He has a great heart. Beautiful. Strong. He gave it up without hesitation. As soon as I mentioned this to him. He can barely breathe enough to speak but he told me straight away, ‘take my heart’. She’s unconscious so we can’t get her consent to take a lung. The only thing I can do is to honour his bravery and save his partner.”
The doctor stops talking but I still hear a whine. A high pitched static. It fills my ears and cuts through the silence. I didn’t take in much – I knew most of this already. I just hate that in the last moments I’ll ever see my best friend, I got more words from his doctor than him.
|
|
[WP] Write the farewell of two best friends that know they will never see each other again. | It’s not some sappy sad sob story, it’s true ok? I’m for real right now, I don’t care if you believe me or if you understand or whatever. I think this toward the cars that drive by, daring them to stop and roll down their windows or peer through the tinted glass at the crying 21-year-old boy smoking a cigarette on his porch on a drizzling Sunday morning. They’re going to church, why else would anyone be up at eight thirty?
Unless, last night, they texted their girlfriend they were alone at home and she replied, “I’m coming over.” Unless, last night, they had the culminating talk in a series of talks, that led to a long silence punctuated by deep breaths, unless they got in her car and went to her place because the roommates awkwardly got home and she wanted somewhere to be alone, and they went to her room and shut the door so they could keep talking. Unless they stayed there all night with her, dozing off occasionally but talking in mumbles about weren’t we great together and didn’t we have good times, it’s really too bad about the timing though. Maybe if we’d met later, like next semester, or if we were different people.
I don’t remember the last time I cried. It feels different than I thought it would, like as you’re doing it you’re not even thinking about crying, your mind is somewhere a hundred miles away and, incidentally, your face is crying at the same time. I’ve never smoked alone, and I’ve never smoked anytime but late at night. Another car drives by. I was about to go to Walmart last night before I texted her – I’ve been out of toothpaste for two days and I was going to go last night but I texted her first.
The familiar up-all-night tiredness hasn’t set in yet. One time last night while she’d slumped down next to me in her bed, asleep for a while, I looked at the white moonlight that dropped in horizontal bars across her face, serrated by the parted, angled shades on her bedroom window. I could smell her hair; it splayed over the pillow so she looked like she was underwater, frozen. The statue-esque calm of her face artistically contrasted by the tear-tracks on her cheeks.
I feel the now-familiar warmth on the backs of my first two fingers as the cigarette burns toward its filter. I take a final pull and flick it theatrically into the yard, glaring at a car sloshing by through the brown curbside puddle. Its taillights waver in my watery vision.
I met her at a dance, and we danced every song together all night, on accident, without noticing. We’d walked around the neighborhood holding hands for the rest of the night and watched the sunrise from my roof. This morning when she dropped me off we’d sat in the car, silent, as the green, squared clock numbers moved from 8:14 to 8:21, then I moved to kiss her on the cheek, didn’t, and got out of the car and shut the door and looked at her not looking at me through the window and its spattering of immobile raindrops. I walked up to the porch, heroically refusing to look back as I listened to her pull away, fade into the sounds of the early morning.
Went inside and got cigarettes, stood on the porch, cried. Crying. It starts in my chest, a hollow, gasping pulsation that clutches my throat and contorts my face. Tears are a final expulsion of a tense, full-body endeavor. My mouth tastes dry and like tar and I’m still out of toothpaste.
In my mind: I snatch up a folding lawn chair by its blue armrest and hurl it into the yard, stride to it and pick it up and throw it into a car driving past. The driver climbs out yelling and we fight in the street, brutally.
In my mind: I turn, open the door, go inside, wash my smoke-smelling hands and brush my foul-tasting mouth with my roommate’s toothpaste, get into bed and fade, for days.
Another few cars, a gust of wind. Slowly, my arms and legs engage in a sympathetic collaboration to lower me into the worn blue lawn chair. All I can think about is her, what’s she doing, is she okay. Sitting, crying, head in hands, staring: it feels like I’m waiting for something important to happen. I should go inside, it’s wet and on the verge of cold. I should stand up, stop crying, and go inside. I should.
It feels like defeat, a somehow heavily symbolic action. I’m not suddenly a man, I haven’t lost my innocence or discovered a truth of life. I’ve had my heart broken is all. I wander through the house toward my bed, but in a way I’m still waiting on the porch. I take off my shoes slowly, methodically, but my eyes are still squinting against the sunrise, my ears listening to cars hissing by on their way to various churches, the corners of my mouth tasting tears and smoke.
It’s been two weeks and I still see moonlit bars and green dashboard clocks, still smell her hair and hear her tires grinding away behind me. The point isn’t that, two weeks later, I suddenly discovered what I was waiting for on the porch that morning. The point is that, two weeks later, I’m still not sure I’m ready to come inside. I should. But I’m waiting.
| The cry to affix bayonets echoed down the line, calling every soldier to attention.
"*Well, this ain't gonna be a walk in the park eh?*?"
"**Yeh. We'll manage. Better this than being stuck back in the tents with trench foot.**"
"*Aye, I'd take shot full o' bullets over 'avin me legs rot off any day.*."
"**Say, you got a cig on you?**"
"*Nah, don't fink I do.*"
"**Fantastic.**"
The two stood peacefully in the silence, the calm before the storm that would surely capsize them both.
"**You know somethin?**"
"*Yeh?*"
"**I think we're gonna die**"
"*Nahhh, don't talk like that. We'll be fine*"
He knew it was a lie.
"**'Malright. I finally made peace with Tom about stealin' his last pair of clean socks earlier**"
"*Heh. Figure he'd have jabbed you on his bayonet sooner than forgive you for that*"
"**Well, I bet my last cig helped smooth it over.**"
"*You cheeky shite, givin' away ciggies and asking for some from me! See if I ever share one with you again*" He teasingly smacked his comrade on the helmet.
"Prepare to charge lads!"
"*Good luck bruv.*"
"**You too friend. See you in the next line?**"
"*Bet you my last pair of clean underwear I make it there first.*"
"**Right, you better make good on that promise. If I make it across I'll surely need 'em**"
The two shared a last pleasant chuckle before the whistle sounded. |
|
[WP] Write the farewell of two best friends that know they will never see each other again. | It’s not some sappy sad sob story, it’s true ok? I’m for real right now, I don’t care if you believe me or if you understand or whatever. I think this toward the cars that drive by, daring them to stop and roll down their windows or peer through the tinted glass at the crying 21-year-old boy smoking a cigarette on his porch on a drizzling Sunday morning. They’re going to church, why else would anyone be up at eight thirty?
Unless, last night, they texted their girlfriend they were alone at home and she replied, “I’m coming over.” Unless, last night, they had the culminating talk in a series of talks, that led to a long silence punctuated by deep breaths, unless they got in her car and went to her place because the roommates awkwardly got home and she wanted somewhere to be alone, and they went to her room and shut the door so they could keep talking. Unless they stayed there all night with her, dozing off occasionally but talking in mumbles about weren’t we great together and didn’t we have good times, it’s really too bad about the timing though. Maybe if we’d met later, like next semester, or if we were different people.
I don’t remember the last time I cried. It feels different than I thought it would, like as you’re doing it you’re not even thinking about crying, your mind is somewhere a hundred miles away and, incidentally, your face is crying at the same time. I’ve never smoked alone, and I’ve never smoked anytime but late at night. Another car drives by. I was about to go to Walmart last night before I texted her – I’ve been out of toothpaste for two days and I was going to go last night but I texted her first.
The familiar up-all-night tiredness hasn’t set in yet. One time last night while she’d slumped down next to me in her bed, asleep for a while, I looked at the white moonlight that dropped in horizontal bars across her face, serrated by the parted, angled shades on her bedroom window. I could smell her hair; it splayed over the pillow so she looked like she was underwater, frozen. The statue-esque calm of her face artistically contrasted by the tear-tracks on her cheeks.
I feel the now-familiar warmth on the backs of my first two fingers as the cigarette burns toward its filter. I take a final pull and flick it theatrically into the yard, glaring at a car sloshing by through the brown curbside puddle. Its taillights waver in my watery vision.
I met her at a dance, and we danced every song together all night, on accident, without noticing. We’d walked around the neighborhood holding hands for the rest of the night and watched the sunrise from my roof. This morning when she dropped me off we’d sat in the car, silent, as the green, squared clock numbers moved from 8:14 to 8:21, then I moved to kiss her on the cheek, didn’t, and got out of the car and shut the door and looked at her not looking at me through the window and its spattering of immobile raindrops. I walked up to the porch, heroically refusing to look back as I listened to her pull away, fade into the sounds of the early morning.
Went inside and got cigarettes, stood on the porch, cried. Crying. It starts in my chest, a hollow, gasping pulsation that clutches my throat and contorts my face. Tears are a final expulsion of a tense, full-body endeavor. My mouth tastes dry and like tar and I’m still out of toothpaste.
In my mind: I snatch up a folding lawn chair by its blue armrest and hurl it into the yard, stride to it and pick it up and throw it into a car driving past. The driver climbs out yelling and we fight in the street, brutally.
In my mind: I turn, open the door, go inside, wash my smoke-smelling hands and brush my foul-tasting mouth with my roommate’s toothpaste, get into bed and fade, for days.
Another few cars, a gust of wind. Slowly, my arms and legs engage in a sympathetic collaboration to lower me into the worn blue lawn chair. All I can think about is her, what’s she doing, is she okay. Sitting, crying, head in hands, staring: it feels like I’m waiting for something important to happen. I should go inside, it’s wet and on the verge of cold. I should stand up, stop crying, and go inside. I should.
It feels like defeat, a somehow heavily symbolic action. I’m not suddenly a man, I haven’t lost my innocence or discovered a truth of life. I’ve had my heart broken is all. I wander through the house toward my bed, but in a way I’m still waiting on the porch. I take off my shoes slowly, methodically, but my eyes are still squinting against the sunrise, my ears listening to cars hissing by on their way to various churches, the corners of my mouth tasting tears and smoke.
It’s been two weeks and I still see moonlit bars and green dashboard clocks, still smell her hair and hear her tires grinding away behind me. The point isn’t that, two weeks later, I suddenly discovered what I was waiting for on the porch that morning. The point is that, two weeks later, I’m still not sure I’m ready to come inside. I should. But I’m waiting.
| "You know that I still love you?" He asks.
"Yes, I do." She replies.
"Do you still love me?" He knows her answer.
"Of course." She affirms.
"But if I go, you'll be happy." He sounds unsure.
"No, I don't want that." Her voice wavers.
"But you won't be happy unless I'm gone." He corrects himself.
Her heart hurts. She stares ahead, unable to speak. Tears form around the edges of her delicate eyes. Silent and sullen.
"I love you." His declaration.
"I'm sorry." She reflects.
He looks at his shoes before he can catch himself and right his gaze. Finally stating,
"I wish we could have been better."
"Me too." She concurs.
"Goodbye" His hands begin to tremble in his pockets while he looks into her dark green grass eyes.
"I love you." She concedes, as he turns and begins to walk away.
He does not stop.
"I know." He admits.
|
|
[WP] Write the farewell of two best friends that know they will never see each other again. | It’s not some sappy sad sob story, it’s true ok? I’m for real right now, I don’t care if you believe me or if you understand or whatever. I think this toward the cars that drive by, daring them to stop and roll down their windows or peer through the tinted glass at the crying 21-year-old boy smoking a cigarette on his porch on a drizzling Sunday morning. They’re going to church, why else would anyone be up at eight thirty?
Unless, last night, they texted their girlfriend they were alone at home and she replied, “I’m coming over.” Unless, last night, they had the culminating talk in a series of talks, that led to a long silence punctuated by deep breaths, unless they got in her car and went to her place because the roommates awkwardly got home and she wanted somewhere to be alone, and they went to her room and shut the door so they could keep talking. Unless they stayed there all night with her, dozing off occasionally but talking in mumbles about weren’t we great together and didn’t we have good times, it’s really too bad about the timing though. Maybe if we’d met later, like next semester, or if we were different people.
I don’t remember the last time I cried. It feels different than I thought it would, like as you’re doing it you’re not even thinking about crying, your mind is somewhere a hundred miles away and, incidentally, your face is crying at the same time. I’ve never smoked alone, and I’ve never smoked anytime but late at night. Another car drives by. I was about to go to Walmart last night before I texted her – I’ve been out of toothpaste for two days and I was going to go last night but I texted her first.
The familiar up-all-night tiredness hasn’t set in yet. One time last night while she’d slumped down next to me in her bed, asleep for a while, I looked at the white moonlight that dropped in horizontal bars across her face, serrated by the parted, angled shades on her bedroom window. I could smell her hair; it splayed over the pillow so she looked like she was underwater, frozen. The statue-esque calm of her face artistically contrasted by the tear-tracks on her cheeks.
I feel the now-familiar warmth on the backs of my first two fingers as the cigarette burns toward its filter. I take a final pull and flick it theatrically into the yard, glaring at a car sloshing by through the brown curbside puddle. Its taillights waver in my watery vision.
I met her at a dance, and we danced every song together all night, on accident, without noticing. We’d walked around the neighborhood holding hands for the rest of the night and watched the sunrise from my roof. This morning when she dropped me off we’d sat in the car, silent, as the green, squared clock numbers moved from 8:14 to 8:21, then I moved to kiss her on the cheek, didn’t, and got out of the car and shut the door and looked at her not looking at me through the window and its spattering of immobile raindrops. I walked up to the porch, heroically refusing to look back as I listened to her pull away, fade into the sounds of the early morning.
Went inside and got cigarettes, stood on the porch, cried. Crying. It starts in my chest, a hollow, gasping pulsation that clutches my throat and contorts my face. Tears are a final expulsion of a tense, full-body endeavor. My mouth tastes dry and like tar and I’m still out of toothpaste.
In my mind: I snatch up a folding lawn chair by its blue armrest and hurl it into the yard, stride to it and pick it up and throw it into a car driving past. The driver climbs out yelling and we fight in the street, brutally.
In my mind: I turn, open the door, go inside, wash my smoke-smelling hands and brush my foul-tasting mouth with my roommate’s toothpaste, get into bed and fade, for days.
Another few cars, a gust of wind. Slowly, my arms and legs engage in a sympathetic collaboration to lower me into the worn blue lawn chair. All I can think about is her, what’s she doing, is she okay. Sitting, crying, head in hands, staring: it feels like I’m waiting for something important to happen. I should go inside, it’s wet and on the verge of cold. I should stand up, stop crying, and go inside. I should.
It feels like defeat, a somehow heavily symbolic action. I’m not suddenly a man, I haven’t lost my innocence or discovered a truth of life. I’ve had my heart broken is all. I wander through the house toward my bed, but in a way I’m still waiting on the porch. I take off my shoes slowly, methodically, but my eyes are still squinting against the sunrise, my ears listening to cars hissing by on their way to various churches, the corners of my mouth tasting tears and smoke.
It’s been two weeks and I still see moonlit bars and green dashboard clocks, still smell her hair and hear her tires grinding away behind me. The point isn’t that, two weeks later, I suddenly discovered what I was waiting for on the porch that morning. The point is that, two weeks later, I’m still not sure I’m ready to come inside. I should. But I’m waiting.
| "I love you, man"
"Fuck off." /looks at ground "I love you too, man."
We bro-hugged and walked away, throwing birds at one another from all directions until we could no longer tell one finger from another.
The end of an age. |
|
[WP] Write the farewell of two best friends that know they will never see each other again. | It’s not some sappy sad sob story, it’s true ok? I’m for real right now, I don’t care if you believe me or if you understand or whatever. I think this toward the cars that drive by, daring them to stop and roll down their windows or peer through the tinted glass at the crying 21-year-old boy smoking a cigarette on his porch on a drizzling Sunday morning. They’re going to church, why else would anyone be up at eight thirty?
Unless, last night, they texted their girlfriend they were alone at home and she replied, “I’m coming over.” Unless, last night, they had the culminating talk in a series of talks, that led to a long silence punctuated by deep breaths, unless they got in her car and went to her place because the roommates awkwardly got home and she wanted somewhere to be alone, and they went to her room and shut the door so they could keep talking. Unless they stayed there all night with her, dozing off occasionally but talking in mumbles about weren’t we great together and didn’t we have good times, it’s really too bad about the timing though. Maybe if we’d met later, like next semester, or if we were different people.
I don’t remember the last time I cried. It feels different than I thought it would, like as you’re doing it you’re not even thinking about crying, your mind is somewhere a hundred miles away and, incidentally, your face is crying at the same time. I’ve never smoked alone, and I’ve never smoked anytime but late at night. Another car drives by. I was about to go to Walmart last night before I texted her – I’ve been out of toothpaste for two days and I was going to go last night but I texted her first.
The familiar up-all-night tiredness hasn’t set in yet. One time last night while she’d slumped down next to me in her bed, asleep for a while, I looked at the white moonlight that dropped in horizontal bars across her face, serrated by the parted, angled shades on her bedroom window. I could smell her hair; it splayed over the pillow so she looked like she was underwater, frozen. The statue-esque calm of her face artistically contrasted by the tear-tracks on her cheeks.
I feel the now-familiar warmth on the backs of my first two fingers as the cigarette burns toward its filter. I take a final pull and flick it theatrically into the yard, glaring at a car sloshing by through the brown curbside puddle. Its taillights waver in my watery vision.
I met her at a dance, and we danced every song together all night, on accident, without noticing. We’d walked around the neighborhood holding hands for the rest of the night and watched the sunrise from my roof. This morning when she dropped me off we’d sat in the car, silent, as the green, squared clock numbers moved from 8:14 to 8:21, then I moved to kiss her on the cheek, didn’t, and got out of the car and shut the door and looked at her not looking at me through the window and its spattering of immobile raindrops. I walked up to the porch, heroically refusing to look back as I listened to her pull away, fade into the sounds of the early morning.
Went inside and got cigarettes, stood on the porch, cried. Crying. It starts in my chest, a hollow, gasping pulsation that clutches my throat and contorts my face. Tears are a final expulsion of a tense, full-body endeavor. My mouth tastes dry and like tar and I’m still out of toothpaste.
In my mind: I snatch up a folding lawn chair by its blue armrest and hurl it into the yard, stride to it and pick it up and throw it into a car driving past. The driver climbs out yelling and we fight in the street, brutally.
In my mind: I turn, open the door, go inside, wash my smoke-smelling hands and brush my foul-tasting mouth with my roommate’s toothpaste, get into bed and fade, for days.
Another few cars, a gust of wind. Slowly, my arms and legs engage in a sympathetic collaboration to lower me into the worn blue lawn chair. All I can think about is her, what’s she doing, is she okay. Sitting, crying, head in hands, staring: it feels like I’m waiting for something important to happen. I should go inside, it’s wet and on the verge of cold. I should stand up, stop crying, and go inside. I should.
It feels like defeat, a somehow heavily symbolic action. I’m not suddenly a man, I haven’t lost my innocence or discovered a truth of life. I’ve had my heart broken is all. I wander through the house toward my bed, but in a way I’m still waiting on the porch. I take off my shoes slowly, methodically, but my eyes are still squinting against the sunrise, my ears listening to cars hissing by on their way to various churches, the corners of my mouth tasting tears and smoke.
It’s been two weeks and I still see moonlit bars and green dashboard clocks, still smell her hair and hear her tires grinding away behind me. The point isn’t that, two weeks later, I suddenly discovered what I was waiting for on the porch that morning. The point is that, two weeks later, I’m still not sure I’m ready to come inside. I should. But I’m waiting.
| She said we would see each other again. We both knew she was lying. But sometimes a sweet lie is better than the truth. It can be better to hear what we want to than what we need to. I looked at her face. I really did. Tried to take in every single detail. The way her eyes just started to wrinkle when she smiled, the way her hair fell around her ears. But it was like pressing a flower. You can preserve it forever, but it’s never the same. A tear formed in her eye, just beginning to spill over her perfect eyelid, clinging to it, hanging as a drop of beautiful sadness. She blinked, and the tear began its journey.
“I’ll see you too”. I made the promise in the same false hope. For this moment, words were lies. We each knew what the other meant when they spoke, but it cut too deep to hear it plain. It was easier this way. I remembered back to when we first met, how she had filled the room with her laughter. But not all laughter reaches the core. We now knew each other well enough for me to see through the façade, to see the broken figure hidden deep down. It pained me to leave her, but there was really nothing I could do. Sometimes when life conspires to send you in a direction, all we can do is go along for the ride. At least she loved me enough to lie to me.
The tear had reached her delicate jaw, and clutched longingly at her face for the shortest moment, before leaving her forever, dashed against the airport floor. I looked down at the tiny puddle marring the patterned linoleum, and I fought the urge to add to it. Instead I extended my hand. Some goodbyes got more painful the longer they went on. It was easier to get it over with. She took my hand, her delicate fingers warm against my palm. On her wrist I could just see the shine of the scars where her sleeve had pulled away from her arm. Each of those scars hurt me too. They represented a failure. I forced myself to look into her eyes. They were slightly red-rimmed, but it was the deep green pits that took me in. I could only hold eye contact for a second before looking down again at my feet. A garbled boarding call echoed through the nearly empty terminal. She drew in a breath. It was time. I choked out a goodbye and watched as she wheeled her suitcase out of my life.
|
|
[WP] Write the farewell of two best friends that know they will never see each other again. | It’s not some sappy sad sob story, it’s true ok? I’m for real right now, I don’t care if you believe me or if you understand or whatever. I think this toward the cars that drive by, daring them to stop and roll down their windows or peer through the tinted glass at the crying 21-year-old boy smoking a cigarette on his porch on a drizzling Sunday morning. They’re going to church, why else would anyone be up at eight thirty?
Unless, last night, they texted their girlfriend they were alone at home and she replied, “I’m coming over.” Unless, last night, they had the culminating talk in a series of talks, that led to a long silence punctuated by deep breaths, unless they got in her car and went to her place because the roommates awkwardly got home and she wanted somewhere to be alone, and they went to her room and shut the door so they could keep talking. Unless they stayed there all night with her, dozing off occasionally but talking in mumbles about weren’t we great together and didn’t we have good times, it’s really too bad about the timing though. Maybe if we’d met later, like next semester, or if we were different people.
I don’t remember the last time I cried. It feels different than I thought it would, like as you’re doing it you’re not even thinking about crying, your mind is somewhere a hundred miles away and, incidentally, your face is crying at the same time. I’ve never smoked alone, and I’ve never smoked anytime but late at night. Another car drives by. I was about to go to Walmart last night before I texted her – I’ve been out of toothpaste for two days and I was going to go last night but I texted her first.
The familiar up-all-night tiredness hasn’t set in yet. One time last night while she’d slumped down next to me in her bed, asleep for a while, I looked at the white moonlight that dropped in horizontal bars across her face, serrated by the parted, angled shades on her bedroom window. I could smell her hair; it splayed over the pillow so she looked like she was underwater, frozen. The statue-esque calm of her face artistically contrasted by the tear-tracks on her cheeks.
I feel the now-familiar warmth on the backs of my first two fingers as the cigarette burns toward its filter. I take a final pull and flick it theatrically into the yard, glaring at a car sloshing by through the brown curbside puddle. Its taillights waver in my watery vision.
I met her at a dance, and we danced every song together all night, on accident, without noticing. We’d walked around the neighborhood holding hands for the rest of the night and watched the sunrise from my roof. This morning when she dropped me off we’d sat in the car, silent, as the green, squared clock numbers moved from 8:14 to 8:21, then I moved to kiss her on the cheek, didn’t, and got out of the car and shut the door and looked at her not looking at me through the window and its spattering of immobile raindrops. I walked up to the porch, heroically refusing to look back as I listened to her pull away, fade into the sounds of the early morning.
Went inside and got cigarettes, stood on the porch, cried. Crying. It starts in my chest, a hollow, gasping pulsation that clutches my throat and contorts my face. Tears are a final expulsion of a tense, full-body endeavor. My mouth tastes dry and like tar and I’m still out of toothpaste.
In my mind: I snatch up a folding lawn chair by its blue armrest and hurl it into the yard, stride to it and pick it up and throw it into a car driving past. The driver climbs out yelling and we fight in the street, brutally.
In my mind: I turn, open the door, go inside, wash my smoke-smelling hands and brush my foul-tasting mouth with my roommate’s toothpaste, get into bed and fade, for days.
Another few cars, a gust of wind. Slowly, my arms and legs engage in a sympathetic collaboration to lower me into the worn blue lawn chair. All I can think about is her, what’s she doing, is she okay. Sitting, crying, head in hands, staring: it feels like I’m waiting for something important to happen. I should go inside, it’s wet and on the verge of cold. I should stand up, stop crying, and go inside. I should.
It feels like defeat, a somehow heavily symbolic action. I’m not suddenly a man, I haven’t lost my innocence or discovered a truth of life. I’ve had my heart broken is all. I wander through the house toward my bed, but in a way I’m still waiting on the porch. I take off my shoes slowly, methodically, but my eyes are still squinting against the sunrise, my ears listening to cars hissing by on their way to various churches, the corners of my mouth tasting tears and smoke.
It’s been two weeks and I still see moonlit bars and green dashboard clocks, still smell her hair and hear her tires grinding away behind me. The point isn’t that, two weeks later, I suddenly discovered what I was waiting for on the porch that morning. The point is that, two weeks later, I’m still not sure I’m ready to come inside. I should. But I’m waiting.
| In the golden light of that morn
With the amber beams on the golden shore
The ships would come to take us to war.
And on that day, my friend and I
Sat therein on silence nigh
And waited for the last goodbye.
In the golden light of that morn
With the amber beams on the golden shore
The ships had taken us to war.
Our goodbyes halted, forevermore. |
|
[WP] In 1750, small pockets of civilization were discovered on Mars. Initial observations appear to show these societies to be primitive compared to our own. Today, and with 200+ years of observation and exponential investment in space exploration, we are heading to see them for ourselves. | That’s an odd sensation. The wind blew strongly around me. I looked down. I saw the stake firmly rooted in my chest. Red hues from dust and flames flickered across my body in the darkness. A slow trickle of blood made its way around the rough edges of the puncture and dripped slowly down my breast plate. "Not strong enough", I thought. Definitely leaking air now. If there were sounds around me I had fallen oblivious to them. Figures moved around me, but I paid them no attention.
Both my hands were idle now. I must have dropped my carbine. I thought I heard my name. What's my name? I slowly lifted and wrapped my right hand around the protruding object. Not wood. Not metal. Stone maybe? Unlike any stone I've seen. I dropped to my knees. I didn't feel it, I just noticed the ground seemed closer, and guessed that was the case.
I gently tilted my head back to see the night sky. "Earth," I thought, as I stared at the bright dot in the sky. My vision faded to black.
-------------------------------
Eight Months Earlier:
-------------------------------
I'm fairly certain I pissed myself. I'm glad this suit recycles that sort of thing.
"Final cabin leak checks complete," the speaker buzzed.
No turning back now. You'd think my comfort in high-altitude jumps would translate to space flight, but it doesn't. AirCarrier evacuations? As long as I have a parachute, fine. Random CruiserJet ejection tests? Bring it on. It's being confined that bothers me. Sealed. Knowing that if the massive load of jet fuel under my ass decides to ignite, I'm just a little bean in a pressure cooker. No way out.
My thoughts bounced from the surreal intensity of the moment to fear to excitement. For a moment, I'm glad to be here. Just to see what happens next. To be one of the first, or whatever. The Council begrudgingly allotted space for three of us. Rangers. We're fighters. Best of the best. Military's finest. Whatever cliche names and phrases you want to throw our way. That's us. We go where we're needed. But the military is largely just for show now. A relic of times past. It's usually a few years in between missions for us. There's so little fighting on the planet anymore. That wasn't the case after the discovery in 1750. After a century of blood, war started declining. Almost all types of crime were virtually gone by 1920 as the planet united.
Now I'm serving this band of geeks. Fine by me. They think we're unnecessary. They know this Martian species well. Decades of studying them from a far. Then another few decades with probes. "Hey, you guys know we've been eavesdropping on every aspect of your existence for the past 30-something years right?" I don't think that statement is included in their first contact protocol manuals.
The chatter continued on the speaker. Fuel check this, three-letter acronym that. I only pay attention when they announce the time.
"60 seconds and counting..."
This isn't my first launch. I spent six months on the Global Space Station. Another three on the moon during advanced combat training. That sucked. Crawling in an Orbital Combat Suit under plasma wire with live rounds firing overhead is not easy. Physically or psychologically. But I've always been able to hack their tests. One man couldn't, though. Stood up half way through. Getting blasted in low gravity isn't the same as on earth. I sometimes wonder if half of his body parts are still in orbit somewhere. More likely they burned up getting pulled down to earth. At least part of him made it back home. Recycled into the atmosphere. Breathe deep.
"30 seconds and counting..."
A beaming, progressive attitude for the growth of the species as a whole. That's the attitude of almost every human on earth now. The World Council is barely necessary as a governing body. Scientific progress takes the forefront in almost all of humanity's actions. Exponentially increasing closer to this day. Of course. I get it. To progress. Exploration. Contact of another species. The cosmos. Beyond.
"10... 9... 8... 7..."
I just find myself skeptical of the unbridled optimism that seems to be universally shared by my fellow creatures. The drivers behind this mission are a particularly fanatical group. A crowd of dreamers, doers, explorers, and scientists. Men and women of which I've always felt I understood, but shared little in common with. Maybe I'm too dark. Jaded. Maybe it's because I'm one of the few humans who's ever had to take another human life. There's only been a dozen of us or so in the past century. But let them have their dreams. If the world were made of men like me, far less would be accomplished. But we'd have a damned good time on that rock, whatever it looked like.
"3... 2... 1... 0... Liftoff!" | "Well, I remember the day better than anything else. It was the day everything changed, you see!" Grandma was at it again. "I was a young girl back then, barely seven years old if I was a day, but I remember clear as crystal, mister!"
Grandma always went on rants like this. Especially since dad took away her pills. Oh well, the old bird has some good stories and what else is a history major home from the holidays gonna do? I nodded some general encouragement and asked my grandma what happened. Truth be told I could tell the story better than she could at this point. *I* didn't get the President wrong at least.
"Well, it must've been important! We bought our first television just for that day. The astronauts had some kind of wireless contraption for sending pictures back to us. Utterly amazed I tell you! Now I'm getting distracted. Well, it had been some time in the making. After the first successful flight of a rocket by that Tesl'r fella we was damn--s'cuse my language, dear--we *were* damn set on gettin' to those red fell'rs.
"And wouldn't you believe it, there we were. We had seen 'em for a long time now, you know this though. Years of hoighty-toity professor types tellin' us what they 'knew' about these here Martians. Well they knew bum-kiss I tell yah! That Marcell Maus fell'r was just plain wrong. Oh he got a lot of play after we touched down, oh boy. 'Primitive rust cannibals' my wrinkled ass!"
"Grandma!"
"Sorry dear, I just get so excited. Anyway, we touch down and the TV comes alive. We didn't get sound back then, but by George you knew the astronaut was crappin' his space pants when that first Martian came forward. And it just kept comin'! Then another! Darn bugs were forty feet long! And wider 'round than the ship them space cowboys used to get to Mars! And well, the rest you know dear. It was too much for my poor ma' and she shut off the TV before I could see any more. But one day those Martians will evolve and leave their rock. For now, it's probably best that we do leave them alone. You know Commander Shadwell's autobiography *Disfigured, Distraught and Doomed*."
This was new, I actually hadn't read that one yet and I told her as much.
"Well hun', give it a read some time." |
|
[WP] In 1750, small pockets of civilization were discovered on Mars. Initial observations appear to show these societies to be primitive compared to our own. Today, and with 200+ years of observation and exponential investment in space exploration, we are heading to see them for ourselves. | Lost World
Colonel Harlan Novak stepped off the Orion lander onto the dusty reddish soil of Mars. He had kept his helmet on since the instruments showed high levels of carbon dioxide immediately outside the ship. Major Carla Saunders came down the ladder behind him, equally unsettled by what they found.
The gravity was slightly less than Earth's, which made it easy to move, even with the relatively bulky spacesuits that NASA had designed for the first humans to land on the Red Planet. NASA designers had made sure that the suits were thick and tough enough to protect them from the harsh environment that previous missions, including Opportunity, had found. Or, if they needed to bail out in orbit around Mars, that they could still survive the fall.
There was nothing to worry about in orbit around the planet. No planetary defences that might shoot them out of the sky, no satellites looking for them, nothing. Novak had radioed back to Houston as Orion floated around in the gravity well above Mars, while Captain James Trigger scanned the surface for a suitable landing site that would allow them to receive messages from home base as well as the ship.
Trigger's best guess was a major valley on the near side of the planet. There was evidence of structures, roads, even aquaducts, everything they expected based on what Opportunity had beamed back to Earth a few years before.
Novak and Saunders strode forward through the red sands that covered the place, piling up in drifts against concrete-style buildings that were pock-marked and broken, windows shattered and portions of walls dangling from iron rods sticking out of the damaged structures.
"Colonel," Saunders said into her microphone. "Something doesn't look right here."
Novak nodded, but his suit didn't budge a fraction of centimeter. "I know what you mean," he finally replied.
There were some vehicles, primative by Earth standards, laying shattered in the streets and filled with red sand. Novak pointed at the nearest one. "Take a look at that," he ordered.
Saunders shuffled through the dust, bent at an angle so she could look into the rusting hulk. There was nothing other than loose wires and ruined seats. "Nothing here, Colonel."
Novak had walked off at an angle to her to examine a small, one-story building that was missing the entire corner and most of its roof, so he got a clear view inside. A broken countertop stood there and a number of shelves lined the walls, but nothing else. Not even a broken jar or discarded box. "Same here."
First Lieutenant Wesley North finally caught up with them, carrying an M-1-E energy-pulse rifle and another one dangled at his side. "Sir?"
The colonel turned around to face him. "Lieutenant?"
There was a crackling in the radio frequency. He could see the man's mouth moving and his facial features were scrunched together, as if he were yelling.
"Lieutenant!" Novak shouted out of habit.
There was nothing more than static on the radio. "Lieutenant?" he repeated, at a normal level now that he was aware that shouting did no good. "Major?"
*Sizzle.*
He waved his arms at North, then looked toward where Saunders had gone. She was approaching them, her arms waving as well. North stood there, frozen.
The crackling on the radio amped up, but finally he started to hear something. "Colonel!" It was Saunders' voice.
"I can hear you, Major."
"What's going on? What's North doing?" Saunders asked as she came to stop an arm's length from her commanding officer.
"Don't know," Novak replied. "He was trying to get my attention when the radios crapped out. Must be some sort of interference."
"No," Saunders said, pointing a nervous finger at North. "What's he DOING?"
North suddenly unfroze, calmly turned the rifle on his compatriots and fired a dozen times. The energy packets sliced through the air in sharp arcs, heading right towards Novak and Saunders.
"DOWN!" Novak shouted as he grabbed the major and pushed her forward. He collapsed on top of her.
Reddish dust went up in sizeable spouts all around them, then settled over them.
They couldn't hear North still firing his weapon, but they could see the bolts of white light sizzle through the air right over them.
Then, something changed. The ground reverberated like an earthquake. North continued firing his rifle and the shaking got worse.
Somewhere nearby, a five-story building shifted, cracked and crumbled, then collapsed. Novak spotted it as it started falling. With North firing right at them, they had little space to move. The bulkiness of the suits didn't help. One bolt from his rifle would compromise the spacesuit and the colonel didn't want to risk it, but between being shot by North and crushed by a falling building, a bolt of energy seemed the lesser threat.
Novak tumbled to one side, looked up and saw he wasn't in North's line of fire. He got to his feet and loped at the first lieutenant. The man didn't seem to notice his charge and was caught off guard when the colonel collided with him, sending the rifle flying meters away.
"Lieutenant!" Novak demanded.
The soldier didn't respond, even though the radio interference had subsided. He just lay there, staring blankly ahead.
"Lieutenant North!"
There was no change in his condition.
"Major? Major, can you hear me?"
*Bzzzzt*
Novak debated whether he could get up off of North without the man becoming a threat again. He turned his head to see Saunders approaching. He waved one arm at her; she waved back.
When the major joined him, he asked if she was all right.
"As well as I can be," Saunders replied. "What got into him?"
"No idea."
North's face seemed whiter than normal through his helmet's faceplate, despite the bright blue sky obscuring it. Novak tapped the lieutenant's helmet, but there was no response. Too small for the human eye to see, though, hairline fractures spidered out from the point his glove had hit. Novak tried to lower North's arm from its firing position, but the limb didn't move.
"I don't like this," the colonel said into his microphone.
Saunders stood over them, but looked toward the landing module. It was obvious that there was wind on the surface, even if they didn't sense it. Sand had piled up on one side of the lander and dusted the ladder into the open door.
Novak pulled on North's other arm, but it resisted for a long moment, then suddenly it seemed to release. The colonel held the lower part of North's arm in his hand, while the rest of the arm seemed to point in the same direction as before. It had broken off inside the suit.
"This is wrong," he muttered.
Saunders looked down to see what had happened. She was mildly sickened once she realized what her commanding officer had just done. He released the limb and it hung down at a weird angle.
"What the hell?" she blurted.
"I think he froze," Novak replied.
He shifted North's body, then flipped it over. He patted off the reddish sand, then had to search the entire back of the suit before he found a small tear along the belt. Sand poured out when he poked at it.
"Something's VERY wrong here, Major!"
They had been sent to explore the small civilization that had developed on Mars and found nothing but ruins. Now, one of their colleagues was dead and something about the red sand and dust appeared to be to blame.
"Back to the lander," Novak ordered.
"Colonel!" Saunders called, getting his attention.
Much to both of their surprises, the lander had turned from the height of human engineering to a rusting hulk. The roof vibrated, then collapsed in a gout of red dust. Next, one of the walls fell off the side. Sand poured out everywhere.
"Novak to Orion, do you read?"
Static greeted him, so he repeated the message three more times before Saunders grabbed his arm and shook him. "They can't hear us, Colonel!"
"I'll try again later. We have to get off the planet."
Saunders looked nonplussed. "No, Colonel, they won't be able to help us."
She pointed up into the robins-egg sky in time for both of them to see a bright-white light flare to life and streak across the heavens.
"Oh, fuck."
| "Well, I remember the day better than anything else. It was the day everything changed, you see!" Grandma was at it again. "I was a young girl back then, barely seven years old if I was a day, but I remember clear as crystal, mister!"
Grandma always went on rants like this. Especially since dad took away her pills. Oh well, the old bird has some good stories and what else is a history major home from the holidays gonna do? I nodded some general encouragement and asked my grandma what happened. Truth be told I could tell the story better than she could at this point. *I* didn't get the President wrong at least.
"Well, it must've been important! We bought our first television just for that day. The astronauts had some kind of wireless contraption for sending pictures back to us. Utterly amazed I tell you! Now I'm getting distracted. Well, it had been some time in the making. After the first successful flight of a rocket by that Tesl'r fella we was damn--s'cuse my language, dear--we *were* damn set on gettin' to those red fell'rs.
"And wouldn't you believe it, there we were. We had seen 'em for a long time now, you know this though. Years of hoighty-toity professor types tellin' us what they 'knew' about these here Martians. Well they knew bum-kiss I tell yah! That Marcell Maus fell'r was just plain wrong. Oh he got a lot of play after we touched down, oh boy. 'Primitive rust cannibals' my wrinkled ass!"
"Grandma!"
"Sorry dear, I just get so excited. Anyway, we touch down and the TV comes alive. We didn't get sound back then, but by George you knew the astronaut was crappin' his space pants when that first Martian came forward. And it just kept comin'! Then another! Darn bugs were forty feet long! And wider 'round than the ship them space cowboys used to get to Mars! And well, the rest you know dear. It was too much for my poor ma' and she shut off the TV before I could see any more. But one day those Martians will evolve and leave their rock. For now, it's probably best that we do leave them alone. You know Commander Shadwell's autobiography *Disfigured, Distraught and Doomed*."
This was new, I actually hadn't read that one yet and I told her as much.
"Well hun', give it a read some time." |
|
[WP] In 1750, small pockets of civilization were discovered on Mars. Initial observations appear to show these societies to be primitive compared to our own. Today, and with 200+ years of observation and exponential investment in space exploration, we are heading to see them for ourselves. | in this timeline the Roman Empire has never fallen thus preventing the Dark ages, an era where technology actually degraded, and by the 1800's Rome is at a 21st century technological and social level.
In 9AD Publius Varus new governor of Germania is informed of a rebellion by the Romanized German Arminius. In an effort to squash the rebellion takes 60,000 troops spearheaded by 5 legions. Varus defeats the Germans at a heavy cost with overwhelming force in a forest battle and this marks a new age of expansion for the Roman Empire which led to the full conquest of Germania.
500 AD the Roman Empire has gone through 3 Civil Wars and suffered at the hands of the Huns and Vandals as well as other barbarian tribes, but the Empire has survived against all threats and with the reforms of the new Emperor Lucius Corvus, a second Pax Romana is beginning.
1200 AD the Roman Empire came into conflict with the Mongol hordes of the east leading to a massive conflict spanning nearly a century, through this new contestant in Europe, Romes hegemony was tested. The hordes were beaten back in 1294 with the help of grand weapons that released the fire of Vulcan and thunder of Jupiter themselves.
In 1594 Galileus Adranos modified a telescope making it powerful enough to view in detail the planet Mars. Upon it he noticed it had dark blue waters and dark copperish soil with green in many regions.
In 1758 after the Sino-Roman conflict in which over 37 million lives were lost and the invention of the atom bomb, the world was in a precarious state. The 2 superpowers of the world the "Mexica Triple Alliance" degradingly called Aztecs by the Romans, and the Roman Empire itself were dragged into a cold war with each side threatening the usage of nuclear weapons against the other. In 1760 the Aztecs launched the first man into Earth's orbit beginning the space race. In 1761 the elected Emperor of Rome John F. Kennedius (also the first Hibernian emperor) promised to land a man on the moon by the end of the decade, and in 1769 (unfortunately 6 years after the emperor's assassination) Nigellus Aldrinassius became the first man to land on the moon, and the beginning of Roman space superiority had begun.
In 1827 the IFAT (Internationalis Foederatio Aeronautics et Tractus, or Internationl Space and Aeronautics Federation) with scientists from round the globe set themselves the mission of going to Mars, after decades of study and the success of sending a rover into the dry arid regions of Mars had shown life in the form of small animals similair to scorpions and snakes.
In 1831 Aquila I was ready for launch and an astronaut from every nation in the world was on board for this great mission (approx. 157).
August 24 1831 11:37 Rome Time,
We have succesfully landed on this planet 2 hours ago and we have already discovered so much. We have documented approx. 37 forms of life most of which are avian, probably due to Mars lower gravity. We are setting up a "base" mostly out of tents and most equipment has been set up. Tomorrow 4 groups of 15 will go out in each direction (N,S,E,W) to explore the area and document more Martian lifeforms and geography.
August 28th 1831 2:58 Rome Time
Truly it was incredible, about 45 minutes ago we saw what looked like a primitive jet aircraft (probably equivalent to an old 1700's Hirundo 262). It was shaped like a needle, was extremely long almost like an airbus. Not only this it was chasing another craft that we weren't able to see and we saw an explosion about 300 yards away. We will go search for it after we tell the rest of the group and bring more firepower.
August 29th 1:34 Rome Time
I'm typing this as we search the downed martian craft, it is shaped very strangely and I can barely describe it. It appears to have 2 "floors" but the far more disturbing thing is the ship bears the markings of a white trident and white olive wreath under it. Why does a martian aircraft bear the marks of Poseidon and the fable of Atlantis? No bodies have been found in the device and we are going to leave the craft behind for later study.
September 4th 9:58 Rome Time
We have set up defensive formations and brought out our 2 Testudo tanks from the ship. (We were heavily prepared for the event that we met intelligent life) North West of us in the direction where we saw the planes, we see more than 20 "trucks" of some kind coming towards us. We believe the natives now know we are here after salvaging devices from their "plane". The creatures "stepped" out of their vehicles and approached us cautiously. They are strange creatures that walk on 4 legs and make a skittering sound when they walk. They have a beige complexion and have very small mouths and one large eye. They seem to be nervous producing sweat just as we do as they aim their probable weapons at us. Finally 2 of them step forward each wearing some type of uniform that are similair but at the same time very different. Both are saying the same thing in unison. I am currently going up to them and I have ordered everyone to lower their weapons to show we come in peace. They appear to have acknowledged this and are lowering their devices as well. I have left negotiating to my 1st and 2nd officers and will report back to high command. I believe this is a new era for humanity and the great Roman Empire. -Captain Christophorus Columbinus | "Well, I remember the day better than anything else. It was the day everything changed, you see!" Grandma was at it again. "I was a young girl back then, barely seven years old if I was a day, but I remember clear as crystal, mister!"
Grandma always went on rants like this. Especially since dad took away her pills. Oh well, the old bird has some good stories and what else is a history major home from the holidays gonna do? I nodded some general encouragement and asked my grandma what happened. Truth be told I could tell the story better than she could at this point. *I* didn't get the President wrong at least.
"Well, it must've been important! We bought our first television just for that day. The astronauts had some kind of wireless contraption for sending pictures back to us. Utterly amazed I tell you! Now I'm getting distracted. Well, it had been some time in the making. After the first successful flight of a rocket by that Tesl'r fella we was damn--s'cuse my language, dear--we *were* damn set on gettin' to those red fell'rs.
"And wouldn't you believe it, there we were. We had seen 'em for a long time now, you know this though. Years of hoighty-toity professor types tellin' us what they 'knew' about these here Martians. Well they knew bum-kiss I tell yah! That Marcell Maus fell'r was just plain wrong. Oh he got a lot of play after we touched down, oh boy. 'Primitive rust cannibals' my wrinkled ass!"
"Grandma!"
"Sorry dear, I just get so excited. Anyway, we touch down and the TV comes alive. We didn't get sound back then, but by George you knew the astronaut was crappin' his space pants when that first Martian came forward. And it just kept comin'! Then another! Darn bugs were forty feet long! And wider 'round than the ship them space cowboys used to get to Mars! And well, the rest you know dear. It was too much for my poor ma' and she shut off the TV before I could see any more. But one day those Martians will evolve and leave their rock. For now, it's probably best that we do leave them alone. You know Commander Shadwell's autobiography *Disfigured, Distraught and Doomed*."
This was new, I actually hadn't read that one yet and I told her as much.
"Well hun', give it a read some time." |
|
[WP] In 1750, small pockets of civilization were discovered on Mars. Initial observations appear to show these societies to be primitive compared to our own. Today, and with 200+ years of observation and exponential investment in space exploration, we are heading to see them for ourselves. | That’s an odd sensation. The wind blew strongly around me. I looked down. I saw the stake firmly rooted in my chest. Red hues from dust and flames flickered across my body in the darkness. A slow trickle of blood made its way around the rough edges of the puncture and dripped slowly down my breast plate. "Not strong enough", I thought. Definitely leaking air now. If there were sounds around me I had fallen oblivious to them. Figures moved around me, but I paid them no attention.
Both my hands were idle now. I must have dropped my carbine. I thought I heard my name. What's my name? I slowly lifted and wrapped my right hand around the protruding object. Not wood. Not metal. Stone maybe? Unlike any stone I've seen. I dropped to my knees. I didn't feel it, I just noticed the ground seemed closer, and guessed that was the case.
I gently tilted my head back to see the night sky. "Earth," I thought, as I stared at the bright dot in the sky. My vision faded to black.
-------------------------------
Eight Months Earlier:
-------------------------------
I'm fairly certain I pissed myself. I'm glad this suit recycles that sort of thing.
"Final cabin leak checks complete," the speaker buzzed.
No turning back now. You'd think my comfort in high-altitude jumps would translate to space flight, but it doesn't. AirCarrier evacuations? As long as I have a parachute, fine. Random CruiserJet ejection tests? Bring it on. It's being confined that bothers me. Sealed. Knowing that if the massive load of jet fuel under my ass decides to ignite, I'm just a little bean in a pressure cooker. No way out.
My thoughts bounced from the surreal intensity of the moment to fear to excitement. For a moment, I'm glad to be here. Just to see what happens next. To be one of the first, or whatever. The Council begrudgingly allotted space for three of us. Rangers. We're fighters. Best of the best. Military's finest. Whatever cliche names and phrases you want to throw our way. That's us. We go where we're needed. But the military is largely just for show now. A relic of times past. It's usually a few years in between missions for us. There's so little fighting on the planet anymore. That wasn't the case after the discovery in 1750. After a century of blood, war started declining. Almost all types of crime were virtually gone by 1920 as the planet united.
Now I'm serving this band of geeks. Fine by me. They think we're unnecessary. They know this Martian species well. Decades of studying them from a far. Then another few decades with probes. "Hey, you guys know we've been eavesdropping on every aspect of your existence for the past 30-something years right?" I don't think that statement is included in their first contact protocol manuals.
The chatter continued on the speaker. Fuel check this, three-letter acronym that. I only pay attention when they announce the time.
"60 seconds and counting..."
This isn't my first launch. I spent six months on the Global Space Station. Another three on the moon during advanced combat training. That sucked. Crawling in an Orbital Combat Suit under plasma wire with live rounds firing overhead is not easy. Physically or psychologically. But I've always been able to hack their tests. One man couldn't, though. Stood up half way through. Getting blasted in low gravity isn't the same as on earth. I sometimes wonder if half of his body parts are still in orbit somewhere. More likely they burned up getting pulled down to earth. At least part of him made it back home. Recycled into the atmosphere. Breathe deep.
"30 seconds and counting..."
A beaming, progressive attitude for the growth of the species as a whole. That's the attitude of almost every human on earth now. The World Council is barely necessary as a governing body. Scientific progress takes the forefront in almost all of humanity's actions. Exponentially increasing closer to this day. Of course. I get it. To progress. Exploration. Contact of another species. The cosmos. Beyond.
"10... 9... 8... 7..."
I just find myself skeptical of the unbridled optimism that seems to be universally shared by my fellow creatures. The drivers behind this mission are a particularly fanatical group. A crowd of dreamers, doers, explorers, and scientists. Men and women of which I've always felt I understood, but shared little in common with. Maybe I'm too dark. Jaded. Maybe it's because I'm one of the few humans who's ever had to take another human life. There's only been a dozen of us or so in the past century. But let them have their dreams. If the world were made of men like me, far less would be accomplished. But we'd have a damned good time on that rock, whatever it looked like.
"3... 2... 1... 0... Liftoff!" | The villagers watched politely as they demonstrated the solar panels and the automated mill. High-pitched clicks abound in the back, where a few children were watching. "No effort!" he cajoled, sifting the new flour through his hands. "Good flour."
"We thank you for your efforts, kind sir," a different voice said behind him. Its tone almost matched human vocal chords where he struggled to mimic their clicks and polyphonic shifts. If you would come with me?"
There wasn't any choice of not going. Unlike the villagers' primitive clothing the newcomers wore glittering fabrics and shiny plates, feathers neatly preened and held back, and had what he presumed was weapons wielded by an entire squad. His people had been rounded up from around the village and herded to the empty village square. The shimmering block was new.
Without ceremony they were marched through its sides.
The next step takes them to a tower in the middle of a massive structure. He could see in far distance far more bird-creatures than he ever thought there ever was.
"Again?" or so he thought he heard. Here they didn't bother slowing down their speech for human's benefit.
"Code 12," his escort voice slides.
"Ah, I see. Missionaries again?" The new bird-creature rasps and clicks. "Spreading god's word and introducing civilisation to the unfortunate," it spoke in human language. "Stupid earthlings. We really should just take back the planet instead of this reconstruction efforts." It had switched back to its language.
"Excuse me," he said. "Take back?"
A floating earth appeared before them, a red mark streaked through its surface. It took him a second to realise what it was.
"I see you know what this is," it spit out. "Watch."
All around the ancient earth white ships were coming through the atmosphere. They watched in formation as earth burned before slowly they left, one by one.
"Very few record survived. We only managed to piece this from a ship that didn't make it, stranded in space for tens of million years ago. We found the planet we came from, and its *infested*."
A deep slide of sound with echoing shifts came from their escort - he recognised their name in its formal call, but beyond that he could not understand.
"Sorry," the bird-creature did not look or sound contrite at all, "We build a recreation of our old world on the next planet. Popular tourist spot - live like before the great migration. If only pests aren't buzzing around."
A clatter of familiar, long unheard boots came. He turned to see men in space wing uniforms. The introductions were routine - they had done this before.
It took a second at the observation port to realise the ship they were packed on were moving away from bot Mars and Earth. "Where are we going?" he asked.
"Terra space station RLNT22, at the-" intricate clicks and slides "capitol. There aren't many humans that manage the clearance to even know about them, and we could always use some new janitors," the officer that picked them up said. "You broke the Mars interdiction order. Five years community service minimum. Course, you can't afford for tickets back until the next ten years after that, if you're lucky. Welcome to space," he grinned. |
|
[WP] In 1750, small pockets of civilization were discovered on Mars. Initial observations appear to show these societies to be primitive compared to our own. Today, and with 200+ years of observation and exponential investment in space exploration, we are heading to see them for ourselves. | Lost World
Colonel Harlan Novak stepped off the Orion lander onto the dusty reddish soil of Mars. He had kept his helmet on since the instruments showed high levels of carbon dioxide immediately outside the ship. Major Carla Saunders came down the ladder behind him, equally unsettled by what they found.
The gravity was slightly less than Earth's, which made it easy to move, even with the relatively bulky spacesuits that NASA had designed for the first humans to land on the Red Planet. NASA designers had made sure that the suits were thick and tough enough to protect them from the harsh environment that previous missions, including Opportunity, had found. Or, if they needed to bail out in orbit around Mars, that they could still survive the fall.
There was nothing to worry about in orbit around the planet. No planetary defences that might shoot them out of the sky, no satellites looking for them, nothing. Novak had radioed back to Houston as Orion floated around in the gravity well above Mars, while Captain James Trigger scanned the surface for a suitable landing site that would allow them to receive messages from home base as well as the ship.
Trigger's best guess was a major valley on the near side of the planet. There was evidence of structures, roads, even aquaducts, everything they expected based on what Opportunity had beamed back to Earth a few years before.
Novak and Saunders strode forward through the red sands that covered the place, piling up in drifts against concrete-style buildings that were pock-marked and broken, windows shattered and portions of walls dangling from iron rods sticking out of the damaged structures.
"Colonel," Saunders said into her microphone. "Something doesn't look right here."
Novak nodded, but his suit didn't budge a fraction of centimeter. "I know what you mean," he finally replied.
There were some vehicles, primative by Earth standards, laying shattered in the streets and filled with red sand. Novak pointed at the nearest one. "Take a look at that," he ordered.
Saunders shuffled through the dust, bent at an angle so she could look into the rusting hulk. There was nothing other than loose wires and ruined seats. "Nothing here, Colonel."
Novak had walked off at an angle to her to examine a small, one-story building that was missing the entire corner and most of its roof, so he got a clear view inside. A broken countertop stood there and a number of shelves lined the walls, but nothing else. Not even a broken jar or discarded box. "Same here."
First Lieutenant Wesley North finally caught up with them, carrying an M-1-E energy-pulse rifle and another one dangled at his side. "Sir?"
The colonel turned around to face him. "Lieutenant?"
There was a crackling in the radio frequency. He could see the man's mouth moving and his facial features were scrunched together, as if he were yelling.
"Lieutenant!" Novak shouted out of habit.
There was nothing more than static on the radio. "Lieutenant?" he repeated, at a normal level now that he was aware that shouting did no good. "Major?"
*Sizzle.*
He waved his arms at North, then looked toward where Saunders had gone. She was approaching them, her arms waving as well. North stood there, frozen.
The crackling on the radio amped up, but finally he started to hear something. "Colonel!" It was Saunders' voice.
"I can hear you, Major."
"What's going on? What's North doing?" Saunders asked as she came to stop an arm's length from her commanding officer.
"Don't know," Novak replied. "He was trying to get my attention when the radios crapped out. Must be some sort of interference."
"No," Saunders said, pointing a nervous finger at North. "What's he DOING?"
North suddenly unfroze, calmly turned the rifle on his compatriots and fired a dozen times. The energy packets sliced through the air in sharp arcs, heading right towards Novak and Saunders.
"DOWN!" Novak shouted as he grabbed the major and pushed her forward. He collapsed on top of her.
Reddish dust went up in sizeable spouts all around them, then settled over them.
They couldn't hear North still firing his weapon, but they could see the bolts of white light sizzle through the air right over them.
Then, something changed. The ground reverberated like an earthquake. North continued firing his rifle and the shaking got worse.
Somewhere nearby, a five-story building shifted, cracked and crumbled, then collapsed. Novak spotted it as it started falling. With North firing right at them, they had little space to move. The bulkiness of the suits didn't help. One bolt from his rifle would compromise the spacesuit and the colonel didn't want to risk it, but between being shot by North and crushed by a falling building, a bolt of energy seemed the lesser threat.
Novak tumbled to one side, looked up and saw he wasn't in North's line of fire. He got to his feet and loped at the first lieutenant. The man didn't seem to notice his charge and was caught off guard when the colonel collided with him, sending the rifle flying meters away.
"Lieutenant!" Novak demanded.
The soldier didn't respond, even though the radio interference had subsided. He just lay there, staring blankly ahead.
"Lieutenant North!"
There was no change in his condition.
"Major? Major, can you hear me?"
*Bzzzzt*
Novak debated whether he could get up off of North without the man becoming a threat again. He turned his head to see Saunders approaching. He waved one arm at her; she waved back.
When the major joined him, he asked if she was all right.
"As well as I can be," Saunders replied. "What got into him?"
"No idea."
North's face seemed whiter than normal through his helmet's faceplate, despite the bright blue sky obscuring it. Novak tapped the lieutenant's helmet, but there was no response. Too small for the human eye to see, though, hairline fractures spidered out from the point his glove had hit. Novak tried to lower North's arm from its firing position, but the limb didn't move.
"I don't like this," the colonel said into his microphone.
Saunders stood over them, but looked toward the landing module. It was obvious that there was wind on the surface, even if they didn't sense it. Sand had piled up on one side of the lander and dusted the ladder into the open door.
Novak pulled on North's other arm, but it resisted for a long moment, then suddenly it seemed to release. The colonel held the lower part of North's arm in his hand, while the rest of the arm seemed to point in the same direction as before. It had broken off inside the suit.
"This is wrong," he muttered.
Saunders looked down to see what had happened. She was mildly sickened once she realized what her commanding officer had just done. He released the limb and it hung down at a weird angle.
"What the hell?" she blurted.
"I think he froze," Novak replied.
He shifted North's body, then flipped it over. He patted off the reddish sand, then had to search the entire back of the suit before he found a small tear along the belt. Sand poured out when he poked at it.
"Something's VERY wrong here, Major!"
They had been sent to explore the small civilization that had developed on Mars and found nothing but ruins. Now, one of their colleagues was dead and something about the red sand and dust appeared to be to blame.
"Back to the lander," Novak ordered.
"Colonel!" Saunders called, getting his attention.
Much to both of their surprises, the lander had turned from the height of human engineering to a rusting hulk. The roof vibrated, then collapsed in a gout of red dust. Next, one of the walls fell off the side. Sand poured out everywhere.
"Novak to Orion, do you read?"
Static greeted him, so he repeated the message three more times before Saunders grabbed his arm and shook him. "They can't hear us, Colonel!"
"I'll try again later. We have to get off the planet."
Saunders looked nonplussed. "No, Colonel, they won't be able to help us."
She pointed up into the robins-egg sky in time for both of them to see a bright-white light flare to life and streak across the heavens.
"Oh, fuck."
| The villagers watched politely as they demonstrated the solar panels and the automated mill. High-pitched clicks abound in the back, where a few children were watching. "No effort!" he cajoled, sifting the new flour through his hands. "Good flour."
"We thank you for your efforts, kind sir," a different voice said behind him. Its tone almost matched human vocal chords where he struggled to mimic their clicks and polyphonic shifts. If you would come with me?"
There wasn't any choice of not going. Unlike the villagers' primitive clothing the newcomers wore glittering fabrics and shiny plates, feathers neatly preened and held back, and had what he presumed was weapons wielded by an entire squad. His people had been rounded up from around the village and herded to the empty village square. The shimmering block was new.
Without ceremony they were marched through its sides.
The next step takes them to a tower in the middle of a massive structure. He could see in far distance far more bird-creatures than he ever thought there ever was.
"Again?" or so he thought he heard. Here they didn't bother slowing down their speech for human's benefit.
"Code 12," his escort voice slides.
"Ah, I see. Missionaries again?" The new bird-creature rasps and clicks. "Spreading god's word and introducing civilisation to the unfortunate," it spoke in human language. "Stupid earthlings. We really should just take back the planet instead of this reconstruction efforts." It had switched back to its language.
"Excuse me," he said. "Take back?"
A floating earth appeared before them, a red mark streaked through its surface. It took him a second to realise what it was.
"I see you know what this is," it spit out. "Watch."
All around the ancient earth white ships were coming through the atmosphere. They watched in formation as earth burned before slowly they left, one by one.
"Very few record survived. We only managed to piece this from a ship that didn't make it, stranded in space for tens of million years ago. We found the planet we came from, and its *infested*."
A deep slide of sound with echoing shifts came from their escort - he recognised their name in its formal call, but beyond that he could not understand.
"Sorry," the bird-creature did not look or sound contrite at all, "We build a recreation of our old world on the next planet. Popular tourist spot - live like before the great migration. If only pests aren't buzzing around."
A clatter of familiar, long unheard boots came. He turned to see men in space wing uniforms. The introductions were routine - they had done this before.
It took a second at the observation port to realise the ship they were packed on were moving away from bot Mars and Earth. "Where are we going?" he asked.
"Terra space station RLNT22, at the-" intricate clicks and slides "capitol. There aren't many humans that manage the clearance to even know about them, and we could always use some new janitors," the officer that picked them up said. "You broke the Mars interdiction order. Five years community service minimum. Course, you can't afford for tickets back until the next ten years after that, if you're lucky. Welcome to space," he grinned. |
|
[WP] In 1750, small pockets of civilization were discovered on Mars. Initial observations appear to show these societies to be primitive compared to our own. Today, and with 200+ years of observation and exponential investment in space exploration, we are heading to see them for ourselves. | in this timeline the Roman Empire has never fallen thus preventing the Dark ages, an era where technology actually degraded, and by the 1800's Rome is at a 21st century technological and social level.
In 9AD Publius Varus new governor of Germania is informed of a rebellion by the Romanized German Arminius. In an effort to squash the rebellion takes 60,000 troops spearheaded by 5 legions. Varus defeats the Germans at a heavy cost with overwhelming force in a forest battle and this marks a new age of expansion for the Roman Empire which led to the full conquest of Germania.
500 AD the Roman Empire has gone through 3 Civil Wars and suffered at the hands of the Huns and Vandals as well as other barbarian tribes, but the Empire has survived against all threats and with the reforms of the new Emperor Lucius Corvus, a second Pax Romana is beginning.
1200 AD the Roman Empire came into conflict with the Mongol hordes of the east leading to a massive conflict spanning nearly a century, through this new contestant in Europe, Romes hegemony was tested. The hordes were beaten back in 1294 with the help of grand weapons that released the fire of Vulcan and thunder of Jupiter themselves.
In 1594 Galileus Adranos modified a telescope making it powerful enough to view in detail the planet Mars. Upon it he noticed it had dark blue waters and dark copperish soil with green in many regions.
In 1758 after the Sino-Roman conflict in which over 37 million lives were lost and the invention of the atom bomb, the world was in a precarious state. The 2 superpowers of the world the "Mexica Triple Alliance" degradingly called Aztecs by the Romans, and the Roman Empire itself were dragged into a cold war with each side threatening the usage of nuclear weapons against the other. In 1760 the Aztecs launched the first man into Earth's orbit beginning the space race. In 1761 the elected Emperor of Rome John F. Kennedius (also the first Hibernian emperor) promised to land a man on the moon by the end of the decade, and in 1769 (unfortunately 6 years after the emperor's assassination) Nigellus Aldrinassius became the first man to land on the moon, and the beginning of Roman space superiority had begun.
In 1827 the IFAT (Internationalis Foederatio Aeronautics et Tractus, or Internationl Space and Aeronautics Federation) with scientists from round the globe set themselves the mission of going to Mars, after decades of study and the success of sending a rover into the dry arid regions of Mars had shown life in the form of small animals similair to scorpions and snakes.
In 1831 Aquila I was ready for launch and an astronaut from every nation in the world was on board for this great mission (approx. 157).
August 24 1831 11:37 Rome Time,
We have succesfully landed on this planet 2 hours ago and we have already discovered so much. We have documented approx. 37 forms of life most of which are avian, probably due to Mars lower gravity. We are setting up a "base" mostly out of tents and most equipment has been set up. Tomorrow 4 groups of 15 will go out in each direction (N,S,E,W) to explore the area and document more Martian lifeforms and geography.
August 28th 1831 2:58 Rome Time
Truly it was incredible, about 45 minutes ago we saw what looked like a primitive jet aircraft (probably equivalent to an old 1700's Hirundo 262). It was shaped like a needle, was extremely long almost like an airbus. Not only this it was chasing another craft that we weren't able to see and we saw an explosion about 300 yards away. We will go search for it after we tell the rest of the group and bring more firepower.
August 29th 1:34 Rome Time
I'm typing this as we search the downed martian craft, it is shaped very strangely and I can barely describe it. It appears to have 2 "floors" but the far more disturbing thing is the ship bears the markings of a white trident and white olive wreath under it. Why does a martian aircraft bear the marks of Poseidon and the fable of Atlantis? No bodies have been found in the device and we are going to leave the craft behind for later study.
September 4th 9:58 Rome Time
We have set up defensive formations and brought out our 2 Testudo tanks from the ship. (We were heavily prepared for the event that we met intelligent life) North West of us in the direction where we saw the planes, we see more than 20 "trucks" of some kind coming towards us. We believe the natives now know we are here after salvaging devices from their "plane". The creatures "stepped" out of their vehicles and approached us cautiously. They are strange creatures that walk on 4 legs and make a skittering sound when they walk. They have a beige complexion and have very small mouths and one large eye. They seem to be nervous producing sweat just as we do as they aim their probable weapons at us. Finally 2 of them step forward each wearing some type of uniform that are similair but at the same time very different. Both are saying the same thing in unison. I am currently going up to them and I have ordered everyone to lower their weapons to show we come in peace. They appear to have acknowledged this and are lowering their devices as well. I have left negotiating to my 1st and 2nd officers and will report back to high command. I believe this is a new era for humanity and the great Roman Empire. -Captain Christophorus Columbinus | The villagers watched politely as they demonstrated the solar panels and the automated mill. High-pitched clicks abound in the back, where a few children were watching. "No effort!" he cajoled, sifting the new flour through his hands. "Good flour."
"We thank you for your efforts, kind sir," a different voice said behind him. Its tone almost matched human vocal chords where he struggled to mimic their clicks and polyphonic shifts. If you would come with me?"
There wasn't any choice of not going. Unlike the villagers' primitive clothing the newcomers wore glittering fabrics and shiny plates, feathers neatly preened and held back, and had what he presumed was weapons wielded by an entire squad. His people had been rounded up from around the village and herded to the empty village square. The shimmering block was new.
Without ceremony they were marched through its sides.
The next step takes them to a tower in the middle of a massive structure. He could see in far distance far more bird-creatures than he ever thought there ever was.
"Again?" or so he thought he heard. Here they didn't bother slowing down their speech for human's benefit.
"Code 12," his escort voice slides.
"Ah, I see. Missionaries again?" The new bird-creature rasps and clicks. "Spreading god's word and introducing civilisation to the unfortunate," it spoke in human language. "Stupid earthlings. We really should just take back the planet instead of this reconstruction efforts." It had switched back to its language.
"Excuse me," he said. "Take back?"
A floating earth appeared before them, a red mark streaked through its surface. It took him a second to realise what it was.
"I see you know what this is," it spit out. "Watch."
All around the ancient earth white ships were coming through the atmosphere. They watched in formation as earth burned before slowly they left, one by one.
"Very few record survived. We only managed to piece this from a ship that didn't make it, stranded in space for tens of million years ago. We found the planet we came from, and its *infested*."
A deep slide of sound with echoing shifts came from their escort - he recognised their name in its formal call, but beyond that he could not understand.
"Sorry," the bird-creature did not look or sound contrite at all, "We build a recreation of our old world on the next planet. Popular tourist spot - live like before the great migration. If only pests aren't buzzing around."
A clatter of familiar, long unheard boots came. He turned to see men in space wing uniforms. The introductions were routine - they had done this before.
It took a second at the observation port to realise the ship they were packed on were moving away from bot Mars and Earth. "Where are we going?" he asked.
"Terra space station RLNT22, at the-" intricate clicks and slides "capitol. There aren't many humans that manage the clearance to even know about them, and we could always use some new janitors," the officer that picked them up said. "You broke the Mars interdiction order. Five years community service minimum. Course, you can't afford for tickets back until the next ten years after that, if you're lucky. Welcome to space," he grinned. |
|
[WP] In 1750, small pockets of civilization were discovered on Mars. Initial observations appear to show these societies to be primitive compared to our own. Today, and with 200+ years of observation and exponential investment in space exploration, we are heading to see them for ourselves. | The debate had raged for nearly a century, but the Affirmatives had finally won. We were going to make first contact.
In 1750, astronomers of the time had described what appeared to be barely distinguishable motes of light emanating from the surface of Mars. When they eventually decided to share their findings with the public, the consensus at the time was fairly split. Could it be made by an alien civilization? Or was it just a natural phenomenon, like volcanism or the burning of some type of unknown molecule present on the planet? Whatever it was, it stirred the public’s imagination like nothing else had in the centuries prior.
The biggest impact had been amongst the churches and their followers. Those who believed the lights were created by sentient beings were ridiculed, and at some points imprisoned or even executed for their blasphemous statements. The reaction was not the same everywhere though. In what is now south east Asia, Oceania and China, governments and people alike praised the news and quickly led the debate on efforts to understand it. Europe, South America and North American governments took much longer to before they officially acknowledged the possibility, but they did.
In 1801, after half a century of turmoil and debate, advances in optical technology eventually ended the argument. The lights were undoubtedly sentient, or at least created by sentient beings. Their appearance on the surface of Mars followed a natural progression, from the south pole in the early parts of the Martian year, up through the equatorial regions by mid-year and then receding back to the south pole by years end, to begin anew. This was no natural phenomenon. On Earth people referred to it as the “bright Martian migration”. An international yearnings for contact exploded through the populations of Earth.
By 1891, the Affirmative Contact Alliance (ACA) had developed the first ever rocket engine. It was based on the extraction and purification of methane from agricultural operations. It did not produce enough thrust to go beyond being a proof of concept in the rocket theory developed jointly by China and the Russian Empire, but it was enough to secure the full financial and intellectual backing of the ACA. This technology could potentially take us to the aliens.
The Non-Interrupt Society (NIS) vehemently opposed the idea of contact. They utilized well-reasoned and evidenced arguments on the fate of ecologies which humans had visited on our own planet. Life was abundant on Earth, until humans arrived to interfere with it. In the wake of our expansion, nature suffered. Species went extinct and the long term effects of this were still not known. Those of the NIS believed it was our duty as an intelligent, solar-sister of the Mars aliens to not only avoid affirmative contact, but to avoid any and all contact at all until the aliens could do so themselves.
The debate raged on for a century. The first breakthrough was with significant advances in fuel and propulsion design technologies that had occurred rapidly with the ACA’s backing. More and more people believed that actually leaving Earth was a possibility. As the technology progressed, people became more convinced. Eventually the thought of actually travelling to and landing on Mars became even more tangible. The numbers of the ACA swelled. The NIS gave concessions of course. They supported non-interventionist policies such as deploying exo-planet observatories to view the aliens from outside their atmosphere, at a level of detail that would still allow useful scientific and xenobiological information to be harvested. But their arguments could not hold. The human spirit had always felt alone, and now we knew it was not. The will to explore beyond our planet, to meet those whom we called solar-neighbors was impossible to ignore.
In 1911 we successfully launched a satellite around the Earth. By 1914 we had our first manned flight in space. By 1916 we landed on the moon. By 1920 the ACA was confident in its ability to deliver a manned payload to Mars. By 1927 they presented their first concept proposals on how to bring the human payload back after it had landed on the planet.
The second great project of the ACA had begun at this time. This time Engineering was not the focus, but rather the humanities. The greatest psychologists, philosophers, religious leaders and independent free thinkers were recruited by the ACA. The official Protocols of Contact were eventually delivered to the world in 1998, nearly three quarters of a century after the project had begun.
I began studying the Protocols in 2001 after being selected as the cultural ambassador of Earth. Selected from the people, by the people, to represent all of us in a non-scientific capacity alongside the other four, very scientifically capable members of mission First Contact.
Captain Nojikim’s voice came over the headset, “We have permission to begin descent from ACA command. We are not just making history here people, we are making First Contact. It is my greatest honor to do so with the four of you.”
I closed the Protocols of Contact, clipped its binding and placed it into a secure compartment. My heart was racing.
We began our descent. | The villagers watched politely as they demonstrated the solar panels and the automated mill. High-pitched clicks abound in the back, where a few children were watching. "No effort!" he cajoled, sifting the new flour through his hands. "Good flour."
"We thank you for your efforts, kind sir," a different voice said behind him. Its tone almost matched human vocal chords where he struggled to mimic their clicks and polyphonic shifts. If you would come with me?"
There wasn't any choice of not going. Unlike the villagers' primitive clothing the newcomers wore glittering fabrics and shiny plates, feathers neatly preened and held back, and had what he presumed was weapons wielded by an entire squad. His people had been rounded up from around the village and herded to the empty village square. The shimmering block was new.
Without ceremony they were marched through its sides.
The next step takes them to a tower in the middle of a massive structure. He could see in far distance far more bird-creatures than he ever thought there ever was.
"Again?" or so he thought he heard. Here they didn't bother slowing down their speech for human's benefit.
"Code 12," his escort voice slides.
"Ah, I see. Missionaries again?" The new bird-creature rasps and clicks. "Spreading god's word and introducing civilisation to the unfortunate," it spoke in human language. "Stupid earthlings. We really should just take back the planet instead of this reconstruction efforts." It had switched back to its language.
"Excuse me," he said. "Take back?"
A floating earth appeared before them, a red mark streaked through its surface. It took him a second to realise what it was.
"I see you know what this is," it spit out. "Watch."
All around the ancient earth white ships were coming through the atmosphere. They watched in formation as earth burned before slowly they left, one by one.
"Very few record survived. We only managed to piece this from a ship that didn't make it, stranded in space for tens of million years ago. We found the planet we came from, and its *infested*."
A deep slide of sound with echoing shifts came from their escort - he recognised their name in its formal call, but beyond that he could not understand.
"Sorry," the bird-creature did not look or sound contrite at all, "We build a recreation of our old world on the next planet. Popular tourist spot - live like before the great migration. If only pests aren't buzzing around."
A clatter of familiar, long unheard boots came. He turned to see men in space wing uniforms. The introductions were routine - they had done this before.
It took a second at the observation port to realise the ship they were packed on were moving away from bot Mars and Earth. "Where are we going?" he asked.
"Terra space station RLNT22, at the-" intricate clicks and slides "capitol. There aren't many humans that manage the clearance to even know about them, and we could always use some new janitors," the officer that picked them up said. "You broke the Mars interdiction order. Five years community service minimum. Course, you can't afford for tickets back until the next ten years after that, if you're lucky. Welcome to space," he grinned. |
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[WP] When you meet your soul mate, both of your hearts glow. A concentration camp inmate meets an SS officer. Their hearts glow. | She sits shivering in the cold of the town square. There is no shelter to be found besides the gaunt frames of her fellow captives. She has never felt so sad, or so hungry.
On a whim she wanders through the crowd, shifting through vacant eyes and gaunt bodies full of gnawing desires. From across the square she hears the screaming. Another is being taken. She runs to see a young girl being dragged through the dirt towards the solider's barracks.
Overlooking the scene stands a very tall and draconian man. His medals shine in the light, where her hair lost its luster long ago. His teeth shine white through his authoritarian grimace, where her's hide behind pursed lips.
His heart glows through his jacket at the sight of her. Her grey sack-clothe shift does little to hide her own beacon. He glances at her, looks down at his own chest, and waves her over.
With a smooth motion he unholsters his pistol. The iron halo graces her forehead, pressing into her emaciated flesh. She smiles.
"At least I found you," she says.
While her body falls, he stands tall. While her fingers loosely splay out against the ground, his embrace the curvature of the trigger. While her eyes stare into the concrete sky, his stare down the barrel.
Where she found love, he found duty. | The Kapo screamed at the men to stand still, his abuse raining down on them, as the new officers inspected the camp.
As the new camp commander looked down the line, a prisoner froze. Number A 17189. He smiled, just enough that his cracked lips started to bleed, and his wan eyes almost vanished into his bony skull. He could feel the warmth from his chest. Was this feeling... hope?
The officer paused as his eyes connected with the prisoner's, made sure that his medals covered his chest. There was an indescribable warmth. He tried to steady his voice, his hand as he pointed.
"That man. The stacks."
Edit: her/his chest. Oops?
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[WP] Time travel exists, and a new form of capital punishment is introduced: Transporting the convict back to the worst, practically unsurvivable, places in human history to find yourself in. You are such a convict, and just got sent back. You will do anything to try and survive. | "Any last words charles?"
I looked my executioner in the eyes. "You will regret this. I promise"
The executioner chuckled lightly "Most people are rendered completely insane after time travel and are barely able to tie their shoes. No way in hell anyone will be afraid of you."
I just smirked. I'm a socially gifted mass murderer. It's all I know, its all I will be. I enjoy it.
A flash of light and I am transported to an unknown location at an unknown time. It's late.. or dark at least. The ground is solid. Cool breeze wafting through... a tunnel? I hear something. Or is it madness?... all of a sudden I am blinded by light and a horn sounds. I leap to the side narrowly escaping what should have been death. A large vihicle of some sort almost hit me. The vehicle stopped and a man emerged panicked. He half jogs over to me and a thick scent washes over me.
"Hey man! Are you alright?"
I lunge forward and grab him by the collar punching him in the face repeatedly until he is unconscious.
The vehicle is still running. Large, and box shaped I assume this is what they called a "van". I climb inside the cab and find a few dollars and some hand rolled cigarettes.
It took me a good five minutes to figure out the primitive driving controls. Reverse. Back over the idiot. Drive. Find some minions. Charles has work to do. Charles Manson has big plans. | We now return to tonight's featured History Channel documentary: *Auschwitz's* *Unknown* *Victims*, featuring guards who claim to have witnessed the murder of countless "Erscheinungen", who were said to have materialized inside of gas chambers wearing unusual garments. Stay tuned for new, History channel exclusive interviews with a man who claims to be one of these mysterious people.
----
"I was one of the lucky ones- my 'excecutioner' sent me back just a moment *before* they flooded the chamber with gas."
"They called me 'Erscheinung'-an apparition-and threw me to the cold concrete. They interrogated me for what seemed like several hours, before tossing me in a squalid, poorly-lit cell with four other men."
"Each of us had these tattooed onto our arms. [holds up arm]" (arm reads E0074)
edit: I added more so that it would fit the prompt.
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[WP] Time travel exists, and a new form of capital punishment is introduced: Transporting the convict back to the worst, practically unsurvivable, places in human history to find yourself in. You are such a convict, and just got sent back. You will do anything to try and survive. | I was still coming to terms with the fact that the bastards were actually going to send me back when the universe went sideways. I knew from my old college physics course that while the trip was instantaneous, the human mind responded by giving you the very distinct impression that you had just spent a not inconsiderable amount of time in emptiness.
For a split second upon my arrival I felt an immense weight settle on my psyche as if I had lived through countless eons in solitude. It was for this reason that I felt profound joy when my body spasmed and I went into shock, banishing all thought but survival.
Ever helpful, my Siri Implant gave me the facts that my beleaguered brain could not process:
*The Moon*
*"M-O-O-N that spells MOON"*, I thought, my brain rapidly depleting its oxygen supply.
*Sea of Tranquility, July 21st 2:56 UTC*
A moment of clarity, *"I am most definitely fucked"*
*The lander is in front of you. You are unable to see it due to the moisture in your eyes boiling off in the presence of the vacuum. I will patch in the transmission"*
***"That's one small step for..."***
*He has spotted you*
***"...man. One giant leap for mankind."*** | We now return to tonight's featured History Channel documentary: *Auschwitz's* *Unknown* *Victims*, featuring guards who claim to have witnessed the murder of countless "Erscheinungen", who were said to have materialized inside of gas chambers wearing unusual garments. Stay tuned for new, History channel exclusive interviews with a man who claims to be one of these mysterious people.
----
"I was one of the lucky ones- my 'excecutioner' sent me back just a moment *before* they flooded the chamber with gas."
"They called me 'Erscheinung'-an apparition-and threw me to the cold concrete. They interrogated me for what seemed like several hours, before tossing me in a squalid, poorly-lit cell with four other men."
"Each of us had these tattooed onto our arms. [holds up arm]" (arm reads E0074)
edit: I added more so that it would fit the prompt.
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[WP] Time travel exists, and a new form of capital punishment is introduced: Transporting the convict back to the worst, practically unsurvivable, places in human history to find yourself in. You are such a convict, and just got sent back. You will do anything to try and survive. | I was not always this cruel. I was a kind guy. I remember who I was. I was a lawyer. Or was I? Doesn't matter. I like it here. I survived the hell and now I made the hell my heaven. Never again will I go without food. Never again will I sleep in pain and tears. Never again will I trust another soul. I was a nobody then. But now, all shall know my name. Fear my name. Those who sent me here, will never be born. I'll make sure of that. I'll make sure of that. Genghis will be a name no one will forget. I'll make sure of that. I'll make sure of that.
| We now return to tonight's featured History Channel documentary: *Auschwitz's* *Unknown* *Victims*, featuring guards who claim to have witnessed the murder of countless "Erscheinungen", who were said to have materialized inside of gas chambers wearing unusual garments. Stay tuned for new, History channel exclusive interviews with a man who claims to be one of these mysterious people.
----
"I was one of the lucky ones- my 'excecutioner' sent me back just a moment *before* they flooded the chamber with gas."
"They called me 'Erscheinung'-an apparition-and threw me to the cold concrete. They interrogated me for what seemed like several hours, before tossing me in a squalid, poorly-lit cell with four other men."
"Each of us had these tattooed onto our arms. [holds up arm]" (arm reads E0074)
edit: I added more so that it would fit the prompt.
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[WP] Time travel exists, and a new form of capital punishment is introduced: Transporting the convict back to the worst, practically unsurvivable, places in human history to find yourself in. You are such a convict, and just got sent back. You will do anything to try and survive. | As the judge’s gavel slammed down for the final time I felt relieved by the sentence I’d been given. Rather than face the chair I would be sent back in time. Being sent back was actually pretty standard punishment for some of the less gruesome murders that were committed. It solved a few problems that traditional prisons couldn’t. The first of which was the actual cost of keeping a prisoner. Did you know that it costs around $150’000 per year to keep a prisoner locked up? Well, not any more. Zap that would-be prisoner back to the dark ages and you just saved yourself a lot of money. Secondly it got rid of the prisoner. Families of victims felt like they’d received justice. The man, in my case, who’d killed their daughter, would be shot back to a dangerous point in history for that man to be alive. Of course, the period in which you were exiled to varied on the crime. I was expecting to be sent somewhere completely inhospitable where death was almost a certainty. Despite this, I was sort of looking forward to the experience – some people paid a lot of money to travel through time.
As I was lead from the courtroom I asked the officer escorting me where I was going to be sent. We’d gotten to know each other quite well over the course of the trial and I had hoped he’d be able to provide some insight.
“Oh now come on George, you know I can’t tell you that.”
“You can tell me Sir, nobody will know it was you that told me” I pleaded.
“Where would you like to be sent?” It was an interesting question and one that I hadn’t really thought about.
“How about the Bahamas 10 years ago? With a local woman wearing a bra made of coconuts serving me cocktails on the beach” I said jokingly. Officer Gates raised his eyebrows, hinting that he was genuinely curious and wanted a serious answer. I liked him somewhat so decided to humour him.
“Well,” I continued, “I have committed a terrible crime. I imagine wherever I’m sent I’ll have a slim chance of survival. I’d like to think I’d have some chance though. If I was sent to a concentration camp I could plan an escape or maybe kill one of the guards and steal his weapon. Although being in a warzone wouldn’t be too bad. We both know I like killing so I think World War I would be a punishment that would leave all parties satisfied. Would you agree?”
We were stood outside of my cell door. I was told I’d spend a final 24 hours here while they organised my time travel trip. Officer Gates looked me in the eyes in such a way that I felt like he was trying to speak to me. He turned to open my cell door and the bolt drew back with a heavy clunk. As I stepped into the cell he finally spoke.
“George, I can tell you that you’re not going to be a soldier. I’d estimate your chance of survival to be about 1%, if that. However, as I stand here now and look into your eyes I still see a desire to survive. It’s like you’re excited about this, like it’s an adventure. Maybe if you knew where you were going you wouldn’t be so excited but I imagine that when you get there you’ll do your best to survive. I almost wish I could be there to see how you react.”
Officer Gates paused briefly and allowed the reverberations of his voice to settle. He looked at me again, laughed to himself as he shook his head and then closed the heavy cell door with a thud that reminded me there was no escape.
“I’ll see you tomorrow George,” he called, “you’re going to get a hell of a shock when you find out.”
| We now return to tonight's featured History Channel documentary: *Auschwitz's* *Unknown* *Victims*, featuring guards who claim to have witnessed the murder of countless "Erscheinungen", who were said to have materialized inside of gas chambers wearing unusual garments. Stay tuned for new, History channel exclusive interviews with a man who claims to be one of these mysterious people.
----
"I was one of the lucky ones- my 'excecutioner' sent me back just a moment *before* they flooded the chamber with gas."
"They called me 'Erscheinung'-an apparition-and threw me to the cold concrete. They interrogated me for what seemed like several hours, before tossing me in a squalid, poorly-lit cell with four other men."
"Each of us had these tattooed onto our arms. [holds up arm]" (arm reads E0074)
edit: I added more so that it would fit the prompt.
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[WP] Time travel exists, and a new form of capital punishment is introduced: Transporting the convict back to the worst, practically unsurvivable, places in human history to find yourself in. You are such a convict, and just got sent back. You will do anything to try and survive. | After the intense disorientation of the temporal displacement event began to fade, I felt wet. All around me, wet. The ringing in my ears slowly faded to white noise, almost like rain but far more intense than any rain I had ever heard. Then a flash, and what must have been thunder, and I realized I was not blind and deaf, I was caught in a rainstorm. I tried to push myself up, but my hands had no purchase and I fell on my face in what felt like old oatmeal. Finally I managed to push myself into a semblance of a sitting position, and at that moment the land around me lit in an eerie glow.
All around me, through the rain, I saw a ghostly landscape more akin to a moon or asteroid than anywhere on Earth I had seen. Barren, cratered, lit by a harsh light floating above. Then there were two lights, then three, then all around me noise, chaos, fire and violence. I struggled to my feet, but they would not come free from the morass that I now recognized as mud.I struggled, began to panic. I had sunk up to my ankles, and each time I tried to pull one foot free, the other just sank further. Above me, flares sputtered out and new replaced them. Explosions grew closer until I thought my eardrums would burst, then fell further and further away. Long moments past with more flares and explosions, some distant, some close, until I finally saw some figures silhouetted in the distance moving towards me.
I called, I yelled, I hollered for help in every language I knew. I think one turned towards me and pointed, then the last flare went out and I was blind but for the flashes of explosions.I have always had an excellent sense of time, but as the rain fell and the explosions crept closer and I felt myself slowly sliding down into the mud, now past my knees, it could have been hours or a matter of minutes. Finally, another flare revealed the forms of my saviors. I am no historian, but I know a few things about war. As their features slid between shadow and half-light, it was clear these men were soldiers. From what war, I could not say. As they drew near, the flare dimmed and died, and the explosions became less frequent and more distant. Even the rain slowed to a soaking mist.
The soldiers spoke in quiet voices as they crept along. I wondered how they managed to stay clear of the mud until I heard the distinct sound of a boot on wood. They must have a walkway though this mire. By the time I could distinguish their voices to hope to understand their words, I was halfway up my hips in mud. English, but an accent I didn't recognize and could barely decipher. Still, I called out to them for help.
"Pipe down, chap. You'll draw Gerry's guns on us, you will." One, slightly taller than the others, called over to me. A quiet deliberation between them did not reach my ears, but they left the safety of their walkway and carefully made their way to my position. The explosions had ceased, and only a distant flare lit the landscape. I heard the squelches of the men as they came closer, until they were beside me. "Alright, let's see what we can do." There were four of them. Two positioned themselves on each side of me, and they hooked their rifles under my soldiers. "No squirming, now. We'll lift you free if we can."
The tall one counted to three under his breath, and I gripped the rifles with white knuckles. The soldiers strained and grunted, and I felt myself lift a few inches from the morass. Then some shifting as they sought better footing, another count and again they lifted. One slipped, and the rifle butt cracked him on the head as he fell. He went down in a heap, and his comrades tried to rouse him to no avail. He was out cold. The tall one glanced at his squadmates in the dim light, then looked at me sadly. "Sorry chap, we can't risk being mired ourselves. Jack's knocked himself senseless, we'll need to get him out before we're all stuck. No worries though, we'll send help when we reach the aid station."
I knew when they strapped me in the machine that I would face death, but it wasn't until I heard the tone of his voice that I truly understood. I had known I was helpless for some time. Now I was hopeless. The soldiers turned to go, and I called out "Please, you've got a pistol there. Can I borrow it? Just to protect against Gerry? Just until the aid station can send help?"
Another flare went up, this one closer. The tall one turned and I saw his eyes clear enough to see this was a man who hadn't just faced death, he had given up hope of living. He hesitated a moment as his comrades slogged to the safety of the walkway, then pulled the heavy revolver from his belt and tossed it to me. "Good luck, mate." He turned again.
"Wait! Tell me the name of this place. Before you go." The soldier turned back yet again. I expected to see confusion on his face, but instead I saw only resignation. "Passchendaele."
The soldier faded along with the flare, and I was left in darkness. I heard sporadic gunfire, and more explosions, but all felt distant. The word, the name of the place held no meaning for me. I felt the heavy weight of the revolver as I slowly sank into the mud. Nearly past my hips now. I decided to wait until dawn, or until I sank up to my chest. Whichever came first. Then I would carry out the death sentence that had sent me here. | We now return to tonight's featured History Channel documentary: *Auschwitz's* *Unknown* *Victims*, featuring guards who claim to have witnessed the murder of countless "Erscheinungen", who were said to have materialized inside of gas chambers wearing unusual garments. Stay tuned for new, History channel exclusive interviews with a man who claims to be one of these mysterious people.
----
"I was one of the lucky ones- my 'excecutioner' sent me back just a moment *before* they flooded the chamber with gas."
"They called me 'Erscheinung'-an apparition-and threw me to the cold concrete. They interrogated me for what seemed like several hours, before tossing me in a squalid, poorly-lit cell with four other men."
"Each of us had these tattooed onto our arms. [holds up arm]" (arm reads E0074)
edit: I added more so that it would fit the prompt.
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[WP] Time travel exists, and a new form of capital punishment is introduced: Transporting the convict back to the worst, practically unsurvivable, places in human history to find yourself in. You are such a convict, and just got sent back. You will do anything to try and survive. | “Thirty seconds!” shouted Captain Porter.
The slow and steady rise and fall of the landing boat made me sick. I held my Thompson submachine gun closer to my body with every splash from each incorrectly aimed artillery shell. The weight, the sturdiness, the cold metal, and the hardwood calmed my fraying nerves.
I really did not want to kill him. He hurt my pride, and I was wasted. I hit him and he hit his head on the pavement. I swear I did not mean to kill him. I just wanted to hurt him. The jury deliberated for an hour, and the judge was unsympathetic.
“You are a despicable coward”, he said, his jowls shaking with vitriol, “but I will give you a chance at redemption. You will die with some of the bravest men in history.”
”Ten seconds!” shouted Captain Porter.
I could hear the machine guns now. I had never set foot in France before. I was not used to my heavy wool uniform.
Captain Porter blew his whistle.
The gate dropped and the sound of bullets felled the three rows of men ahead of me. I felt a burning pain in my gut. Steel met steel as I dropped helmet first to the deck of the boat. I felt the boots climbing over my back. A second later I felt the full weight of a body. I felt cold.
Then I felt nothing.
| We now return to tonight's featured History Channel documentary: *Auschwitz's* *Unknown* *Victims*, featuring guards who claim to have witnessed the murder of countless "Erscheinungen", who were said to have materialized inside of gas chambers wearing unusual garments. Stay tuned for new, History channel exclusive interviews with a man who claims to be one of these mysterious people.
----
"I was one of the lucky ones- my 'excecutioner' sent me back just a moment *before* they flooded the chamber with gas."
"They called me 'Erscheinung'-an apparition-and threw me to the cold concrete. They interrogated me for what seemed like several hours, before tossing me in a squalid, poorly-lit cell with four other men."
"Each of us had these tattooed onto our arms. [holds up arm]" (arm reads E0074)
edit: I added more so that it would fit the prompt.
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[WP] Time travel exists, and a new form of capital punishment is introduced: Transporting the convict back to the worst, practically unsurvivable, places in human history to find yourself in. You are such a convict, and just got sent back. You will do anything to try and survive. | The guard of my cell smirked at me as I was led away. "Have fun," he said. "I won't miss you."
I laughed tiredly. "Right back at you."
The two guards behind me pushed me into a white room. Sitting before me was a metal chair. It looked like an old electric chair, the type they'd used before time travel came around. But I knew that this was no electric chair.
I sat down. The cuffs slid from the armrests, encircling my arms, locking them in.
The guards stepped out of the room.
"Good morning, Mr. Jones," came a voice from the loudspeaker. "I hope you are prepared for your trip back in time. It won't be pleasant, to say the least. I..."
I zoned out. The voice rambled on for a minute longer. Then it said, "Well, goodbye." I heard it mutter, "We're glad to be rid of you."
I sat still, smirking carelessly. Inside, I was slightly terrified. I had no idea where- *when*, rather- they were sending me. But I had made a solemn promise to myself. I was going to survive at all costs.
The room hummed. The chair glowed. For a moment, I felt nothing. Then light filled my vision, piercing light, tearing into my eyes, blinding me. Excruciating pain filled me. I felt that I was being slowly torn apart, cooked, and blended, all at the same time.
The pain lasted an eternity. I howled and writhed, all rational thought leaving my mind, leaving nothing but the pain. Then suddenly, it was gone.
I was in the middle of a forest. The chair had become brittle under the stress of the travel- I broke free of the cuffs easily. I stood up, stretched, and tried to discern exactly when I was.
I was standing in the middle of a lush green forest. Towering trunks surrounded me. Beautiful flora bloomed in the undergrowth. I could see the sky through the trees.
Usually, they sent people to a hard-to-survive place in history. But this didn't look like it would be hard to live in at all, I thought. I could build tools, hunt, and-
I heard a low growl from behind me. I froze. I slowly turned around and found myself staring into the face of a giant lizard.
The lizard was a brownish-green color. It had a single brown feather atop its head. It stood on two legs. It slunk out of the undergrowth, still growling. Its feet were adorned with claws; two massive black arcs, one on each foot. Its arms each had three long claws at the end of them. I was sure it could slice me open or devour me easily.
The lizard crept closer. No, not lizard. I wasn't stupid. This was no lizard.
They'd sent me back to the time of the dinosaurs.
It hissed, and my resolve broke. I turned and ran. I heard it snarl, and then a heavy weight landed on my back. I tumbled to the ground. A searing pain filled me. It had sliced my spine. I couldn't move, could hardly breathe.
The dinosaur rolled me over. I cried out in agony. Through pain-filled eyes, I saw it tilt its head. Then it bent down and closed its jaws around my throat.
(Yeah, yeah, I broke the prompt. It was supposed to be somewhere in "human history", not just "history". Oh well. Humanity's ancestors lived back then, so it could count, I guess. And yes, I used a "Jurassic Park"-style Velociraptor, big and without feathers. Whatever.) | We now return to tonight's featured History Channel documentary: *Auschwitz's* *Unknown* *Victims*, featuring guards who claim to have witnessed the murder of countless "Erscheinungen", who were said to have materialized inside of gas chambers wearing unusual garments. Stay tuned for new, History channel exclusive interviews with a man who claims to be one of these mysterious people.
----
"I was one of the lucky ones- my 'excecutioner' sent me back just a moment *before* they flooded the chamber with gas."
"They called me 'Erscheinung'-an apparition-and threw me to the cold concrete. They interrogated me for what seemed like several hours, before tossing me in a squalid, poorly-lit cell with four other men."
"Each of us had these tattooed onto our arms. [holds up arm]" (arm reads E0074)
edit: I added more so that it would fit the prompt.
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[WP] Time travel exists, and a new form of capital punishment is introduced: Transporting the convict back to the worst, practically unsurvivable, places in human history to find yourself in. You are such a convict, and just got sent back. You will do anything to try and survive. | The thing about Robert McKay was he was a tough son of a bitch. He survived three tours with the 33rd fusiliers, he watched New York burn from the air, and he had survived prison; being handy with a blade helped.
“Prisoner 5-6-5-9-1,” A voice called out his name, he was a number, a meat suit. “Report for summary execution.” He chuckled at that, where else was he gonna go? Not alive out of this place that's for sure. He was marched down a narrow cobalt blue corridor and he was smiling like the happiest man on earth. He dwarfed the two screws that were walking him down to the Egg, Standing at a natural six foot six and weighing a heavily muscular seventeen stone he was a brick shit house and hell on wheels when he wanted to be.
“So, Tommy, am I gonna get to choose?” Robert rasped, his rough northern accent creating a low rumble in the hallway. Tommy O'Malley was one of the few decent screws in the place.
“Don't know mate,” Tommy said while looking up at Robert, “Depends on the judge, if you get a younger one they might send you somewhere useful, but if you get Stonemill, you're fucked.” Robert growled at the name. James Stonemill was not a man to be trifled with, and Robert had killed his son on the outside, work for an ex-soldier these days were scarce.
“Well Tommy it was nice knowing you, either way.” Robert said stoically.
They kept on for another ten minutes or so until they came to a sealed bulkhead that lead to the Egg. Biggest god damn door Robert had ever seen, some three feet thick and locked by way of hydraulics. For the first time in a long time, Robert let fear creep up his spine making him shiver, he hadn't felt that since the battle of New Orleans.
“Well Robert, you're on your own here on out, good luck to you and godspeed.” Tommy said as he stuck his hand out. Robert shook it as best as he could with his hands shackled. The bulkhead hissed open and two white robbed executioners ushered him into the big circular room on the other side. He looked up at the judges bench, and sure as he was a walking corpse the judge was Stonemill. The two white robed men stood him in the centre of the room and stripped him down to the skin, they then took his shackles off, the Egg couldn't send anything dead back, so no weapons to give a con a fighting chance.
“Mister McKay, I've been waiting for sometime now..” Stonemill started before Robert stopped him.
“Shut the fuck up and get it over with you cunt. You're son was a cunt and paedophile and he deserved the bullet I fed him.” That shut Stonemill up right fast. That was why his fiend of a son was killed, he had raped a gangsters thirteen year old daughter, the gangster just happened to be Roberts former employer, he gave Robert the contract and Robert had turned down the big payday. He had been present for the birth of that girl, he had been her driver and body guard for thirteen years. He tracked and killed that fucking scumbag and his protection detail; twelve dead. A life sentence for each corpse and the death penalty.
“I hereby order your immediate execution.” Stonemill said and flipped the switch.
Robert woke up in a forest. His everything hurt, part of the process as he understood it required him to be nearly seared to medium rare and then he lands back in whatever period of history he got stuck with. He looked around to get his senses under control, he was shocked to see a dead deer some six feet away. Poor beasts head had come off, it was sitting inside the small charred circle of grass with an extremely surprised look on its face.
“Well, at least I won't go hungry.” He said as he bent to find some stone he could gut the beast with when a large man with a crossbow stepped out from behind a tree. Robert stopped mid stoop and was dumbstruck. The fucker was wearing chain mail, and carrying a brutal looking axe and a heavy long knife. And then he opened his mouth and started spouting off in frog. “Fuck me, the cock sent me back to medieval frog land.” Robert said without thinking, which caused the frog to stomp towards him waving his cross bow. Which in the brief moment of hindsight he had, it was probably the worst decision he ever made. Fast as a snake Robert was on him and had the man's knife out of its sheathe and buried to the hilt in his skull. “You and the deer mate, shittiest luck in the history of shit luck.” Robert made quick work of stripping the frog of his clothes, a little tight across the shoulders but he could suffer through that and the leather pants were too short, ending at his calf but he found that the boots the man was wearing came up to his knee, and thankfully were his size. He gutted the deer and cut out some decent pieces of meat leaving the rest for whatever scavengers populated the forests of France and headed west, he figured he'd hit a road sooner or later.
Luckily for Robert he was right he came within spitting distance of a road and found it swarming with marching men, who seemed to be in a hurry. But he heard them speaking English so that was a start he melted out of the trees and startled some archers by the look of them.
“Who goes there!?” called a big burly bastard that had yard long arrow pointed at Roberts chest.
“I go by the name of Robert McKay, I'm from York.” The bows went down and the burly bastard walked over.
“And what in the name of the virgins cunt are you doing in the woods?” he barked,
“I was hunting, got attacked by a couple of frogs doing the same, lost my bow in the fight.” Robert said, thinking fast on his feet and was dismayed when the archers roared with laughter at him.
Wiping tears from his eyes the burly archer clapped a hand on Roberts shoulder. “Well you're a right silly cunt, losing your weapon because of some frogs. Me name is Bennett.” Turning to a young boy, he couldn't have been more than ten he said. “Jack run to Earl William, tell him I found a stray, he lost his bow to some frogs and is need of a replacement.” Jack bolted off down to the front of the column. “Fall in behind us and you'll get refitted, we need every damn stray we find where we're going.”
“Wheres that?” Robert asked
“Some fuckin hill called Crecy.” Bennett said over his shoulder.
Robert remembered that name from history class when he was a lad. “Fuck me.” he said quietly as he was handed a sheaf of arrows and a bow taller than he was.
| We now return to tonight's featured History Channel documentary: *Auschwitz's* *Unknown* *Victims*, featuring guards who claim to have witnessed the murder of countless "Erscheinungen", who were said to have materialized inside of gas chambers wearing unusual garments. Stay tuned for new, History channel exclusive interviews with a man who claims to be one of these mysterious people.
----
"I was one of the lucky ones- my 'excecutioner' sent me back just a moment *before* they flooded the chamber with gas."
"They called me 'Erscheinung'-an apparition-and threw me to the cold concrete. They interrogated me for what seemed like several hours, before tossing me in a squalid, poorly-lit cell with four other men."
"Each of us had these tattooed onto our arms. [holds up arm]" (arm reads E0074)
edit: I added more so that it would fit the prompt.
|
|
[WP] Time travel exists, and a new form of capital punishment is introduced: Transporting the convict back to the worst, practically unsurvivable, places in human history to find yourself in. You are such a convict, and just got sent back. You will do anything to try and survive. | I don't consider myself much of a writer, and this is my first shot at a story on this sub, so if I do much wrong, I'd love to know for future reference. Anyways...
***
I sat in the chair, tied down. I wondered where I would be sent. Previous offenders were sent to different places based on severity of crime. Serial killers or rapists might have been dropped in a North Korean concentration camp to be tortured and eventually die. Cases of severe fraud might have been sent to the Canadian wilderness before it was colonized to freeze or starve. The executioners though usually got a list of possible places to send the criminal based on their crime. They could pick whichever one they wanted. I know because I was one.
I was booked for accepting bribes from mob to send their people to a place they could survive in. It wasn't too hard because the machine didn't really keep records, and nobody really checked them since nobody cared. People could only get a general idea, within a few months if they wanted to by paying attention to the energy coming off the machine. If a location on the list was Hiroshima, I might have sent the mob boss to a few weeks after the bomb feel instead of right before as was intended.
Regardless, that doesn't matter. I'm going somewhere where nobody will know me. Well, actually sometime when people won't know me.
The new executioner was a rookie. I could tell. I mean, I could see the manual for the time machine from where I sat. He was taking a long time setting it up. Maybe he was deciding where to send me. The list he got was a few pages long. Would an executioner accepting bribes get sent to a horrid place like Russia under Stalin? Or maybe a less harsh place like an uninhabited island? I was curious. Personally I never dealt with people accepting bribes when I worked.
The rookie looked up. I guess he finished with the machine's console. Took him long enough. Damn amateurs. Wait a second...
Something was odd. I could see the status light from here. He was sending me to the future? I only did that once, by sending a mob boss a few centuries into the future. People wouldn't do that, too risky. The person might end up in a relatively safe place, or a really inhospitable one. No way to tell. Nobody could predict the future. I hoped for the former. Rookie mistakes, eh?
The energy crackled. I was blinded. I opened my eyes.
I saw ruins. They had a light dusting of snow. It was noon. The sun was low. Seasonal winter. Not nuclear winter. I looked at my watch. It had a Geiger counter. People wanted to cram everything into one device. I read in history how it started with cramming a camera, mini-computer, and a phone all in one. I don't know when a normal person would use a Geiger counter though.
Radiation was only a little above normal. Nuke Facts said that the level was like if I ate a few bunches of bananas every day. Kinda random, but it's still better and more interesting than Cat Facts. That shit took forever to get rid of...
So I guess I was in the aftermath of a nuclear war with the clothes on my back and a fancy watch. It was safe to stand around. But I suppose I needed more than a lack of radiation to survive. I decided to head south, possibly to less snowy places. Good thing this watch had a compass. Something actually reasonable. Let's hope that it also has a cookbook too, I'm getting hungry. | We now return to tonight's featured History Channel documentary: *Auschwitz's* *Unknown* *Victims*, featuring guards who claim to have witnessed the murder of countless "Erscheinungen", who were said to have materialized inside of gas chambers wearing unusual garments. Stay tuned for new, History channel exclusive interviews with a man who claims to be one of these mysterious people.
----
"I was one of the lucky ones- my 'excecutioner' sent me back just a moment *before* they flooded the chamber with gas."
"They called me 'Erscheinung'-an apparition-and threw me to the cold concrete. They interrogated me for what seemed like several hours, before tossing me in a squalid, poorly-lit cell with four other men."
"Each of us had these tattooed onto our arms. [holds up arm]" (arm reads E0074)
edit: I added more so that it would fit the prompt.
|
|
[WP] Time travel exists, and a new form of capital punishment is introduced: Transporting the convict back to the worst, practically unsurvivable, places in human history to find yourself in. You are such a convict, and just got sent back. You will do anything to try and survive. | Eleven years alone in a room will do things to a person that little else will. From time to time, I heard the men in the other cells talking to themselves, to imaginary companions, proclaiming their innocence to anyone who would listen, and attempting to cheat the executioner of his task and failing. That was the one rule-- you did not get to take yourself out of the game. They did it, and they did it when they were ready. I assumed legal arguments, bureaucracy and the like were at work in some way, but it could just as easily be an engineered part of the experience. That was the worst part- not the imprisonment, not the death, the worst thing was our force-fed ignorance. Maybe that was just me.
You know what eleven years alone in a room will do to a person? It kills everything good in them, and leaves nothing but what they are at their core. Time erodes you and leaves your psychological frame bare to the elements. You loved music, your children, or your farm? Not anymore. What is love or kindness in the face of isolation and death? A memory, not a reality. If you want to know what makes a person tick, lock them up for a decade and they'll gladly enlighten you.
For the guy next door, that meant accessing romance novels on his Book and masturbating furiously at every opportunity. He was fond of informing the neighborhood of the details. The guy above me tried to steal an election from the folks who had rightfully purchased it. He talked a lot about justice, right and wrong that first year. By the second year, all he wanted was some goddamn nachos. Every minute of every day, it was nachos, right up till the moment they sent him. Some grim moment in history was graced by a once-idealistic middle aged man, who doubtlessly shrieked for nachos and then died without a shred of dignity. Proof the system works.
What remained in my case was the animal desire to live. I had that. I also had my Book.
The Books were censored heavily. Nothing current, nothing relevant, and no way to communicate with the outside world. But survival did not require communication. It required only a plan. So I planned. History books were plentiful, and I read them all. I read the balanced ones, the political diatribes, even the historical fictions. I read about the Dark Ages, the Crusades, all the wars, and the Final Fall. I made notes in my head, reviewed them, and recited whole chapters from memory. If I had the time and inclination, I could transcribe here the entirety of four books about the effects of the Black Plague on southwestern London. More importantly, I could describe ways of fabricating antibiotics and find a way to Poland without a map from anywhere in Europe. You didn't know the Plague spared Poland almost entirely? I knew. I picked up a bit of conversational Polish, just in case.
That would have been an easy one.
I'd always assumed they'd let us know what was happening. Maybe we'd get last rites or a pat on the back, who knew what I was expecting. What actually happened was that one evening (or day, the lights were never off), I fell asleep on my bedroll, and awoke to an air raid siren blowing an "all clear" signal. I was laying on a hospital bed, with a confused doctor standing over me. His clipboard bore Japanese characters. Knowing I'd have trouble passing as a Japanese man, I stood, shook the doctor's hand, and said "Danke".
I'd have questioned him further, but my location was pretty obvious. If you wanted to kill a person, there are few better places and times to leave them than 7:09 AM, August 6, 1945 in the Shima Surgical clinic in Hiroshima, Japan. The place was humble and not terribly memorable, which is probably why it came to be known to history as Ground Zero. The doctor had questions, but the "all clear" siren meant I had 66 minutes to locate a church in a land that did not trust foreigners.
Hiroshima did not look like a city at war. It was pleasant, the sort of place I might have lingered in if not for the impending destruction and the inherent distrust of tall white gentlemen. I noticed that I had period clothes, and wondered if it was a time travel thing, or an attempt to give me a fair shot. I suspected the former, because I think they might have given me a watch otherwise. A woman stared at me as I stormed out of the clinic, clutching her daughter close. I must have looked deranged, and my question could not have helped much.
"Where is the German church?" I asked, using the entirety of my Japanese vocabulary.
She only stared, so I picked a direction and ran. A moment later, I put the same question to a shopkeeper. This one, though frightened, managed to point in the direction from which I had come. I turned and ran again, hoping my urgency wouldn't worry him enough to summon the police.
Not long after I saw it, a humble Jesuit mission church attached to a private home. If the accounts I'd read were correct, the church would be destroyed, but some unknowable combination of factors would spare the house, and all inside it from both the blast and the subsequent fallout. The house was the only island in what would shortly become a sea of death.
Knowing my fate would involve death at some particularly unpleasant point in history, I had learned to speak German as well as a person who had never heard a word of it could. I entered the church, and explained to the man there that a bombing was incoming, and that I knew because I was an American soldier who had knowledge of it. He smiled, nodded, and asked me to leave. 25 precious minutes later, I'd succeeded in frightening him enough to get him into the residence, where a small group of Jesuit missionaries gathered around a table and stared at me. One of them offered me tea.
The wall clock said we had less than two minutes left when I heard the singing. The song was cheerful, and horrifying at the same time. Through the window, I saw a group of twenty or thirty children, led by a young woman, on their way to school, or some kind of outing. Two minutes meant no negotiating. I grabbed a knife from the Jesuit's counter and dashed outside with it. The last child in the group was a girl. her hair was an absolute mess but she smelled like mint. I remember that. Mint.
I lifted her carefully, and placed the knife at her throat.
I expected pandemonium, but nobody panicked. They stared at me, helpless. Someone shouted and ran for help. The young woman who was guiding the children gaped in horror as I indicated she should lead the children into the house, where the shocked Jesuits waited. She did this, but once inside, the missionaries mounted a counter-attack, and tried to escape. I held them off, and kept them inside the building. A hoe stood in the garden along the side of the house, and placed through the handle of the door, I was able to brace it against the building so it could not be opened.
It was about then that I heard the plane overhead, and remembered my situation. It's funny how you forget everything sometimes. The last thing I thought was that maybe you can't kill everything good inside a person, after all. | We now return to tonight's featured History Channel documentary: *Auschwitz's* *Unknown* *Victims*, featuring guards who claim to have witnessed the murder of countless "Erscheinungen", who were said to have materialized inside of gas chambers wearing unusual garments. Stay tuned for new, History channel exclusive interviews with a man who claims to be one of these mysterious people.
----
"I was one of the lucky ones- my 'excecutioner' sent me back just a moment *before* they flooded the chamber with gas."
"They called me 'Erscheinung'-an apparition-and threw me to the cold concrete. They interrogated me for what seemed like several hours, before tossing me in a squalid, poorly-lit cell with four other men."
"Each of us had these tattooed onto our arms. [holds up arm]" (arm reads E0074)
edit: I added more so that it would fit the prompt.
|
|
[WP] Time travel exists, and a new form of capital punishment is introduced: Transporting the convict back to the worst, practically unsurvivable, places in human history to find yourself in. You are such a convict, and just got sent back. You will do anything to try and survive. | I was still coming to terms with the fact that the bastards were actually going to send me back when the universe went sideways. I knew from my old college physics course that while the trip was instantaneous, the human mind responded by giving you the very distinct impression that you had just spent a not inconsiderable amount of time in emptiness.
For a split second upon my arrival I felt an immense weight settle on my psyche as if I had lived through countless eons in solitude. It was for this reason that I felt profound joy when my body spasmed and I went into shock, banishing all thought but survival.
Ever helpful, my Siri Implant gave me the facts that my beleaguered brain could not process:
*The Moon*
*"M-O-O-N that spells MOON"*, I thought, my brain rapidly depleting its oxygen supply.
*Sea of Tranquility, July 21st 2:56 UTC*
A moment of clarity, *"I am most definitely fucked"*
*The lander is in front of you. You are unable to see it due to the moisture in your eyes boiling off in the presence of the vacuum. I will patch in the transmission"*
***"That's one small step for..."***
*He has spotted you*
***"...man. One giant leap for mankind."*** | I can't believe it. The last thing I remember is the soldiers closing in. They were right on top of us..I lost a lot of good men. We were supposed to push up the east wing of the city to make way for the rest of our troops but they came outta no where! We didn't stand a chance. Fully armed soldiers? We barley had weapons.
"Next!" Shouts a voice down the hall
Rumors say that rebellion still lives. I don't know how after that defeat. We were no match for their pulse rifles and rail guns..it all when wrong so fast...
"NEXT!"
A guard in thick grey armor shoves me forward. She was an ancient woman but looked young. She sits above us with a smooth pale grey done above. She is one of the reasons we rebelled.
"You know your crimes against the state blah blah send him"
To tall strong men in the thick grey armor walk me forward and attach the nodes on my arms and legs. They hover and are impossible to move.
There's a smack on what sounds like a symbol
"ARGH! NO I'M NOT GOING YOU CORRUPT B_______! I HAVE A FAMILY!"
I see the guards shields flicker and disappear. Tears fall down his face and the guards hit him so hard his skull almost caved in.
"F___in rebels" the guard next to me says
"Where am I going?"
"Wouldn't you like to know" he says with a smirk
Lights shift rapidly around me, from all over the color spectrum in solid colors. Its brilliant and wonderful, I've never seen such amazing colors!
*BWAH!!*
I fall about 6ft onto a black rock.
Where am I?
I look up. There are volcanoes everywhere and a lava river a few yards from here.
F____. Those b_______. I thought I'd at least have a chance. We don't deserve this. They controlled every aspect of our life! Even one infraction incurres lashings! Not even kissing was allowed without filling a f___ing form! The rich lived like kings, living and killing as they pleased. Taking organs from our bodies and making us fight to the death for their private pleasure! F___ them. I will survive.
I stand up.
*Cough! Hack!*
Its hot and there is all kinds of stuff floating around.
I just start walking. Passed between two mountains, jumped over a lava stream or two. Nothing. I climb the closest mountain. Its so hot..I could really use a glass of water right now. After almost two hours I reach the top with scorched hands. Nothing. Nothing is living. Nothing even exists. Just lava and mountains. How am I even alive?? I climb down the mountain and keep walking. I refuse to die. They will not win.
A few hours later night comes so I lay down on the hot earth. Stars fill the sky..we never could see any in our city. I wonder if any of our ET allies are up there at this time?
I try to sleep but its too hot and I'm thirsty. As I walk I come to a lava stream. It glow beautiful at night.
I catch a glare of something metal and look up. Its a ship! Its a freaking Ship! I run, as fast as I can, over the stream to the ship a 100 yds away. Its not like Imperial ships and its old. It's a shiny flattened tear shaped ship with unrecognizable words and quite dented. I walk around it and find a small circular opening. The crashed ship is in a bad position and I barely fit through. If I can find a body the chip in my brain can scan the language if I touch it. Gross but necessary. The ships stretches about 60 yards in length and the halls aren't tall. There are lights on so it's not that old. I enter a blast door that looks to be the bridge and as it opens two pair of startled eyes turn and meet mine. |
|
[WP] Time travel exists, and a new form of capital punishment is introduced: Transporting the convict back to the worst, practically unsurvivable, places in human history to find yourself in. You are such a convict, and just got sent back. You will do anything to try and survive. | I was not always this cruel. I was a kind guy. I remember who I was. I was a lawyer. Or was I? Doesn't matter. I like it here. I survived the hell and now I made the hell my heaven. Never again will I go without food. Never again will I sleep in pain and tears. Never again will I trust another soul. I was a nobody then. But now, all shall know my name. Fear my name. Those who sent me here, will never be born. I'll make sure of that. I'll make sure of that. Genghis will be a name no one will forget. I'll make sure of that. I'll make sure of that.
| I can't believe it. The last thing I remember is the soldiers closing in. They were right on top of us..I lost a lot of good men. We were supposed to push up the east wing of the city to make way for the rest of our troops but they came outta no where! We didn't stand a chance. Fully armed soldiers? We barley had weapons.
"Next!" Shouts a voice down the hall
Rumors say that rebellion still lives. I don't know how after that defeat. We were no match for their pulse rifles and rail guns..it all when wrong so fast...
"NEXT!"
A guard in thick grey armor shoves me forward. She was an ancient woman but looked young. She sits above us with a smooth pale grey done above. She is one of the reasons we rebelled.
"You know your crimes against the state blah blah send him"
To tall strong men in the thick grey armor walk me forward and attach the nodes on my arms and legs. They hover and are impossible to move.
There's a smack on what sounds like a symbol
"ARGH! NO I'M NOT GOING YOU CORRUPT B_______! I HAVE A FAMILY!"
I see the guards shields flicker and disappear. Tears fall down his face and the guards hit him so hard his skull almost caved in.
"F___in rebels" the guard next to me says
"Where am I going?"
"Wouldn't you like to know" he says with a smirk
Lights shift rapidly around me, from all over the color spectrum in solid colors. Its brilliant and wonderful, I've never seen such amazing colors!
*BWAH!!*
I fall about 6ft onto a black rock.
Where am I?
I look up. There are volcanoes everywhere and a lava river a few yards from here.
F____. Those b_______. I thought I'd at least have a chance. We don't deserve this. They controlled every aspect of our life! Even one infraction incurres lashings! Not even kissing was allowed without filling a f___ing form! The rich lived like kings, living and killing as they pleased. Taking organs from our bodies and making us fight to the death for their private pleasure! F___ them. I will survive.
I stand up.
*Cough! Hack!*
Its hot and there is all kinds of stuff floating around.
I just start walking. Passed between two mountains, jumped over a lava stream or two. Nothing. I climb the closest mountain. Its so hot..I could really use a glass of water right now. After almost two hours I reach the top with scorched hands. Nothing. Nothing is living. Nothing even exists. Just lava and mountains. How am I even alive?? I climb down the mountain and keep walking. I refuse to die. They will not win.
A few hours later night comes so I lay down on the hot earth. Stars fill the sky..we never could see any in our city. I wonder if any of our ET allies are up there at this time?
I try to sleep but its too hot and I'm thirsty. As I walk I come to a lava stream. It glow beautiful at night.
I catch a glare of something metal and look up. Its a ship! Its a freaking Ship! I run, as fast as I can, over the stream to the ship a 100 yds away. Its not like Imperial ships and its old. It's a shiny flattened tear shaped ship with unrecognizable words and quite dented. I walk around it and find a small circular opening. The crashed ship is in a bad position and I barely fit through. If I can find a body the chip in my brain can scan the language if I touch it. Gross but necessary. The ships stretches about 60 yards in length and the halls aren't tall. There are lights on so it's not that old. I enter a blast door that looks to be the bridge and as it opens two pair of startled eyes turn and meet mine. |
|
[WP] Time travel exists, and a new form of capital punishment is introduced: Transporting the convict back to the worst, practically unsurvivable, places in human history to find yourself in. You are such a convict, and just got sent back. You will do anything to try and survive. | As the judge’s gavel slammed down for the final time I felt relieved by the sentence I’d been given. Rather than face the chair I would be sent back in time. Being sent back was actually pretty standard punishment for some of the less gruesome murders that were committed. It solved a few problems that traditional prisons couldn’t. The first of which was the actual cost of keeping a prisoner. Did you know that it costs around $150’000 per year to keep a prisoner locked up? Well, not any more. Zap that would-be prisoner back to the dark ages and you just saved yourself a lot of money. Secondly it got rid of the prisoner. Families of victims felt like they’d received justice. The man, in my case, who’d killed their daughter, would be shot back to a dangerous point in history for that man to be alive. Of course, the period in which you were exiled to varied on the crime. I was expecting to be sent somewhere completely inhospitable where death was almost a certainty. Despite this, I was sort of looking forward to the experience – some people paid a lot of money to travel through time.
As I was lead from the courtroom I asked the officer escorting me where I was going to be sent. We’d gotten to know each other quite well over the course of the trial and I had hoped he’d be able to provide some insight.
“Oh now come on George, you know I can’t tell you that.”
“You can tell me Sir, nobody will know it was you that told me” I pleaded.
“Where would you like to be sent?” It was an interesting question and one that I hadn’t really thought about.
“How about the Bahamas 10 years ago? With a local woman wearing a bra made of coconuts serving me cocktails on the beach” I said jokingly. Officer Gates raised his eyebrows, hinting that he was genuinely curious and wanted a serious answer. I liked him somewhat so decided to humour him.
“Well,” I continued, “I have committed a terrible crime. I imagine wherever I’m sent I’ll have a slim chance of survival. I’d like to think I’d have some chance though. If I was sent to a concentration camp I could plan an escape or maybe kill one of the guards and steal his weapon. Although being in a warzone wouldn’t be too bad. We both know I like killing so I think World War I would be a punishment that would leave all parties satisfied. Would you agree?”
We were stood outside of my cell door. I was told I’d spend a final 24 hours here while they organised my time travel trip. Officer Gates looked me in the eyes in such a way that I felt like he was trying to speak to me. He turned to open my cell door and the bolt drew back with a heavy clunk. As I stepped into the cell he finally spoke.
“George, I can tell you that you’re not going to be a soldier. I’d estimate your chance of survival to be about 1%, if that. However, as I stand here now and look into your eyes I still see a desire to survive. It’s like you’re excited about this, like it’s an adventure. Maybe if you knew where you were going you wouldn’t be so excited but I imagine that when you get there you’ll do your best to survive. I almost wish I could be there to see how you react.”
Officer Gates paused briefly and allowed the reverberations of his voice to settle. He looked at me again, laughed to himself as he shook his head and then closed the heavy cell door with a thud that reminded me there was no escape.
“I’ll see you tomorrow George,” he called, “you’re going to get a hell of a shock when you find out.”
| I can't believe it. The last thing I remember is the soldiers closing in. They were right on top of us..I lost a lot of good men. We were supposed to push up the east wing of the city to make way for the rest of our troops but they came outta no where! We didn't stand a chance. Fully armed soldiers? We barley had weapons.
"Next!" Shouts a voice down the hall
Rumors say that rebellion still lives. I don't know how after that defeat. We were no match for their pulse rifles and rail guns..it all when wrong so fast...
"NEXT!"
A guard in thick grey armor shoves me forward. She was an ancient woman but looked young. She sits above us with a smooth pale grey done above. She is one of the reasons we rebelled.
"You know your crimes against the state blah blah send him"
To tall strong men in the thick grey armor walk me forward and attach the nodes on my arms and legs. They hover and are impossible to move.
There's a smack on what sounds like a symbol
"ARGH! NO I'M NOT GOING YOU CORRUPT B_______! I HAVE A FAMILY!"
I see the guards shields flicker and disappear. Tears fall down his face and the guards hit him so hard his skull almost caved in.
"F___in rebels" the guard next to me says
"Where am I going?"
"Wouldn't you like to know" he says with a smirk
Lights shift rapidly around me, from all over the color spectrum in solid colors. Its brilliant and wonderful, I've never seen such amazing colors!
*BWAH!!*
I fall about 6ft onto a black rock.
Where am I?
I look up. There are volcanoes everywhere and a lava river a few yards from here.
F____. Those b_______. I thought I'd at least have a chance. We don't deserve this. They controlled every aspect of our life! Even one infraction incurres lashings! Not even kissing was allowed without filling a f___ing form! The rich lived like kings, living and killing as they pleased. Taking organs from our bodies and making us fight to the death for their private pleasure! F___ them. I will survive.
I stand up.
*Cough! Hack!*
Its hot and there is all kinds of stuff floating around.
I just start walking. Passed between two mountains, jumped over a lava stream or two. Nothing. I climb the closest mountain. Its so hot..I could really use a glass of water right now. After almost two hours I reach the top with scorched hands. Nothing. Nothing is living. Nothing even exists. Just lava and mountains. How am I even alive?? I climb down the mountain and keep walking. I refuse to die. They will not win.
A few hours later night comes so I lay down on the hot earth. Stars fill the sky..we never could see any in our city. I wonder if any of our ET allies are up there at this time?
I try to sleep but its too hot and I'm thirsty. As I walk I come to a lava stream. It glow beautiful at night.
I catch a glare of something metal and look up. Its a ship! Its a freaking Ship! I run, as fast as I can, over the stream to the ship a 100 yds away. Its not like Imperial ships and its old. It's a shiny flattened tear shaped ship with unrecognizable words and quite dented. I walk around it and find a small circular opening. The crashed ship is in a bad position and I barely fit through. If I can find a body the chip in my brain can scan the language if I touch it. Gross but necessary. The ships stretches about 60 yards in length and the halls aren't tall. There are lights on so it's not that old. I enter a blast door that looks to be the bridge and as it opens two pair of startled eyes turn and meet mine. |
|
[WP] Time travel exists, and a new form of capital punishment is introduced: Transporting the convict back to the worst, practically unsurvivable, places in human history to find yourself in. You are such a convict, and just got sent back. You will do anything to try and survive. | “Thirty seconds!” shouted Captain Porter.
The slow and steady rise and fall of the landing boat made me sick. I held my Thompson submachine gun closer to my body with every splash from each incorrectly aimed artillery shell. The weight, the sturdiness, the cold metal, and the hardwood calmed my fraying nerves.
I really did not want to kill him. He hurt my pride, and I was wasted. I hit him and he hit his head on the pavement. I swear I did not mean to kill him. I just wanted to hurt him. The jury deliberated for an hour, and the judge was unsympathetic.
“You are a despicable coward”, he said, his jowls shaking with vitriol, “but I will give you a chance at redemption. You will die with some of the bravest men in history.”
”Ten seconds!” shouted Captain Porter.
I could hear the machine guns now. I had never set foot in France before. I was not used to my heavy wool uniform.
Captain Porter blew his whistle.
The gate dropped and the sound of bullets felled the three rows of men ahead of me. I felt a burning pain in my gut. Steel met steel as I dropped helmet first to the deck of the boat. I felt the boots climbing over my back. A second later I felt the full weight of a body. I felt cold.
Then I felt nothing.
| I can't believe it. The last thing I remember is the soldiers closing in. They were right on top of us..I lost a lot of good men. We were supposed to push up the east wing of the city to make way for the rest of our troops but they came outta no where! We didn't stand a chance. Fully armed soldiers? We barley had weapons.
"Next!" Shouts a voice down the hall
Rumors say that rebellion still lives. I don't know how after that defeat. We were no match for their pulse rifles and rail guns..it all when wrong so fast...
"NEXT!"
A guard in thick grey armor shoves me forward. She was an ancient woman but looked young. She sits above us with a smooth pale grey done above. She is one of the reasons we rebelled.
"You know your crimes against the state blah blah send him"
To tall strong men in the thick grey armor walk me forward and attach the nodes on my arms and legs. They hover and are impossible to move.
There's a smack on what sounds like a symbol
"ARGH! NO I'M NOT GOING YOU CORRUPT B_______! I HAVE A FAMILY!"
I see the guards shields flicker and disappear. Tears fall down his face and the guards hit him so hard his skull almost caved in.
"F___in rebels" the guard next to me says
"Where am I going?"
"Wouldn't you like to know" he says with a smirk
Lights shift rapidly around me, from all over the color spectrum in solid colors. Its brilliant and wonderful, I've never seen such amazing colors!
*BWAH!!*
I fall about 6ft onto a black rock.
Where am I?
I look up. There are volcanoes everywhere and a lava river a few yards from here.
F____. Those b_______. I thought I'd at least have a chance. We don't deserve this. They controlled every aspect of our life! Even one infraction incurres lashings! Not even kissing was allowed without filling a f___ing form! The rich lived like kings, living and killing as they pleased. Taking organs from our bodies and making us fight to the death for their private pleasure! F___ them. I will survive.
I stand up.
*Cough! Hack!*
Its hot and there is all kinds of stuff floating around.
I just start walking. Passed between two mountains, jumped over a lava stream or two. Nothing. I climb the closest mountain. Its so hot..I could really use a glass of water right now. After almost two hours I reach the top with scorched hands. Nothing. Nothing is living. Nothing even exists. Just lava and mountains. How am I even alive?? I climb down the mountain and keep walking. I refuse to die. They will not win.
A few hours later night comes so I lay down on the hot earth. Stars fill the sky..we never could see any in our city. I wonder if any of our ET allies are up there at this time?
I try to sleep but its too hot and I'm thirsty. As I walk I come to a lava stream. It glow beautiful at night.
I catch a glare of something metal and look up. Its a ship! Its a freaking Ship! I run, as fast as I can, over the stream to the ship a 100 yds away. Its not like Imperial ships and its old. It's a shiny flattened tear shaped ship with unrecognizable words and quite dented. I walk around it and find a small circular opening. The crashed ship is in a bad position and I barely fit through. If I can find a body the chip in my brain can scan the language if I touch it. Gross but necessary. The ships stretches about 60 yards in length and the halls aren't tall. There are lights on so it's not that old. I enter a blast door that looks to be the bridge and as it opens two pair of startled eyes turn and meet mine. |
|
[WP] Time travel exists, and a new form of capital punishment is introduced: Transporting the convict back to the worst, practically unsurvivable, places in human history to find yourself in. You are such a convict, and just got sent back. You will do anything to try and survive. | The guard of my cell smirked at me as I was led away. "Have fun," he said. "I won't miss you."
I laughed tiredly. "Right back at you."
The two guards behind me pushed me into a white room. Sitting before me was a metal chair. It looked like an old electric chair, the type they'd used before time travel came around. But I knew that this was no electric chair.
I sat down. The cuffs slid from the armrests, encircling my arms, locking them in.
The guards stepped out of the room.
"Good morning, Mr. Jones," came a voice from the loudspeaker. "I hope you are prepared for your trip back in time. It won't be pleasant, to say the least. I..."
I zoned out. The voice rambled on for a minute longer. Then it said, "Well, goodbye." I heard it mutter, "We're glad to be rid of you."
I sat still, smirking carelessly. Inside, I was slightly terrified. I had no idea where- *when*, rather- they were sending me. But I had made a solemn promise to myself. I was going to survive at all costs.
The room hummed. The chair glowed. For a moment, I felt nothing. Then light filled my vision, piercing light, tearing into my eyes, blinding me. Excruciating pain filled me. I felt that I was being slowly torn apart, cooked, and blended, all at the same time.
The pain lasted an eternity. I howled and writhed, all rational thought leaving my mind, leaving nothing but the pain. Then suddenly, it was gone.
I was in the middle of a forest. The chair had become brittle under the stress of the travel- I broke free of the cuffs easily. I stood up, stretched, and tried to discern exactly when I was.
I was standing in the middle of a lush green forest. Towering trunks surrounded me. Beautiful flora bloomed in the undergrowth. I could see the sky through the trees.
Usually, they sent people to a hard-to-survive place in history. But this didn't look like it would be hard to live in at all, I thought. I could build tools, hunt, and-
I heard a low growl from behind me. I froze. I slowly turned around and found myself staring into the face of a giant lizard.
The lizard was a brownish-green color. It had a single brown feather atop its head. It stood on two legs. It slunk out of the undergrowth, still growling. Its feet were adorned with claws; two massive black arcs, one on each foot. Its arms each had three long claws at the end of them. I was sure it could slice me open or devour me easily.
The lizard crept closer. No, not lizard. I wasn't stupid. This was no lizard.
They'd sent me back to the time of the dinosaurs.
It hissed, and my resolve broke. I turned and ran. I heard it snarl, and then a heavy weight landed on my back. I tumbled to the ground. A searing pain filled me. It had sliced my spine. I couldn't move, could hardly breathe.
The dinosaur rolled me over. I cried out in agony. Through pain-filled eyes, I saw it tilt its head. Then it bent down and closed its jaws around my throat.
(Yeah, yeah, I broke the prompt. It was supposed to be somewhere in "human history", not just "history". Oh well. Humanity's ancestors lived back then, so it could count, I guess. And yes, I used a "Jurassic Park"-style Velociraptor, big and without feathers. Whatever.) | I can't believe it. The last thing I remember is the soldiers closing in. They were right on top of us..I lost a lot of good men. We were supposed to push up the east wing of the city to make way for the rest of our troops but they came outta no where! We didn't stand a chance. Fully armed soldiers? We barley had weapons.
"Next!" Shouts a voice down the hall
Rumors say that rebellion still lives. I don't know how after that defeat. We were no match for their pulse rifles and rail guns..it all when wrong so fast...
"NEXT!"
A guard in thick grey armor shoves me forward. She was an ancient woman but looked young. She sits above us with a smooth pale grey done above. She is one of the reasons we rebelled.
"You know your crimes against the state blah blah send him"
To tall strong men in the thick grey armor walk me forward and attach the nodes on my arms and legs. They hover and are impossible to move.
There's a smack on what sounds like a symbol
"ARGH! NO I'M NOT GOING YOU CORRUPT B_______! I HAVE A FAMILY!"
I see the guards shields flicker and disappear. Tears fall down his face and the guards hit him so hard his skull almost caved in.
"F___in rebels" the guard next to me says
"Where am I going?"
"Wouldn't you like to know" he says with a smirk
Lights shift rapidly around me, from all over the color spectrum in solid colors. Its brilliant and wonderful, I've never seen such amazing colors!
*BWAH!!*
I fall about 6ft onto a black rock.
Where am I?
I look up. There are volcanoes everywhere and a lava river a few yards from here.
F____. Those b_______. I thought I'd at least have a chance. We don't deserve this. They controlled every aspect of our life! Even one infraction incurres lashings! Not even kissing was allowed without filling a f___ing form! The rich lived like kings, living and killing as they pleased. Taking organs from our bodies and making us fight to the death for their private pleasure! F___ them. I will survive.
I stand up.
*Cough! Hack!*
Its hot and there is all kinds of stuff floating around.
I just start walking. Passed between two mountains, jumped over a lava stream or two. Nothing. I climb the closest mountain. Its so hot..I could really use a glass of water right now. After almost two hours I reach the top with scorched hands. Nothing. Nothing is living. Nothing even exists. Just lava and mountains. How am I even alive?? I climb down the mountain and keep walking. I refuse to die. They will not win.
A few hours later night comes so I lay down on the hot earth. Stars fill the sky..we never could see any in our city. I wonder if any of our ET allies are up there at this time?
I try to sleep but its too hot and I'm thirsty. As I walk I come to a lava stream. It glow beautiful at night.
I catch a glare of something metal and look up. Its a ship! Its a freaking Ship! I run, as fast as I can, over the stream to the ship a 100 yds away. Its not like Imperial ships and its old. It's a shiny flattened tear shaped ship with unrecognizable words and quite dented. I walk around it and find a small circular opening. The crashed ship is in a bad position and I barely fit through. If I can find a body the chip in my brain can scan the language if I touch it. Gross but necessary. The ships stretches about 60 yards in length and the halls aren't tall. There are lights on so it's not that old. I enter a blast door that looks to be the bridge and as it opens two pair of startled eyes turn and meet mine. |
|
[WP] Time travel exists, and a new form of capital punishment is introduced: Transporting the convict back to the worst, practically unsurvivable, places in human history to find yourself in. You are such a convict, and just got sent back. You will do anything to try and survive. | Eleven years alone in a room will do things to a person that little else will. From time to time, I heard the men in the other cells talking to themselves, to imaginary companions, proclaiming their innocence to anyone who would listen, and attempting to cheat the executioner of his task and failing. That was the one rule-- you did not get to take yourself out of the game. They did it, and they did it when they were ready. I assumed legal arguments, bureaucracy and the like were at work in some way, but it could just as easily be an engineered part of the experience. That was the worst part- not the imprisonment, not the death, the worst thing was our force-fed ignorance. Maybe that was just me.
You know what eleven years alone in a room will do to a person? It kills everything good in them, and leaves nothing but what they are at their core. Time erodes you and leaves your psychological frame bare to the elements. You loved music, your children, or your farm? Not anymore. What is love or kindness in the face of isolation and death? A memory, not a reality. If you want to know what makes a person tick, lock them up for a decade and they'll gladly enlighten you.
For the guy next door, that meant accessing romance novels on his Book and masturbating furiously at every opportunity. He was fond of informing the neighborhood of the details. The guy above me tried to steal an election from the folks who had rightfully purchased it. He talked a lot about justice, right and wrong that first year. By the second year, all he wanted was some goddamn nachos. Every minute of every day, it was nachos, right up till the moment they sent him. Some grim moment in history was graced by a once-idealistic middle aged man, who doubtlessly shrieked for nachos and then died without a shred of dignity. Proof the system works.
What remained in my case was the animal desire to live. I had that. I also had my Book.
The Books were censored heavily. Nothing current, nothing relevant, and no way to communicate with the outside world. But survival did not require communication. It required only a plan. So I planned. History books were plentiful, and I read them all. I read the balanced ones, the political diatribes, even the historical fictions. I read about the Dark Ages, the Crusades, all the wars, and the Final Fall. I made notes in my head, reviewed them, and recited whole chapters from memory. If I had the time and inclination, I could transcribe here the entirety of four books about the effects of the Black Plague on southwestern London. More importantly, I could describe ways of fabricating antibiotics and find a way to Poland without a map from anywhere in Europe. You didn't know the Plague spared Poland almost entirely? I knew. I picked up a bit of conversational Polish, just in case.
That would have been an easy one.
I'd always assumed they'd let us know what was happening. Maybe we'd get last rites or a pat on the back, who knew what I was expecting. What actually happened was that one evening (or day, the lights were never off), I fell asleep on my bedroll, and awoke to an air raid siren blowing an "all clear" signal. I was laying on a hospital bed, with a confused doctor standing over me. His clipboard bore Japanese characters. Knowing I'd have trouble passing as a Japanese man, I stood, shook the doctor's hand, and said "Danke".
I'd have questioned him further, but my location was pretty obvious. If you wanted to kill a person, there are few better places and times to leave them than 7:09 AM, August 6, 1945 in the Shima Surgical clinic in Hiroshima, Japan. The place was humble and not terribly memorable, which is probably why it came to be known to history as Ground Zero. The doctor had questions, but the "all clear" siren meant I had 66 minutes to locate a church in a land that did not trust foreigners.
Hiroshima did not look like a city at war. It was pleasant, the sort of place I might have lingered in if not for the impending destruction and the inherent distrust of tall white gentlemen. I noticed that I had period clothes, and wondered if it was a time travel thing, or an attempt to give me a fair shot. I suspected the former, because I think they might have given me a watch otherwise. A woman stared at me as I stormed out of the clinic, clutching her daughter close. I must have looked deranged, and my question could not have helped much.
"Where is the German church?" I asked, using the entirety of my Japanese vocabulary.
She only stared, so I picked a direction and ran. A moment later, I put the same question to a shopkeeper. This one, though frightened, managed to point in the direction from which I had come. I turned and ran again, hoping my urgency wouldn't worry him enough to summon the police.
Not long after I saw it, a humble Jesuit mission church attached to a private home. If the accounts I'd read were correct, the church would be destroyed, but some unknowable combination of factors would spare the house, and all inside it from both the blast and the subsequent fallout. The house was the only island in what would shortly become a sea of death.
Knowing my fate would involve death at some particularly unpleasant point in history, I had learned to speak German as well as a person who had never heard a word of it could. I entered the church, and explained to the man there that a bombing was incoming, and that I knew because I was an American soldier who had knowledge of it. He smiled, nodded, and asked me to leave. 25 precious minutes later, I'd succeeded in frightening him enough to get him into the residence, where a small group of Jesuit missionaries gathered around a table and stared at me. One of them offered me tea.
The wall clock said we had less than two minutes left when I heard the singing. The song was cheerful, and horrifying at the same time. Through the window, I saw a group of twenty or thirty children, led by a young woman, on their way to school, or some kind of outing. Two minutes meant no negotiating. I grabbed a knife from the Jesuit's counter and dashed outside with it. The last child in the group was a girl. her hair was an absolute mess but she smelled like mint. I remember that. Mint.
I lifted her carefully, and placed the knife at her throat.
I expected pandemonium, but nobody panicked. They stared at me, helpless. Someone shouted and ran for help. The young woman who was guiding the children gaped in horror as I indicated she should lead the children into the house, where the shocked Jesuits waited. She did this, but once inside, the missionaries mounted a counter-attack, and tried to escape. I held them off, and kept them inside the building. A hoe stood in the garden along the side of the house, and placed through the handle of the door, I was able to brace it against the building so it could not be opened.
It was about then that I heard the plane overhead, and remembered my situation. It's funny how you forget everything sometimes. The last thing I thought was that maybe you can't kill everything good inside a person, after all. | I can't believe it. The last thing I remember is the soldiers closing in. They were right on top of us..I lost a lot of good men. We were supposed to push up the east wing of the city to make way for the rest of our troops but they came outta no where! We didn't stand a chance. Fully armed soldiers? We barley had weapons.
"Next!" Shouts a voice down the hall
Rumors say that rebellion still lives. I don't know how after that defeat. We were no match for their pulse rifles and rail guns..it all when wrong so fast...
"NEXT!"
A guard in thick grey armor shoves me forward. She was an ancient woman but looked young. She sits above us with a smooth pale grey done above. She is one of the reasons we rebelled.
"You know your crimes against the state blah blah send him"
To tall strong men in the thick grey armor walk me forward and attach the nodes on my arms and legs. They hover and are impossible to move.
There's a smack on what sounds like a symbol
"ARGH! NO I'M NOT GOING YOU CORRUPT B_______! I HAVE A FAMILY!"
I see the guards shields flicker and disappear. Tears fall down his face and the guards hit him so hard his skull almost caved in.
"F___in rebels" the guard next to me says
"Where am I going?"
"Wouldn't you like to know" he says with a smirk
Lights shift rapidly around me, from all over the color spectrum in solid colors. Its brilliant and wonderful, I've never seen such amazing colors!
*BWAH!!*
I fall about 6ft onto a black rock.
Where am I?
I look up. There are volcanoes everywhere and a lava river a few yards from here.
F____. Those b_______. I thought I'd at least have a chance. We don't deserve this. They controlled every aspect of our life! Even one infraction incurres lashings! Not even kissing was allowed without filling a f___ing form! The rich lived like kings, living and killing as they pleased. Taking organs from our bodies and making us fight to the death for their private pleasure! F___ them. I will survive.
I stand up.
*Cough! Hack!*
Its hot and there is all kinds of stuff floating around.
I just start walking. Passed between two mountains, jumped over a lava stream or two. Nothing. I climb the closest mountain. Its so hot..I could really use a glass of water right now. After almost two hours I reach the top with scorched hands. Nothing. Nothing is living. Nothing even exists. Just lava and mountains. How am I even alive?? I climb down the mountain and keep walking. I refuse to die. They will not win.
A few hours later night comes so I lay down on the hot earth. Stars fill the sky..we never could see any in our city. I wonder if any of our ET allies are up there at this time?
I try to sleep but its too hot and I'm thirsty. As I walk I come to a lava stream. It glow beautiful at night.
I catch a glare of something metal and look up. Its a ship! Its a freaking Ship! I run, as fast as I can, over the stream to the ship a 100 yds away. Its not like Imperial ships and its old. It's a shiny flattened tear shaped ship with unrecognizable words and quite dented. I walk around it and find a small circular opening. The crashed ship is in a bad position and I barely fit through. If I can find a body the chip in my brain can scan the language if I touch it. Gross but necessary. The ships stretches about 60 yards in length and the halls aren't tall. There are lights on so it's not that old. I enter a blast door that looks to be the bridge and as it opens two pair of startled eyes turn and meet mine. |
|
[WP] Time travel exists, and a new form of capital punishment is introduced: Transporting the convict back to the worst, practically unsurvivable, places in human history to find yourself in. You are such a convict, and just got sent back. You will do anything to try and survive. | As the judge’s gavel slammed down for the final time I felt relieved by the sentence I’d been given. Rather than face the chair I would be sent back in time. Being sent back was actually pretty standard punishment for some of the less gruesome murders that were committed. It solved a few problems that traditional prisons couldn’t. The first of which was the actual cost of keeping a prisoner. Did you know that it costs around $150’000 per year to keep a prisoner locked up? Well, not any more. Zap that would-be prisoner back to the dark ages and you just saved yourself a lot of money. Secondly it got rid of the prisoner. Families of victims felt like they’d received justice. The man, in my case, who’d killed their daughter, would be shot back to a dangerous point in history for that man to be alive. Of course, the period in which you were exiled to varied on the crime. I was expecting to be sent somewhere completely inhospitable where death was almost a certainty. Despite this, I was sort of looking forward to the experience – some people paid a lot of money to travel through time.
As I was lead from the courtroom I asked the officer escorting me where I was going to be sent. We’d gotten to know each other quite well over the course of the trial and I had hoped he’d be able to provide some insight.
“Oh now come on George, you know I can’t tell you that.”
“You can tell me Sir, nobody will know it was you that told me” I pleaded.
“Where would you like to be sent?” It was an interesting question and one that I hadn’t really thought about.
“How about the Bahamas 10 years ago? With a local woman wearing a bra made of coconuts serving me cocktails on the beach” I said jokingly. Officer Gates raised his eyebrows, hinting that he was genuinely curious and wanted a serious answer. I liked him somewhat so decided to humour him.
“Well,” I continued, “I have committed a terrible crime. I imagine wherever I’m sent I’ll have a slim chance of survival. I’d like to think I’d have some chance though. If I was sent to a concentration camp I could plan an escape or maybe kill one of the guards and steal his weapon. Although being in a warzone wouldn’t be too bad. We both know I like killing so I think World War I would be a punishment that would leave all parties satisfied. Would you agree?”
We were stood outside of my cell door. I was told I’d spend a final 24 hours here while they organised my time travel trip. Officer Gates looked me in the eyes in such a way that I felt like he was trying to speak to me. He turned to open my cell door and the bolt drew back with a heavy clunk. As I stepped into the cell he finally spoke.
“George, I can tell you that you’re not going to be a soldier. I’d estimate your chance of survival to be about 1%, if that. However, as I stand here now and look into your eyes I still see a desire to survive. It’s like you’re excited about this, like it’s an adventure. Maybe if you knew where you were going you wouldn’t be so excited but I imagine that when you get there you’ll do your best to survive. I almost wish I could be there to see how you react.”
Officer Gates paused briefly and allowed the reverberations of his voice to settle. He looked at me again, laughed to himself as he shook his head and then closed the heavy cell door with a thud that reminded me there was no escape.
“I’ll see you tomorrow George,” he called, “you’re going to get a hell of a shock when you find out.”
| Clack, clack, clack.
With the grim determination of a man fighting for his life, my fingers slam down against the buttons. My vision is blurry. I am fatigued. But to make a mistake would mean even more torture, more pain... so I swallow another mouthful of drugs and redouble my efforts. Keep my focus. I have to keep things in order, keep my newly calloused fingers twitching in the right rhythm, work harder than I ever have in my entire life... and I have to do this for as long as I want to live.
Clack, clack, clack.
But even as I focus, my mind can't help but drift to my past, and this world's future. Every day it recedes further from my memory... I used to live above the clouds, like a god. Machines were our servants. Now? Now instructing the machines is its own form of slavery. To think these apes are our ancestors...
As one approaches me, I struggle not to recoil. I share no kinship with these creatures - to look upon one is like an ape looking upon a jellyfish. But would the ape envy the jellyfish? The savage before me is fat with the fruits of his labors. This is his world, and the primitive thrives where I struggle. He speaks to me with talk of his entertainment, the delusions that obsess him between his own spate of torment, the fever-dream savages who bend to his will and carry out his orders. I nod my head, I smile to show I mean no threat... soon, he leaves to fill his drug-container anew.
And my fingers strike again.
The distraction was brief, but effective. Try as I might, the will to labor will return when it wants to. I glance outside the hole they've gashed in the wall... and I cannot see the sky. I see the work of slaves and madmen, piles upon piles of hewn stonework reaching hopelessly towards a sky that all but their bravest will take a century to touch. But among the stone, I see fire... and it inspires me to press on. Reminds me, I was sent here to be extinguished... and every day I live is another day my people's sentence is thwarted. So I ignore the scent of burnt tar and trash that fills this village and continue my work. I may not have hope, but I have spite, and that is all I need.
Time passes, and soon the apes around me begin to shamble in a way I've grown familiar with. Wordlessly I draw my fingers back and rise to join them - what respite these primitives offer, I cannot afford to dismiss. I follow them outside to look upon a sky the sun is already fleeing. As I walk towards what is now my home, I think to myself of a future robbed from me... a world of sky-hewn palaces, of automaton servants, of a world where pressing a button with more than a single finger was cruel madness. And I find myself wondering if I can survive, knowing I will never see that world again.
I draw in a breath. I remember the spite.
They thought they were sentencing a man to death in this world? But they didn't send a mere man back in time.
I lift my head and look at the world that is my punishment, and I smile.
"Meet George Jetson," I murmur beneath my breath.
And I walk into my future. |
|
[WP] Time travel exists, and a new form of capital punishment is introduced: Transporting the convict back to the worst, practically unsurvivable, places in human history to find yourself in. You are such a convict, and just got sent back. You will do anything to try and survive. | The guard of my cell smirked at me as I was led away. "Have fun," he said. "I won't miss you."
I laughed tiredly. "Right back at you."
The two guards behind me pushed me into a white room. Sitting before me was a metal chair. It looked like an old electric chair, the type they'd used before time travel came around. But I knew that this was no electric chair.
I sat down. The cuffs slid from the armrests, encircling my arms, locking them in.
The guards stepped out of the room.
"Good morning, Mr. Jones," came a voice from the loudspeaker. "I hope you are prepared for your trip back in time. It won't be pleasant, to say the least. I..."
I zoned out. The voice rambled on for a minute longer. Then it said, "Well, goodbye." I heard it mutter, "We're glad to be rid of you."
I sat still, smirking carelessly. Inside, I was slightly terrified. I had no idea where- *when*, rather- they were sending me. But I had made a solemn promise to myself. I was going to survive at all costs.
The room hummed. The chair glowed. For a moment, I felt nothing. Then light filled my vision, piercing light, tearing into my eyes, blinding me. Excruciating pain filled me. I felt that I was being slowly torn apart, cooked, and blended, all at the same time.
The pain lasted an eternity. I howled and writhed, all rational thought leaving my mind, leaving nothing but the pain. Then suddenly, it was gone.
I was in the middle of a forest. The chair had become brittle under the stress of the travel- I broke free of the cuffs easily. I stood up, stretched, and tried to discern exactly when I was.
I was standing in the middle of a lush green forest. Towering trunks surrounded me. Beautiful flora bloomed in the undergrowth. I could see the sky through the trees.
Usually, they sent people to a hard-to-survive place in history. But this didn't look like it would be hard to live in at all, I thought. I could build tools, hunt, and-
I heard a low growl from behind me. I froze. I slowly turned around and found myself staring into the face of a giant lizard.
The lizard was a brownish-green color. It had a single brown feather atop its head. It stood on two legs. It slunk out of the undergrowth, still growling. Its feet were adorned with claws; two massive black arcs, one on each foot. Its arms each had three long claws at the end of them. I was sure it could slice me open or devour me easily.
The lizard crept closer. No, not lizard. I wasn't stupid. This was no lizard.
They'd sent me back to the time of the dinosaurs.
It hissed, and my resolve broke. I turned and ran. I heard it snarl, and then a heavy weight landed on my back. I tumbled to the ground. A searing pain filled me. It had sliced my spine. I couldn't move, could hardly breathe.
The dinosaur rolled me over. I cried out in agony. Through pain-filled eyes, I saw it tilt its head. Then it bent down and closed its jaws around my throat.
(Yeah, yeah, I broke the prompt. It was supposed to be somewhere in "human history", not just "history". Oh well. Humanity's ancestors lived back then, so it could count, I guess. And yes, I used a "Jurassic Park"-style Velociraptor, big and without feathers. Whatever.) | Clack, clack, clack.
With the grim determination of a man fighting for his life, my fingers slam down against the buttons. My vision is blurry. I am fatigued. But to make a mistake would mean even more torture, more pain... so I swallow another mouthful of drugs and redouble my efforts. Keep my focus. I have to keep things in order, keep my newly calloused fingers twitching in the right rhythm, work harder than I ever have in my entire life... and I have to do this for as long as I want to live.
Clack, clack, clack.
But even as I focus, my mind can't help but drift to my past, and this world's future. Every day it recedes further from my memory... I used to live above the clouds, like a god. Machines were our servants. Now? Now instructing the machines is its own form of slavery. To think these apes are our ancestors...
As one approaches me, I struggle not to recoil. I share no kinship with these creatures - to look upon one is like an ape looking upon a jellyfish. But would the ape envy the jellyfish? The savage before me is fat with the fruits of his labors. This is his world, and the primitive thrives where I struggle. He speaks to me with talk of his entertainment, the delusions that obsess him between his own spate of torment, the fever-dream savages who bend to his will and carry out his orders. I nod my head, I smile to show I mean no threat... soon, he leaves to fill his drug-container anew.
And my fingers strike again.
The distraction was brief, but effective. Try as I might, the will to labor will return when it wants to. I glance outside the hole they've gashed in the wall... and I cannot see the sky. I see the work of slaves and madmen, piles upon piles of hewn stonework reaching hopelessly towards a sky that all but their bravest will take a century to touch. But among the stone, I see fire... and it inspires me to press on. Reminds me, I was sent here to be extinguished... and every day I live is another day my people's sentence is thwarted. So I ignore the scent of burnt tar and trash that fills this village and continue my work. I may not have hope, but I have spite, and that is all I need.
Time passes, and soon the apes around me begin to shamble in a way I've grown familiar with. Wordlessly I draw my fingers back and rise to join them - what respite these primitives offer, I cannot afford to dismiss. I follow them outside to look upon a sky the sun is already fleeing. As I walk towards what is now my home, I think to myself of a future robbed from me... a world of sky-hewn palaces, of automaton servants, of a world where pressing a button with more than a single finger was cruel madness. And I find myself wondering if I can survive, knowing I will never see that world again.
I draw in a breath. I remember the spite.
They thought they were sentencing a man to death in this world? But they didn't send a mere man back in time.
I lift my head and look at the world that is my punishment, and I smile.
"Meet George Jetson," I murmur beneath my breath.
And I walk into my future. |
|
[WP] Time travel exists, and a new form of capital punishment is introduced: Transporting the convict back to the worst, practically unsurvivable, places in human history to find yourself in. You are such a convict, and just got sent back. You will do anything to try and survive. | “Thirty seconds!” shouted Captain Porter.
The slow and steady rise and fall of the landing boat made me sick. I held my Thompson submachine gun closer to my body with every splash from each incorrectly aimed artillery shell. The weight, the sturdiness, the cold metal, and the hardwood calmed my fraying nerves.
I really did not want to kill him. He hurt my pride, and I was wasted. I hit him and he hit his head on the pavement. I swear I did not mean to kill him. I just wanted to hurt him. The jury deliberated for an hour, and the judge was unsympathetic.
“You are a despicable coward”, he said, his jowls shaking with vitriol, “but I will give you a chance at redemption. You will die with some of the bravest men in history.”
”Ten seconds!” shouted Captain Porter.
I could hear the machine guns now. I had never set foot in France before. I was not used to my heavy wool uniform.
Captain Porter blew his whistle.
The gate dropped and the sound of bullets felled the three rows of men ahead of me. I felt a burning pain in my gut. Steel met steel as I dropped helmet first to the deck of the boat. I felt the boots climbing over my back. A second later I felt the full weight of a body. I felt cold.
Then I felt nothing.
| "Any last words charles?"
I looked my executioner in the eyes. "You will regret this. I promise"
The executioner chuckled lightly "Most people are rendered completely insane after time travel and are barely able to tie their shoes. No way in hell anyone will be afraid of you."
I just smirked. I'm a socially gifted mass murderer. It's all I know, its all I will be. I enjoy it.
A flash of light and I am transported to an unknown location at an unknown time. It's late.. or dark at least. The ground is solid. Cool breeze wafting through... a tunnel? I hear something. Or is it madness?... all of a sudden I am blinded by light and a horn sounds. I leap to the side narrowly escaping what should have been death. A large vihicle of some sort almost hit me. The vehicle stopped and a man emerged panicked. He half jogs over to me and a thick scent washes over me.
"Hey man! Are you alright?"
I lunge forward and grab him by the collar punching him in the face repeatedly until he is unconscious.
The vehicle is still running. Large, and box shaped I assume this is what they called a "van". I climb inside the cab and find a few dollars and some hand rolled cigarettes.
It took me a good five minutes to figure out the primitive driving controls. Reverse. Back over the idiot. Drive. Find some minions. Charles has work to do. Charles Manson has big plans. |
|
[WP] Time travel exists, and a new form of capital punishment is introduced: Transporting the convict back to the worst, practically unsurvivable, places in human history to find yourself in. You are such a convict, and just got sent back. You will do anything to try and survive. | The guard of my cell smirked at me as I was led away. "Have fun," he said. "I won't miss you."
I laughed tiredly. "Right back at you."
The two guards behind me pushed me into a white room. Sitting before me was a metal chair. It looked like an old electric chair, the type they'd used before time travel came around. But I knew that this was no electric chair.
I sat down. The cuffs slid from the armrests, encircling my arms, locking them in.
The guards stepped out of the room.
"Good morning, Mr. Jones," came a voice from the loudspeaker. "I hope you are prepared for your trip back in time. It won't be pleasant, to say the least. I..."
I zoned out. The voice rambled on for a minute longer. Then it said, "Well, goodbye." I heard it mutter, "We're glad to be rid of you."
I sat still, smirking carelessly. Inside, I was slightly terrified. I had no idea where- *when*, rather- they were sending me. But I had made a solemn promise to myself. I was going to survive at all costs.
The room hummed. The chair glowed. For a moment, I felt nothing. Then light filled my vision, piercing light, tearing into my eyes, blinding me. Excruciating pain filled me. I felt that I was being slowly torn apart, cooked, and blended, all at the same time.
The pain lasted an eternity. I howled and writhed, all rational thought leaving my mind, leaving nothing but the pain. Then suddenly, it was gone.
I was in the middle of a forest. The chair had become brittle under the stress of the travel- I broke free of the cuffs easily. I stood up, stretched, and tried to discern exactly when I was.
I was standing in the middle of a lush green forest. Towering trunks surrounded me. Beautiful flora bloomed in the undergrowth. I could see the sky through the trees.
Usually, they sent people to a hard-to-survive place in history. But this didn't look like it would be hard to live in at all, I thought. I could build tools, hunt, and-
I heard a low growl from behind me. I froze. I slowly turned around and found myself staring into the face of a giant lizard.
The lizard was a brownish-green color. It had a single brown feather atop its head. It stood on two legs. It slunk out of the undergrowth, still growling. Its feet were adorned with claws; two massive black arcs, one on each foot. Its arms each had three long claws at the end of them. I was sure it could slice me open or devour me easily.
The lizard crept closer. No, not lizard. I wasn't stupid. This was no lizard.
They'd sent me back to the time of the dinosaurs.
It hissed, and my resolve broke. I turned and ran. I heard it snarl, and then a heavy weight landed on my back. I tumbled to the ground. A searing pain filled me. It had sliced my spine. I couldn't move, could hardly breathe.
The dinosaur rolled me over. I cried out in agony. Through pain-filled eyes, I saw it tilt its head. Then it bent down and closed its jaws around my throat.
(Yeah, yeah, I broke the prompt. It was supposed to be somewhere in "human history", not just "history". Oh well. Humanity's ancestors lived back then, so it could count, I guess. And yes, I used a "Jurassic Park"-style Velociraptor, big and without feathers. Whatever.) | "Any last words charles?"
I looked my executioner in the eyes. "You will regret this. I promise"
The executioner chuckled lightly "Most people are rendered completely insane after time travel and are barely able to tie their shoes. No way in hell anyone will be afraid of you."
I just smirked. I'm a socially gifted mass murderer. It's all I know, its all I will be. I enjoy it.
A flash of light and I am transported to an unknown location at an unknown time. It's late.. or dark at least. The ground is solid. Cool breeze wafting through... a tunnel? I hear something. Or is it madness?... all of a sudden I am blinded by light and a horn sounds. I leap to the side narrowly escaping what should have been death. A large vihicle of some sort almost hit me. The vehicle stopped and a man emerged panicked. He half jogs over to me and a thick scent washes over me.
"Hey man! Are you alright?"
I lunge forward and grab him by the collar punching him in the face repeatedly until he is unconscious.
The vehicle is still running. Large, and box shaped I assume this is what they called a "van". I climb inside the cab and find a few dollars and some hand rolled cigarettes.
It took me a good five minutes to figure out the primitive driving controls. Reverse. Back over the idiot. Drive. Find some minions. Charles has work to do. Charles Manson has big plans. |
|
[WP] Time travel exists, and a new form of capital punishment is introduced: Transporting the convict back to the worst, practically unsurvivable, places in human history to find yourself in. You are such a convict, and just got sent back. You will do anything to try and survive. | Eleven years alone in a room will do things to a person that little else will. From time to time, I heard the men in the other cells talking to themselves, to imaginary companions, proclaiming their innocence to anyone who would listen, and attempting to cheat the executioner of his task and failing. That was the one rule-- you did not get to take yourself out of the game. They did it, and they did it when they were ready. I assumed legal arguments, bureaucracy and the like were at work in some way, but it could just as easily be an engineered part of the experience. That was the worst part- not the imprisonment, not the death, the worst thing was our force-fed ignorance. Maybe that was just me.
You know what eleven years alone in a room will do to a person? It kills everything good in them, and leaves nothing but what they are at their core. Time erodes you and leaves your psychological frame bare to the elements. You loved music, your children, or your farm? Not anymore. What is love or kindness in the face of isolation and death? A memory, not a reality. If you want to know what makes a person tick, lock them up for a decade and they'll gladly enlighten you.
For the guy next door, that meant accessing romance novels on his Book and masturbating furiously at every opportunity. He was fond of informing the neighborhood of the details. The guy above me tried to steal an election from the folks who had rightfully purchased it. He talked a lot about justice, right and wrong that first year. By the second year, all he wanted was some goddamn nachos. Every minute of every day, it was nachos, right up till the moment they sent him. Some grim moment in history was graced by a once-idealistic middle aged man, who doubtlessly shrieked for nachos and then died without a shred of dignity. Proof the system works.
What remained in my case was the animal desire to live. I had that. I also had my Book.
The Books were censored heavily. Nothing current, nothing relevant, and no way to communicate with the outside world. But survival did not require communication. It required only a plan. So I planned. History books were plentiful, and I read them all. I read the balanced ones, the political diatribes, even the historical fictions. I read about the Dark Ages, the Crusades, all the wars, and the Final Fall. I made notes in my head, reviewed them, and recited whole chapters from memory. If I had the time and inclination, I could transcribe here the entirety of four books about the effects of the Black Plague on southwestern London. More importantly, I could describe ways of fabricating antibiotics and find a way to Poland without a map from anywhere in Europe. You didn't know the Plague spared Poland almost entirely? I knew. I picked up a bit of conversational Polish, just in case.
That would have been an easy one.
I'd always assumed they'd let us know what was happening. Maybe we'd get last rites or a pat on the back, who knew what I was expecting. What actually happened was that one evening (or day, the lights were never off), I fell asleep on my bedroll, and awoke to an air raid siren blowing an "all clear" signal. I was laying on a hospital bed, with a confused doctor standing over me. His clipboard bore Japanese characters. Knowing I'd have trouble passing as a Japanese man, I stood, shook the doctor's hand, and said "Danke".
I'd have questioned him further, but my location was pretty obvious. If you wanted to kill a person, there are few better places and times to leave them than 7:09 AM, August 6, 1945 in the Shima Surgical clinic in Hiroshima, Japan. The place was humble and not terribly memorable, which is probably why it came to be known to history as Ground Zero. The doctor had questions, but the "all clear" siren meant I had 66 minutes to locate a church in a land that did not trust foreigners.
Hiroshima did not look like a city at war. It was pleasant, the sort of place I might have lingered in if not for the impending destruction and the inherent distrust of tall white gentlemen. I noticed that I had period clothes, and wondered if it was a time travel thing, or an attempt to give me a fair shot. I suspected the former, because I think they might have given me a watch otherwise. A woman stared at me as I stormed out of the clinic, clutching her daughter close. I must have looked deranged, and my question could not have helped much.
"Where is the German church?" I asked, using the entirety of my Japanese vocabulary.
She only stared, so I picked a direction and ran. A moment later, I put the same question to a shopkeeper. This one, though frightened, managed to point in the direction from which I had come. I turned and ran again, hoping my urgency wouldn't worry him enough to summon the police.
Not long after I saw it, a humble Jesuit mission church attached to a private home. If the accounts I'd read were correct, the church would be destroyed, but some unknowable combination of factors would spare the house, and all inside it from both the blast and the subsequent fallout. The house was the only island in what would shortly become a sea of death.
Knowing my fate would involve death at some particularly unpleasant point in history, I had learned to speak German as well as a person who had never heard a word of it could. I entered the church, and explained to the man there that a bombing was incoming, and that I knew because I was an American soldier who had knowledge of it. He smiled, nodded, and asked me to leave. 25 precious minutes later, I'd succeeded in frightening him enough to get him into the residence, where a small group of Jesuit missionaries gathered around a table and stared at me. One of them offered me tea.
The wall clock said we had less than two minutes left when I heard the singing. The song was cheerful, and horrifying at the same time. Through the window, I saw a group of twenty or thirty children, led by a young woman, on their way to school, or some kind of outing. Two minutes meant no negotiating. I grabbed a knife from the Jesuit's counter and dashed outside with it. The last child in the group was a girl. her hair was an absolute mess but she smelled like mint. I remember that. Mint.
I lifted her carefully, and placed the knife at her throat.
I expected pandemonium, but nobody panicked. They stared at me, helpless. Someone shouted and ran for help. The young woman who was guiding the children gaped in horror as I indicated she should lead the children into the house, where the shocked Jesuits waited. She did this, but once inside, the missionaries mounted a counter-attack, and tried to escape. I held them off, and kept them inside the building. A hoe stood in the garden along the side of the house, and placed through the handle of the door, I was able to brace it against the building so it could not be opened.
It was about then that I heard the plane overhead, and remembered my situation. It's funny how you forget everything sometimes. The last thing I thought was that maybe you can't kill everything good inside a person, after all. | "Any last words charles?"
I looked my executioner in the eyes. "You will regret this. I promise"
The executioner chuckled lightly "Most people are rendered completely insane after time travel and are barely able to tie their shoes. No way in hell anyone will be afraid of you."
I just smirked. I'm a socially gifted mass murderer. It's all I know, its all I will be. I enjoy it.
A flash of light and I am transported to an unknown location at an unknown time. It's late.. or dark at least. The ground is solid. Cool breeze wafting through... a tunnel? I hear something. Or is it madness?... all of a sudden I am blinded by light and a horn sounds. I leap to the side narrowly escaping what should have been death. A large vihicle of some sort almost hit me. The vehicle stopped and a man emerged panicked. He half jogs over to me and a thick scent washes over me.
"Hey man! Are you alright?"
I lunge forward and grab him by the collar punching him in the face repeatedly until he is unconscious.
The vehicle is still running. Large, and box shaped I assume this is what they called a "van". I climb inside the cab and find a few dollars and some hand rolled cigarettes.
It took me a good five minutes to figure out the primitive driving controls. Reverse. Back over the idiot. Drive. Find some minions. Charles has work to do. Charles Manson has big plans. |
|
[WP] Time travel exists, and a new form of capital punishment is introduced: Transporting the convict back to the worst, practically unsurvivable, places in human history to find yourself in. You are such a convict, and just got sent back. You will do anything to try and survive. | “Thirty seconds!” shouted Captain Porter.
The slow and steady rise and fall of the landing boat made me sick. I held my Thompson submachine gun closer to my body with every splash from each incorrectly aimed artillery shell. The weight, the sturdiness, the cold metal, and the hardwood calmed my fraying nerves.
I really did not want to kill him. He hurt my pride, and I was wasted. I hit him and he hit his head on the pavement. I swear I did not mean to kill him. I just wanted to hurt him. The jury deliberated for an hour, and the judge was unsympathetic.
“You are a despicable coward”, he said, his jowls shaking with vitriol, “but I will give you a chance at redemption. You will die with some of the bravest men in history.”
”Ten seconds!” shouted Captain Porter.
I could hear the machine guns now. I had never set foot in France before. I was not used to my heavy wool uniform.
Captain Porter blew his whistle.
The gate dropped and the sound of bullets felled the three rows of men ahead of me. I felt a burning pain in my gut. Steel met steel as I dropped helmet first to the deck of the boat. I felt the boots climbing over my back. A second later I felt the full weight of a body. I felt cold.
Then I felt nothing.
| I was still coming to terms with the fact that the bastards were actually going to send me back when the universe went sideways. I knew from my old college physics course that while the trip was instantaneous, the human mind responded by giving you the very distinct impression that you had just spent a not inconsiderable amount of time in emptiness.
For a split second upon my arrival I felt an immense weight settle on my psyche as if I had lived through countless eons in solitude. It was for this reason that I felt profound joy when my body spasmed and I went into shock, banishing all thought but survival.
Ever helpful, my Siri Implant gave me the facts that my beleaguered brain could not process:
*The Moon*
*"M-O-O-N that spells MOON"*, I thought, my brain rapidly depleting its oxygen supply.
*Sea of Tranquility, July 21st 2:56 UTC*
A moment of clarity, *"I am most definitely fucked"*
*The lander is in front of you. You are unable to see it due to the moisture in your eyes boiling off in the presence of the vacuum. I will patch in the transmission"*
***"That's one small step for..."***
*He has spotted you*
***"...man. One giant leap for mankind."*** |
|
[WP] Time travel exists, and a new form of capital punishment is introduced: Transporting the convict back to the worst, practically unsurvivable, places in human history to find yourself in. You are such a convict, and just got sent back. You will do anything to try and survive. | The guard of my cell smirked at me as I was led away. "Have fun," he said. "I won't miss you."
I laughed tiredly. "Right back at you."
The two guards behind me pushed me into a white room. Sitting before me was a metal chair. It looked like an old electric chair, the type they'd used before time travel came around. But I knew that this was no electric chair.
I sat down. The cuffs slid from the armrests, encircling my arms, locking them in.
The guards stepped out of the room.
"Good morning, Mr. Jones," came a voice from the loudspeaker. "I hope you are prepared for your trip back in time. It won't be pleasant, to say the least. I..."
I zoned out. The voice rambled on for a minute longer. Then it said, "Well, goodbye." I heard it mutter, "We're glad to be rid of you."
I sat still, smirking carelessly. Inside, I was slightly terrified. I had no idea where- *when*, rather- they were sending me. But I had made a solemn promise to myself. I was going to survive at all costs.
The room hummed. The chair glowed. For a moment, I felt nothing. Then light filled my vision, piercing light, tearing into my eyes, blinding me. Excruciating pain filled me. I felt that I was being slowly torn apart, cooked, and blended, all at the same time.
The pain lasted an eternity. I howled and writhed, all rational thought leaving my mind, leaving nothing but the pain. Then suddenly, it was gone.
I was in the middle of a forest. The chair had become brittle under the stress of the travel- I broke free of the cuffs easily. I stood up, stretched, and tried to discern exactly when I was.
I was standing in the middle of a lush green forest. Towering trunks surrounded me. Beautiful flora bloomed in the undergrowth. I could see the sky through the trees.
Usually, they sent people to a hard-to-survive place in history. But this didn't look like it would be hard to live in at all, I thought. I could build tools, hunt, and-
I heard a low growl from behind me. I froze. I slowly turned around and found myself staring into the face of a giant lizard.
The lizard was a brownish-green color. It had a single brown feather atop its head. It stood on two legs. It slunk out of the undergrowth, still growling. Its feet were adorned with claws; two massive black arcs, one on each foot. Its arms each had three long claws at the end of them. I was sure it could slice me open or devour me easily.
The lizard crept closer. No, not lizard. I wasn't stupid. This was no lizard.
They'd sent me back to the time of the dinosaurs.
It hissed, and my resolve broke. I turned and ran. I heard it snarl, and then a heavy weight landed on my back. I tumbled to the ground. A searing pain filled me. It had sliced my spine. I couldn't move, could hardly breathe.
The dinosaur rolled me over. I cried out in agony. Through pain-filled eyes, I saw it tilt its head. Then it bent down and closed its jaws around my throat.
(Yeah, yeah, I broke the prompt. It was supposed to be somewhere in "human history", not just "history". Oh well. Humanity's ancestors lived back then, so it could count, I guess. And yes, I used a "Jurassic Park"-style Velociraptor, big and without feathers. Whatever.) | I was still coming to terms with the fact that the bastards were actually going to send me back when the universe went sideways. I knew from my old college physics course that while the trip was instantaneous, the human mind responded by giving you the very distinct impression that you had just spent a not inconsiderable amount of time in emptiness.
For a split second upon my arrival I felt an immense weight settle on my psyche as if I had lived through countless eons in solitude. It was for this reason that I felt profound joy when my body spasmed and I went into shock, banishing all thought but survival.
Ever helpful, my Siri Implant gave me the facts that my beleaguered brain could not process:
*The Moon*
*"M-O-O-N that spells MOON"*, I thought, my brain rapidly depleting its oxygen supply.
*Sea of Tranquility, July 21st 2:56 UTC*
A moment of clarity, *"I am most definitely fucked"*
*The lander is in front of you. You are unable to see it due to the moisture in your eyes boiling off in the presence of the vacuum. I will patch in the transmission"*
***"That's one small step for..."***
*He has spotted you*
***"...man. One giant leap for mankind."*** |
|
[WP] Time travel exists, and a new form of capital punishment is introduced: Transporting the convict back to the worst, practically unsurvivable, places in human history to find yourself in. You are such a convict, and just got sent back. You will do anything to try and survive. | Eleven years alone in a room will do things to a person that little else will. From time to time, I heard the men in the other cells talking to themselves, to imaginary companions, proclaiming their innocence to anyone who would listen, and attempting to cheat the executioner of his task and failing. That was the one rule-- you did not get to take yourself out of the game. They did it, and they did it when they were ready. I assumed legal arguments, bureaucracy and the like were at work in some way, but it could just as easily be an engineered part of the experience. That was the worst part- not the imprisonment, not the death, the worst thing was our force-fed ignorance. Maybe that was just me.
You know what eleven years alone in a room will do to a person? It kills everything good in them, and leaves nothing but what they are at their core. Time erodes you and leaves your psychological frame bare to the elements. You loved music, your children, or your farm? Not anymore. What is love or kindness in the face of isolation and death? A memory, not a reality. If you want to know what makes a person tick, lock them up for a decade and they'll gladly enlighten you.
For the guy next door, that meant accessing romance novels on his Book and masturbating furiously at every opportunity. He was fond of informing the neighborhood of the details. The guy above me tried to steal an election from the folks who had rightfully purchased it. He talked a lot about justice, right and wrong that first year. By the second year, all he wanted was some goddamn nachos. Every minute of every day, it was nachos, right up till the moment they sent him. Some grim moment in history was graced by a once-idealistic middle aged man, who doubtlessly shrieked for nachos and then died without a shred of dignity. Proof the system works.
What remained in my case was the animal desire to live. I had that. I also had my Book.
The Books were censored heavily. Nothing current, nothing relevant, and no way to communicate with the outside world. But survival did not require communication. It required only a plan. So I planned. History books were plentiful, and I read them all. I read the balanced ones, the political diatribes, even the historical fictions. I read about the Dark Ages, the Crusades, all the wars, and the Final Fall. I made notes in my head, reviewed them, and recited whole chapters from memory. If I had the time and inclination, I could transcribe here the entirety of four books about the effects of the Black Plague on southwestern London. More importantly, I could describe ways of fabricating antibiotics and find a way to Poland without a map from anywhere in Europe. You didn't know the Plague spared Poland almost entirely? I knew. I picked up a bit of conversational Polish, just in case.
That would have been an easy one.
I'd always assumed they'd let us know what was happening. Maybe we'd get last rites or a pat on the back, who knew what I was expecting. What actually happened was that one evening (or day, the lights were never off), I fell asleep on my bedroll, and awoke to an air raid siren blowing an "all clear" signal. I was laying on a hospital bed, with a confused doctor standing over me. His clipboard bore Japanese characters. Knowing I'd have trouble passing as a Japanese man, I stood, shook the doctor's hand, and said "Danke".
I'd have questioned him further, but my location was pretty obvious. If you wanted to kill a person, there are few better places and times to leave them than 7:09 AM, August 6, 1945 in the Shima Surgical clinic in Hiroshima, Japan. The place was humble and not terribly memorable, which is probably why it came to be known to history as Ground Zero. The doctor had questions, but the "all clear" siren meant I had 66 minutes to locate a church in a land that did not trust foreigners.
Hiroshima did not look like a city at war. It was pleasant, the sort of place I might have lingered in if not for the impending destruction and the inherent distrust of tall white gentlemen. I noticed that I had period clothes, and wondered if it was a time travel thing, or an attempt to give me a fair shot. I suspected the former, because I think they might have given me a watch otherwise. A woman stared at me as I stormed out of the clinic, clutching her daughter close. I must have looked deranged, and my question could not have helped much.
"Where is the German church?" I asked, using the entirety of my Japanese vocabulary.
She only stared, so I picked a direction and ran. A moment later, I put the same question to a shopkeeper. This one, though frightened, managed to point in the direction from which I had come. I turned and ran again, hoping my urgency wouldn't worry him enough to summon the police.
Not long after I saw it, a humble Jesuit mission church attached to a private home. If the accounts I'd read were correct, the church would be destroyed, but some unknowable combination of factors would spare the house, and all inside it from both the blast and the subsequent fallout. The house was the only island in what would shortly become a sea of death.
Knowing my fate would involve death at some particularly unpleasant point in history, I had learned to speak German as well as a person who had never heard a word of it could. I entered the church, and explained to the man there that a bombing was incoming, and that I knew because I was an American soldier who had knowledge of it. He smiled, nodded, and asked me to leave. 25 precious minutes later, I'd succeeded in frightening him enough to get him into the residence, where a small group of Jesuit missionaries gathered around a table and stared at me. One of them offered me tea.
The wall clock said we had less than two minutes left when I heard the singing. The song was cheerful, and horrifying at the same time. Through the window, I saw a group of twenty or thirty children, led by a young woman, on their way to school, or some kind of outing. Two minutes meant no negotiating. I grabbed a knife from the Jesuit's counter and dashed outside with it. The last child in the group was a girl. her hair was an absolute mess but she smelled like mint. I remember that. Mint.
I lifted her carefully, and placed the knife at her throat.
I expected pandemonium, but nobody panicked. They stared at me, helpless. Someone shouted and ran for help. The young woman who was guiding the children gaped in horror as I indicated she should lead the children into the house, where the shocked Jesuits waited. She did this, but once inside, the missionaries mounted a counter-attack, and tried to escape. I held them off, and kept them inside the building. A hoe stood in the garden along the side of the house, and placed through the handle of the door, I was able to brace it against the building so it could not be opened.
It was about then that I heard the plane overhead, and remembered my situation. It's funny how you forget everything sometimes. The last thing I thought was that maybe you can't kill everything good inside a person, after all. | I was still coming to terms with the fact that the bastards were actually going to send me back when the universe went sideways. I knew from my old college physics course that while the trip was instantaneous, the human mind responded by giving you the very distinct impression that you had just spent a not inconsiderable amount of time in emptiness.
For a split second upon my arrival I felt an immense weight settle on my psyche as if I had lived through countless eons in solitude. It was for this reason that I felt profound joy when my body spasmed and I went into shock, banishing all thought but survival.
Ever helpful, my Siri Implant gave me the facts that my beleaguered brain could not process:
*The Moon*
*"M-O-O-N that spells MOON"*, I thought, my brain rapidly depleting its oxygen supply.
*Sea of Tranquility, July 21st 2:56 UTC*
A moment of clarity, *"I am most definitely fucked"*
*The lander is in front of you. You are unable to see it due to the moisture in your eyes boiling off in the presence of the vacuum. I will patch in the transmission"*
***"That's one small step for..."***
*He has spotted you*
***"...man. One giant leap for mankind."*** |
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[WP] Time travel exists, and a new form of capital punishment is introduced: Transporting the convict back to the worst, practically unsurvivable, places in human history to find yourself in. You are such a convict, and just got sent back. You will do anything to try and survive. | The guard of my cell smirked at me as I was led away. "Have fun," he said. "I won't miss you."
I laughed tiredly. "Right back at you."
The two guards behind me pushed me into a white room. Sitting before me was a metal chair. It looked like an old electric chair, the type they'd used before time travel came around. But I knew that this was no electric chair.
I sat down. The cuffs slid from the armrests, encircling my arms, locking them in.
The guards stepped out of the room.
"Good morning, Mr. Jones," came a voice from the loudspeaker. "I hope you are prepared for your trip back in time. It won't be pleasant, to say the least. I..."
I zoned out. The voice rambled on for a minute longer. Then it said, "Well, goodbye." I heard it mutter, "We're glad to be rid of you."
I sat still, smirking carelessly. Inside, I was slightly terrified. I had no idea where- *when*, rather- they were sending me. But I had made a solemn promise to myself. I was going to survive at all costs.
The room hummed. The chair glowed. For a moment, I felt nothing. Then light filled my vision, piercing light, tearing into my eyes, blinding me. Excruciating pain filled me. I felt that I was being slowly torn apart, cooked, and blended, all at the same time.
The pain lasted an eternity. I howled and writhed, all rational thought leaving my mind, leaving nothing but the pain. Then suddenly, it was gone.
I was in the middle of a forest. The chair had become brittle under the stress of the travel- I broke free of the cuffs easily. I stood up, stretched, and tried to discern exactly when I was.
I was standing in the middle of a lush green forest. Towering trunks surrounded me. Beautiful flora bloomed in the undergrowth. I could see the sky through the trees.
Usually, they sent people to a hard-to-survive place in history. But this didn't look like it would be hard to live in at all, I thought. I could build tools, hunt, and-
I heard a low growl from behind me. I froze. I slowly turned around and found myself staring into the face of a giant lizard.
The lizard was a brownish-green color. It had a single brown feather atop its head. It stood on two legs. It slunk out of the undergrowth, still growling. Its feet were adorned with claws; two massive black arcs, one on each foot. Its arms each had three long claws at the end of them. I was sure it could slice me open or devour me easily.
The lizard crept closer. No, not lizard. I wasn't stupid. This was no lizard.
They'd sent me back to the time of the dinosaurs.
It hissed, and my resolve broke. I turned and ran. I heard it snarl, and then a heavy weight landed on my back. I tumbled to the ground. A searing pain filled me. It had sliced my spine. I couldn't move, could hardly breathe.
The dinosaur rolled me over. I cried out in agony. Through pain-filled eyes, I saw it tilt its head. Then it bent down and closed its jaws around my throat.
(Yeah, yeah, I broke the prompt. It was supposed to be somewhere in "human history", not just "history". Oh well. Humanity's ancestors lived back then, so it could count, I guess. And yes, I used a "Jurassic Park"-style Velociraptor, big and without feathers. Whatever.) | I was not always this cruel. I was a kind guy. I remember who I was. I was a lawyer. Or was I? Doesn't matter. I like it here. I survived the hell and now I made the hell my heaven. Never again will I go without food. Never again will I sleep in pain and tears. Never again will I trust another soul. I was a nobody then. But now, all shall know my name. Fear my name. Those who sent me here, will never be born. I'll make sure of that. I'll make sure of that. Genghis will be a name no one will forget. I'll make sure of that. I'll make sure of that.
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[WP] Time travel exists, and a new form of capital punishment is introduced: Transporting the convict back to the worst, practically unsurvivable, places in human history to find yourself in. You are such a convict, and just got sent back. You will do anything to try and survive. | Eleven years alone in a room will do things to a person that little else will. From time to time, I heard the men in the other cells talking to themselves, to imaginary companions, proclaiming their innocence to anyone who would listen, and attempting to cheat the executioner of his task and failing. That was the one rule-- you did not get to take yourself out of the game. They did it, and they did it when they were ready. I assumed legal arguments, bureaucracy and the like were at work in some way, but it could just as easily be an engineered part of the experience. That was the worst part- not the imprisonment, not the death, the worst thing was our force-fed ignorance. Maybe that was just me.
You know what eleven years alone in a room will do to a person? It kills everything good in them, and leaves nothing but what they are at their core. Time erodes you and leaves your psychological frame bare to the elements. You loved music, your children, or your farm? Not anymore. What is love or kindness in the face of isolation and death? A memory, not a reality. If you want to know what makes a person tick, lock them up for a decade and they'll gladly enlighten you.
For the guy next door, that meant accessing romance novels on his Book and masturbating furiously at every opportunity. He was fond of informing the neighborhood of the details. The guy above me tried to steal an election from the folks who had rightfully purchased it. He talked a lot about justice, right and wrong that first year. By the second year, all he wanted was some goddamn nachos. Every minute of every day, it was nachos, right up till the moment they sent him. Some grim moment in history was graced by a once-idealistic middle aged man, who doubtlessly shrieked for nachos and then died without a shred of dignity. Proof the system works.
What remained in my case was the animal desire to live. I had that. I also had my Book.
The Books were censored heavily. Nothing current, nothing relevant, and no way to communicate with the outside world. But survival did not require communication. It required only a plan. So I planned. History books were plentiful, and I read them all. I read the balanced ones, the political diatribes, even the historical fictions. I read about the Dark Ages, the Crusades, all the wars, and the Final Fall. I made notes in my head, reviewed them, and recited whole chapters from memory. If I had the time and inclination, I could transcribe here the entirety of four books about the effects of the Black Plague on southwestern London. More importantly, I could describe ways of fabricating antibiotics and find a way to Poland without a map from anywhere in Europe. You didn't know the Plague spared Poland almost entirely? I knew. I picked up a bit of conversational Polish, just in case.
That would have been an easy one.
I'd always assumed they'd let us know what was happening. Maybe we'd get last rites or a pat on the back, who knew what I was expecting. What actually happened was that one evening (or day, the lights were never off), I fell asleep on my bedroll, and awoke to an air raid siren blowing an "all clear" signal. I was laying on a hospital bed, with a confused doctor standing over me. His clipboard bore Japanese characters. Knowing I'd have trouble passing as a Japanese man, I stood, shook the doctor's hand, and said "Danke".
I'd have questioned him further, but my location was pretty obvious. If you wanted to kill a person, there are few better places and times to leave them than 7:09 AM, August 6, 1945 in the Shima Surgical clinic in Hiroshima, Japan. The place was humble and not terribly memorable, which is probably why it came to be known to history as Ground Zero. The doctor had questions, but the "all clear" siren meant I had 66 minutes to locate a church in a land that did not trust foreigners.
Hiroshima did not look like a city at war. It was pleasant, the sort of place I might have lingered in if not for the impending destruction and the inherent distrust of tall white gentlemen. I noticed that I had period clothes, and wondered if it was a time travel thing, or an attempt to give me a fair shot. I suspected the former, because I think they might have given me a watch otherwise. A woman stared at me as I stormed out of the clinic, clutching her daughter close. I must have looked deranged, and my question could not have helped much.
"Where is the German church?" I asked, using the entirety of my Japanese vocabulary.
She only stared, so I picked a direction and ran. A moment later, I put the same question to a shopkeeper. This one, though frightened, managed to point in the direction from which I had come. I turned and ran again, hoping my urgency wouldn't worry him enough to summon the police.
Not long after I saw it, a humble Jesuit mission church attached to a private home. If the accounts I'd read were correct, the church would be destroyed, but some unknowable combination of factors would spare the house, and all inside it from both the blast and the subsequent fallout. The house was the only island in what would shortly become a sea of death.
Knowing my fate would involve death at some particularly unpleasant point in history, I had learned to speak German as well as a person who had never heard a word of it could. I entered the church, and explained to the man there that a bombing was incoming, and that I knew because I was an American soldier who had knowledge of it. He smiled, nodded, and asked me to leave. 25 precious minutes later, I'd succeeded in frightening him enough to get him into the residence, where a small group of Jesuit missionaries gathered around a table and stared at me. One of them offered me tea.
The wall clock said we had less than two minutes left when I heard the singing. The song was cheerful, and horrifying at the same time. Through the window, I saw a group of twenty or thirty children, led by a young woman, on their way to school, or some kind of outing. Two minutes meant no negotiating. I grabbed a knife from the Jesuit's counter and dashed outside with it. The last child in the group was a girl. her hair was an absolute mess but she smelled like mint. I remember that. Mint.
I lifted her carefully, and placed the knife at her throat.
I expected pandemonium, but nobody panicked. They stared at me, helpless. Someone shouted and ran for help. The young woman who was guiding the children gaped in horror as I indicated she should lead the children into the house, where the shocked Jesuits waited. She did this, but once inside, the missionaries mounted a counter-attack, and tried to escape. I held them off, and kept them inside the building. A hoe stood in the garden along the side of the house, and placed through the handle of the door, I was able to brace it against the building so it could not be opened.
It was about then that I heard the plane overhead, and remembered my situation. It's funny how you forget everything sometimes. The last thing I thought was that maybe you can't kill everything good inside a person, after all. | After the intense disorientation of the temporal displacement event began to fade, I felt wet. All around me, wet. The ringing in my ears slowly faded to white noise, almost like rain but far more intense than any rain I had ever heard. Then a flash, and what must have been thunder, and I realized I was not blind and deaf, I was caught in a rainstorm. I tried to push myself up, but my hands had no purchase and I fell on my face in what felt like old oatmeal. Finally I managed to push myself into a semblance of a sitting position, and at that moment the land around me lit in an eerie glow.
All around me, through the rain, I saw a ghostly landscape more akin to a moon or asteroid than anywhere on Earth I had seen. Barren, cratered, lit by a harsh light floating above. Then there were two lights, then three, then all around me noise, chaos, fire and violence. I struggled to my feet, but they would not come free from the morass that I now recognized as mud.I struggled, began to panic. I had sunk up to my ankles, and each time I tried to pull one foot free, the other just sank further. Above me, flares sputtered out and new replaced them. Explosions grew closer until I thought my eardrums would burst, then fell further and further away. Long moments past with more flares and explosions, some distant, some close, until I finally saw some figures silhouetted in the distance moving towards me.
I called, I yelled, I hollered for help in every language I knew. I think one turned towards me and pointed, then the last flare went out and I was blind but for the flashes of explosions.I have always had an excellent sense of time, but as the rain fell and the explosions crept closer and I felt myself slowly sliding down into the mud, now past my knees, it could have been hours or a matter of minutes. Finally, another flare revealed the forms of my saviors. I am no historian, but I know a few things about war. As their features slid between shadow and half-light, it was clear these men were soldiers. From what war, I could not say. As they drew near, the flare dimmed and died, and the explosions became less frequent and more distant. Even the rain slowed to a soaking mist.
The soldiers spoke in quiet voices as they crept along. I wondered how they managed to stay clear of the mud until I heard the distinct sound of a boot on wood. They must have a walkway though this mire. By the time I could distinguish their voices to hope to understand their words, I was halfway up my hips in mud. English, but an accent I didn't recognize and could barely decipher. Still, I called out to them for help.
"Pipe down, chap. You'll draw Gerry's guns on us, you will." One, slightly taller than the others, called over to me. A quiet deliberation between them did not reach my ears, but they left the safety of their walkway and carefully made their way to my position. The explosions had ceased, and only a distant flare lit the landscape. I heard the squelches of the men as they came closer, until they were beside me. "Alright, let's see what we can do." There were four of them. Two positioned themselves on each side of me, and they hooked their rifles under my soldiers. "No squirming, now. We'll lift you free if we can."
The tall one counted to three under his breath, and I gripped the rifles with white knuckles. The soldiers strained and grunted, and I felt myself lift a few inches from the morass. Then some shifting as they sought better footing, another count and again they lifted. One slipped, and the rifle butt cracked him on the head as he fell. He went down in a heap, and his comrades tried to rouse him to no avail. He was out cold. The tall one glanced at his squadmates in the dim light, then looked at me sadly. "Sorry chap, we can't risk being mired ourselves. Jack's knocked himself senseless, we'll need to get him out before we're all stuck. No worries though, we'll send help when we reach the aid station."
I knew when they strapped me in the machine that I would face death, but it wasn't until I heard the tone of his voice that I truly understood. I had known I was helpless for some time. Now I was hopeless. The soldiers turned to go, and I called out "Please, you've got a pistol there. Can I borrow it? Just to protect against Gerry? Just until the aid station can send help?"
Another flare went up, this one closer. The tall one turned and I saw his eyes clear enough to see this was a man who hadn't just faced death, he had given up hope of living. He hesitated a moment as his comrades slogged to the safety of the walkway, then pulled the heavy revolver from his belt and tossed it to me. "Good luck, mate." He turned again.
"Wait! Tell me the name of this place. Before you go." The soldier turned back yet again. I expected to see confusion on his face, but instead I saw only resignation. "Passchendaele."
The soldier faded along with the flare, and I was left in darkness. I heard sporadic gunfire, and more explosions, but all felt distant. The word, the name of the place held no meaning for me. I felt the heavy weight of the revolver as I slowly sank into the mud. Nearly past my hips now. I decided to wait until dawn, or until I sank up to my chest. Whichever came first. Then I would carry out the death sentence that had sent me here. |
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[WP] Time travel exists, and a new form of capital punishment is introduced: Transporting the convict back to the worst, practically unsurvivable, places in human history to find yourself in. You are such a convict, and just got sent back. You will do anything to try and survive. | Eleven years alone in a room will do things to a person that little else will. From time to time, I heard the men in the other cells talking to themselves, to imaginary companions, proclaiming their innocence to anyone who would listen, and attempting to cheat the executioner of his task and failing. That was the one rule-- you did not get to take yourself out of the game. They did it, and they did it when they were ready. I assumed legal arguments, bureaucracy and the like were at work in some way, but it could just as easily be an engineered part of the experience. That was the worst part- not the imprisonment, not the death, the worst thing was our force-fed ignorance. Maybe that was just me.
You know what eleven years alone in a room will do to a person? It kills everything good in them, and leaves nothing but what they are at their core. Time erodes you and leaves your psychological frame bare to the elements. You loved music, your children, or your farm? Not anymore. What is love or kindness in the face of isolation and death? A memory, not a reality. If you want to know what makes a person tick, lock them up for a decade and they'll gladly enlighten you.
For the guy next door, that meant accessing romance novels on his Book and masturbating furiously at every opportunity. He was fond of informing the neighborhood of the details. The guy above me tried to steal an election from the folks who had rightfully purchased it. He talked a lot about justice, right and wrong that first year. By the second year, all he wanted was some goddamn nachos. Every minute of every day, it was nachos, right up till the moment they sent him. Some grim moment in history was graced by a once-idealistic middle aged man, who doubtlessly shrieked for nachos and then died without a shred of dignity. Proof the system works.
What remained in my case was the animal desire to live. I had that. I also had my Book.
The Books were censored heavily. Nothing current, nothing relevant, and no way to communicate with the outside world. But survival did not require communication. It required only a plan. So I planned. History books were plentiful, and I read them all. I read the balanced ones, the political diatribes, even the historical fictions. I read about the Dark Ages, the Crusades, all the wars, and the Final Fall. I made notes in my head, reviewed them, and recited whole chapters from memory. If I had the time and inclination, I could transcribe here the entirety of four books about the effects of the Black Plague on southwestern London. More importantly, I could describe ways of fabricating antibiotics and find a way to Poland without a map from anywhere in Europe. You didn't know the Plague spared Poland almost entirely? I knew. I picked up a bit of conversational Polish, just in case.
That would have been an easy one.
I'd always assumed they'd let us know what was happening. Maybe we'd get last rites or a pat on the back, who knew what I was expecting. What actually happened was that one evening (or day, the lights were never off), I fell asleep on my bedroll, and awoke to an air raid siren blowing an "all clear" signal. I was laying on a hospital bed, with a confused doctor standing over me. His clipboard bore Japanese characters. Knowing I'd have trouble passing as a Japanese man, I stood, shook the doctor's hand, and said "Danke".
I'd have questioned him further, but my location was pretty obvious. If you wanted to kill a person, there are few better places and times to leave them than 7:09 AM, August 6, 1945 in the Shima Surgical clinic in Hiroshima, Japan. The place was humble and not terribly memorable, which is probably why it came to be known to history as Ground Zero. The doctor had questions, but the "all clear" siren meant I had 66 minutes to locate a church in a land that did not trust foreigners.
Hiroshima did not look like a city at war. It was pleasant, the sort of place I might have lingered in if not for the impending destruction and the inherent distrust of tall white gentlemen. I noticed that I had period clothes, and wondered if it was a time travel thing, or an attempt to give me a fair shot. I suspected the former, because I think they might have given me a watch otherwise. A woman stared at me as I stormed out of the clinic, clutching her daughter close. I must have looked deranged, and my question could not have helped much.
"Where is the German church?" I asked, using the entirety of my Japanese vocabulary.
She only stared, so I picked a direction and ran. A moment later, I put the same question to a shopkeeper. This one, though frightened, managed to point in the direction from which I had come. I turned and ran again, hoping my urgency wouldn't worry him enough to summon the police.
Not long after I saw it, a humble Jesuit mission church attached to a private home. If the accounts I'd read were correct, the church would be destroyed, but some unknowable combination of factors would spare the house, and all inside it from both the blast and the subsequent fallout. The house was the only island in what would shortly become a sea of death.
Knowing my fate would involve death at some particularly unpleasant point in history, I had learned to speak German as well as a person who had never heard a word of it could. I entered the church, and explained to the man there that a bombing was incoming, and that I knew because I was an American soldier who had knowledge of it. He smiled, nodded, and asked me to leave. 25 precious minutes later, I'd succeeded in frightening him enough to get him into the residence, where a small group of Jesuit missionaries gathered around a table and stared at me. One of them offered me tea.
The wall clock said we had less than two minutes left when I heard the singing. The song was cheerful, and horrifying at the same time. Through the window, I saw a group of twenty or thirty children, led by a young woman, on their way to school, or some kind of outing. Two minutes meant no negotiating. I grabbed a knife from the Jesuit's counter and dashed outside with it. The last child in the group was a girl. her hair was an absolute mess but she smelled like mint. I remember that. Mint.
I lifted her carefully, and placed the knife at her throat.
I expected pandemonium, but nobody panicked. They stared at me, helpless. Someone shouted and ran for help. The young woman who was guiding the children gaped in horror as I indicated she should lead the children into the house, where the shocked Jesuits waited. She did this, but once inside, the missionaries mounted a counter-attack, and tried to escape. I held them off, and kept them inside the building. A hoe stood in the garden along the side of the house, and placed through the handle of the door, I was able to brace it against the building so it could not be opened.
It was about then that I heard the plane overhead, and remembered my situation. It's funny how you forget everything sometimes. The last thing I thought was that maybe you can't kill everything good inside a person, after all. | “Thirty seconds!” shouted Captain Porter.
The slow and steady rise and fall of the landing boat made me sick. I held my Thompson submachine gun closer to my body with every splash from each incorrectly aimed artillery shell. The weight, the sturdiness, the cold metal, and the hardwood calmed my fraying nerves.
I really did not want to kill him. He hurt my pride, and I was wasted. I hit him and he hit his head on the pavement. I swear I did not mean to kill him. I just wanted to hurt him. The jury deliberated for an hour, and the judge was unsympathetic.
“You are a despicable coward”, he said, his jowls shaking with vitriol, “but I will give you a chance at redemption. You will die with some of the bravest men in history.”
”Ten seconds!” shouted Captain Porter.
I could hear the machine guns now. I had never set foot in France before. I was not used to my heavy wool uniform.
Captain Porter blew his whistle.
The gate dropped and the sound of bullets felled the three rows of men ahead of me. I felt a burning pain in my gut. Steel met steel as I dropped helmet first to the deck of the boat. I felt the boots climbing over my back. A second later I felt the full weight of a body. I felt cold.
Then I felt nothing.
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Subsets and Splits