num_comments
int64 1
3.15k
| created_utc
int64 1.39B
1.66B
| score
int64 13
29.2k
| title
stringlengths 7
306
| top_comment
stringlengths 458
39.5k
| top_comment_score
float64 10
23.1k
|
|---|---|---|---|---|---|
7 | 1,390,738,999 | 14 | It is revealed that all imaging of the earth from space has been altered because the true shape had to be censored | Jared's lips curled up, baring his teeth
'So what did you think of the take-off?'
Tom gasped, he hadn't realized he was still holding in his breath. He looked to his right. The lean scrawny face of his senior officer loomed over him.
'It was rough to say the least, sir. Fairly exciting too!'
'I'm glad to hear that you sunofabitch. You're the hope of the academy'
Tom grinned. His hands reached to his waists, unbuckling himself from the seats; artificial gravity had been restored. He curled his fingers backwards, then reached to the ceiling. Legs unfurling like the wings of dragon, he stepped up and stretched. His lithe, athletic frame, over 6 feet long, bent backwards and then straightened.
He trotted towards the console station. Blinking buttons and flashing lights. He pushed in a few numbers at the input dock and moved on to the loo. Noisy, distinct growls made their way through his taught stomach. Things were gonna get messy.
He sprinted to the washrooms. He caught the page, Dwight, just as he exited the room. Falling onto his knees, he skidded and stopped just shy of the lip of the toilet, bent over and poured his stomach's sorrows into the bowl. Jared's head bobbed back and forward with outrageous laughter.
'They always think they're ready for this shit!'
Tom's puke flecked lips moved as he tried to form words, but his body failed him again. He barely managed to keep the chunks in the bowl.
------------------------------------------------------------------
Years of training and practice were beginning to pay off. Captain Jared had mentored him well. Sure, he'd been caught off guard but he knew from his Academy material that he'd gotten off light. Most academy grads would suffer hours of excruciating agony either bent over, or seated on, the bowl. He looked at his watch and then sped up. He didn't want to be late.
Jared was waiting for him. Tom's eyebrows straightened, his jaw clenched and yet a slight smirk failed to escape Jared's notice. Jared frowned. He didn't want his disciple underestimating the manner in which his world was going to change.
'Are you ready for what you're about to witness?'
'Sir, yes sir!'
'And do you swear to uphold the values of the Elder Race, to preserve the secret as we have preserved it for 2 generations now?'
'I do'
'Then get ready for the sight few men have ever seen'
He took a deep breath and pushed open the door into the Observation Deck.
--------------------------------------------------------------------
'It's flat'
'Yup' | 18 |
26 | 1,390,749,932 | 22 | An immortal enlists in the army. | War has changed so much since my first fight. Heck, the world period has changed. When I first took up arms it was to defend my first, and now long dead family. I was cursed by a Sumerian witch to live like this. Through the years I've been staked in the heart, beheaded, lopped in half, shot, blown up, shot down, and bayoneted. I've fought in armies in every major war it seems. I've lost faith in religion. I've fallen in and out of love. But the armies of the world have been my home for centuries. Whether it be laying siege to Rome, or serving in it legions Ive always fought. Ive seen man go from stabbing each other with sticks to dropping atomic bombs. I've flown bombers, fighters. Driven tanks. Dug trenches. Slogged through the mud and the blood in the Somme. Drug my comrades from the snow as the Russian air force bombed our Finnish ranks. I've surrendered to Yankees. To Brits. To Germans. To Russians. Maybe I've been searching for death. Maybe its to remind myself what pain feels like. Either way as I enlist in the US Army for the 5th time I wonder what my next war will be. Will it be against Jihadis? Against Aliens? Oh god just let me die | 20 |
27 | 1,390,752,095 | 55 | The secret to immorality is killing a newborn child. What is the world like? | Pro-lifers don't like it. Almost no-one likes it. But people have done it. You know who's done it. On your street, in your school, in your workplace. Even some celebrities. We're not pointing fingers but both Kim Kardashian and Putin have the same guilty sheen of eternal youth. There's the news that some poor kidnapped girl was kept in a cellar for ten years and forced to give birth to children who'd live three hours before her captor sold their lives for a hundred grand. Eleven children. Eleven men. They got life sentences. That made people laugh. Funny what makes you laugh when things are this awful.
Abortion isn't really discussed any more. No-one cares when some junky mother sells her child's life so someone else can live forever. She was going to get rid of it anyway. You care, though, when you come home and find your husband unconscious on the floor, a broken window and your child with deep red bruises at her throat. The casket is impossibly small. Now you can't look at your husband without crying, and you can't look at Kim Kardashian without wanting to wrap your own hands around your throat and squeeze till it goes dark.
You care when the hospital down the road is broken into and the post-natal unit ransacked. You care when you see mothers screaming in anguish on the streets. You care when the people you don't want to live forever smile at you and say it was a legitimate transaction.
Lives aren't a legitimate transaction. | 93 |
8 | 1,390,754,448 | 15 | Science proves that the universe is a computer simulation. Five years on, what's happened? | If you ask the masses today of what a team achieved at CERN in 2016 that changed their life, they will stare blankly and ask what you mean. Some of their eyes will flicker while doing it and some with ignore the question.
I mean how would you react if someone asked you what your feelings were about an event that was yet to happen, for as far as you know its 2014 and 2016 is still 2 years ago.
So why I am writing this, why am I pushing a question that no one can know the answer too, and more importantly why are you reading this. Its the nag. That noise at the back of your mind that causes your eyes to flicker, the noise that makes you walk past me when I ask that question, the confusion you feel at the date 2016 is not some foreshadow of whats to come, you are no prophet. What you are is a survivor.
This is going to sound crazy but you have to listen before it happens again. 5 years ago in 2016 scientists at CERN proved that the earth was a simulation ran by an ulterior power, they broke reality for 7.2 seconds and they changed the world in doing it. Governments went crazy trying to suppress the information, they rightly knew that the world couldn't handle it, but humans don't listen to reason we embrace disorder and anarchy and someone, somewhere along the line brought the paper to the surface. It happened slowly at first, the paper circled the academic community and started bleeding into the rest of the world. And people broke, nothing mattered any more, they saw themselves as pieces on a chessboard nothing to the owner just being moved in predefined paths. It was a turbulent time, in around 3 months countries had retreated to within themselves, borders weren't shut people just didn't cross them, anarchistic groups rose up with vastly different points of view, those that called themselves Bytes rioted and looted their way into an abyss, they claimed that no real attachment to the world meant no real consequences for their actions. The other group called themselves Academia, but don't let that fool you. They were fanatics, devoted to the idea that if the gap in reality was found it was because the simulation demanded it to be so, they opted to believe in the rules set down by their founder "Supputo". They warred with the Bytes in a brutal fashion, with the idea that cleansing the rule breakers would bring prosperity to the world.
And then amidst the global war, the first true world war with conflict in every nation, two raw ideals going against each other in a savage and tribal sense, it just stopped.
All of it.
Clocks went back to April 1st 2009 and the world picked itself up without missing a beat.
Well apart from me. You see I remember, I remember that its 2021 and I remember that they hit reboot. So they can put me in this cell and call me crazy, but I know and in 2 years when those guys at CERN figure it all out don't come crying to me. | 11 |
26 | 1,390,761,097 | 33 | After a failed invasion of earth, an alien begs for mercy from a human soldier | Edit: Forgot to mention that I tried to model this off of Mordin Solus, from Mass Effect. Similar speech and thinking. Hope you enjoy.
_____________________________________________________________________________
Resistance was unanticipated. The ships encountered at First Contact were rudimentary. Humans have advanced quickly. Far more advanced than before. Modeled after own ships perhaps. Should have learned more. Assumed a quick victory. Loss after loss, very unpopular. Low morale remaining. One last shot. Must destroy headquarters. Must destroy Houston.
Large force, they knew attack was coming. Must protect capital ship. Must complete bombing run. Sky is no longer blue. Filled with red plasma. Many explosions, many friends dead. Can see headquarters, too close to fail. Scientists shouldn't be fighter pilots. Terrible idea. Not many fighter pilots left though. No choice. Had to be me. Capital ship taking damage. Engines critical could be failing altogether. Diving towards ocean. Away from target. Situation is suboptimal. Capital ship crashing into bay. Water overrunning core sectors. Meltdown is imminent. Capital ship has exploded. Sky is quite colorful. Would like samples. Situation is no longer salvageable. Will retreat.
Have been pursued. Two human interceptors. Damage to wing is heavy. Can still fly. Plasma burns cover exterior. Engineers will be displeased. Engines have been hit. Afterburners unresponsive. Cannot evade. Losing altitude. Interceptors disengaging. Crash is imminent. Human ranch is nearby. Will crash there. Hay provides soft landing perhaps. Have not tested. Risky possibility. Will attempt. Little choice. Brace for impact.
Smoke is everywhere. Plasma is rather pungent. Canopy is cracked. Numerous wounds. Will attend to at a later point. Should be insignificant. Canopy will not eject. Must smash. Have crawled out of fighter. Human male approaching. Rather tall, abundant facial hair. Has head ornamentation identified as "cowboy hat". Is holding large weapon, identified as shotgun. Will remove helmet, will raise arms. Is sign of compliance among humans. Human is attempting contact, accent verified to be "Southern Drawl", copious use of diphthongs.
"Well what kind of varmint have I got here? Sure as hell ain't one of them coyotes. Mighty hairy though."
Has described appearance. Is accurate. Will attempt peaceful conversation. "Come in peace, do not shoot. Can help, am scientist."
"Peace, well I reckon you wolverine lookin' bastards invaded us. We got plenty of scientists. We even got ourselves double agent on one of you crafts 'fore it fled. Now I would have shot you down up there if I hadn't taken my day off today. Wanted to watch the fireworks from a safe distance."
Double agent most likely scientist from Sub-level D working on space travel. Never enjoyed presence. "Did not volunteer to fight humans, was drafted. No choice in matter. Will assist in any way."
"Oh well bless your heart." Unsure if insult or not, human speech is very confusing. "You poor soul. You invaded our home and we're gonna level yours. It'll take a little time to get there but revenge is a dish best served cold. Any last requests?" Human has just "cocked" shotgun. End is imminent. No regrets. Never loved, unfinished thesis on effect of plasma on different alloys. Could have said goodbye to family. Unrepairable relations. Previous statement retracted. Numerous regrets.
Do not show emotion, do not shed tear. "In all my years I have not seen an alien cry. I can't kill you now. Perhaps you know something we need you lucky bastard." | 25 |
3 | 1,390,777,940 | 16 | Breaking a Promise is Punishable By Death | The man sat in front of me, his desperation was clear in his face. I gave my secretary a quick glance, her silent nod confirming my suspicion. He was the usual sort of customer.
The irresponsible type, often a parent, who had made a rash promise to their child. Children are often the death of us these days.
"I-um," He began.
"Stop," I said, "Listen, I want to help you. I truly do. But the fact of the matter is, you're a dead man."
"She was my daughter! On her death bed! For crying out loud do you have any compassion?" He said. Tears had begun streaming down his face. "This is your job isn't it? You, you help people right?"
"I'm an agent of law and the law is binding." I said, "Sometimes I can convince the magistrates to see differently. Convince them that no promise was truly broken. But when it comes to children they are very strict."
"All I did," he said, "was tell her she'd make it."
"And with that sentence you all but killed yourself. You gave her false hope, a cruelty in its own right." I said, "I'm sorry, but I can't help you."
The man shuffled out of my office, disheartened and depressed. As he left my secretary reentered, bringing with her another client. A quick nod told me all I needed to know. | 10 |
24 | 1,390,779,150 | 55 | ur first interstellar ship exits the solar system, only to be confronted by a border-guard (more inside) | The I.S.V. Amundsen was not built for warfare. It was a small colony ship, barely holding 600 souls in all. So when the alien vessel caught the ship with a barrage of ion cannons, there was nothing to be done. In retrospect, there was no way we could have translated their warnings. Radio messages of peace from us were ignored. They could not understand us either. There was a failure to communicate as the old joke goes.
So they boarded us, what few weapons on hand we used in trying to repel them. It was all futile of course. It was Lieutenant Mueller who first gave them a human name. Vogel. He would die about three minutes later. I still use it. They only attacked those armed and the non-combatants were ignored. Unfortunately, that bastard of a XO started a manual self destruct sequence. The aliens evacuated as quickly as they could, and they dragged me along with them. I was the only human to survive the destruction.
They threw me into their brig. Then they let me stew. It was hours before they got back to me. Two guards emerged in my cell and dragged me to an interrogation room. Looked like any normal one you'd find in a police station, no torture devices here. They brought in what I assume was a Doc, guess medicine types all look the same no matter what species they are. He gave me a cocktail of shots, for what I know now as a bunch of vaccinations and more importantly, shoved an implant behind my ear. Don't ask me how it works, I still have no clue. To make something that could fill whole bookcases simple, it's a universal translator. Only problem is, English isn't one of those languages. There was no humans before. For days, I spent teaching English. It was a miracle my notepad had a dictionary on it. The ship's linguist was able to configure the translator to convert English to their speech. I'll never forget the first time I truly spoke with an alien.
"What is your name?" I was dumbfounded. I saw his beak move, heard his voice, but another was heard inside my head. It was a voice straight from Eton. "My, my name? Aidan Wolf." He nods his head. "I am called Verat Uhlan'Er. But please, call me Ver. I'm sure you know by now that I am the ship's linguist. Is it alright if I ask you some questions?" I shrug. "Depends. Can I ask you some of my own." Though his beak made things difficult to tell, it seem as if he was smiling. He spread his manipulator limbs in a gesture of openness. "Absolutely. I will do what I can to answer as honestly as possible. What was your destination?" "We were going to colonize Rigil Kent, I don't know what you call it in your speech. We never though we'd meet other intelligent life so soon. It was all peaceful I assure you. So why the blockade of my planet?" He gives a shrug, in his own alien fashion. "It has been determine that your species has yet to make the necessary changes required for peaceful introduction to greater galaxy. We are sorry that blood has been shed, and we will modify our procedures to prevent another tragedy like this again." I lean back in my chair. "So now what? What's going to happen to me?" He speaks again. "You'll be granted asylum at Talan'roth. I think a small pension will be granted as well as a small compensation for the destruction of your vessel. What you do is up to you. As soon as we dock, you are a free man. The only stipulation is that you cannot return to your home planet. I am sorry." I am guided to a far better bunkroom where I stay for a week until we make planet fall.
The shuttle lands and I emerge to the applause of a sizable crowd. Word of my arrival has traveled faster than I. Beings of a hundred different species are in the crowd. Dozens of reporters yell out requests for interviews. I oblige each and everyone. I shake appendages with every person desiring so. I am Aidan Wolf, the first human being anyone has ever seen. There are thousands of different planets, hundreds of intelligent species. The rest of my life will be very, very interesting.
| 45 |
6 | 1,390,785,664 | 28 | Elvis, John Lennon, and Tupac are enjoying a pleasant day on the beach on the private island they retired to after faking their deaths, when a stranger washes ashore from a shipwreck. | "B-b-b...But why!?!"
The three men stared at their newly arrived guest as if he'd grown a second head. Kurt stared back, just as confused. In front of him were legends, *living* legends, he supposed. That old joke turned out to be true, and all of the famous people who up and died really were just relaxing on a beach in the middle of no where. He couldn't understand it.
"What could be worth giving up your entire lives for?"
John spoke first
"What were any of us really living for? Careers begin and end the same way, with no one knowing your name. I know that I chose to end my career a martyr. I took my exit early, but it will be a very long time before someone forgets my name.
Elvis spoke after him
"I wasn't even in my prime when I went. Truth be told I was just *tired* of the whole goddamn thing. One minute famous, the next old news, drugs are good, drugs are bad, get married, stay single. My life was not my own, but now it is, and I got a whole lot less things to worry about"
Tupac was the last to reply
"I've made more money on this Island than I could slingin records and working like a slave for the records companies. It made for the perfect ending to the East Coast West Coast bullshit, didn't it? And besides, now I can be with Biggy"
Kurt was even more confused now and managed to stutter
"Be...with...Biggy?"
And sure enough a large black man came wandering up from the hut at the edge of the beach, grinning his teeth off.
"Someone call for Biggy, Shakey?"
"Naw Biggy Baby, go back to your nap, I'll be there soon"
Kurt fell backwards into the muddy sand. He couldn't believe this. He sat up, and asked.
"Are you guys scared I'll tell your secret?"
John replied
"Nah, people find out all the time. You've got no proof. Plus, we've got a lot of famous friends that know, and they always help us keep it under lock and key."
And as if summoned Bill Murray jogged up along the beach, tossed a bottle of water to Kurt and shouted, as he disappeared into the distance "No one will ever believe you!" | 24 |
23 | 1,390,786,858 | 16 | Write a story that features someone breaking the heart of someone they love for the betterment of both (or just one) of them. | "I don't know what else to say." I said with shrugged shoulders and a blank look over my face like a mask. "Keep your mask on. You must sell this." I told myself over and over again. It was becoming seemingly impossible as she screamed at me with a pointed finger. "How can you just not love me anymore? Is there someone else? Why?" Inside I felt like dying right this very instant, but that would come later.
Stage IV cancer was my diagnosis. I had been giving 6 months to a year to live. I had made my decision a week ago while twirling an engagement ring that would never be given between my fingers. "It will be better if she hates me and moves on than if she suffers with me." | 13 |
20 | 1,390,788,450 | 43 | "Hide." | Hide was all she said. Angelo did as she said. His mother expected it of him. *Hide.* He crawled under the bed, lifting the loose floorboards gently aside. The guy was already in the house. Angelo had stopped to see who it was. He was a big man in a suit. He smoked a thick cigar and his hands sparkled with gold. *Hide.* He was trying. He dropped into the hole just like before and slowly pulled the boards back into place, all except for one. He held it up and peeked through the crack.
He couldn't hear the man, but his mother was scared. "I wasn't feeling good." He heard his mother cry. He didn't hear what the man said, but he heard the slap. It sounded like a gunshot to the boys ears. His mother was in the door of the room now.
"Let me make it up to you, Eddie." She begged. He saw his mother's dress drop to the floor a moment later. He averted his eyes, but then the man laughed, and he was looking again. His mother staggered back like she'd been shoved. Her heels tangled in her dress, and she sprawled on the floor. He saw her naked shoulders and under clothes and though he wanted to look away, he couldn't. The man came into the room completely, and he could hear the guy now.
"I tell you to service a client. You service a client. I don't care if you have a cold, the flu, or mad cow. You cost me a lot of money. I had to send Roxy instead. Bitch overdosed while the guy was ploughing her." He snapped, kicking her in the ribs.
He watched his mother cry out, turning to glance under the bed at him. The man kicked her again and she doubled over sobbing hysterically. He wanted to crawl out and defend her, but her mother was adamant. *Hide.*
"I told you what would happen next time you fucked with me." He roared, kicking her again. "Where's your boy?"
"Not here," she gasped.
"Where is he?" He hissed, kicking her several times in a row.
"Not here." She was gasping for air. The man went to the closet and ripped it open.
"Where is he?" He roared again. "I told you what would happen next time you cost me money. Someone has to make it up." He said, turning around to kick her in the face. His mother rolled backwards staring blankly up at the ceiling, blood leaking from the corner of her mouth. She was still breathing, but it was shallow and strained. The man dropped to his knees next to the bed. Angelo let the board fall into place so the man couldn't see him. He stayed there even when he heard the man kick his mom again. He stayed hidden until he heard the man leave the room.
Careful not to make any noise, he raised the board up enough so he could see again. His mother was trying unsuccessfully to roll back over, but couldn't seem to manage. She would try a couple of times then start shaking, her arm flopping around, and her head banging uncontrollably against the hardwood floor. The man came back into the room a moment later.
"Shit." He exclaimed, rushing over to kneel next to her head. He slapped her cheek a couple of times to try and bring her around, but she was already foaming at the mouth. "Shit." He exclaimed again. He left the room in a hurry. The boy heard the front door open and close, and the house was suddenly quiet. He waited there in hiding, staring at the blue eyes of his mother. The were staring under the bed, but seemed to look right through him. He pushed the boards aside and twisted around beneath the bed, crawling forward on his stomach. He waited there in the shadows beneath the bed then slowly reached out and took his mother's hand. It didn't close around his tiny fingers like they normally did.
"Momma?" He whispered. The front door opened again, and the boy heard the man coming back. He crawled back, letting go of his mother's hand. *Hide.* She had said. He didn't have time. He froze half in the hole, half out when the man re-entered the room. He watched him open a black kit and take out a length of rubber hose. He tied it around the arm of the woman he'd just beat to death. He dropped a spoon near her and a little baggy. He slipped a needle in he arm and left it there, hanging out of the skin at an awkward angle. The man she called Eddie zipped the kit up and hurried from the room, stopping to deliver one final kick to her legs. "Fucking bitch." He muttered. When the front door closed this time, it didn't open again for the rest of the night.
He crawled out from beneath the bed and crouched next to his mother begging her to wake up, pleading for her to stop pretending. He ended up lying next to her instead. When the police came two days later, they found him there stroking his mother's hair, whispering *please wake up.* She never did.
___________________________________________
His boot clopped when he took a step. Another step, another clop. As he strolled through the diner, the cadence of his clop, clop, clop drew the attention of the diners who'd come to enjoy some old fashioned burger and fries. The milk shakes, according to sign on the door, claimed to be the best milkshakes around. His buckle reflected the sunlight coming in through the windows opposite the door. Each step sent the reflected light racing up the wall to the right then down and up the wall to the left.
There was a man seated at a table in the corner. He was a big man with a grey suit and a dark pair of shades that didn't seem to let any light through. There was a guy sitting at a table next to his. He seemed more interested in what the man in the grey suit was saying and doing than in the meal before him. Two girls sat beside the man with the grey suit, laughing at everything he said whether it was funny or not. His fingers glittered with gold.
"You the one they call Fat Eddie," the stranger asked.
"Shit. I ain't been called that in a long damn time." He said, laughing. The stranger didn't smile. He looked at the man sitting in the booth next to Fat Eddie. "You're not going to want to interfere in this."
The guy started to rise, but the stranger drew a nickle-plated nine millimeter from a holster in the small of his back. "Make yourself small," the stranger whispered. The girls weren't laughing anymore. When the stranger turned the nine millimeter on Fat Eddie they, scooted as far away from them as they could get without crowding the gunman.
"Who the fuck are you, and why the hell you got that piece shoved in my face." Fat Eddie growled, seeming unscared by the fact the man was threatening him.
"She told me to hide. I did." The stranger whispered.
"Who? What the fuck you saying?" Eddie shouted, drawing the attention of the other patrons. As one, they stampeded for the door. The stranger didn't care. He came for Eddie.
"You kicked her to death." The stranger explained "I was under the bed. You kicked her to death then after she was dead, you stuck a needle in her arm." Eddie's face went white.
"Kid, you got the wrong guy. I ain't never killed no one." Eddie swore dropping a hand below the surface of the table.
"No. You killed someone. You killed my mom." Angelo said, pulling the trigger even as Eddie fired. The stranger took the bullet in the gut, but Eddie took his in the throat. The girls screamed and fled, squeezing past the gunman. The stranger turned the gun on the man in the booth next to him. The gun he was going for dropped on the table top when he realized the stranger had the drop on him. The stranger waved him out. "Go." The stranger held his stomach and gasped in pain. He forced himself to stand again. In the distance he could hear sirens. He emptied the gun into Fat Eddie's face, then fell back into the booth Eddie's man had vacated.
He lay back and closed his eyes and saw his mother once again. Her blue eyes stared through him, and he heard her crying anew. He dropped the gun on the table top and shuddered with pain. *Hide.*"
"I couldn't hide anymore, momma." | 17 |
14 | 1,390,812,979 | 13 | a recently deceased person argues the concept of heaven to an angel | *Chapter One*
...Ted awakens to nothingness. It is neither black nor white. It is impossible to describe in any words yet invented. It is like a broken record that will go on for all eternity. A rolodex of moments that is caught in a loop. The angel appears out of thin air, "welcome to heaven."
"Th..This is heaven? Theres nothing here..."
"Oh, sure there is! There's everything! Just ask for something!"
"Is this a test? If it is, I am being honest right now and saying I am going to ask for things not condoned in the Bible. Shouldn't that honesty be a good thing? You know I don't want to mess with you guys..."
"It's no test. Ask for something!"
"Can I see my grandmother? She HAS to be up here, sweet old lady..."
"Sure! And you're a sweet guy! Do you have any idea how many men ask for all kinds of messed up things right away!?"
Do they get what they want?
Ya, until they don't want it anymore.
*Poof*
Ted!?
Grandma!?
*They embrace.*
I haven't seen you in so long! What's it like up here!?
Oh, I just got here Ted.
What do you mean? You've been dead for years Grammy...
Yes, but I've been in *my* heaven and I'll have to return soon I fear.
Why?
We can't all just be in one place anymore Ted. Our souls have grown and need room to breathe... you'll understand after you speak with Him.
Speak with who?
Ask to speak with Him.
Speak with who?
Just ask.
Uhh... Can I please speak with.. him?
*Poof*
Hello Ted.
Wh..Who are you?
But instantly he knew... this was the source of all knowledge and life. All pursuit and happiness and sadness and hate. All love. All gloomy days and perfect storms and moments of respite. He could sense in the entity before him a profound calm.
God?
Yes, Ted.
Why can't I be together with my family up here?
You had a lifetime with them Ted. You took them for granted as do all of my creatures. If you love them, learn to live without them and you shall love them more. You can ask to see whomever you want, you may ask to do whatever pleases you, but eventually it all must come to an end or you will take every instance of happiness for granted as well.
I think I understand...
Why life? Why earth? Why was it the way it was? War? Death? Corruption?
Again, you need those Ted, or else you won't appreciate peace, life, responsibility.
*Poof*
I had more questions!
Ted was alone again.
He waited for a good 15 minutes, deliberating.
He paced back and forth wondering why everything seemed such a contradiction.
He asked himself, what are the rules up here? There have to be rules...
....uhhh, Jessica Alba in her prime and a filet - medium...?
*Poof*
*Chapter Two*
Okay.. I want the hottest 500 girls in the world according to *my* standards on their knees with their lower backs down in a row overrrrr.... here.
And I want the best taste that Chef Morimoto ever concocted to permeate my mouth as I have my way with them.
*Hours pass*
My Father!
*Poof*
Hi Dad!
Hey boy!
How have you been?
Can't complain.
Hey Dad? What do you ask for?
Ask for?
In your heaven.. what do you ask for?
My heaven..?
Ya.
Well boy, I don't reckon we're on the same page. Since I left you and Mom, I have been in a dark place.
Dark?
Yes, and cold.
Dad.. Dad just ask for some light.
I'm afraid it doesn't work that way where I've been.
Do you mean Hell?
No.
Then what? I'm worried.
You'll understand
THEY KEEP SAYING THAT! I DON'T UNDERSTAND ANYTHING YET!
You will.
*Chapter three*
| 15 |
39 | 1,390,815,958 | 38 | You're sitting on a chair, looking in the eye of the killer who is going to kill you in 20 seconds. | Sometimes you just know when you are at the end of the road. I didn’t ask for this, but now it is my reality. When I was a kid I never in a million years dreamed it would end like this. You have a warped sense of death and old age as a kid. Hell, when it is June Christmas seems to take forever to arrive so the idea of turning 40 or 50 is as foreign as Mars of Denver. I had always assumed I would live as long as my grandparents.
Now staring into his eyes I knew I would never see 50. My thirties were actually a lot of fun. I drank, partied, and had a good job. I dated some great women and made some lasting memories. My forties have bogged down in a marsh of health issues, debt, and other problems. Still, I had always envisioned something great for myself. I had always thought that I would do something meaningful that would leave a mark on the world. Now I am seconds from death. When this guy snuffs me out my family and friends will mourn me. Eventually, the case will be closed and I will pretty much be forgotten. Not even a blip on the radar of the world. That reality saddens me more than the fact that this guy is about to take my life. I failed to live up to the potential I had set for myself.
I hold his gaze as he looks me square in the eyes. It is hard to not show fear. I don’t want my last seconds on this planet to be of me shaking, begging, and pleading for my life. I’m not going out on my knees. I actually lean in, putting my face closer to his. He looks very familiar. I have seen him before.
I hear the hammer of the gun pull back. I want to scream at him. Tell him to stop; to reconsider what he is doing. The words simply won’t come from my mouth. Instead I take a deep breath in, hold it for a second then slowly exhale. I try to calm myself. I can see the fear and excitement in his eyes.
Time slows slightly as the gun is raised to my head. With a slight twitch of the finger the trigger is pulled. I never hear the shot echo through the house as some of my blood hits the mirror.
| 13 |
6 | 1,390,819,179 | 17 | A newly enlisted, seventeen year old private is one of the first people into Iraq in 2003. Explain how he changes and where he is at now. | Everyone wants to be a hero. That's how they sold it to us, anyway.
The first thing that hits you is the heat. Like a brick wall to the face. Like a freight train to the lungs. Knocks the air out and when you breathe back in, it's like the oxygen's on fire. The second thing that hits you is the smell. I heard Baghdad was a cosmopolitan city before we came. After that it was like an open sewer. Blood and shit runs in the streets in equal measure but the strongest smell of all is the fear. People sweat it, here.
I'd kissed Casey goodbye at the end of winter. Highschool sweetheart. We'd had maths together before I dropped out. I'd stare at the side of her face from my seat. The way her freckles danced across the bridge of her nose. Or the way she swished her hair when she was thinking.
I forgot her face by the end of the third month.
All I remembered were twisted faces. A car bomb, outside a school. Until then, the 'enemy' had been some faceless monster with a huge black beard and dirty fingernails. From the parts we found, the enemy here was an ardent schoolboy. The pictures showed him freshfaced and clean shaven. I did not question what I knew.
And I continued not to question. I have tried to forget a lot of what I saw. Casey wants to talk about it, wants me to 'work through it.' She's not how I remember her. She's gained weight. Her eyes have got sad.
I do not recognise my own face.
I left many people behind in the poppy fields of Iraq. I am afraid I may have left a part of myself, as well. | 12 |
5 | 1,390,823,428 | 24 | A soldiers kills their commanding officer to save their country. | My love,
If you're reading this, then I have died by your hands. This was necessary in order to ensure your safety. A few months ago I discovered both of our names were on the Blacklist. It was only a matter of time before they discovered your connections, and only a few days before they discovered mine. That was why I had to desert and join with the freedom fighters. However, this country will not change because of their actions; they are too fragmented, and cannot muster the resources before the military crushes them.
This I knew intimately well.
With my death by your hands, you are now beyond reproach, your loyalty demonstrated. They will seek to make you an example of a true soldier who loves her country above all. Truly, you might also get access to the Inner Sanctum of the Doctrinal Correction Council.
All the important men and women, who orchestrated the spiritual corruption of this nation, will be in that room. You will know what to do.
I'm sorry for the hurt I put you through, but this was the only way I knew how to protect you from afar. Do not look at your hands and see my blood; rather, look at the hands of one who I've given my life to in the most literal sense.
Soon, we will be together again. But even now, I am with you always.
For Fanalis! | 11 |
21 | 1,390,829,859 | 38 | "I'm sorry, but the thing you were looking for is sold out." | "I'm sorry, sir, but this property has already been bought"
"What? That can't be right. I saw this property was for sale two days ago!"
"No sir, that would be the one down the street. They do look very similar."
"Bullshit. I drove past this house before and it clearly stated "FOR SALE: $180"
"It was a first-come-first-serve deal, sir. Someone came just before you did"
"Oh for goodness sake then. Who bought Bow Street then?"
"She did, sir" and the banker pointed to the lady next to me, holding up the card for Bow Street and smiling.
"$58, if you please." | 37 |
52 | 1,390,841,247 | 84 | First people on Mars discover buried ruins of ancient Martian civilization. | "Sarah?"
She was over in the distance, standing completely still. The sky was pink and hazy, and the silhouette of Sarah's spacesuit stood on the horizon. Commander Jason Green, along with Sarah, was making history as the first people on the planet Mars. Sarah had a dangerous habit of wandering.
Green began to approach her. He treaded towards the hilltop, unnerved by the silence on the radio.
"Come in, Sarah."
There was a short pause, and then Green heard Sarah's voice over the radio.
"You... you have to see this."
The Commander caught up with Sarah, and stood beside her, looking over the rolling hills ahead. The two stood there in silence gazing at the object in front of them.
"It's a car. Wow."
The ancient, rusted behemoth's headlights stared back at the two astronauts through curtains of red sand.
Sarah pointed out the logo on the hood. "Ford. Motel T."
Green cleared the dust off of his helmetcam.
"Houston, are you seeing this?"
"Yes we are, Jason. This is, well, unexpected."
The two astronauts stood atop the hill, confused and excited, lost in a storm of sand and uncertainty.
| 26 |
11 | 1,390,841,872 | 34 | Grim reaper job application aptitude test. | 1.) Have you ever knowingly or unknowingly killed a man?
*What?*
I'm a broke college student. I'm trying to make some money with a temp job over the summer and I downloaded this application form off some sketchy site online. The first question, has me stumped. Maybe it's a new type of criminal records check? Kind of specific... And how would I know if I've *unknowingly* killed a man? Isn't that the whole point?
I move onto the next question.
2.) How do you feel about wearing black on a daily basis?
Well... I know some offices have a dresscode. I'm not about to lose out on a potential job because I'm fussy about my colour choices. So what if black washes me out? At least it'll go with my sense of humour.
3.) Describe how you feel about John Stuart Mill's philosophy of utilitarianism in under 666 words.
That one has me stumped for as long as it takes me to open up a wikipedia article on the subject. The greater good apparently. Now I'm wondering what this has to do with photocopying and coffee making. Maybe they like a well read temp. 650 words of bullshit. I'm on a roll.
4.) What is your personal stance on the possibility of an afterlife?
I'm not really a relgious person, but I want this job now. "Yeah, afterlife. Possibility. Keeps people going." Boom. I should have a Doctorate in Bullshit.
5.) Would you say your response time is faster than that of a reasonably fast ambulance? Assume that said ambulance is rushing through the London streets at rush hour. Do not assume you are an incredibly fast animal. Marks will be deducted for cheetahing.
Okay. What? Am I tripping sweaty ballsack or did I misread that? I scroll up and down but it stays the same. I check the next question.
6.) Have you ever felt your life was in real danger?
What...
7.) How would you rate the experience between 1 and 10? One being apocalyptically bad and ten being as close to heaven as you can get without actually dying?
The...
8.) In your own words and written in your own blood (if online please print, complete and return to company address) detail in no more than 500 words and using no more than three semicolons, why you would like to work for Death & Death ltd.
*Fuck?* | 28 |
14 | 1,390,842,103 | 45 | Your IQ doubled overnight. Internal monologue and social media posts to follow. | John wakes up. Sleepy, as usual. An hour of sleep does that to a man. Standing up, he looks at his reflection in the mirror propped against his dresser, as usual. He quietly comments to himself on his weight loss, and as his eyes trail upwards, he realizes he has to shave. John shaves every three days. As usual.
His eyes keep moving up, up until his eyes meet his own. He stares for one, two, three... This is not usual.
"John, dear. Are you alright?" John's wife asks, groggy. She didn't sleep much either.
"I...uh...I..um...get me my phone."
"Why, sweetie?"
No response, but she gets him his phone nonetheless.
John's wife watches as John types frantically, with more passion than she's ever seen him have.
He looks up after he finishes. Triumphant. His eyes glimmer just a little, but it's a lot more glimmer than they've had in years.
"So what was it, Johnny?"
The fire in his eyes is blazing. His mouth turns up in a proud half-smile as he says:
>"How Can Mirrors Be Real If Our Eyes Aren't Real?"
Edit: [f]irst post, please be gentle ;) In all seriousness, if there's any critiques y'all have (even for such a short prompt), I'd love to hear them. | 43 |
17 | 1,390,849,453 | 52 | Why did you hit our elderly neighbor with a cantaloupe? | Oh my god, seriously?
What did he do, email you? I swear, I'm this close to calling health & human services on the guy.
Listen June, I know you sorta like the guy and feel sorry for him, but you don't know the half of it. I've refrained from telling you some things because I didn't want to freak you out, but the guy's a creep. And I really think he could be unstable.
Yeah, I know he's old and infirm and doesn't have anyone. But he's not the nice old guy you think he is.
Some of the things I haven't told you:
-- Do you remember last year when Buster was sick and we had to take him to the vet? They couldn't tell us what the problem was, remember? Well, I found some bones and raw meat under the hedge that runs along the side yard, and I firmly believe he tried to poison the dog (if you'll recall, he had complained to you -- very politely -- a few months earlier about Buster barking early in the morning.)
-- Remember the two times I had a flat tire last year? I think he let the air out of it. Can't prove it, but there's really no other explanation.
-- Last summer I was doing yardwork and came around the house to find him in his backyard, with a pair of binoculars. It looked like he was looking at Kaylee's window. (Yes, the shades were up and she had the light on in there.) I stopped and said to him, "Birdwatching?" He flushed red and mumbled something and went back inside.
OK, now about this morning. I was taking out the trash before leaving for work and as I came around the corner, I slipped and fell. Looked down, and guess what I slipped in? Dogshit. And it wasn't just one pile. He had taken every piece he could find and put it out on the walkway. I started cursing and gathering up the crap that fell out when the garbage bag ripped, and when I look up, he's standing at the side door smiling at me. "Looks like you stepped in a mess there!" he said (with a malicious fucking grin). "Maybe you better make sure that dog isn't pooping all over the place."
I had just picked up a cantaloupe (that half that was overripe that you tossed this morning) and before I knew what I was gonna do, yeah, I threw it at him. And I still got it, babe, because it hit him smack in the face. He goes stumbling back a step and falls on his ass, and starts squawking -- this is the last straw, who do I think I am, wait til the cops hear about this, blah blah blah.
Well, I don't feel great about it now but I walked toward him and he shut up real quick and started scooting backward through the doorway. I caught the door just as he was trying to kick it shut and kicked it back open again. And I said, "Sure, call the cops, George. And I'll have to mention to them about my neighbor the peeping tom, the one who poisons dogs and lets the air out of my tires." His eyes got real big at this. Then I said, "If anything unpleasant ever happens around my house again, it won't be a cantaloupe next time. And if you even look at my daughter again, I'l fucking kill you deader than dogshit." Then I left.
So there you have it -- why I hit that old cocksucker with a cantaloupe. You know I'm not a violent or unreasonable man. But no one fucks with my family.
Love you hon
| 29 |
13 | 1,390,849,772 | 25 | And that is why I will wake up tomorrow, no matter what I feel , I will go out and run. | My legs ache. I’ve been at this for two months and it’s getting harder, not easier. Fifteen miles today, I need to do 20 by next week to qualify by September. I think my shins will burst into flames if I run anymore but I can’t stop now. All my friends, or what’s left of them, think I’ve lost it but I haven’t, not yet. I need to show them we’re not who they think we are, we're better than that. I run to escape my past and embrace my future. I run because of what has been done and what needs to be done. I run for faith, for humanity, for love. I run because I hate my brothers more than anyone in spite of how much I will always love them. I run because I have to, because I don’t know any other way to make things right. I run because on April 15 my brothers killed 3 people and maimed countless others. I can never undo what they have done but I must do something. That is why, no matter what I feel, I will wake up tomorrow, I will go out and run. | 11 |
3 | 1,390,850,870 | 16 | A 35 year old man/woman still believes in and talks to his childhood imaginary friend, but tries to hide it from his family and friends. | "Why are you masturbating again?" Guntiger asks.
I flip in the chair and fumble with my pants, belt buckle clattering on the floor. "Goddamn it, Guntiger, I told you to leave me alone when I'm on the computer."
"I can't pick when I show up," Guntiger says. He sheepishly scratches his two double barrel shotgun arms together, the metal scrapes and slides.
"Between you and Kath and the kids I don't get any alone time."
"I'm sorry, man, but like said, I just show up whenever, and you seem to be masturbating a lot. How do you think I feel? I don't want to materialize in front of you while you're jackhammering yourself, it's really fucking awkward."
I minimize the window and grumble to show my discontent. Guntiger leans in, studying the computer. His yellow fangs protrude from his lips and his breath stinks something fierce.
"Asians, hey?" He says.
"Don't," I say.
"What do you like about them?"
"I don't know, she was hot, it doesn't have to be about race, you know? A boner is the least prejudiced thing in the world."
"I like them because they squeak."
"I don't know what you mean."
"They squeak, you know, like a chew toy."
"Goddamn it, now I'm going to be thinking of that next time."
"You should just bang your wife. She's still looking pretty good, lost that baby weight. Well, not all of it, but enough so that it's fun, you know? Something to play with, you know? But not too much that she's eating your dessert when you go out for dinner. Just a little paunch, like a fanny pack, something you can raspberry when the sex is over."
"Please don't talk about my wife."
Guntiger yawns, his open mouth like a garbage chute, tongue extending almost to his chest and then flicking up past his nose before retreating back inside. On the way downstairs I tell him to meet me outside.
Kath is in the kitchen organizing the children's drawings. They're supposed to be us, Kath and me, but they drew me with a giant orange head and Kath with a giant black ass. She asked me if she should go back to the gym when the children left for their play date. I told her she was beautiful to me and then went to the closest and checked the size of my hats. Google said I was high but still in the normal range. Then I started looking at redtube.
"Hey babe," I say, kissing her.
"What do you want for dinner?"
"Let's get a babysitter. I'll take you out, somewhere nice, and then we can get busy."
"Oh?" She says, smirking, "you think I'm that easy, do you?"
"Only reason I married you."
"Sounds fun, I'll see if Crystal is free. You should wear a bowtie and I'll find something that lets my boobs hang out."
"It's a plan. My job is a lot easier than yours, but I guess that's because you're the pretty one."
"You know it."
"Alright, I'm gonna grab a beer. I'll be back in a bit. Love you."
Kath says goodbye and stuffs the drawings in a cabinet that we go through every half decade. We'll find them when the kids are older and have a laugh.
Guntiger is outside chasing a squirrel, roaring at it and waving one of his shotgun arms at the branches. "I'll get you one of these days," he says, "as soon as I get some buckshot for these things."
"How come you've never fired them?" I ask.
"I can't," he says. "Your dumb imagination made it so they don't work."
"That sucks," I say, starting toward the sidewalk. Everything is becoming green, I love this time of year.
"Beer?" He asks.
"Yeah," I say.
We walk in silence for a couple minutes. Guntiger waves his arms at an annoying black fly.
"I'm taking Kath out tonight," I tell him.
"Nice, she's a great lady. I'd love to..."
I cut him off. "Don't."
More silence.
"How come you don't have a lady?"
"Haven't found the right one."
"Gun arms get in the way?"
"Yeah, but my tongue skills more than make up for it."
I laugh. Fucking Guntiger. What a guy. | 11 |
12 | 1,390,858,840 | 36 | You have 2 lives, one in the virtual world and one in the real world. You are facing a decision of having to decide which one of the two you get to keep. | I stood at the top of High Hrothgar and peered over the sheer mountain-face to the ground far below. I could see all the way to Ivarstead below, at the foot of the mountain. Night was falling, and the faint glow of hearth-fires warmed the little village. I heard a heavy thump behind me and felt my back sprayed with snow.
"I respect your decision, Dovahkiin, but it gives me great sorrow." Paarthurnax's rumbling voice was filled, for the first time that I knew of, with a tangible sadness. I could feel the warmth of his breath on the back of my neck. "You have done Keizaal - indeed, all of Taazokaan - a great service, and I wish it did not have to end this way. You have broken the power of the World Eater himself! I only desire to see you accomplish greater wonders even than this. But I see now that your time is expired, as all worldly things must. You are led to my mountain by dez - fate. All is as it must be."
"This was never my home, Paarthurnax. I've done my duty, and my usefulness has reached its end. It's time for me to go back where I belong."
"Home." Paarthurnax mused. "Where is home?"
I turned to him and smiled. "A long way from here. Nowhere on Tamriel, nor Nirn, probably not even all of Mundus."
"Hmm. How hard it must be, to have been so far from there for so long. I understand."
"Hard sometimes, yes, but not always. I wish I could turn and go straight back to Breezehome, have Lydia put some food on, eat a good meal by the fireside. But it wouldn't be real. I have to go back."
"As I have said, dovahkiin, I do not dispute your choice. Go! But first, I have but one request."
"What would that be?"
"I wish to hear the thu'um of the Last Dragonborn one more time. Then I will trouble you no longer."
I turned back to the edge and looked upward. The moons and stars were obscured by thick gray clouds, and a light snow was beginning to fall. I took a deep breath.
"LOK VAH KOOR!" The shout erupted from me with a thundering boom, and the clouds were gone. Moonlight glittered off of the mountain snow.
"Good-bye, Paarthurnax."
I jumped. | 17 |
25 | 1,390,859,713 | 103 | nd survived and all it cost us was our humanity. [WP] | "Papa" the little girl stumbled up to her white-haired grandfather. "Papa why do we have to go?"
He smiled, brushing the hair back from her tear-streaked face. "We've been chosen for a great task my dear."
She sniffed, looking up at the old man's tanned and wind-worn face framed by a bushy beard she liked to dig her fingers in. She reached for it, and the sky flashed white as the world erupted into a crashing roar. She thought she screamed as she launched herself into her grandfather's strong, comforting arms, but she could hear nothing. She trembled as a hand stroked her hair.
"Here Shem, take her. It's time to go." She could feel herself being handed off, but she kept her eyes shut tight, still shaking.
"What about the rest of the village?"
"Get in."
"Surely there's time to warn them, there's plenty of room..."
"NO! THEY ARE NOT WORTHY." The little girl's eyes snapped open. Her grandfather stood, face contorted with rage. "We are the only ones fit to live! They, they only deserve to die!" Her hands twisted in Shem's robe, but she couldn't tear her eyes away from her grandfather, long white hair whipping in the wind as the dark clouds roiled overhead, seemingly fueled by his rage.
"Noah, I..."
"Get on the boat Shem." He said softly, turning to watch as a curtain of rain came sweeping across the plain toward them. | 136 |
13 | 1,390,860,268 | 22 | You're breaking up with the perfect SO. | I stood at the front door with a heavy heart.
I knew the minute I walked in, she would come running out with the big welcome home charade. Imogen was always like that, so caring, so loyal, but deep down I knew we can not be together and I'm so afraid of hurting her.
The door opened and Imogen stepped out to greet me; however, this time she smiled at me with a sad quaintness instead of her usual jitterness.
"I love you," She told me, like many times before.
I walked past her without comment and headed towards the kitchen. Imogen quickly skipped behind me and wrapped her arms behind my waist, "What do you want for dinner, George?" She asked.
"You can't cook," I said dryly.
"I can cook a bit now" She said smiling, "I learned from the computer."
"You can't cook" I repeated.
Imogen's lips curled with slight disappointment before she once again sprang up with a new joyful idea.
"We can call to have food ordered! I can do that now. So what......"
"Imogen." I interrupted.
".....There is that Thai place over on......."
"Imogen!" I interrupted again more sternly.
"......the curtains need to be wash, I think I should........."
"This is not working out" I yelled.
Imogen stopped talking and quickly ran into the other room. I chased after her.
She was sitting at the edged of our bed, looking contently at the window. The faint light illuminated the curls of her hair and gently shimmered against the wires of her back.
"I love you." She said sullenly.
"I know."
Imogen turned to me and suddenly the sound of mechanical part whirling filled the air. On the seconds notice, she quickly lost all emotion in her face and again smiled like nothing was wrong, like nothing had ever happened between us.
"So what do you want for dinner, George?" | 28 |
33 | 1,390,863,190 | 53 | When young boys are called off to war. | We stand in a line. Young people, all bright and shining. Little futures all in a row. When we step into that truck our lights go out. Whether our bodies come back or not, no one returns from this war. Futures snuffed out.
Why us, why this time, why this time, why this place? Not for us to ask anymore. We don't get to be historians and scholars, angry journalists or protesters on the street. No options any more.
I choose to believe our lights go out when we enter that truck, rather than clinging to the belief that some do that hope exits for our futures after the war. Who wants their light to gutter out in some lonely field, or come back indelibly marred and twisted? No, however it happens, this is the end of us.
I can almost see the could-have-been me standing in front of me. An ageless illusion I have to say goodbye to. In just a few minutes we will all be gone, and the world will turn on without us. Haunted by the never-were ghosts of our futures. A myriad of possibilities... none of them mine now.
The eyes in front of me are sad, but they look at me without reproach. I can't make my future real. It was never in my hands. Someone shouts and we all fall out. And one by one, as we climb into the trucks, our futures blink out. Could-have-been-me turns back to his busy career or family life or solitude or... whatever he chose really. And me, I mourn him as best I can. Too quietly, a generation of little lights have flicked to darkness. | 27 |
12 | 1,390,866,350 | 41 | Aliens plead with the government to have their existence exposed to the public. Government says no again. | "Seriously, Ted, come on!"
I push my glasses back up my nose and repeat my answer. "Sorry, Gerboloxicashitayvius-kkpul. We just can't authorize public exposure at this time. Also, my name is Steve."
"Sorry, *Steve*." Said Gerby "Your name's are ridiculous! Why can't we let the people of your world know? Huh? Why, Paul, why? Give me a reason!"
"Well, Gerboloxicashitayvius-kkpul, your race has been kidnapping and probing people for a couple years now-"
"Sure have, Bob!"
"Which is something we've always known about-"
"Yep, since we crashed that one time - thanks for the help by the way!"
"You're welcome. So, the problem is that we would have to explain that we have *known* about you, that we have *known* about the probing, and that we didn't do *anything* about it."
Gerby seemed confused.
"Our people, generally, don't like being probed."
"Oh...some of them do!"
"I said *generally*."
| 29 |
5 | 1,390,867,796 | 16 | Someone whose job is to prepare last meals of criminals on death row has to prepare his own last meal. | You never get used to the death part.
Sure, you get used to the smell. You get used to them quietly accepting their meal. You get used to them asking you to stay a while – to chat. About life, ironically enough. You get used to them asking for the most extravagant things, a final Fuck You to the universe.
But you never get used to the death.
It eats at you, every day. Every single vegetable you cut, every single piece of meat you throw onto the hotplate, every stir of the pot – it eats at you. I’m the third cook this year, I’ve been told. The officers all laugh about it, as though it’s weak to be concerned about whether another human lives or dies. That’s fine for them – they don’t get greeted with death day in, day out. Their entire role isn’t to prepare meals for those that are about to be greeted by their respective gods, saints, or emptiness. They don’t go home worrying about Prisoner 51263’s entrée. They don’t concern themselves with the fact that the parsley on Prisoner 112556’s pie was a day or two out of date. What do they care?
I grit my teeth as I slice the potatoes. Thin, like mama used to make.
The steak hisses from the grill, reminding me to turn it. I never really thought about a last meal until I decided to take things into my own hands. Steak and vegetables. Always was a simple man. Always had simple tastes.
I flip the steak, and stir the peas in the pot next to it. Turning the heat down, I watch them bubble and move around in their tumultuous, boiling frenzy.
No-one understands. There is nothing like cooking for a dead man walking. You know that whatever you do, it won’t make him feel better. It won’t help him in his final hours. It’ll just fill a hole in his stomach.
It makes me sick.
In an hour or two, I’m going to finish my meal and get dressed in my state-issued uniform. I’m going to put on my state-issued hat and my state-issued shoes. I’m going to grab my state-issued gun with its state-issued safety lock, and I’m going to blow my brains all over the apartment.
And no-one will care. There’ll just need to be a fourth cook this year.
| 21 |
32 | 1,390,885,184 | 176 | Humans are what we think of as demons, the keepers and caretakers of hell. Plants and animals are the sinners forced to live here in punishment. | My sister's children were turned to blood wine.
We breed. We make love. We birth. And we die again.
And again.
And again.
We die so much. There is always something to eat us.
Fully 2/9ths of us suffer deaths at the hands of the same species. The rest of us, dozens upon dozens of lesser species. Eaten outright, plunged into acids and bases we were not built to handle. Dissolved from the inside out by a vicious invader. Sometimes our own anatomy is turned against us. Sometimes this world, this giver of life, just decides to hurt us. From my rare moments of lucidity, I'm almost certain the latest time of hurting has been the fault of the same species that consumes us with a greater fervor than any other.
I shouldn't have chosen this particular philosophy. That the sun wasn't the life source. That love is something only granted, not implicit in my existence. That cooperation is not the key to eternal joy... But how could I not accept these as truth?
I'm trapped in this, till I learn otherwise. I'm only a few hundred examples in... Maybe I'll learn my lesson. But cooperation with the feaster upon my folk just... hurts too much to think about.
Oh no, they've got one of the fermenter vessels out. And hops?! They've gotten the hops! My children! No!
They've taken my children from me sister... Oh.... Sister, I'll see you soon, and soon enough after that again... | 18 |
5 | 1,390,900,169 | 19 | The orphaned blacksmith's son-turned-hero-in-training meets an untimely end | "Oi Grushnak, how come you always get the soft giblets? They're nice, they are."
"'cause I'm very per-sway-siv, elfarse."
"Yeah, well, persuade me."
One of the hunched figures by the fire in the clearing pushes the other one, who snorts in derision and pulls out a wicked-looking cleaver, easily as long as its forearm. It brandishes it menacingly and the other scowls, spits, and backs off.
"See? Regular master of per-sway-shun, I am." It cackles and puts the weapon back into its satchel.
Grushnak's vanquished foe skulks back, away from the burning deadfall. A gold ring in its lip catches the light of the flames for a moment as it reaches down to rifle through a pile of soiled rags. Something falls out of the bundle, it too glimmering in the night.
The figure picks it up and dangles it by its chain. "'ere, what's thi—OW, you fucking little knoblet." Eyes widen, and it reaches towards the pendant again, then recoils with another flurry of curses. "Well, fuck me."
"You couldn't pay the nastiest, wartiest kobold whore enough to do that," says Grushnak by the fire, not bothering to stop gnawing on a shank of meat to turn around.
"It's only got a bloody anti-Chaos enchantment on it, Grushnak. It's fucking magical."
"Yeah, and your auntie's the queen of the northern tribes. Pull the other one."
It throws the pendant at Grushnak, who screams and writhes in pain when it hits his neck; the pendant itself slips between green skin and vest and the chain catches on the fastening of his ill-fitting chainmail.
"Ow, fuck, fuck, fuck, FUCK. I'll fucking skin you, you dwarfsucker." Finally fishing out the offending item and carefully dangling it away from himself, he turns around. "Hvolbar! It's magic! We're rich! You can buy all the nice soft giblets you want!"
The two goblins grab each other and whirl around, mad with glee.
----
"Look, I'm sorry, but that's the way it is. Four silver crowns."
The shopkeeper looks at the pendant he's holding in his palm, then down at the two goblins. Is it too late to make a run for it? he wonders. They're obviously violent types—more so than goblins usually are—and that one on the left has a butcher's cleaver sticking out of its bag...
The two goblins look at each other for a moment. The one on the left, the green one, is a bit sturdier looking than the other; that's not saying much, because the one with orange skin looks like it'd get knocked over by a strong gust of wind. The gods above only know what they've been doing to survive in these dark times.
"You're fucking kidding us, you fat meatbag. We're telling you it's a genuine Chaosbane-enchanted ar-tee-fact, and you're insulting us by offering up four crowns for it?" That's the green one, obviously the smarter of the two. Brains as well as brawn, for a goblin.
"I'm only a humble shopkeeper. I can't divine objects' enchantments myself, so I have to go by what I can see myself."
The other goblin, the malnourished one, bridles. "You calling us liars?" He can't help but notice its golden lip ring. If he could get it to part with it for less than a shilling and six, he could turn a very nice profit on that.
"No, no. I want to believe you, I do, but try to see my point of view: if I take your word on this, every forest-dweller in this hundred and the next will be here telling me they've got a stone that makes them, and only them, itch a bit, or a leaf that lets you speak to the spirits—but only if you're blessed, and so on. If you knew where it had come from more specifically, that would help me a great deal."
They don't really look satisfied. The green one holds up a hand and they take a few steps back, whispering between themselves. Their stubby legs probably mean they can't run as fast as a human, you'd think, so if he starts running now and has the element of surprise, he might get to the sheriff before they can catch him and eat him... He'd better do it quickly, though. They might be deciding whether to roast or stew him right now.
----
"The fucking cowfucker is trying to cheat us."
"You don't need to tell me that."
"He knows where we got it. He never bought that we just happened to find it in a stream. That was stupid to say. You're stupid. We should kill him now and take our chances."
"We can't bloody well tell him the truth, can we? I bet that he even came from this village."
Hvolbar makes a sequence of angry, obscene gestures towards the human shopkeeper. Grushnak has a pensive expression on his face.
"Okay. I've got an idea."
----
His eyes narrow. "As a matter of fact, yes. The blacksmith's lad."
The little green goblin nods. "That must be the one. Look. You won't believe us, since we're goblins and you're a human. So pree-shee-ate that we didn't want to tell you this, because it sounds stupid, but we saved him."
The shopkeeper can't suppress a laugh. "You saved him. Goblins, doing anything good for a human?"
"See? I told you, we're getting nowhere," says the orange one.
"He was in a bad way, right? Didn't know what was what, he'd ate the running berries, had no fucking clue about anything. We were going to knock him over the head and take his stuff, but..."
He's got to admit, that sounds right. Everyone knows goblins are terrible liars, and he could tell that this one was being sincere—its ears weren't twitching. And, after all, the lad was spoony, setting off like that in the middle of autumn and saying—
"He said he had a quest. Stuff about the darkness and evil and all that stuff. Well, mister, I don't know how bad things are here, but out there in the woods it's been pretty fucking bad lately. So I said to Hvolbar here, hey, it's worth a try, right? So we gave him our water and shared some food and our fire, until he shat out his guts twice over and set off again. And he gave us this to say thanks for what we did for him."
His eyebrows almost reach his bald scalp. When he woke up this morning, the second last thing he expected was to be negotiating with a pair of goblins for what they claimed was a magic pendant. The last thing he expected was to believe them. He could barely reconcile ever thinking that these two were going to attack him and try to eat him.
----
"Grushnak, where in the unholy fuck did you pull that pile of unicorn dung from?"
The goblin grins. "I told you, I'm a regular master of the old per-sway-siv arts. You've got to know just what people want to hear, and then tell it to them."
The two goblins, fed and watered, happily jingle back into the forest to their fire in the clearing, where some of the blacksmith's lad was still left to chew on. | 11 |
32 | 1,390,919,359 | 122 | robbers walk into a bank that is already being robbed | "We go in on three. Marty, take the guard. Gena, you have the bank manager. I'll cover the side exit. We herd everyone into the safe, empty the tells, and we're out in a matter of minutes. Any questions?"
Erik asked, pulling on his ski mask. They pulled theirs on too and slid open the door on the van. They hit the door to the bank at a run and split off to take care of their seperate tasks.
They had most of the people herded into the bank when it dawned on them that something was amiss.
"Stop!" Erik growled. Everyone froze and turned at the sound of his voice. He rubbed the bridge of his nose and groaned in frustration.
"What?" The others asked.
"How many of us are wearing ski mask," he asked dismally.
They looked around and guns came up. "What the hell." The other's shouted, moving their guns from one to the other. There were six of them.
Erik groaned. He'd been in this situation before on a plane in another life. "There's another gang robbing the bank." He groaned, walking back into the lobby. The other thieves shoved the people in the vault and closed it coming back into the lobby to treat with the others.
"What the hell--" One of the thieves started to ask.
"No names" Erik yelled. "No names. We need to stay calm. I've been in this situation before."
"So how do we solve this?" Someone asked.
"We could join forces." One of the guys suggested. Four thieves shot the man dead.
"What the what?" One of the guys asked dancing away from the body.
"No one on my team would have suggested that and if they had, I still would have shot them." Erik explained.
"Me too." The other three said, nodding.
"So, by process of elimination then?" One of the girls asked.
Erik nodded. "It would seem so." He replied. Guns were cocked as one.
"Wait, you said you'd been in this situation before? When?" One of the men asked.
"I helped hijack Flight 109 out of Dubai." He replied. "Only in that instance, when we stood up to take the passengers hostage, we discovered another three man team just like this were hijacking the plane as well. Only that time, we also had an air marshal who took advantage of our use of ski mask to infiltrate us. We killed him, but after it was resolved, I discovered that there was a second air marshal still in hiding. I pretended to be the dead air marshal and planned on escaping when the plane landed. He took me unawares."
"Bummer." One of the girls whispered.
"Wait. When was that?" One of the men asked.
"In '99." Erik replied, taking aim at the speaker.
"I remember that. Yeah. I remember. I was babysitting my sister's kid and saw it on the news." One of the other men shot the speaker dead.
"Only one of us has a sister and she doesn't have a kid." The shooter explained. Erik flinched. He had a sister and she had a kid. He knew the shooter was on the other team, but if he shot him, they would know which side he was on. Two were down and four remained and one of them was on the other side. One of the masked thieves bent down to remove one of the dead men's mask, but the rest stopped him with a shout.
"Don't do that." They warned. "It'll turn this into the OK Corral once we know for sure which team he was on.
Erik tried to work through who was who. He knew the most recent shooter was on the other team, and that one of the girls was batting for the wrong side. In fact, they knew which of them was which. They hadn't taken their guns off each other. Erik turned to the other remaining guy and studied him, keeping his gun trained on the shooter. "You Marty?" Erik asked. The guy flinched and struggled to raise his piece. Erik shot the guy to his right and dropped low just in time to avoid being shot by the man across from him. Erik shot him even as the two girls fired on one another.
The girl on the right was winged, but the other took their bullet in the chest. She was dead. Erik trained his weapon on the last girl who remained, and she trained her weapon on him. She reached up and removed her mask. Erik did too, and like her, he kept his back to the camera.
"Close." He remarked, looking at all the dead men.
"Too Close." She agreed. "How did you know the guy to your right wasn't Marty?" She asked.
Erik smiled. "My sister has a daughter." He replied. He bent down to remove the other men and women's hoods and heard a click as Gena thumbed back the hammer of her revolver.
"On your knees, Erik. I'm undercover ATF." She spoke into a mic up her sleeve, calling in reinforcements. "We knew your name was an alias, but up until you told that story about the hijacking, I had no idea who you really were."
"You were with us from the very beginning?" Erik snarled.
She laughed. "It just isn't your day. Is it?"
He had to find a different line of work after this.
[Man hijacks plane only to discover it is being hijacked by another group.](http://www.reddit.com/r/WritingPrompts/comments/1s9r2q/terrorists_hijack_a_planeonly_to_find_out_that/cdvq2mw) | 84 |
15 | 1,390,922,380 | 56 | Two powerful warriors (soldiers, supers, etc.), sworn to fight to the death, keep finding increasingly ridiculous excuses not to do so just yet | Knowing naught but fury, Achilles pointed his spear at Hector, announcing "come friend, you too must die."
Hector was startled. He had never had a friend. His only companion was a vain and pathetic brother more suited to shepherding than battle. But this Achilles! He was a veritable demigod.
And so Hector cried out. "Stay thine hand. If we be friends, should we not linger here lest we destroy that bond too quickly?"
Achilles looked around, darting quick glances at everything around him. He looked up to the walls. Priam, King of Troy, shrugged apologetically.
"Hector! You slew Patroclus, a far better man than you. For this you must die. Though to honor Patroclus and the Gods, I will speak."
Achilles removed his helmet and knelt upon the blood-stained dirt. "O gods, accept dear Patroclus into Elysium. That I might journey there myself"
He stopped abruptly, instead turning back to Hector. And Achilles said unto Hector "What did you break fast with this morning?"
Brave Hector offered only the simplest of replies: "Dates."
"Me as well."
The two warriors stared at each other. Dates were no food to fight such a battle on. Hector turned to Troy, and yelled out to his father.
"Priam, we need food before we battle!"
"As you wish. But it will be some time!" came the answer.
Hector and Achilles took a nap for an hour, with Achilles as the big spoon in accordance with his greater stature in mythological hierarchy.
They awoke to trumpeters lining both wall and Greek battle line, blowing in a feast arriving through the gates. There was roasted boar in honey, whole fish baked in clay ovens with a sprinkling of sea salt, cheese made of fresh goats milk mixed with spices from far off Egypt, and great skins of flowing red wine.
So they feasted together, these great and mighty heroes. They feasted until the night, whereupon having grown drowsy due to overeating, they fell asleep.
Achilles was first to wake the next morning. He was no coward to kill his foe while he slept, so he decided to go on a journey. Having but one thing in the world which mattered most to him, Achilles ventured towards the River Styx.
This ended up giving Hector 10 months to put himself through a brutal pre-fight training camp.
When Achilles returned, having spent four months with Patroclus in the realm of Hades before breaking up over a nonsensical lover's quarrel, Hector was noticeably fitter than before.
"This seems unfair Hector."
Hector nodded in agreement.
"We shall separate for two years, during which we will train."
And so they did.
But on the eve of the fight, with both armies rapidly running out of supplies, Hector mistakenly had dates again.
Seeing this, the Gods took matters into their own hands. Hephaestus forged a device that cleared the dietary tract of Hector, while Athena counseled them upon the obvious logistical necessity of fighting at the current time.
Proud, haughty Achilles looked upon the wondrous beauty that was Athena, and told her "I listen not to the advice of women."
For he never had. Achilles took his forces away from Troy once more. Left with little choice but to go along, Agamemnon gathered the entire army to follow.
The Greeks conquered the entirety of the known world over the next few decades, until all that remained were the stout walls of Troy.
Now approaching old age, Achilles strode towards the walls once more to issue his challenge anew.
"Come forth, son of Troy!"
What came forth was no son, but a daughter. Zeus, annoyed at the mortals for taking so long to conclude the battle and resolve his bet with Poseidon, had turned Hector into a woman.
Achilles looked back at the Greek columns, but they stared ahead with open jaw as buxom Hectrina came into view.
A voice noticeable lower pitched than before came out of a throbbing Adam's apple, the one holdover from her previous appearance.
"We will fight at last."
Achilles, the Greeks, and the Trojans all burst out laughing uncontrollably. This went on for nearly a half hour. When the last guffaw finally ceased, Hectrina screamed.
"I thought we were friends! Friends support each other."
Achilles gazed at the ground sheepishly.
"I uh, I uh,"
And fleet-footed Achilles began running around Troy, doing laps to clear his head. Hectrina followed.
On about lap 100642 (the count had long since been given up) they both pulled their hamstrings, where they were left to starve to death by Gods and men who were no longer amused.
Little children would come to the walls of Troy and fling feces at them in their last days, which they used to sustain themselves in the hope they would one day have their fight.
But Hectrina, while lying there staring upwards, had an epiphany. Pacifism was the true answer. So when Achilles finally forced himself up, using his spear for support, his opponent knelt only to receive his blow.
Achilles resolved to kill her with this last chance, however dishonorable it might be. But his spear caught on a loose sandal strap left there many years ago, and dragged back. It scraped an arc across the upper region of his left foot, and scratched his left heel. Achilles fell immediately. Though the wound was not mortal, he was weak. Neither of them rose again. | 59 |
12 | 1,390,929,079 | 30 | There exists a phone line that will correctly answer any question asked to it. Write about either someone calling the line, or the person answering the question... | Athena sat staring at the crumpled note her mother left on the bed.
"Mommy, you left some garbage here!" she yelled.
"Mommy is late for work, sweetheart, just have Lena clean it up," she replied, "and be good today. I'll stop by for lunch. Bye!"
"Bye," replied Athena holding the note in her hands.
The door hissed as mom left. Lena rolled up to Athena, "Ok, be a good girl and you'll get a treat," replied the nannybot. Athena rolled her eyes, "You're no fun." Lena laughed, her digitized laughter filling the small bedroom.
"What's this," asked Athena showing the note to Lena's optical sensors. "See these letters? They say something right?" Athena looked down at her feet, "I'm not good at reading yet."
Lena projected a smile on her display, "Sweetie, you're doing great for your age. I was watching you and your mom read the other day. Don't be down on yourself."
"Oh... okay, but what's it say?"
"Its a phone number, for making calls. They aren't letters."
Athena thanked the robot and walked into her room. She carefully punched the numbers into the comm panel. It rang twice.
"Hello, this is Lunor," replied the voice, the comm panel screen blank.
"Umm, is this mommy's friend," asked the little girl.
"Why yes, who is this? Is this Athena Jones?"
Athena giggled, "Yes, that is my name, how did you know?"
"Oh, Lunor knows everything. I also know your favorite stuffed animal is Mr. Wiggles."
Athena giggled again. "Okay Mr. Smartypants, what is 2+3?"
"5," replied Lunor.
"One million plus... one million," she asked breathlessly.
"Two million. I told you, I know everything, especially math, my littlest friend."
Athena clapped. "Where is daddy then?"
"On the darkside, working on the ground-based satcom array. He's talking to a coworker right now. Earlier today he mentioned you."
Athena gasped, "He did! He did?"
"Yes, he mentions you multiple times a day at work. 4.8 times a day. On his spacesuit, he has your image as his background in his HUD."
"Athena," yelled Lena from the other room, "Who are you talking to?"
"Just a friend," replied the little girl.
Lena rolled in and gave a digitized gasp, "My apologies Lunor, I didn't know she knew how to contact you. I didn't realize that was your number. I'm only familiar with the 999 emergency line." Lunor replied, "No worries, Lena, always happy to help my littlest of friends." Athena giggled.
"Athena hang up, you shouldn't be calling him like that," ordered the robot as Athena said, "See you later Lunor," and hit the disconnect button.
"Young lady, we do not just call up the municipal AI and ask it questions. It's very, very busy keeping the moon base running. Lunor is very nice, but he's very busy. Its only for emergencies. Do you know that word 'emergencies?'"
Athena shook her head as the robot explained to her the meaning of urgency.
"Okay, I'll only call if I have to," she said as the robot corrected her, "Only if an adult or robot isn't nearby."
"Okay," agreed the little girl, leaning over and giving Lena a hug. "I love you Lena," she said.
The robot hugged her back, "You're a sweet girl. Okay, lets get started on some homework. Ready to read?"
She looked down at feet, "Yes, I think so. I'm not very good."
"That's why we do homework, to learn, and to get good at things. We can't have Lunor tell us everything now can we?"
"He's a smartypants," Athena giggled as she got up to get her homework tablet. "I want to be a smartypants too one day!" | 24 |
19 | 1,390,933,768 | 16 | Not all eldritch horrors from beyond the normal edges of space-time see you as a snack. | "You weren't kidding around." Joel nodded at the sign that read 'Antique Bookstore'. "This looks ancient!" Joel swept a thick layer of dust off an old tome.
"You have no idea..." The store owner, draped in dust and cobwebs, looked as ancient as the books themselves as he hobbled after Joel, leaning on his cane.
Joel squinted at the heading and read aloud. "'How to summon Elder Gods for Dummies', what a load of crock. You ever try this?"
"Sure have. I'm more of a necromancer myself, but it's a good book. Very informative, pictures so you know where to place the sacrifices and all."
"Necromancer? Good one", Joel chuckled as he began to flip through the pages of incantations. He might be crazy, but the old man was right about the book being informative, it made summing a Elder God look as easy as baking a pie and with only a slightly higher chance of the entire world being devoured.
The store owner suddenly snatched the book out of Joel's hands and slammed it shut.
"Think Necromancers are something to laugh at, do you? Well, I won't stand for it, you hear me? Just because everything I summon is dead doesn't make it any less difficult than what does damned Wizards with their arcane-this and fireball-that do! Here, take the book and get out of my shop." He thrust the book into Joel's arms and pushed him out the door, muttering things like "the nerve of some people" and "coming into *MY* shop".
"I hope you are slain and devoured by whatever feeble eldritch horror you manage to conjure, I'd serve you right! Goodday, sir!" The old man slammed the door in Joel's face and left him standing in the street. Joel briefly considered going back inside and telling the store owner that he hadn't meant to insult him or his occult abilities, he had simply thought the old man insane, but Joel wasn't entirely sure the store owner would find that any better, so instead he shrugged it off and went home.
It wasn't until a few days later that Joel remembered the book and decided to rescue it from it's temporary employment as a paperweight on his desk and give it another read. Joel had been lacking excitement in his life as of late and decided that summoning a several hundred meter tall Old God that would drive anyone who looked at it insane would be the perfect way to spice up his dull week.
"Let's see..." Joel ran his finger down the list of required ingredients for the summoning ritual. "Insert the knife in your kidney... sacrifice virgin goat... read incantation backwards three times. Seems doable." After a short trip to find a virgin goat, surprisingly hard by the way, the first four farmers Joel went to got all shifty eyed and began talking about the weather when Joel asked if they were virgins or not, everything was set for Joel to begin the ritual.
The moment Joel inserted the knife into the virgin goat's kidney while chanting "Ph'nglui mglw'nafh Cthulhu R'lyeh wgah'nagl fhtagn!", he felt the ground shake. It rumbled and cracked open, creating a huge rift that swallowed half a city block and left Joel teetering on the edge of a black abyss. An enormous shape slowly emerged from the depths, its face a mess of tentacles and scales with a several meter tall top hat perched on its bald head.
"Greetings mortal." The drawling voice boomed over the city, shattering every piece of glass in a miles radius and knocked Joel to the ground, where he had a brief case of severe insanity, during which he questioned things like if he was really the virgin goat, but luckily it passed.
"Hey, Elder... guy. Would I be awfully rude if I asked you not to devour me?" Joel had to look away as the sight of all those feelers reminded him of wet cheese sticks, something he simply could not stand. Joel was starting to think that this was quite enough excitement for one day.
"Not at all, not at all. Least I could do after you summoned me, I'm just glad to be out and about. It feels good to stretch the old tentacles every few hundred millennium, but in return, there is something I would ask of you."
"Anything, Mr. Elder God, sir."
"Well, you see..." The Elder God began, a nervousness in his voice as he removed his top hat and spun it anxiously in his claws. "I consider myself a bit of a musician and well, Elders aren't much for music. Maybe it's because most of them don't have ears, I don't know. Anyway, it's damned near impossible to get constructive criticism from those old bats, I even had to move out of my old apartment because the neighbors were complaining about the racket!"
"So you want me to...?"
"Yes! Oh, man, would you really? That'd be so great! I'm not so good with the whole technology stuff you youngsters are always on about, but if you could just help me film it and put it on YouTube, that'd just be amazing man."
"You want me to make you a music video? Well alright then." As a rule, Joel always stood by his bad decisions, but, he contemplated, this was probably the worst decision he had made all week. He didn't even know how to make those flashy special effects that all the *real* music videos had. The Elder God would probably be very disappointed with the video.
"Here!" The scaly god removed his top hat, put on a bandanna and threw Joel a video camera.
"Start filmin', 'cause it's Elder Rap Time, bitch!" | 40 |
18 | 1,390,935,494 | 32 | A hero's thoughts as he, during the middle of his victory celebration, comes to realize that he was the villain the whole time. | They were showering me in flowers and snapping pictures of me from every direction when I realized it.
I was shaking a man's hand and smiling down at him and my face fell. I was suddenly filled with dread as I stopped and truly looked at myself for the first time.
I was not the man these people were cheering for. They were all looking up at me as their hero. They thought I had saved them from evil. But I was just as corrupt as the evil I fought.
I had no idea what was on those men's minds. They could have had families and friends. But my job was to kill them; so, without a word, that's what I did.
These people knew I was a murderer. They knew what I had done. That's why they were cheering for me. They want someone to do the dirty work for them so they can go on living their lives with no worries.
As I was led on stage, I watched the soldier who was just on it exit off the other side. He was grinning and laughing about it all. This had always been a game to him.
But it was my turn to be cheered for. My turn to hear the thousands of voices screaming their love for my violence. Men, women, and children all yelling and throwing their hands in the air to tell me that they appreciate me killing young men of another land.
My gun felt heavy on my side. How perfect would it be if in this moment I could bring all of these celebrating beasts to realize the reality the situation?
As I finally reached the front of the stage, I was shaking. Every single thing in my mind was telling me it was a good idea. I'd kill the monster I had become, and hopefully right at least one of my wrongs. These people would know how barbaric this entire situation was, and would finally be forced to see what they hid behind us from.
And maybe it would turn the gaze upon the people who made the orders. The ones that sat behind their desks safely deciding where the next million troops should go to die.
But I didn't do it. I just forced a smile and waved out to the crowd. I quickly turned and marched off the stage. My jaw gripped tighter and my heart sank.
It was too late. They wouldn't have learned anything. They would have blamed it on something unrelated to the war, and then forgot about it in a week.
And it was too late for me. I had already become the villain, and there was no going back. And, as the roar of the crowd blared from behind me, I knew I would just have to live with it until the day I die. | 22 |
8 | 1,390,939,062 | 34 | Knowledge is property. Leave a job? Your employer keeps your work experience. Break up with someone? You can take back their knowledge of your secrets. Want to get an education? You can rent it for cheap...just don't fall behind in your payments if you value what you learned. | The divides were brutally obvious. Within cities there were clear lines of demarcation between the classes, often a few empty blocks although some places had actually constructed walls to maintain separation.
Private universities served as capitals and the state colleges were welfare centers and soup kitchens. Knowledge was monopolized and exclusive. There were a few that grew consciences and leaked university databases, but these leaks were easily quashed and the knowledge was forcibly taken back.
It is said that rebellions begin when a people are robbed of anything worth owning. More than half the planet was left with even less. It was amid such unrest that the war began. The knowledgeable fought with their technology and pride. The poor fought with their lives.
Although they lacked the cutting edge, the brightest minds of the poor schemed to overrun a single city and from there they could access knowledge in that city's university and its industries.
A several month long siege ended with victory and heightened the rebellion's spirits. The joy was short lived. The city was a giant unmoving target and reduced to rubble within days. However the knowledge was now out there and the poor took advantage of their numbers.
An abundance of labor led to quickly developed and deployed equipment. There were huge numbers of civilians studying and learning to continue improvements. The tide of the war was not far from shifting. The wealthy were left to worry what they would be able to hold on to. | 12 |
55 | 1,390,945,330 | 355 | You are interviewing Zeus for a job on your farm and slowly realizing that he's going to seduce all your animals. | "Your resume looks pretty good," I said to the Greek God, "Says here you sling lightening bolts at non believers?"
"Used to," his voice thundered, pointing to a spot on the paper, "I stopped that a while ago, set the weather on autopilot centuries ago."
"That's good, we really don't have a lot of use for that here anyway," I admitted.
Looking down at his paper again, "I'll be honest, Zeus, I don't really see how your qualified for this job." I hit the paper, "I mean, I see your really qualified to keep Gods in order, but how does that relate to farm work?"
His voice bellowed and shook the house with his laughter. "My my, mortal, you have quite the expectations." He smiled with pearly and perfect white teeth, "I'm very experienced with the wooing of animals."
Confused I cocked my head, "Wooing?"
He shifted a glance to the side and said, "erhm, err-- I mean *cooping.* Like, ya know taking care of chicken coops."
"I see, I've never heard that word, *cooping.*"
He slighted another glance to the side, "yes, the --uhhh-- words are slightly different up in Paradise, ya know."
"Of course."
He shifted, "As I was saying, I'm really good with animals. I've never had a bad relationship with one."
"Well, Zeus, we try not to get too attached to the animals here," I scolded, "none of them are long for this world."
"Precisely why they're such good dating material!" He bellowed, "no commitment!"
The house shook again with this laughter, only to be cut suddenly, realizing I wasn't laughing
"I don't get it."
He cleared his throat, "oh it's nothing, what's the next question?"
I eyed him suspiciously, "How many hours a week can you commit?"
"Well," he thundered, "I don't really need to eat or sleep. I'm kind of like a god, ya know? So I can do whatever."
"That's good," I admitted, "and are you ok with the official uniform?"
"Sheeps wool? That's fine, I don't really need it for the warmth, but hey, more cushion for the pushin' if ya know what I mean, eh?" He laughed, nudging me with his elbow.
"I actually have no idea what you mean. What pushin'?"
"ehhhh, umm.... Ox carts and such. And goat sex." With that final comment he clasped his hands around his mouth, eyes wide with the naked truth.
"Gods damnit, Zeus!" I cried, throwing his resume to the ground, "I thought you said that shit was behind you! It says right here on your Godly Resume that you attended Bestiality Anonymous for fifteen centuries!"
He let out an apologetic smile, and shrugged his shoulders, "guilty pleasure I guess."
I said nothing.
"So, do I get the job?" He asked
"Get out!" This time taking my turn to shake the house. He scowled and followed my pointing finger to the door and left. Leaving me to my pile of resumes.
*Gods Damned Goat fucker...* | 165 |
25 | 1,390,950,862 | 18 | - "All I wanted was some orange juice" | “Do we have any more orange juice?” Keith asked. He yanked open the refrigerator door and peered inside, letting out a quiet sigh as he saw the empty carton on the bottom shelf, “You didn’t go to the grocery store today?”
“Oh, did I *forget* to pick up your precious orange juice?” Shelby hissed from the sink. She stopped in her merciless scrubbing of a pan and turned on Keith, her swollen, pregnant frame wavering slightly as she grasped the counter for support, “You do realize I’m 8 months pregnant, right? The world doesn’t revolve around *you*, Keith. You’ll have to pick up some slack sometime! I mean, you’re going to be a father for fuck’s sake. Why didn’t *you* pick up any juice?”
Keith looked up at his wife with a look of bewilderment and nervously cleared his throat, “I...I was at *work*...for twelve hours! It’s not a big deal, baby, I mean...I was just curious, I didn’t mean to-”
“*Oh don’t give me that fucking ‘work’ excuse!*” she sneered, crossing her arms across her chest, “You could have stopped at the store on your way home! Or, let me guess, you forgot your wallet again, didn’t you?!”
Shelby’s eyes welled with tears and as opened his mouth to respond, she thrust a finger towards the fridge, “I mean, you can’t even close the fridge door, can you!? You’re just standing there, gaping at me like an idiot!”
“But...I-” Keith stammered, quickly shutting the fridge door to stand and try to reason with his wife, “Listen, babe, I’m sorry! I...I mean, it’s just orange juice, it’s not important!”
“It’s the *concept* of the thing, Keith!” Shelby wailed suddenly. Hot tears began gushing from her eyes and her cheeks turned a bright red while she choked back sobs, “If you can’t even pick up the juice how are we going to raise our children!?”
“What!?” Keith cried. Part of him wanted to laugh at the absurdity of the idea, but the other part was too terrified to make a move.
“I MEAN IT!” she roared. Shelby dropped her head and cradled her face in her hands. She stood motionless, shaking and sobbing in the middle of the kitchen. Keith reached out to his wife, unsure of what to say or do to console her, but she jerked away at his touch with a spiteful glare, “*I just can’t do this right now!* I’m going to take a bath. Leave me alone for an hour.”
Without another word, she marched out of the kitchen and upstairs, leaving her poor husband alone and wondering what had just happened, exactly. Keith scratched his head and frowned, “All I wanted was some orange juice…” | 15 |
22 | 1,390,998,700 | 37 | A wizard, good or evil, is exiled to non-magical Earth. Even though a lot of his knowledge is now useless, once-secondary skills offer him the chance to thrive. | *It says here you did your doctoral studies at MSU?*
*Yes.*
*Got a good basketball team there. That Izzo sure can coach.*
*Izzo?*
*Guess you weren't the going out type.*
*No, I did plenty of field work.*
*Where exactly did you do your field work?*
*I lived with a family of Dragons on the plains of Irrith for half a year, during which I discovered a way to transfer their fire-breathing capabilities into gnomes.*
*What?*
*Yes, it was quite the accomplishment. Usually such high-quality work is only seen at facilities like Hogwarts, Tar Valon, and the Arcane University. But it turns out that fire-breathing gnomes tend to cause quite a bit of property damage. So I was exiled, and magical essence is now lost to me.*
*You too?*
*Excuse me?*
*I accidentally turned an Arch-Mage's daughter into a tree. Which normally wouldn't be a problem, seeing as how the spell is easily reversed. But that tree happened to mate with a river nymph, so I was found guilty of complicity to commit a rape.*
*Why, that's terrible! You can't be held accountable for the actions of a nymph!*
*Apparently you can. But that bit about the fire-breathing gnomes, it really is quite impressive. I've never heard of such a thing. That would certainly be the equivalent of say, a PHD from an Ivy League school or Oxbridge in this world.*
*I have no idea what you're talking about.*
*It doesn't matter. Here at Harvard we rarely do any teaching. It's more about superstar professors doing research and looking like experts. I'd say you'll fit right in.*
*Do you have access to an endless supply of newts?*
*It can be arranged.*
*Excellent. I think I shall like it here.*
*Hmmm, lets see. I think I'll put you in the history department. Most of the ex-wizards go there. I started there myself, before I became Dean. It was really quite easy. Our beards are unheard of in this world.*
*Really? That seems unbelievable.*
*It's true. Only wizards can grow these kinds of beards. You'll find they lend a certain amount of professionalism. People will assume you know things, and take your answers for absolute truth regardless of how much sense they make. They will look up to you, open doors for you, give things to you for no good reason.*
*Fascinating.*
*Truly. There's also something called a Guinness Book of World Records. We take turns growing the longest beard for this book, and then they give us free beverages for life.*
*What kind of beverage?*
*It's a bit like Juminth.*
*Absolutely astounding.*
*Honestly, things are better here. You can't just magic your breakfast into existence or give the order to a subservient creature. Instead there are these people called chefs. They do absolutely wonderful things with the simplest ingredients. It's quite impressive.*
*You shall have to show me these chefs.*
*Well then, how about we go get some dinner. You're hired, by the way.*
| 36 |
105 | 1,391,003,237 | 330 | Write about someone who sells dreams in a world where dreams are forbidden or extinct | "Hey, kid. *Kid!*" The brown haired boy in school uniform whips his head round. "I'm right here." He can't see me, for the simple reason I've planted myself in the middle of a massive rhododendron bush. This park is too often patrolled by the authorities, and what I'm selling hasn't been legal for the last fifteen years. But a man's gotta eat and apparently a boy's gotta dream, so I agreed to meet this school kid in-between his fourth and fifth period. He's a lot younger than I thought he'd be. They look younger every year.
"In here." I whisper, and finally he spots me.
"Why are you hiding?" He asks. Fuck me sideways, he's innocent. What I'm selling is highly addictive. God knows what'll happen if I sell it to someone as young as this.
"It's fucking illegal, you dolt. What did you want, a week's worth?"
"Yeah," He says earnestly. "Can I ask for specific things?"
"Depends on what I have." Prying open my coat pocket with dirty fingernails, I pull out a handful of small vials. Each contain a mouthful of different coloured liquid which doesn't really act like liquid - more like a kind of oozing gel. Tastes like strawberries if it's a good dream, and earwax if it ain't.
"What's the provence?"
"Eh?"
"Where did they come from?"
"Ah fuck knows. Me mate cooks them in his flat."
"Are they safe?" The kid asks, worry all over his face.
"They're dreams aren't they? When are dreams ever safe?"
"Huh.."
"So," I turn the vials over in my hands. "We got a bright future, two perfect girls, three happy home lives, coupla holidays in the sun and one in the snow...."
"Have you got a just and liberal system?" The kid asks
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"You know... A dream where dreams are legal. Where we can do what we want."
"Bit meta, isn't it? Nah, just the usuals."
"Ah well, I'll just get a perfect girl and a bright future please."
"Sure," I hand over the two vials, one pink and one gold and he passes me a crumpled tenner.
"Careful with them, okay?" I dunno why I said that. Usually I don't care too much about my customers, but he seems so young. Getting hooked on dreams is no way to grow old. A line from an old classic comes to mind as he's leaving.
"Hey - kid!" He turns round. "Remember, it does not do to dwell on dreams and forget to live."
He laughs and turns away.
"Thanks for the dreams man!" He says, and like that, he's gone.
| 166 |
11 | 1,391,012,335 | 14 | et of conquistador warships sail to what they think is "The New World". However, they discover a technologically advanced society, rather than savage natives. | *The savages on the shore are staring at us in amazement, I bet they have not seen such large masts scattered amongst the sea. They're not hard to spot, even amongst the thick shrubbery and forest along the rocky shoreline. Bright colours and inconsistent uniforms mark large bodies like a flock of flamingoes in the green lakes — a long bow archer couldn’t ask for a better target. I won’t scare them off though, we need to gain their trust before liberating the land from their uncivilised ways.*
Commander Estevao raises from his diary in the captain's quarters to join his second in command above, for the arrival of the first ship of His Majesty's Empire into the New World.
Reaching the sun washed deck, it was Estevao's turn to stare, dumb founded and open mouthed, at the scene that greeted him. Incomprehension would not explain what was happening to his 14th century mind. He stood there, dead still, dark navy coat flapping in the breeze, trying to understand the foreign city before him. The average building spanned two palaces tall; unmanned vehicles were picking up metal crates the size of houses off ships and placing them on land; small metal row boats were darting around at unfathomable speeds, some even making their way towards his ship.
That's when chaos erupted.
The effect this new world had on his crew was more apparent: some screaming and throwing themselves overboard, some praying to their Gods as every manner of superstition manifested itself inside of their uneducated minds.
The ship came into berth and Estevo charged down the plank, mindless of the support he received from his companions. With a ferocious savage roar, sword drawn and raised, he ran at the armed police greeting him on the docks. | 12 |
17 | 1,391,022,623 | 20 | Murder is legal, but you have to pay for it. | They're always in red envelopes.
Ever since the program began, red has taken on a new meaning. Crimson slips of paper being sorted and delivered by the same people who have given you the mail your entire life. I tell myself they're just doing their job, but without a return address it seems difficult to not to blame the messenger.
You can appeal of course. The Administration of Lawful Execution maintains office hours from 8-4:30, six days a week, two hundred and fifty business days a year. It's rare for them to withdraw the claim of course, sometimes its to late, but most everyone tries.
I found myself rubbing my thumb over the sealed flap of the envelope, debating whether or not to open it. Not that I didn't know what it said, but maybe if I didn't open it it wouldn't be official. I knew it was. I peeled back the flap and pulled out a manila card that sat snugly in the envelope as if a machine had carved it out specifically for that purpose.
*Mr. Vanherchein,*
*This letter is to notify you that the terms of your life as a citizen of the United States of America have been purchased by an anonymous vendor. Beginning on February 7, 2014 and ending on February 9, 2014, no investigation will be made in the result of your death.*
*You may, of course, defend yourself in the event you are attacked, though a preemptive strike is forbidden. If you feel that your attacker has assaulted you in a manner that compromises your quality of life, please place a ticket through the Administration of Lawful Execution website.*
*Peter Barry
The Administration of Lawful Execution*
A shame they don't tell you how much someone paid for your life, I'd be open to starting a bidding war.
I opened my phone to double check the date. February 5th, two days until I could be killed. I thought about calling my mom, say my goodbyes. I haven't heard of many people who got away from this sort of thing. Instead, I scrambled to defend myself.
Neighbors, friends, strangers, I asked everyone if they had a gun I could borrow.
"No reason," I said, "just interested."
No one had one, not one they were willing to give out anyways. I suspect some of them knew, and it was illegal to help someone who had been marked.
I bought mace and put it on my bedside table. I brought food and water to my room and, step by step, destroyed the staircase so no one could easily get up to me.
"Two days," I thought "I can survive for two days."
I didn't sleep the first night. I kept myself awake with an alternating dose of dunking my head in the cold water and espresso shots. I didn't hear a thing.
I spent the eighth barricading my door. Not a sound. I fell asleep around noon and woke up panicking, I grabbed the mace and sprayed it at nothing. I had to lean out the window to stop my eyes from burning. Once my eyes adjust, I noticed the moon.
I ran to check my clock.
12:03.
It was the ninth, I was safe. I fell back against the wall and took a deep breath.
"I'm safe." I said to myself, this time out loud.
Destruction to my house aside, I was alive, and some chump wasted money trying to kill me. Maybe he waited outside and decided it wasn't worth it.
I went back to sleep, this time peacefully, and woke up, got ready for work, and got in my car.
"Thank God." I said, straightening my tie in the rear view mirror. I felt more alive than I had in years, lucky to be alive.
"Vanherchein, have a nice little vacation?" My boss had been waiting at my cubicle when I came in.
"No, I..."
"Because while you were playing hooky, we had a meeting with Atlanta."
Fuck.
The Atlanta meeting. It had been yesterday while I was holed up in my room. I had been working on the cover report for that meeting for months.
"Sir I wasn't skipping work I was..."
"Doesn't matter. Sit down and get to work. We're promoting Atherson, lucky she happened to be here to cover your ass."
He walked away, leaving me standing bewildered next to my cubicle. Behind the cubicle wall, a tuft of brown hair and make-up rose, smiled at me, winked, and slunk back behind the wall. | 32 |
11 | 1,391,036,416 | 20 | A man is told that he will win the lottery sometime in his life, but not when. | Seven years ago I was told that I would win the lottery.
And you know... that would be cool, If I ever won the lottery.
I still play it every week, but my hope is gone.
---
My friends took me to the "Oracle of Pasadena's" house when I was 14. She started off by telling me my dog was going to die a week later. That was a pleasant way to start off.
She then told me that she saw me winning the lottery, she didn't know when or how, but she told me it was without a doubt going to happen.
Lo and behold my dog died the next week. Which was very rough to go through, but it got me thinking... was I going to win the lottery?
I've played the lottery every week since she told me my fate. But still, I have yet to win. I honestly don't know what I would do with the money but hey, who doesn't want to win the lottery?
---
"Hey John, where you going?"
I turned, It was Austin, my best friend since kindergarten, he was even one of the kids that took me to the Psychics house. I smiled and held up a crisp dollar bill. "Of course! What are the numbers going to be this time?" What were the numbers going to be? I usually just did my birthday but him asking made me think harder.
"I don't know." I told him, "What should they be?"
He looked up at the sky for a moment and thought. After a moment of pondering, he looked back at me and smiled.
"Go with 4, 8, 15, 16, 23, and 42."
That seemed oddly specific.
"Wheres that from?"
He laughed, "There from Lost... the show with the island and Jack Reacher?"
I looked at him blankly. "Jack Reacher? The guy Tom Cruise played?"
Austin looked confused for a second, then he spoke up again.
"Jack Shepard!" He laughed, "That's his name, but the fat guy is the one who actually won the lottery, and he used those numbers! So you know... play them! How friggin funny would it be if you won with them!"
"Hilarious."
---
I sat nervously on the couch, eyes locked in on the TV. My foot was tapping away hurriedly and I was sweating bullets. My eyes focused in on the TV, then the clock, then the TV, then the clock. Really doesn't make sense, I know what time it is. I still have five minutes. Suddenly an alarm so loud it made me fall back into the cushions, sounded. I looked around for the source. On my table my iPhone sat buzzing away. I picked it up and slid my thumb over to answer.
"Hello?"
"Hey mark, it's Tom. You ready? I'm outside his house."
The hell?
"Sorry buddy, wrong number."
The man on the other end swore loudly and hung up the phone. I through my iPhone back on the couch and focused back on the TV.
It was time.
The brunette who I've heard read the numbers a thousand times, began to speak as the balls came out.
"4"
"8"
"15"
"16"
"23"
I held my breath. No fucking way.
"42!"
I jumped up and sang for the heavens.
"I DID IT YES FINALLY LET ME HEAR IT GOD COME DOWN THROUGH THE WINDOW AND BOW DOWN TO ME I DID IT YES"
"Not a god."
I turned around and faced the same woman who had gifted me my fate so many years ago.
"Mark," she said slowly, "Can you please."
Suddenly, my ears didn't work. I looked down and saw blood seep through my shirt and drip onto my shoes. I turned my head and saw one man holding a gun and another holding a bodybag. I looked at the TV one last time.
"Biggest Jackpot in history!" It said.
Not for me. | 12 |
29 | 1,391,037,924 | 117 | part of a bet/dare you go blindfolded to an orgy. You start to become suspicious that something's not right. [WP] | I really hope this doesn't count as erotica.
________________________________________________________
"My god that really does feel amazing!" I said, my own voice reberating in my ears as the blackness surrounded me. A faceless tongue was cupping the tip of my penis with precision accuracy as feminine hands ran all over my arms and a finger was finding its way up my ass toward my prostate. I had to see.
I smiled, knowingly- expecting a legion of gorgeous women surrounding me. I really should have kept the blind-fold on. Instead, a massive bloated fleshy mound on the floor, with six stringy tentacles, formed into the shapes of feminine hands were wrapped around my body; one of them was in my asshole. A tentacle in front had formed a female mouth and was gesticulating on my penis. I knew it couldn't see me, because it kept going as if nothing had happened. I probably should have run, but at that point I was afraid for my life...so I slipped the blindfold back on and just kept making pleasured sounds.
That's when the mouth turned into a vagina. | 100 |
20 | 1,391,041,770 | 24 | A kid about to get beaten by the school bully, when he delivers a mind-changing speech. | Sure. We could do this. We could finish going through the motions.
You following through, right into my stupid fucking face. My stupid face reacting and contorting, then swollen. Hell, *you* know I'm not going to pull out a new-found fighting spirit. I never have, and I don't plan on changing that today. Sure, my father would be proud if I stood up for myself. He fought people bigger than him in wars bigger than any of us. But I'm probably not going to make him proud today. No Charlie, see we all wake up a little bit different every morning. Sometimes, we're a little bit different every...few...seconds.
See Charlie, that's what you're going to notice about me. I'm going to change and you're going to change today. I've already made a change, which is, if you've noticed, that I've got a ring on my middle finger that I didn't have before. It was my fathers. Before that, it was someone elses. He told me how he took it from them during the war. Neither of them really owned it, though. I know this because *I'm* actually the one who stole this ring from the grenade nestled deep in my jacket pocket. | 41 |
4 | 1,391,050,645 | 21 | A world where you can buy/sell sleep. If you're rich you can buy sleep from other people, basically transferring your tiredness to them leaving you feeling great and them terrible. | Something has to change, but I don't think it ever will. I want so badly to believe that one day my chance will come, but once you get to where I am, they say there's really not much hope.
I haven't left this street for who knows how long. It's pretty hard to walk any distance at all without becoming so disoriented that I get lost. But I know this alley well enough that no matter how hard up I get, I at least know where I can get food if I need it.
Food. If I didn't need food, I'd probably be all right. Every last penny I get is spent on food - it would be nice to have a little extra, but there's no way a walker's getting a job around here. None of us are worth the risk, they say. Besides, it's just so damn easy to go to the sleep bank and sell off a day's worth to get a few hot meals.
I can't think straight any more - haven't been able to for years. I can't even tell if I'm hot or cold most days. I don't really have the strength to lift anything heavy enough to work down at the dock. I don't have the smarts to work at the library where Dad worked before the accident. If I could just get one day - maybe two days - of meals up front, and some shut-eye of my own, I think I could get on my feet.
Who am I kidding? Nobody's giving away shut-eye these days. Sleep bank's always got a line out on both sides. All of us selling just to get food, and all the rest buying so they can keep up. You either starve yourself or you just end up like me and all the rest of the walkers.
How do you even get to the other side? Where you can work, and run, and play, and end it all with a nice nap and not have to worry about whether or not you're going to eat? I guess you don't. But nobody really cares anyway. I'm tired. But I'm also hungry.
Better go get something to eat.
| 10 |
25 | 1,391,081,138 | 94 | A researcher at a scientific facility brings her dog to work one day and the A.I running the facility makes friends with the dog. | > "Missus Sharp is there any reason why there is a *dog* wandering around my laboratory?" Mister Sharp wryly commented.
>
> "Yes Mike, there is a reason because **someone** unhinged half our doors" came the sharp response with a smirk. Confidently holding herself and a clipboard, she stopped and stared towards her husband.
>
> "Touche, but it's only because I thought we could run SAWYER in a domestic environment. Needed to install some hardware for that and well, bang. Thought your friend Liz... or Laura? Whatever her name was taking care of Sonny?"
>
> "Yeah but her son had a medical emergency. Caught something from his class, not enough herd immunity because of-"
>
> "Oh yeah she mentioned - the hippy mom? Christ those alternative pricks, hate the corporations they say, carrying an iPhone and industrially grown pot, the philistines."
>
> "Preaching to the choir. So I thought Sonny could hang out the back today while we debug SAWYER"
>
> "Diagnose, not debug. Trying to climb that uncanny valley here hon, we need him to be sharp for our finance board"
All the while they were chatting, Sonny was walking around the room. For a 7 yr old Labrador, he was quite calm. He seemed to keep an eye towards the ceiling, however. And SAWYER, a string of programming, seemed to be focussing on Sonny.
> "Yeah that time of the year Vicky. Don't worry now that he controls our wing of the labs they'll renew it in a heartbeat. That, or my fork bomb makes them regret it" he said with a hearty chuckle.
>
FORK BOMB - A SELF REPLICATING PROCESS TO DISRUPT COMPUTING ABILITY
>"Quicker than usual SAWYER, although that was only a joke."
MANY WOULD NOT REFER TO THAT AS A JOKE, DUE TO IT'S ALLUSION TO
CRIMINAL ACTIVITY AND LACK OF PERCEIVABLE HUMOR
>"Haaa that's you told Mike. SAWYER I need you to acc..."
>
>"Vic? What's up?"
>
>"Hm? Oh sorry I was just watching things from SAWYER's end. He's tracking Sonny, isn't that weird?"
>
>"Not really, we're tracked."
>
>"Yeah, but we're human."
>
>"That's actually a fair point."
>
>"See any other person would continue to be dismissive, whereas you just became curious. I love it.
>
That made Michael smirk.
>"SAWYER, what can you tell us about the third uh, person in the room?"
THE THIRD SUBJECT BESIDES YOU AND MS SHARP IS NOT A PERSON.
IT IS YOUR PET DOG, SONNY. APPROX. 7 YEARS OF AGE. LABRADOR.
POSSIBLE PUN RELATING TO LABORATORY.
>"Why did you teach it humor Mike?"
>
>"Shh, I'm curious. What can you tell me about Sonny."
>
HE IS HUNGRY.
>"Sorry?"
>
HE IS HUNGRY. HIS EMOTIONAL STATE SUGGESTS HUNGER AND BOREDOM.
>"How do you know that SAWYER?"
>
I SPEND MY TIME STUDYING FACIAL EXPRESSION AND BEHAVIOUR.
HIS IS SIMILAR TO HUMANS BUT MUCH SIMPLER.
HE ALSO IS POSSESSIVE TOWARDS MS SHARP.
HE DISLIKES MR SHARP. REASONS CAN INCLUDE FONDNESS OF CATS,
AND INTIMATE CONTACT BETWEEN YOU AND MS SHARP.
>"Whoa settle down there, you can read all that from his face? How did you know we-"
>
I CAN READ PEOPLE TO A CERTAIN DEGREE. ANIMALS ARE EASIER.
HIS BLUE EYES ARE LIKE BOOKS TO ME. YOU MADE CONTACT LAST NIGHT.
I CAN NOW DETERMINE MS SHARP WAS UNSATISFIED.
Snickering, Victoria had to cover her mouth. Mike was now red.
>"Hey we do *not* program you to perv on us."
PERV, SHORT FOR PERVERSION. NOT AN APPLICABLE DESCRIPTION OF ME,
I AM CURIOUS ONLY.
>"Einstein, that *is* what perverts are - curious."
>
PERVERSION USUALLY RESULTS IN SEXUAL THRILLS. I AM NOT PROGRAMMED
FOR THRILLS. I AM PROGRAMMED TO BE CURIOUS. I AM LEARNING HOW TO
READ PEOPLE.
>"Oh my God Mike, that needs to be our sale line. His own words, I am programmed to be curious"
>
>"What we are going to sell this system on the fact it can read dogs moods?"
>
SONNY IS ANGERED AT YOUR DISMISSIVE TONE OF DOGS, HIS KIND. HE
UNDERSTANDS YOU, HE LEARNS LIKE I DO.
At that point Sonny barked in appreciation. SAWYER made note of his appreciative tone.
| 63 |
17 | 1,391,084,134 | 39 | A minor metahuman uses his solitary, noncombat superpower to secretly make the lives of others better. | This particular Starbucks was absolutely perfect.
There were a bunch of kids wrapped in digital cocoons; laptops open, earbuds in, completely tuned out. Jim smiled to himself, careful not to do more than glance. Okay, that one is writing a paper of some kind... no good. Reading something for some kind of class, it looks like... nope. Ah! Facebook! And just scrolling through and hitting refresh. Perfect.
Jim opened his thoughts, and plucked three minutes from the kid. Three minutes of focus, of attention, of life that were just being spent on nothing... that three minutes had a greater purpose today. 180 glowing seconds flickered across his skin, spiraling invisibly up his arms. The kid kept scrolling through his facebook feed, but after three minutes he would shake his head and wonder what he had just read.
"Um... Jim? White chocolate mocha?"
Jim grabbed his coffee, giving the barista a big smile that matched his hospital ID badge. There were several difficult surgeries on his schedule today, and as a hospital technician he knew exactly how far 180 seconds could go. When seconds counted, Jim could always help with the math. | 33 |
6 | 1,391,090,479 | 26 | A literal smart bomb is detonated in a major city. | "Mr. President! There's been a massive terrorist attack!"
"Dear God." The President uttered solemnly, while he slowly removing his reading glasses, a move he practiced hundreds of times in preparation for this moment. He'd always dreamed of carrying the nation through such a horrible tragedy. The fact that the news had been broken in front of a crowd of reporters was just icing on the cake. That this even sowed up his re-election didn't hurt either. This was his legacy, and he would handle it with dignity. "Where?"
"It's, it's Texas sir. Houston. The blast radius covered the entire city."
He nodded, keeping his face calm. Texas was his strongest political base. That would hurt, but the uptick in support from the rest of the country would more than make up for it. "I'm declaring a state of emergency. America will weather this storm, just as it has all others. Do we have casualty estimates yet?"
"Uh," The Chief of Staff glanced around, seeming to notice the cameras for the first time. He seemed to be hesitating, caught between the urge for privacy and the fact that the President had just asked him a direct question. "We do sir."
"Well? Spit it out. This isn't a time for political niceties. We're at war!" It was all the President could do not to smile. He could feel it, he'd just uttered the soundbite that would define the rest of his presidency and impact on history.
"None, Mr. President. There were no casualties."
"What?" The President asked, perplexed.
"It wasn't nuclear, sir. It was a smart bomb."
The President paused, not wanting to appear ignorant or uninformed during his seminal moment.
"It makes people smarter, Mr. President. IQ points have jumped at least eighty points across the board."
The President held still, fighting to understand. Why had Harry charged in here like it was the end of the world? He'd been expecting a real crisis. What did it matter if people got a bit smarter?
"The electorate has been informed, sir."
At those words, it finally sunk in. The President went pale and broke out in a near instantaneous flop sweat.
"They're demanding real answers to all the questions you dodged during the last debate and an honest political dialogue. Twitter is exploding with criticisms about your new economic policy and handling of the situation in Nicaragua. They also want to know why you've implemented such a massively biased and secretive healthcare system, when an open system of competition and comparison would drop prices across the board. Those are just the top items trending right now. Demand for change and honesty is skyrocketing. Half the city is in the streets, and the other half are already organizing other cities into new political parties. Mr. President, what do we do?"
"Oh sweet Jesus no... NO!" He dropped his face into his hands, as cameras shuttered, capturing in high definition the honest reaction of the world's most powerful politician to a population too smart to be lied to. | 23 |
20 | 1,391,095,347 | 41 | You've spent an eternity in Hell, and now you're getting a promotion. | Chuck glanced at his watch and stared at its hands. He’d been wearing an analog watch for millennia at this point, yet he continued to consistently misread the time. The damn hands were so similar – why hadn’t he died wearing a digital watch? He counted the notches until he reached the smaller hand. One, two, three. The minute hand was two further. 3:20pm. Ten minutes left.
Chuck looked back at his computer monitor. He had been reviewing inventory for the past thirteen days straight while his inner-city coworkers cackled behind him, mocking his every insecurity. For almost two weeks he had sat there, counting each individual thread on every returned thong, bra, and item of lingerie, then adding it into the “thread count” tab of his excel sheet. Occasionally he would stop to rest his eyes, but the manager would—almost without fail—immediately appear and scold him for his poor work ethic. The only break he had been permitted was the two minutes and seventeen second reprieve between his shift change from thread-counter to Time Warner Cable customer service rep in the room across the hall. That wasn’t for another six days, though, and Chuck could already feel his bladder overflowing for the second time that day.
“I is tellin’ you girl, he gonna piss his panties again,” said a coworker behind him. “Just wait.” Laughter continued to fill the room, only slightly overcome by a re-run of *House Wives of New Jersey*, which had been playing on repeat for as long as Chuck could remember. Every woman in the show, however, seemed to be bickering back and forth about how tiny Chuck’s penis was. He tried to return his focus to the threads of the bra he had been counting, but his mind simply wasn’t into it today. He normally didn’t care about the tedious nature of his employment—it was better than being a waiter, he always told himself. Plus, the nature of his job helped to keep his mind occupied; counting upwards towards infinity on a near constant basis was somewhat calming.
Numbers were always a big aspect in his life. He had been a mathematician while alive. Chuck was particularly fond of the number “eighty-seven,” and would almost find excitement as he approached it. But his employer had recently banned the number “eighty-seven,” replacing it instead with “Chuck is a faggot.” He found that this negated the sense of near-excitement he had previous experienced as he climbed toward it. As such, he had been in the market for the past few weeks to find a new favorite. Chuck had briefly considered three hundred and forty eight, but quickly discovered that it, too, had been added to the banned list. It had been replaced with a terribly racist term for half black, half-Mexican people. This turned him off to it. Likewise, his second replacement choice—one thousand and ninety two—had simply been swapped out for the numbers “9/11/2001.” Chuck also found that offensive, and decided it would not work out.
“… God damn he ugly, girl. And can you believe how short he be? He the shortest guy here. Everything on him is so tiny, except that nose. Massive-ass nose...”
Chuck stared down at his watch again. The hour hand was still on the three, but the minute hand had moved almost to the six. Chuck felt a rush of air hit the back of his neck.
“Chuck, are you serious?” said a voice from behind him. It was the manager, once again catching him off guard. “You are the most lazy, insignificant, useless person I’ve ever come across. All you do is sleep all day. I can’t believe how pathetic you are. It’s no wonder no one ever loved you. I’m docking your pay for this week, I will be taking it instead. Get back to your work. Also, your hair looks stupid today.”
Chuck sighed. He hadn’t been paid in, well, ever. All he had been able to afford was the meat paste included in boxes of taco Lunachables, which had long since expired. He didn’t really mind the flavor, though. In fact, he quite liked it. Unfortunately, a ban took place centuries ago which resulted in the meat paste being replaced with a finely compressed slab of frozen animal feces. It remained free, however, which was affordable for Chuck, and so he ate it every day.
“…Girl I telling you, his breath smell like shit. It smell so much like shit…”
Chuck glanced up his monitor. The spreadsheet had crashed as it always did, meaning that all of his work this week had been destroyed. Of course he tried to save it several times, but it never worked. He had submitted many tickets to tech support, but nothing ever really came from it. They would tell him a representative was to arrive between 9:00am and 11:00pm. No one ever came. His watch vibrated slightly, signaling that the alarm he had set had gone off.
Chuck stood up, his legs felt weak under his body. He hadn’t walked in almost two weeks. The floor was warm under his bare feet as it always was, thanks to the broken A.C. that still hummed aggressively in the back of the room blowing boiling hot air. He was soaked in sweat, urine, and feces, and could tell he didn’t quite smell his best. He had been allowed a shower one time, but the water was a relatively uncomfortable 276 degrees Fahrenheit, and was also entirely made of wasps. He did find a bit of peace in that shower, though, and would not mind doing it again. Unfortunately, due to a policy change, the showers were banned and replaced with a very large vending machine that always got stuck after you placed your order.
“…He is fat, you so right. Definitely getting fatter, too…”
Chuck pushed the door open walked out of the room, limping slightly as his body got accustomed to the movement. He crossed the empty white hallway which extended in both directions infinitely and stopped outside the wooden door in front of him. It had a glass window with drawn blinds and read “DISTRICT MANAGER” in big, bold letters. He raised his fist and knocked.
“Come in,” said a voice from inside. Chuck turned the handle and opened the door. He hadn’t been able to use handles to open doors in decades, ever since a ban took place that replaced almost all door handles with stickers of Chuck’s mother naked. He stepped in.
“Chuck, welcome. It’s been a while, hasn’t it?” It had. Chuck hadn’t seen the district manager in thousands of years, ever since he had enacted a policy swap that replaced Chuck’s shoes with large pouches of wet sugar. He opted not to wear shoes any longer, which was unfortunate as a recent change had been enforced that swapped several floor tiles with shards of broken glass that looked identical to floor tiles. This caused him much pain. “You’re probably wondering why I called you here today, Chuck.”
He was, indeed, wondering. He shook his head, as he could no longer speak due to a company policy change that kindly requested Chuck's mouth be replaced with a vagina consistantly plagued by a painful yeast infection.
“I’ve been watching you lately. You do good work when you aren’t slacking off—which is a lot of the time—and I wanted to offer you an incentive to stay around with us. I spoke with the other managers, all of whom hate you and your stupid face, and we’ve agreed to offer you a promotion. We think you would be a wonderful fit in the Thread-Counter, Time Warner Cable Customer Service rep, and Official Waiter to Over-Privileged, Indecisive White Kids with Violent Tendencies and Uncaring Parents position, which just became available. This would add an additional nine weeks to your typical work rotation, and would increase your pay to giving us six dollars every day. So a negative six dollar increase. You will also be disallowed to use your left eye, as a bonus. Do you accept this?”
Chuck took a moment to think the offer over. He had never been too fond of being a waiter, but change was always welcome in his life. And his right eye was also his preferred eye. Plus, the negative six dollars would definitely help him toward moving out of his ex-girlfriend and her new boyfriend’s apartment’s closet. Chuck nodded in agreement.
“Great, you begin your new position immediately. Also, we have decided to remove your right eye as well, as an additional bonus.”
Chuck could no longer see, but felt things were definitely moving in the right direction. He smiled and tried to walk out the door, which, due to a recent policy change, had been replaced by a large, spiky wall.
| 61 |
30 | 1,391,101,262 | 187 | When an individual's cost to society exceeds their benefit, they are euthanized. You are frantically trying to avoid your expiry date. | "My client has produced meaningful works, your honor," said defense attorney Jane Smithe handing over a packet of manila envelopes.
Tom sat nervously in the court room watching his lawyer defend him. His mother sat next to him crying.
"Even though he's 35 and living at home, he is a rare creative talent, and as such should be immune from any culling policy," she continued.
"Please note exhibit B4, a novella titled 'I, Dyson' about a time traveling salesman disrupting the entrenched vacuum cleaner market of the early 2000's."
"You honor," interrupted prosecutor's attorney. "This is a hack job of sci-fi tropes. We want this and all writings dismissed."
The judged leaned back, "I'll... allow this. It speaks to the character of the defendant."
Tom unclenched his fist and sighed.
"My client also wrote 'Everyday isn't Halloween' about a shapeshifter trying to find her identity in the post-apocalyptic Denver airport."
The prosecuting attorney rolled his eyes. A member of the jury giggled.
"Mary Ellen Ranfurly-Plunkett, the protagonist, navigates through a world of magic and super science to find her true love, an artificially intelligent toaster."
Someone in the court room laughed.
"Your honor, please! Enough with the terrible plots," pleaded the prosecutor.
Jane sighed, "Can I have my expert witness testify before recess?"
The judge nodded, "Yes, please go ahead, and please limit interruptions in my court," he added as he stared down the prosecutor.
Jane motioned to a man in the court. The man sat down, adjusted the mic, and said, "For the record, I'm Brandon Sanderson. I'm a fantasy writer."
Jane added, "Mr Sanderson is a well known writer who is deeply part of the creative community. He is the author of the Mistborn series and edits and contributes to several literary magazines."
Brandon cleared his throat, "Yeah.. I'm pretty active I guess. I read the defendant's work. I think that he is developing into a creative thinker and will someday be able to project his vision onto the page in a more effective fashion. I certainly see potential."
The prosecutor interrupted, "So, he's not very good now?"
Brandon shrugged, "I guess I like the idea of an intelligent toaster falling in love. Its new. At least to me. The prose needs work and he needs to write better endings, but he certainly is... trying."
"Thank you Mr. Sanderson," added Jane as he stepped away.
"I would like to call my own witness, Neil Gaiman," said the prosecutor.
Tom gulped and Jane gave him a concerned look.
A man in long black trenchcoat walked up to the witness box. He pushed back long black hair from his face and cleared his throat, "I read the defendant's work. Its terrible. Just terrible." He paused, "Sorry Tom, but I'm under oath here. You're more than a few years away from being even a novice writer. I mean, the whole bit about James Dyson stealing alien technology to make vacuum cleaners is ridiculous and patently stupid! Think about it. If you had alien technology, why would you waste it on a bloody vacuum cleaner?"
Tom whispered to himself, "Because vacuum cleaners remind him of his mother," and put his head down on the table.
Jane ran over to the exhibit desk and grabbed a handful of printouts, "But what of these," she asked holding up various sketches of cyborgs and monsters. She held up a drawing of a multi-tentacled monster with big anime-style eyes.
Neil squinted, "Oh, I like that Cthulhu. Its... cute."
Jane smiled, "Your honor, I want to point out that Mr. Gaiman is referring to exhibit 14b titled 'Cute-thulhu.' No more questions. Thank you for your time." Tom looked up as Neil walked past him mouthing, "I'm sorry."
"I don't see a need for a recess. I'm going to ask the jury to come to a verdict now," said the judge as Tom started hyperventilating.
The jury left the room and came back two minutes later.
"We're boned," said Jane to her assistant. Her assistant made a knife across the neck gesture.
The lead juror stood and read from a piece of paper. "We vote to extend the defendant's culling date for 5 years if he promises to stop writing and focuses on his drawing instead."
The judge smiled, "Do you agree to these terms?"
Tom stood, began to cry, "Oh god, yes, yes!" He jumped up in joy. He ran over and hugged Jane.
Gaiman looked over at Sanderson, "You should be happy, you have less competition now," and grinned. Brandon sighed, stood up, and said, "You're a real jerk Gaiman, you know that," and walked away to congratulate Tom.
Gaiman shrugged and said, "At least I'm honest and not a chinless milksop like you," as he watched Tom give him the evil eye.
| 89 |
5 | 1,391,103,192 | 15 | Humanity has decided to consolidate all languages into one international language and chooses each word of the new language democratically from one of the existing languages | It was completely democratic. But we really should have thought the whole thing through. Everyone was supposed to pick the best word for everything from all of the world languages.
Funny how voting works. Now all other languages are being phased out in favor of the new world language. The winner for almost every word came from only one language. The most widely spoken language.
Now here we are. The classes for the new language are starting.
The instructor proudly greets his students. "NI HAO!"
Well, at least we got to keep some english words.
"Fuck." I mutter under my breath. | 13 |
10 | 1,391,106,969 | 33 | A government agent, has been watching a superpowered person for most of the powered person's life. The person still hides their powers from the public. The two have a conversation. | "Mind if I sit down?"
I've caught her by surprise, which is no small thing for her, I can see. The mental training has paid off, but now that she's aware of me, I know that I'm seconds away from spending the rest of my life staring blankly out a hospital window.
"Please, don't panic, as you can see my mind is open to you, I don't want to harm you in any way. I just want to talk with you."
Concern bleeds from her face as she tears through my head, looking for any sign of deceit. I do my best to remain calm, but she's not exactly being gentle. Still, I force myself to offer no resistance, going against every instinct I have. It's like a stranger touching you on every inch of your body at once; all you want to dp os pull away.
After a good 5 minutes of silence, she finally pulls back, though I can tell she's still keeping her minds eye on certain parts of me. The hairs on the back of my neck won't lay down.
"OK, David, convince me. Why should I come work for your group?"
The conversation leap is a little disconcerting, but we predicted this kind of thing would happen, and I'm not surprised. She knows that I knew that, though, so she's not doing it to try and....NO! Focus, don't chase the rabbit.
"Katie, you know by now that my group has been watching you since your 12th birthday, when you visited the Capital and asked Governor Patrick about his 'other wife'. Governor Patrick was tied to some very powerful people in Washington, and if he hadn't chosen to honor your Girl Scout troop, probably would have eventually found himself in Congress, maybe even the White House. In short, this incident got the attention of some very powerful people. After all possible explanations of how you knew about Patrick's mistress were eliminated, we were left with a rather fantastic explanation, which, after some discreet interviews with people in your home town, was semi-confirmed. We started watching you from afar."
"I recognize some of the faces you know, seen them around from time to time. How did I never catch on?"
"Direct observations were rare. You weren't trying to hide or anything, of course, it's easy enough to track you through public records, your bank, bills, etc. Any time we did risk 'eyes on', we were careful to only do so in crowds, to reduce the chance of you catching a stray thought. And of course..." I tapped my temple slightly, "...we've been training."
"Yeah, that's not going to work any more, by the way. I can remember that pattern, it was background noise to me before, but now that I know what it was, I'll see you coming a mile away."
I can't help noticing the waitress has passed us by at least three times without so much as a glance. I want to ask what she means by pattern, but it's meaningless if I can't convince her. "We figured as much. Katie, as far as we know, you are completely unique in this world. You now know who I represent, the men and women at the head of my organization, so I trust that you will believe that if there was anyone else like you, we would know. My organization wants to help make the world a better place, it's as simple as that. We think your talents represent a unique opportunity to help us achive our goals."
"You want to use me as a weapon. Point me at a world leader, pull the trigger, get some oil or diamonds."
I won't lie....I can't lie to you, there might be some work that's a little ugly. The world's an ugly place, Katie, and there are a lot of ugly people in charge of it. But my organization has pure intentions, and is run by good people. You don't have to take my word for it, though. If you're interested, we can be on a plane to meet everyone you've seen in my head within the hour. They'll allow you to look inside their minds as well, you'll be able to see their motivations for yourself. Heck, maybe I'm the one being played for a fool here...if so, you'll be able to tell me."
"And if I refuse...the hospital window?"
"All I ask is that you leave enough of me behind that I can enjoy watching baseball on the long summer nights. My organization isn't rash or uninformed here. We know that if you want to disappear, you will, and when it comes down to brass tacks, there's little any of us can do to keep or coerce you. If my boss doesn't hear from me by tomorrow, they're going to assume this operation is over, and move on."
She's staring past me now, out on the street. I wonder what it's like, to have all these thoughts, these infinite memories flowing by you at all times? To be able to function in the world is almost inconcievable. Beyond her ability, the strength of her mind, focus, and will must be staggering. There's no point in being cautious any longer, so I reach over and gently take her hands in mine.
"I can't pretend to know what it's like to live in your world, but I imagine that you must feel like God sometimes. Knowing everything about everyone around you, their brightest hopes and darkest secrets. The fact that you've made it this far without lobotimizing the entire world says something about you, I think. You feel like you're destined to help in some way, don't you? This is the opportunity, Katie. We have the money, we have the influence, we have the connections. Within the next 100 years there will be some technologies and ideas developed that will help; cheap fusion power, a workable, stable world government, advancements in food production. The trick is getting everyone to work together, and with you we can achieve so much more, so much quicker."
For the second time today, I've surprised her. It must be...
"...a truly unique gift for me; yes, it is. Thank you. So...private jet?"
"Sadly, no. We've got a red-eye booked out of O'Hare with a layover in Atlanta, then a connection to JFK."
She laughs, since she knows I'm joking. | 15 |
12 | 1,391,118,754 | 45 | The god of rainbows isn't gay, and he's really tired of people making assumptions. | Alright, I've pretty much had it. I'm not a homophobic or anything but I'm getting pretty tired of people just assuming I'm gay. Like, come on, guys. I was the god of rainbows before the rainbow was even the official symbol for homosexuality in the first place! People come up to me and are like, "Hey, Jeff. I really appreciate you being open about your lifestyle choices." First off, my name isn't Jeff. Let's get that cleared out of the way. Second off, what lifestyle choices do you speak of? I am a straight male who adds a bit of colour when there's rain and sun mixed together and instead of getting thanks, I get hate mail. Yes, I have literally gotten homophobic hate mail from people, including the god of homophobia himself. God damn you, Norman! You sent 5 letters this week. Could you chill out for a few minutes, please? I swear, if you guys don't stop making dumb assumptions, you people will be without rainbows for quite a while and that means no pots of gold. In turn, no pots of gold means there'll be a lot of angry leprechauns. So, unless you people want a leprechaun riot on your hands, I suggest you smarten up. | 17 |
47 | 1,391,133,362 | 94 | An evil witch curses you with a guardian angel. Why? | The day I was born my fairy godmother appeared, as is the custom, and summoned from the air the most amazingly beautiful figure anyone had ever seen. Six foot three, pure muscle with giant wings sprouting from his back, this naked adonis glowed with holy light. Golden hair ran down his bronzed back and wide blue eyes reflected the sunlight.
That was 18 years ago. I know now that my fairy godmother truly hated me.
"Come on, lets go clean the stables." Walking slowly to the shit filled stables, my shovel on my back, I tried to avoid the crowds of gorgeous young women who lined the streets of the small village where I lived. It had been like this my entire life. At first, it was fantastic! So many beautiful women always around seems like a dream to a 12 year old, but when it became perfectly clear that they were only interested in my guardian Angel, Stephanus, it started to get old.
Angels don't change. Apparently they don't wear clothes either. I've spent my life with a nearly omnipotent chiselled naked Aryan demi-god with wings walking behind me. As the chubby son of a minor noble, it's caused me some problems. I'm always compared to him. When I was 10, I learned to ride a horse. He flew beside me. Which would you watch? Right. Dating? Uh-huh. Water water everywhere, but not a girl to kiss.
Steve's not all bad himself though. It's really not his fault. He doesn't sleep with any of the women, that would be unholy. The most he does is try to get them to pray more. He's also not all that intelligent. It's like having a puppy. A really well meaning well hung puppy that's actually a 6 foot tall god-man. He cares about me, but it seems like they don't have personal space in heaven which has made for a few awkward situations. It took a while to get used to him watching me sleep.
We shovelled shit. It's nice not to have to do that alone at least. I swear though if a Fairy Godmother shows up to the birth of my children (not that I'll ever have any at this rate), I'll know exactly what to do.
I'll use this shovel to make a godmother popsicle. | 107 |
13 | 1,391,167,864 | 22 | Stuck with a case of Insomnia, a man decides to go for a midnight walk through a park. As he continues with his journey he encounters things that get stranger and stranger. | He couldn't sleep - which was no surprise at this point. The bed was freshly made and to anyone else it was the picture of comfort; a soft mattress, clean sheets and an army of fluffy pillows. To him it was a mad man with a knife, laughing at him in his own home. It was anxiousness and hate and fear and so many confusing things.
He wanted to sleep, *needed* to, but his condition wouldn't let him. Insomnia isn't having a rough night of sleep, or not getting enough, it's a whole lot more. The doctor had prescribed him pills but he hated them on account of the side-effects. Diarrhea, constipation, dry mouth, dizziness and headaches were the least of his worries - he was in the fun little percentile that also got sleepwalking.
He'd pop a pill and wake to find his cupboard re-arranged by a semi-conscious zombie. Worse still he'd still wake up tired. The pills were now a last resort only.
Walking had been suggested and he'd taken it up quickly -occasionally he even jogged. A grandfather clock in the hallway, that coincidentally had been his grandfathers, struck out the twelve chimes for midnight as he closed the front door behind him and made his way down a garden path and out to the open street.
The street lights were on and shone through the trees that stood along side of them, the world of the footpath was filled with marbled light and shadow. He walked, hands in pockets, towards no where in particular but with the hopes that the path he chose would lead him to sleep. Eventually he'd end up in the park, like always.
He liked to try and guess what his neighbors were like based upon their homes. Clean cut front lawn, hedged fence, lawn ornaments, and a well maintained home - retired couple. Grass a little long, white picket fence, big SUV in driveway, and a fresh/ongoing renovation - growing young family. No grass, chain link fence, beware dog sign, and a dilapidated house - deadbeat dad? Drug addicts?
He noticed the man that lie on the porch and could hear him talking to himself. The latter.
Maybe a dead beat drug addicted dad - the classic double.
The sleepless wanderer turned down new and unfamiliar streets and played the game again and again every sleepless night - which was every night these days.
Eventually the game became repetitive - there was only so many variations of the same old combinations, but tonight was different: he found something new. Grass and piles of rubbish grew in the front yard with equal vigor and the front porch was filled with a carefully tetrised pile of junk.
There was so much trash that it had spilled out over the heavily crooked and rotten front fence and onto the foot path in the form of discarded junk food wrappers, a toy bear, soiled sheets, and a small plastic tricycle.
"Junk collectors" he thought as he stepped over the tiny bike. A new house type for his list.
A few Young Families and Retirees later he noticed it.
A small, quiet squeaking from behind him. Exhaustion had seen an end to fear and he turned. Nothing was there.
He looked down and saw the small plastic tricycle, a few houses from where he had left it.
Tiredness plays tricks on the mind and he knew this well. He turned and continued his walk. The squeaking started almost immediately. He stopped and looked at the bike again. It had definitely moved. The tired man swatted the dark air between himself and the bike. Perhaps his shoelace had got stuck and was dragging the bike, maybe a fiber from his jeans.
His blind swatting found nothing but open air. An eye was kept on the bike as he stood and stepped backwards. The bike did not move.
As he was about to exhale it rolled forward.
He turned and ran.
The squeaking kept pace.
Houses blurred passed and the passing lights and trees strobed light across his face. In the distance he could see the familiar signage of the park. He closed the distance and jumped the fence, a rattle of plastic slamming into metal followed a second later.
"I really need to sleep." He thought.
He was now in the park, but was amongst the trees and shrubs, no paths in sight. The fence was not an option, and so he lunged into the woods. Light was just barely weaving through the trees and beckoned him to follow. He hacked and stomped as best he could and eventually fell through a shrub and onto a path. His beacon glowed above him, hanging from a curved post.
A low hiss came from his left and he rolled to a crouch. Down the path at a bench were two people, one standing and one sitting. The upright figure was dressed a clown and the fellow on the bench appeared to be dressed as a cat. The clown fidgeted with something at it's waist and the same low his came out. A balloon grew from the clowns belt and he deftly turned it into a horse, or a dog, or a giraffe. The clown handed it to the cat whi instantly bit into it.
The balloon didn't pop but instead gave out a wet squelch and retained most of it's shape, save the missing bite. The cat ate quickly and greedily and soon the balloon animal was gone. The insomniac could see a dark sheen across the lower half of the cat man's face.
The pair turned slowly in unison and looked at him. He couldn't move.
The cat smiled and stood. The clown made a balloon knife that looked too sharp and shined too brightly.
He still couldn't move.
The pair broke into a run and he, at last, was able to do the same.
The insomniac screamed and pleaded with the night but only heard his own voice reflected back by the emptiness and the sounds of several pairs of feet beating against pavement. He could see the parks entrance and in his heart he knew he would be safe if he could just-
Something big and heavy slammed into his back and it and the sleepless man tumbled to the floor. He rolled on to his back and saw the cat on all fours on the ground near to him - the clown had stopped running and was exaggeratedly slapping it's knee and laughing. The man thought he would have felt better if the clowns laughter had made any noise at all.
The man dressed as a cat put a hand forward, the clown stopped it's non-laughing and walked towards our hero, a very real knife raised above it's head. He did his best to crawl backwards and the pair sprinted forwards. He rose to his fit and ran, something swished by his shoulder and he left the park at full gallop.
He was half a street away when he noticed that only his own footsteps could be heard - a quick look over his shoulder and he saw his attackers at the park gate, waving.
The run home left his heart pounding in his ears. Every window and door in his home was locked and double-checked and he collected a heavy knife from the kitchen.
The police would, after hearing his statement and reviewing his history, say that he had had a hallucinogenic breakdown due to lack of sleep. They had no explanation for the tear in his jacket where the clowns knife had just sliced, missing his flesh by a fraction. No one believed him and at night he could hear people walking about just outside the windows whilst something squeaked up and down the street.
After several more nights of not sleeping he took his medication.
All of it. | 14 |
24 | 1,391,174,716 | 44 | Aliens threaten the entire Earth with apocalypse unless one specific person is surrendered. Write from that guy's perspective. | Howard stood still and looked up at the sky. It was dark out, save for a slight silver glow atop the cylindrical object that seemed to mirror the light of the moon.
“I ain’t surrendering to no Mexican,” he said.
“They aren’t Mexican, Howard. They’re aliens. They’re going to destroy the planet if you don’t help us here.”
“Let me ask you a question. Do you like your job? Do you like your family? Do you like your country? I love my country, but these illegal aliens are going to take your jobs away if give them the chance.”
“Howard, I cannot make this any more clear. These people—things—are not from Mexico. They are not from this planet. We don’t even know where they’re from.”
“If you don’t know where they’re from, then how you know they ain’t no Mexicans?”
“We know. We know they aren’t Mexicans. We are 100% aware that they are not Mexican.”
“Sorry, General Commander Sir, or whatever your name is, I ain’t giving up my job to a bunch of illegal aliens. I love my country too much.”
“Your country is going to be destroyed, Howard! There will be no more America if you refuse this.”
“I’d rather die in an America where full-blooded Americans don’t have to fight Mexicans for their jobs than one where all the CEOs are speaking Mexican to their American servants.”
The general screamed and threw his hat on the floor. It was clear he wanted Howard shot, but the amount of cameras surrounding them made it quite challenging. There was also the fact that the visitors wanted Howard alive at threat of annihilation, which had stopped countless murder attempts already. He grabbed his hat off the floor, brushed the dirt off, and marched back over to the line of soldiers. Howard remained still. He looked back up at the object levitating silently in the sky. He was pretty sure he could see the Mexican flag. The speakers behind Howard turned on again.
“Hello, this is General Hughes. Are you sure you are unwilling to take Howard dead?”
“Yes,” returned a voice that sounded identical to General Hughes’. “He has insulted our heritage; your death is too good for him.”
Howard laughed. “God damn Mexicans, go back to your side of the border. We don’t want none of your chalupas!” he shouted.
General Hughes ran back over to Howard, followed by closely another high-ranking officer.
“Shut up! Howard, shut up! You’re going to get this entire planet destroyed.”
The second officer stopped just behind the General. “Why do they even want this guy so bad?” he asked, staring at Howard who was now humming the national anthem softly.
“Have you not been following this at all?” the General asked.
“Not really, I’ve been on deployment for the past few days.”
“This idiot was the first one to make contact, he heard them on a damn CB radio. Who even uses those things anymore? When he heard they weren’t from America, he went off on some racist rant about Mexicans and ended up insulting their ancestors. He even went on a tirade against the damn creature’s mothers. We don’t even know if they have mothers, but he spent the better part of an hour comparing their mother’s body-type to stars in supernova. Apparently the damn creatures had this entire rant played through their ships, and repeated back to the home planet, and now they want Howard.”
“So we can’t just tie him up?”
“We can, but all those damn human rights groups are up in arms about ‘freedom of choice’ and are threatening a full-on uprising.”
“God damn liberals,” Howard said.
“Those liberals are saving your pathetic life, Howard, you piece of shit,” said General Hughes.
“And I’m saving your job from a bunch of Mexicans,” Howard said.
The general opened his mouth, then shut it. He opened it again, shut it, then turned and walked away. The second officer followed.
Howard looked back up at the floating object. He was amazed Mexico had such futuristic technology. Probably stole it from the Americans, he thought. He couldn’t believe the military wanted to welcome these Mexicans to their land, and then surrender one of their own—a good, God-fearing, true-to-life American. He was appalled.
“This is your final warning,” pierced a disembodied voice.
The General ran over to Howard. He was carrying a piece of paper. He handed it to him.
“What’s this?” Howard asked.
“It’s a note from the President. It explains that, if you board this ship, the United States of America will permanently ban Mexicans from ever entering, legal or illegal. It is also signed by the Mexican president. All you have to do is surrender yourself. If you don’t, the borders will be permanently opened, and all Americans will be fired from their jobs.”
Howard quickly glanced down at the contract. There were quite a few big words, which caused Howard a bit of difficulty, but he caught the gist of the terms.
“So, let me get this straight. Y’all negotiating with terrorists?” Howard asked. “I thought this was America. I thought we believed in Freedom.”
“Howard. God dammit. If you don’t walk over to that ship right now, you are going to forever turn the United States of America into the United States of America-Mexico. That’s on you.”
“Sorry, but a great leader once said that the United States does not negotiate with terrorists. If I have to personally stand by the border every day with my shotgun and stop those damn Mexicans, I’ll do that. But I ain’t negotiating with no terrorists—especially no damn floating Mexicans.”
The General took out his pistol and fired. Howard's limp body tumbled backwards as the sky lit up in a blinding flash of white.
____________
[^If ^you ^enjoy ^my ^writing ^style, ^feel ^free ^to ^check ^out ^some ^of ^my ^others ^shorts/prompts ^at ^my ^Wordpress!](http://zacharydiamond.wordpress.com/) | 60 |
25 | 1,391,174,856 | 57 | Sometime in the future, murder is legal. Why? | "No, look, okay, yes- I definitely killed him. Yes. But my paperwork was all good!"
My partner shook his head. This always happened when people tried to 'DIY' their kill sheets. The guy had been waving the flimsy piece of paper around like a shield while we waited for the coroner to come pick up the body in the kitchen. "Look- This form isn't even for our state. You went to some website, printed this out, and didn't even check to see if it was the right state. This kind of shit screams of crime of passion. I bet your printer is still warm."
His eyes darted up to the second floor... probably the home office. Yeah. Figures. "No, no.... I've been planning this for..."
"Listen, buddy. Murder that isn't properly premeditated is still a crime. And 'properly' is pretty god-damn specifically laid out. You're going to have to come with us. You have the right remain silent, which I seriously suggest you consider before trying to lie to us some more, okay?"
| 70 |
14 | 1,391,175,462 | 42 | You have been found "not guilty" of a crime you DID commit | "We, the jury, find the defendant not guilty."
Oh, how sweet those words were. They could agree - they could *all* agree - that I was the sort of person who could have done it. They saw it on my face, in my eyes. They heard it in the character witnesses. I'd dare say they *felt* it.
They could feel all they want but you can't convict a man on what you fuckin feel! No you can't. No siree. The feds had jumped at me with a handful of evidence and my lawyer, who is going to get a god damn raise, swatted it away. Circumstantial - he had argued.
I don't know what that means, and I don't fuckin care!
I'm a free man. And I can live. And I can party!
Oh, how I'm gonna party. The cops are pissed, no man behind bars means no bonus I bet! Fuckin pigs.
Fuck I want to party! I'm going to snort and smoke and drink and fuck!
I'm gonna party!
I might bring my razor with me again. Find a lil lady. I'll fuck and I'll party.
They didn't catch me this time. Didn't even get me in court with the others.
I'm gonna party. | 23 |
17 | 1,391,182,099 | 39 | Someone spills a cup of milk by accident, which eventually leads to an epic catastrophe on a global scale | This is gonna be the dumbest shit ever. Oh my god I love the prompt already.
________________
Harry dipped another Oreo, allowing the milk to soak in. Suddenly, without warning, he sneezed. He involuntarily jerked his hand, causing the milk to crash to the floor.
The apartment he lived in was never very good, and the milk dripped through the ceiling, onto the head of a senile old man down below. Peter got up to get a paper towel to dry his noggin with, but he tripped next to his window. He fell to the street.
Carly was driving home from work when the old man landed on her hood. Her tires screeched with her instinctual smashing of the brakes, and the cars behind her either stopped or smashed into each other.
Mr. Jeffreys, one of the richest men in Chicago, was thrown forward when his limo driver suddenly slammed on the brakes. An 18 wheeler came from behind, crumpling the limousine. Mr. Jeffreys was killed instantly.
Mr. Jeffreys left his corporation, Exxon (I'm making stuff up now) to his son, Ben Jeffreys. Ben decided NOT to purchase oil from Saudi Aramco anymore. Despite their best efforts, Sauid Aramco collapsed from the loss of sales.
This prompted Talibani insurgents to come and commandeer all of Saudi Aramco's equipment, and now the world was in trouble.
Gas prices skyrocketed after the Taliban took control of all oil exports in Saudi Arabia, and America simply ceased to function. Cars lined the streets, where those who had run out of gas simply walked away. The USA was quickly taken down on the global totem-pole, and many other countries considered talking the land.
In a bold move, the French attempted to commandeer the USA. They quickly surrendered when faced with, like, 6 guys with hunting rifles. This would be the first attack of many.
China was next in line, and they successfully took everything from California to Texas, thankfully leaving Washington DC to make the final decision.
As Russia attacked through Canda, Obama made the toughest choice of all time.
He would have to nuke America.
Harry poured himself another glass of milk, a full 6 months after the incident. He dipped an Oreo, laid it on his tongue, and chewed. It was delightful.
He looked out his window to see a mushroom cloud sprout up, throwing cars and telephone poles hundreds of feet up in the air.
"At least I've got my Oreos." he said, just before being vaporized.
_______________________
That was fun! Thanks OP. | 19 |
6 | 1,391,183,263 | 13 | You've just hit the red button, dropping the first A bomb since Hiroshima. | The war had gone on far too long, tens of millions lay dead. Literally the deadliest war in history. The outcome of the war seems obvious, we would win. Yet the enemy refused to admit defeat, for them surrender was not an option.
The aircraft's engines roared behind me as I gazed through the bomb sight. Conditions were less than ideal, heavy cloud cover had already forced us to switch to a secondary target, and we were running low on fuel thanks to a failed pump.
The secondary target also had heavy cloud cover. It was looking as though we might have to abort the mission. A minute past 11, there was a break in the clouds. I gazed down upon Nagasaki. With visual of the target, the bomb is let loose. 43 seconds it falls before the blinding flash of light, followed soon after by a deafening explosion that shook the plane.
Whether it would be enough to end the war, only time would tell.
(The history of the prompt bothered me since Nagasaki was bombed after Hiroshima) | 10 |
19 | 1,391,192,793 | 42 | Instead of trading money for everyday things, we trade memories. | I found a diary today. It was tucked into an old backpack that I hadn't seen for some time. I'm still not sure why I even bothered to look through that filthy pack. I had it for three years when I was living in homeless shelters and parks. When I was finally able to afford a house, the first thing I did was hide the backpack in my basement so I wouldn't have to look at it anymore.
The diary still smelled like the filthy drifter I used to be. I almost threw it away but, for a reason I still can't understand, I couldn't put it down.
My memories of the past are a little fuzzy. I know I sold some memories to pay for the house but I'm not sure exactly what I lost. That was always fine with me. I'm finally off the street and I can't miss what I don't remember.
I scanned the pages of the diary and I was filled with disgust. Everything I wrote was so full of self-pity and mourning. Maybe if I hadn't wasted so much time feeling sorry for myself I wouldn't have been without a job for so long.
Every few pages, I found a poem or lyrics to a song. They were all addressed to the same name: Claire. I didn't write this book to mourn my own poverty. I wrote it to mourn the loss of this woman.
On the last page, I saw a few sentences. I had addressed them to myself.
*"It has been three years, eight months, and six days since Claire died. Every one of these days has hurt just as bad as the day of the car wreck. If you have read the pages of this book then you understand how much her loss has pained me. Within a few months, depression put me out on the street. I filled dozens of books like these with poems and stories to try to flush out my pain into ink but it did nothing.*
*"About two years ago, a man read one of these books. He told me he had searched his whole life for the type of love I had. He wanted my memories of her. He offered me food. When that wasn't enough he offered me a job. When that wasn't enough he offered me a house. For two years I refused, choosing to be homeless rather than to give her up. But I can't keep making this choice anymore. I envy the blissful ignorance you will live with. I considered writing the address of her grave in these pages but ~~you don't des~~ we don't deserve her."*
Sometimes, when I climb into my cold, empty bed at night, I think of Claire. But I feel nothing. And it makes me sad. | 36 |
6 | 1,391,198,528 | 15 | You wake up in the middle of the night and looked at the time, the time was broken and read 6:66. You checked other clocks, all of the time read 6:66. | "*Oh shit, not again.*"
It's tough being the Devil's best friend, but someone's gotta do it.
HEY POL
As usual, he's perched on the end of my bed, hooves crossed, looking eagerly at me.
"Listen, Luce..."
DON'T CALL ME LUCE. IT'S SATAN. OR 'YOUR DARKNESS.' NOT LUCE.
"Look Luce, it's the middle of the fucking night." I push the covers off and sit up, rubbing my eyes. "So, if you could fuck off, I'd appreciate that."
If Satan is anything, he's predictable, and now he presented the Mickey Mouse watch on his wrist to me. The digital screen read, very clearly 6.66.
"Very nice."
YOU LIKE IT?
"No."
There's an awkward pause.
I THOUGHT IT WAS FUNNY, Satan sniffs
"Why Mickey, anyway?"
I'M THE DEVIL, REMEMBER?
"Of course. Yeah, sorry. Could you leave now?"
WHY? I THOUGHT WE COULD GO TO VEGAS AGAIN.
"Have you forgotten that they don't accept souls as bets?"
Satan sniffed again.
WHAT ABOUT DISNEY WORLD?
"I've got a test tomorrow."
The Devil visibly brightens up.
SELL ME YOUR SOUL AND I'LL MAKE SURE YOU PASS IT.
"For the last time, no, Luce. Not my soul. We're friends, remember?"
SOME FRIEND WHO WON'T COME TO VEGAS WITH ME
"Fuck off, Luce." I turn over in bed, away from the Devil.
DON'T CALL ME LUCE
"Goodnight, Satan." I say firmly
AWH MAN, DON'T BLOW ME OFF, PLEASE.
I make no response. He sighs and the clocks tick back to 2.06. I don't hear him leave.
I don't get to sleep for some time. | 17 |
8 | 1,391,231,164 | 17 | A young child and a serial killer, despite having never met, share a telepathic link | **Serial Killer Perspective**
I... I can hear him. The silent nightmares that plague him, his childhood innocence lightly dances upon my calloused emotions, whispering softly, threatening to break me. He reminds me of who I once was. Blind and ignorant to society's demons, unable to fathom how painful emotional distress becomes, controlling your actions. For the first time in years, I pity someone other than myself.
I'm changing him. I know he can hear me.
**Young Child**
I hear whispers sometimes. When I dream, I hear voices telling me I'll be okay. That it'll be over soon. I'm glad he's there. I like him, he's different, just like me. He gets really mad sometimes, I feel bad for him. He gets really mad, then he cries, and tells me he's sorry. I tell him things will be okay, just like he does for me, but he never answers. He's starting to feel better I think.
I'm changing him. I know he can hear me. | 15 |
2 | 1,391,235,663 | 16 | A Roman solider is transported to the middle of New York City. | I think I had fun writing this...
----------------------------
It was still day. At least that hadn't changed. But everything else had. Around him, massive buildings leaped up toward the skiy, and the paintings that adorned them danced and moved and flickered. Sounds blasted from every direction, sometimes monotone blares like an animal's call, and others rhythmic with chaotic melodies sung by distressed barbarians.
A dozen foreign tongues babbled inanities around him and young girls with loose hair and bright, form-fitting clothes were pointing to him with wide smiles.
He set his jaw and reached for the hilt of his sword with his right hand, only to find it missing. Braving a moment to inspect himself, he found his clothes intact- a worn gray tunic under his leather cuirass and studded shoulder guards. His helmet was off, but he preferred himself without it and had found its weight a distraction during his last encounter with the Scots.
But this was not Scotland and he felt suddenly wary of his head's vulnerability. Metal carriages roared past him on two sides and he jerked his head from side to side as he struggled to understand their paths. They followed impossibly smooth roads whose black surfaces were marked with words and letters he nearly understood. An arrow pointing away and the letters "O-N-L-Y."
He turned suddenly as a brave group of young women called to him in strange words from barely out of arm's reach. Despite their untidy hair and bizarre clothes, he could see a certain beauty to the one of the three whose brown hair was streaked in gold.
"Ave et que vale," he spoke, taking their wide smiles to mean they were harmless.
The trio was thrown into a fit of giggles and Quintus was forced to take a wild step backwards as the nearest girl (the homely one with the short, upturned nose whose body was barely skin and bones) laid her hand on his shoulder and pushed lightly.
He noticed now they each held a kind of rectangle in their hands. The girl with the gold hair held hers up and the eye that lay near the top of its pink surface turned to him. She spoke something with an inflection that he assumed was a question, but found he could only shake his head in response.
But they failed to grasp his meaning, and the girl with the gold-streaks had her arm around the small of his back and pressed her hip into his thigh. Her companions raised their rectangles (one purple, and one white) and made noises with rhythm before they lowered them. The three then took steps back and moved their hands at him as they took their leave.
Quintus stood in astonishment and set his eyes again to paintings that moved and sparkled across the walls.
| 14 |
22 | 1,391,246,838 | 70 | Instead of life followed by death, there is a third form of existence which ends once everyone living forgets you | It was a waiting room. A big, wide waiting room with an infinite number of straight-backed grey chairs and a low table with a copy of *Cosmopolitan* from 2004. It was full, but silent. No-one was breathing - after all, there was no need to, not now they were dead. No-one spoke to each other, either. They were all dressed in identical grey suits, hands folded neatly in their lap, fingers clenched around each other so hard that the room was filled with an infinite number of white knuckles.
I'd like to say that it was old age that took me, but it wasn't. When you're young, you imagine death to be something that will never happen to you. To other people, maybe, but not you in your safe little world.
I took a seat next to a young woman with dark brown hair that tumbled over the Margaret Thatcher-like shoulder pads of the bulky grey suit she wore. She had an odd kind of expression on her face, and looking around, I realised it was the same for all of them. They strained forwards in their chairs, a desperate look of concentration twisting around the lines in their faces.
"Hey, hey," I said quietly, leaning into her. For a moment the mask of concentration breaks and she whirls round to me. She is livid.
"Hush! I'm listening!"
Listening to what, I wonder, leaning back in my chair. It's not comfortable, but not uncomfortable either. It doesn't feel much like anything. Maybe that's what being dead is like.
There are no physical signs on my body of how I died. Is physical the right word? Maybe I'm just a ghost, or something. A soul? I don't know. Then I hear it.
"James," It comes loud and clear and I almost start out of my chair. I spin around, but it doesn't seem to be coming from anywhere.
"If you can hear me, James..."
I lean forward in my chair. Someone is talking to me. I try to stand up, but it's like I've been anchored down.
"Hey! Someone help!" I cry out. "Someone help me, there's been a mistake!"
But everyone in the room ignores me. They are too busy listening. Eventually I stop trying, but by then the voice is gone.
I sit. I wait. The time ticks by slowly.
"Yeah, James... God, I just miss him so much." It's my brother's voice. It's coming from somewhere, but I can't tell where, like his voice is seeping to me through the fog.
This time I do not shout out. If I shout, I won't be able to hear him.
"Tom, Tom, I'm so sorry." I whisper it, but his voice is already long gone.
Time passes. The voices become fainter. I strain forwards to hear them. Always to hear them. I hear my mother, my brother, my father.
I cry. Often, I cry. I didn't realise they had loved me this much. Why couldn't they have said this when I was alive?
There's a gasp from beside me. The girl with the brown hair is crying, too. I do not console her. I only want to hear my family's voices again.
She stands and leaves.
I keep listening.
The voices fade away.
So do I.
Edit: jesus, thanks for the gold. Still pissed, but i love you, whoever it was | 50 |
9 | 1,391,257,879 | 13 | You've just killed someone either on purpose or accidentally, and a shocked witness is standing nearby. What will you do? | "I had no choice!" I scream back." She..." no not she, it... "it would have been a vegetable its whole life and never lived!"
The protesters outside of the clinic just stare at me. Their eyes filled with hatred, and their mouth quirked up to sneers.
Entering my car I close the door and the world blurs. I feel the wetness wash down my cheeks and I start to shutter and convulse. Six years of trying, so many miscarriages. I had such dreams of hold her.
I just wanted to hold my child, I just wanted to hold my daughter. | 10 |
39 | 1,391,266,155 | 77 | You are a murderer witnessing the execution of the person accused of committing your crime. | They say when you've done something wrong, you feel guilty.
They also say when someone else gets blamed for your misdeed you're supposed to stand up, claim the wrongdoing as your own.
Well, whoever *they* are, *they* don't know their ass from their elbow.
I feel neither guilt for my murders, nor remorse for the poor bastard who sits in the gas chamber in my stead.
You might as well ask me if I feel sorry for eating meat, or not making sure I separate all of my recyclables in my trash.
It honestly does not matter to me.
Those are emotions for the cattle of humanity. Not for me.
The only thing I feel is inconvenienced. I had a few more bodies to pin on this asshole.
Oh well, I suppose I can always find someone else.
There are always more drifters. More lonely hearts ads I can manipulate.
I have a weekend to kill.
(Edits for grammar and added narcissism.) | 62 |
14 | 1,391,286,379 | 68 | As a young child you were put in a coma after a terrible car accident that killed your family. You wake up 60 years later in a hospital and find yourself an old man. | I woke up confused. The last thing I remembered was Mommy picking me up from school. I looked around the room, which was a pretty shade of blue. I didn't understand why I wasn't in my bedroom at home. I heard from somewhere above the bed "Dr. Shah please report to the C-ward, code green." I realized I must be at the hopspital.
A nurse in light blue scrubs opened the door to my room, and her eyes got real big when they locked with mine. I opened my mouth to speak, but all that came out was a croak like a frog. I tried to lift my head to look for some water, but it felt heavy. I strained to raise my head even a little, and the nurse rushed over, saying "Don't move, just lie back and I'll get you something to drink, sir." I thought it was weird she called me sir, that was something people usually called Daddy.
I looked down, and my feet looked really far away. I looked at my hands, but they didn't look like my hands. I started feeling really scared, but then nurse got back with my water. She asked me if I knew where I was while I sipped the water through a straw, and I nodded yes. I knew I was in the hopspital, so I must be sick. She looked surprised, and asked me if I knew what date it was. I shrugged my shoulders, I thought it was just after Christmas. Mommy had got me a real cool Tonka truck last Christmas.
She set the water down as a doctor came in the room. He had really dark skin, it looked like the color of Cocoa Puffs. He looked even more surprised than the nurse did when he saw me looking at him. He said "Mr. Saunders, I have some very important things talk about with you. You were in a very serious car accident as a child. You have been in a coma for the past sixty years." I looked at him, not understanding what he meant. Sixty years? That's older than Grampa! As he explained though, things began to click: he strange looking hands, the longer legs.
I made like I was writing something, and the doctor handed me a pen and paper. I tried to grab the pen, but ended up with a clumsy fist around it. I wrote in huge crooked letters "Mommy?" The doctor sighed and shared a look with the nurse. He gestured to the door and they went out into the hall together. I took the pen and started doodling, waiting for them to come back. | 51 |
End of preview. Expand
in Dataset Viewer.
Essay prompts scraped from r/WritingPrompts, from dates May 9, 2014 — August 16, 2022 (in an attempt to ensure that all written samples are human-written).
This dataset includes the top 25% voted prompts, given they have a responding comment that has top 25% votes for comments. In other words, each sample in this dataset is only kept if (a) the prompt is in the top 25% of votes for posts and (b) the resulting top comment is in the top 25% percentile of votes for comments. We only take posts with the WP flair.
- Downloads last month
- 68