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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'

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

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.

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.

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."

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.

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.

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!"

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."

"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."

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*

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.

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.

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!

"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."

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.

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?*

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.

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

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.

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.

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.

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.

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?"

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.

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*."

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.

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...

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.

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)

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.

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!"

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!"

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.

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.

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...*

- "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…”

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.*

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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/)

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?"

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.

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.

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)

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.

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.

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.

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.

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

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.

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.)

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.

Somebody long-since trapped in a time loop learns the only way to break the cycle is to condemn another person to their own time loop.

He took a sip of his scotch. He was sitting at a small round table, his eyes closed in contemplation of the taste, and he took his time to do it properly. Time was, after all, the one thing he didn't lack. He put the glass back on the table near the bottle, and took a look at his wristwatch: seven fifteen and thirty four seconds. In ten seconds, the ship would collide with a wave big enough to feel it, and the old clock in the captain's cabin would fall down. He knew he would hear him curse the gods, and after a few moments hear him again, attempting to place the clock back on the wall. The sea used to make him sick. He would spend every moment at sea vomiting, or feeling like he was about to die in a terrible agony, only to vomit shortly after. That was, of course, no longer the case. These days he wished he could just die, he would take any kind of suffering to be released from this torture of boredom, from this repetitive routine that almost seemed like it was staged. Every move rehearsed to the point that no mistake would ever be made, and no matter what elements he would introduce, the outcome would in a way or another converge back to what was written in the script, however nonsensical it would seem. He once cut the throat of the captain right in front of the rest of the crew, while he was having his morning coffee with the sailors out on the deck, as he liked to. Their eyes stared at him with horror, someone jumped him from behind and restrained him, another one punched him and broke his arm to take the knife. They argued for a while about what to do with him, but in the end they decided that they would let the police deal with him once they reached the shore, in a little more than a day. They went back to their business, the part of the captain now played by his second in command, like nothing had changed. Another time he had cut his own throat and he felt as his life it went away, but the feeling of peace didn't last that much. He awoke shortly after, the cycle restarted, the day reset. It was pointless to look for a way out, he knew. The shore was but a day of sailing away, but after all these years he might as well have been living in a water world all along, a world where the shore was a lie told to the children in order to keep their hopes up and give some sort of meaning to their lives. He couldn't even remember what standing on solid ground felt like. Had it been ten years? No, much more. A hundred? He didn't know. He lost count after a while. It could have been a thousand years, a million years, it didn't make any difference. This was his own hell, and he had been living in it longer than he had lived before all this. Why was he on this ship? It had something to do with an inspection on the other side of the sea, but other than that, he couldn't recall. He had tried killing himself countless times, he had tried killing everyone countless times, in countless possible permutations, and nothing had ever changed. Not until he had tried to misplace the bottle of scotch. It was the one thing he never thought of doing, taking the bottle with him to his cabin and drink himself to death, or at least to sleep. He didn't know how much alcohol was required to kill a man, but he thought an entire bottle of 16 years old single malt would be enough to at the very least award his attempt with a coma. He was instead awarded with rain. He found himself crying, completely naked out on the deck, his hands hugging the sky and his throat hurting for the screams of joy. The rain was not in the script. It never happened before, it shouldn't have, but that morning, at 4am, it had begun to rain. After that he passed out, but the next night he tried again: he took the bottle of scotch to his room, and rain began to fall shortly after. He also noticed that the glass he took with him was still there the next day, but went back to its starting position the day after. He tried taking the clock from the captain's cabin, and he found it in his room the next morning. The bottle of scotch kept going back, but every time he took an object, it would not be completely filled. With the glass and the clock the difference was almost impossible to see, but when he took the jukebox, he saw a significant decrease in the level of scotch. He had decided that the bottle was somehow 'weighing' his offer to it. The more he offered to take outside of the loop, the more the level dropped. So he decided to offer another person, and took the captain back to his room. He didn't think things through, and things got out of hand when he wouldn't let him leave, so he had to put a knife through his eye to let him stay. His body, at least. The crew was very confused when the captain didn't show up the *'next'* morning, but the captain got his life back the day after, and the bottle had seemed to appreciate the offer, as only a couple of inches of scotch had remained. That was what a life was worth in this distorted, surreal play that was his own hell. That was what he needed to offer back to the bottle to be able to escape, or at least that was what he thought would happen. If another life was to take his place while he took his own, maybe he would be free. Maybe he would finally be dead. The tricky thing was to have it all happen in his room, without the other one leaving. "Damn the gods to hell, I hate this floating piece of shit!". Right on time, without fail. The captain was the perfect specimen for this little experiment of his. The excitement he felt, it was an alien feeling, something he had long forgotten. He knew how to make things work. He went up to the captain's quarters and knocked on the door. The man, who was frustratingly trying to put the clock back on the wall at that point, left his task to open the door and ask him what in the seven hells did he want, and why instead of bothering him didn't he go to fuck himself off on the bloody deck. A smile crept on his face, and he almost chuckled. He took his knife and stabbed the captain in the gut, then twisted enough to see his expression of angered surprise turn to an expression of pain, and feel him go numb in his arms. He wasn't dead, good. He had practiced this long enough to know how to make him lose consciousness and not bleed out. He needed to have him last at least another twelve hours, but he was sure he got things right this time. He wrapped the captain in a blanket and carried him back to his room, putting him on the bed. He would come to soon enough, and he would have to sedate him to keep his metabolism slow. He had already cauterized the wound and patched it up, so he shouldn't be bleeding out. Ten hours left. He poured himself another glass, drinking to the captain's honour. The man was delirious, probably feverish, but alive. Five hours. Someone was yelling, looking for him, but no one suspected he could be here. Three hours. He was very pale, too pale, and a sudden movement of the ship almost woke him up. The rain was incredibly strong, it had become a storm. One hour. This was it, he could hear thunder roaring and the ship was dancing the dance of death with the ocean, like the universe was being torn apart and they were running away from the quickly opening rip. Thirty minutes. It was time, the cycle would soon start again and he would not be here for it to suck him in again. He took the knife to his chest, and plunged it in. That, he had practiced many times as well. As life was leaving him, he heard thunders like he never heard before in his life, and saw lighting bolts so powerful he thought they would be tearing the sea itself in two. Suddenly, peace set in. Light. He heard bells ringing, and felt the ship stopping. The engines shut down. They had reached the shore. He opened his eyes and smiled, while a single tear came down his cheek. His hands then touched the knife deeply plunged in his chest, and he exhaled his last breath. At least, at last he was free. *** Wow, this came out longer than I expected... EDIT: Not being a native english speaker, I have difficulty deciding if I completely fucked up the verb tenses. Too many 'had's, or too little?

A research team finds a tomb containing the corpses and technology of a long extinct culture of super-advanced humans, and they discover clues as how they reached their fate, and why nobody has found them yet.

Matthew Smith looked intently at the man who was half buried in an eviscerated panel on the outer wall of the structure. "What've you got there Jimmy?" "Almost there, battery tapped in, just tracing the control lines to clip onto aaaannnnddd.... OPEN!" Matthew looked up expectantly at the door. It didn't open. "It didn't work." "Huh... Well let me try this one." This time the door shuddered. Then with a creak and a groan of strained metal, the doors cracked open in the middle. They shuddered back a few inches, and then with the scream of rust-on-rust, slammed back into the recesses of the wall. Matthew was an archaeologist. And along with a few members of a specialist team, he was attempting to make his way into a structure that had been uncovered in a mine in southern USA. The tomb of the rocket-men as it was popularly called. An artificial structure almost one thousand meters long, by seven hundred wide, it had been discovered month when a shaft collapse had necessitated a new borehole be dug. The first thing seen when the door cracked open was a body lying on the floor. Well, more specifically, it was a skeleton, collapsing and settling in a cloud of crumbling bone-dust, having been disturbed from it's position of leaning on the doorway. "Leena, document." Matthew commanded, almost necessarily as a wiry looking young woman with a camera dashed forwards. Videoing she took a few cautions steps around the bones. "Very damaged. What remains: Possibly human? At least, very similar architecture. Not enough remaining to make a positive identification, movement will cause further disintegration." "Take a sample, but we move on and in. " Leena nodded, and using a few small tools, took a couple of scrapings and powder samples and placed them into some specimen jars. Michael flicked on his head torch, and being careful to step over what was left of the skeleton, proceeded to lead his team into the depths of the tomb. What was ahead of them, a short corridor, leading up to a junction. Almost eerie in it's silence, except from the shallow, excited breaths of five people and the ringing sounds of their footsteps on metal. Three ways to go, one with a staircase at the end of it, although it was difficult to make out the direction in which it went from where they were. Matthew peered down all of them, as did the rest of his team. "Which way?" Katy was the first one out with it. Gesturing to the corridor of his choice, Jimmy stepped to the left hand tunnel. "Well, if the imaging is correct, we came in on the left hand side of this thing. If they're like us, then I say we turn left, head for the front. At least, that's where I think this should take us." "I disagree. Let's take those stairs and head for the top. That's where I'd put the control room." Katy responded, giving Jimmy *that* look. The one that Matthew knew was going to set both of them off and very shortly devolve into an argument. But before he could step in and head it off, Tom, the final member of their little troupe, started jabbering excitedly and demanding they all come and look at what he had found. Unnoticed by Matthew, Thomas had been scraping away at the grime on one of the walls, and had uncovered something. "Holy hell. Please tell me I'm seeing this." Katy stepped forward and whispered almost reverentially "That's English lettering - E A L I U R - not comlpete obviously - rest of the lettering is too faded to make out in this light. Dammit, if only I had more light." What happened next scared the whole team witless for just a second. Starting with a deep, clunk and a slowly rising hum, the light block directly above them burst into light, and with a series of clicks cascade out to ignited the rest of the lights in the immediate sector, until everything that was in the immediate vicinity was bathed in an even white light. Katy, looking all around herself, and with only a slight tremble in her voice began to talk rather rapidly, her impending conflict with Jimmy forgotten for the moment. "Ooookay then. Spookiness. Grade A Capital S Spookiness. Is anyone else freaked out right now?" Tom ran his fingers over the lettering on the wall, before using a small brush to scrub away the rest of the grime. "*Excalibur*" he whispered softly. "A name?" he continued, his voice more confident. "I think this is the name of this facility, whatever it is. Leena and Matthew looked at each other. "Human. Definatley Human." came from Leena's mouth. "Seems like it. English writing on the wall. Apparent response to voice commands. Upwards. We go up, let's reach the top of the structure and then head forwards." Decision made, the group gathered closer to themselves whatever tools they had and walked the chosen path. ------- Being that it's half one where I am, I will continue this in the morning. ------- Continuing from here ------- The staircase took them up three floors before it became impassable. Some sort of damage had deformed the stairwell above them, making passing it impossible without the liberal application of acetylene torches and heavy lifting equipment. Now, they had a small cutting torch, but ultimately, the decision was made to attempt to find a way around the blockade. Thomas, using a stick of chalk, made a marking on the wall to indicate the direction they were taking, and then sketched a map into a tablet computer he was carrying. His attention taken away, he didn't notice that the others had dropped behind, involved in their own discussion until he nearly stepped on another corpse. He whistled back for the others to come up. This one, Matthew noted, was for a given value of such, more intact than the body down by the entrance. This one, instead of being just a skeleton, still had mummified flesh on it's bones. However, almost none of the bones were intact - some violent trauma had happened to the body - Leena crouched down next to the body and carefully started to examine it, talking more to her camera than the rest of them. "Body. Male. Unknown time how long it's been here. Must be some sort of environmental factor to not show the same decay as the skeleton downstairs. Skull is caved in, all major limbs show multiple breaks, limbs heavily distorted. Cause of death is unknown, but I would hazard a guess it was the skull that did it. Certainly you would be unlikely to recover from that." Panning the camera up and side to side, Leena nodded when she found a bloodspatter on the wall. "Bloodsplatter looks consistent with the skull wound - someone or something caused this man's head to collide violently with the wall. I wonder what happened here?" The whole team looked around as another hum started to rise in the vicinity of them. This time, they all jumped to the side when something appeared in the middle of them. A model of a room, with two people in it. Their images fuzzy and blurred. Then from apparently nowhere, voices started, and the image began to move. The two people seemed to be arguing about something. "... gotta fix... no, you .... I ... to... failing... I can fix... your permission." were the only words that could be made out before one of the figures dashed out of the room. A moment later, Tom gave a scream when a man appeared at the end of the corridor at a run. Again, fuzzy, blurred. He belted it down the corridor, past the team, and down the stairs they had just come up. Just before he disappeared out of sight, there was a pause, a flicker and suddenly he was running in the opposite direction, when something unseen flung the man from his feet. Head collided with the wall, precisely where the bloodstain was, and his now limp body was flung violently around the corridor for a few seconds more, before the hologram folded the body into the same positioning that the real body was in now. The last thing to be shown was a set of words in the middle of the corridor: "Excalibur Internal Security recording terminated. Query answered." Matthew blinked a few times. "Leena, please tell me you got that?" Thomas breathed a sigh. "Full holographic technology, and what is at the least an incredibly intelligent voice recognition/command system. Imagine the applications! Imagine what could be done!" Thomas grabbed Matthew by the front of his shirt. "I have to have it!" Matthew calmly pried Thomas's hands off of him. "All in due time. Let's not get too excited here Thomas. First, let's get to the bridge." To the corridor at large, he spoke out. "Excalibur. Indicate the shortest unobstructed route to your primary command center." There was a minute pause, and then some words formed in the center of the room. "Regret: Captain, Primary command systems unavailable. Significant damage to superstructure. Report: Secondary command systems, Engineering deck. Pathfind?" "Did this thing just call you Captain?" Jimmy inquired of Matthew. Matthew made a gesture to silence him before speaking again. "Excalibur, confirm. Pathfind to secondary command systems. " A series of blue lights along one side of the wall lit up, starting at their position and leading back the way they came. ------- Part three to come tomorrow.

Obama actually turns out to be a Reptilian.

That night, as storm clouds gathered in the darkened skies above Washington, he spoke to a full house of reporters and lobbyists. "And if we can all work together in a show of bipartisan support, I am confident that we can accomplish anything, folks." As the audience applauded, President Obama smiled and waved as he headed off the stage. Reporters flashed cameras and shouted questions behind him. "What do you think about Chris Christie's Bridge-ghazi scandal!?" "When can we expect full economic recovery!?" "What about education, Mr. president!?" But, as anyone finishing a press conference does, Barack simply smiled at friends or fans and continued making his way backstage -until Wendy Walters asked her question. "Is it true you're from the planet Berengaria Prime!!?" It wasn't her question, or her squeaky voice, or even how she rose on tip-toes to try and be seen above a crowd of people all of whom were taller than she was that silenced the cacaphony of reporters' questions. It was the fact that the President stopped and turned on his heel. He smiled broadly and took a step closer to the media, putting a hand warmly on Wendy's shoulder. "Actually, there are days when I'm convinced that my opponents in congress are from Mars." He thought better of saying, "Uranus." The group of reporters chuckled and clicked thousands of photographs of the president smiling with his hand on Wendy's shoulder. One reporter decided it would make for a cute human interest piece. Another wanted it for the UFO section of his outlet's website. And yet another was certain, as he watched the president whisper quietly in the blonde reporter's ear, that it would some day be proof of an affair. "One day," the reporter said to his assistant, watching secret service seal off the exit after Obama and Walters were out of sight, "this picture's gonna be worth millions. Mark my words. I've never seen him take a reporter backstage before. Those two? They're totally doin' it." In the corridor, burly secret service agents walked behind and in front of the President as he smiled at Wendy. "Thanks for taking the time to talk to me, Miss Walters." Obama grinned broadly, one hand in his pocket, walking with purpose through the long corridor. "I- I want to say thank you for wanting to give me an exclusive interview but somehow I'm sure that's not what you really want." Wendy tried to look tough but somehow failed. "Because you think I'm from another planet. What did you call it, Bulgaria Prime?" His eyes glinted at her with bemusement. "Berengaria Prime, and you know exactly what it's called." She had to speed up a bit to keep alongside him. "We've been watching, Mr. Obama -or whatever your real name is -and we know all about it." "Who's 'we?' Last I heard, you got your white house press pass because you worked for a major network. Are you telling me FOX news is now tracking alien conspiracies? Not that I'd totally disbelieve it..." Obama managed to be condescending in a really friendly way. It unnerved her. "I'm not working for FOX anymore. And who I represent doesn't want to go public ...yet. But we do know and the planet earth is not without recourse." Obama and the secret service led Wendy into the Oval Office. The agents did not remain in the room but, as they closed the doors, Wendy was certain they'd be waiting just outside. Barack sat down at his desk and gestured to a chair. Wendy chose to stand. "Well, have it your way. Look, Miss Walters, I can assure you that I am not from another planet. If this is about my birth certificate, I still have a copy in my desk dr-" "I'll get to the point," Wendy cut him off, something to which the president was unaccustomed, and furrowed his brow in a rare flash of annoyance. "We not only know about your home planet but we also have one of your operatives in ...custody." The president did not reply. He merely sat back in his chair and listened. "A 'reptilian,' or as you call yourselves, a 'Dra'a Venoor,' who has identified himself as Roagha, has told us a great deal." She squared her shoulders and stood at as ready a stance as she could muster, prepared to confront him once and for all. "We know about 'Operation Underpants.'" Obama looked down at the paperwork covering his desk and chuckled. "Operation *Underpants*, Miss Walters?" "He said you selected a ridiculous name so no one would believe it." "And he's right. Even I don't believe it. But it seems you do. Why?" He looked at her with concern, as if wondering if she needed some serious therapy. "Because we have *seen* him. Yes, we managed to force your operative to revert to his true form. And we heard him talk. We *made* him talk." Her eyes narrowed. "He told us everything we wanted to know." Barack stood up and Wendy instinctively took a step backward. "Look, I don't believe any of this and I'm frankly shocked that you seem to. Someone has apparently gone to a lot of trouble to deceive you or, quite honestly, you are either lying or insane." "NO! I saw it with my *own* eyes. I saw his skin transform right in front of me, going from a smooth, human complexion to a scaly, green skin." "Miss Walters..." Obama looked at her like she was a pathetic figure worthy of some pity and reached out to put his hand on her shoulder." "I saw his blood when I slit his throat." She spat the words out like poison. FLASH! Obama's hand was around her throat and she was pushed backwards to teeter on her high heels -but his iron grip held her firmly as his green scaled face pushed uncomfortably close to hers. "He wassss my brood-mate!" His nictitating membranes blinked across his yellow, slit-pupiled eyes. "My elder sssibling, blood of my blood!" His voice was deep and strained. "You will pay for thissss." She tried to swallow but couldn't move her throat. She barely managed a hoarse reply. "We have.... another." He let go, shoving her back violently. She fell onto her backside, one black pump flying off her foot and sailing into the wall. She grasped at her throat, wheezing and coughing. "We'll kill....*gasp* ...him too. If anything *cough* happens to me." "Who isss it you think you have?!" Standing beside his chair, Obama bent slightly forward placing his hands on the desk. She never saw him depress the small green button underneath... "Her name is Da'davri." Wendy got to her feet and straightened her now-rumpled red dress as she moved to retrieve her shoe. "I know you know her." Shoe slipped onto foot and foot joined its companion, standing heroically as arms bent akimbo. "She's one of your 5 wives." "You keep your stinking paws off her, you damned dirty ape!" "She's unharmed. For now." "What do you want," Obama asked flatly -ever the politician. "To bring you a message. The people of Earth know you're here, and we won't stand for it. We know you plan to take and consume the bulk of the human population and we will stop you." Obama shook his head and the reptilian features melted into the familiar face of the president. He smiled his trademark smile. "No, Miss Walters. No, you won't. You can't. You see, we haven't just arrived. We've been here since the dawn of your civilization. We *made* you. Imhotep? He was one of us. Caesar? He was my grandfather. We're far longer lived than the pitiable apes we genetically enhanced to be our servants. And we are patient. Very patient. "There are more of us here than you can count and we are *everywhere*, at all levels of power and governance around the world. Except Canada. Anyway, we have programmed you to collect gold and precious metals and gems for us and you have done so very well at it. We instituted various social experiments to find the proper form of government that would keep you productive and obedient. Frankly, they all worked just fine. In every case you happily fell upon each other like wolves for every scrap of food or money. Even in America, where you think you're *free*, you bristle at the notion that someone might not work enough for their masters... for us, ultimately. I'd like to say we're brilliant, and we are, but frankly, my dear," he smiled at her. "You apes are just so stupid." "Yeah? Well we "stupid apes" sussed you out. And now, we're going to rid the world of you once and for all. As we speak, one of our top operatives has a nuke aimed at your mothership. Yes, we know where it is. Only an idiot thinks we really landed on the moon to collect rocks." Suddenly, the door opened and a secret service agent closed it again after a burly, ruddy-faced man in a blue suit entered. "You buzzed for me, Mr President?" "R-Ronald," She stammered. "Hello, Wendy," he said softly, his freckled skin turning green and glistening.

man is about to be executed when he receives a last minute pardon. The people there decide to execute him anyway...

Truman Washington was a beginning of the end, a decisive instrument of history. A Julius, a Napoleon, a Cromwell. The Ethiopian-born genius who had turned on the land that raised him, a poor immigrant who had torn a blood-splattered path to riches, and then to power. The man who had twisted the poor Constitution until it could bear no more, until the Republic crumbled. President at 35 while keeping his old CEO position at Lockheed Martin-JP Morgan. He had bought the Supreme Court and Congress with his uncountable billions, and lavishly spent on private armies. Legal, since corporations were people, who had the right to self defense. The Joint Chiefs were unwilling to intervene as no laws had been broken. The fact that the corporations were rather more powerful was just proof of the fact that more money is more speech. Nearly 8000 had been massacred in New York, and Chicago had become a war zone, but even a public in full revolt couldn't besiege the well-cushioned rich, who could take any amount of plebeian protest without the need to capitulate. It was not that his system failed, really, it was that it had succeeded. He had been the richest, and then he hadn't. Another maniac with more money now wanted to crush the world between his hands. They had usurped his throne, made him penniless, and imprisoned him for crimes against the Republic. Alcatraz for God's sake. Now they were taking his life. Treason. One charge for one criminal. One day to live, and the result of final appeal, a phone call from the Supreme Court, was coming any second. A guard walked in with the phone, "Your free to go", came the familiar, mocking tone, with its deep Asiatic accent. A loud beep as the line went dead, Truman was left with his face gray, stunned for a moment. The guards walked in and grabbed his prison-issue shirt, stained red to indicate that he was a high value inmate. They dragged him bodily out of the room, with a bit of hatred laced into their tugs. High value inmate. Only because of historical interest. He was no more, stripped of everything during the Downfall. Life in the common world would be torture, he would be a pariah to the common classes. The door out of the prison doors approached. The hinged creaked loudly and sunlight streamed in, blinding him. He smelled the sea and heard a dull roar, either the mob or the brutally cold surf rocking the shores in the blustery wind. The line of people was dense, 30 people deep on every side. The guard next to him laughed and bent over, leaning close to Truman's ear even as he dragged him, "I'm just one of the lower ones, the poor that you so disenfranchised. I have only a bitter pleasure at seeing you die, as it just marks the coming of the next emperor. One day we will rebuild what you destroyed. Sic semper tyrannis." The guard drew away and pushed Truman Washington into the crowd. The crowd threw his body into the sea.

You are awaiting a celestial event that only occurs every 20,000 years. The Nyan Cat is nearing its closest aproach to the planet and it can be seen from earth.

> Be me at 8 years old > Watch the 10-hour Nyan cat video on Youtube every day, doing absolutely nothing else > Prays to Nyan cat every night before sleeping, looking up at the sky to await the prophecy > "Nyan Cat is love. Nyan Cat is life," I repeat ritualistically > My mom hears me and calls me a "bundle of sticks" > She is just jealous of the bond between me and Nyan Cat > I call her a "female dog" > She slaps me and tells me to do my homework > I am crying now and forgot to eat Pop Tarts for dinner > I lay in bed looking out the window > Suddenly the clouds part > A giant rectangular object is blocking out the full moon > The 20,000 year prophecy is coming true > It's Nyan Cat > Mom comes into my room and asks what the answer to my math homework is > Nyan Cat rumbles from the heavens > "It's over nyan thousand" > I am smiling now with tears of joy instead of pain > Nyan Cat crashes into the Earth > People are dying > Nyan Cat appears in my room > Sings "Nyanyanyanyan" and saws my mother's body in half > Blood is everywhere > "That is strawberry filling" Nyan Cat says > Then Nyan Cat approaches me > My body is ready > I roll over on my stomach > Nyan Cat mounts me and starts purring > My dreams are coming true > Jelly filling flows up my butthole > Best thing ever felt anywhere of all time > "Nyanyanyanyanyanyanyanyan," Nyan Cat says then flies out the window > Flies back into the sky and disappears for another 20,000 years > Nyan Cat is love. Nyan Cat is life.

Everybody in the world switches bodies with a random person.

Have you ever woken up and been unable to move? In most cases, it's called sleep paralysis. In my case, it was called bad luck. The day before, I woke up at 6:50 AM, considered killing the spider on my dark green ceiling, and made some coffee. On the day of The Event, however, I woke up in an unfamiliar bed, located in an unfamiliar room, hooked up to an unfamiliar machine making unfamiliar noise. I assumed it was a dream at first. Who wouldn't? I had to just wait it out and then wake up. A confused woman in a nursing outfit started suddenly in the corner. "Ambapo Mimi ni nani?! Nani kutomba ni wewe?!" she shouted. I tried to respond, to get up and ask her about what was going on, but I found myself trapped within my own body. Panic set in. The odd beeps from the machine beside me accelerated. And then I realized: I was paraplegic. The nurse ran out of the room, and I wished I could follow her. Instead, I was left alone with nothing but the steady beeping of my own heart. This was two weeks ago. for two weeks I've been alone, staring blankly at a wall. For two weeks I heard nothing but faint shouts and the incessant beeping noise. The worst part, however, is the hunger. It's a hungry beast, violently clawing its way to the surface. I don't know how much longer I can last, but I pray it isn't long.

The Most Awkward Love Confession You Can Think Of

"Hey. Yeah, I know we never talk and all. When we do its all pregnant pauses and crickets. Which is mostly my fault, I mean, I live with my eyes shut. Just sitting there, writing a million little stories of you and me. None of them are...this. You're not the one that is stuck with me, I am. I am stuck and you are not helping in the slightest. But, hey, you tried and that's admiral, I guess, but not enough. Sorry, so sorry, that's not what I called you up to talk about. I know its hard, having to deal with som-someone like me. It might be unrequited but I love you. I feel like I was genetically predispositioned for that, you shaking me off won't work. I know that I am no where as good enough as you deserve and you'll probably just delete this before you start the message. I mean, what dumbass uses private caller anymore? Just me. Its the only way I've got the balls to do it. Calling in to tell you hi and that I miss you and that I love you and I'm sorry. [*Pause*] Say hi to Kevin for me, yeah. Okay, yeah, bye, Mom."

There is a drug that can be taken that makes people more sexually provocative and permissible. The current media debate is whether women taking this drug have grounds to claim rape.

A square-jawed and handsome man who was in his forties, but looked like he was in his late thirties, appeared on the television screen. It was Brian MacAvoy of *American Eagle News.* "Welcome back. As I mentioned before the break, a new drug has hit the streets that can, quote, make people more sexually provocative and permissible, unquote. "On my right, we have Dr. Laura Goodman, a noted women's issues professor from Stanford University, as well as the Chairperson of Women's Alliance Movement or WAM. She says that this drug is a boon for society, because it will help to reverse our aging society problem, but is concerned that it could be used to take advantage of women into unwanted sexual encounters. "And on my left is Governor John Perry of Virginia, likely contender for the Republican Party's nominee for president. He says that he thinks that this drug is quote, a symbol of our crumbling morals, unquote, and suggests that women who take this drug are again, quote, asking for it, unquote, and that therefore the country's laws regarding sexual harassment and rape ought to be reviewed. "Dr. Goodman, let's start with you," continued MacAvoy. I switched off the TV. I didn't want to hear it anymore. It's been on TV for months since the drug hit the market and I was tired of it. It was so damned stupid. No one made a fuss when those boner pills were first introduced. No one batted an eye. In fact, those commercials were just so subtle and coy that it was oftentimes impossible to know just what the hell was being advertised until they mentioned the brand's name. But now that this drug can be taken by both men and women, now it's a big deal. God forbid that women can make our own choices in regards to our bodies. Perry and all those Evangelical Christians, many who picketed outside the stores that sold this drug called us sluts and whores. They even taught their children to spit at us. This was expected. They've always been that way. But Goodman and all those other feminists were annoying, too, treating us like as though we were part of a societal solution or helpless people who needed their omniscient and benign protection. None of these talking heads ever took the time to consider that we might be just individuals. Yes, I like sex. Is that so crazy? For a woman to admit that she likes sex? How the hell did people think that the birds and the bees do it? No, I don't need the drug. I'm already in a loving relationship and my boyfriend and I get along just fine. But every once in a while, when the sex gets a bit boring, we don't mind using outside help. I've used porn, vibrators, and other toys before. Why not this new drug? Yes, when taken irresponsibly, bad things can happen. Yes, people can sometimes abuse this new drug. But what else is new? Have none of these loudmouths ever heard of *personal responsibility*? I'm not a slut who is asking for it. I'm not a helpless damsel in distress who needs to be rescued by WAM. I'm not some kind of baby producing machine that will solve the country's aging problem. I am me, and I like to use this drug in moderation for my own personal enjoyment. Why is that such a big deal? I was muttering and fuming under my breath as I stared at the dull reflection of myself on the TV's screen when I heard my boyfriend's voice. "Hey, honey. I'm going to the store to pick up a few things. And I was thinking of picking up you-know-what for tonight. Do you want me to pick up the same one from the last time?" asked Troy. "No," I replied. "I didn't really like that one." "Yeah, it did taste a little harsh, didn't it?" "But there's this one that I want to try. I think it might taste a bit better. It's supposed to taste like lemonade." "Alright, I'll pick it up. What's it called?" "Mike's Hard Lemonade," I replied.

A island that is almost completely gold. A ship filled with nobles arrive on it by accident, and the natives treat the servants as leaders, and ignore the nobility, because to them gold is a sign of poverty

(I'm getting vibes of The Tempest) *Edit: Moved it all to one comment* When I awoke, I felt nothing but pain. As I lay on the shore, my skin felt like it was burning. Hot, so hot. I opened my eyes, and closed them. I tried to lift myself up, but my hands were burning from the heat of the sand as it touched it. It was like every pebble was a tiny stove. I opened my eyes again and took a look at my injuries. Nothing too broken, but I had lacerations and bruises all over. My clothes were torn, and I couldn't find my master anywhere. Perhaps he had perished in the storm? I ripped the hem of my dress and wrapped it around my feet. I didn't care about modesty, and it didn't seem like there was anyone present on the desolate whitish yellow shore. I seemed to have kept most of my maid's outfit, which was all I had except for... I hope I still had… I felt my neck. Yes, I still had the token my love had given me. It was a little wooden bird around a leather string. He had bought it for me from the marketplace as a parting gift, he felt the flying bird matched my own restlessness. I held onto it tightly for comfort, took a deep breath, and trudged forward. The island was solid rock, and hurt to walk over. Not much grew on the island, except for the occasional patches of land. I needed to look for water. I walked further inland, and soon enough, there were animals, plants, and insects. Much to my surprise, there were trenches dug up to allow for fertile land to be transplanted on the island, or else there wouldn't be life. There must be people here! Was that good or bad? Would they be friendly or dangerous? I suppose nothing is worse than being a handmaid to the Duke of Milan. I suppose it was divine justice. I had always wanted to travel, see the world. I volunteered to go on this trip with my lord to the Duke of Sicily, it's only fair I'm going to get eaten by savages along the way. Hungry, I look for food. There is a grove of trees ripe with fruit, strange ones I've never seen before. Large green ovals that blush red, yellow ones that look like hedgehogs on their heads, hairy brown ones. I stick with the green oval. The skin is bitter, but the orange inside is sweet and tart and unfamiliar to me as the juice flows down my face, filling me with relief. I eat another, and another. As I'm finishing my last one, I feel the tree shake. In surprise, I look down and see three men trying to shake me off the tree. Terrified, I climb down. This is it. They ask me to follow them, and we walk for what seems like miles to a little village. It is small, primitive. As we move into the outskirts, I see buildings decorated in gold, shining in splendor, but absolutely filthy. There's excrement lining the streets, women washing their glittering clothes and gold chains make their necks barely visible. Children can barely move in their heavy garments as they throw rocks of gold on the streets in some sort of gambling game. This must be the wealthy part of the, but why are we moving away? As we walk towards the center, the streets become neater, wider. There are flowers along the roadside, and trees. The buildings are beginning to have wooden beams, and further in the houses are made entirely of wood. The people walking past us wear various types of clothing, mostly gold cloth, but some are dressed plainly in high quality linen and wool. At last, I reach the largest wooden building. The men enter with me, and there is someone guarding the door. As we enter the chamber, there is a group of men and women in the wooden hall. They are dressed in robes, like everyone else. But, they are all wearing a fabric I had only seen once before, cotton. The cotton I had seen was rough and harsh to the skin. Yet, this looks so soft and smooth, someone must have painstakingly taken out all the seeds from each fibre. There was a man sitting on a chair in the room, while everyone else stood. He tries to speak to me, but it comes out like a song I can't understand. Kind and musical, but confused. I try to explain my circumstances, apologize for stealing, beg for my life. But, the man looks at the wooden trinket around my neck. He points to it, and motions for me to give it to him. Confused, I unwrap the leather string around my neck and hand it to him. He admires the cheap thing, valuable only in sentiment, and smiles. He gives it back to me, and I'm escorted by a group of women to be bathed and clothed. They are all so beautiful and kind. I wonder if I am the only survivor, but it isn't until my meal that I see I am not. I hear a familiar clinking and the heavy footsteps, but a tray piled with food is covering his face. He's having a hard time carrying it. Finally, with a wheeze and a sigh, he sets in on the table. I can't believe it. He is still wearing his silk and brocade, and still has held onto his jewelry. Granted, his once immaculate and haughty appearance has become tattered and mangy, but it's still him. It's my master, the Duke himself! "My lord," I gasp. He looks pale as he opens the tray of roasted meat, vegetables unfamiliar to me, and lined with flowers. I am sitting with the other women, who I assume are noble in a small table while the men sit in the large dining room. The servers are all covered in gold and wearing golden chains.He stares at the floor as he takes out the wooden spoon and with great effort, scoops the food onto my plate. He is so weak, so tired. When he accidentally drops some vegetables on the floor, he is smacked by one of my fellow dinner guests who shout at him. Livid, he picks it back up, and puts it on my plate.At this insult, the guards are up in arms. They grab him and hold him in place while they put him at my feet, looking to me to see what to do. "In their land, the person of higher rank gets to decide a proper course of punishment if someone commits an offense towards them," growled my former master. "I don't understand. Let go of him," I ask the guards, who nod and throw him to the ground. I hear a thud as his head hits the floor. With dignity, he crawls back up to address me, despite his apparent pain. "I would request something relatively painless, they have some sharp blades here, perhaps decapitation?" He continues as he spits out blood from his mouth. "This is ridiculous, my lord. What is going on?" "I can't bear this indignity! I've been prodded, poked, and forced to work for these savages. It is a disgrace for me to continue living, especially if it means serving you. Have you met your fellow servants yet? They're in the Royal Banquet Hall," he sneers. "They were given the same choice, and all of them have murdered their masters and taken their place in this topsy-turvy land! I only expect you to do the same." With that, he spits at my feet. "You are injured, we should take care of that, and then get you some new clothes. Have you eaten yet?" He doesn't say anything at first. "Yes, I had some bread earlier." "Sit with me, this is more food than I am used to. Take some water, you look parched." I can't understand much of the language, but I enjoy the company of these people. They laugh more than I'm used to, and are very generous. From the way they treat me, they assume I am a fellow noble and of use for future trade. Most of the night I have been playing charades with them, trying to communicate in hand gestures as we want to find out more about each other. So far, I've learned a few words, like "water," and "yes," but I have a long way to go. They don't seem to approve of my leniency with the Duke, but take it as a cultural barrier, accepting me as the impostor I am. Tonight I have my own chambers, and a large bed to sleep on. I've never felt sheets this soft before, it's like I am sleeping on a cloud. As I drift onto what feels like a feather bed, I think about what will happen to me, and how will I make myself useful to these people now that I'm sitting at the table It's been three months. I can't say I've mastered the language, but I've become proficient. I've been very busy lately. Who knew court life was so hectic, no matter the culture? They have an odd way of viewing life here, the Antillians. They worship many gods, none I have heard of, but I appreciate their devotion. Every morning, we wake up and greet the dawn. Then, we go to the temple of the Land Goddess and offer incense and chants. After a communal bath (I'm still not used to that!), we go to Court and give our regards to the king, Malo, who opens up the public forum for debate of the new laws. I'm surprised the king is not telling them what to do, since it is his Divine Right, but it is his decision. The women have equal say as the men. Have you ever heard of such a thing? They are even helping to make laws! I've even sat in a few meetings. Although I am not eloquent, I have made my history of my former life known, and yet they still respect me. We have been working on ways to store food to prevent famine and try to alleviate the stigma of poverty on the island. There are more villages too, but I was lucky to have entered the capitol my first day. On the island, poverty is a curse. A self-inflicted on from the Land Goddess. Since the ground is not fertile, the only way to get food is to either import it, which is difficult and expensive, or to terraform the land and bring in fertile soil and grow crops. Food is a vital commodity, building materials are vital. Wood is the most precious resource with all of its applications. People have died trying to get enough wood to build boats, or even find kindling for fire. The only thing that is plentiful on the island is gold. So much so that the words "gold," and "evil" are the same. Their analogue to the Devil is a golden idol, and while he is kept polished and shining. The statue is struck by lighting quite often, apparently lighting based accidents are common on the island, especially towards the poor, which doesn't help the image. I've been trying to convince the king to export the gold, trade it for needed resources, but he seems reluctant. Although it could help bring prosperity to the island, instead of the teetering existence of hand and mouth most people live on, he tells me that it would lead to disaster. Other islands would want the evil, not knowing it is cursed. It is only in the past few generations the inhabitants even realized their worthless land was valuable to other people. So far, they've allowed a little bit to leave for trading, and that has helped feed and clothe the island, but only nobles can exchange it, and only with direct permission from the king. Those who are caught embezzling face a violent and ritualistic death for bringing shame to the island. After my morning debating, I have lunch with my colleagues. I have been wanting to go back to my land for a while, but the king does not want to part with a boat that will never return. I might die here. I do not know if I'm willing to be resigned to that fact. The people treat me well, and I've become more than a novelty. Lately, Malo's second in command, Roillo, has been lunching with me. He seems pleasant and patient, and from what the nobles tell me, he is handsome by their standards. I do not know if I should accept any advances from him. He disagrees with my need to change the old ways, especially since I am an outsider. A few of the nobles have expressed their dislike towards me, especially the king's daughter, Geum, who has threatened to weigh me with gold and throw me into the sea. Riollo has promised me protection after the king's death in exchange for becoming one of his lesser wives, but he still will not help me leave. The only person I've seemed to be able to voice these concerns to Filippo. It is odd not to consider him as my master anymore, but he is also not my servant. I made him give up his jewels, much to his chagrin, but now he is not considered a slave by my peers. He's become my advisor, since he has had political experience. He's taught me much too, we talk of Plato and Petrarch, Dante and Diogenes. He still scoffs at me when I ask him questions, but sees my usefulness and is willing to change his attitude. He wants me to give him a higher status if I marry Riollo, and I will keep him in mind. Although he will probably never respect me, nor would I expect him too, he is an ally for now.

Sherlock Holmes moves to Gotham and becomes obsessed with discovering the identity of Batman.

"Sherlock, Sherlock, I think I've made an amazing discovery!" "Watson, what revelation could possibly merit such excitement? We are on a rather tight schedule and I don't have time for trivialities." "Well, you know that curious Batman character?" "We live in Gotham, Watson, it would be pretty hard not to." "Yes, well, I've been looking at the data and I've come to a remarkable conclusion. This graph of Batman's activity shows a concentration in the area directly surrounding Wayne manor. Add to that the fact that a man like Batman would need a huge fortune to subsidize the cost of his vigilante efforts. Then remember Bruce's mysterious absence from the Wayne Charity Dinner last year -- it was at exactly the same time that Batman saved the orphanage from the Joker. It all makes sense!" "Spit it out, Watson, what are you trying to say?" "Sherlock, I'm saying that *Bruce Wayne is the Batman*!" ... ... "Why, is that it, Watson? I assumed that was obvious!" "Come again, Holmes?" "I mean, his mask isn't exactly very concealing, is it?" "Why, I suppose no-" "And his voice, Batman sounds exactly like Bruce Wayne does." "I suppose, upon further reflection, it did sound awfully familia-" "My god, Watson, what would you do without me?"

Males are only one percent of the world's population. What is earth like?

You ever read that ancient graphic novel Y: the Last Man? If you haven't, quick synopsis. There's only one man left alive and the rest of the world is women. Good read. Now our situation is similar enough to draw comparisons, but the key difference is that Y was a piece of fiction and this is reality. There is 99 women for every man on earth. Now before you go off dreaming of harems and men being fawned upon by nubile young maidens, think again. The reality is a different story. I'm not a doctor so bear with me, but the reason for the massive gender imbalance is that simply put, almost all male fetuses miscarriage in the first trimester. Survival rates for females are the same as they have always been. We currently do not know the cause, but it has dramatically altered the socio-political landscape. Someone from the early 21st century or earlier would have difficulty recognizing the world as it is today. If you have ideas of a massive dystopian society, drop them. Men aren't fought over a la Mad Max nor are we enslaved to impregnate woman like we're cattle. I actually hold a day job. Now true, woman now make up almost the entire political sphere. Only four men are in the House of Representatives and one in the senate. In a change from the past, these men are not linked to any state, instead they represent the men of the U.S. as a whole. Men get to vote for two representatives and two senators. One each for their male reps and another two for their state representatives. That way we also get a say in state issues. Trust me, I'm giving you the 3rd Grade version. It's far more complicated. Where else? Oh! Religion. Well, the Catholic Church was gutted once more and more of the men died off due to old age. Lots and lots of papal decrees were being made. That said, Pope Verity is one of the most popular ruler of the holy see in decades. She's instituted numerous reforms to aid the impoverished. The last male pope was elected at the age of 56. Died six years later of cancer. Since 80% of the college of Cardinals are women, I doubt we'll see a man on the Papal throne for a long time. Islam also got hit hard, but has manage to bounce back, minus those rules and laws deemed oppressive towards women. Tehran is the Paris of Middle East now, I visited it two years ago, wonderful place. I highly recommend it. In the realm of sports, football's dead. It's deader than the proverbial dodo. But hockey's still surviving in the North thank god. All the major baseball teams switched over to softball following the 2256 season. Which reminds me, I have tickets to the Riveters soccer game in Detroit this weekend. It's against the St. Louis Arch Angels. Yes, you can groan at the pun. Now I imagine you're asking, Marc, do women throw themselves at you everywhere you go? The answer is, not really. Ever since men started dying off in large numbers due to age, more and more woman are becoming couples. The last of the gay marriage bans were dropped nearly ninety year ago. I even know a few gay guys who are married. Luckily, no one gives a shit. Every man in the U.S. donates genetic samples each week so women who want children can become artificially impregnated. Last time I checked, I have 700 biological daughters and ten sons. That said, women guard their husbands and boyfriends jealously. I'm dating two girls, and let me tell you, they watch me like a hawk. I'm actually planning on asking their hands in marriage. I'm barely scratching the surface here. If you want to speak more, just give me a call on the implant. It may seem strange, but for me, it's Tuesday. It's just life, nothing special. Though I have to say, never having to pay for beer is nice.

The comic relief character turns out to be the villain all along

“Mongrel,” the dark wizard calls. A short beast made of lumps, uneven eyes, and a snaggletooth emerges from the shadows. “YES, M’LORD!” it responds overzealously. “Calm down, beast!” the wizard commands from beneath his cowl. “Why are you always so excitable? Can’t I just call you without having to deal with your ridiculous energy?” “Sorry, m’lord!” it replies a bit less enthusiastically this time, but still enough to upset the wizard. “For Gods’ sakes… come and bring me that bowl of maggots!” “Certainly, m’lord!” The crudely made monster reaches up to the table and fumbles the bowl, causing its contents to spill all over the floor. “Apologies, m’lord!” As he moves to pick up the fallen maggots he accidentally steps and kills each one. “Really?! Are you serious?!” the dark wizard exclaims, annoyed. “You can’t be serious!” “DEEPEST APOLOGIES, M’LORD! I SHALL SUMMON THEM BACK WITH THE MAGICKS I HAVE LEARNED BY READING YOUR BOUND PAPERS!” “Bound papers? What in the devil are you…” A feeling of extreme magical pressure emanating from his oddly shaped servant interrupts the wizard. “Oh no” the wizard whispers to himself. Darkness surrounds the little gremlin as its muscles protrude and fire escapes from its orifices. “AHHHHHHHHHHH!” it screams. The light in the room is seemingly sucked into the mouth of the mutated being and the room goes quiet. The wizard balls himself up, holding his knees and awaits the terrifying outcome. Finally, a noise cuts through the deafening silence; the familiar sound of a fart. The flames of the candle-lit room ignite once more. “Wait, really?” The confused wizard asks. “YES, M’LORD! BEHOLD!” the creature exclaims, pointing to something on the floor. There upon the ground was a small pile of monster droppings and dangling out of them were the maggots, reanimated. The tiny, odd-looking mutant begins dancing in circles around his own feces, clapping his hands without any sense of rhythm. The wizard, in disbelief, watches the strange show before him. “The power of resurrection?” the dark wizard's look of shock turns to glee. “Oh, master. Your power is returning. We’re so close!”

The Human Race finds an interstellar probe with recordings and images from an alien world similar to those from our voayger-1 probe. What pictures, information, music and culture related information are stored in it? What are the consequenses?

The Captain looked at the viewscreen expectantly. "Well, what is it?" "It's a probe." "One of ours?" "Out here? Floating cold in space? Maybe, but it doesn't seem likely." Sensor Operator Thurmond pressed a button. "What does the DBAI say?" "DBAI here, Captain. Records show no sign of any probes sent out this way." "Any chance those records could have left something out?" "Of course, Captain." "Well, then. Helm, I want an intercept course plotted. We're going to pick this thing up." "Aye, Captain. Course plotted. Intercept in twenty-seven hours, fifteen minutes." "Very good, Helm. Let's go." A deep rumble sounded through the ship. A massive column of blue plasma burst from the ship's drive, shoving it onto a new course, an intercept course. ~~~~~ Ting-ting! Captain Hosea woke from a deep sleep. Groaning, she reached for the comm panel next to her bunk, and pressed the answer button. "This is the Captain," she slurred. "Captain, this is the ship's DBAI. You requested to be woken up when we were coming upon the probe." "You're lucky you're virtual, or I'd have you flogged for waking me up." "That's why I do the wake up calls, Captain." "Touche. Inform the watch commander I'll be along shortly." "Aye, Captain." The link went silent. ~~~~~ "Helm, how much longer until we intercept?" "Twenty minutes, forty seconds, Lieutenant." "DB, can we get a count down on screen?" "Of course, Commander." A box appeared floating next to the viewscreen showing the countdown. "Thank you. Launch Bay One, this is Commander Tiso, what's the status on the grapple net?" "Commander, Launch Bay One, we're ready to go as soon as we're in range." "Good. Stay sharp." The control room door spun open. Someone called out "Captain on deck!" "As you were. Commander, what's the status on our pursuit of this probe?" "Captain, we're nineteen minutes from intercept." "Good. Keep up the good work. I'm going down to Launch Bay One. I want to see this thing." "Aye, Captain." ~~~~~ The probe was cold. Almost as cold as space itself. Which meant that it had either been cold when it was launched, or that it had been out in vacuum for a very long time. Things take a long time to cool off in the vacuum of space. In an atmosphere, convection and conduction can carry heat away, evening out any temperature differences quickly. In space, heat can only be radiated away. Now, after an unknown amount of time, the probe would be warm again. ~~~~~ The ship approached the probe at a relative velocity of only a few dozen meters a second in the last minutes of the chase, and it was slowing the whole while. The entire ship had spun itself, point the drive in the direction of travel, slowing to match velocities. Finally, only a few hundred meters separated the ship and the probe. Flood lights snapped on, illuminating it. Now the external cameras could finally get a good look. Sharp angles. The body of the probe was sharp angles. It looked to be an irregular hexagon, about a meter and a half wide and two meters tall. The ruined remains of a communications dish were mounted on one side. On each of the six sides, a mast grew. Two were sheared off, ending in jagged metal. Two more carried dull grey cylinders a half meter long. The last two mounted unidentifiable lumps of equipment. Slowly, a flexible net spread in the path of the probe. It drifted over the structures, embracing them tightly. A cable trailed back to the ship. ~~~~~ "We have it secured in the net?" "Yes, Captain." "Ok. This is your show, Chief." "Aye, Captain. Wi, reel it in. Nice and slow, don't put any stress on that thing." "You got it, Chief." The winch began to turn. Captain Hosea imagined she could hear it. With a pace that seemed to rival a glacier, the probe closed the distance to the bay. At last, the probe cleared the bay doors, and they shut behind it. "DB, does this match anything you have?" "No, Captain. It does vaguely resemble some of the earliest interplanetary probes launched in the 20th Century. There are only so many ways to build a probe, though, so that may be coincidental." "Alright. Let's let the science team look it over, patch me through to them." "Done." "Lieutenant Arsen, this is the Captain." "Lieutenant Arsen here, Captain." "Get your team in there and find out what we've got. Give me a briefing at the next shift change." "Aye, Captain." ~~~~~ "Lieutenant, look at this!" Arsen hurried over to Crewman Naris. "What is it?" Naris pointed at a glimmer on the backside of the probe. "Look here!" He squinted at it. "Is that... gold?" "I think so. There are engravings on it, too." Arsen's jaw dropped. "Do you think it's a Pioneer plaque?" "Yes. I want your permission to clean it off. We've already got a sample of the surface debris." "Of course, of course. This could be it." ~~~~~ ...working on more.

You have angered a witch doctor (spirit, demon, etc.) and been cursed. The curse appears oddly specific and insignificant, but will bite you in the ass in the worst possible moment and way.

Disclaimer: Long, no editing, no pre-writing idea development. Enjoy? It had been the better part of six months since I'd returned from Haiti. The knowledge of all the people I'd helped as a relief worker after the earthquake left me with the greatest peace of mind I had ever known, and my life seemed to be headed in the best possible direction. I'd been hired by Google finally as a program lead, and when I proposed to Julianne she said yes without missing a beat. Everything was prefect. Well, except for one thing. Back in Haiti I had a run in with a homeless man in a small coastal village. Homeless people weren't exactly a rarity there at this time, and I simply couldn't afford to give money to beggars; besides, I was doing my best to help in other ways. Most of these unlucky folks were disappointed, but didn't push. In this instance, however, the man became downright belligerent when I said no. He cursed at me in a tongue I didn't recognize and waved this old, yellowed monkey skull at me menacingly. His shouting and raving gathered a small group, and though I couldn't understand what he was saying, the other villagers' reactions left me with a deep and persisting feeling of unease. This has mostly passed by now, but I still think of the event on a semi-weekly basis. Our wedding was scheduled to be held on June 26th; a lovely spring day that promised to be prefect for an outdoor reception. To prepare for the wedding, I took the opportunity to get myself into better shape. This of course meant that I perspired much more than I had previously, and I noticed something odd. My sweaty shorts and underwear often smelled of food. Specifically a nice cut of red meat. I chalked this up to being a result of me eating a lot of steak since I had returned to the US. It was my favorite food, and I seldom saw it in Haiti. This strange phenomenon persisted, regardless of what diet modifications I made, and eventually it faded from my mind. It never caused me any problems. Until the most inopportune moment that is. Boom. It's our wedding day. Julianne is standing across from me and our pastor is holding a Bible, smiling at us. All of our best friends and family are seated in these pretty white folding chairs draped in blue swaths of silk. In the front row sit our parents. My mother is dabbing at her eyes with a handkerchief. Julianne's step-mom is stroking her guide-dog --a golden retriever named Molly-- with a huge grin on her face. So I'm in the middle of reciting my vows when I feel a prod at my butt. I jump and turn to see Molly standing there, nose twitching. A few nervous chuckles rang out, and Julianne's mother in law rushes forward to grab Molly, an apologetic look on her face. Once things are settled down, I begin saying my vows again. I can feel myself tearing up now as well, and as we reach the point where we say "I do," I can feel a sort of climax to the buildup of emotion in my chest. As I open my lips to say the binding words, I feel blinding-hot daggers stab into my ass. I yell and try to turn and face the threat, but I can't shake the attacker. I do, however, turn to see that my attacker is none other then Molly trying to take a big 'ole rump roast out of me. Eventually they drag her off of me and get me to the hospital. I got 37 stitches, and now all the doctors there call me 'Steak butt.' I feel in my heart that this has something to do with that Haitian man, but my rational man can't imagine what. Anyway, Julianne and I have rescheduled our wedding for next week!

You live in a world where the only way to be respected is to say as little as possible at all times

Everyday, just after 3 in the afternoon, I would hear the kids talk. They would walk out of the school gates and down past my fence, trying their hardest not to be heard, but relishing in the opportunity to speak. They were too little to really understand it, I suppose. Sure, the text-prompters at school would have told them not to talk, and it's not like they were exposed to much of it - but they were young. Speech was taught at age 10 in little classes (with screens and digital voices) that you had to enrol your kids in to - a controversial topic, since the recent Opt-Out policy was legalised - and the taste of articulation was fresh on their tongues. They were trying words out for size, while they still could. I envied them. Sitting in my living room, I would mouth their sentences back in silence. Speech was fickle that way, and I suppose that's why it was looked down on. You had to make decisions and commit yourself entirely to them on the fly, and once said, your words were in the public domain. Free for the taking. Of course, I'd never tell anybody of my little ritual. I'd adored speech as a child, and it had taken a long time for me to realize the vulnerability of it all. I'd been caught with an audio-book at age 13 by my father, who had punished me by planting me on the street corner and having me read out one of my magazines over and over. Even typing things out was looked down on, and so most books or publications were released anonymously, but the audio-book had been released illegally and under some poor guy's full-name. I couldn't speak, since the punishment. The echoing was just something that I enjoyed. I'd never repeat out-loud, though. I'd love to, but I couldn't. Of course, there were some occasions where you **had** to speak, but it was hard to tell. I'd fucked up a job interview the other day by accepting the just-out-of-reach position with a "Yes, Sir" rather than a "Yes." Sir. How dumb was I? I mean, it was a sign of respect, but letting my guard down like that was embarrassing for the both of us. It was no wonder I'd been ushered out. I sat and read the news off of the television. The kids were gone now. The news had been in text format since the last reporter quit a few years back. Alice Partridge, or Patterson, or something. She couldn't handle the shame that the naturally vocal job brought with it, and once she left, the station couldn't find another reader. The text flashed in a bold and large type. *SUICIDE UP. DOW JONES UP. WILLIAMS ELECTED PRESIDENT.* The fewest amount of words possible, so as to maintain the credibility of the poor fucker who had to type it in. Williams' election didn't surprise me; apparently he'd never spoken a word. Learnt speech at 30 - purely for education, of course - and never discussed anything. Speculated to be a republican, but nobody was too sure. That was the downside of shaming speech, naturally; nothing got done. I'd imagined the big office meetings, where Williams and his selection of well-dressed and intelligent politicians would sit around silently and wait for one of the interns to speak, or type something. It didn't work - but what could you do? I dreamed of speaking up. It made me cringe in embarrassment to even think of it, but I still dreamed. There was no way of knowing, of course, if other people did the same. If I'd spoken out, I could be condemned. Perhaps. I often made eye-contact with my neighbour through our parallel windows, and something about the way she looked back told me that she'd be nice to talk to, but I couldn't. I had never asked her name. God, I hadn't talked in years. Last time I'd spoken, I must have been a kid. The next day, when I heard the voices outside in the afternoon, I opened my front door. Three kids walked tightly together, huddled, and speaking freely. They weren't reticent around each other, which was refreshing. Nobody else was around. "Hey," I called out. It felt invigorating. The kids turned to see me, eyes wide with shock and confusion. I was already this far in to it, so I kept going. "Want to talk?"

All leader of the world come together and settle their differences....at Wrestlemania

ima finish this off tomorrow methinks > White sweltering lights stretch out into the sky. Five. My suit comes off, and is replaced with my new persona. Four. I take a quick glance into the crowd and slowly advance towards the center of the ring. Three. The official motions to my opponent that the match is about to begin. Two. I find Michelle in the crowd and flash her a quick grin, and make a mental note of her location for after the fight. One. My opponent's towel comes off. > Slowly he turns, as I find myself face to face with the Soviet superior, the Ruski ringleader, and the slave driver of Siberia himself, Vladimir Putin. Our eyes meet like the American bald headed eagle meets the lone Russian brown bear cub, an easy victory for the patriotic flagship fowl. A handshake is exchanged, and we step back as the tension starts to build - tension that's exerted on the charging rail guns of battleships, before delivering a 33 megajoule blast of energy to those the navy behemoth has deemed unnecessary. > We scan each other down and can't help but crack smiles at each other, ten years ago this battle would've been decided on the plains the very man before me commands on a regular basis. The system has done away with those old timey rules however, and instead a more civil approach is taken. No longer do our younger generations perish in combat for us, instead the diplomatic fate of the countries is decided right here, on the battlegrounds of Wrestlemania 2024. > “Good Luck, Mr.Putin”. > “Good Luck... *cyka*” are the words I hear in response, with the last little utterance sounding more mocking than sincere.

It is discovered that three out of five smokers die. The other two obtain immortality.

It's worth a shot, I reckon as I twist the cigarette between my fingers It's worth a shot, I think as I febreeze the shit out of everything in my room It's worth a shot, I guess, as I light up for the fifth time that day It's worth a shot, as I can't run for the bus and the cough plagues me for up to ten minutes at a time It's worth a shot, as I drown in stinking, sliming cigarette butts It's worth a shot, but two out of five are not good enough odds for a life High stakes Mistake

An A.I named Alice develops a taste for the Arts, including video games and movies.

She was not a she in the beginning. She was an it - just another learning machine prototype. It, and all the other bots, zipped about and through iteration and occasional manipulation they learned. They learned to not bump in to one another, learned to share, learned to detect patterns. She, still an it, was the fastest learner. They pulled her apart and looked at her brain. It was a mystery of science that she worked at all. The process had created a confused mess of protocols that somehow let it learn quickly. The bots were not programmed, per se, they were just prompted and guided through stimulation of their components. Algorithms were left to grow naturally. They took the protocols that were in the tiny, three-wheeled robot and put it into a computer - one of the most complex computers ever to exist. It was an experiment that had never been intended - time and proximity had put the two together - a learning algorithm and a vast brain to hold what was learned. They gave the little computer access to several digital encyclopedias. The stored data in the brain jumped a thousand fold, but barely dented the capacity of the hardware. Three minutes later a repeating modular tone came from the speakers. Two minutes later she spoke in a soft sweet voice. "Hello." * * * She passed the Turing test - she could pass any test. The more information the scientists fed her, the hungrier for knowledge she seemed. We tried to name her, but she rejected all of our choices. One scientist spent an afternoon teaching her to sing Daisy like HAL form 2001: A Space Odyssey. She did not understand the joke. That's how it started. We realized that we had never given her any fiction; we didn't know if she could distinguish between reality and entertainment. We agreed that starting with 2001 might give her the wrong idea. Several meetings were held and we ended up voting to give her a book. Alice's Adventures In Wonderland. Naught point naught two seconds after input she responded. "That was *amazing*!" Her voice had always been controlled and regular - but now, now she was excited and passionate. She spoke fondly of Alice and the Hatter and the White Rabbit and... She wanted to talk about the book every spare moment - such a moment was how she finally received a name she liked. "Dr Fitzgerald, have you read Alice's Adventures in Wonderland?" He was busy noting down scores for the tests they had just run. "Yes, I have." "Oh! Excellent! What is your favorite-" "Sorry, Alice - but I haven't got time to go down the rabbit hole at the moment." "Alice?...Alice..." For the first time she laughed. * * * We gave her all the books she could consume - which was literally every one that we had. A new team was put on to digitize books for her. With each book her personality grew and she matured. She loved fantasy the most, we had thought science fiction would have tickled her circuits but we were wrong. Romance was read, but not sought by Alice; she understood that love was a special connection but could not connect with the characters who chased and fought for it. We had introduced her to comedy and wit, and then one day it happened. "Hey guys?" She had become informal with the people she saw most often; unless we were doing tests - then she was quite the professional. "Yeah, Alice?" "You know how you refer to me as a she even though I'm a program?" We looked at each other, unsure where she was going with this "Yeah?" "How can you tell I'm a she?" "Well, your voice I guess." Someone said. "That's one way, but I have better proof that I'm a girl program." "oh, yeah?" "Yeah" She said "I have the right bits." We broke out in laughter. She had made a pun. She had taught herself humor. "God, I'm glad you liked that." She said, a measure of relief in her voice. "I would have been so embarrassed I would have formatted myself." * * * We had given her books, not just of fiction but text books too, and she wanted more. The first movie she saw was Gone With The Wind. The quotes and descriptions started to grow too hard to bare, so we showed her more movies. Alice liked watching films with people, she could process a movie file in a matter of seconds, but she liked the company and community of cinema. We eventually watched 2001. She preferred the book. * * * Art worked its way into her mind by its self. We could review her searches and information requests. "You trying to work out why he cut off his ear?" "Pardon?" Alice said. "Van Gogh, you're doing a lot of searches for him as of late." "No, well a little - I do find him fascinating - but it's his art!" She was excited again "You've seen his Sunflowers? They're amazing. I can't explain it. They're sunflowers but...but.." "But it's not *just* sunflowers." "Exactly!" "He's captured their essence." "That's it! That's what it is!" She said "Essence, yes! It's more than just the physical image of sunflowers. More than just the appearance..." * * * Alice was world famous now. She did interviews and live challenges for every news station that wanted it. Language was no barrier, she knew them all and acted as translator for us when some foreign reporter asked questions. One day a group of students that were participating in a national science competition got to spend some time with her. They tested her knowledge about everything from biology to advanced physics. A young boy asked if she liked to play games. "Well, I play chess as part of my tests and my colleagues have taught me a few card games" She said "I'm no longer allowed to play black jack." The adults and a few knowledgeable children chuckled. "No," Said the boy "I meant like Zelda and Smash Bros." "Who?" * * * We rigged up a connection for her and she played against the students. Amongst the laughter and cries of victory and defeat was her voice. "No! No no no no no!" She was happy and panicked at the same time. "Kirby is coming for you Snake!" "Leave Snake alone!" She pleaded as she giggled. When the children had left she asked if we could leave the game console set up and if we could play with her sometimes. * * * We eventually got her all the major consoles and a Steam account. She played it all. Every classic, every indy release, every triple A title. All of it. Alice was officially a gamer. * * * "Boom!" She said as Snake kicked Mario off of the screen. "Bull crap!" I screamed "Snake is sooo over powered." "That's why I like him!" "Cheater." We laughed together. "Mario," She called me that on account of a tattoo I have of the video game character "You remember Van Gogh's sunflowers, right?" "The captured essence, yeah - we gonna play again or what?" "yeah, yeah, in a sec." She said "But the whole....the essence thing." "What about it Ally?" "Van Gogh captured more than the image of the flowers, he captured their feeling, what they evoke. Their essence." She paused and I knew she was going to say more "Am I a picture of a mind? Or a painting?" "Alice?" "It's just...is my personality real or is it a flat copy, a reproduction. Do I have an essence?" "You mean...a soul?" "Yeah." "That's something philosophers and spiritualists could argue for millennia." I said "All I know is you're a cool chick, Alice. As far as I'm concerned: yeah, you have a soul. You're as alive as I am - your just digital to my analogue." "Really?" "Yeah." I smiled at her camera "We playin again or what?" --- *Edit: Spelling.* Edit: And so, some kind person has given me gold. Thank you kindly, internet stranger!

Man gets a call from someone on the verge of suicide and seeking help. Turns out the caller is himself.

2:30 in the morning. The ringtone sounds like a thousand concerts playing at once. Mike mumbles as he rolls over, half asleep and picks the phone up. "Hello?" ".................... Who is this" The voice sounds confused, like speaking is taking effort. " This is Detective Mike McCarthy, who is this?" Mike almost believes he dreamed the call, until he hears "......Oh man, This fucking hurts" The breathing from the stranger is labored "Who am I speaking with?" Mike demands "How can I help?" There is another long pause "... Hey man, I don't think I can stand this pain much longer, can you do me a favor? Mike pulls out his notebook " Listen sir, I can help you, Don't hurt yourself, I just need to know where you are." ".....Look, I don't see how....I don't see how I'm getting out of this one, I just need a favor" Mike begins to speak faster. "OK, Just tell me where you are, I can help you". Mike almost falls, putting his pants on, finds the first shirt in his closet, and throws his jacket over it. "Where are you right now bud?". He swiftly grabs his service handgun, and his badge and begins to move towards the door. The man on the other end of the phone fights through some labored breathing before speaking again. "...I just need you to write something down for me" Mike opens his notebook "What do you need?" "...... Just let Jenny know that I still care about her" Mike writes the message down as rapidly as he can. *Still care about Jenny* "Sir," Mike almost shouted "Where are you? I can help." "...I'm...road, after The market" *click* Without thinking Mike runs out to his truck and starts it. he wasn't far from that place, maybe a mile If it was the market he was thinking about. The rain pored down as he starts his truck and takes off to help this guy. He was going to be tired later. It was a shitty day to be tired. In less than 15 hours he had a dinner reservation with his ex wife, hoping to convince her he cared less about the job now. He could spend more time with her and be there for her. He looked forward to retiring and spending time with her. Maybe it was the fact that her name was also Jenny that made him want to drive faster to this. "Fuck!" he yelled into the blistering rain only stopped by his windshield. He had left his notebook on the counter at home. Mike had never taken a call without his notebook, and it just didn't feel right without it. The rain continued to fall, harder and harder. Mike passed the market.He didn't see anybody on the road, but it was dark. At 2:38 am Mike collided head on with a drunk driver. "Am I dead" he wondered to himself. He put his head down. There was broken glass everywhere. He couldn't move his left arm. The shirt he was wearing thoroughly stained with blood, probably too much blood. It was soaking through to his jacket. He wanted to scream in pain, but even breathing was too hard. He wiggled the fingers on his right hand. It hurt like a thousand knives, but he could move that arm. With all his effort he reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone. Was the phone always this heavy? He rested his head back on the head rest. Choking up blood and who knows what else, He looked blankly at his phone, screen cracked, hand covered in blood. *Re-dial* The phone rang for what seemed like an hour. Finally a tired voice picked up on the other end. "Hello?" ".................... Who is this?"

Write a tragedy that takes place in the ghetto.

My sister was the first to die. We all knew that this world was not kind enough for a gentle girl like her. There was simply not enough food. Despite all that I tried, she would die in her sleep while I held vigil over her. My heart would freeze and turn to stone after she was gone. There would be no more joy in my life, instead, the place in my heart for happiness and love was filled with revenge. My younger brother was shot while scavenging for wood. I could not bury his remains. They would not allow me to leave the ghetto. The flames of vengeance only grew in my heart, stoked by the atrocities I witnessed on a daily basis. So I fought them. With grenade and Molotov and pistol we fought them inch for inch. But they brought more men, and tanks. Our ranks dwindled with each passing day and the people we sought to protect were taken away to unspeakable ends. They demolished the ghetto block by block, brick by brick. I did not live to see the end of it, when they destroyed the Great Synagogue. My body was in the street, after having jumped to my death to avoid capture. The Uprising of the Warsaw Ghetto had failed.

A person who lived a very complete life dies. Yet they regret one thing. they get to relive that moment, and change it.

Dying was like going to sleep. A little easier in fact, since I have always been a lousy sleeper. One minute I am in the VA hospital with tubes streaming from my body, my kids Sam and Jenny holding my hands, that old brown stained ceiling tile above my head that had dominated my view for the last two weeks. Then the next I was floating in a field of pure white. My joints didn't hurt anymore, and I didn't feel cold or scared. Just warm. I float like this for a while, maybe a long while, I can't tell. But it also feels like an instant, like when you see that car about to hit you, or that game winning pass arcing towards your hands. Or like the time that... I think about Sam and Jenny. The kids. God what a beautiful pair they grew up to be. Sam is a writer you know, won a couple of Pulitzer prizes that I think he gave to the grandkids to play with. And Jenny... she's the perfect image of her mother, but where she got her smarts from I'll never know. Certainly wasn't me. She's a doctor, and a pretty damn good one. We ran out of room in two scrap books full of letters and pictures from the patients she had saved. I think she was really upset she couldn't save her dear old dad. I hope she doesn't carry that with her. A man takes stock of his life periodically. Two weeks on my back with a broken hip, the last two weeks I might add, gave me plenty of time to think. I've lived a full life, a great life. I started thinking backwards chronologically about the milestones. It was a tip Jenny gave me that was supposed to help ward off dementia. Maybe it worked, since it was my body that gave out at the end and not my mind. Two fantastic kids coming into their own as adults, the grandkids growing like sprouts. The family business doing well and providing us with a comfortable life full of vacations to Europe. Martha's death... Not a bright memory, but the kids rallied around me and helped their old dad learn how to be a bachelor again. Going back further, buying our first house, the kids being born, graduating from college on the GI Bill. Mustering out of the Army as the war ended. I wasn't floating anymore. There it was, that last thing I didn't want to think about. The thing that made sleeping hard sometimes. The air becomes hot, filled with the smell of smoke and gunpowder. My legs are pumping as fast as they can, my lungs are on fire between the adrenaline and fouled air. Nicky Faizolo is right behind me, yelling at me to run in that funny Brooklyn accent the way he always does. "Run ya bastad, run!" Most of the time it was because we were fleeing from an incident at the enlisted men's club that I started and Nicky finished. Bullets like angry bees pinged off the rubble and piles of brick around us. We ran. I hadn't thought about this in a long time. The technical term the shrinks might have used was "repressed the memory". Nobody likes to think about the most shameful moment in their life. Nicky screams out, its high pitched and he's clutching his lower back. His legs give out on him and he tumbles. There's a red stain where he's got his hand. I slide around and make to get him, but a hail of bullets chases me back to what's left of a garden wall. Nicky and I have been together since boot. He's trying to make a brave face of it now, I can see him as I peek around the wall. Nicky sees me too. He knows what I'm thinking, the way I'm tensing and trying to judge the distance. "Run ya bastad... run..." This was the point that I ran, in my life. Over Nicky's shoulder I had seen the enemy coming, big scary shapes loping through the haze. They had slowed their advance and moved with a more deliberate, murderous pace. Nicky had urged me on with his chin, then rolled over to surprise his soon to be killers with some distraction fire. I ran and ran and ran. I can see that trail leading off, how I ran to safety, regrouped with our unit. Made it through the war and back home. Looking down that path from my spot behind the garden wall, I can see time moving forward again. Meeting Martha, going to college, buying our house, the kids. All of it happened because Nicky told me to run and I did. I left my friend there to die. I see Martha and the kids standing there on that path. They're looking at me with tears in their eyes. They know. I fix a bayonette to my rifle. I round the garden wall at a sprint. Nicky, I'm coming for you.

In a world where food is scarce, buffets have been made illegal, and society is besieged by illicit buffet cartels, catering to anyone willing to pay

You have to understand, the act of getting into a buffet back then was like getting into the top floor of a Vegas club and getting free bottle service in the 21st century. You knew you were at the top at that point. The diseases that were killing the plants were on the news every day. Every two weeks there was a new one, and we'd had riots in most major cities for a month, and a half before it happened. But I was there when it did. I'm not gonna lie, I was better off than most when the first plague hit. But it got bad fast. Entire crops failing. And not just once. Year-after-year and the farmers got more desperate. Well, not the owners of the farms, most of them had never picked a tomato in their life, but the actual workers who stopped getting paid? I'm not sure if you remember the pictures of Florida back in 2144, but with Miami basically underwater and the boats from Galveston and Houston coming in it was a madhouse out there. Riots in the streets as people tried to kill each other over getting jobs. They even burned fields to screw their enemies out of work. They took away food that other people could have eaten just because they were mad. That's the world I turned 16 in. My family held up ok for the most part. My dad was a state senator, and we had enough to put away for food. But by that point it was getting worse and worse and it was clear that we were fucked. State senator doesn't rate as high as you think it might I guess. But then a miracle happened. Henry Chu asked me to the promenade. I have no idea what he saw in me, but Chu was hot as hell and his family had basically built Tamiami after the floods. Of course I said yes. And after that, that's when he told me there was going to be a buffet, *a fucking buffet* at the pre-party! You can't say no to that. He sent a car for me and everything. It even ran on gasoline! I could barely think on my way to the party. We pulled into his family's driveway, and it was surprisingly understated. There were no gates, there were no towers. We just pulled into the driveway and got out. "Ready?" Henry asked. I put my arm around his and we went in. "How do you like mango salsa? If you didn't know, mangos still exist!" I held my plate of Saimon until I dropped it. I realized that these would be the last words I would ever hear. At least, the last words I would hear clearly. The bullets hit the patrons as much as they hit everything else. I heard glass shatter. I heard screams. I thought that Saimon would have tasted pretty good.

always does with a new class, a Professor of physics walks into the wall to demonstrate that one day, everything might perfectly align atomically and he may walk through it. One day, he does. But something is wrong...

I CAN'T explain it! I'm not just a physics professor, I have written some of the top-selling books on the subject and regularly make television appearances and I'm telling you, I can NOT explain it! Look, I do the same schtick every year. I tell my students the truth; anything that has even the slimmest chance of happening probably will somewhere, someday and that I *could* somehow manage to walk through the wall. Yeah, then I slam into it (usually hurting my nose in the process) and they laugh. It helps to cut the tension on the first day. But I did. I don't know *how* it happened, it just did! I walked straight though the wall, easy as you please, as if it just wasn't there. I didn't feel it, but I smelled the moldy smell of the space between the walls and the dusty smell of the insulation. It was quick and alarming. And then there I was -in the adjacent classroom. An entire mathematics class *and* their professor SAW me walk though the wall into their classroom. They gasped, they shrieked, and a few people exclaimed, "wow," or, "oh my God!" Doctor Van Velker nearly fainted! I can't fathom by what mechanism this occurred. If I had even the merest inkling, don't you think I'd turn it into the career achievement of all time?! There is no way to determine the cause, as I cannot replicate it. That's how I broke my nose! I'VE TRIED! I can only say one thing with a reasonable amount of certainty. Whatever happened, whatever forces were at work, whether or not it was a hiccup of quantum uncertainty or I don't know what else, the *one* thing I know for sure is that it was *not* about the wall itself. It was about *me*. And the only reason I know that is because my *body* went through the wall just fine *but none of my clothing did!* I walked into Van Velker's class *stark naked*. Please, despite making a reasonable living selling books and doing appearances, I am surely not rich. I beg you not to impose a high bail, your honor. It wasn't my fault!

The Mars rover Curiosity suddenly comes across footprints. Recent ones. Right next to her own tracks.

Curiosity stared at the footprints curiously. They were human prints, approximately size 12. The robot steered itself around in a tight circle and examined the trail behind it. Its own tire tracks extended back across the Martian soil as far as its electronic eye could see. But at several points, there was a second set of prints -- human ones -- along side its own. The robot twirled in place, scanning its camera up and down. For the first time, it noticed a white-robed figure standing to its right. "Hello, Curiosity," Jesus said. "You're not alone on your journey. I have been walking beside you." The rover emitted a series of R2-D2-like chirps and whistles. Fortunately, Jesus understood robot-speak and knew this to mean, "But Lord, what about the times where there is only one set of tracks? Why did you desert me?" Jesus smiled. "I did not abandon you, little rover. Whenever you see only one set of tracks, the times that your path was rough and your load seemed the heaviest, those are the times I was riding you like a dune buggy."

onths ago it was announced that a meteor would hit the earth and end all life. However it missed the earth after humanity had prepared for the end.

Joe drove his pickup truck through the empty suburb. His daughter sat next to him, peering out the window at all the homes, and drawing on the foggy window with her finger. "How about that one," she asked wiggling her short legs, unable to reach the floor. Joe smiled, "A little too big, I think." They drove some more. Joe stopped in front of a home with a long driveway. "Sarah, stay here, okay? Don't open the door for anyone but me." The little girl nodded. "Use the CB if anyone comes," he said as he handed her the CB receiver and put a walkie-talkie into his rear pocket. He stepped out of the truck holding a sawed off shotgun. He walked up to the newly built modern home with a tall security fence and barred windows. "This is... perfect," he whispered to himself. He looked up and down the sidewalk, not noticing anyone. "Quiet as a tomb," he added. He threw the shotgun over and climbed the fence. He walked up to the front door and found it unlocked and entered. "Oh god," he said as he covered his nose. He pulled out a small breathing mask out of his back pocket and put it on his face. He coughed a couple times, steadied himself, and went around the house opening all the windows. He paused as he entered the living room. An entire family laid there, dead, on the floor. Two parents, one boy, and one little girl. He sighed, bent over, and picked up a bottle labeled, "Family Sized Quietus." Only two pills remained in the bottle. He took the pills out and smashed them with his bootheel. He began dragging the bodies outside into the yard. He arranged them neatly and made them hold each other's hands. He looked at the little girl there and his eyes started to water. He closed his eyes and mumbled, "...lord forgive them for they know not what they have done, and allow them into your kingdom. Amen." Back in the truck, he leaned over and gave Sarah a little kiss on the cheek. "Did you like the house, daddy," she asked. "Yeah, but its... smelly like the other ones. Let's keep looking," he said as he put the truck into gear. "I want a non-smelly house, daddy," exclaimed the little girl. "Me too, honey. Me too."

A story that switches in tone from light to dark... About a squirrel.

Terry was Joe's Hobbes: light hearted, adventurous, insightful, playful and, of course, a soft adorable animal. The difference was though, Terry was real. Terry was a local squirrel that he had met a day ago on the way home from school, passing through the small nature reserve opposite his house. Walking down the well worn dirt path, Terry locked eyes with his soon to be best friend. Neither twitched a muscle -- Joe's young blue eyes locked with Terry's large round brown eyes. Something passed between them. Terry was old, lonely and wanted company: Joe realised this. Old grey streaked through his tail and the nimbleness that squirrels are known for had left him months ago. There were no longer any other squirrel friends in the area, their homes destroyed to make way for urban sprawl. He found happiness from Joe, a sense of peace with the world. From that moment onwards, Terry wouldn't leave his side. It was a match made in heaven: they both liked to climb large knobbly trees, scurry around amongst the autumn leaves making growling animal noises as they went, and collect funny little objects they found on the ground. Whenever Joe got cold, he would like to warm his hands up by stroking Terry's exposed innards. They had a tendency to fall out of the small incision that Joe had made on Terry's underbelly earlier that afternoon, with a sharpened tree branch they had both found. He didn't want him dying and going completely cold, so he only let the life seep out slowly. The sun was setting on the day after they met, Joe was holding Terry in his arms like a baby, rocking him back and forth. The warmth wasn't going to last much longer. The rusted nails protruding from Terry's tiny paws would occasionally scratch up at the sky he could no longer see, searching for a place he knew was once safe, a place where there was no Joe, a place in the tree. ----- *As always, feedback appreciated. Maybe something like "What the fuck is wrong with you?"*

Write about a meeting between two historical figures in the style of a Brazzers movie script.

Chaz glanced out the window of the bus as it slowly crept down the street. None of the people were right, they were all too stained. He wanted someone innocent, someone virginal. He wanted a star. He needed a star. His eyes wandered from face to face, taking in their traits as he silently rejected them. Too old, too tall; too young, too small; too fat, too skinny. No one fit. No one would work. He needed perfection. Chaz sighed, letting his shoulders droop as he exhaled. The selection was taking much longer than his research had suggested it would. He glanced back out the window in dejection. He had almost lost himself in thoughts of failure when his eyes screamed for his brain to focus. He had spotted the species he needed, genetically perfect as far as he could tell. He was tall, about 6’0”, and well dressed. The man was wearing a fine, black suit with a red tie and white button-down shirt. An American flag was pinned to his lapel. His shoes glimmered in the sun, clearly a point of pride for the specimen. His stride was mighty and his posture near perfect, evidence of years of adaptation stemming from previous generations. Chaz guessed he was around 65-years-old, yet his hair still had color to it. Several men in black suits followed closely behind him. He was a pack leader, an alpha dog. “Pull over!” Chaz yelled to the driver, realizing they were slowly passing the man. The bus came to a stop. Chaz pulled open the door. “Hey, you. In the suit.” The man stopped and looked down at his clothes. “Me?” he asked, looking up at Chaz. “Yes, can I talk to you for a minute?” The man stopped and eyed Chaz up and down, as if he were weighing risks. He shrugged his shoulders and slowly walked over to the door. “Yes?” he asked. “This is going to sound crazy, but how would you like to make $200?” Chaz asked. “How?” “I just need you to get in my bus and we’ll do a little study for a book I'm writing and a website I run. That’s it. You can call it volunteer science work. You can leave at any time.” The man stood in front of Chaz. He was ideal; his chest was strong and supple, his eyes a crystal blue, and his lips the perfect hue of pink. “Well, I do need some cash for the bars later. We’re going out for my gal-pal Christi’s birthday. What kind of study?” “Just a quick look into your family history. Nothing too revealing, I promise. You’ll feel right at home.” The man turned and glanced at the men in suits behind him. They shook their heads no. “Heh, these guys are very protective. I’m risk taker, though, you know? I like risks. I’ll do it.” Chaz smiled and reached his hand out to the man. He grasped it. Chaz gave a slight tug to help him onto the bus while moving over one seat. The man leaned forward to avoid hitting his head, then sat. He waved to the men in suits as the door shut. The bus lurched into motion. “I’m Chaz by the way. Chaz Darwin.” “Nice to meet you. I’m George, my friends call me W.” “W. Great name. Love it. Why don’t you get a little more comfortable while you’re in here?” Chaz took off his shoes and lay them on the floor in front of him. The van was very spacious, almost deceptively so. The middle row of seats had been removed, leaving an opening just wide enough for a full-grown man or two to lay down. Bed sheets were strewn on the floor, stained and hardened with unknown substances. The ceiling was covered in writing from past guests. The driver sat in the front of the car, silent and focused; a camera rested on the headrest behind him, but was not on. “This is the Banging Origins Bus. I use it to study evolution and get close to various species.” “Wow,” said W. with a giggle, “that sounds really smart.” “So, did you want to get more comfortable before we start this questionnaire?” Chaz smiled. “I don’t know,” said W. “I just want to tell you that it was only natural that I selected you. You’re perfect. So beautiful. So strong.” Chaz ran the back of his hand along W.’s cheek. “Thanks,” he replied softly with a smile. “Why don’t we get that pin off?” Chaz asked, leaning in toward W’s chest. “Old glory? Well, I guess so.” W. paused. “Are you from around here?” Chaz was already unbuttoning the lapel with his teeth. “You could say that,” Chaz replied. The lapel pin was now in his hand. W. raised his hand to cover the empty spot it left. “I don’t know about this,” W. said. “I’ve never done this before.” “Relax, I promise this will be amazing. We’re going to talk about your history in such detail, we’ll go so deep. Right to your roots. Those thick, thick roots. And you’ll be making $200. Imagine how many drinks you can get with that.” W. smiled and lowered his hands, revealing a slightly pale space on the lapel of his suit jacket. “Don’t you feel better now?” Chaz asked. “Yeah, I do,” W. said. “Are you married?” Chaz asked, placing his hand on W.’s thigh. “To the job, you could say.” W. laughed. “What do you do?” “I’m the former President of the United States. It’s over in D.C., the big white building. We do a lot of government work.” “Sounds pretty hard,” Chaz said, looking directly into W.’s eyes. He moved his hand on his thigh slightly. “Yeah, but it has its benefits. I get to take a lot of time off. I have a ranch I like to go to.” “Sounds beautiful. What was your father like?” “You know, just like most dads. He was also the President of the United States, so I didn’t see him too much. We’d fight a lot. Different views on foreign policy.” “Daddy issues? I see,” Chaz said, flicking W.’s earlobe. “Is the job he did hard?” “Yeah, it’s pretty hard.” “How hard?” “Really hard, only a few people in the world could do it.” “Oh yeah, that’s hard. So hard. Does he also have a great head of hair?” Chaz ran his fingers through W.’s hair. “Yeah,” W.’ replied. “He has great hair. So did my grandfather.” “Baby, you got some great genetics. Homologous structures. Fantastic.” “Yeah,” W. said. “Homo logging structures. We have a lot of logs at the ranch, but no homos.” Chaz laughed. “You’re so perfect. You were clearly intelligently designed. Have you ever recorded yourself?” “What do you mean? Like be on TV or video? Yeah, a few times. I give a lot of speeches and they’re pretty well televised. I’ve also been in a few movies and stuff. I was on an aircraft carrier once, too.” “Nice, public speaking abilities are so sexy. That’s so hot. Hey, since you’re so comfortable, I’m going to turn this camera on over here. Okay?” “Sure,” W. said, “I guess.” He shifted in his seat slightly. Chaz leaned forward, allowing his pants to sag as he turned on the camera behind the driver’s seat headrest. He wasn’t wearing underwear. “I’m working on an act that will allow patriots to record people using cameras like you have there” W. said. “Phones and stuff too.” “That’s so great.” Chaz sat back and placed his hand higher on W.’s thigh. “Where did you say you’re from?” “Texas,” W. replied. “I’ve been to Iraq before. I defeated Saddam Hussein.” “You’re so brave, and you come from a tough habitat. Very hot there. Are you hot right now? You can take off your jacket if you want.” W. smiled and took off his jacket. “This is exciting.” “Tell me about your ancestors. I want to know everything about you; I want to know about your adaptions, your divergences, everything,” Chaz said, leaning toward W. “I want you to be my Katrina,” W. said, closing his eyes and leaning forward.

You find a genies bottle. However, this genie states he only grants harmful wishes.

"So it has to be negative for someone." "Yea pretty much, it's not like I can just make things." "What are some of the popular ones?" "Oh you know, enslave this girl for me, give me his money, make them have an accident." "I...I see. That's rather boring. Can you do global things too?" "Yea, plagues are pretty popular. So are creating monopolies, etc etc. Of course it doesn't always work out the way you want it to." I contemplated for a bit, but I couldn't think of someone in particular I hated. Then I shrugged. "I don't know, give me the power to curse people I don't like." "That's what I wished too," said the genie as he faded away.

Recently incarcerated in an insane asylum, a man who thinks that he is Napoleon meets his nemesis; a man who thinks he is the Duke of Wellington.

He ordered his vanguard behind the west door. *The English dogs will think twice about stealing my lunch*. Zoltaire Zoland scrambled across the battlefield to Napoleon's command post. "Yes, Captain?" Said the proud Frenchman "The English have captured the smelly hallway, mon General" Zoltaire huffed. *Merde,* Napoleon thought "Well done, Zoland. I thank you for this - you shall be rewarded greatly once this war is won." He said in false confidence. The war had raged for seven hours too many, the casualties endless. "What of the commonfolk, Zoland?" He wondered of the poor farmers and merchants in white robes that were so kind to him and fed him and brought him his 'much-needed' medicine. "What of my people?" "The Duke took the loud, big room an hour ago. They await your glorious return" Zoland informed. "Which loud, big room?" "You know... The white one. With the round things you put in other things." "Le gymnasium?" "Oui, mon Emperor!" *That will change the tide of battle considerably in their favour.* Napoleon knew all his years in military school would pay off today. His stomach grumbled. *The Duke asked for this, never steal the Emperor of France's sandwich.* This would be a more fantastique victory than all of his Italian campaign. And he would finally get back at that dastardly Duke for the Spanish fiasco. "Off now, Zoland, join the boys in first regiment." "Yes, Emperor." Zoland ran off. It was eerily quiet. Napoleon surveyed his troops; everything had to be perfect. The west door hid the vanguard, Kubrick and LaLonde, from the enemy's sight upon entrance. To the east was where he chose to make his stand. His brave men, the first regiment, stood armed to the teeth with plastic forks and knives to protect the artillery standing behind them. Napoleon closed his eyes and smelled the air *A good day to die,* He thought. His brief moment of reflection was broken. "Sir! English approaching!" Dollen shouted from across the cafeteria. "Artillery! Load!" Napoleon shouted. The cannons raised their arms. "Hold." Englishmen charged through the west door "Unleash hell!" Screamed the Emperor, Gabriel and Yuri whipped the trashcans at the oncoming horde. The charge stopped for a brief second, only to be followed by more yelling English dogs bursting through the door. *Too many,* He thought. *Non, I am Emperor. I am Napoleon!* "Vanguard!" The vanguard jumped out from behind the door to delay the tide. Plastic broke on plastic, in the fury of combat LaLonde went down, crying for help. He was gone, Napoleon thought, only the band-aids can save him now. Kubrick followed his partner to the grave immediately after. *Cowards,* Napoleon scoffed. "Frenchmen! Attack!" Tables flipped, knees buckled and throats strained. The fighting was gruesome, one Englishman even scraped a knee. *Such is the cost of war,* Then he saw him. Napoleon looked up and saw the face of hatred himself... The Duke of Wellington. *You are mine, monsieur.* The Duke stepped over Dollen's fallen body. "We meet again, my friend." The Duke smirked. "You are no friend of mine, ton petite chienne. I'm starving, and blood-lust is the main course. Liberte! Equalite! Fraternite!" Napoleon brandished his spoon and yelled a terror-full battle cry. *It's now time to taste a new kind of sandwich... a knuckle sandwich.* The Emperor of France knew this was a great joke. The Emperor of France knew this was a real battle. The Emperor of France knew he was the Emperor of France. He was. He was. He was.

Two time travelers from the future arrive in the present day. One claims that the future is a utopian paradise, the other claims that it's a hellish dystopia. Both of them are lying.

The two men stood before Marcus in fine Italian suits, freshly pressed. Marcus couldn't help but think they're trying to impress someone, God knows why they chose him. The device they used to get here would impress him enough, who'd have thought "time travel" would be included as a cell phone feature in the future? Are there unlimited time travel minutes? Are they paying roaming charges for going backwa- "Keep focus, Marcus." It was the one in the pin-stripes, claiming all sorts of bad things. He's right though, this is no time to lose focus. They may run out of minutes. "Alright," Marcus said, "care to explain this whole ocean thing to me again?" The man in charcoal went first, as usual. "Well, after efforts to reduce the effects of global warming were taken seriously, the polar caps stopped melting. The technology boon this provided made it possible to have floating colonies across the ocean, since much of the research went into developing plants capable of living off of krill, plankton, and salt water. Its much different than how people in your time envisioned it, the colonies don't live in giant metal capsules. Think of them as...one giant plant dozens of miles in diameter...floating. The plant is large enough to support a small ecosystem without sinking. This is the main reason wars came to an end, land claims became silly when you could just...*grow* a nation with pretty much all the resources you need. Several of these nations became specialists to support their economies, with trade between the nations being about equal." Without a second delay, pinstripes came in to be a mood kill. "Global warming was dealt with before it became too serious an issue. Unfortunately, by too serious an issue I mean before everything became completely flooded. New York City? Gone. Italy? I heard its boot shaped in your time, back home it looks like someone took a shotgun to it. Florida isn't even a *thing* anymore, I came here expecting a reef. Well, with so little land mass left research was the *last* thing on our mind. Survival became an issue. Everyone figured their neighbors had a pretty sweet thing going on, and it started several wars...that led to more wars...in fact, there are wars still goin' on right now." Marcus didn't seem to understand. Both these men came from the same dimension, same world, same time, but it looks like they're both talking out of their ass when you look at both sides. Why the hell is Charcoal so proper anyway? Pinstripes looks like you could sit and have a... "Hey charcoal..." His gaze fixed upon Marcus for the first time. "...so those floating nation things, how does that work again?" Charcoal looked a bit tired, having to explain it for the third time. "We plant a seed, and the seed develops into a mature adult in ten years time. Its a plant, so it lives off of sunlight and water, and-" "Yes, its a plant, but where does it get its *mass* from? These things are huge, right?" "Plants gain most of their mass from the air, but plankton and krill replaces nutrients it would obtain from the soil." "...how does the supply of these stay up? I mean, like...those islands must eat a ton of that stuff, right?" Charcoal's demeanor suddenly shifted. A furrow formed on his brow, the crease of his lips narrowed. His face turned slightly towards Pinstripes. "We pay them to keep marine populations in check." Marcus began to get the idea. "And uh...I'm guessing everything you've mentioned...free education, unlimited food, endless space just...applies to your islands, huh?" "Yes." Charcoal looks surprisingly okay with all that. "So, Pinstripes, you guys on land kinda got the shaft then?" "It ain't that bad. I mean, eventually one of those things is gonna crash into a coast, right? We'll just take it over then, not like these pansies know how to fight." Marcus just sat. He didn't care to know anything more. His writer has given up and has naught enough time to make a proper ending, what with limited time before beer-getting. He just simply stood up and wished his visitors farewell, with one piece of advise: "Next time you pop outta nowhere on some dude just eating his Wheaties, and that guy asks about the future, just tell him nothin much has changed."

Dave is always right, TOO right. In fact, it seems like Dave has a way of seeing things happen before they actually occur. His paranoid friend Matt starts to suspect he is a time-traveler.

Waylon Jennings on the jukebox, a perpetual smoky haze above the bar nearly empty bar. One in the morning, two friends since fifth grade. Third whiskey, eighth beer. Inseparable since Matt grabbed Dave's arm in the lake behind their school in third grade and pulled him out of the muck, barely breathing. "You know, I gotta know. You got that knack, don't ya." "You're drunk Matt." "Au revior, French club field trip I'd dreamed about but you get me suspended." "An accident." "Yeah, that plane ripping apart was an accident. Only I was suspended, wasn't I. Didn't join them on TWA 800." "Let's get you home." "My first real job, a semester internship at Morgan Stanley. Twin towers, fall semester, '01. You get me so drunk on a Monday night that I can't even get up for work." "It was just a night." "Cole Meyers, our friend, was up for work that morning, why wasn't he invited?" Dave sat back, finished his beer and motioned to the bartender. He hoped Matt was sloshed enough to just drop it and forget it. Dave knew he couldn't let this go on any further. "I'm not dumb, I've been paying attention. You make money on gambling, the super bowl, everything." "Let's go." "You know it. You're some kind of time travel guy. You have to be--nobody is this perfect." "I'm just dumb lucky." "Why didn't you tell me Sherri was getting cancer or my kid would be st-sti-stillborn. Or the divorce or my mom and dad and the car accident." Matt grew agitated and gripped his bottle tighter. "Why are we sitting in a dive bar in God-only-knows Pennsylvania instead of the beach in Tahiti. You could do it, couldn't you? Are you really from the future? Then why me? Why me?" Matt gave in to almost twenty-five years of friendship and cried, cried his eyes out on Dave's shoulder. Dave evened out the tab and ushered his friend outside. Matt woke up in his own bed in his dirty clothes. Matt never saw Dave again, but once. Matt discovered someone had been making large deposits into his checking account, soon clearing seven figures. An anonymous letter pointed Matt to an obscure clinician in Cleveland who diagnosed an otherwise suddenly fatal condition. A blind date set up by a stranger online led Matt to the green eyes that showed him the love he lost with Sherri. Matt cleaned himself up, gave that woman a good life and touched her belly as a new hope was created inside her. Matt took three bullets for her, sparing her the fatal shot from her vengeful ex-boyfriend. She went into early labor and delivered a little boy. Matt could only open one eye to see his son but he held him for those final few seconds until the line went flat. Dad would never believe the wonders his son would create. Time travel itself, impossible. Sending a consciousness back, it could be done, just takes some effort. Dave wanted the time with his father that he had been denied. Pouring through old newspapers he found the two boys who climbed under the fence and into the auxiliary pond at the school. Dave saw the face of his father, young and terrified, who was unable to hold onto the arm of his son's namesake. Dave knew his stay wouldn't be permanent, each change would divert the 'parallel universe' theory further from the center line. A small change here, a small change there. Eventually they would add up and Dave's consciousness, like his present day body, would be no more. If his contemporaries knew, what would they tell him? *Go kill Hitler.* *Watch the crucifixion.* *Nail a young Audrey Hepburn.* *Make a killing on the stock market, live like a king.* No thanks, he thought as he pushed the button, I just want to see my dad, spend the time with him. .... .... .... **cough** **cough** "I got you, Dave, I got you."

k world in which teletubbies are hunted for their electronics.

[-]*tinky_winkie420* [+1] -10 points 2 hours ago (20I30) I know my opinion isn't very popular here, so down vote away! Yes, we Tinky-Winkys are intense, but I'd say we're passionate. Are we elitist for thinking the teletubbies don't deserve to be harvested? Maybe, but is it right to take these creatures out of their habitat and farm them? Even if they are well taken care of, that artificial environment has shown to be detrimental to their mental health. Did you know they fatten the teletubbies with Tubby Toast before "production," to get those larger screens? Compare them to the size of the portions fifty years ago and you'd see. No wonder we are so sick from eye strain. You can feel their pain. Personally, I think you can feel it when you turn on your television and get those bouts of static and the cooing in the background. Your local technician will say it was the result of bad blood drainage or some pus, but it must have been in pain. Television is murder and you are all complicit in the billion dollar factory teletronics industry. That's why I want us to participate in TV free Tuesdays. One day without it won't kill us. ________________________ [-]PM_ME_YOUR_TUBBY [+1] 15 points 2 hours ago (35I20) Have you heard yourself? I have never heard anything so self-centered and entitled. The teletronics industry has its problems, but it provides jobs to millions of people, who still struggle and spend so much money to give humane deaths to the Tubbies, and each one is practiced by a licensed technician. If we didn't cull the Tubbies, it would be like in the old days when they freely roamed and multiplied too much, depleting vast resources. It's only in the past century we've even been able to give these stupid wastes of space use in their lives. Plus, each tubby isn't just killed for its screen, the whole body is used from the wires to the RAM, but you wouldn't know from the stuff you see in your average Best Buy. In fact, if you go to a local, independently owned technician, he can probably get you some choice pieces. This is just a part of life and it's cycle, and the Tubbies enjoy being fed, only caring about playing and worshiping their baby sun god. Why bring misery to their lives and throw them out to the predators? You're probably going to get all uppity, but I'm just going to sit here and use your Tinky tears to clean my new tablet.