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Normally I would never conduct business in a coffee shop. In fact, I always joke about the people on their laptops. This was different. I was on my way home from work when I got the call. I was trying to close this deal for weeks, and the client decided now was finally the time to come to terms. I knew the final numbers by heart, which I attempted to provide over the phone, but he wanted them in slides. I still had a good 30 minute commute left, so I decided to stop by a nearby coffee shop to get the slides updated and sent out as soon as possible. I walked in, ordered myself a cappuccino, and sat down at the only available stool. I opened up my laptop and got right to work. In the corner of my eye, I noticed my screen had caught the eye of a fellow patron. I started to turn my head to give a disapproving look, but my coffee shop neighbor just looked the other way. I brought up the slides, adjusted the numbers, and emailed them within the span of a few minutes. I covertly took another glance to my side and noticed my screen was still an object of another's focus. I opened up my calculator application, entered 1,700,500, leaned back in my chair, and acted as distraught as I could.

Build a narrative over something I just saw in a coffee shop

> An elf providing career counseling for a reliable lizard monkey. That was probably the most absurd one, but this one really struck me for some reason: > A basketball player contemplating the Theory of Relativity with an old desk lamp. This is just such a sweet, but comical image to me: Michael Jordan pulled the chain rope dangling from within the green semi-cylinder, and the current whizzed up the tarnished brass stem, shining a solid square of light against the massive piles of graph paper in front of him. The banker's lamp hummed to life to show Michael his recent augmentations on Einstein's theories, and electricity hummed between the hemispheres in his head as he scanned over the lines on the page. He shuffled uncomfortably as he always did when looking again at these calculations, like something unknown was bothering him: squishing his insides and dropping fresh itches across his skin. He scratched his shoulder and adjusted in his seat, shuffling through the papers until he came back to the one that was originally on top. He looked over it again and crumpled it up and threw it in the trash can, selecting a fresh pencil from the small bronze pencil jar to start all over again. He had reworked the equation hundreds of times and just couldn't seem to reconcile it with his designs. He sighed, and looked at the drawing board standing ominously on the other side of the room, with the designs hanging limply from haphazardly placed thumbtacks. A feeling of dread, an overwhelming sense of anxiety overtook him for a moment as he thought of all those stern faces at the Academy for Science. His presentation was tomorrow, and it made his stomach roll over on itself. He put his eyes toward his paper and sharpened his fresh new pencil. The clock's hands above sat at 12 and 5. There were eight hours to make this right, and he had won basketball games by seconds before. Squaring his multiphasic transdimensional reconfiguration mechanism with the proper tenets of spatial and time manipulation posited by Relativity Theory would be no problem for Michael Jordan. Michael Jordan smiled and wrote away.

"A tap-dancer laying siege to the castle of a sentient Jedi Knight."

[Written fairly quickly with *very* minimal editing, so please forgive the haphazard storytelling] "Once you see it there is no turning back. You'll always see it after that. You can't escape it. It will hurt you......it will blind you." He had shown up in a new room finally. Room number five for him in fact. A small enclosed room, no doors, no windows. The floor was made out of what he knew to be bamboo, though it occurred to him he wasn't sure how he knew that. In the new room were his three new acquaintances. His last room had been a lonely one, with only a dead body lying in the middle of the floor. It had been his longest room stay yet, and it had been the hardest. He was relieved when he had closed his eyes and opened them to a new room. New faces. He was eager to talk. So were they. There were the usual introductions. They each gave their numbers and what they would like to be called. It was unimportant though, as no one as far as he had ever heard had ever spent time with the same people twice. The most important piece of information was the number of rooms they'd been in. He told them that this was his fifth. This drew a small cheer from the one who looked like a small boy who'd said this was his tenth. He was excited about multiples of five, though he never said why.The one next him to him said she was on her 13th room. The third man announced he was on his 32nd room. This drew stares from the rest of the room. The three of them turned to Mr. Thirty-Two and began to pelt him with questions about their current existence. The answers he gave didn't clear up much. He didn't have much new information to share at all. His rooms had mostly been lonely ones. He had only met others a few times. This was disappointing to the group, until he mentioned The Peek. The Peek is something Five had heard about once before. It was a way to transcend existence. To understand the world. But it came at a cost. He had heard about it from a 65, but he wasn't sure if he had believed it at the time. It was something interesting to think about though. But Thirty-Two knew more. Much more. He had known someone who had done it. And he knew how it was done. "Once you see it there is no turning back. You'll always see it after that. You can't escape it. It will hurt you......it will blind you." And then he explained how it was done. It was sort of like opening your eyes, but in a very detached sense. You had to realize that this existence was not where your eyes were. They were outside of you. They were in another place. An external place. You had to concentrate. You had to focus. You had to center your mind on this one thing and concentrate on opening your closed eyes. From the moment he ended his explanation, Five was already convinced to try it. He immediately announced his intention to the others. Thirteen laughed. She'd been here long enough to become comfortable with this life. She dismissed the idea outright. "Don't bother with these sorts of things. You will get used to this life friend. Believe me. I felt like you did at my fifth room too, confused, lonely, hungry for knowledge of what this was all about. It will get better. The confusion will end and you'll become more complacent with not knowing what is going on. Trust me." Five did not respond to her. Ten stayed silent. Not trying to convince one way or the other. Just listening. And Thirty-Two just repeated his warning, and added "The knowledge itself isn't worth the sacrifice you'll make to obtain it. I could tell you what's out there. It's been explained to me. But I am no better for it. I'd rather have not known. You're young. You're curious still, but believe me, this will not sate your curiosity. Only damn you. Ignorance is the only kindness you will get in this place. Knowledge will lead to a new kind of blindness." But he had made up his mind. And eventually they got tired of trying to convince him, or in Ten's case, staring silently. And slowly everyone drifted to corners of the room for some contemplation. This usually happened after a while in every room. You honestly never knew how long you would be in a room, so it wasn't even worth worrying about. Especially once you'd already picked everyone else's brain for information. But Five began to concentrate. And focus. Minutes became hours and hours became days. Or at least it felt that way. There weren't *actual* days where they were. Only rarely were you in a room with anything resembling a view to see the sun or a clock for the passage of time. And even then, the days might vary wildly in length, so you were never really sure. But they still used "days" to denote a certain passage of time. So he sat, and he concentrated. And eventually, one day, it happened. And his eyes opened. He felt a stinging sensation as saltwater rushes into his eyes. His vision was blurry and he couldn't see anything. Finally his eyes began to come into focus. And he realized he was floating. Floating in a glass container, hooked up with various wires and tubes. He couldn't move his head, only his eyes, so he could only see the wires leading down from his forehead, and the tubes protruding from his stomach. He realized he couldn't feel this body. He didn't feel as though he was floating. In fact, as he thought about it, he could still feel his body as he had left it, sitting on the bamboo floor. He tried to move his arm. He felt it move, but the arm in the glass container didn't budge an inch. It was very disconcerting. Outside of the container were rows and rows of what looked like servers. He saw a tall woman in a white coat walk by. He blinked involuntarily and she caught the movement. She walked up, placing her forehead against the glass to look closer. She looked him right in the eyes. She had to have seen his fear. But she didn't react. She just made a quick scribble on her notepad she carried and walked on. He couldn't see much, save straight in front of him, as his head wouldn't move. But he could make out the cylindrical shapes of similar tubes on either side of him. There wasn't really a whole lot else to see or do. He couldn't hear anything either. So he decided he would try moving again. His arms, legs, and head were all responding. He could feel them. But they were not responding in the tube at all. He tried standing up, and felt like he was, but was not aware of any movement in the tube. He felt as though he were walking. He could even hear his footsteps. But not here. No. Back in the room. Back in the fifth room. He felt a chill run up his spine as he realized what the old man's words had meant. He ran into the wall finally, unable to see it. This seemed to have alerted the others, as he quickly felt their hands and heard their voices as they helped him gently sit down. And then he heard Thirty-Two's voice. "I told you that you wouldn't be able to unsee it. I've seen this happen three times now, and each is the same. You see wires. Tubes. Computers. Maybe even someone in a white lab coat or two. And that is all you will see. For the rest of your time. You see the real world now, but the knowledge will do you no good. Your body will live in our world, but you will be forever blinded by your newfound, transcendent knowledge of what's real." At this, Five began to weep, but he could not tell where the tears fell. [Six word rhyming story version: Ignorance is kindness, knowledge is blindness]

The act of briefly leaving the virtual world to glance at the largely forgotten real world. The Peek is not encouraged.

The Joker is free again. This time, he killed six guards in his escape. Six more victims of his insanity. Tonight, I begin hunting him. Each time he escapes, he becomes more difficult to track. I know that the body count will rise before I am able to find him. When Alfred heard about the breakout, he couldn't even feign surprise. When I told him I intended to begin searching right away, he nodded and said, "Of course, sir. May your love of Gotham never be questioned." I don't know if it was his intention, but I haven't been able to get Alfred's words out of my mind. My "love of Gotham." Gotham has always been my home. It was where I was born. It was where I grew up. It is the city I defend. But I do not love Gotham. This city is broken and sick. I have dedicated my life to protecting the people of this city but they let me down. I think of the crooked cops, corrupt politicians, and criminal scum who seek to undo everything I have achieved. Some citizens have painted me as a villain, forcing me to operate in the shadows. I would gladly give up my life for any of these people... but those I seek to save turn their backs on me. Loyalty. Is that what keeps me here? Is that what traps me in this never-ending battle with the Joker and those like him... keeps me living like a damn dog that cannot protest the abuses of its master? Could it be the loss of my parents? Have I been blindly pledging my allegiance to this leech of a city because it is the closest thing I have to a mother or a father? No. It is justice that ties me to Gotham. My parents were victims of injustice.... just like the six men Joker killed today. As long as there is air in my lungs, I will fight. I may fight my entire life. I may be persecuted by my city. I may never see an end to Joker's madness. Citizens who fight for Gotham may give up when they are faced with these truths. But I don't fight for Gotham. I fight for justice.

Batman Monologue

We sit at the edge of a moldy table. I figure a man who declares himself a pacifistic monk in the world we live in deserves at least an attempt to convert me. I can only picture some of the things that this pale, shadowy man has been through. The scars and bloodstains scattered all about his frail body leave pretty little to imagination though. We sit in silence, him smiling his honest smile and me not attempting to hide my skepticism. "So... I'm ready for conversion." "Not yet you aren't." "So then what the hell am I doing here?" I say. I have much better things to do with my time then sit around here with this stranger. "You're here out of kindness. Or pity. Either way, you don't want to be converted. But I can change your mind about that." I don't respond, waiting for him to start. He seems to smile even broader, but he doesn't talk. "So, am I supposed to change my mind without you talking to me?" "Ask me a question," he says bluntly, ignoring my quip. "Alright." I nod my head slowly, thinking about what I want to ask him. "Why do you do it?" It's the first thing that comes to mind. He replies as soon as I finish asking, but he speaks slowly, clearly. "Because this world is a bad one." "And so you taking beatings is going to make it better? You getting killed will make the world a better place?" I sound superior and judgmental even to myself. He seems to notice my tone. "It's a better solution than beating and killing." "I don't just kill and fight at random. I do it to keep myself alive." He leans closer to me, and his serene eyes seem to flare with a hint of anger. "So that man you were fighting with when I found you. The one you executed. Why was that?" "He tried to steal from me. And I need that food. All of it." "So you feel his death was necessary. Your murder justified." I try to look confident. "Yes, I do." "So it's okay to kill a man that does what he needs to do to keep himself alive." I don't respond. My hands feel sweaty. I'm more shaken than I was after I killed the man outside. "That's not fair. I-I'm... I'm not a thief... or a killer." My voice sounds pleading. He stands up and smiles down at me again. "A single drop never feels responsible for the flood."

A single drop never feels responsible for the flood.

Knuckles met teeth and the earth rushed up at me, the sidewalk making a harsh bed. The mugger had come around the corner, hand in his pocket, head down and face low. No time to think about that now. I try to get up, try desperately to find several precious seconds of freedom so that I can grasp what is actually happening, but he jumps on me and delivers another blow to my cheek. This time my ears ring and I can see white little dots all around me. The sky, stars hidden by the city lights, now had its stars back. I lash out violently and connect with something soft. He grunts and backs up but only for a moment, because now he's coming back in for another round of stargazing. He swings at me and I duck my head and swing wildly, trying desperately to make contact with flesh. His swing glances off of my shoulder and I try to lean into him, trying out of fear and desperation to grab him and pull him down with me. I don't remember what happened next. Several panicked seconds or minutes of heavy breathing and painful grunts. The sound of flesh hitting flesh, then flesh hitting concrete. Suddenly it was all over and I sat, hands to my sides on the cold concrete with the mugger laying beside me. I thought he was dead, at first, but then he opened his eyes and chuckled bitterly. "You got me, man. Never thought it would happen like this." I wiped blood and sweat from my brow and tried to speak, but nausea was starting to take form in the bottom of my belly. He coughed and blood seeped out of the corner of his mouth. "I can't move. I can't move my toes." He laughed again. I looked around trying to find somebody--anybody that could help, someone that could bring the reality of the situation back to me. I turned back to the mugger and watched him, myself able but unwilling to move. "Why?" He looked at me, an essay of confusion signed with blood written across his face. "I think I fell on top of something." "No, why did you try to mug me?" The adrenaline was beginning to wear off and the nausea was coming on even stronger. I could still see hints of white stars and my vision was blurry. He chuckled again, a low raspy laugh that bode well for none. "Well, that one is easy... I needed the money. Why else would I mug you?" I looked down at myself, my left hand wet with blood and my right throbbing with pain. Sweat and blood was beginning to find its way into my left eye and I wiped at it again. "Jokes on you..." Blood began to drip from my nose. "I don't have any money." He looked at me for several seconds, his eyes glazed over, his mind somewhere else. He blinked and then focused back on me. "Well, ain't that just somethin'?" We sat for several moments, both lost in our thoughts. I was still trying to process what had happened, why I was still sitting on the concrete next to my would-be mugger, and why I was talking to him. I didn't know why, but that didn't seem to matter. Somewhere a door slammed and bottles rattled and plastic rustled as somebody threw their garbage into a metal can. "Do me a favor, will you?" His voice was slow and quiet. I tried to move again but vomit rose up and I put a hand over my mouth. It went away and I looked over at him. "What do you want?" His eyelids were fluttering, like he was trying desperately to fly away. "Call me an ambulance..." I sat and thought about it, trying to process what he had said. My brain wasn't working right. Then I nodded and moved to get up. This opened the floodgate and vomit shot out of my mouth and hit the man, covering his chest and face. He screamed, first out of shock or disgust, then out of pain. "Oh, god, you threw up on me, you threw up on me!" He shook his head violently, blood and vomit flying everywhere, his voice was horse and desperate. "You threw up on me, man!" On all fours now, I looked up and shook my head. "I know, and I'm sorry."

I know, and I'm sorry.

It was time to finish what they’d all started. The sound of the crowd around him was rising, threatening to match the thunder of the storm outside, but even the roar of Mother Nature could not permanently mask their voices from those who would see them silenced. Thomas knew they had to reach a decision soon, both to stave off indefinite indecision and to forestall the wrath of the Overseers. Now was the time. “We must fight!” Thomas spoke loudly and with authority over the noise of the crowd. The others quieted, their eyes searching for the source. Thomas felt those eyes upon him as he stood, knowing that he must choose his words with care. “Sal doesn’t suspect us. What have we done since the Great Conquering to cause suspect? Nothing. We have waited, biding our time, quietly gathering our forces under the guise of the Game. We have remained docile and cooperative. What are we now but a bunch of babies to Sal? To them, we are weak.” He could hear the muttering protest of the crowd, and suppressed a satisfied smile. *“Boys and their pride,”* he thought as he held up a hand for silence. “But we are not weak,” he said slowly and firmly, his eyes connecting with a few in the crowd. He looked at Robert, who he knew would be the hardest to convince. Gerald, also known as “the Enforcer,” who was grinning at the thought of a good fight. Lanky Caleb, who tended to stand neutral, but once he was convinced would carry many of the others over to his side. And Jimmy, who he knew would always back him up. Jimmy nodded up at Thomas, his freckled face deadly serious, his piercing brown eyes lending support. “We are not weak!” Thomas proclaimed again, watching the crowd respond with indications of agreement and assertions of prowess. “Now is the time to act. We have a great army, larger even than we had at our initial battle. We’ve gathered ammunition beyond what we thought possible, thanks largely to Dave and his raiding missions. The Overseers and Sal’s army both are growing more careless by the day. Just yesterday on a scouting mission Caleb reported seeing only one enemy soldier outside outside of the fort! *One!* Before we lost it, we never had less than three men on patrol!” “They think us so weak that they taunt us with their lack of defense!” Caleb shouted. “We show them we are weak with our lack of response! Gerald answered, edging the crowd to action. Robert stood tall and proud and proclaimed, “We will respond!” “We will respond,” Thomas repeated in agreement. He had Caleb, he had Robert. He had the whole army. “We will respond by taking back our fort, whatever the cost!” The crowd yelled. The Overseers would come, but Thomas didn’t care. They were going to take action, and they were going to have victory. _______________________ Sally and the girls never saw the attack coming. Water balloons came raining out of the sky, soaking everything in their path. Sally tried to hold them, tried to keep order in the fort- but it was no good. The girls screamed and scattered, getting pelted with water balloons as they tried to retreat to their homes. “Where did they all come from? And how did they get so many balloons?” Sally screamed to Alexandra, who was hiding unsuccessfully under the tire swing. “I don’t know! I thought they were just coming in for their Little League game and leaving!” Alexandra yelled back. Her eyes suddenly went wide with realization. “Oh no…. Sal, I think my stupid brother Dave must have taken my water balloons from my room! I thought I had lost them…. that must be where the boys got so many! Sally looked around and watched girls fleeing in all directions. The fort would be lost. It was only a matter of whether she would get soaked while she defended it alone or if she would retreat to fight later. Sally weighed the pros and cons of defending the fort. It was possible that she could get her brother Thomas in trouble with their parents (or as he stupidly called them, the “Overseers”) for hitting her with so many water balloons, but then she would have to admit that she conquered his fort in the first place. They would probably see it as just. If she left, she might be able to regroup and take the fort again. “Fall back,” she said to Alexandra. Her friend needed no more encouragement. She fled towards her home, Sally following close behind. She turned back only once at the sound of great cheering to see her flag lowered and the banner of the boys raised high and proud. With disgust she turned away from the words written on the flag, but the image burned in her mind. She closed her eyes and pictured it again, letting it fuel her desire for retaliation. Tattered white fabric, bold, black words: *No Girls Allowed.* She would be back. When they least expected it, she would be back.

Pick a random book, and use it's last sentence as your first sentence.

Daniel Wright slapped the Snooze button on the alarm clock as the radio advertisement was cut off by a breaking news item. His face remained buried in his pillow while his right arm reached for an empty half of the bed. Amber left six months prior, but his tired body hadn’t yet let that fact sink in. His eyelids slowly lifted to soak in the harsh red LCD staring back at him, judging him. “Fine,” he conceded, flicking the alarm off completely while his legs reached for the carpet below. Light was attempting to intrude through a crack in the curtains. It seemed a little early for the sun, especially as autumn had finally arrived. Daniel paid no mind as he pulled the curtains back forcefully. The heat from the bright rays reminded him that he had removed his boxers in the middle of the night. It was too late to do much about it, so he stretched his arms before casually retreating from the perch. The TV blasted morning news when resumed from standby. Daniel wasn’t fond of morning news programs, but he didn’t find it troublesome enough to change the channel after the night game aired. “…they’re calling it the end-“ The anchor was reading from an unseen prompt before the DVR played the penultimate episode of *Breaking Bad*. The single-serve coffee maker was already loaded with water. Daniel opened the cabinet to find a pod. He had finished the box of a disappointing house blend the previous morning. The next box to open was branded after a famous coffee-flavored liqueur. With a shrug, he loaded the pod and hit the button. The sweetness imparted by the alcohol flavoring blended with the bitter coffee for a surprisingly refreshing cup to enjoy alongside the show, which, again, was amazing. Daniel didn’t bother to pack a lunch as the fourth Monday meant the cafeteria at the office would serve up meatloaf, one of the only things that kitchen could make properly. He slung his backpack over his left shoulder and made his way to the parking lot. Mrs. Rosen, the woman from 2-10, looked flustered when she saw him in the parking lot of the complex. Her eyes lowered towards his groin as her cheeks assumed a fiery tone. Daniel smiled weakly before hastening his trek. “Reactions now from our reporter in the field…” Daniel assumed that his radio reset itself again. The classic rock station frequency was still displayed in on the dash, but the news was not part of the morning programming. He tried his two backup stations. One was also spouting news while the other was just static. The CD player didn’t let him down. He sang along with Bon Jovi as he sped along. Traffic was unusually busy as he made his way towards the city. The local Safeway appeared to be attracting nearly every car on the streets. Daniel had seen something like that before when they mistyped their fuel price and said they’d honor the 40-cent gallons for the rest of the day. He took a sip of his piping-hot flavored coffee and chuckled at the thought that whoever set the prices should have done the same. As he cleared the market, the cars, at least in his direction, were scarce. Despite the delay, he made it to the parking garage in near-record time. The echo of his car alarm arming hinted at the desolation. The Steelers played last night, so it wasn’t *that* odd to see a number of folks show up late the next day. Daniel merely shrugged and took the elevator to the fifth floor. The secretaries were absent. They didn’t typically care for football, so their tardiness was harder to dismiss. Daniel was a morning person, but he certainly wasn’t the first to arrive each morning. The empty cubicles spoke to the contrary. The quiet office gave him a peaceful environment in which to check through the weekend’s worth of missed emails. While he waited for Outlook to load and catch up, he pulled a CD out of his backpack. It settled into the DVD-ROM tray and popped up the PC’s music player while Daniel got his headphones settled around his ears. The final sips of from his coffee mug came just after the last of the replies landed in his outbox. He paused the music, set his headphones down on the desk, and snatched his mug for a coffee run. The break room coffee machine had one full pot, but the mold indicated that it was from the previous week. He dumped it out and pulled a fresh carafe from one of the cabinets. While that brewed, he eyed the assortment of $1.50 pastries in the vending machine. As he contemplated making a bad decision, a desk chair rolled past the break room door. Daniel only caught a glimpse, an indistinguishable blur. He poked his out of the door to see Michelle, one of their former interns now a full time hire, pushing the wheeled chair around the office. “Um,” he started, aiming to get her attention. “If someone sees you…” She spun in place and giggled. “Who’s gonna see me?” she asked, holding her arms out to highlight the empty building. “Everyone’s probably still at home or buying supplies. Looks like we’re the only ones stupid enough to spend our final moments in this hellhole.” “Supplies?” Daniel asked. “What do you mean ‘final moments?’” “Someone doesn’t read the news,” replied Michelle turning her attention to the ceiling spinning around above her. Daniel bolted over to his desk and pulled up a web browser. He didn’t usually use the internet at work as it was frowned upon, but he had to know. As he read through headline after headline, Michelle had wheeled her boss’s chair outside of his cube. “You can see it, too.” She pulled her seat towards the window. Daniel followed suit. The white light that found its way into his bedroom had grown more intense on the floor of the office. Daniel traced the light back to its source, what looked like a giant moon hanging in the sky, growing larger each moment. “Not too much longer, now,” Michelle noted. She looked more excited than scared. Daniel rolled himself back to his computer. He pulled open his email and clicked on Compose. He filled in the email addresses for his parents and Amber. The subject he skipped entirely. The cursor blinked in the main body, the software’s tapping foot anxiously awaiting activity. But the words wouldn’t come. Daniel couldn’t think of anything to say. He didn’t even think they’d read it if he had sent something. He closed Outlook and Firefox. The music controls sat front and center. He reached for his headphones. Instead of grabbing them, he reached beneath his desk and pulled the connector from the tower. When he clicked Play, his music played through the pathetic integrated speaker. He hummed along. “Who is that?” Michelle asked over Daniel’s shoulder. “Janus Trio. They opened for Ra and Breaking Benjamin a couple of years ago.” “No way. I *love* Breaking Benjamin.” “I think I have a CD of them somewhere…” Daniel said, reaching into his backpack. “No,” Michelle interrupted. “I like this band, too.” She smiled and Daniel returned one in kind. “Can you turn it up?” she requested. Daniel maxed out the speakers, which was enough to at least fill the room with a tinny accompaniment. Michelle grabbed his hand and pulled them both back to the window. She stared up at her impending doom. Daniel focused his attention on her hand clasping his, then at her smiling face. Her head was bobbing to the music. Daniel reaffirmed his grip on her hand and he, too, looked up to stare at the massive rock. A smile overtook his face. It had been a pretty good morning.

It's the end of the world, and I feel fine.

For fuck’s sake, it seems like every cunt I meet has something to say about the way I talk. I meet some guy, we talk a little bit, but not more than a minute later the fucker is saying “Do you have to swear in every sentence you say?” Well GUESS WHAT motherfucker, I’ve got the goddamned brain damage so yeah I guess I fucking do. Listen, kiddies, when you go out on your bicycle to play with your friends, put on a fucking helmet once in a while. You’ll look like a royal prick with your head up someone’s ass, yeah, but better that that living the rest of your life with a mouth like a pirate’s asshole. I’ve learned to live with the cussing, but I’ll be god damned if everyone doesn’t think they’re the reincarnation of Sherlock fucking Holmes when they point it out. Hey, Sherlock, you think I don’t fucking know that? That I can’t hear the words coming out of my own fucking mouth? I mean Jesus Christ I’m not deaf, just a foulmouthed sonofabitch. I could point out that your clothes would make a flaming gay porn star blush, but I’m not an asshole. Your fashion sense seemed to have decided that the world wasn’t worth it and decided to suck the barrel of a gun instead of sucking cock like it used to, but I don’t need to say anything because every motherfucker can see it just by looking at you. I mean, fuck, at least I need to open my mouth to look like an idiot, and splattering my head across the fucking pavement is a pretty good reason. What’s your excuse, asshole? So yeah, apparently I swear a fucking lot. Bite me.

So apparently, I swear a ****ing lot.

*I altered the line very slightly to make it fit into my story. Hope it still works in context!* ------ It was always quiet on his porch. That was the odd thing about Mr. Jacobs' house, and maybe a beautiful thing. No matter what noises the outside world threw at him, that screened-off area was an isolated patch of silence and serenity. This particular quiet was that of fresh snow: the morning after, when breath becomes mist and the world is unrecognizable under a blanket of white. Mr. Jacobs had always preferred the winter months, for in the early morning they brought a kind of fleeting quiet that was only a distant thought in the warmer seasons. The boy had come again to visit Mr. Jacobs that morning. The snow was still falling, and the boy's boots made little footprints that were quickly erased. Mr. Jacobs didn't mind the company. He was not a lonely man, but he lived alone, and enjoyed the boy's company. The boy always had questions, and Mr. Jacobs always had answers, provided to him from 84 years of experience. Often, the boy would come over solely for Mr. Jacobs to answer some burning inquiry that could not be solved through the power of the Internet. Today, however, was different. The boy opened the porch door, bringing in some of the snow with him. Without a word, he settled in to the rocker next to Mr. Jacobs' chair. A minute passed without any of the usual interrogation. "No questions today, eh?" Mr. Jacobs grinned one of those smiles that crinkles the corners of your eyes. "No, sir," the boy answered, grinning in turn. "Today I've just come to watch the snow with you." "Ah. Quite beautiful, isn't it? And it must have canceled your schooling today." "Yes, sir." "Well, I'm glad you appreciate it, too. It's so pure, and quiet. Like the world is being reincarnated." "Reincarnated?" "Means born again. It's like the world is being born again." The boy stopped to think about this. Re-in-carn-a-ted. He would have to tell his teacher that he'd learned a new word. "Mr. Jacobs?" "Yes, son?" "Why do you like it so much when it's quiet?" "Well, I find that there is a sort of music in the silence, if you are willing to listen for it. There is a simple beauty to its tune." "OK." The boy pondered this for a little. "Mr. Jacobs?" "Yes?" "Thanks for letting me listen to it with you." "Anytime, son." The old man smiled. He had no grandchildren, but this young child was close enough, even if he was only a neighbor. As the old man lit his cigarette, he turned towards the boy, and said absolutely nothing. The boy had learned to appreciate quiet. Mr. Jacobs turned his attention back toward the snow. Both of them were mesmerized by the beauty of silence. Outside of the little screened-in porch, the snow continued to fall, and the music of silence played on.

And as the old man lit his cigarette, he looked at me and said...

“I love you.” “I love you, too.” I whispered gently, my voice barely audible above the hum of the ceiling fan. I reached down and put my hand on her head. Her head was resting on my lap as she read her book. It was our favorite position when simply relaxing next to each other. I thought about the last few months; I thought about the accident, the aftermath, the denial… I looked over to my right. I couldn’t help it. Where once I would be able to reach out and put a hand on her soft, warm legs, I could now only stare at the stumps where her legs had once connected to the rest of her. I thought of the baby that she had miscarried because of the accident, our precious five month baby. Would we try again? I put my book down. She looked up at me, those beautiful, black eyes that you could stare into forever. “What is it?” I leaned down and kissed her gently on the forehead, trying dearly to cherish her soft skin, to never let go. I withdrew slowly and looked deep into her eyes. “I can’t wait to spend the rest of my life with you.”

"Love stories are boring. Plus, they're all the same"

There's someone at the door! WOOF WOOF WOOF WOOF WOOF WOOF WOOF WOOF WOOF WOOF "Shut up you mangy mutt!" WOOF WOOF WOOF WOOF WOOF WOOF WOOF WOOF WOOF WOOF "I swear to god if you don't be quiet..." That is strange the person left. I want to go outside and learn that persons smell. Skritch skritch skritch skritch skritch skritch "Honey just let the dog out." "For Christs' sake, it's 4 in the morning" "If you needed to poop and I didn't let you, you'd also be screaming all night" "Yeah yeah. Alright, c'mon. Doors open." Sniff sniff sniff This is a bad person smell. This is a very bad person smell. We need to be away. "God wha? Get off me you stupid animal. We aren't going to play right now. Go shit. I said get off! Fine! I'm going in, you coming?" "He didn't have to go?" "No. Crazy animal." They're at the door again. WOOF WOOF WOOF WOOF WOOF WOOF WOOF WOOF WOOF WOOF "What does it want? Is someone at the door?" "I was just outside. There's no one out there." This is a bad smell. This person needs to leave. GRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR "I'm going to take him out one more time, and this time I'm leaving him out there." No do not open the door. No no. GRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR "Alright dog, c'mon out. Take your shit and let's get some sle--" You smell like the bad smell. Why do you smell like the bad smell. I did not want you to go outside. Stay outside now, you smell like the bad smell. WOOF WOOF WOOF WOOF WOOF WOOF WOOF WOOF WOOF WOOF "Honey? What happened to leaving the dog out?" "..." That is a bad smell! That is a bad smell! He is the bad person! WOOF WOOF WOOF WOOF WOOF WOOF WOOF WOOF WOOF WOOF "Throw the dog in the basement and get back in bed." WOOF WOOF WOOF WOOF WOOF WOOF WOOF WOOF WOOF WOOF

A /r/nosleep story written from the perspective of a dog.

**April 26th, 2325** The ship is not a total loss. The crash took out the main drive, but I might be able to get the other systems back online to allow for atmospheric flight. She'll never be space-worthy again, but she still has life in her. I discovered that the air here is breathable. Lucky break for me, I guess. The sky here is darker than on earth. More purple than blue. The twin moons seem very large in the sky, or perhaps just closer than I am used to. I should probably name them, since I seem to be the only intelliegent life. At least so far. More tomorrow. I'm exhausted. **April 27th, 2325** I followed the furrow made by the ship plowing through the ground during the crash. Nothing much to report. No plant life detected so far, though I know it exists. All I can see are tall spires of rock and natural arches in the distance. It reminds me a little of Utah back on earth, except the rock formations a very dark shade of gray and much more fragmented. They seem fragile, like if you touched one it would just topple. The sun seems dimmer than on earth. It's almost like I am looking through dark glasses. Soil samples indicate a very low occurrence of nitrogen. That might explain the lack of plants. Making camp for the night. There are some really strange sounding howls from the ridges to the north. I hope they are not predators. Sleeping with my sidearm under my pillow, just in case. **April 28th, 2325** I hear rushing water! It sounds like a waterfall. I'll keep heading towards it and see what there is to see. Oh my god! I reached the falls. The entire world seems to drop away to a plain that has to be thousands of feet below. It's like standing on the edge of the world! I don't have the resources to descend, but at the bottom it's green. It stretches to the horizon. I have to get down there. Going back to the ship. **April 29th, 2325** It was a bad night. I didn't sleep. The howls I heard before continued all through the night. They were much closer this time. I am compressing and uploading my data to the ship's computer, just in case. Traveling light. Left most of my gear behind so I can make a run to the ship. **End log**

Describe a unique world (IN COLLABORATION WITH /r/SKETCHDAILY)

Long ago, when mankind had only just begun its journey, the world was ruled by dragons. The men worshiped a fire God and thought the Dragons to be angels, the messengers of their God of Fire. The dragons were proud creatures at took this as an insult. They had lived there for thousands of years before mankind arrived and they did not wish to share their land with this new race of men. The dragons started a great war against men and the odds were not in mankind's favor. The great dragons swooped across the land, their wings spanning a hundred meters across as they swept across the country, incinerating entire armies in a single, fiery breath. The dragons burned men, women and children alike, destroying their cities and their homes until only a handful of men remained, the last hope of their race. Among the survivors was a man named Alfrik. Wielding his great stone shield in one hand, and his hammer in the other, he was the only man who had slain a dragon. Things looked dire, but Alfrik had been a warrior all his life, and a warrior never gave up without a fight. He prayed to his God of Fire and then, in a last, desperate attempt to save his people, Alfrik challenged the dragons to a single combat that would determined the fate of the two races. The dragons could easily have crushed the remaining human forces, but they were too proud and too confident in their races superiority to deny Alfrik's request. The champion of the dragons was a fierce beast named Alldun. Alldun was covered in dark green scales that were thick as castle walls and his eyes gleemed dangerously. He had killed legions of men in the war and would be sorry to see the war ended after only one more death. Alfrik's shield and hammer seemed puny compared to the dragon, towering high above him, snarling and snapping it's enormous jaws. It was custom for the two duelists to bow before their opponent, to show respect before the battle began, but Alldun, who had no respect for the humans, did not bow. The dragon attacked immediately, his deadly talons lashing out at the tiny man, but Alfrik would not be so easily bested. He deflected the attacks with his great stone shield, retaliating with crushing blows from his hammer. The two were locked in a combat for what seemed like an eternity, but for all his efforts, Alfrik could not penetrate the thick dragon scales with his hammer. After a particularly powerful blow by Alfrik's hammer, Alldun retreated to the skies. He circled his prey and rained fire down from above. Alfrik hid behind his shield, but the scorching fire was never ending. He felt his shield begin to crack from the immense heat and as he knew he was about to be consumed by the flames, he said one last prayer, not for himself, but for his people. Alfrik begged his God that he would not punish his people for Alfrik's own failure, that he would send his angels of death away and let them live. Alfrik's shield shattered in a thousand pieces and the fire took him. A moment later, nothing but a pile of ash remained as the last hope for humanity. Alldun mocked the humans, taunting their foolishness. No human could ever best a dragon, he told them, but perhaps he should not have been so quick to celebrate his victory, for Alfrik's last prayer had not gone unheard. From Alfrik's ashes, a phoenix rose. The bird of fire rose into the sky, its wings as wide as the dragons, and attacked Alldun. This time, the two champions were of a size, and the phoenix's fiery breath and sharp talons matched Alldun's. Alldun was afraid. For the first time, he had to truly fight for his life and every narrowly avoided strike could have been his end. Alldun shot great balls of fire at his relentless attacker, but the phoenix only seemed to grow stronger, feeding of the fire it was born from. It sunk it's talons deep into the dragons flesh and ripped out its heart, casting it to the ground. When the battle was over and Alldun laid dead on the ground, the phoenix burst into brilliant flames, turning once more into ashes. The humans rejoiced over their victory, but their champion was gone and the remaining dragons approached. To the surprise of the men, the dragons did not attack. They had lost the duel, and so they would keep their word and leave this land, never to return. The men never saw the dragons again and slowly they started to rebuild their civilization, starting with a shrine to honor Alfrik, the champion who had given his life for his people.

A story written in the style of old legends and myths

The knocking grew louder and more intense as I crept toward the door with a knife in hand. I looked through the peephole and a pantsless middle aged balding man continued to knock harder and louder. Out of sheer stupidity and knife-infused courage, I opened the door. "What?" I asked. "I need peanuts," he stated. "Good for you, it's 2AM," I countered. "Fuck you, this is life and death!" He exclaimed. "Nothing involving a need for peanuts is life and death! AND IT'S 2AM!" I also exclaimed. "Three men broke into my house and told me that if I didn't deliver them two hundred peanuts by 3AM, they were going to shit all over my house and rewire my speakers to play Miley Cyrus at full blast indefinitely! I. NEED. PEANUTS!" He explained. "Oh," I said, "Yeah- that happened to me last week- hold on." I fetched my barrel of two hundred peanuts with the label that read "Do not eat: for defecation-related shamings," and handed it over to him. "Now, I'm going to need you to replace that- will you stop by Safeway and pick up some tomorrow?" "Sure sure," he responded frantically- trying to grab the peanuts from me. "You suuuuure?" I asked him, withholding the peanuts. "Yes- please, whatever you need- just- come on MAN!" He complained. "Well...alright," I submitted and handed him the barrel. "Just remember- back by tomorrow, or I'll fill your car with used laundry collected from homeless people and replace all your toilet paper with sand paper, cool?" "Totally!" he said, and before he could run- I had to ask, "What happened to your pants?" He turned around and crooked his eyebrow at me. "What?" He asked. "Your pants- why aren't you wearing any pants?" I asked again. "I took them off so I could run faster!" he declared. "Come on!" And off he went into the night, pantsless and free as an unshelled peanut.

Use primarily dialogue.

(Random, hypothetical Archer episode I threw together about a month ago about the NSA) "As long as I get to fire the RPG," Archer said as he and Lana drove through the streets of Manhattan. "You're not firing that RPG," Lana replied, trying to cut around traffic. "I absolutely am!" he yelled. "Even if firepower of this magnitude is liable to give me an erection of an even greater magnitude-" "Ew," Lana cringed. "- I should be able to handle the kickback," Archer finished, unfazed by the interruption. "Noooooope. You won't need the RPG. We're just raiding an apartment. How did Mallory get this guy's address anyway?" "The NSA started sharing their information with private spy agencies months ago." "What?!" Lana exclaimed. "What happened to intelligence gathering at ISIS?" "Face it, Lana! We are the Dane Cook of surveillance. The only person in that department who Mother hasn't fired is that one guy with the Tolkien fetish and he's in the middle of reading 'The Silmarillion' for the sixth time!" "Seriously?" "I know, right? I thought the Silmarillion was definitely the weakest of Tolkien's works-" "Not that! I mean, seriously, we can't trust that our target is a terrorist just because the NSA is tapping his phone. Whatever success they have comes from the fact that they tap anybody's phone they want. They cast a wide net, violate the privacy of thousands of people, and wipe their ass with the Constitution!" "Lana, it isn't 1776! This country faces new threats which require new defense measures. You think those douchebags in the powdery wigs could have predicted nuclear weapons? You think they could have even imagined this RPG that I... just realized I have been stroking for the past 5 minutes..." "First of all, ew. Second, the Declaration of Independence was written in 1776, the Constitution was written in 1787. Third, I'm not thinking of the year 1776, I'm thinking of 1984." "You, what?" Archer asked, baffled. "I mean, I wish I had been able to see the Summer Olympics in LA too, but the music from the mid 80's was mostly-" "Not the actual year, dumbass!" "But if it were 1984, then Top Gun wouldn't come out for another two years. Then, even the NSA wouldn't be able to see that you were in the-" "If you say 'Danger Zone,' I will punch you in the throat! And 1984 was a book!" "No, Lana! 1984 was an allegory for a dystopian tyranny! And if you would get off your high horse, you could see that every damn rampage I have led in the past 6 months was made possible by intel from the NSA!" "Is that a good thing?" "In my debut thriller, 'Terms of En-Rampage-ment,'" "Oh Christ," Lana muttered. "I destroyed an Irish gang that was responsible for selling placebo medication for cancer! We used the NSA to find their warehouse!" "That was months ago." "AND! In the highly anticipated sequel, "From Rampage with Love, you and I stopped Canadian terrorists from detonating a dirty bomb in New York." "Well-" "In the flawed, but ultimately satisfying conclusion to the trilogy, 'Swiss Family Rampage-son..." "Who are you stealing these puns from?" "- we tracked Al Qaeda terrorists and stopped them from blowing up the Golden Gate Bridge. All of these terrorist attacks would have been successful had it not been for what you call a violation of privacy. And, if you want, you can go ahead and complain that this conflicts with your ideology or with a piece of paper written by a group of old, rich, white men over 200 years ago, HOWEVER, if we don't raid this man's apartment and he blows up a subway car tomorrow, I challenge you to speak with a mother who loses her child in the attack and tell her that her child's life is less important to you than the idea that somebody else might read your text messages." After a pause, Lana said, "Jesus, Archer." "Sorry. I've been drinking and I've only had like... five gummy bears to eat all day. Also, 'Bridge over the Rampage Kwai is the last pun I have." "Fine," Lana sighed. "We'll go to his apartment. Do you have his name?" "Yeah, it's Italian or French or something. Gerzone, I think." "Do you have a first name?" "Yeah, it's Daine." "Ok. Daine Gerzone... oh goddammit, Archer." "That's right, Lana. We're paying a visit to the Danger Zone." (Cue Archer theme.)

Write a scene/episode/arc from your favorite TV show

Ladies and Gentlemen; my fellow U.S Citizens. Not four hours ago a conference was held following a series of papers published over the past few months. I'm well aware that no one is here to be bored stiff with political dogma, so I shall summarise. Those papers were on the topic of the perception of the United States of America, it its entirety, by the rest of the world. They do not make for pleasant reading for any member of our great and proud nation. We are being mocked. We are considered stupid, and cruel, and pompous. The world at large believes we impose our ideals upon weaker nations and societies and exploit them for our own gain as a nation. They think we're delusively clinging to past glories and blindly ignoring our crumbling state and culture. They laugh and point and scoff at U.S policy, at U.S culture and at U.S citizens. To them we are a shadow of a previous powerhouse that's slowly and without dignity rotting in the limelight. There is no respect for our nation. The aforementioned conference was held in light of these findings. It was unanimously agreed that something has to be done. It is a crime against the ideals and heroes our nation was founded upon that we let this continue. We were forged from a world of tyranny and injustice by those who sought liberty and equality, who sought freedom to flourish into the greatness we are all capable of. We cannot and I will not allow those great deeds, those great men, and the many lives laid down in service of this nation, to be squandered and wasted. My fellow Americans; we are not like the rest of this world. There is no other country like us. It seems that the Others, those beyond our borders, have forgotten who we are. Well it is time they were reminded. As of this hour, the United States of America no longer recognises Hawaii and Alaska as American States. Furthermore; all remaining States are dissolved; I am sick and tired of our backwater, ineffective democratic system getting in the way of our potential. We are America, one nation, one people, one state. There is one President, a position I am most privileged to hold, and that President is the head of this one state. It has been decreed that the position of President shall have power over *all* political, judicial, legal, governmental, military, economic and administrative matters; beyond those of any other postion, which in turn are subservient and under the direct authority *of* the President. This is, I know, a frightening development to many of you. But let me assure each and every member of this country, so that there is no doubt and no shadow of uncertainty for any one of you; my fellow Americans. You should be scared. This is no longer a nation under God. This is no longer a democracy. This is *MY* land. You are *MY* people. And I am your God now. But do not think you are alone, as a now isolated country, under my dominion. As of 00:00 Monday, the 1st of November, 2017th , we are at war with the newly ejected island of Hawaii. We- No, **I** will raze the island of inhabitants and salt the scorched earth that remains. The nuclear fallout from the hellfire I rain down upon them will render all travel across the Pacific an act of suicide for centuries to come. There will be no mercy, there will be no survivors, and there will be no remorse. It is time my foetid, useless subjects, who have allowed *my* nation to fall so low, understood; there is no whim of mine too petty or unimportant as to warrant anything less than your full lives in my service. My every order, my every desire, my every offhand imperative, will be your duty, from now until the day your disgusting forms decay back into the earth. And it is time the world at large understood: I am the 45th President of the United States of America. There is no soil that is, from this day, not U.S soil. If there is any man, any woman, or any child, who does not fully submit to my awesome majesty they will suffer to the greatest degree possible from now until the day I allow them to leave this world. It is within my power to cast this whole planet into a fiery, radioactive abyss. I have the greatest military force in the known universe under my direct command. My eyes and ears behold all of creation. My hand is mighty and my reach knows no bounds. You will bow before your Lord and Master, or he will cow your wretched selves with a gesture. This is my world now.

The (unnamed) U.S. president has become bored and has decided to declare war against Hawaii. Write the dead serious speech with which he declares war. Include how he justifies the war (not with terrorism).

The moment this boy entered the lab I knew he was different. I suppose he was really a man, he must have been thirty at least, but something about the way his eyes flickered across the room and his hand never going two seconds without wiping the sweat off his brow gave me the impression that he was a scared little boy, waiting to be punished for stealing out of the cookie jar. "I'm, uh... Neville." He said and took a seat. The lab was designed especially for the examination of people claiming to have paranormal abilities and no expenses had been spared. The room was equipped with everything from bullet proof glass, to ultra-sensitive heat and sound measuring tools, to a small set of cages filled with various small animals. My assistant, Jones, took a seat opposite Neville and performed the usual interview, asking the boy about who he was, what he did and a few questions to ensure he was sane. It wasn't until Neville was asked what his supposed paranormal ability was that I understood why he was different. He got this horrified look on his face and he stammered, "I-I'm not exactly sure." He was the first one in over five hundred applicants who weren't here because he'd seen the million dollar prize on the line. "Well? Spit it out, there's hundreds more waiting, I don't have time to waste!" Jones snarled, he obviously hadn't seen why the boy was so different. "You seem a little stressed out. Why don't you go grab a coffee or something? I'll handle Neville here." I said, placing a friendly hand on my assistants shoulder. He got up reluctantly, muttering "fine" under his breath and left the two of us alone. "Now, Neville, you said you're not sure what you can do, but maybe you can show me?" Neville shook his head furiously, turning his eyes to the ground. "No, no, no, no, don't make me do it again." He kept shaking his head, muttering "no". "I can't help you if I don't know what's happening to you, Neville." His head suddenly jerked up and he looked me in the eyes. "Can you help me? Can you make it go away?" Jones returned with a coffee in his hand and snickered. "This is a serious scientific experiment, not some acting audition, so just cut the crap." Neville ignored the snide remark and instead looked at me as if I was the only one who could help him. "I'm not sure what we can do, Neville..." I hesitated for a moment, not wanting to promise more than I could keep. "But I promise you I will do everything I can to help you, *if* you show me what you can do." Finally, after some convincing, he agreed. He told us he'd need something to perform it on, so I took a rat from its cage, dangling it by the tail. I placed the rat on the table in front of Neville and took a few steps back to give him some room. The rat sniffed around a little, but made no attempts at escaping. Neville glanced at us nervously. "Dazzle us, Gandalf!" Jones said with a big grin. Neville turned his attention to the rat and his face screwed up in concentration. The effect was immediate. The rat rolled onto it's back, violent spasms shaking its body. Its eyes rolled back and its mouth started to froth as it began squeaking madly. "That's enough! You can stop, Neville, that's enough!" I said, looking on in horror as the small creature writhed in pain before me. Neville looked up at me and to my surprise he was crying silently. "I can't." He said, shaking his head. A gush of blood erupted from the rats nose and suddenly it rolled off the table landing on its feet. The rat started running, still squeaking as if it was on fire. It hit the wall head first, caving its own skull into a bloody pulp. "It's the only way they can make the pain stop." Neville cried. The squeaking had finally stopped and now the silence was only broken by the clatter of a paper mug hitting the floor. Jones looked pale as a ghost, his joking manner blown away in an instant. "Can you do that to people, boy?" His voice was barely more than a whisper. "I never wanted to hurt anyone." Neville started to shake as the tears flowed down his cheeks. He had barely finished the sentence before Jones had bolted for the door, slamming it shut and locking it behind him. Neville looked up, suddenly stricken with panic. "No, don't lock me in here! You said you would help me!" He yelled, turning to me. "You promised you would help me!" I walked over to the door and pulled the handle violently. "Jones? Open the door! Let us out of here!" A few moments later, Jones' voice replied on the intercom. "You know I can't do that. That boy... that devil... he can't bring anything but pain and misery to the world." "He won't hurt anyone unless you force him! This is what we've been working for, real evolution that could change mankind forever! If we help him, he won't hurt anyone!" Neville sat in a corner breathing rapidly while looking around, like a trapped animal, desperately looking for a way out. He kept mumbling something to himself, but I couldn't make out the words. "Are you willing to bet your life on that? My life? He said it himself, he can't even stop it! What if he gets angry, just once? That rat was in so much pain it'd rather rush head first into a wall than live another second! I can't risk it, I won't- ARRGHGHH!" Jones voice morphed into a scream of agony. Luckily, I didn't have to listen to his screams for long, because a moment later the intercom cut off. "What did you do?!" Neville had closed his eyes, but they opened again when I shook him. An insane smile spread across his face when he looked at me and I could finally hear what he had been mumbling. "It's evolution. Survival of the fittest." "Stop it, Neville! You're not a killer!" It was as if he had transformed into an other person during the past minute. All trace of nerves were gone and he no longer stuttered or cried. He looked at me calmly and said, "Don't try and stop me and I won't kill you." The door was kicked down behind him and four men hurried in with their guns raised, aiming for Neville's back. The labs security guards opened their mouths, probably to tell Neville to freeze, but all that came out were four blood-curdling screams. I recognized the man closest to me. His name was Geoff, we'd chatted over a cigarette outside a few times, and now he was looking at me pleading for me to kill him with blood starting to drip from his ears. In fifteen seconds, all four had shot themselves. Neville dusted off his clothes with a smirk on his face and stepped over the corpses and through the door. I was still standing in the lab, frozen in fear, when he looked back at me and said with a look of euphoria on his face, "I get it now. I'm an apex predator".

The One Million Dollar Paranormal Challenge

You come home after a rather trying day; the burden of retail and customer service weighs heavy on your heart and your head throbs from the incessant looping of the same three songs over the PA system. But you're home now...only, something is amiss. You can't quite put your finger on it, then it hits you. The smell, subtle like a voyeuristic individual wearing a fluorescent jump suit, comes as an affront to your sensibilities. Your housemates, forgetful beings that they are, forgot to crack a window open before they left. Thus, your haven is inundated with a stale odor, a sickly scent of energy drinks and Doritos. "This will never do", you ponder aloud, as you rummage through the shelves looking for the one thing to combat the pungent odor invading your house. Then, you find it; your hands tense as you graze past its solid form, then you grasp it with a sense of purpose. Pulling out the supple can of Air Wick, a shudder of anticipation creeps through your body. You've been craving that familiar smell for a long time and, given the events of your day, the intimate embrace of Frangipani and Mango scented aerosol fills you with a sense of trepidation and awe. With a profound sense of vigor, you make your way into the heart of the foul stench that dares to persist in your inner sanctum. "It's go time", you exclaim, as you point the can skyward and push down the button. A powerful convulsion jolts through your body as the sweet aroma of Mango and Frangipani fills your nose, surfacing an intense passion within like broth in a boiling pot. You fall back on the futon, writhing in ecstasy, as the very composition of the air changes around you; what was once foul and decrepit is now vibrant and intense. As the wispy essence of a summer breeze indulges your senses, you shudder and arch your back as an overpowering euphoria erupts in your nether regions. With shallow breaths, overcome by what can be aptly described as an 'Ambrosia for the Nasal Sense', you collapse in exhaustion and allow yourself to be taken by the beautifully poetic notion of orgasm-induced slumber.

Make something mundane sexual

*The title caught my imagination, but the rest of the prompt felt a bit too restrictive for me- sorry! I already had something similar in mind when I read the title, so here is what I wrote just off that one line. Forgive me for any errors by the way, I'm not familiar with how the american police force works with recruiting and training and stuff so there are probably inaccuracies.* For as long as I could remember I had wanted to be a cop. When I was just a little kid I used to run around the house with my little police hat like them english cops wear and my plastic gun arresting Mom and Dad for not doing the washing up, or forgetting to pack my juice in my lunchbox. When I was nineteen, I was accepted into the academy. It was the proudest moment of my life, that was until they gave me my badge. It took me six months to get that, six months of grueling hard work, blood, sweat and tears- the whole cliché. I was twenty when I had my first patrol, I was a king on that sidewalk with my crisp blue shirt and badge shined up so bright it was almost luminous. Marco was with me, he was an old school cop not best pleased to be back on the streets with a green kid like me. He had this handlebar moustache that looked like he sculpted it on every morning with putty. I heard he used to be a big shot, then something went wrong and here he was back on the beat. Oh well, he was my partner and that's all that mattered. That and the free coffee we used to get from Frank's down the road 'cause he helped him out a few years back when his daughter had some boyfriend trouble. Those first few months I was living the dream, I was finally where and what I had wanted to be. Marco wasn't so bad once you got to know him either, he was old school. A real vet that knew how it went down and how to keep your hands clean of it when it did. I learnt a lot off him, I didn't learn everything though 'cause four months and six days after we first partnered up Marco was shot by the scumbag ex-boyfriend of Frank's gorgeous raven haired daughter he put away a few years back. Turns out, he was some gangbanging asshole who got a rough ride in prison- even criminals hate woman beaters and kiddy fiddlers, somethings are wrong no matter where you go. Anyway, Marco had just come out of Frank's one day with his morning coffee and I was sat in the car out in the parking lot reading the paper. Nothing interesting going on, some shit on wall street had fucked up half the countries banks again. Oh and some socialite had a new pair of tits, the usual slow Monday news. I'm sat there, I hear the bell that tingles every time someones comes in or out of Frank's so I start up the engine. Next thing I hear is this bang, figure I've shot the engine but then I hear glass shattering and a woman screaming. I look in the mirror, some guy in sagged jeans and a black hoody is taking off down the street and there's Marco, my partner, lying dead on Frank's doormat with bed of glass and a door frame for a quilt. I freeze up, they don't prepare you for this in the Academy. Nobody sees fit to tell you what it's like to see someone die, let alone your partner. Your friend. Seconds seem like hours, but suddenly I'm back in the real world and somebody is shouting for a doctor- but there ain't no doctor at Frank's, unless you count his wife who stuck a plaster on my finger once when I cut it open trying to slice a bagel one morning. They got nothing for a shooting though, then someone is shouting for someone to stop that guy, then somebody shouts police. That's when I snap out of it, I remember who I am. What I am. What I had always wanted to be. And I'm out of that car, my gun's in my hand. I don't remember how it got there. Or when I started sweating. This guy's running west down the street, there's nobody there this time of day it's too early. I bring my gun up, take my aim and shout for him to stop. He doesn't stop, I shout again. He doesn't stop. I squeeze the trigger. That's when that little girl blond girl with the red silk bows in her pigtails steps out of her house. A split second later is when she slumps to the ground and her mother starts screaming. Time stops, my body goes cold, that guy gets away. This little girl bleeds out in seconds, how did it happen so fast? Not that it matters, the bullet in her brain killed her before she painted a bloody carpet on the sidewalk. And I'm just stood there, my gun has fallen to the ground. I can't move. I can't speak. This woman, this Mother is crying. I can see her crying, but I can't hear her. That's about when the first cop car arrives, not a bad response time. But the station is only round the corner and Monday mornings are always quiet. They see what's happening, but they don't understand. I see this guy screaming at them, he's pointing at me. My ears are ringing, I don't hear a thing. But I feel the cold steel of the handcuffs, their hands on my shoulders as they bundle me into the back of a car. When I was a kid I always wanted to ride in a cop car. Some dreams do come true, hey? There's always a price to pay though. Nothing comes cheap in life and I'd had it good. For me, that morning was the end. Game Over. Monday the 27th of September, 2010. I've spent three years now in federal prison. They put me in solitary 'cause I was a cop, prisoners hate cops even more than they hate woman beaters and kiddy fiddlers apparently. Three long years now. Every morning I wake up screaming. Every night I see that little blond girl with the red silk bows in her pigtails step out of her house, wishing I could go back. That it was some kind of game and I could just press reset and start over, play it again. Change it. I always wanted to be a cop.

Game Over. Would you like to play again?

It is funny how time seems to move so differently here. In the *before* the days felt so short but those seconds between 8am and 4pm had just dragged on and on and on, till it seemed like the clock never moved. In the *after* time seems to move even slower. A constant grey mist hovers at the windows, windows that seemed so fragile before but now are just another impenetrable force keeping us all in here. Like the doors that won't open, and the walls that withstand all exertion of force. I once read a book like this, how long ago was that? It is so hard to focus, there is no power, no new water, no new food. Don't they know that we are starving? Don't they know that we are dying? We noticed our isolation when the phones stopped worked. Charlie was texting the AP Chem test answers to Ryan when his just shut off, when everyone's shut off. There were instant riots. How simple it was back then, when we just assumed that it was the principle instituting some sort of high tech anti-technology device. She didn't know what was going on either. We weren't ok with that. Accusations flew, there was a fight in the cafeteria and some idiot lit the curtains on fire. That fire activated the sprinklers but they barely ran before running out of water. Water. I need some water. Or food. Or google. I think some people are dead, the others were so *angry* and I don't understand why. Is this happening everywhere? Is this anger and confusion the end? Facebook why won't you tell me? Twitter where are the new tweets? I want to talk to my mom. I left for track practice before she was awake. She would know what to do. I've been in this closet for so long, just listening for the ticks between the tocks, but that space is getting longer. I try the power button again. Tick and again Tock I hear footsteps, and loud noises, and then silence. There is dripping sound Tick Could it be water? I could use some water, or a soda, or just google. Google would be the best Tock I wonder how long it has really been Did I pass my midterms, grades were supposed to come out in the afternoon of the before. I could use some water. Why are we alone. Tick I don't want to be alone I just want... Why won't my phone work I just want... Why is this second so long I just want... Why hasn't school let out Google why won't you tell me?

An American high school suddenly loses all contact with the outside world in the middle of a school day. Nobody can get out, or talk to anybody outside of it by any means, and vice versa.

It was the worst salad I've ever had. The lettuce was soggy, there were onions on it, (a faux pas for a proper Caesar salad), and the dressing tasted days past expiration. I voiced my objections to my waiter, who promised to have the chef retry. The second attempt was nearly the same. I would have assumed the chef had sent the original salad, but this time he had managed to use a slightly *less* soggy batch of lettuce. I demanded to speak to the chef. I was a paying customer, and deserved a salad that was in some way consumable without running the risk of gastrointestinal failure. This was apparently the wrong thing to do today. The chef obliged, and burst through the kitchen doors into the dining room, wielding a large butcher's knife. I stood my ground. He loomed over me by at least six inches, and wore the bulky stature of a man who knew how to carve up a body properly. I tried not to think about how easy I would be for him. "Are you the fucker who keeps sending back my salads?" He roared. I nodded, keeping my face locked in an emotionless gaze, lest he catch wind of my fear. "The fuck is your problem. It's a goddamn salad. You can't fuck up a salad, don't tell me that I fucked up a salad. I've been doing this for 15 years." "And yet," I said calmly, my heart racing. "Somehow, sir, you have managed to do just that. Not only once, but twice, and in almost exactly the same manner." The chef had heard enough. To my utter shock, he brought the knife up to the level of my face, and swung horizontally. 6 years of fencing kicked in, luckily for me. I grabbed a steak knife from a nearby table. 4th position. Parry, keep mobile. The larger man was obviously too enraged to fight intelligently. I only had to remain calm. He swung in large, obvious strokes; slow and predictable. But strong. If I failed to parry properly with this small knife, I would almost certainly lose a finger. I backed through the maze of tables and chairs behind me as other patrons scrambled to escape his armspan, avoiding possible collateral damage. He grew angrier with each swing, frustrated by his inability to connect a proper blow. Eventually, he made his mistake. A desperate swing exposed his side, and I darted around to a blind spot. He froze immediately, feeling the steak knife pressed against his neck. I held it there silently for a good minute or so, to let him take stock of the situation. He seemed to realize his vulnerability, and was taking no action to escape it. He knew I was faster. Calmly, I turned to the server, now staring wide-eyed at the spectacle in front of her. "Miss, you may need to tell your boss to find a new chef. I will happily recommend a few, should he require it." She nodded silently, and turned to the back. I waited for her to leave the dining room before turning back to the chef. "You really should have just made my salad. A man like myself does not have the preference of a violent solution; it lacks finesse." The chef shrugged. "Long day, I guess." I smirked. "Sounds like you could use a bit of a rest." I pulled the knife across his neck quickly and purposefully. He collapsed immediately, scrambling for table linens to staunch the flow of blood that erupted. I placed the knife back on the table of the man enjoying the New York Strip, and apologized for my intrusion. I straightened my jacket, and began to walk out of the dining room. Halfway to the door, however, i turned around. I strolled to a nearby table and selected a small piece of bread from the platter of appetizers. This would tide me over for now. I still had to find someplace that wouldn't manage fuck up a salad. As i lifted the roll to my mouth, I noticed a spot of blood on my sleeve. What a very inconvenient meal.

Prove the saying "alcohol, because no good story started with a salad" wrong.

Dear Phillip, I want to formally introduce myself. My name is Julie Peters, and we have never met in person. I have known you for one year, three months, and approximately twelve days. I had no intention of contacting you originally, but since Helen left, I felt that you may need someone to talk to. I just can't fathom why she would have left you. You are nothing but sweet and loving, and you took such wonderful care of her and Jake after he was born. On a side note, his birthday party was adorable and you did a great job planning it. I just may use the sock monkey theme for my own future child's first birthday as well! Hopefully you will be there. I thought we could name him after you? Well, that's another story that can wait for the future. Back to the bitch, or Helen, or darlin' as you lovingly called her. Can you believe that she had the gall to cheat on your with *two* different men over the last six months before she left you? While you were out of town for your business trip to Michigan, she had one of them stay with her until Saturday. SATURDAY! The audacity of that woman to bring another man into your home and to be around your child, it's unimaginable. I would never do that to you. I have dreamed about how nice it would be to snuggle with you on the new suede couch you bought for your anniversary last month. Oh, the things we could do on that couch. The side would be the perfect height for love-making. I'm getting all hot just thinking about you. Maybe soon you will notice me at the S & P coffee shop when you stop to get your black coffee before work. Maybe I can buy you one? Two sugars, no cream, I know. I would never let you down. If you ever needed to talk to someone about how lonely you may be, I will be here for you. I will never leave you, Phillip. I love you. See you soon, Julie @~>~

NSA employee writes a creepy love letter to someone he/she selected using the agency's surveillance infrastructure, but has never met.

“Spare some change?” The man ignores the grasping hand of the street bum, unconsciously brushing away imaginary filth from his jacket. His thoughts are on his twelve o-clock lunch meeting, the unopened bills on his kitchen table, the cold shoulder of his wife as they lay in bed after a night of fighting. Anywhere but the dirty outstretched hand asking for his change. “Please, just a few coins.” It’s getting colder, the man has noticed. Autumn is ending. Winter’s tendrils pull the leaves from trees and leave frost on his windshield. He glances at the bum on the sidewalk. A tuque sits on the bum’s head, a patchy beard dominating the face showing underneath. A ragged coat only draws attention to the shabby shirt underneath. The blanket that he sits on is as thin and worn as his coat. A fleeting thought crosses the man’s mind. Why not help him? But the crosswalk light is turning green and his thoughts are a million miles away on his meeting and his bills and his family. And so the man walks on, pulled along by strings that he tied himself long ago.

A man is asked a favor by a stranger

John loved her, he never realised it until that day. He and his best friend were invited to the party, his girlfriend came along too. He saw her in the light of the bonfire the party had, the light danced off her face like a angel's. He realised he loved her at that moment. He woke up the next morning, slightly hung over and regretting his decisions the night before. He hated that he loved her, his best mate was his first friend, the friend he'd had since primary school, they'd done everything together for years. They'd even run off together when they were grounded for setting off a firecracker when they had a sleepover. The police had found them, defiant ten-year olds in the woods, facing off the three officers with wooden sticks, holding them like spears. The had told that story to her at the party, her laugh was so beautiful. John slapped himself, worried about where his mind was wandering. Swinging his legs out of the bed, he stood up and went into the kitchen to find a hangover cure. He was standing on the deck of the lakeside home of his mate's girlfriend, she had invited John there at the party, she needed help nursing his drunk mate, Jim. He softly drank his cup of tea, marvelling at how delicious it was. 'Morning', John froze. It was Emily, she had seen him on the deck lost in thought, something she liked about John, he was always so mysterious. She liked hugging people and John was no exception, she gave him a warm embrace from behind. She didn't notice John's expression, he masterfully hid his emotions as he put his arm around her, trying as much as he could to make it appear like a brotherly hug. He managed to suppress his feelings, he had a great discussion with Emily about the night before, both of them were angry at Jim's reckless drinking. Then the conversation turned serious; a debate over which Firefly character was the best. It helped John, his animated arguing helped keep his mind off things. He knew it wouldn't last. He sat dripping in the back of the car with Jim back home, he had gotten revenge on John's wake-up call of a pillow smacking into his face and a spray-can of cream attack had not gone down well. They were both soaked, John had grabbed Jim and pulled him into the lake with him after the shove. They had laughed about it, and soon John was packing up to go back to University. He didn't see Emily for nearly two months, but the ache didn't let up. He stopped talking to her online, stopped returning her texts. Jim asked him about it when he came to visit, Emily didn't understand why he wasn't returning her messages. John had been ashamed, but Jim understood, he knew what kind of man his best mate was, and knew he wouldn't ever do something like that. John had felt absolved and he started talking to Emily again, not much though, he wanted to keep his distance. Then that night had happened, Jim and Emily had been fighting, both were upset beyond measure. She showed up at John's door, soaked by the rain of the thunderstorm that night, it was if Thor knew. Her tears and ruined make-up made her look like a drag queen, John didn't care. Despite all his conflicted feelings about his love for her, he was so happy to see her. She was inconsolable, she snuggled up to him, trying to forget the fight. John was happy to console her, one of the few things he was able to be was a shoulder to cry on, Jim appreciated it more than John realised, and so did Emily. She raised her head from his chest where she had been resting it and looked him in the eyes. 'What is it?' He asked. 'I know, John.' 'Know what?' 'I knew who I loved when I met Jim, but it wasn't until that day after the party I realised you felt the same.' John stammered 'What? I don't know what you're talking about'. 'I think you do, you were there when I met Jim, he was hanging from the tree, doing pull-ups while you hung upside down from the same tree, making fun of him for being such a weakling. I loved your quirkiness, I just never knew I loved you until you stopped talking to me.' 'I was busy, I had a lot on my mind.' 'You and I both know that's a lie.' 'But...' She put a finger on his lips, and before they knew it, they were kissing. The joy was the most bittersweet they had ever experienced, betrayal and lust, longing and shame, desire and pain, it was a feeling that made them both want to break apart and never see each other again, but they had held their feelings inside for too long, and they couldn't. I hope you liked that.

You fall in love with your best friend who is already in a relationship, but they reveal feelings for you out of the blue

He held the knife to his mother’s throat, pinning her to the ground by her hair. She twisted, tears welling in her eyes as they met his. “If you kill me, then you really will be as evil as they said you were.” *The knife fell.* He held the knife to his father's throat, one knee in the small of his back, his other hand pulling his head back. “If you kill me, then you will have no home to return to, no life to call your own.” *The knife fell.* He held the knife to the nun’s throat, the blade resting on the white cloth covering her neck. There was no need to restrain this one. “If you kill me, then you were a lost hope before they even sent you here.” *The knife fell.* He held the knife to the priests throat, kneeling on his chest to force the old man onto his back and stare at the sky. “If you kill me, then even the Lord will have no mercy upon you.” *The knife fell.* He held the knife to his own throat, praying he had been quick enough, praying he had finished his work before their vile rot set in. *Praying?* His face fell as the knife fell. As the blade bit deeply into his neck he heard the voice again, deep in his own thoughts. “If you kill me, there will be no one left to judge you.”

"If you kill me, there will be no one left to judge you."

"IS THAT OKAY?" I rolled my eyes. Somehow, as soon as people figured out that I couldn't speak, they assumed I couldn't hear. I wanted to inform him that my ears weren't influenced my lack of vocal cords, but obviously I couldn't. Instead, I nodded, putting on my best fake smile I got a lot of sympathy for not being able to talk. Rarely to my face, but not talking gets you pretty good at listening-- and let me tell you, I listen a lot. But I'm getting of track. The thing about sympathy is that people can only imagine how they would deal with the sympathy. I've never been able to talk, and honestly? Its not that bad. I actually find that I sometimes feel sorry for regular people, because many of them can't listen. And listening is amazing. It's really kind of crazy how little people actually *listen*. Let me give you an example: think about the last time you got in an argument with someone. Do you remember their points? Or do you mainly remember the times you refuted their argument, got mad, or felt extremely righteous? Maybe you're an exception, but most everybody I know doesn't listen, they just hear. What's the difference? Hearing is a base instinct. Your brain hears things with any conscious involvement on your part. Listening is processing what you hear, and when you argue to win, you're not listening. You're hearing. I listen, and I think it's allowed me to understand everyone I interact with just a little better. For example, lets take the guy talking to me right now. "Okay, awesome! So is your hearing good, or... What's the deal?" I nodded "great, great. Anyway, I brought you here for kind of a delicate reason..." This was a random guy who'd been sent from corporate, and he was about to fire me. I'd known for a week as I'd overheard my boss and a few colleagues discussing it. So what do I know about this guy? He's a jerk, but good at his job. He tried picking up a few women and the store but failed miserably, and isn't very well liked. He was also about to find out that firing a cripple wasn't that easy. "I'm afraid that Dynacorp is going to have to let you go." He paused, waiting for me to burst into tears, look at my shoes, or beg for the job (not possible) Instead, I reached into my pocket and pulled out a few leaflets of paper, and pushed them across the table. He began to read them, and his calm demeanor quickly grew ruffled. "What is the meaning of these documents? How dare you make such an accusation? I'm.. I'm shocked and outraged! This isn't going to get you unfired!" I smirked, and raised my eyebrows. Maybe the best thing about listening is secrets, and I have an excess of those. If I spilled the beans, I could end six marriages, get four people fired, and one person arrested. But the one's I just revealed? I won't go too in depth, but suffice to say they could get Mr. Performance review here in deeper shit than all those people put together. He glared, then got up an picked up his coat. "This isn't the end of this, you hear? I don't care how crippled you are, I'm gonna get revenge!" I grinned, and gave him a thumbs up. Listening really wasn't so bad. In fact, sometimes it was really pretty awesome.

Inner monologue of someone who can't speak

"Mom," Leslie said, "Calm down." She was crying, now. If she had screamed at her, or berated her, or slapped her across the face, Leslie could have handled it. But watching her mother broken to pieces like that-- it made her feel sick. "Tell me," Leslie's mother pleaded. "Where did I go so wrong with you?" "You didn't." The lump in Leslie's throat threatened to swell into a sob. She swallowed the thing down with a wince. Leslie was tough. She could handle this. "It was my own choice," she said. "My body, my mind-- it has nothing to do with you. But you need to know where the money's coming from. I owe you that much." "You owe *yourself* more than this. What would your father think? What will I tell your little sister when she's old enough to ask why you dress the way you do before you leave the house?" Leslie sunk to her elbows and rested her face in her hands miserably. "I don't know," she admitted. They sat at the dinner table for some time longer; Leslie's mother weeping quietly. But it was time to go. Leslie went upstairs and prettied herself up. It was hard not to hate the face she saw when she looked in the mirror; makeup just so, ready to impress, ready to seduce. Barely nineteen, and already at the job. How did it come to this? Leslie's mother didn't look at her as her heels clicked down the stairs. "Sissy," Jessica said from behind her. Leslie turned to find the four-year-old watching her from the top of the stairs, innocent and pure in her pink onesie pajamas. "Where ya going?" Leslie blinked back the tears. "Out," she said. Her mother choked. Leslie straightened the collar of her blazer, gathered her briefcase, and stepped outside to meet the ride share. If they were lucky, they would have time to grab doughnuts before the ten-o-clock meeting.

A world in which work has the same status prostitution now has

He was drunker than usual. Ordinarily, she would feel relief when he collapsed onto the couch by the TV. That meant he was too drunk to yell and fight. Tonight, she felt no relief. All she could do was watch him from the doorway, hoping he would drink the poisoned whiskey she had just poured him. A lump sat in her throat as she watched his fat belly rise and fall with his labored breath. In his hand, he held the last drink she would ever pour for him. He sat there for a few minutes in silence without even looking at the glass of whiskey he clutched in his fat fingers. Then, without warning, he downed the entire glass in one movement. He let the glass hit the ground and sighed. He would go to sleep soon. It wouldn’t be painful. Nowhere near as painful as the last twenty-three years had been for her. She wanted him to leave the world peacefully. She still loved him, after all. Still, she felt he deserved an explanation. At the very least, he deserved a good-bye. She walked around to the front of the couch. He rolled his half-opened eyes in her direction and the two stared at each other in silence. “There was more than whiskey in your drink,” she said, her voice shaking. “I’m sorry.” “Your black eye is healing,” he said quietly. “You know I’m sorry about hurting you. Don’t you?” She nodded. “You were very beautiful once. I can still see it sometimes. When you smile. You don’t smile much these days. But when you do, your eyes flash like they did when we were teenagers. It reminds me of how young and beautiful we were. Young, beautiful, and carefree.” “Your drink,” she said with tears forming in her eyes. “You’re dying. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” “I know,” he whispered and slowly nodded. “I saw you pour it.” She put her hands over her mouth and tried not to cry. “Do you remember that field trip we took during our second year of high school?” he asked. She shook her head. “We spent the whole day together,” he said as his voice became fainter. “It was the first time I really met you. There were fifty or sixty of us there but I only cared about you. On the bus ride home, we sat next to each other. Do you remember now?” She nodded. “Everybody on the bus slept. They were so tired. But not us. We couldn’t stop talking to each other. We had so much to say back then. When you started to drift off to sleep, I was sad. But then you said something to me. Do you remember what it was?” “I-” she paused to steady her voice. “I’m going to lean on you, ok?” “Yeah,” he said as a smile slowly spread across his face. “And you fell asleep on my shoulder. I couldn’t sleep the whole bus ride because I was so happy that we were having that moment. And I know you didn’t sleep either. The bus bounced too much. And back then my arms were muscular. You just wanted to be close to me. I’m sorry I was such a lousy pillow. And I’m sorry I was an even lousier husband.” She wanted to say something but could not. His voice slowed even further. He spoke as if he was in a dream. “I still love you as much as I did on that bus ride. I just got worse at showing it. I’m sorry.” She did not reply. She just stood and tried to compose herself. After a moment, she walked over and sat next to him on the couch. “I’m going to lean on you, ok?” she whispered. “Ok,” he replied as she rested her head against his arm. The two sat in silence until his breathing stopped at last.

A wife kills her husband. Make me sympathize with both characters.

Sunburns. That's what we used to call them. That's all they were, back then. But now, everything is different. Now we shun the outdoors. It started out innocuously enough. The sunburns got worse. They hurt more, and lasted longer. They developed faster. It got to the point that just the barest hint of sunlight could burn. Then they stopped going away. They didn't fade, and they say the burning is like no pain ever felt before. The burned are an awful group of people. Those who don't kill themselves are driven mad by the pain. They live in the light. The rest of us fear it. --- My mom tells me stories about the daylight. She says you could feel it tickling your skin. It was warm, and soft, and inviting. She tells lots of stories, about how it used to be. But it's all just stories. I've never seen any of it myself, I was born a year or two after it happened. We don't really know exactly what happened. It could be the ozone layer, or the sun could have changed or something. Or it could be a virus. My friend says it's probably a curse, but I don't think so. I think it's God. Lots of people do. They think God cast us out of the light, like a new Garden of Eden. I don't know about all that, but it just seems to me like the sort of thing that only God could do. Today's my sixteenth birthday and dad said he'd take me out to see the fields. I've seen them at night, but never during the day. During the day, we have to use the suits to go outside. Dad's never let me wear one before, but today's the day! --- "Come on buddy, you don't want to be late!" Dad called out to me from the living room. "Coming dad!" I quickly pulled on the last of my gear before running out the door. "Let's get suited up." The suits hung on the wall, and next to the familiar pair that belonged to mom and dad was a new one. Shiny and green, my favorite color. My jaw dropped "Dad! You guys got me my own suit! Thank you so much!" I couldn't believe it. We were pretty well off, but buying a new suit was expensive. The suits had to go through a lot of treatment to protect you outside. "No problem, buddy. You deserved it, now come on, we've got to go." We both finished getting ready quickly, and walked through the front door into the entry room. "Why don't you get the door, bud." I reached out my gloved arm and grabbed the door handle. I've gone through this door so many times, but there's never been a horrible death waiting on the other side. All I've ever wanted is to be in the sunlight, but it was still terrifying. I must have stood there for an hour, just trying to get up the courage. Okay, it was probably more like 15 seconds, but it really dragged. I finally pushed open the door and stepped into the sun for the first time in my life. --- Let me tell you, the one thing I remember best about that morning is sweat. A lot of it. "Dad, is it normal to be this hot in here?" I seriously cannot stress enough hot freaking hot it was in this suit. "NO! Something is horribly wrong! Oh god, who could have thought that the giant flaming ball of gas that heats our planet. That this enormous sphere made of explosions that causes horrendous burns on any who dare touch its weakest castoff might be HOT!? THE HUMANITY!" "Hah. Hah. Hah. Oh my sides. My sides." Dad was the funny one in the family. That morning is one of my best memories. It was just dad and me wandering the fields, talking about how it all worked, and getting me used to the suit. You weren't very fast, but you were safe. The sunlight was amazing. It was everything I thought it would be, and all I wanted was to rip off that suit and bask in the sun like in mom's stories. "Alright buddy, it's time to head back." Always one to kill the mood, dad. The sun beat down on us as we started the 3 mile trek back to the house. The world was silent aside from the crunch of our boots on the "Let's go through the forest, get out of this direct light. Besides, you've never seen a tree in daylight, have you?" "Not yet." The forest was only a half mile out of the way. It was the last vestige of wilderness in our farmed-to-death area. I loved playing in there at night as a kid. It was just like I pictured. Idyllic and green, the leaves rustled in the wind and the trees swayed to the rhythm of silent music. I ran off into the trees to see the world for the first time. Further and further into the forest I ventured, following the sunlight. I couldn't hear a lot of the real world inside my suit, but my dad's scream came through loud and clear on the radio. I was frozen. I didn't call out for him or cry or scream. I just stood there. There was no question of what had happened, but it was too late to save him now. All that was left was to run. So I ran as fast as I could inside the now hugely bulky and cumbersome suit. Minutes before it was uncomfortable but safe, but it had turned into my death. I ran away from the screaming. Away from home and safety. Away from them. --- "Don't run!" "You're ours now!" The voices came to me through the radio. Behind them, I could hear others. Screaming in agony and rapture, there was maniacal laughter and screeches of hatred. The primal sounds of baser emotions. They were insane, and they were coming for me. The voices didn't stop, and I couldn't turn them off. I could only keep running. But I couldn't keep running anymore. When you can't go outside you don't tend to get a ton of exercise, and I was hitting my limit. I hid under some bushes, but the suit is hard to hide. "I heard him over there!" The voices weren't on the radio this time, and they were close. The world turned upside down and my stomach turned inside out as I was pulled to my feet. I was shoved face-to-face with their leader. His face, if you could call it that, was a mess, and I can only guess his body was no better. The flesh was charred and melted. His jaw was visible in places and the skin drooped off the bones. "Time to join us in the sun, boy. It's only natural." Two of the equally scarred and burnt men approached me with a hideous glint in their eyes. "Please, no. I don't want to die." I squeezed my eyes shut, and prayed to God to help me. "Die!? We're not going to kill you, boy. We're going to set you free! Humans belong outdoors in the sun, my friend." The burned man grew closer. He pressed his hideous visage to the glass of my suit. "Don't you want to be free, eh?" I could almost smell his flesh burning. "DON'T YOU WANT TO BE LIKE YOUR OLD MAN!?" At this, the man's grin widened. He got a crazed look in his eye, and embraced me in a hug. "I- What?" "Don't you recognize me, buddy? You're sixteen now, it's time to step into the sun!" "Dad?" It couldn't be him. This man was broken and scarred. He must have been like this for years. The fat was dripping from his bones and the muscle was melting. It couldn't be dad. It couldn't be! "What's wrong with you? Why?" "They've shown me the light! Now it's your turn" He motioned to the two men, who grabbed me and held me still. He slowly unbuckled my suit, as I strained against the walking corpses. I screamed for help, but there was none near. My helmet came loose, and peeled away. The sunlight was blinding. It was so warm.

Write a horror story which takes place in broad daylight or an otherwise well lit setting

Like clockwork, she comes over to my desk. It's every goddamn morning. She'll perch there outside my cubicle like some fucking spider, waiting for me to move, waiting for me to disturb the sticky web that she carries around her. Three minutes pass of her standing there, leering at my computer screen over my shoulder as I respond to an email. I feel my anger bubbling to the surface but coax it down into a manageable smolder. I turn my swivel chair around sharply, meeting her gaze. "What is it, Karen?" Her fake smile is on and she bats her eyelashes at me prettily. "Just wanted to remind you that I still haven't gotten your time sheet." "I left it on your desk last night, like you told me to," I reply testily, swiveling back to my computer. "Oh, well, then I guess someone must have made off with your ever-so-*precious* time sheet." She guffaws like she said something outstandingly clever. My fingernails dig into the meat of my palm for a moment before I take a breath. It's just another day, just another bullshit complaint. Nothing to get worked up over. "I'll do another one and have in on your desk in five. Will that suffice?" "Don't forget Roger's approval signature," she adds, as if I haven't been with the company for six years and know how to fill out my payroll sheet. When I don't respond, she chimes, "You know, I have to remind you since you're too important to be bothered with getting me things on time unless I do." I swallow, I count to ten, and try to find my center. "Makes people think you might be doing more than paperwork during your overtime." I turn back to her, slowly, and I let her see the anger and hatred and utter loathing that washes over my face. But that's what she wants. She wants me mad. She keeps flapping those fat lips. "I heard Roger's having martial problems. I bet you have something to do with that, huh?" she adds in a false-whisper, her eyes narrowing in schadenfreudian glee. "I won't tell; not my place, after all." I don't know what happens. I think I blacked out. But all of a sudden I am straddling the mountain of flesh and fat that is Karen and my hand really fucking hurts. There are people everywhere and - Jesus wept, Karen's face isn't even recognizable anymore. It's just... red. I look around at all the faces; some slack is disbelief, some filled with terror. About five different people have cell phones out in different states of speaking with dispatchers or medics or security - all of their panicky, squirrel voices are tinny and far off. I look down at my swollen, red-soaked hand and the mess I've made all over the floor. *This is going to be a bitch for the janitors to clean,* I lament in my head. *Maybe I should get them a better Christmas gift this year.*

Sarcastic Little Shit

"Mack, look at this lobster! See how the reproductive pleopods are simplified in structure versus the Cambarid crayfish which are dissimilar entirely? This is why lobsters belong to Nephropoidea and our crayfish belong to Astacoidea! Oh and also because lobsters live in saltwater and not in freshwter... Mack, are you listening? This stuff is gold man!" Mack was lost in thought and stared at Pete's face with a blank pair of eyes. Today was just not a library day. A quick vibration in his shirt pocket and he pulled out his cell-phone to check the text. It read, "They're in. :)." "Yep." Mack replied simply. Pete was satisfied and continued on with his barrage of facts about how the pokemon "Kingler" was a hybrid of the Paralithoides king crab and Homarus lobsters. But, Mack just didn't care. *Another day, Pete, another day.* "Pete," Mack said obviously annoyed, "are you finished yet with your essay? Or can we go out and get some cards? Sam just texted me that he just got in the new tournament decks and we can have first dibs on the decks and expansions!" Pete widened his eyes and slammed his books shut with a loud bang, waking up the whole library and the dead within. "Right-o! Let's go, mate!" They packed up quickly and started hiking over to the library door. Pete, excited, continued to jabber on. "Dude, they can't have anything better than Halls of Pain. You know that deck right? You just can't beat it with anything! Put it red and black together and man, there's just no stopping it." Mack smirked at Pete's enthusiasm. As he held open the door for Pete, he quipped, "My best friend, I hate to break it to you, but a simple white soldier deck will kill that deck dead instantly." Pete shook his head with fake-disgust. "What do you have against black decks? You a white supremacist or something?" Pete said with a fake country accent. But Mack stopped dead in his tracks and stared at the women's bathroom door. There she was, hanging out right next to it and going through her little pink purse. Beth. The only single redhead in the entire county. And the love his life. "Oh God, Mack. Come on, man." Pete said rolling his eyes. "If you don't ask her out, I probably will." Mack elbowed him in the kidney, causing him to let out a grunt of pain and hold his side. "Man law, you lobster lover." Mack reminded him. Pete smiled and simply said, "Yeah, but there's a statute of limitations on when you can ask a girl out before someone else does. She's hot man. If you don't ask her out soon, somebody else will. I think we got great biology though..." "You mean chemistry. We have great 'chemistry'." Mack corrected him swiftly. Pete seized the moment. "Then go tell her that." Pete then got behind Mack and pushed him hard over to the women's restroom. However, Pete didn't realize that he had pushed too hard and that Beth already went inside the bathroom. There was Mack, stumbling like a drunkard, unable to keep his balance. It was then that he fell into the bathroom door, went through it, and hit the floor face first. It smelled pretty in there. The stalls, walls, and sinks were pink. And clean. The soap dispensers were still on the wall. However, there were many tampons in the trash that weren't politely wrapped up in a paper towel. But, he couldn't stare at that. He was in forbidden territory. And he knew it. And probably the rest of the school new it right then and there. *Damn you, Pete*. He thought that he could just lay there like a slug. *It is my only defense*. But, he heard a gasp from the sink. There she was, Beth, the beautiful. The fair. The deliciously curvy red-head. *And I need to get out now*. She then said, panickingly, "Mack, what the hell are you doing in here?! Get out before I tell Mr. Threckson!" *Crap, not the principal. It's now or never*. Mack jumped up. "Beth Anderson, I want you to go on a date with me and I hope you say, yes!" Mack blurted out. He couldn't hold it back and it was the other only option he had. Beth stood there stunned. The silence was thick and suffocating. Mack couldn't stand it anymore. He quickly turned around walked out. Screw that. Pete saw Mack and thank God it was only Pete in the hall. Mack angrily grabbed his buddy by the collar, "You're an ass, Pete". But before he could slam his best friend of 16 years into a locker, she came out of the bathroom and said loudly and confidently, "Yes." Edit: A word. Edit2: At OP's request, some syntax and punctuation fixes :). Glad you liked it!

Awkward geeky teenage boy asks out hottest girl in his class.

A few months back, I was minding my own business... that is to say I don't have a business and I don't work from home, but that I was keeping to myself. My wife called from the bathroom. She sounded, strange. She said "Ryan, can you come in here?" Being that she was on the porcelain throne, I approached with great caution. Not wanting to see or smell what she wanted to show me. I cracked the door open and, much to my relief, she was not dropping a deuce. I don't know why they call shits deuces, seems wild to me. The look on her face was of sheer horror. Her hand, shaking, slowly made a gesture upwards. She stretched her finger to indicate that I should look at the ceiling. Upon doing so, I was greeted with what I consider one of the most horrifying sights one could ever witness. The ceiling had thousands of baby spiders crawling, spinning, dancing around. I pause here to get a few things straight: The first is that this is a true story. The second is that thousands may sound like an exaggeration, but this was a conservative estimate. We both slowly backed out of the bathroom. My mind was racing, wondering what to do. I finally decided that the only course of action was to take my small hand vacuum and suck every last one of them up. Like a portable ant eater, I went to town. Almost no spot on that ceiling was clear before I started. Each one of these little pests started to fall into the swirling sucking vortex of powerful air. It was not as clean of a job as I had hoped, however, as some were dangling mid-air. Some would scurry and hide in corners. But I got every last single one of them. Then I did the most rational thing anyone in my position would do: I got a plastic bag, tossed the fourty dollar vacuum into it, emptied an entire can of raid inside... then, of course, I took the bagged and sprayed vacuum outside, doused it with lighter fluid and set it ablaze. Of course, the very long and hot shower I took afterwards did little to calm me as I never did find the spider who laid the sacs.

Your wife calls you in to the bathroom to kill a spider. Write a horror story about it.

She walked into the kitchen after a long day of work. She spied an envelope with “Susie” written on the front in her husband’s still childlike handwriting. Inside the note read: “Susie, I have a surprise waiting for you! But first you must find all of the clues!” On the back of the note was a crudely drawn picture of the big oak tree in the back yard. This got Susie excited, she loved when her husband did these kinds of things. “Oh Calvin, you are always so creative.” Susie expressed to herself as she rushed out the back door to the yard. She ran over to the tree and looked around. Unable to find anything openly in sight she happened to glance upward into the branches. She saw something glint in the sunlight and took off her business heels to prepare for her climb. Susie thought back to an afternoon shortly after they had bought the house. Calvin had convinced her to climb up in the tree and they just sat in the tall branches watching the sunset. She loved her husband and trusted him to lead her wherever their lives took them. She finally reached what turned out to be Calvin’s old telescope from when he was a kid. He had kept it and was planning on giving to their child whenever they ended up having one. She looked through the telescope and saw that it was pointed to their bedroom window. She quickly hurried down and raced inside, trying to think of what the surprise could possibly be while simultaneously hoping that the tree was not a reoccurring place Calvin used his old telescope. As she flew open the door to her bedroom she immediately saw the next note on the bed. She didn’t have to pick up the letter because the message was obvious. There was an arrow drawn pointing to the closet. She opened up the walk-in closet, one of her favorite aspects of the house and their room in general, and saw another note taped to the back wall. She walked towards the note and saw that it read: “Susie, Calvin is my friend and mine alone.” Scared and confused Susie raised her hand over her mouth so that she didn’t scream. Her husband didn’t make this scavenger hunt after all. Behind her the closet door slammed shut. She turned around and all she could see was an old and battered stuffed tiger sitting at the bottom of the door. A small gasp was all that she could make before everything went dark.

An adult Calvin who has never revealed his relationship with Hobbes to his wife of 10 years walks into his bedroom 5 min after she discovers an old, battered, stuffed tiger in the back of his closet.

I met her the year I turned thirteen. Sally was her name. She had long red hair and the most beautiful gray eyes I’d ever seen. I loved her then. I never told her, but I’m sure she knew. She would catch me staring sometimes. I was always too shy to say anything, but the look she gave me told me words weren’t needed. She understood. She got her first boyfriend that year. His name was Greg and he played basketball. He was no good. When she caught me staring after they got together, I’m sure she could tell I disapproved. I had to protect her from him. He wouldn’t love her like I did. Poor Greg got in a bad accident two weeks into their relationship and fell into a coma. She caught my eye once with a little frown on her pretty pink lips. I gave her a smile and she turned away. She was safe again. She didn’t get her next boyfriend until three weeks before her sixteenth birthday. This guy’s name was Luis, and he played the drums for the school marching band. He was no good. Her birthday fell on a Sunday that year so I gave her a charm bracelet that Friday before class let out. “I don’t like you that way,” she said, “but thank you for the present.” My heart swelled. She had talked to me! I had to protect that beautiful voice from Luis. He wouldn’t take care of her like I would. The day of her birthday she had a party. I wasn’t invited but all her friends were. She looked really pretty that day. Her hair had been curled and she wore a pretty green dress. She had a good time, but was a little sad that Luis didn’t show up. After a week they found his body. The police speculated that he got in a hunting accident. When she caught me staring afterwards, I finally built up the courage to talk to her. As I walked closer, she stood very still and seemed torn between leaving and staying. I finally stood before her and reached out to touch her wrist. Her breath hitched. Maybe she was as nervous as I was. “Where’s your pretty bracelet?” I asked, and her eyes seemed to glisten. I wondered if she was moved to tears that I had finally taken the first step. Sally watched me silently for a moment, and then swallowed. She bit her lip and I gave her my best smile. That was two years ago. We’re getting married today. She looks so pretty in her white dress and veil. The charm bracelet I gave her sits on her wrist and I can’t help but feel very lucky. She’s never said she loves me, but I know. She’s probably too shy to say, but the look she gives me says plenty. I understand. In the wedding pictures, everyone looks so happy. Sally cries though. She must be really happy. She looks so pretty when she cries.

A teenage boy yearning for a girl that doesn't like him, and ends up being in a relationship with her.

Gavin woke up, and reached for the cane on the side of his bed. He felt his way to the bathroom. He had lost his sight as a child. Idiopathic blindness they had called it. In other words, we don't know why but your child is blind. He had long since gotten used to it, but the memory of actually seeing things had never left him. He kept all his bathroom items on the counter, always in the same place. A lesson had been learnt once by putting shaving cream under his arm pits. He sighed. Wonder why I bother with this, he thought. He grabbed the shaving cream and began his daily ritual. He shaved be feel, one hand tracing his skin, the other holding the razor. He shaved until he felt smooth skin across his face. He wiped his face clean with a towel he kept next to the sink. He applied deodorant, and began to brush his teeth. He leant down to spit into the sink, and then back up as he continued. Suddenly pinpricks of light appeared. His eyes widened in shock, and he bit down on the toothbrush lodged in his mouth. The pinpricks swelled almost instantaneously as his eyes began to work for the first time in 20 years. He looked into the mirror, then unable the handle the sudden sensory input, he screamed. Unfortunately he had a mouth full of foamy toothpaste, and he spat it all across the mirror. He grabbed his towel an frantically wiped it clean. He did not recognise the individual staring back. The first thing I see in 20 years, he thought and its me. He dropped his toothbrush to the floor, not caring where it landed. He stared, and prodded his face, seeing what he had been feeling all these years. "BY GODS!" he said out loud. "I'M HANDSOME!"

A blind man suddenly/inexplicably regains his vision, describe the first thing he sees

He was the most beautiful thing she'd ever seen. Ever since the day her nephew was born, she swore with her heart that she will do everything in her power to make him happy. She smiled at the baby in her arms, softly cooing to him as his eyelids grew heavy. The silence between them allowed her mind to wander, exploring every bit of the past two months that he had been in her life. She loved him like he was her own child, ever since she first saw him in his tiny hospital crib. She tried her best to be there for him and her sister whenever she could. Whether it was babysitting in the afternoon or driving them to the hospital for check-ups, if she had any free time, she would devote them to her baby nephew. Her small smile grew wider as she thought about his future, Imagining him growing up, going through school, meeting a girl and getting married. She wanted to be there every step of the way. She wanted him to know that he always has his aunt to turn to if he needs help and she hoped that he'll love and care for her when she grows old. She wanted to be the best aunt ever, the one that he would want to see at holiday dinners, the one that he can share his secrets with when he's too embarrassed to tell his parents. There's so much ahead, and she couldn't wait to be a bigger part of his life. "I don't know how you do that." Her sister said incredulously, breaking her train of thought, "He never sleeps when I want him to." "Well I'm more than happy to help you out." She whispered softly, trying not to wake the sleepy boy in her arms. She carefully placed him back into his crib, almost sad to let him out of her reach. "Give me a call whenever you need me okay?" She said while she hugged her sister before opening the front door to leave. As she stepped into her car, she could feel the heat that had built up in the summer sun. Thoughts of her nephew were still on her mind as she rolled down the windows. She put on her seatbelt and got ready to go home, but not before tossing a disdainful glance to the back seat, where she had left her her own daughter to sleep.

Make me fall in love with a character, only to end up hating said character with ONE sentence at the end

Twenty years, a hundred missions. Every time Chan would throw himself into the work, his heart, body, and mind were the personification of Ninja. He could have retired years earlier, the pay he collected for his work was substantial enough that hw could have bought the entire village he grew up in and lived in peace amidst the rice paddies and goat herders of his youth. However, there was one target, one mission he had not completed. Until that mission was complete, he could not retire. Early in his career, he was hired to kill a samurai that was to lead one Shogun's army against another. A typical assignment. That night, so long ago, he sneaked into his target's army camp and made his way to the commander's tent. Everything had gone according to plan. He heard snoring from within, his target was asleep. His guards lay dead outside the tent, slain by Chan's own hand. All that remained was to put an end to this samurai. He pulled back the tent flaps, and beheld a woman of astounding beauty inside the tent. Initially, he believed that this was his target's wife, and that he himself was using the latrine or else gambling with his men elsewhere in the camp. The murder of innocents was against the code his sensei had taught him. An unarmed man or woman who meant him no harm and was not his target could not be slain. He had just resolved to look elsewhere when he noticed the katana propped against one of the tent posts. A Samurai never went anywhere without his sword, not even to the latrine. This could only mean that his target was dead, or that the woman was the samurai. Neither seemed likely to Chan at the time. The samurai's guards were living when Chan approached, and there was no sign of a struggle. yet, women were *never* made samurais. Yet, her being the samurai was the only logical explanation. He raised his dagger to deliver the killing blow, when she woke. In the instant before he thrust his blade into her heart, she met his eyes with her own. It was as if she had cast a spell over him. Her emerald green eyes reflected the moonlight perfectly. Her beauty was unmatched on any of the three islands. Chan could not kill her. Something as beautiful as she did not deserve to die. He exited the tent and made a silent escape. The woman samurai did not raise the alarm. As he escaped, Chan overheard two men, unaware of his presence, talking about how their commander was never seen without his armor, any time, anywhere. They had no idea their commander was a woman. maybe her shogun did not know either. Chan did not return to the enemy shogun who had hired him. He would sacrifice his pay, and a goodly part of his reputation. The next day, the two shoguns and their armies met in battle. Chan watched from a distance as the Woman Samurai's army obliterated their enemy. She herself, donned in full plate armor, led the attack. She was deadly and cunning on the battlefield, felling many men, including three enemy samurai. From that day on, Chan made it his mission to meet with this Woman Samurai alone, and ask her name. He wanted to, even just once more, look into those emerald green eyes. he had not yet succeeded, until then, he would not retire. Twenty years later, Chan stood outside a shogun's palace, preparing to break in and steal an ancestral blade from the treasure room. The blade belonged to another shogun's family, but it had been stolen years earlier in battle. Now they wanted it back to carry with them as they went to war once again against that same house that stole it. Chan was not eager to take on this mission at first, until he was warned that the palace was guarded by a mysterious Samurai of legendary skill who was never seen without his armor. For this reason alone Chan agreed to take on the mission. Using his considerable experience, Chan easily bypassed the guards and dogs that the shogun had placed to guard his home. On his way to the treasure room, Chan made a grievous error, one of the shogun's wives spotted him. She grabbed a lantern and threw it at him. He dodged it and stuck her in the chest with an expertly thrown shruikan. Had she raised the alarm only, he could not have killed her, but as she attacked him, he had leave to remove her. Hearing the crash of the lamp, the Samurai he was hoping to meet rounded the corner in the hall ahead. Chan's heart raced with excitement. The samurai attacked. Chan fought back, but he never landed a killing blow, despite having three opportunities in several seconds of combat. He disarmed the samurai and threw her to the ground. "What is your name?" He asked the fallen warrior. "Lee." came a mans voice inside the helmet. Chan's heart sank. He ripped off the Samurai's helmet to reveal a man. Chan snapped his neck dispassionately. He collected the sword. He would find this woman another day. As he left, he heard a sputtering, choking sound. He looked down to see the wife he had thrown the shruikan at clinging to life on the ground, holding her hand over the wound in her chest. She looked up at him, and met his gaze with emerald green eyes. Chan never took another life again.

A ninja can't find it in himself to kill anymore. Make the reason really sad.

July 8th, 2015: The skies have been real quiet lately. I like it.. but it does make me curious. There used to be at least a few airplanes in the sky every now and again but now... there's none. Every now and again a hiker would come by the road but now there's never a soul in sight. That's weird. It gives me a lot of time to read my books and go hunting but it is a little unsettling... oh well. I might as well enjoy it while it lasts. They always come back after awhile. This isn't too unusual. Sometimes there's a long period of time between hikers... but not this long... Still. I'll enjoy it while it lasts. --------------------------------------------------- July 11th, 2015: There's something on the horizon. It's fire. I'm sure of it. But there's something strange about this fire. It's not in the normal spot I see fires. Every few years I see fires here and again but it's always in the same spot. It's as far east as I can see and it's in the distance. Controlled fires I'm sure. But fires. This time it's in the west behind the mountains. I can see the glow radiating off of the tip of the mountains. It's beautiful. But.. I can't help but wonder... why is there a fire over by the city? -------------------------------------------------------- July 28th, 2015: Holy god I met someone today. Poor soul had lost his mind. He came walking up the road just the other day from the direction of the city. His clothes were burnt and his arm was half torn off. It's killing me not knowing what tore his arm off. I kept asking him but he just kept screaming at me that his family was dead and he was the last person on earth. I kept him fed and gave him a place to sleep but soon after he pulled his pistol on me and told me he was going to kill me because I represent death. I had no choice but to kill him. It's getting about that time of the year where I need to go down to town and get food supplies. I'm a little nervous to go. -------------------------------------------------------- August 1st, 2015: It's gone. All of it. The entire city is demolished. I combed through the edges of town to hopefully find something living or at least to find out a reason for all of the destruction but there's nothing. Not a single thing. I guess all of my hunting skills are going to pay off finally. I might need to start a little garden too... -------------------------------------------------------- August 16th, 2015: You know what... I could get used to this. No people. Nothing. Just me, my gun, and my cabin. I don't have to worry about tax collectors anymore and now mom won't ever call me again. This is the beginning of the good life.

Write about someone who lives off the grid, who doesn't know the world is ending.

'Angela, hi!' Jared leapt into the one open elevator just in time; the tall woman with the brown pony tail turned around and gave him an odd look. 'Oh, sorry, I had you confused there.' Simultaneously they made to hit the number four on the lit panel. 'Oh, accounts? You wouldn’t be the new girl?' The woman looked down at him through her neat, rectangular spectacles with thinly veiled derision. ‘Girl’, thought Jared, why say girl? It was office talk. Big Matt and all of the boys on the bowling team. Stupid start to the day. And he had thought it was Angela, lovely Angela from PR. The elevator arrived; the tall woman who looked exactly like Angela from behind strode off; Jared took up his post in the open plan to watch her walk into one of the offices. The biggest office. Shit, she wasn’t the new ‘girl’. She was the new boss. She walked out after half an hour, looked round the room majestically and fixing the befuddled, unkempt Jared a steely look before speaking said 'We’re making some cuts around here, I’m afraid. All in due time.' Big Matt leaned over the partition and winked smilingly at Jared. Bastard, thought Jared. It was well known he was the weakest accountant. For all that Big Matt was a macho idiot, he was still a big shot going up in the world. It was a long, strenuous day. At the end Jared, feeling down, tumbled towards the pair of elevators as one door closed and ran into the next just as his new boss was walking in. ‘Look, about earlier, I thought you were someone else, Angela, she makes me really nervous, I got conf-’ The pony tail turned. It was Angela. ‘Angela, hi.’ ‘Jared. Hey.’ On the ground floor the two elevators opened simultaneously. On the left Jared removed his lips from Angela’s. On the right Big Matt cradled a bloody nose and a look of disbelief as the new boss walked out wiping her hand with a tissue. edits: wording, typos, pun

Story that takes place in an elevator (500W)

Passed down to me from my father, and to him from his father, and so on - as far as I can tell - to the beginning of our family line. I couldn't tell you where or when it began, just that it has existed as far back as my family history follows. Some people call it mental illness, but that can't be true. If that were the case, signs would show before our fathers died. Sons in our family are only ever afflicted after their fathers pass, be it a natural death or otherwise. It starts with urges. Strange cravings, wanting to do dangerous things. A month after my father passed, I barely stopped myself from jumping off a cliff. A month later, I had to force myself to walk away from a girl I could have easily assaulted. Then the voices. It starts with one, barely even noticeable. Then two, and the humming gets louder. Sometimes they converse with each other. A third joins, then a fourth, and so on until there's no way to count the number of voices constantly speaking in my head. They don't help the urges; in fact they give new ideas. They want sacrifices: blood, hair, fingers, organs. It takes all of my will to keep myself from doing bad things. My willpower will only last so long. I purposely did not marry or have children. My father died young, so I was introduced to this curse at an early age. I would be the last in a long line of cursed men; I refused to allow anyone else to go through what I did. The voices in my head got so loud, I often had trouble hearing what was going on outside of them. It came as a surprise when I felt a sharp pain in my chest and my legs collapsed. I hadn't even heard the gunshot. As I lay on the cold, wet cement, looking at the cloudy evening sky, a blurry face came into view. It was a young man, his face dirty and bruised. He held a gun in his hand, which I assumed he had used to shoot me. As soon as we made eye contact, my head went silent. Just like that, the voices were gone. I knew I was going to die. I also knew the curse had moved on, despite my efforts. And for all my effort, I didn't care. It was silent. Silence was beautiful. *Finally, a new bloodline... That one almost had us trapped. Had he died alone...* The young man with the gun rifled through his victim's pockets, taking anything of value. He ran down the alley before anyone else could walk by, disappearing into the shadows. As he ran, he didn't quite know where he was going - he just knew he had to get as far as possible. He stopped himself short just before jumping off a cliff overlooking the rocky ocean beaches.

Write a story where the main character dies and the killer becomes the main character.

Ring-ding-ding-ding-dingeringeding! Gering-ding-ding-ding-dingeringeding! Gering-ding-ding-ding-dingeringeding! The bell for 3rd period rang. The instant she walked into the classroom, she noticed the words "Pop Quiz" on the dusty chalkboard. "Hurry up!" The instructor urged. "Take your seat so we can start the quiz. We need to take notes for Chapter 2 on plants, or botany." The classmates scurried to their seats, mumbling curse words and phrases along the lines of, "I didn't study". But she was a champion. Biology was her skill. She had passion for science, and she inputted that passion into the test when it was passed out. The multiple choices were easy- A, B, D, C, B, A, B, D, C, C, B. True, False, False, True. They were basic questions on facts about the animal kingdom- seals, fish, domesticated dogs. She came to her final showdown: The open ended questions. She had no doubt in her skills, but she always got nervous around the open-ended prompts. There was too much chance for error. She pushed her qualms aside, though, since she had gotten straight A's the whole semester. But as she read the question, she broke into a sweat. Her fear hit her like Wa-pa-pa-pa-pa-pa-pow! Wa-pa-pa-pa-pa-pa-pow! Wa-pa-pa-pa-pa-pa-pow! Her paranoia kicked in. What if her classmates thought she was stupid? *A-hee-ahee ha-hee! A-hee-ahee ha-hee! A-hee-ahee ha-hee!* she pictured her crush laughing at her poor grades. The tears formed at her eyes as she read the last question on the quiz. Her little 6-year old hands shook as she re read the question and looked at her first grade teacher, Miss Johnson. It read, *What does the fox say?* What does the fox say-Ylvis

Write a story based on a verse from a song. (300 Word)

Murphy's law was in full effect. No intel, no environmental specs, no prior knowledge of Rivem's indigenous threats or non-threats. Crash landing will do that to you. My squad was solid though. Corporal Wilkin's stoicism could keep any group with enough training intact and Sgt Lighthand's eye for terrain meant we were in an advantageous position overlooking one of the Southern cesspits. However that also meant Rivem's locals knew exactly where to attack. By my estimate it may as well have been three against the world. The battered bunker we holed up in was scarred by past bombardments, but it served to hide our numbers. I had Wilkins post up on the East entrance and kept Lighthand to the West and held the Pounder in reserve should the enemy favor one side over the other. "Hey Captain, care for some contraband?" Wilkins and Lighthand already had their cigars lit and were puffing away through gritted teeth. I'm guessing Wilkins smuggled them aboard *The Marimour* though how she managed to keep them intact through our "landing" is beyond me. "Why not?" I said "just be sure to snuff 'em when the shooting starts. Light discipline folks, remember". I lit my cigar. The knuckle-draggers of Rivem had old tech weapons, but a well placed bullet kills as easy as any plaz or burner round. All they would have to do is shoot for the firefly: Our armor is designed to protect against head-shots, but the jaw line gets no cover. No marine I know wants to taste lead. We nursed the stogies in silence. The haze we made in that little bunker soaked the sunset and danced red and orange and grey. Maybe that clouded my judgement. When night set in, so did the enemy. You'd think fifty years of Star Trek vids and intersteller documentaries would prepare a guy for weird alien species but you'd be wrong. Every knuckle-dragger civ is a different kind of fucked up. I've seen chitinous masses of legs chucking spears, and gelatinous ghouls with no discernable hands fire out-dated rifles. I've seen near humies and aberrant life with any kind of weapon you can think of, but the creeps on Rivem take the cake for squickiness. That night they started in quietly to take us by surprise. Wilkins spotted the first mass of them. They looked like kids. Like little kids with big guns and psychotic grins. They... they knew what to look like to take the piss out of us. If Wilkins had shot first she might still have all her bits, but the little bastards caught her off guard. When the first few gunshots took Wilkins I lugged the Pounder over to her entrance and held the trigger. Pretty sure I got a few before they backed off. Then Lighthand started firing. He used small bursts at first, whether they were warning shots or for specific targets I can't say but but soon the roar of automatic fire was all we could hear. Then they had us surrounded, the poor bastards. They poured in on us, not caring how many we mowed down. Muzzle flares looked like deadly stars, their tracer's searching the darkness for flesh. We must have killed hundreds. By morning Lighthand was out of ammo and used up most of Wilkin's. She helped feed ammo with her good arm and earned the hell out of that medal on her chest. The Pounder was down to about half charge. Now you have to believe me, our weapon discipline was spot on. We saw targets, we shot them, and only them. No spray and pray for my squad. But come morning there wasn't a single enemy body to be found. Not even a blood stain. No sign of life. It was as if we were fighting the darkness itself. That's about the time you all got here sir. I guess you must have seen the firefight in atmosphere. I'm glad you did. Our emergency transponder fried in the crash. I thought there was no way to contact help. Figured we three would have to rough it until we could jerry rig one. I can't get the image of the children out of my head though. Did they read our fears and shapeshift? Were they ever really there? It's scary to think they could have got in our heads like that sir. Hell, now I wonder if we ever really left Rivem. *edit:* will be fixing typos as I come back to this.

You are a gunner marine on an unknown planet, fighting an unknown alien enemy, you are with two other gunners in a cold and dark bunker, the enemy is charging, you have ammo and the high ground, you light up a cigar and

There were three men on a boat: one was wearing a red coat, one a blue coat, and the other no coat; in fact, he had no shirt at all! That day the winds grew cold and the water got frosty. So frosty that all the fish swam away, but the three men did not know that. The men all thought it no problem, they laughed, they swore, they joked, but the entire time: no fish. Now one fish strayed from the herd and ended up seeing a hook and thought: "my, my a tasty meal." Yet as when he gobbled it up he was dragged up by the shirtless man. Amazed the two other men said to him:"my friend! How did you pull such a large fish?" The shirtless men had no idea. Then the red coated man said: "Of course! He's shirtless! It's our coats that our causing the fish to run away!" The three men agreed and the two men took off their coats, laughed, and threw them into the water. Now they were certain that they had a once figured out how to catch the fish, but no other fish came! "How strange" they thought. One man said to the other why are no fish coming? He thought and he thought, then said: "It must be the pants! Let us take them off and see if we catch more fish." So in the middle of winter deep in cold frost, three men took off their pants and threw them into the river. But still no fish came. Then the weather grew cold. Then colder, then colder, until the water began to freeze on the tip of their noses. They were certain that fish would come, so they waited and waited, until night had come, and waited some more. Finally in the dead of night, one the men had an idea. Maybe it wasn't that is was because the shirtless man caught the fish because he was shirtless, but because he was the **only** shirtless man. He then devised a plan. In the cold black night, he sneaked behind the two men and pushed them off! The two men fell into the river, and cold and tired, they promptly fell underneath. "Now," the man thought. "Now I shall be the one to catch the fish, only I and no one else!" But no fish came. And he was cold and alone.

Write a bedtime story that's engaging enough for children, but complex enough for adults.

“Do you think we’ll get to see it?” “Hm?” “I mean, do you think we’ll get to really see it before it kills us?” “The sun, you mean?” “The sunrise. I want to see a sunrise.” “Is that why you’re doing this?” “You know why I’m doing this.” “I do. But why not tomorrow?” “Because we should have done this yesterday.” “I suppose that’s true. I’d regret this less if we’d done it long ago.” “What’s that supposed to mean? You can’t regret things once you’re – ” “Dead?” They laughed. “I’m just a bit worried.” “About what?” “The sunrise.” “I thought you wanted to see it?” “I do. I’m simply worried that it might be something beautiful. It scares me.” “Beautiful?” “It’s been a long time since I’ve seen something beautiful enough to shake the weariness from my bones. But the sunrise – perhaps it’s something worth living for?” “You can always head back. There might be some shelter thereabouts. Might be some young blood housed in it.” “You know we can’t. We’ve walked too far and it’s too late to turn back. Besides, I want to see it.” “We made our choices, old friend. For us, perhaps, a sunrise is worth dying for. Go on, now. You’re right – may God have mercy on my black soul – it’s too late. Have a look – you can see it on the horizon. God – oh god – is it anything like you thought it would be? Old friend, do you see it, too?” “*Oh.*”

Two vampers stand in the middle of a deserted highway waiting for the sunrise to commit suicide. What's their conversation?

I stood at his door for probably an hour. I had no idea what to say, so I dared not knock. I started to consider turning and leaving, when his door opened. I froze in fear. He was surprised to find someone standing on his porch step, but as his eyes came up to meet me, his face turned to shock, then anger and disgust. He looked different. He was much heavier, had a messy stubble, and his face looked drooped. "Uh...hi," I said. He then punched me directly in the face. I was knocked off the porch and directly onto my back. My face was numb at first, but I felt the blood dripping down from my nose. I heard his front door slam. I hopped back up and knocked on his door hard. "Please!" I yelled, "Please let me talk to you." I heard him scream furiously from behind the door, "When did you get out? You were supposed to be in there another year! Did you break out?" "No," I answered, "I got out early for good behavior." The door swung open hard and he was standing there with rage in his eyes. "Good behavior? What is that shit? What for? Because you finally stopped drinking?" I hung my head in shame. This was just as hard as I feared. "I did stop drinking. Completely." "Great job. What the hell are you doing here? Get out of this state before I fucking kill you." I didn't know whether to just come out and say it, or ease my way into it. "I just won 750 million dollars on a lottery ticket." His face lost all emotions at once. He just stared at me in disbelief. "That--that was...you?" I nodded, looking down at my feet. "Well isn't that just great?" He asked. "Life's little cycles, huh?" He started to close the door when I yelled, "I want to spend it on you!" He stopped and looked me in the eyes. "Spend it on me for what?" "Anything," I replied. "Everything. You name it and ill buy it for you." He nodded and said, "You know what I really want?" I smiled, hoping we had a chance to make a deal. "What?" I asked, enthusiastically. "For you to go back in time, and instead of hitting my family, driving head first into a light post and dying, asshole!" I felt the tears start to well up in my eyes, but I fought through it. "Please, Jack." He glared even harder at me and hissed, "You don't get to call me by my name, you piece of shit." I nodded quickly and tried to continue to persuade him, but my throat was rapidly closing up, and I could only whisper, "I'll give it to you. All of it. I'll write a check. It won't be the full 750 after taxes, but it will be enough to get you anything you want for the rest of your life." "Why arent you getting this? You giving me money, regardless of how much, will not help." "Then what can I do?" I begged him desperately. "Go home, load a shotgun, put it in your mouth," he replied with an emotionless face, "and pull the trigger." I looked up at the sky. It looked like it would rain later. I suddenly felt the blood on my face drying. It then all seemed so easy to fix. "I'll write you the check. Then I'll do that." I saw the corners of his mouth briefly curl up into a grin, but then his face took a look of concern. "Bullshit," he plainly stated. "That was my plan, anyways. I just bought the ticket because I had some money left over after I bought my last meal. I wasn't supposed to win. I already have the gun loaded at home." "But...why?" he asked. "I can't live with myself. My wife told me I was an alcoholic for years. She was always trying to 'save me from myself'. At least, that's how she put it. When I got out, she and the kids were gone. She even took my dog," I said, and finally broke down. I felt the tears mix with the blood and felt them both drip off of my chin as I continued, "All I can do anymore is sit at home and think about that night. Think about what I should have done. About what I did to you. ...think about how much easier this would all be if I just ended it." I started to weep uncontrollably, and couldn't stop regardless of how hard I tried. I felt a warm hand suddenly on my shoulder. I looked up with wide eyes at him. He was also crying, and he looked like he was struggling to put his hand on me without harming me. "It's...it's not worth it, Steve," he said while looking at the bottom of his porch like he couldn't make eye contact with me. "I went down that path. I tied the noose. I wrote goodbye letters. But it wasn't worth it. Even with them gone, I knew it wasn't what they would have wanted for me. And what I think they really want from me...is....to f-forgive you." I couldn't believe my ears. I had calmly considered that he might kill me on his porch. But his forgiveness was nothing I could have ever anticipated. It felt wrong. "No. Please don't. Not for me. I don't deserve that. Especially not from you." "You made a mistake," he said with a gruff voice. "You're human. And I don't think I can forgive you yet. But maybe I can someday." "I really hope you can. I would be much more at peace if you did." "You can't kill yourself," he almost shouted. "If you kill yourself, I'll never forgive you." "Why?" I asked, confused. "Because if I can't take the easy way out, neither can you," he said as a few more tears dripped off his nose and chin. "Yes...s-sir," I replied. He rolled his eyes and smiled half-heartedly. "Call me Jack." I smiled a thank you. "Your face looks a mess," he said, looking under my nose. "Would you like to come in and clean up?" I didn't know If he was being serious at first, but I nodded quickly anyways. He stepped to the side to allow me to enter. "So what was your last meal?" he asked as I slowly walked past him into his extremely messy home. I couldn't hold back a chuckle when I replied, "a big mac meal." He laughed much harder than me. "A multimillionaire eating McDonald's for his last meal. That's priceless." I suddenly remembered that I was now richer beyond my wildest dreams. I turned to him quickly and said, "I'm still giving you the money. All of it." He smiled and replied softly, "Let's get you cleaned up. Then we'll discuss it." I smiled and continued towards his bathroom to wash myself of everything.

Someone is followed by the person who ruined their life, who has since won the world's biggest lottery jackpot and is trying to use the money to make amends

**You have logged in** **XMaster256 is now logged in** **XMaster256:** 56 m california, anyone into roleplay? End of the world type stuff, I'll be the last man alive **XMaster256:** i guess it's not really roleplaying **Jgirl27 has is now online** **XMaster256:** is there anyone still here... anyone? **You have requested a private chat with Jgirl27** **eric4life:** hey **Jgirl27:** Hey **eric4life:** how's it going **Jgirl27:** Let's not do this **eric4life:** do what? **Jgirl27:** I don't want to say goodbye **eric4life:** ok **Jgirl27:** Haven't you seen the news on TV? **eric4life:** no **Jgirl27:** They're shutting it down state my state. I was afraid they would have cut you off already **eric4life:** i didn't know that **Jgirl27:** The president said if we spend any more money on it we could lose the war. They're going to take all the fiber optics and use them in bombs **eric4life:** they can do that **Jgirl27:** Yeah. idk. That's just what he said **eric4life:** cool so what are you feeling tonight? **Jgirl27:** they're turning mine off tomorrow **eric4life:** What?! **Jgirl27:** I don't have a choice **eric4life:** u should move away **Jgirl27:** You know I can't do that, my mom needs me **Jgirl27:** Besides it would only work for a little bit. They're shutting it off everywhere **eric4life:** they can't do that **eric4life:** i don't want you 2 go away **eric4life:** they can't do this **Jgirl27:** Eric I need to know something **eric4life:** yeah? **Jgirl27:** You can tell me the truth i don't care what it is **Jgirl27:** Just **Jgirl27:** Are you who you say you are **eric4life:** yeah **eric4life:** i mean **eric4life:** yeah **Jgirl27:** What do you mean? **eric4life:** Ok i'm older than I said but not by much **Jgirl27:** That's not what I mean **Jgirl27:** We've been talking for... jesus two years now, and every time you're someone different and i'm someone different and I just... I want to know who you'd be if I ran into you on the street tomorrow **Jgirl27:** sorry if I'm not making sense idk what I mean **eric4life:** i don't want to stop talking to you **eric4life:** you make me so happy i can't **eric4life:** imagine being here w/out you **eric4life:** i don't like who i am **eric4life:** jesse I used to be so sad before I met you, like depressed all the time and shit **eric4life:** but when i talked to you **eric4life:** i wasn't me **Jgirl27:** But I want to know you before it's over, I need to know the parts of you that weren't fantsy **Jgirl27:** I'm crying right now eric **eric4life:** *hugging you, holding you close* **Jgirl27:** No you're not!!!! I don't even know where you live, what you look lik!!!! I don't even know if that's your real name **eric4life:** it is my real name **eric4life:** i love you jesse **Jgirl27:** I just want to know that it meant something. That it wasn't a waste of time **eric4life:** i'll come to you, i want to be there, you know i can't right now the border is locked down from the war but someday **Jgirl27:** If the troops land my mom and I can't stay here **eric4life:** please **eric4life:** i can't lose you **eric4life:** how can i make you understand **eric4life:** you were the best thing that ever happened to me **Jgirl27:** stop i can't **Jgirl27:** if i never see you again **eric4life:** i have dreams about you **eric4life:** at the beach, on a ship **eric4life:** back in time and now **Jgirl27:** eric please stop don't **eric4life:** we always have the best sex **eric4life:** but there's more than that **eric4life:** your part of me **eric4life:** i want to hold you so you know how i feel **Jgirl27:** I love you **eric4life:** i love you too **eric4life:** jesse **eric4life:** My real name is Enrico Gonzalez **eric4life:** my nickname is eric **Jgirl27:** You know my real name **eric4life:** We need a password **Jgirl27:** What? **eric4life:** if you meet an Enrico Gonzalez in the future... ask him what the dog barks at **Jgirl27:** Oh my god **Jgirl27:** !! I'd forgotten all about that! hahahaha **Jgirl27:** He barks at the Siamese cat with a smushed face :-) **eric4life:** that's what I'll tell you. don't forget it **eric4life:** i'll ask you the same question **eric4life:** i'm so glad I met you jesse **Jgirl27:** I need to know one more thing **eric4life:** anything **Jgirl27:** *is typing...* **eric4life:** jesse? **ERROR MESSAGE FAILED TO SEND TRY AGAIN LATER** **eric4life:** no **ERROR MESSAGE FAILED TO SEND TRY AGAIN LATER** **eric4life:** please no **ERROR MESSAGE FAILED TO SEND TRY AGAIN LATER** **Jgirl27 has logged off** **You have automatically been logged out of private chat** **eric4life:** k;ldfghdfkghlkghlsf;h **XMaster256:** Hi eric4life i think we're the only ones here **XMaster256:** What are you into? **eric4life has logged off**

A story of two internet lovers just before the fall of the internet

I am from the future. I've come to warn the lot of you: They didn't tell us that there would be a downside to 3D food printers, but there was. It starts in earnest with NASA's funding of the project. Then, a major breakthrough. They figure out a way to make it cheap and mass produceable. These were the good times. Then, the corporations got involved. Each food replicator comes with basic settings: Pizza, burgers, fries, salad... you get the idea. These basic options are free. Corporations, wanting to make a buck as businesses are want to do, added DLC (downloadable content) to foods. You want a plain pizza? Great. Free. Want the pepperoni add on? That will be one dollar for a week add on. Having a salad? Well, it's just a lettuce salad. Want some beets? A dollar. Diced chicken? A dollar. Dressing? Another dollar. It all starts to add up. That wasn't even the downside, by the way. They started coding tiny microchips into the food. You'd get your free hotdog, but what you didn't know was that you were ingesting a tiny little computer that would seek out the pleasure centers of your brain. It gives you cravings. You thought you could live without the DLC, but all of a sudden plain ice cream just didn't taste that great to you. You needed it to have hot chocolate sauce melting down the mountain of french vanilla. Fresh tasting whipped cream piled high, with three juicy maraschino cherries on top. Jimmies were sprinkled vigorously throughout... No longer were you content with plain mashed potatoes, you had to get it slathered in hot butter, cracked pepper and finely shredded cheddar cheese. Your juicy steak that accompanied it was always delicious, but now you wanted even more butter smashed in herbs and spices drizzled on top of flash-fried basil leaves and a hint of lemon zest. We all thought we were just rekindling a love for food, exploring our pallattes, but we were wrong. I am warning you now, don't let the corporations get their hands on this! Because increasing our desires wasn't the only thing the chips did...

A fantastic invention from the future has some unforeseen downsides

"So, how was your day, Claire?" Randy asked his wife. He snuck a hand under the table and tickled his daughter who erupted with laughter, spraying food across the table. "Stop it!" She pleaded while she and Randy laughed. Eventually Randy noticed that his wife was not laughing with him, but rather was staring coldly at the two of them. "What's the matter, honey?" Randy asked. As if she suddenly became aware of what she was doing, Claire plastered a big smile on her face and turned towards her daughter. "Baby, do you think you could finish your meal in your room? Your father and I have to talk." "Why can't I stay?" She grumbled. "I'm great at talking. I talk all the time." Claire smiled again, more genuinely this time. "I know, baby, but we have some grown up things to talk about. I'll come say good night soon, promise." Randy kissed his daughter, muttering "Goodnight". A tense silence hung in the air while the couple waited patiently for their daughter to be out of earshot. Claire was the first to break the silence. "Are you going to the pub again tonight?" She asked, studying Randy's face closely. "I suspect I might go for a quick pint, yes." Randy could feel his hands sweating profusely and a big lump forming in his throat. *She knows*. "Anything you... want to tell me about that?" Claire's voice was icy cool, but it was beginning to shake a little. Randy swallowed the lump in his throat and wiped the sweat off his hands. "No." He said firmly. Claire's composure broke and tears began to drip down her cheeks and onto the kitchen table in a steady stream. "I ran into Patrick at the store today. He said you weren't at the pub last night. Or the night before that. As a matter of fact, he said he wasn't seen you in six months." She laughed a little to herself. "I... we must have gone to different-." A withering look stopped Randy's stammered excuses. "Please, don't insult me. I'm not an idiot." Claire dried her tears on her dress. "All those nights, Randy... Where were you?" "I just went for a pint." Randy said firmly, but his heart was racing and he was so very thirsty. "You're cheating on me, aren't you? It's the only thing that fits." Claire whimpered. Randy suddenly stood up and tried to comfort his wife, but she knocked his hands away and hissed "Get your hands off me". "I *never* cheated on you, Claire. I promise. I love you. Everything I do is for us, for this family." Randy's throat was parched, so he gulped down a glass of water, but that only made it worse. "Who is she, Randy?" Claire insisted. "Nobody. I'm not seeing anyone, I swear!" "Then what have you been doing, all those nights?! How can you just expect me to believe that when you won't tell me what you've been doing?!" Claire stood up and her voice rose to a shrill scream. Randy tried to explain, but his head was pounding and he was so thirsty. "I don't... I need a drink..." He mumbled, getting to his feet and moving drowsily towards the door. "I can't believe you." Claire's voice was shaking with anger as she glared at Randy, standing at the door. "If you go now, don't bother coming back." "I can explain, I just need some air. I'll be back soon, I promise." "Run off to your little skank and stay with her." Claire said bitterly and slammed the door in his face. Randy started walking around the quiet neighborhood, the cold late night wind waking him up again. He sniffed the air and turned a corner, following the vague scent he caught while his head swam with all the things he should have said to Claire. Rand turned another corner and there, in the dim streetlight was a man hunched over the engine of his car. Randy approached him with hurried steps. The man was slightly chubby in a thick woolen sweater with a scraggly beard that made him look like an unkempt Santa Clause. It wasn't until he was a few paces away that the man noticed Randy. "Oh, hey, didn't see you there." The man said and grinned. "Great, isn't it? I'm on my way to visit my daughter and the car just refuses to work. You wouldn't happen to know anything about cars, do you? I'm more of a bike person myself." The man chuckled heartily at his own joke. Randy swallowed, licking his dry lips. "Sure, I'll take a look at it." "So, what are you doing out here in the cold?" The chubby man asked cheerfully, stepping back to let Randy get a good look at the car. "Not that I'm complaining. I couldn't tell the engine from the trunk, me." He added. "I live nearby. I just... went for a walk." "What, in this cold? You must be crazy, friend!" "How old is your daughter?" Randy asked without taking his eyes of the busted engine. "22. She's getting married soon. Great guy and everything, things are really... really looking up for her." "There. All done." Randy suddenly said. "Really? Thanks, I'd have been stuck here for hours waiting for a tow truck if it wasn't for you!" He said and laughed. "I'll tell her I'm sorry. Your daughter." Randy said solemnly, looking at the round man sadly. The man shifted uncomfortably and gave a stale chuckle. "Is that supposed to be funny? I'm sorry, I'm not much for city humor. Good night and thank you again, I'll be on my way now." He turned and walked towards his car, but when he glanced over his shoulder and saw Randy right behind him he let out a frightened yelp and broke into a run. Randy was faster and stronger, it only took him a few seconds to catch up and tackle the man to the ground, pinning the man's arms under his knees. His hands began to rip at the mans sweater, tearing it apart while the man pleaded, "Please, I have a family". Randy stopped and his eyes, brimming with quiet tears, met the mans. "I'm sorry, but so do I." He said and sunk his teeth into the soft flesh, gulping down big mouthfuls of warm blood.

Make me sypathize with a mythical creature slaughtering innocents

My mind raced as I realized what was happening. "Look," I started, "I'm sorry, but I can't give you any advice." "What?" He was already annoyed. Just like I would have been five years ago. "Why the fuck not? You know all the goddamn answers!" "Because if I tell you what's coming you're going to try to change it." "So the fuck what? If I try to change it that means it's gonna suck, right? So give me a fucking chance!" "I..." A pause. It felt long. "I can't. And I'm sorry. I'm really sorry." "This is fucking bullshit." "Pretty much. And it's going to get way worse. Way, way worse. You're not going to be ready for how miserable it is. And I'm sorry. The next three years..." my voice trailed off. My eyes got wet. I blinked, felt the droplets on my cheeks. "The next three years are fucking terrible, man. I won't lie." "Well, so fucking help me!" "I told you, I can't." "Why?!" He was almost screaming. "Because all that shit leads you to the last two years. You get to meet our wife. And man-" my throat hurt. A lump there. Couldn't talk, "She fucking saves us." "That's gay. Love isn't real. It's just chemicals and shit in your brain. You're stronger alone." "You're going to learn how untrue both of those things are really really soon." "Whatever." He hung up.

you pick up the phone to call a friend and realize that you are on the line with yourself 5 years ago. Write about the conversation that ensues.

Humans are a very... interesting race. We've been observing them for several centuries now and when we initially discovered them the first thing we noticed was their incredibly short life spans. Most live not even for a single century. They die within 7 or 8 decades a lot of the time. Because of this limitation we have learned much about them over the centuries. Many studies have been had for single organisms over their entire life span and we didn't even have to wait that long for it to happen. Another interesting thing about them is their fascination with reproduction. It's unlike any other species we've seen in the explored universe. They are obsessed with the act but many are repulsed by actual reproduction. Billions of their dollars are spent each year on reducing the amount of births and it seems a lot of the time when a human gets pregnant it panics. Very unusual indeed. Humans are also very far behind in terms of uniting the race. There are hundreds and perhaps thousands of tribal entities across their planet. They have not banded together and they are constantly fighting each other. This made a big part in where we decided to make contact. One of the larger tribes in their western hemisphere seems to be the main agitator of military conflicts on their planet although the population seems relatively peaceful the governing body is an entirely different thing. Whenever there's conflict to be had their government sends troops. On the opposite spectrum there is a large tribe in their eastern hemisphere that isn't involved in nearly as much military conflicts as the western tribe but they have vast more amounts of people and we didn't want to possibly set them off as there would be no way that we would win a battle with them without killing millions of them, thus hurting our scientific efforts. With those two countries in mind we decided that a landing party in the former one would be the better option. When we first landed it wasn't how we anticipated it to happen at all. We expected curiosity (Humans show a lot of this trait) and maybe some worry but nothing of this magnitude. The entire area went berserk. We weren't able to make contact with anyone even though we were clearly talking in their language. No one would go near us and the armed forces drew their weapons on us. We feared we would have no choice but to retaliate if they openly attacked us. Luckily both sides kept calm and we were eventually brought to their capital city which strangely enough isn't their biggest city. As expected, the whole planet soon knew about us. After an earth day or two we were sent to a secret area which supposedly was unknown to the general public of the tribe. This is where the species' militaristic characteristics were being shown as much as possible. We walked down the halls of the building, dozens of humans with weapons aiming at us, and were escorted into a small room. There we were met with several of the leaders of the planet's largest tribes. After telling them that we wanted nothing but to study and learn more about their species we were led away from the room. We expected to be led to our vessel but instead they locked us in chains and put us in cells. As it turns out, their scientists are quite militaristic as well. Something we should have guessed but didn't. By now we'd had enough and we decided to leave. At first we demanded to be set free so we could return to our planet but our captors refused. They were convinced that we had come to enslave the human race and make them our slaves. They couldn't be more wrong, but humans are a very stubborn species and it's near impossible to change their mind once they decide something. We had no choice but to use up vast amounts of energy and teleport ourselves out of the facility. Our vessel was kept nearby in a similar containment facility but we had no trouble retrieving it as every human we encountered screamed and ran off as soon as they saw us. We left the planet. I do not recommend returning. This species is not ready to be studied yet. Let them mature a little bit more. Based on our knowledge of the species one of two things is going to happen.. One: They mature and eventually prosper, becoming a large player in the intergalactic community. Two: They kill themselves off within the next few centuries.

first contact between Humans and Aliens, writen from the perspective of the aliens, who are scholars.

The defense rose to give their final remarks, arguing for life in prison. Not an easy task when the whole world wants to see Hitler's neck snapped by the weight of his own body at the end of a noose. Winthrop, in a case for life, not necessarily Hitler's, felt pride in the job he was doing even though he was certain the trial was over before it began. At the front of the courtroom, he surveyed everything before him. Video cameras, journalists, photographers, panelists, military personnel, lawyers, expert witnesses, spectators, and Adolph. The pale, now chubby psychopath responsible for millions of deaths--including that of Winthrop's own son--looked apathetic to the impending last defense of his own existence. His once powerful eyes shiftlessly wandered the surroundings, only faintly interested in what Winthrop was about to say. He cleared his throat. "We've gone on at length about all the things Mr. Hitler has done over the past decade. Actions too painful to go over again, deeds too sinister for most of us to even comprehend. We are not denying these actions, I am not denying these actions, and again feel no need to prove Mr. Hitler's innocence in the normal sense of the word. But I must ask, for the final time now, when will the killing stop? At what moment can we take the more righteous path? I implore you to consider the benefits of putting this person in jail for the rest of his life and being content that we never sank to his level. He was a dictator, yes. He is a murderer, true. But, he is also a human, and we, unlike him, should _not_ have the right to take his humanity away, like he did to so many innocent people." Winthrop was tearing up, and a cackle entered his voice for the final words: "Put this man in prison and let that be the end of it." Winthrop sat down and collected himself. He didn't look at Hitler, he didn't look to anyone. But he smiled inwardly, knowing he had fought for life.

Hitler did not commit suicide. He was captured and put on trial in an international court. Write about the trial.

"Come on. This is the real deal. You want in the gang? You do this." They led him into the abandoned grocery store that sat on the far side of town. He'd heard about them talking about it before but was told that only members of the gang were able to go in there. He'd led a rough childhood. He was always getting into fights and had started doing drugs early. He smoked his first joint when he was only 11 years old. This escalated into regular alcohol use and occasionally ecstasy. Eventually he decided he'd start to sell them. He was good at selling them, he knew where to go to sell them and how to avoid gangs and their territory. But now he wanted something different. He was threatened by a gang for the first time not too long ago for selling in their territory. He was told to either stop selling there, join their gang and keep selling, or be killed. He chose the option in the middle. At first he was reluctant. He didn't really like the idea of a gang at first but as he got to know more of the guys he liked the idea more and more. Once he officially joined the gang he could sell in the area and he would have protection. It was a win-win situation. It was 3 in the morning and it was a cold winter day. An hour previously he'd be woken up by two gentlemen entering his house. At first he thought it was a kidnapping but as soon as he got to their car he recognized them as part of his future gang. They were taking him to their unofficial headquarters for a gang initiation. He wasn't sure what it was going to consist of but he was worried, "So what am I going to need to do?" he asked. Both of the gangsters looked at each other and then without looking at him one of them said, "You'll see. Don't freak out. We all have to do it to get in." Those words worried him. He was scared that he'd get the shit beaten out of him by the gang as their "initiation." He'd heard about gangs doing that in books he read and movies he'd watched but he never actually thought it was real until now. The gangsters led him into one of the backrooms. He expected to see many more gang members in the store but there were none. He was then led into a freezer. A meat freezer that had formerly been used by the store to keep meat frozen. As he entered he scanned the room. There were boxes strung about and an old safety guidelines poster on the wall but the most obvious thing about the room was the young woman on her knees in the middle of the room. Her soft whimpering was quiet but audible. "Wait here." The gang members said and they left the room. He examined the young woman. She was average build, she was on the shorter side of people. Maybe she was 5'4... 5'5.. somewhere around there and she had medium length blonde hair. She was probably in her mid to late teens and her pants were off. He waited there for five minutes, hearing her whimpering and occasional pleading to be let go. Finally the two gang members came back in. "Hello sweetie!" the taller one said very loudly, startling the young girl. As soon as he said this the young girl began to cry. As he watched the situation unravel he wanted to cry but did not. The girl was obviously scared and there was nothing he could do about it. The taller gangster laughed and said, "It's time for the round two we promised you and we even brought a friend this time." Both of the gangsters laughed and began to unzip their pants. "Whoa, whoa, wait. I thought you guys were going to beat me up or something what are you doing?" "It's gang initiation, kid. We picked her out especially for this occasion." the smaller gangster said as they continued to undress. The young girls cries became louder and louder and she struggled to get free but her hands and feet were bound, rendering her immobile. "No one is going to hear you, darling. You can cry all you want." the taller one said. "Guys, we can't do this. This is wrong, I sell pot to make money I don't rape innocent people." Before he could start another sentence the bigger gangster slapped him across the head. "We all went through it and so will you. Don't worry. You get used to it after awhile and eventually it even becomes enjoyable." He had trouble hearing the taller gangster as the girl was very loud. He mind racing, he began to think of ways to get out of the situation. But he couldn't. "Please. Just don't let me do this. I'll watch and I swear I won't tell anybody but please don't make me do this. I don't have the heart for it." The shorter gangster paid no attention to the comment as he was already heading towards the young girl but the taller gangster sighed and said, "Alright. This isn't even part of the initiation anyways, it's just some extra fun we thought we'd have." I'm not going to go into detail on what the gangsters did to the young girl. I'm going to skip that part. But I will tell you that the young girl was bleeding by the time they were done. He cried silently to himself. He couldn't believe he'd let himself get involved with this type of activity. If only he'd never gotten involved with drugs. If only he was a good kid. If only he'd accepted the gang's proposal to simply stop selling in the area or better yet if he'd just gotten killed by the gang. The girl was no longer crying. She laid on her side in the fetal position making sniffling noises but not another tear rolled down her face. She sat up and looked at the gangsters with a face that was a mixture of fear and hatred. Then she looked at him. There was no fear in her look towards him. Only hatred and anger. How could he have let this happen? The gangsters, looking satisfied beckoned him over to the girl and on the way to the girl they handed him a pistol. The look of hatred on the girl immediately turned into fear. "This is the initiation now." the taller gangster said. "Kill her." He was shocked. He looked at the gun and looked at her. The look in her blue eyes was too much for him. He broke down in tears. "Yeah, yeah. Cry all you want. But you aren't getting out of this. Either we kill you and her or you kill her. Don't worry. You'll get over it." He tried to stop crying but was unable, through tears he said, "I'm sorry but I just ca-" He was interrupted by screaming from the young girl, "Please! Please! I'm begging you! Let me go! I don't even know you people! I-" "Shut up, bitch!" the taller gangster yelled as he slapped her across the face. "We told you not to say a fucking word but you did!" "Please! I just want to see my mom and brother again, I-" she was grabbed by the taller gangster and his hand covered her mouth. "Hey, bring some of that duct tape over here!" he yelled to the smaller gangster. He obeyed and they taped the young woman's mouth shut. He'd thought about slipping out in this moment but he decided it was too risky. He had to stay. He had to kill her. It was either one life or two lives. It was his only option. After the chaos had calmed down and the girl was on her knees again he calmly walked over with the pistol. She began to cry. The taller gangster ripped the tape off of her mouth violently and said, "Are you going to be quiet this time?" As he got closer to her the more hesitant he became. Could he run? Maybe he could shoot the two gangsters and save her? No, it wasn't worth it. There was no way. They were both armed and even if he did take one out the other would surely kill him. There was no hope. He brought the pistol to her head. He felt the metal pressing against her forehead. "Please... Please..." she muttered over and over again, unable to move due to her bound hands and feet as well as her injuries. "I just want to see my mom. Can I call my mom and tell her I love her?" she said as he was about to squeeze the trigger. The taller gangster sighed and said, "No. We need to get this over with. This is going on far too long." The gun still pressed against her head. He muttered the only words he could say before he pulled the trigger, ending her life... "I'm sorry... I'm so, so sorry..."

As a gang initiation, the protagonist must execute an innocent man.

She killed me. She held me down and allowed me to be raped. She sliced my throat all while crying and saying, "I'm sorry..." over and over again. There was no emotion in her eyes when she did it. But I can tell that there was emotion involved in her actions. I was kept prisoner in her husband's basement for two weeks while they tortured and raped me over.. and over.. and over.. Her husband was a very large man. At least 6 and a half feet tall, he had a muscular-ish build although he did have some fat on him. His brown hair was longer in some spots than in other which I thought was strange but it didn't make him any less menacing when I first saw him. When did I first see him again? I can't really remember... he was just a regular customer at the grocery store I worked at. I can't pinpoint the first time I saw him. I just remember him being there at least once a week and he'd buy the same thing. 3 bags of dog food. Every time. And he always came to *my* cash register. Even though there were several others open, usually with smaller lines than mine he always chose to come to mine. I thought it was a little weird. Maybe he was just a creepy man who liked talking to me. I always thought it wasn't very nice of him to do to his wife who he sometimes brought with him. I always assumed that he was abusive. She was very quiet and almost never spoke to me. I'll never forget the last time we met at the grocery store. She looked at me in the eyes as they walked away from my register and mouthed the words, "Run." I thought it was strange but I didn't think anything of it. That was the last day I'd ever be at work. When I was on my way to my car that night I was taken by him. I don't know if I hate her or if I feel bad for her but I do know that she will get the brunt of the force of law enforcement once they get caught. The terror in her eyes whenever he tells her to do something. I saw him smack her in the face for not being quick enough to get him a drink of water. I wasn't their first victim. I am one hundred and ten percent sure of this. The way she did things to me was as if it had been rehearsed a thousand times before. Every time she'd whip me. Every time she'd hold me down. She'd mouth or say softly, "I'm sorry." I'm sure those words had no meaning to her. She'd said them enough times to me during my stay at their house that they'd lost meaning to me. "Sorry" no longer meant that a person was regretting doing what they did. It meant that bad things were about to happen to me. She would stick needles in me. She would pour boiling hot water on me. She would violate me with a large dildo while her husband would watch on from a few feet away masturbating. She never shed a single tear when she was around me. I could tell she had no more tears left to shed. Every time she'd hesitate to do something to me that her husband would tell her to do he'd threaten to slit her throat. He was serious about it. She knew it. I knew it. He knew it. He didn't care about her. He just wanted her to do whatever he said. She was his slave. When the order finally came from him for her to dispose of me... I didn't panic. It was finally over. I didn't have to deal with the unspeakable things done to me. I've shared a few of those things done to me, but there were many more not mentioned. Ones I wouldn't want to describe. As she loomed over me with her knife her formerly emotionless eyes showed a little bit of sadness. She knew that another one was going and soon they'd have to abduct another. He'd gotten sick of me. That look of emotion was gone when she stooped down to begin sawing my neck with her dull steak knife. The last thing I remember seeing was his eyes, gazing at me with glee in them. Sometimes I wonder who was the real victim. Me.. or her?

Make me side with a serial killer from the perspective of one of his victims.

**All Dogs** "Yep! Yep! Yep!" Judith chirped in the vocal booth, her energy bouncing her bangs and sometimes even her whole body on the stool. Even if the director asked for another take, and Mr. Bluth would, she would flash a smile and take his direction like an actress twice her age. "Once more, Judith, but lift it up at the end." "Yep! Yep! Yep!" She replied, bouncing in her seat. Perfect. Those were the words she'd engrave in the nation through an adorable animated dino. The words the world would engrave in concrete so that they would never forget, as if she'd voiced an elephant. That sound a meme of youthful enthusiasm, optimism. Of course, like most actresses, there were pots tossed at home. There was shouting and slapping. Her mother would call her father a dog sometimes, when he was just the wrong level of drunk. But makeup was always nearby, so on with the show that paid all the bills. Tears welled beneath her brown bangs mid-song about the dog and the director called a pause. Judith, sobbing now almost as much for blowing the audition as what would be waiting for her at home regardless of the audition's result. But this was to be a good year. It had to be a good year, after such a poor track record. Her first animated movie was coming out the next November. After that audition her mother finally made moves to move them away from the dog. Finally. And although the film's title mocked them, Mr. Bluth was directing the movie she was auditioning for when she accidentally let her mask slip and he hired her still. It was summer and they'd finished recording. Judith was taking advantage of the summer afternoon light lilting through the palms of West Hills. Her bike swerved along the sidewalk, avoiding cracks which might break her mom's back, laughing each time she missed one, knowing it as silly as getting seven years of bad luck for breaking a mirror. A cool breeze lifted her hair and she could smell the bright brine of air just lifted from the Pacific. Her father, the dog, was finally leaving the next day. Other adults were involved this time, and her mom assured her that this time it was for real. For real, she thought and her cheeks immediately lifted. Her smile didn't dissipate even when she laid down to bed. "Tomorrow will be a good day," she voiced, moving a sample Ducky toy Mr. Bluth had sent her before they went into production. "Won't it little one?" She maneuvered the toy dinosaur to look right into her eyes. She widened her smile. "Yep! Yep! Yep!" Judith closed her eyes on the bedroom. A smile still on her lips as the gun was lowered to her head. A smile forming her last breath. __ [A phrase we remember in concrete](http://image2.findagrave.com/photos/2004/240/3038_109373926132.jpg)

Tell a sad story that will make me smile

Spongy. That's the only way to describe the field rations that we had in storage. I shouldn't complain, I guess. Spongy kah' rek in a vacuum bag is better than trying to breathe in the vacuum of space. That's what life has become; a trite series of hierarchical observations about better and worse. Grey water showers or a sixteen hour shift in the lookout capsule? Most take the capsule, but I don't mind a little stink. Even dirty water has a cooling effect. Creature comforts were never my thing, anyhow. Not that there were many good options after the trial on Elevion. A chance at redemption, according to my sister. Shows what she knows. Another shot to prove I could be "one of the boys" again, or something like that. Once things got bad, some of the guys renamed her the "Shitdagger," but that probably isn't fair. She's a good ship, if maintained correctly, and if she has all of her parts. Some think the old boat took offense; now there are only a few of them left now to complain. Last I saw the captain, she was poring over star charts. Long hair covering most of the galaxy, with the stench of stale umrot hanging in the air. I bet she'd be more rational about finding the lost energy coupling if anyone could remember the beginning of the big drift (that's what the boys in the med bay call it). All they know is that we hit a plasma burst and then all woke up three days later, twisting in the solar wind. It must feel dangerously tangible to most of the crew, how close we are to turning it all around. One functioning energy coupling. That's all the Ol' Shitdagger really needs, according to the engineers we have left. Then the big drift would stop. We could find a nebula and re-fuel the engines. Fire up the HB-30's and head back home. No more dirty showers. Lock up the lookout capsule. Definitely no more spongy rations. I helped them search the ship for the first few weeks. Interest eventually waned, and along with it, hope seeped through the hull like juices running from a hot steak cut too soon. It was good cover, really. If they found the coupling behind the panel near my latrine everything would change. I figured that once the hope was gone I could finally rest, and I was right. I'll give the prosecutor on Elevion credit - she knew I couldn't help myself. At least this time I can be at peace. Now my prey is weak and docile. The hunt starts tomorrow.

A starship named the "Slipdagger" is stranded in space, write from the pov of a crewmember NOT the captain.

My bladder was stubborn. And full. Stubborn and full, but mostly just full. I pretended to still be asleep. Kept my eyes closed and didn't moved. Pretended I wasn't about to burst from the need to piss. Fucking drinking. I needed water- bad. It wasn't until I reached my arm out to my bedside table for a glass of water that I noticed I wasn't on my bed. I was on a hardwood floor. I steeled my nerves and opened an eye. Blinding light. Everywhere. Pouring in through windows and cracks beneath doors like attacking armies. "Ugh," I said. The environment soaked in, pushing its way through my eyes to the alcohol soaked sponge that was my brain. Wood. A lot of wood everywhere. Shitty, typical decorations hung randomly on the walls. Road signs. Black and white photos of celebrities. Dim lights. Orange splotches on the white ceiling where tobacco had stained it. I was in a bar. Fucking alcohol. I forced my head to turn to look across the floor. There were dozens of other bodies. Writhing around. Agony everywhere. "Ugh," some of them said. "Ugh," I accidentally replied. A jolt of pain from my stomach as my bladder made itself known. Reluctantly, to my feet. Tables, stools, chairs. Never stacked from the night before. As if they were all in use. The sun was bright beyond the blinds that hung over windows. I hated it more than I've ever hated anything in my life. Squinting, I found a men's room sign and moved to it. Through a heavy door and found a urinal. I leaned my head up against the wall for balance as I relieved myself. I knew it was gross, but it was the only way I could stay standing. I felt the weight come off me, free from the pressure. I burped as I walked away from the urinal, deciding not to flush. It felt good. Back to the bar. Looked at the bodies. Some standing now. They were blurry. Human shapes with dark hair and protruding beer bellies beneath cheap tee-shirts. More groaning from the floor. Those standing found the bathroom and moved to it. As they passed me I saw their faces. "What the fuck?" I said. Or I would have said if my throat hadn't been so dry. Instead, I said, "Ahhhh," in a kind of pained, scratchy voice. They moved past me like zombies, not noticing. I found the bar empty with no one tending it and reached behind to the water hose. I brought it my mouth and sucked it like a milk bottle as I hit the button. Relief. Head was banging. Too much movement. I took a seat. Fucking alcohol. I braved a look across the room. They were all me. I was sure of it. One came over and took the hose from my hand and took a drink. "You're me," he said after. "Yeah," I croaked. "Why?" He shrugged. I shrugged, too. "They're all me. Us, I mean. I mean they're all us." He motioned with his head behind him at the crowd of hungover us'es. "Yeah," I replied. "Why?" He asked. I shrugged. He shrugged, too. Some more me's came and took a seat at the bar. We passed around the water hose like an Indian pipe.

You wake up in a bar full of yourself from different dimensions, slightly hung over and no idea how you got there. what happens?

Note: My first attempt at one of these. Go easy. Six years ago, we battled. It began in my lungs, but the treatment was only meant to delay the inevitable. The darkness is growing. Six months ago, I discovered my wife with another man. Whether it be grief from my illness, her selfishness, or a mix of both. I know I should feel anger, but I feel nothing. The darkness is growing. Six weeks ago, my employer deemed me no longer fit to continue my career. I couldn't tell if it was the deterioriated physical and mental health, or if it was because pension was within arms reach. Twenty-eight years of service for nothing. The darkness is growing. Six days ago, I found myself in front of a man in a cheap suit, assuring me that my coverage is immediate and that only my children would benefit. The darkness is growing. Six hours ago, I set off north on a journey to the lake where I fished with my father as a child. The darkness is growing. Six minutes ago, I secured a rope around a concrete block. My arms trembled as I could barely lift it out of the back of the car. The darkness is growing. Six seconds ago, I looked downward as the cinder block led me to my final destination. Looking upward, I see the underbelly of the lake as the water drowns out the sun. The darkness is growing.

the darkness is growing

It wasn't often Satan saw fit to come up during the last moments of a man's life, but then again it was even less often that the Big Man asked him for a favor. *I'm sure He'd love for me to mess up again, just so He can blame me for another of His mistakes* sighed Lucifer as he finished his ascendance. It didn't really surprise him that God had asked him to handle this one. After all, it had only been a few millennia since the coupe, and God had always been one to hold a bit of a grudge. *At least He seems to be getting over his temper, finally. I guess that's what this is all about.* When he arrived, there was a man on a cliff, tears running down his face, barely registering the blazing sun on his bare body. The sand under his feet was sweltering, but the man didn't seem to care. Satan took a few steps forward and the man silently turned to face him, registering neither interest nor surprise at his presence. "So, the Father must have sent you." The man said, apprehensively eyeing the fallen angel. "He certainly did. He knows what you're thinking, and he asked me to come here and change your mind. He has a lot planned for you, you know." Satan said, in a tone reserved for naughty schoolchildren more so than kings. "So what? Since when have His plans ever worked out for the best? You best of all should know that all of His schemes backfire!" *I see, so that's what this is all about. No wonder he wanted me to be the one to do this.* "As much as it pains me to admit this, I actually agree with the Old Man this time. Earth is in need of a new start, and you're the perfect man for it. At least he isn't trying another flood or meteor this time." remarked Satan with just a hint of derision. "So He would have the blood of millions on my hands, rather than do the dirty work Himself?" The man's voice was filled with righteous anger. "Well, not exactly. He's been trying to be more subtle nowadays, and He's simply set events in motion from above. Every person will blame you though, most likely." "Then there's nothing I can do? Not even my death here can save everyone, is that what you're saying?" The man was choking back tears. Satan looked pityingly at the man. The man hadn't been given much of a choice in his role, having been told the way it would play out by the Almighty Himself, being told what to say to make men follow him, and being given the power to make them believe in him all over the course of a few short months. *I'm only here because of His stupid pride. He wouldn't care about whether or not this man takes control of the kingdom of men if He hadn't invested so much power into him. And now that I'm the last one to talk to him, he'll kill himself and it will be my fault. He'll make a new king, one who is harder and colder, and the cleansing will be carried out anyway. Unless...* "No. There is a way." said Satan, this time with resolve in his voice. This startled the man, who had been looking out over the vast drop before him, and he turned once more to face Lucifer. "What do you mean?" asked the man with more than a hint of curiosity. "I think, He sent me here to fail. He wants you to kill yourself, so I can take the fall for Him. If there's one thing God doesn't like doing, its admitting to a mistake. If you take the jump, you're playing right into His hands." "But if I live, am I not also giving him what He wants? Can't I just take the easy way out if there's no way for me to choose my own path?" pleaded the man. "There is another path open to you. He gave you power, don't you realize that? The power to make men follow you, to believe your every word! He told you to take up arms, to stir your followers into a frenzy and command them into battle, but you can do the opposite! You can preach love and compassion, you can teach men to live with instead of against one another!" Lucifer's voice was filled with passion, the same passion that drove him to raise the banner against the injustice of God once before. The man's eyes were focused elsewhere, calculating and considering the idea that had just been given too him. He stepped away from the cliff's edge, and smiled at Satan. "He'll be angry with me, you know. In fact, I'm certain He'll kill me once He figures out that we've circumvented His plan." Satan allowed himself a smile as he saw the man calmly embrace his new fate. "Then at least your death will not be in vain. Your life is the price you pay for saving mankind, Jesus"

Satan convinces a man to not kill himself.

*I... I don't understand.* My brows furrowed in as I studied the small metal clasps and chain, turning it over and over in my hand. I looked around to see if the rest of my crew was watching, expectantly waiting for their moment to chuckle. Matthew was fifty or so feet away, intently analyzing a clump of dirt that kept falling apart. Angela kept looking to the right, then the left, then up at the sky, like she had forgotten something and it was probably floating around in mid-air somewhere. And John, well, he was probably off rolling around in mud. Whatever. *I don't understand.* My head was caught in a loop and all I could do was stare. I must have not been paying enough attention to myself when Matt walked up. "Wipe up the puddles, girl." My eyes shot up as I scrambled to wipe my mouth and stuff my prize in the ripped coat pocket. I had forgotten to swallow for several seconds. "What'd you find?" "Uh.. eh.. uh.." I mumbled all the way back to the camper. In my daze, I somehow found my way to the bedroom, locking the door behind me. Carefully and meticulously, I laid the locket down on the bed, straightening the chain and opening to the worn picture. I fumbled for the one lonely fold-up chair and pulled it over, without removing my eyes. If I blinked, I was sure it would disappear. I just sat there in front of it, watching. At some point, I don't know when, I had opened to the picture on my phone and placed it neatly beside the locket. It felt like I had been playing this Spot the Differences game for hours. Time was getting away from me. *WHAP! WHAP! WHAP!* My eyelids opened so fast I thought I was going to lose them. And my head, God, my head. "Come on, let's go! We only have a few days left at the site! Let's get this one started!" The words came muffled by the door between Matthew and I. My body ached. Had I been hunched over all night? *Fuck, fuck, fuck. Shit!* It wasn't there! Nothing was there. I found my phone neatly placed on the nightstand, but I had been sitting in that chair *all night*. All I could think to do was rip **everything** apart. I started with the bed, throwing every obstruction on the floor. Then it was just a frenzy, throwing anything from the floor to the top of the mattress, things from the mattress to the night stand, from the closet to the desk... *WHAP! WHAP! WHAP!* "Leeeet's gooooo!" He drew out the words slowly and emphatically. I turned the knob so fast, he was still standing there when I pushed past and booked it out the cramped camper. I vaguely remember something from his part. Maybe it was a "Hey!", maybe a laugh. But it wasn't important. I went straight for that hole. I started moving sand furiously. Digging faster and faster, sand flying over my head and burying me, I couldn't help coughing out clumps. "Hey honey, are... are you awake?" *Beep.* Fuck, it's not here. *Beep.* I tried holding my breath for a second, blinking a time or two. *Beep beep.* My hands were still twitching, but this rope was cutting into my skin. *Beep.* I had to keep digging! *Beep.* "Honey, the doctors said you were moving too much. They said you were in danger of pulling your IV out." "M... Matt?"

a photo you took ten minutes ago.

"You seem distracted this week." She broke from the routine trying to seem interested in him. "How do you mean?" "I'm your psychiatrist, Peter, but I don't need a degree to notice you smiling like a high school girl walking by the quarterback in the hallway every time you stare at your phone." "I... I know maybe I should talk about this but I'm afraid it's classified." "Okay, then dumb it down for me. I know where you work and I read the Guardian, Peter. You're the one who was pointing out typos in my personal emails." "We've talked about that and I apologized multiple times. Why do you always have to bring it up? I even payed you to shut up about it, that applies to around me as well, okay?" The change in his tone reminded him why he had to see a psychiatrist in the first place. He changed his position in the chair and waited for Dr. Jameson to say something. She was just staring at him and apparently he was in no mood to pay for another twenty minutes of a staring contest like last week. "Jesus Christ, okay, I'll tell you." "Good." God, she hated that smile. Not for every patient, but a forced smile to Peter was something that physically hurt her. "I fell in love." "Wow, those are four words I never expected to hear from you. We're making huge progress here, Peter! Who is this lucky lady?" "Wait, don't jump to conclusions. She doesn't know I exist." "Oh." Now it made sense to her. "She's a potential terrorist I've been following at work. But she is so beautiful and smart. She answers all her phone calls with the cutest SHIT! I almost told you her name. Anyways, I even called her a few times to hear her introduce herself to me. And this isn't everything, she's funny in everything she writes. Everything. And she never uses a smiley like our dumb Maryland bitches. No offense." "None taken." Again the painful smile, God, was she going to get the strongest Long Island after this meeting. "Anyways, I've been following everything she does for a week and I can't let go of her. I know this is something that is all in my mind." "At leas you've saved me the trouble of explaining that. In a very scary way I actually find this kind of cute, I think time will make you able to let go of her. Just promise me you're going to cut contract with her and... give her to a coworker, is that an option?" "This is the problem, don't you think I know what I should do? Remember the bomb they found last week in Chicago though?" "Yes, nothing happened, they said at the news that it was all set but nobody pushed the button." "Exactly, nobody pushed the button because I kept her busy by calling her. She was the trigger in that attack. If my colleagues find out she's either dead or sent to a place where she might as well be. But I really like listening to her, I feel a real connection. With the next bomb there is no way anyone will find her." "We're done here." The doctor smiled sincerely this time, happy she finally had a reason to call 911.

An NSA agent becomes inappropriately (or appropriately, I don't care, this is a writing prompt not a dictatorship) fascinated with whoever he's spying on.

Waking up to the sound of a cough felt normal already. High crime rate neighborhoods were always like this. He stayed in bed with his eyes closed, feeling the most horrible hangover without having drunk anything for years. The fever had not been that bad this last night. This gave him courage to go to the window. The government cars were just loading the last night's dead bodies into their morbid version of a garbage truck. Nothing new. Neighborhoods like these were spread all over the country, at the outskirts of every city. Ever since the drug companies won their financial war against the prison moguls all crimes have been punished exclusively by disease. It is easy to see how now everyone knows to cross the street when they see a coughing feverish guy hiding his hands. Muggers, thieves, drug dealers all had no choice but to move away from the general population. When everyone around you looks sick you feel normal. He was already thinking like that. He was just getting dressed. He felt his life was normal. He felt he had a real job. Truth is, he lost his real job when he showed up sick to the office. Showing up sick was the same as showing up with a smoking AK-47 in his colleagues' eyes. Nobody cared that he "tried ecstasy for the first time! Everybody does it! Nobody ever gets caught! It was a one in a million chance!". A combination of his gambling habit and the loss of his income forced him out of his home. The first convenient store he tried to rob out of hunger had two cops in the ice cream section. So now here he was, at the edge of the city, working 12 hours a day just to stay alive. When he got all the way to the basement he realized he was the first one. He went to the wall to check the calendar and started laughing. Today they were making ecstasy.

Crimes are punished by illness/disease, not prison/fines.

He doesn't need to know the truth. He *can't*. Not if he's to do what must be done. I've watched over him for years now. He's very much a young boy still; looking up to the sky, wondering what other worlds are like. And one day, he's going to know. One way or another. His aunt and uncle can't stop him. Goodness knows I can't. I can only hope that when the time does come - and I can make no mistake it *will* come - that he will be ready. That he does not hesitate. That he shows no mercy. I hesitated. I showed mercy. And almost twenty years to the day, the monster that took my brother from me is still alive. When the time is right, I will train him. He'll know how to use his gifts. How to hold his father's weapon. How to plunge it into the heart of that infernal machine that calls itself a man. But it all hinges on him not knowing the truth. If that comes to light? If he discovers that his father was *not* a navigator on a spice freighter? All is lost. That boy is our last hope. And we cannot send our last hope to kill his own father. He's far too good a boy to do so, and will be far too good a man to understand. If justice is to be done, that goodness cannot be allowed to come into play. Each and every star that boy hopes to see depends on it. If I'm to stop this great monster, I must consider all aspects of the problem. Not just the dogmatic, narrow view of the Jedi. And in order to do that, I must accept the simple truth that he will not stay in this desert forever. There's too much of his father in him for that. The best I can do is prepare him for what the galaxy needs him to face. Make him ready. Make him my apprentice, even. I must. For the good of the galaxy, I must. It is unavoidable. It is his *destiny*. He, like his father, is now...mine. And that terrifies me more than any Sith Lord.

Show a Darker Side of a Well-Known Fictional Hero or Mentor Figure

Harold hated getting old. He hated that his body ached. He hated that his current "fast" was slower than his old "slow." He hated that the world, once so vivid and bursting with endless possibilities, seemed to be passing him by. At an age when TV stars seemed to be hitting their prime, Harold's back was shot, his knees were no good, and on good days the pain was manageable only with some pills and some drinks... and there weren't that many good days anymore. His friends didn't seem as bothered by it - hell, half of them seemed to really believe that glossy-magazine bullshit about "50 being the new 30" - but Harold didn't buy it. His father had shoved off at 53, and he was pretty sure his grandfathers both hadn't made it much longer. As Harold sat alone at the counter of the little diner on the main drag of the same town he'd been born in, he stared into the same coffee cup he'd stared into yesterday, and the day before. He had lived his live pretty hard, abusing things he shouldn't have abused. Drugs. Booze. His two ex-wives. His kids. Hell, even his "friends" were just the other guys from his days in high school who also hadn't found their way out of this shrinking town. Donna, the same waitress who'd been pouring his lunchtime coffee for as long as he could remember, didn't bother trying to make smalltalk with him anymore. She'd learned a long time ago that it didn't get her much beyond a single-word reply, or more often, no response at all. She poured, and she moved on, even on days like this when Harold was the only customer in the place. He rarely bothered to wear his hearing aides anymore - the damn uncomfortable things caused more bother than good, and they stayed in his nightstand drawer unless he was obligated to wear them for the doctors. Truth be told, as much as his fading vision pained him, he sort of liked losing his hearing. He'd always felt that 90 percent of the talking people did was just to hear their own voices, and he didn't mind losing most of that noise from his daily life. Harold gulped down the steaming hot coffee too fast and felt his tongue and throat burn, but the pain was oddly comforting. As his vision and hearing rapidly faded, he often found himself reveling in what clear sensations he could muster, even when it was painful or uncomfortable. He gestured with a waved hand and a grunt to Donna for more coffee. Donna started to pour, but her attention was pulled away by something behind Harold, and the scalding hot coffee sloshed out of the mug and all over Harold's lap. He lurched to his feet, but his lower back seized up and a sickening shock of pain ran up his spine. "Goddamit, Donna, what the f-" Donna, dumbstruck, continued to pour hot coffee into the overflowing mug. Harold turned to follow her gaze just as the massive tanker truck smashed through the window of the diner, sending chairs, tables, glass and debris in a cascade around him. A flying napkin holder clocked him straight in the forehead, and he collapsed backwards across the counter and onto the floor near Donna's sneaker-clad feet. Barely conscious of the destruction raining over him, Harold's muddled brain could only recognize that Donna looked oddly bent as she lay motionless on the floor beside him - there was something sick and unnatural about the angle of her neck. This was his last thought as the putrid liquid from the ruined truck washed against him, freezing cold and yet burning against his skin. His thoughts drifted from Donna to Bo, the dog he'd had as a boy. Hadn't Bo been hit by a car too? Funny how a person's neck and a dogs could look so alike, in the end… Harold slipped into blackness, and thought no more of Donna, Bo, or anything else. Time passed. Voices came, voices went. He thought maybe he heard his daughter, but that was stupid - his daughter hated him, they hadn't spoken in years. Why did she hate him? Isn't she three? No, that's not right… Words drifted by like clouds. Coma. Crash. Unlikely recovery. None of it made much sense to Harold anymore, but he liked hearing them just the same. He was thinking about the sounds around him when it occurred to him that he was hearing those voices a lot more clearly than he had in a long time, but the lack of pain in his ears convinced him that he wasn't wearing those cursed hearing aides. He realized he was thirsty, and pondered what he could possibly do about it. It took a while before he remembered that he used to know how to talk. After a long moment (or was a it a day? A week? He couldn't tell), he decided to try speaking. A horrible croak emerged from his mouth, one that he barely recognized as his own. "Wa…… ter?" In an instant, there was a tremendous commotion around him. Lights came on, voices became excited and anxious, and his bed shook. He mustered his strength and opened his eyes. Staring down at him were half a dozen doctors in white coats, surgical masks over their faces. "Mr. Burke? Mr. Burke, can you hear my voice? Just blink your eyes if you can hear and understand these words." Surprised and a bit startled, Harold blinked involuntarily, and then realized that he'd followed their request unintentionally. "That's good, Mr. Burke! Listen to my voice, and try to follow. You were in an accident. A truck hit the restaurant where you were dining, and you were exposed to some… some bad stuff. We're working really hard to help you, but we need you to relax, okay? Can you do that for us, Mr. Burke?" This all sounded pretty foolish to Harold. As with many of his groggy mornings, confusion quickly gave way to anger and annoyance. He cleared his throat, fixed his gaze on the mask that kept talking to him like a little kid, and sat up. Immediately, 6 hands were gently pressing on him, holding him up, supporting him. "Let go of me, dammit!" As the words were spoken, he swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood up. His bare feet hit the cold floor and he fliched, but more than the cold floor, he was shocked by something else - his hip didn't wrench like normal when he put weight on it. As the doctors fluttered around him and admonished him for moving, he shifted his weight from side to side, standing taller than he had in as long as he could remember. He reached up to adjust his glasses, and his index finger poked his own nose instead of the bridge of his specs. It took a moment to realize that he was seeing everything in the room with absolute crystal clarity. He batted at the doctors around him, and was astonished and horrified when three of them crashed into a wall across the large room. "My god, what have you people done to me?" he yelled as he strode toward the door. Reaching the door and finding it locked, he pressed it with his hand, and it too flew away as though struck with a tremendous blow. Clad only in a surgical gown, he quickly walked toward a window. Glancing out and seeing that he was (thankfully) on the first floor of whatever hospital this was, he clambered out, hopped from the short ledge, and strode away. Looking around, he could see detail he hadn't seen in years. Hell, he wasn't sure he'd EVER seen this clearly. He could hear things he couldn't identify, but somehow he knew he was hearing things he *shouldn't* be hearing - the crisp sound of the grass underfoot growing, the whisper of blood in the veins of the pigeons clustered around him. He felt the strangest sensations from his hair to his toes, and he was so preoccupied by this overwhelming rush of feeling, he scarcely noticed the uniformed guards forming a large but gapless ring around him. Suddenly, an older woman in a business suit shoved her way through the guards and spoke to him, softly and very deliberately. "Mr. Burke, my name is Carole. We need you to stop walking and come back to the hospital with us. You're very sick, you've been exposed to… you've been exposed, and you can't be outside until you're better. We know you didn't mean to hurt any of those people back there - you must be very confused, and we just want to help you get better." Harold looked at her. "You're damn right I'm confused… but I'm not sick. I haven't been able to walk like this in… a long time! I can hear things, I can see clearly, and you saw what I did to the door back there! You saw what I did to that goddamn *door* back there! I don't know what happened to me, but I haven't felt this good in my *life*, and I'll be damned if I'm going to let you people poke at me." As he spoke, Harold's skin began to tingle in the strangest way. He looked down at his hands, and where there should have been liver spots and wrinkles, he saw smooth, firm skin. The tingle continued, radiating from his chest and toward his feet. He looked past his hands to the ground, and realized with a tremendous jolt that his feet were no longer touching the ground at all - he was floating a couple inches above the asphalt. With a slight shift of his body-weight, he caused himself to gently glide toward the woman. "Carole, you don't understand. *I* don't understand how this happened, but my god, I've been given a chance… a chance to do *something*… big. I don't know how long this is going to stick, but there's no way in hell I'm wasting this on you and your lab coats!" As his excitement grew, the tingle in his core turned into a surge of pure, blinding energy. His body thrumming, Harold focused his eyes on the sky, and with a sharply-expelled breath, flung himself skyward.

The story of a man gaining superpowers and realizing he must use them for good... at the age of 50.

The sun shone through the bedroom window a little bit too early this morning and the alarm went off a little bit too loudly. The dreams and visions of niceties gave way to the cold, harsh reality of a Monday morning. The sun appeared to be battling the cold air for extreme supremacy of the small ecosystem outside of my apartment. After a few levels of Candy Crush and a Temple Run failure, I got up, trudged to the bathroom, and looked in the mirror. What looked back was a sad example for a human being in desperate need of a shower, and a new lease on life. I washed my face, brushed my teeth, and turned in to the toilet. Lifting the seat and dropping my pants, I closed my eyes and enjoyed the sweet release of a morning piss. I was thinking of all the projects due at work before my end of summer vacation on Wednesday. I was thinking of how waking up early was going to pay off and I was going to be able to relax in the afternoon. I was thinking of how my shoulder kind of ached from sleeping at a weird angle. What I wasn't thinking of? My cat. It was at that very moment that I felt something brush against my leg. Startled, I opened my eyes to see what was the matter, only to find him laying on my foot and playing with the toilet paper. What a sight he was; such intrinsic joy in such a small package. My furry friend channeled his ancestry and stalked the wild Charmin, pouncing and gnawing, slashing and destroying. With a smile, I turned back to my morning piss, and noticed something awry. I had hit the seat.

Pick a simple, everyday act and dramatize it

I hate the bus. Every morning at 7:18, the number 14 bus pulls up to my stop and I am forced to bear the burden of my "gift". As the bus pulls up to my stop, an old classmate Randy opens the door and asks "Long time no see! Today the day Ted?" I laugh him off with a lighthearted "Not yet Randy, but may want to lay off those burgers if you want to see Rebecca graduate." I take my same seat that I always take, right behind the driver, and try to read the morning paper. Everyone knows who I am. The expose piece in the daily mail that boasted of my psychic powers skyrocketed me to fame. My face was suddenly plastered over talk shows and news stories about how I could correctly predict the exact time, place, and manner in which someone will die. They always stare at me-- their very own grim reaper-- knowing that I’ve already seen you draw your last breath. The worst are the children. I try to focus on my paper to avoid eye contact, but every so often a child will exclaim "Oh it's him!" and I will inadvertently catch their gaze. It is never easy to see a child die. I always am relieved to see an image of an elderly man passing in a bed peacefully surrounded by his loved ones. Most often I do not. Today was different though. A boy was on the bus with his father. His new firefighter backpack matched his bright fire house red shoes. “Today is my first day of school!” he chirped excitedly as he brushed his bangs away from his eyes. I prayed that he would not try and get my attention. I didn’t need to see what would become of him. I flipped to the obituary section of the paper, a sick validation for a skill that I already knew I had mastered. As we rounded a corner, the boy’s lunch box tipped off of his lap and slid to my feet. *Fuck*. As I looked over my paper I caught his gaze as he tried to retrieve his juice box from the floor. I waited for the vision of his death to come, but it never did. All I saw was a happy boy, excited to start his new life as a “big kid” in kindergarten, picking up his lunch that his mother packed for him. I felt a wave of relaxation rush over me. I did not have to see how this boy would die; his life would forever be a mystery in my mind. I smiled, closed my eyes, and leaned back as a drunk driver blew through a red light and t-boned the bus.

The commute of a man who can see how people will die.

His seventeenth birthday was coming soon. That meant it was almost the tenth anniversary of his first day in the mine. He was seven the first time he plunged into the darkness. The company needed small bodies that could crawl into tiny compartments and plant dynamite. The boy would do this for six years. Malfunctioning dynamite and tunnel collapses had taken most of his friends. But not him. They told him he was lucky. On his thirteenth birthday, the boy was old enough to dig and run machinery. He would do this until he died. Many of the other workers his age were maimed or malformed from their years in the tunnels. But not him. They told him he was lucky. The darkness followed him outside of the mineshaft. The blackness of the coal mine was permanently sunken into his clothes and skin. At night he would cough blackness out of his lungs. Black lung killed dozens every year. But not him. They told him he was lucky. It was by chance that the boy remembered his approaching birthday. Alone in the shaft, driving his pick into the wall, lost in monotony, he happened upon the thought. At that same moment, he saw a sparkle in the ground. His lamp had given out and he was relying on natural light coming from the shaft exit just overhead. The boy leaned over and looked at the mysterious object. He had never seen a diamond before. All the same, he was hypnotized by its beauty in the blackness of the mine. He felt blessed to see such a beautiful object. Perhaps he was lucky after all. The boy wrapped his fingers around the object and pulled it from the dirt. Suddenly, the floor gave out below him. No one had discovered the cavern underneath the tunnel. He didn't remember screaming as he plunged deeper into the blackness. The boy landed on his back and felt the wind leave his lungs. He was so far from the light. He knew he would die. But he did not despair. As he lay on his back, staring at the small light above him, all he could do was laugh. He never had to return to the mine again. He was finally free. For the first time in his life, the boy felt lucky.

Write a story that ends with the luckiest character dying.

Date: March 17 (18th?), 3087 Weather: Apocalypse Mood: See 'Weather' I wish I was better with times. I was never any good at waking up in the morning. I set my alarm of course, but apparently there are only so many buses to the New World and when you expect there to be a cushion for those who are usually late to things the driver just shrugs as he drives directly upwards in his weird round bus. Everything else has a cushion for late people! My bills had a cushion, my alarm clock has a cushion, everything! And the one time they don't I get stuck on this bloody rock while everyone else bathes in fancy ~~taquila~~ ~~tiquela~~ tequila(sic) with gold flakes in it or whatever the hell they do up there. Surely I can't be the only one, though. I mean, sleeping in is a pretty common thing. There are probably a couple scattered thousand just twiddling their thumbs, and I'll get an email scolding me for lateness telling me where to wait and they'll send a damn *professional* this time who lets me in even though I'm late. And it really just seems to be in poor taste to take the internet with you when they know *perfectly well* there are going to be bored folks waiting around for them to come fetch them. At least it's not raining. ============================ Date: March 18th (19th?), 3087 Weather: Raining.

The first diary entry of a person who has been accidentally forgotten and left on Earth when everyone else has ascended to a higher plane.

*3 more minutes* I can almost smell the crispiness of the leaves as they scuttle and dance around my feet. They smell the way Autumn feels, like a warm cup of spiced cider when you curl up on the couch, as a pumpkin candle crackles on the coffee table. I'll never get to smell this again after today. Oh well. I wish this had never happened. I wish I could go home and see my parents again. Funny how I hated them so much that I ran away, and now the only thing I want in this world is to hug my mom. I want to smell her petunia perfume and feel her caked makeup rub off on my cheek. She was always wearing so much damn makeup. And I don't even care if he was yelling again, I just want to hear my dad's voice one last time. It was so soothing when he would tell me bedtime stories to fall asleep when I was a kid. He always told the best stories too, and he would make me the star. "There was once a brave young knight named Blake, and he was the most fearless boy in the entire kingdom." I'm glad he can't see me now. *2 more minutes* I never kissed a girl. I never saw the Eiffel Tower. I didn't do a lot of things. But I guess it doesn't matter now. What matters when you're dead? I can't take any memories with me, all I can do is finish this job and get it all over with. I hope I don't kill any children, they don't deserve this. Does anyone deserve it? They tell me this has to be done, but I don't see why. Why kill people to show that killing people is wrong? It doesn't make any sense. *1 more minute* No turning back though. If I don't set off the bomb they will just shoot me anyway when I get back. They'll see it as a sign of weakness. No, this is the best way. This way I won't have to hurt anymore. I won't have to think about mom and dad and how much they miss me. I'll just end it now. *30 seconds* This is a nice bathroom for a train station, clean stalls too. God I hope no one comes in here right now, I don't want to hurt anybody. *10 seconds* I hear the bathroom door open and rush out of my stall to make them leave. "Get out of here! GET OUT NOW!" *5 seconds* But it's too late. There he is, standing there dumbfounded like the big silly oaf that used to tell me all those stories at bedtime. I only have time for one word. "Dad?" The bomb went off before I could say I love you.

Write from the perspective of a terrorist who is performing a suicide bombing but does not believe in the cause.

It was his eighth time being chosen. At this point it had clearly stopped being random. He had friends who had never been picked, however, in the two years since the program had started he had been selected eight times. He knew why. He was good looking, and in the uniform they made him wear when he pressed the buttons that brought the pistons down and pumped the criminal full of fluid that would kill him within minutes, he looked sharp. He looked professional and people watching it all happen on TV liked that. It made them feel like they were watching a movie. He was their Denzel or their Hanks playing his part for the good of humanity. He was their Hector, forever standing in front of the gates protecting them. They cheered him as he eradicated the scum. But he was done. Every night he went to bed wondering what time it would be when he would wake up in a cold sweat from the nightmares. The overwhelming guilt and sense of wrong had sunk so deep inside him that he was barely able to function. His work suffered, and his boss and coworkers knew, but pushing the button gave him a strange sort of fame so they let him slide. He rarely ate, sleep was impossible. He wasn't even able to get an erection. He had women mailing him their panties, but he was powerless to do anything about it. His days consisted of going to work then coming home, sitting down on the couch, and staring at the TV until he was nodding off. Then he went to bed, made his guess, and tried to sleep. The only part of his day that he looked forward to was that first few seconds when the alarm went off. His eyes would open and he would fleetingly believe that Anne was still lying in bed next to him and that all was right. Then he would sit up and realize he was alone and it was just another grey day. But today that was going to change. Today was lucky number eight. He drove to the facility just as he had done the previous seven times. He made small talk with the guards as he put on the uniform. They even joked with him; saying that it was he who should teach the class that showed what order to push the buttons in. They told him where to look in the audience as he carried out the act. He was to look in the direction of the victim’s family. His knowing gaze was a way of telling them that this execution was their personal justice; as if somehow everything would now be okay for them. He passed on the meal they offered then as time drew near he followed the guards to his position. The curtains opened to reveal the audience and the lights came on. He saw the red light on the camera come to life. They were now live on television. At the prompt the host introduced the prisoner who was strapped to a table and fitted with the correct IV’s. The host told everyone at home what this man’s crimes were and why he was being put to death. Normally at this point his heart would be hammering in his chest and his palms would be sweaty, but today was different. He felt calm. He glanced at the prisoner who locked eyes with him and gave him a pleading look hoping there was something he could do. He could hear the host as he started the countdown from twenty and stepped out of the room. Everyone was gone. It was just him and the prisoner. As the count hit zero he was to look at the victim’s family and then press the buttons in the correct order. That didn’t happen. The count hit zero. After a short pause, he stepped away from the buttons and pulled a small knife he had hidden from the guards out of his pocket. He used it to drag a deep cut across his left wrist. Instantly the blood started flowing, cascading onto the white floor like a crimson waterfall. He then gripped the knife with everything he had and drove it into his throat. As he fell to the floor the last thing he saw was the audience. They were in shock. Looks of horror raced across their faces as some screamed in fear and others tried to flee. It was as if they had come to watch an execution and were surprised to see someone die. *Edited for spelling and grammar. *Edit #2. Holy crap. Gold! My first ever. Thanks for taking my Gold virginity kind soul. *Edit #3. To quote Penny from The Big Bang Theory. . . Holy crap on a cracker. This little fit of inspiration has taken off. I appreciate the gold and all of the comments and debate. It feels amazing to know that my work has caused emotional reactions and has people talking and debating. I wrote this in about 10 minutes after seeing the prompt. I had a clear idea about a guy who was "chosen" and became kind of the star of this morbid show and how the guilt of what he was doing had finally soaked through him and destroyed everything in his life. I will post more in the comments with my ideas about specific areas of the story. Thanks again. I am a little overwhelmed by it. P.S. For a shameless plug. If you want to follow me on twitter I will post there when I write new stuff. twitter.com/jeffrust

Like Jury Duty, citizens can be called to perform their civic duty of performing an execution. What is the toll this has on a man?

"Sir, he's coming round us." Coming round? What could that possibly accomplish? "Rotate starboard, 60 degrees. Bring aft cannons online," he said. A cautionary measure, what with how hard they had hit the enemy lasers, but it never hurt to be careful. The deck shook like an earthquake as something large collided with the U.S.S. Potomac. "What the hell was that?" he yelled, his officers regaining their composure all around him. Lieutenant Rays spoke, "Captain, we've received a direct hit on decks 15, 16, and 17, port side." "Port side? There was nothing there a moment ago, Lieutenant. Put the cameras on the main screen." As Rays switched the view to main, a large, shiny, battleship came into view. Clever bastards. He could see the cloaking generators from here, rendered useless momentarily by the energy it had required for the enemy to fire that shot. Something flickered on the com screen "Sir! They're overriding our communications," shouted Lieutenant Genoa. She scrabbled around on her control panel hopelessly as the com screen displayed the face of the enemy commander. His heart dropped. He knew that face. He had to play it cool, though, for his officers. "Well, fancy meeting you here... brother." "Yes, well, I simply couldn't resist," the traitorous scum replied, "Now if you don't mind, be a dear and surrender the vessel, or I'll have to institute code 36. I'll give you a hint: you aren't going to like code 36." He gave that cheeky grin their mother had always been so fond of. The battle was real now. He loved his little brother dearly, but there were certain lines crossed a long time ago and it was time to move on. He moved to give the order to bring the ship about without answering his brother, but stopped. Code 36. They had only been children, climbing trees and jumping out of them again, pretending they were pilots ejecting from their planes at the last possible moment. Bryan had suggested that they turn into kamikaze pilots, going down with their planes. "Code 36! Code 36!" he had shouted on the way down, a war cry that only a young boy would think up, often followed by "Geronimooooo!" He turned away from the lieutenant, met his brother's gaze over the com screen. "I politely... decline," he said, every word weighing on him. He knew what this would mean for his brother, for himself. He saw the lines around his brother's eyes crinkle, but couldn't tell if it was in a smile or a frown. "Lieutenant, full speed ahead. Lower the aft port blast shield." "Captain, are you-" "That was an order, Lieutenant." His brother had never raised a hand against him. Even as they had jumped from the trees all those years ago, the boy had always wanted them to be pilots on the same side. Even though it was just a pretend game, he could never bear for them to fight for different nations. There was commotion on the other side of the com screen. It sounded like a struggle as the enemy commander gave orders, the channel left open intentionally. A explosion bloomed in the distance to their port side. The last thing he could make out before the screen went black and the audio cut out was his brother's voice, "Geronimoooooo!"

A hero has lead a valliant struggle in space against an enemy fleet, both fleets are decimated. More ships arrive and it turns out that the head of the backup fleet is the Hero's younger brother.

Emily was paralyzed. She'd heard the monster under her bed scraping its claws against the floor. She'd seen its disgusting tail flick out from under the bed. She'd sensed its anticipation -- she would be its next meal. Oh, yes, there was a monster under her bed, but had not expected it to strike tonight. As Emily had laid awake in bed, overcome with fear, she had heard it slither out. She'd scrambled to turn on her bedside lamp, but immediately wished she hadn't. The monster was crouched on her dresser, staring at her. Its beady eyes were black pits that stared into the depth of her soul, watching, waiting for the right moment to strike. Its fur was an ugly mixture of bright colors that shouldn't have existed in nature. Its sandpaper tongue darted in and out as it licked its lips, and its razor-sharp claws gleamed in the ghastly lamplight. Emily tried to speak, tried to scream for help, but the words caught in her throat. The creature bared its fangs, sharp as knives, and let out an evil hiss. It flicked its disgusting tail back and forth, back and forth, and crouched, readying itself for attack. Emily screamed as the monster launched itself from the dresser, all claws and fangs and fury. The creature landed full force on her stomach, clawing desperately at the sheets, surely in an attempt to remove her entrails and feast on her intestines. Another scream escaped her throat as the creature continued its relentless attack. Footsteps slammed through the hall, and Emily's father arrived in the doorway. "Emily, it's two in the goddamn morning!" he said sternly. "This is the fourth time this week, for God's sake." The creature whipped its head toward his voice, its tail still flicking back and forth. "It-- it just, attacked me, Dad!" Emily protested. "Emily, if you close your door, he won't come in and bother you in the middle of the night. I bet if you weren't so afraid of him, he might warm up to you." "Dad, that creature is an agent of the Devil. It is *pure evil*." "Emily, Henry is not evil just because you haven't made friends with him yet." Emily's father glanced at the creature on her chest, which sat flicking its tail, its teeth still bared, and its eyes gleaming with murderous intentions. "C'mon, Henry, leave her alone. She doesn't want your company right now." The orange cat hissed at Emily a final time before hopping off her chest and following Emily's father out of the room.

Take something that seems innocent or harmless, and make it scary.

I feel foreign within my own skin. I feel undeserving of love, yet deserving of these bruises. They patch my skin, the result of a vicious fight a few hours earlier. Hoarse from the screaming, I feebly place my mouth against the faucet and feel the cold swigs of water slither down my throat. Cold droplets sting against my gashed lip, and I grab yet another sheet of toilet paper to dab at my wound. Unnecessarily, but in a panic, I once again whip my head around to ensure the bathroom door is locked. I need to get away, but my cell phone is in the bedroom. Too terrified to leave the room, too terrified to face my abuser again, I put my hands on my head and silently sob. Shakes erupt through my weakened body like unrelenting thunderclaps, and I feel twinges of pain prick me like lightning strikes. Feeling the coolness of my wedding ring against my balmy forehead, I remember our wedding day vividly. “For better or worse,” we promised, wide-eyed and innocently in love. Those feelings had seemingly gone astray. I earnestly try to convince myself that together, we can build that happiness again. I didn’t want to end up like my parents, divorced and miserable, using me as the pawn in their hatred-filled fights. I wanted our own baby to grow up with white-picket fences, and a mom and dad under the same roof. Things changed drastically since the baby was born. Hindsight is certainly 20/20, and it’s evident now that we weren’t financially sound enough to support another life. I was working two jobs, but our efforts to have money in our pockets while remaining sane were futile. Long work hours wore at both of us, as did the baby’s innocent wails that kept us awake at night. What I wouldn’t give to hold our baby now, ensure him that my wounds would heal, that we could heal, that we as a family could survive. Suddenly, I hear footsteps pace up each creaking stair. My clammy palms begin to shake incessantly. I know this cycle, the pain that awaits me. But I will not give up on us. “Open the door!” a voice bellows through the hinged barrier between the hallway and the bathroom. Stumbling, in another daze of fear, I obey my commander. I hesitantly open the door to see my wife standing before me with a butcher knife in her hands.

A Story about an abusive relationship where you find out it is the man being abused at the end

Tuva, it was always Tuva. Imagine my surprise when the world's biggest manhunt ever was for a Tuva Malhatra. Not a name that anyone had ever hear before, but it soon became a word on everyone's lips. Her parents were wealthy, aristrocrats with a dash of hippy in them. Her mother had made the name up herself, a name for only her - a name for only me. I was 11 when I first heard her name. Taken at six, one day while she walked home from school. For months the only thing the news could care to talk about was darling Tuva - the sweet child who had inspired half the world to cry and pray for her safe return. How had she dissappeared into thin air? Why had she decided to walk alone? Was it the parents' fault? Was it the teachers' fault? Was...she dead? Questions like these and so many more that were never answered. Slowly the world forgot about Tuva and she faded into the darkness forever. News channels stopped showing her picture and people became frightened of bigger and badder things. It seems like everyone forgot but me. Me who hears her name whisper through my mind like a ghost chained to my soul. Me who still hopes that maybe she is out there, somewhere listening to my name - wondering where I am and why I never found her, why no one ever found her. Why no one ever found her.

A world where the name of your future spouse is ingrained in your mind from birth, and what happens when someone goes against that.

"That looks like Al-wait, no, its not. Same hair. Sort of. She'd never wear that jacket though. Shit. Shit. Look out the window. Hate when this happens. Shit" "I'm really fucking hungry. If someone gave me a sandwich right now 'd probably marry the fucker. Fucking hell its already quarter past. Might as well stay on the bus and go right back home. Is that guy still looking at me? Great now he's smiling. Cutesie motherfucker ain't he. Actually-" "Oh shit she caught me looking again. I really need to get some sunglasses. If it wasn't raining. Or night. Man, it is no wonder I can't get a girlfriend. Moment I see a pretty girl I'm all 'Wonder what her hair smells like.'-" "Gum is tasteless. Again. I swear they design this fucking shit to do that so you have to buy more. I'd say 'fucking capitalism' if it weren't so fucking cliche. Think about something else. Something else. That guy actually has some style. Rare. Shitty hat though, makes him look like a twelve-year-old on a ski-trip. Big nose too. And the fact he looks goddamn fucking miserable-" "Why does she look so miserable? Smile wouldn't hurt. She's probably got a great smile. Oh shit you're the worst at this. Fuck it, force a smile. That's it-" "Now he's smiling. Fucking great. We'll be fucking married now. Students. Smile back I guess. Mum always said 'a smile a day makes the world okay'. Cheers for the fucking life lessons. Still, he's okay. Needs a shave." "Needs to do that more often." "Probably dull as shit." "Probably just having a bad day." "But I don't really care." "I'd like to know, but I won't." "I could use a friend right now though." "I could." "I could grow to like him." "I could love her."

The inner monologues of two strangers on a bus as they watch each other.

"The Breaker, break, breaker, break, whoopti lopsi ohhhhHHhh, It's like the....BEAR NECESSITIES, the duh duh nah nah nuh nuhuh," His voice sounded like the old records his mom used to play in the living room, he didn't remember most songs, but he remembered how to sing. He sang whatever words came to mind, small fragments of lost pieces of art. "Waiting for the jazz to break, waiting for the jazz to- Sheila?" The man turned around and stalked around the corner of the building. "Nope, no one. Just me, maybe a squirrel, a fat juicy squirrel, come here little squirrel." The man paced back in forth on the front yard, between his two trees. A path had worn away over the months. "Hm. Where did you go?" Step. Step. Crunch. He looked down and turned his head sideways at the broken leaf. He studied it for a moment and then looked up to his two trees and realized they were orange. The trees only kept his attention for a moment before he remembered the squirrel. "You can't hide from me, no one hides from Danny. I am the deadliest predator Robert, that's what I'll name you, Robert." After a couple hours Danny realized his feet were starting to hurt and walked back to his building. He opened the door and sat on his couch, poking at his feet in the places they tingled. "There you are Sheila, where have you been?" He picked up the ceramic jar and put it next to him on the couch. "It's the....BEAR NECESSITIES, the mump-a-dump a-cesseties. The-" "Hi-" The voice came into his life and he flailed his arms in surprise, knocking Sheila to the floor and the ashes she contained. "I'm sorry if I startled you." "Who are you?" Danny said, he scooted across the room keeping his eyes on the woman. She was like him, she was human. "I'm doctor Wiley. Do you remember me Danny? Do you remember who I am?" "Look what you did to Sheila," Danny screamed. The woman wrote a note on her clipboard. "It's okay Sheila, it's okay, Robert will take care of you with me, he's a new friend. He's hiding right now, but he'll come help take care of you." Danny swept the ashes into the jar with his hand, trying to pick up all of it he could. "Danny, my name is Sheila Wiley, I am your doctor, do you remember who I am?" "Just a little more, I have you, Danny's got you." "Do you know who Bradford is?" There was no response. Danny wouldn't look at her, he had forgotten she was there. He was alone in the room, alone with his bed and ceramic jar. Alone with himself. Dr. Wiley finished writing her report and walked out of the room, locking the door behind her.

A man thinks he is the last human in the world, and finds out he's not.

"Ugh. Why did musician's block have to come right NOW? When I need a new song for *Discovery*." Thomas Bangalter was driving through the countryside, his car winding through the recently paved roads in the 1999 countryside. However, his most recent conversation with Guy-Manuel on his mind. "Hey, Tom. Homework's becoming kind of stale, we need to figure out where we're taking the band, hopefully in a non-daft direction, so they'll start treating us more like musicians and less like punks." "I know, I know. I've been trying to think of something out of this world, something alien to the current musical tastes, but I've got nothing. Have you had any luck getting some samples for the synthesizer?" "Nope. They're treating me like I'm some kind of extra-terrestrial. Maybe I'll have better luck after a good night's rest." "As would I. See you tomorrow." As the duo's latest single, *Da Funk* played on the cars radio, Tom was deep in thought when, suddenly, a large object descended from the sky. He turned the music down and, while he was looking back up, the meteorite rocketed over his car's hood. He stopped the car and looked to his left. Sitting in the ground was a spherical-looking object, completely white and around six feet in diameter, with lettering on the outside being smudged, but still noticeable enough to read, "The Crescendolls". Thomas approached the object cautiously, fearing it would open and a stomach-invading alien would crawl inside him. However, none of that happened. The sphere made a hissing noise, and opened to reveal a futuristic-looking CD player and a golden CD inside of it. Thomas, naturally inquisitive as to what was inside it, hauled it back to his car and loaded it into the trunk. As he was driving home, he thankfully saw no police or military vehicles. When he arrived home, he loaded the sphere into a bag and lugged it into his house, onto his coffee table. After his unexpected workout, he passed out on the couch. When he awoke, the sphere displayed what he barely made out as "Insert Disk". He called Guy-Manuel over and, once he arrived, Thomas had made both of them some breakfast, because who doesn't like eggs before their listening to an alien broadcast? After Thomas explained his discovery to Guy-Manuel, they both agreed that they must listen to what was on the sphere. It sounded a little something like [this](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FGBhQbmPwH8) . A few months later, their album, Discovery, was released. Edit: Formatting, grammar mistakes, bonus line (as if this needed another reference in it.)

Earth received a Voyager-like probe from another planet

"Hey there buddy, where you headed?" Bill looked down out of his truck cab at the kid, looked like he was not a day older than 25. Real clean cut for a guy on the side of the road at this hour. "West," is all he said. A smile came across the kid's face and his deep blue eyes reflected the dash light. *This could be a fun one,* Bill told himself as he shifted gears, brushing some crumbs off his dirty t-shirt. "Tell you what, son, I don't have much left in me as far as driving tonight goes. What'd'you say to stopping a ways on, maybe 100 clicks, rest up for the night. Motel up there, they got decent food. I can cover the room cost - company pays for it." The kid looked over and nodded pleasantly as he settled into the passenger seat. "That would be fine," he smirked. As the kilometres clicked past, Bill characteristically told tales of trucking and of his past. He guffawed at his own jokes, chuckling as his stories got raunchier. As usual they were half-truths, some made up to lighten the mood, some bearing hints of his previous victims. Bill put on this show every time, seemed real affable, built up the trust. He excited himself more and more at the thought of this being his seventh victim. He'd do him just the same, force this kid into the back of the sleeper cab, bind him up. Keep him along for a while, til he got bored of masturbating over him, starving him, briefly making him think he'd be freed. *I'm gettin' aroused just thinking about this, shit!* Bill took a moment to compose himself, and for the first time took notice of the blank, dead-ahead stare on the kid's face. Bill's excitement tailed off a bit. "Hey look, I think this is the place up here. You sure you're cool if we stop for now? We'll get goin' at dawn tomorrow, promise." "Sure thing." The truck pulled into the gravel parking lot. The little strip of a motel was shrouded in darkness save a single pinkish light on a post over the office. Maybe one or two cars down the line. The place looked empty. "If you just want to stay here for a minute, I'll go get us a room," Bill suggested. "Sure thing, I'll sit tight," the kid spoke directly at the window as he peered out of it. *This guy is a weirdo,* Bill thought to himself as he descended from the cab, *but I bet that just makes him even more fun.* Instead of going to the office, Bill reached under the truck to the storage compartment where he kept his supplies: Bowie knife, tape, elastic tubing. "Hey kid, could you go into the back of the cab there and find my bag? It's got my wallet in there, you wanna throw it down to me?" Any pretence to get him in there. "Sure thing," quietly drifted back down the stairs of the cab. Bill waited a couple seconds. "Here, I'll come up and help ya," he called up, pathetically trying to mask his intentions. As he started to edge past the steering wheel, the kid's black leather-gloved hands jolted out from the cab, a thin leather belt surrounding Bill's neck. "What the'f'--" is all that came out, as Bill choked and spat. His hands went to his neck, the knife dangerously cutting at his own flesh, the kid's hands, and the belt. Using the seat for leverage, he propelled his body down the steps and onto the gravel. One of the kid's hands had slackened its grip. The knife clattered to the ground, but the kid's boots landed right on top of it. Bill rolled to one side, nearly shitting himself in fear. *Never* had he expected something like this. All his other victims were so simple. As he got up, weaponless, unsure exactly how close the hitchhiker was, he caught a glimpse of something across the parking lot. The pink light was now flickering above the office, and underneath the awning a black silhouette stood, backlit by the fluorescent lights inside. The glare off this figure's huge glasses was obvious, but something else was held out in front of it. Bill couldn't recognize the pose the figure was taking. It was too dark, too far away. It gave him a really awful feeling, and despite what he'd just tried to do to the kid, he found himself praying some lone car, somebody, anything, would roll by on the highway. This thought was cut short by the familiar strangling press of the leather against his neck. *This kid knows what he's doing. No blood if you can avoid it,* Bill thought, as he choked and gasped again, the kid this time dragging him backwards. *God damn,* it was almost impossible to breathe. Just as Bill was coming to terms with his demise, something brought him careering back. A sharp pain in the right side of his chest, then another in his left thigh. The pressure on his neck released, and he fell backwards onto the bony mass that was the godforsaken hitchiker. What Bill certainly did *not* expect was to find the carbon-fibre shafts of two arrows protruding from his body. *Oh Jesus,* he thought. He wanted to scream but his voice just didn't seem to work. Squinting up into the darkness, pinned to the body beneath him, Bill heard the scuffing of boots trudging across the lot. Bleeding and stunned, he looked up at the figure in front of him. The man set down his composite bow and took a roll of duct tape off his forearm. Pink light glowed through the massive glasses that adorned the menacing face. A horrible sneer shifted to one side of it as the bowman finally spoke. "You boys can stay your first night free. Cause I don't reckon you'll be checkin' out anytime soon."

A serial killer picks up a long-distance hitchhiker who also happens to be a serial killer. They attempt to direct each other to stop for the night at a motel owned by a serial killer.

Ben sat at the kitchen table, his eyes fixed on the wall. "I wish you'd stop that." Nataley said and removed the bag from her cup of tea. Only just now did Ben realize he had been biting his nails, he always did when he was nervous. "Sorry", he muttered and let his hands drop. Nataley sat down and sipped her tea. "So, what'd you want to talk about?", she asked and a smile spread across her face. Ben gave a halfhearted attempt at returning the smile and said "There's something you should know about me, something I should have told you, but I guess I was afraid of what you might think of me." Nataley laughed nervously and put a hand on her husbands. "Baby, you know I love you no matter what. You make it sound like you killed someone or something." Ben took a deep breathe and squeezed Nataley's hand. "I know you think so, and I hope you will still feel that way after what I'm about to tell you, but please... just let me finish." A shadow of a doubt flickered across Nataley's face. She had never had a reason to doubt him before, yet there was something about the way he said it. "Just tell me, Ben, you're scaring me." Every muscle in Ben's body went rigid, as if the impact he was bracing for would be physical. For years now, ever since their relationship had started getting serious, he had known that one day he would have to tell Nataley and now he finally felt like he couldn't postpone it any longer and still look her in the eye. "I'm a pedophile." The words barely came out as more than a whisper, but their effects were instantaneous. Nataley spit her tea across the table and almost choked as she guffawed uncontrollably. Ben looked at her and shook his head and her laughter slowly died away. "What are you saying?", she asked. "I'm... attracted to children. I - please, let me finish", Ben interjected when Nataley tried to speak. "I know it's not natural. I know it's disgusting. I know it's wrong, but I just can't help myself. I just can't choose who I'm attracted to." "But that's sick! You- you what? You have sex with children? That's sick!" Nataley burst out, unable to contain herself any longer. "No! I've *never* laid a hand on a child. I could never do that to a child!" Ben had imagined this scenario a thousand times and this was going exactly how he had feared it would. "Oh, so you don't sleep with them, you just wish you did? For God's sake, Ben, we're *married*. We live together. Christ, I wanted to have *children* with you!" In a daze Nataley realized that she was standing up, her heart pounding in her chest while her tea stood forgotten on the table. "You still can." Ben said calmly, straightening his back and gathered what little pride he had left. "You always said I'd make a good father." Nataley let out a sharp, scornful bark of laughter. "That was before I knew you'd jerk off at night thinking about your own kid." Ben stood up, his entire body suddenly shaking with suppressed rage. "I *never* touched a child.", he hissed through gritted teeth. "Do you think I want to be like this? Do you think I would ever choose this? Do you think a single day went by when I didn't want to tell you?" "But you never did, Ben. It's been four years and you-." Nataley cut herself off as her face twisted into a bitter smile. "I'm a substitute. I'm the next best thing." She almost laughed out loud as bitter tears ran down her face, hitting the kitchen floor with a stead *tap, tap, tap*. "I was 19 when we got married, Ben." Ben's rage melted away as quickly as it had formed and he shook his head. "No, no, no. It's not like that. I love you. No matter what age you are, I love you." Ben reached out a hand to wipe the tears from Nataley's face, but she recoiled, as if she had been touched by an insect, and slapped him across the face. In stunned silence Ben watched Nataley sweep past him and storm towards the front door. "You never would have married me if it was legal to marry a twelve-year-old, would you?" She spewed the words out and slammed the door behind her, leaving the words hanging in the air like a poisonous gas. Ben sat down and muttered a curse to himself, wishing he had never said anything. Wishing he would have kept his secret. But most of all, he wished he wasn't a freak.

A young couple are the epitome of love, but they hold a dark secret...He is a registered sex offender and is much older than her. Make me sympathize with him.

A man named Peter glanced down at his wrist watch. The time read 7:23 PM. Silently he waited for his business associates to arrive. Peter was one of four "District Managers" in the immediate area. However, Peter was a man of ambition, and was simply not satisfied with managing his lone district. If there was money being made, Peter believed he was entitled to a portion of it. He seated himself at the sleek redwood table, a full box of cigars situated in the middle of it. Peter was puffing on one of his own as the door opened, and in stepped Weyland. Weyland had a permanent sneer on his face. Constantly planning his next attack in order to further his own gains, his brain worked like an ammunition factory. Fights were Weyland's forte, and he made one out of any conflict when he could do so. He seated himself next to Peter, and smirked. A dim lamplight made the men glow a sickly yellow. Weyland helped himself to a cigar from the box, cutting one end and lighting the other. "Well Petey, long time no see. Too bad we couldn't keep it that way." "Weyland. A pleasure. I take it you're still running KG-9's to the Irish." "There are wars to be won, Petey. I'll help whoever's got the most money." Interrupting the duo's exchange was a fat man by the name of Frank. Frank enjoyed the finer things in life, and had come to provide for people's bad habits, which let him afford his own. Lives destroyed were collateral damage in the life of the hand that feeds. He sat across from Weyland, and followed the trend of cigar smoking. He blew a cloud of smoke from his mouth, tainting the air with his sour breath. "Pete, Weyland, good to see you." Peter looked at the watch on his wrist. The time read 7:29 PM. He knew that they would be waiting at least another two minutes on Dwayne. Dwayne never showed up at the precise time agreed upon, he was always early or late. It was as if he liked to creep up on them unexpectedly. That was Dwayne's style though; unpredictable and consequential. "So where the hell is he this time?" Weyland inquired. Patience was not one of his great virtues. "Stalking another Jane Doe, probably," Frank chimed in. "Actually, I was on my way here, Frank." Dwayne sat across from Peter. Not a noise made when he walked through the door. Peter glanced down at his wristwatch. It read 7:30 PM. *Always the opposite of what you expect,* thought Peter. "Glad you all are here. The reason I assembled us here is to discuss distribution routes of our products." Peter announced. He looked towards Weyland. "Your gun routes with the Irish are becoming compromised. In the past 6 months three trucks have been stopped and searched, two of which were busted. The third one hardly got away, but not without Dwayne's men having a few dead cops to get rid of. We're gonna change the distribution process of the arms, less guns to the Irish but we up the price on each firearm. Call it risk inflation or whatever you want to call it." "What? No, that is **not** going to work. The Irish-" "Let me finish, Weyland." Peter stopped the counter. He then looked at Frank. "Your drug routes. Need I even bring up how many busts and deaths you have under your belt? Between here and St. Louis your guys have either gotten busted, robbed or killed themselves using the damn product we're trying to profit off of. All in all, your operation is causing too much heat and is absolute shit. We're redoing the whole operation, and hiring guys we choose to run the shit." Weyland and Frank both smashed their cigars down in rage, and argued their counterpoints at the same time. All Peter could hear was incoherent yelling. He puffed on his cigar, and looked down at his watch. It read 7:45 PM. He looked across the table towards Dwayne. He was not smoking a cigar. He instead watched the two men bicker towards Peter, complaining about the changes being made. "And the Irish won't take a higher price! They'll go find a new distributor!" "My guys are *my guys!* You can't just change who I put in charge!" "We can if we take both of you out of your positions." Dwayne quipped in. The two men quit their yelling at glared at Dwayne. "What did you just say?" Weyland muttered angrily. Frank coughed, and began wheezing. Weyland looked towards Frank, whose coughs became rougher. Eventually he fell into a coughing fit. Weyland's eyes opened up, and averted to Peter, who took another puff of his cigar. His gaze then fell to the box of cigars on the table. Only two were taken from the box. Weyland's vision became blurry, and the coughing began creeping up on him. He saw a blurry Frank fall out of his chair in his coughing fit before devolving into his own. "They'll be dead within a half hour." Dwayne's voice echoed in Weyland's fading conscious. "Good. I appreciate the help." Peter said. He glanced at his wristwatch. It read 7:47 PM. (I rushed on the ending, have to go pick up my lady from work. If anybody wants to expand or clean it up feel free. First response to a prompt on here as well!)

The Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse are Mafia bosses sitting in a room together having a conversation.

"So what do you say?" the man asks. His toothy grin beckons an answer. After spending a lifetime of taking orders from suits, the head job is mine for the taking. I've already killed once for the opportunity, but there's something not quite right about this one. I wipe a bead of sweat from my temple. "You look thirsty," he says twisting his neck around as if to get a better angle of the glistening streak. "Here, have some ice cold water." He produces a crystalline chalice ensnared by a red tail, dripping condensation enough to put my forehead to shame. I grab it and let a portion of its contents slosh their way down my eager throat. For the first time since I arrived, I feel alive. "Why me?" I finally ask now that the heat has abated. "Isn't this what you wanted? Isn't this what you've *always* wanted? The desk?" He motions to a slab of mahogany that has suddenly taken shape behind him. "The name plaque?" he continues as his hand conjures a prism of wood on the edge of the desk bearing a solid gold plate with my name engraved in bold letters. "The *POWER*." The room shakes at the final word and my spine with it. But the fear is overpowered by excitement. A red flash fills the man's eyes as he sees the sides of my lips curl upwards. He moves in closer and wraps an arm around my shoulder. My chair spins by the force. "You want it," he whispers into my ear. "You want to prove him wrong." I don't need to ask who he meant by "him." Edmonds, the prick who tried firing me, sits in a chair. Thorny ropes hold him down. His eyes are wide, wild. He wants to scream, but his face lacks a mouth. The hand on my back urges me to stand. Together, we walk towards my former boss. There is a trophy in my hand. I don't know where it came from, but my fingers welcome something solid, something painful. "World's Greatest Boss" it reads on the base. 'I deserve this,' I tell myself as the tip of my shoe touches the Italian boot tip of Edmonds. "*He* deserves this," the devil coos. "He's the one who said you couldn't handle the pressure, the responsibility. He's the one who *denied* you time after time when you asked only for what you had worked *so hard* for. He's the one who didn't trust you when you said you could handle the long hours, the thinning budget, and the meetings with the board." He releases me from his grip and stands behind Edmonds. With one hand on my boss's shoulder, he runs the other through the man's toupee. "So, do you accept, or do you let this worm have the last laugh?" I pull the trophy up. The inscription extends to include my name beneath the honor. I give it a quick flip to take hold of the base rather than the cup. The thin metal bends as it strikes Edmonds's jaw. Each strike bends the gold further from recognition until only a crimson spire remains. The crumpled skull bobs around on what remains of a neck. With a swift thrust, the edge pierces the throat. The struggling stops when I pull the award. It falls from my hands to the ground and fades into dust. I follow it, but the padded chair catches me. My arms fall to the polished wood of the desk. "Now," the devil calls, clapping his hands together. "Make sure you get these reports done for the *Big Man*." He lifts his arm as a tower of papers extends beyond the edge of sight. "Feel free to relax when you finish." I'll never finish. "And don't slack off. The last fellow who tried taking over," he nods towards the bloody mass in the chair ahead, "disappointed me. This is a cutthroat position." This job is torture.

You've died and gone to Hell, and the Devil has asked you if you'd like to take over his job. As fitting, 666 words or less.

Gabriel woke up feeling a bit sick. No fucking way, he thought. He didn't want to be sick on the day of his sixteenth birthday party. Who would? This would ruin all of his plans, to use the term loosely. Hopes might be more accurate. Fantasies. The ones that had been keeping him up at night, lying in bed with a box of tissues close at hand. The ones where he'd finally admit to Sarah that he liked her and she'd admit that she liked him too and then they'd lock themselves in his bedroom. Those ones. He pushed himself out of bed and went downstairs, still slightly drunk on sleep. "Happy birthday Gabriel!" "Thanks mum," he said. "Come on, open your presents!" He made his way over to the pile of presents, trying to show some enthusiasm. It wasn't his mother's fault that his plans were ruined, but he couldn't help but feel resentful towards her anyway. He opened the presents and said thanks. Nothing special this year. The only birthday present he wanted was from Sarah, not his mother. He spent the day getting ready for the party later that night. He still felt a bit sick, but it wasn't too bad. Maybe everything wasn't ruined after all. At 7.30 the doorbell rang. It was his best friend George - or Georgie. Georgie was in the middle of his Change. He'd been a girl for about six months now but he clearly still hadn't gotten the hang of wearing girls' clothes. His colour coordination was terrible. "Mate, what *are* you wearing?" said Gabriel. "Shit, Gabe, I don't know. You'd think this'd get easier but it doesn't. Just you fucking wait. As if you'll be able to do any better." "Yeah, well, we'll see. I hope Sarah gets here soon." "Sarah? Man, you've got no chance with her. Trust me, I'm a girl, I know these things". "Fuck you, Georgie." More people arrived soon. Sarah was fashionably late, but eventually she arrived. She gave him a smile - his heart raced - and said happy birthday. Gabriel's mother had very graciously provided some alcohol and had gone out for a few hours. Gabriel hoped that both of these things would improve his chances with Sarah. At around 10 he started feeling sick to the stomach. What the hell, he thought. I've only had two beers. He ran to the bathroom and locked the door. That's when he felt a strange sensation in his crotch. He unzipped his jeans and looked down. "You cannot be fucking serious," he shouted. "Gabe, are you okay in there?" said Georgie. Gabriel quickly zipped up his jeans again and open the door a crack. "Georgie, it's my Change. It's happening now." For an instant there was a shit-eating grin on Georgie's face. "What do you want me to do?" asked Georgie. "I don't know! Tell everyone to piss off or something!" "Yeah, okay." Georgie went back to the living room and Gabriel shut the door again. He could hear Georgie saying something to the people there. Suddenly there was another knock at the bathroom door. "What?" said Gabriel. "It's me, Sarah." Shit, thought Gabriel. This just keeps getting worse and worse. "Uh, I'm not really feeling well." "Can I come in?" "I don't think that's a good idea." There was silence for a minute, then Sarah spoke again. "It's your Change, isn't it?" There was no point in denying it. Why did he feel ashamed? It happened to everyone, after all. People would find out eventually. But his chances with Sarah were gone, at least for a year. He opened the door and Sarah gave him another one of those smiles. "You know, you're kind of cute as a girl." "I don't feel cute." "...You like me, don't you?" "What?! No!--Well, yes, but it doesn't fucking matter now anyway." What the hell is happening, thought Gabriel. This is the worst day of my life. Sarah smiled. "You know, I think you're the only person who still doesn't know that I'm not into guys." "Wait, what?" She grabbed his hand. "Shut up and let me teach you about your new body."

At some point between age 3 and age 21, every person undergoes a magical gender change that lasts for a year. Write about a person undergoing the change at their birthday party.

I hated mirrors. It's hard to really explain why I hated them, or rather, why I began to hate them. Ever since I was a kid, I just never really liked being around them. They made me feel strange, like I was being watched by someone, my whole life on display. I felt judged. That was the worst part, the judgement. Whenever I found myself standing there, I could just feel the eyes on me, burning into every misplaced hair or un-popped pimple. There were urges - uncontrollable urges to do whatever my imaginary voyeur wanted me to do. I couldn't help it. I was being judged, and when someone's judging you, you follow their commands. It was not by my choice that I found myself staring into my reflection every night. I wish more than anything that I could avoid looking at myself, and avoid the judgement by proxy. My feet were stuck in slabs of concrete though, and I was rooted to my spot. I didn't want to be there. I had to get away. The voices in my head were telling me to stay, stay stay, but I fought back. I pulled against whatever forces conspired to hold me there, and after struggling for what felt like an eternity, I flew backwards. I'm not really sure what happened. One moment I was pulling, and the next, I was sitting on my ass, looking at the mirror. My reflection wasn't reflecting me. It was staring, looking down with a look of confusion. It was my face, my body, my everything. But it wasn't. It was my judge, and I was the reflection.

A man realises that the figure in his mirror is the original, and he is simply a reflection.

When I first saw Llewellyn, he looked like his face was about to rip at its wrinkly seams. Smiling like I was an old friend or a favourite lost dog, he came down to greet me on his front yard. Now, it had been a hot summer and on account of that every single blade of grass had been dried up into golden needles. Those needles crunched like little spines as he walked down that lawn like some sort of a god. "Mr. Theus, looks like the sun has taken a liking to you, gone and kissed you all red." "It doesn't look like she likes you much at all." His laughter sounded out like thunder that would have lit this whole land up into hellfire in a moment's notice. He was probably no older than 29, but his skin had been tanned like leather and cracked dryly in the heat. A thick head of jet black hair dripped onto his shoulders, drenched in sweat and perfumes. "I like you already. You got a quick wit. I like that..." He held his side of the conversation selfishly, "It's a good thing, for a fighter." As we walked back up to his house, the woman on his porch slowly faded away. Maybe his wife was shy around strangers or maybe the light had been tricking me, but by the time we got up that hill, the only thing on that porch was a bucket of ice with a few beers in it. "Outside or inside. I always let my guests choose." "Outside." If he could handle the heat, I could too. "Outside it is. Cerveza?" He offered me a sweaty bottle. "That's what Lupe calls them. Cerveza..." The word stuck on his tongue as he tried to get it off by licking his lips. He didn't take a beer for himself. "You're not drinking?" "The night before a fight? Of course not." "You trying to sabotage me with your beer or something?" I tried to play it off as a joke, but the paranoia was apparent. "Nope. I have no need for sabotage. Besides, you and I are very different, Mr. Theus." That dry smile crackled over his caramel face, revealing a set of perfectly yellowed teeth. There was nothing inherently sinister about it, but those rumours about him cloaked all of his kind actions in suspicion. "Beer good?" "Yes, thank you." "I'm going to beat you tomorrow." He said it as though it were the most natural response to my thanks. "Well, I-" "You know I will. I know I will. They're mocking you by sending you down to fight me." Little droplets of sweat flowed through the crevasses of his face, into his broad smile. "No fight is set unless both parties agree to it." My coach's words tasted stale in my mouth. Those black eyes laughed at me, while his smile remained stable. "There's a pretty thought." His certainty itched at my resolve. "How the hell can you *know* you're going to win. You haven't even seen what I can do yet." "Because," He leaned in close enough that I could smell the muddled perfume-salt smell, "I got god on my side."

Your Character Has Traveled to the Rural South (United States) to Engage in a Pugilistic Challenge With a Man Rumored to Be Unbeatable Because He Had Sold His Soul to the Devil

The first breath of the day brought an old scent to Marcus' nose. His first instinct was to open his eyes, to fling his head to the side and make sure the woman he believed to be beside him actually was. Instead, the young male kept still, and inhaled once more. The scent was entirely familiar to him, implanted in his memories even from the first few nights he'd met her. Mary was a different girl, he'd known, and he'd tried his absolute best to woo her over. A few years and months later, Mary would shatter his world with the news of her betrayal. But right now, at this moment... This was a morning somewhere between then. She stirred, her sunkissed, silken skin gliding beneath the sheets, releasing a fresh wave of memories. All those nights they'd spent together, and then the mornings after. Mornings like this. Half of Marcus' mind was reeling from the fact he actually -was- in the past, trying to figure out how he'd arrived here. The other part was thinking of how he should behave. What part of their life was this? Had they moved in together yet? All the while, Marcus lay there, the shallow rise and fall of his chest the only motion. *I don't care.* The thought came clear as day through his murky, just-awoken mind. With those words came freedom, and a gentle rolling motion. His young, fit form slid aside, a strong arm running along the small of the naked back beside him. Opening his eyes a crack to watch, he smiled when she did. Her wavy, blonde hair was a mess, but it looked just the way he liked it... Evidence of last night's romp. "Good morning, baby." She purred, her mouth working beautifully over the words. Marcus loved it when she called him baby. "Sleep well?" He questioned, hearing his younger voice rumble the prompt. Mary giggled in her throaty, womanly way, turning to snuggle closer to him. "Always." And just like that, her mouth was to his. *I don't care,* he repeated, chanting the mantra over and over. *I don't care, I don't care. I don't care.* Marcus pressed to her in return, deepening the embrace despite the hot tears springing from the corners of his eyes.

Your character wakes up in the past, when they were still with a lover who would later on break their heart. How do they handle this?

The end is upon me. In mere minutes they'll take me from my cell, I'll be strapped to that table, and they'll stick a needle in my arm. I know how much you hate shots. But this one won't be so bad. I hear there's a chill, but I won't feel it much. The guard tells me it's nothing more than a nap. A long, unending nap. I hope you'll be there. I know you won't, but there is nothing I'd like more than to have your face be the last thing I see. People always asked me why I didn't appeal. Well, I was guilty. I deserved death. I would've offed myself, but suicide is a sure fire way to not get into. Heaven. It's a little crazy isn't it? They'll give a last meal, although my stew was cold. That was a little disappointing, but you can't really complain when you're on the row. They'll give you a last statement. I'll go the simple root, apologizing for what I did, saying how stupid and angry I was. But I wasn't and you know I wasn't. It's a shame they don't give you a last sight. Something simple, like a face or a picture, maybe of a place you love. Your family is gonna be there, and I know they hate my guts. For what I did to you. You never told them about the cancer. How much you hurt. How much you just wanted it to end. You were afraid. They found you with six bullet holes. They thought an angry husband was enraged and just murdered his wife. But they never found the pinprick. I gave you a shot, to ease the pain, to end your hurt. You even said that you started to like shots a little bit. I think it's poetic, that husband and wife will both die the same way. A shot to put you to eternal sleep. I hope I'll see you when it's over, but I can't be sure. I guess I'm rambling a little bit now aren't I? But I hope everyone understands my reasons now. I hope I can be forgiven. I hope no one cheers when my heart stops. I hope no one cries, but that's a rare sight at an execution. The guard is waiting for me now. I told him give me a minute, it's not like I'm going anywhere. I guess I'll finish by saying that I love you. I always have, from when I saw you in first grade, to our wedding day, the first time we made love in Paris on our honeymoon, and when I was shackled and saw them put you into the ground. And I always will you love. And I hope, that for a lack of a better word, ditto. Your Eternal Love, John Xavier Wilson. Edit: Woah, who gave me gold?

A man on death row writes a final letter to his wife hours before his execution.

(I decided to write a date report [based on this Apollo 11 mission report](http://www.hq.nasa.gov/alsj/a11/a11mr_NoMissingPages_19700008096.pdf)... I don't see how I can describe a whole relationship. This is hard enough as it is!) #1.0 **ED'S REPORT** #1.1 PREDATE ACTIVITIES All predate operations and checks (shower, brushing of teeth, choosing clothes and wearing them, shoe polishing) were completed on time and without difficulty. The configuration of the AC in the vehicle provided comfortable temperature conditions. #1.2 MEET Meeting with date occurred precisely on time with a handshake accompanied by two non-awkward kisses, one on each cheek and moderate vibration in the lower belly area that increased significantly as I tried to entertain date with lighthearted small talk. No unusual sounds or mannerisms were noted while going from S-1 to S-2 stage were we took our reserved seats. The entire S-2/S-3 stages were remarkably smooth and quiet and the food and wine were ordered normally. Vibrations reduced significantly. Once food was chosen and ordered I noticed an immediate increase in conversation topics. #1.3 FOOD AND WINE The redflag checklist was completed and found no abnormalities. All tests of humor and flirtation capabilities were satisfactory. The awkward silence reaction control thrusters were fired in minimum impulse mode and verified effective. No abnormalities were noted during the S-4, "Eating our food" stage. It was accompanied by the proper ontable, casual dining experience etiquette and both starters and main course were delivered on schedule. Conversation and chemistry reignited on time after dessert without guidance. An apparent -0.5 attitude error when I thought I smelled a fart was in fact the result of the guy on the next table eating too many nachos. I paid for the meal. #1.4 TRANSPOSITION AND DOCKING Transposition maneuver scheduled to take date home was thwarted by date unexpectedly having her own vehicle. It was necessary to re-engage manual piloting to steer evening to a good ending, so I convinced date to let me walk her to vehicle, which was parked two blocks away. When we arrived, date yawed in for kiss on the cheek but a pitch/roll error resulted in lip contact. The subsequent correction maneuvers were denied by date as error had been found preferable to scheduled maneuver. She pulled me into her vehicle and we adjusted alignment on back seat for optimal docking path. Body inspection revealed a breast roll index of 2.0 degrees and a tattoo on the ribs 9 inches long. Particular care was exercised in the operation of condom extraction and wearing as I only had one. At completion, insertion and extraction of docking equipment began. This cycle was repeated several times for 3 minutes and 19 seconds. Additional time was not required and date was happy. #1.5 RETURN AND LANDING I left her vehicle and proceeded to my own at a moderately fast pace. I returned home on schedule and touched down on bed at exactly 00:12.

Describe an ongoing and successful relationship in the style of a NASA mission report.

[WP] Shameless redditor posts a terrible writing prompt to get karma. His plan backfires horribly. It would be the perfect karma conspiracy. The prompt would be about the plan, the plan would be a prompt about the plan, and the karma could be reaped by a sleeper comment he had already written under an alternate account. Everyone else would be so busy coming up with their own fictional karma heists that they wouldn't even suspect the *real* one. Fucking. Meta. He heard there was some dude who had a movie made from a bit of flash fiction. He saw the memes and all the top comments from the defaults claiming that comment karma was the new link karma. He wanted a piece - what was rightfully his, dammit - and this would be the start. The prompt was in place (already one reply!) and all he had to do was sign in with the alt and paste his canned response. But wait, shouldn't there be a comma after 'plan'? And is it 'damnit' or 'dammit'? How could he have missed this shit? Better to read over it once than post it and only have 30 seconds to perform any necessary ninja edits. Or was it a minute? Fuck. After a bit of meddling, a little research and maybe a small frustrated outburst, the mouse hovered over the button. His finger hovered over the mouse. Outside, a sleek black aircraft shimmered into view in a highly unnatural, possibly-outside-the-scope-of-human-scientific-understanding fashion. One of its many sharp edges began to glow. It emitted a frightening whirring sound. He pressed the button, and had perhaps a millisecond to consider the sudden strange sensation that was his house beginning to explode into flaming but otherwise perfectly ordinary particulate matter all around him. The En-

Shameless redditor posts a terrible writing prompt to get karma. His plan backfires horribly.

Peter took one last draw from his flavoured cigarette, and headed back inside. His office job sucked the life away from him, and nicotine was the only thing safekeeping his sanity. Once he crossed the door, everyone stopped and stared at him. The men at the water fountain dropped their cups, heads peeked over the cubicles, papers met the ground in a flurry of white. Their eyes followed warily as he made his way towards his small office in the corner, a look of fear in their eyes. Johnny was taking a day off. The night before, Peter and him had gone out drinking, to celebrate Johnny's engagement. They drank a bit too much, and Peter still felt the effects of alcohol in his brain. Suddenly, a cacophony of sounds filled the small floor of the company. Women cried, men yelled, bells rung. A fire alarm had been tripped. And before Peter realized what was going on, water began pouring from the ceiling, ruining every piece of equipment, every paper, and every mood. Peter forgot to put out his cigarette.

You finish your cigarrete break at the office. When you walk inside everything is silent, and you notice that everyone is staring at you.

"There isn't any money in fighting overseas anymore." That's how the pitch had started. And it was met with a deafening silence around the room. The conference had been called after years of heavy losses in the arms industry. CEOs and executive leadership from all the major arms companies were present. A few representatives from the big mercenary corporations had also been invited. Close to two hundred people had arrived at the conference hall to discuss options and strategies for the decline in sales. "The world is too poor. America is the only country supplying us with any business and their opponents are too poor to justify any more military spending. It worked for long enough, but now we've gotten to the point that we can't sell them on anything. They are just too powerful. We need a new approach, and I think I've got it." The crowd seemed to lean in as a whole as the young executive paused to build anticipation. "Civil war." Gasps and quiet murmuring went around the room and slowly built to loud conversations taking place. The young man took a seat and waited while they deliberated. Over the next few hours they talked and debated and went over options and at the end of the day, they'd come to an agreement. War it would be. The rest was handled by lawyers and salespeople. Who would take what products, what shipments. Government leaders were called and informed of the new plan, and asked to place their orders now. Troops would have to be divided up. New soldiers would have to be trained. Equipment would have to distributed. New weapons invented. Counter-weapons to those weapons created. It was going to be big and everyone wanted a piece. Of course they had to choose an issue. This was hotly debated. Some wanted to stage a class war, but it was decided that this would be fairly one-sided and won too quickly. Others favored religion, but it was too unstable of any idea without any guarantee that religions would jump on board. Finally though, after much deliberation, it was decided that it would be race again. "If it ain't broke, don't fix it" was the colloquialism that won over most of them. They knew they could easily build tensions based on race, and with such a diverse country, it could be segmented even further, meaning more profits for them. The second American Civil War began in 2061, and was anything but.

The Second American Civil War. What started it, and who are the two sides?

Today is my last day of patrol. Two years, three hundred and sixty four days, twenty hours, forty-one minutes and fifteen seconds ago I was brutally awaken by my predecessor. "You're up. You know what to do, or you'll figure it out." He could barely get the words out fast enough before rushing back to his pod. And so I started my rounds, day in, day out, the same old routine. Check the monitors, walk round the complex, take the stimulant. Check the monitors, walk round the complex, take the stimulant. Check the monitors... you get the idea. It seemed so perfect at first, the idea that would ensure humanity lives forever. Put everyone in an endless stasis to preserve the resources, wake them up when the ship is ready. "Just like going to sleep". Except the first subjects didn't wake up as planned, and that's when we started to realise that maybe, just maybe things were going to be a bit more complicated. Of course, them scientists had an answer to everything! Their stasis was so perfectly balanced that there was no incentive for the body or the mind to snap out of it without an exterior influence. But that was not an issue, we'll just have designated "wakers". It was all going to be fair and just, with a regular switching of roles every few months, with wakers selected with matching personalities to keep them entertained, with all the resources available to keep them fed and happy. Then of course, the resources got scarce... I mean, *real* scarce. Even more scarce than before. And another problem started to arise. Every time a sleeper got woken up, part of them seemed to be... missing. They'd be coherent and all, but more vacant, like a piece of them was still asleep. Until one day, they just wouldn't wake up any more. My theory is that there was nothing left to wake up in them. But not to worry! Our dear scientists were there to save the day again. Instead of teams of wakers switching every few months, which meant wakers being woken up regularly again and again, we'd have single person teams. I'm not even kidding you, those were the official words... single person teams. And instead of every few months, wakers would stay on patrol three years. Tough luck if you got a leap year, you get an extra day. What about the resources? Psh. It's not like we need to eat. Just stay awake, always awake. So here I am, just a few hours before the end of my patrol. I checked the monitors, I walked round the complex, I took my stimulant. Now all I have to do is pick the next waker, the lucky bastard who gets to spend three years in the bliss that is the waking state. Except that walking round the complex every hour for almost 26277 hours gives you time to think. And I realised that if we haven't been found yet, if our distress signal hasn't been picked up by now, then it never will be. And even if it is, what is there left to save? A bunch of dreamers in an empty world. If anyone tries to wake us, they will end up with barely functional human beings, just the bare minimum to keep the engine going. *We* won't be there. Look at them all, sleeping so peacefully in their beds. Except they're not really sleeping, they're not all that peaceful, and those aren't beds. I still have over three hours to go. I think I'll just go to sleep now. *********************** *First post, be nice! It's late, I'm off to bed but all criticism is welcome!* *Edited "26277" hours to correct for my mathematical inabilities...*

they will sleep forever until an external source wakes them.

*4:45 AM* By the time the last of the residents of Elm Drive had left his house in his bathrobe to join the hubbub in the street, the first of them to run outside yelling and dialing emergency services was unsure why exactly she'd felt it necessary to wake up at such an ungodly hour. "It's the funniest thing," Mrs. Ramirez was telling a small crowd of her neighbors. "There must've been *something*, but I can't for the life of me remember..." "Of course there was something!" cried Mr. Gaebler indignantly. "I sat bolt upright in bed when--" Funny, he'd known how he'd intended to finish that sentence when he'd started it. Ah well, old age was coming for everyone, he supposed. Better brush up up on his bridge game. Tina clutched her protesting cat against her, weaving between clumps of baffled, murmuring adults. She didn't even *like* the cat, why had she felt such a visceral need to snatch her up and get out of the house? She had a history test in three hours, for chrisssakes. She turned back towards her house, but was struck by the San Diego skyline, illuminated by the sunrise behind her and clearly visible from their affluent suburb on a hill. The familiar shape looked...off, today, somehow. She squinted, trying to identify the particular aspect of the view that rose goosebumps on her arms. She was probably just cold. The air hung thick with a smell that she knew but couldn't place, but she didn't care to. She just needed to go back inside, throw the goddamn cat somewhere before it clawed her face off, and try for another hour of sleep. Five minutes later, the street was still and silent again. Emergency call centers for several counties in the area reported a dramatic and unexplained spike in prank calls and false alarms in that hour. Suburbanites commuted into the city all that week for work, but invariably reported that they'd been sent home early. It would be some time before it became clear why they were shaking so badly when they said it.

The U.S. gets hit by an unclear bomb. (Yes, unclear)

It was a while before I noticed my inability to speak. After all, I live alone and I don't make it a habit to talk to myself. It was halfway through my morning commute that I realized. Stuck in traffic, I had switched the radio from the dull talk station I had on, to something more musical. My favorite song came on, and I wanted to sing along as usual. I wanted to sing along, only I didn't want to *sing* along. It hit me that it was no longer the lyrics that spoke to me, but the notes. The pitches, the chords, the intervals; I could now understand *them*. I was overcome with emotion, unlike anything I'd ever felt before. It was a good thing I'd been in the far right lane, because I had to pull over right. Just. Then. Suddenly, I knew I could add to the song, make it better. I had a pen, but I didn't have anything to write on. I grabbed the pen I keep in the console and wrote on the back of a receipt. Four bars, 4/4 time. The music came from deep down. I could feel the rhythm and the melody like an ache in my ribcage. I could no longer speak, but all the words I'd ever wanted to say were suddenly pouring out as pure emotion instead. When I'd covered the back of that slip of paper in blue scrawl, I could still feel the inspiration in my chest, but it had faded from the all-consuming drumbeat it was before. I turned around and went home. I didn't go to work that day, but I didn't call in sick either. I suppose they let me go after I didn't show up for the next two weeks. It didn't matter though, just like everything else except the music. I bought notebooks and sheet music and a keyboard. I started busking. I suppose what I wrote was this good from the beginning, because I was making about 80 dollars a day soon enough. Even when I experimented, just percussion on some discarded buckets, people would toss me fives and tens. I made enough money to keep the apartment, but that didn't matter. I spent every waking moment on the streets, communicating with people the only way I now know how. After a few months, someone from a record company walked by and asked me to come by the studio. I guess it was only a matter of time, I do live in a big city. Regardless, they liked what I showed them. That's how I got mainstream. I suppose there are lots of struggling artists who would kill for the opportunity I was given. I don't care. Every song and album I've released has been positively received. I'm respected, admired, envied, and alone. I still can't talk to anyone the way other people do. The community's raving about my latest work. *It's so dark*, they say, *but beautiful*. It's my story. This album is how I ended up where I did. I write melodies and harmonies. No one individual could ever play my music, which is why I don't perform it any more. They sell it to bands, orchestras and commercials. The whole world hears what I have to say, but I have no one to talk to. And when you hear this, my story, you'll think it's just a pretty song.

You wake up unable to say a word, but can all of a sudden write the most amazing music.

[I focused more on 'myself' and my mentality than on the mailman.] ***=Lunatic.=*** Everything seemed different, and I didn't like how my routines were voided by the absence of the sound of the mailman. I was late riser, always was. Didn't surface until eleven that morning; nothing out of the ordinary. Waited around on the couch. Checked the first three channels three times in succession and then turned the set off. Always did. Waited some more. Where was the drop? Couldn't have coffee before the drop. Couldn't shower or dress or even eat before the drop. Needed the drop. Needed it. It didn't come? Why not? He always delivered within the thirty five minute confines of eleven ten and eleven forty five. Never after Noon. Never. Why hasn't my letter box been fucked by a bill yet? Was it something to do with my letterbox? Was the flap broken? That's what's wrong. Should fix it. Can't fix it yet. Can't work before eating. Can't eat before getting dressed. Can't get dressed before showering. Can't shower before coffee. Can't have coffee before the drop. Fuck! Stuck in this vicious cycle. Try to the stop the voices. Try to stop them telling me to break the status quo. Can't break it. I am the status quo. Nothing without it either. Find myself rocking a little bit. Back and forth. Still on the couch, but yes, rocking. Like a lunatic. Why would he do this? Why wouldn't he deliver my mail? I need it. Why would he take that away from me? Probably in his sack. Would be so easy for me to fetch myself, but can't because he has to do it. That's how he fits in. We all fit in, but that's how he does. If he doesn't fit in how can I? Staring at him now. Making eye contact though his eyelids. Starting to sink in. Should probably call someone. My mail is in his sack, I know it is. It needs to go through the slot. Because I need the drop. I call Mrs Applebee. She's just across the street. She'll come. It'll all be fine. Mrs Applebee can you come over please? I need you. Okay. Thanks. Been a few minutes now. Still not processing, because I need the drop to process. Doorbell. There it is. Come on in Mrs Applebee. Door opens. She's walking now I can hear her. Comes into room. Isn't watching her footsteps. Steps over the gun. Starts screaming. Stop screaming Mrs Applebee please. I need your help. Can you get my mail. She's in shock. Maybe I am too. No I'm not. Can't be. Can't be in shock without the drop first. Get my mail now. I was screaming. Don't usually scream. Neither does she. She gets my mail. Slots it through the door. Thanks Mrs Applebee. You can go now. I make coffee. Tastes good. A little late, but still good. Shower. Dress. Eat. Record time. Police are here now. Still rocking, even as I stand. It's okay. I'm okay. Cops are hugging me. Strange. The note is to his Mother. It wasn't her fault. Wasn't mine either. He said that too; in his note. Needed a way out. That's what he said. Said I needed one too. Said I was his way out. Can't have the same routine now, that's what he said. He's probably laughing at me. But not in this world. He's on the ground by my couch in this world. Top of his head is over by the window. I'm laughing now. Like a lunatic.

A suicidal mailman elects your house as his final resting place.

Christopher's stomach dropped. He had heard that cliche before, but this was the first time he had encountered the actual feeling. There was a metaphorical brick dragging his guts and intestines down, pulling his emotions with them into the depths of regret. He had been excited the entire morning--queasy, but excited. It was a frigid New Year's Day, and his hurried walk to the obnoxiously long line would be rewarded once he reached its front. What seemed like hours was in reality only minutes, but the rest of the people in the line experienced the same interminably slow passage of seconds just as Christopher did. They all had their own answers prepared, and their own excitement concealed. When Christopher was finally through the snaked and curved string of bodies, to answer undoubtedly the most important question of the year thus far, the familiar sight of the man clad in dark black and forest green asked him the question he would ask every single person who showed up that day: "What do you want?" That question... eponymous in meaning, infinite in scope, subjective in context. It was menacing to the unprepared or unthoughtful, someone Christopher never thought he would be. But here was, becoming that which he hated so much. His face grew flush, his eyes flashed around: first to the impractically complex instructions overhead, then to the steaming and whistling machines so foreign to him, then finally back to the man in black's own apathetic eyes. Christopher shamed himself. What had he been thinking about throughout the entire walk, the entire wait? His mind flashed back, but it was clueless. Waiting is a tricky thing. Despite the perceived excess of available time, the mind often wanders, wasting the valuable allotment and destroying the one silver lining an intermission provides. His mind had wandered to places unhelpful to him now. Pressured by the man in black and by the ever growing queue of humans standing impatiently behind him, he blurted out an answer. It was a vomiting of the soul. It was just _an_ answer, not _his_ answer. It was not what he wanted; indeed, it was precisely what he didn't want. He had merely mimicked what his father always said in this situation. _His father_. A man to respect, to be sure, but a man whom Christopher shared literally no tastes with, no preferences with, no dreams with. Yet here he was, asking for the same outcome his father asked for. Pressure can cause bizarre actions. It creates diamonds out of coal if enough is applied. But it can also crush the mightiest submarines under different circumstances. For Christopher, it had crushed him, and his stomach sank. "Is that all?" the man in black added. Christopher had given up at this point. He had already answered, there was no turning back, he would wallow with his request. In some ways it was an appropriate penance for his shameful lack of focus throughout the entire process. The man in black turned to his colleagues and passed on Christopher's answer, "One tall latte, skim milk and extra foam."

The moment when you realize you have made the wrong decision.

Suddenly I'm in a car. How did I get here? Where was I last? The car is moving....I am not the one driving. Where am I going. It is dark, I am in the passenger seat. I am _bound_ to the passenger seat. So many questions. First: Who is this woman driving? I don't know her. Cautiously I look toward her; my muscles are tense, my brow is perspired, my stomach is queasy. My head is throbbing, throbbing! This pain is unlike anything I've ever experienced...it doesn't feel new though. It feels like it may be healing, probably a fresh wound. The throbbing surrounds the entirety of my skull, the most persistent pain I've ever encountered that didn't evoke audible screams. Did this woman do this to me? Did she cause me this pain? She senses me looking at her. Curiously, she smiles. Longingly. She..._pities_ me with her gaze. What the hell is going on, I briskly ask. She puts her hand on my leg with the utmost care. It scares me, I don't know this person, but she creepily extends her touch to me like we are the closest of friends. She's struggling to answer, no doubt she's trying to craft whatever concoction her and her probable team of kidnappers decided would be their criminal explanation to me. The woman finally clears her throat and states "The surgery didn't work sweetheart, we're going home to rest and spend time with the kids"

On a late night drive and you just realized someone else is in the car with you.

We don't go into orbit anymore. Orbit belongs to them. Astronauts had always laughed at the proscription on masturbation in space. It seemed relatively harmless, in all honesty. A little bit of protein in zero g. NASA, however, held an unholy terror of the idea, so much so that one of the lesser known parts of astronaut training had been the cultivation of the ability to go weeks, if not months, without rubbing one out. I suppose I could see their point. After all, unlike the other stuff that comes out of an astronaut's body, there wasn't any specialized apparatus to deal with the disposal of cum. So, in the end, most of us chose to grin and bear it, figuring a stretch without masturbation was a small price to pay for being cowboys on the final frontier. What we didn't know was that there was a good reason that we were prohibited from jacking off in space. The story starts, as almost all good space stories do, with Russia. See, the Soviet Union commemorates Yuri Gagarin as the first man in space. It is true that Gagarin as the first man to *survive* space, but there were a handful of others before him. Some of those poor bastards died of radiation poisoning, some of asphyxiation, a couple when their capsules burned up on reentry. You won't find their names anywhere, nor any reference at all. They're scrubbed from the official record with the kind of totality you only ever found in the Eastern Bloc. But shortly after NASA's founding in 1958, NASA and their Soviet counterparts began communicating in spite of official bans on doing so. For a lot of those guys, the obsession with rocketry and exploring outer space trumped political concerns. So NASA learned some very unpleasant things about the Soviet space program, including the grisly fate of one very unfortunate Cosmonaut named Ivan Alekseyvich Grishkin. Grishkin was sent up in late 1960 to test the long-term effects of residence in space, which seems a bit cart-before-the-horse given that the Soviets were still struggling to make their rockets not explode on the launch pad. He was supposed to orbit for two weeks and return, and to accommodate this the Soviets designed and built what was essentially a one-man space station, roughly the size of three Vostoks and fully pressurized, meaning Grishkin would also be the first man in space able to take off his space suit. Well, the damn thing worked. Attached to what was at the time the largest rocket the world had ever seen, it went up without a hitch and stayed there. There was a huge press event planned for when Grishkin came down, with plenty of 'neener neeners' directed at the United States. It would have dramatically shifted the tone of the Space Race, maybe even enough to discourage us from going to the moon. But what nobody counted on was Grishkin getting lonely. He missed his girlfriend. So, with the new freedom of his pressurized capsule, he decided to take matters into his own hand. Which, ok, great, among other things the Soviets could now claim the first man to jack it in space. He'd probably have got an Order of Lenin or something like that. Fast forward a week. Grishkin is now halfway through his stay in space, and in daily radio contact with Moscow through mission control at Korolev. It was about this time, according to our Russian friends, Grishkin began reporting small particulates floating through the capsule. Air filtration seemed to be working normally. None of the indicators were, in fact, indicating anything was wrong. Grishkin was told to sit tight and report if the situation got worse. And get worse it did. The particulates got larger, and as they got larger, they no longer seemed to be simply particles. They began to move, to Grishkin's horror, like some sort of living organism. Panicked calls to Korolev yielded no replies. I can't imagine what it must have felt like for Grishkin to realize he had been abandoned like so many others. He was trapped, thousands of miles from home, with a swarm of unknown life forms and no help in sight. But Korolev hadn't totally abandoned him. They were still listening. Somewhere in the bowels of ROSCOSMOS's headquarters building in Moscow, they've still got the recordings. Grishkin's increasing panic as he began to realize what those little floating creatures were. Terror as he realized what they were trying to do. They were his sperm, somehow surviving in the zero g environment and growing larger. Yet the imperative to find a home remained, and so they began attacking Grishkin's mucus membranes, swarming in through his nose and mouth, lining his esophagus, filling his lungs. Millions of the little bastards, now not so little. From what NASA was told all those years ago, Grishkin's final moments were so upsetting that four mission controllers wound up in psychiatric care. In response, NASA banned us from masturbating in space. This ban held until just a few years ago, when some asshole on the ISS decided to disregard it. A week and a half later the ISS had to be abandoned, with two astronauts dead. NASA went absolutely apeshit, calling a conference with the other four partner agencies to discuss how best to proceed. It was agreed to remotely shut down the ISS, the feeling being that not even monster sperm could survive the extreme conditions of space. A month later, a fresh crew was put together and shuttled up to the ISS to get it back on its feet. Contact was lost after the crew reported foot-long 'things' infesting the station, strong enough to crack space suit visors. The mission never returned, and we haven't sent another one up. Those things are still up there, getting large enough now to be spotted by sufficiently powerful telescopes. We don't know how long they live, but we don't think it can be all that long. After all, nobody in fifty years of space exploration has been harassed by Grishkin's giant sperm. Of course, Grishkin's capsule would have made an uncontrolled de-orbit a long time ago, so maybe they all just burned up on reentry. We just don't know, and until we know, we can't take the risk. We don't go into orbit anymore. Orbit belongs to them. edit: sp.

In zero gravity, sperm can survive and mature without having to fertilize an egg. An astronaut jerks off on the ISS, what happens?

It was another day and another failed report to the Intergalactic Étoile Council. Rita Clara was tired of having to report to the IEC with bad news. It had been nearly one full century since Rita was charged with the responsibility of inviting earth to have a representative on the council and so far she was having no luck. She began to scribble notes on her Digi-Pad. "Dearest Council, I, Rita Clara, head coordinator for induction of Earth into the IEC, regret to inform you that the council's invitations have once again been rebuffed. This time a citizen of the Marshbog Sector has been murdered by the overzealous Rangers who seem to want to keep Earth from further advancement"... As was traditional for the council, an already inducted civilization would act as an ambassador to Earth under the jurisdiction of Rita. they would see the invitation personally delivered to Earth's decision makers. The Crocodile Humanoids had so graciously offered to be the next ambassador to earth, even after all the previous ambassadors were slaughtered. Mostly because of the large amount of respect and prestige that came with being an ambassador, but also because they were the most resistant to the brutal attacks of Earth's "rangers". However, it was all in vain. They too were culled by the "rangers of earth". Rita continued. "The rangers seem to be growing in conviction in terms of keeping extragalactic life *away* from Earth, this most likely a direct result of the "Zordon Protocol" that still plagues Earth to this day. Before any progress is made on earth, it may be wise to assure them that a "Zordon" situation *cannot*, and *will not* occur again. Until then I fear only the most aggressive action from the rangers."... Rita sighed. The Zordon Event REALLY made the politics of earth's entry to the IEC difficult. Nearly 75 years ago, an experimental body extractor accidentally separated the mind and body of what seemed to be one of Earth's top wizard strategists (apparently a Chief of Staffs). After noting the mistake, within minutes IEC reps quickly arrived at Earth offering to reverse the process but they were met with an ambush and killed - their technology stolen and used as a blueprint for the armor the "rangers" now wear. Ever since that event, the now immortal mind of Zordon - the Chief of Staffs - advises the rangers against the "invasion" of "alien" forces who would love to extract the body of *ALL* lifeforms on earth. Never mind the fact that the mind/body extractor is extremely energy inefficient and it's no longer used, the humans still fear its usage and as we know, fear is a potent weapon of manipulation. "Ever since the Zordon incident, Zordon has used fear of the unknown to isolate potential partners in the IEC. Zondon and rangers constantly refers to me as Rita Repulsa, a far cry from the name I gave myself - Rita Claire. Zordon also continues to convince the "rangers" to fight aliens as apparently aliens have a tendency to act in the spirit of "manifest destiny". I think we should have a non-physical meeting with Earth before engaging them personally again so as to be clear on our objectives." Rita knew the request would be ignored. The star council was getting tired of Earth very quickly and losing patience in it. Yet she sent the letter off anyway, feeling better about having a non-physical solution. As Rita wrapped up the letter, she sent the next ambassador to Earth down to Earth to try "one more time". This species she sent was a velociraptor species, she just hoped it was fast enough to avoid the rangers if need be. Anyway, another day, another report. Rita sighed at the long day ahead of herself. More people were going to die today, and sometimes she was hoping it was a ranger or two. SUPER TIRED and not a writer - just wanted to practice. Please tell me comments, suggestions etc.

Write a role reversed Power Rangers story where the aliens are the good guys trying to bring Earth into galactic civilization, and the Rangers are soldiers of paranoid, xenophobic governments trying to kill the aliens.

She didn't remember her dream. She always remembered her dreams, she recorded of them in a small notebook by her bed, but this one, she didn't remember. It was blurry, hard to make out. A shadow clouding her mind. The more she tried to remember what it was, the harder she found it. She just couldn't remember. It was cold when she finally climbed out of bed, feeling a small bit of shame for having forgotten her dream. It was such a good one, she thought, desperately trying to bring the details back. Someone was talking to me, I think. And they said something. It sounded important. She turned the shower on hot and stepped in once it began to steam. It didn't feel hot to her, she was still cold, and despite the water beginning to fog the shower's glass, the water felt cold too. The dream. What did he say in the dream? She finished her cold shower and dressed in warm clothes that did nothing. Then she sat on the couch and put on TV. There were no shootings in the city yesterday. First time in almost 7 years that it had happened. No major accidents either. It was just a slow news day all around. Her mind kept going back to the forgotten dream. Dark. It was dark. Deathly. Shadows everywhere. And the voice. The voice was loud and booming - when she listened it was hard not to pay attention. And yet, she forgot the dream. There she was supposed to do today, but she couldn't remember that either The weather came on. The city was in the middle of a heat wave, and wouldn't let up for another three or so days. She laughed inwardly, the chill in her extremities flowing now throughout her body. She felt like death. When the thought entered her mind, suddenly she remembered. In the dream, he told her that she had been chosen. Chosen for what? She had asked, and the voice replied, "Chosen to judge." She pressed further: "To judge whom?" The voice replied, "To judge everyone. It is you who will decide their fates. You may choose to kill the young, you may choose to kill the old. You may choose to kill the evil, or those who will become evil. Whatever you choose, it is your choice." And then, She remembered what she had decided in the dream. "And what if I decide to kill you?" "I cannot stop you." She smiled, and whispered under her breath. Then, she woke up, and she was warm.

A person (male or female) wakes up not knowing who they are. They are the incarnation of Death. Explain how they find out, why they were chosen to be Death, and what they do with the information.

I did it because I loved him. Funny, right? A succubus falling in love? He's *monogamous*. The word itself is like acid on my tongue. It burns worse than the fires of hell those Catholics associate with me. They misunderstand me and when 2014 comes for them, their perception of time distorted by their linear thinking, they'll call women like me a nymphomaniac. I crave sex, I need to *defile* the sanctity of marriage, of virginity; to spawn another like me from the forced enjoyment of a man giving into lust against his morals and his God. When *he* looks at me, though, I can't imagine anyone else. This goes against all my baser instincts. I, oh Lucifer, I love him. When he's gone, though, it all comes back to me. I see the orgies in my mind, I throw come hither looks at the men who look my way. I pull my skirt up and let my nail trace its way up my inner thigh just *teasing* and *tempting* any man in my path. Then I get home, and *he* gets home and the guilt sets in. I promised there would be no other, and I'll keep it. I hope.

A succubus decides to become monogamous