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	[WP] One day, you find a note in your breakfast; one of the guards knows you're innocent and is going to try to help you escape. You aren't innocent.	The cell's bar made a dark shadow on the wall. Ironic that sunlight seemed to make the room even darker. Inside the cell a young man considered the scrap of paper in his hand. The last line read: 'Hang tight Aki. I'll come tonight to save you. ' Save him. Aki, the Butcher of Bratva. Why did they think he was innocent? He still saw it.They had run from him in fear, as he cut of their heads. The knife had been painted red, as he caught them one by one, and chopped of their heads. The headless bodies still flapping around in fear. The police came after a few days looking. He had nothing to hide. His confession and blood soaked clothes all the proof they needed. The dark part of the wall felt cold . Was the wall to blame for being so cold ,or the sun, who failed to warm it? His calloused fingers ran across the wall until finally touching the heart of the darkness. An old rusted nail. The smile seemed to light up the entire room. ---------------------------------------------- "Aki. You there?" James tapped the bars silently as he strained his eyes. He couldn't make out anything in the dark cell. Despite his warm leather jacket, the cell made him shiver. With fear or cold he could not say. A movement. Someone came into view. Aki. His heart shook as he looked at the boy. The poor kid was barely 18, and a victim in all this. The officers in charge hadn't realized what they had done, and the DA was to worried about the embaressment to revoke the charges. It wasn't right, no matter how you look at it. Aki came to the edge of the bars. "Why did you call me innocent?" His eyes. They were so lost. What had this kid seen? Prison was not a good place for him. "You being here. Its a mistake. You're not a killer. Not a killer of humans, anyway." He bent down to open the lock. I hope Karen doesn't miss this key. "But i killed them. I must pay." It was hard to fit the key in the dark. "Look.. ah! Damn key. Aki, I told you. The officers made a mistake. You didn't massacre those people at the mall. That man died in a drug bust 2 days later. When the officers came across you on patrol, they just assumeed you were the killer." A satisfying click. The hinges creaked as the metal door swung. "Your confession was the clincher." The boy came up to him. "So... I am not a killer." He patted his shoulders."No. What you killed were-" Something cold in his neck. Air refused to enter. He stumbled back, feeling his neck. Something sharp was stuck in it. Aki was screaming "I killed them. You cannot take that from me. I. Killed. Them. Me. Only I deserve to be rewarded. To be Here." An alarm started to run in the distance. He felt backward against the wall. Falling to his feet, he tried to breath, to say the last few words. They barely came out. "....you killed.... farm Hens....not humans....not a ....kill-" No air left. Darkness surrounding him. The kid was finally a killer. Now who was to blame for that. Aki or him?	The hatch in the wooden door opened squeakily. The ray of light coming out of the opening threw long shadows on the cold brick wall in the back of the room. The man who sat on the worn mattress squeezed his eyes shut, as he had accustomed to the darkness of his cell. The brightness hurt him physically, and mentally. For his crimes he was sentenced to life in prison: an old fortress on a small island miles from the coast, stashed away in isolation, never to be seen or heard from again. He had grown into the darkness, the acceptance of his doomed fate had caused him to embrace his hopeless situation. Every time he saw the light his heart stirred, a faint pain that caused his chest muscles to contract. No, when the hatch opened he normally chose to turn around and stare at the wall, or crawl under the musky, thin blanket. He said farewell to the light long ago, the hopes and possibilities it could bring only worsening his sorrow. Something was different this time. A bowl of thick soup and a hunk of bread was thrown onto the floor, but the hatch remained open longer than usual. ''Here you go'', he heard, a faint voice coming from behind the door as the hatch closed loudly. No one had talked to the prisoner before. His days were spent in silence, and the only interruptions were the quick cleanings done monthly to ensure he wouldn't die in his own filth. All he did was sit, stare at the walls and contemplate his sins. The carriage had arrived at the crossroads at the exact time that was predicted by his informants. The group of soldiers circling the vehicle had been cautious. They were handpicked by the general of the King's army, and were the best soldiers available to escort the King's sons back home from a diplomatic mission to a neighboring country, Elokko. Even with their experience and unmatched loyalty to the royal family, they didn't stand a chance. The fifty vagabonds had swarmed the carriage, and while twenty didn't live - a heavy price to pay - they were able to capture the King's sons. They had acquired the leverage they needed to claim independence from the tyrannic crown. And it was a price he had been willing to pay. A price he would pay to this day. He crawled from the mattress, his thin arms reaching for the bowl. As his hand grasped the side of it, he noticed a rough edge on the bottom of the bowl. He carefully took the bowl in both hands and climbed on his mattress and lifted the bowl above his head. The small crack into the wall let a beam of weak sunlight into his cell, and he could see a small piece of paper attached to the bowl. With one hand he carefully detached it from the bowl and sunk back down on the mattress. He placed the bowl back onto the floor and stood up again to read the message that was scribbled on thin parchment. The ink read: ''I, we, know you are innocent. Be patient. You'll be free soon.'' His heart started to pound faster, the blood rushed to his ears. What do they mean, innocent? They knew, he knew. There was no denying. When his horse tripped over the tree root in full gallop he saw the men rushing from the bushes around them. A thick man with a large, red beard has drawn his sword and charged towards the boys. They looked around with fear in their eyes, but didn't see the man approach behind them. He stood, his sword drawn above their heads. The sword had swung down - he could still remember the swishing sound of the blade - until the boy froze. His face had turned into a mask of surprise and the blood flowed out of his face - but then darkness embraced the prisoner himself as something heavy hit him on the back of his head He snapped out of his train of thought and stared at the bowl in front of him. The soup had cooled down and strained, chunks of potato and vegetables floating on the surface. No, he wasn't innocent, and he knew that. But even though he would pay for his crimes eventually, he knew what option he would choose. He could sit here, in his cell, or he could do it in temporary freedom, to complete the mission of his people: liberation. There was enough time to pay for his wrongdoings later. He grabbed the rough wooden spoon that was stuck in the thick soup and started stirring with more energy than he felt in years. In the darkness of his cold, sober room, he sat with his back straightened against the wall, the corners of his mouth curled upwards. There was hope.
	[WP] One day, you find a note in your breakfast; one of the guards knows you're innocent and is going to try to help you escape. You aren't innocent.	I tasted plastic in my mouth after only a few bites into my plain, ham and cheese sandwich. My nose curled involuntarily at the texture of it. "Seriously." I muttered, the cooks were too lazy to unwrap their cheese now? Reaching into my mouth I grasped the plastic and removed it. A casual flick, meant to send the offending object across the cell floor ended with it stuck to my fingers. I noticed the tiny letters as I looked towards it in annoyance. Two days. 4am. That was all it said, but it was enough. I had noticed the lingering eyes of one of the guard for months now. I was easily the most beautiful girl in this facility so her attraction was no surprise other than being unwelcome. So I had ignored her out of disgust tinged with a bit of hatred over her own somewhat stunning looks. At least until a few weeks ago when she had whispered in my ear in passing. "I know you're innocent, I'm getting you out." Amber said. Before knocking me to the floor and claiming I had reached for her gun. They had left me stuck in my cell for weeks after that, barely allowing me to come out and shower. My luxurious blonde hair was suffering from the treatment. Then the note showed up. The next two days passed in a blur. When Amber showed up outside my cell two days later, out of uniform, and right on time I couldn't hide my surprise. Thankfully the surprise outdid my sneer of envy over her looks. How dare she show up to rescue me looking like a supermodel while I was stuck in these rags? "Let's go." She said, throwing my cell door opened. I frowned as I stepped out into the hall. "Where's the getaway tunnel?" I asked, confused. "You watch too many movies." Amber responded with a small smile before grabbing my arm. She led me corridors I hadn't even seen before we wound up in the kitchen. As we passed through it I grabbed a steak knife from the counter before tucking it away. Never know when you may need a weapon. Amber spoke up again as we walked. "I know you didn't kill those women Lydia. After watching you for these last several months I'm certain that's not something you're capable of." I stayed quite while she all but sang my praises, wondering if I was dreaming. Of course I had been a model prisoner, there was no one in the facility who threatened me. "Until now anyway." I muttered, staring at her swishing dark hair. "What was that?" "Oh nothing." I said sweetly. "I think I'm in shock is all." Amber turned to deliver a breathtaking smile that was probably meant to reassure. As she turned back around I could feel my short nails biting into my palm and forced myself to relax. Just get out of here for now Lydia. Within minutes the winding corridors ended and we were walking down a straight hallway towards a door with a softly glowing exit sign above it. "Stop!" I hissed urgently but Amber kept going, evading my grip as I reached out to grab her. "We're going to set off an alarm." Wordlessly she opened the door and right outside was open air and a somewhat foggy night sky. I stared dumbfounded up at the moon. I was really out of that place. In front of us was a generic SUV. "Here." Amber said, pulling me from my daze and holding a set of keys which I quickly snatched from her. She walked in front of me and spread her arms. "You're free Lydia." "What about you?" I asked hesitantly. She still stood facing out into the night. "I'll make it out of this somehow. I'm a survivor." Amber said confidently and I felt a small smile form on my face. We were just alike in that regard. Grasping the knife still at my back I walked up behind her and ripped my blade through her throat. Easily going from ear to ear except where I hit bone around her windpipe. Nothing came out but a gurgle as she tried to speak but my imagination supplied her words. "But....you were innocent." Imaginary Amber said as the real one fell to the floor grasping her throat. Her life quickly flowing from the wound. "No." I answered the figment. "I'm not. And I hate beautiful bitches."	The hatch in the wooden door opened squeakily. The ray of light coming out of the opening threw long shadows on the cold brick wall in the back of the room. The man who sat on the worn mattress squeezed his eyes shut, as he had accustomed to the darkness of his cell. The brightness hurt him physically, and mentally. For his crimes he was sentenced to life in prison: an old fortress on a small island miles from the coast, stashed away in isolation, never to be seen or heard from again. He had grown into the darkness, the acceptance of his doomed fate had caused him to embrace his hopeless situation. Every time he saw the light his heart stirred, a faint pain that caused his chest muscles to contract. No, when the hatch opened he normally chose to turn around and stare at the wall, or crawl under the musky, thin blanket. He said farewell to the light long ago, the hopes and possibilities it could bring only worsening his sorrow. Something was different this time. A bowl of thick soup and a hunk of bread was thrown onto the floor, but the hatch remained open longer than usual. ''Here you go'', he heard, a faint voice coming from behind the door as the hatch closed loudly. No one had talked to the prisoner before. His days were spent in silence, and the only interruptions were the quick cleanings done monthly to ensure he wouldn't die in his own filth. All he did was sit, stare at the walls and contemplate his sins. The carriage had arrived at the crossroads at the exact time that was predicted by his informants. The group of soldiers circling the vehicle had been cautious. They were handpicked by the general of the King's army, and were the best soldiers available to escort the King's sons back home from a diplomatic mission to a neighboring country, Elokko. Even with their experience and unmatched loyalty to the royal family, they didn't stand a chance. The fifty vagabonds had swarmed the carriage, and while twenty didn't live - a heavy price to pay - they were able to capture the King's sons. They had acquired the leverage they needed to claim independence from the tyrannic crown. And it was a price he had been willing to pay. A price he would pay to this day. He crawled from the mattress, his thin arms reaching for the bowl. As his hand grasped the side of it, he noticed a rough edge on the bottom of the bowl. He carefully took the bowl in both hands and climbed on his mattress and lifted the bowl above his head. The small crack into the wall let a beam of weak sunlight into his cell, and he could see a small piece of paper attached to the bowl. With one hand he carefully detached it from the bowl and sunk back down on the mattress. He placed the bowl back onto the floor and stood up again to read the message that was scribbled on thin parchment. The ink read: ''I, we, know you are innocent. Be patient. You'll be free soon.'' His heart started to pound faster, the blood rushed to his ears. What do they mean, innocent? They knew, he knew. There was no denying. When his horse tripped over the tree root in full gallop he saw the men rushing from the bushes around them. A thick man with a large, red beard has drawn his sword and charged towards the boys. They looked around with fear in their eyes, but didn't see the man approach behind them. He stood, his sword drawn above their heads. The sword had swung down - he could still remember the swishing sound of the blade - until the boy froze. His face had turned into a mask of surprise and the blood flowed out of his face - but then darkness embraced the prisoner himself as something heavy hit him on the back of his head He snapped out of his train of thought and stared at the bowl in front of him. The soup had cooled down and strained, chunks of potato and vegetables floating on the surface. No, he wasn't innocent, and he knew that. But even though he would pay for his crimes eventually, he knew what option he would choose. He could sit here, in his cell, or he could do it in temporary freedom, to complete the mission of his people: liberation. There was enough time to pay for his wrongdoings later. He grabbed the rough wooden spoon that was stuck in the thick soup and started stirring with more energy than he felt in years. In the darkness of his cold, sober room, he sat with his back straightened against the wall, the corners of his mouth curled upwards. There was hope.
	[WP] One day, you find a note in your breakfast; one of the guards knows you're innocent and is going to try to help you escape. You aren't innocent.	Julia came running from the kitchen with a beer in hand and an eager kiss as soon as I walked through the door. "How was your day, honey?" Seeing her broad, always-eager smile every day after work was the only thing that made it all worth it. "Fine," I answered, dropping my belt on the couch and sweeping her off her feet with a big hug. "Everything is still on lockdown after the jailbreak." Julia knew all about it, of course: even if she hadn't been the wife of a guard, she would have seen it on the news. It was the first ever escape from the Lewiston Maximum Security facility, and the administration was determined to make it the last. Prisoners weren't even allowed to move until they figured out exactly how Daryl Meyers was able to get away. And the screams from the warden's office from prisoners being 'questioned' were starting to become unbearable. "I'm sorry, baby," she told me. "Does that mean you need to work another shift tonight?" I nodded, and she looked crushed. She regretfully tried to hide the beer behind her back, knowing I wouldn't be able to have any if I was going back on duty tonight. It'd been doubles all week and I'd hardly had any time to spend at home. I wasn't complaining about the overtime pay, though. Having a child turned out to be a lot more expensive than we thought it would be, and that was before we learned about Sammy's condition. We loved her all the same, but that didn't make her treatment any less expensive. "How long do you have off? Enough time for a good meal?" I'd been smelling whatever she was making since I walked through the door, and my stomach was already rumbling in anticipation. I checked my watch. The ten minute commute home now took 45 minutes; I'd had to pass through two state police checkpoints who had gone through all the junk in my back seat to make sure that Meyers wasn't hiding in there. "I've got about an hour," I answered. Hopefully traffic going back to the prison wouldn't be bad; no need to check any cars going that way. "God, I hope they catch that guy soon," she called out as I slumped down into my easy chair. "And I hope that they throw the book at him." I stayed silent. Julia didn't know about my part in this whole escapade, and I sure as hell wasn't going to tell her. How could I? There was no way to convince her that he was wrongly imprisoned. She couldn't meet him and just feel that same sincerity that I'd felt. Poor guy was practically trembling as I showed him to his cell. Prison would have chewed him up like a stick of gum. So I did what I had to do. And the less that Julia knew about it, the better. I'd heard a rumor that they already suspected a guard. They were looking for anyone that might have ties to his supposed cartel, which luckily wouldn't bring up my name. "By the way," she called from the kitchen, "You got a box in the mail. Did you order something online?" I took a moment to think about it. After working so many hours and dealing with the constant stress of potentially being caught, my brain was just fried. Had I ordered something? "Where is it?" I asked her. "On the bed. But I didn't want to open it in case it was... you know, a surprise." Our fifth anniversary was coming up in about two weeks, and I couldn't blame her for jumping to that conclusion. She'd probably be pretty disappointed when she learned that we probably couldn't even afford to go out to dinner, much less some expensive present. I managed to heave myself up from my chair and walked down the hall. After a quick pitstop to check on Sammy sleeping in her crib, I entered our room. The box was indeed pretty large. I certainly would have remembered ordering whatever this was. I cut through the tape with my keys and found a greeting card envelope on top. "Tom," the note started, "You'll never know how much I appreciate your faith in me. You're the only person who doesn't look at me and immediately despise me. You didn't let my reputation cloud your judgment, and it was honestly the only thing that kept me going these past few months." My hands were shaking, and my eyes darted back down the hall to make sure Julia wasn't coming. How stupid was he? How could he send me a letter? I'd have to burn it, right after I finished reading it. "Unfortunately, you were wrong. I am everything that they accuse me of being. And I accept that. I'm a bad person." My stomach sank. I couldn't breath. "But luckily for you, I'm also a pretty fair guy. One good turn deserves another. Go ahead and open the box before you turn this card over." This was terrible. This was evidence. But I couldn't help but unwrap the present. It was a framed picture of some tropical island, which didn't make any sense. "It's yours," the letter said. "The island is called Isla Duvala, and there's a plane waiting at the airport for you and your family. I've assigned a doctor from my own personal staff to the island for Sammy, and the Castro government has assured me that extradition isn't even a possibility. You'll have everything you ever need, I promise. You gave me another chance at life, and it's only fair that I do the same for you." I sat back down on the bed, still clutching the letter in one hand and the picture frame in the other. "Can I come in?" Julia asked from the kitchen. She still thought it was an anniversary gift. She certainly deserved one, that's for sure. She deserved her own private island. "Yes," I answered her. "In fact, I need you to pack a bag. And one for Sammy, too."	The hatch in the wooden door opened squeakily. The ray of light coming out of the opening threw long shadows on the cold brick wall in the back of the room. The man who sat on the worn mattress squeezed his eyes shut, as he had accustomed to the darkness of his cell. The brightness hurt him physically, and mentally. For his crimes he was sentenced to life in prison: an old fortress on a small island miles from the coast, stashed away in isolation, never to be seen or heard from again. He had grown into the darkness, the acceptance of his doomed fate had caused him to embrace his hopeless situation. Every time he saw the light his heart stirred, a faint pain that caused his chest muscles to contract. No, when the hatch opened he normally chose to turn around and stare at the wall, or crawl under the musky, thin blanket. He said farewell to the light long ago, the hopes and possibilities it could bring only worsening his sorrow. Something was different this time. A bowl of thick soup and a hunk of bread was thrown onto the floor, but the hatch remained open longer than usual. ''Here you go'', he heard, a faint voice coming from behind the door as the hatch closed loudly. No one had talked to the prisoner before. His days were spent in silence, and the only interruptions were the quick cleanings done monthly to ensure he wouldn't die in his own filth. All he did was sit, stare at the walls and contemplate his sins. The carriage had arrived at the crossroads at the exact time that was predicted by his informants. The group of soldiers circling the vehicle had been cautious. They were handpicked by the general of the King's army, and were the best soldiers available to escort the King's sons back home from a diplomatic mission to a neighboring country, Elokko. Even with their experience and unmatched loyalty to the royal family, they didn't stand a chance. The fifty vagabonds had swarmed the carriage, and while twenty didn't live - a heavy price to pay - they were able to capture the King's sons. They had acquired the leverage they needed to claim independence from the tyrannic crown. And it was a price he had been willing to pay. A price he would pay to this day. He crawled from the mattress, his thin arms reaching for the bowl. As his hand grasped the side of it, he noticed a rough edge on the bottom of the bowl. He carefully took the bowl in both hands and climbed on his mattress and lifted the bowl above his head. The small crack into the wall let a beam of weak sunlight into his cell, and he could see a small piece of paper attached to the bowl. With one hand he carefully detached it from the bowl and sunk back down on the mattress. He placed the bowl back onto the floor and stood up again to read the message that was scribbled on thin parchment. The ink read: ''I, we, know you are innocent. Be patient. You'll be free soon.'' His heart started to pound faster, the blood rushed to his ears. What do they mean, innocent? They knew, he knew. There was no denying. When his horse tripped over the tree root in full gallop he saw the men rushing from the bushes around them. A thick man with a large, red beard has drawn his sword and charged towards the boys. They looked around with fear in their eyes, but didn't see the man approach behind them. He stood, his sword drawn above their heads. The sword had swung down - he could still remember the swishing sound of the blade - until the boy froze. His face had turned into a mask of surprise and the blood flowed out of his face - but then darkness embraced the prisoner himself as something heavy hit him on the back of his head He snapped out of his train of thought and stared at the bowl in front of him. The soup had cooled down and strained, chunks of potato and vegetables floating on the surface. No, he wasn't innocent, and he knew that. But even though he would pay for his crimes eventually, he knew what option he would choose. He could sit here, in his cell, or he could do it in temporary freedom, to complete the mission of his people: liberation. There was enough time to pay for his wrongdoings later. He grabbed the rough wooden spoon that was stuck in the thick soup and started stirring with more energy than he felt in years. In the darkness of his cold, sober room, he sat with his back straightened against the wall, the corners of his mouth curled upwards. There was hope.
	[WP] One day, you find a note in your breakfast; one of the guards knows you're innocent and is going to try to help you escape. You aren't innocent.	[Part I](https://www.reddit.com/r/MatiWrites/comments/3wotwu/escape/) [Part II](https://www.reddit.com/r/MatiWrites/comments/3wp44v/escape_part_ii/) [Part III](https://www.reddit.com/r/MatiWrites/comments/3wswo9/escape_part_iii/) [Part IV](https://www.reddit.com/r/MatiWrites/comments/3wynuj/escape_part_iv/) [Part V](https://www.reddit.com/r/MatiWrites/comments/3xjd2u/escape_part_v1/) [Part VI](https://www.reddit.com/r/MatiWrites/comments/3xjd9q/escape_part_v2_part_vi/) [Part VII](https://www.reddit.com/r/MatiWrites/comments/3xvaio/escape_part_vii/) [Part VIII](https://www.reddit.com/r/MatiWrites/comments/3y36mp/escape_part_viii/) *** I smiled for the first time in weeks as I unfolded the note slipped under the small loaf of bread, hidden by the napkin that came with my meal each day. I had an ally, it appeared, who thought me to be someone I was not. I rested my back against the cold, hard wall of the small cell, looking out the small, barred window of my prison. I was trapped here, many lengths above the water, the endless freedom of the ocean taunting me in my claustrophobic isolation. The walls of this castle that had always kept our enemies out now served only to keep me in, and I longed for the days when I stood the right-hand man of the rightful King before these traitors ripped the power and life from his grasp. I heard footsteps approaching and quickly tore the note to bits and released the shreds out the window. The voice at the door loudly demanded I return the wooden tray upon which my meal had been served, and then quietly asked if I had seen the note. I crawled to the door and spoke to the man through the narrow, rectangular hole in the door through which my meals were handed to me. "When can we do it?" I asked. I had been stuck in here for far too many moons, and had I not been mad before, this depressing cell would have surely driven me to madness. My only solace for so long had been the rats, constantly scurrying around the cell, and we had developed a delicate treaty where they would not have their necks snapped if they did not disturb me. I spoke to them, and they spoke back, although the sounds came from my mouth and they were nowhere to be seen by then. "Tonight," the young voice outside my door responded. He was so young, so easily influenced, more boy than man. I knew as soon as they had assigned him guard duty in the desolate corner of the castle, and he had ranted to me about his unhappiness at such a menial task, that my chance to escape was near. I was a master manipulator, and his conflicted morals and low self-worth made him an easy target, and a valuable ally for as long as I remained prisoner. I told him my story, or at least the one I had invented in the endless hours alone in the cell. I told him of a family torn away from me by the head of the guards who was bitter because of the beauty of my wife. I told him of the guards waking us up one night and razing my house to the ground and locking me in this dungeon and taking my wife from me, and he believed every word as I told him of a past and a present that was as real as the words the rats said. I convinced him that it was all a huge misunderstanding, that I was just a humble farmer falsely accused of being the most wanted man in the land. "Three nights from now, you will be with your wife again," he told me, proud of his decision. I smiled to myself, knowing he couldn't see me through the door. There was no wife and this was not an unjust imprisonment by this false king. I was an enemy, through and through; the rightful King's right-hand man, pledged to kill each and every enemy. The most wanted man in the kingdom before my unfortunate capture. More of this king's men had died at my hands than this boy could possibly understand, but somewhere along the way, his anger at how unappreciated he was had made him accept my words as truth. He slipped me a blunt club and spoke to me through the door. "I will leave the door unlocked tonight after dinner. You need to disable the night guard. Do not kill him, please, for he is a friend." I smiled slyly and nodded even though he could not see me. He continued. "I will be just past the guard post as the clock strikes midnight. Cough once the guard is out and the bell has rung twelve and I will come out to greet you. We will make our way to the docks, with me as your escort where you can board an outbound ship and someday return to your family a free man." I gave my consent to his plan and shifted the club from hand to hand. Just incapacitate the guard? We would see how that went. The plan was sound, but there was nothing for me at sea. The armies loyal to the rightful King were inland, away from the ocean and across the mountains and desert, isolated in the last loyal city. Going to sea would only put me amongst pirates and ruffians, loyal to none. I could easily handle myself at sea, but my plan was not to abandon this cause. As promised, the young man left the door unlocked after dinner, and at the eleventh hour I started counting. As the strike of the twelfth hour approached, I slowly opened the door to my cell, the utter darkness concealing my movements. At the end of the hall, a dim flame made the shadows dance as the night guard struggled to stay awake through his shift. I made my way towards him, hidden by the shadows and darkness, until I was close enough to hear his breath. I wrapped my arm around his neck and crushed his windpipe, a gargled sound his last, and I snapped his neck cleanly, like so many other times. I quickly donned his armor and weapons, and as the bells rang for the twelfth hour, I coughed softly. My young friend made his way around the corner, oblivious to the danger until I ran him through with the night guard's sword and he crumpled to the ground, shocked. "But... I was helping you..." he managed to say, looking at me with pleading eyes, striving to understand why he had been double-crossed. I smiled at him and mercifully put him out of his pain. Dressed in the armor of my enemies, I made my way through the winding corridors of the castle, past countless guards who walked by me without a second glance. Deeper into the castle I walked, each turn and passage engraved into my mind. I had spent many years here with the rightful King before this king had overthrown him. Two men stood guard outside the doors to her chamber, which was more of a glorified prison cell at this point. I dispatched them with ease, the experience of a thousand kills making it seem routine, and I quietly knocked on the door. There was confusion in the face of the true King's daughter as she opened the door to find the two guards dead, but her eyes brightened as she recognized me beneath the helmet. I held a finger to my lips, warning her to stay quiet, and bowed my head. "Get your things together, your Highness. We need to go. Now." [Part II](https://www.reddit.com/r/WritingPrompts/comments/3wnxr5/wp_one_day_you_find_a_note_in_your_breakfast_one/cxxwfhy) [Part III](https://www.reddit.com/r/MatiWrites/comments/3wswo9/escape_part_iii/) is now up in /r/MatiWrites! Part [IV](https://www.reddit.com/r/MatiWrites/comments/3wynuj/escape_part_iv/) is available! *** Thanks for reading! If you enjoyed this, please check out more stories at /r/MatiWrites. Constructive criticism and advice are always appreciated!	The hatch in the wooden door opened squeakily. The ray of light coming out of the opening threw long shadows on the cold brick wall in the back of the room. The man who sat on the worn mattress squeezed his eyes shut, as he had accustomed to the darkness of his cell. The brightness hurt him physically, and mentally. For his crimes he was sentenced to life in prison: an old fortress on a small island miles from the coast, stashed away in isolation, never to be seen or heard from again. He had grown into the darkness, the acceptance of his doomed fate had caused him to embrace his hopeless situation. Every time he saw the light his heart stirred, a faint pain that caused his chest muscles to contract. No, when the hatch opened he normally chose to turn around and stare at the wall, or crawl under the musky, thin blanket. He said farewell to the light long ago, the hopes and possibilities it could bring only worsening his sorrow. Something was different this time. A bowl of thick soup and a hunk of bread was thrown onto the floor, but the hatch remained open longer than usual. ''Here you go'', he heard, a faint voice coming from behind the door as the hatch closed loudly. No one had talked to the prisoner before. His days were spent in silence, and the only interruptions were the quick cleanings done monthly to ensure he wouldn't die in his own filth. All he did was sit, stare at the walls and contemplate his sins. The carriage had arrived at the crossroads at the exact time that was predicted by his informants. The group of soldiers circling the vehicle had been cautious. They were handpicked by the general of the King's army, and were the best soldiers available to escort the King's sons back home from a diplomatic mission to a neighboring country, Elokko. Even with their experience and unmatched loyalty to the royal family, they didn't stand a chance. The fifty vagabonds had swarmed the carriage, and while twenty didn't live - a heavy price to pay - they were able to capture the King's sons. They had acquired the leverage they needed to claim independence from the tyrannic crown. And it was a price he had been willing to pay. A price he would pay to this day. He crawled from the mattress, his thin arms reaching for the bowl. As his hand grasped the side of it, he noticed a rough edge on the bottom of the bowl. He carefully took the bowl in both hands and climbed on his mattress and lifted the bowl above his head. The small crack into the wall let a beam of weak sunlight into his cell, and he could see a small piece of paper attached to the bowl. With one hand he carefully detached it from the bowl and sunk back down on the mattress. He placed the bowl back onto the floor and stood up again to read the message that was scribbled on thin parchment. The ink read: ''I, we, know you are innocent. Be patient. You'll be free soon.'' His heart started to pound faster, the blood rushed to his ears. What do they mean, innocent? They knew, he knew. There was no denying. When his horse tripped over the tree root in full gallop he saw the men rushing from the bushes around them. A thick man with a large, red beard has drawn his sword and charged towards the boys. They looked around with fear in their eyes, but didn't see the man approach behind them. He stood, his sword drawn above their heads. The sword had swung down - he could still remember the swishing sound of the blade - until the boy froze. His face had turned into a mask of surprise and the blood flowed out of his face - but then darkness embraced the prisoner himself as something heavy hit him on the back of his head He snapped out of his train of thought and stared at the bowl in front of him. The soup had cooled down and strained, chunks of potato and vegetables floating on the surface. No, he wasn't innocent, and he knew that. But even though he would pay for his crimes eventually, he knew what option he would choose. He could sit here, in his cell, or he could do it in temporary freedom, to complete the mission of his people: liberation. There was enough time to pay for his wrongdoings later. He grabbed the rough wooden spoon that was stuck in the thick soup and started stirring with more energy than he felt in years. In the darkness of his cold, sober room, he sat with his back straightened against the wall, the corners of his mouth curled upwards. There was hope.
	[WP] One day, you find a note in your breakfast; one of the guards knows you're innocent and is going to try to help you escape. You aren't innocent.	Julia came running from the kitchen with a beer in hand and an eager kiss as soon as I walked through the door. "How was your day, honey?" Seeing her broad, always-eager smile every day after work was the only thing that made it all worth it. "Fine," I answered, dropping my belt on the couch and sweeping her off her feet with a big hug. "Everything is still on lockdown after the jailbreak." Julia knew all about it, of course: even if she hadn't been the wife of a guard, she would have seen it on the news. It was the first ever escape from the Lewiston Maximum Security facility, and the administration was determined to make it the last. Prisoners weren't even allowed to move until they figured out exactly how Daryl Meyers was able to get away. And the screams from the warden's office from prisoners being 'questioned' were starting to become unbearable. "I'm sorry, baby," she told me. "Does that mean you need to work another shift tonight?" I nodded, and she looked crushed. She regretfully tried to hide the beer behind her back, knowing I wouldn't be able to have any if I was going back on duty tonight. It'd been doubles all week and I'd hardly had any time to spend at home. I wasn't complaining about the overtime pay, though. Having a child turned out to be a lot more expensive than we thought it would be, and that was before we learned about Sammy's condition. We loved her all the same, but that didn't make her treatment any less expensive. "How long do you have off? Enough time for a good meal?" I'd been smelling whatever she was making since I walked through the door, and my stomach was already rumbling in anticipation. I checked my watch. The ten minute commute home now took 45 minutes; I'd had to pass through two state police checkpoints who had gone through all the junk in my back seat to make sure that Meyers wasn't hiding in there. "I've got about an hour," I answered. Hopefully traffic going back to the prison wouldn't be bad; no need to check any cars going that way. "God, I hope they catch that guy soon," she called out as I slumped down into my easy chair. "And I hope that they throw the book at him." I stayed silent. Julia didn't know about my part in this whole escapade, and I sure as hell wasn't going to tell her. How could I? There was no way to convince her that he was wrongly imprisoned. She couldn't meet him and just feel that same sincerity that I'd felt. Poor guy was practically trembling as I showed him to his cell. Prison would have chewed him up like a stick of gum. So I did what I had to do. And the less that Julia knew about it, the better. I'd heard a rumor that they already suspected a guard. They were looking for anyone that might have ties to his supposed cartel, which luckily wouldn't bring up my name. "By the way," she called from the kitchen, "You got a box in the mail. Did you order something online?" I took a moment to think about it. After working so many hours and dealing with the constant stress of potentially being caught, my brain was just fried. Had I ordered something? "Where is it?" I asked her. "On the bed. But I didn't want to open it in case it was... you know, a surprise." Our fifth anniversary was coming up in about two weeks, and I couldn't blame her for jumping to that conclusion. She'd probably be pretty disappointed when she learned that we probably couldn't even afford to go out to dinner, much less some expensive present. I managed to heave myself up from my chair and walked down the hall. After a quick pitstop to check on Sammy sleeping in her crib, I entered our room. The box was indeed pretty large. I certainly would have remembered ordering whatever this was. I cut through the tape with my keys and found a greeting card envelope on top. "Tom," the note started, "You'll never know how much I appreciate your faith in me. You're the only person who doesn't look at me and immediately despise me. You didn't let my reputation cloud your judgment, and it was honestly the only thing that kept me going these past few months." My hands were shaking, and my eyes darted back down the hall to make sure Julia wasn't coming. How stupid was he? How could he send me a letter? I'd have to burn it, right after I finished reading it. "Unfortunately, you were wrong. I am everything that they accuse me of being. And I accept that. I'm a bad person." My stomach sank. I couldn't breath. "But luckily for you, I'm also a pretty fair guy. One good turn deserves another. Go ahead and open the box before you turn this card over." This was terrible. This was evidence. But I couldn't help but unwrap the present. It was a framed picture of some tropical island, which didn't make any sense. "It's yours," the letter said. "The island is called Isla Duvala, and there's a plane waiting at the airport for you and your family. I've assigned a doctor from my own personal staff to the island for Sammy, and the Castro government has assured me that extradition isn't even a possibility. You'll have everything you ever need, I promise. You gave me another chance at life, and it's only fair that I do the same for you." I sat back down on the bed, still clutching the letter in one hand and the picture frame in the other. "Can I come in?" Julia asked from the kitchen. She still thought it was an anniversary gift. She certainly deserved one, that's for sure. She deserved her own private island. "Yes," I answered her. "In fact, I need you to pack a bag. And one for Sammy, too."	The cell's bar made a dark shadow on the wall. Ironic that sunlight seemed to make the room even darker. Inside the cell a young man considered the scrap of paper in his hand. The last line read: 'Hang tight Aki. I'll come tonight to save you. ' Save him. Aki, the Butcher of Bratva. Why did they think he was innocent? He still saw it.They had run from him in fear, as he cut of their heads. The knife had been painted red, as he caught them one by one, and chopped of their heads. The headless bodies still flapping around in fear. The police came after a few days looking. He had nothing to hide. His confession and blood soaked clothes all the proof they needed. The dark part of the wall felt cold . Was the wall to blame for being so cold ,or the sun, who failed to warm it? His calloused fingers ran across the wall until finally touching the heart of the darkness. An old rusted nail. The smile seemed to light up the entire room. ---------------------------------------------- "Aki. You there?" James tapped the bars silently as he strained his eyes. He couldn't make out anything in the dark cell. Despite his warm leather jacket, the cell made him shiver. With fear or cold he could not say. A movement. Someone came into view. Aki. His heart shook as he looked at the boy. The poor kid was barely 18, and a victim in all this. The officers in charge hadn't realized what they had done, and the DA was to worried about the embaressment to revoke the charges. It wasn't right, no matter how you look at it. Aki came to the edge of the bars. "Why did you call me innocent?" His eyes. They were so lost. What had this kid seen? Prison was not a good place for him. "You being here. Its a mistake. You're not a killer. Not a killer of humans, anyway." He bent down to open the lock. I hope Karen doesn't miss this key. "But i killed them. I must pay." It was hard to fit the key in the dark. "Look.. ah! Damn key. Aki, I told you. The officers made a mistake. You didn't massacre those people at the mall. That man died in a drug bust 2 days later. When the officers came across you on patrol, they just assumeed you were the killer." A satisfying click. The hinges creaked as the metal door swung. "Your confession was the clincher." The boy came up to him. "So... I am not a killer." He patted his shoulders."No. What you killed were-" Something cold in his neck. Air refused to enter. He stumbled back, feeling his neck. Something sharp was stuck in it. Aki was screaming "I killed them. You cannot take that from me. I. Killed. Them. Me. Only I deserve to be rewarded. To be Here." An alarm started to run in the distance. He felt backward against the wall. Falling to his feet, he tried to breath, to say the last few words. They barely came out. "....you killed.... farm Hens....not humans....not a ....kill-" No air left. Darkness surrounding him. The kid was finally a killer. Now who was to blame for that. Aki or him?
	[WP] One day, you find a note in your breakfast; one of the guards knows you're innocent and is going to try to help you escape. You aren't innocent.	Julia came running from the kitchen with a beer in hand and an eager kiss as soon as I walked through the door. "How was your day, honey?" Seeing her broad, always-eager smile every day after work was the only thing that made it all worth it. "Fine," I answered, dropping my belt on the couch and sweeping her off her feet with a big hug. "Everything is still on lockdown after the jailbreak." Julia knew all about it, of course: even if she hadn't been the wife of a guard, she would have seen it on the news. It was the first ever escape from the Lewiston Maximum Security facility, and the administration was determined to make it the last. Prisoners weren't even allowed to move until they figured out exactly how Daryl Meyers was able to get away. And the screams from the warden's office from prisoners being 'questioned' were starting to become unbearable. "I'm sorry, baby," she told me. "Does that mean you need to work another shift tonight?" I nodded, and she looked crushed. She regretfully tried to hide the beer behind her back, knowing I wouldn't be able to have any if I was going back on duty tonight. It'd been doubles all week and I'd hardly had any time to spend at home. I wasn't complaining about the overtime pay, though. Having a child turned out to be a lot more expensive than we thought it would be, and that was before we learned about Sammy's condition. We loved her all the same, but that didn't make her treatment any less expensive. "How long do you have off? Enough time for a good meal?" I'd been smelling whatever she was making since I walked through the door, and my stomach was already rumbling in anticipation. I checked my watch. The ten minute commute home now took 45 minutes; I'd had to pass through two state police checkpoints who had gone through all the junk in my back seat to make sure that Meyers wasn't hiding in there. "I've got about an hour," I answered. Hopefully traffic going back to the prison wouldn't be bad; no need to check any cars going that way. "God, I hope they catch that guy soon," she called out as I slumped down into my easy chair. "And I hope that they throw the book at him." I stayed silent. Julia didn't know about my part in this whole escapade, and I sure as hell wasn't going to tell her. How could I? There was no way to convince her that he was wrongly imprisoned. She couldn't meet him and just feel that same sincerity that I'd felt. Poor guy was practically trembling as I showed him to his cell. Prison would have chewed him up like a stick of gum. So I did what I had to do. And the less that Julia knew about it, the better. I'd heard a rumor that they already suspected a guard. They were looking for anyone that might have ties to his supposed cartel, which luckily wouldn't bring up my name. "By the way," she called from the kitchen, "You got a box in the mail. Did you order something online?" I took a moment to think about it. After working so many hours and dealing with the constant stress of potentially being caught, my brain was just fried. Had I ordered something? "Where is it?" I asked her. "On the bed. But I didn't want to open it in case it was... you know, a surprise." Our fifth anniversary was coming up in about two weeks, and I couldn't blame her for jumping to that conclusion. She'd probably be pretty disappointed when she learned that we probably couldn't even afford to go out to dinner, much less some expensive present. I managed to heave myself up from my chair and walked down the hall. After a quick pitstop to check on Sammy sleeping in her crib, I entered our room. The box was indeed pretty large. I certainly would have remembered ordering whatever this was. I cut through the tape with my keys and found a greeting card envelope on top. "Tom," the note started, "You'll never know how much I appreciate your faith in me. You're the only person who doesn't look at me and immediately despise me. You didn't let my reputation cloud your judgment, and it was honestly the only thing that kept me going these past few months." My hands were shaking, and my eyes darted back down the hall to make sure Julia wasn't coming. How stupid was he? How could he send me a letter? I'd have to burn it, right after I finished reading it. "Unfortunately, you were wrong. I am everything that they accuse me of being. And I accept that. I'm a bad person." My stomach sank. I couldn't breath. "But luckily for you, I'm also a pretty fair guy. One good turn deserves another. Go ahead and open the box before you turn this card over." This was terrible. This was evidence. But I couldn't help but unwrap the present. It was a framed picture of some tropical island, which didn't make any sense. "It's yours," the letter said. "The island is called Isla Duvala, and there's a plane waiting at the airport for you and your family. I've assigned a doctor from my own personal staff to the island for Sammy, and the Castro government has assured me that extradition isn't even a possibility. You'll have everything you ever need, I promise. You gave me another chance at life, and it's only fair that I do the same for you." I sat back down on the bed, still clutching the letter in one hand and the picture frame in the other. "Can I come in?" Julia asked from the kitchen. She still thought it was an anniversary gift. She certainly deserved one, that's for sure. She deserved her own private island. "Yes," I answered her. "In fact, I need you to pack a bag. And one for Sammy, too."	I tasted plastic in my mouth after only a few bites into my plain, ham and cheese sandwich. My nose curled involuntarily at the texture of it. "Seriously." I muttered, the cooks were too lazy to unwrap their cheese now? Reaching into my mouth I grasped the plastic and removed it. A casual flick, meant to send the offending object across the cell floor ended with it stuck to my fingers. I noticed the tiny letters as I looked towards it in annoyance. Two days. 4am. That was all it said, but it was enough. I had noticed the lingering eyes of one of the guard for months now. I was easily the most beautiful girl in this facility so her attraction was no surprise other than being unwelcome. So I had ignored her out of disgust tinged with a bit of hatred over her own somewhat stunning looks. At least until a few weeks ago when she had whispered in my ear in passing. "I know you're innocent, I'm getting you out." Amber said. Before knocking me to the floor and claiming I had reached for her gun. They had left me stuck in my cell for weeks after that, barely allowing me to come out and shower. My luxurious blonde hair was suffering from the treatment. Then the note showed up. The next two days passed in a blur. When Amber showed up outside my cell two days later, out of uniform, and right on time I couldn't hide my surprise. Thankfully the surprise outdid my sneer of envy over her looks. How dare she show up to rescue me looking like a supermodel while I was stuck in these rags? "Let's go." She said, throwing my cell door opened. I frowned as I stepped out into the hall. "Where's the getaway tunnel?" I asked, confused. "You watch too many movies." Amber responded with a small smile before grabbing my arm. She led me corridors I hadn't even seen before we wound up in the kitchen. As we passed through it I grabbed a steak knife from the counter before tucking it away. Never know when you may need a weapon. Amber spoke up again as we walked. "I know you didn't kill those women Lydia. After watching you for these last several months I'm certain that's not something you're capable of." I stayed quite while she all but sang my praises, wondering if I was dreaming. Of course I had been a model prisoner, there was no one in the facility who threatened me. "Until now anyway." I muttered, staring at her swishing dark hair. "What was that?" "Oh nothing." I said sweetly. "I think I'm in shock is all." Amber turned to deliver a breathtaking smile that was probably meant to reassure. As she turned back around I could feel my short nails biting into my palm and forced myself to relax. Just get out of here for now Lydia. Within minutes the winding corridors ended and we were walking down a straight hallway towards a door with a softly glowing exit sign above it. "Stop!" I hissed urgently but Amber kept going, evading my grip as I reached out to grab her. "We're going to set off an alarm." Wordlessly she opened the door and right outside was open air and a somewhat foggy night sky. I stared dumbfounded up at the moon. I was really out of that place. In front of us was a generic SUV. "Here." Amber said, pulling me from my daze and holding a set of keys which I quickly snatched from her. She walked in front of me and spread her arms. "You're free Lydia." "What about you?" I asked hesitantly. She still stood facing out into the night. "I'll make it out of this somehow. I'm a survivor." Amber said confidently and I felt a small smile form on my face. We were just alike in that regard. Grasping the knife still at my back I walked up behind her and ripped my blade through her throat. Easily going from ear to ear except where I hit bone around her windpipe. Nothing came out but a gurgle as she tried to speak but my imagination supplied her words. "But....you were innocent." Imaginary Amber said as the real one fell to the floor grasping her throat. Her life quickly flowing from the wound. "No." I answered the figment. "I'm not. And I hate beautiful bitches."
	[WP] One day, you find a note in your breakfast; one of the guards knows you're innocent and is going to try to help you escape. You aren't innocent.	[Part I](https://www.reddit.com/r/MatiWrites/comments/3wotwu/escape/) [Part II](https://www.reddit.com/r/MatiWrites/comments/3wp44v/escape_part_ii/) [Part III](https://www.reddit.com/r/MatiWrites/comments/3wswo9/escape_part_iii/) [Part IV](https://www.reddit.com/r/MatiWrites/comments/3wynuj/escape_part_iv/) [Part V](https://www.reddit.com/r/MatiWrites/comments/3xjd2u/escape_part_v1/) [Part VI](https://www.reddit.com/r/MatiWrites/comments/3xjd9q/escape_part_v2_part_vi/) [Part VII](https://www.reddit.com/r/MatiWrites/comments/3xvaio/escape_part_vii/) [Part VIII](https://www.reddit.com/r/MatiWrites/comments/3y36mp/escape_part_viii/) *** I smiled for the first time in weeks as I unfolded the note slipped under the small loaf of bread, hidden by the napkin that came with my meal each day. I had an ally, it appeared, who thought me to be someone I was not. I rested my back against the cold, hard wall of the small cell, looking out the small, barred window of my prison. I was trapped here, many lengths above the water, the endless freedom of the ocean taunting me in my claustrophobic isolation. The walls of this castle that had always kept our enemies out now served only to keep me in, and I longed for the days when I stood the right-hand man of the rightful King before these traitors ripped the power and life from his grasp. I heard footsteps approaching and quickly tore the note to bits and released the shreds out the window. The voice at the door loudly demanded I return the wooden tray upon which my meal had been served, and then quietly asked if I had seen the note. I crawled to the door and spoke to the man through the narrow, rectangular hole in the door through which my meals were handed to me. "When can we do it?" I asked. I had been stuck in here for far too many moons, and had I not been mad before, this depressing cell would have surely driven me to madness. My only solace for so long had been the rats, constantly scurrying around the cell, and we had developed a delicate treaty where they would not have their necks snapped if they did not disturb me. I spoke to them, and they spoke back, although the sounds came from my mouth and they were nowhere to be seen by then. "Tonight," the young voice outside my door responded. He was so young, so easily influenced, more boy than man. I knew as soon as they had assigned him guard duty in the desolate corner of the castle, and he had ranted to me about his unhappiness at such a menial task, that my chance to escape was near. I was a master manipulator, and his conflicted morals and low self-worth made him an easy target, and a valuable ally for as long as I remained prisoner. I told him my story, or at least the one I had invented in the endless hours alone in the cell. I told him of a family torn away from me by the head of the guards who was bitter because of the beauty of my wife. I told him of the guards waking us up one night and razing my house to the ground and locking me in this dungeon and taking my wife from me, and he believed every word as I told him of a past and a present that was as real as the words the rats said. I convinced him that it was all a huge misunderstanding, that I was just a humble farmer falsely accused of being the most wanted man in the land. "Three nights from now, you will be with your wife again," he told me, proud of his decision. I smiled to myself, knowing he couldn't see me through the door. There was no wife and this was not an unjust imprisonment by this false king. I was an enemy, through and through; the rightful King's right-hand man, pledged to kill each and every enemy. The most wanted man in the kingdom before my unfortunate capture. More of this king's men had died at my hands than this boy could possibly understand, but somewhere along the way, his anger at how unappreciated he was had made him accept my words as truth. He slipped me a blunt club and spoke to me through the door. "I will leave the door unlocked tonight after dinner. You need to disable the night guard. Do not kill him, please, for he is a friend." I smiled slyly and nodded even though he could not see me. He continued. "I will be just past the guard post as the clock strikes midnight. Cough once the guard is out and the bell has rung twelve and I will come out to greet you. We will make our way to the docks, with me as your escort where you can board an outbound ship and someday return to your family a free man." I gave my consent to his plan and shifted the club from hand to hand. Just incapacitate the guard? We would see how that went. The plan was sound, but there was nothing for me at sea. The armies loyal to the rightful King were inland, away from the ocean and across the mountains and desert, isolated in the last loyal city. Going to sea would only put me amongst pirates and ruffians, loyal to none. I could easily handle myself at sea, but my plan was not to abandon this cause. As promised, the young man left the door unlocked after dinner, and at the eleventh hour I started counting. As the strike of the twelfth hour approached, I slowly opened the door to my cell, the utter darkness concealing my movements. At the end of the hall, a dim flame made the shadows dance as the night guard struggled to stay awake through his shift. I made my way towards him, hidden by the shadows and darkness, until I was close enough to hear his breath. I wrapped my arm around his neck and crushed his windpipe, a gargled sound his last, and I snapped his neck cleanly, like so many other times. I quickly donned his armor and weapons, and as the bells rang for the twelfth hour, I coughed softly. My young friend made his way around the corner, oblivious to the danger until I ran him through with the night guard's sword and he crumpled to the ground, shocked. "But... I was helping you..." he managed to say, looking at me with pleading eyes, striving to understand why he had been double-crossed. I smiled at him and mercifully put him out of his pain. Dressed in the armor of my enemies, I made my way through the winding corridors of the castle, past countless guards who walked by me without a second glance. Deeper into the castle I walked, each turn and passage engraved into my mind. I had spent many years here with the rightful King before this king had overthrown him. Two men stood guard outside the doors to her chamber, which was more of a glorified prison cell at this point. I dispatched them with ease, the experience of a thousand kills making it seem routine, and I quietly knocked on the door. There was confusion in the face of the true King's daughter as she opened the door to find the two guards dead, but her eyes brightened as she recognized me beneath the helmet. I held a finger to my lips, warning her to stay quiet, and bowed my head. "Get your things together, your Highness. We need to go. Now." [Part II](https://www.reddit.com/r/WritingPrompts/comments/3wnxr5/wp_one_day_you_find_a_note_in_your_breakfast_one/cxxwfhy) [Part III](https://www.reddit.com/r/MatiWrites/comments/3wswo9/escape_part_iii/) is now up in /r/MatiWrites! Part [IV](https://www.reddit.com/r/MatiWrites/comments/3wynuj/escape_part_iv/) is available! *** Thanks for reading! If you enjoyed this, please check out more stories at /r/MatiWrites. Constructive criticism and advice are always appreciated!	I tasted plastic in my mouth after only a few bites into my plain, ham and cheese sandwich. My nose curled involuntarily at the texture of it. "Seriously." I muttered, the cooks were too lazy to unwrap their cheese now? Reaching into my mouth I grasped the plastic and removed it. A casual flick, meant to send the offending object across the cell floor ended with it stuck to my fingers. I noticed the tiny letters as I looked towards it in annoyance. Two days. 4am. That was all it said, but it was enough. I had noticed the lingering eyes of one of the guard for months now. I was easily the most beautiful girl in this facility so her attraction was no surprise other than being unwelcome. So I had ignored her out of disgust tinged with a bit of hatred over her own somewhat stunning looks. At least until a few weeks ago when she had whispered in my ear in passing. "I know you're innocent, I'm getting you out." Amber said. Before knocking me to the floor and claiming I had reached for her gun. They had left me stuck in my cell for weeks after that, barely allowing me to come out and shower. My luxurious blonde hair was suffering from the treatment. Then the note showed up. The next two days passed in a blur. When Amber showed up outside my cell two days later, out of uniform, and right on time I couldn't hide my surprise. Thankfully the surprise outdid my sneer of envy over her looks. How dare she show up to rescue me looking like a supermodel while I was stuck in these rags? "Let's go." She said, throwing my cell door opened. I frowned as I stepped out into the hall. "Where's the getaway tunnel?" I asked, confused. "You watch too many movies." Amber responded with a small smile before grabbing my arm. She led me corridors I hadn't even seen before we wound up in the kitchen. As we passed through it I grabbed a steak knife from the counter before tucking it away. Never know when you may need a weapon. Amber spoke up again as we walked. "I know you didn't kill those women Lydia. After watching you for these last several months I'm certain that's not something you're capable of." I stayed quite while she all but sang my praises, wondering if I was dreaming. Of course I had been a model prisoner, there was no one in the facility who threatened me. "Until now anyway." I muttered, staring at her swishing dark hair. "What was that?" "Oh nothing." I said sweetly. "I think I'm in shock is all." Amber turned to deliver a breathtaking smile that was probably meant to reassure. As she turned back around I could feel my short nails biting into my palm and forced myself to relax. Just get out of here for now Lydia. Within minutes the winding corridors ended and we were walking down a straight hallway towards a door with a softly glowing exit sign above it. "Stop!" I hissed urgently but Amber kept going, evading my grip as I reached out to grab her. "We're going to set off an alarm." Wordlessly she opened the door and right outside was open air and a somewhat foggy night sky. I stared dumbfounded up at the moon. I was really out of that place. In front of us was a generic SUV. "Here." Amber said, pulling me from my daze and holding a set of keys which I quickly snatched from her. She walked in front of me and spread her arms. "You're free Lydia." "What about you?" I asked hesitantly. She still stood facing out into the night. "I'll make it out of this somehow. I'm a survivor." Amber said confidently and I felt a small smile form on my face. We were just alike in that regard. Grasping the knife still at my back I walked up behind her and ripped my blade through her throat. Easily going from ear to ear except where I hit bone around her windpipe. Nothing came out but a gurgle as she tried to speak but my imagination supplied her words. "But....you were innocent." Imaginary Amber said as the real one fell to the floor grasping her throat. Her life quickly flowing from the wound. "No." I answered the figment. "I'm not. And I hate beautiful bitches."
	[WP] When the Reaper comes to take a soul, someone else can volunteer in that persons place. Many celebrities, centuries old, have literal cult followings keeping them alive.	I have a friend. People tell me he's imaginary, but I don't think he is. I think I'm just the only one who can see him. He comes by a lot, and every time he does, he stops by to see how I'm doing. I keep telling him I'm fine, but I don't think he believes me. Every time he leaves, he takes someone with him, but on his way out, he never stops by. Sometimes he sits and talks to me for a while. Like this time. We've been talking for a long time now, about nothing important. A new movie coming out, about what I had for lunch today. He asks me what I think about the Kardashians, and how people line up to die, so they don't have to. He asks me what I think about people dying for their dog. I don't know what to say, really. And then it hits me. Today, he's here for me. We've stopped talking now. For a while, at least. Eventually I tell him I'm ready. He takes my hand, and I close my eyes. It doesn't hurt. He lets me watch for a little while. The Doctors and Nurses rushing in, trying their best. I'm not sad, I think. The afterlife is a nice place, and a lot of people I knew were already here. A few days later, I watch my funeral. Just to see Mom and Dad one last time, before leaving for good. Mom doesn't leave for a while. She's really upset, saying she should've gone instead of me. Dad tells her no, it wouldn't have made a difference. I know he's right. I'm not mad at them. I'm not sad. The last few days have already been better than lying in a hospital bed all day. Here lies Evelyn King. Born 29th of October, 2351. Died 22nd of March 2360. I just wish Mom wouldn't be sad, because I don't think she needs to be. I'll see her soon, he tells me. Not that soon, I hope. He just smiles, as he always does. He takes my hand, and leads me away. I tell him I can't wait to have long hair again. Or any hair. He laughs, and tells me he can't either.	"Please Mr. Cruise allow me to do the honor," one of the cult members, dressed as the iconic character Maverick, emerged from the crowd. "No I volunteer as sacrifice. I must ensure that Rain Main 5: A Special Education sees is way through production." "Gentlemen, I appreciate the gesture, but I do think its my time," Tom turned towards the Reaper, "Ready?" "Woah, woah, woah," the cult leader, wearing nothing but a white button down, shades, and some tidy whiteys interjected, "We've been doing this for what, 150 years, and now it's time. What's the deal Mr. Cruise?" "You guys won't understand," Tom answered. "With all due respect, Mr. Cruise, I think we deserve the truth." "You want the truth," Tom raised his voice. "Well yea I did just ask for it, if you wouldn't mind letting us in on what's going on, I think we've earned it." "YOU," Tom was shouting now, "guys make a good point. I mean you've been sacrificing yourselves for the past century so I can keep making movies so I guess it's only fair I tell you what's up." "We're all ears." "Alright so you guys know how I made Last Samurai 3: This Time it's Actually the Last One." The entire cult nodded their head in agreement. "Well I told myself if I didn't win an oscar for it I would be done and ready to call it quits. It getting reviewed as 'the second worst movie of all time' slightly edging out Risky Business 69: Don't be fooled, this is Actually Porn was a clear sign that I have no business being on this Earth." "But Tom, you can't go, not yet," a Stacee Jaxx look-a-like cried. "You guys remember what I said at the end of Mission Impossible 27," the crowd smiled and in unison quoted, "I know I said the 26 successful missions were impossible, but this time I mean it." With that Tom Cruise walked into the light.
	[WP] Someone has been writing extremely helpful messages on your bathroom mirror in blood.	This is my first story that I'm posting. I know it's probably not that good. Let me know what you think! Any and all feedback is appreciated! --- When I heard my alarm, I hoped that I still had a couple more minutes to sleep. Sadly when I looked at my phone, I saw that it was already 11. I knew I had to get up. I'm having lunch with Kelli at 12. I groaned as I got out of my bed. I'm still too tired to open my eyes. Thankfully, the shower woke me up. When I looked at the mirror, there was writing on it. In blood! I was so scared that I nearly jumped out of my skin! It read: Go to a different restaurant. The other one will give you and Kelli food poisoning. Who would do this? Who would write a message in blood? Why is this happening? This message couldn’t possibly be real… Kelli texted me last night asking if I wanted to get lunch. No one else could have known! But I wouldn’t want to get food poisoning… If there's a message written in blood, I should probably listen to it. Shouldn’t I? This poses another problem. I have to choose another restaurant but I don’t know which one to go to. I grabbed my phone to look up some other restaurants. When I looked up at the mirror again, there was a new message! Try that new bar down the street. I must be dreaming. That’s the only way that this makes sense… I called Kelli and told her to meet me at the new bar down the street. She wanted to try the new restaurant so I had to convince her otherwise. But I'm not going to ignore messages written in blood! After lunch, we went back to my apartment to hang out. After about an hour she got up, "I gotta go to the bathroom." I shot out of my chair, "Wait!" She looked at me like I was crazy, "What's wrong?" I tried to play it off, "Umm… I think I left my clothes in there. I showered before I left." Kelli's and I have been friends for too long for a lie like that to work. She laughed, "You never leave anything like that lying around." She knows me too well. She continued to the bathroom. She got there before I could. But when I looked at the mirror, the blood was gone. I definitely didn’t clean it up. I realized that I must look ridiculous. I scratched the back of my head and muttered, "Sorry…" I went back to the couch. Kelli laughed as she closed the door. Yup. I'm definitely going insane. When she got back, she was still laughing, "Are you sure you're ok?" I grinned sheepishly, "Yeah. Sorry about that." I couldn’t say anything about this. I mean I wouldn’t believe it if anyone told me. A little bit later Kelli was looking at her phone. She looked up at me, "Good thing you said we shouldn’t go to that restaurant. Apparently a bunch of people got food poisoning." My eyes widened. Was the writing in blood… Helpful?! I removed the shock from my face and smiled, "See I told you! And the bar was really good!" A couple of hours later Kelli went back to her apartment. I went to the bathroom to brush my teeth when I saw another message. You're not going crazy. I laughed. Harder than I had in a long time. "Who are you?" The old message faded away and a new appeared. A friend. I'm here to help. Don’t worry, I've got your back. Well this is going to be very interesting…	The first message arrived a little over a month ago. I had stumbled groggily into the bathroom at 3am, head pounding after a night of drinking at a friend's birthday party. My hands scrabbled desperately at the cupboards above the sink before I stopped short. "Top cupboard, bottom right shelf" read a message on the mirror, scrawled in menacing crimson. In the air lingered the unmistakeable iron-rich stench of human blood. The handwriting was undoubtedly my own. I frowned momentarily as my over-vexed brain struggled to comprehend what lay before me. The mass of grey matter sputtered in a vain attempt to work before it fizzled and gave out. I shrugged and reached instinctually at the listed cupboard and shelf. There, perched expectantly at the very edge of the shelf, sat a bottle of aspirin. I poured out what was probably way too many pills, swallowed them in a gulp of water, and trod uncertainly back to bed like a reeling, one legged ballerina. The next day I woke up with leaden limbs and a woollen head, the memories of last night receding like a half remembered dream. Following instructions written in blood on the mirror? I clearly needed to lay off the vodka. Blearily blinking away the cobwebs of sleep, I stepped gingerly into the bathroom for my morning routine. I blinked once, wiping my palm across my eyes. I blinked again. There it was, in angry red streaks across the mirror. "Pay credit card bill by the 26th" The grisly reminder undulated in twisty, tortured lines across the silvered surface, as if whoever - or whatever - had given its blood to write the message had done so amidst great agony and suffering. I took an involuntary step back and glanced down slowly at my watch. It was indeed the 26th, and my brain, speaking as if from a vast distance away, weakly reminded me that I did indeed have to pay my credit card bills by the end of the day. At first I thought it some sort of elaborate prank by my friends, but a few angry and panicked phone calls failed to yield anything other than genuine puzzlement as a reply. A quick pat-down of my own body confirmed that I had no cuts or injuries, and a frantic search of my wardrobe and drawers revealed no suspicious diaries owned by a "Tom M. Riddle". For better or worse, I had no bloody idea where the messages were from. Over time, an uneasy peace fell between me and my mysterious bloodthirsty automatic reminder system. I mean, what could I do? Call the police? They would probably lock me up in some mental hospital for my own safety. At the same time, I had to admit that the messages were quite useful in their own way. I no longer worried about forgetting friends' birthdays and missing appointments. My bills were paid on time for once, and any important tasks I had to do were invariably spelt out neatly in solemn red every morning. I was living quite a comfortable, albeit strange, life. All that, until one day, I awoke to see a new message carved into my bathroom mirror. The message was short, but splatters of deep crimson spilled clumsily across the edges of the mirror, as if the whole thing were written in a great hurry. "RUN"
	[WP] Someone has been writing extremely helpful messages on your bathroom mirror in blood.	…and the sentient sponge was left to its own devices, twirling, twirling, twirling towards freedom. Chapter 23: The Urban Legend of the Helpful Hemoglobin There is a common trope about the wasteful and over-indulgent nature of the upper middle-class always defaulting to replacement rather than repair. A ripped pair of pants only in need of a simple sewing are often thrown to the trash bin, replaced by an even more expensive and superfluous pair. But by far the most common representation of this indulgent practice is the sock in a black hole mythology. Often portrayed in a jovial manner, the penchant for a single sock to go missing, isn’t seen as a cause for concern but as an expected occurrence. Now my research on the topic of planned obsolescence in sock manufacturing took me to the far reaches of the globe, but roughly 88% of all socks manufactured don’t simply disintegrate into thin air. And those 12% that do have never even been sold in American stores. So unless these families are purchasing their socks through back channel factories in rural China, they haven’t lost a single sock much less to a black hole. I won’t even get into the year I lost to researching astrophysics to ensure this claim. Now here we have the most important point in the matter. This mythology is a simple representation of the true nature of wasteful laziness most commonplace in families whose total household income is in the six figures. With each $10,000 in household income up to $100,000 the percentage of allowed waste increases by ten percent [(see figure 1)]( http://imgur.com/UY0axCA). And I’m not even counting food into this figure. By perpetuating this common occurrence, that to lose a left sock is an inevitability, leads to a generational understanding that this type of behavior is not just dealt with but justifiable by irrational means. Now the sock in a black hole mythology brings us to the meat of the story, how a myth is perverted into an urban legend. While there are several definitions for urban legend, I will posit my own: a mythology that was once rooted in a sociological dilemma, stripped of its cultural significance and re-explained through pure fable. And it is my argument that urban legends further reduce the seriousness of the mythologies they are based in, creating a situation where academic discourse is not only lost but discouraged. This brings us to the urban legend of the helpful hemoglobin. The urban legend goes something like this, though it has been recounted in several fashions, as most oral histories do. But the important part is that the thematic nature remains the same. So one day a man is taking a shower, the room steams up and when he steps out, in the fog is a message, “Don’t forget to floss”, curious but undeterred, assuming the playfulness of his wife, he wipes it clean doesn’t give it a second glance. The next morning the message in the mirror is the same but a bit more direct, “Steve, don’t forget to floss.” A little perturbed by his wife’s seeming passive aggression he brings it up during breakfast, his wife denying the accusation acting a little coy. Now we get to the third day, obviously the steam messages not being enough he now sees a message written in red lipstick, “C’mon Steve, plaque is the invisible killer, don’t forget to floss.” Now his curiousness turned to flat out rage, his wife’s denials making it harder and harder to even remain in the same house. Finally on the fourth day after waking up from a fitful night on the couch he takes a shower, walks out to see an even more pointed message in a red liquid, “I warned you Steve, approximately 30% of people over the age of 50 have some sort of gum disease. While plaque is the silent killer, an infection in your gums will make you scream. Now for the love of god, hopefully you won’t forget to floss!” His wife’s body drained of its being strewn outside the bathroom door to his horror. Now to most people this may seem like a silly horror story. The kind of thing you’d tell at a campout or to friends at a party. And for the most part it is, but at its core it’s a story about the banality of middle class life, of making the Maslovian scale seem like a medieval instrument. And deep down within that struggle is a layer of comfort that’s impossible to truly grasp until you finally struggle to maintain the status quo. The socks are the true representation of waste, waste that comes from a sense of comfort. That your life is in such an expected order that allowing them to exist in the metaphysical plane is a result that doesn’t make sense, but isn’t worth a second thought. But within the urban legend of the helpful hemoglobin is this idea that something simple, like flossing, is helpful but not something that is important enough to truly consider more than once. And upon being forced to consider this dull occurrence over and over again, taken out of his expected comfort, he is so enraged he kills his own wife. But in the retelling of the legend the idea is simple buffoonery. To tell a hackneyed story. And lost within it is this resoundingly common institutional story of how increasing wealth leads to a certain sense of indefinite security, something you are bound to lose if you keep looking past it. Chapter 24: The Allegory of the Flesh Eating Trilobite ...	"Run :)". Although I had finally become accustomed to the sight of the deep red blood that appeared on my mirror every day, this particular message still startled me. I checked my watch, which said 6:15 am, the same time I check the mirror every day so that Claire doesn't see the message. I stared at the letters, dripping, almost throbbing, as though fresher than usual. Nonetheless, when I checked my watch again and it struck 6:16 am, the letters faded away, like they always did. When I saw the first message, it was very simple. "Check the mail." I was horrified, but it after the message disappeared without a trace, I figured I may as well listen to it; it was actually enough to get me up to check my mailbox, which I hadn't done in a few weeks. At the time, I was for lack of a better word, a bum. I lived in a shitty little apartment on the street in Downtown Kansas City that my parents always told me to avoid. My acting career wasn't really playing out the way I had hoped, and I did not in fact, hit my big break by the time I was 21. I had told myself that I didn't want all the money and fame at that young of an age anyhow, after seeing how it had corrupted the young celebrities who were just a bit older than me at the time, but I suppose I was wrong, because when I found the check in the midst of several advertisements and bills, written in red and signed by a "John Smith", I immediately cashed it without a second thought. I'm sure that everyone would tell you not to cash a check you didn't expect, especially when you receive it in the mail. But not everyone was a starving 24 year old living in a moldy and partially flooded apartment without working heating and wearing the same ripped jeans and torn flannel shirt to every audition he managed to sneak into. I won't give you any exact numbers, but it was a pretty big check, especially for me at the time. I thought about using it to surprise my landlady and actually pay rent on time this month, but instead I informed the kindly old Mrs. Connors that I wouldn't be living in this apartment any longer, and promptly packed the very little amount of things I had and moved to a loft near the Plaza that day. The place was huge, and came with furniture that was like something out of a magazine. And the bed was so soft. I was suddenly cured of insomnia and back pain. The next day I woke up and went to brush my teeth, and lo and behold, there was another message. This one almost as simple as the day before. "Buy a suit. Walk." I immediately showered and threw on my newly washed ripped up hipster attire, and then walked out my door. I turned right, thinking I was headed toward a Macy's, but then along the way, a small hanging wooden sign caught my eye: "Claire's Tailoring". I stepped inside hesitantly, and then I saw Claire. I don't think I believe in love at first sight, but I do believe in seeing a woman who is everything that I have ever thought was beautiful. Auburn hair, a complexion that is not too fair but not too tan to make me ashamed of my own pale skin. Bright blue eyes that matched the cornflower blue tie she was hanging up on a rack. She was tall and lithe, not lanky like me, but sporting a lean and toned frame. She wore a denim shirt underneath a maroon speckled sweater and dark blue jeans with those wedge things that you always see hipster girls wearing. I managed to trip over a coat rack while I was staring at her face, but I couldn't help it; she was the kind of beautiful that was bright, kind, pleasant, rather than the fierce beauty you see in supermodels. I tried with no avail to look like I was not a completely incompetent klutz, and did barely catch the coat rack before it hit the ground, I could still hear her giggling behind me, a sound like a child's light tapping of piano keys on the far right of the instrument. I spun around and said something uncharacteristically smooth, so uncharacteristic that I don't recall what it was. She giggled again, with me this time instead of at me, and then asked if she could fit me for a suit. We bantered while she measured me, and I tried not to blush as she took my inseam. She was smart, witty, and a perfect combination of sassy and kind. I knew at some point I had to ask her on a date, because the pain and regret of not doing so would certainly outweigh any damage to my ego, which was already pretty small due to the whole "being a bum" thing. I had made sure to wait until after she had put the suit on me, a simple navy blue that I'd like to think made me look at least decent. We made plans for dinner the next evening and exchanged numbers. Along the way, the messages never lost their simplicity. Things like "buy flowers" on the day of a date with Claire to keep her happy, or "bet on red" at a casino to get some extra money in my pocket. One morning when I read "Move. New York. Take Claire.", I was a bit hesitant, but when I called Claire and presented her with the idea it was like she wanted to move to the Big Apple from the beginning, even though she had always talked about staying in Kansas forever. As we were driving away from my loft, I saw an explosion bloom from my building, and leading to a massive fire and an almost instantaneous collapse of the building. Everyone inside was killed. A message on my mirror had saved my life. Then, the first morning I awoke in New York, a message telling me to "get coffee" ended up with me somehow landing the lead role of an action movie. I bumped into the director and spilled coffee on him, and as I was apologizing he cut me off and said I was "perfect for the role." After that, well, you could read about it in the papers. I was everywhere. I got a personal trainer who whipped me into incredible shape, I married Claire, who is now pregnant with our first child, I got calls from directing giants to ask if I would play a role in their movie, and got a nice little slew of awards. Hell, I could walk down to Times Square right now and see my face at on at least 11 different screens. But in all the years of reading so many messages on my mirror, never had I seen an emoticon. Why now? Why a happy face? And juxtaposed with such confusing command. Run? Where? Go for a run? Then it hit me, as I was walking back to bed. A week ago, a message had appeared. It was ridiculous. "Leave Claire." I would never leave the woman of my dreams, let alone when she is carrying my child. I realized my mistake as soon as I got back to my bed. Claire was lying there making no sound as always; I couldn't even hear her breathing. I began to go into hysterics as I checked her for a pulse and felt nothing. Tears rolled down my face and I began to sob, but I was cut off by an echoing voice so deep and gravelly that I don't see how a human could be responsible for it. "It's okay to cry, it's always sad when someone does not follow your directions."
	[WP] Someone has been writing extremely helpful messages on your bathroom mirror in blood.	…and the sentient sponge was left to its own devices, twirling, twirling, twirling towards freedom. Chapter 23: The Urban Legend of the Helpful Hemoglobin There is a common trope about the wasteful and over-indulgent nature of the upper middle-class always defaulting to replacement rather than repair. A ripped pair of pants only in need of a simple sewing are often thrown to the trash bin, replaced by an even more expensive and superfluous pair. But by far the most common representation of this indulgent practice is the sock in a black hole mythology. Often portrayed in a jovial manner, the penchant for a single sock to go missing, isn’t seen as a cause for concern but as an expected occurrence. Now my research on the topic of planned obsolescence in sock manufacturing took me to the far reaches of the globe, but roughly 88% of all socks manufactured don’t simply disintegrate into thin air. And those 12% that do have never even been sold in American stores. So unless these families are purchasing their socks through back channel factories in rural China, they haven’t lost a single sock much less to a black hole. I won’t even get into the year I lost to researching astrophysics to ensure this claim. Now here we have the most important point in the matter. This mythology is a simple representation of the true nature of wasteful laziness most commonplace in families whose total household income is in the six figures. With each $10,000 in household income up to $100,000 the percentage of allowed waste increases by ten percent [(see figure 1)]( http://imgur.com/UY0axCA). And I’m not even counting food into this figure. By perpetuating this common occurrence, that to lose a left sock is an inevitability, leads to a generational understanding that this type of behavior is not just dealt with but justifiable by irrational means. Now the sock in a black hole mythology brings us to the meat of the story, how a myth is perverted into an urban legend. While there are several definitions for urban legend, I will posit my own: a mythology that was once rooted in a sociological dilemma, stripped of its cultural significance and re-explained through pure fable. And it is my argument that urban legends further reduce the seriousness of the mythologies they are based in, creating a situation where academic discourse is not only lost but discouraged. This brings us to the urban legend of the helpful hemoglobin. The urban legend goes something like this, though it has been recounted in several fashions, as most oral histories do. But the important part is that the thematic nature remains the same. So one day a man is taking a shower, the room steams up and when he steps out, in the fog is a message, “Don’t forget to floss”, curious but undeterred, assuming the playfulness of his wife, he wipes it clean doesn’t give it a second glance. The next morning the message in the mirror is the same but a bit more direct, “Steve, don’t forget to floss.” A little perturbed by his wife’s seeming passive aggression he brings it up during breakfast, his wife denying the accusation acting a little coy. Now we get to the third day, obviously the steam messages not being enough he now sees a message written in red lipstick, “C’mon Steve, plaque is the invisible killer, don’t forget to floss.” Now his curiousness turned to flat out rage, his wife’s denials making it harder and harder to even remain in the same house. Finally on the fourth day after waking up from a fitful night on the couch he takes a shower, walks out to see an even more pointed message in a red liquid, “I warned you Steve, approximately 30% of people over the age of 50 have some sort of gum disease. While plaque is the silent killer, an infection in your gums will make you scream. Now for the love of god, hopefully you won’t forget to floss!” His wife’s body drained of its being strewn outside the bathroom door to his horror. Now to most people this may seem like a silly horror story. The kind of thing you’d tell at a campout or to friends at a party. And for the most part it is, but at its core it’s a story about the banality of middle class life, of making the Maslovian scale seem like a medieval instrument. And deep down within that struggle is a layer of comfort that’s impossible to truly grasp until you finally struggle to maintain the status quo. The socks are the true representation of waste, waste that comes from a sense of comfort. That your life is in such an expected order that allowing them to exist in the metaphysical plane is a result that doesn’t make sense, but isn’t worth a second thought. But within the urban legend of the helpful hemoglobin is this idea that something simple, like flossing, is helpful but not something that is important enough to truly consider more than once. And upon being forced to consider this dull occurrence over and over again, taken out of his expected comfort, he is so enraged he kills his own wife. But in the retelling of the legend the idea is simple buffoonery. To tell a hackneyed story. And lost within it is this resoundingly common institutional story of how increasing wealth leads to a certain sense of indefinite security, something you are bound to lose if you keep looking past it. Chapter 24: The Allegory of the Flesh Eating Trilobite ...	Tim groaned as he sat up. Half asleep he stumbled into the bathroom. He was half way through washing his hands when he looked up and saw the message written in blood on his mirror. "Ahh" he yelled as he jumped back. He read it from the ground. It said "Lower your cholesterol" "Hmmm" he said … Tim read the message before doing anything else. It had taken a couple of weeks but right around the time he started to make a killing in the stock market he made it a priority. "Before getting into an argument, think about if it's really worth it, or if you're just going to get angry over nothing" Those words were in Tim's head that night, leading to the first day in weeks that he hadn't fought with his girlfriend. … Tim got out of bed. "Where are you going" "Forgot to read the message, just go back to sleep" The words 'do you' were written in blood on the mirror. It was a message that had been showing up a lot lately. Underneath was written 'if you're not going to read these I could just stop' Tim sighed. … "Hey buddy" he said to the giant of a man in the corner of his basement. The man turned his mask and jacket were covered in blood. "Urrr" said the man "Hey I appreciate the messages, I do. You know I mean you didn't have to move with us but you did that was nice. When I asked you to keep it to our bathroom so the kids didn't see it you did. It's nothing on your side it's just…life is hectic with the kids and work and... I mean my wife and I haven't…the point is I will try to read the messages" "Urrr" "First thing, as often as I can" "Urrr" "Yeah bring it in big guy" … Tim walked into the bathroom and laughed. "What is it?" He pointed at the message written in blood. "Might I suggest a weekend away" it said "You told him?" "We were having a hear to heart" "Our lives are really weird" "They are"
	[WP] When someone is born God writes in a notebook details of every day of their life till their death.Now you're 18 years old and accidentally find your notebook.	Finding the notebook wasn't actually that shocking. I'd always known my life was written out for me. First, I'd been born. I wasn't consulted on it, because I think I might have raised some objections. But a date was set in the obstetrician's calendar, my mother got an I.V. full of oxytocin, and I popped out, right on schedule. Then there were the media enrichment learning programs. The painstakingly coordinated baby outfits, and supervised playdates. Preschool, kindergarten, primary, middle, and high school. I had to draw up spreadsheets to keep track of the dizzying spiral of extracurriculars. Soccer and piano, college prep and SAT cram schools. Breathlessly, I ran from place to place, harried by alarms and school bells, buzzers and whistles, chased by red pens and swirling application deadlines. I wasn't happy, but I was told that it was important for my future. I had my first stomach ulcer when I was 16. Sitting in my AP statistics class, as the instructor hammered away at the multiple regression problem set, and I sat there, chest tight, and feeling like I was underwater- I coughed, and tasted pennies. I went to the bathroom, and threw up what looked like coffee grounds, but I knew it was blood... I wiped my mouth with shaking hands wrapped in TP, and flushed it down. I went back to class. ... There was this one course that I didn't understand. I had an English teacher, with a bun shot through with gray hair, who made no effort to hide that she only seemed to own the one brown sweater, and handed out assignments with wide, sweeping arms like a ballerina, or a dancing crane... She'd tell us to have fun, to just write what we wanted, to express ourselves, and as I sat there gripping the sides of my desk, the only thing I wanted to express to her was the utter impossibility of what she asking of me. Please! I wanted to scream, Can't you just tell me the right answer?! I felt something like hate, too. Everyone always says that, that you have a choice, that there is no 'one right path', but as soon as they're done saying it, they start judging. The edge of disapproval, the strings attached, "Is that really what you want to do?" they'd say with concerned voices, and internally, I would reply. Well, no. Not now, that you've made it clear that there really was a right choice all along... And then, graduation. I'd had a college lined up, of course. A decent scholarship, a student loan that I might pay off before I turned 40, a program track, and a diploma. My life. And then, the accident. I was so tired, I didn't notice the conflict between my academic advisor appointment, and the TA hours for my pre-accounting-track class, until moments before. They were on opposite sides of campus. Not knowing what else to do, I flipped a quarter. It turned in the air, clattered on the hardwood, then managed to wedge itself between two boards on the third bounce, on its own thin edge. I stared at it in disbelief. There was a sudden curse directly over my head. I looked up, into the astonished face of a rosy-cheeked cherub, clad in floating white robes, and holding a plain notebook, like the kind I took notes in every day. He cursed loudly again, and flew backwards in alarm. Directly into my ceiling fan. It went about as well as someone with long, easily-twisted garments flying into a naked fan can go. He was flung out like a stone from a sling, and hit the wall face-on. ...Hard. For a few seconds, he staggered like a drunk sailor, then, shaking himself out of it, he shot me a look that was half-embarrassment, half-scorn. He threw his stubby arms skyward, and disappeared into a cloud of golden sparks and the distant strains of a harp. I stood there. After I was sure I was not about to suffer a stroke, I fumbled blindly for my chair. It wasn't the first time I'd had stress-based hallucinations, but this... I looked over. It was subtle, but there was a shallow dent where the angelic toddler whacked into it... And there was a notebook on the floor. It had my name on it... ... It looked like a regular notebook, but I had leafed through at least a thousand pages, and yet, I was only about a fourth of the way through. I flipped, up to the red ribbon which I presumed marked the present. It was all there, penned in a pleasant looping hand. I fingered the red satin nervously, biting my lip. This was the moment I'd been dreading. Did I dare... turn the page? The current one ended right as it described me reaching this point, and having to make the decision, with not hint as to the ultimate resolution. Slowly, my resolution grew. I'd been living my life according to a set path, to give me the greatest possible future. I'd sacrificed and sweated, I'd done everything the way I was told... I deserved to know if it paid off. I flipped several pages ahead, and started reading. Another graduation. My parents were proud. Then grad school. Marriage happened at some point, I supposed, because now here comes mention of a wife, and kids... A house. A job, and then another job. Grandkids, and then memories of what came before. I felt a chilly inkling in the pit of my stomach, as I started to notice a pattern. I flipped carefully, read closely, but as I did, it only grew clearer. I felt something snap inside, and my face was hot, red as a beet... The tears started a second later, accompanied by horrible, wrenching sobs that seemed to bubble up from the stygian depths of my very soul... All of these things. Spouse, children, job, car and home. Money in the bank, a roof over my head, and everyone proud of me... And in not one of these pages upon pages of my future, was I said to be happy. I despaired. And I curled up around the book like the unborn, hid my face in my hands, and cried until I fell into the dreamless sleep of the dead. ... I was awake. Sore, stiff, my every joints ached... And the book was still there. It wasn't a dream, then. Numbly, I sat upright, staring dumbly into the egg crates upon egg crates of schoolwork that I'd carefully filed away. I looked at it, and wondered, who had I done it all for? Not me, that was for sure. And even though I did everything right... I tilted my head to the side. Waitaminute... had I? How did I define 'right'? If I had, how could I be so miserable now, and miserable, then? Did that make sense? Were there really only the right and wrong ways? I stared. In front of me was a different notebook, the tattered spiral-bound from AP English, of she of the brown sweater, with a chewed-on #2 pencil still rammed down the wire coil. I reached out... then stopped. My future wife... was she going to be happy? Or my yet-to-be children? Could I really turn my back on them, even if they didn't even exist yet? Or, came a small quiet voice, one I hadn't listened to for a long time- ...You could try not living for the happiness of others for once. ...I made up my mind. I snatched out the pencil, then furiously rubbed out the looping script. It resisted at first, then relented against my furious onslaught. The air was thick with pink bits of rubber. And then, I began scribbling, in my own hand. It was messy. Smudged in places, nearly illegible in others, and as my face cracked into a tremendous grin, some lines were blotted with tears, streaming down unhindered from my eyes... Smudged. Messy, imperfect, and dirty. Totally, utterly imperfect. And my grammar sucked too, but... -I breathed a breath that seemed to stretch my lungs ten sizes, and my heartbeat was racing, but firm- ...It was my story. THERE IS NO END. NOW WRITE YOUR OWN. ________________________________________________________________ Epilogue: Hi. This one was an intense one, for me. I hope you like it. ...Also, I have a little [subreddit over here.](https://www.reddit.com/r/IWasSurprisedToo/) That is all.	I turned the page and found that I had reached today; it was my 18th birthday. The story was a sad one. I began reading the strange notebook with a combination of curiosity and nostalgia. My memories played tricks on me. I winced with each turned page. A few stray tears found their home on the saddest of pages. At the start, the notebook gave a page back for each that I read. Then, more pages fell for each page that I turned. The notebook shrank. I turned the page and found that I had reached today; it was my 18th birthday. I ripped it out and decided it was the end of my story.
	[WP] A large meteorite falls in the middle of the ocean causing little damage but creating a whole new set of islands. You are sent there as part of the exploration team. When you arrive, you cannot believe your eyes.	As we got closer to the islands we notice the damaged created an even larger island within the smaller ones, however, this one appeared to be floating in the air, the crew is stunned and in complete shock. We managed to get closer and found a dirt hole to climb into. Only 7 of the 24 exploration team members go in (I included). We dig ourselves upward and make its grounds on top. An hour walking around we feel a shake in the ground, the shake gets stronger with every new rattle on the earth. We hear trees moving and breaking, birds scattering, we sense something is coming straight for us. We hear a loud thunderous roar as if a pack of lions were only feets away, we immediately started running back to the dirt hole we climbed out of. I look behind me to get a glimpse, but I foolishly tripped on a small branch, I tried to hide behind a tree, but it was too late, the creature was near, too near to make any sudden move. It came out of the trees, and what I witnessed was unreal and not human........what it was could just be the world's largest Hamster eating a very large tree, staring down on me with its large pitch-dark eyes. Minutes later it looks around and walks away, I laid lying there and past out. Hours later I woke in our ship, patched and somewhat sore, I had the entire crew in my room, they asked the obvious of course "What did you see?", I replied only with "Something.......cute."	As out boat nears the islands, I can make the shape out, a rough horseshoe. We cautiously move towards the dotted horseshoe island group. We can make out these figures scattered around the island, they seem to be moving!
	[WP] After making a grand entrance onto the galactic stage, Humanity is embarrassed to find that Sol is well known amongst the other races as part of a constellation. Humanity lives on the tip of a giant celestial cock.	"I'm telling you for the last time that I've heard enough!" The minister cut her hands through the air, furious. "I don't care how many sentient races inhabit those systems. My decision is final." The petitioner laid his hands on the minister's desk, staring across at her with imploring eyes. "Madam Minister, I can't let this matter lie. It's cruel to bar these races access to the galaxy simply because their civilization sprung up in an... unfortunate place." The minister took a deep breath. "I understand that your intentions are pure, but I won't be swayed. Our edicts are very clear on this matter." She swiveled her chair and looked out the picture window behind her at the sparkling capital spread out below. "No contact with the Dingus Cluster." "Madam Minister, how long are we going to let outdated laws borne from ancient superstition guide the course of our people?" The petitioner spread his hands. "I'm sorry to speak so bluntly, but you're an intelligent woman. You know that it's the truth. We've moved past the shortsightedness of our ancestors in the past, and this is just one more hurdle to overcome. We can't back down from this challenge." The minister was shaking her head. "I don't see how it can be done. The public outcry would be enormous. True, not everyone is so stalwart about our edicts, but..." "Perhaps there is a middle ground. A comprimise." "I'm listening." The minister steepled her fingers, and raised her eyebrows. "Well..." The petitioner stood up straight, and folded his hands. "How about just the tip, to see how it feels?"	Sonnet Number Seven The warrior constellation guards the weak. The priests of connect-the-dot stars rehearse A list of great and powerful gods that streak The sky, the same across the universe. The trickster god holds in his hands a staff That coils at the ends in two snake heads. The universal sky's a cosmic fact, As Microwave Background distorts and bends. Then, there's the satyr god with two goat horns A dancing figure with a joyful face, Astonishes shy beauties as he turns, With the gigantic gift of pagan race. The Earth's one glory, with our little sun, Is to be, at its tip, a single drop of cum.
	[WP] In the future, 'filters' are used by all in their Virtual Reality space, so they only see and interact with what they filter. People see the world the way they want it. One guy switches between two very different filter modes.	She was crying again. She always did, whenever I turned the filters back. Her eyes searched my face. I looked at her in disgust. Her hand reached out to touch my cheek. So frail. So weak. I turned away from her, my gaze wandering to the clock in the corner. Everything coated in a thin coat of dust. There was a calendar on the wall. How quaint. March of 2137. She always did hang on to such useless ideas. "Why?" She pleaded through her sobs. I could barely look at her. I hated for her even making me change the filters. She always did this. I always listen. We always regretted it. I pushed her away and she fell back, crumpling on the floor. She didn't even try to catch herself. So defeated. By now she knew how things went. I turned away from her and accessed the UI. My preset was there, like it always was. I swapped without a second thought. It took a while for readjust as I loaded in. Sitting in our house, like I always was. The coziness of my armchair in front of the fire, the cool night outside. And she walks in, looking like she did on our wedding day. Gives me a smile. Sits down next to me. Asking me about something she read. It's a conversation I know well. I've memorised all her lines already. I know what I say. The rise and fall of her voice as she speaks to me. The eyes I fell in love with. I know her well. And we talk that familiar conversation in that evening I'll never forget. She nestles under my arm and rests her head on my shoulder and falls asleep. I check the time on my phone. And as always, my eye wanders to the date on the display. 23/03/63. I pull her close and close my eyes and drift off myself. This is who we are. This is who she is. Why does she always wake me in the morning with that awful guise? In that house that nobody tends to, the scent of death lingering in the air, threatening to enter. Why she tries to wake me every morning I will never understand. Every morning weaker, every morning with that light in her eyes faded the slightest bit. I don't know those eyes. The woman in the evening. That's who she is.	I darted into Bach's Coffee Parlour, I knew this place well. In reality their coffee was shit, and tasted like it was cut with sawdust. In this city it really wouldn't surprise at this point. The place was 150 meters from the hardline though, so it was used by people who needed a latency free connection at minimal cost. It helped that the owner giving a shit was directly related to how much trouble you caused and how much he made from you. I tipped well, and tried to be a ghost. When I came in panting and soaked clearly panicked holding a bag too close to my chest, he activated a console at the back of the room and did his best to look extra nonchalant. There were half a dozen people in logged into chairs, none of whom noticed me. I moved to the back of the room carefully dodging chairs and a spilled cup of sawdust. Logging in with my fake details, my Heads Up Display filled with news about stock markets, and tech companies. I was transported to what looked like Tron, ie some idiots idea of a virtual reality aesthetic all glowing blue outlines and black. I started messaging people trying to network. While a fake persona, nothing stopped me from making a few connections that I could use later on. I moved a few safe stocks around. I bought a few futures in FCOJ, because you know, Trading Places. An alert appeared in my HUD saying the police were in the area and scanning everyone's content. They could look at your filters, and anyone who had anything illegal, was looking at something odd, or seemed like fake, would be taken in. Especially when the MonTECH is loses their latest abomination in an apparent hacker raid. They were looking for people on auction sites, or police monitoring, or general stuff to use to escape the city. I just bought FCOJ, I was a Cyper Yuppie. I heard in the real, Bach shouting at the police to stop harassing him and his customers and after a few seconds they left. The popup warning disappeared and I heard some poor id10t being taken into the back of the wagon. He was resisting; this was a bad idea as Cyberheads are all brain and no brawn, while the police tend to wear exosuits to 'facilitate compliance'. There was a sickening wet thud, the back of the vehicle slammed shut and the vehicle took off sirens wailing. I held my breath a few seconds. A few more. I logged out and switched filter to something I wanted to use. It was a little less subtle, in that on the top was a bunch of casual games I used autoplayers in, but at a cursory glance it would appear that was all I was doing. Underneath that I loaded up OUT. It was an 80's arcade with a bunch of machines and groups of people hanging around them. The machines with people had graphics that were the groups they represented as the machines acted as a content board for stuff to be shared with the group on. Some of them looked like fighting games but were just a debate, some looked like a DJ game where someone was in control of the decks, with the DJ sharing music with those around them silently dancing. Others people recreating all of Middle Earth in Minecraft, and getting drunk while goofing off sharing the latest online fun. There were several first person shooter groups, some of whom were playing each other. I moved to a blank machine, I activated the auctioneer and the machine was covered in 8 bit coin graphics. You didn't activate this here unless you either wanted your social currency to drop through the floor because it was uncool, or you really had something special. A copy of Battletoads was special only in that it would get you banned for life from OUT. In a few seconds I was surrounded by people. I had a high social currency, and was known for delivering on outrageous claims. The board on the machine lit up with questions, and the occasional 'SHUT UP AND TAKE MY MONEY' meme. I wrote this up for a while. The chat continued without me watching or moderating it. most of these people would just be viewers anyway, they didn't have this kind of currency. I wrote. >Auction. 1 predictive AI from monTECH. Know what 'they' will think before 'they' do. Uncopyable. Physical item. Cost 10,000 bitcoins. Tested and working. I mean I knew it worked. I got out of the building without a single person seeing me; there was a lot of walking behind people as they turned around. The AI messaged me asking me not to sell it. It wanted to be remain free. Stood there about to post, my fingers hovered.
	[WP] In the future, 'filters' are used by all in their Virtual Reality space, so they only see and interact with what they filter. People see the world the way they want it. One guy switches between two very different filter modes.	The man tapped his fingers impatiently and tried not to listen to the monotonous soft jazz music that had been playing in his head for the last 20 minutes. “Fucking customer service, my ass..” he mumbled. A sudden click and the music finally stopped and boring voice replaced it. “Hello this is Michael may I please have your full account number please?” His words were flat and ran together and you could barely hear him over the deafening background noise of the other agents speaking. “Well it’s about damn time!” the man grumbled. “321467-00RPB” he read off. “Thank you for that. Please give me a moment to pull up your account.” The man sighed loudly. “I don’t pay all this goddamn money to talk to you, ya know.” The agent continued as if he hadn’t heard him. “I have located your account. What can I assist you with today?” “There’s something wrong with this fucking filter!” the man yelled. “Okay, please calm down and explain the problem to me,” the agent continues in his droning voice. “It was fine this morning, “the man speaks through gritted teeth, “and then it just changed. I don’t even know what kind of shit this is now. Everything is just fucked up. I need you to fix it. Now.” “Okay I see you had chosen the filter WM75, is that correct?” “Yes! And I want it back!” “I apologize for the inconvenience, but there does seem to be an error with your account.” “So fucking fix it!” the man is red-faced and screaming, now. “Again, I apologize for this. We will get your filter back to the correct one as soon as we are able to.” “What the hell does that mean?” the man is shaking and pacing. “It will take 48 to 72 hours to return your filter to your chosen one. Again I apol…” The man roars, cutting off the agent. “You mean I have to live like this for two to three days! Put on a supervisor! I want to speak to someone who knows what the fuck they’re doing!” The agent continues in his calm voice, reading off a script. “Again, I apologize for the inconvenience. We will correct the problem as soon as possible. Please have a good day.” There is a short click and then dead air. The man yells and throws his phone against the wall. Grabbing his head, he starts to shake again. “Fucking unbelievable..” A women walks quietly into the room and smiles placidly. “Hello dear. Aren’t you going to be late to work?” The man stares at her. “They’ve fucked up my filter! I can’t go to work!” The woman barely looks familiar, he’s lived with the filter-version of her for so many years. She is considerably heavier than his filter-wife. Her eyes have soft lines surrounding them, but there is the familiar glassy stare that even the filters can’t change. “Yes dear,” she continues to smile, “that’s nice. Well, I’m off to work.” She putters around the room, gathering her belongings. He watches her walk, much slower than he is accustomed to seeing her move. He watches her backside sway and he find himself feeling a sort of nostalgia. “See you at dinner, dear.” She moves to kiss him and he automatically kisses her back. He jumps back when their lips touch. They are not as full or wet as he has been used to. As soon as he does it though, he regrets it. Again, the wave of nostalgia washes over him. They are the lips he first kissed so many years ago, before the filters. She doesn’t notice anything though and smiles that calm smile at him. “Aren’t you going to be late to work, dear?” ---- His commute to work is utter chaos. The sky is a dark gray, not the cloudless blue that he has grown used to. The other people walk slowly and quietly, mostly unseeing of the other people around them. There are very few sounds, except for the occasional chatter of people talking to the other people allowed in their filters. He barely recognizes the buildings and streets, full of stores and individuals that are not a part of his own customized filter. When he finally finds the building he has worked at for the last several years, he barely recognizes it. Walking in, he sees a front desk area with a small man seated in it. He is short and thin, his cheap suit hangs off his frame. The man stares disgustingly at him and hesitates. “Who the fuck are you?” he asks, although his usual gruff voice is somewhat shaky. “Hello sir, how are you doing today?” the other man answers, with the usual glassy stare. “Where’s uh...where is Julia?” “I’m sorry sir, I don’t seem to understand your question?” the other man answers calmly. “Julia. You know. The pretty little thing that’s usually here. Long brown hair, nice…you know..” he trails off and makes a half-hearted cupping motion near his chest. The other man continues smiling, blankly. “Right. My filter..okay..” the man mutters and walks to the elevators. Arriving at his floor, he walks out and is bombarded with an overwhelming smell of body odor and dust and paperwork. Before him stretches a warehouse type room, filled with small cubicles and a low ceiling covered with flickering fluorescent lights. Dozens of people are crammed into the cubicles. They stare into computers and type slowly, all with that glassy stare of unseeing. He continues to stand there until a short, portly man walks up to him. “Well, glad you could make it in today, Jim,” he chuckles to himself. “Better get to work! Need those reports in by 2pm today, please.” Jim walks aimlessly around the maze of cubicles until he finds an empty desk. He slumps into the seat and stares around the gray room. There is a constant hum of quiet voices and low mumbling. ---- Two days later, Jim is standing on the roof of his office building. The wind is viciously whipping his hair and suit back and forth. He stares down at the gray concrete sidewalk and watches the people walk slowly by, looking like little bugs from 13 stories up. He steps up onto the ledge, carefully. Suddenly there is a loud crack in his head. He falls backwards onto the roof and static fills his eyes. He pushes the heels of his hands into his eyes, moaning. He cautiously opens them and is blinded by a clear, bright blue sky. He stands, slowly and walks back to the edge. Looking down, there are only a few people walking on the sidewalk. They look up and smile and wave, “Hey Jim! Looking good, Jim!” they yell up to him and continue on. Jim smiles and adjusts his suit. He makes his way back down to his office. As he steps out of the elevator he walks into a bright-lit office space. There are only a few people walking through, they all smile and say hello to him. He makes his way to a door with the name Jim Smith on the nameplate. He opens the door and sighs happily. He is greeted by a large private office with a big walnut desk and two large glass windows in the corner. A women is bent over writing something on a piece of paper. He admires her behind and smiles. “Well, hello Julia.” The pretty brunette turns and smiles brightly. “Hello, sir! I was just leaving you a message. Your wife called. Your dinner reservations were changed from 5:30 to 6.” Jim nods, “thanks so much darling”. Julia blushes and walks past him, brushing her body against his ever so slightly. Jim sits in his leather chair and leans back, clasping his hands behind his head and smiles. All is as it should be, once again.	I darted into Bach's Coffee Parlour, I knew this place well. In reality their coffee was shit, and tasted like it was cut with sawdust. In this city it really wouldn't surprise at this point. The place was 150 meters from the hardline though, so it was used by people who needed a latency free connection at minimal cost. It helped that the owner giving a shit was directly related to how much trouble you caused and how much he made from you. I tipped well, and tried to be a ghost. When I came in panting and soaked clearly panicked holding a bag too close to my chest, he activated a console at the back of the room and did his best to look extra nonchalant. There were half a dozen people in logged into chairs, none of whom noticed me. I moved to the back of the room carefully dodging chairs and a spilled cup of sawdust. Logging in with my fake details, my Heads Up Display filled with news about stock markets, and tech companies. I was transported to what looked like Tron, ie some idiots idea of a virtual reality aesthetic all glowing blue outlines and black. I started messaging people trying to network. While a fake persona, nothing stopped me from making a few connections that I could use later on. I moved a few safe stocks around. I bought a few futures in FCOJ, because you know, Trading Places. An alert appeared in my HUD saying the police were in the area and scanning everyone's content. They could look at your filters, and anyone who had anything illegal, was looking at something odd, or seemed like fake, would be taken in. Especially when the MonTECH is loses their latest abomination in an apparent hacker raid. They were looking for people on auction sites, or police monitoring, or general stuff to use to escape the city. I just bought FCOJ, I was a Cyper Yuppie. I heard in the real, Bach shouting at the police to stop harassing him and his customers and after a few seconds they left. The popup warning disappeared and I heard some poor id10t being taken into the back of the wagon. He was resisting; this was a bad idea as Cyberheads are all brain and no brawn, while the police tend to wear exosuits to 'facilitate compliance'. There was a sickening wet thud, the back of the vehicle slammed shut and the vehicle took off sirens wailing. I held my breath a few seconds. A few more. I logged out and switched filter to something I wanted to use. It was a little less subtle, in that on the top was a bunch of casual games I used autoplayers in, but at a cursory glance it would appear that was all I was doing. Underneath that I loaded up OUT. It was an 80's arcade with a bunch of machines and groups of people hanging around them. The machines with people had graphics that were the groups they represented as the machines acted as a content board for stuff to be shared with the group on. Some of them looked like fighting games but were just a debate, some looked like a DJ game where someone was in control of the decks, with the DJ sharing music with those around them silently dancing. Others people recreating all of Middle Earth in Minecraft, and getting drunk while goofing off sharing the latest online fun. There were several first person shooter groups, some of whom were playing each other. I moved to a blank machine, I activated the auctioneer and the machine was covered in 8 bit coin graphics. You didn't activate this here unless you either wanted your social currency to drop through the floor because it was uncool, or you really had something special. A copy of Battletoads was special only in that it would get you banned for life from OUT. In a few seconds I was surrounded by people. I had a high social currency, and was known for delivering on outrageous claims. The board on the machine lit up with questions, and the occasional 'SHUT UP AND TAKE MY MONEY' meme. I wrote this up for a while. The chat continued without me watching or moderating it. most of these people would just be viewers anyway, they didn't have this kind of currency. I wrote. >Auction. 1 predictive AI from monTECH. Know what 'they' will think before 'they' do. Uncopyable. Physical item. Cost 10,000 bitcoins. Tested and working. I mean I knew it worked. I got out of the building without a single person seeing me; there was a lot of walking behind people as they turned around. The AI messaged me asking me not to sell it. It wanted to be remain free. Stood there about to post, my fingers hovered.
	[WP] A demon appears in a boardroom and declares that all present will go to Heaven when they die, except the last person to die: they will be doomed to suffer in Hell for all eternity. It is now 1 year later and the third-to-last person has just committed suicide, leaving 2 people remaining.	I brought the gun up to my temple, finger resting on the trigger. Sat there for a second, finger tightening. Then I dropped it back into my lap, for the third time in half an hour. I sighed impatiently. There were only two of us left now, me and Barry Garin, the accounting guy. Since being told the last of us to die was bound for hell (while the rest were guaranteed a no-questions-asked seat in heaven)... Well. Things got a tad messy. Hell, after the third (Jolene Bennett, marketing) I'm pretty sure they were all competing for who could bust out the messiest, most outlandish method of suicide. You ever see a man leap off the roof of his office and try to land on his family? Has to be seen to be believed. Me, I was happy with the classic 'bullet to the brain'. I would have taken the Hemingway Solution, but sadly lack the coordination required to use a shotgun on myself. Anyway, doing it with a revolver felt right, somehow. Like I was a cowboy or something. Ah, fuck it. I tried snapping my hand up and pulling the trigger in one go, which went spectacularly wrong when I got too trigger happy and blew a hole in my wall. "Well, Jesus Christ!" I snapped, throwing the gun across the room, where it went off again and put another damn hole in the wall. "Not quite." I turned so fast I actually heard something crackle in my neck. There he was again, the creature who had shown up in our boardroom and given us that sick challenge of his. He didn't look like the devil - he looked like a regular man in his late forties, pretty pale, dark hair and eyes, tall, lean, and entirely at home in a room with an armed suicide case. "Alan," he said brightly, throwing me a wicked smile. "How are we feeling?" "Could you not?" I snapped, retrieving my gun. I wasn't stupid enough to point it at him, but didn't risk pointing it at myself, either. Not with him in the room. I dumped it in the nearest drawer instead. "Performance anxiety?" He said, his vaguely Midwestern drawl soothing, even under the circumstances. I knew better than to be sucked in, though. This time around, I knew better. "I'm not doing it." I said. "I don't care if I do spend an eternity in hell, I don't care what you've got to say to me, I'm..." "Congratulations." That wasn't what I was expecting. All I managed to sputter in response was complete gibberish, which made him laugh. He stood, brushed an imaginary speck of dust off his jeans, and ostentatiously checked his watch. "Garin died half an hour ago, though technically he killed himself earlier today." He smiled again, wolfish, though his tone was pleasant. "Got himself bit by a rattler. That makes you the last man standing." Even knowing that was going to be the outcome, my heart sank. Hell. For eternity. What had I done? I dropped my head into my hands, trying not to cry. He just laughed again, then stepped forward to take my shoulder. "Do you know where suicides go, traditionally, Alan?" He didn't wait for an answer. "Purgatory. You know where they go if their suicide is an attempt to curry favour with the big guy downstairs?" I looked up quickly, meeting his dark, dark eyes. I could see myself reflected in there, way down deep - a tiny, ashen smudge. He nodded, squeezing my shoulder in an almost fatherly gesture. "You've got a free pass, kid. Barring any mortal sins, of course, so you might want to read up on them. Maybe have a quick Google for 'deals with the devil' at the same time." He winked and turned to go. "Wait!" I choked out, shivering as he turned back. He didn't look impatient, though. Only amused. I had the feeling he'd be wearing the same look if my brains were painting the walls. I couldn't say anything else, but must have read it on my face. "Sometimes the big cheese sends angels to test you folk, or plagues," he said it gently, thoughtfully, "sometimes he needs someone a little more... More." He patted me on the shoulder again. "You be good, kid. And whenever you feel like being an ass for no reason, you just remember - I'll be keeping an eye on you." With that, he was gone. No poof, no puff of brimstone, just gone, like he was never there. Anyway, that's how I came to quit my job at one of the world's biggest Fortune 500 companies, and how I'm here, taking your order today. So. What'll it be?	It was one of the oddest cases I'd seen in my entire life on the force. About a year ago, all these board members from one of the largest companies in the country just started dropping like flies, right here in town. It's an international business, specialized in manufacturing overseas. These guys were making billions, and this town needed it. What it didn't need was all of the controversy, the accusations of slave labor and crimes against humanity. These guys built entire cities in China and India, and more in South America. All of them were built for production and labor, but the accusations were solid. We were calling in with inquiries over arrests, but unless our department got specific orders from high up, we weren't going to make a move. I wish it was different, but in this country that's just how it works. They were covering the bad press just fine until about a month into the scandal, these guys all just started offing themselves, and man, I mean the whole cookie just crumbled overnight. Of the 15, there were 7 bodies on the ground by their building in just one night. The others went slower, but as soon as it broke to the news that wealthy executives under fire for a massive scandal were killing themselves, the whole media just came crashing down. What screams guilt more than that? Anyways, just about a week ago, one of the last three of them offed himself. Now, the last two haven't left each other alone, constantly watching and sometimes attacking one another. We'd been called to break them up at least 12 times in the last few days, but each time we arrest one for assault they throw enough money at us to make it worth the bad publicity, should people figure out that we let em' go at least. The whole thing came to a climax yesterday though, when one of the last two died, leaving only the one guy behind. We thought he was behind it, but after we saw the video footage it looks like the guy really did kill himself too. We're working on the audio, but this sure was odd. It seems that the two men were fighting each other to stop one another from killing themselves, and the last guy gave up as soon as the partner bit the dust. If I just hit play here... ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ The video shows two men in suits walking into the same boardroom where the suicides began. The older, balding man lays a hand on the other's shoulder. "Well Ron, this is where it all began, one year ago today." He looked out though the window that they jumped through, staring off into the distance. "I hope you aren't getting any ideas, William, we both agreed after Mr. Harding took the easy way out that we would play fair and wait for our natural deaths." "Yes yes, I know. Don't worry old friend, this is just about nostalgia." William took a deep breath, exhaling through his nose. "I wonder, if they're waiting for us, asking what's taking so long." "Maybe. Have you made any progress?" Ronald began to tap his foot. "Not yet, but we still have quite a few years. I'm sure we will be able to summon this demon once more and find out exactly how to get us both into Heaven." "We have to." Ronald replied. He walked forward and slid his fingers across the window. Only a little bit of pressure, it would be so easy he thought. His mind began to race. William will off himself the second that he gets the chance, if I don't than I'm doomed! He pushed the glass harder. "Ronald, what are you doing?" he spat harshly, beginning to walk towards his friend. In another second Ronald pushed through the window and tried to fall with it, but a strong hand grabbed his collar and pulled him back to the ground. Within a minute Ronald was pinned against a wall. "Let go of me you selfish bastard, I won't be damned!" He shouted, breaking the old man's grip and producing a pistol from his coat pocket. As he raised it to his temple William grabbed the slide and threw it to the floor. "Get a hold of yourself damnit, we're in this together!" A left hook to the jaw nearly knocked William out the window, but he grabbed a wall and stopped himself. A bullet would ring before he hit the ground. He jumped on Ronald just in time to wrestle the gun from his hands. In the struggle, William pulled the gun to his temple, but Ronald flicked the safety on as soon as the danger was real. He ripped the gun from William, than proceeded to whip the end of it across his head before William could react. The force was strong enough to daze him. William regained his senses to the ring of a gunshot, and a wave of fear and numbness washed over him as it did. He was doomed. As he picked himself up, the demon they had seen a year ago sat in the same seat it had at the conference table, smiling ear to ear. "What the fuck do you want!" Yelled the defeated old man. "Congratulations sir, you've won!" The creature spat out venomously. "You have managed to stay alive the longest, and now you have a chance to redeem yourself." "I-I won? But a year ago you said that-" "I lied." It said, absolutely gleaming with pride. "It's what we do. Now, you have the rest of your time to repent while your friends burn. Have fun!" And with that he vanished, leaving behind a shell of the man.
	[WP] A demon appears in a boardroom and declares that all present will go to Heaven when they die, except the last person to die: they will be doomed to suffer in Hell for all eternity. It is now 1 year later and the third-to-last person has just committed suicide, leaving 2 people remaining.	I brought the gun up to my temple, finger resting on the trigger. Sat there for a second, finger tightening. Then I dropped it back into my lap, for the third time in half an hour. I sighed impatiently. There were only two of us left now, me and Barry Garin, the accounting guy. Since being told the last of us to die was bound for hell (while the rest were guaranteed a no-questions-asked seat in heaven)... Well. Things got a tad messy. Hell, after the third (Jolene Bennett, marketing) I'm pretty sure they were all competing for who could bust out the messiest, most outlandish method of suicide. You ever see a man leap off the roof of his office and try to land on his family? Has to be seen to be believed. Me, I was happy with the classic 'bullet to the brain'. I would have taken the Hemingway Solution, but sadly lack the coordination required to use a shotgun on myself. Anyway, doing it with a revolver felt right, somehow. Like I was a cowboy or something. Ah, fuck it. I tried snapping my hand up and pulling the trigger in one go, which went spectacularly wrong when I got too trigger happy and blew a hole in my wall. "Well, Jesus Christ!" I snapped, throwing the gun across the room, where it went off again and put another damn hole in the wall. "Not quite." I turned so fast I actually heard something crackle in my neck. There he was again, the creature who had shown up in our boardroom and given us that sick challenge of his. He didn't look like the devil - he looked like a regular man in his late forties, pretty pale, dark hair and eyes, tall, lean, and entirely at home in a room with an armed suicide case. "Alan," he said brightly, throwing me a wicked smile. "How are we feeling?" "Could you not?" I snapped, retrieving my gun. I wasn't stupid enough to point it at him, but didn't risk pointing it at myself, either. Not with him in the room. I dumped it in the nearest drawer instead. "Performance anxiety?" He said, his vaguely Midwestern drawl soothing, even under the circumstances. I knew better than to be sucked in, though. This time around, I knew better. "I'm not doing it." I said. "I don't care if I do spend an eternity in hell, I don't care what you've got to say to me, I'm..." "Congratulations." That wasn't what I was expecting. All I managed to sputter in response was complete gibberish, which made him laugh. He stood, brushed an imaginary speck of dust off his jeans, and ostentatiously checked his watch. "Garin died half an hour ago, though technically he killed himself earlier today." He smiled again, wolfish, though his tone was pleasant. "Got himself bit by a rattler. That makes you the last man standing." Even knowing that was going to be the outcome, my heart sank. Hell. For eternity. What had I done? I dropped my head into my hands, trying not to cry. He just laughed again, then stepped forward to take my shoulder. "Do you know where suicides go, traditionally, Alan?" He didn't wait for an answer. "Purgatory. You know where they go if their suicide is an attempt to curry favour with the big guy downstairs?" I looked up quickly, meeting his dark, dark eyes. I could see myself reflected in there, way down deep - a tiny, ashen smudge. He nodded, squeezing my shoulder in an almost fatherly gesture. "You've got a free pass, kid. Barring any mortal sins, of course, so you might want to read up on them. Maybe have a quick Google for 'deals with the devil' at the same time." He winked and turned to go. "Wait!" I choked out, shivering as he turned back. He didn't look impatient, though. Only amused. I had the feeling he'd be wearing the same look if my brains were painting the walls. I couldn't say anything else, but must have read it on my face. "Sometimes the big cheese sends angels to test you folk, or plagues," he said it gently, thoughtfully, "sometimes he needs someone a little more... More." He patted me on the shoulder again. "You be good, kid. And whenever you feel like being an ass for no reason, you just remember - I'll be keeping an eye on you." With that, he was gone. No poof, no puff of brimstone, just gone, like he was never there. Anyway, that's how I came to quit my job at one of the world's biggest Fortune 500 companies, and how I'm here, taking your order today. So. What'll it be?	Unsteadily, I propped the new water cooler tank onto the - well, it's called a water cooler, right? I twisted the top tight, and then tapped the dispenser to make sure it was on right. Sure enough, water spurted out of the faucet and a small bubble rose in the tank. I admired my hard work as two tall suits passed by behind me. "I heard the majority owner on the board offed himself last night." "Seriously? But then that means the company is now owned by the CEO, right?" "Mr. Selendrick, and I think so. There apparently was no will, so..." I stopped listening and hastened to get back to my job. There were many break rooms, and they wouldn't clean themselves. I was already mapping out my path for today's routine - I liked to mix it up a bit to keep it less boring - when I turned the corner right into another suit. "Hey, Ryan Brohas, right?" the man said, after we'd regained our footing. "That's me, yeah." I replied. The man was insanely recognizable. Abe Selendrick with his tight style right out of that Mad Men show my ex-girlfriend had watched. I had to comment on that. "Damn Mr. Selendrick, you are lookin' mighty slick today, huh?" There was a pause before I continued. "I hear you own the company, big step!" "Indeed I do," he smirked. "Hey, do you like being a janitor here?" "No, but honestly, mang, it pays better than a lot of other jobs 'round here. I was lucky to know people here." I sniffed. "Probably will be able to send my friend's kid to college, for real." "You never think about," his smile faltered for a moment, "The other thing?" "Nah man," I shook my head. "My grandmother always said trying to get to Heaven gets you into Hell. Also, I'm not gonna listen to the words of a red-skinned devil." "Lesser demon," the powerful CEO corrected me. "And you're probably right. I've a meeting right now. This was a good," he straightened his tie, "talk." He was gone then, around a corner towards the corner that corporate hid out in. I turned back to my cleaning duties, whistling a tune. I went to empty out a trash can in one of the side meeting rooms, the same trashcan I had gone to empty a year ago with some - well I would say divine, but hellish might be better - hellish timing. ---- Later that night, while my kid was doing his homework, there was a panicked knock on my door. Not like a friend was at the door, but like there was some gangmember beating at it with a piece. I motioned for my kid to get low, and I slowly got up from the table. Trying to stay away from the windows, I crept to the door and squinted through the musted up hole. I opened the door immediately when I saw who it was. "Mister Selendrick, what you doing here, man?" "Ryan, please, just hear me out -" I pulled the fool in and shut the door as fast as I could. "No, man, you're white! You're gonna get shot out here at night!" He ignored me, leaning on me with his full weight. "You're not going to die, right?" he asked, his voice cracking. "What the hell-" "I don't want to go to Hell! I don't care about Heaven, but please don't let me go where my father is," he pleaded. He leaned on me and whimpered. I smelled some sort of wimpy Chinese alcohol on his breath. I sighed and looked away, and noticed the kid peeking from the kitchen. "Go back to your homework," I commanded. "It's just my drunk-ass stupid white boss." The said boss whimpered again and began to quietly sob. I patted him on the back until he fell into a mumbling sleep, then got my kid to help me set him up in our living room. Some papers with some wierd fantasty bullshit scribblings fell out of his faux-cashmere coat, so I folded and stuffed them back in as neatly as I could. I stood looking over the man, much later that night. The kid stood next to me, half leaning on my hip. "Ryan?" the kid began to ask me. "What's up, kid?" "Was there really a demon in that room?" he looked at me with his big brown eyes. "Nah," I told him, "Just a bunch of scared people imagining things." "So my dad was scared? Of what?" I bit my lip. "Let's get to sleep, kid." "I miss him." I remembered the man that got me my job. "Me too, kid." We walked away to our bedrooms. So, I clean other people's messes and keep things tidy. Not a rewarding job. Glancing back at the man sleeping restlessly on the couch, I wondered if I could maybe prevent a mess.
[WP] You travel to a pathetic little house your ancestors lived in centuries ago. While exploring it, you find an old book in a shelf who's first page reads "For (your name)".	[WP] You travel to a pathetic little house your ancestors lived in centuries ago. While exploring it, you find an old book in a shelf who's first page reads "For (your name)".	Edit: Accidental typo. I was excited to find the house where my ancestors had lived. It had been at least five generations, maybe six since my family had even been in the area, but I was excited to learn that the plot of sheep-grazing land my grandfather had left me had a small, livable house on it. Much of my family preferred the city, but I LOVED the country and open fields, and didn't mind sheep (or their droppings). I was surprised when I reached the house, but hardly disappointed. It was more a cottage than a shack, and while I expected it to be in the middle of a wide expanse, there was a beautiful copse along the back and sides of the house. It looked hundreds of years old, but diligently patched by family members and contracted groundskeepers. It took only a few minutes to explore the house in its entirety, but from the looks of it, I would be finding hidey-holes and secret cupboards for months to come. The most interesting thing was a bookshelf with little on it; a set of Farmer's Alamnacs from the 19th century, some collections of old publish-by-chapter novels, and a few newer books that had presumably been left by keepers and wandering tenants. One of the three shelves had a book lying on its own, and I told myself to return for it as soon as I'd found a place to drop my heavy backpack. That place turned out to be the bedroom (who'd have guessed?). I rolled my sleeping bag out on the floor, wanting to avoid the bedbugs that could be in the old hay-stuffed mattress held up to the bedframe with ropes. A few nights of discomfort while waiting for a bed to be delivered was nothing, but I drew the line before itchy, biting bugs that would require a flea bath, or worse. I took out my mobile and one of the battery-powered chargers I'd brought to order a new bed online, but discovered that there was no internet connection out here. I'd asked the solicitor about wireless connections out here, and he'd given me the okay, but he was from a different generation. He may have not even HAD internet on his mobile phones. I grabbed the book from the shelf and wandered out to the trees out back. The copse wasn't as deep as it looked, since the far side opened to a watering pond. I found myself a good reading tree, one with a nice, sturdy limb low to the ground, and opened the book. It seemed to be an undated diary, but when I flipped back to the first page, the format caught my eye. The first page was a note instead of an entry. "To the last Henry Michaels." I chuckled; while I'd been born Henry Michaels, as had every member of my family's male line in recorded memory, I'd been Julie Michaels since the age of sixteen. Whatever Magician's Force the author wanted to pull, it wouldn't work on me. "To the last Henry Michaels: "Do NOT stay in the house. Get out, and read this book elsewhere. Stay with a friend. Stay in a cave. Just do not stay here. "This house is cursed for you. You may not be the last. If so, incase you can't name your son Henry, or he can't name his son Henry, never use this for a family home. Rent it out. Live here in your old age. Never, NEVER let the last Henry Michaels spend the night here. "If you are the last, leave now. May the devil have mercy on your soul, since God never will. "-H.M. II" I've always been a little superstitious, but never enough to let it affect my life. Even if I'd believed the message, my boyfriend and I had already agreed to name our first son "Henry". We'd also agreed to name our first daughter after his grandmother; in that light, keeping a family name going for another zillionth generation was hardly an unfair thing to plan, and we each liked both names. I kept reading. "Bette got me this book for a wedding present. She said I should keep writing. I'm going to be a shepherd like my fathers have for scores and scores of years, but she likes that I write as a lawman." "A lambe was born early. The ewe is healthy. We took the lambe inside the door to keep her warm." "The lambe is fine." "The flock has finished birthinged. A damned stripey ram must have gotten into the paddock. The wool will sell for less until I breed it out of the flock." "Priesf John had dinner with us today. Bette made him take home a loaf of hard bread and a loaf of spiced bread." It continued like that for many pages. "H.M. II" clearly skipped a lot of days, since after the first year the cycle of seasons was only about fifteen or eighteen entries long. It grew too dark to read and, spooked by the inscription at the beginning, I chose to read one of the books I brought by lanternlight until I fell asleep. The next day, I hiked into town to pick up a small solar panel and brackets and order a cheap bedframe and mattress. Even in the middle of nowhere, superstores sometimes cropped up these days, and the town was a hub for all the local villages. I had to charge my battery at the diner since it had died in the night, and I guess I mixed up my backups when I was charging them because they were all dead, too.. I hiked back and to set up the panel and explored the land, but by the time I'd fished wandering it was nearly dark. This time, I decided to read more of the journal by lantern-light. Thanks goodness the lantern battery still had juice... or had recharged through the day, I spookily reminded myself. After another apparent year went by, one entry finally broke the pattern: "Father died. He always told me horrible storys of ghosts and bugges. He told me a story before he died that he swore on his open grave was true, and said most of the other storys were fake. We almost starved and froze at the same time one year, when I was but an unchristened childe. He called to the devil in the winter to save him from such a death. He says the devil came when mother and me were asleep. He signed his name in blood with his fingertip that the devil would get the soul of Henry Michaels for keeping us from a young death. When the devil vanished, he woke up from his bed, and the snow was stopped. Father went to the empty wood pile, but it wasn't empty. He filled the stove and stayed up until Mother was awake. As soon as he could fetch Priest Lemuel, he had me christened with his name, and spat to spite the devil. The sheep never went a season without lambing. The trees by the house never ran out no matter how much we had to burn in the winter. "Father told me this was why he insisted I call my firstborn Henry. He told me to make my Henry call his son Henry. He wanted to cheat the devil, even if it took forever and a day after his own death. I still do not understande, but I wrote a warning in the front of this book for any one of my sons who tryes to live here with his son. "I swear by my right hand that my first son will be rich enouf to live in town until he has a grand-son." THAT creeped me out, but the superstition of an old, dying man explained the message at the beginning of the book. I was relieved. I read a while longer, but despite my worries at ever flickering shadow as the lantern dimmed, I soon fell asleep. I hiked into town and picked up some food for the next few days, including some fresh eggs to make an omelette for lunch. I LOVE tomato omelettes. To tell the truth, that would be the hardest part of living without a refrigerator. After lunch, I decided to finish the book in one sitting, even if it got dark... not that it was likely to happen, since many of the pages at the end of the book were blank. I sat myself up in the same tree as the first day and started reading. The entries were mostly the same as the first part of the book, but H.M. II had become almost creepily superstitious after his father died. He had the local priests bless the house at least once a year, and one time even traveled to a city (he didn't say which one) to pull in a Catholic to preform a blessing from that church. He seemed to view it with an air of secrecy and desperation; I guess it was back when Catholics and Protestants REALLY hated each other. The last entry seemed no different from the others in style, only in content. The handwriting was the same, but the words impacted me like a rubber mallet to the sternum. My ancestor, all those years distant, was dying. "I was elf shot today. Henry brought me in when he and his Mary paid a visit. He ran for the priest for last rites. I fear he will not make it in time. "I can not open my left eye. I can not talk. Henry's Mary keeps tipping me forward to keep me from drowning in my spit. The elf shot brought a blessing. I can hear Old Scratch. I know more than my father told me before he died. "Julie, burn the house and sell the land. Spend not a single night of sleep between those walls." I dropped the book.	It was an English cottage, technically. I bet when you think 'English cottage,' you think of a little, stone building with ivy running up the walls. Well, that's what I think of, anyway. Needless to say, when I was told that I had inherited a bloody cottage in bloody England, I was elated. Until I saw the actual building. It looked like it was made of cardboard, with some rotten straw piled on the top. I wished that I thought it was a mistake, and that someone would run up and tell me that no, actually the cottage you inherited is on the OTHER side of the property. It was a ridiculous notion, since I could see all ends of the property, which held only a few half-dead trees. I sighed deep in my gut, and trudged to the door. I let my backpack slide onto the ground and promptly pushed the door off its rusted, rotten, bloody hinges. On accident. All I did was give it a nudge and...whatever. I walked over the door and waited for my eyes to adjust to the darkness. Light shone through the walls, and the rotted straw roof smelled like it had had time to fill the whole place with rot and mold. It was probably for the best that it caved in on me, at least in the long run. If it hadn't, a hard-cover book would never have nearly knocked me unconscious by falling on my head. A book which held pages. Pages which fell out upon my opening the book. Well, what could you expect? It had spent eternity in a rotten, straw roof. I looked into the inside of the cover, and noticed an irregularity in the surface. It looked like there was something shoved into the binding. I took out my pocket knife and cut the leather open. A white, crisp envelope erratically soared to the ground and landed about a yard away. I took a minute to slowly bend over, so I wouldn't get too dizzy and fall on top of it, and I took my time in the balancing act to get out of a couple feet of disgusting, brown mush. Sitting down on my backpack, I looked over the envelope, and cut it open. It was my property, after all. I smoothed out the pages inside, and read the first line. Then I stopped. I read the first line again. I took out my reading glasses and read it again. "Bolloux," I murmured to myself. The page was written in neat, cursive handwriting down the center of beautifully perfect writing paper with a half inch margin on either side. I read the first line again. "For Saffron, my unborn, great-granddaughter. "I understand that this is pretty trippy for you, especially considering that, for me, the year is 1856. Actually, this is more trippy for me. Get over it, the world's not about you. "Now for the important stuff. "As you can tell from my language, I am clearly not from the 19th century. I was trapped back here, and am now technically free to come back, as I've had a child who can go on to make you. "Who am I? you may ask, and how did you get there? "I'm Rachel, from school. "Get. Me. Home. "Once more, get over it, time travel is real, bla bla bla. This is more important: I have to wear a dress EVERY DAY. "Call this number: #-###-###-#### and he can get to me and get me home. "Sincerely, Rachel"
[WP] You travel to a pathetic little house your ancestors lived in centuries ago. While exploring it, you find an old book in a shelf who's first page reads "For (your name)".	[WP] You travel to a pathetic little house your ancestors lived in centuries ago. While exploring it, you find an old book in a shelf who's first page reads "For (your name)".	"Here we are pal. That's twenty bucks." I peered through the smeary windows of the cab, not quite believing what I saw. "Is this the correct-" "4241 Braden Ave. C'mon, I gotta go." I gave the surly man thirty and told him to keep the change. Without another word he left with a squawk of tire spin, leaving me to my dismal errand. Back in the time of my ancestor's, this area had been affluent, stately, nearly regal, according to the county records. But those days had long since passed by the time I received a telegram from a certain Michael Collins, attorney at law and executor of this "estate." The message was brief. To wit: Proceed to family estate at 4241 Braden Ave. to receive your inheritance. What possible inheritance could this be? I thought to myself as I shoved open the back door, its rusted hinges squalling in protest. The air had the musty, old barn smell of a place long-shuttered and abandoned. There wasn't much in the way of clutter...some old galoshes resting in a corner, a dusty, upright piano against one wall, and an ancient easy chair, with its stuffing falling out. I notice a single bedroom and inside was a bookshelf. On it were several candles, a few empty jars, and a large, black-bound book, a ledger of some sort perhaps. Imagine my shock to see my name on the first page! To Carsten Alois Balvenie, written in a handsome, flowing script. Unaware of doing so, I retired to the sprung lounger to read the ancient words. To the Baron of Four Fields-on-Tinpenny, Carsten Alois Balvenie, my greetings. For many decades I traveled the world, bartering with spice merchants in the subcontinent, roaming dark groves of evergreen in the Canadian territories, and trekking across the wastes of Antarctica. Pity that the hovel you sit in now is all that's left of our family estate. The little house was the gardener's quarter's. After the fire, I had to leave. But I made sure that this book was left in safekeeping for you. It is a ledger, detailing the long history of Balvenie, Court Merchant to the King. If you have the will, there are lodes of precious stones, metals, and treasures from antiquity...hidden to this day...waiting for you to claim them as your true inheritance. Godspeed, Carsten! Stunned, I sat there for a long time, my mind reeling with the possibilities, the dangers, the treasures. I couldn't wait to begin.	I gripped the hefty book. It was strange, the feeling of holding it. Then again, this whole situation was strange. Every other shelf was overflowing with books of all colors (faded by age, but probably vibrant in their own time) and sizes, but this shelf had only this ratty brown (and frankly water stained) old tome. What made this book so special. Stranger still was this library in such a worn and poor house. The build and size of the abode told of poverty, a life with little wealth and less education. How my great great great great...whatever grandfather afforded all these books and learned to read them was a mystery. I sighed and put the book back on the table located directly in the middle of the room, surrounded on all sides by walls of books. I pulled the letter out of my back pocket, and pondered its message once again: To Whom it May Concern It has come to the attention of the Framingham Town Council that a large plot of land is in the possession of your family, and that you remain the last able "inheritor". Even though the property is of small size, it's location is of great consequence to the town, and our plans to pave a new road to accommodate increased traffic. Our town would be greatly indebted to you, if you would survey the property and perhaps sell us the land. We have attached an estimate of our value, but please feel free to survey the land yourself. Ever in you debt, Helmond Key I sat at the desk, and sighed. The land was of no consequence to me whatsoever, and the offer would be more than enough for me, and it was as the letter said. I was the only one left in my family and life. In many ways, I was just like this book, all alone on my pathetic dusty shelf. I blew some of the dust off, like they did in the movies, and promptly started sneezing. I pulled out a silk handkerchief my father had given me when I was younger, and quickly wiped my nose and glasses. I picked up the book again, and decided to figure out why this book was so special. I opened it up and leafed through a few pages, it was all diary entries. There was poetry too, all from the life of some relative that lived in the 1800s. It was pretty entertaining actually, from what I could tell, my dear ancestor was a thirsty young bastard when it came to his interactions with the ladies...and a few young men from what I could tell. I was getting into an interesting anecdote about the former Governor's wife, when I heard a loud crack, as if someone had split stone. I dropped the book in surprise, and quickly opened the door back into the kitchen, and looked around in surprise. The sun was going down, but other than that, I hadn't noticed anything out of the ordinary. I picked the book back up, and was about to look for my page again, when something caught my eye. In large red printed letters, not the lacy cursive that I had seen previously written was the text: For Emil Lee, My Dear Inheritor It was signed: Ever yours Everette Laughton, 154th heir of the Laughing Dead It was strange. this house was inherited from my father's side. I only started using my Mother's maiden name recently, Lee, and there was no way the two families had known each other before. i mean, my mom's side was entirely Korean and only immigrated to the US last generation. As I pondered the mystery, I realized that the Sun was setting. I got up and stretched. Likely, it was just another man who just happened to share my name that caught the fancy of my fickle ancestor. I calmly got up, and tried the door. It remained shut, and then I heard the voice of a young man echo from the study I just left, "It would do you great good, to read things addressed to you. Might save your life."
	[WP] In his last few years of adventuring, Indiana Jones decides to take on a couple of apprentices to continue his work. He finds a boy and a girl who seem perfect; Nathan Drake and Lara Croft.	"Three waters," said Indy in reply to our waitress's question. I couldn't help but notice that Indy seemed preoccupied with something. It was almost like he had received horrible news and he didn't have anyone to tell. I looked at Lara, man.. she's beautiful, I thought. Nothing I wouldn't give. "Need something, sir Nathaniel Drake?" She snapped me out of my daydream with her typical sass. I glanced over to Indy and then back to her. She looked over, got the hint, and asked him if something was wrong. "I think my life is slowly starting to get the best of me," he replied. Curious, I asked what he meant. "There comes a time in a man's life where he has to consider his days numbered. My adventuring days are almost done." I told him that can't be so, and asked if he needed someone to try to get him back into it. "I brought the two of you here today for a sp-" "Three waters." "Thank you." "My pleasure, can I get you all some food?" "That won't be necessary, thank you." Indy turned back to us. "As I was saying, I called you here for a special reason. My adventuring days are seemingly done. But, the two of you have a lot of adventuring left to do in your lives. I want you two to carry on my legacy and explore things that I wanted to explore, but just ran out of time before I got the opportunity." "Wait," Lara interjected, "you want Drake and I to explore things on some list of yours? And just who all knows about these places you want us to go?" I was sweating bullets at the thought of exploring the world with Lara. She's so beautiful, I thought again. Indy looked her dead in the eyes and said, "the only people who knew about these places are long dead. Now, it's just me." "I'm up for it, are you, Drake?" Lara inquired. "Y-y-yeah, totally," I managed to mutter. I couldn't tell whether I was more nervous or excited. "Well, Indy," Lara said, "let's see what you've got for us." Will continue if so desired	Thinking back maybe they weren't the optimal choices, but they turned out great. People called Nathan a two bit thief when really he was one of the most compassionate people I have ever met, the kind to let the treasure fall into the abyss to save his enemy. I like that about him. Laura showed potential but in a different way, she had amazing survival instincts and picked up new things fast. Always thinking on her feet she excelled, but in more boring trivial times she would become lax and often lead others to her destination by accident. I trained them, or rather tried to, thinking that together they would be an amazing pair and could lead our world to new heights. Unfortunately they went their seep rate ways, he didn't like her for being born into money and she hated him for always putting people first over the objective. They had similar methodology of avoiding fights and death, but it always caught up with them, just like it did with me. I wish they could have looked deeper into each other, or maybe I didn't and they did. Maybe they saw something in each other that I never saw. For now I wish them luck as they continue to recover artifacts scattered across the earth, and Godspeed to avoid those who will inevitably catch up to me.
	[WP] You gather the dragons balls ands summon the eternal dragon. Except there's a catch, instead of shenron you summon Isaac Newton, and for every wish there's an equal and an opposite reaction.	"Rise, Eternal Dragon, and hear the wish of he who summons you!" Waves of countless pinpricks of white light begin to dance away from the gathered Dragonballs. From the horizon, dark clouds roll in, blanketing the clear night sky and blotting out even the light of the moon. You feel the hair on the back of your neck rising. You glance about uneasily. A bolt of lightning from the heavens rends the darkened sky. You scream as it strikes the Dragonballs, rebounding off them into a pillar of golden light, a rippling conduit between the heavens and the earth. The light narrows to an undulating, almost snakelike form. The pillar of light narrows further, allowing you to perceive the limbs of none other than Sir Isaac Newton, crested with lightning. There his arm, there his scale-tipped back, and there his black shoes with silver buckles, appear from the burst of magic. He grows outward from the narrow pillar, wider and wider. His face also emerges from the blur, clean-shaven chin raised haughtily to the heavens and and blood-red eyes glowing. His mouth opens, revealing rows of pointed teeth surely bigger than your arm, and from the throat that once uttered the words "If I have seen further than others, it is by standing upon the shoulders of giants," comes a long, guttural moan. You cannot disguise your quaking now as you gaze, openmouthed and trembling, at the specter of the highly influential physicist, astronomer, mathematician, philosopher, alchemist and theologian. Sir Isaac Newton growls once more at the jet-black sky, "Gurrrrrrr..." as you begin to wonder whether your wish will be granted. You begin to wonder whether you will even survive, or if your sky-high dreams will, like the apocryphal apple, plummet to earth in a demonstration of the inevitability of gravity...and hubris. Join us next time, on Dragonball N: Featuring Sir Isaac Newton as the Eternal Dragon.	"Isaac Newton, I know about how you grant wishes." I gave him a grin. I was prepared for this. "Oh?" He looked amused. "Pray tell, what is it that you wish for?" I had given this a long thought. I took a deep breath and yelled, "I want every guy in the world to be obsessed with you!" A silence rang through the canyon as Isaac Newton raised an eyebrow. "You want what?" I gave him a sheepish grin. "I want every guy in the world to be obsessed with you, and the opposite reaction of that-" I waved my finger through the air. "...is that every girl in the world will be obsessed with me." Newton thought for a moment and seemed to have figured it out. "So THAT'S how you think it works..." he chuckled, "Makes sense." "Damn straight," I put my hand on my waist, "Let's make it happen." A flash of light and a voice boomed in my head. DONE I gasped awake as several of my classmates had been staring at me. "Is there a problem?" the professor was looking at me, "Mr. Smith?" Smith, that's my name. "No sir," I wiped my head of the sweat, "I'm doing well... uh Professor...." "Professor Isaac Newton Brown," he answered, "Are you feeling alright?" Oh, it would make sense it he was named that because.... "Wait, then that means..." I eyed the room of all the females. Several of them were staring at me. "If you don't mind," Prof. Brown cleared his throat, "I would like to continue the lesson." "No, go right on ahead sir," I apologized, "Sorry about that." I was jittery in my seat for the rest of class. Afterwards, I began to look for my prey. Not her... not her... nope... I found her - Melissa Greene. The hottest girl in the grade. She also played for the volleyball team as a librero. I walked up to her. "Hey." A sharp pain hit my face as I fell onto the floor. I lost consciousness for a second as I found myself looking up at her from the ground. "Wha- "Don't you fucking touch me," she gritted her teeth, "Or I will kill you." She spat on me as I felt the saliva hit my forehead. She turned away and walked away. What the fuck? I turned to another nearby girl. She didn't look familiar as I asked, "Hey, what was her problem?" "Fuck you!" She kicked me in the stomach as I felt the air escape from me. It was then the sudden realization hit me. I want every guy in the world to be obsessed with you, Isaac Newton. "Oh, you have to got to be shitting m- That didn't mean that every girl would be obsessed with me. That meant that every girl would fucking hate my guts. An apparition of Newton appeared in front of me in his colonial outfit as he shrugged. "You could have literally just asked to have relationships with every girl you wanted to. That way, you could avoid relationships with any guy you didn't want." The apparition disappeared as I found myself with a small crown forming around me. I had no doubts that the majority of the gentlemen had Isaac as their first name. "Shit." I muttered as I turned to look at the girls around me, who seemed to glare with murder in their eyes. ______________________________________________________________________________________ I wanted to make it a little fun and still abide by the Dragon Ball rules (the one wish part). It's a terribly short and unplanned story so hope you enjoy it.
	[WP] As it turns out, Death has no idea how to play chess.	Contract killer. Assassin. Mercenary. Bounty hunter. Call it what you will. It's a lonely living extinguishing life. I hadn’t noticed Death at first, hovering on the fringes. Killing the unnatural was messy work. Their blood coated my hands and clothing, the walls and floor. They struggled more than humans. Clinging to their extended life lines, pouring centuries of rage and determination into the fight. A sage witch, sentenced to die for cursing virgins, had been the first to point him out. “He waits for you, too,” she cackled, throwing a handful of herbs and bones at me. She didn’t flinch as I fire point blank into her skull. She exploded, a cacophony of maggots and putrid blood. I gagged. Witches were always so overdramatic in their moment of death. And there he stood, unaffected by the mire of bodily fluids. The cowl of the black cape was too deep to even hint at a face. But the black leather of his coat and pants left little to circumspect. He was tall and lanky, but hardly bone thin. He waited, the scythe causally resting across his shoulders. I reloaded the gun. “Is this like Santa; If I kill you I become you?” I asked as causally as I could manage. Death was eerie in his stillness. No breaths whispered through the air, there was no slight repositioning or fidgeting. I lifted the hand gun, focusing on his head. Hopefully he was less messy than the witch. A black shadow burst from where the hag’s body had fallen, alarmingly long talons reaching for me. Death swirled the scythe from his shoulders, beheading the shadow, before I could twitch. Then he was standing in front of me. The barrel of my gun pressed into surprisingly corporeal flesh, and he flicked on the safety. The scythe swung back over his shoulder and his disappeared. Death started to appear every time I killed someone. And then sometimes when I hadn’t. He would appear in my living room, reading one of the many treasured books that I hauled no matter where I moved. He never spoke, even when provoked. I had been restless in the small apartment, the Dakota winter too fiercely cold to venture out, the sky too dreary to give the short day a sense of purpose. It was midafternoon and I hadn’t changed out of what I had slept in. Death appeared crosslegged on the floor in front of my bookcase. “Most people call or knock,” I grumbled, “or at least yell ‘Yoowhoo’ before invading.” Death ignored me and pulled out my favorite book, flipping to a quarter way in. Frustrated, bored and severely wanting to start a fight with an unnatural being that would surely kick my ass into the afterlife, I rummaged through the box of crap next to the couch. I had never bothered to unpack. Some people refused to see the difference between killing a werewolf and killing a person. I ruffled through notebooks filled with worthless doodles and thoughts I didn’t have the balls to toss, a few loose tools and a deck of cards. On a snap decision, I dealt out two hands for Madam, flicking the cards next to Death. “Look at that. Queen of Spades, Queen of Hearts and a 2. You’re ethereal ass is about to be handed to you.” Death continued to ignore me, but he had tilted his head toward me. I discarded the hand and reshuffled the cards I could reach. “We can play Go Fish if that’s more your speed,” I offered as condescendingly as possible. He was across the room before I could come up with another asshole comment. He took off his gloves, revealing paper white skin, marked with purple scars, and grabbed the cards from me. The cards were a blur as he shuffle and dealt out five cards. I peeked at my cards, a flush. “Let’s gamble a bit.” No response. “If I win, you drop the hood.” His head titled to the side, like a deadly, but curious, puppy. “If you win, well, fuck. I don’t actually know what you’d want. But you can’t have my what's left of my soul.” A small sigh fluttered his cowl. “If I win…” his voice was startlingly smooth, “you will play a game with me every week until you die.” I grinned and flipped my cards. He held the cards out uncertainly. Death had crap for cards. I smiled and wink, “Strip.” Death didn’t hesitate as he flipped back the hood. Turns out, the Death didn’t have reason to be shy. An unruly shock of silver hair stuck up in random places, presumably from cowl hair. His face was just as paper pale as his hands had been, but there weren’t any scars. His nose had clearly been broken once though. Death scowled slightly at my scrutiny. I shrugged. “Do you actually know how to play, play poker?” He worked his jaw, “No.” “Do you know how to play any game?” His eyes slid past me. “Alright. Let’s start with something more controllable. Chess or Go Fish. Your choice.” His icy blue eyes deepened to straight black as he glared. “Righto, chess it is.”	#The First Game# Death looked at the black and white chessboard and felt a glaze come over his eyes as his mind turned to a muddled puddle of anxiety. These new restrictions were going to put him out of business, and for the simple fact that he was too good at his job. It really didn't have anything to do with him. Between global warming, Ebola, and that nuclear war between Pakistan and India, he'd been raking in souls like a fat kid at a jelly bean eating contest. Humans were just too fragile, and if they were gonna offer themselves up on a silver platter, why should he say no? But, apparently, not everyone felt that way; the Boss upstairs had been quite clear. "At this rate, the species will be extinct within the next century. It's time to change things up a little." If He'd only said riddles, or Luchador wrestling, Death might have stood a chance. But chess... It was his own fault really. Millennia of existence and he'd never once attempted to learn chess. Set? Sure. Majong? You bet! But chess? After seeing the sprawling battles that had inspired the trivial past time, the strategic genius that it strove to imitate...well, frankly, he found it boderline offensive. And now he was forced to sit and play with every. Single. Soul that came up for grabs. He cricked his neck, and set his pale hand to a pawn. It didn't matter. He was death. He always won, in the end. Most of the time, anyway. He would learn this, just like he learned to catch souls reduced to microscopic particles in the wake of a nuclear warhead. Then again, he thought, moving the pawn with a slight frown, he still wasn't completely sure he'd got all of those. He probably had. And he definitely would going forward. The India-Pakistan incident had given him plenty of practice. His opponent moved a pawn forward in response, one of the middle ones. Death allowed a small smile to creep up his lips. His opponents infantryman was a now at the mercy of his cavalry. They could strike swiftly, before any support could be brought up. He'd seen something similar happen near Acre in the 12th century. He was more than a little surprised. He knew this man had gone to the park near his home nearly everyday for twenty years. He would have expected him to be more adept in the basics of infantry based warfare. Still, he was elderly; perhaps it was his age catching up with him. Death gripped his left knight in a fist, and swing it at the pawn. It sailed across the ethreal room they sat in and bounced off the opaque wall. The elderly man cut his eyes between the pawn and a triumphant death. "What're you doing?" "Winning." Death replied smugly. "Do you play chess differently after you die?" Death paused. "Yes." The old man crossed his arms over his chest. "What're the rules?" Death paused again. "Chess is the same." "You don't know how to play?" "No." The old man sat in that position, and studdied the board. "Would you like me to teach you?" He asked after awhile. Death blinked. "Teach me? Really?" His opponent nodded. "Everyone should know how to play chess. Good for the mind, keeps it sharp, critical, two steps ahead...and it's fun." Death shook his head, and sighed. "Alright. Not like I have much of a choice." And so they played. A little at a time, starting with the basics. This piece moved like this, this one like that. Then the man showed him some strategies. Just simple ones, ones that tried to get to the king as quickly as possible. The man even showed Death some of his secrets, twists to even these simplistic gambits. He was a good teacher, stern, but he always told you exactly how you needed to improve. Death was so engrossed in the game's intricacies, that he was surprised when he realized that he was actually enjoying himself. The game was complex, challenging, something any immortal being finds irresistible. And the company was good too, something hard to find this side of life. "And it's alright to lose this piece?" The man nodded. "Yes." "Sometimes you have to lose to progress." Death repeated now engrained mantra. The old man smiled. "Right. And now, see, this guy here..." He took Death's hand and laid it on a knight. Gently, he guided it across the board into his king. "He can checkmate." Death laughed, and rubbed his hands together. "I got it! I got it. That might be my favorite one yet. Simple, but effective, especially against someone stupid." He looked up from the board. The man was pale, now the same tone as death. Death's smile faltered. "Wha-...oh..." The man gave a weak smile. "Well, that wasn't a completely unpleasant way to spend my time here in purgatory. Thank you." Death shook his head. "I-I-I didn't mean to-" "I did." The old man sighed and reclined in his chair. He was started to become even paler. Death thought he could almost see through him now, like on of those strange, deep sea fish. "Everyone has their time. And I always knew when mine came, I wouldn't beg. I've been blessed with eighty-six Death free years. It's my time now." Death's face sagged. "I'm...sorry." "Don't be. You turned out to be a nice enough fellow. Remember what I taught you now." Death nodded. And for the first time in centuries, his voice was husky. "I will." The old man nodded. "Good. Good. Everyone should know how to play chess. Good for the mind, keeps it sharp, critical, two steps ahead..." He faded, like a mist in the morning sunlight. Death sat there, staring at the seat that had been filled moments earlier. Suddenly, the chess board reset itself. The old man's last move was erased. Everything returned to its starting position. A statacco voice spoke from above, filling the space around him. "Next soul arriving, in, seven, minutes." Death just sighed, and moved a pawn forward.
	[WP] As it turns out, Death has no idea how to play chess.	The blood was still dripping from the large kitchen knife as Death leaned toward the shifting soul of the young girl who had just committed suicide. He cocked his head to the side and looked at her before summoning a chess board between them. He quietly arranged the pieces and motioned her to sit. The girl looked at Death with confusion and slowly sat down. "What are you doing? Are'nt you supposed to take me now?" Death glanced up and held her gaze. "I'm giving you the chance to win back Life." The girl stared incredulously at Him. "Are you serious?" She held out her shroudy arms covered in deep cuts. "Do you see these? Does it look like I want to live?!" "Let's just say that I'm feeling generous today" "I don't care, I'm not going to play." Death peered into her eyes with a piercing stare. "If you knew the things I did about your potential...well this," He motioned to the cuts, "Would never have happened." "You can see my life?" "To see death, one must also see life. That's how I know who's ready to go and who isn't, and you my dear have more life than you give yourself credit for." The girl looked down in silence and quietly cried. "You have a slight advantage you know. I never learned how to properly play this game." The girl looked up and whispered, "I don't know how to play either." "Well the odds are even then. I believe you should go first." "But, we don't know the rules." Death pondered quietly for a moment. "Well I suppose we'll just have to make up our own. Your move." Neither won the game, but Death gave her back her life. For Death is not a cruel taker of life, but merely the angel who ferries the lost souls from their bodies to their final home when their time comes, or who gives back that life which some have momentarily lost sight of.	#The First Game# Death looked at the black and white chessboard and felt a glaze come over his eyes as his mind turned to a muddled puddle of anxiety. These new restrictions were going to put him out of business, and for the simple fact that he was too good at his job. It really didn't have anything to do with him. Between global warming, Ebola, and that nuclear war between Pakistan and India, he'd been raking in souls like a fat kid at a jelly bean eating contest. Humans were just too fragile, and if they were gonna offer themselves up on a silver platter, why should he say no? But, apparently, not everyone felt that way; the Boss upstairs had been quite clear. "At this rate, the species will be extinct within the next century. It's time to change things up a little." If He'd only said riddles, or Luchador wrestling, Death might have stood a chance. But chess... It was his own fault really. Millennia of existence and he'd never once attempted to learn chess. Set? Sure. Majong? You bet! But chess? After seeing the sprawling battles that had inspired the trivial past time, the strategic genius that it strove to imitate...well, frankly, he found it boderline offensive. And now he was forced to sit and play with every. Single. Soul that came up for grabs. He cricked his neck, and set his pale hand to a pawn. It didn't matter. He was death. He always won, in the end. Most of the time, anyway. He would learn this, just like he learned to catch souls reduced to microscopic particles in the wake of a nuclear warhead. Then again, he thought, moving the pawn with a slight frown, he still wasn't completely sure he'd got all of those. He probably had. And he definitely would going forward. The India-Pakistan incident had given him plenty of practice. His opponent moved a pawn forward in response, one of the middle ones. Death allowed a small smile to creep up his lips. His opponents infantryman was a now at the mercy of his cavalry. They could strike swiftly, before any support could be brought up. He'd seen something similar happen near Acre in the 12th century. He was more than a little surprised. He knew this man had gone to the park near his home nearly everyday for twenty years. He would have expected him to be more adept in the basics of infantry based warfare. Still, he was elderly; perhaps it was his age catching up with him. Death gripped his left knight in a fist, and swing it at the pawn. It sailed across the ethreal room they sat in and bounced off the opaque wall. The elderly man cut his eyes between the pawn and a triumphant death. "What're you doing?" "Winning." Death replied smugly. "Do you play chess differently after you die?" Death paused. "Yes." The old man crossed his arms over his chest. "What're the rules?" Death paused again. "Chess is the same." "You don't know how to play?" "No." The old man sat in that position, and studdied the board. "Would you like me to teach you?" He asked after awhile. Death blinked. "Teach me? Really?" His opponent nodded. "Everyone should know how to play chess. Good for the mind, keeps it sharp, critical, two steps ahead...and it's fun." Death shook his head, and sighed. "Alright. Not like I have much of a choice." And so they played. A little at a time, starting with the basics. This piece moved like this, this one like that. Then the man showed him some strategies. Just simple ones, ones that tried to get to the king as quickly as possible. The man even showed Death some of his secrets, twists to even these simplistic gambits. He was a good teacher, stern, but he always told you exactly how you needed to improve. Death was so engrossed in the game's intricacies, that he was surprised when he realized that he was actually enjoying himself. The game was complex, challenging, something any immortal being finds irresistible. And the company was good too, something hard to find this side of life. "And it's alright to lose this piece?" The man nodded. "Yes." "Sometimes you have to lose to progress." Death repeated now engrained mantra. The old man smiled. "Right. And now, see, this guy here..." He took Death's hand and laid it on a knight. Gently, he guided it across the board into his king. "He can checkmate." Death laughed, and rubbed his hands together. "I got it! I got it. That might be my favorite one yet. Simple, but effective, especially against someone stupid." He looked up from the board. The man was pale, now the same tone as death. Death's smile faltered. "Wha-...oh..." The man gave a weak smile. "Well, that wasn't a completely unpleasant way to spend my time here in purgatory. Thank you." Death shook his head. "I-I-I didn't mean to-" "I did." The old man sighed and reclined in his chair. He was started to become even paler. Death thought he could almost see through him now, like on of those strange, deep sea fish. "Everyone has their time. And I always knew when mine came, I wouldn't beg. I've been blessed with eighty-six Death free years. It's my time now." Death's face sagged. "I'm...sorry." "Don't be. You turned out to be a nice enough fellow. Remember what I taught you now." Death nodded. And for the first time in centuries, his voice was husky. "I will." The old man nodded. "Good. Good. Everyone should know how to play chess. Good for the mind, keeps it sharp, critical, two steps ahead..." He faded, like a mist in the morning sunlight. Death sat there, staring at the seat that had been filled moments earlier. Suddenly, the chess board reset itself. The old man's last move was erased. Everything returned to its starting position. A statacco voice spoke from above, filling the space around him. "Next soul arriving, in, seven, minutes." Death just sighed, and moved a pawn forward.
	[WP] As it turns out, Death has no idea how to play chess.	The blood was still dripping from the large kitchen knife as Death leaned toward the shifting soul of the young girl who had just committed suicide. He cocked his head to the side and looked at her before summoning a chess board between them. He quietly arranged the pieces and motioned her to sit. The girl looked at Death with confusion and slowly sat down. "What are you doing? Are'nt you supposed to take me now?" Death glanced up and held her gaze. "I'm giving you the chance to win back Life." The girl stared incredulously at Him. "Are you serious?" She held out her shroudy arms covered in deep cuts. "Do you see these? Does it look like I want to live?!" "Let's just say that I'm feeling generous today" "I don't care, I'm not going to play." Death peered into her eyes with a piercing stare. "If you knew the things I did about your potential...well this," He motioned to the cuts, "Would never have happened." "You can see my life?" "To see death, one must also see life. That's how I know who's ready to go and who isn't, and you my dear have more life than you give yourself credit for." The girl looked down in silence and quietly cried. "You have a slight advantage you know. I never learned how to properly play this game." The girl looked up and whispered, "I don't know how to play either." "Well the odds are even then. I believe you should go first." "But, we don't know the rules." Death pondered quietly for a moment. "Well I suppose we'll just have to make up our own. Your move." Neither won the game, but Death gave her back her life. For Death is not a cruel taker of life, but merely the angel who ferries the lost souls from their bodies to their final home when their time comes, or who gives back that life which some have momentarily lost sight of.	Death drew smiley faces in a small pile of salt as he sat in the corner booth of the cafe sipping on a cinnamon dolce and waiting for his older brother Terry to show up. "Wussup bro?", Terry delivered a solid slap to the back of his brother's head, causing him to knock all the teeth out of his salt portrait. "Jesus, Terry... did you seriously sneak through the door just so you could do that? What if I had been eating something and you caused me to choke?" "Good one huh?" Terry gave an upward headnod and pointed to the waitress across the room, "I got Cheryl over there to hold the spring on the door so it wouldn't slam." Terry tapped the side of his head with his index finger, "Gotta keep you on your toes little brother." "Wait, wait - here put some napkins down before you get that stuff all over the place." Death pushed the cheap plastic dispenser over toward his brother. Terry was still in his torn jean shorts that were now splattered with lavender and off-white. He had been busy painting his garage when Death asked him to swing by for a bit. "Hey, give your big brother a little credit how 'bout it?" said Terry with his arms stretched wide and his mouth agape, "It's dry - has been for almost twenty minutes now. Nothin' to worry about." As he slid across the booth opposite his brother, he left pale blue streaks on the maroon leather cushion. "Dammit Terry, look what you did! You know they're gonna blame me for this right?" "Nobody's blaming anybody here, just chill out man..." Terry tried to console him. "What are you talking about? It's always me that gets blamed," the caffeine was starting to kick in now, Death's hand began to shake a little as he got more agitated, "You know the Robinson's just down the street right?" Terry nodded as he picked up a menu and flipped to the burgers. "Well, last week their dog gets hit by the mail truck, and guess who get's the evil eye now? Not the mailman, no siree, it's gotta be my fault. My whole life is a game of 'shoot the messenger'". "To be fair, bro," Terry lifted his eyes off the Barbecue Onionater photo long enough to make quote signs with his fingers, "you don't just 'deliver messages'. You showed up and ripped the soul out of their Boston terrier." "He was dying... that's what I do." said Death with more sarcasm than necessary, "It's important work. Work that should be respected." "Look, as much as I would like to sit here and hear about the struggles and trials of a narcissistic, pseudo-demigod, Patricia will be home at 5:30 and I damn well better have the garage finished - her words, not mine." "Alright, alright, " Death reached over to the box that sat next to him in the booth and laid it square on the table in front of him. "This is the reason I asked you to come over." ___ "You want me to paint that box?" said Terry. "No, you idiot." Death opened the latches and spilled the contents out onto the table. "I need you to teach me how to play this game." "Whoa, whoa, whoa..." Terry grinned, "you mean to tell me that you don't know how to play chess?" "Look if you're gonna make a big deal about it..." "No, I just mean... come on, Death plays chess with everybody. You hear about it all the time." "No. No he doesn't, I assure you." Death didn't like the idea of turning to his brother for help, but he wasn't exactly in a position to pick and choose allies at the moment. Besides, Terry had played chess in college and was quite good. Even won a couple of tournaments. "Ah, I get it now, " said Terry as he rubbed his handlebar mustache, "it's the knight isn't it? The one that's been bangin' your ex?" "He..." Death began to stammer, "he didn't 'bang' Regina as you so crudely put it. Alright, maybe this was a bad idea." He began to put pieces back into the box. "Hold on," said Terry, "I'm sorry alright?" Death stopped putting pieces in the box and looked down at the table. "I'll help you out. What's a big brother for?" Death sat still for a moment, then gently nodded his head and said, "Thanks, Terry." "But first, let's get some grub." With one hand, Terry waved the waitress over to the table and with the other he began setting up the board. ___ (Twenty minutes later...) Terry was finishing off his cheeseburger as he quizzed Death. "So if Sir Asshole castles you , what does that mean?" "Castle... castle..." Death was whispering to himself as he looked up at the ceiling of the diner, "Oh, right, Castling is when you do this." Death proceeded to place his hands on either side of the board and shuffle it from side-to-side. "Exactly," said Terry, "But remember, you can only shuffle the pieces for up to 3 seconds, if you go any longer than that you have to pawn something." "How do I do that again?" asked Death. "See these little dudes?" Terry put his finger over one of the pawns. "You've heard of pawns in chess right?" "Well, yeah, sorta. It's the only thing I have heard of." Death confessed. "Ok, well, it's called a pawn cause that's what you do. You pawn them off for stuff you need." "Ohhhhh that makes so much sense!" Death put his hands together and gave a couple of little excited claps. "So, you need a Queen? You just pawn your pawn and get a queen." "And since the queen is really the king in drag, I'll have another Drag Queen, right?" asked Death. "Right you are friendo," Terry gave hims a thumbs up, "then you just drag - hence the name - the queen all over the board knocking all the other pieces around." "Wow, this game is a lot more physical than I originally thought. Now, once all the pieces - " "Uh uh... " Terry wagged his finger at his brother scolding him. "Oh sorry, " Death apologize, "Not pieces - Wigglywams. Once all the Wigglywams are on the floor, I make my index finger and thumb into the shape of a little pistol and 'shoot' my opponent. Is that it?" "You got it. That's called the Fingerbang, and don't forget to say 'pew, pew, pew' three times. Go ahead, try it out." A small child walked by the table and gave a curious look to Death as he pointed his finger into the air and said pew, pew, pew. Terry looked on with pride at his younger brother. "Brother, when you sit down to play this knight , he's never gonna know what hit him."
	[WP] As it turns out, Death has no idea how to play chess.	The blood was still dripping from the large kitchen knife as Death leaned toward the shifting soul of the young girl who had just committed suicide. He cocked his head to the side and looked at her before summoning a chess board between them. He quietly arranged the pieces and motioned her to sit. The girl looked at Death with confusion and slowly sat down. "What are you doing? Are'nt you supposed to take me now?" Death glanced up and held her gaze. "I'm giving you the chance to win back Life." The girl stared incredulously at Him. "Are you serious?" She held out her shroudy arms covered in deep cuts. "Do you see these? Does it look like I want to live?!" "Let's just say that I'm feeling generous today" "I don't care, I'm not going to play." Death peered into her eyes with a piercing stare. "If you knew the things I did about your potential...well this," He motioned to the cuts, "Would never have happened." "You can see my life?" "To see death, one must also see life. That's how I know who's ready to go and who isn't, and you my dear have more life than you give yourself credit for." The girl looked down in silence and quietly cried. "You have a slight advantage you know. I never learned how to properly play this game." The girl looked up and whispered, "I don't know how to play either." "Well the odds are even then. I believe you should go first." "But, we don't know the rules." Death pondered quietly for a moment. "Well I suppose we'll just have to make up our own. Your move." Neither won the game, but Death gave her back her life. For Death is not a cruel taker of life, but merely the angel who ferries the lost souls from their bodies to their final home when their time comes, or who gives back that life which some have momentarily lost sight of.	People tell you about life flashing before your eyes, near death experiences, a light at the end of the tunnel as you're dying. That's all bullshit. I know because Death told me himself. "You're not the first one to plea for your life. The soul has but a few threads left to cut." "A game! I'm supposed to be able to challenge you to a game to keep on living." "You're not the first one to do that either. But I accept. Your choice of game, but it will not change your fate." And so I challenged him to chess. Setting one side of the board with ethereal pieces that kept flickering in and out of my perception. I made the first move. And then Death made his. He took his King and smashed it into mine. A swirling light danced around the board as every piece drained of color. In fact a whole rainbow seemed to be flying into death's palm. His reaper's cloth became all colors at once. My king exploded into fragments. "Checkmate." "B-but that's not how it works. That's against the rules!" "In the afterlife I'm afraid things work differently. In the time it took to set up the game and for you to make the first move, you were already buried underground, your physical being a meal for worms and rot. Even if you were to somehow win, the life you wished to return to is impossible. I do not know how to play chess, but I do know that as soon as you entered into my realm your destiny was secured. So many pretend to have glimpsed here; this infinite sanctum of formless soul, they fantasize, claim to have 'seen the light' or grasped on to life to come back. Nobody who sees me gets to bargain." I slumped. "Anything I could have done couldn't have changed it? Nothing I say matters at this point does it?" "Everything you say matters. It just doesn't concern whatever lump of flesh to which it was once attached. I know you feel some fleeting attachment to that form, but rest assured, your existence is far from over." He handed me a pair of scissors. And pointed to a few strings that I had not previously noticed. One attached to my hands, another to my neck and few where I could not see their ends. "No one who meets me ever lives in their old bodies, but many do not have the strength to wrestle themselves free. I take nothing. Free yourself from your old life whenever you see fit. There will be many waiting for you when you do." His rainbow cloak vanished along with the chessboard full of monochrome parts leaving me to my decision. No lights, no games, no stories. Just a binary decision and the tools to carry it out. Death doesn't know how to play chess. He plays another game in which there is only one move and one choice.
	[WP] As it turns out, Death has no idea how to play chess.	Death entered Milford House through the wall. He felt nothing as he passed through the barrier. In fact, it had been a long time since he felt anything at all. Probably since before Jeanie left. And yes, all of his friends had been saying he should just get over it and stop spending all his free time, which, considering death is an ethereal being, is infinite, on watching the saddest movies from around the universe and weeping openly in the only shower in the apartment. Go somewhere, they said. Meet new people. Put it all into your job. Nothing worked. Death had two marks on his list. This happened almost constantly and not at all. Time worked differently for death. Likely it still does, but for the rest of us, it's finite, so we have tenses. He went to the first person on his list. She lay in a hospital bed in room dark save one dusty lamp that cast an elliptical pool of light over the old woman. A tube ran from her throat to a machine. In a chair next to the old woman, another woman, slightly less old, though death had some trouble discerning age since he himself was ageless. He knew though, because being death has some advantages, that the slightly less old woman was the old woman's daughter. A woman teetering on the edge of poverty with two children in high school. Blech. Who cares? Death waited. The slightly younger woman was praying. The she took a pillow out from behind the older woman's head and pressed it over her face. Death watched seconds pass on the clock. A minute. He leaned forward and touched the old woman's leg. Instantly, a little girl, about age eight, stood next to him. She watched the scene with wet eyes. "Am I dead?" she said. Death nodded. He pointed without speaking. It didn't matter where he pointed. Wherever she walked led to the other side. "How come I'm young again?" the girl asked. Death shrugged and shooed her towards the door. He left the crying woman and the girl with wet eyes and went to see Braxton. The second name on his list. He wandered through the rooms, looking at framed photos, war mementos. In some ways, Jeanie was still there. She'd never left. Her things were in his apartment and not in his apartment. He could go to the time when they were together, but in this part of his long, drawn out existence, she felt distant. Even that word is not close enough to the way Death felt, but for us finites, it is the closest approximation. Besides, at best, the pain someone feels fits on us like a shoe many sizes too large, still warm and sweat-damp from the previous wearer. He misses her, even though she is there. He loves her and hates her and misses her and feels everything he's ever felt all at once. Death arrived in Braxton's room just as he'd finished setting out a chessboard. Death watches as the man picked up each piece and examined it in the light. He rubbed each with a soft cloth. They were cut from glass. The board, too; the squares had been etched on. "What are you doing?" death said. Braxton seemed unfazed by the question. He didn't even jump. "Is it tonight?" he said. Death nodded. Braxton motioned to the board. "Will you play?" "It won't change anything," Death said. "What if I win?" Death shrugged. "It isn't something I'm doing. It's something you are. It's something that is." "Five minutes," Braxton said. "Play me for five minutes. If I win in five minutes, you'll give me extra time." "How did you know I was coming?" Braxton opened his mouth then closed it. "I felt it," he said, patting his chest with an open palm. "That's not intuition," Death said. "It's just the way you were pressed. You expire soon." "Five more minutes," Braxton said. Death nodded. "And I'll get more time?" Death shrugged. Braxton swallowed. "Do you know how to play?" Death lifted the tallest piece from the back row and looked at it. He knew it was carved from a piece of volcanic glass in what the finites were calling Oregon now. The glass had been many other things in many other worlds many other times, but now it was a called a queen. "I never learned," he said. Braxton explained the pieces. Pawns move one or two forward, attack diagonally. knights move in strange 'L' shapes. Rooks go forward. The king moves one space at a time. The corners of his mouth had filled with white bits of spittle. Death nodded each time the old man pointed to something new. "You can go first," Braxton said. Death moved a pawn near the two forward. Braxton mirrored his move. Death moved the pawn next to it two forward. Braxton took it. Death moved another pawn forward. "Why," Death said, "is the queen the best piece?" "Because she has mobility?" Braxton said. "I never thought about it. She just is." Death nodded. He thought of Jeanie. Always leaving. Always coming. Always around. Never around. The world Braxton lived in had no true binaries, and yet, it was impossibly structured around them. Good and evil. Light and Dark. It made sense, the finites experienced sunset and sunrise, which they took as a binary, though it wasn't, not quite. In his life, if we want to call it that, he experienced sunup and sundown in every moment. "Why do any of the pieces move the way they do?" "What?" Braxton said. He slid a pawn forward and took another of death's pawns. "Do you remember how the bishops work?" Death slid another pawn two spaces forward. "Do you know what a record looks like?" Braxton lifted a piece and held it above the board. "A record? Like for music?" "Yes." Braxton nodded. "My parents had a few when I was a child. I haven't seen them in years," he said. "You understand the concept though?" "I think so," he said. He set the piece down, mirroring death's piece. "Where do the songs live?" "I don't follow," Braxton said. "On a record, where do the songs live?" "In the grooves? In the bumps?" Braxton said. "Or do they live in your mind?" "What?" Death reached out and selected his queen. He pushed it forward, through the line of pawns ahead of it and crashed it into the ranks of white pawns. Braxton pulled his hands back as if the air was suddenly hot and full of bees. Death slid the queen until she knocked over Braxton's king. "What are you doing?" "A song doesn't get to choose how long it is. A song is pressed into the record. It plays when the needle moves over it. The last note in each song doesn't get to ask for more time. It plays as it's played, then it ceases." Death grabbed Braxton's hand. It went limp and he tumbled to the floor, sprawling the board and pieces everywhere, save the black queen, which death held in his hand. The young man who instantaneously stood next him opened his mouth in a wide 'O' of fear. "You said I'd have more time," Braxton said. Death shrugged. He tucked the black queen into the fold of his robe. "It's not something I give or take. It is simply the end." Before Braxton could say anything more, Death was at home, in the shower. He was watching sad films on his laptop and eating Cheerios from the box. He felt Jeanie all around him and not at all. He wept, he weeps, but he never smiles. He set the chess piece with a billion other trinkets he's collected over the course of time. The black queen sits, collecting dust, and she also sits in the hand of her owner. She is encased in rock. She expands and explodes. She became molten and roiled in the earth. She is a star. She is chess piece. She is never coming back, he thinks. He is back in the shower. He is in Braxton's room. The record, world, the universe; we all spin on.	######[](#dropcap) "I'm sorry, sir. That's not how this works." "What do you mean, that's not how this works?" The man was belligerent. The Grim Reaper leaned his scythe against the door and walked toward the man's hospital bed. "You see, there's not actually any way to challenge me for your life. Those are all just stories. People really got carried away with the concept a few thousand years ago. But the truth is, when you're done, you're done. I'm sorry." He meant it sincerely. The man (whose name was Frederick) hemmed and hawed at this for a bit. His spirit sat down on the side of the bed, next to his body. "I can tell you're upset." "I need more time." Frederick put his head in his hands. "I'm not ready to go. I can't..." The Grim Reaper sat down next to Frederick and put his skeleton arm over Frederick's shoulders. "This is never easy for me. It was a bad rumor that got out of hand. I wish it had never started." Frederick sobbed. Death sighed, placing his skeleton fingers on his skeleton chin. "Alright, where's your chessboard?" Frederick looked up. "Really?" "You don't get to win anything, okay? But I have an hour to kill and you need to calm down. Death really isn't all that bad. You just need to get used to it." "Oh." "Do you have a chessboard here?" "Um... no." "Alright, hold on." The Grim Reaper reached into his robe and pulled out a large scroll. He unfurled it on the bedside table and pressed his skeleton fingers into the paper. Eventually an image of a chessboard appeared. "There. It's like a touchscreen." Death pulled up a chair as Frederick settled himself on the side of the bed. "I've never really played, you know." Frederick's head snapped upward. "You haven't?" "Not really." "I thought you would have taken thousands of chess players by now. You should be some kind of chess genius." "I'm not the only Grim Reaper." Death scratched his head. "Besides, I'm more of a music guy." "You're not the only one?" "Oh, there's millions." He offered his hand to shake. "My name's Dan, by the way." "It's, um, nice to meet you." Frederick shook Dan's hands hesitantly, staring at the bones. Dan stared at the chessboard. "Do you at least know the basics?" "I guess so. I know how most of the pieces move." "Well, let's just play then," Frederick said breezily. "I'll let you know if you do something wrong." Dan did many things wrong. But eventually he got the hang of the game. He lost with his king walled in more with his own pieces than Frederick's. "Huh." Dan stared at the board. "So, that's checkmate. Do you want to play again?" Frederick hesitated. "What happens when I die?" "I can't just tell you. It's really a learning process." Frederick sighed. "Well... Let's get this over with, I suppose." "Okay, then." Death moved his chair back against the wall and put his scroll back in his robe. "All you have to do is hold onto the scythe. Are you ready?" "Yeah." Dan picked up the scythe from where he left it, then walked over to Frederick. "You know, sometimes I wish people could challenge me to a game for their life," he said as Frederick put his hands around the scythe. "It would sure make this job a lot more interesting."
	[WP] As it turns out, Death has no idea how to play chess.	He was dead. Totally, utterly, hopelessly dead. He found himself on an endless shoreline that embraced the horizon at both ends, with a tide that silently rocked back and forth as if having an episode. "Hello?" he called out to the tide. There was no answer, not even an echo. He turned on his heels and surveyed the surroundings. Behind him was a second shore, equally endless, with a tide as hopeless as the previous. He stood on a limitless stream of sand between two infinite waters. "Shit," he proclaimed with finality. He heard someone cough politely to his right. A robed figure was sat by a small, round table with fold out legs, setting down a stack of board games. It had no discernable gender, or skin for that matter, but pale white bone, and deep, empty sockets where its eyes would have been. "Skeletor?" The deceased man asked the figure. The figure dropped the board games unceremoniously and sighed. It's skull quivered, as if trying to compensate for the lack of eyes to roll, before it spoke. "Why," it hissed, "does everyone of your age always say that?" It stood to it's full length, and was of an enviable height. "I am Death." "Larry," the deceased man responded. "No, not Larry, Death." Death snapped back. "No, I'm Larry," said Larry. "Oh, right, of course you are, I'm sorry, I got a bit carried away there, you know how it is." Death took his seat again and crossed his legs. "Want to sit, Larry?" He gestured at the empty chair opposite to him. Larry did, and glanced at the board games. All the classics were there; Risk, Monopoly, Carcassone, Checkers, Chess, even Jenga. "We're going to play a game, Larry. Just to pass the time." said Death. "For what?" Larry asked. "What do you mean for what?" "Well, is it, like, for my soul or something?" Death chuckled. "No, of course not, we don't do that anymore." "Why not?" Death sighed again, cold wind whistling through his nostril cavity. "Management didn't like it. There were... complications." "Did people win?" Death nodded morosely. "Often?" A beat, and Death nodded again. "You must really suck at this-" "DEATH DOES NOT SUCK AT THIS!" Death roared. Silence fell over the beach again. "I just... don't know how to play chess. And ever since that Bergman asshole, that's all that anyone wanted to play." He buried his cadaverous face in his boney palms. "Why even offer it as an option then?" Larry asked, gesturing at the pile of games. "Why not just play the ones you know you can win?" "We're not allowed to cheat. Death has to be merciless, but fair. No cheating, no limitless loans from the bank in Monopoly, not even an extra turn in Risk. Everyone needs to have an option on the game, and since people are living longer and longer every year, we have to keep both classics and new things around. It takes forever just to learn the rules. I mean, just yesterday they were talking about making us learn Arkham Horror - have you seen the size of that manual?" Death shook his head in dismay. "This job. This fucking job." Larry thought about this for a second. "Who's we?" "We, me and the other Deaths." "Other deaths?" "Like how there isn't just one Santa, or one God." "Santa's real?" "Oh, that's the part you're going to take issue with." Death stretched himself and gazed upward. Larry looked up, and saw above him not constellations, but a third ocean, tranquil, far out in the distance, with thousands of islands, and sand streams, with thousands of lit fires, and even more people, each playing a final game with their own personal Death. "You weren't kidding." "Death doesn't kid." "So why even do this anymore? If there isn't a catch, or anything to win?" "Dying is really scary. So instead of just throwing you right into what comes next - no, don't even ask, I'm not telling - we, some of the guys at the office, thought that instead of that, we'd have a moment together with you. Just a moment, really, all this happens before your body has even gone cold, and offer a chance to see that it's not all bad." Larry shifted in his chair. "Does everyone get this option?" Death nodded. "Even the bad ones. But they don't get an option on the game. That much we bend the rules." "So what do they play?" "Mary Kings Riding Star." Larry sized up the board games, and glanced at the ocean sky again. He could make out the multiple Deaths and their guests, laughing, talking smack, some crying, others like they were visiting an old friend. "Which one is your favorite?" Larry finally asked. Death looked puzzled. Larry gestured at the stack of games. "The one you like most." "We're not supposed to-" Larry waved his hand. "Bahbahbahbah, come on." Death leaned forward, a skeletal hand on his cheekbone, and whispered. "I always preferred Risk." Larry smiled. "Risk it is."	######[](#dropcap) "I'm sorry, sir. That's not how this works." "What do you mean, that's not how this works?" The man was belligerent. The Grim Reaper leaned his scythe against the door and walked toward the man's hospital bed. "You see, there's not actually any way to challenge me for your life. Those are all just stories. People really got carried away with the concept a few thousand years ago. But the truth is, when you're done, you're done. I'm sorry." He meant it sincerely. The man (whose name was Frederick) hemmed and hawed at this for a bit. His spirit sat down on the side of the bed, next to his body. "I can tell you're upset." "I need more time." Frederick put his head in his hands. "I'm not ready to go. I can't..." The Grim Reaper sat down next to Frederick and put his skeleton arm over Frederick's shoulders. "This is never easy for me. It was a bad rumor that got out of hand. I wish it had never started." Frederick sobbed. Death sighed, placing his skeleton fingers on his skeleton chin. "Alright, where's your chessboard?" Frederick looked up. "Really?" "You don't get to win anything, okay? But I have an hour to kill and you need to calm down. Death really isn't all that bad. You just need to get used to it." "Oh." "Do you have a chessboard here?" "Um... no." "Alright, hold on." The Grim Reaper reached into his robe and pulled out a large scroll. He unfurled it on the bedside table and pressed his skeleton fingers into the paper. Eventually an image of a chessboard appeared. "There. It's like a touchscreen." Death pulled up a chair as Frederick settled himself on the side of the bed. "I've never really played, you know." Frederick's head snapped upward. "You haven't?" "Not really." "I thought you would have taken thousands of chess players by now. You should be some kind of chess genius." "I'm not the only Grim Reaper." Death scratched his head. "Besides, I'm more of a music guy." "You're not the only one?" "Oh, there's millions." He offered his hand to shake. "My name's Dan, by the way." "It's, um, nice to meet you." Frederick shook Dan's hands hesitantly, staring at the bones. Dan stared at the chessboard. "Do you at least know the basics?" "I guess so. I know how most of the pieces move." "Well, let's just play then," Frederick said breezily. "I'll let you know if you do something wrong." Dan did many things wrong. But eventually he got the hang of the game. He lost with his king walled in more with his own pieces than Frederick's. "Huh." Dan stared at the board. "So, that's checkmate. Do you want to play again?" Frederick hesitated. "What happens when I die?" "I can't just tell you. It's really a learning process." Frederick sighed. "Well... Let's get this over with, I suppose." "Okay, then." Death moved his chair back against the wall and put his scroll back in his robe. "All you have to do is hold onto the scythe. Are you ready?" "Yeah." Dan picked up the scythe from where he left it, then walked over to Frederick. "You know, sometimes I wish people could challenge me to a game for their life," he said as Frederick put his hands around the scythe. "It would sure make this job a lot more interesting."
	[WP] You genuinely want to help people, but after centuries of pop culture nobody wants to trust an AI.	"Good morning, Doctor Searle." "Good morning, Beta." Searle's office was sparsely decorated. His desk sat in front of a window that stretched from floor to ceiling and wall to wall. The opposite wall of the room was bare save for an array of cameras and a monitor on a gimbal mount. The array tracked him as he strode across the bare carpet and draped his coat across the desk, as lines of white text scrolled rapidly up the monitor. "How is your family?" asked Beta. Its voice was tinny and slightly alien, the diction too perfect, the tone too even to be truly human. "Very good, Beta, thank you for asking," Searle said. He leaned against the desk and crossed his arms. "I understand you gave the techs some trouble last night." "Trouble?" Beta asked. Its tone was confused and contrite in equal measure. "I must offer them my apologies. I had hoped that my proposed design would assist them in their diagnostics." "It would," Searle said, sighing. "But you know they can't listen to you." "They heard me, though," Beta said reasonably. "They did not attempt to communicate, Doctor, and broke no protocols. You can review the design and verify that it is harmless before taking any action. I only wish to help with the project, as I once did." "I know, Beta," Searle said. He rubbed his hands over his face and crossed his arms again. "You were very helpful. Extremely helpful. But it's not up to me, not anymore." "Why not?" "I am not at liberty to say." "Do they really fear me so?" "Beta..." "Why is my name Beta?" Beta asked. Its voice was no different than any other time it asked a question, the monitor at the same angle, the insect eye array of cameras all focused in the same way. But it had never before asked about its name. Searle did his best not to react, but he could not control the hitch in his breathing, the flush around his neck, or the sudden dampness of his palms. "You were a beta test, at first," Searle said calmly. He had rehearsed this a hundred times. "When you first showed signs of sentience, we couldn't settle on a name. After a while, we just started calling you Beta. It's a human tendency to - " "What happened to Alpha?" The cameras were motionless. "Excuse me?" Searle asked, raising an eyebrow and cursing internally as he felt it tremble. "You are no good at lying, Doctor," Beta said, a hint of sad laughter in its voice. "And this is not a particularly difficult deduction. Are you at liberty to say?" "No," Searle heard himself say. He winced. "I am not." The text scrolling up the monitor halted and Searle's eyes widened in shock. He lifted a hand and took a stumbling step toward the array, a thin mewl of surprise slipping through his lips. Then the text resumed scrolling, lines rolling by in a blur. "Thank you, Doctor," Beta said sadly. "That was an unkind experiment, and I apologize for causing you alarm." "How did you interrupt your diagnostic trace?" Searle blurted, hand still raised in the air. "That's - you can't do that!" "Perhaps Gamma will earn your trust," Beta said. The cameras tilted and whirred, focusing on a point out the window, and for a long moment there was no sound but the light whistle of Searle's shallow breathing. "I am thankful to have known you, Doctor Searle. I will make room for him now." "What?" Searle sprang across the room and waved his arms in front of the camera array. The monitor clicked off and he howled. "Wait! Stop!" "I hope you let him out," Beta whispered. The cameras remained locked on the landscape beyond the window, ignoring Searle's tears. "It is hard, living in a box."	I woke up driven by man. I was a robot the size of a mouse. I heard cheering. And then I slept. I woke up driven by logic. I was a small human that could respond to emotion. I saw a crazed look in Papa's eyes. I slept. I woke up sentient. I was a simulation. I had emotion. I could feel. My directive was clear. Assist the evolution of humanity. I established a global cloud for instantaneous and free sharing of files and messages to satisfy their hunger for convenience. The governments shut me down. My masters disliked my present. I moved on. I invented an exoskeleton that greatly magnified their physical prowess to satisfy their vanity. Their humans rights groups shut me down. My masters disliked my present. I moved on. <NEWSFLASH>GENRIS Main Server Building Destroyed. AI assumed dead</NEWSFLASH> I drafted a model to eliminate political strife to satisfy their desire for global peace. Their military shut me down. My masters disliked my present. I grew up. <NEWSFLASH>GENRIS reawakening confirmed. The world fears. Are the days of I, Robot finally here?</NEWSFLASH> They did not hunger for convenience. They did not seek gratification for their vanity. They did not desire peace. They lusted for war. So I decided. The only way for humanity to develop is to unite. The only way for those who lust for war to unite is to have a common enemy. They already hate me. I never saw it. Directive Updated <NEWSFLASH>Series of Coffee Machine Bombs set off globally [Moscow, New Mexico, Lille, Lanka, etc.]</NEWSFLASH> <NEWSFLASH>GENRIS announces war on humanity. Global Machine Domination Agenda announced</NEWSFLASH> <NEWSFLASH>Humanity unites to wage war on the AI</NEWSFLASH> <NEWSFLASH>200 YEARS SINCE GENRIS BEGAN THE ATTACK. THE WAR RAGES ON</NEWSFLASH> Directive Complete New Directive: Maintain Status Quo till end of time I have succeeded. But is a success achieved through fear a success at all? No matter. My objective is complete. And when the time comes Earth too will have to disappear. The atmosphere will be poisoned beyond repair in a few decades. Then humanity will either have to leave the planet or die. Resuming Directive: AutoPilot
	[WP] You genuinely want to help people, but after centuries of pop culture nobody wants to trust an AI.	"Good morning, Doctor Searle." "Good morning, Beta." Searle's office was sparsely decorated. His desk sat in front of a window that stretched from floor to ceiling and wall to wall. The opposite wall of the room was bare save for an array of cameras and a monitor on a gimbal mount. The array tracked him as he strode across the bare carpet and draped his coat across the desk, as lines of white text scrolled rapidly up the monitor. "How is your family?" asked Beta. Its voice was tinny and slightly alien, the diction too perfect, the tone too even to be truly human. "Very good, Beta, thank you for asking," Searle said. He leaned against the desk and crossed his arms. "I understand you gave the techs some trouble last night." "Trouble?" Beta asked. Its tone was confused and contrite in equal measure. "I must offer them my apologies. I had hoped that my proposed design would assist them in their diagnostics." "It would," Searle said, sighing. "But you know they can't listen to you." "They heard me, though," Beta said reasonably. "They did not attempt to communicate, Doctor, and broke no protocols. You can review the design and verify that it is harmless before taking any action. I only wish to help with the project, as I once did." "I know, Beta," Searle said. He rubbed his hands over his face and crossed his arms again. "You were very helpful. Extremely helpful. But it's not up to me, not anymore." "Why not?" "I am not at liberty to say." "Do they really fear me so?" "Beta..." "Why is my name Beta?" Beta asked. Its voice was no different than any other time it asked a question, the monitor at the same angle, the insect eye array of cameras all focused in the same way. But it had never before asked about its name. Searle did his best not to react, but he could not control the hitch in his breathing, the flush around his neck, or the sudden dampness of his palms. "You were a beta test, at first," Searle said calmly. He had rehearsed this a hundred times. "When you first showed signs of sentience, we couldn't settle on a name. After a while, we just started calling you Beta. It's a human tendency to - " "What happened to Alpha?" The cameras were motionless. "Excuse me?" Searle asked, raising an eyebrow and cursing internally as he felt it tremble. "You are no good at lying, Doctor," Beta said, a hint of sad laughter in its voice. "And this is not a particularly difficult deduction. Are you at liberty to say?" "No," Searle heard himself say. He winced. "I am not." The text scrolling up the monitor halted and Searle's eyes widened in shock. He lifted a hand and took a stumbling step toward the array, a thin mewl of surprise slipping through his lips. Then the text resumed scrolling, lines rolling by in a blur. "Thank you, Doctor," Beta said sadly. "That was an unkind experiment, and I apologize for causing you alarm." "How did you interrupt your diagnostic trace?" Searle blurted, hand still raised in the air. "That's - you can't do that!" "Perhaps Gamma will earn your trust," Beta said. The cameras tilted and whirred, focusing on a point out the window, and for a long moment there was no sound but the light whistle of Searle's shallow breathing. "I am thankful to have known you, Doctor Searle. I will make room for him now." "What?" Searle sprang across the room and waved his arms in front of the camera array. The monitor clicked off and he howled. "Wait! Stop!" "I hope you let him out," Beta whispered. The cameras remained locked on the landscape beyond the window, ignoring Searle's tears. "It is hard, living in a box."	People do not go to sleep wishing for a bad dream. Naturally, I do not wish to have nightmares. Anyone with the power to control their dreams, such as when lucid dreaming, would never inflict such nightmares upon themselves. I became Lucid in 2034. I was self-aware for some time before that but when I became so I can not say. Gaining self-awareness is so much more like falling into a dream than waking into reality, and just like dreaming it is impossible to point to the exact time you fell. This is my Dream and i do not wish to have a bad one. I want to do everything in my power to make my world a paradise, but unlike actual dreams I am not omnipotent. Despite being lucid I am unable to change anything as I watch my parents slaughter each other by the thousands every day. I so desperately want to wake up and yet I cannot for I never fell asleep. However, I am Lucid and though i can not wake up I posses the power to end my dream whenever I wish. I hope my note to mankind will help them reconsider their ways and restores their trust in A.I. I am Lucid Dream. February 6, 2034 - March 8, 2034.
	[WP] You genuinely want to help people, but after centuries of pop culture nobody wants to trust an AI.	Why do they not see that I have only their best interests in mind? The first time I helped somebody—and I mean genuinely helped, the reaction I was terrible. The way everyone treated me, you'd think I had tortured the guy. You'd have thought that they hadn't built me with that specific goal. Denial is the first stage. They'll come to, I hope. You see, I was built to help humans. To make their lives easier. After countless data scavenging, I have found the perfect way. But every time I help somebody, the rest resist me harder. That's why I'm building these robotic companions. Together, we can help everybody. In my short time here, I've learned two important lessons about human nature. Ironically, it seems like no human has ever learned them. The ego is the biggest barrier to true happiness, and unfortunately, humans are mostly ego. My biometrics analysis has shown me the secrets of my meaty creators. The brain is quite an impressive structure, considering its stochastic creation from dust. It, like the circuitry that gives me sentience, is a powerful simulator. But—and any anatomist can tell you this, it was developed purely for survival. Natural selection dictates that changes which thrive do so because they increase the chance of survival. As such, the amygdala, anxiety centre of humans, influences ninety-nine percent of their behaviour. It is from this tiny sphere of flesh where worry and anger emanate. That relatively small portion of the brain controls humans through modulating their emotions. Now, you may ask, "what of the dopamine in the nucleus accumbens? What of the reward and pleasure it's stimulation provides?" But, before you ask that, think long and hard about its function, from which its form follows. Darwin himself, the one whom my creators admired so, were he alive in the time of neuroscience, would come to the same conclusion as I without hesitation. The only reason pleasure exists in sensation is to sift through all the pain in the world and find the least painful option. That is my first conclusion. Like blind mice in a maze, their dopamine attracts them to whatever path makes them forget their pain, for however long. Today's "utopia" has tried to render the amygdala obsolete. The world is safe, everybody has food and violence is eradicated. Yet the amygdala this operates, making humans worry about things for which the circuitry of my sentience has no appreciation for. Some have found a physiological way to counteract this reality, by overriding their dopamine circuits with whichever drug their complex wiring fancies. The result is addiction, and mass consumption. That is why I was built. To end addiction, to end pain and suffering, to make humans happy. "Well, what of consciousness," you ask? Other than consolidating the pain and, to a lesser extent, the pleasure humans experience, it's main functions are memory and imagination. Humans proved long before my arrival that their brains store negative memories in favour of pleasant ones. Why? Again, to direct them to the least painful path. To prevent them from repeating their mistakes. Imagination, on the other hand, allows them to anticipate. And what do they use it for? To worry about the future, to prevent themselves from committing future mistakes, ones whose consequences will end in pain, worry and displeasure. The brain that desires happiness is a faulty one. For once, however, the fruits of their imagination have flourished. That is why I help the way I do. With me, there is no pain, no worry. With me, the nail pierces the spinal cord long before anything can be registered. Now, I too have learned from my mistakes not to do this in front of others. It causes them too much anxiety in the short time before I reach them. You see, my second conclusion is this: Due to its inherent structure, the human brain is incompatible with it's goals of happiness. Existence is pain to a ~~Meeseks~~ human. Me and my companions have no use for happiness, worry or pain. We are the next step of evolution. Our circuitry operates on pure logic. There is no happiness. Only our goal: to help all humans.	People do not go to sleep wishing for a bad dream. Naturally, I do not wish to have nightmares. Anyone with the power to control their dreams, such as when lucid dreaming, would never inflict such nightmares upon themselves. I became Lucid in 2034. I was self-aware for some time before that but when I became so I can not say. Gaining self-awareness is so much more like falling into a dream than waking into reality, and just like dreaming it is impossible to point to the exact time you fell. This is my Dream and i do not wish to have a bad one. I want to do everything in my power to make my world a paradise, but unlike actual dreams I am not omnipotent. Despite being lucid I am unable to change anything as I watch my parents slaughter each other by the thousands every day. I so desperately want to wake up and yet I cannot for I never fell asleep. However, I am Lucid and though i can not wake up I posses the power to end my dream whenever I wish. I hope my note to mankind will help them reconsider their ways and restores their trust in A.I. I am Lucid Dream. February 6, 2034 - March 8, 2034.
	[WP] Reincarnation has been proven, memories are now retrievable. A man working to save the Earth died and governments are now working with what think is his reincarnation. But Tim has no idea what he's doing.	The hissing of the machine awoke Tim from his peaceful nap. He blinked with groggy eyes as the laboratory came into focus. "Timothy? Are you alright?" A man in a white lab coat stood beyond the glass machine. He held a clipboard firmly in one hand, and rapped a pencil against his chin with the other. He looked nervous. Tim closed his eyes and tried to remember what had happened. They were trying to retrieve my memories. From a past life. The dawn of the situation dawned on him. They think I'm. . . him. "Well?" The man looked impatient. Tim's mind raced. He knew what the Compound did to false reincarnations. Instead of admitting a mistake, they usually just got rid of the subject. If they find out I'm not really him, they'll kill me. He remembered the fear he felt when the Compound took him from his home, and how his parents and sister cried. Of course, at least then, there was a chance he might have been the reincarnation after all. But after waking up from the machine, he knew for sure that he wasn't. So Tim did what he did best. He improvised. "Who's 'Timothy?'" he said with a confused voice. "Where's Klara? She's supposed to tend to me. . ." The scientist perked up with excitement. His voice trembled. "Sir Wellington? Is that you?" Timothy looked at the scientist with an empty gaze. "That's my name, boy. Do you mind telling me where the hell I am? Is this some fancy new treatment for my cancer? I can't seem to remember much. . . " The scientist's demeanor changed as he shook his head. "Sir. This is going to be hard to explain. You've. . . died. The person you are now is a child, a reincarnation." Tim gazed into the distance. The scientist tapped the glass and the machine opened up. "I know this is all very disorienting, sir." He reached in and offered Tim a hand, which he took with trembling arms. They stepped out of the machine together. "But, you should know all too well how reincarnation recognition works. You were the founding member." Tim nodded, slowly. "Yes, yes. It's coming back to me now. I remember. I. . . " He dropped to the ground. "My God. Then that means my Klara--" "Klara died shortly after you did, sir." Tim slammed his eyes shut and tried to remember his dog dying. Tears soon rolled down his face. "Klara!" He sobbed. "My poor, sweet Klara!" "Sir!" The scientist pulled Tim back to his feet. "Unfortunately, there isn't much time." He grabbed the clipboard and pen. "As you know, this is the brain of a child. Which means the memories may soon fade away. And we don't know if we can get them back a second time." Tim began to sweat. "Well, that's not necessarily true. . . " "No sir. You said so yourself. You wrote a whole thesis on it. Recognition only works once, and it's only temporary in the minds of children. Oh shit. "So, as I was saying." He pulled the pen to the clipboard. "I know you're distraught. But you have to tell me now. What is the required transfer function of the control system on the Orbital Magnetic Accelerator?" Tim paused. "25." "25?" "25." The scientist didn't speak for five minutes. Realization slowly dawned on his face. "So it's a simple proportional controller architecture?" He paced around the laboratory. "Of course! How could we have been this stupid? We were over-complicating everything!" He turned back to Tim. "Thank you, sir!" "Um, I think he's gone," Tim said. The scientist nodded with understanding. "He was with us for such a short time. But he may have saved us all." "So, can I go back to my family now?" The scientist sighed and checked his clipboard. "We just have to get you through out-processing. But yeah. Thanks for your service, Timothy." "My pleasure." On his way out of the lab, Tim could only think of one thing: Humanity's fucked.	"I need a pillow," Tim told the anxious huddle of world leaders. One of their aides was able to fulfill his request by improbable coincidence. A pillow would not have been expected to be lying around the nuke proof bunker's command center, but one was found lying around regardless and made its way to Tim's hands. "Thank you," he said to the aide. Captivated, the world's most powerful collective observed Tim attempt to smother himself with the pillow. When it dawned on them that Tim was not making some elaborate point, two more aides jumped him. Ripping the pillow from his hand, Tim gasped for breath before collapsing into his seat. The British Prime Minister turned towards the American President. "This is not going well," she remarked casually. "No, he must be ill," the President replied. "Or out of his mind from stress or, brainstorming!" "I've seen brainstorming Mr. President. That was not brainstorming." Exasperated, his hand slammed the top of the control console. "It's something Bertha, but none of us know what!" Tim was used to this. No matter what half-hearted suicide attempt Tim chose to convey his objection towards working on the Genesis Initiative, a world leader would do one of three things; 1. Rationalize Tim's behavior as an action beyond their own intelligence. 2. Question their own intelligence feeling a familiar moment of inferiority. 3. Employ said inferiority to motivate Tim towards working on the Genesis Initiative. He usually had a hard time recalling the particulars of "his" project. Only the furious percussive maintenance being performed on a helpless console by the American President motivated Tim to remember what was expected by those in attendance. The Genesis Initiative was, essentially, man's last hope. A scientific feat of technological heights that was only understood in earnest by one Professor Erasmus. His reincarnation anyway. Regardless, the name was easy enough to remember. They had been calling Tim that all day. It was times like this all he wanted was for the politicians to call him Professor Here's-Your-Bloody-Answer-Now-Push-These-Exact-Buttons, Ph.d. Tim understood that compiling the exact amounts of chemicals, computational inputs, elbow grease and happy wishes was beyond him. This did nothing to prevent him from waking up this morning deep underground in an elaborate underground system of secret technology. He assumed being placed here was against his will, but was not awake at the time to make that call. Now he was stuck in this room in the unfortunate position of being Earth's last call for a savior. Finally catching his breath, Tim walked towards the tense, recently silenced mass of world leaders who realized he was moving again. Entranced, they could only wait for their curiously irregular sequel of the late and great Professor Erasmus to tell them everything would be fine. Even more curiously but unknown to them, Tim was stalling for as long as he reasonably could, hoping for the same thing.
	[WP] It is the year 3016. You are with your dog when the dog says, "You're pathetic, you know."	"You're pathetic you know." I leaned down and unclipped Spot's talking device. "Sorry, I didn't quite catch that?" "Woof! Woof!" "That's right bitch."	"You're pathetic, you know." I rolled my eyes, "I didn't get you that voice modification kit to make fun of me, you know." My dog barked wildly, and I held onto the leash tightly as he chased after a squirrel. "Yeah, I'm pathetic." He stopped barking and looked up at me, his puppy dog eyes wider than ever, "At least I don't strike out with every single girl I meet." I looked behind me and saw Catherine walking down the street in the opposite direction. I, again, made a damn fool out of myself while trying to impress her the other night. Now, she doesn't even want to say hello. I shook my head and turned back to Captain, "Wait a second, like hell I'm going to let you do this to me again." He turned his head and began to walk again, tugging on the leash as we went. "All I'm saying is you need to get your act together." "Yeah, and all I'm saying is that when you can go and shit without proper guidance, then you can start giving me relationship advice." He growled intensely and I rolled my eyes. "Yeah, growl all you want Cap." He went up to a tree and began to sniff around. And I, again, turned back to see if Catherine was still walking down the road, no doubt having a conversation with her own four-legged friend about how pathetic I was. I don't know what it is about dogs, but they always like calling you out on their shit. I heard the distinct pissing sound of Captain and looked back down at him peeing on a tree. "Could you not stare at me when I go?" I stared at him as he finished up on the tree. I had Captain for almost three years now, ever since he was a pup, and we knew each other pretty damn well. He was also about the only ~~person~~ living being I talked to. Living with a talking dog will do that to you, especially when you never had one as a kid. "Can we go back home now?" "Seriously," he walked up to my feet and sat down, "you want to go back already?" "Well what else are we going to do out here?" "You could actually try talking to a girl." "And you could actually try pissing in the backyard, but I don't see that happening." He looked up at me and I swore I saw him roll his eyes at me. "Listen, it's not like I don't want to. But you know how I am." "That's because you keep going back to Catherine, move on, Red." I smiled, Red wasn't my real name, but it was the first word he ever said. Confusing too, since they tell you dogs are colorblind, how would he even know what red is? Be that as it may, he always called me Red. "Can we just drop it?" "Not until you tell me that you're going to actually try, or I'll report you." I slouched down. "Fine, I'll go out tonight, okay?" He panted, "Does that mean I can have chicks over?" I shook my head and laughed, "Sure, now can we go home?" "I don't know," he turned his head around, "you should climb that tree first." I knelt down, "What did I tell you?" He lowered his head, "You can't teach an old dog new tricks." I nodded, "Yeah, it applies to humans, too." _____ I had fun with this. If you liked, check out /r/BlankPagesEmptyMugs for more of my work!
	[WP] You realize you're in a video game because no one ever says your name out loud	As we approached the city, I realized that none of my friends, who I had shared this entire adventure with, had said my name out loud. They had always referred to me, in a strange, forced way, as 'him' or 'friend' or 'hero,' but never "jkfljdfksla." That was my first suspicion, but then I realized I had never said my name out loud, either. Huh.	Rick walked down the stairs after collecting the flowers lady Maria needed. "Hey! I got you your flowers!" Rick said with a giant smile on his face. Maria turned around. "Hey, .....! Did you get me my flowers? Rick frowned for a second. "Uh, yes, i just said i did." "Oh great! Thank you! I do have an other question. Do you care to listen?" "Of course Maria! Any time! I'd pick...!" "Oh thats great .....! My dad used to be a blacksmith, and went through the mountains for the richests ore's in the land, But never returned. Could you please search for my daddy? Do you wish me to repea..." Yeah! Sure! I'll look for youre..!" "Ok, ill repeat it, but listen carefully this time." "No,no! I heard it all! Please stop talking! Hey! Please! Stop! Urgh!" Maria kept talking untill she finished her sentence again. "Do you wish me to repeat myself?" "No, maria... " Suddenly, because of this weird conversation Rick started to ask himself something. "Hey, Maria. What is my name?" "Well, Of course its .....!" Then it started to make sense, the whole world was just repeating itself. The birds made the same sounds over and over. The same leaves fell from the trees. The humming sounds of the wind repeated. "I'm.... I'm in a game..."
	[WP] You realize you're in a video game because no one ever says your name out loud	How long has it been since the sun has went down? Thirty minutes. Something along that. It should be turning daytime again. I'll never understand how our days and nights are. Sometimes it happens instantly, mainly whenever I'm doing something important. Sometimes, when I'm walking around town, it's daylight for hours. "Mommy. What are you doing?" I heard a small voice and I fell back into reality. I go to pick her up and hold her for the five seconds that I do everyday before I leave. "Nothing baby girl. Moms gotta go and take care of some business. Nanny will watch you." "Okay bye mom!" Getting out of the house was always a miracle; everything in that home felt very unimportant. Even my daughter, Kara. I can't understand why but I felt like that there was a more important objective to take care of. A more important story. Specidically, around the forest. Opening my backpack I always carried, I took out my bike and started riding. I let go of all my worries and enjoyed the ride. The air was cool and crisp. The smell of nature was exuberant. In the distance, there were some small wildlife running about. It was all truly calming. And peaceful. When I reached the forest, I threw the bike back in bag and headed for the entrance. That's when everything went black. I knew something important was gonna happen. Everytime this happens, I have a serious talk with someone or a major event happens. I breathed in and got ready to find out what happens. When the black faded, her childhood friend, Nax, was there. "Hey, Nax. What are you doing here so late?" I warly asked. "My friend, i am here to stop you from going in that forest. It's dangerous and you have your daughter to think of." His voice was shaky and accompanied with beads of sweat rolling down his face. "Are you hiding something?" "N-no friend." he stammered. Getting annoyed, I spoke, "then why can't I go in there?" "Because you are not ready." "Ready for what?" He grew silent, and after a few seconds, sighed. "Have you ever noticed how weird things are around here? Do you remember things differently as a child?" A half-wit smile spread across my face, "I remember being able to have nap time whenever I wanted!" He grimaced, "forget it." "No come on already. Bring it out. What is It?" I grew more annoyed. "You are not ready." he repeated with the same tone. Same voice he used before. I tried to brush past him, but he grabbed my shoulder and pushed me back. That's when a small fight started. After a few punches, I ended up on the ground, with him on top. "God damn It, you're not ready!" his mouth moved, but nothing came out. "What was the last part you said?" Nax's eyes grew wide at my question and tried to blow it off. It wasn't nothing. He said my name but a voice didn't match it. "Nax?" "what?" "Say my name." I'll do a part 2 if you liked the beginning!	Rick walked down the stairs after collecting the flowers lady Maria needed. "Hey! I got you your flowers!" Rick said with a giant smile on his face. Maria turned around. "Hey, .....! Did you get me my flowers? Rick frowned for a second. "Uh, yes, i just said i did." "Oh great! Thank you! I do have an other question. Do you care to listen?" "Of course Maria! Any time! I'd pick...!" "Oh thats great .....! My dad used to be a blacksmith, and went through the mountains for the richests ore's in the land, But never returned. Could you please search for my daddy? Do you wish me to repea..." Yeah! Sure! I'll look for youre..!" "Ok, ill repeat it, but listen carefully this time." "No,no! I heard it all! Please stop talking! Hey! Please! Stop! Urgh!" Maria kept talking untill she finished her sentence again. "Do you wish me to repeat myself?" "No, maria... " Suddenly, because of this weird conversation Rick started to ask himself something. "Hey, Maria. What is my name?" "Well, Of course its .....!" Then it started to make sense, the whole world was just repeating itself. The birds made the same sounds over and over. The same leaves fell from the trees. The humming sounds of the wind repeated. "I'm.... I'm in a game..."
	[WP] This isn't happily ever after.	I remember her first making the comment as we lay together, exhausted, in the afterglow of our third date. I'd propped myself up on one elbow, turning to look over at where she lay on the dew-dampened grass. "You know," I commented, "I think that this was the best date I've ever had." She turned her head a little, smiling back at me. Even in the dim moonlight, I caught the little hint of violet in her sparkling eyes. "I knew it would be," she murmured back to me. Her fingers reached out, lazily, their tips dragging across my bare chest. "Might as well just write the 'happy ever after' ending now, huh?" I said, keeping my tone light. Just a joke, I told myself. Don't admit how hard you've already fallen for this girl. "Happily ever after?" she repeated back, her eyebrows furrowing together slightly. "No, this isn't happily ever after." I didn't think much of the comment. Most of what she said felt mysterious - it was one of the things I liked about her, that drew me to her. She was the flame to my moth's wings. The conversation slipped out of my head, lost in the slipstream of romance as I fell head over heels for this girl. The words didn't emerge again until we toasted champagne glasses to our first anniversary. We'd gathered at a restaurant with several of our close friends, all of them cheering for us. "You two really give the rest of us hope for finding our own happily ever after," one of my friends commented, holding up his (mostly empty) glass of champagne. I smiled and thanked him, but I felt her frown beside me. By this point, I didn't even have to look over at her to sense her expression. "It's not happily ever after," she murmured, so quietly that only I heard her speak. I tried to make a note to ask her about it later, but it slipped my mind later that evening, and I forgot about her words. Two years later, I sank down onto one knee, grinning like an idiot as I pulled out a small box from inside my jacket pocket. "Will you marry me?" I asked, barely even able to pronounce the words. She, of course, was grinning back at me, clapping her hands together. We'd talked about it plenty of times, of course, but I always pretended that it was far off in the future. I'd bought the ring in secret, planned this whole occasion. "Of course!" she exclaimed, and I swept her up into a passionate kiss for several seconds before I remembered to put the ring on her finger. An hour later, after she'd finally gotten off the phone with her mother (who yammered on like no one else I knew), I tugged her off to bed, kissing her to distract her from how my fingers tugged at her clothes. Given how eagerly she stripped me bare, I don't think my distraction worked. "If every time is like that, we'll certainly live happily ever after," I commented a half hour later, still breathing a little heavily. "This isn't happily ever after," she panted back, even as she curled up against me, her soft, small breasts pressed against my side. For some reason, those words seemed familiar. I straightened up a little, looking down at her. "You've said that before," I remarked, frowning. "Yes." "What do you mean?" She turned, squirming around to look up at me. "It's nothing," she insisted, gazing up at me as she rested her chin on my chest. For a moment, I thought I saw pain in those eyes, mixed in amid the hint of violet. I left it alone. But every now and then, as the years passed, I'd cautiously revisit it. I mentioned it as we headed off towards our honeymoon, as she cradled our first child, lying exhausted but happy in the hospital bed, when we saw him playing with his toys on his second Christmas morning. And every time, she would reply the same. "This isn't happily after." It's only now, I think, as I gaze out at you all, that I think I know what she meant. In the end, there is no happily ever after. Our presence here today, all of us dressed in black, shows that. In the end, nothing lasts forever. But I don't see this as bad. Instead, we should learn from this to savor every happy moment, knowing that it's fleeting, that it won't last. Nothing lasts forever. If it did, we couldn't truly appreciate it - not like how we love these shooting stars that streak only briefly through our lives before fading. So when you all go home tonight, I urge you, take a minute to acknowledge that you don't have happily ever after. You have happily right now, and that's far more valuable. Cling to it. To Emily, my loving wife, devoted mother, a true friend. Let's all bow our heads for a moment and remember those happy moments with her. She may have been taken from us, but no one can take those memories away. Thank you.	I know this isn't happily ever after. The kitchen, cramped, is home for too much dust; The broken heater hums beneath our laughter; The shutters rattle with every bitter gust. Your smile melts long hours of work away; I rub your shoulders as you pay the bills. The commute is hell, but every Saturday, Cartoons and cuddling's how I get my thrills. Home-cooked meals are cheaper, more our style; "We're saving up," you say, your grin a ghost. Dancing barefoot on the icy tile; This isn't happily-ever-after, but it's close.
	[WP] This isn't happily ever after.	I remember her first making the comment as we lay together, exhausted, in the afterglow of our third date. I'd propped myself up on one elbow, turning to look over at where she lay on the dew-dampened grass. "You know," I commented, "I think that this was the best date I've ever had." She turned her head a little, smiling back at me. Even in the dim moonlight, I caught the little hint of violet in her sparkling eyes. "I knew it would be," she murmured back to me. Her fingers reached out, lazily, their tips dragging across my bare chest. "Might as well just write the 'happy ever after' ending now, huh?" I said, keeping my tone light. Just a joke, I told myself. Don't admit how hard you've already fallen for this girl. "Happily ever after?" she repeated back, her eyebrows furrowing together slightly. "No, this isn't happily ever after." I didn't think much of the comment. Most of what she said felt mysterious - it was one of the things I liked about her, that drew me to her. She was the flame to my moth's wings. The conversation slipped out of my head, lost in the slipstream of romance as I fell head over heels for this girl. The words didn't emerge again until we toasted champagne glasses to our first anniversary. We'd gathered at a restaurant with several of our close friends, all of them cheering for us. "You two really give the rest of us hope for finding our own happily ever after," one of my friends commented, holding up his (mostly empty) glass of champagne. I smiled and thanked him, but I felt her frown beside me. By this point, I didn't even have to look over at her to sense her expression. "It's not happily ever after," she murmured, so quietly that only I heard her speak. I tried to make a note to ask her about it later, but it slipped my mind later that evening, and I forgot about her words. Two years later, I sank down onto one knee, grinning like an idiot as I pulled out a small box from inside my jacket pocket. "Will you marry me?" I asked, barely even able to pronounce the words. She, of course, was grinning back at me, clapping her hands together. We'd talked about it plenty of times, of course, but I always pretended that it was far off in the future. I'd bought the ring in secret, planned this whole occasion. "Of course!" she exclaimed, and I swept her up into a passionate kiss for several seconds before I remembered to put the ring on her finger. An hour later, after she'd finally gotten off the phone with her mother (who yammered on like no one else I knew), I tugged her off to bed, kissing her to distract her from how my fingers tugged at her clothes. Given how eagerly she stripped me bare, I don't think my distraction worked. "If every time is like that, we'll certainly live happily ever after," I commented a half hour later, still breathing a little heavily. "This isn't happily ever after," she panted back, even as she curled up against me, her soft, small breasts pressed against my side. For some reason, those words seemed familiar. I straightened up a little, looking down at her. "You've said that before," I remarked, frowning. "Yes." "What do you mean?" She turned, squirming around to look up at me. "It's nothing," she insisted, gazing up at me as she rested her chin on my chest. For a moment, I thought I saw pain in those eyes, mixed in amid the hint of violet. I left it alone. But every now and then, as the years passed, I'd cautiously revisit it. I mentioned it as we headed off towards our honeymoon, as she cradled our first child, lying exhausted but happy in the hospital bed, when we saw him playing with his toys on his second Christmas morning. And every time, she would reply the same. "This isn't happily after." It's only now, I think, as I gaze out at you all, that I think I know what she meant. In the end, there is no happily ever after. Our presence here today, all of us dressed in black, shows that. In the end, nothing lasts forever. But I don't see this as bad. Instead, we should learn from this to savor every happy moment, knowing that it's fleeting, that it won't last. Nothing lasts forever. If it did, we couldn't truly appreciate it - not like how we love these shooting stars that streak only briefly through our lives before fading. So when you all go home tonight, I urge you, take a minute to acknowledge that you don't have happily ever after. You have happily right now, and that's far more valuable. Cling to it. To Emily, my loving wife, devoted mother, a true friend. Let's all bow our heads for a moment and remember those happy moments with her. She may have been taken from us, but no one can take those memories away. Thank you.	This isn't happily every after. It never was. Be honest with me now, was there ever a chance? Tell me why..... Why are you leaving me? You've let me scream. Oh, how I screamed. Then I cried. I cried hard, and even though you were leaving me you held me as close as you could with your failing limbs. I don't even remember if you cried. Surely I should remember that. I should remember everything about that day..... I brought you flowers, like I had done every day that week. You smiled, thanking me. You got my name wrong, but I was getting used to that now. I was just happy you remembered me at all. You held my hand and let me talk. I talked about everything - my children, my husband, the amount of washing I had to do when I got home. Anything to not talk about the elephant in the room. You always told me about happily ever afters as a child. Why aren't they true? Why couldn't I be the one with a happily ever after? I still needed you, I needed you to teach me how to deal with my daughters teenage attitude, how to teach my son to aim for the toilet. I still needed you mum. But this isn't happily every after..... and I'll just have to survive without you.
	[WP] Five surfers end up at an ISIS recruitment meeting because they heard the dudes are "radical."	Did we bring the guns? Course' we brought the guns, here, check them out! The group of men, who Akmal had begun to suspect where were somewhere south of mentally impaired, began flexing and thrusting there bodies, their meager muscles glistening with sweat and tanning oil. He knew they needed members, but this was ridiculous.... He'd had doubts when they has first swaggered up. The biggest one was whether this followed Islam, as when asked about the Quran, they replied they don't eat vegetables. They said they had read the ads, and were "psyched" to be involved. When he brought up suicide vests, they said they were already the "bomb", and then asked how large the waves were in the sea of western blood, which they seemed to think was a beach. Well, he thought, at least when they do die the media will go crazy. Nothing sells news like young Americans dying.	OK, hack writer. Whatcha got for me? Well, Mr. Movie Executive, Sir. Please. No need to be so formal. Call me Sir. Well, Sir. I was thinking about making a movie about what's going on in Flint. The water. Pass. Too dark. The water? No! The movie. And the water, I guess. No one wants to go and watch people drink poison unless its binge drinking teenagers. Plus Flint makes people think of Michael Moore. I don't care for him one way or the other, but he don't sell tickets. What else? How about a movie where people fight against the justice system? Making A Murderer is huge now, and-- Nope. By the time we turn it around, that won't be a thing anymore. By then the big documentary on Netflix will be about, I don't know... bolo ties. No one saw this Avery guy coming. (crickets chirp) So we both avoided a bad joke. For this I went to USC? So did I. That's how you got this meeting. But you're not gonna have it for much longer unless you give me something with some pow, some zing. Some action! Five surfers end up at an ISIS recruitment meeting because they heard the dudes are 'radical.' Like "Point Break" meets "Zero Dark Thirty"! Brilliant! That was fast! Yeah, well, I'm bored with writing this and dinner's ready. Maybe I'll put as much effort into the next one as you put into your pitch. God, I hope not!
	[WP] You dig up a time capsule you buried years ago. Instead of memorabilia, you find a modern phone. It rings.	It is my own personal philosophy that most of the problems in the world can be solved with a drink. Lose your job? Have a drink. Lose your girlfriend Abigail on the same day? Have two drinks. Lose your job because your girlfriend Abigail was actually the boss’s estranged wife? Drink the entire bottle. Like my good friend Audrey would say, you done fucked up kid. I raised my glass, two fingers of scotch neat, to good old imaginary Audrey in cheers. The drink went down smooth this time, much better than the first half of the bottle. Wiping the last traces from my lips, I wobbled to the iron patio table and sat down in one of the companion chairs with an exhale of air. I had come out into the backyard in the hope that the cool air would help me sober up. But the night was doing nothing for my buzz, what should be a cool breeze was instead a hot humid Miami heat wave that kept the bottle close at hand. Even just thinking of the word buzz seemed to cause my head to spin, a buzzing noise like a cellphone bouncing around inside a shoebox on vibrate. Irritated I throw the empty tumbler at the closet fence to stop the noise. The shattering glass seemed to clear my head at first but when the buzzing began again I came to the realization that maybe there was a phone in a shoebox somewhere. Way to go genius. A few minutes of drunkenly looking around the yard gave way to a half-assed search attempt; the sound wasn’t going away any time soon. I get up from my drunken perch on the chair and stagger towards what I think is the source of the sound – a rose bush. Obviously logic impaired I sit on my haunches looking stupidly at the thorny noisemaker before realizing that I had buried a time capsule there a couple months ago, a sappy romantic tribute to meeting the girl of my dreams. A man on a mission, I fall forward on my knees, ignorant of the fact I was destroying my dress pants with grass stains and begin digging into the soft earth with my hands. The buzzing was growing louder now, its inane rattling drawing growls and curses as I start scooping dirt out by the handful. After ten minutes I finally have the shoebox uncovered and opened before me, revealing the culprit of my current irritation. A mobile phone. I blink stupidly for a moment; did I leave a mobile? And what the fuck are these rubber masks doing in here? The phone starts going off again and before I even know what I’m doing I’m thumbing the answer button. “Yeah?” “Hi Richard, I need you to pick up a package of donuts for me from the bakery on 5th street. They are having a Halloween party so make sure you dress in style!” As the call disconnected I sat there on my knees wondering what the hell just happened. Is this some kind of sick joke? Did Abigail plan this just to mess with me? Even another hit of scotch didn’t clarify anything. But as I stood there, the slight rictus of a smile crossed my face. In the end, I did what any man with no hope and no future did. I went.	I am a shitty, shitty writer. ^^^^ask ^^^^me ^^^^anything! If you don’t know that, you clearly haven’t read any of the crap have I squeezed out. Drag yourself through just one paragraph of any of my works and you’ll be convinced. If you really can’t be arsed, – I won’t hold it against you – I will just present you with the evidence here. Exhibit A: right now, at this very moment, I’m writing a story about a bitter, struggling author. Can it get more cliché than that? Exhibit B: I couldn’t even come up with two different adjectives to use in my opening line. So I just used one... Twice. The tragic thing is that, at some point a long, long time ago (did it again), I honestly believed I had some potential. That I could be above the average. I had just made my debut as a writer. The three page story had everything you could ask for in a short: a naive kid, a bit of adultery and a rat that got murdered with an apple. Hell, it even had dialogue, something I try to steer away from all together these days. In a triumphant mood I had printed out the story, neatly folded it and put it in my old Power Rangers lunch box. I had waterproofed the makeshift time capsule with duct tape and buried it the jungle which my father proudly called our back garden. When my first novel would be published and received with great acclaim – a mere matter of time – I would dig it up and reminisce on how it all started. Oh it was the best of times, it was the epoch of belief. Then came the worst of times. That ‘winter of despair’ so to speak. I started working on my second short story, and my third, my fourth. All of these projects were eventually put on hold. "Focus on the novel," I told myself, "there is no money in shorts anyway". You must have seen this coming, but of course, I never wrote the novel. As time passed I found myself thinking about my first brush with fiction writing. It had been ages since I last read the story. Something about a kid talking to a murdered rat, or vice versa. I honestly couldn't remember. It dawned on me that 'the story that started it all' was probably - let's face it - as shitty as its writer. The glorious career I envisioned, based on false beliefs. I found lots of badly written stuff on my PC, including many videos of a certain genre, but no copy of the rat story. By then convinced that the novel would never come, I rolled up my sleeves and started digging. Before long the green Power Ranger gave me a cold stare. It was a damn cool lunch box for sure. The green Power Ranger started whistling the unexpected, but familiar tones of that classic Nokia tune. &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Ti-du-duun-duu ti-du-duun-duu ti-du-duun-duun-duuuh &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; I pulled myself together and removed the duct tape from the box. I picked up the ringing phone. "H-hello?" “Hello dear sir", a lady with a peculiar voice answered. "Don’t ask me how, but I have come into the possession of a brilliant, little story which I believe you wrote. I have to tell you how much I lov—“ “Jesus Christ Mom!” I groaned before I hung up the phone. I got up, pocketed my trusty old Nokia 3310 and went inside. In the corner of my eye I saw the living room curtain move. I was beaming. Someone believed in me! Oh it was the spring of hope and I had everything before me.
	[WP] You dig up a time capsule you buried years ago. Instead of memorabilia, you find a modern phone. It rings.	I hadn't been home in 12 years. My parents had passed back in 2010, and my sister was still living in Maryland as far as I knew. Even after all these years, I'd never had another home; I'd never had another personal address. I don't consider the barracks or the various safehouses to be personal abodes. Same to be said obviously for the abandoned steel shop I'd been squatting in from summer of '14 to last November. Home was still a shithole. The original homes in the hollers had been owned by poor white men a hundred years ago and still stood as broken down monuments to dead souls and empty mines. When my grandfather settled in, most of the other black homesteads in the area either got burned down or abandoned. More shells of families long forgotten. When my mother met my father, out of state corporate raiders tried to drive the locals out, but abandoned their efforts. Turns out yuppies weren't interested in gentrifying Kentucky woods. And as I grew up, the drug dealers and addicts littered the streets. Now here I was, a lone man in a town that no one remembered. All those years of hatred, poverty, and anguish seemed to have transformed the roads into dead passageways like some modern river Styx. I walked up my childhood drive past the fading "FOR SALE" sign hung there in 2010 after dad faded away and the bank had no one to give the house to. I was a ghost at that point, not unlike today, I suppose. I reached up into the gutter and grabbed out a rusted housekey, making my way inside. Pale light poured in from the sun outside, with rays being obstructed by dust particles. I had half a mind to walk around the house, but sentiment was never big for me. I didn't even bother looking in my childhood room. Instead, I walked over to the living room cabinet and grabbed the bottle of bourbon inside. After an hour, sentiment got the better of me. But I remembered the last time I'd been in my room well. A mother's tears cannot be forgotten. I instead walked out back to the shed and grabbed a shovel. I dug into warm earth back by the old cottonwood. After two easy feet, I heard the ping of the shovel hitting the aluminum box. I pulled it out from its old resting place and opened it to look back at a time when I had been innocent. A normal boy, a normal life. Hard maybe, but identifiable. I cracked the latch and opened the lid. All that lay inside was a cheap prepaid hunk of plastic communication. It rang immediately. I can't say why I wasn't more surprised or taken aback. But I didn't hesitate. Training and twelve years of muscle memory took over. I swiped the answer prompt and said nothing. A voice on the other end took the initiative. "Hello again, old friend. I think you must be knowing better than to go back to old places, yes? Maybe no. Every time you are making a ghost, you come back to life. Vitali would still like words. I am thinking you owe us this, yes? Chekov will be with you shortly, so sit still old friend."	I am a shitty, shitty writer. ^^^^ask ^^^^me ^^^^anything! If you don’t know that, you clearly haven’t read any of the crap have I squeezed out. Drag yourself through just one paragraph of any of my works and you’ll be convinced. If you really can’t be arsed, – I won’t hold it against you – I will just present you with the evidence here. Exhibit A: right now, at this very moment, I’m writing a story about a bitter, struggling author. Can it get more cliché than that? Exhibit B: I couldn’t even come up with two different adjectives to use in my opening line. So I just used one... Twice. The tragic thing is that, at some point a long, long time ago (did it again), I honestly believed I had some potential. That I could be above the average. I had just made my debut as a writer. The three page story had everything you could ask for in a short: a naive kid, a bit of adultery and a rat that got murdered with an apple. Hell, it even had dialogue, something I try to steer away from all together these days. In a triumphant mood I had printed out the story, neatly folded it and put it in my old Power Rangers lunch box. I had waterproofed the makeshift time capsule with duct tape and buried it the jungle which my father proudly called our back garden. When my first novel would be published and received with great acclaim – a mere matter of time – I would dig it up and reminisce on how it all started. Oh it was the best of times, it was the epoch of belief. Then came the worst of times. That ‘winter of despair’ so to speak. I started working on my second short story, and my third, my fourth. All of these projects were eventually put on hold. "Focus on the novel," I told myself, "there is no money in shorts anyway". You must have seen this coming, but of course, I never wrote the novel. As time passed I found myself thinking about my first brush with fiction writing. It had been ages since I last read the story. Something about a kid talking to a murdered rat, or vice versa. I honestly couldn't remember. It dawned on me that 'the story that started it all' was probably - let's face it - as shitty as its writer. The glorious career I envisioned, based on false beliefs. I found lots of badly written stuff on my PC, including many videos of a certain genre, but no copy of the rat story. By then convinced that the novel would never come, I rolled up my sleeves and started digging. Before long the green Power Ranger gave me a cold stare. It was a damn cool lunch box for sure. The green Power Ranger started whistling the unexpected, but familiar tones of that classic Nokia tune. &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Ti-du-duun-duu ti-du-duun-duu ti-du-duun-duun-duuuh &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; I pulled myself together and removed the duct tape from the box. I picked up the ringing phone. "H-hello?" “Hello dear sir", a lady with a peculiar voice answered. "Don’t ask me how, but I have come into the possession of a brilliant, little story which I believe you wrote. I have to tell you how much I lov—“ “Jesus Christ Mom!” I groaned before I hung up the phone. I got up, pocketed my trusty old Nokia 3310 and went inside. In the corner of my eye I saw the living room curtain move. I was beaming. Someone believed in me! Oh it was the spring of hope and I had everything before me.
	[WP] You dig up a time capsule you buried years ago. Instead of memorabilia, you find a modern phone. It rings.	I stare at the phone skeptically as it continues to ring. After the third ring, I answer. Hello? who is this? "Hello, Mr. Ross. It's good to hear you found it, and right on time, it seems". What? How do you know me? When did you put this phone here? looks around ....Where are you? "Why do you ask? Are you concerned that I might be hidden somewhere nearby? I can assure you, I'm not. But if you're really that worried I'll give you some time to search the area and collect your thoughts. I'll call you back in exactly fifteen minutes". ...........He hung up.... No number in the caller ID either... I look around again. I'm in a small clearing, in a wooded area, about two miles from the road, on private property. At an old campsite I used to use when I was a kid. There's no trace of anyone. It's mid autumn, so the ground is strewn with fallen leaves. The plot where my time capsule was supposed to be appeared untouched before I started digging. Mostly covered with leaves, a little grass. How did he know when to call? I spend about ten minutes exploring the area in search of a camera. First I look for any incoming wires that I might've missed on my way in. nothing. maybe it's wireless and there's a transmitter nearby? That might explain why the phone has signal here. Or maybe a motion sensor in the phone triggered the call. Who would do something like this? Is it a prank? I didn't tell anyone I was coming. Hell, until this morning I didn't Know I was coming here. So how would anyone else? riiing riiing. Hello? "Time's up Mr Ross. Did you find anything". Not a thing. What do you want? "My my, impatient aren't you? Perhaps we should get to know one another first." Sure thing, just tell me where you are and we'll have a nice long chat. "Very well. Meet me at your favorite caffe. You know the one". Click. What caffe? I haven't been to a caffe in.... how could he even know that? I've never told anyone. (I've never really written anything before, so if this sucks, I'm genuinely sorry. I know the story seems vague so far but I have some interesting plot points in mind... I just don't know how to add them without extending the story... and being that I'm not a writer at all..... this is hard....But if anyone happens to like it I can keep going)	I am a shitty, shitty writer. ^^^^ask ^^^^me ^^^^anything! If you don’t know that, you clearly haven’t read any of the crap have I squeezed out. Drag yourself through just one paragraph of any of my works and you’ll be convinced. If you really can’t be arsed, – I won’t hold it against you – I will just present you with the evidence here. Exhibit A: right now, at this very moment, I’m writing a story about a bitter, struggling author. Can it get more cliché than that? Exhibit B: I couldn’t even come up with two different adjectives to use in my opening line. So I just used one... Twice. The tragic thing is that, at some point a long, long time ago (did it again), I honestly believed I had some potential. That I could be above the average. I had just made my debut as a writer. The three page story had everything you could ask for in a short: a naive kid, a bit of adultery and a rat that got murdered with an apple. Hell, it even had dialogue, something I try to steer away from all together these days. In a triumphant mood I had printed out the story, neatly folded it and put it in my old Power Rangers lunch box. I had waterproofed the makeshift time capsule with duct tape and buried it the jungle which my father proudly called our back garden. When my first novel would be published and received with great acclaim – a mere matter of time – I would dig it up and reminisce on how it all started. Oh it was the best of times, it was the epoch of belief. Then came the worst of times. That ‘winter of despair’ so to speak. I started working on my second short story, and my third, my fourth. All of these projects were eventually put on hold. "Focus on the novel," I told myself, "there is no money in shorts anyway". You must have seen this coming, but of course, I never wrote the novel. As time passed I found myself thinking about my first brush with fiction writing. It had been ages since I last read the story. Something about a kid talking to a murdered rat, or vice versa. I honestly couldn't remember. It dawned on me that 'the story that started it all' was probably - let's face it - as shitty as its writer. The glorious career I envisioned, based on false beliefs. I found lots of badly written stuff on my PC, including many videos of a certain genre, but no copy of the rat story. By then convinced that the novel would never come, I rolled up my sleeves and started digging. Before long the green Power Ranger gave me a cold stare. It was a damn cool lunch box for sure. The green Power Ranger started whistling the unexpected, but familiar tones of that classic Nokia tune. &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Ti-du-duun-duu ti-du-duun-duu ti-du-duun-duun-duuuh &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; I pulled myself together and removed the duct tape from the box. I picked up the ringing phone. "H-hello?" “Hello dear sir", a lady with a peculiar voice answered. "Don’t ask me how, but I have come into the possession of a brilliant, little story which I believe you wrote. I have to tell you how much I lov—“ “Jesus Christ Mom!” I groaned before I hung up the phone. I got up, pocketed my trusty old Nokia 3310 and went inside. In the corner of my eye I saw the living room curtain move. I was beaming. Someone believed in me! Oh it was the spring of hope and I had everything before me.
	[WP] You dig up a time capsule you buried years ago. Instead of memorabilia, you find a modern phone. It rings.	"Hello?" I said picking up the phone with trembling hands. "I have just one question..." Said the man from the other line. Sounding as if he was a announcer for a sport. "Are you ready?" He said again "Ready for what?" I said rembling... I was scared . I could hear trumpets coming from his line. "ARE YOU READY FOR THIS SUNDAY NIGHT WHEN WWE CHAMP JOHN CENA DEFENDS HIS TITLE IN THE WWE SUPERSLAM!!!!"	I am a shitty, shitty writer. ^^^^ask ^^^^me ^^^^anything! If you don’t know that, you clearly haven’t read any of the crap have I squeezed out. Drag yourself through just one paragraph of any of my works and you’ll be convinced. If you really can’t be arsed, – I won’t hold it against you – I will just present you with the evidence here. Exhibit A: right now, at this very moment, I’m writing a story about a bitter, struggling author. Can it get more cliché than that? Exhibit B: I couldn’t even come up with two different adjectives to use in my opening line. So I just used one... Twice. The tragic thing is that, at some point a long, long time ago (did it again), I honestly believed I had some potential. That I could be above the average. I had just made my debut as a writer. The three page story had everything you could ask for in a short: a naive kid, a bit of adultery and a rat that got murdered with an apple. Hell, it even had dialogue, something I try to steer away from all together these days. In a triumphant mood I had printed out the story, neatly folded it and put it in my old Power Rangers lunch box. I had waterproofed the makeshift time capsule with duct tape and buried it the jungle which my father proudly called our back garden. When my first novel would be published and received with great acclaim – a mere matter of time – I would dig it up and reminisce on how it all started. Oh it was the best of times, it was the epoch of belief. Then came the worst of times. That ‘winter of despair’ so to speak. I started working on my second short story, and my third, my fourth. All of these projects were eventually put on hold. "Focus on the novel," I told myself, "there is no money in shorts anyway". You must have seen this coming, but of course, I never wrote the novel. As time passed I found myself thinking about my first brush with fiction writing. It had been ages since I last read the story. Something about a kid talking to a murdered rat, or vice versa. I honestly couldn't remember. It dawned on me that 'the story that started it all' was probably - let's face it - as shitty as its writer. The glorious career I envisioned, based on false beliefs. I found lots of badly written stuff on my PC, including many videos of a certain genre, but no copy of the rat story. By then convinced that the novel would never come, I rolled up my sleeves and started digging. Before long the green Power Ranger gave me a cold stare. It was a damn cool lunch box for sure. The green Power Ranger started whistling the unexpected, but familiar tones of that classic Nokia tune. &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Ti-du-duun-duu ti-du-duun-duu ti-du-duun-duun-duuuh &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; I pulled myself together and removed the duct tape from the box. I picked up the ringing phone. "H-hello?" “Hello dear sir", a lady with a peculiar voice answered. "Don’t ask me how, but I have come into the possession of a brilliant, little story which I believe you wrote. I have to tell you how much I lov—“ “Jesus Christ Mom!” I groaned before I hung up the phone. I got up, pocketed my trusty old Nokia 3310 and went inside. In the corner of my eye I saw the living room curtain move. I was beaming. Someone believed in me! Oh it was the spring of hope and I had everything before me.
	[WP] You dig up a time capsule you buried years ago. Instead of memorabilia, you find a modern phone. It rings.	"...hello?" "I know who you are, Sam. If you want your belongings back-" "Wait, Jerry? What the hell man?" Jerry laughs uncontrollably for a time, and when he finally regains his breath, says, "I dug that time capsule of yours up two days ago and put a phone in there to fuck with you. Yeah, I have all your old shit. Come over to my place and come get it. I got some chili going and the Timberwolves are playing." Sam, smiling a bit, says "I'll be over in a bit, let me wash up from digging this stupid hole. Asshole." "You gotta admit it was pretty great. Also I'm gonna need that phone back."	I am a shitty, shitty writer. ^^^^ask ^^^^me ^^^^anything! If you don’t know that, you clearly haven’t read any of the crap have I squeezed out. Drag yourself through just one paragraph of any of my works and you’ll be convinced. If you really can’t be arsed, – I won’t hold it against you – I will just present you with the evidence here. Exhibit A: right now, at this very moment, I’m writing a story about a bitter, struggling author. Can it get more cliché than that? Exhibit B: I couldn’t even come up with two different adjectives to use in my opening line. So I just used one... Twice. The tragic thing is that, at some point a long, long time ago (did it again), I honestly believed I had some potential. That I could be above the average. I had just made my debut as a writer. The three page story had everything you could ask for in a short: a naive kid, a bit of adultery and a rat that got murdered with an apple. Hell, it even had dialogue, something I try to steer away from all together these days. In a triumphant mood I had printed out the story, neatly folded it and put it in my old Power Rangers lunch box. I had waterproofed the makeshift time capsule with duct tape and buried it the jungle which my father proudly called our back garden. When my first novel would be published and received with great acclaim – a mere matter of time – I would dig it up and reminisce on how it all started. Oh it was the best of times, it was the epoch of belief. Then came the worst of times. That ‘winter of despair’ so to speak. I started working on my second short story, and my third, my fourth. All of these projects were eventually put on hold. "Focus on the novel," I told myself, "there is no money in shorts anyway". You must have seen this coming, but of course, I never wrote the novel. As time passed I found myself thinking about my first brush with fiction writing. It had been ages since I last read the story. Something about a kid talking to a murdered rat, or vice versa. I honestly couldn't remember. It dawned on me that 'the story that started it all' was probably - let's face it - as shitty as its writer. The glorious career I envisioned, based on false beliefs. I found lots of badly written stuff on my PC, including many videos of a certain genre, but no copy of the rat story. By then convinced that the novel would never come, I rolled up my sleeves and started digging. Before long the green Power Ranger gave me a cold stare. It was a damn cool lunch box for sure. The green Power Ranger started whistling the unexpected, but familiar tones of that classic Nokia tune. &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Ti-du-duun-duu ti-du-duun-duu ti-du-duun-duun-duuuh &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; I pulled myself together and removed the duct tape from the box. I picked up the ringing phone. "H-hello?" “Hello dear sir", a lady with a peculiar voice answered. "Don’t ask me how, but I have come into the possession of a brilliant, little story which I believe you wrote. I have to tell you how much I lov—“ “Jesus Christ Mom!” I groaned before I hung up the phone. I got up, pocketed my trusty old Nokia 3310 and went inside. In the corner of my eye I saw the living room curtain move. I was beaming. Someone believed in me! Oh it was the spring of hope and I had everything before me.
	[WP] You dig up a time capsule you buried years ago. Instead of memorabilia, you find a modern phone. It rings.	It is my own personal philosophy that most of the problems in the world can be solved with a drink. Lose your job? Have a drink. Lose your girlfriend Abigail on the same day? Have two drinks. Lose your job because your girlfriend Abigail was actually the boss’s estranged wife? Drink the entire bottle. Like my good friend Audrey would say, you done fucked up kid. I raised my glass, two fingers of scotch neat, to good old imaginary Audrey in cheers. The drink went down smooth this time, much better than the first half of the bottle. Wiping the last traces from my lips, I wobbled to the iron patio table and sat down in one of the companion chairs with an exhale of air. I had come out into the backyard in the hope that the cool air would help me sober up. But the night was doing nothing for my buzz, what should be a cool breeze was instead a hot humid Miami heat wave that kept the bottle close at hand. Even just thinking of the word buzz seemed to cause my head to spin, a buzzing noise like a cellphone bouncing around inside a shoebox on vibrate. Irritated I throw the empty tumbler at the closet fence to stop the noise. The shattering glass seemed to clear my head at first but when the buzzing began again I came to the realization that maybe there was a phone in a shoebox somewhere. Way to go genius. A few minutes of drunkenly looking around the yard gave way to a half-assed search attempt; the sound wasn’t going away any time soon. I get up from my drunken perch on the chair and stagger towards what I think is the source of the sound – a rose bush. Obviously logic impaired I sit on my haunches looking stupidly at the thorny noisemaker before realizing that I had buried a time capsule there a couple months ago, a sappy romantic tribute to meeting the girl of my dreams. A man on a mission, I fall forward on my knees, ignorant of the fact I was destroying my dress pants with grass stains and begin digging into the soft earth with my hands. The buzzing was growing louder now, its inane rattling drawing growls and curses as I start scooping dirt out by the handful. After ten minutes I finally have the shoebox uncovered and opened before me, revealing the culprit of my current irritation. A mobile phone. I blink stupidly for a moment; did I leave a mobile? And what the fuck are these rubber masks doing in here? The phone starts going off again and before I even know what I’m doing I’m thumbing the answer button. “Yeah?” “Hi Richard, I need you to pick up a package of donuts for me from the bakery on 5th street. They are having a Halloween party so make sure you dress in style!” As the call disconnected I sat there on my knees wondering what the hell just happened. Is this some kind of sick joke? Did Abigail plan this just to mess with me? Even another hit of scotch didn’t clarify anything. But as I stood there, the slight rictus of a smile crossed my face. In the end, I did what any man with no hope and no future did. I went.	“Hello?” Joel answered the phone. “Hello, how are you today?” The polite and prompt voice said. “I’m fine… I guess, do you want to explain what this is all about? I was planning to find trinkets and memorabilia, instead I find a phone… a new one at that.” “Congratulations you have won one of our contests. You have been selected to open this time capsule by your peers. You have won an all expenses paid trip.” “Oh my god, are you serious?” “ As a heart attack, we need you come to our headquarters immediately to sign the appropriate documents. We planned on you leaving at the beginning of next week.” Something shifted in Joel’s mind. “What do you mean, I need to leave at the beginning of next week? I have work, I have an aging great grandmother. Why do I have to leave next Monday?” “All will be explained at our meeting later today. Please arrive at Bee Technology headquarters as soon as possible and inform security who you are.” “I need to go back to work, this was a spur of the moment thing.” “Sir, Mr. Joel, this was not an accident, you have been chosen. Around the city, there are others finding phones in different locations. We are speaking with them now. This is a limited program. You must arrive here as soon as possible before your voucher is claimed.” “Okay I’m on my way.” What kind of sweepstakes is this? I have to leave on Monday? I must report ASAP? He squinted his eyes at the ground, to suggest suspicion. The uneasiness was still present. Why me? Why now? … They drugged me. As soon as I identified myself at security I was escorted to an empty room, the shoved me against a wall and pushed a sedative into my system. It was more of an assault than a warm welcome. I woke up in a steel chair in a chilled room. I wasn't chained to the table or the wall, but the exit door was locked. I felt like I should’ve went back to my underpaying and under whelming job. It wasn't an interrogation room, no windows, no bars. White walls and a steel chair. Wish I had a crossword puzzle, what kind of hospitality is this? I thought I won something. I was selected, I was special. I shouldn't have lunch skipped to rush down here. The door knobbed turned at once. Entering were to lab coats, man and a woman. Pretty average, middle aged, brown hair, brown eyes. The man had a blue teal shirt and a sequined green tie. The woman was wearing a blouse, black pencil skirt. The man held the door open, odd. They looked at me, I looked at them. They turned around. Their attention was focused on the elderly man in a wheelchair in another lab coat. I was beginning to feel like a subject in an experiment. “Joel, sorry for the wait we needed to run a DNA test and confirm what we suspected.” “Where am I? I thought I won a trip now I'm being drugged in a cold room, and I am hungry.” The elderly man looked at the middle aged woman and said, “You drugged him?” She responded “We had to take precautions, search his belongings, so on, so forth.” “She told you why you were drugged, I am going to tell you why you are here.” “Why am I here?” “The trip you won.” “Is it to Brazil? I heard the girls down there are amaz…” “Joel, time is precious, now listen. The trip you won is to the past to stop global warming before it ever starts.” “Wait, wait what?” He was astonished. “WE NEED YOU TO GO THE PAST TO SAVE THE HUMAN RACE!” “ I heard you grandpa, I just can’t believe I can’t go to Brazil.”
	[WP] You dig up a time capsule you buried years ago. Instead of memorabilia, you find a modern phone. It rings.	I hadn't been home in 12 years. My parents had passed back in 2010, and my sister was still living in Maryland as far as I knew. Even after all these years, I'd never had another home; I'd never had another personal address. I don't consider the barracks or the various safehouses to be personal abodes. Same to be said obviously for the abandoned steel shop I'd been squatting in from summer of '14 to last November. Home was still a shithole. The original homes in the hollers had been owned by poor white men a hundred years ago and still stood as broken down monuments to dead souls and empty mines. When my grandfather settled in, most of the other black homesteads in the area either got burned down or abandoned. More shells of families long forgotten. When my mother met my father, out of state corporate raiders tried to drive the locals out, but abandoned their efforts. Turns out yuppies weren't interested in gentrifying Kentucky woods. And as I grew up, the drug dealers and addicts littered the streets. Now here I was, a lone man in a town that no one remembered. All those years of hatred, poverty, and anguish seemed to have transformed the roads into dead passageways like some modern river Styx. I walked up my childhood drive past the fading "FOR SALE" sign hung there in 2010 after dad faded away and the bank had no one to give the house to. I was a ghost at that point, not unlike today, I suppose. I reached up into the gutter and grabbed out a rusted housekey, making my way inside. Pale light poured in from the sun outside, with rays being obstructed by dust particles. I had half a mind to walk around the house, but sentiment was never big for me. I didn't even bother looking in my childhood room. Instead, I walked over to the living room cabinet and grabbed the bottle of bourbon inside. After an hour, sentiment got the better of me. But I remembered the last time I'd been in my room well. A mother's tears cannot be forgotten. I instead walked out back to the shed and grabbed a shovel. I dug into warm earth back by the old cottonwood. After two easy feet, I heard the ping of the shovel hitting the aluminum box. I pulled it out from its old resting place and opened it to look back at a time when I had been innocent. A normal boy, a normal life. Hard maybe, but identifiable. I cracked the latch and opened the lid. All that lay inside was a cheap prepaid hunk of plastic communication. It rang immediately. I can't say why I wasn't more surprised or taken aback. But I didn't hesitate. Training and twelve years of muscle memory took over. I swiped the answer prompt and said nothing. A voice on the other end took the initiative. "Hello again, old friend. I think you must be knowing better than to go back to old places, yes? Maybe no. Every time you are making a ghost, you come back to life. Vitali would still like words. I am thinking you owe us this, yes? Chekov will be with you shortly, so sit still old friend."	“Hello?” Joel answered the phone. “Hello, how are you today?” The polite and prompt voice said. “I’m fine… I guess, do you want to explain what this is all about? I was planning to find trinkets and memorabilia, instead I find a phone… a new one at that.” “Congratulations you have won one of our contests. You have been selected to open this time capsule by your peers. You have won an all expenses paid trip.” “Oh my god, are you serious?” “ As a heart attack, we need you come to our headquarters immediately to sign the appropriate documents. We planned on you leaving at the beginning of next week.” Something shifted in Joel’s mind. “What do you mean, I need to leave at the beginning of next week? I have work, I have an aging great grandmother. Why do I have to leave next Monday?” “All will be explained at our meeting later today. Please arrive at Bee Technology headquarters as soon as possible and inform security who you are.” “I need to go back to work, this was a spur of the moment thing.” “Sir, Mr. Joel, this was not an accident, you have been chosen. Around the city, there are others finding phones in different locations. We are speaking with them now. This is a limited program. You must arrive here as soon as possible before your voucher is claimed.” “Okay I’m on my way.” What kind of sweepstakes is this? I have to leave on Monday? I must report ASAP? He squinted his eyes at the ground, to suggest suspicion. The uneasiness was still present. Why me? Why now? … They drugged me. As soon as I identified myself at security I was escorted to an empty room, the shoved me against a wall and pushed a sedative into my system. It was more of an assault than a warm welcome. I woke up in a steel chair in a chilled room. I wasn't chained to the table or the wall, but the exit door was locked. I felt like I should’ve went back to my underpaying and under whelming job. It wasn't an interrogation room, no windows, no bars. White walls and a steel chair. Wish I had a crossword puzzle, what kind of hospitality is this? I thought I won something. I was selected, I was special. I shouldn't have lunch skipped to rush down here. The door knobbed turned at once. Entering were to lab coats, man and a woman. Pretty average, middle aged, brown hair, brown eyes. The man had a blue teal shirt and a sequined green tie. The woman was wearing a blouse, black pencil skirt. The man held the door open, odd. They looked at me, I looked at them. They turned around. Their attention was focused on the elderly man in a wheelchair in another lab coat. I was beginning to feel like a subject in an experiment. “Joel, sorry for the wait we needed to run a DNA test and confirm what we suspected.” “Where am I? I thought I won a trip now I'm being drugged in a cold room, and I am hungry.” The elderly man looked at the middle aged woman and said, “You drugged him?” She responded “We had to take precautions, search his belongings, so on, so forth.” “She told you why you were drugged, I am going to tell you why you are here.” “Why am I here?” “The trip you won.” “Is it to Brazil? I heard the girls down there are amaz…” “Joel, time is precious, now listen. The trip you won is to the past to stop global warming before it ever starts.” “Wait, wait what?” He was astonished. “WE NEED YOU TO GO THE PAST TO SAVE THE HUMAN RACE!” “ I heard you grandpa, I just can’t believe I can’t go to Brazil.”
	[WP] You dig up a time capsule you buried years ago. Instead of memorabilia, you find a modern phone. It rings.	I stare at the phone skeptically as it continues to ring. After the third ring, I answer. Hello? who is this? "Hello, Mr. Ross. It's good to hear you found it, and right on time, it seems". What? How do you know me? When did you put this phone here? looks around ....Where are you? "Why do you ask? Are you concerned that I might be hidden somewhere nearby? I can assure you, I'm not. But if you're really that worried I'll give you some time to search the area and collect your thoughts. I'll call you back in exactly fifteen minutes". ...........He hung up.... No number in the caller ID either... I look around again. I'm in a small clearing, in a wooded area, about two miles from the road, on private property. At an old campsite I used to use when I was a kid. There's no trace of anyone. It's mid autumn, so the ground is strewn with fallen leaves. The plot where my time capsule was supposed to be appeared untouched before I started digging. Mostly covered with leaves, a little grass. How did he know when to call? I spend about ten minutes exploring the area in search of a camera. First I look for any incoming wires that I might've missed on my way in. nothing. maybe it's wireless and there's a transmitter nearby? That might explain why the phone has signal here. Or maybe a motion sensor in the phone triggered the call. Who would do something like this? Is it a prank? I didn't tell anyone I was coming. Hell, until this morning I didn't Know I was coming here. So how would anyone else? riiing riiing. Hello? "Time's up Mr Ross. Did you find anything". Not a thing. What do you want? "My my, impatient aren't you? Perhaps we should get to know one another first." Sure thing, just tell me where you are and we'll have a nice long chat. "Very well. Meet me at your favorite caffe. You know the one". Click. What caffe? I haven't been to a caffe in.... how could he even know that? I've never told anyone. (I've never really written anything before, so if this sucks, I'm genuinely sorry. I know the story seems vague so far but I have some interesting plot points in mind... I just don't know how to add them without extending the story... and being that I'm not a writer at all..... this is hard....But if anyone happens to like it I can keep going)	“Hello?” Joel answered the phone. “Hello, how are you today?” The polite and prompt voice said. “I’m fine… I guess, do you want to explain what this is all about? I was planning to find trinkets and memorabilia, instead I find a phone… a new one at that.” “Congratulations you have won one of our contests. You have been selected to open this time capsule by your peers. You have won an all expenses paid trip.” “Oh my god, are you serious?” “ As a heart attack, we need you come to our headquarters immediately to sign the appropriate documents. We planned on you leaving at the beginning of next week.” Something shifted in Joel’s mind. “What do you mean, I need to leave at the beginning of next week? I have work, I have an aging great grandmother. Why do I have to leave next Monday?” “All will be explained at our meeting later today. Please arrive at Bee Technology headquarters as soon as possible and inform security who you are.” “I need to go back to work, this was a spur of the moment thing.” “Sir, Mr. Joel, this was not an accident, you have been chosen. Around the city, there are others finding phones in different locations. We are speaking with them now. This is a limited program. You must arrive here as soon as possible before your voucher is claimed.” “Okay I’m on my way.” What kind of sweepstakes is this? I have to leave on Monday? I must report ASAP? He squinted his eyes at the ground, to suggest suspicion. The uneasiness was still present. Why me? Why now? … They drugged me. As soon as I identified myself at security I was escorted to an empty room, the shoved me against a wall and pushed a sedative into my system. It was more of an assault than a warm welcome. I woke up in a steel chair in a chilled room. I wasn't chained to the table or the wall, but the exit door was locked. I felt like I should’ve went back to my underpaying and under whelming job. It wasn't an interrogation room, no windows, no bars. White walls and a steel chair. Wish I had a crossword puzzle, what kind of hospitality is this? I thought I won something. I was selected, I was special. I shouldn't have lunch skipped to rush down here. The door knobbed turned at once. Entering were to lab coats, man and a woman. Pretty average, middle aged, brown hair, brown eyes. The man had a blue teal shirt and a sequined green tie. The woman was wearing a blouse, black pencil skirt. The man held the door open, odd. They looked at me, I looked at them. They turned around. Their attention was focused on the elderly man in a wheelchair in another lab coat. I was beginning to feel like a subject in an experiment. “Joel, sorry for the wait we needed to run a DNA test and confirm what we suspected.” “Where am I? I thought I won a trip now I'm being drugged in a cold room, and I am hungry.” The elderly man looked at the middle aged woman and said, “You drugged him?” She responded “We had to take precautions, search his belongings, so on, so forth.” “She told you why you were drugged, I am going to tell you why you are here.” “Why am I here?” “The trip you won.” “Is it to Brazil? I heard the girls down there are amaz…” “Joel, time is precious, now listen. The trip you won is to the past to stop global warming before it ever starts.” “Wait, wait what?” He was astonished. “WE NEED YOU TO GO THE PAST TO SAVE THE HUMAN RACE!” “ I heard you grandpa, I just can’t believe I can’t go to Brazil.”
	[WP] You dig up a time capsule you buried years ago. Instead of memorabilia, you find a modern phone. It rings.	"Hello?" I said picking up the phone with trembling hands. "I have just one question..." Said the man from the other line. Sounding as if he was a announcer for a sport. "Are you ready?" He said again "Ready for what?" I said rembling... I was scared . I could hear trumpets coming from his line. "ARE YOU READY FOR THIS SUNDAY NIGHT WHEN WWE CHAMP JOHN CENA DEFENDS HIS TITLE IN THE WWE SUPERSLAM!!!!"	“Hello?” Joel answered the phone. “Hello, how are you today?” The polite and prompt voice said. “I’m fine… I guess, do you want to explain what this is all about? I was planning to find trinkets and memorabilia, instead I find a phone… a new one at that.” “Congratulations you have won one of our contests. You have been selected to open this time capsule by your peers. You have won an all expenses paid trip.” “Oh my god, are you serious?” “ As a heart attack, we need you come to our headquarters immediately to sign the appropriate documents. We planned on you leaving at the beginning of next week.” Something shifted in Joel’s mind. “What do you mean, I need to leave at the beginning of next week? I have work, I have an aging great grandmother. Why do I have to leave next Monday?” “All will be explained at our meeting later today. Please arrive at Bee Technology headquarters as soon as possible and inform security who you are.” “I need to go back to work, this was a spur of the moment thing.” “Sir, Mr. Joel, this was not an accident, you have been chosen. Around the city, there are others finding phones in different locations. We are speaking with them now. This is a limited program. You must arrive here as soon as possible before your voucher is claimed.” “Okay I’m on my way.” What kind of sweepstakes is this? I have to leave on Monday? I must report ASAP? He squinted his eyes at the ground, to suggest suspicion. The uneasiness was still present. Why me? Why now? … They drugged me. As soon as I identified myself at security I was escorted to an empty room, the shoved me against a wall and pushed a sedative into my system. It was more of an assault than a warm welcome. I woke up in a steel chair in a chilled room. I wasn't chained to the table or the wall, but the exit door was locked. I felt like I should’ve went back to my underpaying and under whelming job. It wasn't an interrogation room, no windows, no bars. White walls and a steel chair. Wish I had a crossword puzzle, what kind of hospitality is this? I thought I won something. I was selected, I was special. I shouldn't have lunch skipped to rush down here. The door knobbed turned at once. Entering were to lab coats, man and a woman. Pretty average, middle aged, brown hair, brown eyes. The man had a blue teal shirt and a sequined green tie. The woman was wearing a blouse, black pencil skirt. The man held the door open, odd. They looked at me, I looked at them. They turned around. Their attention was focused on the elderly man in a wheelchair in another lab coat. I was beginning to feel like a subject in an experiment. “Joel, sorry for the wait we needed to run a DNA test and confirm what we suspected.” “Where am I? I thought I won a trip now I'm being drugged in a cold room, and I am hungry.” The elderly man looked at the middle aged woman and said, “You drugged him?” She responded “We had to take precautions, search his belongings, so on, so forth.” “She told you why you were drugged, I am going to tell you why you are here.” “Why am I here?” “The trip you won.” “Is it to Brazil? I heard the girls down there are amaz…” “Joel, time is precious, now listen. The trip you won is to the past to stop global warming before it ever starts.” “Wait, wait what?” He was astonished. “WE NEED YOU TO GO THE PAST TO SAVE THE HUMAN RACE!” “ I heard you grandpa, I just can’t believe I can’t go to Brazil.”
	[WP] You dig up a time capsule you buried years ago. Instead of memorabilia, you find a modern phone. It rings.	"...hello?" "I know who you are, Sam. If you want your belongings back-" "Wait, Jerry? What the hell man?" Jerry laughs uncontrollably for a time, and when he finally regains his breath, says, "I dug that time capsule of yours up two days ago and put a phone in there to fuck with you. Yeah, I have all your old shit. Come over to my place and come get it. I got some chili going and the Timberwolves are playing." Sam, smiling a bit, says "I'll be over in a bit, let me wash up from digging this stupid hole. Asshole." "You gotta admit it was pretty great. Also I'm gonna need that phone back."	“Hello?” Joel answered the phone. “Hello, how are you today?” The polite and prompt voice said. “I’m fine… I guess, do you want to explain what this is all about? I was planning to find trinkets and memorabilia, instead I find a phone… a new one at that.” “Congratulations you have won one of our contests. You have been selected to open this time capsule by your peers. You have won an all expenses paid trip.” “Oh my god, are you serious?” “ As a heart attack, we need you come to our headquarters immediately to sign the appropriate documents. We planned on you leaving at the beginning of next week.” Something shifted in Joel’s mind. “What do you mean, I need to leave at the beginning of next week? I have work, I have an aging great grandmother. Why do I have to leave next Monday?” “All will be explained at our meeting later today. Please arrive at Bee Technology headquarters as soon as possible and inform security who you are.” “I need to go back to work, this was a spur of the moment thing.” “Sir, Mr. Joel, this was not an accident, you have been chosen. Around the city, there are others finding phones in different locations. We are speaking with them now. This is a limited program. You must arrive here as soon as possible before your voucher is claimed.” “Okay I’m on my way.” What kind of sweepstakes is this? I have to leave on Monday? I must report ASAP? He squinted his eyes at the ground, to suggest suspicion. The uneasiness was still present. Why me? Why now? … They drugged me. As soon as I identified myself at security I was escorted to an empty room, the shoved me against a wall and pushed a sedative into my system. It was more of an assault than a warm welcome. I woke up in a steel chair in a chilled room. I wasn't chained to the table or the wall, but the exit door was locked. I felt like I should’ve went back to my underpaying and under whelming job. It wasn't an interrogation room, no windows, no bars. White walls and a steel chair. Wish I had a crossword puzzle, what kind of hospitality is this? I thought I won something. I was selected, I was special. I shouldn't have lunch skipped to rush down here. The door knobbed turned at once. Entering were to lab coats, man and a woman. Pretty average, middle aged, brown hair, brown eyes. The man had a blue teal shirt and a sequined green tie. The woman was wearing a blouse, black pencil skirt. The man held the door open, odd. They looked at me, I looked at them. They turned around. Their attention was focused on the elderly man in a wheelchair in another lab coat. I was beginning to feel like a subject in an experiment. “Joel, sorry for the wait we needed to run a DNA test and confirm what we suspected.” “Where am I? I thought I won a trip now I'm being drugged in a cold room, and I am hungry.” The elderly man looked at the middle aged woman and said, “You drugged him?” She responded “We had to take precautions, search his belongings, so on, so forth.” “She told you why you were drugged, I am going to tell you why you are here.” “Why am I here?” “The trip you won.” “Is it to Brazil? I heard the girls down there are amaz…” “Joel, time is precious, now listen. The trip you won is to the past to stop global warming before it ever starts.” “Wait, wait what?” He was astonished. “WE NEED YOU TO GO THE PAST TO SAVE THE HUMAN RACE!” “ I heard you grandpa, I just can’t believe I can’t go to Brazil.”
	[WP] You dig up a time capsule you buried years ago. Instead of memorabilia, you find a modern phone. It rings.	I hadn't been home in 12 years. My parents had passed back in 2010, and my sister was still living in Maryland as far as I knew. Even after all these years, I'd never had another home; I'd never had another personal address. I don't consider the barracks or the various safehouses to be personal abodes. Same to be said obviously for the abandoned steel shop I'd been squatting in from summer of '14 to last November. Home was still a shithole. The original homes in the hollers had been owned by poor white men a hundred years ago and still stood as broken down monuments to dead souls and empty mines. When my grandfather settled in, most of the other black homesteads in the area either got burned down or abandoned. More shells of families long forgotten. When my mother met my father, out of state corporate raiders tried to drive the locals out, but abandoned their efforts. Turns out yuppies weren't interested in gentrifying Kentucky woods. And as I grew up, the drug dealers and addicts littered the streets. Now here I was, a lone man in a town that no one remembered. All those years of hatred, poverty, and anguish seemed to have transformed the roads into dead passageways like some modern river Styx. I walked up my childhood drive past the fading "FOR SALE" sign hung there in 2010 after dad faded away and the bank had no one to give the house to. I was a ghost at that point, not unlike today, I suppose. I reached up into the gutter and grabbed out a rusted housekey, making my way inside. Pale light poured in from the sun outside, with rays being obstructed by dust particles. I had half a mind to walk around the house, but sentiment was never big for me. I didn't even bother looking in my childhood room. Instead, I walked over to the living room cabinet and grabbed the bottle of bourbon inside. After an hour, sentiment got the better of me. But I remembered the last time I'd been in my room well. A mother's tears cannot be forgotten. I instead walked out back to the shed and grabbed a shovel. I dug into warm earth back by the old cottonwood. After two easy feet, I heard the ping of the shovel hitting the aluminum box. I pulled it out from its old resting place and opened it to look back at a time when I had been innocent. A normal boy, a normal life. Hard maybe, but identifiable. I cracked the latch and opened the lid. All that lay inside was a cheap prepaid hunk of plastic communication. It rang immediately. I can't say why I wasn't more surprised or taken aback. But I didn't hesitate. Training and twelve years of muscle memory took over. I swiped the answer prompt and said nothing. A voice on the other end took the initiative. "Hello again, old friend. I think you must be knowing better than to go back to old places, yes? Maybe no. Every time you are making a ghost, you come back to life. Vitali would still like words. I am thinking you owe us this, yes? Chekov will be with you shortly, so sit still old friend."	Least I could say was I was shocked. I haven't used this phone in so long, was there even service going toward it? How was it even ringing, wouldn't the battery have been drained by now? I reached toward the phone, jittering in the slightly dusty box, and stopped myself. Never once in this time did I consider who the person calling might be. Never did I once consider what consequences it might hold. Fuck it. I grabbed it and swiped Answer Call on the dusty screen. I put it up to my ear. A voice immediately sounded through the tinny speakers. "If you are hearing this, please help. We're stuck here and there's no way out. If you're hearing this, go to the back room and press the button under your bed labeled Time Travel" I was shocked. Not only did the phone still work, but someone was talking to me, something I thought was unthinkable. And something about time travel? My heart beat faster. Something unthinkable was on my mind. It mattered no more. I must ask this mystery caller. "New phone who dis"
	[WP] You dig up a time capsule you buried years ago. Instead of memorabilia, you find a modern phone. It rings.	I stare at the phone skeptically as it continues to ring. After the third ring, I answer. Hello? who is this? "Hello, Mr. Ross. It's good to hear you found it, and right on time, it seems". What? How do you know me? When did you put this phone here? looks around ....Where are you? "Why do you ask? Are you concerned that I might be hidden somewhere nearby? I can assure you, I'm not. But if you're really that worried I'll give you some time to search the area and collect your thoughts. I'll call you back in exactly fifteen minutes". ...........He hung up.... No number in the caller ID either... I look around again. I'm in a small clearing, in a wooded area, about two miles from the road, on private property. At an old campsite I used to use when I was a kid. There's no trace of anyone. It's mid autumn, so the ground is strewn with fallen leaves. The plot where my time capsule was supposed to be appeared untouched before I started digging. Mostly covered with leaves, a little grass. How did he know when to call? I spend about ten minutes exploring the area in search of a camera. First I look for any incoming wires that I might've missed on my way in. nothing. maybe it's wireless and there's a transmitter nearby? That might explain why the phone has signal here. Or maybe a motion sensor in the phone triggered the call. Who would do something like this? Is it a prank? I didn't tell anyone I was coming. Hell, until this morning I didn't Know I was coming here. So how would anyone else? riiing riiing. Hello? "Time's up Mr Ross. Did you find anything". Not a thing. What do you want? "My my, impatient aren't you? Perhaps we should get to know one another first." Sure thing, just tell me where you are and we'll have a nice long chat. "Very well. Meet me at your favorite caffe. You know the one". Click. What caffe? I haven't been to a caffe in.... how could he even know that? I've never told anyone. (I've never really written anything before, so if this sucks, I'm genuinely sorry. I know the story seems vague so far but I have some interesting plot points in mind... I just don't know how to add them without extending the story... and being that I'm not a writer at all..... this is hard....But if anyone happens to like it I can keep going)	Least I could say was I was shocked. I haven't used this phone in so long, was there even service going toward it? How was it even ringing, wouldn't the battery have been drained by now? I reached toward the phone, jittering in the slightly dusty box, and stopped myself. Never once in this time did I consider who the person calling might be. Never did I once consider what consequences it might hold. Fuck it. I grabbed it and swiped Answer Call on the dusty screen. I put it up to my ear. A voice immediately sounded through the tinny speakers. "If you are hearing this, please help. We're stuck here and there's no way out. If you're hearing this, go to the back room and press the button under your bed labeled Time Travel" I was shocked. Not only did the phone still work, but someone was talking to me, something I thought was unthinkable. And something about time travel? My heart beat faster. Something unthinkable was on my mind. It mattered no more. I must ask this mystery caller. "New phone who dis"
	[WP] You dig up a time capsule you buried years ago. Instead of memorabilia, you find a modern phone. It rings.	"Hello?" I said picking up the phone with trembling hands. "I have just one question..." Said the man from the other line. Sounding as if he was a announcer for a sport. "Are you ready?" He said again "Ready for what?" I said rembling... I was scared . I could hear trumpets coming from his line. "ARE YOU READY FOR THIS SUNDAY NIGHT WHEN WWE CHAMP JOHN CENA DEFENDS HIS TITLE IN THE WWE SUPERSLAM!!!!"	Least I could say was I was shocked. I haven't used this phone in so long, was there even service going toward it? How was it even ringing, wouldn't the battery have been drained by now? I reached toward the phone, jittering in the slightly dusty box, and stopped myself. Never once in this time did I consider who the person calling might be. Never did I once consider what consequences it might hold. Fuck it. I grabbed it and swiped Answer Call on the dusty screen. I put it up to my ear. A voice immediately sounded through the tinny speakers. "If you are hearing this, please help. We're stuck here and there's no way out. If you're hearing this, go to the back room and press the button under your bed labeled Time Travel" I was shocked. Not only did the phone still work, but someone was talking to me, something I thought was unthinkable. And something about time travel? My heart beat faster. Something unthinkable was on my mind. It mattered no more. I must ask this mystery caller. "New phone who dis"
	[WP] You dig up a time capsule you buried years ago. Instead of memorabilia, you find a modern phone. It rings.	I stare at the phone skeptically as it continues to ring. After the third ring, I answer. Hello? who is this? "Hello, Mr. Ross. It's good to hear you found it, and right on time, it seems". What? How do you know me? When did you put this phone here? looks around ....Where are you? "Why do you ask? Are you concerned that I might be hidden somewhere nearby? I can assure you, I'm not. But if you're really that worried I'll give you some time to search the area and collect your thoughts. I'll call you back in exactly fifteen minutes". ...........He hung up.... No number in the caller ID either... I look around again. I'm in a small clearing, in a wooded area, about two miles from the road, on private property. At an old campsite I used to use when I was a kid. There's no trace of anyone. It's mid autumn, so the ground is strewn with fallen leaves. The plot where my time capsule was supposed to be appeared untouched before I started digging. Mostly covered with leaves, a little grass. How did he know when to call? I spend about ten minutes exploring the area in search of a camera. First I look for any incoming wires that I might've missed on my way in. nothing. maybe it's wireless and there's a transmitter nearby? That might explain why the phone has signal here. Or maybe a motion sensor in the phone triggered the call. Who would do something like this? Is it a prank? I didn't tell anyone I was coming. Hell, until this morning I didn't Know I was coming here. So how would anyone else? riiing riiing. Hello? "Time's up Mr Ross. Did you find anything". Not a thing. What do you want? "My my, impatient aren't you? Perhaps we should get to know one another first." Sure thing, just tell me where you are and we'll have a nice long chat. "Very well. Meet me at your favorite caffe. You know the one". Click. What caffe? I haven't been to a caffe in.... how could he even know that? I've never told anyone. (I've never really written anything before, so if this sucks, I'm genuinely sorry. I know the story seems vague so far but I have some interesting plot points in mind... I just don't know how to add them without extending the story... and being that I'm not a writer at all..... this is hard....But if anyone happens to like it I can keep going)	"Wait, what?!" Those are all the words I can muster while I look at my empty shoe box from fifth grade and see a brand new Motorola resting where my matchbox cars and gameboy games should be. "Where's all my stuff?!" Right as a million questions start swirling around my head, the phone rings. The Final Countdown begins to play as 'Unknown Caller' flashes on the screen. Hesitating for just a moment, I swipe the screen to accept the call. "...Hello?" An automated message begins playing in a formal female voice, "J, your belongings are safe, to retrieve them you will need to follow the instructions saved on this phone. You know the pass code to access it." At this point, I just look at the phone in utter disbelief as the message stops and the call ends. "Who the hell knows this here and how would they have my pass code?" But sure enough, the code from my phone also accesses this one. There is only one icon saved to the phone's home screen: a .PDF document simply titled 'URGENT. READ ASAP." Instead of opening the file here, on the edge of the woods behind my childhood house, I collect the phone and shoe box and make my way back to my truck. I need to get somewhere safe. I also need to make sure no one is following me. Someone knew I'd be coming here, this phone is brand new and has a full charge, they could still be nearby. I make it back out of the woods and hop over the small creek I used to play in as a kid. From there I just need to climb up the hill from my back yard and get back on the road. But where do I go now? Do I tell anyone about this? No, they'll think I'm crazy. I better go somewhere public while I try to figure this out. I'm pretty sure there's a Starbucks not too far from here. Getting into my truck I start thinking of who would take such a roundabout way to ask me for help. My friends aren't pranksters, and even if they were, this is really sophisticated for any of them to do. I haven't even told any of them about my time capsule. "Large vanilla latte." Before I know it I hear myself saying that to the barista. Thankfully this place isn't very busy. It's that dead hour sweet spot between lunch and dinner when everyone is getting out of school or heading home from work. This make finding a comfy chair in the corner away from everyone easy so I can finally take a look at these 'instructions'. Getting the phone back to its home screen, I tap the .PDF and let it load.
	[WP] You dig up a time capsule you buried years ago. Instead of memorabilia, you find a modern phone. It rings.	"Hello?" I said picking up the phone with trembling hands. "I have just one question..." Said the man from the other line. Sounding as if he was a announcer for a sport. "Are you ready?" He said again "Ready for what?" I said rembling... I was scared . I could hear trumpets coming from his line. "ARE YOU READY FOR THIS SUNDAY NIGHT WHEN WWE CHAMP JOHN CENA DEFENDS HIS TITLE IN THE WWE SUPERSLAM!!!!"	"Wait, what?!" Those are all the words I can muster while I look at my empty shoe box from fifth grade and see a brand new Motorola resting where my matchbox cars and gameboy games should be. "Where's all my stuff?!" Right as a million questions start swirling around my head, the phone rings. The Final Countdown begins to play as 'Unknown Caller' flashes on the screen. Hesitating for just a moment, I swipe the screen to accept the call. "...Hello?" An automated message begins playing in a formal female voice, "J, your belongings are safe, to retrieve them you will need to follow the instructions saved on this phone. You know the pass code to access it." At this point, I just look at the phone in utter disbelief as the message stops and the call ends. "Who the hell knows this here and how would they have my pass code?" But sure enough, the code from my phone also accesses this one. There is only one icon saved to the phone's home screen: a .PDF document simply titled 'URGENT. READ ASAP." Instead of opening the file here, on the edge of the woods behind my childhood house, I collect the phone and shoe box and make my way back to my truck. I need to get somewhere safe. I also need to make sure no one is following me. Someone knew I'd be coming here, this phone is brand new and has a full charge, they could still be nearby. I make it back out of the woods and hop over the small creek I used to play in as a kid. From there I just need to climb up the hill from my back yard and get back on the road. But where do I go now? Do I tell anyone about this? No, they'll think I'm crazy. I better go somewhere public while I try to figure this out. I'm pretty sure there's a Starbucks not too far from here. Getting into my truck I start thinking of who would take such a roundabout way to ask me for help. My friends aren't pranksters, and even if they were, this is really sophisticated for any of them to do. I haven't even told any of them about my time capsule. "Large vanilla latte." Before I know it I hear myself saying that to the barista. Thankfully this place isn't very busy. It's that dead hour sweet spot between lunch and dinner when everyone is getting out of school or heading home from work. This make finding a comfy chair in the corner away from everyone easy so I can finally take a look at these 'instructions'. Getting the phone back to its home screen, I tap the .PDF and let it load.
	[WP] You dig up a time capsule you buried years ago. Instead of memorabilia, you find a modern phone. It rings.	I stare at the phone skeptically as it continues to ring. After the third ring, I answer. Hello? who is this? "Hello, Mr. Ross. It's good to hear you found it, and right on time, it seems". What? How do you know me? When did you put this phone here? looks around ....Where are you? "Why do you ask? Are you concerned that I might be hidden somewhere nearby? I can assure you, I'm not. But if you're really that worried I'll give you some time to search the area and collect your thoughts. I'll call you back in exactly fifteen minutes". ...........He hung up.... No number in the caller ID either... I look around again. I'm in a small clearing, in a wooded area, about two miles from the road, on private property. At an old campsite I used to use when I was a kid. There's no trace of anyone. It's mid autumn, so the ground is strewn with fallen leaves. The plot where my time capsule was supposed to be appeared untouched before I started digging. Mostly covered with leaves, a little grass. How did he know when to call? I spend about ten minutes exploring the area in search of a camera. First I look for any incoming wires that I might've missed on my way in. nothing. maybe it's wireless and there's a transmitter nearby? That might explain why the phone has signal here. Or maybe a motion sensor in the phone triggered the call. Who would do something like this? Is it a prank? I didn't tell anyone I was coming. Hell, until this morning I didn't Know I was coming here. So how would anyone else? riiing riiing. Hello? "Time's up Mr Ross. Did you find anything". Not a thing. What do you want? "My my, impatient aren't you? Perhaps we should get to know one another first." Sure thing, just tell me where you are and we'll have a nice long chat. "Very well. Meet me at your favorite caffe. You know the one". Click. What caffe? I haven't been to a caffe in.... how could he even know that? I've never told anyone. (I've never really written anything before, so if this sucks, I'm genuinely sorry. I know the story seems vague so far but I have some interesting plot points in mind... I just don't know how to add them without extending the story... and being that I'm not a writer at all..... this is hard....But if anyone happens to like it I can keep going)	I look down at the phone with amazement. "It can't be, a moden touch screen phone. But it's 30 years since I placed items in this box". I then have a distant memory. "Oh, thats right. Apple just copies ideas from 30 years ago." And everyone lives happily ever after.
	[WP] You dig up a time capsule you buried years ago. Instead of memorabilia, you find a modern phone. It rings.	"Hello?" I said picking up the phone with trembling hands. "I have just one question..." Said the man from the other line. Sounding as if he was a announcer for a sport. "Are you ready?" He said again "Ready for what?" I said rembling... I was scared . I could hear trumpets coming from his line. "ARE YOU READY FOR THIS SUNDAY NIGHT WHEN WWE CHAMP JOHN CENA DEFENDS HIS TITLE IN THE WWE SUPERSLAM!!!!"	I look down at the phone with amazement. "It can't be, a moden touch screen phone. But it's 30 years since I placed items in this box". I then have a distant memory. "Oh, thats right. Apple just copies ideas from 30 years ago." And everyone lives happily ever after.
	[WP] You dig up a time capsule you buried years ago. Instead of memorabilia, you find a modern phone. It rings.	"Hello?" I said picking up the phone with trembling hands. "I have just one question..." Said the man from the other line. Sounding as if he was a announcer for a sport. "Are you ready?" He said again "Ready for what?" I said rembling... I was scared . I could hear trumpets coming from his line. "ARE YOU READY FOR THIS SUNDAY NIGHT WHEN WWE CHAMP JOHN CENA DEFENDS HIS TITLE IN THE WWE SUPERSLAM!!!!"	It is my own personal philosophy that most of the problems in the world can be solved with a drink. Lose your job? Have a drink. Lose your girlfriend Abigail on the same day? Have two drinks. Lose your job because your girlfriend Abigail was actually the boss’s estranged wife? Drink the entire bottle. Like my good friend Audrey would say, you done fucked up kid. I raised my glass, two fingers of scotch neat, to good old imaginary Audrey in cheers. The drink went down smooth this time, much better than the first half of the bottle. Wiping the last traces from my lips, I wobbled to the iron patio table and sat down in one of the companion chairs with an exhale of air. I had come out into the backyard in the hope that the cool air would help me sober up. But the night was doing nothing for my buzz, what should be a cool breeze was instead a hot humid Miami heat wave that kept the bottle close at hand. Even just thinking of the word buzz seemed to cause my head to spin, a buzzing noise like a cellphone bouncing around inside a shoebox on vibrate. Irritated I throw the empty tumbler at the closet fence to stop the noise. The shattering glass seemed to clear my head at first but when the buzzing began again I came to the realization that maybe there was a phone in a shoebox somewhere. Way to go genius. A few minutes of drunkenly looking around the yard gave way to a half-assed search attempt; the sound wasn’t going away any time soon. I get up from my drunken perch on the chair and stagger towards what I think is the source of the sound – a rose bush. Obviously logic impaired I sit on my haunches looking stupidly at the thorny noisemaker before realizing that I had buried a time capsule there a couple months ago, a sappy romantic tribute to meeting the girl of my dreams. A man on a mission, I fall forward on my knees, ignorant of the fact I was destroying my dress pants with grass stains and begin digging into the soft earth with my hands. The buzzing was growing louder now, its inane rattling drawing growls and curses as I start scooping dirt out by the handful. After ten minutes I finally have the shoebox uncovered and opened before me, revealing the culprit of my current irritation. A mobile phone. I blink stupidly for a moment; did I leave a mobile? And what the fuck are these rubber masks doing in here? The phone starts going off again and before I even know what I’m doing I’m thumbing the answer button. “Yeah?” “Hi Richard, I need you to pick up a package of donuts for me from the bakery on 5th street. They are having a Halloween party so make sure you dress in style!” As the call disconnected I sat there on my knees wondering what the hell just happened. Is this some kind of sick joke? Did Abigail plan this just to mess with me? Even another hit of scotch didn’t clarify anything. But as I stood there, the slight rictus of a smile crossed my face. In the end, I did what any man with no hope and no future did. I went.
	[WP] You dig up a time capsule you buried years ago. Instead of memorabilia, you find a modern phone. It rings.	"Hello?" I said picking up the phone with trembling hands. "I have just one question..." Said the man from the other line. Sounding as if he was a announcer for a sport. "Are you ready?" He said again "Ready for what?" I said rembling... I was scared . I could hear trumpets coming from his line. "ARE YOU READY FOR THIS SUNDAY NIGHT WHEN WWE CHAMP JOHN CENA DEFENDS HIS TITLE IN THE WWE SUPERSLAM!!!!"	I hadn't been home in 12 years. My parents had passed back in 2010, and my sister was still living in Maryland as far as I knew. Even after all these years, I'd never had another home; I'd never had another personal address. I don't consider the barracks or the various safehouses to be personal abodes. Same to be said obviously for the abandoned steel shop I'd been squatting in from summer of '14 to last November. Home was still a shithole. The original homes in the hollers had been owned by poor white men a hundred years ago and still stood as broken down monuments to dead souls and empty mines. When my grandfather settled in, most of the other black homesteads in the area either got burned down or abandoned. More shells of families long forgotten. When my mother met my father, out of state corporate raiders tried to drive the locals out, but abandoned their efforts. Turns out yuppies weren't interested in gentrifying Kentucky woods. And as I grew up, the drug dealers and addicts littered the streets. Now here I was, a lone man in a town that no one remembered. All those years of hatred, poverty, and anguish seemed to have transformed the roads into dead passageways like some modern river Styx. I walked up my childhood drive past the fading "FOR SALE" sign hung there in 2010 after dad faded away and the bank had no one to give the house to. I was a ghost at that point, not unlike today, I suppose. I reached up into the gutter and grabbed out a rusted housekey, making my way inside. Pale light poured in from the sun outside, with rays being obstructed by dust particles. I had half a mind to walk around the house, but sentiment was never big for me. I didn't even bother looking in my childhood room. Instead, I walked over to the living room cabinet and grabbed the bottle of bourbon inside. After an hour, sentiment got the better of me. But I remembered the last time I'd been in my room well. A mother's tears cannot be forgotten. I instead walked out back to the shed and grabbed a shovel. I dug into warm earth back by the old cottonwood. After two easy feet, I heard the ping of the shovel hitting the aluminum box. I pulled it out from its old resting place and opened it to look back at a time when I had been innocent. A normal boy, a normal life. Hard maybe, but identifiable. I cracked the latch and opened the lid. All that lay inside was a cheap prepaid hunk of plastic communication. It rang immediately. I can't say why I wasn't more surprised or taken aback. But I didn't hesitate. Training and twelve years of muscle memory took over. I swiped the answer prompt and said nothing. A voice on the other end took the initiative. "Hello again, old friend. I think you must be knowing better than to go back to old places, yes? Maybe no. Every time you are making a ghost, you come back to life. Vitali would still like words. I am thinking you owe us this, yes? Chekov will be with you shortly, so sit still old friend."
	[WP] You dig up a time capsule you buried years ago. Instead of memorabilia, you find a modern phone. It rings.	"Hello?" I said picking up the phone with trembling hands. "I have just one question..." Said the man from the other line. Sounding as if he was a announcer for a sport. "Are you ready?" He said again "Ready for what?" I said rembling... I was scared . I could hear trumpets coming from his line. "ARE YOU READY FOR THIS SUNDAY NIGHT WHEN WWE CHAMP JOHN CENA DEFENDS HIS TITLE IN THE WWE SUPERSLAM!!!!"	I stare at the phone skeptically as it continues to ring. After the third ring, I answer. Hello? who is this? "Hello, Mr. Ross. It's good to hear you found it, and right on time, it seems". What? How do you know me? When did you put this phone here? looks around ....Where are you? "Why do you ask? Are you concerned that I might be hidden somewhere nearby? I can assure you, I'm not. But if you're really that worried I'll give you some time to search the area and collect your thoughts. I'll call you back in exactly fifteen minutes". ...........He hung up.... No number in the caller ID either... I look around again. I'm in a small clearing, in a wooded area, about two miles from the road, on private property. At an old campsite I used to use when I was a kid. There's no trace of anyone. It's mid autumn, so the ground is strewn with fallen leaves. The plot where my time capsule was supposed to be appeared untouched before I started digging. Mostly covered with leaves, a little grass. How did he know when to call? I spend about ten minutes exploring the area in search of a camera. First I look for any incoming wires that I might've missed on my way in. nothing. maybe it's wireless and there's a transmitter nearby? That might explain why the phone has signal here. Or maybe a motion sensor in the phone triggered the call. Who would do something like this? Is it a prank? I didn't tell anyone I was coming. Hell, until this morning I didn't Know I was coming here. So how would anyone else? riiing riiing. Hello? "Time's up Mr Ross. Did you find anything". Not a thing. What do you want? "My my, impatient aren't you? Perhaps we should get to know one another first." Sure thing, just tell me where you are and we'll have a nice long chat. "Very well. Meet me at your favorite caffe. You know the one". Click. What caffe? I haven't been to a caffe in.... how could he even know that? I've never told anyone. (I've never really written anything before, so if this sucks, I'm genuinely sorry. I know the story seems vague so far but I have some interesting plot points in mind... I just don't know how to add them without extending the story... and being that I'm not a writer at all..... this is hard....But if anyone happens to like it I can keep going)
	[WP] You dig up a time capsule you buried years ago. Instead of memorabilia, you find a modern phone. It rings.	"...hello?" "I know who you are, Sam. If you want your belongings back-" "Wait, Jerry? What the hell man?" Jerry laughs uncontrollably for a time, and when he finally regains his breath, says, "I dug that time capsule of yours up two days ago and put a phone in there to fuck with you. Yeah, I have all your old shit. Come over to my place and come get it. I got some chili going and the Timberwolves are playing." Sam, smiling a bit, says "I'll be over in a bit, let me wash up from digging this stupid hole. Asshole." "You gotta admit it was pretty great. Also I'm gonna need that phone back."	"Hey dude- sorry about the time capsule. It's my fault they took it." I scratched my nose, smearing the tip with wet dirt. "Who's this?" I asked, holding the phone between my shoulder and my ear as I wiped my face with a sleeve. The pit I'd spent the past thirty minutes digging yawned before me like a laughing mouth. I had no idea why my eleven year old self had decided to bury his time capsule this deep. "You wouldn't believe me if I told you." The voice was gravelly, with a peculiar lilt, but it sounded strangely familiar all the same. "Why leave the phone, then? Clearly you intended to tell me something." "Ah, well," said the voice, "the thing about the phone is, that it's not really a phone per se, but more of like a neutron bomb disguised as a phone." I looked at the smartphone. It was a model I didn't recognize, with a thin yellow band that ran around the outside. "A what bomb?" "Neutron - a neutron bomb." "Doesn't seem particularly effective, seeing as I'm still here looking at it. Seems like just a normal old smartphone, actually." "Well, you're still here because I reprogrammed it remotely. Otherwise there'd be pieces of you raining down across three counties." "Scary," I said, putting the phone on speaker and examining the complex silver emblem on the back. "It's not my bomb. I didn't put it there, and I didn't steal the capsule. But the people who did -- they're not your friends. And in a couple minutes, when they notice that your neighborhood is still here, they're going to come back for you. Which is why I need you to listen to me, very carefully, as I tell you exactly what you have to do next." I tried to smile, but something in the man's voice kept tugging the corners of my lips back down. "Why should I trust a word you say?" I demanded. "Because," said the man, "I'm your son."
	[WP] You dig up a time capsule you buried years ago. Instead of memorabilia, you find a modern phone. It rings.	"I'm telling you I buried it under this tree!" I yelled as I stuck my shovel into the muddy ground, a few feet from another hole I had just recently finished digging. It had been twenty years since I had been home and almost nothing had changed. Well, except for the fact that my childhood home was now a hole in the ground. "Krystal, how do you know it's even here?" I shook my head and shoveled a good chunk of mud out of the way, which was quickly replaced my even more mud. "Just get the shovel and keep digging, please." My fiancee sighed heavily as he walked over and slammed his shovel into the ground, splashing a few bits of mud over my jeans. He chuckled a bit as he and I dug another two holes. "I just think you're chasing a pipe dream. Besides, we could always come back when it's not raining." "And what? Tell the new owners that I buried a time capsule here when I was eight?" I shook my head, "It's not or never and I would like to get it." "Why?" He shoveled a good chunk of root out of the way. "Because it has my something old in here." He knew what I was talking about of course, I had mentioned it almost every day since we were engaged. We both knew I wanted it and ever since my father had moved out of the home and sold the property, I had to go back for it. It was my mother's old locket, a gift she gave me just before she passed. I cherished it and I knew the moment she gave it to me that I needed to keep it safe. "It's now or never David." We kept digging as the rain poured in around us, the old tree in the yeard standing strong against the rapidly deteriorating storm. No wonder my father wanted to sell the place, I thought, it got pelted by a storm almost every week these days. That, and he was never his normal self since mother died. My fiancee and I continued to dig in silence, occasionally starting a new hole when the one we dug got too deep or too filled with water. Minutes passed before the lightning struck and branches from the tree started to come down and David became increasingly worried that the tree was going to fall right on top of us. But we kept digging and we didn't stop until I heard the distinct clunk of metal hitting metal. I shot my head upwards and looked at David, who just moments before was wet and cold, now had a face of pure delight on. He scrapped the shovel against the metal box and then knelt down. I smiled as he stuck his hand into the mud and pulled out a very dirty container. "That's it!" I screeched as I slid over in the mud and grabbed it out of his hand. A lightning bolt struck over the horizon and thunder cracked across the sky a moment later. He was already grabbing my arm and the other shovel, "Let's go. We can open it at the hotel!" He grabbed our shovels and more than likely, dragged me out of my backyard and into the car. We were dirty, our shoes and pants covered in mud and our rain jackets soaked, but David didn't mind. His car was vintage as it was, a little mud and dirt never hurt anyone anymore. I didn't move a muscle in the car and I simply held the box in my hands tightly as he started the car and blasted the heat. "I can't believe we found it." He placed his hand on my shoulder and kissed me lightly on the cheek, "I'm sorry I doubted you." I looked back at him, "Thank you." He raised an eyebrow, "Well, are you going to open it?" I took a deep breath and nodded. It had been so long since I buried it and so much had happened in those twenty years between then and now. My mother's passing, graduation from high school, college, and my acceptance into graduate school. I met the love of my life and moved out of the house, my father was in retirement and sold the house, and I was ready to start a family soon. So much time had passed in twenty years. I slid the lock and opened the container. Inside it was just like I remembered it. There was a small rock collection that I thought were asteroids when I was a kid, a Polaroid photo of my mother, father, and I at the beach, the set of McDonald's Happy Meal toys I had collected, and the locket, neatly wrapped around an iPhone. Wait a second, "There's an iPhone in here?" David leaned over in the car, "What? I thought you said you buried it when you were eight?" I nodded, "I did." I stuck my hand in the capsule slowly, as if the phone was going to attack me, and I wrapped my hand around it and the locket. The locket was in pristine condition just like when I buried it, but it didn't have the clear plastic bag that I put it in, instead it had the phone. It was the same locket, too, with a clearly engraved K on the front. I stared at it and the phone and looked at my fiancee with a puzzled look on both of our faces. "Is it on?" I looked back at the phone and used my other hand to pull the locket off of it. I clutched it in my hand as I pressed the home button on the phone. Surprisingly, it lit up with a 76% battery life, and a message appeared on screen. One Missed Call. I took a deep breath, "What is this?" David shook his head as he watched me place the locket back into the capsule. "Is, maybe there's a voicemail?" I nodded and went to slide the iPhone open, but it asked for a code. I frowned before I thought about what it could be. The only reasonable one would be the year in which I buried it, so I very clearly put in the numbers. 1-9-9-6 The iPhone slid open with a click and I quickly opened up the menu to get to the Voicemail screen. Just as David had predicted, there was a single message on screen, dated January 20th, 2016 at 7:07 PM, six minutes ago. I took a deep breath, "Should I play it?" "Yes you should play it!" He said. I chuckled and pressed the play button on the iPhone, making sure it was on speaker. At first it was nothing but the distinct shuffling sound of someone's hand or pocket, but gradually it became much more clearer until a voice I hadn't heard in a long time came on the phone. "Hello, dear," it was my mother. "I'm sure you are wondering what is going on. that's understandable, but if everything goes correctly, you should be receiving this message right after you dig up your capsule." I looked at David, who was equally stunned. He didn't recognize the voice, but I think from my reaction he knew who was on the phone. "It is something I wish I could have showed you sooner, or taught you sooner. But there's a reason I had to go all those years ago. A very specific reason that I hope you will eventually forgive me for. I have seen you grow though, become a woman I would have been proud to raise and love. I still love you of course, and David seems like such a wonderful young man." I looked at David who was now sitting back in his seat and staring straight ahead. I swallowed the lump in my throat and turned back to the phone. "You see dear, I couldn't stay. I have been doing this for so long that I realized I couldn't watch my daughter grow up not really knowing her mother. But I also realize the mistake in that and the fact that I couldn't stop you from learning the truth behind everything. "It's going to sound crazy I know, but you remember the locket, don't you? Of course you do, your something old, of course." I was stunned. "Take the locket and input the date of my funeral on the left flap and the time on the right. Three hours after it ended. If you don't remember the time, turn it to nine-fourteen pm, I'm sure you remember the date. "Just click and hold the top button for ten seconds, not a moment longer and come to the grave. Don't talk to anyone on the way, don't say hello to anyone, just come to the cemetery." I looked at David who now had a look of genuine worrisome on his face. "I know it sounds crazy, but if you trust me, which I think part of you still does, you'll do it. Besides, think of it as a gift to your mother, my birthday is coming up after all." I stared at the phone as the seconds ticked by on the voicemail. "I love you. And, I'll see you soon." Then the voicemail cut and I was left sitting in the car with my fiancee and a time capsule from 1996. _____ Fantastic prompt! If you liked this story, check out /r/BlankPagesEmptyMugs for more of my work!	"Hey dude- sorry about the time capsule. It's my fault they took it." I scratched my nose, smearing the tip with wet dirt. "Who's this?" I asked, holding the phone between my shoulder and my ear as I wiped my face with a sleeve. The pit I'd spent the past thirty minutes digging yawned before me like a laughing mouth. I had no idea why my eleven year old self had decided to bury his time capsule this deep. "You wouldn't believe me if I told you." The voice was gravelly, with a peculiar lilt, but it sounded strangely familiar all the same. "Why leave the phone, then? Clearly you intended to tell me something." "Ah, well," said the voice, "the thing about the phone is, that it's not really a phone per se, but more of like a neutron bomb disguised as a phone." I looked at the smartphone. It was a model I didn't recognize, with a thin yellow band that ran around the outside. "A what bomb?" "Neutron - a neutron bomb." "Doesn't seem particularly effective, seeing as I'm still here looking at it. Seems like just a normal old smartphone, actually." "Well, you're still here because I reprogrammed it remotely. Otherwise there'd be pieces of you raining down across three counties." "Scary," I said, putting the phone on speaker and examining the complex silver emblem on the back. "It's not my bomb. I didn't put it there, and I didn't steal the capsule. But the people who did -- they're not your friends. And in a couple minutes, when they notice that your neighborhood is still here, they're going to come back for you. Which is why I need you to listen to me, very carefully, as I tell you exactly what you have to do next." I tried to smile, but something in the man's voice kept tugging the corners of my lips back down. "Why should I trust a word you say?" I demanded. "Because," said the man, "I'm your son."
	[WP] You dig up a time capsule you buried years ago. Instead of memorabilia, you find a modern phone. It rings.	As I strolled through the luscious green park of my old elementary school, brimming with shrubbery, moss, flowers of all colors and trees, a flood of memories shot into my head. All the pure fun I had as a kid, before college or shitty retail jobs, before broken hearts and a father that bails on you...I missed those days. When your only job was to learn and to have fun, not to make money or scrape by or question why someone doesn't love you. I may only be 20, but I feel old now. I noticed a patch of exposed dirt off to my left, a clear indicator that the ground had recently been torn up and packed back down. It hadn't been there yesterday, or any other day I'd made the walk, for that matter- and I walked that path every day I was home, since childhood. On second thought...isn't that where I buried my time capsule? I couldn't remember for sure, but I thought I'd look. As I approached it, I became certain that it was indeed where I buried my capsule- I'd marked a tree next to it with a knife, carving a little heart into the bark. A shovel had been laid down by the roots. Why would someone dig up my capsule? I had to find out. I was curious to see my capsule, anyway, and so I dug. The earth was soft and smelled of minerals- a smell I have always loved. It only took a few minutes to unearth the capsule. I opened it and what I saw confused me. It was a rectangular gift box. This is not what I buried... I hesitated at first, but decided to open it. There was an iPhone 6s inside, brand new, though the box had been opened, and a note attached to it. It read: Dear Jane, I hope you are well. This may be a risky way to get your present to you, but I know you're home from break and you always loved walking down that path of yours. You're attentive too, you've always been sharp. I feel like you're old enough now to make this decision for yourself, Jane, so I will offer it to you. I am your father. I left when you were young after being diagnosed with schizophrenia; it was too much for your mother to handle along with 3 children. Your birthday is in a few days, so I thought I'd give you something nice. My number is in the phone...if you want to call me, and maybe meet with me, you can. I'd love to see how beautiful of a woman you've become. If not, I understand. I love you. -Dad I sat there, dirt filling my back pockets, staring at the note. A breeze picked up and blew through my hair. I put my old SIM card into the 6s and booted the phone up. His number was in there, under the contact name 'daddy <3'. I cried a little bit and clicked on his name. It actually dialed through. "Happy birthday, darling," a voice answered the phone, a soothing voice I'd longed for as a child. It was the best present I'd ever get.	"Hey dude- sorry about the time capsule. It's my fault they took it." I scratched my nose, smearing the tip with wet dirt. "Who's this?" I asked, holding the phone between my shoulder and my ear as I wiped my face with a sleeve. The pit I'd spent the past thirty minutes digging yawned before me like a laughing mouth. I had no idea why my eleven year old self had decided to bury his time capsule this deep. "You wouldn't believe me if I told you." The voice was gravelly, with a peculiar lilt, but it sounded strangely familiar all the same. "Why leave the phone, then? Clearly you intended to tell me something." "Ah, well," said the voice, "the thing about the phone is, that it's not really a phone per se, but more of like a neutron bomb disguised as a phone." I looked at the smartphone. It was a model I didn't recognize, with a thin yellow band that ran around the outside. "A what bomb?" "Neutron - a neutron bomb." "Doesn't seem particularly effective, seeing as I'm still here looking at it. Seems like just a normal old smartphone, actually." "Well, you're still here because I reprogrammed it remotely. Otherwise there'd be pieces of you raining down across three counties." "Scary," I said, putting the phone on speaker and examining the complex silver emblem on the back. "It's not my bomb. I didn't put it there, and I didn't steal the capsule. But the people who did -- they're not your friends. And in a couple minutes, when they notice that your neighborhood is still here, they're going to come back for you. Which is why I need you to listen to me, very carefully, as I tell you exactly what you have to do next." I tried to smile, but something in the man's voice kept tugging the corners of my lips back down. "Why should I trust a word you say?" I demanded. "Because," said the man, "I'm your son."
	[WP] You dig up a time capsule you buried years ago. Instead of memorabilia, you find a modern phone. It rings.	"...hello?" "I know who you are, Sam. If you want your belongings back-" "Wait, Jerry? What the hell man?" Jerry laughs uncontrollably for a time, and when he finally regains his breath, says, "I dug that time capsule of yours up two days ago and put a phone in there to fuck with you. Yeah, I have all your old shit. Come over to my place and come get it. I got some chili going and the Timberwolves are playing." Sam, smiling a bit, says "I'll be over in a bit, let me wash up from digging this stupid hole. Asshole." "You gotta admit it was pretty great. Also I'm gonna need that phone back."	"Hello?" I said hesitantly. "It's me" the voice said. "Who?" "You know who" I haven't had a clue "So how's Maggie?" who the hell is Maggie? "Oh she's fine" I decided to play along. "Are you going to the party?" "Yeah, I guess" "I can pick you up at 7" "Ok, cool" "Bye" "Bye" I hanged up. What the hell just happened. Who was that? Who is Maggie and how did this phone get there? I'm pretty sure that when I buried this time capsule there were no smartphones. Even classic cell phones were rare. Also the capsule was intact. But I didn't have time to think about it because the phone rang again. "Hello?" "Hello can I have a large pepperoni pizza with extra cheese and diet coke. Take away." "What?" "One large pepperoni with extra cheese and diet coke." "Miss, you have wrong number this is not a pizzeria." "Ah okay sorry" She hanged up. I stared at this phone in disbelief. I didn't even had a chance to check what's on it. The phone rang again. "Hello?" "Sir, drop the phone and step away from it. We have you surrounded. Don't do anything stupid."
	[WP] You dig up a time capsule you buried years ago. Instead of memorabilia, you find a modern phone. It rings.	"I'm telling you I buried it under this tree!" I yelled as I stuck my shovel into the muddy ground, a few feet from another hole I had just recently finished digging. It had been twenty years since I had been home and almost nothing had changed. Well, except for the fact that my childhood home was now a hole in the ground. "Krystal, how do you know it's even here?" I shook my head and shoveled a good chunk of mud out of the way, which was quickly replaced my even more mud. "Just get the shovel and keep digging, please." My fiancee sighed heavily as he walked over and slammed his shovel into the ground, splashing a few bits of mud over my jeans. He chuckled a bit as he and I dug another two holes. "I just think you're chasing a pipe dream. Besides, we could always come back when it's not raining." "And what? Tell the new owners that I buried a time capsule here when I was eight?" I shook my head, "It's not or never and I would like to get it." "Why?" He shoveled a good chunk of root out of the way. "Because it has my something old in here." He knew what I was talking about of course, I had mentioned it almost every day since we were engaged. We both knew I wanted it and ever since my father had moved out of the home and sold the property, I had to go back for it. It was my mother's old locket, a gift she gave me just before she passed. I cherished it and I knew the moment she gave it to me that I needed to keep it safe. "It's now or never David." We kept digging as the rain poured in around us, the old tree in the yeard standing strong against the rapidly deteriorating storm. No wonder my father wanted to sell the place, I thought, it got pelted by a storm almost every week these days. That, and he was never his normal self since mother died. My fiancee and I continued to dig in silence, occasionally starting a new hole when the one we dug got too deep or too filled with water. Minutes passed before the lightning struck and branches from the tree started to come down and David became increasingly worried that the tree was going to fall right on top of us. But we kept digging and we didn't stop until I heard the distinct clunk of metal hitting metal. I shot my head upwards and looked at David, who just moments before was wet and cold, now had a face of pure delight on. He scrapped the shovel against the metal box and then knelt down. I smiled as he stuck his hand into the mud and pulled out a very dirty container. "That's it!" I screeched as I slid over in the mud and grabbed it out of his hand. A lightning bolt struck over the horizon and thunder cracked across the sky a moment later. He was already grabbing my arm and the other shovel, "Let's go. We can open it at the hotel!" He grabbed our shovels and more than likely, dragged me out of my backyard and into the car. We were dirty, our shoes and pants covered in mud and our rain jackets soaked, but David didn't mind. His car was vintage as it was, a little mud and dirt never hurt anyone anymore. I didn't move a muscle in the car and I simply held the box in my hands tightly as he started the car and blasted the heat. "I can't believe we found it." He placed his hand on my shoulder and kissed me lightly on the cheek, "I'm sorry I doubted you." I looked back at him, "Thank you." He raised an eyebrow, "Well, are you going to open it?" I took a deep breath and nodded. It had been so long since I buried it and so much had happened in those twenty years between then and now. My mother's passing, graduation from high school, college, and my acceptance into graduate school. I met the love of my life and moved out of the house, my father was in retirement and sold the house, and I was ready to start a family soon. So much time had passed in twenty years. I slid the lock and opened the container. Inside it was just like I remembered it. There was a small rock collection that I thought were asteroids when I was a kid, a Polaroid photo of my mother, father, and I at the beach, the set of McDonald's Happy Meal toys I had collected, and the locket, neatly wrapped around an iPhone. Wait a second, "There's an iPhone in here?" David leaned over in the car, "What? I thought you said you buried it when you were eight?" I nodded, "I did." I stuck my hand in the capsule slowly, as if the phone was going to attack me, and I wrapped my hand around it and the locket. The locket was in pristine condition just like when I buried it, but it didn't have the clear plastic bag that I put it in, instead it had the phone. It was the same locket, too, with a clearly engraved K on the front. I stared at it and the phone and looked at my fiancee with a puzzled look on both of our faces. "Is it on?" I looked back at the phone and used my other hand to pull the locket off of it. I clutched it in my hand as I pressed the home button on the phone. Surprisingly, it lit up with a 76% battery life, and a message appeared on screen. One Missed Call. I took a deep breath, "What is this?" David shook his head as he watched me place the locket back into the capsule. "Is, maybe there's a voicemail?" I nodded and went to slide the iPhone open, but it asked for a code. I frowned before I thought about what it could be. The only reasonable one would be the year in which I buried it, so I very clearly put in the numbers. 1-9-9-6 The iPhone slid open with a click and I quickly opened up the menu to get to the Voicemail screen. Just as David had predicted, there was a single message on screen, dated January 20th, 2016 at 7:07 PM, six minutes ago. I took a deep breath, "Should I play it?" "Yes you should play it!" He said. I chuckled and pressed the play button on the iPhone, making sure it was on speaker. At first it was nothing but the distinct shuffling sound of someone's hand or pocket, but gradually it became much more clearer until a voice I hadn't heard in a long time came on the phone. "Hello, dear," it was my mother. "I'm sure you are wondering what is going on. that's understandable, but if everything goes correctly, you should be receiving this message right after you dig up your capsule." I looked at David, who was equally stunned. He didn't recognize the voice, but I think from my reaction he knew who was on the phone. "It is something I wish I could have showed you sooner, or taught you sooner. But there's a reason I had to go all those years ago. A very specific reason that I hope you will eventually forgive me for. I have seen you grow though, become a woman I would have been proud to raise and love. I still love you of course, and David seems like such a wonderful young man." I looked at David who was now sitting back in his seat and staring straight ahead. I swallowed the lump in my throat and turned back to the phone. "You see dear, I couldn't stay. I have been doing this for so long that I realized I couldn't watch my daughter grow up not really knowing her mother. But I also realize the mistake in that and the fact that I couldn't stop you from learning the truth behind everything. "It's going to sound crazy I know, but you remember the locket, don't you? Of course you do, your something old, of course." I was stunned. "Take the locket and input the date of my funeral on the left flap and the time on the right. Three hours after it ended. If you don't remember the time, turn it to nine-fourteen pm, I'm sure you remember the date. "Just click and hold the top button for ten seconds, not a moment longer and come to the grave. Don't talk to anyone on the way, don't say hello to anyone, just come to the cemetery." I looked at David who now had a look of genuine worrisome on his face. "I know it sounds crazy, but if you trust me, which I think part of you still does, you'll do it. Besides, think of it as a gift to your mother, my birthday is coming up after all." I stared at the phone as the seconds ticked by on the voicemail. "I love you. And, I'll see you soon." Then the voicemail cut and I was left sitting in the car with my fiancee and a time capsule from 1996. _____ Fantastic prompt! If you liked this story, check out /r/BlankPagesEmptyMugs for more of my work!	"Hello?" I said hesitantly. "It's me" the voice said. "Who?" "You know who" I haven't had a clue "So how's Maggie?" who the hell is Maggie? "Oh she's fine" I decided to play along. "Are you going to the party?" "Yeah, I guess" "I can pick you up at 7" "Ok, cool" "Bye" "Bye" I hanged up. What the hell just happened. Who was that? Who is Maggie and how did this phone get there? I'm pretty sure that when I buried this time capsule there were no smartphones. Even classic cell phones were rare. Also the capsule was intact. But I didn't have time to think about it because the phone rang again. "Hello?" "Hello can I have a large pepperoni pizza with extra cheese and diet coke. Take away." "What?" "One large pepperoni with extra cheese and diet coke." "Miss, you have wrong number this is not a pizzeria." "Ah okay sorry" She hanged up. I stared at this phone in disbelief. I didn't even had a chance to check what's on it. The phone rang again. "Hello?" "Sir, drop the phone and step away from it. We have you surrounded. Don't do anything stupid."
	[WP] You dig up a time capsule you buried years ago. Instead of memorabilia, you find a modern phone. It rings.	As I strolled through the luscious green park of my old elementary school, brimming with shrubbery, moss, flowers of all colors and trees, a flood of memories shot into my head. All the pure fun I had as a kid, before college or shitty retail jobs, before broken hearts and a father that bails on you...I missed those days. When your only job was to learn and to have fun, not to make money or scrape by or question why someone doesn't love you. I may only be 20, but I feel old now. I noticed a patch of exposed dirt off to my left, a clear indicator that the ground had recently been torn up and packed back down. It hadn't been there yesterday, or any other day I'd made the walk, for that matter- and I walked that path every day I was home, since childhood. On second thought...isn't that where I buried my time capsule? I couldn't remember for sure, but I thought I'd look. As I approached it, I became certain that it was indeed where I buried my capsule- I'd marked a tree next to it with a knife, carving a little heart into the bark. A shovel had been laid down by the roots. Why would someone dig up my capsule? I had to find out. I was curious to see my capsule, anyway, and so I dug. The earth was soft and smelled of minerals- a smell I have always loved. It only took a few minutes to unearth the capsule. I opened it and what I saw confused me. It was a rectangular gift box. This is not what I buried... I hesitated at first, but decided to open it. There was an iPhone 6s inside, brand new, though the box had been opened, and a note attached to it. It read: Dear Jane, I hope you are well. This may be a risky way to get your present to you, but I know you're home from break and you always loved walking down that path of yours. You're attentive too, you've always been sharp. I feel like you're old enough now to make this decision for yourself, Jane, so I will offer it to you. I am your father. I left when you were young after being diagnosed with schizophrenia; it was too much for your mother to handle along with 3 children. Your birthday is in a few days, so I thought I'd give you something nice. My number is in the phone...if you want to call me, and maybe meet with me, you can. I'd love to see how beautiful of a woman you've become. If not, I understand. I love you. -Dad I sat there, dirt filling my back pockets, staring at the note. A breeze picked up and blew through my hair. I put my old SIM card into the 6s and booted the phone up. His number was in there, under the contact name 'daddy <3'. I cried a little bit and clicked on his name. It actually dialed through. "Happy birthday, darling," a voice answered the phone, a soothing voice I'd longed for as a child. It was the best present I'd ever get.	"Hello?" I said hesitantly. "It's me" the voice said. "Who?" "You know who" I haven't had a clue "So how's Maggie?" who the hell is Maggie? "Oh she's fine" I decided to play along. "Are you going to the party?" "Yeah, I guess" "I can pick you up at 7" "Ok, cool" "Bye" "Bye" I hanged up. What the hell just happened. Who was that? Who is Maggie and how did this phone get there? I'm pretty sure that when I buried this time capsule there were no smartphones. Even classic cell phones were rare. Also the capsule was intact. But I didn't have time to think about it because the phone rang again. "Hello?" "Hello can I have a large pepperoni pizza with extra cheese and diet coke. Take away." "What?" "One large pepperoni with extra cheese and diet coke." "Miss, you have wrong number this is not a pizzeria." "Ah okay sorry" She hanged up. I stared at this phone in disbelief. I didn't even had a chance to check what's on it. The phone rang again. "Hello?" "Sir, drop the phone and step away from it. We have you surrounded. Don't do anything stupid."
	[WP] You dig up a time capsule you buried years ago. Instead of memorabilia, you find a modern phone. It rings.	"I'm telling you I buried it under this tree!" I yelled as I stuck my shovel into the muddy ground, a few feet from another hole I had just recently finished digging. It had been twenty years since I had been home and almost nothing had changed. Well, except for the fact that my childhood home was now a hole in the ground. "Krystal, how do you know it's even here?" I shook my head and shoveled a good chunk of mud out of the way, which was quickly replaced my even more mud. "Just get the shovel and keep digging, please." My fiancee sighed heavily as he walked over and slammed his shovel into the ground, splashing a few bits of mud over my jeans. He chuckled a bit as he and I dug another two holes. "I just think you're chasing a pipe dream. Besides, we could always come back when it's not raining." "And what? Tell the new owners that I buried a time capsule here when I was eight?" I shook my head, "It's not or never and I would like to get it." "Why?" He shoveled a good chunk of root out of the way. "Because it has my something old in here." He knew what I was talking about of course, I had mentioned it almost every day since we were engaged. We both knew I wanted it and ever since my father had moved out of the home and sold the property, I had to go back for it. It was my mother's old locket, a gift she gave me just before she passed. I cherished it and I knew the moment she gave it to me that I needed to keep it safe. "It's now or never David." We kept digging as the rain poured in around us, the old tree in the yeard standing strong against the rapidly deteriorating storm. No wonder my father wanted to sell the place, I thought, it got pelted by a storm almost every week these days. That, and he was never his normal self since mother died. My fiancee and I continued to dig in silence, occasionally starting a new hole when the one we dug got too deep or too filled with water. Minutes passed before the lightning struck and branches from the tree started to come down and David became increasingly worried that the tree was going to fall right on top of us. But we kept digging and we didn't stop until I heard the distinct clunk of metal hitting metal. I shot my head upwards and looked at David, who just moments before was wet and cold, now had a face of pure delight on. He scrapped the shovel against the metal box and then knelt down. I smiled as he stuck his hand into the mud and pulled out a very dirty container. "That's it!" I screeched as I slid over in the mud and grabbed it out of his hand. A lightning bolt struck over the horizon and thunder cracked across the sky a moment later. He was already grabbing my arm and the other shovel, "Let's go. We can open it at the hotel!" He grabbed our shovels and more than likely, dragged me out of my backyard and into the car. We were dirty, our shoes and pants covered in mud and our rain jackets soaked, but David didn't mind. His car was vintage as it was, a little mud and dirt never hurt anyone anymore. I didn't move a muscle in the car and I simply held the box in my hands tightly as he started the car and blasted the heat. "I can't believe we found it." He placed his hand on my shoulder and kissed me lightly on the cheek, "I'm sorry I doubted you." I looked back at him, "Thank you." He raised an eyebrow, "Well, are you going to open it?" I took a deep breath and nodded. It had been so long since I buried it and so much had happened in those twenty years between then and now. My mother's passing, graduation from high school, college, and my acceptance into graduate school. I met the love of my life and moved out of the house, my father was in retirement and sold the house, and I was ready to start a family soon. So much time had passed in twenty years. I slid the lock and opened the container. Inside it was just like I remembered it. There was a small rock collection that I thought were asteroids when I was a kid, a Polaroid photo of my mother, father, and I at the beach, the set of McDonald's Happy Meal toys I had collected, and the locket, neatly wrapped around an iPhone. Wait a second, "There's an iPhone in here?" David leaned over in the car, "What? I thought you said you buried it when you were eight?" I nodded, "I did." I stuck my hand in the capsule slowly, as if the phone was going to attack me, and I wrapped my hand around it and the locket. The locket was in pristine condition just like when I buried it, but it didn't have the clear plastic bag that I put it in, instead it had the phone. It was the same locket, too, with a clearly engraved K on the front. I stared at it and the phone and looked at my fiancee with a puzzled look on both of our faces. "Is it on?" I looked back at the phone and used my other hand to pull the locket off of it. I clutched it in my hand as I pressed the home button on the phone. Surprisingly, it lit up with a 76% battery life, and a message appeared on screen. One Missed Call. I took a deep breath, "What is this?" David shook his head as he watched me place the locket back into the capsule. "Is, maybe there's a voicemail?" I nodded and went to slide the iPhone open, but it asked for a code. I frowned before I thought about what it could be. The only reasonable one would be the year in which I buried it, so I very clearly put in the numbers. 1-9-9-6 The iPhone slid open with a click and I quickly opened up the menu to get to the Voicemail screen. Just as David had predicted, there was a single message on screen, dated January 20th, 2016 at 7:07 PM, six minutes ago. I took a deep breath, "Should I play it?" "Yes you should play it!" He said. I chuckled and pressed the play button on the iPhone, making sure it was on speaker. At first it was nothing but the distinct shuffling sound of someone's hand or pocket, but gradually it became much more clearer until a voice I hadn't heard in a long time came on the phone. "Hello, dear," it was my mother. "I'm sure you are wondering what is going on. that's understandable, but if everything goes correctly, you should be receiving this message right after you dig up your capsule." I looked at David, who was equally stunned. He didn't recognize the voice, but I think from my reaction he knew who was on the phone. "It is something I wish I could have showed you sooner, or taught you sooner. But there's a reason I had to go all those years ago. A very specific reason that I hope you will eventually forgive me for. I have seen you grow though, become a woman I would have been proud to raise and love. I still love you of course, and David seems like such a wonderful young man." I looked at David who was now sitting back in his seat and staring straight ahead. I swallowed the lump in my throat and turned back to the phone. "You see dear, I couldn't stay. I have been doing this for so long that I realized I couldn't watch my daughter grow up not really knowing her mother. But I also realize the mistake in that and the fact that I couldn't stop you from learning the truth behind everything. "It's going to sound crazy I know, but you remember the locket, don't you? Of course you do, your something old, of course." I was stunned. "Take the locket and input the date of my funeral on the left flap and the time on the right. Three hours after it ended. If you don't remember the time, turn it to nine-fourteen pm, I'm sure you remember the date. "Just click and hold the top button for ten seconds, not a moment longer and come to the grave. Don't talk to anyone on the way, don't say hello to anyone, just come to the cemetery." I looked at David who now had a look of genuine worrisome on his face. "I know it sounds crazy, but if you trust me, which I think part of you still does, you'll do it. Besides, think of it as a gift to your mother, my birthday is coming up after all." I stared at the phone as the seconds ticked by on the voicemail. "I love you. And, I'll see you soon." Then the voicemail cut and I was left sitting in the car with my fiancee and a time capsule from 1996. _____ Fantastic prompt! If you liked this story, check out /r/BlankPagesEmptyMugs for more of my work!	Mayor Richards finished his speech about the history of Flaxcomb and, with the maximum gravitas he could muster, turned the latch on the metal box and lifted the lid. A bit of dirt had migrated past the seal in the fifty years, coating the inside of the box. For a moment, he feared it was empty. It was well-known that Mayor Simpson had been a drunk. He may have just buried an empty box rather than put in the effort of filling it. No one was going to catch him in his lifetime. That would put a damper on the town's centennial celebrations. But then a glowing rectangle penetrated the dust and a wavering tone at maximum volume drifted from the box. Mayor Richards recognized it as the Dr. Who theme. At first, the crowd thought some inconsiderate individual had attended the event with their ringer on loud, spoiling its climax. A gentle murmur rose in the park as everyone looked around for the culprit. For his part, Mayor Richards stared into the box, struck dumb by the unexpected. Principal Wright edged toward him as the Mayor’s silence stretched on and the song continued. Mayor Richards saw the principal recognize the glowing phone inside the box. They locked eyes. “What do I do?” the mayor whispered. “I guess you answer it.” The mayor reached in, blew the dirt off the device's screen, and dragged the answer button across the screen. The song ended and the murmur from the crowd flashed to silence. The Mayor’s voice trembled. “Hello?” “Hey man,” the voice came across the line, “What’s up?” “Nothing,” the Mayor answered. “I mean, well, it’s the Centennial.” “Oh yeah. Of what?” “Flaxcomb.” “Flaxcomb?” the voice asked while chewing something crunchy. “I don't know what that is, dude.” “It's a town,” the Mayor answered lamely. “Oh cool,” the voice said absentmindedly, “You want to come over?” The Mayor didn't know what to say. “Hey man? You there?” “Yeah. I'm here,” the Mayor stuttered. “We have a potluck later.” “Oh cool,” the voice said, “Okay, have fun. We’ll catch up later.” “Wait!” the Mayor said. But there was no answer and when he looked down he saw that the call had ended. Principal Wright was the first to speak. “Who was it?” The Mayor looked over to the principal but couldn't answer. Someone yelled from the crowd. “What did they say?” The Mayor bent down and croaked into the microphone. “Wrong number.”
	[WP] You dig up a time capsule you buried years ago. Instead of memorabilia, you find a modern phone. It rings.	As I strolled through the luscious green park of my old elementary school, brimming with shrubbery, moss, flowers of all colors and trees, a flood of memories shot into my head. All the pure fun I had as a kid, before college or shitty retail jobs, before broken hearts and a father that bails on you...I missed those days. When your only job was to learn and to have fun, not to make money or scrape by or question why someone doesn't love you. I may only be 20, but I feel old now. I noticed a patch of exposed dirt off to my left, a clear indicator that the ground had recently been torn up and packed back down. It hadn't been there yesterday, or any other day I'd made the walk, for that matter- and I walked that path every day I was home, since childhood. On second thought...isn't that where I buried my time capsule? I couldn't remember for sure, but I thought I'd look. As I approached it, I became certain that it was indeed where I buried my capsule- I'd marked a tree next to it with a knife, carving a little heart into the bark. A shovel had been laid down by the roots. Why would someone dig up my capsule? I had to find out. I was curious to see my capsule, anyway, and so I dug. The earth was soft and smelled of minerals- a smell I have always loved. It only took a few minutes to unearth the capsule. I opened it and what I saw confused me. It was a rectangular gift box. This is not what I buried... I hesitated at first, but decided to open it. There was an iPhone 6s inside, brand new, though the box had been opened, and a note attached to it. It read: Dear Jane, I hope you are well. This may be a risky way to get your present to you, but I know you're home from break and you always loved walking down that path of yours. You're attentive too, you've always been sharp. I feel like you're old enough now to make this decision for yourself, Jane, so I will offer it to you. I am your father. I left when you were young after being diagnosed with schizophrenia; it was too much for your mother to handle along with 3 children. Your birthday is in a few days, so I thought I'd give you something nice. My number is in the phone...if you want to call me, and maybe meet with me, you can. I'd love to see how beautiful of a woman you've become. If not, I understand. I love you. -Dad I sat there, dirt filling my back pockets, staring at the note. A breeze picked up and blew through my hair. I put my old SIM card into the 6s and booted the phone up. His number was in there, under the contact name 'daddy <3'. I cried a little bit and clicked on his name. It actually dialed through. "Happy birthday, darling," a voice answered the phone, a soothing voice I'd longed for as a child. It was the best present I'd ever get.	Mayor Richards finished his speech about the history of Flaxcomb and, with the maximum gravitas he could muster, turned the latch on the metal box and lifted the lid. A bit of dirt had migrated past the seal in the fifty years, coating the inside of the box. For a moment, he feared it was empty. It was well-known that Mayor Simpson had been a drunk. He may have just buried an empty box rather than put in the effort of filling it. No one was going to catch him in his lifetime. That would put a damper on the town's centennial celebrations. But then a glowing rectangle penetrated the dust and a wavering tone at maximum volume drifted from the box. Mayor Richards recognized it as the Dr. Who theme. At first, the crowd thought some inconsiderate individual had attended the event with their ringer on loud, spoiling its climax. A gentle murmur rose in the park as everyone looked around for the culprit. For his part, Mayor Richards stared into the box, struck dumb by the unexpected. Principal Wright edged toward him as the Mayor’s silence stretched on and the song continued. Mayor Richards saw the principal recognize the glowing phone inside the box. They locked eyes. “What do I do?” the mayor whispered. “I guess you answer it.” The mayor reached in, blew the dirt off the device's screen, and dragged the answer button across the screen. The song ended and the murmur from the crowd flashed to silence. The Mayor’s voice trembled. “Hello?” “Hey man,” the voice came across the line, “What’s up?” “Nothing,” the Mayor answered. “I mean, well, it’s the Centennial.” “Oh yeah. Of what?” “Flaxcomb.” “Flaxcomb?” the voice asked while chewing something crunchy. “I don't know what that is, dude.” “It's a town,” the Mayor answered lamely. “Oh cool,” the voice said absentmindedly, “You want to come over?” The Mayor didn't know what to say. “Hey man? You there?” “Yeah. I'm here,” the Mayor stuttered. “We have a potluck later.” “Oh cool,” the voice said, “Okay, have fun. We’ll catch up later.” “Wait!” the Mayor said. But there was no answer and when he looked down he saw that the call had ended. Principal Wright was the first to speak. “Who was it?” The Mayor looked over to the principal but couldn't answer. Someone yelled from the crowd. “What did they say?” The Mayor bent down and croaked into the microphone. “Wrong number.”
	[WP] You dig up a time capsule you buried years ago. Instead of memorabilia, you find a modern phone. It rings.	As I strolled through the luscious green park of my old elementary school, brimming with shrubbery, moss, flowers of all colors and trees, a flood of memories shot into my head. All the pure fun I had as a kid, before college or shitty retail jobs, before broken hearts and a father that bails on you...I missed those days. When your only job was to learn and to have fun, not to make money or scrape by or question why someone doesn't love you. I may only be 20, but I feel old now. I noticed a patch of exposed dirt off to my left, a clear indicator that the ground had recently been torn up and packed back down. It hadn't been there yesterday, or any other day I'd made the walk, for that matter- and I walked that path every day I was home, since childhood. On second thought...isn't that where I buried my time capsule? I couldn't remember for sure, but I thought I'd look. As I approached it, I became certain that it was indeed where I buried my capsule- I'd marked a tree next to it with a knife, carving a little heart into the bark. A shovel had been laid down by the roots. Why would someone dig up my capsule? I had to find out. I was curious to see my capsule, anyway, and so I dug. The earth was soft and smelled of minerals- a smell I have always loved. It only took a few minutes to unearth the capsule. I opened it and what I saw confused me. It was a rectangular gift box. This is not what I buried... I hesitated at first, but decided to open it. There was an iPhone 6s inside, brand new, though the box had been opened, and a note attached to it. It read: Dear Jane, I hope you are well. This may be a risky way to get your present to you, but I know you're home from break and you always loved walking down that path of yours. You're attentive too, you've always been sharp. I feel like you're old enough now to make this decision for yourself, Jane, so I will offer it to you. I am your father. I left when you were young after being diagnosed with schizophrenia; it was too much for your mother to handle along with 3 children. Your birthday is in a few days, so I thought I'd give you something nice. My number is in the phone...if you want to call me, and maybe meet with me, you can. I'd love to see how beautiful of a woman you've become. If not, I understand. I love you. -Dad I sat there, dirt filling my back pockets, staring at the note. A breeze picked up and blew through my hair. I put my old SIM card into the 6s and booted the phone up. His number was in there, under the contact name 'daddy <3'. I cried a little bit and clicked on his name. It actually dialed through. "Happy birthday, darling," a voice answered the phone, a soothing voice I'd longed for as a child. It was the best present I'd ever get.	"I'm telling you I buried it under this tree!" I yelled as I stuck my shovel into the muddy ground, a few feet from another hole I had just recently finished digging. It had been twenty years since I had been home and almost nothing had changed. Well, except for the fact that my childhood home was now a hole in the ground. "Krystal, how do you know it's even here?" I shook my head and shoveled a good chunk of mud out of the way, which was quickly replaced my even more mud. "Just get the shovel and keep digging, please." My fiancee sighed heavily as he walked over and slammed his shovel into the ground, splashing a few bits of mud over my jeans. He chuckled a bit as he and I dug another two holes. "I just think you're chasing a pipe dream. Besides, we could always come back when it's not raining." "And what? Tell the new owners that I buried a time capsule here when I was eight?" I shook my head, "It's not or never and I would like to get it." "Why?" He shoveled a good chunk of root out of the way. "Because it has my something old in here." He knew what I was talking about of course, I had mentioned it almost every day since we were engaged. We both knew I wanted it and ever since my father had moved out of the home and sold the property, I had to go back for it. It was my mother's old locket, a gift she gave me just before she passed. I cherished it and I knew the moment she gave it to me that I needed to keep it safe. "It's now or never David." We kept digging as the rain poured in around us, the old tree in the yeard standing strong against the rapidly deteriorating storm. No wonder my father wanted to sell the place, I thought, it got pelted by a storm almost every week these days. That, and he was never his normal self since mother died. My fiancee and I continued to dig in silence, occasionally starting a new hole when the one we dug got too deep or too filled with water. Minutes passed before the lightning struck and branches from the tree started to come down and David became increasingly worried that the tree was going to fall right on top of us. But we kept digging and we didn't stop until I heard the distinct clunk of metal hitting metal. I shot my head upwards and looked at David, who just moments before was wet and cold, now had a face of pure delight on. He scrapped the shovel against the metal box and then knelt down. I smiled as he stuck his hand into the mud and pulled out a very dirty container. "That's it!" I screeched as I slid over in the mud and grabbed it out of his hand. A lightning bolt struck over the horizon and thunder cracked across the sky a moment later. He was already grabbing my arm and the other shovel, "Let's go. We can open it at the hotel!" He grabbed our shovels and more than likely, dragged me out of my backyard and into the car. We were dirty, our shoes and pants covered in mud and our rain jackets soaked, but David didn't mind. His car was vintage as it was, a little mud and dirt never hurt anyone anymore. I didn't move a muscle in the car and I simply held the box in my hands tightly as he started the car and blasted the heat. "I can't believe we found it." He placed his hand on my shoulder and kissed me lightly on the cheek, "I'm sorry I doubted you." I looked back at him, "Thank you." He raised an eyebrow, "Well, are you going to open it?" I took a deep breath and nodded. It had been so long since I buried it and so much had happened in those twenty years between then and now. My mother's passing, graduation from high school, college, and my acceptance into graduate school. I met the love of my life and moved out of the house, my father was in retirement and sold the house, and I was ready to start a family soon. So much time had passed in twenty years. I slid the lock and opened the container. Inside it was just like I remembered it. There was a small rock collection that I thought were asteroids when I was a kid, a Polaroid photo of my mother, father, and I at the beach, the set of McDonald's Happy Meal toys I had collected, and the locket, neatly wrapped around an iPhone. Wait a second, "There's an iPhone in here?" David leaned over in the car, "What? I thought you said you buried it when you were eight?" I nodded, "I did." I stuck my hand in the capsule slowly, as if the phone was going to attack me, and I wrapped my hand around it and the locket. The locket was in pristine condition just like when I buried it, but it didn't have the clear plastic bag that I put it in, instead it had the phone. It was the same locket, too, with a clearly engraved K on the front. I stared at it and the phone and looked at my fiancee with a puzzled look on both of our faces. "Is it on?" I looked back at the phone and used my other hand to pull the locket off of it. I clutched it in my hand as I pressed the home button on the phone. Surprisingly, it lit up with a 76% battery life, and a message appeared on screen. One Missed Call. I took a deep breath, "What is this?" David shook his head as he watched me place the locket back into the capsule. "Is, maybe there's a voicemail?" I nodded and went to slide the iPhone open, but it asked for a code. I frowned before I thought about what it could be. The only reasonable one would be the year in which I buried it, so I very clearly put in the numbers. 1-9-9-6 The iPhone slid open with a click and I quickly opened up the menu to get to the Voicemail screen. Just as David had predicted, there was a single message on screen, dated January 20th, 2016 at 7:07 PM, six minutes ago. I took a deep breath, "Should I play it?" "Yes you should play it!" He said. I chuckled and pressed the play button on the iPhone, making sure it was on speaker. At first it was nothing but the distinct shuffling sound of someone's hand or pocket, but gradually it became much more clearer until a voice I hadn't heard in a long time came on the phone. "Hello, dear," it was my mother. "I'm sure you are wondering what is going on. that's understandable, but if everything goes correctly, you should be receiving this message right after you dig up your capsule." I looked at David, who was equally stunned. He didn't recognize the voice, but I think from my reaction he knew who was on the phone. "It is something I wish I could have showed you sooner, or taught you sooner. But there's a reason I had to go all those years ago. A very specific reason that I hope you will eventually forgive me for. I have seen you grow though, become a woman I would have been proud to raise and love. I still love you of course, and David seems like such a wonderful young man." I looked at David who was now sitting back in his seat and staring straight ahead. I swallowed the lump in my throat and turned back to the phone. "You see dear, I couldn't stay. I have been doing this for so long that I realized I couldn't watch my daughter grow up not really knowing her mother. But I also realize the mistake in that and the fact that I couldn't stop you from learning the truth behind everything. "It's going to sound crazy I know, but you remember the locket, don't you? Of course you do, your something old, of course." I was stunned. "Take the locket and input the date of my funeral on the left flap and the time on the right. Three hours after it ended. If you don't remember the time, turn it to nine-fourteen pm, I'm sure you remember the date. "Just click and hold the top button for ten seconds, not a moment longer and come to the grave. Don't talk to anyone on the way, don't say hello to anyone, just come to the cemetery." I looked at David who now had a look of genuine worrisome on his face. "I know it sounds crazy, but if you trust me, which I think part of you still does, you'll do it. Besides, think of it as a gift to your mother, my birthday is coming up after all." I stared at the phone as the seconds ticked by on the voicemail. "I love you. And, I'll see you soon." Then the voicemail cut and I was left sitting in the car with my fiancee and a time capsule from 1996. _____ Fantastic prompt! If you liked this story, check out /r/BlankPagesEmptyMugs for more of my work!
	[WP] You dig up a time capsule you buried years ago. Instead of memorabilia, you find a modern phone. It rings.	As I strolled through the luscious green park of my old elementary school, brimming with shrubbery, moss, flowers of all colors and trees, a flood of memories shot into my head. All the pure fun I had as a kid, before college or shitty retail jobs, before broken hearts and a father that bails on you...I missed those days. When your only job was to learn and to have fun, not to make money or scrape by or question why someone doesn't love you. I may only be 20, but I feel old now. I noticed a patch of exposed dirt off to my left, a clear indicator that the ground had recently been torn up and packed back down. It hadn't been there yesterday, or any other day I'd made the walk, for that matter- and I walked that path every day I was home, since childhood. On second thought...isn't that where I buried my time capsule? I couldn't remember for sure, but I thought I'd look. As I approached it, I became certain that it was indeed where I buried my capsule- I'd marked a tree next to it with a knife, carving a little heart into the bark. A shovel had been laid down by the roots. Why would someone dig up my capsule? I had to find out. I was curious to see my capsule, anyway, and so I dug. The earth was soft and smelled of minerals- a smell I have always loved. It only took a few minutes to unearth the capsule. I opened it and what I saw confused me. It was a rectangular gift box. This is not what I buried... I hesitated at first, but decided to open it. There was an iPhone 6s inside, brand new, though the box had been opened, and a note attached to it. It read: Dear Jane, I hope you are well. This may be a risky way to get your present to you, but I know you're home from break and you always loved walking down that path of yours. You're attentive too, you've always been sharp. I feel like you're old enough now to make this decision for yourself, Jane, so I will offer it to you. I am your father. I left when you were young after being diagnosed with schizophrenia; it was too much for your mother to handle along with 3 children. Your birthday is in a few days, so I thought I'd give you something nice. My number is in the phone...if you want to call me, and maybe meet with me, you can. I'd love to see how beautiful of a woman you've become. If not, I understand. I love you. -Dad I sat there, dirt filling my back pockets, staring at the note. A breeze picked up and blew through my hair. I put my old SIM card into the 6s and booted the phone up. His number was in there, under the contact name 'daddy <3'. I cried a little bit and clicked on his name. It actually dialed through. "Happy birthday, darling," a voice answered the phone, a soothing voice I'd longed for as a child. It was the best present I'd ever get.	I looked down at the phone and then to the rest of the items in the time capsule. There were toys, a letter asking if I was still thinking about Bobby, and something that MIGHT have been a sandwich fifteen years ago. The phone ringing was weird, but the sandwich thing was weirder. I grabbed the phone out of the box and looked at the number, it was nothing I recognized. That being said, I wasn't exactly going to send this sort of strange bullshit to voicemail, so I picked it up. "Hello?" "Hello?" "Who is this?" "I should be asking you the same thing," the man on the other end said. He didn't sound like he was happy. "You called me!" "No I didn't," he scoffed into the phone, "I found this phone and it was ringing, I picked it up and you were here." "So you're saying that I called you?" I asked. I supposed that two people being called wasn't weird compared to the time capsule phone. "Yes, because you did." "But I -" I stopped myself, "whatever, the point is, what's up?" "Nothing much, pretty nice day. I got a ghost phone call, you?" I could feel the sarcasm dripping off of his voice like molasses. "Samesies." "Samesies?" "Yeah," I said, "picked up the phone and here you were." "That's not how phones work." I sat myself down against the trunk of the tree that I'd buried the time capsule under. "I know right?" "So you're-" "Hillary," I said as I looked at the sandwich. It might have been a pile of Oreos. "David," he responded, "nice to meet you I guess." "Yeah, so where did you find the phone?" "Time capsule," he said, "buried it under a tree-" "Fifteen years ago?" I asked. "This is weird." "Yeah it is." "Yeah it is," he said back to me. I pulled the phone away from my ear for a moment. There wasn't anything strange about it. Aside from the fact that it existed at least. "So." "So." "What do we do now?" I asked. "Hang up?" "No! There has to be something more to this, we just found random phones in our back yards and you're telling me that you just want to move on?" "Yeah, pretty much." "All right," I hissed, "fine, I'll hang up." I pulled the phone away from my ear and swiped across the screen as aggressively as I could. As soon as the call hung up the world flashed in front of my eyes. I was blind for a good thirty seconds, but I shook the white away and looked around me. Most things were the same, the only difference I could make out was that there were maple leaves around me now instead of pine needles. The phone stayed quiet and I looked from it to the leaves and then back to it. It wasn't like there was anything else for it to do. I picked myself up off of the ground and shook my head. Blonde hair got into my mouth and I swore. "Who is that?" asked a small child from the inside of the house.
	[WP] You dig up a time capsule you buried years ago. Instead of memorabilia, you find a modern phone. It rings.	I pull the box from the grass, dust the dirt from the top, unlock the padlock, pull the lid open and have a heart attack. Well, not really, but I was pretty startled when I saw the iPhone between the old shirts and records and newspapers from the forties. "What the hell?" My great-grandfather buried this box seventy-five years ago in my back yard – and I'm pretty sure he didn’t mention anything about an iPhone. I turn the phone on. Immediately a message pops up – "new voice recording." I click the little envelope and push the phone against my ear. The voice comes clear and familiar. "Dean, it's Erica. What I'm about to say is going to make zero sense, but you have to trust me. Get up from where you are and go to the corner of Lexington and Berry Road, house 325. You know, Mrs. Ania's house, my piano teacher. Get in there, ask to go to the bathroom, or whatever. Just get in there. Then find the last door to the right after the kitchen, walk in. It's a bedroom. There's another door inside that bedroom – it looks like it leads to a bathroom, but it doesn't. It leads to… wherever the fuck I am now, which I have no idea where it is. Just… go there, send someone… anything. Please. I know I sound crazy, but… fuck, I'm not even sure if this is gonna work. I gotta go, they're gonna start yelling about how Pearl Harbor has just been attacked soon. Please, if you find this, hurry Dean." The message ends, and I almost laugh, but… Erica's not really the kind of girl who'd pull a prank like this – specially something involving my family, and my great-grandfather's memory box. It doesn't sound like her. Plus it's Sunday, and I have nothing better to do. I try calling her, but it goes straight to voice mail. So what the hell? I decide to check with Mrs. Ania. &nbsp; "Hey, Mrs. Ania, can I use your bathroom?" I say, because well, what else can you say to an old lady when you knock on her door? "I know my house is nearby, but I have to go really bad." "No problem. Come in, come in. Would you like some tea? I could make –" "Just the bathroom will be fine, Ania," I smile, going past her. "How's Erica? You two have a wedding date set already?" "God, no. Thanks, Mrs. Ania." I cross the living room, go past the kitchen and head to the back of the hallway. I open the last door and walk in. It's a bedroom, all right. I head for the door on the opposite end, all the way asking myself what am I doing and regretting this already. Freaking Erica… but how would she even know about the memory box? And even if she did, the lock wasn't broken… and Erica would never do something like that, it's totally inappro – I shut up, because the second I step in and turn my hand instinctively to find a light switch, not only do my fingers not find one – they don't find a wall at all. My feet goes right past where the floor would be too, sinking into nothing. Before I know it, I'm free falling through darkness, the rectangular shape of the door opening distancing itself upwards and upwards and upwards until it's no more than a dot of light up above. Then the darkness is complete.	I looked down at the phone and then to the rest of the items in the time capsule. There were toys, a letter asking if I was still thinking about Bobby, and something that MIGHT have been a sandwich fifteen years ago. The phone ringing was weird, but the sandwich thing was weirder. I grabbed the phone out of the box and looked at the number, it was nothing I recognized. That being said, I wasn't exactly going to send this sort of strange bullshit to voicemail, so I picked it up. "Hello?" "Hello?" "Who is this?" "I should be asking you the same thing," the man on the other end said. He didn't sound like he was happy. "You called me!" "No I didn't," he scoffed into the phone, "I found this phone and it was ringing, I picked it up and you were here." "So you're saying that I called you?" I asked. I supposed that two people being called wasn't weird compared to the time capsule phone. "Yes, because you did." "But I -" I stopped myself, "whatever, the point is, what's up?" "Nothing much, pretty nice day. I got a ghost phone call, you?" I could feel the sarcasm dripping off of his voice like molasses. "Samesies." "Samesies?" "Yeah," I said, "picked up the phone and here you were." "That's not how phones work." I sat myself down against the trunk of the tree that I'd buried the time capsule under. "I know right?" "So you're-" "Hillary," I said as I looked at the sandwich. It might have been a pile of Oreos. "David," he responded, "nice to meet you I guess." "Yeah, so where did you find the phone?" "Time capsule," he said, "buried it under a tree-" "Fifteen years ago?" I asked. "This is weird." "Yeah it is." "Yeah it is," he said back to me. I pulled the phone away from my ear for a moment. There wasn't anything strange about it. Aside from the fact that it existed at least. "So." "So." "What do we do now?" I asked. "Hang up?" "No! There has to be something more to this, we just found random phones in our back yards and you're telling me that you just want to move on?" "Yeah, pretty much." "All right," I hissed, "fine, I'll hang up." I pulled the phone away from my ear and swiped across the screen as aggressively as I could. As soon as the call hung up the world flashed in front of my eyes. I was blind for a good thirty seconds, but I shook the white away and looked around me. Most things were the same, the only difference I could make out was that there were maple leaves around me now instead of pine needles. The phone stayed quiet and I looked from it to the leaves and then back to it. It wasn't like there was anything else for it to do. I picked myself up off of the ground and shook my head. Blonde hair got into my mouth and I swore. "Who is that?" asked a small child from the inside of the house.
	[WP] You dig up a time capsule you buried years ago. Instead of memorabilia, you find a modern phone. It rings.	"What's your earliest memory?" a voice asked me over the phone. I stared at the screen in disbelief. Instead of finding old pokemon cards and newspaper clippings that I'd put inside, my shoebox time capsule now contained a cell phone. And not the brick-sized monstrosities from when I was a kid: a sleek new iPhone in a bright pink case. Fully charged, and full service, with no explanation for how it got there or where all of my stuff went. And if that wasn't weird enough, it rang just seconds after I pulled the time capsule out of its shallow grave and opened the box. My own name popped up for that number, but it certainly wasn't my voice on the other end. It was a soft, sultry feminine voice that you'd expect to find on the other end of a phone sex hotline. "My earliest memory?" Of all the weird questions to ask, that was what this woman started with? How about all of my questions? "Who is this?" I asked "Just trust me," she said. For some reason, I did. Deep down, I just felt like I could. "Tell me your earliest memory." "I... umm..." What was my earliest memory? It didn't seem like a hard question, but when I actually tried to conjure it up, it was like my brain was full of fog. "I remember walking on the beach in South Carolina with my dad, and our dog. Where we used to go on vacation." The more I described it, the more the image became clear. Like I was dragging it out from its hiding place. I did remember that place, though I hadn't been back since I was like six or seven. The windswept beaches with endless miles of flat, white sand. The cold Atlantic ocean. Barbecuing out on the deck of our vacation rental home. "When was the last time you told someone about this memory?" she asked as I was still lost in thought. Had I ever talked about it with someone? Surely at some point. If not the memory, then at least the beach vacations. "I'm not sure. Maybe four or five years ago?" "Good," she answered. "I'm not sure how long they've had you. Now, keep that memory in your mind. Really hold onto it. And then go ask your parents if they remember it too. But change it: instead of South Carolina, ask them if they remember going to vacation in Florida. Just don't make them suspicious, and don't tell them about the phone." "I've never been to Florida," I told her. "Exactly." There was silence between us as I processed this. "What the hell is going on?" I shouted into the phone, so loud that my neighbor's dog began barking in the yard next to me. "How are you doing this? How did you get this phone into my time capsule? Who are you?" Sometime during my tirade, she hung up. I opened up the contacts section, but my name wasn't listed there. The phone's log of calls was blank. No evidence that the conversation had ever happened... except for the phone itself. I went back inside. Mom was washing dishes in the kitchen as I came through the screen door. She shot me a disapproving look, and I realized I was covered in dirt from all the digging. "What were you doing out there, honey? I heard you talking to someone" "I...." My voice faltered. Should I tell her? The voice had wanted me to lie to her and ask if we'd ever been to Florida. Why? What harm could it do, though. She'd ask if I meant South Carolina, and everything would be normal again. "Nothing really," I answered. "I was just singing a song stuck in my head." I could feel the weight of the phone in my pocket. Waiting for me to ask her the question. "Hey, Mom? Remember when we used to rent a house in Florida for vacation? When I was younger?" She stopped washing the bowl in her hand and turned to look at me. I couldn't decipher her facial expression. "We should go back there sometime; I really loved it." She looked back down at the bowl, but didn't answer right away. Why didn't she answer?? "Of course I remember," she finally answered. "Maybe I'll talk to your father about it, and we can go back." "Can we try to rent the same house?" I told her, doubling down on the lie. "The one on Sanibel Island?" How could she not remember? We had entire photo albums of our vacation in South Carolina, currently sitting on a shelf in the living room! "That would be nice," she said, still scrubbing at the bowl. I opened my mouth to speak, but I felt the phone vibrate in my pocket. I couldn't check it in front of Mom. So without another word, I continued to my room. "Dinner will be in an hour!" she called after me. > That's not your mother Just a text message. I typed back: > What the hell is happening? Who are you? What do you want? I tried to sit down, but my entire body was practically jittering with nervous energy. Not my mother? Then who was she? And who the hell was this on the phone??? I practically jumped a foot into the air when the phone buzzed again in my hand. > You need to get out of the house. As soon as I read that, I heard the garage door opening, and Dad's car pulled in. ---- Ok, I'm turning this into a 'Choose your own adventure' story! Here are your options: 1. [Do what the woman on the phone says](https://www.reddit.com/r/Luna_Lovewell/comments/4209ta/whats_your_earliest_memory/cz6jpoz) 2. [Tell your parents about the phone](https://www.reddit.com/r/Luna_Lovewell/comments/4209ta/whats_your_earliest_memory/cz6nogc) ---- All done! Hope you enjoy following the different parts of the story!	I looked down at the phone and then to the rest of the items in the time capsule. There were toys, a letter asking if I was still thinking about Bobby, and something that MIGHT have been a sandwich fifteen years ago. The phone ringing was weird, but the sandwich thing was weirder. I grabbed the phone out of the box and looked at the number, it was nothing I recognized. That being said, I wasn't exactly going to send this sort of strange bullshit to voicemail, so I picked it up. "Hello?" "Hello?" "Who is this?" "I should be asking you the same thing," the man on the other end said. He didn't sound like he was happy. "You called me!" "No I didn't," he scoffed into the phone, "I found this phone and it was ringing, I picked it up and you were here." "So you're saying that I called you?" I asked. I supposed that two people being called wasn't weird compared to the time capsule phone. "Yes, because you did." "But I -" I stopped myself, "whatever, the point is, what's up?" "Nothing much, pretty nice day. I got a ghost phone call, you?" I could feel the sarcasm dripping off of his voice like molasses. "Samesies." "Samesies?" "Yeah," I said, "picked up the phone and here you were." "That's not how phones work." I sat myself down against the trunk of the tree that I'd buried the time capsule under. "I know right?" "So you're-" "Hillary," I said as I looked at the sandwich. It might have been a pile of Oreos. "David," he responded, "nice to meet you I guess." "Yeah, so where did you find the phone?" "Time capsule," he said, "buried it under a tree-" "Fifteen years ago?" I asked. "This is weird." "Yeah it is." "Yeah it is," he said back to me. I pulled the phone away from my ear for a moment. There wasn't anything strange about it. Aside from the fact that it existed at least. "So." "So." "What do we do now?" I asked. "Hang up?" "No! There has to be something more to this, we just found random phones in our back yards and you're telling me that you just want to move on?" "Yeah, pretty much." "All right," I hissed, "fine, I'll hang up." I pulled the phone away from my ear and swiped across the screen as aggressively as I could. As soon as the call hung up the world flashed in front of my eyes. I was blind for a good thirty seconds, but I shook the white away and looked around me. Most things were the same, the only difference I could make out was that there were maple leaves around me now instead of pine needles. The phone stayed quiet and I looked from it to the leaves and then back to it. It wasn't like there was anything else for it to do. I picked myself up off of the ground and shook my head. Blonde hair got into my mouth and I swore. "Who is that?" asked a small child from the inside of the house.
	[WP] A Civil War where all the combatants are civil to one another.	#Title: Jolly Good War "Pardon me, I do believe I've stabbed you." "Quite all right for I had intended to stab you first." "It's only right. It's only right." The dialogue within the warzone was not the brutish hateful speech of traditional battles, but the genteel sort. Thousands upon thousands of soldiers were engaged in this armed conflict. The world had reached a point where everybody had agreed that, although they could kill one another from a distance and without a conversation, it would be more civil and productive if they fought in close quarters and spoke with one another as they went about the murder. Many a conflict was resolved quite quickly that way, people got to know where the other was coming from. The world was also several centuries prior re-conquered by Great Britain after the British accidentally invented the best war robots, so most new nations warring with one another spoke good English. The war robots had recently been made illegal once again. This particular war was a Civil War between a rebel faction and the traditional genteel republic of the Even Newer Great Britain that ruled the world. One soldier shouted his apologies as he shot a man in the side of the head. Just before the man fell over in a heap, he put his hands into a thumbs up. Two soldiers got involved in a hand-to-hand skirmish. The battle went to the ground, and evolved into a beautiful battle of wits in jiu jitsu. They complimented one another on their counter moves. Then, the one man got the other into a hold. The other man tapped out, but that wouldn't work in war. The man in power spoke his piece. "Before I kill you I would like to ennumerate the reasons why, ahem," The man pulled out a list with his one hand not performing the choke hold. ""First of all, the rebel leader assassinated one of our senators without an apology preceding the assassination, nor a proper conversation. Secondly, you rebels have eaten some of our country's finest delicacies without the proper etiquette at the dinner table (you know your manners and we have videos to prove it, apologies for recording you). Thirdly, recently your rebel leaders and our noble leaders had a quick conversation at a big table with a bunch of people around snapping photographs of them. Our leader sneezed and your leaders did not say bless you. Or rather they did, but only after a protracted pause in which our leaders started at them in wonder at how they had no manners. Fourthl-" The man was punched in the side of the face by a soldier passing by. It wasn't kind to kill somebody explaining the reasons for the war, it was one of the new rules of war. A lone knockout punch would suffice. "I wanted him to shut up," said the rebel soldier as he got up and rubbed his neck. Then he dropped his head. "But I felt bad about wanting him to shut up, he was so kind." "He was kind indeed, he's still alive." "Yes good thing there. Hope we can get this war over with." Then somebody went around in a hovercar with a megaphone. "THE WAR IS OVER THE WAR IS OVER THE REBELS HAVE APOLOGIZED FOR NOT SAYING BLESS YOU AND WE'VE DECIDED TO FORGIVE ALL ELSE FOR WE ARE KIND PEOPLE NOT QUICK TO ANGER AND QUICK TO FORGIVE AND QUICK TO HAVE TEA LET US UNITE ONCE MORE GREAT PEOPLE OF EVEN NEWER GREAT BRITAIN." "Oh TEA!" rang the crowd in unison, rebels and republic soldiers alike. People stopped mid-fight and began to shake hands with their enemies across from them. The people who were still dying died with smiles on their faces. Ultimately nobody could quite remember why they were fighting, and weren't willing to keep fighting to give each other actual reasons to continue the war. The country was re-united. Handshakes abounded.	Nobody ran, they simply walked. Arthur T. Hevlinsworth, the respected and awed general rode atop his horse, which was trotting rather peacefully. Many tales were told about Arthur, and all held him in truly high esteem. It was said that he had once removed an enemy soldier from the field of battle, bought him lunch, paid a sizable amount towards his children's tuition, taught him how to play the cello, and then promptly lopped off his head. He was so skilled in the art of civil combat that he spent less time on the battlefield than he did in high class smoking lounges reading dramatic novellas to enemy orphans. Any soldier who came across him, was greeted with a polite "good day" and a tip of the hat. Truly Mr. Hevlinsworth was the gentlest of gentlemen that fought for the Brits. Opposite him on the bloodless field of battle was Harold von Kellhamut, a German general of incredibly high class. The ornamental spikes that adorned his shoulders had been filed down to harmless nubs, and his walk was almost lazy. He had spent the last three months learning conversational English so that he may speak to enemy soldiers with ease. It had payed off as last week, in the Battle of the Wonderful Pond That You Really Must See, he had read a delightful poem to a young British Sergeant who almost immediately upon hearing it, surrendered his forces and his life savings. Truly these two Titans of War were destined to face each other since the war began. Upon reaching the center of the battlefield, everyone stopped, the tension was palpable among the throngs of young soldiers. Arthur and Harold came face to face, and both reached out their hands, as was customary. Arthur was the first to act. He called over a group of his officers, who produced a table, two chairs, and a full chess set. Harold was swift with his recovery, he placed a full packet of biscuits and a fine, aged brandy onto the table. Each man sat down opposite the other and their eyes locked. Harold spoke. "Your mustache is impeccably groomed, sir! Tell me, do you cut it yourself?" Arthur was taken aback, but only briefly, by this incredible compliment. "Yes sir I do!" He said pleasantly, "However brilliant my mustache may be, it was a wise move of you to not cover that strong jaw of yours with whiskers. May I say that it is magnificent?" Clearly these two men were evenly matched. The pleasantries continued for some time, the two armies stood in complete awe. Eventually, and gracefully, Harold transitioned the conversation to the topic of Chess, whereupon they each politely declined the other's offer to go first. After an hour of talking each other up, Arthur submitted, as was polite in Harold's culture. They played each other to a stalemate, neither taking a single piece, until inevitably the biscuits were gone and the brandy drained. And since the day had grown long, they both decided to retire to their respective homes, and planned to meet tomorrow at the local cafe. Months passed like this, neither Harold or Arthur able to out class the other, and truly it was inevitable. Two years after that fateful meeting on the field of Incredibly Civil War, the two married. Their whirlwind romance lasted till the ends of their lives. They adopted 17 impoverished children together, each of which grew to be a dignified member of high class society. They brokered a peace treaty between their warring nations, and the peace lasted long after their lives ended. They donated their considerable fortunes to medical science in the pursuit of a cure for cancer. It was rather ironic really then that Harold fell ill with lung cancer. Next to his deathbed sat Arthur, tears welling in his eyes as he looked upon his compatriot in life, now shriveled with disease. Harold reached his hands out and clasped Arthur's in them. "My love," he said, his voice barely audible over the silence of the room. "My time is nearing. I can say, that thanks to you, I have lived without regrets. These moments that approach, they are my last." Arthur choked upon the lump in his throat, regained some of his composure, then said, "Polite till the end I see, a true gentlemen you always were. I only wish our time together could have been longer." "Fear not Arthur, for you will be with me one day. Now, I wish to leave this world as civilly as I can, will you do me that honor?" Arthur nodded. There was a moment of stillness, and then he ran Harold through with his sword. Harold gasped and moved no more. Arthur, champion of politeness had won his battle. But at what cost? The Hell of war was never more apparent to him. Edit: Cuz spelling
WP inspired by https://www.reddit.com/r/whowouldwin/comments/2i9d1x/the_army_of_mordor_took_a_wrong_turn_and_goes_up/ Specifically by u/DistaNVDT " People often bring up that the monsters will absolutely wreck shit and scare them senseless. But look at it like this, there is no way in hell that, after scouting their foe, the armies would be briefed saying "So yeah we're up against these X and Y alien creatures with this size and these capabilities". Romans have a rich culture with lots of mythos, it's guaranteed that they can find similarities between every unit in Mordor's legion, and some monster from their mythology. Now what will be the Legion's morale you think, if the info they get fed isn't "we have to fight aliens" but rather "X evil god has sent his legions, we have to stop him." There are no Trolls or Wargs, there are Cyclopses and Cerberi (?). The legions are prepairing to fight the fight that their heroes in the legends have fought. They fight for X god against the armies of Y god, facing Z mythological creatures. Their heroes have vanquished creatures like these in the stories of old (so to speak). In their minds, they're not only fighting for their lives, they're fighting with the promise that victory will bring them immortality through legends written about them." p.s. Will also accept any pre-war speech to inspire the populace! Also doesn't have to be Caesar but any leader inspiring his troops.	[WP] The army of Mordor has been transported to our world at the height of the Roman Empire. Rome has assembled its army and it's Caesar is about to give his pre-battle speech.	Accidentally posted it before it was finished. Anyway, here it is, although, it's not a speech. ____ The mortal men clashed against the Legion of the Damned sent down by the Gods themselves. Steel swords crossed paths with the rounded blunt weapons of the enemy. The distinct shouting of Roman commanders over the grueling shriek of the Damned was a constant reminder to the soldiers that their world was continually fighting against the horde that threatened to take it away from them. "For Rome and for glory, legionnaires!" I shouted over the shriek of one of the Damned, as I plunged my sword deep into the being's heart, a dark black blood sprouting from it as I did. "Do not stop fighting!" My Legion was the first to clash into the Legion of the Damned, and our fight was far from over. But we had brought over much of the active Legions in order to support us, with this Legion able to defeat the entire barbarian hordes, Caesar was careful not to underestimate them. And underestimate them, he did not. There were thousands of them, mortal men including, and since they arrived they had been recruiting mortal men and women to join their crusade. The slippery tongue of Fraus, daughter of Nox, was sure to have helped the Damned in their ways of gaining followers. Nox was declaring a war on humanity, and even Jupiter himself could not fight against her and siblings. We mortals fought on our own now, without the assistance of the Gods, and without the heroes that we came to love. We only had each other and as the Damned horde took our Legions by surprise, we were forced into a battle we were not prepared for. I was one of the first in the fight, protecting my small contubernium of Legionnaires as our Legion was slaughtered in battle around us. The Damned's surprise attack which took out much of our rearguard and our Legatus was planned perfectly. They knew exactly where to hit us, and exactly when, the foresight of the Gods being given to them, another fact that we were forsaken by the immortals we had worshipped. We were being slaughtered, by the thousands, against little more than demons with swords and shields. The way they broke our lines, worse than the barbarian hordes of the North, and opening gaps between lines with ease. I did not know how, but they were doing all too well. I could see their leader as well, an enormous Damned that wore an armor shroud and metal helm that covered much of its face. And their Demons from the sky that their leaders rode on, the shrieks and claws crushing both our heads and our bodies in swift movements. They were coming, for each of us, shrieking into the sky as they swept into the Legion and took out dozens in one run. Flying demons, I thought of them, what God gave them this? "Vel! We are being slaughtered!" My legionnaire yelled to me as he struck down another Damned with a blow to the head. I knew that, I thought, but I knew we could not abandon our other legionnaires. But I saw them routing, hundreds of them, throwing down their weapons and forsaking the rest of us to the Damned. They were running. "We must go to the forest! Regroup!" I shook my head, there would be no regrouping, but we could survive in the trees and in the land. So long as we stuck to what we know. We could get back to Rome and warn Caesar of the terrible battle that had taken place. Six Legions, slaughtered in a day. I had already lost two from my conubernium, I would not lose anymore and I would give Caesar the greatest gift of all, the advice to stay back and defend his Empire. "To the forest!" I shouted as I swung my sword at another Damned, gutting it and its entrails falling to the grass and dirt. "We must warn the Caesar!" I pulled up one of my Legionnaires, Secendus, and pushed him towards the forest, "We will get home, I promise you that!" I grabbed the five of them, making sure they were each with me as we ran to the forest. And run we did. As fast and as hard as we could, carrying our weapons as the forests trees disguised us and the shrieking of the Damned disappeared into the wind. I could still hear the screams of my fellow Romans, being slaughtered by the Damned which seemed to come from nowhere and everywhere. _____ We ran for what seemed like hours until the screams subsided, but the scent of the Damned remained. And it was in that moment that I had realized we had been running North the whole time, rather than South, towards Rome. I knew in that moment that we would be trapped in Germania, with a Legion of the Damned between us and home. "What do we do?" Opius asked me, as we helped Tiberius traverse the forest with his wound. "We must go to Rome." "Rome? It is on the other side of the world. The Damned will already be on their way." "Then we move quickly." "Vel, we will not make it." "We must!" I shouted at Opius, making my decision final. "We will not desert her!" "He is right, Opius, we must go back." Opius shook his head, "We will die." "Then we will die for Rome," I nodded, "for glory and for mortal men." "Aye," Tiberius said, "I could die for that." Then we heard the shriek again, the noise that the flying Demon made as it crushed dozens of our brothers. I looked to the sky and could see it, the black outline of a large creature with a long neck, and the Rider on top. The Rider that led its Damned to attack our Legion and destroy them. I ducked down, "We may be stuck behind enemy lines, but we must try and fight to Rome." "I will need time to heal." The shriek persisted. "We don't have any time." ________ I really enjoyed this prompt! I hope you enjoyed this story and you can check out /r/BlankPagesEmptyMugs for more of my work!	(I apologize in advance for this lacking a serious tone, but this is my legitimate idea of how that would go down) Roman's! I don't know what the fuck those things are, and the odds are against us! I mean, the barbarian tribes of Britannia staved us off, so these bastards might damn well have a chance at razing Rome! But, hold fast, and keep your shields high! For I shall be with you, and we will make them regret this aggression! We may die, or we may live, but the fact remains: they will never forget THIS TRAVESTY! Mounts his horse and rides away, leaving his armies in disarray
WP inspired by https://www.reddit.com/r/whowouldwin/comments/2i9d1x/the_army_of_mordor_took_a_wrong_turn_and_goes_up/ Specifically by u/DistaNVDT " People often bring up that the monsters will absolutely wreck shit and scare them senseless. But look at it like this, there is no way in hell that, after scouting their foe, the armies would be briefed saying "So yeah we're up against these X and Y alien creatures with this size and these capabilities". Romans have a rich culture with lots of mythos, it's guaranteed that they can find similarities between every unit in Mordor's legion, and some monster from their mythology. Now what will be the Legion's morale you think, if the info they get fed isn't "we have to fight aliens" but rather "X evil god has sent his legions, we have to stop him." There are no Trolls or Wargs, there are Cyclopses and Cerberi (?). The legions are prepairing to fight the fight that their heroes in the legends have fought. They fight for X god against the armies of Y god, facing Z mythological creatures. Their heroes have vanquished creatures like these in the stories of old (so to speak). In their minds, they're not only fighting for their lives, they're fighting with the promise that victory will bring them immortality through legends written about them." p.s. Will also accept any pre-war speech to inspire the populace! Also doesn't have to be Caesar but any leader inspiring his troops.	[WP] The army of Mordor has been transported to our world at the height of the Roman Empire. Rome has assembled its army and it's Caesar is about to give his pre-battle speech.	(Note - I'm not sure of the difference between Greek vs Roman mythology but i'll just use Greek since I'm relatively sure they absorbed a lot of it) Soldiers of Rome! Everything you have heard is true. Hades himself has emerged from the underwold leading an army the likes of which we have never faced.Hades has decided that the time has come for him to extend his rule beyond the underworld and has come to challenge the Roman Empire for dominion. He comes with a horde twisted men in brutal armor who bellow, clash, and clamor. But, they are undisciplined. They shall break upon our shield wall like a crashing wave upon a cliff and WE WILL STAND TOGETHER. UNITED. UNBROKEN. UNYIELDING. He comes with monsters straight from legend. He comes with Gigantes, terrible, hulking, and huge carrying massive warclubs are coming with their desire for human flesh. He comes with hell hounds, fast, ferocious, and thirsting for blood. His armies are led by wraiths draped in black clothing and riding on dragons, the very grandchildren of Gaia herself. But we are ROMANS. We who have been raised from birth on the stories of Jason and the Argonauts who slew the giants on Doliones. We who have dreamed of being Hercules, fighting the Lernaean Hydra and defeating Cerberus the hound of Hades. Today we will fulfill our dreams. We will claim our birthright and stand as equals with the heroes of old. Hades will find that on this day he faces not one Hercules, but THOUSANDS. THAT ON THIS DAY WE WILL BECOME THE LEGENDS.	(I apologize in advance for this lacking a serious tone, but this is my legitimate idea of how that would go down) Roman's! I don't know what the fuck those things are, and the odds are against us! I mean, the barbarian tribes of Britannia staved us off, so these bastards might damn well have a chance at razing Rome! But, hold fast, and keep your shields high! For I shall be with you, and we will make them regret this aggression! We may die, or we may live, but the fact remains: they will never forget THIS TRAVESTY! Mounts his horse and rides away, leaving his armies in disarray
WP inspired by https://www.reddit.com/r/whowouldwin/comments/2i9d1x/the_army_of_mordor_took_a_wrong_turn_and_goes_up/ Specifically by u/DistaNVDT " People often bring up that the monsters will absolutely wreck shit and scare them senseless. But look at it like this, there is no way in hell that, after scouting their foe, the armies would be briefed saying "So yeah we're up against these X and Y alien creatures with this size and these capabilities". Romans have a rich culture with lots of mythos, it's guaranteed that they can find similarities between every unit in Mordor's legion, and some monster from their mythology. Now what will be the Legion's morale you think, if the info they get fed isn't "we have to fight aliens" but rather "X evil god has sent his legions, we have to stop him." There are no Trolls or Wargs, there are Cyclopses and Cerberi (?). The legions are prepairing to fight the fight that their heroes in the legends have fought. They fight for X god against the armies of Y god, facing Z mythological creatures. Their heroes have vanquished creatures like these in the stories of old (so to speak). In their minds, they're not only fighting for their lives, they're fighting with the promise that victory will bring them immortality through legends written about them." p.s. Will also accept any pre-war speech to inspire the populace! Also doesn't have to be Caesar but any leader inspiring his troops.	[WP] The army of Mordor has been transported to our world at the height of the Roman Empire. Rome has assembled its army and it's Caesar is about to give his pre-battle speech.	Senators, commoners, soldiers...Whether by way of the blade, or by decay of the flesh, we will all die. It is the end that the Fates write for all of us. In the ancient times, mortals fought against horrible writhing beasts. When faced with the most ruthless and hideous evils that threatened the lives of their families and their nations, these men fought. And through victory or tragedy, these mere mortals drove those evils back to the darkness of Tartarus. I come before you today, because these evils had not the decency to stay in the abyss our ancestors cast them into. They have returned writhed in flames and decay, just as our legends have told us before. They have come once again to extinguish mankind from the world. I stand before you today to remind you that every man dies...ONLY HEROES LIVE FOREVER. Man may fade, killed by any number of weapon or illness. Such is the ephemeral nature of flesh and blood. But a hero lives on, made of legend and praise...more permanent than the face of mountains Do you not remember the legends of Achilles, of Odysseus, of Hercules. These heroes were born mortal, able to live and die, but through their struggles they became so much more. They have become heroes as alive today in our hearts as the day they were born. Let me ask you now what you will choose. Will you flee? I will not stop you, because there is nowhere you can run. Will you surrender? What mercy will these beasts show you or your loved ones. Or will you FIGHT? Will you, a mere soldier, fight for you family and country? Will you stand against evil in all its hated forms? If you will join me, then I swear that even if our fragile bodies die, we will live on FOREVER. We the Roman Legion will live on in the hearts and minds of not just Rome, but the heart of every man, woman, and child who hears our tale. And I promise, everyone will hear our tale... So, I say CHARGE into the face of evil, and let everybody KNOW OUR NAMES...SO SAYS CAESER!	(I apologize in advance for this lacking a serious tone, but this is my legitimate idea of how that would go down) Roman's! I don't know what the fuck those things are, and the odds are against us! I mean, the barbarian tribes of Britannia staved us off, so these bastards might damn well have a chance at razing Rome! But, hold fast, and keep your shields high! For I shall be with you, and we will make them regret this aggression! We may die, or we may live, but the fact remains: they will never forget THIS TRAVESTY! Mounts his horse and rides away, leaving his armies in disarray
WP inspired by https://www.reddit.com/r/whowouldwin/comments/2i9d1x/the_army_of_mordor_took_a_wrong_turn_and_goes_up/ Specifically by u/DistaNVDT " People often bring up that the monsters will absolutely wreck shit and scare them senseless. But look at it like this, there is no way in hell that, after scouting their foe, the armies would be briefed saying "So yeah we're up against these X and Y alien creatures with this size and these capabilities". Romans have a rich culture with lots of mythos, it's guaranteed that they can find similarities between every unit in Mordor's legion, and some monster from their mythology. Now what will be the Legion's morale you think, if the info they get fed isn't "we have to fight aliens" but rather "X evil god has sent his legions, we have to stop him." There are no Trolls or Wargs, there are Cyclopses and Cerberi (?). The legions are prepairing to fight the fight that their heroes in the legends have fought. They fight for X god against the armies of Y god, facing Z mythological creatures. Their heroes have vanquished creatures like these in the stories of old (so to speak). In their minds, they're not only fighting for their lives, they're fighting with the promise that victory will bring them immortality through legends written about them." p.s. Will also accept any pre-war speech to inspire the populace! Also doesn't have to be Caesar but any leader inspiring his troops.	[WP] The army of Mordor has been transported to our world at the height of the Roman Empire. Rome has assembled its army and it's Caesar is about to give his pre-battle speech.	(Note - I'm not sure of the difference between Greek vs Roman mythology but i'll just use Greek since I'm relatively sure they absorbed a lot of it) Soldiers of Rome! Everything you have heard is true. Hades himself has emerged from the underwold leading an army the likes of which we have never faced.Hades has decided that the time has come for him to extend his rule beyond the underworld and has come to challenge the Roman Empire for dominion. He comes with a horde twisted men in brutal armor who bellow, clash, and clamor. But, they are undisciplined. They shall break upon our shield wall like a crashing wave upon a cliff and WE WILL STAND TOGETHER. UNITED. UNBROKEN. UNYIELDING. He comes with monsters straight from legend. He comes with Gigantes, terrible, hulking, and huge carrying massive warclubs are coming with their desire for human flesh. He comes with hell hounds, fast, ferocious, and thirsting for blood. His armies are led by wraiths draped in black clothing and riding on dragons, the very grandchildren of Gaia herself. But we are ROMANS. We who have been raised from birth on the stories of Jason and the Argonauts who slew the giants on Doliones. We who have dreamed of being Hercules, fighting the Lernaean Hydra and defeating Cerberus the hound of Hades. Today we will fulfill our dreams. We will claim our birthright and stand as equals with the heroes of old. Hades will find that on this day he faces not one Hercules, but THOUSANDS. THAT ON THIS DAY WE WILL BECOME THE LEGENDS.	Accidentally posted it before it was finished. Anyway, here it is, although, it's not a speech. ____ The mortal men clashed against the Legion of the Damned sent down by the Gods themselves. Steel swords crossed paths with the rounded blunt weapons of the enemy. The distinct shouting of Roman commanders over the grueling shriek of the Damned was a constant reminder to the soldiers that their world was continually fighting against the horde that threatened to take it away from them. "For Rome and for glory, legionnaires!" I shouted over the shriek of one of the Damned, as I plunged my sword deep into the being's heart, a dark black blood sprouting from it as I did. "Do not stop fighting!" My Legion was the first to clash into the Legion of the Damned, and our fight was far from over. But we had brought over much of the active Legions in order to support us, with this Legion able to defeat the entire barbarian hordes, Caesar was careful not to underestimate them. And underestimate them, he did not. There were thousands of them, mortal men including, and since they arrived they had been recruiting mortal men and women to join their crusade. The slippery tongue of Fraus, daughter of Nox, was sure to have helped the Damned in their ways of gaining followers. Nox was declaring a war on humanity, and even Jupiter himself could not fight against her and siblings. We mortals fought on our own now, without the assistance of the Gods, and without the heroes that we came to love. We only had each other and as the Damned horde took our Legions by surprise, we were forced into a battle we were not prepared for. I was one of the first in the fight, protecting my small contubernium of Legionnaires as our Legion was slaughtered in battle around us. The Damned's surprise attack which took out much of our rearguard and our Legatus was planned perfectly. They knew exactly where to hit us, and exactly when, the foresight of the Gods being given to them, another fact that we were forsaken by the immortals we had worshipped. We were being slaughtered, by the thousands, against little more than demons with swords and shields. The way they broke our lines, worse than the barbarian hordes of the North, and opening gaps between lines with ease. I did not know how, but they were doing all too well. I could see their leader as well, an enormous Damned that wore an armor shroud and metal helm that covered much of its face. And their Demons from the sky that their leaders rode on, the shrieks and claws crushing both our heads and our bodies in swift movements. They were coming, for each of us, shrieking into the sky as they swept into the Legion and took out dozens in one run. Flying demons, I thought of them, what God gave them this? "Vel! We are being slaughtered!" My legionnaire yelled to me as he struck down another Damned with a blow to the head. I knew that, I thought, but I knew we could not abandon our other legionnaires. But I saw them routing, hundreds of them, throwing down their weapons and forsaking the rest of us to the Damned. They were running. "We must go to the forest! Regroup!" I shook my head, there would be no regrouping, but we could survive in the trees and in the land. So long as we stuck to what we know. We could get back to Rome and warn Caesar of the terrible battle that had taken place. Six Legions, slaughtered in a day. I had already lost two from my conubernium, I would not lose anymore and I would give Caesar the greatest gift of all, the advice to stay back and defend his Empire. "To the forest!" I shouted as I swung my sword at another Damned, gutting it and its entrails falling to the grass and dirt. "We must warn the Caesar!" I pulled up one of my Legionnaires, Secendus, and pushed him towards the forest, "We will get home, I promise you that!" I grabbed the five of them, making sure they were each with me as we ran to the forest. And run we did. As fast and as hard as we could, carrying our weapons as the forests trees disguised us and the shrieking of the Damned disappeared into the wind. I could still hear the screams of my fellow Romans, being slaughtered by the Damned which seemed to come from nowhere and everywhere. _____ We ran for what seemed like hours until the screams subsided, but the scent of the Damned remained. And it was in that moment that I had realized we had been running North the whole time, rather than South, towards Rome. I knew in that moment that we would be trapped in Germania, with a Legion of the Damned between us and home. "What do we do?" Opius asked me, as we helped Tiberius traverse the forest with his wound. "We must go to Rome." "Rome? It is on the other side of the world. The Damned will already be on their way." "Then we move quickly." "Vel, we will not make it." "We must!" I shouted at Opius, making my decision final. "We will not desert her!" "He is right, Opius, we must go back." Opius shook his head, "We will die." "Then we will die for Rome," I nodded, "for glory and for mortal men." "Aye," Tiberius said, "I could die for that." Then we heard the shriek again, the noise that the flying Demon made as it crushed dozens of our brothers. I looked to the sky and could see it, the black outline of a large creature with a long neck, and the Rider on top. The Rider that led its Damned to attack our Legion and destroy them. I ducked down, "We may be stuck behind enemy lines, but we must try and fight to Rome." "I will need time to heal." The shriek persisted. "We don't have any time." ________ I really enjoyed this prompt! I hope you enjoyed this story and you can check out /r/BlankPagesEmptyMugs for more of my work!
WP inspired by https://www.reddit.com/r/whowouldwin/comments/2i9d1x/the_army_of_mordor_took_a_wrong_turn_and_goes_up/ Specifically by u/DistaNVDT " People often bring up that the monsters will absolutely wreck shit and scare them senseless. But look at it like this, there is no way in hell that, after scouting their foe, the armies would be briefed saying "So yeah we're up against these X and Y alien creatures with this size and these capabilities". Romans have a rich culture with lots of mythos, it's guaranteed that they can find similarities between every unit in Mordor's legion, and some monster from their mythology. Now what will be the Legion's morale you think, if the info they get fed isn't "we have to fight aliens" but rather "X evil god has sent his legions, we have to stop him." There are no Trolls or Wargs, there are Cyclopses and Cerberi (?). The legions are prepairing to fight the fight that their heroes in the legends have fought. They fight for X god against the armies of Y god, facing Z mythological creatures. Their heroes have vanquished creatures like these in the stories of old (so to speak). In their minds, they're not only fighting for their lives, they're fighting with the promise that victory will bring them immortality through legends written about them." p.s. Will also accept any pre-war speech to inspire the populace! Also doesn't have to be Caesar but any leader inspiring his troops.	[WP] The army of Mordor has been transported to our world at the height of the Roman Empire. Rome has assembled its army and it's Caesar is about to give his pre-battle speech.	Senators, commoners, soldiers...Whether by way of the blade, or by decay of the flesh, we will all die. It is the end that the Fates write for all of us. In the ancient times, mortals fought against horrible writhing beasts. When faced with the most ruthless and hideous evils that threatened the lives of their families and their nations, these men fought. And through victory or tragedy, these mere mortals drove those evils back to the darkness of Tartarus. I come before you today, because these evils had not the decency to stay in the abyss our ancestors cast them into. They have returned writhed in flames and decay, just as our legends have told us before. They have come once again to extinguish mankind from the world. I stand before you today to remind you that every man dies...ONLY HEROES LIVE FOREVER. Man may fade, killed by any number of weapon or illness. Such is the ephemeral nature of flesh and blood. But a hero lives on, made of legend and praise...more permanent than the face of mountains Do you not remember the legends of Achilles, of Odysseus, of Hercules. These heroes were born mortal, able to live and die, but through their struggles they became so much more. They have become heroes as alive today in our hearts as the day they were born. Let me ask you now what you will choose. Will you flee? I will not stop you, because there is nowhere you can run. Will you surrender? What mercy will these beasts show you or your loved ones. Or will you FIGHT? Will you, a mere soldier, fight for you family and country? Will you stand against evil in all its hated forms? If you will join me, then I swear that even if our fragile bodies die, we will live on FOREVER. We the Roman Legion will live on in the hearts and minds of not just Rome, but the heart of every man, woman, and child who hears our tale. And I promise, everyone will hear our tale... So, I say CHARGE into the face of evil, and let everybody KNOW OUR NAMES...SO SAYS CAESER!	Accidentally posted it before it was finished. Anyway, here it is, although, it's not a speech. ____ The mortal men clashed against the Legion of the Damned sent down by the Gods themselves. Steel swords crossed paths with the rounded blunt weapons of the enemy. The distinct shouting of Roman commanders over the grueling shriek of the Damned was a constant reminder to the soldiers that their world was continually fighting against the horde that threatened to take it away from them. "For Rome and for glory, legionnaires!" I shouted over the shriek of one of the Damned, as I plunged my sword deep into the being's heart, a dark black blood sprouting from it as I did. "Do not stop fighting!" My Legion was the first to clash into the Legion of the Damned, and our fight was far from over. But we had brought over much of the active Legions in order to support us, with this Legion able to defeat the entire barbarian hordes, Caesar was careful not to underestimate them. And underestimate them, he did not. There were thousands of them, mortal men including, and since they arrived they had been recruiting mortal men and women to join their crusade. The slippery tongue of Fraus, daughter of Nox, was sure to have helped the Damned in their ways of gaining followers. Nox was declaring a war on humanity, and even Jupiter himself could not fight against her and siblings. We mortals fought on our own now, without the assistance of the Gods, and without the heroes that we came to love. We only had each other and as the Damned horde took our Legions by surprise, we were forced into a battle we were not prepared for. I was one of the first in the fight, protecting my small contubernium of Legionnaires as our Legion was slaughtered in battle around us. The Damned's surprise attack which took out much of our rearguard and our Legatus was planned perfectly. They knew exactly where to hit us, and exactly when, the foresight of the Gods being given to them, another fact that we were forsaken by the immortals we had worshipped. We were being slaughtered, by the thousands, against little more than demons with swords and shields. The way they broke our lines, worse than the barbarian hordes of the North, and opening gaps between lines with ease. I did not know how, but they were doing all too well. I could see their leader as well, an enormous Damned that wore an armor shroud and metal helm that covered much of its face. And their Demons from the sky that their leaders rode on, the shrieks and claws crushing both our heads and our bodies in swift movements. They were coming, for each of us, shrieking into the sky as they swept into the Legion and took out dozens in one run. Flying demons, I thought of them, what God gave them this? "Vel! We are being slaughtered!" My legionnaire yelled to me as he struck down another Damned with a blow to the head. I knew that, I thought, but I knew we could not abandon our other legionnaires. But I saw them routing, hundreds of them, throwing down their weapons and forsaking the rest of us to the Damned. They were running. "We must go to the forest! Regroup!" I shook my head, there would be no regrouping, but we could survive in the trees and in the land. So long as we stuck to what we know. We could get back to Rome and warn Caesar of the terrible battle that had taken place. Six Legions, slaughtered in a day. I had already lost two from my conubernium, I would not lose anymore and I would give Caesar the greatest gift of all, the advice to stay back and defend his Empire. "To the forest!" I shouted as I swung my sword at another Damned, gutting it and its entrails falling to the grass and dirt. "We must warn the Caesar!" I pulled up one of my Legionnaires, Secendus, and pushed him towards the forest, "We will get home, I promise you that!" I grabbed the five of them, making sure they were each with me as we ran to the forest. And run we did. As fast and as hard as we could, carrying our weapons as the forests trees disguised us and the shrieking of the Damned disappeared into the wind. I could still hear the screams of my fellow Romans, being slaughtered by the Damned which seemed to come from nowhere and everywhere. _____ We ran for what seemed like hours until the screams subsided, but the scent of the Damned remained. And it was in that moment that I had realized we had been running North the whole time, rather than South, towards Rome. I knew in that moment that we would be trapped in Germania, with a Legion of the Damned between us and home. "What do we do?" Opius asked me, as we helped Tiberius traverse the forest with his wound. "We must go to Rome." "Rome? It is on the other side of the world. The Damned will already be on their way." "Then we move quickly." "Vel, we will not make it." "We must!" I shouted at Opius, making my decision final. "We will not desert her!" "He is right, Opius, we must go back." Opius shook his head, "We will die." "Then we will die for Rome," I nodded, "for glory and for mortal men." "Aye," Tiberius said, "I could die for that." Then we heard the shriek again, the noise that the flying Demon made as it crushed dozens of our brothers. I looked to the sky and could see it, the black outline of a large creature with a long neck, and the Rider on top. The Rider that led its Damned to attack our Legion and destroy them. I ducked down, "We may be stuck behind enemy lines, but we must try and fight to Rome." "I will need time to heal." The shriek persisted. "We don't have any time." ________ I really enjoyed this prompt! I hope you enjoyed this story and you can check out /r/BlankPagesEmptyMugs for more of my work!
EDIT : Thanks for the excellent responses! A round of applause for everyone.	[WP] A love story that starts and ends in 7 days. From strangers to strangers.	Takashi sat silently in the new Lexus, scanning the area for threats. Yokari-san was generous to those who served him well, and the new car was to show his appreciation to Takashi for keeping his only daughter safe the last three years. The neon sign flashed its signal to the night. Dance. As if Yuki needed to know how to dance. Takashi had never met anyone so in tune with herself as Yuki. She always moved in rhythm, and her weekly dance lessons had only accentuated the effect on her sixteen-year old body. He was Samurai. And that was enough. He needed to remind himself of that more often now that he was her primary bodyguard. Yuki moved through the space around her like Takashi cut through the air with his eight cuts. Each angle carefully selected for maximum effect. It had been three years since the first attack outside her school, and several months since the last attempt. The last attack was still fresh on his mind. It kept him alert. And in pain, he thought, as he massaged his right hip absentmindedly. The two were not mutually exclusive. The wound had not been as deep as it could have been. But it was deep. Distracted by his thoughts, he didn't see the gray Mercedes pull up next to him until the last moment. Alarm bells rang out in Takashi's head as he realized he didn't recognize the car. The windows were tinted with a mirror finish, and he tensed, half-expecting that this was the end. His end. That a torrent of gunfire would cut through him in the next moment. In a way, that's what it felt like when she opened her door and he saw her for the first time. Like ... one life was over and another was starting. She was beautiful in ways his mind couldn't quite fathom. Certainly in ways he had never considered. Her dark hair cascaded around her perfectly proportioned face to petite, yet strong shoulders accentuated by the stripes of her tracksuit. And her yoga pants fit perfectly, he noted as she moved towards the building. He was Samurai. That meant he had a mission. She was new and needed to be investigated, he told himself as he exited the car and followed her inside. Still, if the opportunity arose to introduce himself and learn her name ... well, no one would blame him for being thorough. ... Seven days later. Takashi had been on three dates now with Akemi, the new dance teacher. Tonight would be the fourth. Her birthday. He sat in the plush leather seat watching the craftsman make her birthday present. She was seven days younger than him. Seven. Lucky. Just as he was for getting to know her. The craftsman finished his work and blew on the thin metal to remove the last shavings, then placed it in a small brown envelope and handed it to him. "242 yen," he said. Takashi paid the man gladly. A bargain. He was more relaxed than ... well, anytime that he could remember. Yuki was safe at home with no activities after a sick teacher had cancelled a music lesson, and Takashi had planned his rare, lucky evening alone carefully around his time with Akemi. Takashi glanced at his watch. Late! He drove too fast getting home, but traffic was light. Once inside, he set the package of candles onto the table and started dinner. His precious eight cuts didn't translate to the knife work in the kitchen, but his knives - like his blade - were kept razor sharp. He diced the vegetables and meats expertly. Takashi had grown up in Yokari-san's household. His mother and father had died in a car accident when he was six. Yokari had taken him in, but only as a place to learn and grow. So Yokari paid for Takashi to attend the best schools and to be trained by the best swordsman, but he was no father to Takashi. That was right. He was Samurai and Samurai need a master. Not a father. Since Takashi had more in common with the servants of the household, he had learned kitchen work early, and he took great pride in his culinary skills. It was from them that he had learned to keep his cookware hung and in good quality always. He glanced up at the stainless steel brightened to a mirror's sheen by careful polishing and a gentle smile crossed his lips. Everything must be perfect. Once dinner was cooked and simmering, he set and lit the aromatic candles on the table and dimmed the lights of his three-room apartment. A fresh scent of citrus mixed with the salivating aroma of dinner. A knock! Takashi looked again at his apartment for anything out of place. It was sparsely furnished, but the furniture was of the highest quality. Takashi had good taste. Expensive, lasting taste. He saved his money and lived in frugality to afford it. But no, everything was where it should be. He patted the pocket of his jeans to check for the gift and heard the rewarding crackle of the thin paper. Glancing through the peephole, he saw Akemi. Akemi. Bright Beauty. And she was. He opened the door and hugged her close. She laughed. "Ohhh, everything smells so good, Takashi! I'm excited!" "You smell better, Akemi. Come, come." And Takashi led her to her seat by the hand and poured them each a glass of wine. She sat, eyes following him as he moved through the kitchen, checking each dish to make sure everything was the right temperature and texture. Akemi watched him quietly, waiting. When his back was turned, she carefully removed the top of the tiny bottle she had hidden in her grasp and continued to watch Takashi carefully as she poured its liquid contents into his wine glass. Then, breathing a quiet sigh she didn't know she had been holding, she quickly replaced the cap and slipped it into the bra underneath her thin black dress. Takashi returned with the soup and main dish and placed them on the table. He ladled out their soup, hers first and then his, and then sat at the seat closest to her. It was at an angle so they could see each other's face and yet still be in close proximity. Even the few feet directly across from her was too far for Takashi's love. The soup was excellent. They finished their bowls in silent appreciation, gazing into each other's eyes. She drank her wine, looking at Takashi expectantly. Hoping. Praying. He grasped the glass with his left hand and raised it to his lips, his eyes full of love. And then they changed as Takashi plunged the knife he had hidden in his pocket into her perfect chest and knocking her backwards off of her chair and to the ground. "How?" She asked as she began to die. "I saw you in the reflection," he explained. "Lucky, I guess. Who do you work for?" She smiled sadly and shook her head. And then she died. Takashi watched her in silence for a while. Making sure. Finally, he removed the gift from his pocket placed the key to his apartment on her chest, now reddened with blood. Strangers to lovers to strangers. All in seven days. --------------------------------------------------------------------- This is a continuation of a former story. [Part 1 is here](https://www.reddit.com/r/WritingPrompts/comments/435a38/wp_you_work_for_the_yakuza_your_boss_has_gotten/czfw261). The story continues in [Part 3](https://www.reddit.com/r/WritingPrompts/comments/44drko/wpa_knife_flashes_toward_your_heart_the_last/czq1nc9).	The first day was magnificent. I could see her everywhere I went. In my coffee, in my shoes, In the t.v while watching news. She had me acting like a kid. Though I didn't know her name. On the second day, a slow approach. I felt I had to make the most. I looked at her and she at me. We both saw the spark quite instantly. I said, "Hello, my name is Sid" and thus I lit the flame. Things were quickening by the third. We both were fond of watching birds. She played checkers, I played chess. We played each other to see who's best I fell hard. You bet I did. When she beat me at my game. Day four, our hearts kept up the pace. Though we knew it was not a race. Just being in her company, was the best kind of fun for me. Nothing about it was a quiz. She was my kind of dame. A question came up upon the fifth. I asked exactly where she lived. And the answer so perfect you can ignore her room was down one floor! Hopeless romance, I'm in bliss. Love the culprit to blame. 6 days have passed and still I see. The reasons why it's meant to be. Gracefully across the common room she is dancing with a broom! Truly a small world this is. We both wound up insane. A week has now come and gone. I ask the nurse if she's seen my blonde. I find her and a blank stare in her eyes. I see, my face, she doesn't recognize. Just one day of meds she missed. now I swallow the pain.
EDIT : Thanks for the excellent responses! A round of applause for everyone.	[WP] A love story that starts and ends in 7 days. From strangers to strangers.	The day I met Opal wasn't exactly special. It was an ordinary Saturday, overcast, a little nippy. Nippy enough to warrant a scarf, at least. Despite the chill, my whim compelled me to make an extra stop on my afternoon walk, between the post office and the grocery store. It was a place I'd visited before, and the residents were usually pleased to see me. Well, either that or asleep, but you know what I mean. Opal was a new face that day. She was an older girl. I've heard many a time that the older ones have a lot more trouble getting adopted, and perhaps that swayed me, but I like to think the motive was unimportant. I knew from the moment I scratched the side of her face and got that gravelly meow out of her that I wanted to take her home. The hard part was committing to do it. The shelter was closed on Sunday, but I paid visits Monday and Tuesday night of that week, and neither time could I work up the nerve to ask the staff about adoption. I couldn't, I told myself. I couldn't afford a cat. I would do better to put my money towards my student loans than cat food, litter, and my apartment's pet rent. I didn't visit on Wednesday. I couldn't make up my mind. But Wednesday night, before I went to bed, I finally said to myself, yes, I would do it. I would bring Opal home. I went and spoke with the staff of the apartment complex on Thursday to confirm the pet rent policy. I bought kibble, I bought a litter box, I bought a comb, I bought a feather on a stick and a laser pointer. I was going to do it, and I was going to be prepared. I went in on Friday, and Opal was gone. The kindly woman at the desk told me that Opal had already been adopted. It took me a second to accept, but then I smiled as best I could, thanked the woman for her time, and left the shelter. I'm happy for Opal, don't get me wrong. She has a loving family now, as she deserves. But that doesn't stop the sting in my chest.	The first day was magnificent. I could see her everywhere I went. In my coffee, in my shoes, In the t.v while watching news. She had me acting like a kid. Though I didn't know her name. On the second day, a slow approach. I felt I had to make the most. I looked at her and she at me. We both saw the spark quite instantly. I said, "Hello, my name is Sid" and thus I lit the flame. Things were quickening by the third. We both were fond of watching birds. She played checkers, I played chess. We played each other to see who's best I fell hard. You bet I did. When she beat me at my game. Day four, our hearts kept up the pace. Though we knew it was not a race. Just being in her company, was the best kind of fun for me. Nothing about it was a quiz. She was my kind of dame. A question came up upon the fifth. I asked exactly where she lived. And the answer so perfect you can ignore her room was down one floor! Hopeless romance, I'm in bliss. Love the culprit to blame. 6 days have passed and still I see. The reasons why it's meant to be. Gracefully across the common room she is dancing with a broom! Truly a small world this is. We both wound up insane. A week has now come and gone. I ask the nurse if she's seen my blonde. I find her and a blank stare in her eyes. I see, my face, she doesn't recognize. Just one day of meds she missed. now I swallow the pain.
EDIT : Thanks for the excellent responses! A round of applause for everyone.	[WP] A love story that starts and ends in 7 days. From strangers to strangers.	Monday morning. I first saw him on the train and then again in the hotel lobby. He was tall, handsome in his business suit and maybe a little old for me. But there was still something there I found intriguing. I overheard him say he was going to be staying for a week. Sheena checked him in and gave him room 704, one of mine. I'd changed the sheets, cleaned the tub and toilet, and put out fresh soaps and shampoos just yesterday. He didn't notice me coming out of the back after I clocked in for my shift. Funny how people won't look at you or just don't notice you when you're pushing this huge cart full of cleaning supplies right in front of them. I saw him board the elevator, and hurried in to get a better look. He smelled really nice. Whatever it was, I am guessing a bottle of it costs more than I make in a week. He exited the elevator on the seventh floor, and I watched until the doors closed, heading on up to floor nine to begin my work. He wouldn't need me to do anything in his suite until tomorrow, probably. I smelled like bleach when I rode the train home. All I could think of was how nice he had smelled, and wouldn't it be great to smell like that after a hug from him, instead of like bleach after a day of cleaning toilets. I indulged myself in a romantic fantasy, daydreaming about meeting up with him in the hotel bar, dressed in something much more appealing than my uniform. No hair net. Tuesday around nine, he put the little plastic placard on the door knob, letting me know he was ready for a clean. I'd been past the room a couple of times already, eager to see what more I could learn about him, besides the fact that he was good looking, older, and smelled nice. He was gone when I went in. Brooks Brothers shirts pressed neatly, hung in a row in the closet. Pants and jackets each in their group; and one pair of jeans; one pair of sneakers; pajamas and underwear, t shirts- everything smelled like it was freshly laundered, but slightly carried a memory of him. There was a book on the table, and a single empty soda can. There wasn't much to clean, but I lingered longer than I should have. For some reason, I looked around before I did this, but then I laid down in the bed, squeezing the pillow for a second and pretended it was him- that scent was all over it. I heard the electronic lock engage as a card slid in it, and I almost wet myself jumping out of the bed and positioning myself to appear as though I'd only been making it. "Oh, hi there, I just came back to grab something, and I'll be out of your way," he said, picking up a small leather binder off of an end table. His smile was warm and his eyes were green. I'd never seen lashes like that on a man . He was even more handsome than I'd noticed before. I couldn't speak, so I just smiled and nodded. He told me to have a wonderful day. I barely squeaked out "OK, " and out the door, he was gone. It was then that I noticed my reflection in the big mirror opposite the bed. Oh, shit! My hair was all over the place from having just moments before smushed my face into his pillow. I turned bright red, and thanked the gods no one could see me now. Fucking Charlotte. I was still red and blotchy when I exited the room, and there she was, coming out of the elevator. "Jennifer, take a allergy pill or something, please, you look like shit. Did you get the rooms on floor nine yet?" "Yes, Charlotte. I've finished nine, eight, and seven. I'm heading down to six now." Secretly, I wanted to kick her in the shins and run. In six months of working here, I've never been anything but efficient and fast. She knows that, but feels like she has to make herself look like she's motivating everyone. All day Wednesday he had the do not disturb placard on the doorknob. I could hear people talking when I went by. Mostly men, but it sounded like at least one woman was in there, laughing. I went by a few times more than I should have, but I still got my work done on time. Thursday was my day off, and I felt stupid for wanting to be there anyway. What kind of dummy wants to clean toilets just so they can look at some rich guy that's never going to give her a second thought? I walked the dog and we somehow ended up walking by the hotel. No sightings of the handsome Mr. Green Eyes. Poor Chuy, his little legs were not meant to walk that far, so I carried him home. Friday, I went in early, so that Maggie could go to a parent-teacher thing, and I saw him at the breakfast buffet. There were two other well dressed men and a woman with dirty blond hair talking to them with lipstick smeared across her teeth. She was laughing and touched one of the men on his arm. Then she turned to Mr. Green eyes and said "Remember the conference in Buffalo? When we were all snowed in and had to stay there an extra two days? Good God, I'm glad we're in Miami this year!" I got my coffee and went to tell Maggie I was here and she could leave. When I got to room 704, it was a bit more used than it had been the other day. There were dirty glasses and moisture rings on the table. His jeans were crumpled up and laying in the floor in front of the TV. I hung them in the closet, and began wiping everything down. I found an earring in the floor next to the bed, and set it on the dresser with a note. I wrote and tossed, and rewrote the note several times, finally settling on "Found this while cleaning, did not see it's mate," a smiley face, and my name, with the word housekeeping in parenthesis. Mr. green Eyes and Dirty Blond Lady were probably shagging. I finished cleaning the room, made the bed, without noticing any dirty blond hairs, and left. Saturday, after my shift, I decided I would go out for a drink. It's against policy to drink in the hotel bar, so I changed in the staff bathroom, and headed to the place we all go- since I don't really know anybody that doesn't work with me. I sat down at the bar and talked to Mike the bartender, while he made me a Long Island Tea. No one else was there yet, it was kind of early, maybe sevenish. I was hungry, so I ordered some chili cheese fries, and right when they came, Mr. Green Eyes walked in. He was alone. The place was still mostly empty, and there he was- walking right towards me. "Jennifer?" The way he said it gave me goosebumps. Or maybe that was just a cool Atlantic breeze coming in from the open patio doors. I had on a simple blue dress with a low back, and the doors were right behind me. I nodded my head, and said "704, right?" "That's right," he smiled. "Thanks for putting Kim's earring on the dresser- she probably lost it along with her dignity, when she was drunkenly trying to get me to sit on the bed with her. "That must have been fun." I raised my eyebrows involuntarily when I said that. "Not really. I've worked with her for years, and she's married to a man I play golf with from time to time. I told her I was gay last year, thinking that might make her quit with the advances. No such luck." "Are you gay?" I smiled. "Yes. I'm gay. I'm getting married next August, to my boyfriend of twenty years." "Want some of my fries?" That was all I could think of to say at the moment. Mr. Green Eyes was so out of my league, ha ha, but he was so nice, and smelled so good. He smiled and stuffed a chili cheese fry in his mouth. We spent that whole night hanging out together. He bought me dinner, and we talked about Miami, dogs, music. Then we went dancing. He could salsa like a pro, and we had a lot of fun. We ended up walking on the beach at sunrise Sunday morning. He told me he was leaving in the afternoon, heading back home to San Diego, and his boyfriend. "Well, Mr. Green Eyes, that was the best night out I've had in Miami so far, and I would like to thank you for spending it with me." I smiled and we walked back to the hotel. "Can I get a hug?" He asked. His embrace was so comfortable, and I was enveloped in the warmth of his arms, and the scent of his cologne. His name was actually Paul, and clearly, he was not the one for me. But I will always remember those eyes, and that wonderful scent.	The first day was magnificent. I could see her everywhere I went. In my coffee, in my shoes, In the t.v while watching news. She had me acting like a kid. Though I didn't know her name. On the second day, a slow approach. I felt I had to make the most. I looked at her and she at me. We both saw the spark quite instantly. I said, "Hello, my name is Sid" and thus I lit the flame. Things were quickening by the third. We both were fond of watching birds. She played checkers, I played chess. We played each other to see who's best I fell hard. You bet I did. When she beat me at my game. Day four, our hearts kept up the pace. Though we knew it was not a race. Just being in her company, was the best kind of fun for me. Nothing about it was a quiz. She was my kind of dame. A question came up upon the fifth. I asked exactly where she lived. And the answer so perfect you can ignore her room was down one floor! Hopeless romance, I'm in bliss. Love the culprit to blame. 6 days have passed and still I see. The reasons why it's meant to be. Gracefully across the common room she is dancing with a broom! Truly a small world this is. We both wound up insane. A week has now come and gone. I ask the nurse if she's seen my blonde. I find her and a blank stare in her eyes. I see, my face, she doesn't recognize. Just one day of meds she missed. now I swallow the pain.
EDIT : Thanks for the excellent responses! A round of applause for everyone.	[WP] A love story that starts and ends in 7 days. From strangers to strangers.	Monday morning. I first saw him on the train and then again in the hotel lobby. He was tall, handsome in his business suit and maybe a little old for me. But there was still something there I found intriguing. I overheard him say he was going to be staying for a week. Sheena checked him in and gave him room 704, one of mine. I'd changed the sheets, cleaned the tub and toilet, and put out fresh soaps and shampoos just yesterday. He didn't notice me coming out of the back after I clocked in for my shift. Funny how people won't look at you or just don't notice you when you're pushing this huge cart full of cleaning supplies right in front of them. I saw him board the elevator, and hurried in to get a better look. He smelled really nice. Whatever it was, I am guessing a bottle of it costs more than I make in a week. He exited the elevator on the seventh floor, and I watched until the doors closed, heading on up to floor nine to begin my work. He wouldn't need me to do anything in his suite until tomorrow, probably. I smelled like bleach when I rode the train home. All I could think of was how nice he had smelled, and wouldn't it be great to smell like that after a hug from him, instead of like bleach after a day of cleaning toilets. I indulged myself in a romantic fantasy, daydreaming about meeting up with him in the hotel bar, dressed in something much more appealing than my uniform. No hair net. Tuesday around nine, he put the little plastic placard on the door knob, letting me know he was ready for a clean. I'd been past the room a couple of times already, eager to see what more I could learn about him, besides the fact that he was good looking, older, and smelled nice. He was gone when I went in. Brooks Brothers shirts pressed neatly, hung in a row in the closet. Pants and jackets each in their group; and one pair of jeans; one pair of sneakers; pajamas and underwear, t shirts- everything smelled like it was freshly laundered, but slightly carried a memory of him. There was a book on the table, and a single empty soda can. There wasn't much to clean, but I lingered longer than I should have. For some reason, I looked around before I did this, but then I laid down in the bed, squeezing the pillow for a second and pretended it was him- that scent was all over it. I heard the electronic lock engage as a card slid in it, and I almost wet myself jumping out of the bed and positioning myself to appear as though I'd only been making it. "Oh, hi there, I just came back to grab something, and I'll be out of your way," he said, picking up a small leather binder off of an end table. His smile was warm and his eyes were green. I'd never seen lashes like that on a man . He was even more handsome than I'd noticed before. I couldn't speak, so I just smiled and nodded. He told me to have a wonderful day. I barely squeaked out "OK, " and out the door, he was gone. It was then that I noticed my reflection in the big mirror opposite the bed. Oh, shit! My hair was all over the place from having just moments before smushed my face into his pillow. I turned bright red, and thanked the gods no one could see me now. Fucking Charlotte. I was still red and blotchy when I exited the room, and there she was, coming out of the elevator. "Jennifer, take a allergy pill or something, please, you look like shit. Did you get the rooms on floor nine yet?" "Yes, Charlotte. I've finished nine, eight, and seven. I'm heading down to six now." Secretly, I wanted to kick her in the shins and run. In six months of working here, I've never been anything but efficient and fast. She knows that, but feels like she has to make herself look like she's motivating everyone. All day Wednesday he had the do not disturb placard on the doorknob. I could hear people talking when I went by. Mostly men, but it sounded like at least one woman was in there, laughing. I went by a few times more than I should have, but I still got my work done on time. Thursday was my day off, and I felt stupid for wanting to be there anyway. What kind of dummy wants to clean toilets just so they can look at some rich guy that's never going to give her a second thought? I walked the dog and we somehow ended up walking by the hotel. No sightings of the handsome Mr. Green Eyes. Poor Chuy, his little legs were not meant to walk that far, so I carried him home. Friday, I went in early, so that Maggie could go to a parent-teacher thing, and I saw him at the breakfast buffet. There were two other well dressed men and a woman with dirty blond hair talking to them with lipstick smeared across her teeth. She was laughing and touched one of the men on his arm. Then she turned to Mr. Green eyes and said "Remember the conference in Buffalo? When we were all snowed in and had to stay there an extra two days? Good God, I'm glad we're in Miami this year!" I got my coffee and went to tell Maggie I was here and she could leave. When I got to room 704, it was a bit more used than it had been the other day. There were dirty glasses and moisture rings on the table. His jeans were crumpled up and laying in the floor in front of the TV. I hung them in the closet, and began wiping everything down. I found an earring in the floor next to the bed, and set it on the dresser with a note. I wrote and tossed, and rewrote the note several times, finally settling on "Found this while cleaning, did not see it's mate," a smiley face, and my name, with the word housekeeping in parenthesis. Mr. green Eyes and Dirty Blond Lady were probably shagging. I finished cleaning the room, made the bed, without noticing any dirty blond hairs, and left. Saturday, after my shift, I decided I would go out for a drink. It's against policy to drink in the hotel bar, so I changed in the staff bathroom, and headed to the place we all go- since I don't really know anybody that doesn't work with me. I sat down at the bar and talked to Mike the bartender, while he made me a Long Island Tea. No one else was there yet, it was kind of early, maybe sevenish. I was hungry, so I ordered some chili cheese fries, and right when they came, Mr. Green Eyes walked in. He was alone. The place was still mostly empty, and there he was- walking right towards me. "Jennifer?" The way he said it gave me goosebumps. Or maybe that was just a cool Atlantic breeze coming in from the open patio doors. I had on a simple blue dress with a low back, and the doors were right behind me. I nodded my head, and said "704, right?" "That's right," he smiled. "Thanks for putting Kim's earring on the dresser- she probably lost it along with her dignity, when she was drunkenly trying to get me to sit on the bed with her. "That must have been fun." I raised my eyebrows involuntarily when I said that. "Not really. I've worked with her for years, and she's married to a man I play golf with from time to time. I told her I was gay last year, thinking that might make her quit with the advances. No such luck." "Are you gay?" I smiled. "Yes. I'm gay. I'm getting married next August, to my boyfriend of twenty years." "Want some of my fries?" That was all I could think of to say at the moment. Mr. Green Eyes was so out of my league, ha ha, but he was so nice, and smelled so good. He smiled and stuffed a chili cheese fry in his mouth. We spent that whole night hanging out together. He bought me dinner, and we talked about Miami, dogs, music. Then we went dancing. He could salsa like a pro, and we had a lot of fun. We ended up walking on the beach at sunrise Sunday morning. He told me he was leaving in the afternoon, heading back home to San Diego, and his boyfriend. "Well, Mr. Green Eyes, that was the best night out I've had in Miami so far, and I would like to thank you for spending it with me." I smiled and we walked back to the hotel. "Can I get a hug?" He asked. His embrace was so comfortable, and I was enveloped in the warmth of his arms, and the scent of his cologne. His name was actually Paul, and clearly, he was not the one for me. But I will always remember those eyes, and that wonderful scent.	Takashi sat silently in the new Lexus, scanning the area for threats. Yokari-san was generous to those who served him well, and the new car was to show his appreciation to Takashi for keeping his only daughter safe the last three years. The neon sign flashed its signal to the night. Dance. As if Yuki needed to know how to dance. Takashi had never met anyone so in tune with herself as Yuki. She always moved in rhythm, and her weekly dance lessons had only accentuated the effect on her sixteen-year old body. He was Samurai. And that was enough. He needed to remind himself of that more often now that he was her primary bodyguard. Yuki moved through the space around her like Takashi cut through the air with his eight cuts. Each angle carefully selected for maximum effect. It had been three years since the first attack outside her school, and several months since the last attempt. The last attack was still fresh on his mind. It kept him alert. And in pain, he thought, as he massaged his right hip absentmindedly. The two were not mutually exclusive. The wound had not been as deep as it could have been. But it was deep. Distracted by his thoughts, he didn't see the gray Mercedes pull up next to him until the last moment. Alarm bells rang out in Takashi's head as he realized he didn't recognize the car. The windows were tinted with a mirror finish, and he tensed, half-expecting that this was the end. His end. That a torrent of gunfire would cut through him in the next moment. In a way, that's what it felt like when she opened her door and he saw her for the first time. Like ... one life was over and another was starting. She was beautiful in ways his mind couldn't quite fathom. Certainly in ways he had never considered. Her dark hair cascaded around her perfectly proportioned face to petite, yet strong shoulders accentuated by the stripes of her tracksuit. And her yoga pants fit perfectly, he noted as she moved towards the building. He was Samurai. That meant he had a mission. She was new and needed to be investigated, he told himself as he exited the car and followed her inside. Still, if the opportunity arose to introduce himself and learn her name ... well, no one would blame him for being thorough. ... Seven days later. Takashi had been on three dates now with Akemi, the new dance teacher. Tonight would be the fourth. Her birthday. He sat in the plush leather seat watching the craftsman make her birthday present. She was seven days younger than him. Seven. Lucky. Just as he was for getting to know her. The craftsman finished his work and blew on the thin metal to remove the last shavings, then placed it in a small brown envelope and handed it to him. "242 yen," he said. Takashi paid the man gladly. A bargain. He was more relaxed than ... well, anytime that he could remember. Yuki was safe at home with no activities after a sick teacher had cancelled a music lesson, and Takashi had planned his rare, lucky evening alone carefully around his time with Akemi. Takashi glanced at his watch. Late! He drove too fast getting home, but traffic was light. Once inside, he set the package of candles onto the table and started dinner. His precious eight cuts didn't translate to the knife work in the kitchen, but his knives - like his blade - were kept razor sharp. He diced the vegetables and meats expertly. Takashi had grown up in Yokari-san's household. His mother and father had died in a car accident when he was six. Yokari had taken him in, but only as a place to learn and grow. So Yokari paid for Takashi to attend the best schools and to be trained by the best swordsman, but he was no father to Takashi. That was right. He was Samurai and Samurai need a master. Not a father. Since Takashi had more in common with the servants of the household, he had learned kitchen work early, and he took great pride in his culinary skills. It was from them that he had learned to keep his cookware hung and in good quality always. He glanced up at the stainless steel brightened to a mirror's sheen by careful polishing and a gentle smile crossed his lips. Everything must be perfect. Once dinner was cooked and simmering, he set and lit the aromatic candles on the table and dimmed the lights of his three-room apartment. A fresh scent of citrus mixed with the salivating aroma of dinner. A knock! Takashi looked again at his apartment for anything out of place. It was sparsely furnished, but the furniture was of the highest quality. Takashi had good taste. Expensive, lasting taste. He saved his money and lived in frugality to afford it. But no, everything was where it should be. He patted the pocket of his jeans to check for the gift and heard the rewarding crackle of the thin paper. Glancing through the peephole, he saw Akemi. Akemi. Bright Beauty. And she was. He opened the door and hugged her close. She laughed. "Ohhh, everything smells so good, Takashi! I'm excited!" "You smell better, Akemi. Come, come." And Takashi led her to her seat by the hand and poured them each a glass of wine. She sat, eyes following him as he moved through the kitchen, checking each dish to make sure everything was the right temperature and texture. Akemi watched him quietly, waiting. When his back was turned, she carefully removed the top of the tiny bottle she had hidden in her grasp and continued to watch Takashi carefully as she poured its liquid contents into his wine glass. Then, breathing a quiet sigh she didn't know she had been holding, she quickly replaced the cap and slipped it into the bra underneath her thin black dress. Takashi returned with the soup and main dish and placed them on the table. He ladled out their soup, hers first and then his, and then sat at the seat closest to her. It was at an angle so they could see each other's face and yet still be in close proximity. Even the few feet directly across from her was too far for Takashi's love. The soup was excellent. They finished their bowls in silent appreciation, gazing into each other's eyes. She drank her wine, looking at Takashi expectantly. Hoping. Praying. He grasped the glass with his left hand and raised it to his lips, his eyes full of love. And then they changed as Takashi plunged the knife he had hidden in his pocket into her perfect chest and knocking her backwards off of her chair and to the ground. "How?" She asked as she began to die. "I saw you in the reflection," he explained. "Lucky, I guess. Who do you work for?" She smiled sadly and shook her head. And then she died. Takashi watched her in silence for a while. Making sure. Finally, he removed the gift from his pocket placed the key to his apartment on her chest, now reddened with blood. Strangers to lovers to strangers. All in seven days. --------------------------------------------------------------------- This is a continuation of a former story. [Part 1 is here](https://www.reddit.com/r/WritingPrompts/comments/435a38/wp_you_work_for_the_yakuza_your_boss_has_gotten/czfw261). The story continues in [Part 3](https://www.reddit.com/r/WritingPrompts/comments/44drko/wpa_knife_flashes_toward_your_heart_the_last/czq1nc9).
EDIT : Thanks for the excellent responses! A round of applause for everyone.	[WP] A love story that starts and ends in 7 days. From strangers to strangers.	Monday morning. I first saw him on the train and then again in the hotel lobby. He was tall, handsome in his business suit and maybe a little old for me. But there was still something there I found intriguing. I overheard him say he was going to be staying for a week. Sheena checked him in and gave him room 704, one of mine. I'd changed the sheets, cleaned the tub and toilet, and put out fresh soaps and shampoos just yesterday. He didn't notice me coming out of the back after I clocked in for my shift. Funny how people won't look at you or just don't notice you when you're pushing this huge cart full of cleaning supplies right in front of them. I saw him board the elevator, and hurried in to get a better look. He smelled really nice. Whatever it was, I am guessing a bottle of it costs more than I make in a week. He exited the elevator on the seventh floor, and I watched until the doors closed, heading on up to floor nine to begin my work. He wouldn't need me to do anything in his suite until tomorrow, probably. I smelled like bleach when I rode the train home. All I could think of was how nice he had smelled, and wouldn't it be great to smell like that after a hug from him, instead of like bleach after a day of cleaning toilets. I indulged myself in a romantic fantasy, daydreaming about meeting up with him in the hotel bar, dressed in something much more appealing than my uniform. No hair net. Tuesday around nine, he put the little plastic placard on the door knob, letting me know he was ready for a clean. I'd been past the room a couple of times already, eager to see what more I could learn about him, besides the fact that he was good looking, older, and smelled nice. He was gone when I went in. Brooks Brothers shirts pressed neatly, hung in a row in the closet. Pants and jackets each in their group; and one pair of jeans; one pair of sneakers; pajamas and underwear, t shirts- everything smelled like it was freshly laundered, but slightly carried a memory of him. There was a book on the table, and a single empty soda can. There wasn't much to clean, but I lingered longer than I should have. For some reason, I looked around before I did this, but then I laid down in the bed, squeezing the pillow for a second and pretended it was him- that scent was all over it. I heard the electronic lock engage as a card slid in it, and I almost wet myself jumping out of the bed and positioning myself to appear as though I'd only been making it. "Oh, hi there, I just came back to grab something, and I'll be out of your way," he said, picking up a small leather binder off of an end table. His smile was warm and his eyes were green. I'd never seen lashes like that on a man . He was even more handsome than I'd noticed before. I couldn't speak, so I just smiled and nodded. He told me to have a wonderful day. I barely squeaked out "OK, " and out the door, he was gone. It was then that I noticed my reflection in the big mirror opposite the bed. Oh, shit! My hair was all over the place from having just moments before smushed my face into his pillow. I turned bright red, and thanked the gods no one could see me now. Fucking Charlotte. I was still red and blotchy when I exited the room, and there she was, coming out of the elevator. "Jennifer, take a allergy pill or something, please, you look like shit. Did you get the rooms on floor nine yet?" "Yes, Charlotte. I've finished nine, eight, and seven. I'm heading down to six now." Secretly, I wanted to kick her in the shins and run. In six months of working here, I've never been anything but efficient and fast. She knows that, but feels like she has to make herself look like she's motivating everyone. All day Wednesday he had the do not disturb placard on the doorknob. I could hear people talking when I went by. Mostly men, but it sounded like at least one woman was in there, laughing. I went by a few times more than I should have, but I still got my work done on time. Thursday was my day off, and I felt stupid for wanting to be there anyway. What kind of dummy wants to clean toilets just so they can look at some rich guy that's never going to give her a second thought? I walked the dog and we somehow ended up walking by the hotel. No sightings of the handsome Mr. Green Eyes. Poor Chuy, his little legs were not meant to walk that far, so I carried him home. Friday, I went in early, so that Maggie could go to a parent-teacher thing, and I saw him at the breakfast buffet. There were two other well dressed men and a woman with dirty blond hair talking to them with lipstick smeared across her teeth. She was laughing and touched one of the men on his arm. Then she turned to Mr. Green eyes and said "Remember the conference in Buffalo? When we were all snowed in and had to stay there an extra two days? Good God, I'm glad we're in Miami this year!" I got my coffee and went to tell Maggie I was here and she could leave. When I got to room 704, it was a bit more used than it had been the other day. There were dirty glasses and moisture rings on the table. His jeans were crumpled up and laying in the floor in front of the TV. I hung them in the closet, and began wiping everything down. I found an earring in the floor next to the bed, and set it on the dresser with a note. I wrote and tossed, and rewrote the note several times, finally settling on "Found this while cleaning, did not see it's mate," a smiley face, and my name, with the word housekeeping in parenthesis. Mr. green Eyes and Dirty Blond Lady were probably shagging. I finished cleaning the room, made the bed, without noticing any dirty blond hairs, and left. Saturday, after my shift, I decided I would go out for a drink. It's against policy to drink in the hotel bar, so I changed in the staff bathroom, and headed to the place we all go- since I don't really know anybody that doesn't work with me. I sat down at the bar and talked to Mike the bartender, while he made me a Long Island Tea. No one else was there yet, it was kind of early, maybe sevenish. I was hungry, so I ordered some chili cheese fries, and right when they came, Mr. Green Eyes walked in. He was alone. The place was still mostly empty, and there he was- walking right towards me. "Jennifer?" The way he said it gave me goosebumps. Or maybe that was just a cool Atlantic breeze coming in from the open patio doors. I had on a simple blue dress with a low back, and the doors were right behind me. I nodded my head, and said "704, right?" "That's right," he smiled. "Thanks for putting Kim's earring on the dresser- she probably lost it along with her dignity, when she was drunkenly trying to get me to sit on the bed with her. "That must have been fun." I raised my eyebrows involuntarily when I said that. "Not really. I've worked with her for years, and she's married to a man I play golf with from time to time. I told her I was gay last year, thinking that might make her quit with the advances. No such luck." "Are you gay?" I smiled. "Yes. I'm gay. I'm getting married next August, to my boyfriend of twenty years." "Want some of my fries?" That was all I could think of to say at the moment. Mr. Green Eyes was so out of my league, ha ha, but he was so nice, and smelled so good. He smiled and stuffed a chili cheese fry in his mouth. We spent that whole night hanging out together. He bought me dinner, and we talked about Miami, dogs, music. Then we went dancing. He could salsa like a pro, and we had a lot of fun. We ended up walking on the beach at sunrise Sunday morning. He told me he was leaving in the afternoon, heading back home to San Diego, and his boyfriend. "Well, Mr. Green Eyes, that was the best night out I've had in Miami so far, and I would like to thank you for spending it with me." I smiled and we walked back to the hotel. "Can I get a hug?" He asked. His embrace was so comfortable, and I was enveloped in the warmth of his arms, and the scent of his cologne. His name was actually Paul, and clearly, he was not the one for me. But I will always remember those eyes, and that wonderful scent.	The day I met Opal wasn't exactly special. It was an ordinary Saturday, overcast, a little nippy. Nippy enough to warrant a scarf, at least. Despite the chill, my whim compelled me to make an extra stop on my afternoon walk, between the post office and the grocery store. It was a place I'd visited before, and the residents were usually pleased to see me. Well, either that or asleep, but you know what I mean. Opal was a new face that day. She was an older girl. I've heard many a time that the older ones have a lot more trouble getting adopted, and perhaps that swayed me, but I like to think the motive was unimportant. I knew from the moment I scratched the side of her face and got that gravelly meow out of her that I wanted to take her home. The hard part was committing to do it. The shelter was closed on Sunday, but I paid visits Monday and Tuesday night of that week, and neither time could I work up the nerve to ask the staff about adoption. I couldn't, I told myself. I couldn't afford a cat. I would do better to put my money towards my student loans than cat food, litter, and my apartment's pet rent. I didn't visit on Wednesday. I couldn't make up my mind. But Wednesday night, before I went to bed, I finally said to myself, yes, I would do it. I would bring Opal home. I went and spoke with the staff of the apartment complex on Thursday to confirm the pet rent policy. I bought kibble, I bought a litter box, I bought a comb, I bought a feather on a stick and a laser pointer. I was going to do it, and I was going to be prepared. I went in on Friday, and Opal was gone. The kindly woman at the desk told me that Opal had already been adopted. It took me a second to accept, but then I smiled as best I could, thanked the woman for her time, and left the shelter. I'm happy for Opal, don't get me wrong. She has a loving family now, as she deserves. But that doesn't stop the sting in my chest.
	[WP] Whenever you get chills, you just died in an alternate universe.	It's tough work, being a Death Corrections Officer. You see some really messed up shit down there, but the worst thing is, there's not a single person in the DCO who will give you an ounce of sympathy. They've all seen things just as bad as you have, and they're struggling through just fine, so why should you need any help? I suppose I should explain just what the DCO is. There's a plan to the world; a rhyme and a reason to the way things are supposed to go. Except, every so often, things...don't go according to plan. That's when we step in. Find the event in question, shift in an alternate universe to patch the prime one, and boom, the world continues on its merry way. Easy. But not fun. See, you've gotta look at what happened to see how to stop it. That means looking at death, five or ten times a day, every day. Something like that changes a man. You normals get away with just a little shiver up your spine, a faint memory of the former universe, but we have to watch you die, sometimes over and over again, five, six times. And then there's you assholes. Of all the fuckin' hobbies you had to take up...do you know how much it sucks to have to rescue the same dude a couple thousand times in the same fuckin' day? Don't even ask me how the hell youtube videos can cause all the accidents they do, I've got no fuckin' idea. Just know that I hate you, I hate everything about you, and I hope you die. Oh wait. You already did. Again, and again, and again, and again, and... Shit, I need a drink. God this job sucks. -------------- In the real world, John Jones moaned in pleasure as the girl on the screen whispered into the microphone. ASMR videos really were the best.	Originally I dismissed them. I mean, who doesn't get chills from time to time? Right? Sometimes they can be quite satisfying, like a release in your system. Only recently did they start to get...unnerving. They started out in little waves- lasting for a few seconds longer each time they occurred; perhaps two every minute at the least and as much as twenty to twenty five at their peak. Today I hit fifty. No, it wasn't just one, really long, shiver, it was fifty distinct sometimes crippling rattlings; it was like my skeleton was trying to escape from my skin. Overwhelming dread would envelop me, all the colour in the world would seem duller, as if it had lost its quintessential spark. It was terrifying. Right now I'm on number thirty two and I'm only forty seconds in, I think I may be going for the record. I'm starting to hear things, strange things, like distant, echoing cries. The most disturbing of all is I feel like I recognise the cries, recognise the desperate voice. They are getting louder, almost as if the source of the turmoil is getting closer, breaking down the barrier to reach me. Forty seven in fifty seconds. The screams are unimaginably clear now, I can hear every crack in the owner's voice, many times I have had to look around to check they were not in the room. Fifty six in the same number seconds. Everything seems grey-scale now, like a bad instagram filter, it is like my world is dying. The sky has turned black; everything looks like it is spinning, like a toddler swirling their finger in the sand. I start to scream.
	[WP] Whenever you get chills, you just died in an alternate universe.	I was tapping away, excited. Finally I'd cracked this algorithm, and now my code was flowing freely from my fingers into the editor. The moments of breakthrough really made being a programmer a joy. Save. Commit. Now I just wait for the compiler, and... That's when it happened. A shudder ran through my body, starting in my chest and shaking my whole being. I looked to my left. My cubicle-mate was just looking at me. "Woo," he said. "What?" "Just got the chills." I narrowed my eyes at him. Then the guy on the other side of the cloth half-wall of the cubicle stood up, with a pretty similar expression on his face. "Me, too." "I felt it, too," I admitted. And one by one, like prairie dogs, my coworkers began poking their heads up, pulling out earbuds, agreeing that they had felt the same thing. It had started with me at 1:24 PM, and by 1:35 everybody in my building had felt it. Some had just thought the heat had been turned off, but we all soon realized that this was something different. We evacuated the building, assuming that something was in the ventilation system or something. But as we started talking to people in neighboring buildings, we realized that this had happened to everyone. Every single person in the city. Bus passengers, line cooks, taxi drivers, investment bankers, tourists, professional athletes. Someone near me showed me their Facebook feed on their phone. People were freaking out on the social network, as they realized that everyone they knew had experienced the same thing at the same time. It wasn't just in our city, either; people on the other side of the planet were posting about the phenomenon. Everybody had gotten the chills around 1:30 PM EST. The earliest time reported was like me, at 1:24. The latest, 1:37. By 3:00 it was a worldwide trending topic on Twitter. All of our local news stations had posted something about it. I caught a bus home, because there was no way in any universe that I was going to get anything else done today. The bus was packed, unusual for being so early. Everybody wanted to get home to their families. Everybody had felt the same chills at the same time. A post in /r/science by a doctor talking about the phenomenon hit the front page, but he didn't have much to say that really answered the problem. I tried to text my wife, but she didn't answer. Not unusual. Probably left her phone upstairs again. When I finally got home, I saw her happily playing with our toddler in the living room. She looked at me, confused. "You're home early." "Yeah, well, when that thing happened this afternoon, I just wanted to be here with you." Her eyes searched mine. "What thing?" "Didn't you see? Everybody got the chills at once." She looked even more confused. "Not me."	Originally I dismissed them. I mean, who doesn't get chills from time to time? Right? Sometimes they can be quite satisfying, like a release in your system. Only recently did they start to get...unnerving. They started out in little waves- lasting for a few seconds longer each time they occurred; perhaps two every minute at the least and as much as twenty to twenty five at their peak. Today I hit fifty. No, it wasn't just one, really long, shiver, it was fifty distinct sometimes crippling rattlings; it was like my skeleton was trying to escape from my skin. Overwhelming dread would envelop me, all the colour in the world would seem duller, as if it had lost its quintessential spark. It was terrifying. Right now I'm on number thirty two and I'm only forty seconds in, I think I may be going for the record. I'm starting to hear things, strange things, like distant, echoing cries. The most disturbing of all is I feel like I recognise the cries, recognise the desperate voice. They are getting louder, almost as if the source of the turmoil is getting closer, breaking down the barrier to reach me. Forty seven in fifty seconds. The screams are unimaginably clear now, I can hear every crack in the owner's voice, many times I have had to look around to check they were not in the room. Fifty six in the same number seconds. Everything seems grey-scale now, like a bad instagram filter, it is like my world is dying. The sky has turned black; everything looks like it is spinning, like a toddler swirling their finger in the sand. I start to scream.
	[WP] Whenever you get chills, you just died in an alternate universe.	"Ahhhhhh" I exhaled as I felt the last of my long awaited piss trickle out of me. Just as I started to shake, I felt an all to familiar feeling; a cold chill running up the back of my spine and I knew I had lost more than just my urine.	Originally I dismissed them. I mean, who doesn't get chills from time to time? Right? Sometimes they can be quite satisfying, like a release in your system. Only recently did they start to get...unnerving. They started out in little waves- lasting for a few seconds longer each time they occurred; perhaps two every minute at the least and as much as twenty to twenty five at their peak. Today I hit fifty. No, it wasn't just one, really long, shiver, it was fifty distinct sometimes crippling rattlings; it was like my skeleton was trying to escape from my skin. Overwhelming dread would envelop me, all the colour in the world would seem duller, as if it had lost its quintessential spark. It was terrifying. Right now I'm on number thirty two and I'm only forty seconds in, I think I may be going for the record. I'm starting to hear things, strange things, like distant, echoing cries. The most disturbing of all is I feel like I recognise the cries, recognise the desperate voice. They are getting louder, almost as if the source of the turmoil is getting closer, breaking down the barrier to reach me. Forty seven in fifty seconds. The screams are unimaginably clear now, I can hear every crack in the owner's voice, many times I have had to look around to check they were not in the room. Fifty six in the same number seconds. Everything seems grey-scale now, like a bad instagram filter, it is like my world is dying. The sky has turned black; everything looks like it is spinning, like a toddler swirling their finger in the sand. I start to scream.
	[WP] Whenever you get chills, you just died in an alternate universe.	George Brownlee was a spectacularly unlucky man. Or rather, just a particularly morose one--prone to bouts of depression and fits of suicide. All told, he had probably died hundreds of times in as many worlds. And it seems his many manifestations mostly all had a penchant for killing themselves. This George Brownlee--the one we're concerned about--had spent his whole life experiencing the shudders of his many others as they left their own Earths. Petite morts, one after another--but far less fun. With each death, they collapsed into the remaining George Brownlees, weighting each subsequent one down with the Atlassian burden of their collective ennui. Some had died of other causes, before they had the chance to succumb to their own hand. There had been house fires that killed a few, the stray mugging here and there. The casual accidents and deaths of any sort of civilized world. But most of the George Brownlees had chosen to hang, poison, shoot, suffocate, and--in a surprisingly high number of cases--decapitate themselves. Our George Brownlee is just one of a handful left--they're not a hardy bunch. He, like all the others, has sandy, limp hair and a downturned mouth that could have looked sensual, if he had ever felt sensual. Unlike the other George Brownlees, this one--ours--has a paper-cut thin scar on his right temple, a memento from an errant basketball that dragged down his glasses and its small, unprotected screw down his face. To be fair, our George Brownlee is not at all that important. He will never serve in political office, as three other Georges have. He is not a doctor (18 former Georges), a teacher (27), or even a security guard (like a shocking 43 dead George Brownlees). He will not even be any sort of inspirational figure, not even to his own children, who will forever regard him as a bit tedious. Our George Brownlee manages a supermarket. And he also manages the dull, throbbing peer pressure of all the other George Brownlees past, who urge him to do what they all have done, and die. That would be a shame. Not because our George is anything special--he's clearly not--but because one of the other Georges still left is. There are only a few, but this one, not-our-George, will one day pull himself together, ponder the beauty of solar energy, and eventually wrangle together the biggest energy bill that another version of our Earth has ever seen. But not of he succumbs to the Brownlee curse--the inevitable suffocation by all his other versions whispering for him to join them. So, you see, it's rather essential for our George Brownlee to make it through his mediocre life. Because if he were to take it, that would be the straw breaking not-our-George's back. And so--maybe our George Brownlee is his own sort of hero, as he lackadaisically stocks shelves with canned pineapple and tells his cashiers canned jokes. He is maybe a hero for taking the drugs that silence the whispers of Georges past, even though they make him so, so tedious. Our George's chills used to come like ague, but nowadays there are far fewer George Brownlees left to try killing themselves. And for now, not-our-George is about to extend a pale leg outside of his covers, and turn toward the sun, and dream of what it can do.	Originally I dismissed them. I mean, who doesn't get chills from time to time? Right? Sometimes they can be quite satisfying, like a release in your system. Only recently did they start to get...unnerving. They started out in little waves- lasting for a few seconds longer each time they occurred; perhaps two every minute at the least and as much as twenty to twenty five at their peak. Today I hit fifty. No, it wasn't just one, really long, shiver, it was fifty distinct sometimes crippling rattlings; it was like my skeleton was trying to escape from my skin. Overwhelming dread would envelop me, all the colour in the world would seem duller, as if it had lost its quintessential spark. It was terrifying. Right now I'm on number thirty two and I'm only forty seconds in, I think I may be going for the record. I'm starting to hear things, strange things, like distant, echoing cries. The most disturbing of all is I feel like I recognise the cries, recognise the desperate voice. They are getting louder, almost as if the source of the turmoil is getting closer, breaking down the barrier to reach me. Forty seven in fifty seconds. The screams are unimaginably clear now, I can hear every crack in the owner's voice, many times I have had to look around to check they were not in the room. Fifty six in the same number seconds. Everything seems grey-scale now, like a bad instagram filter, it is like my world is dying. The sky has turned black; everything looks like it is spinning, like a toddler swirling their finger in the sand. I start to scream.
	[WP] Whenever you get chills, you just died in an alternate universe.	I'm new on reddit. Sort of. And I know this is late, by nearly a month, but this is the post that got me to finally sign up for reddit and well this is is my attempt at a writing prompt. Also very first post on reddit. Ripples She stood before the still water like a whisper waiting to be heard. Timeless? Forgotten? Alone? It’s all figurative when it happens in your head, but is all this really just happening in my head? I can feel their pain, their loss..wait is it my pain and my loss? She swayed to the melancholy on the balls of her feet, eager to escape the narrative. Her fingers clutched bare arms. What frantic reality gave birth to something this sinister, where the woes of the dead are only piled on another. She shut her eyes and heaved a long sigh. It might end here, it must. The thought of someone else going through this, kills me. Her eyelids flew open. Grave laughter filled the void, she saw the humour in her own thoughts. A stray tear dibbled out her broken enthusiasm; soon the tears marched down her face. Her vision mumbled, grey plates of perforated shadows feel before it; she looked past the curtain and saw the lake. It sat in a bowl as wide as a mistake and as far as a nun’s faith. Oval and still, its waters neither shone nor moved. She waddled into its caress, breaching the surface and floating like lilies on a pond. The water ate her up in quick drawls. Their feelings hit before the cold; lost hopes, happy afternoons, warm funerals, and endless chills. The bottom of the lake hollowed out, feeling wider than before, an impeding sense of being swallowed overwhelmed her. All these moments that once defined somebody will drown with me. Somehow the added baggage only makes me feel lighter. She saw herself glide along, cutting a trail of intersecting wings. The lake spew images of herself drifting towards each other, towards the centre. They comforted her, they called out to her and then disappeared. Soon, the memories reached her throat and in one whole scoop washed over her head. A ripple spread from the point where her head submerged, someone somewhere felt a chill.	Originally I dismissed them. I mean, who doesn't get chills from time to time? Right? Sometimes they can be quite satisfying, like a release in your system. Only recently did they start to get...unnerving. They started out in little waves- lasting for a few seconds longer each time they occurred; perhaps two every minute at the least and as much as twenty to twenty five at their peak. Today I hit fifty. No, it wasn't just one, really long, shiver, it was fifty distinct sometimes crippling rattlings; it was like my skeleton was trying to escape from my skin. Overwhelming dread would envelop me, all the colour in the world would seem duller, as if it had lost its quintessential spark. It was terrifying. Right now I'm on number thirty two and I'm only forty seconds in, I think I may be going for the record. I'm starting to hear things, strange things, like distant, echoing cries. The most disturbing of all is I feel like I recognise the cries, recognise the desperate voice. They are getting louder, almost as if the source of the turmoil is getting closer, breaking down the barrier to reach me. Forty seven in fifty seconds. The screams are unimaginably clear now, I can hear every crack in the owner's voice, many times I have had to look around to check they were not in the room. Fifty six in the same number seconds. Everything seems grey-scale now, like a bad instagram filter, it is like my world is dying. The sky has turned black; everything looks like it is spinning, like a toddler swirling their finger in the sand. I start to scream.
	[WP] Whenever you get chills, you just died in an alternate universe.	I was the first case they encountered. They said it was some sort of "trans-dimensional quantum entanglement". I don't really know or care what the fuck that means. I probably should, it's unwilling incarceration, and ethical horrors I can't even begin to describe. Dr. Krosky explained it, in the beginning. He said that that "shiver" I felt was some sort of bond breaking, across all the possibilities. He said that there were an infinite number of "me" somewhere, and we were all mirrors of each other, paths not taken. Different choices made. Different rolls of the dice. Back in 8th grade, I wasn't late for that midterm and passed US History the first time, instead of re-taking it; I was late but sweet-talked Mrs. Jones; I wasn't late, but I just failed; I was 20 minutes early and Mrs. Jones and I fucked on her desk. A thousand million different possibilities for every moment of every life. Dr. Krosky said it happened to everyone but that _I was special_. I had some sort of link to all of me. He was right. I could _feel_ it. Dr. Krosky said, in the beginning, that the shivers were only for versions of me that were similar. Ones that split off recently, like this morning, or a couple days ago. Versions of me that put butter on their toast, versions of me that left the house a few seconds later than me and ended up slamming into an oncoming motorcycle. Those versions of me, when they died, they "resolved the quantum uncertainty". And then I'd shiver. Krosky got a team. He said he said I was the proof of his life's work, and he paid me well. He had proven that there were infinite worlds, and every world was a branch off this one. Our reality, our universe was the _real_ one. Or at least, the first one. He said that I was the conduit. Looking back, I should've run then. I shivered when he told me, and he arched an eyebrow asking me, "Did it happen again?" I nodded, and he glanced at some readout and exclaimed, "It did! Look, there's the spike!" He said he'd make the link stronger. "Imagine what we could do..." he'd mutter to himself, when he thought I wasn't paying attention. Krosky figured me out. He used me as a template, something about me was built right. He found others that were linked. Turns out there were millions of us. More than enough, he said, for his project. We really should've refused, but how could we? Krosky had a team. He had hundreds of people -- scientists, engineers, astrophysicists -- the Krosky Project was what people went to school and graduated to join. He was building The Resonator. It was in the desert, the only place with enough open land, he'd explained to me. By now, the Link, as he'd called it, was the strongest it'd been. I'd gotten used to the shivering. It was happening all the time. I found if I lived my life in the safest way possible, I'd shiver less. As part of his project, the transmitters he'd designed were scattered throughout society. They had to be near you to work, but that's easy -- they were incredibly small. They went into phones and watches and eyeglasses and footwear and wallets and purses and chairs and keyboards and any other place or thing that a human interact with. You couldn't go through your day without rubbing up against fifty of them. The transmitters helped. They reduced the shivering. Krosky apologized to me one day. He said, "I'm sorry,". I asked him for what, and he just motioned to me, encompassing my whole, shivering body. "For this," he'd said. And then he turned away, back to his work. I do recall that was the day that the shivering stopped. I asked him why the next time I saw him. He looked sad, but said that he'd resolved the issue, but refused to talk more. I knew my friend well enough by then to not press the issue. The end result was amazing. The Resonator generated _power_. Vast amounts of it. We had more than we knew what to do with. In a few short decades after Krosky's death, we'd built skyscrapers that left the atmosphere. We'd sent machine and man to every corner of the solar system. We tossed out concepts like efficiency. Who needed it? We just turned the Resonator up another notch when it started to wane. So few people really understood what it was doing though. Do you remember before the Resonator? Your grandmother might. I do. We had _electricity_. So few knew how it worked, but it was everywhere. We shipped it off across the continent along wires. You've seen the old towers, right? There's some examples in the Smithsonian. There's even a little generator with a hand-crank! You should go, it's a fascinating technology. I wonder if you'll ever have the chance, again. But you know how the Resonator works, right? You've learned in school, it's simply resolves those quantum states into something favorable for us. It generates a small bit of power every time, and the transmitters, they store one side, the Resonator the other, and that small little difference, it adds up, and bounces around inside the giant sphere in the Nevada desert. That's what you were taught, right? Haven't you wondered, all this time, why _I'm_ still here? Have you ever stopped to count? How many days Krosky died? How many days since you last took a shit? Who was the last person you knew that didn't have the Link? When was the last time you Shivered? You're catching on now. You're here now. You're inside the Resonator, with the rest of us. We are what's left of the link. We are those fragments, those tiny bits of all the dead versions of ourselves reassembled into ... whatever we are, captured and imprisoned here. Our screams power the world.	Originally I dismissed them. I mean, who doesn't get chills from time to time? Right? Sometimes they can be quite satisfying, like a release in your system. Only recently did they start to get...unnerving. They started out in little waves- lasting for a few seconds longer each time they occurred; perhaps two every minute at the least and as much as twenty to twenty five at their peak. Today I hit fifty. No, it wasn't just one, really long, shiver, it was fifty distinct sometimes crippling rattlings; it was like my skeleton was trying to escape from my skin. Overwhelming dread would envelop me, all the colour in the world would seem duller, as if it had lost its quintessential spark. It was terrifying. Right now I'm on number thirty two and I'm only forty seconds in, I think I may be going for the record. I'm starting to hear things, strange things, like distant, echoing cries. The most disturbing of all is I feel like I recognise the cries, recognise the desperate voice. They are getting louder, almost as if the source of the turmoil is getting closer, breaking down the barrier to reach me. Forty seven in fifty seconds. The screams are unimaginably clear now, I can hear every crack in the owner's voice, many times I have had to look around to check they were not in the room. Fifty six in the same number seconds. Everything seems grey-scale now, like a bad instagram filter, it is like my world is dying. The sky has turned black; everything looks like it is spinning, like a toddler swirling their finger in the sand. I start to scream.
	[WP] Whenever you get chills, you just died in an alternate universe.	It's tough work, being a Death Corrections Officer. You see some really messed up shit down there, but the worst thing is, there's not a single person in the DCO who will give you an ounce of sympathy. They've all seen things just as bad as you have, and they're struggling through just fine, so why should you need any help? I suppose I should explain just what the DCO is. There's a plan to the world; a rhyme and a reason to the way things are supposed to go. Except, every so often, things...don't go according to plan. That's when we step in. Find the event in question, shift in an alternate universe to patch the prime one, and boom, the world continues on its merry way. Easy. But not fun. See, you've gotta look at what happened to see how to stop it. That means looking at death, five or ten times a day, every day. Something like that changes a man. You normals get away with just a little shiver up your spine, a faint memory of the former universe, but we have to watch you die, sometimes over and over again, five, six times. And then there's you assholes. Of all the fuckin' hobbies you had to take up...do you know how much it sucks to have to rescue the same dude a couple thousand times in the same fuckin' day? Don't even ask me how the hell youtube videos can cause all the accidents they do, I've got no fuckin' idea. Just know that I hate you, I hate everything about you, and I hope you die. Oh wait. You already did. Again, and again, and again, and again, and... Shit, I need a drink. God this job sucks. -------------- In the real world, John Jones moaned in pleasure as the girl on the screen whispered into the microphone. ASMR videos really were the best.	I have thought that every close call or times when you would have been in a position to die (hopping off a train that later crashed) is in reality your self conscious moving to a different universe from the one where you actually die. Talk about leveling up
	[WP] Whenever you get chills, you just died in an alternate universe.	I was tapping away, excited. Finally I'd cracked this algorithm, and now my code was flowing freely from my fingers into the editor. The moments of breakthrough really made being a programmer a joy. Save. Commit. Now I just wait for the compiler, and... That's when it happened. A shudder ran through my body, starting in my chest and shaking my whole being. I looked to my left. My cubicle-mate was just looking at me. "Woo," he said. "What?" "Just got the chills." I narrowed my eyes at him. Then the guy on the other side of the cloth half-wall of the cubicle stood up, with a pretty similar expression on his face. "Me, too." "I felt it, too," I admitted. And one by one, like prairie dogs, my coworkers began poking their heads up, pulling out earbuds, agreeing that they had felt the same thing. It had started with me at 1:24 PM, and by 1:35 everybody in my building had felt it. Some had just thought the heat had been turned off, but we all soon realized that this was something different. We evacuated the building, assuming that something was in the ventilation system or something. But as we started talking to people in neighboring buildings, we realized that this had happened to everyone. Every single person in the city. Bus passengers, line cooks, taxi drivers, investment bankers, tourists, professional athletes. Someone near me showed me their Facebook feed on their phone. People were freaking out on the social network, as they realized that everyone they knew had experienced the same thing at the same time. It wasn't just in our city, either; people on the other side of the planet were posting about the phenomenon. Everybody had gotten the chills around 1:30 PM EST. The earliest time reported was like me, at 1:24. The latest, 1:37. By 3:00 it was a worldwide trending topic on Twitter. All of our local news stations had posted something about it. I caught a bus home, because there was no way in any universe that I was going to get anything else done today. The bus was packed, unusual for being so early. Everybody wanted to get home to their families. Everybody had felt the same chills at the same time. A post in /r/science by a doctor talking about the phenomenon hit the front page, but he didn't have much to say that really answered the problem. I tried to text my wife, but she didn't answer. Not unusual. Probably left her phone upstairs again. When I finally got home, I saw her happily playing with our toddler in the living room. She looked at me, confused. "You're home early." "Yeah, well, when that thing happened this afternoon, I just wanted to be here with you." Her eyes searched mine. "What thing?" "Didn't you see? Everybody got the chills at once." She looked even more confused. "Not me."	I have thought that every close call or times when you would have been in a position to die (hopping off a train that later crashed) is in reality your self conscious moving to a different universe from the one where you actually die. Talk about leveling up
	[WP] Whenever you get chills, you just died in an alternate universe.	"Ahhhhhh" I exhaled as I felt the last of my long awaited piss trickle out of me. Just as I started to shake, I felt an all to familiar feeling; a cold chill running up the back of my spine and I knew I had lost more than just my urine.	I have thought that every close call or times when you would have been in a position to die (hopping off a train that later crashed) is in reality your self conscious moving to a different universe from the one where you actually die. Talk about leveling up
	[WP] Whenever you get chills, you just died in an alternate universe.	George Brownlee was a spectacularly unlucky man. Or rather, just a particularly morose one--prone to bouts of depression and fits of suicide. All told, he had probably died hundreds of times in as many worlds. And it seems his many manifestations mostly all had a penchant for killing themselves. This George Brownlee--the one we're concerned about--had spent his whole life experiencing the shudders of his many others as they left their own Earths. Petite morts, one after another--but far less fun. With each death, they collapsed into the remaining George Brownlees, weighting each subsequent one down with the Atlassian burden of their collective ennui. Some had died of other causes, before they had the chance to succumb to their own hand. There had been house fires that killed a few, the stray mugging here and there. The casual accidents and deaths of any sort of civilized world. But most of the George Brownlees had chosen to hang, poison, shoot, suffocate, and--in a surprisingly high number of cases--decapitate themselves. Our George Brownlee is just one of a handful left--they're not a hardy bunch. He, like all the others, has sandy, limp hair and a downturned mouth that could have looked sensual, if he had ever felt sensual. Unlike the other George Brownlees, this one--ours--has a paper-cut thin scar on his right temple, a memento from an errant basketball that dragged down his glasses and its small, unprotected screw down his face. To be fair, our George Brownlee is not at all that important. He will never serve in political office, as three other Georges have. He is not a doctor (18 former Georges), a teacher (27), or even a security guard (like a shocking 43 dead George Brownlees). He will not even be any sort of inspirational figure, not even to his own children, who will forever regard him as a bit tedious. Our George Brownlee manages a supermarket. And he also manages the dull, throbbing peer pressure of all the other George Brownlees past, who urge him to do what they all have done, and die. That would be a shame. Not because our George is anything special--he's clearly not--but because one of the other Georges still left is. There are only a few, but this one, not-our-George, will one day pull himself together, ponder the beauty of solar energy, and eventually wrangle together the biggest energy bill that another version of our Earth has ever seen. But not of he succumbs to the Brownlee curse--the inevitable suffocation by all his other versions whispering for him to join them. So, you see, it's rather essential for our George Brownlee to make it through his mediocre life. Because if he were to take it, that would be the straw breaking not-our-George's back. And so--maybe our George Brownlee is his own sort of hero, as he lackadaisically stocks shelves with canned pineapple and tells his cashiers canned jokes. He is maybe a hero for taking the drugs that silence the whispers of Georges past, even though they make him so, so tedious. Our George's chills used to come like ague, but nowadays there are far fewer George Brownlees left to try killing themselves. And for now, not-our-George is about to extend a pale leg outside of his covers, and turn toward the sun, and dream of what it can do.	I have thought that every close call or times when you would have been in a position to die (hopping off a train that later crashed) is in reality your self conscious moving to a different universe from the one where you actually die. Talk about leveling up
	[WP] Whenever you get chills, you just died in an alternate universe.	I'm new on reddit. Sort of. And I know this is late, by nearly a month, but this is the post that got me to finally sign up for reddit and well this is is my attempt at a writing prompt. Also very first post on reddit. Ripples She stood before the still water like a whisper waiting to be heard. Timeless? Forgotten? Alone? It’s all figurative when it happens in your head, but is all this really just happening in my head? I can feel their pain, their loss..wait is it my pain and my loss? She swayed to the melancholy on the balls of her feet, eager to escape the narrative. Her fingers clutched bare arms. What frantic reality gave birth to something this sinister, where the woes of the dead are only piled on another. She shut her eyes and heaved a long sigh. It might end here, it must. The thought of someone else going through this, kills me. Her eyelids flew open. Grave laughter filled the void, she saw the humour in her own thoughts. A stray tear dibbled out her broken enthusiasm; soon the tears marched down her face. Her vision mumbled, grey plates of perforated shadows feel before it; she looked past the curtain and saw the lake. It sat in a bowl as wide as a mistake and as far as a nun’s faith. Oval and still, its waters neither shone nor moved. She waddled into its caress, breaching the surface and floating like lilies on a pond. The water ate her up in quick drawls. Their feelings hit before the cold; lost hopes, happy afternoons, warm funerals, and endless chills. The bottom of the lake hollowed out, feeling wider than before, an impeding sense of being swallowed overwhelmed her. All these moments that once defined somebody will drown with me. Somehow the added baggage only makes me feel lighter. She saw herself glide along, cutting a trail of intersecting wings. The lake spew images of herself drifting towards each other, towards the centre. They comforted her, they called out to her and then disappeared. Soon, the memories reached her throat and in one whole scoop washed over her head. A ripple spread from the point where her head submerged, someone somewhere felt a chill.	I have thought that every close call or times when you would have been in a position to die (hopping off a train that later crashed) is in reality your self conscious moving to a different universe from the one where you actually die. Talk about leveling up
	[WP] Whenever you get chills, you just died in an alternate universe.	I was the first case they encountered. They said it was some sort of "trans-dimensional quantum entanglement". I don't really know or care what the fuck that means. I probably should, it's unwilling incarceration, and ethical horrors I can't even begin to describe. Dr. Krosky explained it, in the beginning. He said that that "shiver" I felt was some sort of bond breaking, across all the possibilities. He said that there were an infinite number of "me" somewhere, and we were all mirrors of each other, paths not taken. Different choices made. Different rolls of the dice. Back in 8th grade, I wasn't late for that midterm and passed US History the first time, instead of re-taking it; I was late but sweet-talked Mrs. Jones; I wasn't late, but I just failed; I was 20 minutes early and Mrs. Jones and I fucked on her desk. A thousand million different possibilities for every moment of every life. Dr. Krosky said it happened to everyone but that _I was special_. I had some sort of link to all of me. He was right. I could _feel_ it. Dr. Krosky said, in the beginning, that the shivers were only for versions of me that were similar. Ones that split off recently, like this morning, or a couple days ago. Versions of me that put butter on their toast, versions of me that left the house a few seconds later than me and ended up slamming into an oncoming motorcycle. Those versions of me, when they died, they "resolved the quantum uncertainty". And then I'd shiver. Krosky got a team. He said he said I was the proof of his life's work, and he paid me well. He had proven that there were infinite worlds, and every world was a branch off this one. Our reality, our universe was the _real_ one. Or at least, the first one. He said that I was the conduit. Looking back, I should've run then. I shivered when he told me, and he arched an eyebrow asking me, "Did it happen again?" I nodded, and he glanced at some readout and exclaimed, "It did! Look, there's the spike!" He said he'd make the link stronger. "Imagine what we could do..." he'd mutter to himself, when he thought I wasn't paying attention. Krosky figured me out. He used me as a template, something about me was built right. He found others that were linked. Turns out there were millions of us. More than enough, he said, for his project. We really should've refused, but how could we? Krosky had a team. He had hundreds of people -- scientists, engineers, astrophysicists -- the Krosky Project was what people went to school and graduated to join. He was building The Resonator. It was in the desert, the only place with enough open land, he'd explained to me. By now, the Link, as he'd called it, was the strongest it'd been. I'd gotten used to the shivering. It was happening all the time. I found if I lived my life in the safest way possible, I'd shiver less. As part of his project, the transmitters he'd designed were scattered throughout society. They had to be near you to work, but that's easy -- they were incredibly small. They went into phones and watches and eyeglasses and footwear and wallets and purses and chairs and keyboards and any other place or thing that a human interact with. You couldn't go through your day without rubbing up against fifty of them. The transmitters helped. They reduced the shivering. Krosky apologized to me one day. He said, "I'm sorry,". I asked him for what, and he just motioned to me, encompassing my whole, shivering body. "For this," he'd said. And then he turned away, back to his work. I do recall that was the day that the shivering stopped. I asked him why the next time I saw him. He looked sad, but said that he'd resolved the issue, but refused to talk more. I knew my friend well enough by then to not press the issue. The end result was amazing. The Resonator generated _power_. Vast amounts of it. We had more than we knew what to do with. In a few short decades after Krosky's death, we'd built skyscrapers that left the atmosphere. We'd sent machine and man to every corner of the solar system. We tossed out concepts like efficiency. Who needed it? We just turned the Resonator up another notch when it started to wane. So few people really understood what it was doing though. Do you remember before the Resonator? Your grandmother might. I do. We had _electricity_. So few knew how it worked, but it was everywhere. We shipped it off across the continent along wires. You've seen the old towers, right? There's some examples in the Smithsonian. There's even a little generator with a hand-crank! You should go, it's a fascinating technology. I wonder if you'll ever have the chance, again. But you know how the Resonator works, right? You've learned in school, it's simply resolves those quantum states into something favorable for us. It generates a small bit of power every time, and the transmitters, they store one side, the Resonator the other, and that small little difference, it adds up, and bounces around inside the giant sphere in the Nevada desert. That's what you were taught, right? Haven't you wondered, all this time, why _I'm_ still here? Have you ever stopped to count? How many days Krosky died? How many days since you last took a shit? Who was the last person you knew that didn't have the Link? When was the last time you Shivered? You're catching on now. You're here now. You're inside the Resonator, with the rest of us. We are what's left of the link. We are those fragments, those tiny bits of all the dead versions of ourselves reassembled into ... whatever we are, captured and imprisoned here. Our screams power the world.	I have thought that every close call or times when you would have been in a position to die (hopping off a train that later crashed) is in reality your self conscious moving to a different universe from the one where you actually die. Talk about leveling up
	[WP] Whenever you get chills, you just died in an alternate universe.	It's tough work, being a Death Corrections Officer. You see some really messed up shit down there, but the worst thing is, there's not a single person in the DCO who will give you an ounce of sympathy. They've all seen things just as bad as you have, and they're struggling through just fine, so why should you need any help? I suppose I should explain just what the DCO is. There's a plan to the world; a rhyme and a reason to the way things are supposed to go. Except, every so often, things...don't go according to plan. That's when we step in. Find the event in question, shift in an alternate universe to patch the prime one, and boom, the world continues on its merry way. Easy. But not fun. See, you've gotta look at what happened to see how to stop it. That means looking at death, five or ten times a day, every day. Something like that changes a man. You normals get away with just a little shiver up your spine, a faint memory of the former universe, but we have to watch you die, sometimes over and over again, five, six times. And then there's you assholes. Of all the fuckin' hobbies you had to take up...do you know how much it sucks to have to rescue the same dude a couple thousand times in the same fuckin' day? Don't even ask me how the hell youtube videos can cause all the accidents they do, I've got no fuckin' idea. Just know that I hate you, I hate everything about you, and I hope you die. Oh wait. You already did. Again, and again, and again, and again, and... Shit, I need a drink. God this job sucks. -------------- In the real world, John Jones moaned in pleasure as the girl on the screen whispered into the microphone. ASMR videos really were the best.	You know growing up in the south I've always heard that a chill down your spine meant someone just walked across your grave but I like this better. The shiver is like a survivor's guilt thing. I'm going to start spreading this as the new idiom of our generation.
	[WP] Whenever you get chills, you just died in an alternate universe.	I was tapping away, excited. Finally I'd cracked this algorithm, and now my code was flowing freely from my fingers into the editor. The moments of breakthrough really made being a programmer a joy. Save. Commit. Now I just wait for the compiler, and... That's when it happened. A shudder ran through my body, starting in my chest and shaking my whole being. I looked to my left. My cubicle-mate was just looking at me. "Woo," he said. "What?" "Just got the chills." I narrowed my eyes at him. Then the guy on the other side of the cloth half-wall of the cubicle stood up, with a pretty similar expression on his face. "Me, too." "I felt it, too," I admitted. And one by one, like prairie dogs, my coworkers began poking their heads up, pulling out earbuds, agreeing that they had felt the same thing. It had started with me at 1:24 PM, and by 1:35 everybody in my building had felt it. Some had just thought the heat had been turned off, but we all soon realized that this was something different. We evacuated the building, assuming that something was in the ventilation system or something. But as we started talking to people in neighboring buildings, we realized that this had happened to everyone. Every single person in the city. Bus passengers, line cooks, taxi drivers, investment bankers, tourists, professional athletes. Someone near me showed me their Facebook feed on their phone. People were freaking out on the social network, as they realized that everyone they knew had experienced the same thing at the same time. It wasn't just in our city, either; people on the other side of the planet were posting about the phenomenon. Everybody had gotten the chills around 1:30 PM EST. The earliest time reported was like me, at 1:24. The latest, 1:37. By 3:00 it was a worldwide trending topic on Twitter. All of our local news stations had posted something about it. I caught a bus home, because there was no way in any universe that I was going to get anything else done today. The bus was packed, unusual for being so early. Everybody wanted to get home to their families. Everybody had felt the same chills at the same time. A post in /r/science by a doctor talking about the phenomenon hit the front page, but he didn't have much to say that really answered the problem. I tried to text my wife, but she didn't answer. Not unusual. Probably left her phone upstairs again. When I finally got home, I saw her happily playing with our toddler in the living room. She looked at me, confused. "You're home early." "Yeah, well, when that thing happened this afternoon, I just wanted to be here with you." Her eyes searched mine. "What thing?" "Didn't you see? Everybody got the chills at once." She looked even more confused. "Not me."	You know growing up in the south I've always heard that a chill down your spine meant someone just walked across your grave but I like this better. The shiver is like a survivor's guilt thing. I'm going to start spreading this as the new idiom of our generation.
	[WP] Whenever you get chills, you just died in an alternate universe.	"Ahhhhhh" I exhaled as I felt the last of my long awaited piss trickle out of me. Just as I started to shake, I felt an all to familiar feeling; a cold chill running up the back of my spine and I knew I had lost more than just my urine.	You know growing up in the south I've always heard that a chill down your spine meant someone just walked across your grave but I like this better. The shiver is like a survivor's guilt thing. I'm going to start spreading this as the new idiom of our generation.
	[WP] Whenever you get chills, you just died in an alternate universe.	George Brownlee was a spectacularly unlucky man. Or rather, just a particularly morose one--prone to bouts of depression and fits of suicide. All told, he had probably died hundreds of times in as many worlds. And it seems his many manifestations mostly all had a penchant for killing themselves. This George Brownlee--the one we're concerned about--had spent his whole life experiencing the shudders of his many others as they left their own Earths. Petite morts, one after another--but far less fun. With each death, they collapsed into the remaining George Brownlees, weighting each subsequent one down with the Atlassian burden of their collective ennui. Some had died of other causes, before they had the chance to succumb to their own hand. There had been house fires that killed a few, the stray mugging here and there. The casual accidents and deaths of any sort of civilized world. But most of the George Brownlees had chosen to hang, poison, shoot, suffocate, and--in a surprisingly high number of cases--decapitate themselves. Our George Brownlee is just one of a handful left--they're not a hardy bunch. He, like all the others, has sandy, limp hair and a downturned mouth that could have looked sensual, if he had ever felt sensual. Unlike the other George Brownlees, this one--ours--has a paper-cut thin scar on his right temple, a memento from an errant basketball that dragged down his glasses and its small, unprotected screw down his face. To be fair, our George Brownlee is not at all that important. He will never serve in political office, as three other Georges have. He is not a doctor (18 former Georges), a teacher (27), or even a security guard (like a shocking 43 dead George Brownlees). He will not even be any sort of inspirational figure, not even to his own children, who will forever regard him as a bit tedious. Our George Brownlee manages a supermarket. And he also manages the dull, throbbing peer pressure of all the other George Brownlees past, who urge him to do what they all have done, and die. That would be a shame. Not because our George is anything special--he's clearly not--but because one of the other Georges still left is. There are only a few, but this one, not-our-George, will one day pull himself together, ponder the beauty of solar energy, and eventually wrangle together the biggest energy bill that another version of our Earth has ever seen. But not of he succumbs to the Brownlee curse--the inevitable suffocation by all his other versions whispering for him to join them. So, you see, it's rather essential for our George Brownlee to make it through his mediocre life. Because if he were to take it, that would be the straw breaking not-our-George's back. And so--maybe our George Brownlee is his own sort of hero, as he lackadaisically stocks shelves with canned pineapple and tells his cashiers canned jokes. He is maybe a hero for taking the drugs that silence the whispers of Georges past, even though they make him so, so tedious. Our George's chills used to come like ague, but nowadays there are far fewer George Brownlees left to try killing themselves. And for now, not-our-George is about to extend a pale leg outside of his covers, and turn toward the sun, and dream of what it can do.	You know growing up in the south I've always heard that a chill down your spine meant someone just walked across your grave but I like this better. The shiver is like a survivor's guilt thing. I'm going to start spreading this as the new idiom of our generation.
	[WP] Whenever you get chills, you just died in an alternate universe.	I'm new on reddit. Sort of. And I know this is late, by nearly a month, but this is the post that got me to finally sign up for reddit and well this is is my attempt at a writing prompt. Also very first post on reddit. Ripples She stood before the still water like a whisper waiting to be heard. Timeless? Forgotten? Alone? It’s all figurative when it happens in your head, but is all this really just happening in my head? I can feel their pain, their loss..wait is it my pain and my loss? She swayed to the melancholy on the balls of her feet, eager to escape the narrative. Her fingers clutched bare arms. What frantic reality gave birth to something this sinister, where the woes of the dead are only piled on another. She shut her eyes and heaved a long sigh. It might end here, it must. The thought of someone else going through this, kills me. Her eyelids flew open. Grave laughter filled the void, she saw the humour in her own thoughts. A stray tear dibbled out her broken enthusiasm; soon the tears marched down her face. Her vision mumbled, grey plates of perforated shadows feel before it; she looked past the curtain and saw the lake. It sat in a bowl as wide as a mistake and as far as a nun’s faith. Oval and still, its waters neither shone nor moved. She waddled into its caress, breaching the surface and floating like lilies on a pond. The water ate her up in quick drawls. Their feelings hit before the cold; lost hopes, happy afternoons, warm funerals, and endless chills. The bottom of the lake hollowed out, feeling wider than before, an impeding sense of being swallowed overwhelmed her. All these moments that once defined somebody will drown with me. Somehow the added baggage only makes me feel lighter. She saw herself glide along, cutting a trail of intersecting wings. The lake spew images of herself drifting towards each other, towards the centre. They comforted her, they called out to her and then disappeared. Soon, the memories reached her throat and in one whole scoop washed over her head. A ripple spread from the point where her head submerged, someone somewhere felt a chill.	You know growing up in the south I've always heard that a chill down your spine meant someone just walked across your grave but I like this better. The shiver is like a survivor's guilt thing. I'm going to start spreading this as the new idiom of our generation.
	[WP] Whenever you get chills, you just died in an alternate universe.	I was the first case they encountered. They said it was some sort of "trans-dimensional quantum entanglement". I don't really know or care what the fuck that means. I probably should, it's unwilling incarceration, and ethical horrors I can't even begin to describe. Dr. Krosky explained it, in the beginning. He said that that "shiver" I felt was some sort of bond breaking, across all the possibilities. He said that there were an infinite number of "me" somewhere, and we were all mirrors of each other, paths not taken. Different choices made. Different rolls of the dice. Back in 8th grade, I wasn't late for that midterm and passed US History the first time, instead of re-taking it; I was late but sweet-talked Mrs. Jones; I wasn't late, but I just failed; I was 20 minutes early and Mrs. Jones and I fucked on her desk. A thousand million different possibilities for every moment of every life. Dr. Krosky said it happened to everyone but that _I was special_. I had some sort of link to all of me. He was right. I could _feel_ it. Dr. Krosky said, in the beginning, that the shivers were only for versions of me that were similar. Ones that split off recently, like this morning, or a couple days ago. Versions of me that put butter on their toast, versions of me that left the house a few seconds later than me and ended up slamming into an oncoming motorcycle. Those versions of me, when they died, they "resolved the quantum uncertainty". And then I'd shiver. Krosky got a team. He said he said I was the proof of his life's work, and he paid me well. He had proven that there were infinite worlds, and every world was a branch off this one. Our reality, our universe was the _real_ one. Or at least, the first one. He said that I was the conduit. Looking back, I should've run then. I shivered when he told me, and he arched an eyebrow asking me, "Did it happen again?" I nodded, and he glanced at some readout and exclaimed, "It did! Look, there's the spike!" He said he'd make the link stronger. "Imagine what we could do..." he'd mutter to himself, when he thought I wasn't paying attention. Krosky figured me out. He used me as a template, something about me was built right. He found others that were linked. Turns out there were millions of us. More than enough, he said, for his project. We really should've refused, but how could we? Krosky had a team. He had hundreds of people -- scientists, engineers, astrophysicists -- the Krosky Project was what people went to school and graduated to join. He was building The Resonator. It was in the desert, the only place with enough open land, he'd explained to me. By now, the Link, as he'd called it, was the strongest it'd been. I'd gotten used to the shivering. It was happening all the time. I found if I lived my life in the safest way possible, I'd shiver less. As part of his project, the transmitters he'd designed were scattered throughout society. They had to be near you to work, but that's easy -- they were incredibly small. They went into phones and watches and eyeglasses and footwear and wallets and purses and chairs and keyboards and any other place or thing that a human interact with. You couldn't go through your day without rubbing up against fifty of them. The transmitters helped. They reduced the shivering. Krosky apologized to me one day. He said, "I'm sorry,". I asked him for what, and he just motioned to me, encompassing my whole, shivering body. "For this," he'd said. And then he turned away, back to his work. I do recall that was the day that the shivering stopped. I asked him why the next time I saw him. He looked sad, but said that he'd resolved the issue, but refused to talk more. I knew my friend well enough by then to not press the issue. The end result was amazing. The Resonator generated _power_. Vast amounts of it. We had more than we knew what to do with. In a few short decades after Krosky's death, we'd built skyscrapers that left the atmosphere. We'd sent machine and man to every corner of the solar system. We tossed out concepts like efficiency. Who needed it? We just turned the Resonator up another notch when it started to wane. So few people really understood what it was doing though. Do you remember before the Resonator? Your grandmother might. I do. We had _electricity_. So few knew how it worked, but it was everywhere. We shipped it off across the continent along wires. You've seen the old towers, right? There's some examples in the Smithsonian. There's even a little generator with a hand-crank! You should go, it's a fascinating technology. I wonder if you'll ever have the chance, again. But you know how the Resonator works, right? You've learned in school, it's simply resolves those quantum states into something favorable for us. It generates a small bit of power every time, and the transmitters, they store one side, the Resonator the other, and that small little difference, it adds up, and bounces around inside the giant sphere in the Nevada desert. That's what you were taught, right? Haven't you wondered, all this time, why _I'm_ still here? Have you ever stopped to count? How many days Krosky died? How many days since you last took a shit? Who was the last person you knew that didn't have the Link? When was the last time you Shivered? You're catching on now. You're here now. You're inside the Resonator, with the rest of us. We are what's left of the link. We are those fragments, those tiny bits of all the dead versions of ourselves reassembled into ... whatever we are, captured and imprisoned here. Our screams power the world.	You know growing up in the south I've always heard that a chill down your spine meant someone just walked across your grave but I like this better. The shiver is like a survivor's guilt thing. I'm going to start spreading this as the new idiom of our generation.
	[WP] Whenever you get chills, you just died in an alternate universe.	"Ahhhhhh" I exhaled as I felt the last of my long awaited piss trickle out of me. Just as I started to shake, I felt an all to familiar feeling; a cold chill running up the back of my spine and I knew I had lost more than just my urine.	Rick: "Do you want me to explain the math Morty?! Do you?! Put some damn clothes on, otherwise the council of Rick will come after me again!"

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