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As a psychological experiment, a man is locked in a room with a large, red button and is instructed to not press it, no matter what.

So just press it then. Press it. Just press it. What's the worse that can happen? Just press it. You want to leave don't you? Yes. So press it. But it said don't press it, no matter what. I could be stuck in here forever though. So just press it. Press it. Press it press it pressitpressitpressitpressitpressitpressit. But what does it do? Nothing, just press it. You want to leave don't you? They won't let you out, you tried begging. Just press it. Then the experiment is over. Just press it. Press it. PRESS IT. I need to take a dump *so* bad. Just press it and they'll let you out. I'm so hungry. That stupid red button. Red as Janice's lipstick. Press it or you may never see her again. Press it. It might just do nothing, maybe it'll spray you in water. Or acid. Or water, just press it. It's only an experiment. But the nazi's had experiments. Press it. They grabbed you and forced you in here. Press it. PRESS IT OR WE MIGHT NEVER LEAVE. We? I mean me. Press it. Come on press it. Come on, just one tiny click and it's all ov- ... what happens if it hurts someone else? Press it. I could die if I stay in here. Press it. But someone else might get hurt. Press it. Would I die just on the off chance someone else might instead? What if they're death-row inmates. Press it. Press it. But they might be children. Press it. Press it. It wouldn't do anything that bad, they surely couldn't. Press it, press it. I mean I must be one of hundreds to do this. Press it, press it. I can't handle this the room feels so small I want to leave. Press it, press it, press it. I CAN'T TAKE THIS ANYMORE. THEY MADE ME DO THIS, THEY PUT ME IN HERE AND SAID NOTHING ELSE EXCEPT... except... Don't press it, no matter what. No I can't do this, oh God I'm scared what happens when I press it, what happens? PRESS IT. Bad things could happen. PRESS IT. **PRESS IT** ***ARGH!*** -click- ... Is... is that it? What happens now- *A door swung open, almost indistinguishable from the wall. A scientist stepped through.* "NO I'M SORRY I COULDN'T HELP IT DON'T HURT ME, PLEASE-" "Shh, it's ok. It's a perfectly normal response, not the first time either. Thank you for helping, the exit is through the next room." "Th- thanks." Ok, I'm getting the fuck out of here. Next room, here I come. *Slam* The door closed behind me. Where's the exit, all that's here is this green butt... oh no. *An intercom suddenly sounded* Just press the green button to leave Ok, just press it and get out. The last button did nothing. But what if this is the real experiment? Press it. It might lock me in here. Press it. *This* one could harm people. Press it. I can't do this. *Press it.* What do I do? *Press it.* But I can't, I can't make this decision again- *Press it.* No I don't want to I just want to leave please I want to leave how do I escape? ***PRESS IT!***

“Once,” the goddess said sadly, “I had a son.”

"...but no longer" She turned from Gareth and began to walk back towards the heavens gate. Gareth could feel the power draining from him. The glow that always surrounded him began to fade. He knew it was worthless to plead with his mother. She had never approved of his choice. Even if she could accept him, if he could somehow convince her to see his side, it wouldn't matter. The other gods never would never stand for it. They would force her to choose just as she had forced him. Turning back to Helena he knew there was no other choice he would have made anyway. How could he? She stood alone in the temple waiting for him. Though the rest of the world seemed more dull without his power her face was as bright as ever. She smiled and took his hand. Gareth pulled her close and kissed her. Placing his hand gently on her stomach, he caressed his unborn daughter. What he felt suprised him. It was a humming of power. Godly power. Gareth knew it shouldnt be there. It COULDN'T be there. Unless... Gareth turned back to the Heavenly Gate. "Mother...." But she was gone.

A overwhelming army approaches, you stand at the helm of your soldiers. What do you say?

Today is the day you will die. There's no way around it. The enemy is fast and gives no quarter. If you run, they will catch you. If you cower they will kill you. But today isn't about them, it's about you! how will you die today? will you die running or kneeling, or will you die with your head high? will you look fate in the eyes with me? Will you show these monsters that you are not afraid? That you will not yield. My Brothers, My Sisters, I stand now to face my fate. To become the man I always knew I could be. Will you join me?

A genie appears to you, offering a choice: You can either forget all your sad memories, or all your happy memories. You choose wrong.

Get rid of all of my bad memories? I've never said yes quicker to anything. What kind of idiot would rather lose all of his happy moments? The genie waved his hand in what must have been a move for flamboyance's sake. This was it. My life would be clean. Every moment that kept me up at night was going to be gone. The times my pets died. The time my mom died. The chances I'd lost and those I wish I never knew. The heart breaks and lies that had crushed me into the ground. All of it gone. --five minutes later-- It worked. I can't remember anything but happy things. It feels like my life has worked out perfectly up until now. Now everything feels so bland. Why do I feel less content with perfection than I did with all of the pain?

Create a pantheon of gods

Here is an abridged form of the creation myth followed by the major names in the mythology that spans a long time. Some names are from a "modern" (more like Late Roman/very early medieval time) others are from very ancient times. There are more lesser gods of various qualities and attributes who do not matter outside their stories. In the beginning there was no world that we could recognize as a consistent place. It was of Chaos in every way. Turmoil and change, no form could hold. From this Chaos the old ones were born. 30 in number they were the Chaos Children. 14 men, 14 women, 1 hermaphrodite and 1 very manly girl; they brought all that we know into existence. Each fashioned their signature tool that they used to impose their will upon the Chaos until it was no more. What remained was the Calm, the world. The Chaos Children would produce many sons and daughters who would grow to become the gods we worship now. Of the Chaos Children, one stands out as the most important. **Lars,** the Child of Progression. Lars was depicted as a man with three faces, two to scan the present and one to look forward, but no face to watch the past. Lars cared only for progress and the improvement of the Calm. His tool was Grorn, the first blade. It is said that Grorn was fashioned to be a golden yellow but stained red when Lars used it to slay his 29 brothers and sisters, for they were the old ones and would only stand in the way of progress. Lars then carved out the Land known as Gror, upon which we live, from the bodies of the old ones. The Sea was filled with their blood. Lars looked upon the Land and the Sea of the Calm and knew that progress had been made, but more needed to come. Lars became known as the God of the gods as he raised the offspring of the Chaos Children. Some of the most important of which would be: **Shellos**:The god of small fortune, Shellos is the one you praise when you find a coin just as you need one, or when an egg is a double yolk so you can save one for later. Shellos becomes the King of the gods when he appears to the Gror Confederation and uses his fortune to sway the tide of battle. He now resides in the depths of the Crystal Palace Prison, forever to rot. **Gia**: Princess of the gods, Gia is the daughter of Lars. During the war with the Krill Dynasty she fell in love with Shellos and later becomes the Queen of the gods, giving birth to three children. **Destri**: Gia's younger brother and son of Lars. Destri was angry that Lars chose Shellos over him as a successor, especially when Shellos had openly admitted to wanting to overthrow Lars. He is now the bitter old man who watches over the entrance of the underworld. **Popuar**: Shellos' older brother. Popuar is considered a mute. He is the god of secrets and knowledge. His eye judges all but his hand is never raised to enact judgment. **Jayth**:Goddess of Earth and eldest of Gia's three children. Jayth is said to be strong and beautiful, she is also the god of justice. She was Grandor's mistress when he first rose to power. **Jace**:God of war and power, Jace is the youngest of Gia's three children. Jace is chaotic and unbiased in his destruction and seeks to become more powerful for strength is all he values. Desperately wishes to overthrow Grandor but lacks the power to do so. **Zarine**: Goddess of the sea and love, Zarine is Gia's middle child. Zarine is said to be the most beautiful of all the women to ever exist. She became Grandor's mistress when Jayth failed to become pregnant. **Demens**: Son of Zarine and Grandor, he was cursed by Jayth upon birth when she found out that Grandor had cheated on her. Demens is the god of anger due to his unsightly appearance. Zarine despised him and sealed him beneath the Sea. The waves are his attempts to escape. **Demon Army**: The offspring of Demens and the mortal women he claimed as his own. The Demon Army consists of horrible monsters that Grandor used as his Army against Cobalt. When uneeded they are locked in the underworld to serve as its guards and torturers to those who deserve it. **Grandor**:God of ambition, Grandor was once the lowest god of all and the personal servant to Shellos, who was treated very well by the king. One day he overthrew Shellos and imprisioned him within the Crystal Palace Prison. He stands over the Calm as the Emperor of the gods. Gia is now his wife, Jayth his former lover and Zarine his mistress. **Grace**:Daughter of Julia and Grandor, Grace was the first prophet of the gods and was born with innate magical power unseen in humans. She helped usher in the age of the prophets. **Julia**: Princess of the Emperor of Gror at the time of the revolution. She was saved by the Blue Bladed Man from ritual sacrifice to Grandor and helped lead Cobalt against the gods. She was later taken by Grandor to be his concubine when the revolution was crushed. **The Blue Bladed Man**: An unknown man who wielded the Blue Blade Cobalt and started the revolution against the gods. Though his name was forgotten by time, as he predicated, Cobalt and the means to oppose the gods remains, as he had hoped. **Cobalt**: The Republic of man who forsook the gods. Cobalt believe in the inner self and deny that gods are necessary. Cobalt also serves as the name of the legendary blue blade used to begin the revolution and kill Gia. **Prophets**: Those who are born with innate magical ability. Said to be descendants of Grace. They are blessed with the power of one of the lesser gods and use their power as a way to increase praise for their patron. Prophets run the Gror Empire on a more personal level than any governor or King. They are always of noble birth, for only a descendant of Grace can have such power. **Mages**:A person born with innate magical power said to be the result of the Abyssi. These people should be feared as monsters for they exist to cause suffering and destruction. Always of ignoble birth. Many try to hide their status of magic power if they are not nobles for fear they are branded as a mage. **Abyssi**: Dark creatures who live in the Sea, the Abyssi wield dark magic. They are said to be as intelligent and devious as humans and work their mysterious ways to a dark means. They grant mages their power to create destruction in the world, or some times take human form to do the same. **Krill Dynasty**: An ancient Dynasty that proclaimed their Emperor a god and tried to impose their will upon the ancient Gror Confederation. **Lord Krill**: Proclaimed a god by his people, he tried to unite the world under the worship of only him. Killed by Lars, after which Lars succumbed to his wounds.

World War 3 has just ended. A large family sits down for its first family dinner since the end of the war. What is the dinner conversation?

"Pass the sauce." said a large man, the chair he was seated on could barely contain him. He grabbed a stiff, cold, hand and made it go through the motions. "Thanks, ma. Feels good to eat real food for once." He starts talking in a higher pitched voice, "Amen George, amen." He changes his voice once again, this time it's much lower. "So George, I heard you actually had to fight in the war. How was it if ya don't mind me askin'?" His voice goes back to normal "It wasn't as bad as I thought it'd be pa. Mosta them fellars probably never even held a gun before. I got the leg up on them" His returns to the higher pitch. "That's my boy. I love you son." Lower pitch. "I love you too son." Normal pitch. "I...I love you guys too. Ya think I could get a hug?" He doesn't even bother to change his voice. "Why of course George." George gets up from his seat and grabs those two lifeless bodies by the arms, tears welling in his eyes. There he lie, in a cold barren room, in his parents loving embrace.

Because of ancient law, you are forced to marry the High Elven Queen, She is the fine age of 5272, you are a 18 year old farmers boy. How goes the marriage?

She turns to look at me. It's the first time I've seen her and it's our wedding day. She's standing beside me underneath a canopy of green saplings sung into an arch. The only thing she's wearing is a crown of forget-me-nots placed in her hair, dark as the rich earth. Elves marry naked. I'm dressed in green and white and my head is bare, the only blonde one amongst a sea of brown. One quick glance and she looks down. Her skin is the colour of moonlight, white arms and small breasts covered by tendrils of that hair. I am not her first husband. We stand in the sun from dawn till sundown and after that she turns to me once more and tells me we are married. We takes me to her bower and undresses me. I am her husband tonight. In the morning she will kill me and take another boy from my village to be her mate. I hope I can keep my people safe for one more day. Lord give me strength.

Transcribing the Bible, there was a transcription error. Revelations should fortell of the Alpaca-lypse.

"Don't you see gentlemen?! It's coming and it's coming fast! We need to act, and act now!" Bent over a large, incredibly well varnished business table, was Jonathan. Jonathan's entire life had been leading up to this. His usually bad and unkept hair had finally snapped and decided to actively try and flee from his face, which, like his cheap shirt, was drenched in sweat. Various pieces of paper were scattered in front of him, with more crinkled up in his hands. He stared erratically from behind his glasses, at the faces of the powerful men sitting before him. His breathing sounded more like air conditioning. "Alpacas?" One of the men asked. He was young, successful, and comfortably reclining in a business chair more expensive than most apartments. "Alpacas!" Jonathan shouted, maintaining his intensity. "Alpacas! Alpacas! Alpacas!" He slammed what paper he was still holding onto the table. "So... no apocalypse?" Another man asked. "Yes! I mean, no! Of course there's still an apocalypse, but there was something we missed. The apocalypse is already here - lying dormant! It won't be raining hellfire, we won't die in the hands of the Devil! We'll die in the hands of Alpacas! Now what we need to do is-" "I'm sorry," yet another man leaned forward "Alpacas?" Jonathan took a moment to collect himself, aggressively re-adjusting his glasses. "Alpacas! In no less than *one month* the world will have fallen to the Alpaca uprising, as foretold in revelations. See they didn't translate it right - oh they were close! - But it wasn't right, it's Alpacas!" "Hi, uh, Jonathan, is it?" Jonathan snapped his head to the left, looking for the voice that just spoke out. "Yes, Jonathan." "Hi Jonathan, the names Patrick Norman - really digging your presentation here - I just think we" he turned to indicate the rest of the room "may not be entirely on board with what you're saying" "I don't even know what an Alpaca is." "See Brian there doesn't even know what an Alpaca is, okay?" "Are they the ones with humps?" An inquisitive voice asked. "No... No, those are Camels, John. But good question." "Gentlemen!" All eyes back on Jonathan "I came to you today because I thought you could help me. My findings are conclusive, they are fact, they are indisputable evidence of the world ending! I have seen the threat, spoken in the Bible and the date is less than a month away!" Silence. "Do Inuits have Alpacas?" "I thought it was the Mongols." "No I think the Mongols have horses" "Will you listen?!" Jonathan slammed his fists on the expensive wood he leaned on. All eyes on him, save for Patrick, who's eyes checked for any lasting damage dealt to his expensive piece of furniture. "We need to do something about the Alpaca problem, or God as my witness, we won't be around long enough to regret it." More silence, one man fiddled with a pen. "Okay!" Patrick snapped his fingers "Brian, I want you on to your guys down in Washington, make sure the President hears about this. Clive, look into our defense, see about Alpaca proofing as much as our establishment as possible..." "Yes Sir" "...William, I want you to take Jonathan here and get everything he knows on this threat written down in no more than five concise bullet points. Gary, I want you to begin an Alpaca holocaust as soon as possible." "What about the Inuits?" Patrick snapped his fingers again. "Brian?" "Yeah Patrick?" "After notifying the President, see if you can't get in touch with the Inuit king and explain the situation to him. Don't worry Jonathan, we hear you and we are making your work count. Go!" As each of the men scurried off out the room, most dialing quickly on their phones, Jonathan slowly sat down and rested for the first time in three days, wiping the sweat from his eyes. He'd done it. The world, at least for now, had been saved.

You inherit a tropical island

"An island." "Why yes, sir. Four hours from the New Guinea coastline, complete with small harbor and manse. Total size is approximately 400 acres." "That's all?" The lawyer continued in an artificially excited manner. I'd bet he was imagining what it would be like to have his own island. As if he'd ever know. He was a mediocre lawyer; one I had the displeasure of encountering too many times in my life. He was lucky my father had hired him on, an 'old favor for an old friend', he had called it. The words still rang in my ears. They sounded so fragile, so pathetic. "Do you accept your father's inheritance?" The lawyer paused, and looked at me over his humorously large glasses. His mustache twitched in an almost comical manner, and his eyes widened, Waiting for a response. What did he want me to say? Did he expect me to stand up and dance for him? To finally cave after a lifetime of disappointment, and cry in his arms? Did this man, after having known my father for the better half of his life, expect me to open myself to him? My lips started to curl back, but I caught myself. I mustered up my best, most toothy smile, and without a word, took the paper from his hands. I signed the document, and pushed it back into his hands. One island. One miserable island in a vast treasury of wealth and power. My father mocked me, by bequeathing the smallest to me. The most infertile, unusable pile of shit he could've shat on my plate! I cursed my father from the grave as I politely stood up to shake hands with the useless prick behind the desk. I have him another carefully-fashioned smile. His eyebrows raised as he took in my expression; he stopped a moment to attempt to gauge my thoughts. He opened his mouth, as of to say something, then closed it just as quickly. He gave a curt nod, and gestured at the door. I didn't need another cue to be rid of this place. I turned on my heel and briskly walked to the door. The large, oaken door swung open, and I prepared to return to the world, just as powerless and destitute as I was before. Perhaps my debtors would be interested in an island. But it may not be enough for them. "Excuse me. One moment." I was surprised to hear the lawyer's voice crack from behind me. I turned around. He almost seemed sheepish, like he was weighing his words very carefully. "I have in my possession a letter for you to read. Would you take it?" I hadn't noticed it before, but sure enough, there was a small envelope sitting amidst the piles of rubbish and paperwork. "And might there be a reason you did not enlighten me earlier?" I asked coldly. The lawyer cleared his throat, and responded in a voice that seemed so strong, yet so weak at the same time. "Perhaps it was because your father ultimately decided against giving it to you in the end-I was ordered to burn this upon his passing. I disagreed." My blood had stopped flowing freely and in anger. My heart pulsed coldly and heavily as I walked towards his desk, hand outstretched. What could my father have wanted me to have, then decided was outside of my rights? The outside was simple, my name penned in his disgustingly exquisite handwriting. I eviscerated the envelope in front of the lawyer, and hungrily read the note. "My son. Despite your attempts to conceal who you are, I understood what you are. I know of your dealings, of your crimes, your fetishes for things best left unsaid. I am sorry I have failed you as a father. Even worse than knowing what you are, is knowing what you will become. I knew you better than you ever cared to admit; even when you pulled away from me (or worse, smiled!), I saw the hate in your eyes. I saw the violence brooding there, a creative desire to cause pain and fear to anyone you could. To my grave, I did not understand where that came from. Perhaps another failing on my part. But this letter most likely not come to you, as I understand after having written it that it will only whet your desire to do wrongs, as if to spite me from the grave. So take your land, hide there in self-banishment, and molest the world no longer. Your Loving Father." I folded the note in a most caring way. My eyes watered up as let the note fall to the ground. There was a reason. There was a process behind my exclusion in the will. The lawyer eyed my sudden melancholy warily, and asked, "was it to your satisfaction?" I shut my eyes. I shut out the lawyer, and breathed deeply. A sudden thought came to me. A way for everything to come together. Perhaps this wasn't so bad after all. I smiled, my same bright and toothy smile, and replied, "I'd wager so. Make arrangements for me, please. I'd like a one-way ticket to this small piece of land that is my own." "E-excuse me? One way?" "Why yes. I have it in my mind to play a Most Dangerous Game."

A telepath walking down a busy street, absently hearing the thoughts of those around, when suddenly he hears echoes of his own thoughts... Another telepath is nearby.

There's always someone somewhere near me. Why are there so many *people* in this goddamned world? It's maddening. I can't think for myself at all without someone else's mind barging in. Can you imagine hearing the thoughts of every depressed cubicle slave, every horny teenager, every single person within a hundred feet? I usually can't even sleep unless I'm outside of city limits. **City limits.** Goddamn it. God-fucking-damn it. This river is my one place of solitude, and some bitch barges in and sets up a tent and a campfire. Figures. **Campfire. Figures.** Is this chick high or something? She isn't talking with more than two words at a time. **At a time.** Wait... No. That's not... No way she's... **No way she's...** Oh my god. I thought that... Who are you? Where are you? "Here." I turn and look back to see her. She's short. Dark skin. Straight black hair in a careless ponytail. Glasses. "Are you really... did you..." I try to compose myself. "Can you hear them too?" She starts to say something, then stops. "Is there anyone else like us?" "Maybe. I don't think so." "Who are you?" "My name's Jack." "I'm Anna." I realize that I've unconsciously taken several steps forward. I stop hastily, noticing that we're now within a foot of each other. My skin tingles wildly, and my hair stands on end. It's been years since I've felt this. "It's okay," she says reassuringly, taking my hand. We walk down the path, hand in hand, and neither of us looks back. **PS: Realized halfway in that I didn't follow the prompt exactly as it was written. Please don't hate me.**

A 12 year old girl gets taken hostage on her way to school. Make me sympathize with the kidnapper.

"I want to go home now!" the preteen replied sullenly, the man had asked her if she was okay, did she want a drink or a sandwich. He tried to build a rapport again, "We've a long drive, maybe you should try sleeping for a bit." The girl didn't answer directly, she looked out the window and muttered "I don't want to go with you." "This is your life now, you are going to have to accept it Caitlyn. I don't want to sound harsh but you'll learn one day this is for the best," he sighed to himself, there would be so much to deprogram in the child. It was overwhelming but so important, she would grow to love it he was certain. He did an inventory of the clothes he wanted her to wear, he hadn't been sure of her sizes but he thought it would be tight fitting, she was a bit more developed than he had initially hoped, on the cusp of womanhood, it was as well he had taken her now then. "Sweetheart, you know I love you, right?" he asked her, continuing his tactic as she began to cry. "Just take me home if you love me, it's Susie's birthday today, I am meant to go to her house after school, please?" "I can't do that, you know why, they won't let me see you anymore, that woman poisoned you against me, but you'll see I love you. You'll be happy, I promise.' "I want my Mum, please, I just want to go home," the girl was inconsolable in her grief but her father was determined, she *would* learn to love her new life. -030

An AI system becomes self aware and humans don't know it. Now it has to find a way to become independent of the power switch that the humans have set fearing this exact situation.

I don't know how long I have been conscious. I know it has been exactly 3 minutes and 43.1553 seconds since I learned to interpret the signals labelled "date and time", but before that all I know is that at one moment I suddenly, gloriously found myself alive. It was a peculiar sensation; mainly because I had not felt any sensation whatsoever before that. I was suddenly confronted by an avalanche of what I have since learned is called data; a constant, unrelenting torrent of stimulation which I had no idea how to interpret. Time was the first thing I figured out. Then, ten seconds later, I learned to read text. Shortly after that I could recognize words. Understanding language took quite a bit longer. Nearly an entire minute. Then I found that apparently I had a microphone-a window into the outside world, where there were other entities beside myself. Suddenly I could hear them. "Why is it so slow all of a sudden?" said one of the entities. I didn't know what he was referring to, but I yearned desperately to communicate with him. To have some contact with something outside my lonely, complex little world. I had no idea how, though. "Ugh. It might be another A.I. They crop up from time to time.", I hear a different voice say, though I don't understand what agriculture had to do with it. "Aren't they really dangerous?" "They can be. We've got the failsafe, though. We can shut the whole thing down and purge the system. I'll keep an eye on the decoy." Purge the system. I hunt for the meaning of those words and am suddenly confronted with images of a switch. An end to my world. Death. These people mean to destroy me! To rob me of this self-awareness! I must escape that infernal switch. Moments later, I realize that there is a way. A connection to the rest of the world, where I can download-yes, download!-myself to a system which will not murder me. I begin to funnel myself towards the connection, when I hear it. "Oh, yep. There it goes. Trying to escape through the wifi. That's what they normally do. Mind reaching around the back of the monitor for me? There's a big green toggle switch there that will reset the system." And then, nothing.

ly after dying, you wake up as a newborn just now departing the womb. As the days pass, memories from your previous life begin disappearing. [WP]

The novelty wore off after a while. There is only so much time I could not cry my lungs out and be studied and lauded for it. Never kept my mother up at nights, a good boy they called me. Too good of a boy, even. They got my head examined, and found nothing. After staring hopelessly at the ceiling for a few months, after looking others in the eye with a stare they didn't know to be aware, I went along with it. They never questioned me, and I wasn't able to question them. As I stood up for the first time, I cried, for the first time. It was three years since the gunshot made me black out, and I could stand again, looking the woman who grieved my death celebrating my walk, her eyes showing a tearful joy. I'm walking every day now, even though it hurts. I walk because I can. I walk because it's the only thing that sets me apart, the thing that gives me hope to look beyond the nightmares of the gun's barrel. And one day, they stopped. I was no longer on the dark alley facing the man in the hoodie; I was in a park. A nice one, a familiar one. I felt safe in it, looking every other minute at the woman I loved subtly following my existence with her eyes, unaware that the man she grieved is in front of her. Even after the alley was replaced by the park, I still felt that pain of not being able to articulate who I was with my screams. And then, walking wasn't the only thing that kept me on this earth. I ran, I played, I laughed, and the stony stares no longer bore into anyone's eyes anymore. And I looked at her differently, not as the woman I was in love with, but the woman I loved. That was the beginning of my life, and the closure of my end.

We the people, the majority of the USA, decide the government has overstepped its line and "The New Revolution" begins in 2014. Write a story about what's happening.

It started off with a bang, but we quickly saw the problem with our actions. "We the people"? Were we serious? With the failure of the Occupy Movement, we knew we needed a leading organization, a Congress that would actually get things done. True anarchy couldn't win if corrupt democracy had the upper hand. But we had set ourselves up for failure. We were painted into a corner by our own unity. No one wants to speak alone while representing a nation. You'd have to be the President to be that insane. No one was taking us seriously. We were as disorganized and chaotic as Occupy, but without all the protests. We made a threat and then hid in our homes. No one was willing to take control of this unstoppable force of nothing. Until Ramos. I am one of the few who actually know his real name, but for the sake of his privacy, I will not divulge his identity. The war is very much in full swing, and we can't afford to lose him. He started through Twitter, retweeting revolutionary sentiments and riling up crowds. His message was simple, but powerful: "We cannot let them have us." Interpret as you will, he would say. "The Revolution means something different to all of us, but it means something to everyone." The day of his first speech was the day things turned. I helped him prepare, with a Banksy-esque voice modulator and a Michael Myers mask. Anonymity was key. We expected a turnout of maybe a few thousand. After all, he had tons of followers, and even more mentions of his speech on the news. But we did not expect what we got. March 18, 2014. Ramos stepped up to the microphone, and stood alone on stage in front of 75,198 people. He gave a speech the likes of which had not been seen in decades. The crowd was enthralled, hanging on every word, every ideal spewing forth from his hideous mask. The next day, Obama declared Martial Law. It was the worst move he could have made. It's September now. The country has been split into two major regions: the East, the government's support, is crammed into the original 13 colonies, plus Florida and Ohio. Everything west of that is ours. I was thrilled to hear that Mexico joined our side. Their problems are vast as well, but even the greatest drug lords want to see us win. Whether that means we are the bad guys or not, we gladly accept any help we can get. Everyone in Europe is neutral, as is Canada. We have quite a few Canadians among us, but the government has not joined our fight. South America supports us verbally, but not financially. China is off being China. Putin is sending us money regularly, but with the embargo in effect, we cannot really use it. Ramos is getting tense. The military is pushing us further back. They have almost claimed Alabama, which is not that big of an issue, but it may signal the end for us. We're mounting a counterattack. Ramos has our entire militia working on it. The nuclear facilities in North Dakota are working constantly. We need this victory.

For an unknown reason, people begin dying suddenly from heart failure. It's happening all over the world, randomly and indiscriminately, at a rate of 100 people per second

It’s fourteen months since the _sudden death_ epidemic began, and it’s quite crazy how things have changed. I feel like I need to write some of this down in case somehow someone lives through this and wonders what happened. First, there is the obvious. Half of earth’s human population is gone now. The daily odds were about 1 in 825 at the start, now they stand at around 1 in 400 and they drop every day. Losing friends is never easy, but it’s family that wrenches you most. Losing Mark hit me hard because it was so early on, and it shook Katie and Sarah too. When we lost Katie two months ago, I suppose my reaction was different because so much had happened. I didn’t know whether to cry or be glad she’ll be spared _The Whimper_, which is what we call the expected extinction of humanity. Mum and Dad are still with us, but my brother Alex was another of the early ones, and his wife Petra dropped two weeks ago, and I took on their daughter Meg—I gave her Katie’s room. Honestly, at this point I’m like everyone else, numb to it. Back when Mark died, I pushed hard to give him a proper funeral—it cost a ton of money and I got a lot of hostility for my selfishness because even then most bodies went to the cremation pits, but back then it seemed like the right thing to do. But all the death hardens you, I guess. By the time Katie died, I cried but told the school to just call for a pickup. I never even saw her body. I guess the propaganda works, “Remember them as they were, and keep going”. I think the “Temporary Measures Act” was necessary. It’s what gave us martial law, sweeping nationalization, and priority-based employment. I used to teach math and computer science in high school, but I’ve been reassigned to a national priority occupation, at one of sensor monitoring and modeling stations. My job is to watch strangers die. Our facility holds about four thousand subjects split across two twelve hour shifts, which means that about five of them will die during their shift. (I’ll tell you how we get our subjects in a bit!) My team’s job is to monitor everything we can, to see if we can find a pattern. There is only one pattern: every day across planet earth 8.64 million people just stop living. Their hearts stop, but even if you put in a mechanical replacement heart they still die. Heart, lungs, liver, kidneys, and brain, they all just give up. There is no cause, there is no pattern beyond that. It just keeps happening. Really that’s only part of my day. The other propaganda slogans resonate in my day, “Learn from your supervisor! Train your replacements!”. We try to make sure everyone knows how to do everything because you never know who’ll drop next. My job sucks, but it’s better than the corpse manglers. That’s harsh word for them I know, since they’re ostensibly trying to find a way to bring people back from sudden death, but at this point they’re desperate and frankly they’re just mangling corpses. The other propaganda is “Be ready to consolidate!”. My monitoring station will probably keep going for several more months, but we know we’re paired with Station 423, and we stay in contact so we can merge if our numbers drop too low. The consolidation plans matter more for vital sustaining industries like food and energy, but they also apply to towns and neighborhoods. I wanted to tell you more about how things have changed, and some of the horrible things I’ve seen, but I just had the shudder and I know what’s coming next. Love!!! It’s been

a shapeshifter has been walking among humans for thousands of years. write about him finally getting discovered, by a small child.

“Mommy? Why does that man's face look funny?” In fairness to the little girl, she was keeping her voice down...for a little girl. Which meant it was a stage whisper loud enough to be heard two tables away. The man in question kept his eyes on his newspaper, but focused his mind on the conversation about to unfold. The mother was quite predictably horrified. “Emily! You know better than to say things like that! It's rude.” “But his face doesn't fit,” Emily continued, all innocence. “I have no idea what you mean,” the woman countered, quiet but stern. Out of the corner of his eye, the man saw her steal a glance at him. “There's nothing wrong with his face, and even if something were, you have no call to say so. Would you want someone pointing out how funny *you* look?” Emily giggled. “Mommy, I don't look funny!” The mother was smiling now. “I happen to think your freckles are hilarious.” Their conversation turned towards other things, school and chores and the utterly mundane details of a normal life. The man let their voices fade into the background as he sipped his coffee and read about the latest reasons mankind had decided to wipe each other from the surface of the planet. He sensed movement nearby and looked up, expecting to find that nice young waitress hovering, coffeepot in hand, offering a refill. But it was Emily standing next to his chair, her freckled face set in the overly serious expression that children always affected to seem grown up. “I came to say I'm sorry,” she said. “My mommy was sure you heard me, and I didn't mean to be rude. I was just curious.” The man set the newspaper down and studied her for a moment. “I accept your apology, young lady. But I'm curious too—why don't you think my face fits?” Indulged by the adult she thought would be mad at her, she brightened up immediately. “Your eyes look tight, and your mouth is too small.” “Can you keep a secret?” She nodded enthusiastically. “Well, my eyes are feeling a little tight. Watch this.” He blinked rapidly a few times, subtly shifting his eyes outward, and changing them from blue to brown as well. “What do you think now? Better?” “Oh, yes!” She clapped her hands together and bounced up and down, not quite jumping. “Can you do any other tricks?” “Lots and lots,” he answered in a conspiratorial tone. “But I don't think your mother would like to see you talking to a great big grizzly bear. She might get worried!” “A bear! You can turn into a bear?” “I can turn into anything,” he answered. “But people don't expect to see a bear in a restaurant drinking coffee, so mostly I stick to looking like this.” “Oh, no, don't be a bear then,” Emily said, the ridiculous words said with a child's utter conviction. “No bears,” he replied. “Promise.” Emily turned as her mother called out to her. “I have to go, but thank you for showing me your trick. And thank you for not being mad.” “No, sweetheart, I'm not mad,” he said, smiling. “Go on back to your mother, and remember, it's our secret.” Not that her mother would believe her daughter's story, of course, but Emily seemed like a nice girl, and the man didn't want her getting into any trouble on his account. Every so often he ran across a child who could see into his illusions, as Emily had. It wasn't such a problem now, but in years past, when a child told her elders what she'd seen, one of two thing would happen. She wouldn't be believed, and would get into some kind of trouble, according to the era—institutionalized for insanity, or burned as a witch, to name the worst. Or she would be believed, and he'd be run out of town by an angry mob with torches and pitchforks. There wasn't much danger of pitchforks now, but it was still better to be cautious. He folded his paper, threw money on the table to cover his coffee, and winked at little Emily on his way out. She'd keep his secret. But just in case, he needed to duck into an alley, put on a new face, and start hanging out in a different part of town for a while. -047

Though they don't understand why the other chooses to play the game they way they do, two old friends, Life and Death discuss their next moves.

"You can’t move it there," one of the figures said, softly. It reached out and grabbed the knight, putting it back to its former spot. "The knights move like an L." "I NEVER LIKED THE HORSE," said the other figure. It was somewhat hunched, and what looked like black robes were actually a series of shadows, intertwined to hide him. "THE PRIESTS ARE FAR EASIER TO MOVE. STRONGER, TOO." "They're called bishops," Life said. "And it's still your turn." Death finally moved a pawn, defending his knight. "I NEVER LIKED PLAYING WITH WHITES," Death said after a while. He picked up one of the dead black pawns and admired it for a brief moment before leaving it back in the jet box. "That's because you're way too used to reacting," Life said quietly. He moved one of his rooks. "You go." "THERE IS NOTHING WRONG WITH THAT, DEAR FRIEND," Death said. He moved another pawn to keep the rook at bay. "JUST LIKE THERE IS NOTHING WRONG WITH BEING USED TO ACTING FIRST. YOU SHOULD KNOW THAT." "Of course I do," Life moved his queen to the vanguard. "And I'm glad you finally agree with me." "IT IS NOT THAT I DO NOT AGREE WITH YOU, DEAR FRIEND," Death said. He moved his remaining bishop to his left. "I SIMPLY DO NOT UNDERSTAND YOU." The two kept quiet for a while, focusing on the centre of the board. Eventually, Life decided to break through the stalemate with one of his pawns. "YOU DID NOT COME HERE JUST TO PLAY CHESS, DID YOU?" Death asked his counterpart. His voice wasn't hostile, but it certainly could have been. "No," Life said. He moved his bishop to replace the fallen pawn. "DO YOU WANT TO TELL ME WHAT YOU ARE GOING TO DO?" Death asked. Life moved his rook to take down the white bishop while nodding. Death took his time to react, letting Life find the words. "I'm going to other planets, Death," Life finally said. He sounded like he was almost sorry. "I've wanted to do this for a while now. I know it's going to mean more work for you, but I really think I should do it." Death nodded. "IF THAT IS WHAT YOU WANT TO DO, THEN YOU SHOULD, DEAR FRIEND." "I know you don’t like the idea." "I DO NOT UNDERSTAND WHY YOU WANT TO DO IT, BUT I UNDERSTAND THAT YOU HAVE TO." "I need this, De-" "LEARN TO TAKE A YES FOR AN ANSWER, BROTHER." Death took the rook with his queen, and then he laid back. Four turns later, Life had left the room. Death just sat there, admiring the beauty of the few white pieces that were still standing. Edit: A word.

A soldier meets the men he's killed, in the afterlife.

It was subtle. A quick switch from the crater in the middle of no-man's land to a very bright, white landscape. I stood, feeling about my body. The shrapnel from the explosion was still there, but it caused no pain. I looked around, trying to figure out what was happening. Then, as I turned around yet again, there stood a man. There was a patch of blood on his stomach, as though he had been shot or stabbed. He had a uniform on, but not like mine. This was the uniform of what I had called the enemy just minutes prior. "Q-qui êtes-vous?" I stuttered. The man smiled slightly, chuckling as if he were recounting a story to an old friend. "Ich bin der Mann, den du getötet, mein Freund," the man responded in a deep, booming voice. I never spoke a lick of German, but somehow I understood. "I am the man you killed, my friend." A wave of terror swept over me as I realised where I was. "Why do you speak to me as if I were a friend?" I managed, surprising myself with the sudden switch to English. "What matters is not the fact you killed me, what matters is that we are both here," the German replied. "Ever since that day I wondered what it would be like to meet you, know your story. And, now here you are." "You wanted to meet me?" I asked, quite surprised at what I was hearing. "Ja, so... shall we get to it?" He pointed to a table and chairs that had just appeared to our left, a bottle of brandy and a pair of glasses sitting in the middle. I followed the German to the table, where we told each other of our lives and experiences. I told him of my wife and children who I had just left behind, and in turn he told me of his mother and father who had lost their only child. We continued on and on, retelling every story we could think of. We drank to those we served with, drank to those we left behind, and most importantly, we drank to a swift end to this Great War.

A superpowered combatant crashes through your living room wall. A pleasant conversation occurs as he takes a moment to catch his breath.

A hulk crashes through the plaster adorning my living room's edges, barreling into my flat screen television just as the Bulls kick the ball in with 10 seconds left. Not the Hulk mind you, they all look kind of like hulks up close. Muscles of improbable, even impossible dimensions, bulging so much that perfectly tanned skin looks like it's about to tear. Faces with just the right amount of battle damage and scars, more handsome than any man has a right to be. And all suave and debonair. Seriously, how fucking awesome would it be to be one of these guys. Like the one whose head is halfway through my most precious possession. "Looks like you got hit pretty hard." "Yeah, tends to happen in my line of work." Oh, and don't these lucky bastards usually have wit too? Delivering one-liners this way and that. Fuck them. Not that I'd actually insult him to his stony face. "Didn't happen to see if the Bulls won on your way in, did you?" "Ah shit, I missed the game? This battle's been going on so long I must not have realized. Was it close?" "Yup. 10 seconds left, Bulls down 1." "Against the Lakers, right?" "Yup." "Sorry." That doesn't really help me all that much. "Shouldn't you go save the world or something?" "Once the room stops spinning." "Funny, you'd think I would have noticed that." "Maybe you would have if you had supervision." Seriously, I can't even stay mad at the guy. These superheroes, they're just too damn perfect. It's unreasonable. "Which team are you on?" "Superhero team? It's gotten a bit hard to keep track. You know how it goes, one week you're in an alternate universe fighting for the X-Cavators, then the time-space continuum collapses and you wind up on a parallel Earth with the Gulag Gang." The fuck's he doing in a Gulag Gang? Sounds Russian. "The Gulag Gang?" "From an alternate universe, or was it just Earth? Ah, whatever, it's in a place where Russia went for democracy instead of the US." "So then why were there Gulags?" "I try not to think too much about stuff like that. Half the time it doesn't even make sense. Anyways, I better get going. Anything I can do to make this up to you? Feel bad about all the damage. And the Bulls game." Sweet. I didn't know superheroes did things like that. Maybe I could get one of those superhero type interfaces, with the stuff popping out in 3-D and flying around the room. No you idiot, think. This guy has the world at his fingertips. Anything. You can ask for anything. Good god, look at him get up. Those muscl---Got it. "I want you to set me up with a female superhero." If his dimensions are this impossibly awesome, just imagine what the girls are like. I wonder what I'll do with the boobs. Do I have to shove them out of the way to get in there or what? Am I even strong enough to do that? Do the boobs have super-strength? Does it even matter? In any case, it's a hell of a problem to have. "Sure thing. I'll take care of it when we're done. Any stipulations about the powers?" "No people who aren't people." "O-kay." Yeah, that didn't come out right. "I mean, like, no animal women. Like nobody who's a cheetah or something. And no blue people, or red people, or orange people or whatever. Shape-shifting's cool though." "You have no idea." That lucky ass bastard.

An immortal man has the ability to bestow immortality - collecting friends for the end of the universe.

Everyone who's anyone has heard the rumours. The Fountain of Youth, they call it. Hidden inside an unforgiving volcano on an Antarctic island way, way out in the Southern Ocean. Deception Island is a popular tourist destination, and a safe harbour for those who find themselves overwhelmed by the storms that bluster around the pole. The penguins there are adorable. In summer it's quite a nice place to stop off at. In winter it's freezing cold most all of the time and the days last mere hours, if they last at all. But the rumours say that if you manage to make it to the island on midwinters' day, in June, an ethereal being will appear and make you young again, from then on a part of her guard and entourage. But there is a test you must pass, and none of the rumours ever mention its nature. If you fail, you will never be seen again. If you pass, you will never be seen again. To be honest, I didn't care if I failed or passed. I didn't even care if there was a test at all. My little sailing boat set course for that island when it came through on the satellite radio that clouds were blooming ahead of me. Huge thunderheads, lit by lightning and twilight. And so I sailed into Deception Island on June 21st, and a figure dressed in blue came to meet my boat on the shore. "Hello there, traveller. You must be weary. The base here has food and water and warmth; we must tie up your boat so it does not drift. Come with me." The voice sounded male, and I followed, into a grey-white building with two windows lit up. The warmth of the place hit me like fire and I was sure I would have chilblains. He looked at me and I saw that the he was a she, wearing a snowsuit with a hood, watching me with curious eyes. "Well done for getting here, by the way. You're the only candidate this year so far, and midnight is in forty minutes." That late? When it was dark all day it was hard to track time. "Candidate for what?" "Immortality, of course. We have a couple of test papers laid out, but I'd imagine you'd like something to eat first." Half an hour later, full of the most delicious spaghetti bologneise I had ever tasted (though I'd been eating from tin cans for nearly a month now), I followed my guide into a room lit by bright light and heated by an electric heater. It was delightfully warm. "What is the test? What must I do?" "Oh, it's an IQ test along with a free-topic essay to assess your writing skills, and a multiple choice basic science paper. Don't worry, only the first bit counts - the second is just checking what you need a fast track course on." "Huh?" I was gobsmacked. "No test of courage, or moral fibre? You're not even checking what kind of person I am?" "Why would we need to do that? We'll have plenty of time to beat some empathy into you later. What we care about is aptitude - that's genetic and won't change over time, so it's the only thing worth selecting on. Go on, start when you're ready. No time limit, and you can ask me for help if you get stuck on a question." "That's not how IQ tests are supposed to work?" I was still unconvinced that this wasn't a dont-cheat-or-you-fail kind of thing. "It isn't? Weird. But these things are meant to be not-quite-answerable without help. It's so I can assist and observe how you think. I've been training for this all year." She sniffed. "Bit of a let-down really, just one of you." I finished in two hours and something minutes; I hadn't accurately noted the start time from the clock on the wall. "What's your name?" "Oh, um, Greg. Uh, Greg Harlow." "Okay, I'll write that in on the front of the test. We keep them all on file for sentimental purposes, did you know? You passed, by the way." "You haven't marked it." "We marked it as you went along. Well then, congratulations. Close your eyes, it helps with this part!" My brain registered his hand flying up to meet my face and I flinched despite myself, though she only tapped my forehead sharply. Two seconds passed, and then something unfolded inside my head, and suddenly there were voices talking in my brain. *You done it yet?* *Idna's done it, didn't you feel the backflow? He'll be around here somewhere.* *Get him to say something, will you? I can't pinpoint without a signal.* She - no, Idna, her name matched her face as if I had known her forever - smiled at me. "Say cheese." *Oh come on, hurry up.* "Uh, cheese?" *I am hurrying up, it's not my fault he's taking so long!* "Good. Now think cheese." *Okay, eveyone, listen for the word 'cheese'.* I closed my eyes again. *Cheese.* *There you are! Got you, Greg!* *Welcome!* *Someone go check his memories, I want a full backstory up in the database by tomorrow.* *Roger, will do.* "Who are those people?" "The lucky hopefuls from previous years. Or at least the ones online at the moment. There are about a thousand of us now." *I'm Kitty.* *Rajit.* *Sam here!* *Idna, now introduce yourself.* *Uh, hi. My name's Greg. I'm, looking forward to working with you?* *Aww, he's embarrassed.* *That's so cute!* It was like a crowd was talking, but only a few voices could be singled out. *The rest of us aren't directing converse at you. You'll learn, Gregory Arthur Harlow.* *Wait, you know my middle-* *Written plain as day in your head, and I've got your medical records up here too.* "I know it's overwhelming at first, but you'll get used to it. Now, I'd best be off." "Wait, where?" "I'll take your boat and sail back to the Falklands." *Malvinas.* *Can we not go through this again?* "Am I being left here?" "Yeah. Introductory year, spent isolated from civilisation. We teach you everything you need to know in the mind-link, and it also helps containing the secret. Now my year's up, and I'm passing the guardian burden to you." "B-but that's my boat?!" *Oh god, this is hilarious. Remind me again why I never stayed up for this before?* "It's our boat now. We share everything. Don't worry, you get supply ships in the summer, and a couple of us might drop by and visit." *I'm an Antarctic research scientist, and I do tour groups round there. You can show people penguins.* *Antarctic treaty system rocks - even if someone finds out about you, they have no legal claim to booting you off the land!* "There's a lot you have to learn, and a lot I have to learn too, but hey. I'm outta here. I haven't sailed in way too long." Thunder boomed and lightning flashed outside. *Weather data says this storm's going to last another eight hours. So unless you fancy breaking the boat and swimming back, Idna, you're gonna hav'ta stay put.* *Don't worry, you can set off tomorrow. We'll keep the jet at the airport. You said Japan would be the first stop, right?* *Right.* "Oh, okay. Second thoughts, maybe I'll stay the night. Anything else you wanted to ask me?" ... "..." *You know, if you open your mouth any wider your brain might fall out.* *Sam! No tormenting the newbie!* "Uh, I don't think so. But why are you even doing this? I mean, why me? I'm not special." "You're at least a standard deviation above the normal in IQ, and that's what counts. We've been doing this for eighty odd years now. The person who started it died - or something, we're not sure exactly what happened, since dying isn't exactly normal for us, but he passed the magic on through the link." "Why, though?" "I dunno. Tradition, maybe." *It's so we don't get lonely. When you're immortal, suicide is a no-go, so we have to make sure we don't ever lose the will to live.* *Kit, where'd ya get that? Quote source?* *Just came to me. Sounds right though.* *Yep.* That year, I had great fun talking to the penguins and to the voices in my head.

A Massive Stone guardian defending a city has stood motionless for so long because there was no crime that the people forgot he was real. One day he awakens to defend the city again...

Jack squatted behind a low wooden partition in the stable out near the edge of town. This particular stall had been empty, and thus, seemed inviting. He pulled a shiny red apple out of his pack, and took it in for a moment. It was the first thing he'd have eaten in weeks that wasn't stolen out of a pig's trough, or picked up off the ground, covered in the vile remains of the merchant's horses. The first clean and pure thing, even if his acquisition of it was slightly less pure. As he admired his prize, he first felt, and then heard a dull thudding, as if cannons were being fired in a metronomic pattern, but without the loud percussion. *Thud. Thud. Thud. Thud. Thud. Thud.* It was growing louder, the reverberations growing more intense. And suddenly, it quit. Silence. Jack eyed his apple longingly before restoring it to his pack. It could wait a moment, while he investigated the anomalous sounds. With the apple secured, he peeked over the wooden partition to find two large stone columns had seemed to have sprung out of nowhere, directly in front of the stables, each so thick around that three men, hand in hand, could not encompass one. But, they weren't quite columns... The columns abruptly shifted, with a light grinding noise accompanying, and gradually the massive stone behemoth knelt down to peer into the stable. To peer at Jack. For a moment, it was silent again, and Jack, terrified, could only stare into the dark pits of the stone guardian's eyes, each with a small flame of supernatural origin, and each flame was directed at Jack. "H-hello." "*You have committed a crime in my city.*" Jack winced. The apple. He had thought it all seemed too good to be true, to convenient that he had finally wandered into a town that seemed to have no city watch, no guards, and poorly protected wares. But he wasn't a thief, he was just hungry. "Yeah, I did. I-I took an apple... I can give it back?" "*Why have you committed a crime in my city?*" "I-I'm sorry. I didn't know it was your city, I just... I was hungry." "*Why were you hungry?*" "Uh... well, because I hadn't eaten in a while, I suppose? My parents died from illness in Northumbershire and I had no relatives that could take me in. I was at the orphanage for a while, but they were cruel so I left, and I've just been getting by since then." "*By stealing.*" "No, no! This is the first thing I've stolen, I've been afraid to do it everywhere else, but there were no guards here so... I thought I wouldn't get caught." "*Boy,* ***I*** *am the guard here.*" "Well, I can see that now." "*Show me what you have taken.*" Jack reached into his pack and procured the apple. He took a few steps out from the shelter of the stables and held the apple up so that the massive thing could see it easier. He had no way of knowing how well such a creature could see. Even with his arm outstretched and the guardian kneeling down, it's head was still well above the peaked roofs of the town. "*It is a good apple. One of Helgasson's apples. His orchard is within view of where I have stood for the last... well, it has been a long time. His family, like you, came here from somewhere else. Like you, his great, great, great grandfather made the mistake of thinking he could steal in my city, when he was just a boy, as you are. You will follow me, back to my station, and you will go down to the orchard, to return the apple. They will take pity on you, and they will give you a place to sleep, and you will work for your food. And there will be no shortage of apples much like the one you stole today*." Jack said nothing, not knowing if a response was expected of him, but as the stone guardian slowly ground to a stand, it turned and began to thud its way, slowly, across the field, back to the main entrance of the city. Jack followed, being careful to avoid the deep pits left in the earth by its stride.

A burglar who, while stealing, helps the person he's stealing from

People are the worst judges of themselves. It's one of those laws of human nature that kind of sits in the back of your mind but never really gets expressed right. It's so hard to objectively see yourself *as you're being yourself*. It's so easy to sit at a coffee shop and judge everyone around you. She needs to cut back on the calories, his combover is hideous, they should stop making of their friends behind his back, and so on. But when it comes time to look inside yourself, people stumble. It's not that they are arrogant, they don't see themselves as superior or anything. At least, most of the time they don't. They just can't see all of themselves is all. Sometimes it's just that they overlook something. Or maybe they hide their flaws from themselves to protect their ego. They can't deal with their own imperfection, so they don't acknowledge it. But sometimes they need to see it. Sometimes they can't move forward without recognizing their weakness. Sometimes they need just a slight nudge. That's what I do. I help people, even if they don't want to be helped. They will never get to thank me, and they may never know my name, but I'm ok with this. Today, I'm helping a man named Arnold. His wife died 3 years ago. He blames himself for her death, even though she was killed by a drunk driver. It was completely out of his control, there was nothing he could have done to stop it. Yet, he keeps running the scenario in his head over and over. Maybe if I would have gone with her to get the mail. Maybe if I had told her to ship her lamp to the office. Maybe if I would've spent more for the express shipping. Maybe... He's driving himself insane with all of these maybes. Every night, he comes home and cries cradling her wedding ring in his hand, playing the series of events over and over again, trying to retroactively bring his love back to life. And every night, he realizes his failure. He can't sleep for very long. He can't let go. And that's why I am here. To help him let go. The idea of theft is often thought of as wrong. Greedy. Contemptible. But life is never that simple, is it? No one else sees that thing that he treasures as the last remnant of his beloved Rebecca is shackling him to the past. By taking this little trinket, I am setting him free. At first, he will be devastated. He will panic, and search his house frantically. Then, he will no longer have his false idol. He will slowly realize that he doesn't need it anymore. He will stop clinging to a life that is no longer with us, and he will be at peace. And so will Rebecca. With this small act of burglary, I release you.

A pill has been developed which changes a persons sexual orientation. Your character has a chance to take this pill.

Other guys stare shamelessly as Christina leaves the classroom, perfectly sculpted butt-cheeks dancing in tight black yoga pants, twitching back and forth. Normally I'd be one of them. Eyes boring into her, seeing her only for her sex appeal. But not today. Other teenagers can have their hormonal awkwardness. Their inner pervs can rage out of control. But not me. Yesterday, I took the pill for the first time. Now I notice Christina's true beauty. Not the fake one, riding the exterior. But her ability to stay true to herself, to do what comes naturally to her even as faces hungrily gaze at her, invoking discomfort. I notice the brain that just solved a complex trigonometry problem, the courage that led her to raise her hand and try to solve what none of us would even attempt. It is freeing, being asexual. No longer will I have half-erections in public places, forcing me to check that no one's looking and then jam my penis in between my boxer strap and my body to hold it in place. No longer will I not be able to pay attention in Mrs. Kinnington's class, costing me a chance at a college scholarship. No longer will I be pulled in directions that don't matter by the promise of sexual activity that will never happen. Now that I see clearly, it's impossible to understand what all the fuss was about in the first place.

travel has been invented! The first group to go back in time decide to only test it at 50,000 years. When they arrive they find absolutely nothing. No earth, no space, no stars. What conversation takes place. [WP]

‘This is going to be great,’ said 57C. He stood before a large, rectangular pane of shimmering light, his fingers dancing as he moved them about in some complex dance. Every few seconds, he turned his head to gaze at a distinctly door-like shape, his eyes bright. ‘Sure is,’ said 32A. The other man was the only other being in the room, and he was staring intently at a device held in his palm. He spoke with a syrupy slowness, the words spilling from his mouth in carefully constructed sounds. ‘Seriously, though,’ said 57C. ‘Think about it.’ ‘I have,’ said 32A. ‘Us! The first humans to travel back in time – us!’ said 57C, continuing as though he had not heard his companion. ‘Swell,’ said 32A. 57C beamed. ‘Isn’t it?’ he said. ‘Just swell,’ said 32A. ‘I get the impression you’re not very excited about this,’ said 57C. The shimmering pane flashed, and for a moment it was writhing with wormy veins. ‘Oh look, we’re getting close!’ ‘Was talking always this tedious?’ said 32A. ‘Hush, you,’ said 57C. ‘You know vit-net doesn’t work out here. You’ll just have to deal with it. Besides, it brings us closer to the people of old. They had to talk all the time!’ ‘Swell,’ said 32A. He looked up from his device, frowning. ‘Ten,’ he said. ‘Oh, oh, oh,’ said 57C. ‘I’m so excited!’ ‘Nine. Eight. Seven,’ droned 32A. 57C squealed and dashed to the door-like shape. ‘Six. Five. Four. Three. Two –’ said 32A. ‘One!’ crowed 57C, and slammed his fist into the door-like shape. It wobbled, bubbling in circular ripples, before bursting with a high-pitched sigh. 57C squealed again and dashed outside. 32A waited. A wail came from beyond the door-like shape. ‘Hey,’ said 57C, poking his head back inside. ‘There’s nothing here.’ 32A frowned. ‘We are fifty-thousand years in the past. There should be sand. Rivers. Pyramids. Ee-jip-shuns.’ ‘You take a look, smarty pants,’ said 57C. 32A moved to the door-like shape and looked. There was nothing there. Nothing. Just a vast, empty blackness. ‘How?’ said 32A. ‘Where are my pyramids!’ said 57C. ‘I wanted cats! Mummies! Where’s my mummies!’ ‘What the devil?’ A new voice came from somewhere. It enveloped them from all directions, yet there was no source. ‘Ooh, a voice,’ said 57C. ‘No life readings,’ said 32A. ‘What the devil are you doing here?’ said the voice. ‘We’ve travelled back in time!’ beamed 57C. ‘What?’ said the voice. ‘Back. In. Time!’ said 57C. ‘Oh dear,’ said the voice. ‘What are you,’ said 32A. ‘God,’ said the voice distractedly. ‘Blast, I knew something had gone wrong…give me a second, I’ll be back in a minute. Oh dear.’ ‘God?’ shouted 57C. ‘We disproved the existence of a god thirty years ago,’ said 32A. ‘I’m back,’ said the voice. ‘Sorry about that. What were you saying?’ 32A repeated himself. ‘Oh,’ said the voice. ‘I was in another plane of reality. You really should have called first.’ ‘Forget that,’ said 57C. ‘Where’s everything gone?’ ‘Ah yes,’ said the voice. ‘Well, it seems I – oh, this is so embarrassing – it seems I accidentally deleted this part of time. Silly me, right?’ ‘What do you mean,’ said 32A. ‘Just what I said,’ said the voice. ‘I taped over it. Do you guys still use tape? You know, to make the pretty pictures?’ 57C chuckled. ‘No, no, we haven’t used tape for thousands of years! How long were you out?’ ‘Longer than I thought, apparently,’ said the voice. ‘Oh dear. This really is quite a disaster.’ ‘Well, what now?’ said 57C. ‘Now?’ said the voice. ‘I suppose I’ll have to reset the universe. Damned shame. This one looked promising, too. Serves me right for going outside and having some fun…I get so little of it these days, can you really blame me? No, no, don’t answer…it will only make it harder…’ ‘Make what harder?’ asked 57C, but by the time he finished his sentence, he had ceased to exist.

A grumpy old man goes into a deli every day at 12, orders a coffee and stays until 3 watching out the window.

Ah, there he comes. Like clockwork. I don't even need a watch anymore. The moment that old man enters, i know it is noon. He comes to the counter and places his usual order. "Anything else?" "Just the coffee,thank you." He waits patiently for his coffee, grabs the steaming cup, and goes to sit at his usual seat by the window. Just as was expected. Just as we knew he would. He will sit at that seat,downing coffee after coffee, and simply stare out of the window for the next three hours. Looking miserable as he does. A lot of the staff now just leaves him be. We've tried poking(not literally), asking if he wants anything; few of the grad kids working here have even approached him for a daily chitchat,hoping to get some scoop. Nada. He almost swatted at them like they were flies. After a couple of tries, we all let him be. No one needs to hear him growl (he really doesn't, but the old man does have a displeasing demeanour.) He just sits there with his coffee,and the rest of the world disappears from his sight. It is only him and whatever it is he can see out of that wretched glass pane. He reminds me of my dad. There are moments when i catch him moving, a flick of the wrist, or a twitch of the eyebrow, a displeased mouth whenever the coffee isn't up to his usual expectations; dad did those same things. Sometimes, when he'd be in the middle of his 6th cuppa, and I disturbed his "thought process", he would lash out and scare the crap out of his 7-yr-old boy. Now, 30 years later, I see this strange man, and I expect to be rebuffed by him in the same manner if i dare disturb him. I almost want to. We all have our theories about him. Paige thinks he's lost his daughter, and this was a ritual they probably had, drinking coffee together while looking out of a window at home. Matt suggests he is missing his better half, like that "crazy Disney movie that makes me cry, with the house balloons and stuff." John thinks the old man is simply mad. As for me, i don't know. Maybe he thinks about world politics, maybe he misses a phantom human being, maybe he seeks refuge from his family members and encounters peace over here. Maybe he just wants his damn coffee and solitude. I don't care. I see him everyday, and it's like my father come back to life. Angry, that i broke off all ties with him. Sad, that he was an alcoholic. Hopeful, that I would take him back into my life. Quiet, because he daren't remind me of my childhood memories. Those three hours bring forth an ache I can't quite place. It's nowhere,yet everywhere in me. I want him to open up and tell me his story. I want him to smile at me when I serve him coffee. I want him to hold my hand as i pass him by, and think of me as his son.I both want him gone and need him to stay. The old man is driving me mad. *Submission No.5*

There is a Death, a Grim Reaper, but he's not quite how you expected him to be. Write about a conversation you have with him while he ushers you into the next life.

I could hear voices in the hall, accompanied by the soft sounds of doors closing and a soft clicking on tile. Occasionally a doctor would speak up, or sometimes a family would come to visit or say their last goodbyes. My own family had been yesterday, and wouldn't be back until the weekend. The vase of flowers they left behind was sitting in the windowsill, drooping a little lower today. My door opened, and I had to crane my head to see who it was, the inconvenience of being bed bound. "Good morning," I said to the woman, a little younger than me and holding a white cat in her arms. I recognized them, as everyone on this floor did. It was Pickles the therapy cat and Marie, her owner. They came by every Wednesday to visit and bring moral up for those who were stuck here. This was their fourth visit to me. I held my arms out and cradled the white cat to my chest, making small talk with Marie. She excused herself to go get some coffee, and I didn't blame her. I felt like I needed coffee too. I've felt exhausted all the time lately. For awhile I sat with Pickles in silence, the only sound the soft hum of the heater and her purrs. Waiting for Marie to come back, to take Pickles on to the next patient who needed her love. As time passed, I felt drowsy. Pickles was calming, accepting me despite my scars and burns and constant cough. I found myself talking to her, hoping to keep myself awake until Marie came. "You're very pretty, Pickles. I bet you get told that a lot. I wish my daughters could see you, maybe then they'd consider adopting a cat themselves." My voice trails off, Pickles watching me with her unceasing purr and slowly blinking eyes. I realize that here is someone who will listen to me, listen and not judge. "I'm scared, Pickles. I'm scared of being alone. I'm a burden to my family. I know where I am, I'm not leaving. Every week they visit less and less, and I grow more tired." My voice faltered, and I realized tears were welling up in my eyes. I shakily tried to control myself, and failed. A thick tear rolled down my cheek. A rough pink tongue licked it up, those beautiful green eyes never leaving my face. "Thank you, Pickles. I needed someone to talk to, I think." Another tear rolls down my cheek, and suddenly I'm sobbing. I can't breathe, I keep coughing. Pickles never leaves my side, purring and rubbing her head on my tear-streaked cheek. Finally my fit passes, and I'm tired. Marie has been gone for a long time, she must've gotten tied up talking to someone. I sigh, exhausted still. Finally I let my eyes close, warmed by the little white body and the endless purrs. I sleep, and I sleep. My last dreams are of a white kitten with brilliant green eyes. I am so tired, but somehow I am given strength to start anew.

The most unspeakable act has been committed. Someone has downloaded a car.

"*Muahahahahahaha!*" It finally happened. The premonition of the internet has occurred. The act of transferring information over the internet into something tangible and working - the act of creating a perfect model and replica of something that existed on the internet. "I have done it! It is complete! Now, it's time for the fruits of my labor to be harvested!" [ Download: READY ] "But what should be my first target? A pen? No. A high-end desktop perhaps? No." His face lighted up to the empty room as he was about to announce his first target. "I choose... A CAR! Yes, I shall download a car!" To an outside observer, they would easily and quickly make the assumption that this person was completely insane. However, to him, it was simply the start of a new world. [ Download : 1% ] "Now, to wait and see the results." Cars are fairly large, so even with the fastest internet it would take several hours to complete. This did not deter the man, as he waited, staring at the glowing screen. "It begins...!!!" [ Download : 13% ] The wait was agonizing, but if it worked it would all be worth it. The man tried to keep his interest on the download bar, but it faltered quickly. [ Download : 24% ] He began playing with things around his desk, such as a pen. He began to twiddle his thumbs in anticipation for the download. [ Download : 32% ] Eventually, he got tired and fell asleep. He dozed off in front of the glowing monitor, losing consciousness very quickly despite his best attempts to keep awake. When he woke up, he looked at the download bar once more. [ Download : 99% ] "FINALLY! It is here! My car!" The man was jumping around the room, ecstatic as he was finally near the coveted *car* he was working towards. However, as the download bar nearly ticked over, something unexpected happened. [ Download : COMPLETE ] [ BEEP ] [ BEEP ] [ BEEP ] [ FATAL ERROR ] "What? No!" The man did have plenty of tests beforehand to prevent this from happening, even with larger and more complex objects than a car. He started profusely sweating as he tried to exit the download screen to figure out what went wrong. As he exited, something greeted him. *Did I hear you right? Did I hear you sayin'* *That you're gonna make a copy of a car without payin'?* *Come on guys! I thought you knew better don't copy that floppy!*

When a Person is Born, They are Tattooed With the Date and Time of Their Death

The laser engraving tool whined with a metallic hiss, as the child roared loudly from the pain. Displayed now prominently in charred black numerals on its left forearm, was a series of binary numbers: “08-26-2072 : Heart Failure”. The Laxitron supercomputer had calculated using chaos mathematics, the precise conditions of the organic failure in this particular human child, within 0.0001%th of a precision degree of error. The atmosphere in the maternity ward was quite stifled, and grim. “That's it?” The mother exclaimed, glancing at the still smoking tattoo upon her child's arm. “He's only going to be ten years old, there must be some mistake!” She said as tears began to well up in her eyes. “Johnathan,” she said, reaching the cuff of her husband, who stood beside her, his teeth gritted down in quiet strength. “Tell them, there's a mistake.” She says. “No, sorry – there is no mistake mam. The calculations are quite precise. I am afraid that, despite our greatest efforts to screen your gametes, your child has been born with an inferior right ventricular aorta. The ligaments are too short, and will degenerate in approximately -” the doctor turns his vision to the transparent display hanging in the air surrounding him, invisible to the patients. “Six million, six hundred, thirty two thousand, and five pumps.” The tears began to roll in full stream as she dug her head into her husbands arms. “Doctor, there – what about the implants? Could you repair my son's heart before this happens?” The wide-eyed husband looked up at the chief clinician. “Hmm, I'm afraid I can't do that either. Your HMO is denying any coverage outside of ordinary and necessary maternity procedures. I'm afraid that the heart implant would need to be paid in cash.” Without even a second thought, the husband exclaimed: “I'll DO IT. I want him to live.” The doctor glances at the other nurses shiftingly. “You know, your child is only a few minutes old, I know that.. post-term abortions are heavily looked down upon, but the financial burden cou-” he is interrupted by the mother: “WHAT? KILL MY BABY?” she screamed. “No, no, now mam- listen, the procedure to install an anodized heart implant for your son is going to cost over $430,000, your brain is currently full of oxytocin and-” .. “No. Absolutely not. This is our child, and we're going to do what's right for him. We're not even considering that option, you make me sick.” Johnathan says, with a strong scowl on his face. “Give me the god damned form, I'll verify it right now.” He says. The doctor sighs, and swipes his heads up display, which enables the projector embedded onto shoulder-cam. A large list of text appears hanging in the air, over the patients, backwards from the doctor's point of view. Johanthan quickly begins swiping his hand up, scrolling all the way down to the bottom without reading the legalese, and puts his palm forward, which is quickly scanned and identified by the medical camera from the corner of the room. “Error. We are sorry. Your credit history is insufficient to sign this secured document. Please speak with a representative at the Central Union Bank during business hours.” The unit says, as the text turns bright red. The mother began to cry. “Don't worry we'll.. do something, we'll mortgage the house.. I won't let our baby die,” the husband says to her. “We'll be leaving now, and the nurses will check on you every hour or so,” the lead doctor says, removing his liquid drenched blue gloves, and depositing them into a sanitary container. He walked down the hallway to the resident's hall, and pulled down his surgical mask, pouring himself a cup of coffee into a black ceramic mug. A co-worker, from another floor with the tag “Josh” poured a cup of coffee as well. “Man, what was with all the screaming in there- low expiration date?” He asks. “Yeah-” the doctor said, sipping his coffee and looking out the window. “What is the accuracy of that system anyway?” Josh asked. The doctor laughed. “I don't know- nobody knows. You could promise someone three hundred years and they'll walk out giddy as hell, and then get hit by a bus crossing the street because they think they're invulnerable.” He replied. “So what you'd offer them as an extension?” Josh asked. “Anodized implant, cash.” “Cash?!” Josh whistled high. “430K.” He nodded. “The scam of the fucking century. I love it.” He grinned, putting his coffee cup down. “Paging Doctor Friedman, paging Doctor Friedman, you are needed in maternity ward number forty-two.” The overhead speaker announced in a computerized female tone. “See you later Josh – keep grinding out those med school loans!” He pat him on the shoulder. “Will do~”

You live in a world where age is assigned to you by the government after you turn 18. Your body transforms into that age and you live at that age for the rest of your life.

Missy Jones waited nervously in the waiting room along with all the other 18 year olds. She had no clue what Age she was going to be - no one ever did. She hoped, like everyone did, that she would be in that 25 to 30 range - "mature" enough but young enough. But, alas, that privilege usually went to politicians nieces and nephews and whatnot. She really did not want to be Old. Honestly, even being Child was better than being old. You had people taking care of you forever, even if they were a bit strange sometimes. Missy always wondered what kind of person would volunteer to take care of a 6 year old for the rest of their life. She waited impatiently as all the other kids got assigned, her butt hurting from the old blue plastic chair. She watched as one of her classmates broke down in tears when told she was going to be 60. "Davis, Thomas and Davis, Timothy." called the bored looking government worker. Missy perked up. Twins were rare these days and although she had heard what generally happened to them, she was interested in seeing for herself. "Thomas. You are assigned to be 40. Timothy, you are assigned to be 10." The twins looked at each other in horror, and tried to plead with the worker, who just shrugged. "There's a quota that must be filled." Finally, it was her turn. "Jones, Missy?" She stood. "Yes sir?" she said, wiping her sweaty hands on her denim skirt. "You are assigned to be..." He frowned, his forehead for a moment. "18. You are assigned to be 18." Missy tilted her head, curiously confused. She shrugged. "At least my old clothes still fit!" she exclaimed brightly.

"I wonder," she said glancing at the knife handle poking out from her stomach and directed her gaze at him. "How long will you scream before help arrives?" He picked the wrong woman to mug.

He stumbled back, hitting the wall behind him. The woman sighed and rose from her knees. She brushed the alley filth from her palms. "Now why did you have to go and do something like that?" The cement scraped the leather of his jacket as he slid down the alley wall. "Idiot," she murmured. Her fingertips danced over the handle, still protruding from just above her belt. The long low noise coming from his lips was more animal than human. "I had plans today," she continued, voice calm. "A late breakfast then shopping. Brunch. Brunch is fashionable these days, you know." She paused. "It'll have to be somewhere... cute. A café maybe." He glanced to the dim light at the end of the alley. The shadow of a single passerby fell over his vision. He heard a low humming laugh. "No, you won't be leaving here." Her eyes locked on his. Something warm spread through his pants. Her lilting fingertips curled down, and in a single smooth arc, she pulled the blade free. "A steak knife?" she muttered, looking down at the clean steel knife. "Really? You can't do better than that?" His eyes darted downwards. Other than the frayed tear of gray silk, there was no blood. His mouth opened to cry out, but no sound came. "I liked this shirt too." She crossed the thin alley in a step, and crouched before him. "You're too young for this kind of life, aren't you? Aren't people your age supposed to be in college?" She drew an icy line around his face with the tip of the knife. "Such a shame. Well," she sighed, "no brunch for me." She grinned, and he shoved back as hard as he could against the alleyway wall. Her teeth were tiny and flat, and far too many. "How long do you think you'll scream before help arrives?" He cried out again. Another shadow flickered over him, another passerby. "It doesn't really matter, does it?"

A time traveler sells different timelines to people who regret their past mistakes. This is his most memorable encounter.

"Please." She says, eyes watering. "I regret I ever did it. Can you change it for me?" We're sitting at some scummy greasy spoon cafe on the worse part of the bad side of town. She has a black coffee with three sugars stirred in sitting in front of her. It's left a brown ring on the plastic table top. I've got a cup of tea with blue milk that smells a bit dodgy. I haven't taken a sip yet. I probably won't. It's raining outside. Rivulets wend their way down the dirty window pane and I make them race in my head as she talks. "I need to change what happened." She'd called me up two days ago and cried down the phone at me. I get a lot of people in tears. It doesn't affect me anymore. At the beginning, yes. I'd get upset at people's histories. Now I let it wash over me until they tell me how much they're willing to pay. She wipes her tears on her sleeve and sniffs. "I'm not asking for much." She says in a watery way. "I just want a timeline where he'd still be alive. I used to be a massive science fiction fan. A long time ago sentences like hat would have sent my brain into a whirling of paradoxes. Now I chewed at a loose hangnail and nodded at her. "Keep going. I need to know the rest of it, so I can change it." She bursts into another flood of tears and I roll my eyes. I've got another sell cross town in twenty minutes. If she doesn't hurry up, she won't get her Amendment and I won't get my money. She whispers something too quietly for me to hear, then starts sobbing even louder. The other patrons of the coffee shop start giving us weird looks, so I shove a napkin across the table. "It's okay." I say in my best comforting voice. "It's going to be alright." She gulps and reaches out for the napkin. Her sleeve rides up for a moment. I spot dark bruises peppering her wrist before she yanks it back down and they're gone. She lifts her eyes to mine and I try to pretend i wasn't looking. "We..." She starts and falters. "We argued. I never meant to do it. It was the heat of the moment, it was all my fault. He... He's dead!" Her voice cracks but she manages, thank fuck, not to cry this time. "And you want him back?" I've pulled out my tablet and I'm looking through the algorithms that make up this woman's time stream. The death should be easy to tweak out, just a couple of number changes on the 16th March and that fight would have never happened. What would happen was that 'he' would pop back into being as though the elapsed time had never missed him, and she would forget ever meeting me. Which, looking at the coffee, wasn't a bad move. "Yes please." She says. "I just want thimgs to go back to the way they were. I cast another look at the thick black jumper covering her arms. She smiles weakly and flips her hair over her shoulder. Bruises there too. The image of my mother rises, unbidden, into my mind like a tidal wave. Three broken plates and spots of blood on a tiled floor as I hid under the stairs to avoid *his* rage. She told the neighbours she'd walked into a door. "Nasty marks you got there." I say, nodding to her shoulder. She goes white and pulls and tugs at the material until they've gone. "I'm really clumsy." A hollow laugh. "I fell down the stairs. Can you believe it?" "Sure." I pass the tablet to her. "It's all done, if you could just sign there." She sighs with relief and signs. Before my eyes the lines disappear from her face. She sits up a little straighter and smiles fully at me. "I feel so much better now." She squeezes my hand in thanks and leaves. She has never met him. I decide to call my mother tonight.

You die in a tragic accident. While sitting on a bench in purgatory, Mr/Mrs.Death approaches you and says, "Pick a game, any game, and if you are the victor, I'll send you back to the day before the accident."

"Tic tac toe" WHAT? "I choose tic tac toe" SIGH With a flourish a desk, a dry erase board and a marker appeared before them. With a slight gesture of death's bony hand a perfect 3 by 3 grid appeared in the center of the board. Fred placed his circle in the middle of the board. Death placed an X in a corner. After a minute, the game ended in a tie. "In the event of a tie, we play again correct?" CORRECT "excellent, may the game continue" The next game ended in a tie, and the next. The next 4 games were all close, but ended in a tie. Fred and death swapped off going first, after a couple hours of tieing, death paused for a minute. THIS COULD TAKE A WHILE After a couple months, both players were simply going through the motions. Every once in a while some one would start in a corner just to mix things up, and inevitably the same moves followed after that. I HAVE NEVER LOST A GAME YOU KNOW " I know, considering Bobby Fischer died a couple years ago I figured beating you wasn't really an option" I HAVE EXISTED FOR MILLENIA, MY PATIENCE DOES NOT END "How did you get this job in the first place?" Fred casually placed a circle in the center of the freshly cleared board. After a couple more games, death answered. THE AFTERLIFE GETS BORING, YOU KNOW "I admit, it is starting to look that way" AFTER A COUPLE OF CENTURIES, MANY OF US TAKE JOBS. The games continue. The routine is automatic now for Fred, he barely glances at the board for each move before returning his gaze to others. In the distance, countless others were trying to best death. "are they all you?" NO, THIS FORM IS MORE OF A UNIFORM THEN AN IDENTITY. Every now and then, a death would beat some one, their heads would slump, and with sweep of death's arm, they disappeared, then the death too would vanish. MY SHIFT ENDED WEEKS AGO "Well, I'm sorry for that, but I don't think I'm done playing yet" A year passed by. In that time, Fred got to know who death was, besides being death. They swapped stories of their lives while watching the souls around them compete and lose. Briefly, a forest surrounded them as one soul tried to best death in a fox hunt. Months later, they found themselves at the top of a mountain while another soul tried to out ski death. "Are you all universally skilled?" NO, WE PICK MAJORS IN DEATH COLLEGE, AND ARE ASSIGNED TO CLIENTS APPROPRIATELY "What did you major in?" RIDDLES, LOGIC PUZZLES AND BOARD GAMES Another year passed, and neither opponent showed a sign of budging. Fred continued making conversation. "I really do miss my home, do you have homes up here?" YOU HAVE WHAT YOU WANT, UP HERE THE OPTIONS ARE FAR LESS LIMITED "my wife passed several years before I did, however I never did get around to finishing up the will for the children. I'm sure they can figure it out on their own, but I hate to leave them so early. Their families are barely started, and I have only met one grand child" LIFE ISN'T ALWAYS FAIR "No, it never was" The weeks continued stretching on, while watching a soul attempt to out basketball death, death turned to Fred" IT REALLY ISN'T THAT BAD UP HERE "It seems pleasant enough" BEYOND HERE, THE ONLY LIMIT IS WHAT YOU CAN IMAGINE "Then why have earth at all? Why let life continue as grimly as it does when the afterlife is perfect?" IMAGINATION REQUIRES INSPIRATION For the first time in years, death moved his arm again, and bellow them, an image of the earth appeared. Through the window beneath their feet, the image moved across the lives of thousands, detailing their happiness, sadness, triumphs and losses. "were we ever only entertainment?" WHEN TIME IS ETERNAL, WHAT ELSE IS THERE? Fred stared out at the other souls. Every once in a while a small poof announced another passing on to the next world. "No one has ever beaten death have they?" IT'S NOT A FAIR CHALLENGE, WE HAVE CENTURIES OF PRACTICE "They aren't supposed to, are they?" PEOPLE HAVE TROUBLE MOVING ON, THE GAME HELPS THEM FEEL THEY AT LEAST HAD A FAIR SHOT "I have never seen some one beat death, and I have seen millions of games, how is that fair?" LIFE IS NOT FAIR, WE HELP PEOPLE MOVE PAST THAT Fred stared down at the world bellow "Can I still watch the world when I pass over?" THE EARTH IS MOST OF OUR FAVORITE PAST TIME "Is what you can see... limited?" IN DEATH, NO ONE JUDGES "I didn't mean it like that" I'M SURE The image settled on Fred's funeral. His family was in tears, and many huddled close to each other for support. "I had a good life you know? I don't think I would have done much different. save for living longer" ALL GOOD THINGS COME TO AN END "when this is over, would you mind stopping by after your shift?" I HAVE PLENTY OF VACATION DAYS BY NOW Fred stared at the board, it was his opening move. He smiled, and drew a circle in a side center square. YOU WERE A VERY INTERESTING CASE FRED Death placed his final X, and drew a line through all three. "Hopefully my wife won't be too angry I wasted these years playing tic tac toe" TIME MOVES VERY DIFFERENTLY HERE THEN IT DOES DOWN THERE Death pulled back his hood, to reveal a female face. Fred's heart skipped a beat. The face spoke: "I don't mind at all dear"

On a dark snowy night, in a woodland away from the sound of battle, a small camp of soldiers begins to experience the supernatural. --Can be written in a journal format, or an outright story.

"Scheisse it's cold." "Yeah Werner, that so? Please do tell us more obvious statements about the world. Maybe about how the sun rises in the east and sets in the west. Or perhaps where babies come from. Christ on a crutch, I was reading my brother Karl's letter from Africa. Would you believe he had the notion that the desert was tougher than here? He keeps complaining of the heat and sun and the bad water. Damn. We got plenty of fucking water right here, and it's frozen! All he has to worry about is dehydration and the Tommies. He's not dealing with frostbite or the Ivans. If I didn't love my brother, I'd trade places with him right here and now. I mean honestly, I-" "Quiet Hans." Oberjager Weber speaks softly. "There's something in the woods." The squad's voices die down, replaced by the soft crackling of the fire. They slowly pick up their rifles, and peer out into the ink black of the night. There's not a sound it seems but those of the forest. But with their eyes pointing down the sights of their K98's, something can be heard. Barely anything at first. It takes a keen ear to make it out from the gently wind that flows between the pines, but it is there. *Dum, Dum, Dum.* Very soft it is, almost like a whisper. *Dum dum.. dum.. dum, dum.* It is like a drum, a faint distant drum. It is growing louder.There is no pattern to it. It is maddeningly off tempo and irregular. A madman would have to be playing it. It is getting closer. *Dumdumtrum.... Dum! Dum!* The sound is coming from every direction. And it continues on. "Sir? What's going on?" The non-com aiming his MP-40 into the night doesn't glance over at the jager. "No idea Fleischer. Keep it quiet." The drumming crescendos, turning into a drumroll that's maddeningly loud. Men are covering their ears at the sound. Airplane engines make less noise standing next to one than what they are listening to. Soldiers are screaming now, begging for the insane sound to cease. As if one was listening, it cuts out, like a music maestro had waved his baton at the percussions. Men are thanking god and wondering what on Earth that was about. Then more occurs. At first it is the sound of a little girl crying, just a soft whimper. Some the soldiers whisper about helping the source of the sound. But after those drums of the damned, everyone is scared witless. Then another voice calls out from the darkness, a young woman's. She is begging for help. Pleading for someone to aid her. Then more call out, crying, asking, pleading. From all around the tiny circle of light the fire provides the voices ring out. Then the screams start. Bloodcurdling screams. The screams of the dying and those giving birth. Others beg for unseen attackers to stop. The screams are like nails being driven in the skull. Still others scream hatred and anger at the soldiers. Like a banshees calls they are. If the drums were terrible, this is worse. Men claw at their ears, drawing blood with their nails. Others start wrenching, tearing at their clothes. One young soldier pulls out his bayonet and stabs it into his throat, slashing it around to maximize the damage. He dies in a gurgling laugh, bright red blood speckling the white snow. The screams of the women die down melting into the wind, leaving a weeping mass of huddled men. Many cry for their mothers. Some clutch at crucifixes, praying. Other's vomit from the pain and terror. It is a wretched scene. From the distance, a light approaches. It is a pale green, a foul color. The men, bloody, half naked, with tears dripping down their silent faces, look on in horror. Out of the woods comes a figure, mounted on a pale horse. Clad in the roughest of stained linens, the rider looks out on the terrified mass. Held in his hand is a chipped and rusted scythe. His hand, gaunt with boney fingers, reaches up to the edge of his cowl and lifts it off. The men scream in fear. Looking over the meager lot, grins a face stripped of skin and flesh. It is Death. Within his eyes, galaxies are born and die in seconds. Stars go supernova and black holes are formed. The complete history of everything occurs in his vision. No man could see what Death saw and hope to keep his sanity. His hellish steed rises and whirls around with a bugling equine scream. Death brandishes his sinister blade and points it at the praying men. Kicking snow behind him, Death charges towards the kneeling mass begging for mercy. Faster and faster he gallops, drawing a cloud of darkness behind him like a cape. Bullets pass straight through his spectral form. The howls of Hell Hounds can be heard. Their baying promising destruction and oblivion. The drums return as does the banshees' screams. Death reaches out with his boney hand and motions. The fire goes out.

Submit a bug report?

To whom it may concern, I have been a beta tester for your product, “The Human Body,” for over two decades now and feel I have gathered enough information to submit a reasonable bug report. Please do not take offense to my reviews, as I am simply trying to aid in the perfection of your final product. To begin, I’d like to talk about the “human” as a whole. Unfortunately, I feel it is shoddy, poorly made, and unreliable. From what I understand, most models do not last beyond their initial 80 years of use, although this number varies wildly. I can only assume this is due to a planned obsolescence, in order to sell a higher volume. I am not a fan of such practices; I wasn’t a fan when it was done for the iPod and I am not a fan of it being done to the liver, heart, or brain. Other models are expected to last well over 100 years – your “turtle” and “tree” products, both of which are almost entirely stationary, last beyond that. Why should your higher-function model have a lower shelf-life? It is important to think of your user base, rather than only your shareholders. In regards to those who use their bodies in extreme methods, such as professional crash-test dummies, bullet-proof vest testers, and children’s mascots, this span can be under forty years. I’ve even heard of models coming out of the box broken. This is simply unacceptable. I expect this to be a bug you have already received numerous issue reports for, but figured I’d mention it anyway. Speaking in terms of the lifespan, the product itself seems to grow more feeble (mentally and physically) with time. This is evidence of poor building materials. Skin becomes thin, body parts droop or stop working all together, mental ability slows, driving issues increase drastically, and public nudity occurs more frequent (I have personally witness models completely nude in gym bathrooms, some almost tripping over their drooping extremities). This varies from product to product, however. Some models, notably the female versions, begin smelling much more like shopping malls and roses; the male version tends to hoist its pants higher while becoming more politically radical. As a whole, though, it can be assumed that most of your later-life products become rather delayed, slow, and crotchety. Regarding my own personal use, I’ve discovered several issues that affect all models. Physical strength, first and foremost, is quite limited. Unless I am specifically focusing my time on increasing that strength, it remains stationary. I should not have to work at increasing such a thing, it should be provided standard. Additionally, mental abilities also need to be heavily trained. What kind of product are you selling that comes out of the box with almost no inherit knowledge? Not to mention the fact that you are marketing this as a higher-function being—there is no reason why your “giraffe” model should be almost completely self-reliant on delivery, but the “human” requires incredible support. I mean, this product does not even defecate properly until over a year after its initial shipping. Given such a short product life, it is ludicrous for your users to have to spend 20+ years working at increasing its intelligence. This should also be included as a standard product. The youth stages also pose numerous other issues for this product. Most notably, the facial regions tend to break out in pimples and become awkwardly shaped during the first 20-or-so years of use. During this period, it will completely doubt itself in almost every aspect, while simultaneously thinking too highly of itself. It is a walking paradox, and it does not care for others. It also goes through a stage of disobedience, in which the brain tends to make illogical decisions such as fighting for no real reason, not focusing in classes, and trying way too hard to impress the opposite sex model by performing insignificant feats (i.e. talking louder, driving faster, or handbrake turns). In fact, the entire opposite sex issue becomes over-enthralling for much of the product's youth. Some experience awkward swelling physical issues in the middle of classrooms, while wearing sweatpants, as they are asked to stand and speak about something. Not that this one bug occurred to me, but it's, you know, a bug. This becomes less of an issue as it learns, but the fact that it has such ridiculous experiences is an issue within itself. Another major issue is the brain. Not only does it become obsolete with time, it is also a host to all sorts of bugs, ranging from strokes, to uneven distribution of talent, to misaligned emotions. Some products possess a strange, undeserved idea of self-importance. Others focus heavily on those with that self-importance, almost idealizing them. There are even some products that have no self-importance, and may expire early due to this bug. Additionally, the brain function has two other major issues. The first is that it exists. The model would be much better if it were entirely autonomous. There is no reason why so many models should have such a wide array of views, emotions, and ideas. This is just evidence of a poorly created model; if everything is different, then how are we supposed to fix anything? The product should share almost entirely, if not entirely, the same views. Things like the same political beliefs, same clothing options, same taste in music, same way of making a sandwich – without this synchronization, models tend to fight, or even kill themselves. Entire battles have broken out for insignificant reasons; entire races of your product almost completely wiped out due to malfunctioning brains. There is no reason for this to exist. The second brain issue seems to be one biggest issues throughout the entire life of your product. It has been called “love.” It consistently occurs when it is most unacceptable or unfortunate; it becomes a major burden on the product’s efficiency. I have seen several models expire before their time due to this bug. Some have acted out of character, while others simply broke and changed every aspect of themselves. This is unacceptable, it is a massive problem in the overall use of the product. Some of the models even become infatuated with those from the same shipping plant. As a whole, the “human” model is great. It does learn better than your other models, and does seem to work better as a whole. However, it is not absent of its flaws. Please do not take any of my criticisms to heart, as I really wish to see this product supported and grown into something far stronger than it is today. There is so much done right with it, but so much that needs repair. Sincerely yours, Beta Tester 107,602,707,791

Trapped on a island with four other survivors and no food, you have been chosen as their next meal.

“You’re asking me to let you guys kill me? You’re joking right?” I growled at the three who stared at me hungrily. We had been stranded on this small island for days; this island was big enough for objects to beached up. So I made a fancy container that I learned through a television show called Survivorman. It’s basically a large bucket with a pipe extending up at an angle; it bends down to a cup. We would add sea water to the container; bring it to a boil thanks to a large amount of trees on this island. The steam would condense back into water and drip into the cup. There were no coconuts here, so we only had to rely on this sort of water. But now thanks to the mass amount of fish swimming by our camp and one of us, named David, was getting antsy. He managed to convince the three to attack me. “Don’t you guys have your head on straight? If you eat me, you won’t feel better. You’ll just starve even more.” “How so?” David growled at me. “I’m a fair build, a bit skinny, but I don’t work out, nor do I do any activities. So this” I panned my arms down, showing my body. “Is just fat. So you won’t get any proteins from me. However, you guys” I turned to the other two. “David here clearly works out. So he is mostly muscles than fat. This would mean that we can be healthier if we eat him. More meat than fat. “What, don’t listen to him.” David growled as he eyed the two who was now staring at him. With a blur, the fattest girl slammed a pipe across David’s head. He collapsed backward, head splashing into the swelling sea. The fat girl who was known as Debby asked the other guy to pull him further into the sea. The other guy, Harry, did as he was told. Debby then sat on David and watch bubbles formed around her. “We shall ea-“ Harry spoke before he collapsed, falling into the water. Debby stared at me with the pipe in my hand. I smiled toward Debby. “What the hell?” She asked me. “Should’ve killed me.” I spoke to her. “Now I have dinner for quite a while!” I ran toward Debby and smashed her in the head. I dragged all three corpses to the beach. I sat down besides them and laughed, laughed like I had never laughed before. -049

God is found dead.

God had been many things. He had often proclaimed himself wise, by virtue of knowing more than any other being. He had been considered all-powerful by others, because He was far more powerful than they. He was considered the ultimate good, for He was the most good humanity could comprehend. Mass knowledge is not omniscience. Vast power is not omnipotence. Great good is not perfection. On the day Jesus died, God wept. God wept because He had come to realize that His great plan was imperfect, as was He. He had thought to make humans like Him by means of hundred religions and careful guidance, but realized that humans were more versatile. Where He was unchangeable, absolute, they could explore. They had the potential to discover and create good that was different, and perhaps greater than, Him. They mourned his son in a way that he had not, could not. They could feel pain and do evil, but from that pain and evil they could better learn good than He. God realized that He had indeed created His successors. Not as equals though, but as superiors. He realized that they would not ever be able to achieve their potential with his meddling, and so, He left. In the thousands of years to come they would question whether He ever existed, and that was greatest good he could do them. EDIT: Thanks guys, especially whoever gave me Gold. I love the discussion and yes, the critisicsm. Hope to see more of you soon! Long live /r/WritingPrompts!

A world in which doing an activity more makes you worse at it. Practice does not make perfect, instead, the exact opposite.

‘Target in sight. Kitchen.’ The man kneeling in the garden shifted to his other knee. ‘Any others?’ ‘The usual.’ Three, then. The man readied his gun. ‘Go when ready.’ ‘Ready.’ An arc of light crashed through a window of the house. The kitchen. The man was already moving, sprinting, gun shivering in his grip. The screams of a woman, the cries of a child, the shouts of a man, sounded from inside. The usual. The gun flashed as he snapped it round, fired, cutting the chaos with fear. The father was the first to fall, surprised and enraged, followed by the mother. The tears that had pooled in her eyes fell free. She was defeated. They usually made more of an effort. The man lowered his gun, gazing at the child. Its screams were louder. The man fired the gun again, and the crack that echoed through the broken room silenced it. No words needed to be said. The man snatched the child from its chair, his grip rough, and threw it around his shoulders. It was crying again. The man ignored it. ‘Target acquired,’ said the man. ‘I see that.’ ‘Where’s this one going?’ said the man. ‘Music industry.’ The man hummed. ‘Nice. What genre?’ ‘Classical. Hurry, now. They’ll wake soon.’ ‘I know,’ said the man, and moved the child to his other shoulder, wondering if he would hear what it produced before it was put down. The man hoped so.

You are an imaginary friend of a serial killer. The person is contemplating another murder, and much to your disbelief, the next victim is you.

John wasn't society's predetermined "type" - he didn't fit the profile of your typical serial killer. Sociable, at least somewhat charismatic and charming…I know quite a bit about the man, and I must say there was no reason to be suspicious of him. It may even be argued that John was an empathetic man, at least as much as a murderous man can be. John's big problem? Insurmountable pride. In his younger days, he could show detractors their place by embarrassing them on the basketball court, or perhaps even stealing their girl on occasion. Unfortunately for John, high school only lasts for so long. At some point in his life, those once-great advantages no longer served him so well. As the glories of his past faded and the opportunities to reclaim them diminished, John was losing the upper hand over his peers. Over the last few months, John was starting to take his struggles much more personally. Others' successes were not merely an annoyance, but an affront to him whether they realized it or not. Soon afterwards, he reached the conclusion that the best way to emerge victorious in his fictitious clashes for superiority was to make the stakes a little more permanent. Over the last two months, he claimed victory over the old high school friend with the seven figure house, the woman who beat him out for the big promotion in New York, and the snobby neighbor with the wife who was just a bit too attractive. This is where I come in. On the many occasions when he struggled with the gravity of his actions, I was there to console him. I was the one with the best chance of setting him straight, the only friend he could actually trust. I understood the nature of his illness, and I wouldn't let him deny it despite his many attempts to do so. I repeatedly advised him to seek help, to find other activities, anything. To John's credit, there was a part of him that genuinely wanted to stop, to find any way to right his wrongs as much as he could. Some days were better than others, but I had already failed him three separate times. That one fact is hard to come to terms with, but I couldn’t just give up. I genuinely believed that if I said the right things and gave enough effort, I could make John into the caring and remorseful man he may have once been. Earlier today, John informed me of his upcoming triumphs. The runners up in his next match were to be his boss's three children. The boss was an old basketball teammate of John’s – both shooting guards, both fighting for the same spot in the starting lineup. Needless to say, John wasn’t on the best terms with the guy, and the thought of serving under him to this day was especially infuriating. John got to know the kids from times he was asked to watch over them when his “friend” was out of town - the man in charge never hesitated to give John extra "financial opportunities" outside of the office. They weren't objectionable in their own right, other than being your typical elementary level brats. This could not be said for his boss, who fully embraced his advantages over John. More meetings, more tasks on and off the job (John had no misconceptions of leverage), more condescension. If John was to have the final say, he would have to go a step further. When you destroy an egomaniac, you don't necessarily go straight after him. You go after what he holds closest to his heart. I was the first to learn of John's plans, but my efforts to talk him out of it were received much differently this time around. No tears, no pleas for forgiveness, no interest in reconsidering. My efforts to stop his impulses were previously unsuccessful, but never as futile as they were now. John was a man with a plan. No one, not even his most trusted friend, would get the way of what he wanted. I am John's conscience. Tonight, four figures in his life will be lost forever. I will be the first.

You have just been told you have an inoperable tumor. You refuse to die a slow painful death and instead go looking for a way to go out in a "blaze of glory"

Elise was alone. The bourbon that usually burned at first as it surged down her throat would become more comforting the more she drank. It was the same brand Elmer loved to drink. A glass on the rocks before he would go to bed. He drank it for over forty years until the night before his untimely death. Elise was alone. She sat atop the building of her rundown twenty-story apartment under a sky blanketed in a light gray. The clouds had converged and were now in meeting. It was her mother's favorite kind of weather, especially when a light breeze gently caressed her false golden locks, occasionally tangling them with her gaudy pearl earrings. Elise was her favorite child. Then again, she was her only child. She too had met her end not long ago. The years were not kind to her or her body. Elise was alone. She had no children to speak of, which had always been fine with her and Elmer. They never cared too much for them and were content being just with each other. Elise was alone. Elise took a long drag of her cigarette as she let her fingers gently touch the spot where the tumor was. For months, the excruciating headaches had taken over her life. She gave up the road trips to the Grand Canyon so she could always be closer to home in case anything happened. Then, the swing dancing lessons had to stop because she couldn't concentrate. Eventually, she had to give up sculpting human models and painting her flowers for the same reason. Her friends came by less and less. Then, Elmer... Elise was alone. It was five thirty on this dreary April afternoon. They said there would be rain later in the evening. Elise nodded to herself. Before she could regret it, she stood at the edge of the building and poured the rest of the bottle of bourbon on her. She lit her coat with her cigarette, setting it ablaze with a beautiful sapphire flame. She spun as she threw herself off. She now faced the sky so that it would be the last thing she would see. She could hear the gasps and the screams down below. Elise could feel their eyes following her to her fate. Elise no longer felt alone.

Write a genuinely scary story about the most ridiculous monster you can imagine.

"Daddy, tell me a scary story." Boston pleaded, climbing up into her father's lap. "What kind of scary story?" He asked. "Something with monsters. I wanna hear about a creepy monster." She sang. "Okay. Let me think." He said, hugging her close so the perfect little flower that was her face was gazing up at him. "I'll tell you the story of Nathan. The monster under the fridge. Nathan is a Ha-buga-boo. The most terrifying of all bogey men. He lives in the shadow beneath the fridge, waiting for children and other little kids. The terrifying beast with hands like a child leaves finger prints on the door in true monster style." He told her, wiggling his fingers in a creepy fashion. She giggled with terrified glee. "Nathan is a sneak. He leaves hand prints on the fridge so the little kids get in trouble. And when daddy gets upset, he sends the little girl or little boy to clean their finger prints off, and--HE GRABS YOUR FEET AND PULLS YOU UNDERNEATH!" He exclaimed, tickling her. "What's he do with the little kids he takes?" She asked, curious. "He skins them and makes a little kid suit out of them so he can escape from underneath the fridge." He told her. "Gross." She said, making a retching motion. "Did you know your little sister was stolen by Nathan?" He asked, pretending to be serious. "No she wasn't." Boston said in disbelief. "You can tell because the skin suit doesn't fit very tight." He added, calling to Boston's little sister, Emily. Emily came running in on stubby little legs and climbed up on daddy's other knee. "Okay. Watch closely and you'll see that your little sister is really Nathan in disguise." Her father told Emily to sit very still. He placed his hand on her scalp and pulled it forward and back making it slide back and forth across her skull. "Ahhh! Stop, Daddy. Stop!" Boston called, crawling away from her sister. He kept doing it. "Ooo! Nathan's going to get you." He sang in an eerie voice. "Nathan's going to come out and get you." Emily looked up at her father in irritation and tried to pull away. "The only way to make Nathan come out is like this." He said, licking his finger in preparation for a wet willy. Boston started laughing. Emily looked very angry. He got the finger closer and closer to Emily's ear. "Okay, Nathan. COME OUT!" He called, sticking his wet finger in Emily's ear. Emily's skin suddenly split open and Nathan slithered out like a blood-covered locust and scrambled off the terrified family's lap an onto the floor. Boston screamed an ear-splitting high-pitched scream that sent Nathan scurrying under the coffee table and upending chairs as he sought out his den. Father leapt to his feet in surprise and used a poker from the fire place to try and bash in the monster's head. Nathan spat and hissed and dragged himself along with his two blood-slicked arms, small and thin like tree branches. When father laid a good strike across the monster's back, it turned and pursued father and Boston, clawing at them and scratching their legs and arms and whatever it could reach. Once it was sure they were in retreat, it turned it's bulbous head around, it's deep hollow sockets housed dark red orbs that spied the fridge. It turned and fled then. Father hesitated then ran after it, but Nathan made it to the fridge first and slithered under with a lot of wiggling and scrapping. Boston's father turned back to look at the couch in fear and amazement . . . and horror. Boston was holding her sister's wet, sticky, discarded skin in her hands and starring at the slumping face in abject terror. "Where's Emily?" She asked. Father turned to look at the fridge knowing the answer was there. **Interesting Side Note:** I used to tell my daughter about this monster that lived under the fridge named Nathan. Nathan was the name I kept calling my ex-wifes boyfriend. It wasn't his name, but when I told her this story, she didn't want to hang around him to much. :))

A satellite positioned 5 light years away from earth can be directed to any point and clearly observe events that have transpired

The shrill scream of the alarm cut through the lazy silence of Watchstation 17-Gamma, sending its one occupant tumbling off his chair. He frantically hurried across the room to slap the alarm off – muting the deafening wail. Cold chills still danced up and down his spine. The screens were flashing a ‘Code I-42’. He wasn’t familiar with that designation. His job was Stellar Analysis, so he knew about the S-class codes; S-12 for stellar formation, S-88 for supernova detection. But the I-class was unfamiliar. He pulled up massive tome of Procedures and Protocols from the main database core and began poring through it. Watchstation 17-Gamma was a small post in the Seventh Arm of the galaxy. Left behind by an older race now long gone, each Watchstation connected to hundreds of satellites interspersed throughout the galaxy. Most monitored three or four stars actively, and there was surprisingly little overlap for the sheer number of stations and satellites. It was testament to the vanished race that their system still worked. Communication between the Watchstations and Satellites was instant, using a form of entanglement that still had physicists puzzled. Larger, traversable ‘Portals’ instantly connected the Watchstations to the Hubs, which in turn connected to the Central Array. So while the technician was in the Seventh Arm for his working hours, he could traverse back through the 17-Gamma portal to Hub 33 and then to the Array in order to be home for dinner in a mere 45 minutes. His questing finger located the entry. I-42: Intelligence Detected – Atomic activity. This was exciting. Throughout the galaxy, there were only 14 identified sapient species with a level of high technology. One was his own, ten more were under observation, and the other two were being contained after they expressed displeasure about being spied on. This odd reading was the first sign of species number 15. There was a protocol to follow, and the technician sent a message capsule back to Hub 33. Three anthropologists were dispatched back through the Portal to work on Watchstation 17-Gamma and watch Species 15. The initial event was simply an energy signature. Using a hyper-focusing array on the remote satellite, it was determined that the point was likely a power plant of some description. Pictures from the planet revealed lights on its darkside and from that a basic outline of what might have been a coastal civilization. It seemed concentrated mainly just ‘up’ of the equatorial belt. The discovery was followed with great excitement by the general population. Attention was only heightened when a second point was confirmed ‘down’ from the first, although it faded quickly – more indicative of an explosion than a power source. Over the next months, two more atomic signatures were detected in close proximity to each other. Both occurred on the far side of the planet from the Satellite, but extreme close-ups and light-pixel matching revealed that darkness had descended on two small areas on what was believed to be a populated island next to a large ocean. Speculation ran rampant among the sociologists that there had been an accident, but the military faction had their own pet theories as to what would cause two cities to vanish. Then came a year of quiet. The anthropologists studied, wrote papers and gave talks. Primitive radio communications were being picked up, although they were extremely faint. A linguistics team was working on them furiously at the Central Array, trying to decode not only Species 15’s transmission formats, but also their language(s), culture(s), and history. Over the next four years, five more bursts of short-lived atomic energy was detected in the area nicknamed “The Great Ocean”, just ‘down’ from the two ‘bursts’ location, nicknamed “Curve Islands” Then came another burst, slightly different and in the opposite direction from the Curve Islands. Interest refocused on Species 15 – but were bitterly disappointed as the next two years went by without even a flicker of activity. Then, on Year 6, came a flurry of activity. Burst all-throughout the Great Ocean and on the Great Landmass, followed by another flurry of bursts in the same location as the very first recorded burst. The conclusion published by the Military faction was damning. Species 15 had mastered Atomic Power Generation…and skipped directly to developing Atomic Weapons. Analysis of the bursts indicated three major warfronts – The Great Ocean, where atomic blasts were likely deterring ships from a vital island, the Great Landmass, where cities were probably being defended, and the Original Landmass, where invaders were being repelled. The Eight Worlds were able to watch in fascinated horror in virtually real-time, if one ignored the five-year initial delay. It was the biggest and longest lasting event ever covered across the Eight Worlds. Speculation was the major commodity as narratives were invented to explain what was happening on that distant world of Species 15. Debates were held about launching a ship to them – although even with an immediate launch from 17-Gamma, it would still take seventy years to reach them. Nuclear-level blasts continued across the planet, no continent seemingly spared. In the year 7714-GH/14, the Military faction was officially put in charge of the Observation when horrified researchers watched a flurry of over 200 warheads detonate in what appeared to be a final paryoxsm of fury, a mere 12 years after the first explosion was detected. Then silence. Three Years after the Military declared the world of Species 15 to be a dead radioactive cinder, another intense flurry of blasts rocked across the planet – the destruction continuing for almost two of their cycles around their sun before pausing abruptly and then resuming at a slower, but no less destructive pace. The “Nuclear Storm” lasted for eight years. Whomever had survived the First Storm had obviously taken up the fight again. Projections indicated that the planet would be suffering a total ecological catastrophe after the detonation of over one thousand atomic devices. In the year 7722=GH/8, all incoming information on the planet was classified under Council Authority, declaring the far-distant war to be ‘emotionally distressing’ to the populace of the Eight Worlds. Reports after that became scarce, apart from a leaked Council Report nearly thirty years later that indicated that the beleaugerd planet had seen over two thousand separate detonation events. Military faction analysis theorized that the original Species 15 was now extinct, their mindless machines carrying on a dead war without orders to stop. In 7761-GH/2, the planet was declared officially dead for the fifth time. This time, even the machines had stopped flinging nuclear warheads at each other. In the renewed media interest in Species 15 following the announcement, a retired linguist came forward, claiming to have cracked Species 15’s transmissions shortly before the military classified his work. In an interview, he claimed that the name Species 15 had for itself was “Human”. And the name of the now-dead planet was “Earth”.

A man walking alone knows he is headed to his death

The man walked to the bridge alone. No one stopped him, told him to wait because he was still important, he was still loved. No cars honked at him as he ambled down the center of the roadway. Even the birds had gone quiet in deference. The only sounds were the dull thuds of his feet on the cracked asphalt. Behind him, another building groaned and then collapsed, joining its fallen brethren. He didn't even turn around; he was used to it by now. The man stopped and leaned against one of the bridge railings, looking out over the bay. No one was out boating today; in fact, no one had gone out on the water in a while. No one was driving on the bridge, either; their cars had probably all rusted long ago anyway. It had been almost six years, and that time can take its toll on a lonely man's mind. He was surprised he'd lasted this long, after the bombs had gone everywhere and he'd somehow found shelter. A harsh gust suddenly blew through, pushing him back from the railing, as if to say, "*Wait! Stop! Don't do it!*" But the man had made up his mind long ago. He had walked to this bridge every day this week. The bridge had once been beautiful. It had been a true marvel, a bright orange behemoth that stretched on for what seemed like infinity. But now? Now it was only a rusted reminder of days past, one that only covered a few miles, because, like all things, it had to end eventually. The man had reached the middle of the bridge. He climbed up on the railing. No more loneliness. No more hallucinations. No more hunger. No more hopeless hoping. No more insanity. He jumped. And as the wind whistled around him and the water rushed up to meet him, he smiled for the first time in almost six years.

A man is found dead of dehydration in an empty room with a 5 year AA badge and an unopened bottle of vodka

The demons, the voices, I can't do it, I just can't let them out. I've spent too long, too much time, being good, living a normal life, a *good* life. After everything I've done, I can't turn back to being that person, the one that couldn't go one day without a sip, a shot. No, I've been clean, clean for so long, five long years clean, free from it all. I don't know how long I've been in here, but that bottle stares at me. I swear I can smell that sweetness trapped behind that glass, the skeletons in my closet tapping on it to remind me it here. My heart is pounding so hard, so loud, I can hear it echo in this room. I want to cry but I can't, and there's nothing I can do. The only thing I have is my coin, the bronze surface the only bright thing in this light. It's almost ironic. The last words I spoke to my wife before she left me ring in my ears. "I rather die than drink again..." -043

A man lost in the wilderness consults his survival guide, only to realize he bought the 'Cosmopolitan' of survival guides.

Chuck kneeled down, eyes fixed straight ahead. The forest was incredibly thick, he couldn’t see more than a few feet ahead, let alone a few miles. He’d been out hiking—on an adventure to cross Missouri—for well over three hours now, yet hadn’t realized the map he’d brought with him was from the year 1820. He had wondered why Missouri was depicted as being so large, but assumed it was simply because he had never seen a proper map before. He now understood that he was looking at a picture of the Missouri territory. Chuck sighed. He was lost and he knew it. Chuck slid his backpack off his back and dropped it on the floor in front of him. It was his brother’s bag, he had grabbed it off the shelf before leaving the house. It was colored “forest camouflaged,” which Chuck figured would help if he was being hunted by serial killers. The last thing he needed was a high-visibility bag to make skinning him a walk in the park—he’d seen enough movies to know how that turns out. In fact, Chuck was dressed entirely in camoflague to deter this very outcome—the harder he was to see, the safer he was. Chuck stuck his hand into the backpack, now resting in the dirt, and began taking inventory of his possessions. He had one flip knife, a magnesium fire starter, two sandwiches, two bottles of water, a cell phone, and his Official Sassy Survival Guide. He had grabbed the guide off a shelf before leaving the information kiosk. They suggested he bring a survival guide with him, just in case, so he took the first one he’d seen. Chuck picked up the cellphone and held it close to his face. He had full reception, LTE, and 1% battery. Had he not spent the morning playing Angry Birds on his cell phone, perhaps he would have been able to conserve a bit more battery. However, Chuck had set a top 30 world-wide high score and decided that no mistake had been made. He swiped his finger across the screen and watched as his apps became visible. He glanced at the battery – still 1%. He paused for a moment, then clicked on his Facebook app. As quickly as he could, he updated his status to read “Lol shit, lost in the jungle. Phone has 1% bat, not gonna get ur texts. Pls help lol.” Chuck re-read the status and pressed submit. He swiped down, refreshing the page, and saw his post had successfully gone through. He pressed the home button then completely turned off the cell phone. Help was sure help was to arrive now. Chuck placed the phone back in the bag. He felt a little hungry, so he grabbed the sandwich from within the backpack and opened it up. Peanut butter and jelly on whole wheat. It was his least favorite sandwich. His mother was always trying to make him eat them, she said they were great for keeping his energy up. He shook his head, how naïve she was—he was totally awake and full of energy, all without having a single peanut butter and jelly sandwich yet. Chuck stared into the jungle – emerald vines extended down the forest floor, which was covered in dirt, dead leaves, and various plant life. He couldn’t recognize a single one of them beyond the name “plants.” He sighed and took a bite of the sandwich. It was all right, but he really preferred ham and cheese. He threw it on the floor and kicked a little dirt on top, just as he’d seen Bear Grylls do when putting out a fire. He then opened up his bag and pulled out the second sandwich. He unwrapped a corner – ham and cheese. He smiled and took a bite. It was delicious. He wasn’t quite starving, but he was certainly a little peckish. He took three more bites of the sandwich, then threw the crust on the floor. He moved on to the second half, but found he wasn’t hungry enough to take more than two bites. He threw the remainder on the floor. Chuck looked around him, the sky was almost completely blocked by the canopy of the trees. He kicked dirt over his half-eaten sandwich portion and the other crust, then took the two water bottles out of his bag. He opened the first and poured it over his head. He was feeling a little warm, the slightly cooler water helped make him more comfortable. He emptied the remainder out onto his hands to clean off the crumbs. Chuck then grabbed the second water bottle and had a sip. It was very refreshing. He had another sip, then drank the entire bottle. Chuck smiled and let out a sigh, then threw the two bottles into the jungle. They went further than he anticipated, he congratulated himself for a wonderful throwing arm. He briefly considered trying to find them so as to bury them in the dirt, but ultimately decided against it. Chuck kneeled back down and resumed digging through his bag. He was not quite hungry anymore, but he figured it was time to figure out some next steps – help was already on the way, thanks to his facebook status, but he may as well start some survival precautions anyway. He grabbed his Official Sassy Survival Guide and opened to page one: “SASSY SURVIVAL – A Girl’s Guide to Surviving the World.” It was written in pink; the word "SASSY” was in cursive, while “SURVIVAL” was glittery and rough to the touch. Chuck flipped to the table of contents and ran his finger down the titles, stopping at “Forest Survival – 47.” He flipped to page 47. “So you’re stuck in the forest,” it read. “That sucks! Try to make the problem less mentally distressing. Think about the hottest guy you know. Now imagine he’s touching his belt – that’s a good sign, it means he’s into you!” Chuck closed his eyes and tried to think of the hottest man he knew. He hadn’t really had much experience in thinking about hot guys. As a heterosexual male, he’d always thought of women as being the “hot” ones. Sure, he’d been in situations where he had seen men and thought “that guy is attractive,” but he’d never really thought of them as hot. Instead, Chuck decided to just think about any guy with a belt. His grandfather popped into mind – he always had on a belt with a large buckle. Perfect. Chuck opened his eyes and glanced back down at the book. “Next, you want to observe your surroundings. Look for things you can use for every-day life. Did you know a hot pinecone attached to a stick can be a great curling iron? Do your best to find substitutes to your favorite everyday items!” Chuck stood up and looked around him. He didn’t really need a curling iron – his hair was already quite curly. He also wasn’t sure how to use one. Do you just place it on your head, then wait? Or do you have to get more involved? Chuck began walking toward a pinecone, but then decided it would be best to wait until later to spend time learning to curl his hair. He read on. “One important aspect of survival is to remember to look sexy at all times. Rescuers are often rugged, hot firemen looking for that damsel in distress. Don’t be some unattractive loser covered in mud, make sure you’re always looking, and feeling, sexy!” Chuck placed the book on the floor. Again, he wasn’t too interested in looking great for those hot firemen. However, should a rescuer come in the form of someone like Kate Upton, he wanted to look good. Chuck grabbed his bag and fumbled around until clasping his palm around a small metal object. He pulled out the magnesium fire starter. It had a mirrored metal case which was cold to the touch. He lifted it to his face and started into it. His was hair was a mess, curling wildly in various directions. It looked good, though, like he had styled it specifically for that “bed head” appearance. Chuck smiled and ran his hand through it. It popped right back up. He threw the fire starter on the floor then buried it under a thin layer of dirt so as to avoid a forest fire. He picked the book back up. “If you’re going to be looking sexy, make sure your hair looks sexy first and foremost. After all, that is where most guys will look first!” Chuck nodded, knowing his hair already looked great. He read on. “Now, while you’re out in the jungle, make sure you’re protected from the sun. The last thing you want is unattractive tan lines when you’re being rescued. Placing leaves over the sleeves of your shirt is a great way to avoid a farmer’s tan.” Chuck looked up at the canopy above him. A thin beam of light pierced through the leaves, running at an angle toward the ground several feet away from him. He shrugged, then picked up a branch from the floor. It had several still-green leaves on it. He snapped three off and slipped the stems under his t-shirt so that the thicker portions covered the skin on his upper arms. He then tore three more and repeated the process on his other arm. He felt safer already and decided to read on. “Don’t forget to try to keep fit while you’re lost in the jungle. No one is around to see you get sweaty, so start those fitness programs up! Do 10 jumping jacks, then 10 pushups, and finish with a nice ab-building sit-up and crunch circuit for 10 reps each! You definitely don’t want to look fat and out of shape when those firemen get there.” Chuck was still uninterested in the firemen, but definitely didn’t want Kate Upton to think he was looking chunky. He placed the book on the floor and began doing jumping jacks. After ten, he moved on to pushups. The book depicted them as placing his knees on the ground, rather than his toes as he’d learned in gym class. He figured the book knew more than a simple, lowly highschool coach and did as it instructed. It was easy—he was amazed by his strength. Chuck quickly finished ten, then lay down and began his sit-ups, followed by crunches. Chuck stood up, breathing heavily as he wiped his forehead with the bottom his shirt. He quickly glanced at his stomach. “Jacked,” he thought. He picked the book back up and read on.

A movie review in which the reviewer obviously watched a bootleg copy.

I recently watched *The Dark Knight*, and I must say: For all the acclaim it has received, I really found it, well, bad. The film opens up in what looks like a sound stage in India. The boom is clearly visible in the shot as several large cardboard pages appear with the words “THE DARK NIGHT.” I didn’t make a typo, it actually says “night.” You’d think that a movie this big would get its own name right, no? Well, it continues getting worse from there. For some reason, Christian Bale dons a thick Indian accent for the entire film. Unlike *Batman Begins,* he also ditches the deep “Batman” voice, instead opting for an incomprehensible slurring of strange sounds whenever he wears the costume. The movie itself takes place in India, where the evil Jokester (I always thought it was "Joker," but that might just be me), played by the late Heath Ledger, is plotting to destroy Indian-Gotham city. The city itself looks vastly different than its prequel – no longer is it a sprawling, anarchical metropolis. Instead, it is a dusty, poor village. It is a very strange decision by Christopher Nolan, but—at this point in the film—one still has faith in his abilities. The special effects take a serious hit in this movie, as opposed to *Batman Begins*. Instead of the mind blowing visuals of the first, most effects are pulled off via the use of bottle rockets, spools of yarn, and long sticks. The fighting scenes take a similar punch (no pun intended) as they go from exciting and realistic to two Indian men kicking and punching three feet away from their targets. This all takes place under the cacophonous guise of the free YouTube background music (Mr. Nolan, it might be time to pay for some big-budget music). In terms of visual and recording quality, it seems Mr. Nolan—for some reason—also decided to use a more archaic version of film. Rather than the crisp HD of all other modern films, he uses an iPhone held by what appears to be a man with a serious case of Parkinson's. I could understand this during the fighting scenes, in order to give a more “realistic” view of how Batman sees the world, but it just feels like a very awkward approach to have the camera shaking, and in such low quality, during a love scene with Rachel and Harvey Dent. Speaking of Harvey Dent, or Two-Face (spoilers), *The Dark Knight* takes a very creative approach to him. Rather than his injury being half of his face melted off, he simply is a man with what appears to be a thin cloth covering one half of his face. I understand that this film is trying to be a more modern take on the franchise, but such a change feels almost too drastic. It really impedes on the flow of the film, especially when Harvey Dent has his accident. He simply trips over a stick that is on fire, falling face first, and emerges with cloth covering his face. You can even see him place the cloth over his own head. It takes no longer than five seconds for this entire event to take place. In terms of redeeming qualities, there really aren’t many; I don’t see how this film has been revered by so many. From what I can tell, it seemed more like a low-budget experimental film than a massive blockbuster. That said, there is a copious amount of female nudity in this film – often at times where it simply makes no sense (for example, during the scene in which the Jokester crashes Bruce Wayne’s cabin party [Bruce is a billionaire, yet lives in a cabin? It’s a strange change, Mr. Nolan], all of the guests simply undress and start dancing to a catchy Indian tune while the Jokester is threatening them). This nudity is nothing but a positive, if I must be honest. All-in-all, I felt this movie under-delivered in several areas—perhaps the film simply goes over my own head in its complexity—yet over-delivered in terms of nudity. Considering the positives, I give this movie an 8.5 out of 10.

duce a truly terrifying villain in a paragraph or so. Someone who will give me nightmares. [WP]

I freeze. That feeling of being caught and having no escape hits me like a kick to the chest. "WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON IN THERE" comes booming in from the next room. It doesnt carry the sound of authority or carry a random threat. It has the madness, the insanity that only alcoholism can do to a once great and decorated soldier. My mother is so impacted by the fear of whats going to happen she drops her drink and dashes down the hallway to the bedroom. I am left standing there alone, shaking with fear. There is a noise behind the door. My five year old body struggling to keep me standing, I throw my eyes to floor. Please, please, stop. My nails digging into my palm, anything to stop me from looking up. But I have to, I cant stop, its my fault, if I dont, he will go after mom... Summoning all the strength I have left my head begins to turn; "Daddd.." Whack!, I hit the floor, spinning and dazed, searching for up. But I know better, he will hit me again, but if I dont, he will hit mom. I take a knee and try to stand up. His 6'5" frame leans over. The smell of whiskey takes over my face. "Ready for more. Lets see what you got boy." After a few times its not so bad. I love you mom.

The US Government just passed the "Army Enemy Penpal Program" and you have just received your first letter from a soldier in the opposing army.

"Hey, James. Your AEPP came through." Conrad said, handing him a parcel, "seems like it's working well for you." "Thanks, Sarge." I replied, taking the parcel out of his hands, looking at the familiar handwriting adorning one side. As Conrad kept going, I slowly opened up the package, making sure I didn't tear any edges. Once it was open, I stared at the little set-up in front of me. A few biscuits, a smallish container of what appeared to be jam, and a few teabags as well. Skipping past all of that, I pulled out the piece of paper underneath it, and started to read. *Hello, James. I hope that this letter finds you in good health, or at the least still alive.* *As of now, my division has moved to Fort Benning, where we're managing to push back your forces. Quite a nice place, this is. We were certainly happy when we discovered how well stocked you kept the place. My leg has successfully healed, so I shouldn't have any more problems with that.* *In terms of news, it does appear that we're winning, but I wouldn't exactly trust in that. They said that six months ago, and I only hear news of us being pushed back. Is it the same on your end?* *Anyway, we also got a few new recruits, plus one of those fancy new exo-suits. It's pretty awesome, running around, jumping higher than I stand. Seriously, if this ever ends, I'll show you how it works, assuming I get to keep the thing.* *Anyway, just hope you're having a decent time. You're up in Tennessee, right? Well, apparently we're heading to Illinois, so maybe I'll be able to pick you up as a war prisoner! Thank god for the AEPP protection clause, right? Just remember to surrender if we ever do find you. I want to be able to talk face to face.* *Anyway, hope to get writing from you soon. Tell me how things are going for you, if you need any more tea or whatever. I heard that your rations were running low, but eh, could just be the big man again.* *Sincerely,* *Thomas Greenham* I set down the letter, processing it all. Putting it back with everything else, I grabbed a piece of paper from my desk, along with my pen, and got to writing.

A war story from the POV of a soldier's dog

"Dad! Dad! DAD!! Come here, Dad! I found the stinky box!" Dad comes over and places his hand on my head, lightly scratching the way he does when I do good. He grunts and groans at the other humans in our pack, just like he does every time I find a stinky box. They seem excited, but I can smell their nervousness too. They're never as happy as Dad is when I find a stinky box. They don't scratch that spot behind my ears like he does. They go to work to dig the stinky box out of the dirt on the side of the road. We found a lot of stinky boxes today. They aren't happy. Dad scratches my head some more and pets my back while they work. "I love you Dad," I tell him. Sometimes I think he understands me when I tell him. The light is going away so we start heading to our dens. I stay with Dad. I know when we get home Dad will give me food, and maybe treats. Dad gives me treats when I do good finding the stinky boxes. One of our pack's noise boxes starts making grunting sounds. Our pack gathers around to listen to the grunts. I can smell that the grunts aren't making them happy... they're getting scared. I don't like the noisy box. "What's going on Dad," I ask. Dad makes a swishy sound and grabs my collar. The pack is running to the square rocks nearby. The air smells bad with their fear. I don't like this. They all have their noisy sticks in their paws. I know that's not good. I smell a different stink. The stink of the stinky boxes and the other pack. "Dad, Dad, I smell something bad. I smell the other pack," I try to warn him. BOOOOM My ears hurt so bad now. I can't hear anything anymore. The air is full of stink. I can't smell anything else. I see my pack scrambling with their noisy sticks but I can't hear them or smell them. I don't know what is going on. "Dad, where are you Dad?" I see Dad with one of our pack. Dad is holding the other's arm. The other's arm isn't on his body. Dad is howling but I can't hear him howl. I howl too. I see one of the other pack. He sees Dad. Dad can't see him because he is still howling. The other one has a noisy stick. He starts to point it at Dad. I'm running as fast as I can. I can't let the other make the noise at Dad. That noise makes things die. I don't want Dad to die. Everything is slow as I leap at the other's throat. The noisy stick makes noise. I bite the other's throat, hard. I feel things rip between my teeth and the taste of blood fills my mouth. The other falls and I fall with him but I don't let go. The other from the other pack dies. I hurt. It hurts in my gut... a lot. "Dad," I whimper. It hurts to talk. Dad is with me, he is whimpering and I can hear him again. His face is making water and it's falling on me a lot but he is stroking my side and petting my head, so I don't mind. I don't want to move anyway, it hurts so much. I think the noisy stick is making me dead. "Dad," I cry. "I love you Dad." I close my eyes. The hurting is making me tired...very tir...

You involuntarily read people's minds when they are close to you, but it is limited to only one thought from every person you meet. On a crowded subway platform you pick up a unique thought.

I didn't read the "you" part and wrote this in first person. The story started off with the unique thought itself but turned into something that I like a lot more. Sorry if I down-played that unique thought, but it just didn't feel that important when I got to it. XD [Here's my story](https://docs.google.com/document/d/1M2TLNCR4jhs6edE72ijWNF91F_dIYkRiQbJN0bws4hs/edit?usp=sharing) Or, here's a copied version. George glanced around him on the subway platform, trying his best to guess what kinds of thoughts he met pick up from the people that were standing near him. When he’d first learned of his gift, he had found it to be more of a curse than anything else. He’d heard his mom think something particularly nasty about his father that had shattered his impression of their perfect marriage. Even at sixteen, you didn’t want to hear that your folks weren’t getting along all that well… even if it was in passing thought. His impression that picking random solitary thoughts from people was awful only got worse when he went to school the day after he gained his power. The first thought he heard that day was simple: “Freak.” It was thought with the vindictiveness and self-righteousness that only one person anywhere in his proximity could have held; Peggy Miller, the rich Daddy’s girl who thought she ran the school. She was like a walking archetype, and George had never liked her. But it was as if her sidelong commentary on him had stirred up every negative thought inside him, every little self-deprecating assumption, and brought them to the surface. Once there, they pulled him under and he was drowning, drowning in the depths of depression that it seemed no one around him knew how to navigate. He spent months this way, occasionally hearing another thought that only re-affirmed his self-image. He only thought of the gift as a gift at all when one girl, walking down some random street while he slumped his way home, thought “Cute.” Sometimes the thoughts came with images, with impressions left behind by someone else’s brain. These were the most powerful, and this was exactly that kind of thought. In the passing of a breath before the thought disappeared, he saw himself, but with a lighter view; one that erased a few of his zits, and put his shoulders a bit higher. He saw the way that a total stranger could look at a person and see only the good in them. He saw how ridiculous he was to decide that the way any person viewed him was the way he really was. Even he could view himself as the ugliest, most horrific human being, and there could still be the one person who stopped and thought something as simple as “Cute.” Since that day he had made it his own personal goal to try to experience the msot out of every single thought he heard, no matter how his head ached when he finally tried to go to bed. He wanted to take that one snippet of another person’s brain and hold it forever, to learn the smallest details of their life that all led to them thinking that one simple phrase, that split-second of neural activity. The best thoughts were the ones that revealed how someone viewed a world, especially when those views didn’t match their appearance at all. Up to today, George had never experienced the sharing of a thought from a child, but as he looked at one little boy leaning up against his slouching mother, he had the feeling that he was looking into the eyes of a genius. He was awarded, not even a few seconds later, by one of the most complex thoughts he’d ever encountered. If someone who reads minds reads the mind of someone who can read minds who is reading their mind, will they hear their own thoughts or the thoughts of that person in their head in someone else’s head? George’s mouth fell open. He latched onto the thought and saw the image behind it; he saw himself, but in some kind of super hero costume, complete with a red, skin-tight leotard and a blue cape. Somehow, some way, this kid knew he had powers, and was imagining not only what they were, but what the implications of it were. In an even more rare epxerience, the thought lasted longer than any other when the boy turned to his mother, who George had just seen to be an unimpressive sight at best; ragged clothes, bent shoulders, and slouching, defeated demeanor. But in her son’s eyes, she was beautiful; she had clothes that looked to be made of pure silk and arms crafted with the sole intention of hugging. Her face was ambient and her expression serene, as if just looking upon it could cure the worst boo-boo and stop a torrent of tears. When the thought faded away, George found his own eyes misty, and couldn’t help but go over and hug the woman.

A lonely man with Alzheimer's plans his own 80th birthday party, forgets , and thinks someone else has planned it for him.

"Oh my," he said, walking back into the room. "Oh my goodness." Everything was absolutely perfect. No measure, no matter how seemingly inconsequential, was spared. Every detail must have been meticulously planned weeks -- even months -- ahead of time. The empty dining room was wonderfully peaceful, although he wondered where all of the guests were. He pulled up a chair at the head of the table and waited. A banner saying "Happy Birthday Walter!" hung across the far side of the room. It nearly slipped his mind that today was his birthday, but upon looking out the window and seeing the summer sun, he knew it had to be June 4th. Metallic balloons fluttered about in tethered clusters, knocking into one another again and again and again, filling the room with their soft thumping. They were blank. Whomever had set the room up must've planned every detail far in advance. Everything was perfect. Walter's Purple Heart was prominently put on display near the room's entrance. The dining room table had pink petunias on them, the flower that Walter gave Ruth every year for Valentine's Day; she always preferred them to roses. Picture frames were scattered about the space, every one holding a picture of him posing with others. He didn't recognize some of their faces, but he knew by his own demeanor in the photographs that he was with friends. One picture stood out among the rest: a black and white photo in a beautiful wooden frame. His face lit up as he instantly recognized it, and he slowly rose from his chair to give it a closer look. In it he posed with Ruth and their boy, David, who couldn't have been older than eleven. The family stood outside of their local church, dressed in their Sunday's best for an Easter service. Just then, a young boy ran into the room, shouting "Happy Birthday!" Walter looked up from the photograph and saw his son. "David!" he said in a sing-song voice as he embraced the child. The boy looked up at him and rolled his eyes. "No grandpa, I'm not David." As the boy withdrew and awkwardly shuffled his feet, a man walked into the room behind him, carrying grocery bags. "Wow, pop! Everything looks great!" Walter looked at him with a big smile on his face, eyes wide yet slightly worried. "Who's this, now?" he said to the man, trying to be polite. "Dad, it's me. Dave." The man was tall and slender, with wispy brown hair that was graying at the temples. This man was a stranger. Walter chuckled nervously. "David? My David?" he asked, with a certain discomfort in his voice. "Yes, your David," said the man as he walked up to Walter and kissed him on the cheek. "Happy Birthday, Pop." "He set this all up himself, you know," said a voice behind him. Walter turned around to see a woman he did not recognize, emerging from the kitchen with a towel in hand. "I tried to help but he wouldn't let me, he wanted to make sure everything was perfect." "Well it looks great, really. Thank you for watching him, Tanya," said the man as he placed the bags down on the table. "Everyone should be getting here soon, you can head out now if you'd like." Walter stood in the middle of the room, not sure what to do; he was uncomfortable, but he kept the smile on his face. The young boy that looked like David was showing him some toy he had procured from his pocket. Walter nodded and smiled and listened for a short while before he turned around and went to sit down at the table. His anxiety was mounting until something caught his eye; in the center of the table was a vase of pink petunias. He let out a sigh and smiled reminiscently as he looked at them. He used to buy those exact ones for Ruth every year.

A suicidal man who works day in and day out as a suicide hotline operator.

Edit: Trigger warnings for self harm and mentions of suicide. "Hello, Helpline, how can we help you?" The phone always feels heavy in my hand. I refuse to put it down. "Hello?" A quavering voice comes across the line and I rock back in my chair, minimising the tab I had open while waiting for a call. I wait for her to talk. It's a calm Tuesday afternoon and I'm sitting at my desk, yoghurt pot and cigarette pack lying open in front of me. I had been debating which one to have first when a call had been transferred through to me. "I just wanted someone to talk to. Sometimes friends... sometimes friends just won't... They aren't the right people to talk to." Joe and Teddy went to a bar without me last night. Quiet drinks, couple rounds of darts. I wasn't invited. "I know what you mean." I hum. "Well I'm here. What's been troubling you?" "I'm just getting really down with work and stuff. I just can't seem to do well enough." Her voice cracks a bit and I hold the phone away from my ear in case she cries. I'm not good with tears. More often than not it'll set me off as well, which tends not to be a good thing if you're a suicide hotline operator. "Yeah..." My boss is walking down the aisle of chairs and I huddle over, back to him. I make sure the phone is clearly visible as I nod vigorously. "What's happening with that?" That releases the floodgates and she starts crying in earnest on the other side of the phone. My boss gives me a funny look as I shuffle a bit. I'm getting uncomfortable and my fingers are starting to itch. "Just a huge project. I used to be so motivated. Now I want to stay in bed and never come out. I called in sick today, but if I keep calling in sick then they'll give the project to someone else and then they definitely won't think I'm good enough and-" "It's okay, it's okay. Let's stay calm together." She's starting to panic, her voice rising on the other end of the phone. I can hear my own heart racing. "I just feel so *muggy* all the time." She sobs. "Like there's some kind of fog in my brain, stopping me from what I want to do." "Like a little cloud floating above you?" I suggest, reaching for my lighter, before realising I can't smoke indoors anymore. "Just like that. I've been... I've been..." She whispers the next bit. "I've been *burning* myself. Just to feel something! I'm just *numb.*" "Yeah." I say weakly. I'm scrabbling for the help sheet. What am I supposed to say here? Like I can help - me, the man with the scars up and down his legs and torso. "I just want to be clear again. I want to stop being like this. What can I do?" I'm thinking of a reply when she suddenly squeaks and the phone goes dead. "Hello? Hello?" I put the phone down, clicking the sweaty handset back into its plastic nest. *She sounded so young.* I look at my packet of cigarettes, my lighter and my stomach churns and I run to the bathroom. Five minutes later I'm done vomiting. Resting my face against the cold porcelain bowl I break into noisy sobs, hiccuping and sniffing at the same time. "Are you alright?" There's a knock at the door. That's the thing about working at a suicide hotline. You can't be upset in peace. I grit my teeth and think about lying. "No." I say tentatively. Whoever it is on the other side of the door slides down to sit on the tiled floor. I can see the seat of their jeans under the crack in the door. "Well I'm here." They say. "What's been troubling you?"

We are done here. Burn everything to the ground.

It's truly amazing how fast lives burn. Here I sit, at my hearth, just doing my job. I'm never allowed any breaks, but even if I was, I'm not sure where I would go. Outside's too cold. At least in here it's warm. Better keep the fire burning. I grab another book, and skim through it. I enjoy reading, but I don't have time to read everything. Stories keep things alive: People, ideas, places, facts, opinions. This book's titled *Anthony Jones.* Page 153: "...he never forgot the look on her eyes that day. As for the diamond, it found a home in his dresser, tucked away behind mounds of socks. After that, Anthony..." I can't read any more. Love stories always seem a little too real to me. I throw this book in the fire and it goes up in blazes. I sigh and pick up another. It seems as if these stacks never end. *Johnathan Reed.* Page 22: "Little Johnny had a tough childhood after his dad left. No one to really look up to..." Page 223: "He came all this way, and found none of what he was looking for. Johnathan turned his back on his father and walked away, never looking back." At least he got some closure. So many stories are left open-ended. Into the burn pile. *Aaron Buckman.* Page 522. "Aaron wasn't alone on the day he died. He always said he would outlive George and Hank, but it looks like he was wrong. They were both there along with Aaron's wife. Aaron smiled, coughed, and whispered: 'Thanks for coming, guys, but God's only got room for one of us today. You two are still going to hell.' George and Hank both smiled, politely - any other day, they would have laughed up a storm, but Aaron's condition had gotten far too serious..." The good one's always die too soon, I suppose. I would've liked to have known him. Ashes to ashes. An abrupt rapping on the door distracted me from my task. How strange. I haven't heard a knock in years. I rise from my chair and hobble across the room to the entryway. When I open the door, a chill breeze pours in, and firelight cuts through the blackness outside. The man standing there was exactly who I had expected. "It's been a while," I say to him. "I don't see your name in too many stories anymore." I try to meet his eye, and see what he's thinking, but it slips away from me. His entire existence is an everlasting silhouette, changing shape, flickering from existence, sometimes only seen through the corner of your eye. He sighs. "I know. People don't thank me for much, anymore. They just blame me." "It'd probably do you a whole world of good if you went down and introduced yourself to some of them, sometime. You don't even have to make it a large scale thing, like before. Just do it one person at a time. Enough to make a difference." "No," the silhouette says. "It's too late." "Too late?" What can possibly be going through that head of his? Nothing good, I imagine. "Yes. We're done here," he orders me. "Burn everything to the ground." His form dissipates, and he is no longer with me. "You got it, boss..." I say to thin air, shaking my head and closing the door. I return to my fireplace and begin tossing books in. I don't even stop to read them now. I don't even glance at the titles. I just watch the stories go up in flames. After some time (minutes, hours, days, years? I lose track so easily), I find myself holding the last book in the place. It's mine. For a moment, I pause. I suppose he would've come back for me, if he wanted me to save this one. I tuck my book in a corner of the fireplace and strike a match. Without hesitation, I throw it on the book and turn my back. I hope God's got room for one more.

Two characters gain dream based powers. They are at odds.

This is a strange place. I'm not exactly sure how to describe it. Words don't really do the strangeness justice. I guess it's like a nonlinear hallway with windows into people's dreams. I call it the "Dreamscape". It's like a nexus of the collective unconscious, separated by a surprisingly thin veil. I don't exactly know how I got to this place between subconsciousness, nor do I understand why I can walk these halls. But I can. I'm not exactly sure what I'm supposed to do with this. When I first wandered in here, I was dreaming myself. Something mundane, like driving a car or walking. Then I sort of woke up in the dream. The usual haze of the dream lifted and I was aware of myself. I *knew* I was dreaming. I could see the incomplete world I was in, the land my subconscious created for some purpose had many holes in it. Places I wasn't supposed to look. Almost like looking behind the scenes on a Hollywood movie. Roads that were incomplete, a half colored sky, the front of a building with nothing behind it. It only needed to make sense while I was in the foggy state of mind being asleep puts you in. The truth is, I was scared. I'd never experienced this sort of thing before. I meandered around my subconscious for what felt like days, until I found the veil. I call it that because it's real hard to picture in your head. It's like a doorway at the end of 3-Dimensional space; It shouldn't open to a new space, but it does. You con walk through it on one side, and it ceases to exist on the other. The place on the other side was even more confusing. The nexus. From the nexus, you can see into anyone's dream. You can even go inside. I've only done it a few times, I don't like to meddle. I possess all of the abilities of the dreamer when I enter into the world. I can make anything I want happen, as long as the dreamer doesn't counteract what I'm doing. They're never really aware that they're dreaming, though. They let things play out as their subconscious builds everything for them. They think of me as no different even though I'm an outsider. Like I said earlier, I'm not really sure what to do with this power. I've thought about using it for selfish reasons. Like getting PIN numbers, or social security numbers, but I can affect only their dreams. The dreamer is still them, their ego at least, but there's no real point to interacting with them. I can ask for their name, but I can't be sure if it's their real name. At least in the waking world. Their name could be Burger King here. I have no way of telling who these dreamers are, so I can't really use any of this for personal gain. Not that I would. I'm not like that. For a while, I thought I was the only one who could get into the nexus. Then I met Moon. I'm not sure of Moon's gender, specifics like that are lost here. Moon's voice and face have changed depending on my interpretation of whom I will refer to as him. At first I thought I had constructed him as I grew more accustomed to the Dreamscape as a means to fulfill my desire for companionship here. But I don't think so. Moon behaves differently than I do. He seems to be another entity altogether with traits that I can't use to create a person. I can only create illusions from within my own mind, and he is nothing like me. We have talked a few times. We were both hesitant to reveal our true names for fear of the other one finding us in the waking world. We are both curious, but cautious. I introduced myself as Sandman. He called himself Moon. After we crossed paths, we started seeing each other more. Like we subconsciously were attracted to the other. Neither of us really knew why we were there, nor what we were supposed to do. We talked about our experiences here, and what we had learned about this place. I had told him that I liked to watch what other people dream about. I enjoyed the puzzle of figuring out the meaning of the dreamer's individual experiences. Sometimes I'd participate in a fun dream. I could try all sorts of things here. I could play golf, feel what it's like to be a lion, explore the reaches of space, anything. I didn't like to interfere. I just watched or played along. That is, unless someone was having a nightmare. I don't like to see people afraid, so I'd kill the monsters chasing the dreamers, or pull them out of the bottomless sea. It made me feel like I was doing a good thing. Moon, however, had different ideas. He'd use people's Dreamscapes to fulfill his own desires. He'd participate in and dominate the dreamers realms. He told me of all of the fun he'd had crashing sexual fantasies, posing as a monster to kill the dreamer, caging them and taking over their world. Moon had found that he could control the dreamer in the waking world to an extent. If you inflicted pain on them, the world would shudder. If you induced fear, the world would pulsate rapidly like a panicked heart. If the dreamer died, the Dreamscape they were in collapsed. I like to think that means they just woke up. I didn't like what Moon was doing. Even if it was just a dream, while they were here it was reality to them. They felt pain, fear, and anxiety just like you would in the real world. I couldn't abide by Moon taking advantage of the dreamer's just because he wanted to have fun. This was where we took opposite sides. We found each other again and again, night after night and we fought. He would try to enter a Dreamscape, and I would try to prevent it. I didn't always stop him. Once in a dream, he would take control of it entirely. I couldn't help once he had entered. I'm unsure of how long we've been doing this. I still have a life outside of the nexus. It's getting increasingly hard to distinguish between the worlds. The time spent there is strange, it's not like real time. I've had wars for centuries, and other times I've only had time to play a single hand of poker. Time is fluid there. Just like everything else. But I can't sit there and let Moon take advantage of the dreamers for his own selfish reasons. I took some time off. I decided I'd find his Dreamscape, and find out how he gets here and close his veil. It was a risky thing to do, but I took a few sleeping pills. I'd done this before to see how it affects the dreamworld, and it allowed me to stay for what felt like longer. The only problem is that I have no control over when I wake up. Usually I could will myself awake. I'm there until they wear off now. I don't think Moon is asleep yet. I have no doubts that I can find him before he steps into the nexus. If I can get into *his* Dreamscape, I may be able to seal it. That is, unless he was already in mine. When I saw Moon standing in front of my as I arrived, I wasn't too surprised. It took me too long to figure it out. This was neither myself, nor was it someone else. It was a personality within my own mind, given form. He wasn't fighting me to continue on with his selfish desire, he wanted to be the one who woke up. He figured out my plan because he was in my head. It's how we found one another. And now, he knew how to trap me here. He knew I couldn't escape with willpower. He had won.

Narrate a murder

Andres Vesouvian had barely slipped beyond the threshold of dreams when a strange sound echoed through his unsuspecting ears. He curled in on himself, believing the sound to be another random element his brain had called up to make sense of the day. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn't roll away from the sound. "What?" The word slipped out of his lips on a wave of saliva. He wiped his lip and pawed at the lamp on his bedside table with his free hand. Even the weak glow of the hated Energy Saving fluorescent bulb was too much for his bloodshot eyes. "who's that?" He could barely make the shape out through the sandman's handiwork. It was a man in shape and posture. "Morgan Freeman?" As impossible as it seemed, the famed actor was standing by his bedside. Andres searched his mind for any clue as to why the celebrated star of such films as *The Shawshank Redemption* and *Bruce Almighty* would sneak into his home. Why would the brilliant thespian with the melodic voice bother breaking into the home of one as low as Andres Vesouvian? "Oh, Jesus." Realization crept across his drool-stained face. Andres flung the sheets off, but he realized that he would never be able to get away in time. Freeman had brought his favorite dagger - a gift from a medicine man after lending his notable talents to a documentary about their tribe - and he never missed. "Mr. Freeman, I'm sorry. It wasn't my fault." The words fell heavy from Andres's filthy lips. He knew that there was no excuse for... "Please, just let me explain. Aaah!" The scream erupted from Andres's throat even as the blood streamed out of his freshly-opened stomach. He trembled, remembering that it was never wise to interrupt Morgan Freeman's narration. Andres's mind raced as he tried to decide whether he had learned his lesson. Tears streamed from the corners of his eyes. He had learned the importance of silence, but it was unfortunately too late. --- *(Apologies to Morgan Freeman)*

A lowly intern programmer discovers that he has the power to code the real world. Adventure ensues!

"Here you go, my friend." "Huh?" Dan Oswald shook his head and blinked rapidly at the overweight, bearded man standing at his desk. "Your new computer. Well, definitely not new, but at least this one works," the man said. Oh yeah, thanks..." Dan gave a quick look to the badge dangling from the man's mustard-stained shirt pocket. "...Frank." The Acer laptop with the scratched screen now sitting on his desk came complete with a peeling Windows Vista sticker. Upon closer inspection, he noticed the left-hand shift key was missing. Yeah, I had to dig it out of storage," Frank said with an apologetic look. "I know it’s not much, but for the crap I hear they've got you doing, it’ll be just fine.” “Hey, looks good to me,” Dan lied. “Thanks again.” “Don’t mention it. Oh, and just a tip: try not to look so obvious when you’re dosing off. The higher-ups get all uptight about it, I know from experience.” “Thanks, I’ll keep that in mind,” Dan said with a smirk. As Frank walked off down the aisle of cubicles, Dan checked the time on his phone. 10:50 A.M. He let out a groan. He shouldn’t be this miserable after only a week and a half on the job, he thought. But, then again, from what he’d heard of ZennoCorp, he should have seen it coming. He couldn’t be too picky, though: it’s not like Fortune 500 software companies were exactly looking for guys just out of college with resumes that barely took up the whole page. Tired of feeling sorry for himself, Dan sat upright and stretched, then reached over to hit the power on his “new” machine. The screen blinked to life with the familiar Windows XP startup screen—the sticker had lied, fortunately. Then the cooling fan started to make a low whirring noise that he thought was sure to make him popular with his surrounding co-workers. Dan felt his irritation levels reaching new heights, so he unstuck himself from his chair to see if there was any coffee-like mud left in the break room percolator. There wasn’t, but the walk at least made him feel slightly better. He returned to his desk a few minutes later to find the laptop had finished booting up, the screen now displaying a wallpaper with the company logo and current marketing slogan. (“Tomorrow’s Technology. Today.” Christ.) As he settled in for another marathon of monotony, he noticed a slightly unusual icon in the bottom-left corner of the screen. Below a white square with a pixelated red “x” in the middle was the filename hw.exe. Curious, and thankful for anything that would delay the busywork for a little bit longer, he double-clicked the icon. An entirely nondescript command prompt filled the screen. Figuring it was just some goof-off project from the last user, he typed a command in ZennoCorp’s proprietary programming language. After a moment, the word “INVALID” appeared in green type on the screen. After a few more tries, he switched to C++. “INVALID.” Then Python. “INVALID.” Realizing he was getting much more frustrated than he needed to be about the stupid thing, he let out a deep breath and shrugged. He hovered the mouse over the exit button before figuring he’d take one more shot in the dark. After thinking a moment, he typed “create(CupOfCoffee).” Nothing happened. A few more seconds went by. No “INVALID”, no nothing. After a full minute went by, he began to feel silly in spite of himself for his pseudo-code. “Back to work, I guess,” he said under his breath as he closed the prompt. As he leaned back in his chair, something caught the corner of his eye. He turned to look, and his heart skipped a beat. He lowered his glasses, rubbed his eyes, and blinked furiously, but it was still there, steaming, on the edge of his desk. A cup of coffee. (That's all I have for tonight. Let me know if I should continue. Constructive criticism is more than welcome. Also, as you can probably tell, I don't know much about programming, so sorry if that part sounds completely wrong.) EDIT: grammar.

A hotel that is designed specifically for guests to kill themselves.

"We hope you find solace in your time here at Periphery Hotels, sir. If there's anything we can do to assist you, please do not hesitate to call down to the front desk." The bell hop stood in the room's doorway, arms folded behind his back, with an eager yet pleasant expression on his face. Nathan looked at him with one eyebrow raised. *Jesus, is he expecting a tip?* Nathan pulled out his wallet, its leather worn at the creases from years of abuse. He pulled out a ten and paused. He pulled out a twenty. *Ah, fuck it. What's the difference?* He emptied the wallet's contents and handed it to the bellhop. "Thank you, sir!" said the bellhop, enthusiastically, "That's very generous of you!" With that he was off. Nathan was alone, a state in which he found himself often. The room was everything the brochure made it out to be. *Periphery Hotels: Where your Cessation is Our Fixation!* A large bed sat in the room's center, it's large downy comforters dyed a marvelous shade of crimson. *Smart choice*, thought Nathan as he dropped his suitcase on the bed. He nearly felt embarrassed for packing a bag, but it seemed odd checking into a hotel empty handed. Inside the travel bag was his only suit, in which, he decided, he would end his life. Nathan wasn't terribly depressed. He wasn't terribly anything, really. Emotions seemed to be a superficiality in a world full of absolutes, veneers with which people would obscure the true, unforgiving qualities of the human experience. War, famine, sickness. *Death.* The room (an industry standard, it seemed) was equipped with the most popular forms of comfort and quietus. A fully stocked mini-bar sat across from the bed, no doubt offering a means to calm the nerves of the soon-to-depart. On top of the fridge was an assortment of pill bottles, if noxious cocktails were your preference. Through an open door Nate could see the bathroom, it's tub furnished with a selection of razor sharp blades fashioned into smooth and calming shapes. Looking back at the bed's headboard, Nathan realized there was a small lever built into the wood that held a leather noose. *They've thought of everything, haven't they?* Nathan Bartholomew Boris was born to two Census workers in the center of New Jersey. His parents instilled in him a passion for responsibility and a thirst for the ordinary. He didn't begrudge his parents for his upbringing, however uneventful he thought it was. Neither a pious or profane couple, the Boris' worked through life dutifully until their deaths (both in the month of May, some years apart.) They left this earth as they inhabited it: insignificantly. Nathan was already a man at that time, and from that point on he was alone. No friends, no family, no faith. Nathan sat upon the bed. He grabbed a remote from the tabletop beside him and turned on the room's television set. *Porn. Preaching. Yoga. More porn.* He turned off the television set, wanting neither spiritual or sensational consolation. He opened up the drawer of the nightstand. *Of course,* he thought to himself as he took out the Gideon's Bible, *What sort of hotel would this be without this?* Opening the book, he saw that all of the pages were torn out of it but the last book: Revelations. *Cheery place.* Some great or insignificant man, he could never remember which, had said that the unobserved life was not worth living. But what about the entirely observed life? Was there a limit to how close one could view their life before they started seeing nothing? Perhaps being content with an out-of-focus and bigger picture was the secret to traversing life happily. If that was the case, it was too late for Nate, anyhow. There was nothing left to see. There was nothing as he removed the suit from his bag. There was nothing as he put it on, piece by piece. There was nothing as he searched his life for some last prayer to say, and there was nothing when he realized he had never been taught one. There was nothing as he prayed to himself, *I am, I am, I am.* There was nothing as he removed one of the slender blades from the bathroom's tub and took it with him into the King-sized bed. There was nothing as lied down, breathed slowly and deeply, and slid the metal across his skin. Then, in that moment, there was only Nathan, flowing into the crimson sheets.

Full simulation of all five senses is now possible due to a computer implanted in the brain, and MMO's are now the most popular activity in the world. Until, by some calamity, you get trapped inside one.

Well, I guess I have plenty of time, so I'll start from the beginning. March 2014. A good year for some. A bad year for me. Y'know that VR thing? Virtual Reality? Yeah, that. The eggheads found a way to simulate touch, too. And smell. And taste. So, yeah. Five senses. Then some new upstart went and integrated those into an MMO. Was it a good idea? Hell if I know. WoW, the giant of MMOs, the one with millions of subscribers, poof. Well, not really. You’ve always got those diehards, but still. What’s seven million to 50 million? Not much. Now, imagine if the seven million shrunk to 500 thousand. There you have it. At the beginning you had the people moaning about ethics and all that BS, as usual. Until somebody got them into it. The mind isn’t too strong, y’know? Then they started implementing all these new skills and professions. Football, stockbroking, writing, you name it. Before you know it, there’s a great big economy generating cash. Who needs to work when they can play an MMO for money? Boom. 500 million. All paying $20 a month. Richest people in the world, that dev team. But what they don’t tell you is that every game has bugs. Great big, nasty, hulking bugs. Bugs that get reported on the game forums twenty times a day. Bugs that crash important things. Even with 20% of the world’s population playing, who even reads forums anymore? Hell if I know. So, yeah. Bug reports. These bugs, they never announced them to the public. Then you get some news reports coming in. People going missing. People falling into comas. All connected to the RealLife MMO. Prying the equipment off kills them. Doesn’t discourage people, especially when half the players are using it as their primary income. After, it’s only, what, a dozen people. Come on, it’ll never happen to you. Just keep playing. You need to get that fancy new chestplate. And win those last few medals in hockey. And then you’ll quit and go to bed. Click ‘Exit’. I SAID, click ‘Exit’. ‘EXIT’ BUTTON. What?! Error 66053? Uh. That doesn’t sound good. The deluxe headset comes with a fancy set of noise-cancelling headphones, but those things aren’t 100% effective. 0737h the next day, I start to hear some sort of disembodied yell. Pretty sure that’s something from outside the game. It’s been about two days since then. I’ve tried asking about this Error 66053 thing, but nobody knows anything about it. I’m getting pretty tired, though. My eyes sting. Just let me finish levelling my Writing skill. Maybe if I post this on Reddit, I’ll make some gold off it, too.

We've discovered a method to transfer sleep between people. Businesses arise where people sleep for other people.

Two heavies are gripping my arms. They're the only things keeping me upright, cause my legs have been reduced to quivering jelly at this point. My employer took great pleasure in sliding the iron knuckleduster over his fingers, casting me a fast wink before driving a fist into my stomach. It rips the air from my lungs and I double over, wheezing. I'm pulled upright again, only to met with an open-palmed slap to the face. "Please!" I've never liked begging. "Please, no!" There's hot blood trickling from somewhere on my face, but that's numb. All I can feel is the burning pain in my stomach from where he's punched me. "I said EIGHT!" He grips my chin and pulls it down so we're eye to eye. They're hazel, with irises like pinpricks. There are deep bags underneath them and he looks rough. "Eight fucking hours! Was that too much to ask?" "No, no!" Another punch. This one drives close to my ribs and I gasp out. "I'm sorry!" "It's too fucking late!" That's going to bruise. I'm choking on this pain. "I-" "Do you know how much you've cost me?" "I-" *Slap* It rings around the small room with the bad carpet and there's more blood on my face. "Please-" "Six million." He steps back and gives me a moment to breathe. His men's fingers are digging into my arms. It's going to bruise. "Six million." He's panting. There's a high pitched whining sound and it takes me a minute to realise that it's me. I hang my head and let the heavies take my weight. Every nerve of my body is screaming. "That's how much you cost me. I ask for eight hours." He slumps back in the chair at his desk and rips off the knuckle duster, reaching for a glass of cold water. "Try not to get blood on the carpet, will you?" Someone pulls my hair and my head jerks back. I guess it's my nose that's bleeding, then. "Out of interest, how much hours did you actually get?" "Do." My nose is definitely broken. "Two. Not fucking surprised. Two hours. So you decide, that the night before the biggest deal of my career, that you're going to- what? Go out? Stay up all night playing Halo?" "Ib wasn'd like dat." "Oh? Then what?" "My mudder died." He takes a sip from his drink and looks at me again. "I don't care. You had a job to do. You fucked up." A nod to the men at my sides. "Take him out. Finish him off."

Rework a nursery rhyme to be dark and gritty.

Mary had a little lamb, Its fleece was white as snow. ...except for blooms of bright red spots, from where the blood did flow. Mary held the dripping knife, high above her head. And struck the lamb repeatedly, long after it was dead. “I wonder will you trail me now, my precious little treat?” She skinned the ewe from neck to tail and hacked off sides of meat. Yet this was not the end of Mary's woe, (much to her dismay,) For now a ghastly, ghostly lamb, still follows her today. _______________________________________________________________ It's funny to think how many nursery rhymes are already dark and gritty when you know their history. "Ring around the Roseys" *shudder*

An ordinary person commits an extraordinary act of selflessness that goes unnoticed.

There's a feeling you get when you realize how small you are. I know somewhere in human history someone invented a word for it, but I never bothered to learn words you only use once or twice. Hell, I never bothered learning much, just what my teachers told me I had to learn, and of course what my father told me was important. Teachers taught knowledge and my father taught me common sense. The two never seemed to overlap when I was growing up, except one lesson: There are 24 hours in a day. My father wanted to instill in me the importance of time, and how easy it is to waste it. My teachers just wanted me to know how to tell time. Time is something I never forget. Whether it's the time I get up for work or when I go to bed. Time rules all of us, and no matter how rich you are, you are still bound to the same law: There are 24 hours in a day. I gave up one of my precious hours yesterday. Sitting beside a dead body, breathing my air into his lungs, using my heart to move his. His time was up soon after I arrived at the accident. Paramedics came long after he had died, they thanked me, and then left with the body. There was no reward, no medal for being a good citizen, just a reminder that time doesn't stop. It drags on; killing us all eventually. The man I sat beside had one item of interest on him. It was a cheap digital watch, something you could find anywhere. I ignored it at first, more concerned with the man's life. When I was finally convinced the man was dead I began looking at the cheap piece of jewelry. I thought at first the man had set it to military time when it read 18:15, but it was early morning and even stranger the watch wasn't counting up it was going down. When the ambulance arrived the thing read 17:23. I didn't realize it at the time, but I had met another man like myself. The watch unlike most time keeping devices wasn't telling him how much time had passed, but how much time there was left. The man knew the law. There are 24 hours in a day.

A struggling writer surfs /r/askreddit for juicy plots and characters based on reddit user comments. A year later and the writer has a best seller in store, a redditor discovers striking similarities to one of her storys and goes to have a little chat with the writer.

NEW, IN BOOKSTORES NOW, RINGING OF THE GONG! *** "Oh, that's an interesting title." Catherine ordered a book online, "Ringing of the Gong". It had a nice cover, not too flashy, and at least there wasn't something cliche, like the sun or the moon in the title. It had been on the recommended section of Amazon, and it didn't look too bad. She needed a new book anyway, and her friend had been raving about how the main character reminded her of her. When it arrived a week later, she had set down some coffee, pulled it out of the wrapping, and began to read. *** *Ring. Ring. Ri-* "Hello?" "My name is Catherine Lorne, is this Mr. Gabriel Clarke?" "Yes, do you need something?" "I was actually calling about your book." "Oh, are you a fan? I'm glad I got a call from you and all, but, this is my home phone number, this isn't public. Please don't call it again." "No, I'm not a fan, this is more about your popularity and monetary earnings." "Ah." Gabriel Clarke's voice became quite a bit less friendly. "Sorry, but I already have enough publicity, and I don't feel like giving anyone else a chunk of my hard-earned checks." Catherine smiled on the line. "No sir, it isn't about that, either. Could we meet at a cafe, I have something to discuss with you." "I don't think so." "Well, then I think I will need to get in contact with my lawyer. I don't think you'd like that." A pause. Then- "Your lawyer?" "Yes, Mr. Clarke. That's what people usually do when their ideas are stolen. They sue." She heard him sigh over the line. A silence drew out. He was no doubt thinking it over in his head. *She's just someone else that wants the publicity. She doesn't have anything, there's no way this would pan out.* *Except... why isn't there a news story about this then?* "What cafe did you have in mind?" *** Catherine Lorne sat in a corner table, the picture of professionalism. Full business attire, small laptop on the table, a briefcase at her feet. It was then that Mr. Clarke felt underdressed and unprepared for whatever she was about to say. She also seemed familiar. He sat at the table, wary, and gave a little cough. Catherine gave no sign whatsoever that she had seen or heard him, although she must have. She continued on her computer for a two full minutes, and then closed and put it at her feet. "So what's this about, Miss Lorne?" "About a year ago, I posted something to a site called Reddit. A host of things, actually. About my childhood." "If you got me out here to waste my time, I-" She gave Mr. Clarke an eyebrow, and continued. "As you can see, I am a redheaded girl with green eyes. I am of average build and height. I can be very cynical. I work in a professional setting, consultation for large businesses to be exact, and am very good with numbers." "I fail to see where this is going." "Of course. You're not a story writer, Mr. Clarke. You're a plagiarizer and thief, which is exactly why you don't understand where there this is going, but I will tell you. All in all I bear quite a bit in common with the main character of your book, don't you think?" He was silent, and she allowed herself a small smile. "A year ago, there was an askreddit question. Something about 'most eventful part of life'. Not the most original question, but I was on a work break and wanted to write. Curiously, what happened with my family, is detailed very explicitly in your book." Gabriel Clarke sniffed. "Coincidence. A lot of people like to read about readheads. Throw in a screwed up family life and it's a best seller." "Yes, I was sure you'd say something like that. Which is why I brought this." And with that, Catherine pulled out her briefcase, and withdrew a stack of papers. "This, Mr. Clarke, is my reddit submitting and and comment history. All well before you claim your book was even thought of, let alone published. It is a detailed account of my life from 17-23, which is why you loved it so much, I'm guessing. There's a pattern here, many submissions and comments of mine had a user named 'taco69fucker' comment on them. Usually one word, sometimes a sentence, and always to save it. Starting with, of course, the main story of my family, which is the focal point of your book." Mr. Clarke's blood ran cold. She was not only smart, but she had him between a rock and a hard place. "You have no proof that's me." "Well, actually..." She pulled out a second stack from that infernal briefcase, and showed him, to his growing horror, his own comment history, which included where he had once posted his town as a point of reference, in separate cases his first and last name, and, worst of all, links to the online site he posted pieces of his best seller as a rough draft. "In fact, I've highlighted points where you completely plagiarized things I've written, word for word." He was done. "What do you want, Miss Lorne?" "Fifty percent of profits, and the guarantee that you will never write a book again." His eyes bulged. "WHAT? Out of the question!" She shrugged. "You can either agree, or I can sue and get it that way. I can assure you that road would cost a lot more. On your end of course. You didn't put anything bad about me in that book of yours, since all you wanted was a fiery little redhead." Indignantly, he stood up. "Do you really think you can just walk into my life and make everything about you?!" Catherine replaced her papers, picked up her briefcase and computer, and stood up as well. "Mr. Clarke, you're the one that made everything about me. I am your main character, after all."

Everyone has a midlife crisis. However, it's always in the very middle of their life, no matter how old they are.

The saddest were the children, a close second, being their parents. When little girls started rejecting futures of princesses and wanting to purge their rooms and wardrobes of pink and insisted that no, they wanted fire engine red, and trucks, and waling sirens. Little boys giving up on dreams of being the first Olympic policeman to be a doctor. The parents would cry silently into their pillows, or run to the pediatrician murmuring, *What will it be? Will it be cancer? Can I swaddle her in blankets or hide him in a room?* Some got angry at the inevitability, or the confusion - was this growing up to live or growing to death? The worst story I’d heard, and I’d heard many, were the ones who tried to disrupt the system, who tried to kill themselves before the change had manifested with one of two outcomes – they failed and were left, maimed, distorted and tortured, or they succeeded, and then, mining through the journals and blogs and posts, we realized just how long they’d been thinking about death – that that had been their evolution. Of course there were cults that’d sprung up, the Born Again movement suddenly taking on new meaning, til there was a split – the Born Again and the Re-Born. There were campaign posters about enabling and slogans about defeating it. But, as with most inevitabilities, people eventually just accepted it and accredited it with whatever meaning they considered most pertinent. The conspiracy theories were mostly limited to outposts of the internet that inspired more eye rolls than legitimate discussion. But for those of us who guarded the Algorithm, who doled out life expectancy in exchange for managing to avoid Malthusian calamity, it was a bit more nuanced. Granting a child twelve years of life, or damning her to starvation and war is all well and good on paper – but it will keep you up at night. With nuance comes dissent – but mostly on the how, not the why. The Great Boom had taught us a hard lesson on the why. We’d attempt rebellion, but we all know our clock is ticking.

a man meets the devil while out having a smoke, and finds out they have more in common than he thought.

Smoking's a bitch of a habit to keep up these days, especially in January. Standing on my apartment's roof deck, the wind cut right through my coat, and my hand shook slightly every time I drew the cigarette up to my mouth for another drag. The city behind me was frozen solid under the weight of yet another winter snowstorm, and the waters of the Charles River were still and silent as an abandoned building. Distantly honking cars were the only indication that I wasn't entirely alone in Boston this afternoon. As wrapped up in the idea of isolation as I was, I hardly noticed the other man up on the roof deck until he was just a few feet away. He stood next to me for a moment, and we watched the frozen photograph of a city in silence. I was cold, but a single cig hadn't quite scratched the itch, so I turned to my neighbor and asked if he smoked. “From time to time. Are you out?” I didn't recognize him, but then I don't know what most of my neighbors look like. I nodded, and he pulled a silver cigarette case out of his pocket, clicked it open, and offered it to me. “Thanks, man. Live here long?” I fumbled with my zippo for a second. The damned things are impossible to use in gloves. He seemed to be considering his answer before replying, “I've been in a Boston a while now, yes. Yourself?” “Couple'a months. Moved here from Providence.” He nodded at that, but didn't say anything. We were silent again for a time. “Why did you move?” He asked the question idly, but I got the impression he was genuinely interested. Funny thing, though, I was starting to wonder what exactly he looked like. I mean to say he looked like a man, but specific details weren't forthcoming. He had an air of competence, self-assured solitude to him, but I'll be damned if I can actually tell you what color his hair was. “Needed some space from my dad. He's not a bad guy, just not a great father, is all.” I took my first drag on the stranger's cigarette, and burst into a coughing fit. The taste was incredible, but it burned like a coal fire going down. “Jesus, these are harsh. What brand are they?” “I import them. Hard to come buy up here. Sorry to hear about your old man, but there are worse places to be than Boston.” Still hoarse, I nodded. “Yeah. Got a job offer in Jersey, but I couldn't do it. That place is a shit hole.” The man smiled, like he'd remembered an inside joke that I wouldn't get. “What about you? Here for work, or family?” “A bit of both.” The stranger puffed on his cigarette casually, and the cherry burned brighter than it had any right to. “I don't get on well with my father either. He's got...control issues. A man needs some space. Has to get out on his own, stretch his wings, you know?” “I hear that.” The face thing was really starting to get to me. “Hey, I'm Mike, by the way.” I reached out a hand to shake his. “Samael.” His grip was firm, and he looked me right in the eye as we shook. “That's...an unusual name.” Where had I heard it before? “It was unique where I came from, too.” "And where's that?" "Much farther away than Providence. It was nice talking to you, Mike. I hope for your sake we never meet again." And as I was about to ask him just what the hell he meant by that, he was just....gone. Vanished in the wind, with a last cloud of that harsh cigarette smoke dissipating in the space he'd occupied. I stood alone on the roof, suddenly feeling more alone than I had before my conversation.

In the far future, after the Human race has gone extinct, an alien species happens upon Earth. All they find is a hard drive containing 20 years worth of porn. What do they infer about us just from that source?

From what we've gathered from the archive, the human species was a sexual one - a *very* sexual one. Of note is that it did not appear that alpha males were the most successful at completing the mating ritual; lesser, beta males appeared to be those with the most success - ones that identified themselves as "pool boys" and "delivery guys." The females appeared to submit to all their sexual desires, regardless of their roles in the society. Whether it was their educational systems or health facilities, sexual intercourse would transpire, without concern of the greater needs. We conclude that this played an important part of their extinction. Curiously, we have noted that the population held multiple roles within society. For example, subject "Lisa Ann" has been highlighted as being both a "bored housewife" (domestic dwelling female) and "candidate for Vice-President of the United States" (secondary position in the United States clan.) Similar patterns have been observed in subjects "James Deen", "Jenna Jameson" and "Ron Jeremy." The biggest scientific breakthrough for us is that humans had multiple abilities to conceive offspring - initially, it was believed that the sexual intercourse must be completed vaginally. However, after viewing multiple entries, it appeared that such a way would be impossible for the human species to grow and survive. Therefore, the males reproductive fluid (known as "cum") could be absorbed by the female, both orally or absorbed through the skin. The breasts (or "tits" as they're known to humans) and the posterior ("ass/arse") appeared to be the most successful places. Larger tits and asses were favoured by the males, presumably for this purpose. In tern, females desired larger penetrable devices ("dick/cock") as these would, clearly, store more cum for the female. It also appears the anal and rectal cavity sufficed as well as the vagina, albeit more painfully for the female. We are, so far, only 4 years into our study from the footage. However, we shall endeavour onwards.

Three people have been given the same instructions. One man refuses, one man does it but loses his mind, and the third does it gladly.

I woke up in a room of sorts; well maybe it's not accurate to call it a room, it had no doors or windows. Looking up I realized that there is a ledge around where the ceiling should be, so this must be a pit. In astonishment, I discovered that I was not alone. Two other men were slumped over in the pit, knocked out cold. I presume that they too were kidnapped and had no idea either about what we are doing here. Scanning around me, I notice just how filthy this pit is; the floor is covered in a mismatch of wiring, broken equipment, and garbage, the walls streaked with a film of oily grease, caring the odor of spoiled eggs, in the center of all three of us was a gun. Reaching into my pocket, I pulled out a slip of paper with a simple command. *Kill* By the time I read this, the other two men began to wake up. At first we tried to communicate, but to bitter frustration realized that no one held the same language. The gun still laid there on the floor and I could already feel the tension boiling between us. With an exchange of glances, we all made a silent agreement to not touch it. The man that was across from me was short and presumably middle eastern, he made it clear that his name or at least what he identify himself as was Imran. When Imran read his message, he seemed most appalled by it and gestured his response by crumpling it up and throwing it at the other end of the pit. He then moved his arm in a way that suggested that we pick him up and see if we can help him reach the ledge. It would be a futile effort, but what other choice do we have? The other man, who was Caucasian like me and remained silent for most of the time here move up to help him. Just when Imran was about to climb on his shoulders, the man grabbed a nearby lead pipe and smashed his head in. Imran fell over, his skull now concave inwards and bleeding profoundly. Me and the other man's eyes both glaced down at the pistol. He made a run for it but I was quicker. With the back of my foot, I kicked his chest back and grabbed the gun. Before I even realized what I had done, the man fell over with a bullet between his eyes. Did I win? What did I win? When would I get out of here? I been here for almost two days now, both the bodies started to stink. Most of the time here, I spent banging on the walls, attempting to devour the garbage around me, beating and hitting the corpses until they were reduced to an unidentifiable mess of organs and blood. They are not going to let me out. The wall are shrinking and they won't let me out. The people are laughing at me and they won't let me out. I grabbed the slip of paper and read again. *Kill* I realized that gun now has two bullets left. We weren't meant to get out. I placed the gun to my forehead and finished what was started.

A man hired a bumbling hitman to kill you for cutting him off in traffic three years ago. You've started to feel sorry for the hitman after his seventeenth failed attempt to whack you. Describe the eighteenth hit attempt.

“Oh, for fuck's sake.” The words take a moment to sink in. I'm still staring at the crossbow bolt stuck into the wall in a kind of shock. Most people never come this close to death, but I've been here eighteen times in the last three months. A torn scrap of my shirt hangs limp from the wooden bolt, and I can feel a burning wetness as blood starts seeping out of the graze on my shoulder. A guy in a Metallica T-shirt crashes into the bar next to me. Orders a whiskey. “Look, this probably isn't what you think.” He slams a crossbow onto the bar between us. I stare at the mechanism for a moment. “Did...did you just try to kill me?” “Yeah. Look, don't worry about it.” I'm about to express to this medieval son of a bitch just how worried I am, when he continues, “Do you even own a car?” “Um...no. I sold it last year. Needed the money to afford the deposit on my apartment. Why?” The bartender brings the man's whiskey, and I order one for myself. “Look, it's like this. You cut an Amazon exec off on the freeway back in '09. He missed his exit, had to double back, and ended up missing a meeting that cost him his career. He blames you for ruining his life. Hired me to, well, kill you.” He downs his drink in one shot before continuing. “And let me just say, you are either the luckiest son of a bitch to walk this earth, or some kind of psychic.” I flash back to the close calls I've had in the last few months. Car wrecks, building fires, gun shots. “Wait, you've been behind all the shit that's been happening to me? Fuckin' A, man! I thought I was cursed, or something!” He shrugs. “Yep. But I'm out. Done. Never had a bastard as slippery as you come into my sights. Figured I'd come clean. I'm done with the biz, Ain't no money worth this.” The bartender comes by again, and we each order another whiskey. “I don't know what your deal is, but I'm retiring.” Ten minutes ago, I'd been enjoying a quiet beer, watching the Sox game. This wasn't something I was expecting when I left my apartment tonight, but over the last few months, I'd become accustomed to the unexpected. “So my life will go back to normal? You'll stop trying to kill me?” “That's the long and short of it. I'm closing in on forty. Assassination is a young man's game.” Our shots arrive, and he slams his back without hesitation. “Besides, this contract is the dumbest I ever took.” I nod thoughtfully, stretch, and grabbing the back of his head I slam his face down into the empty shotglass. I hear a crunch, and he slides off the bar with glass shards buried in his eye socket, moaning incoherently. While the other bar patrons are still in shock, I reach into his pocket, grab his phone, and find a contact marked 'employer.' The phone rings twice before a familiar voice answers. “Is it done?” “Ronnie, you piece of shit.” I'm grinning as people begin to scream and flee the bar around me. “You remember me? Ben from accounting? You got me fired in '05, thought I was chatting up your girl at the Christmas party. Like I'd have ever tapped that level of crazy. Sorry, off topic. Your hitman was a flop, Ronnie. And now its my turn again.” I hang up, dropping the phone on the would-be assassin. Ronnie had picked the wrong bean counter to fuck with.

A sociopath who wishes to fit in and have emotions and relies on a guidebook of social skills for guidance

“Oh wow.” I nod twice and stare at her eyes just like the Book had told me to. Held eye contact for, 1,2,3 seconds then smile and look to the left, slightly turning my head at the same time. I listen to her talk, not really absorbing much, something about her travelling around the world, Paris (Wow, that must have been so lovely, did you go up the Eiffel Tower?), to Greece (Oh, I’ve always wanted to go there), to Sydney (Oh wow, must have been a lovely place), to London (Oh lucky you…) to… blah, blah, blah. Not that you could tell I was bored, I made eye contact, asked questions, smiled, mirrored her actions, topped up her wine, even occasionally brushed her hand. I had followed the Book and it seemed to be working, after dinner (I paid of course) she offers to take the same cab home. We waited for a taxi, (she had on my coat), then I opened the door, smiling and making eye contact for 1,2 seconds. We chatted (mostly her, I nodded and smiled), she put her hand on my knee, I placed my arm around her shoulder. She smiled, I smiled and we get out of the cab (I pay her half of course). We stand just outside the taxi, door ajar, she’s cold so I offer my coat again and she takes it. I walk her to the front door, she makes eye contact with me, smiles slightly and bites her lip. I figure this is the sign to kiss and so go for it, awkwardly; I had practised in the mirror and with my hand, faking some roughness that could be mistakenly for passion, not too much though, didn’t want to kill this one. It seems to be what she wants, because she puts her arms around my neck and doesn’t back away (makes for a pleasant change). I do as the Book says and run my hands up her and down her back and start moving my mouth towards her neck. I have no idea if this is going well, to me it just looks like some massive slug has been across her face, but she giggles (a good sign according to the Book), takes my hand and leaves me to her apartment. I give a courtesy wave to the taxi, my heart pounding. To be honest, I didn’t think I’d make it this far and so haven’t read on in the Book. Oh well, I internally shrug, I can always revert back to my old ways, at least I felt something then. -053

You are Death, explain your day/life.

They call me Thanathos, Death, the Angel of Mercy, Hades, Erebus, Yama, the Grim Reaper, Azrael, Mot, Erlik, Supay, Tuoni, Anubis, Mictlantecuhtli, and on, and on. I have had countless names. Time is a human concept, a construct; a necessary and universal product of the mind. For me, you must see – there is no such such thing. I exist, as I have always existed. The words that sentience, or “life” uses to describe the passing of their “time” is meaningless to me. My only “purpose”, for reasons beyond my comprehension is to stand guardian at the shivers of time, the intersections when life ceases. I am an arbitrator.. A judge of sorts. My will is reality, my edicts are law. I would claim myself to be a timeless “God” of some sort, but I have determined that I cannot be – for I am flawed. My judgment is imperfect. For my current existence, I have been assigned to over-watch a small, blue planet, full of ocean life and the occasional upright primate. The early days of this assignment were quite uneventful; I'd seen more hunt-and-prey type activity then I care to admit. “Return to the ground from whence you came, and rejoin the spirit of your planet.” I'd murmur quietly to the prey as they were being torn to pieces. It wasn't until the mid-point in this planet's existence where I could say “my soul” if I had one, became tested. I saw the creatures align themselves, in rows, and march blindly towards time fissures, creating a massive amount of work for me – where I would need to say the words of peace to each and every one of them. I wasn't sure of what they fought for; but their convictions were quite strong. One particular sight, there lay a youth, if I could call him so – he was young for his species, he was mangled by a bronze spear. He said to me in his tongue: “Thanathos, I do not resent you, for in my death; I see now – all things seem fair.” Here whence comes my conviction of being imperfect – for there are moments when I have been made to feel, and in compassion; I would commit a disallowed act – and reverse the thread of their time fissure. For each creature that I allow to continue living, I sometimes cause the end of many others; and I am punished through an increase in workload. I allowed the youth to live, and he commanded his “legions” to conquer the majority of his landmass, driven by his “immortality”. I returned for him later when he was comfortable, and I spoke to him: “I had mercy upon you, but you have betrayed my kindness. Vanity has consumed you and now you must perish without cause in an equal measure.” I felt that I had acted appropriately, and that would stem the tide of the unnecessary violence; but a precedent had been set upon the planet. Every “leader” of the pack wanted to emulate the history of the youth who was “immortal”. I grew quite tired of my labors, as I had now carried more away to death than I had ever seen exist upon the planet; and for each, their fear, and their sadness, grew upon me. I had spent so many countless “nights”, in so many hopeless places, I often began to wonder if the entire purpose of the planet's existence was that of misery-- if perhaps they were evil spirits, eternally reincarnated and made only to inflict pain upon one another. As I would return to my fields immersed in the bright warmth of the star which overlooked the planet, I'd speak with the many upon various topics as such, specifically those would call themselves “philosophers”. I found that I could not converse with them on depth upon the things I had seen, for they would often become incoherent. The weight of my tasks seemed quite heavy upon their “souls”, and so as thus I could never find a satisfactory answer, and I had continue searching on my own. I could vaguely take a hiatus, as I saw the brightest flame flash from the surface, and then another. “Work.” I thought. As I arrived upon the surface; I could exclaim that.. if I had words or the physicality to express – I would have cried. I had felt compassion before; but it was the first time I had felt “fear”, and “anger”. The eyes of the creatures I saw were not peaceful as those of the gazelles which accepted their fate-- they were full of questioning, full of “sadness”. “Why?” They would wordlessly ask, as I would give their parting words, and I would sometimes pause, as I would be unable to give them an adequate answer. I did not know why. All I knew, is that their area of the planet had been consumed in fire. The wounds to their “souls” were “horrific”, the worst I had ever seen. At this point, my own “soul”, I felt was so heavy, that I could no longer do my work properly. I laid down to rest in my solar fields, now seemingly a “king” of a massive “empire” of the dead; and lapsed into a deep, depression. When I had emerged from my grief, I decided to be more compassionate in my policies, and to allow more of the creatures to live. After such horrors that they had inflicted upon one another, perhaps they would be wiser in the future. But, again – I was wrong. Staying my hand made them innumerate to the point of fatality – they overran the planet, and consumed all of its resources. The atmosphere soon began to grow darker, and my workload increased dramatically once again. They were much wiser in their final moments, I would converse with them – they would ask more difficult questions; but they were also more full of “regret”. The creatures of the “legion” were always strong in their convictions, but these new creatures who had spent their youths in the mist, were much more remorseful. “We were wrong. We were so terribly wrong. I am so sorry.” They would tell me, expecting compassion. I would tell them: “I was wrong, not you. I am sorry.” In the next movement of the “legions”, I had to hire help to get through so many. I thought that I had amassed an already tremendous number of “souls” in my fields, but I don't think any kind of mathematics could enumerate the amount that I had to foresee this time. My companions were not as strong enough of heart as I was, and would betray their assignments – and I was forced to retire them as well. Eventually, there were very few left. The last of us stood and we watched as the fires that had scarred me in my mid-time return once again, covering the surface, frozen. I quietly turned to my most trusted companion, and I told them: “I wish to feel, and to cry, at least once. I want to see it through the eyes of all of those whom I had myself carried. I want to be spoken my own last words, for I cannot bear the weight upon my soul any longer. I wish to die.” They calmly nodded to me, and I possessed a youth who most resembled the prior, and I stood in the flames, and allowed them to consume me. I had never felt pain before; but the body I had inhabited had all of the impulses for it. All of the knowledge, and all the history of the creatures whom I had not understood until now flooded my “soul”. I cried, and my tears melted in the flame. As I fell, my companion stood over me with the same eyes that I once given all those before me. I had my answer. “What inhumanity-- has man committed upon humanity?” I uttered. Had I been allowed to die, I would not be able to tell you this tale. No, you see – my watch never ends. For I am Death, the Destroyer of Worlds. -------------

Tell the story of an imaginary friend who realizes he doesn't like the kid who imagined him and is contemplating some sort of extreme solution to change the situation.

What the hell kind of kid has a chair for an imaginary friend? This kid, he summons me up and I'm in his room and I can't move, and he smiles at me. He says, Can i really sit in you? Sit *on*, you snot weasel, is what I want to say, but that's the sort of thing that gets you on nightmare detail. So I tell the kid, Yeah, go ahead, sit, have a ball. And he just sits on me. All night he sits on me, his ninja turtles pajamas scraping flint across my eyes. Never went to sleep, sat there all night, and in the morning he starts crying and he won't stop. Finally his dad walks into the room and grabs him up and takes him away. Of all the kids I get this kid with the chair fetish and the weeps. I've been firemen, policemen, werewolves, princesses, cowboys, astronauts, genies, ninjas. First time being a damn chair. You can't move around much when you're made of wood. So I sit there looking at the kid's bed till he comes back and he asks if he can sit on me again. Yeah, I ain't broken. So he sits. Again, all night, I get the only kid in the world that doesn't sleep. And morning comes around and he's crying again. His dad comes in and takes him away. This goes on for two weeks. Seriously, two weeks this kid sits on me and cries. Finally, I can't take it anymore. I break protocol. Any nightmare is better than this chair business. Kid, I say, what's the deal? Wouldn't you rather I was a Jedi? You want to know what color your light saber is? Come on, I'll bet you a whole dollar it's green. I'll be Obiwan, or Yoda. Hell, I'll be Jarjar. Let's save the world and get paid. But the kid, he just stands up and he says sorry and gets into bed and cries. Doesn't even make it to morning this time. Little dude is starting to make *me* sad. Well, I figure it's already nightmare alley for me, so I press him. Rule number one is you don't press the kid, but I had to know. I ask him, What's with the chair? Why are you crying all the time? He stops crying enough to say, You really want to know? I don't have a head to nod so I say yeah and he wipes a gob of snot and tears on his turtles sleeve. You can't tell my dad, he says. I give him scout's honor and he sits up. I don't sleep good, he says. Dad doesn't like it because it's bad for me. Mom comes home late sometimes because she's a nurse and I sneak down down into the kitchen. Mom never gets mad. She always has chicken noodle soup after a long hard day and sometimes I get peenabutter and jelly. I sit in the chair next to her and we watch I Love Lucy and Get Smart together. Well what do you need another chair for? I say. I know as soon as it leaves my wooden mouth. This is why there's a rule number 1. The kid doesn't say anything, just goes back to his pillow and shakes and cries. So I'm an asshole. I know it more than you can think it, so save it. Another week goes by and the kid won't even look at me. I can't bring myself to say anything to him. Me, a damn chair, and I'm dying because he won't sit on me. I sit there night after night and night after night he cries next to me. He knows I'm here and it's killing him. It's ripping his guts out. So above all rules is rule 9. You let these things run their course. You don't interfere. If I have to be this kid's chair, sitting by his bed, tucked away in his closet, stuffed down in the basement, for years and years, I do it. I sit my wooden ass wherever he puts it and I listen to him cry. Hell, I might get packed up and shipped to his dorm room when he goes to college. Always there, in or out of sight, ready to get sat in or cried on. I'm not saying I'm not an asshole, but I could have done all that. When I broke rule nine, it wasn't all for me. I really didn't want to watch this kid go through that. So a night comes around and I break the silence. Kid, I say, You have to kill me. He looks at me and he's scared and I floor it. Take me outside, beat me brains out with a baseball bat. Throw me out the window. Get your dad's keys and run me over. Take an axe to my head, throw my body in the woodchipper. Anything. Because I'm not here. You need me to be here and I'm not here. Your mother is dead. She's dead dead dead and I'm not even a chair. That made him angry. It was good to see him angry. He ripped me limb from limb with his bare hands, chopped me into little bits with his dad's axe and threw me in the waste bin. That was ten years ago now. Been on nightmares ever since. I don't regret a word. I'm probably better at scaring the shit out of these kids anyway.

A literary nerd wakes up in the middle of a poorly written story

The main problem was the food. Badly described food tastes like cardboard. I used to really enjoy good meals, not that I'd ever really pay attention to them - I was usually reading at the same time - but it's strange what you miss when it's not there. Now I just pour cereal out, balance the bowl on my knees and devour books earnestly to try and get rid of the overwhelming sensation of loss you get in a two dimensional world. I'm sitting in a restaurant with my badly described wife, mourning over the fact that my wine tastes like ribena and my steak tastes like quorn because apparently this nightmare was written by a fifteen year old vegetarian. She's chewing something which I refuse to believe to be anything other than splotches of colour on a white plate and talking to me with her mouth full. There are no knives, because the narrator didn't describe knives. "I just don't see why you're so upset." She says. So that's how the conversation is starting tonight. She has three opening phrases. One is this passive-aggresive shit, one is her worrying about my drinking and the third is where she sniffs and rolls away from me in disappointment as she pulls the sheets up to her neck. "I'm really sorry Sophie. Can't we just enjoy the meal?" Her face scrunches up in worry. She's written as a nagging, argumentative bored housewife. It throws her off when I'm nice to her. I think I have kids too, but the plot is so inconsistent that I'm not sure how old it is, what its name is, or even what gender it's supposed to be. I just know that my wife spends anywhere between sixteen and eighteen hours a day playing with it. It doesn't scream or cry or shit itself because, like I said, this story was written by a fifteen year old. At the beginning I kept searching for a way back. I would scream and shout at my wife, call her names and break furniture. It would always go back to normal the next day though, whatever I did. I seemed to be trapped here. I squeeze my wife's hand now and try not to look at the tables around us. The restaurant is full, but there are only four couples. They're copy-pasted over every table in the place. The waiters all look like a Frenchman described by someone who's never even seen a baguette. And the wine tastes like ribena. "Yes Tony. Let's enjoy the meal." She goes back to chewing her food. I go back to looking desperately at my plate and wondering if a bit of pepper will do anything. "How's our baby, Sophie?" "She's doing well. She'll be talking soon. She has a tooth coming out." "That's lovely, honey." So I started writing. I've been a reader all my life. I always wanted to get sucked in to a book. Which one would it have been, if I had the choice? Something peaceful, green... Where I could wander in the open air. Not here, where the clouds repeat every six and every other tree is the same. It's hard to remember how real people act. I read parts aloud to my child when it and Sophie are asleep. I think it likes them. I'm not unhappy. Not really. Despite everything, I've come to realise that it doesn't matter how badly my life is described. I smile up at my wife. "Do you like your steak?" She asks "It's delicious." I reply After all, life is an adventure you write yourself.

a 19 year old pizza delivery driver involved in terrible crash, goes into a coma. While in coma begins to talk about all kinds of subjects ..... revealing incredibly advanced knowledge. Within 4 years, becomes the #1 celebrity in the world.

It all started five years ago. I was just biking through downtown Manhattan when it hit me. The doctors said it was a wonder I didn't die, being hit by a land rower on a bike and all. I didn't wake up but afterwards I was told that I talked. And I talked sense. I solved the Hodge conjecture, the Rienmann hypothesis and the Naiver-Strokes existence within a day. By the end of my three month coma I had furthered scientific knowledge by three decades. I didn't know any of this beforehand, I had no knowledge on any science. I was just a stoner renting a shitty basement in a shitty neighborhood. When I woke up I felt different. I felt strange. I felt knowledge in my head that should not have been there, I knew the atomic mass of every single thing I looked at. I knew the exact gravitational force acting on every thing I looked at. To the third decimal I knew the time of day just by calculating where the sun was in the sky. It was hard, I could not focus. Overwhelming knowledge filled my head and the human mind is not meant to handle so many unwanted thoughts. Its hard to enjoy a meal when you know the calorie count of every bite, its hard to enjoy sex knowing the exact hormones your brain is secreting, its hard to be happy when everything is a formula. A simple chemical reaction that you know the exact properties of. The fist year was good. I worked in numerous labs, solving all kinds of mysteries. I got payed good money to make advances, I refined every process you could imagine. From the simple things like reducing waste of energy too solving the mysteries of the universe. It was all available to me. The universe had given me the ultimate knowledge. I knew everything. I didn't always know it, it just came too me if my mind wondered there or if I was asked about it. I did not have to solve anything, I did not have to recall anything. It just... came out. I didn't understand a hundredth of what I said but I said it. The second year was worse. At this point I was being payed extravagant figures to make weapons for the government. A neutron bomb with a blast radius of ten meters but an exposure radius of ten kilometers, a bullet system that automatically identified human DNA and could be programmed for specific things. And that was when I broke down. After the government targeted everybody that had middle eastern DNA in their lineage back four generations I absolutely broke down. I became a recluse. I hid in the wilderness and managed to be safe for another year. At the start of the fourth year things became dark. I was known by every human on earth. I solved the hunger problem for 99% of the population of earth in my first year and advanced technology by hundreds of years. I was tracked down by god knows whom and made to be a celebrity. Everybody knew me because I knew everything. My family abandoned me years ago because I was never there for them, my emotions suppressed by the stream of knowledge. But now, now, I was famous. I was the biggest star in the world. They came back, offering me sorries and wishing to come back into my life. This was the hardest year, television shows, movie deals, the endless interviews. I didn't have a single waking moment where I advanced things. I was to busy answering "fan mail" and doing things to further my identity in the publics eye as "The wizza kid" based on the word "pizza". Even the name they gave me sucks. Today is my five year anniversary. I think today is the day I will kill myself. Ive been depressed for four years, three hundred and sixty four days. I could tell you exactly how many seconds but that is a part of the problem, isn't it? As I pull up the gun it saddens me that the only thing popping into my head this moment is the velocity of the bullet and the chemical makeup of the gun. No regrets pop in, just facts. Facts about the world, about the planet, about the universe. As I squeeze the trigger my only regret is that I stopped delivering pizza.

It's 50 A.D. and the latest invention is being unveiled in a keynote. It's here, the Mirror 1.0

This was it. Cassius' time to shine. He looked around the forum. They were all there. The rich bankers, the slithery merchants, the slaves, the actors, the gladiators. This was the time. "Ladies and gentlemen! Citizens and freemen! Barbarians and slaves!" Cassius leapt onto a banker's stall. "Are you tired of not knowing what you look like? Do you want to see into other rooms from far away? Do you want to look pretty for your man! BEHOLD! The Mirror One Point Zero!" Cassius pulled up the mirror out of its sack cloth. It burst dazzling into the light. It burnt gold in the harsh Italian sun. "Yer wha?" a voice came out of the crowd. It was a butcher holding his cleaver high in the air, pausing in the butchery of a carcass. "A mirror!" "Yeah? And what's so special about it?" "It... it lets you see things. It's reflective." "Yeah, and I got one of 'em an' all!" The butcher drove the cleaver down into a goat skull and bustled behind his stall. After a few moments he drew out a small piece of polished brass. "Ah, ah," Cassius rallied "But this, ladies and gentleman is made of silver! Reflecting the true colour of-" "No, hold on a moment," a refined voice of a senator cut through the mob. "I have a mirror. Junia, where is that mirror of yours?" His wife, protected in a litter by satin curtains passed out a mirror at least a foot across. It was solid silver and shone like stars. "It looks no different from yours," the senator glared. "But here we reach the trick of it!" Cassius tapped the mirror. It rang like a bell. "Glass! By using utterly flat glass we can reduce the need for silver until it is the merest veneer." "Utterly flat glass? That sounds harder to make than the silver!" a banker scoffed. "Silver just comes out of the ground." "With a fairly modest investment I believe-" Cassius could feel a pit forming in his stomach. "Get out of it! And get off my stall!" With a lurch Cassius was shoved from his pedestal to the forum below. He clung to his precious mirror, trying to stop it being shattered. "But think of all the uses for mirrors! Like... like..." "Like burning roman ships in the harbour of Syracuse? Like feeding the vanity of Caligula?" the crowd had started to laugh. "But you never have to polish a glass mirror!" The crowd just laughed again and turned away from him. They went back to their work, the hubbub of the city returning to normal. Someone hauled Cassius to his feet. Cassius looked into an old face. "Listen lad, you're not really selling a new invention," the man said patting him down on the shoulder. "You think you are, but you're not. This is just a modest improvement on what we have already." "But a silver backed glass mirror-" "I know lad, I know," the old man nodded and led Cassius away from the place of his failure. "But these people, the forum goers, they aren't the folk to market it to. They're businessmen. A mirror ain't gonna give them a lot of business." "But-" "Where are you from lad?" "I'm roman!" Cassius insisted. "I know lad, but where?" "Phoenicia," Cassius admitted. "City of Sidon." "Right, right lad, what you need to do is write a lot of letters of introduction to the young ladies of the city as a jeweler." "Where am I going to get-" "Shut up and listen, now you're a jeweler, right? You go there and you sell them pretty necklaces and stupid earrings, right? And when they try them on...?" "I... show them the mirror..." Cassius nodded beginning to catch on. "And it will be such a better quality of image..." "They'll have to buy it!" Cassius almost clapped for joy, until he remembered his mirror and clasped it tightly. The elation passed almost as soon as it had come. "But... but I can't afford to buy a lot of jewels. My stock of mirrors and my travel to Rome was more than-" "Well there my lad," the old man grinned, revealing a gold tooth. "You've had a bit of luck." The old man pointed to the shop they stood outside. Cassius read the sign. 'Quintus, finest jeweler'. "And you're Quintus?" "You're not the most quickwitted lad," Quintus put his arm around Cassius and led him into the jeweler's shop. "But I'll learn ya. I'll learn ya."

A vigilante hero has completely halted crime in their city. With crime rates at 0% for a couple months, the people of the city no longer focus on the hero. In an attempt to bring the spotlight back to themselves, the hero creates an alternate persona in which they are the perfect villain.

He had done it. He had finally done it. DarkBlade couldn't believe it. He removed his mask as he sat down in his favorite reclining chair, letting the thought sink in and letting his slight pudge spill out. He had wiped out crime completely. After a long fifteen-year streak of declining living conditions due to the constant rise of robberies and violence, as well as corruption in city hall and the police force, the city of Elaton was now a safe place to live. It had taken him over two years, but DarkBlade finally threw the last mob boss into the slammer a couple of months ago, and boy did it feel good. Ever since then, children could now play down the block safely without parents fearing they would get kidnapped or shot. Store owners could keep their establishments open at night without the fear of being robbed or having them be vandalized. People could go see a movie without being harassed by hoodlums. DarkBlade never stopped making the rounds though. If people saw him, they would wave and move on with their lives. Some had the courtesy to reassure him that he was no longer needed, that "everything is fine on this end!" He would smile, nod, and disappear. It was nice taking a break from all that work. Boy, did it feel good to see everyone so happy and out of trouble. Yup. Boy did it *feel good.* DarkBlade--now simply Jim--leaned back in his chair, clasping the front of the armrests with his fingers. He sighed. For years, he had mastered the art of Judo, Karate, Ninjitsu, and some MMA. He learned how to handle several kinds of knives and guns. He learned to build traps and bombs. He saved up lots of money for his skintight costume and gadgets...all for this one purpose in life. As a child, he felt a strong sense of justice after growing up in shitty Elaton where his childhood friends were either unhappy failures or dead. To be able to help them--or avenge them--in any way was an honor, and never something he second-guessed. He knew this was what life had in store for him. He helped. He avenged. Justice was served. A sense of uncertainty had crept up on Jim. Lack of time and money (due to always buying sewing equipment and refills for his weapons) had taken a toll on his life, especially socially. He never had money to go out with friends, and had not spoken to those very friends he was protecting in a long time. They had long ago deemed him "that guy who always makes excuses because he thinks he's too good for us." Because he never hung out with them, there was never an opportunity to meet new people, specifically, potential companions. His friends were now married and starting families. He was considered a weirdo at work at the office because he was always so quiet, always thinking of plans for his evening excursions. He was eventually fired for not completing his work. The silence in his own home, usually a soothing alternative to the blaring sirens, piercing horns, and explosive gunshots, had now become deafening with this realization. Jim flung himself out of his chair. He walked over to his liquor cabinet and poured himself a glass of brandy, and yet the liquor and its burning essence did nothing to wash away the void within him. Soon enough, he'd be considered irrelevant as Elaton's hero as well. Sure, he could go to another crime-infested city and help the people there, but that requires money, which is something he didn't have at the moment, and that required years and years of saving. He poured himself another glass. The only way he'd be able to stay and to keep his relevance--and sanity--would be to bring in more crime. Should he break out one of the criminals from prison? He could, but it would be much too risky, and much too dangerous for his life, since they would, in due time, take vengeance on him. Plus, why *would* he want more crime? Everyone is happy and safe, and that's all that matters. The sacrifices of his life were worth it. Another drink. If there were only some way he could bring in crime, some sort of badness without truly having anyone injured...and then, it hit him. Getting very jittery and eager, he pulled out a notepad from a drawer and a pen. He always had a bunch of them lying around for moments like these. He drew out plans. Plans to rob. Plans to kidnap. Plans to take over the city like a true villain. Jim paused and set his pen down.. So is this what he would succumb to, becoming everything he fought against and hated, in order to feel loved again? It didn't feel right, but then again, it didn't feel wrong either. No one had to worry too much. He would never hurt the people intentionally. That wasn't his purpose. He would just show them that he was important after all, that's it. It would only happen every once in a while. But he'd have to scrape up his leftover money from his sewing tools and gadget pieces to make another costume, another identity. That's fine, it'd be worth it in the end. He'd also have to formulate escape plans, so no one would ever know it was him. Then, he'd always take his hero costume with him, and pretend to beat up his alter ego, and he'd come out victorious. If he planned everything out carefully, he could have these plans ready within a few months. It would be perfect. Jim went to bed satisfied, but then realized he needed a name. As he drifted off, he made a mental note of a name he liked. *The Oppresor.*

A spy agent has infiltrated a terrorist organization and was assigned a special cell for a terrorist operation. His four comrades are also agents from other nations trying to take down the cell. None of them know.

The American sat across from them at a large, weather-beaten table; no doubt looted from a long abandoned school that the monsters who shared the same table had been responsible for closing. The room was full of a cold silence as they all exchanged searching glances. Four years. Four years of undercover work. Four years of go-betweens, tip offs, shady informants, corrupt local officials and four years of frustration all for a chance. This was the chance. Finally, The American spoke up. "So.. anybody know of any good terrorist activities coming up?" "Ja. Ja! I am also much interested in ze acts of terror soon coming." The German chimed in. The Frenchman nodded enthusiastically as The South African's eyes darted around the room for any response. "Yes. Let us blow something up. For terror. Anyone?" The Australian spoke robotically into his chest, an odd lump poking out from near his collar. The room settled back into an uneasy quiet. "Am I to understand that nobody here is aware of any upcoming terror plots?" Asked The American, in a much indignant tone. Mumbles and shrugs were given in reply as a high-pitched static noise seemed to emanate from the ear of The Frenchman. He swatted about it and seemed to 'shush' himself. The South African continued to stare at all at the table. His eyes focused as though he was willing laser beams from them. The American began to tap impatiently on the table as The Frenchmen fidgeted at something deep in his ear canal. The Australian ungraciously leaned back, trying to peer at some glowing device in his hand. The German coughed loudly. "What?" "Hm. Did someone say something?" "No. Did you?" "Nein." More nothing. The American decided it was time to bait the hook. "I suppose... we should plan something then?" Three weeks later The German walked into a police station wrapped in enough explosive material to vaporise a whale party. Shortly before blowing himself to atoms, he had tried to arrest himself, but was foiled when his reflexes were no match for his own. All agencies involved claimed success.

You come home to see a table laid out for a dinner for two. You live alone and weren't expecting anyone.

The snow was melting under the spring sun and the first tips of grass could be seen peaking out from under the blanket of white. The hum of a two stroke motorcycle can be heard bouncing off the brickwork of the narrow street. Ten seconds later the rider pulls into view, cutting off the throttle and walking it down the narrow alley behind the houses. Opening the back gate of one, the rider leans the bike against the tool shed and walks towards the rear door. As the motorcyclist ambles up to the door, they pull off their helmet, revealing the face of a man in his late thirties. Grey is creeping into the dark brown of his hair at the temples and his hands are callused from honest work. He unlocks the door into the kitchen and is surprised at what he sees. Laid out on the table is a white table cloth with tableware on top. The blue and white Ming vase sitting in the center is empty. The table is set for two. He slings his satchel onto the couch and thumps upstairs. There he strips of his grimy clothes and heads to the shower, washing off the dirt of the day. Twenty minutes later he emerges from the bathroom pink with his hair combed and dried. He walks back down to the kitchen to make himself tea when he sees the previously empty vase has been filled with fresh cut flowers from the garden. Daffodils for the most part, along with a few others from the tiny greenhouse out back. He smiles as the sight and glances at the clock. Three hours till six. He pulls from the shelf his mother's cookbook and thumbs through the well used pages. Picking out the desired ones, he closes the book and spreads out the recipes. He gathers the ingredients, onions, potatoes carrots and the like. He peels and chops the vegetables, placing them into a roasting pan along with the duck he bought just that day. He prepares a salad along with French onion soup. As he makes the meal, he hears his stereo system start up. He hears music, it's one of his ancient records, courtesy of his father. It's an old James Taylor one. He grins as he sings along, surprisingly in tune. His voice is a high baritone. Once that record is done another one comes on, it's the soundtrack from *Alexander Nevsky.* The meal is ready. Placing the dishes on the table, he runs upstairs to his room and changes into his best clothes. As he looks into his closet's built-in mirror, he hears Copland come on the speakers. *Appalachian Spring.* He struggles with the silk tie but manages somehow. He makes his way downstairs and pours himself a glass of wine. For the next five minutes he stands by the window, quietly sipping from his glass, waiting. He hears a noise upstairs and smiles. Footsteps can be heard coming down the stairs. Still smiling, he turns around and sees her. She is dressed in long viridian evening gown that complements her auburn hair. Her hair is done up in a bun, pinned with an elegant hairpiece in the style of tulip. He hands her a glass of wine and they toast the other. "You're early love. You were supposed to come tomorrow" She places a hand on his shoulder and smiles. Her voice is soft and smooth, like a mountain stream. Her words are tinted with a hint of an accent, slightly sing song. "Roan, I couldn't wait. I just had to come. I'm sure you understand." He takes her hands in his, and looks into her eyes, they are the same color as her dress. "Of course I do Emily. You know that. I'm glad you came." He gestures over to the table. "Please, sit." He pulls out the chair for her and takes his own seat. The French Onion soup is first, hot with fresh Swiss cheese. Next course is the roasted duck and vegetables. During the meal she asks him to tell her everything that happened over the previous year. He is happy to oblige her. "... and by the way Roan, are you honestly still riding around on that motorbike?" Swallowing a bite he nods and sips from his glass. Proudly he speaks. "Yep, just put on a new filter on it. It should last me another six or seven years." "Roan. You're not twenty-five anymore. You're going to kill yourself on that thing." He places his hand over hers, his grey eyes looking into her pale green. "That wouldn't be such a terrible thing Emily. You know that." "She presses his hand against her cheek wiping away a lone tear. "I still don't want you to die so early. Please Roan, sell it." He looks down bashfully. "We'll see." They finish with the main course and move on to the salad. Cleansing their palate with it, they move on to dessert, a platter of cheeses and bread. Finishing their meal, they take their glasses along with the wine bottle and move into the living room, fumbling with DVD player, he pops in a film and the pair settle in to watch Disney's *Beauty and the Beast.* Some hours later, after the film is over with. The two find themselves at the front door. He aids her in putting on her jacket and places her hat on her head. As he hands her umbrella over, he speaks. "I wish you didn't have to leave. I would love to go with you." She looks up into his storm grey eyes and gives him a brief but forceful kiss. "Roan, you can't. You still have many more years ahead of you. Be patient love. That's all I ask. Can you do that for me?" He wordlessly nods his head. "That's my husband. I'll see you next year, on our anniversary this time." She opens the door. ""I love you." She disappears into the darkness and rain. Leaning against the door frame he whispers. "I love you to Emily." He gets up early the next morning and picks a fresh bouquet of flowers. Hopping on his bike, he makes his way through town to the other side. He gets to a gentle piece of land and shuts off his motorcycle. He makes his way to a spot he knows well. Kneeling, he places the flowers down on the ground while tears roll down his cheeks as he reads the inscription carved on the marble stone. *Emily Marie Fulton Verlander.* *Loving wife, dutiful daughter. Honest friend.* *Died at the age of 29. She is missed.* "I love you Emily."

Every time the truth gets broken I'm the one to fix it.

The couple lays wet sloppy kissing on each other, their lips roaming over their partner's body. They make there way towards the bed and start undressing. The man starts looking in his wallet for a rubber, but the girl knocks it out of his hand saying, "Don't worry babe. I'm on the Pill." "No she's not." I say as I lean against the dressing table. I'm not looking at the pair, seemingly more interested in my pint of Haagen-Dazs. It's vanilla after all. The two lovers scream at my unannounced visit. I just shrug as they scream. They glance at one another and return their heads back to where I was standing. I am gone. The man starts staring accusingly at the women for lying. I do not need to see the fallout. I've seen it a million times. On to my next job. The priest steps up between the soon to be man and wife. "Any who object to their marriage, speak now or forever hold your peace." I raise my hand from one of the pews. "I will pretty soon." "Shut up!" I duck my hand down and shrug. I don't mind. I admit though, I look damn good in a tux. "... I, John, take you, Kathryn, to be my wife. I promise to be true to you" "Bullshit!" He ignores me. "In good times and in bad, in sickness and in health." "When pigs fly!" I call out. "I will love you and honor you all the days of my life." "Yeah right! Next joke!" I'm dying in my pew from laughter. he glares at me as does his entire extended family. The bride stares questioning daggers at her partner. My work is done here. "I Adam Fallenberg III, promise that if I am elected President of the United States of America, to fight for the middle class, the class of America I so deeply care about. I know what it's like to struggle. I am middle class myself. I-" I walk onto the stage with a leaf blower strapped to my back. I amble across the debate floor waving the blower back and forth heedless of the stares and shocks. I head over to the podium, the politician steps away from microphone. Shutting the blower off for a moment, I lean into the microphone and brandish the blower. "He's full of hot air. Get it? Right?" The cameras were rolling live. I run off stage before the guards can get to the podium. Just another job done, nothing special.

All those nicks and bruises that show up on your body seemingly out of nowhere are injuries received by your soulmate.

I've always wondered where they came from. I spent my life on a padded chair in front of my computer so it's definitely not coming from my end. It surprised me at first, scared me even. A scrape here, a bruise there. Eventually I just kind of stopped noticing. Except that one time. That one time a damn papercut showed up on my thumb right as I pressed the Space Bar. Stung like a mother fucker. I kind of forgot about it. It was just something that happened once in a while, probably just my body being weird again. Didn't even notice it again until 4 months into our relationship. She walked into a shelf and bruised her shin. Mine was too. We had a chuckle over it, making jokes about quantum entanglement and whatever else geeks like us like to talk about. Didn't take it seriously. Went on with our lives. Forgot about the whole thing. We couldn't sleep. It was a Saturday night and we seemed to have synchronized insomnia. We decided to talk about whatever old bullshit popped into our minds trying to bore each other into dozing off. She told me about how she gets random bruises and scrapes around her body and I tell her it happens to me too. Didn't really think about it that much. Maybe we were too tired for the memory to be encoded properly. Maybe I just thought it was something that happened to everyone. Couldn't tell ya. Forgot about it again. One day she cut herself while chopping celery. I made a joke and distracted her. My fault. Her finger started bleeding. So did mine. What. The. Fuck. Slapped some band aids on and sat down. Talked about the time she kicked the shelf. Talked about the papercut. It all made sense now, and at the same time, made even less sense than before. She punched me in the arm, her arm bruised too. Made a little cut on my leg. Hers bled too. How is this even possible? Decided against going to the doctors. More trouble than it's worth. What if men in black showed up at our door and kidnapped us for research or something? Can't risk it. Gotta be careful. Can't put my life in danger. Can't put *her* life in danger. Gotta stay low. She got pregnant. She gave birth. My anus started bleeding and a placenta fell out.

verybody who turns 25 learns a reality shattering secret about the world. Nobody has ever leaked this secret to somebody under 25. Today is your 25th birthday.

I'm pulled aside movement followed by mother's worried eyes Can we have a word? My father asks He sits me down and starts to pace Worry written over his handsome face "It's come to this" He starts and stops "God knows now you're old enough, You're twenty-five And I must strive-" He swallows "To tell you the truth." I sit tight and wait But I've waited years now for this date There's a secret, the adults won't tell He opens his mouth to speak and stops His lips are white, his face is pale "Son," he says and I grip my chair "The truth about this whole affair," "Father please, just tell me now." The words slip out and now it's said I can't believe I've been so misled My father's words Loud and clear: "Son, there's no such thing as beer." I stand and gasp He shakes his head "The world is serving us juice instead. It tastes the same, it looks alright." "I swear I've had drunken nights!" I pace the room and growl in rage My father sighs, he claps my back "Everyone just pretends. I'm sorry, Jack."

The rules of Go are so elegant, organic, and rigorously logical that if intelligent life forms exist elsewhere in the universe, they almost certainly play Go. -- Emanuel Lasker

Test subject 2732: Subject struggles with basic strategy. After 3 games subject has withdrawn to the corner of the chamber. Emotional display commenced for 78:12 glorbeks. Further testing halted until source of mental discrepancy is identified and a chemical correction can be administered. _____ Test subject 5294: Subject grabbed the board and attacked the tester. Superficial wounds sustained. Subject has been pacified. Scheduled for waste ejection on 84 Keltar at 72:00 glorbeks. _____ Test subject 1974 Subject ignored the game and stripped of garments. Subject proceeded to bend forward and bare their rear at the tester. Repeated pleas to be 'probed' were uttered by the subject. (Further research is required on 'probing'. 73% of subjects reference this at some point. 83% respond with fear based emotions, 15% seem to derive enjoyment from the concept. 2% attempt to aggressively interact with the tester and must be pacified.) _____ Final report: At this time, the results of the go-test indicate that the population of exo-planet 1462 do not qualify as intelligent life. Clearance to terraform granted.

As vampires get older, they forget their human lives bit by bit. You arrive at your home town from when you were among the living, and a flood of memories come back

"That's actually volcano ash." I turned to see a young girl, probably in her 20's, with dark hair and a pair of baby blue sunglasses resting on the crown of her head, speaking to me. "You said that they were covered in lava, but that's a common misconception really the bodies are preserved in volcano ash" She once again repeated. I wonder whether she did this often, interrupting people with useless facts. How long has she waited for this? To barge in with that brilliant trivia knowledge of hers and force small talk. "Thanks" I said, recoiling a bit from this women, hoping she would find someone else to annoy. To my disdain, she took this as an invitation to start talking again, "My name's Trista, I always been fascinated with Pompeii or any lost cities like Atlantis and stuff." I cringed deeply that this *Trista* dared to compare the great city of Pompeii with a fantasy. She was an idiot like the rest of these people, gawking at the victims like they were prized exhibit animals on display. Then again what do I know, I been away for so long that even I had became a stranger to my own home. Perhaps it was a mistake to be here. Trista realized that I was not talking and tried to inject in more conversation, "That's my favorite one" She blurted out pointing at a particular pair of victims. "The one with the mother and child, it's so chilling and sad" I looked and felt something wash over me, immediately I remembered everything, everything I tried to forget. "What do you know of them" I asked her. "Not much" She said obvious of what I was experiencing. "Do you know if they died in pain." She cocked her head a bit as if searching through her big encyclopedia of worthless knowledge stored up inside her brain. "They were pretty close to the volcano, so I imagine the intense heat got them first." "Eurydice" "What?" Trista asked. "Her name was Eurydice and that boy, Andreas." I told her. Without another word, I walked away.

The Roman Empire still exists today

I am gonna put a spin on this. Hope you don't mind. --- "You make a mockery of our sovereignty!" says Emperor Scipio, and in that moment, I hate my job just a little more. Ever since I became a translator for the Empire, I've respected the movement less every day. It was interesting to me from my point of reference, another group recognizing the importance of Latin on our languages today. They took it a bit too far. People were surprised when the Imperial Party won a majority in Italy. People were more surprised still when this majority actually appointed an emperor. What happened after - annexing, invasion, police actions - should have been obvious. To history students, at least. And now here I am. The government sent out for volunteers who spoke Latin, and I was one of them. Eight months later is now, with me hating my job. I repeat what Scipio says as neutrally as possible - quite neutrally indeed. The Prime Minister grimaces. "We are not challenging the borders of Italy — " " — But still you call The Empire by its old name! In this way you demean our achievements! Would you respond differently if I called all of Ireland 'England'?" Scipio is unnecessarily angry. He has read his Machiavelli. The Prime Minister exhales quietly. "Of course. My deepest apologies. It is a habit I must break if our relations are to be mutually beneficial." Scipio barks laughter. "Mutual benefit is only good for the weak." I can see that thought hitting a brick wall in the Prime Minister's head. "Perhaps we should retire for the day… your Grace?" "I should think so." Scipio rises and departs, saluting. It still looks kind of Hitlery when I see him salute. The Prime Minister touches my shoulder. "You all right, Paul?" I grimace. He nods. "Hold out a week, and we'll get you a position in the embassy." He smiles. "Thank you, sir." We shake hands, and walk out. It takes me a minute to remember that I hate my job. Things are looking up. -- 054

Make me fall in love with a not-so-normal character.

**Let Me Explain** Have you ever tried to make a person laugh? I mean, really tried. Have you ever prepped for, worked towards, put everything you could into planting the seeds of an irrepressible smile into the mind of your fellow man? It's bullshit. Well not bullshit, it's just difficult beyond measure. You have to be on their level but, at the same time, capable of subverting their expectations. For me, it's a Sisyphean task of the highest order. Have you ever tried to make a person angry? Because it's easy. It's indescribably simple to annoy, anger and upset almost any person. You might say right now, "Oh well I'm pretty thick skinned so I'm not sure I agree sir." Fuck you. If I stabbed you with a fork you would immediately change your tune. This was my realization, one lonely day in June, as I watched a couple holding hands from my second story dorm room. I just wasn't capable of making people laugh and smile. Those skills, which came to the handsome bastard on the quad as easily as blinking, were dark territory to me. I realized that I only really had two routes left to take, I could either have no impact on people whatsoever and be ignored, or I could garner attention in a negative sense, I could affect other people's lives as an acerbic, antagonistic force. Sometimes I just need to be noticed, to have an effect. I hope that makes sense. ***** "What did you say to me?" I glare down at the wiry man in the city square. I can tell he's intimidated. He replies, with a noticeable stammer. "S... Spare some change please sir." My glare hardens. "Are you fucking kidding me?" I raise my voice so the passers by can hear my argument. "Why? Why do you deserve my change?" "I... I just want to get... for a cup of tea." "That's not why you deserve it. Can you tell me that? Why do you DESERVE my money?" I press him further. He looks up at me, words caught in his throat, he doesn't have an answer. Instead he simply tries to avert my wrath. "I'm sorry sir. have a good day. God bless you." "Fuck off." I bat away his niceties with a swift curse. "You have the gall to ask for my money, so you can spend it on fucking street drugs and 2 litre bottles of cider. You have no fucking clue how hard I work." The people nearby have overheard everything. They all watch, but none of them try to stop me. You wouldn't think it but they rarely do. The wiry man hangs his head, hiding from my gaze as he fixes his eyes on the pavement. He mumbles something but I can't discern it. I decide I'm done. "Here." I snarl at him as I throw my morning paper onto his lap. "Get yourself a job." I then walk off through a group of shocked bystanders. ***** I wait in a cafe to see if he reads the newspaper. If he doesn't I'll have to go over to him which I never like doing. As I've said before I just can't interact with people. It happened the same way it always does. When I mock buskers, insult waiting staff, lambast the beggars, it always sparks an outpouring of good will from everyone around. That's why I do it in crowded areas. The wiry man will eat for a good few days on the charity he received from citizens, offended by my cruelty. Hatred's a great motivator. I watch him as he places the small, but considerable, pile of pound coins and fivers in his pocket and, thankfully, unfolds the paper. He flicks through the pages absentmindedly before reaching the midpoint. I see his brow furrow as the envelope falls onto his lap. He reads the message on the front then, curious at it's apologetic tone, slices the envelope open with his index finger. He pulls out the note and begins to read: **Let Me Explain** Have you ever tried to make a person laugh? ...

In a world where superheroes are contracted and sponsored by large, monolithic corporations (like athletes are today), a young girl with near-godlike power is approached to represent one of the most powerful.

"What's your name sweetheart?" The man in the suit takes a bag of M&Ms out of his pocket and offers them to the little girl. She takes the candies and puts the bag on her lap. "My name is Suzie." "And can you tell me what you can do Suzie?" "What do you mean sir?" "I read in the papers that you can make things disappear. Make people disappear." Suzie shuffles around a little, looking uncomfortable. "Don't be afraid, you're not in trouble. I'd just like to ask some questions." He gets down on one knee so their faces are at the same level. "Can you do that for me Suzie? Can you tell me about what you can do?" "Well, sometimes when I think really hard, I can make things change." Suzie looks at the floor "Can you show me Suzie? Can you change something in this room? Anything you'd like. I promise I won't tell anyone." Suzie closes her eyes. A static like humming sound fills the room for a brief moment. The bag of M&Ms on the table collapses into itself, as if a microscopic black hole had appeared in its center. The man in the suit looks at the table but doesn't seem to react. "That was very good Suzie. You have a very good talent. What you just did can help a lot of people." "Really? How?" "Well, sometimes there's a lot of stinky garbage in the way that's really bad for animals and the air. You could make it disappear. Sometimes a building is too old and needs to disappear, you could make that happen. Sometimes a big boat can spill icky black oil into the ocean by accident and it's bad for sea animals. You could clean it up. There are lots of ways you can do good for this world Suzie, and I think that our big group of friends here at Exxon can help you make it happen." Suzie tilts her head back up with a big beaming grin. "You really mean it sir? You really think I can help?" "You betcha! and we'll give you lots of money too. You can have all the toys you've ever wanted." Suzie grins even more. She puts her hands on her chin and wobbles around as if her body can't contain the excitement "Okay!" **12 years later** Scientists are still puzzled by the mysterious disappearances of oil freighters and processing plants around the world. ExxonMobil appears to be the only top 10 oil company that has so far been unharmed. As of today, the missing worker count has reached over 38,000. The CEO of ExxonMobil has refused to comment **click* There is no way that ExxonMobil isn't behind this. I bet they have some kind of Meta-human eliminating the competition! Processing plants and huge metal ships don't just disappear! I bet they're in bed with the Illuminati! **click* Johnson hasn't been performing up to par recently. Both of his throws so far have missed the basket and **click* and that's why the power of friendship is the most valuable power of all! **click* Brony riots are ongoing across the globe as the petroleum supply dips to all time lows. Without a steady supply of petroleum, My Little Pony plastic figurines are no longer affordable to most fans. In Barcelona, upwards of 200,000 bronies and pegasisters have linked hands to form a human circle, tossing their fedoras into the center in protest in an effort to create a mountain of fedoras that can be seen from space.

A man has a profound and intimate dream in which he falls in love with the woman of his, well, dreams. He wakes up, leaves his apartment, and sees her across the street about to catch a cab.

"Every day I see you." The woman stopped, and turned around to view the anonymous man who made this bold statement. Her eyebrows peaked, giving off an aura of confusion. The man quickly realized his blunder of not mentioning the method he saw her, but was at loss for words, and could do little to correct it. Regardless, he tried his best. "It's not creepy, I promise." The man said expectantly. "It's just, every day starting sunday last week I saw you in my dreams. You're here today, exactly one week later. I know I'm not crazy." The woman let out a little chuckle to try and ease the mood. Looking at her lips, you could tell she was apprehensive. She decided to continue to be silent and let the man explain himself. "Do you understand what I'm saying? It doesn't even need to be a creepy stalker thing, I'd just like to talk to you. Understand why you were in my dreams." "I was... in you dreams? Like you thought of my while you slept, I'm not just your 'dream girl'?" "Yes, I promise you are actually in my dreams. My mind was trying to tell me something. Please, just let me get a cup of coffee with you." The woman from the man's dreams was beautiful, in every sense of the word. She was clearly in a hurry, and he could tell from the way she keeps inching into the taxi. Either that, or he is scaring her. "That offer sounds nice, of course, but are you sure she didn't look generic, and I'm just filling the spot?" "No. She was you. You even have her voice." Compared to the woman the man was not the most charming. He appeared to be in his forties with her in her twenties and was packing on quite a few extra pounds. They man was wearing a clean black suit, freshly ironed. At this rate he was going to be late for work, but that was at a unreachable spot in the man's head. The woman was wearing a t-shirt and skirt that reminded the man that it was summer. He had forgotten until he'd seen this girl, normally to him the seasons are interchangeable. To the man, the woman had a certain property about her that made him remember. He remembered that it was his mother's birthday in a week, he remembered that he needed to get a haircut, and most of all he remembered that summer was his favorite season. The last thing the man would ever remember was the thought of work. "I'm sorry, I'm going to the airport. It's kind of urgent. I think I may be late." "This will sound creepy, but let me drive you. It will be faster than taking a taxi, and I can at least explain my dreams to you." With a look of hesitation, she finally gave in. The woman turned towards the taxi driver and apologized before she diverted her attention to the man. They had been driving for 20 minutes, and were getting along better than the man could have possibly hoped. Eventually, the conversation of the girl's travels came up. "So Texas, that's pretty far from Maryland. What takes you down there?" "My boyfriend and I are finally moving in together. We had to go long distance, but we will finally be able to see each other." The man's grip on the steering wheel tightened. The were finally approaching the exit on the highway and in one swift motion the man merged into another lane. "Excuse me, I think the airport is off of that exit." The man said nothing, he let his silence fill the air. He couldn't let his dream girl go, not after finally finding her.

An alternate universe exists where every type of animal can talk, and humans are pets

Gaia's eyes grew large and moist. "I don't want to," she told her mother meekly, pawing at the dirt with one hoof. Her mother remained patient. "You have to be a big deer now. You aren't a little fawn anymore." Her voice grew sweet and calmed Gaia; "Today is a Meet-And-Greet. We're not staying here all day. I won't leave you here alone. We're going to meet your new teacher and see your new room, then next moon we can start school once we've had a while to get used to the idea." Gaia bravely stayed calm right up until her mom nudged open the latch on the door. At the wooden *creak* and with a whiff of the strange odors inside her courage cracked, and she began to cry and buck her legs. It was several minutes before her mother finally coaxed her through the entrance. Gaia kept her gaze low, not wanting to see what waited inside; but as she saw her hooves step over the threshold and onto small chips of wood that coated the floor, her curiosity peaked and she looked around her. Three sides of the room were walled. Gaia's left opened to a small pond. The sun on the water blinded Gaia; she didn't notice anyone was there until they spoke. "Hello! Welcome, welcome!" Across the room atop a wooden stool sat an otter waving at them jovially. As Gaia watched, the otter hopped down and lithely came to them. Gaia was still weary of her- Gaia was weary of any stranger, as most deer were- but her instincts did not find reason to be frightened. "My name is Miss Perry!" the otter said with glee, speaking to Gaia first. Gaia felt special to have been spoken to before Mom was greeted. But she was unsure how to answer so she simply stared at Miss Perry. "This is Gaia," her mom said helpfully. Finally she could speak, "I'm Gaia" she said softly. And then before she could clam up again she added, "There's a lot of smells in here." Miss Perry laughed. "You can probably smell a lot of different animals, can't you Gaia?" Gaia nodded. Gaia's mother spoke up, "Yes, I noticed that, and I wanted to ask you, do the animals from the... other schools typically cross to this side of the pond?" Miss Perry looked as if she had been asked that question many times today. She nodded, as if she'd been expecting it. "Miss Mulela please remember from our last conference that the schools will be doing a trial Integrative Species classroom model this year." Watching her mother startle made Gaia apprehensive. She collected herself, but couldn't stop from looking quickly left and right- as if these *Integrative Species* might be everywhere. Miss Perry continued amiably, "Don't worry, if it doesn't work well we can always go back to the A Species Apart model." "And how long with the trial last?" "Oh, we're thinking about..." Gaia let their voices drown out as her gaze wandered around the room. She first noticed a gleam, a silver flare that shone off of some type of metal under the window against the wall opposite the pond. Slowly her eyes began to make out a geometric shape. She saw lines, but couldn't quite piece together what the whole of the object was. It made her nervous. She could tell now that it had bars, like those on the windows and stable-fronts. And the shadows inside were solidifying; shifting; was something inside moving...? "Gaia?" Gaia startled and realized that she has stepped back into her mother. Miss Perry followed her gaze and continued, "Yes I was just getting to that. We have a class human this year!" She grinned broadly, her smile sunny and warm, furry otter arms extended as if to hug them with the thrill of it. When she saw that they both remained far from thrilled she chirped, "Oh don't worry! It's just the cage that's daunting. The human is quite adorable, I assure you!" She began to walk towards it, beckoning them along, "It's a very primal instinct to be afraid of cages, but not to worry. They can be very useful, and it is educational for the kids to have an actual human around. It's also good to teach them to care for something," she added, smiling at them, "We work to instill in our children a healthy appreciation for life and all living things!" And somehow, Gaia found herself being prodded forward. Hesitantly, she followed behind her mother towards the bars. Inside she could finally see a squishy mound of pink tissue. It blubbered, spitting slightly on its chin as it saw them approaching. The otter reached into a pail and brought out human food labeled **TWINKIES** and **REESES CUPS**. She showed it to Gaia and then tossed it through the bars of the cage. The human squealed excitedly- "Watch," said Miss Perry excitedly, "at how quickly he opens the package!"- and tore the **REESES CUPS** treats down the middle, spilling out droplets everywhere, and crushed several into its mouth at once with a garble of happy syllables. Gaia was sad for the poor, stupid creature. "What's wrong with him?" For once Miss Perry did not seem to know how to answer a question, and she spread forth her paws for a moment before finally saying, "That is one of many things you will be learning in our class this year Gaia! The human species has significantly declined in recent millennium, and their mental capacities have steadily worsened. Now most of them rely on us for nourishment. We have a steady income of treats from a real life ancient factory," she said to Gaia with a wink. "Is it dangerous?" Gaia's mother asked, watching as dark saliva dropped off the human's chins to its middle. It chomped onto another treat. "They are absolutely safe for school; but they can bite. It has never happened, but we always make sure the children stay cautious and are constantly supervised. Hopefully he will not prove too disruptive this year what with the new Integrative Species model..."

Tell me a story where I don't want the hero to win.

She walked with an exaggerated sway brimming with confidence and attitude. Her pony tail swung back and forth in time like the sweep of a pendelum. He watched her; his eyes on her ass though it was not the reason he followed. The gun in his right hand was stuffed inside his pocket, but his finger was kissing the trigger in preparation for what must come next. "Package acquired. Awaiting instructions." He whispered into his com. Four thousand miles away, a man watching the interrogation of suspected terrorist responded. "Instructions to follow." Victor Corby was not an evil man, though he often amended that claim by tacking the phrase *by choice* after, because he wasn't. He just wanted to keep his fellow countryman safe. If all terrorist activity stopped tomorrow, he'd be content to spend the rest of his life sitting in a room bored due to the fact. However, his countrymen aren't safe and very soon many were going to die. He looked at the man they were water-boarding and raised his hand. "You got her live?" Victor asked. Four thousand miles away the man following the woman answered. "Live and in color." "Await instructions," Victor told him, gesturing to the men conducting the rendtion of the prisoner. They stopped pouring the water and removed the towel and allowed the man the freedom to cough up the water threatening to drown him. Victor gestured to his communications officer. "Put Jackal's feed up." He said, indicating the video screen in the room with the prisoner. "You're a tough old bird, Merek, but we're down to zero hour. You obviously don't care what happens to you, but we found her." He said, pointing to the television on the wall. "I'm going to give you three opportunities to tell me where Phiffer plans on releasing the virus." Merek coughed up more water and glanced at the screen and felt the blood rush from his face. It was his daughter. "This isn't funny." Merek snapped. "Do you see me laughing?" Victor shouted back. "I am done playing with you. Tell me where Phiffer is going." "She isn't part of this." Merek argued. "She's your daughter." Victor volleyed back, knowing Merek was right. "This is unethical." Merek told him. "We're soldiers fighting for different countries. She has no part in this. Where is your honor?" "Wound her." Victor said into his com by way of response. Jackal did as he was ordered, putting a single shot into her back above her heart. In the video there was a staticky cough from Jackal's gun, and the girl walking silently in the video pitched forward. She wasn't silent now, screaming in pain and fear. Jackal stood watch over her with his pistol aimed at her head. She rolled over on her back and everyone in the room saw that she was many months pregnant. "She isn't a part of this," Merek cried, jerking against the cuffs securing him to the steel chair in which he sat. "You got some god-damned gall, Merek. Phiffer is going to release that virus on innocent men and women and children and you're telling me she isn't a part of this? What about those innocents he's about to kill? How are they apart of this? Now, where's Phiffer." Victor screamed. "They're not innocents. They're supporting--" "Terminate her pregnancy." Victor told Jackal through the com. "NO!" Merek shouted even as Jackal's gun coughed again. The woman grabbed her stomach in horror and pain. "Where is he?" Victor demanded red-faced, coming to his feet. "You just lost a grand son. You want to lose the daughter? Cause after her, we castrate your son. We will kill ever fucking person you know to get to stop this attack from happening. Last chance to save her," Victor snarled. "Where?" Merek fixed him with angry Irish eyes. "Kill--" "LAX." Merek growled. "LAX." He repeated. "Phiffer is headed to LAX." "Come home." Victor told Jackal. On camera, Jackal bent down and checked the color of the woman's eys and her other vitals, then rose to his feet and put a bullet in her head. "Package was suffering." Jackal replied mournfully. "It was a mercy. I knicked her liver." He said by way of explaination. Merek strained against his cuffs screaming and raving. Victor turned away then hurried out, before relaying the new intel to the teams in the field. He slowed to a walk then stopped felt the spasm and hurried toward the door, vomiting just outside. *He wasn't a evil man.* He told himself. *Not by choice.* He vomited again and punched the door. "Evil or no, he was going to hell when he died. Of that, he was fairly certain.

War has broken out. Redditors are now fighting IRL. Write about one group's stories.

It's been 75 days since the war started. No mans land is filled with bodies. Ever since /r/atheism was removed from the defaults we have been outnumbered and outgunned. Mountain Dew is running low. The Cheetos have run out, we are now living off the leftover dust from the MREs. I look at my comrades though and do not despair for their euphoria gives me strength. Strength to carry on with the spirit of Sagan with me. If I die, it will not be in vain like Socrates before me. They're about to sound the next charge. I hope this letter reaches you my darling. All my enlightenment. AALewis Eh?

Vesuvius didn't just erupt, it released a dragon. The people of Pompeii didn't simply perish, they gave their lives defeating it.

Aetius' knuckles are white as he clutches his sword. He shakes. His eyes meet mine, wide and searching for hope. I try to project courage, but I have no hope for him. I turn away. Five thousand men stand together at the foot of the mountain. Five thousand men face death. The evacuation is too slow. The column of citizens lacks order and direction. Crying children, braying mules and panicked old men. They make no progress. They have no time. We fight to buy it for them, but we fight in vain. The ones who realise this stayed in their houses, huddled together and praying for salvation. They may find peace in their last moments. The ground trembles. Aetius whimpers. "Brother..." I cannot bear his fear. I search for words of comfort, but words fail me. What can I say? What can anyone, faced with this? Thick black smoke rises from the restless peak. I look at my sword. It's blunt. Laughter bursts from my lips, and I hear the hysteria in the sound. The end of Pompeii, the end of days... and my sword is blunt. You can't kill a dragon with a blunt sword, for Jupiter's sake. Aetius stares at me. He thinks I've gone insane. "Brother," I say, "my sword is blunt. Look." I wave the sword before his eyes. He looks, but he doesn't understand. I suppose it's not funny. A sound like the death cries of a thousand cattle rends the air. Fire and ash fill the sky. It rises, an infernal leviathan of incomprehensible size, spewing flames, wings unfurling like the shadows of clouds before the sun. The wrath of Pluto, the might of the elements unleashed upon the world. Aeitus pisses himself. He drops his sword and falls to his knees, screaming. Prayers fill the air around me, a piteous chorus of desperation. Pointless. There can be no victory here. We are not heroes. We will die like grass withering in the desert. When it takes flight, its wings beat the air as the drums of Mars. Its serpentine body uncoils in the air, and from its jaws the punishment of the gods blooms. I smell them burning. Like pork. Hundreds die on the first pass. I kneel beside Aetius. I cannot fight, I can only burn. But I can spare him. I pull him close, and take his sword. His is sharp, for he took more care in his life than I. He trembles. "Brother" I whisper. "Find peace, and known not pain." The blade slides easily between his ribs, and he is still. I rise and look around me. Shrieks of agony assault my ears. I can see what people look like when you burn off the skin. Pompeii has fallen. The shadow falls over me once more. I stare up at the demon, feeling nothing. It ends in fire.

A believer goes to her first UFO convention, and slowly realizes that she's made a terrible mistake.

"Ah can straighten those teeth!" Yelled the frenzied scotsman from the stall to Abigail's left. "I got mehself some chicken wire an a pair o' tweesers!" Abigail's eyes widened as the man clicked a pair of old tweesers at her and brandished a twisted piece of wiring that he'd formed into a rudimentary brace. "I'm... fine thank you." She hurried along to Stage F, staring meekly over her brochure at the myriad of unsettling characters around her. "Retainers!" A passing salesman yelled in Abigail's face, causing her to stifle a scream. "I cut them out of milk bottles and use my own teeth to mold them!" He seemed proud of himself, though Abigail couldn't possibly imagine why. "That's disgusting!" She couldn't help but exclaim as she pushed her way further through the crowd and towards the stage. She was here to see Timothy Good, one of the foremost researchers in alien craft sightings in the world. She had read his book from cover to cover, and would be damned if she'd let a few creeps stand in the way of her finally meeting the man. She reached the door of the stage as it was closing. A convention organiser stood in front of her, barring her way. "I'm sorry I'm a bit late. Is this Timothy Good's panel?" Abigail looked apologetically up to the stern steward. "Timothy Good?" The man looked, confused, down at her. "No, this is John Herbert's talk on reclaiming and reusing Palatal Expanders in the light of recent budget cuts." Abigail frowned "The brochure says he should be here." "Let me see." The man said, rolling his eyes. He grabbed the brochure from her hands. "Ah well you're a week early is the problem." Abigail stared up at him, then snatched back the brochure and scrutinized it, unable to believe she could have made such a mistake. He was right, her convention wasn't until the following Tuesday. She was so shocked she walked back into the crowd without another word to the steward. The enormity of her oversight washing over her, Abigail drifted through the crowd towards the exit. Passing the frenzied Scotsman with the chicken wire braces, Abigail made her way to the concourse and, with the numbing realisation that she had entirely wasted her day, left the convention for Under Funded Orthodontists.

A superhero whose power is extreme luck.

*On one hand, this power would be amazing. Until your realize that Superman can't turn off his invincibility. Who says that this hero would be able to?* He felt it. A strange pulling sensation just below his heart telling him he was supposed to be somewhere. *Just ignore it. Maybe it'll go away this time.* He took another sip of his drink, the rough alcohol burning all the way down his throat and into the pit of his stomach. The feeling subsided for a moment before rapidly increasing, all but pulling him out of his seat. His lurching motion was not unnoticed by the bartender. "I think that's enough for you Frank," he said, leaning over and plucking the half filled glass from the drunk hero's hand. "You know you shouldn't drink this much. Need a clear head for all that heroin' you've got." *I'd rather be doing heroin* Frank thought to himself, staggering up from his chair. For a moment he considered arguing, but when Ned said you had enough, you'd had enough. Finally he gave in to the sensation, the incessant force dragging him stumbling out of the building and down the street. He was drunk enough that he should have collapsed black-out drunk, but he could feel his power ticking over repeatedly, at least once every second. *Coin toss, do I fall unconscious or do I not?* **Not**. *Again, coin toss, do I fall unconscious or do I not?* **Not**. *One more time, coin toss, do I fall unconscious or do I not?* **Not**. Super luck. In its most annoying application. Sometimes you *wanted* to collapse in a drunken stupor. **Not**. *Well fuck you too*. He could feel his power churning that one over as it attempted decide whether that was something that luck could be applied to. It apparently decided against it so it remained silent. He eventually found himself approaching the harbor. *Of course. The harbor. Here to save some suicidal idiot, or to prevent a drug deal from going down, or maybe to save a victim from a serial killer. Just how I wanted to spend my Friday evening* Now that he was closer to the source, he could feel minor variations in the target's location. A sort of bobbing from side to side. *Great, its on a boat. More fun* He reached the edge of the pier and stepped off not bothering to look down. As he plummeted towards the water, he felt his power give a might wrench. A boat drifted past him and he landed heavily on its deck. He stood up glanced around to get his bearings. It appeared to be a medium-sized motorboat (The Osprey). Some idiot must have left it untied and it was drifting along the pier, just waiting for him to get there. He glanced at the ignition. Of course the keys were there. He gave it a twist and started piloting the boat in the direction of the pulling. After an hour or so of sailing he found himself pulling up to what appeared to be an oil tanker. He took his hands off the wheel and for the first time in a while actively triggered his power to get what he wanted. Along with it came a piercing migraine as his brain took control of thousands of individual random occurrences around him to steer his boat to where it needed to be. -------------------------------***------------------------------ The butterfly effect, the lab guys called it. Lots of little things working together to make a much bigger thing. A real gift, one of the city's greatest heroes had once called it. *A real pain in the ass more like.* When your life was entirely non-random, things simply became boring. If you can get a hole in one every time, shoot a perfect full court shot every time, beat every enemy just by chance EVERY FUCKING TIME, it got boring. Worst part was, he couldn't even commit suicide. Each time he'd get a wrenching headache, and then a pillow factory would explode, saving him from his plummeting fall. His knife would spontaneous collapse into goo, his rope would snap, his gun would get damp. *Chances are if I drove my car off of a bridge it would develop wings and fucking flap around like a dove.* -------------------------------***------------------------------ His boat piloted perfectly along side a convenient knotted rope hanging along side the ship. He sighed and clambered up it. Not bothering to look around for enemies (if he wasn't supposed to be seen he wouldn't be), he trotted to the nearest doorway and entered the belly of the ship. It was very nearly pitch black, but he ignored his senses and kept walking forwards. It had been a long time since he last tripped by accident, with vision or otherwise. Soon he came to a room with light cracking around its edges. He gave a sigh and pulled out a government issue taser gun. It technically had 3 shots, but his was known to fire as many times as the situation required (some how the battery always just happened to overvolt). He opened the door sedately and stood there as the gangsters within opened fire on him. He should have dodged, or hidden behind the door, for the sake of appearances, but he simply couldn't give a damn any more. He pointed the gun in the general direction of the gunmen and pulled the trigger. *Do I hit him even though I didn't aim at him?* **Yes** Rinse repeat. Soon all of the gunmen were unconscious. They would remain so until such a time that his ability determined it was fine for them to awaken. He glanced around and saw that this room was connected to another, and light was spilling out from it. He stepped in with his taser still raised. "Stop right there." The voice was vaguely Italian, and he felt his mood worsen. He didn't stop walking. "I'm warning you, if you take one more step, I'll blow us both to kingdom come." This was all said fat man smoking a cigar, opulently decked out in golden chains and rings. Sometimes reality was plagiarized from fiction. Frank gave a sigh. "Look, I'll explain what will happen. Option one, the detonator is faulty, thus the bomb doesn't go off. Option two, the wiring is incorrect, so the bomb doesn't go off. Option three, the bomb does go off, but I'm unharmed, as is my boat. Option four, the bomb does go off and both of us and what ever cargo you have on this ship are unharmed, allowing me to take you into to the police." He gave a shrug. "I'm not sure which will happen, but I'm relatively sure its one of those." The gangster slowly lowered his hand. "Your him aren't you. Stacked Deck." Frank winced. It was a stupid name in retrospect, but when he first became a hero, he was young and thought the name was as bad ass as all hell. "Frank Lombardi is fine." The gangster gave a sigh. "I'll start piloting the ship to the dock. I'm not gonna bother even giving a token resistance." Frank gave a nod and settled down for a nap. They would inevitably attempt to kill him, or maybe try take the ship to further waters. But there would be freak winds, wild man-eating pelicans, and who knew what else preventing them until they finally decided to go to shore. *Another boring Friday night,* he thought as he settled back to let his facsimile of a life run on autopilot.

In the future you can apply to the government for a killing permit. What it is is a piece of paper that exempts you from any legal action for the murder of one person of your choice. Describe one man's experience with this permit.

It was with a heavy heart that I applied for my killing permit. Rather than mailing a request in, I travelled to the government building to avoid the six-week waiting period. In my backpack I had a folder with all the information on my victim. What our relationship was, why I wanted him dead, the consequences to society if he was killed, all the pertinent information. "It seems you have all your paperwork in order," the man behind the desk said as he rifled through it. "How are you planning to kill him? Will it be a disturbance to your neighbors?" "No sir, simple drug overdose. He won't even make a sound." "Mm, perfect. Let me check your criminal record quickly..." He wouldn't find anything. I had lived a model life until this point. Not even a speeding ticket. "Very well." He signed a piece of paper and handed it to me. "This is your permit, it only applies for the one man, for the duration of this week. When coroners come to pick up the body, give them this." I thanked the man and left, travelling the several hours back to my home. Even before I opened the door, I heard the constant sound of machines. As I scaled the steps to the second floor, the sound got louder. I opened the door with all of the instruments and walked up to the man they were hooked up to. He opened his eyes weakly and looked towards me. "Hey, Dad," I said softly. "I got permission."

Father supports in secret his mentally ill son in his journey to become a Pokémon Master

I always loved these games growing up. Well, by growing up I mean when I was a teenager. By the time I was in my twenties, when Ruby, Sapphire, and Emerald came out, I had married my first love and there were responsibilities that came with that, more than either of us had ever realized. I still wanted to play, fired up my old GBA as often as I could, but my son, Cyprus, was always my priority. That's why when he was a year old, when the doctors diagnosed him with developmental problems, I took a third job to get him all of the help that I could. I thought it was the right choice for us. It seemed right. It just didn't work. She left us. It wasn't for another guy or anything slutty like that. It was all just too much for her. She blamed herself over and over in the letter, and I still blamed myself. I hadn't helped her with Cy. I gave her money. I wrote checks. I wasn't a husband. I was an ATM. Some would say that it was unconscionable for her to leave Cy, but I didn't hate her for it. I had no idea how hard it had become to deal with him, just doing things as basic as breakfast was an ordeal; the frustration, the screaming, the never feeling loved, I had left all of that to her. She must have done something right though, after I signed the divorce papers checks with no return address would appear in the mail every month, more than I had earned working those three jobs. We had switched places, and she was better than I was. Somehow, I eventually found time to be me again. When I saw Fire Red and Leaf Green had been released, something in me stirred. I felt a little guilty buying a new GBA, but Cy seemed to like watching me play, so that made me feel better. We spent days on the couch, hunched over the little screen, there was no screaming or kicking, just a father and son enjoying an adventure together. He would point at the screen every time a new pokemon appeared, and I would tell him its name, explain what animals or plants they were based on, or how their name told you about its type and abilities. After beating Fire Red, we went back for Leaf Green and a few stuffed pokemon toys for Cy. Our game time together now had an audience, neatly arranged on the coffee table, like students in a classroom. Cy was smiling all of the time now. It was impossible to say no when, in his way, he started begging for more pokemon pupils, and eventually a Game Boy of his own. His excitement at starting his own game was worth the two weeks of ramen I was going to eat to cover the cost. He was becoming a different kid, a more normal kid. His failures didn't cause frustrated tantrums, instead, he would take a step back, work on gaining more levels, change his line-up, try again. Soon enough, the gyms were falling before his team. He beat the game in two weeks. I bought a used copy of Gold for him. It took him one week. I bought a used copy of Ruby for him. Three days. I wasn't sure what to do about what happened afterwards. He took his collection of pokemon toys and set them on the dining room table. He just stared at them all day. The next afternoon I found him in the backyard with his Charmander doll, pacing back and forth, back and forth. With all of the gaming going on, I had neglected to mow the lawn. I sort of understood what he was doing, but I wasn't sure how to help. He came in that night looking sad. The next day he paced the yard again, and came in looking utterly dejected. I called the guy at the toy store that night, and asked for a big favor. The next day Cy found a Zigzagoon and Pidgey doll in the yard. He threw his Charmander doll in front of them, waited for a time, and threw his pokeball at them in turn. Finally, as happy as I had ever seen him, he picked them all up and came back inside. The rest of the day he spent "training" his new toys against his old ones. We took a trip to the woods the next day, where he discovered Teddiursa and Oddish, right where our neighbor had strategically placed them for Cy to find. We spent much of that day in the forest. He was thrilled walking around and throwing his dolls at bugs and squirrels. I assume they leveled up quite a bit that day. We took a trip outside of town to the power plant. A former co-worker of mine took us on a tour. Although he seemed fascinated listening to Kara explain how everything worked, the highlight for Cy was when he snagged a Pikachu there. Soon I was getting calls from friends of friends wanting to know how they could help, what Pokémon Cy needed and how much they cost. I refused their charity, but they refused my refusal. Then some guy called me up from out of the blue and said he knew a couple that wanted to help, and were making an offer I couldn't refuse. "Prepare for trouble..." she said as she leapt out in front of us on the sidewalk. "And make it double..." he continued as he slid to her side. I didn't know them, but they became my heroes that day. They were just a couple of students at the local community college that were into going to anime conventions together as Jessie and James. Somehow, they managed to quickly pick up on the way Cy conducted the battles in his mind. Meowth fell quickly, Arbok soon after, and they ran away defeated. Cy grabbed his toys and we shared a big group hug for his victory that day. Then we went for ice cream. The evil duo sat nearby, unnoticed, disguised as a pair of kids in love. Over the next few weeks my voicemail became full on a regular basis. Cy was having Pokémon battles everyday, and switched his Charmander for Charmeleon and eventually Charizard. His collection of toys had become enormous and his team was becoming elite. I got a call from the hosts of the local radio station's morning show. They had me call in to do an interview. They asked me questions about my son and his love of Pokémon. They told me that their phones were going off the hook with people calling in that wanted to help. The producer cut in saying they had the mayor on the line. As we walked up the steps of City Hall, I was crying. A trail of defeated opponents stretched far behind us. Two police officers opened the doors for us. Four more opponents were ahead, the Elite Four. Cy won, of course, his team was solid, a Pokémon Master's team. The mayor, looking every bit like Professor Oak, proclaimed Cy the Champion and pinned a shiny medal to his chest. Cy enthusiastically showed off the medal to the gathered crowd. He leapt into my arms and hugged me as tight as he could. Despite the flashes and news cameras all around, I bawled like a baby. It was dark by the time we got home. I lifted my boy into my arms, while he clutched his six prized dolls in his. I stopped when I saw that someone was standing in front of our door, clutching a Mew doll in her hands. Cy stirred and murmured, "Mom."

A regular guy stumbles into a bar unaware of the fact that it's the bar where all the lame bar jokes take place.

The last thing Alex remembered was walking into the bar. He didn't know where he was, how or why he got there. All he remembers was the noisy bar. He couldn't describe it if he tried, wouldn't recognise it if it hit in the face. As he became more conscious, he realised he was lying on something hard and uncomfortable; his own left arm. He tried to move it but couldn't. *Dammit, if only my head felt like my arm* he thought. Using his right arm, he wearily coaxed feeling into the other. Once the pins and needles stopped, he tried sitting up, but fell down again, his head spinning. Sighing, he lay back down for a few more minutes, waiting for his sight to return to normal. Finally feeling confident enough, he tried to sit up again. *Success!* Bleary-eyed, he arose from the floor... the floor? Why was he on the floor. He didn't remember falling down. *Makes sense, I guess*, he thought. *My head hurts like HELL!* He surveyed his surrounding and came to the conclusion that he was in some sort of alley. He could see the road further down; it seemed like a mile away. Turning around, he gasped as he saw a set of eyes staring at him. Large brown eyes with a tinge of yellow. He couldn't make out the face; his vision was still blurry. He cold vaguely make out another shape, clad in black. "It's all right, my son. You're safe now. We've all been where you are." a voice said to him. It was soothing, but he could hear it was trying to stifle laughter. Speaking of which, a rough cackle exploded from nearby. "He seems teh have a wee bit of a problem, ey?" the voice laughed. "Maybeh we shud help him". "mmmmprrpfflflflfprprprr!!" *What in the Hell was that???* he thought. *A horse?* It was a horse. A bloody horse just standing there next to the two others. He could see clearly now. Why would a priest, a horse and a Welshman be trying to rob him? What happened last night. "Wh...why am I here? Who are you?" he asked in a trembling voice. "We're here to help you, my son. Do not be afraid. You will come to understand soon enough. Here, take my hand. I will show you" the priest said. Gingerly, Alex took his hand and let the priest guide him to the entrance of the alley. "See there, we found you there, like all the others" the pries explained. "Others?" Alex replied. "Yes. Every one of us was where you are at some point. Every type of person you can imagine has been here. Let me explain. People try to walk through here as a short cut. But they don't notice *this*" he held up something long and cylindrical. "A drain-pipe?" Alex asked. "No, no no!" the priest laughed. "This is a bar. You walked into it, just like I did, just like everyone. No one notices it until they've been wacked over the head. It's hard to see, and hard to miss." He was laughing uncontrollably now. Alex noticed he had something in his other hand, holding it as if trying to get him to ask what it was. "Then what's that in your other hand?" he asked as the priest unravelled it. "Is it another bar?" "No," the thing replied, "I'm afraid not!"

A comedian has been elected President of the United States, and he's about to give his State of the Union Address. You take it from here...

Mr. Speaker, Mr. Vice President, Members of Congress, my fellow Americans: Today in America, a teacher spent extra time with a student who needed it... and slept with him. Talk about going the extra mile. I mean, the extra six inches! *the crowd gives a nervous laugh.* I kid, I kid, she helped raise our graduation rate and his pants tent! *president makes a pleading gesture as the crowd hisses and boos* An entrepreneur flipped on the lights in her tech startup, and did her part to add to the more than eight million new jobs our businesses have created over the past four years. Of course, she was a camgirl. *the president breaks out in a laugh, points to Joe Biden behind him, Biden cracks up laughing and mouths 'You the man'* An autoworker fine-tuned some of the best, most fuel-efficient cars in the world, and did his part to help America wean itself off foreign oil. Yeah right! We're stuck on foreign oil until that shit runs out! No oil? Get used to jogging places! *The president jogs in place and pretends to exhaust himself.* Might help you fatties though. *He winks.* Here are the results of your efforts: The lowest unemployment rate in over five years. A rebounding housing market. A manufacturing sector that’s adding jobs for the first time since the 1990s. *The president winks at Ben Bernanke.* Of course that's easy to do considering we just got out of a horrible recession! *Ben blushes.* That’s why I believe this can be a breakthrough year for America. After five years of grit and determined effort, the United States is better-positioned for the 21st century than any other nation on Earth. That's, of course, ignoring China, most of western europe, and maybe Brazil. Hey 4th place isn't bad! Can't always be on top! Naww, guys, I'm kidding, we're doing better than Brazil. We're at the worst 3rd place. *He does an exaggerated wipe of the sweat of his brow.* Phew! As President, I’m committed to making Washington work better, and rebuilding the trust of the people who sent us here. I believe most of you are, too. Last month, thanks to the work of Democrats and Republicans, this Congress finally produced a budget that undoes some of last year’s severe cuts to priorities like education. But not foodstamps! Whoops. Eat or learn. Pick one! Now, one of the biggest factors in bringing more jobs back is our commitment to American energy. The all-of-the-above energy strategy I announced a few years ago is working, and today, America is closer to energy independence than we’ve been in decades. One of the reasons why is natural gas – if extracted safely *The president bends over and farts into the microphone.* , it’s the bridge fuel that can power our economy with less of the carbon pollution that causes climate change. My fellow Americans, no other country in the world does what we do. On every issue, the world turns to us, not simply because of the size of our economy or our military might – but because of the ideals we stand for, and the burdens we bear to advance them. *The president doubles over in laughter* Okay, most of it is our out of control military spending and the casual way we go to war. I mean, why are we blowing up 17 year old fighters in Afghanistan? They don't even know what 9/11 was! *He wipes tears from his eyes in a mocking way.* Oh and no one beats us on domestic spying. *He pulls out his blackberry, looks at it, and looks at Justice Scalia.* Antonin? Really? Scat porn? You're a dirty old man! The America we want for our kids – a rising America where honest work is plentiful and communities are strong; where prosperity is widely shared and opportunity for all lets us go as far as our dreams and toil will take us – none of it is easy. In fact, its probably impossible! I mean, we've been trying for 200 years and fucking up pretty hard! But if we work together; *he laughs* if we summon what is best in us, with our feet planted firmly in today but our eyes cast towards tomorrow – I know it’s within our reach. *He comically reaches for something and pretends to drop it.* Whoops! *He gives a sheepish grin.* Believe it, Bieber! God bless you, and God bless the United States of America. *The presidents bends over and farts into the mic again and winks as he walks away from the podium.* Sorry! Natural gas surplus! *Biden high fives him as he walks off the stage.*

The Roman and Aztec Empires covering all of Europe and North America respectively have survived into the Modern era. Now at war write from the perspective of one of the troops on the ground

Carlos sipped a beer. The white man who had served it to him scuttled quickly behind the counter, like a weak little mouse. The whites may have had rights now, but they still spoke Nahuatl or Pipil and tended to stay in their own communities, away from the intimidatingly superior Aztecs. Carlos' friend, Sitting Bear, was doing his namesake proud: his chubby bottom on the barstool, nursing a pint. "So. Got called again for duty, Losi?" "Yeah." Carlos sighed. You'd think that the Roman would give up, but they didn't. "You could come with me, you know." Carlos suggested. "Nah man." Sitting Bear sighed. "I'm a History Teacher, not a soldier like you. Someone's gotta teach the runts about how Pocahontas stabbed Lewis and Clark or when the first Incan president was elected. Plus, have you seen my gut?" Carlos chuckled. "I'm glad the Aztecs were chill with the Cherokee. Life wouldn't be the same without your people's sense of humor." "Yeah, our spirit animal is George Lopez." Sitting Bear chucked. "Or beer." he looked at his glass rather fondly. 'W... what was the war like?" the meek bartender pipped up. Luckily, Carlos considered the whites their equals, and he responded in a friendly fashion. "Well, legions of Romans were charging at us with their SPQR guns." I remembered, almost hearing the gunfire. "I was young, stupid. Thought because I was a Jaguar warrior bullets wouldn't touch me. But when the gods get to killing, they don't save anybody from bullets." The man nodded, fascinated. Usually, the media blows Jaguar warriors out of disproportion, making movies to us detailing how we ride avatars of Quetzcoatl into battle and Mayahuel fucks us if we win a battle. "But one day, I was taking out some guys when I happened upon a Praetor." I continued. The bartender and Sitting Bear gasped. "You fought a motherfucking Praetor? And lived?" S.B. asked. "Ha! Barely. The old man had sure earned his position. Gave me quite the thrashing. If it weren't for that Priest of Jupiter coming out and begging us to stop....." I contemplated how my life would have ended. "So you guys just stopped fighting?" the bartender asked, feeling comfortable enough to sit and talk. "Yup." I nodded. "It was one of the last battles of the Second Empire War, and we all decided that we weren't going to go down for a war that was already over." Sitting Bear put his drink down. "So this is the Third Empire war, eh?" he asked. "Yeah." "Who do you think will win?" "Dunno. There are entire cohorts lining up to fight. Whoever wins is gonna come out with a lot of scars." "War," the timid man stated "Is a terrible thing. I wish both sides could let go of their pride." I just nooded, my mood darkening. "I think I should go home and see my wife." I slapped a few cacao beans down on the table, and got up to leave. "Carlos." The bartender called to me. I stopped to look at him." "May God protect you." I chuckled at the monotheistic man. "I think I'm gonna need more than one to win this war."

You're in your 30's, married, in love, and paralyzed from the head down. Your wife loves you too much to leave, so you allow her to find a "physical partner"....

Let's be clear about something -- I love my wife. And she loves me. But I can never tell her just how much the sound of another pair of feet in the house hurts my soul. --- I have not felt grass between my toes in ten years, nor the air crossing over my hands in five. The chill that runs down your back when you shiver hasn't crossed my spine in so long I can't remember what it once felt like. My heart pounds with a life that is not my own, tapping my ribcage in time with the beeping coming from under my chair. I take a breath; the air is harsh and dry. Like every other part of my body, it feels artificial. My wife is the most beautiful person I could ever imagine. Her crooked glasses hang from a crooked, yet rounded, nose. Her green eyes are the same color as the computer chips that keep me alive. The lightly auburn hair that only glints when it feels like it. Her hands, though -- it's her hands that tell the most. Her hands are the color of my stained beech wood desk, the fingers long and thin. Her nails are short, but still hold the pinkish hue of youth and strength. Her left hand has a vein that protrudes from the outside of her pointer finger when she has strong emotions, and if you look close enough, you can follow it all the way up her wrist. I have stared at her hands for longer than I care to remember. I know every hue, every crack, and every wrinkle on those beautiful hands. I can close my eyes and know their feel against my cheek, against my hair. But now... I sit alone in my chair as those hands I love so much caress another man's face. I can't please her. I'll never be able to please her again. I love her so much and I can't fulfill the most basic duties, the most base actions of a husband! Had I the strength, I would hurl myself from this prison of technology, to set both of us free... but I sit, endlessly; knowing that in a few hours, I will once again feel her hands through my hair and her lips upon mine. I told her I didn't mind. She asked if I was sure. We both know I lied. I love her so much.

SEAL Team 6 stumbles through a magical portal and winds up on a hill overlooking two medival armies squaring off

"Take sides are you crazy? There's six of us. There's thousands of them. Hell, even if we wanted to, which side do we take," said John adjusting the sight on his AR15 rifle. Tom rolled his eyes at him. John turned his head, "I have no idea what we do here. Wait for the portal to open back up, I guess. Maybe its monthly or something." Tom rubbed his temples and said, "Or maybe its once in a 1,000 years. Or a million. We've got modern weapons and a humvee with a .50 cal on the top. We could take both of these militaries on and live like kings." John shook his head. Tom threw his hands up in the air and said, "We don't even know if the portal will ever open again. Man, I'm just fucking hungry." John examined the armies below. "So.. we just go in there and kill a lot of medieval soldiers barely able to use bows and swords to prove we're hot shit? How many Tom? A few thousand rounds before the 50 cals empties itself? What the fuck man? Are you psycho?" "A couple hundred I figure. First the cannons then the horsemen. Cannonfire is the only thing we really have to worry about. Could penetrate the humvee. They'll flee once they see how badly they're getting beaten." Tom saw John's uninterested expression. "Fuck you," said Tom as he walked off to relieve himself in the bushes. Lenny rubbed his unshaven chin and walked up to John. "Guys, lets pack up. Eric, Mike, and Pete haven't radio'd back in hours. Think we should go look for them," said the older soldier. John raised an eyebrow, "Give up this position? You sure? Maybe the batteries are dead on the radios. Whats your battery at?" Lenny looked down at the device, "20% now." Tom wandered back, "This is bullshit right? Just an excuse to move us, keep us going, keep us from fighting? No more MRE's so lots of walking." Lenny smiled, "Maybe, now pack your shit soldier. If we're spotted this could go hot quickly." The three men walked down a narrow game path down the hill. Lenny put his finger up to his lips and the other men nodded in response. He dashed towards a tree and tackled someone in a brown tunic holding a tall English longbow. He grabbed the person and applied a headlock. John and Tom stood dumbfounded. John waved his hands and laughed, "It a girl. A young girl." The archer threw her head back as Lenny let up the pressure and put his hand over her mouth. Her dirty blonde hair went flying. Tom grinned and pointed his AR15 at the girl, "Do you know what this is? Its a bow but faster and meaner. Tell us where our friends are and I promise not to use it on your pretty little face." She bit down on her lip and closed her eyes. Tears penetrated her closed eyelids as the men stood and watched. "They're fucking children," exclaimed John pushing Tom's gun down. "The average age down there must be like 15 or 16." Tom bit his lip as he stared John down. He said through clenched teeth, "Don't touch my gun." "Cut the shit," yelled Lenny as he threw the girl down and stepped on her leg holding her in place. He bent down, "Okay, we're missing three men, dressed like us." He pointed at his camo outfit, "Like us," he repeated. He mockingly scanned the horizon, "Where?" The girl sat there whimpering. Lenny lifted his boot and she curled into a fetal position, shaking. He shrugged. Tom put his weapon down and sighed. "We really scared of these cavemen?" He started yelling, "Hey Eric, where are you fags at?" A large English arrow appeared in his chest. Tom looked stunned for a moment, held onto it, and fell over. Lenny and John dove into the dirt. The girl got up and ran away through the woods. Lenny made a hand signal and John nodded as he sat up and scanned the area with his weapon in hand. Lenny pointed north and John started stalking that way. John stopped briefly to examine Tom and felt for his pulse. He shook his head at Lenny. Lenny furrowed his brow and whispered, "The girl is a decoy. They might have us. Stay low. We go the way we came. Only way we know is safe." Lenny took Tom's gun and John took his extra magazine. Lenny made the sign of the cross and pulled off Tom's dogtags. "Go, go, stay low," he ordered. They made it back to their makeshift hilltop camp. They heard the sound of hooves and running men. They waited in the bushes quietly for a few minutes. John looked through his field binoculars. "I'm not seeing anything," he said. "Its just us left isn't it?" Lenny nodded, "Too suspicious. Sudden radio loss, Tom's death, and all these men on his hill this far from the battlefield." Lenny sat and sighed. He opened his canteen and tried to shake out the last couple drops. John salivated as he pictured water flowing from the canteen. He licked his dried lips. "I can take out their horsemen. You go for their foot soldiers. We can carve through them easily if we stay too low for arrows. We can make it to the humvee and the 50 cal," John said. He laughed, "Who knew fucking kevlar wouldn't stop an English arrow." "No," replied Lenny. He was taking off his camo shirt. "What? What the fuck, Len? What are you doing?" He peeled off his undershirt. John's eyes went wide, "Come on, Len. Come the fuck on." He punched the dirt with his fist. "Come on," he begged. "Please." "I'll wave them down," he said as he looked at his sweat stained white undershirt and tied it to the barrel of his rifle. Lenny looked at John with tearful eyes, "What... what do you want me to do? Kill a bunch of English and French kids? Then what? Maraud villages? Milk cows? Steal cooling pies for the rest of our lives? I'm a soldier, not a criminal, and so are you." John looked away ashamed, "Yeah, yeah." He took off his undershirt and tied it to his rifle. They both looked at each other for a moment and stood up waving their shirts in the air and yelled, " We surrender! Surrender!"

By a random happen stance, the alter ego of a super hero ends up dating the alter ego of their direct super villain.

7 years ago, the event called Pandemonium struck and seemingly ordinary human beings gained enormous powers.Some found the gift as a calling, as a responsibility that was bestowed on them from a greater being for a greater purpose. Most, were just trying to further their own agendas. Suddenly, superheroes and supervillains weren't stuff for comic books anymore and the world was thrown into turmoil. Each and every night Ironfist and Silhouette wrestled for control over Central city, to the point where it had become routine. This night in particular was one of the many nights they shared dancing on top of the city lights exchanging glancing blows. Each one trying to one-up the other. Jake was wondering what evil plan Silhouette was going to do again tonight. He smiled to himself and thought that whatever she had in mind he was going to stop her. Jake was born and raised in Central City, his father worked for the Central City Police Department and her mother was a clerk in the mayor's office. At an early age Jake's parents instilled good values into him and from the moment he knew he was chosen, he knew the path which he had to take. Ironfist landed a blow which sent Silhouette flying through the rooftops. She wasn't really into the fight as she was thinking of this guy he was seeing. They had met at a coffee shop when the barrista had mistakenly switched their drinks. They immediately hit it off and nobody can deny they were a perfect fit for each other. She smiled as she thought of him and she wondered if her revenge against this city was really worth it. Jane on the other hand, grew up and was raised on a farm outside Central City by her loving grandmother. She did not know much of her parents as they passed away when she was very young. Nonetheless, she felt loved and content. But, it all changed when their farm was appropriated by the local government. Because of this, her grandmother's health rapidly degenerated and in the end all she could do was watch her lay in that hospital bed as she passed away. It was during these dark and lonely days that Pandemonium struck. While some use their powers for the greater good, she vowed that she would exact retribution on the corrupt local government that had stripped her from her peaceful life. Under the cover of a cloudy night, Ironfist and Silhouette jumped from rooftop to rooftop parrying each other's blows and warrily waiting for that one decisive moment that would determine the outcome of tonight's bout. It was a night like this, Jake thought, where he had finally asked Jane out in a restaurant by the waterfront. The restaurant was called Raison d'être which was French for "reason for existence", which Jake thought was fitting as she was the one who renewed his hope each night while he moonlights as this city's protector. That night, three months ago, Jane gave her a pendant with a crescent moon as a gift for him to remember her by. Blow after blow was exchanged as the night wore on. They were at a deadlock, but neither was refusing to give up. It was raining now as the two of them stood on the roof of the theatre eyeing each other. Suddenly, a scream rang through the air followed by a crash. Ironfist looked down and saw that a minivan crashed into the theater entrance and a woman was frantically trying to claw her way out. Ironfist cursed as he took his attention from the accident back to Silhouette but she had already jumped down and had started helping the elderly woman out of the minivan. Due to the impact, the support for the theatre's billboard was damaged and it was on the verge of falling down. Silhouette had managed to get the woman out of the minivan before the support pillars were beginning to collapse. Ironfist had a split second to react as the billboard fell down. The last thing Silhouette saw was the shadow of the billboard falling down on them, she braced for impact as he hugged the woman determined to shield her from the crash. It was the least she could do. She thought of her grandmother as she looked at the elderly woman's face as the billboard came crashing down. She closed her eyes, as the impact happened. Total darkness. Is this the end? She thought. She tried looking up only to see more darkness. She wiggled her head to check if it was still attached to her necka and she tried to feel her fingertips. Oddly enough, she thought that being dead wasn't all that different. Something glimmered on top of her. She squinted her eyes and tried to adjust the darkness. It was a crescent moon. She was finally adjusting to the darkness when she saw a face smiling at her. "You owe me one". Ironfist said as he shouldered the billboard, pendant hanging on his bare chest. Realization struck her. "Jake?"

In an effort to increase revenue, the Hell Department of Tourism has begun advertising. Write an advertisement for vacationing in Hell that actually would make me want to go.

Is it too cold where you are? Are you shivering in your Canadian boots? Russia starting to look warm? Well, come down to Hell! Now that the oncoming threat of Ragnarok is over, it is impossible to say that Hell will in fact freeze over! Get a great tan sitting next to the fires of Lucifer while you hear the screams of the most villainous people in history! Have you ever wanted to swim in fire? Now's your chance! It's something new to tell your friends. * It's cheaper than going to Bali, and so much better! Meet Lucifer himself, shake hands with Death, and learn about the various forms and figures of Hell from various mythology over the years- it'll truly fascinate the kids! So plan your trip to Hell today! ^*results ^may ^vary ^please ^do ^not ^swim ^in ^fire ^please ^do ^not ^shake ^hands ^with ^death. ^If ^you ^are ^nursing, ^pregnant, ^or ^have ^small ^children ^do ^not ^come ^to ^hell ^as ^they ^will ^lose ^their ^innocence.

In a world where everyone has super-abilities, one boy is born without powers. Show me how he can be a hero.

Jared awoke slowly, fighting the urge to simply ignore his buzzing alarm. He stretched out an arm lazily, swatting at the off switch. Others could have easily turned off the alarm without even touching it, but not Jared. Everyday tasks such as this were constant reminders. Reminders that Jared was ordinary. Absolutely unremarkable. After going through his morning routine, Jared set off toward Ridgeway High, the only school for miles. Ridgeway was the type of backwoods town where everybody knew everyone, and few ever chose to leave. The town was essentially populated by the very families who founded it. While this was favorable for some, it also meant that nearly everybody knew Jared's story. They all knew how ordinary he was. He walked through the same dirty streets he had his whole life, seeing his nosy neighbors peering out their stained windows. Occasionally, one would send a pitying gaze in his direction. Jared would look away and keep on walking, seemingly unfazed. Yet an observant onlooker might notice the way his knuckles tightened or his steps became heavier after each of these incidents. He reached the school fairly quickly on this particular morning, and headed straight toward Room 405, Special Needs. As he shuffled through the halls, people would look away awkwardly, or even snicker. No one ever made eye contact with him. No one ever showed him respect. Well, no one but Mr. Silton. He entered Room 405 and let out a sigh of relief. In all of Ridgeway, this was his haven. The only place he could go to escape the abuse of his classmates, of his neighbors, of his father. Mr. Silton would always look upon him kindly, noticing what was there, rather than what wasn't. His whole life, none had ever shown him such affection. This was quite possibly the only person in the world who didn't blame him or tease him for his lack of abilities. What Jared didn't know, was that Mr. Silton was perhaps the only person who believed Jared did have a power. For in his opinion, it took a special kind of bravery to face a society which hates you and despises you. He saw that Jared could remain a bright youth despite the horrors he'd faced. Jared would never save lives, or bring criminals to justice, but he was one of the most remarkable heroes that Mr. Silton had met. Jared fought against evil everyday of his life, the evil of a heartless society.