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A pink-haired girl desperately tries to not become the lead character in an anime.

It'll be fun, they said. It shows off your personality, they said. None of them told her this would happen. "But Susan *hngkk*" The whipcord-lean man choked, the laws of our universe censoring words that would otherwise have been second nature to him to say. His hands, dark like good weathered Corinthian leather, gestured as if they could somehow pull the words out of his throat into reality. It started with Susan studying in her dorm, when an old manga her room mate owned inexplicably begun floating in midair and, equally inexplicably, began to glow. Before she could gasp dramatically and gush blood out of her nose the manga had become something...more, more in the way that a manga, the IDEA of manga, is a conduit between our world and theirs, as opposed to mere bound paper and ink. He coughed again. [INSERT COIN TO CONTINUE]

A person with the power of luck (manipulating probability) is discovered by the military. The government proceeds to attempt to weaponize their powers but fail in comically improbable ways.

Research Log 154ds8: Today, we were introduced to a man with abilities heretofore considered impossible by the scientific community. Classified as L-3i, or Subject L, he exudes a passive field that manipulates the very forces of probability. Any forcible attempt to detain or imprison him would likely be impossible, so we are fortunate he has agreed to submit to testing so that he may help his country. LOG END Research log 238u27: Attempts to harness the power of Subject L for purposes offensive or defensive are still met with continuous failure. Our continuous efforts to secure research funding, however, remain successful. With but a minute allocation for lottery tickets, we predict that this project may continue indefinitely. L-3i, previously possessed of vigor and enthusiasm at the prospect of finding away to control his gift, seems more drained of zeal each day. LOG END Research Log Final: After months of testing upon Subject L, only one factor proved constant: his safety, against any and all attacks. Even the most reliable firearms found themselves subject to misfire and malfunction. Experts in combat were thwarted by loose tiles, slippery surfaces, and in one test, an errant banana peel. Now, L's powers have somehow folded back upon themselves. Over the course of these tests, we assumed his virtual invincibility as a constant point. Based on this trend, L-3i's ability provided the most unlikely outcome possible during today's experiment with live fragmentation grenades. As such, we have no course available but to terminate our research and inform his next of kin. LOG END

Humanity makes contact with an aliens, only to discover that the aliens are human as well

"Well, do they speak English?" "No General, they probably don't speak English, why the hell would they speak English?" General Eric Walstone was not cut out for this. Hailing from a proud line of men in uniform, he was used to seeing the world a certain way. He wouldn't consider himself a racist, but he was used to seeing a person's culture and background in their features. Before him stood a man and a woman, pale skin, one blond one brunette. If you had asked him where they came from he would have guessed Rhode Island, though he couldn't tell you how. In the General's world, he would have pegged them for hippies given their colorful clothing and never given them a second glance. In his world, they most certainly would *not* be standing in front of a gleaming silver aircraft that appeared two days ago behind the moon, and landed 15 minutes prior to their exit from the one visible entrance on the belly of the craft. In General Eric Walstone's world; men were men, women were women, and aliens shouldn't look a damn thing like either. After all these two did to disturb the comfortable order of General Walstone's world, the bloody least they could do was speak English. The General gave another glance at the pair before jerking his eyes away. He returned his attention to the Lieutenant. "Call the president, the pentagon, and my wife. Tell her I won't be making lunch. Oh, and send a private to get me my coffee." The General's morning had been interrupted enough. If he was going to have to make historic first contact with advanced life from another world, he better damn well have his coffee. His gaze returned to the pair in front of him, then drifted across the grounds. He let out a sigh, and accepted that he was not going to wake up from this after all. Around him soldiers crouched behind whatever they could hastily establish in a horseshoe surrounding the craft. Two had claimed the climbing wall, one hapless recruit had thought stacking tires counted as a defensible position. Quite a few who had been on the parade grounds seemed to forget they lacked any sort of weapon. First contact, it seems, would see the United States of America represented by around 80 recruits and 30 privates, all peaking out from behind the shabbiest collection of cover the General had seen outside of the Middle East. He really wished he was in bed, baring that, where was his damn coffee? Before he could muse further, the two started casually walking towards him. Instantly his posture shifted. After 30 seconds, they stood before him. Just as the woman held out her hand, a young private reached the General's side. "Sir, your coffee sir" "Not now private!" The woman's hand continued forward, and with an extra step, she took the coffee from the hands of the private. At first she stared at it quizzically, then she removed the plastic lid and sniffed the liquid inside. She waved her hand over the cup and a ring on her middle finger let our a cheery beep. She then brought the cup to her lips and took a tentative sip. A smile quickly spread across her face, and she passed the cup to her companion who did the same. The General's morning coffee had been stolen, potentially by the only human-like anything who could possibly get away with it. The General really wished he was in his god damned bed. Edit: probably the first fiction related anything I have written in many years, found this sub reddit and decided to goof around a bit. Criticism will be enjoyed.

A world where people are born knowing how, when, and where they are going to die. You are a woman, 9 months pregnant, who has known all along that she dies in child birth but didn't tell anyone. You are about to go into labour.

Clara never wanted a child. Before she can even remember being able to remember things, she recalls the nightmares that woke her up in her cot in the darkness of her room. The screams of a woman in her mid thirties as the birth of a new life tears her apart. The blood, the anguish and fear in the eyes of those around her. Those dreams have stuck with Clara since she was born. Her parents dismissed them as nightmares, not telling her the truth, not telling her the real meanings behind these disturbing subconscious thoughts in the night. She started to figure it out herself not long into her twenties... when she realised this recurring dream was her. Her face, her body, her voice. Concerned, she had visited a psychiatrist, who calmly and solemnly told her words which have stuck with her up until this moment. "Those dreams, Miss Bolton, are premonitions. Ones that we have all had since before we can remember. Those nightmares are how you die." She was still young. Only thirty five when she started to feel broody. All these years she swore she'd never have children, but now her mind told her she would die for the right one. She would find the right man, she would settle down with him, and she would die for him and their child. She would never tell him what lay ahead for it would break his heart, but she would leave him with the best token of love anyone could give - her life, and her child. --- Tears streamed down Clara's face as she lay on the bed. She didn't want to believe this was happening, and she didn't want to call the ambulance. Curled up into the foetal position, another contraction rang out another death rattle within her. Clara willed herself to pick up the phone and dial. A voice from the other end, "Nine nine nine emergency how may I direct your call?" Clara's voice broke, "The baby's coming." "I'll put you through to ambulance." A slight delay. ... This felt like hours. ... Surely she can survive this. ... They're just dreams, right? ... How will she make sure the baby grows up and has a good life? ... Just dreams... ... Why is this taking so long? --- "Ambulance, you're going into labour? Can I take your name and address please?" "Clara. Twenty... one. Easter Close." Clara screamed. That contraction was an earthquake. "Ambulance is on its way. Remember, breathe. Would you like me to stay on the line?" "Yes." "Okay Clara, is there anyone else with you?" "No." A fault line has ripped open inside her. "Clara, are the paramedics able to gain entry?" "The door is unlocked." "Okay, great. They'll knock and enter, and announce they're there. To help you, can you tell me where you are in the house?" "Main... bedroom. Upstairs at the front." "Thank you, I've passed that on. Tell me how the contractions feel." "Like I'm going to die." "I'm sure you'll be fine!" Clara managed to squeeze out a laugh. "You don't know that." She hung up. --- She lay there, alone. She choked, and spat crimson red into her tissue. Tears rolled down her face as she felt warmth run down between her legs and stain her sheets. This earthquake would tear her apart. She cursed herself. She cursed this devil inside her. She cursed her luck. She cursed religion. She cursed the government. She cursed. If only she had gone home with Sarah and Rachel that night rather than deciding to walk home early because she had work in the morning... If only she hadn't taken that shortcut... If only she had been strong enough to fight him off... If only someone had heard her scream... If only his sperm hadn't met her egg... If only it hadn't fertilised... If only religious pressure hadn't put a stop to her ability to get an abortion... If only she could've given her life, and this child, to someone whom she loved. If only. --- James drove as fast as he could, blue lighting through the streets. They were only two minutes out from 21 Easter Close, well within the time limits and within good enough time to get the woman to hospital or deliver the child. Samantha held on to the door handle with a stern look on her face. "I hate delivering babies," she muttered, "Always some lass twisting on in pain. If you can't handle the pain, don't get bloody pregnant." James stayed silent. Sam was always the opinionated one, he was used to it by now, and was concentrating on his driving anyway. Through red lights, across junctions, and biblically parting the traffic. James raced through the back streets and down terraced avenues. Stern faced, he swung into Ascension Crescent, took a left down Baptist Avenue, and into Easter Close. They pulled up at the house. James knocked and opened the door. "CLARA. PARAMEDICS!" he bolted up the stairs, paramedic pack slung over his shoulder, he burst into the master bedroom. Samantha entered the house... she mentally took note of the lack of noise, and headed upstairs, where she found herself stood on a carpet saturated with blood... too much blood. She entered the master bedroom, and found James with a scalpel, slicing at Clara, who wasn't screaming in pain. ... Moments passed. ... In these moments, only essential words were said between the paramedics. ... This was taking forever. ... This was taking a lifetime. ... "Cut there." ... "Hold this." ... "Check for a pulse." ... "She's alive." ... "Time of birth, twenty three twenty four, fifth February twenty fourteen." ... "Clara Bolton. Time of death, twenty three twenty, fifth February twenty fourteen." ... "Call the police."

An atheist's effort to console a dying Christian child.

Hey, have you ever looked up at the sky on a dark, dark night? All those stars out there, hanging just above your head and if you could just reach a little higher, you'd be able to hold them in your hands? They're not so different than you or me, really - we just took different paths. We're both just star-stuff trying to understand itself, but the cool thing; the thing that's really neat, though, is that some day, we'll become star-stuff again, and people will look up at us in awe. *You* are becoming star stuff again, and when I look up at the sky, for the rest of my life, I'll find the brightest star and wave at you. Look for me, okay?

The Death Sentence is a literal sentence, spoken by a cult of executioners, that kills the person who hears it. You are the first known person to survive this fate.

"The death call isn't working," exclaimed the inquisitor. He ran his hand through his long silver hair and sat down on an elaborately hand-carved wooden chair. It creaked with age as he sat. Next to him stood the executioner in a long purple robe and wearing a tall hat. A few feet away sat the gagged prisoner, tied to an iron chair with a golden rope, and wearing a velvet hood down to the mouth, but leaving the left ear exposed. "The chamber of transcendence has never had a failure," he said to the executioner. "Alymn, bless his name, has always answered our requests for justice. What does this omen bode?" "I apologize my lord, I surely have made a mistake, but I've tried thrice now. I have brought shame upon my order," said the executioner as he looked down. "My son, you have never done Alymn, bless his name, wrong. How many have you transcended for him since you became a master?" "It is considered inappropriate in my order to keep count." The inquisitor smiled, "It must be in the thousands." "Yes. It must be. This is the eighth transcendence today and it is hardly noon." The executioner took off his long pointy hat and laid it down on the marble tile floor, careful not to upset the elaborate collection of feathers that topped its peak. "There are rumors of such things happening. Ancient rumors. I studied death calls my entire life. The history of death calling has been a murky one at best," he said. He rubbed his beard as he leaned on a stone column and stared ahead. "Once they said, death calling became too common amongst men. Those who knew said it too often and killed each other in large numbers. They said the gods took it away from us, back when we believed in more than one god. My order collapsed for a thousand years. Alymn, bless his name, gave it back to Master Laruset in a dream. The new order, of course, only allows one man to know the death call at a time. I am the 22nd man to know since." The inquisitor sighed, "I remember your predecessor and mentor well. Master Kalan was truly a righteous man. Regardless, this blasphemy isn't helping. The pagan orders have been dismissed as superstition. Their histories are suspect. A scholar on your level must understand this." He stood and waved his hand, "This woman is guilty. There's no abuse here. We have fair courts and honest men of jury. This is madness," he said as he made a fist and slowly unclenched it. "May this humble servant ask what this woman's crime is," asked the executioner carefully putting his elaborate hat back on. "She is a fornicator! Out of marriage! We have evidence," the inquisitor yelled, foam escaping from his mouth. "She denied her father's will to pick a suitable husband for her. She is spoiled and worthless now!" He sat back down, catching his breath. The executioner stared at the woman as she bit into the ball gag and tried to speak, only to release saliva. He walked up to her and removed her hood. He looked into her pleading and frightened eyes. Tears ran down her cheeks. He looked at the inquisitor then back at the woman. The executioner paced around the prisoner for a moment and said, "I may have an idea, my lord." He leaned in and whispered. "What? No, no," was all the inquisitor could say as his eyes rolled into the back of his head. He fell slump and onto the floor. He untied the woman. He wandered to the inquisitor's desk and wrote something as she watched. "Can... can... you read standard," he asked, his eyes watering. He wiped away his tears and removed her gag. "Thank you m'lord. Yes, m'lord," she replied, rubbing her wrists. "You're so young. So young," he said as he briefly touched her face with the back of his hand. She turned away from his gaze. "Read these words to me, forget them, and burn the parchment. Whisper them into my left ear. Note the accent marks. It is a line from a divine poem. It must be spoken like a song is sung." He paused. "Like a song is sung," he quietly repeated, recalling his mentor's instructions so long ago. She looked at him quizzically. "This will be easy for you," he added. "When I whispered it into Master Kalan's ear I was still a boy and barely literate." She held the paper in her hands and stared at the words for a moment. "May Alymn, bless his name, forgive me," he said as he went down on his knees and removed his hat carelessly. Loose feathers surrounded him like falling snowflakes. She leaned in and hesitated, "M'lord! I cannot!" "Do it! Such is the price of your freedom," he snapped. A moment later he whispered, "Please girl, let me take the death call to my grave. Please spare me as I've spared you." He closed his eyes. He felt hot breath in his ear for a moment, heard the familiar first syllable, and listened to its lyrical melody. He then felt and heard nothing at all.

Write a story in which every character's name is Charles, and one Charles has decided s/he likes to be called Chuck. No other Charles has had a nickname before.

"Charles?" "Here." The teacher noted on her clipboard. "Charles?" "Present." "Ummm, lets see, Charles?" "Here." "And Charles?" "Here, I prefer Chuck." The teacher stopped now, looking up at Chuck over her glasses. She took off her lenses and placed them on the clipboards. "Now what kind of name is that, Charles?" "Chuck, and it's my nickname." "Well, Charles, we don't do nicknames." "Chuck, and I like it." She was visibly frustrated now, placing her clipboard on the desk next to her she stood up and slowly walked towards him. "Charles, we don't do nicknames. If you get a nickname, then Charles over there would want one. And Charles, here, what would stop him from having a nickname too? And what's to stop me, then, from getting my own name? It'd be far too confusing." she said, crossing her arms. "Maybe you should have your own nickname," Chuck said, "And Charles should too, and Charles, and Charles, and Charles, all of them. *Even Charles* should get a nickname." The teacher gasped, first shock, then anger swept across her face, "You know we don't talk about *Charles,* and how *dare* you bring him up. Do you want to join him in the isolation chamber?" Chuck looked down at his desk and fiddled with his Charles HB#3 pencil, "No." he admitted. "Then let's try this again." she turned to her desk and picked up the clipboard and read through her reading glasses. "Charles?" "Here..." Chuck said. Charles smiled at him, pleased with herself, and continued, "Charles?" "Here." "Charles?" "Here." Chuck ignored the continuation of roll call and scrawled his nickname all over his paper. *Chuck, chuck, chuck, chuck, chuck....*

A whale is summoned into existence by mistake.

"Harooold!" Harold winced at the sound of her voice. He knew that tone well. "Yes, dear?" "Harold," said Martha, "what is this *thing* in our living room?" "It's a tail" said Harold. "Specifically, it is the tail of what appears to be an adult humpback whale." Martha narrowed her eyes. "I can see that it's a *tail*, Harold. What I don't understand is *why* there's a *humpback whale tail* in our *living room*." "Well, the main reason" said Harold, "is that there wasn't enough room for an entire whale in our garage. Ergo, the back half of the whale had to extend through the kitchen and out into the living room." Martha's patience ran out. "HAROLD! WHY IS THERE A DAMN WHALE IN OUR HOUSE?" Harold shrugged. "It... sort of happened by mistake. I was trying to order pizza." "And you ordered a *whale* instead?" "Not exactly, no" said Harold. "It's rather a lot more complicated than that. The whale just sort of... appeared. Hard to explain how it happened exactly." Martha sighed and massaged her temples. "You are an impossible man, Harold. Only you could make such a simple thing turn out so utterly, inexplicably wrong." "In my defense" said Harold, "that new cordless phone you bought is dreadfully confusing. There's so many... buttons... and..." he trailed off into silence when he saw his wife's glare. Martha took a deep breath to calm herself, then addressed her husband in a controlled, level tone. "I am going out. When I return, there will *not* be a whale in our house. Is that clear?" "Yes dear" said Harold. Martha stormed out of the house, and Harold turned to survey the damage. "First things first" he said, "moving an entire whale is too much to do on an empty stomach. I think I'll order a pizza."

Living off the grid for 15 years, and having no contact with the outside world, a hermit runs into another hermit, who has had no contact with the outside world, and has been living off the grid for 15 years.

The morning sun cut through the receding fog in the woods. As the day warmed, Alan found himself sitting next to the stream he camped by. The water was cool and clear, and he could see fish darting around under the surface. He set out a line and walked back up the hill to his small, earthen home. It had started as a hole in the ground with branches for a roof, but has since become a refined, warm home to him. As he crested the hill, he saw something he'd never expected to see. A woman, a few years younger than him, by his guess. He stared at her, and she made eye contact. She stood still, as if to camouflage herself from a predator. Alan slowly approached his camp, and rolled a new log onto his fire with his foot. He looked down, and for the first time in years noticed what he was wearing. A pair of worn service boots was covered by military issue camouflaged pants. He wore no shirt, his skin bronzed by years of sun exposure. In his home was a heavy jacket, hat, and a pair of gloves. He looked the girl over. She wore relatively new hiking boots, a tattered wind breaker, and black nylon pants. She had a backpack on that Alan thought looked rather empty. As they looked at each other, he realized not a single word had been said. He hadn't spoken to anyone in over a decade. He couldn't think about how to form the sounds for words that he could say in his head. He fumbled with a couple sounds before giving up. Her expression softened and she let out a muffled, "Hi." Her voice was soft on Alan's ears, he couldn't remember the last time he'd heard a female voice, let alone any voice. He sat down next to his fire, and set a container with water from the stream on it to boil. She took a step closer, Alan nodded and she sat down. They sat quietly in front of the fire for most of the day. The occasional word would be spoken, but for the most part they enjoyed each other's silent company. When the sun began to set, he walked down the hill to the stream. Luck was with him today, there was a large trout hooked on. He took the fish off the line and carried it back to his camp. He filleted the fish, and set it on a hot stone to cook. That night, they both ate like royalty. In the morning, she was gone. When he woke up, he found a small note on a piece of paper next to him. *Thank you for the food. I've been wandering these woods for 15 years, and you're the first person I've ever seen. Maybe we will run into each other one day, and I can feed you. My name is Allison. I hope to hear your voice one day.* Alan began to pack up his camp. It was time for a new life.

North Korean scientists successfully create time travel but the rest of the world doesn't believe the news report.

Dateline: North Korea. North Korean scientists today announced that they have created the world’s first functional time machine, capable of both forward and backward time travel. The lead scientist on the project, Jun Ki Seok, had this to say, “The glory of the state allowed us the technology to create the world first time machine. Kim Jung Un call me personal, order machine made.” The North Korean government offered a press release in which it warned the “Western World to be afraid for [it’s] very existence.” Jon looks up from the paper. “Hey Honey, North Korea perfected time travel! I guess we’re screwed now, eh?” Mary, Jon’s wife, laughs. “That’s even worse than those ballistic missiles of theirs that can almost reach the ocean!” -- Jun Ki Seok looked at the machine much like a man looks at his first child, minutes after the birth. It is clear that he is completely and utterly devoted. “This will change the world. Sway the balance of power. With this machine, we will drive the capitalist government of South Korea into the sea, and liberate our brethren from their clutches.” His comrade, Wook Jin Seung, agreed, staring at the machine with the same reverence. Nearby, a sergeant was haranguing his men, preparing them to go through the portal, into the past. June 25th, 1950 glowed in bright red numerals above the machine’s gate. The machine itself was spectacularly unimpressive. About thirty foot square and 8 feet tall, it was mostly featureless, a dull but somehow amorphous gray. The only notable portions on the machine was a giant lever next to a bluish-gray oval-shaped gate, with a large LED screen on top. Next to the lever sit 8-one digit spinners, like one would find on the lock for a briefcase. It was with these small spinners that the date was set. The giant lever would be pulled to activate the gate, whereupon massive sums of power generated by a nuclear reactor in the basement would channel directly into the machine via a massive trunk line, and a bright emerald green light would pulse out of the gate, too bright to comfortably look at. 30 seconds later, the bright light would disappear, and the machine would be rested for 48 hours, lest…unfortunate things, occur. The machine had been tested, extensively prior to the international announcement. Full-color pictures of ancient wonders, of Egyptian pyramids in construction, of Teutonic knights battling valiantly, of massive dinosaurs stomping gracelessly across Pangea. Despite the evidence brought back by the exploratory teams, the world treated the North Korean announcement with derision. To Jun Ki Seok, that was the final straw. He had always been frustrated by the world not taking his homeland seriously, but his scientist’s mind could see why. But now, when confronted with hard, incontrovertible evidence of North Korean greatness, the world still laughed. And so they would pay. And the first step of that, 150 of North Korea’s most elite troops, armed to the hilt with modern weaponry and armor, were about to step though the time portal to June 25th, 1950. They would give North Korea what was needed to not only push the Americans and the UN back to the Pusan Perimeter, but out to sea. But Kim Jung Un’s plans stopped not at merely winning the Korean War. No, he plotted further than that. He prepared technical teams, full of modern technology, both domestic and foreign, which would jumpstart Korea into the modern age over sixty years before the rest of the world. No army of the world, rooted in the technology of the 1940s and 50s would be able to stand before the might of the Korean army, armed with guided missiles, modern rifles, and helicopters. Kim Jung Un arrived at the complex. The troops, raring at the bit to return to the past and raise their homeland to its proper place in the world, could not help but to cheer. Their Dear Leader would personally pull the lever which would catapult them into the past, into history, the future, their destiny. -- The fighting was intense. To be fair to the American forces, even when fighting against technology from over sixty years in the future, they didn’t surrender. The modern Koreans took casualties, but the Americans took more. And every 48 hours, North Korea of 2014 would send as many troops and supplies into the past as they could. A line of troops stood by the machine. The machine would be activated, and men would rush through, yelling war cries. The passage to the past took 3 seconds. Any in transit when the machine shut down would come though at the next opening, gaunt and insane. But that stopped none of the troops from charging into the machine up until the very instant it closed; they knew their duty…and they did not know of the effects of being trapped in the machine. By the end of 1951, the United States formally surrendered in Korea. By 1960, the Koreans, working with the Chinese, had captured all of Europe. In the final, desperate battles, the Warsaw Pact and NATO forces battled desperately, side-by-side. But their technology, M48 Pattons and T-55 MBTs were simply no match for T-90s and Chinese Type-96s, the technology to build the modern monsters of war having been sent through before the Korean War had even ended. In 1963, the United States was invaded. In the Second World War, Japanese Admiral Yamamato had argued against an invasion of the United States, as there would be a “rifle behind every blade of grass.” This proved to be correct. Despite having technology still almost unbelievable to the Americans, despite having fought against it for months in Europe, the United States did not surrender. The military was defeated within months, not having fully recovered from the thrashing it had received in Europe. The many expatriate military units that were rescued from Europe and brought to the United States fought as hard as they could, knowing that if America fell, there would be no hope for their ever returning home. But it simply wasn’t enough. The decimated remains of the Allied forces dispersed into the hills, armed civilians, and began a guerilla war. They fought for ten years. Tens of thousands of Americans were killed in retaliation attacks. But finally, as all guerilla armies deprived of external support must, the resistance collapsed. The rate of loss of arms, men, and supplies simply couldn’t be kept up with by the small, underground shops of the resistance. The world settled down, controlled by a joint Korean-Chinese government. -- In the present, no one realized that anything was amiss. The continuum of time meant that each change was not a new development, but simply the way it was. A few individuals, however, somehow, could see the changes taking place. But no material detailing things the way they were survived; how could a photograph exist of an event that never occurred? The sensitive individuals were simply chalked up as insane. The past’s takeover of the present continued unabated. -- Jon looks up from the paper. “Hey Honey, Dear Leader is announcing that the food Five-Year Plan has been beaten by 17%. Isn’t that wonderful?” “I knew that projection would get beaten, the State’s farmers and workers are indomitable! Glory to Western Korea!” “Glory to Western Korea!” Edit: Had to remove prompt from the top.

d-beat dad abandons his wife and children. Make me sympathize with him.

(I actually posted this story a few months ago to a different subreddit with the title "Why I abandoned my Daughter". If you'll forgive my reposting, I think it fits your prompt.) I hated that ancient pair of shoes. Supporting a wife and daughter meant I had to make this pair last. The backs had fallen apart and the metal cut into my heels with every goddamn step I took. They had been digging the same holes into my feet all week and, as I walked to my car after a long day of work, it was especially intolerable. Maybe that was why I was so short with that girl when she approached me. My eyes were on the ground as I walked through the outdoor parking lot. I couldn't wait to be home. I took solace in the fact that my wife and daughter would be asleep. I could sneak in and clean the cut on my forehead and stop the bleeding from my knuckles before they saw me. Behind me, I heard someone call out, "Hey, Mister." Knowing my city, the odds were high that anybody approaching me in a parking lot at night was about to stab me and take my wallet. I snapped to attention, swiveling my head around and balling my hands into fists. I flinched in pain as I remembered my hurt knuckles. To my relief, there was only a hooker behind me. She was clutching her arms and shivered as if she were cold. But I knew why she was actually shaking. "No thanks," I said as I turned and started to walk back to my car. "Actually, I, uh, I was wondering if you were, you know, carrying," she said, teetering up behind me on her high heels. "No." "Oh. Well, you know, I'm really in need of a fix, Mister." "Sorry to hear that," I lied. "Well... can I at least suck your dick, Mister? I need some money." "Don't say that," I said without turning around. "What I do for money is my business," she said, failing to convince me of her pride in her work. "No," I sighed, "just don't say what service you're offering. If I were a cop I'd be able to arrest you. If you're looking for a client, just tell the guy that you want to party or something." "Oh. Sorry, Sir." Her accent was gone but manners like those didn't come from the city. She still had her Southern charm. "Well, actually, mister, maybe you could give me a ride." "No." "Oh, please. It's only a few blocks. I really need a fix. Really bad." "I have to get home," I said as I spotted my car. Just a few more steps in those goddamn awful shoes. "It's a dangerous walk, Mister. Don't make me walk alone. Please, Mister. Please." "It's even more dangerous to get in a car with a stranger, you dumb bitch!" I snapped as I turned to face her. "You don't know a goddamn thing about me but you're still trying to climb into a car with me!" "You have a kind face, Mister," she said meekly. I laughed as I turned back to my car. "Really? You think so? Well you're a shitty judge of character." I was infuriated when I could still hear her steps behind me. As I reached my car, I faced her again. She was sobbing. Underneath the running makeup I saw her face for the first time. Her lifestyle made her age twice as fast, but I could see her youthful eyes glistening with tears. She couldn't have been out of her early-twenties. Her eyes reminded me of my daughter's. That unsettled me. "Can you please take me home, Sir?" she sobbed. "The bus station isn't far from here. I just wanna go home to my daddy. I never wanna see this city again." "You have a father and a home?" I asked in disbelief. "Then why the hell did you leave them for this shithole of a city?" "Please, Mister. Don't make me walk over there at this time of night. The bus station is just a few blocks away." The bus station was on the other side of town and I had no interest in staying out any later than I had to. "Would you wake up? Can't you see that I have blood pouring out of my head and my knuckles! I'm not a safe person to talk to! I make a living through violence, for God's sake! And you're trying to jump into a car with me because you think I have a kind face? I hope my daughter grows up to be a better judge of character than you." I froze when I realized the implications of what I had just said. I was a violent man. The kind of man that I wouldn't want my daughter anywhere near. I was hypnotized by my realization when I felt the girl put her hand on my shoulder. I didn't know how to respond to affection. So I responded with violence. I backhanded her across the face. I swore as I remembered my injured knuckle and held my hand to fight the pain. The hooker backpedaled, holding her face. She looked back to me one last time and yelled, "That's why! That's why I left my father for this shithole of a city!" Then she stormed off into the darkness. At last, I sat in my car. I didn't start the engine, though. I looked at my tired eyes in the rear-view mirror. I studied myself, trying to see why anybody would think I had a kind face. To this day, I still can't see what that hooker saw in me. Maybe it was because I saw what became of that girl from the South. Maybe it was because of the violence in my job. Maybe it was because I wanted to get a new pair of fucking shoes. Whatever the reason, I didn't go home that night. I never saw my daughter again.

You step onto a elevator. The door closes and you look at the panel. There are two buttons marked Heaven and Hell. The former is broken.

"Hello, Maintenance? It looks like one of the buttons on this elevator is broken" I said, leaning towards the speaker. "The top button is cracked, and doesn't go in any further when I push" The speaker buzzed with a distant voice riddled with static "Hmm, sounds like you're having a problem, let me come over in a couple minutes and fix that". Resigned to wait a for a little while, I looked more closely at my surroundings. There was actually quite a lot of detail in this old elevator; an elegant gold trim bordered the various panels, as well as the door. The walls were covered from ceiling to floor in a large detailed mural of some kind of battle. I started looking closer at the figures when a gleam of light caught my eye; there were two small nameplates next to the buttons reading "Heaven" and "Hell". *Those are certainly interesting names for up and down* I thought to myself. *They look official, but its probably just a prank.* Right then, the elevator chimed and the doors opened. Looking at me was who I imagined to be the man I was talking to earlier; a deep-set and weary face accompanied by a body in a loose and worn-out one piece uniform. There was a small patch that read "Elevator Repair Co" above his right breast pocket, and a tool belt around his waist with various key chains and a walkie-talkie patched with duct tape. He partially stepped into the small elevator, and quickly glanced around before settling his gaze on the duo of buttons with the curious labels. "These are funny little nameplates, did someone put them on as a joke" I asked him, breaking the silence. He responded by pushing the lower button, and quickly stepping out of the elevator. The doors started closing, and a small grin grew on his face. In the last second before the doors were fully closed, he said one word. "No".

Your best friend is a conspiracy theorist and he just found out you're Illuminati.

Sarah ran her hand over the coarse leather cover of the pyramid clad book. She opened it and smelled its dusty and leathery scent. "Oh my fucking god," she said as she eyed the various illustrations of ancient architecture and mystical beings. She remembered conversations with Jenny about the mystery of the world and how Jenny never had much to say, she always claimed to be agnostic and disinterested. She thought back to all their late night xbox marathons fueled with a mix of mountain dew and sometimes pot and all their philosophical conversations, but never a mention of this. She ran her hand to the back cover and saw Jenny's initials pressed into the leather, burnt in, and fading from age. "That's duplicitous, bitch," she said aloud. Jenny walked into the room holding two cans of diet pepsi. She handed one to Sarah with a smile. Her face went blank when she saw Sarah holding the book. "So... you're some kind of cultist," Sarah accused. Jenny sat down and sighed. "Look, its a family thing. Like a family religion. I got that when I turned 12 from my crazy uncle. What do you want me to do with it? Burn it?" "Or fucking tell me about it! I mean, I've been into this stuff for years! You know that!" "Tell you what exactly? I mean, do I waltz into your home, pick up a bible, and demand you teach me Catholicism," she said impatiently. Sarah sighed, "Its not the same." Jenny stood, "Oh its not? Its some bullshit old men in robes came up with to control people. My bullshit has a more colorful history and aliens. Your bullshit has crusades, witch hunts, and old jews." "Old jews? You're being offensive." "That's what Jesus was, Sarah. An old fucking jew. Probably some rabbi with a lot of anti-establishment ideas that got him in trouble. He didn't do magic. He doesn't listen when you pray. The same way aliens don't run the world. Or lizard bankers. Or whatever. Its just the same powerful white male politicians who run things and as women, we need to realize this, and play their game." Jenny threw her hands in the air and sat. Sarah rolled her eyes. Jenny continued, "Look, its like being a scientologist. Being a member lets you into a certain social circle. Access to that circle gives... benefits. I don't want to piss off my uncle. I know he helps my parents with money now and again." "How opportunist," said Sarah snidely. "Well, is it? I mean, you met your boyfriend at church, and you'll probably marry him. You got that last job through Ashely's mom at church. I really don't think its all so different." Sarah looked away and out the window. "I'm sorry... I didn't mean to be accusatory." Jenny sighed, "Its okay. Being part of something non-mainstream is always difficult I think. The stuff other people hear about it is always inaccurate. I didn't mean to snap like I did." "Last year, whats-her-name in study hall asked me how often I protest abortion clinics. I was like what?" "Yeah, like that. The negative and dramatic stuff is concocted by drama queens and the the mentally ill." Jenny paused, "So do you want to really learn about it? I can tell you what I know. Its probably more mild than you're expecting. Its a lot of boring historical stuff that doesn't really match up to real history books. All the paranormal claims are clearly bunk." Sarah smiled, stood up, and turned on the xbox. "Naww, its good. Lets play halo and forget about this. Its all crazy talk, isn't it? I mean, what's life about, really? It should be about good times, friends, love, and laughter." Sarah looked at Jenny. "Agreed," Jenny said with a smile. Jenny laughed, "Yay! Halo to the rescue," as she turned on her controller and high-fived Sarah. "Or do you want to fire up steam and play The Secret World? I have a quality level 6 Illuminati character," she said with a smirk. "Oh you bitch," replied Sarah as she picked multiplayer deathmatch and said, "You're going to pay for that!"

A strange man knows a worrying amount about you. He’s here to help.

‘James! James!’ the man called out as he alighted the E train at Forest Hills/71st Ave, his eyes scanning rapidly for someone. I looked his way from across the platform where I was waiting for the transfer to the F. I didn’t know him. His overcoat was rumpled and his hair blazed the color of the F train’s signature orange circle. Even though it’s hard to look out of place at any Queens subway station, he managed the feat. He ran up the stairs from the E platform shouting a few more times for James. I quickly forgot the man and returned to the article about the mayor’s lavish ball at Gracie Mansion I was reading in the *New Yorker.* The F train was still 6 minutes away. As I was reading the fluff piece about the clams casino NYC’s first lady served, my nose was assaulted by the smell of stale linguisa and sweat. I looked up to see the orange-headed man staring down at me. ‘James! I found you.’ I was about to tell him it must be another James he was looking for when he sat down, closer than he needed to be, on the bench next to me. ‘James,’ he continued, bowling right over my objection, ‘I’m so glad I got you before you got on the F. I just missed you at Kew Gardens when you first got on the train.’ That brought my back up straight and the magazine fell to my lap forgotten. ‘What do you mean you’ve been following me since I got on the train?’ I stared at the man and got my first really good look. He wore glasses taped at both ends. His eyes had narrow pupils that drilled into mine like an MTA Sandhog doing tunnel work. As he spoke I could see remnants of sausage built up along his gumline. ‘James, I missed you at Kew Gardens but I tried to catch you at your apartment on Talbot Street before that. It was imperative I get to you before you go to Manhattan. I’m just here to help.’ The man was breathless at this point with his explanation. I’d had enough. I don’t know who this man was but I was just trying to get to work. I got up to find another spot on the platform, try to lose myself in the crowd. The man’s hand fell to my chest as I started to get up. His arm was strong, holding me in place. ‘James, I told you I’m just here to help. You’ll want my help once you get to work.’ His tone turned stern, ‘Now you’ll get on the F train when it arrives in,’ he looked up at the electronic message board, ‘two minutes. You’ll take the train to Manhattan like you do every day. You’ll get off at Bryant Park like you do every day. You’ll walk to your job at 41 West 42nd Street. 7th floor, I believe.’ He removed his hand from my chest, but I was still paralyzed by this man reciting my daily routine. He reached into a pocket of his overcoat. ‘And when you get to your desk,’ he continued, ‘you will log into your computer. You haven’t changed your password in a while, it’s still *7Yankees!* isn’t it? Of course it is. When you get to your computer, you’ll slide in this thumb drive. Remember, I’m just here to help,’ A small plastic flash drive emerged from his pocket and he dropped it on the cover of the *New Yorker* sitting in my lap. The man got up and walked slowly away his orange hair like a sunset over the Rockaways. I clutched the magazine and stared at the thumb drive. A screeching brought everyone else on the platform to their feet, the F was here. I got on the train to head to work just like I do every day.

A person with a high school education gets sent back into the 1600s and tries to explain science and technology to the people.

"So basically, magic," said the bartender. The rest of the villagers murmured in agreement. I had stopped concealing my sighs hours ago. "No. Elec-tri-city." The hardest part about suddenly appearing in the year 1612 is thinking you're going to change the world and then realizing you have no idea how things really work. I had started with the whole bacteria thing and that went nowhere for awhile. I mean, think about it. Yeah, so there's these tiny living things that are so small that you can't see them (but trust me they're there!) that are attacking your body, which by the way is made up of billions of tiny things themselves, and when the bad tiny things get the better of your good tiny things, you get sick, and your body has these specialized tiny things that fight the bad tiny things and if those fighting tiny things win, then you get better. Fuck me, right? I had actually succeeded in introducing pasteurization. I didn't exactly know how to do that either, but I brought the pond water and milk to a boil before cooling it back down ('cause it kills the tiny bad things!). The few people who looked passed my lunatic rantings and committed to trying my stuff were getting less sick from liquid, so I guess the process worked. I had a larger following now and they were listening to me. "How about this," I said. "So the lightning, that we create from... uhm, this lightning creating station, travels through the metal wire that's connected to every home, and is received by this glass ball that has this tiny piece of metal in it that glows from getting hot from the lightning and that's electrical light for you." The villagers looked around at the candles and oil lanterns that lit the bar quite well, gave each other nods that seemed to say "yeah we got this whole 'light' thing down already, stop your lightning harnessing nonsense" and turned back to me. "So basically... magic," said the bartender. "Get me a key," I said over the ensuing rabble. "And a kite. There's a storm tonight and I'll show you exactly what I mean." An old lady answered me. "What's a kite?" "Get me some sticks and string and... uhm... paper? Or cloth? Uhm..." Fuck me, right?

Scientists discover that we live inside of a computer simulation. They also discover DLC and cheat codes.

The first code to hit the internet was Infinite Lives and it immediately caused a rash of suicides, car chases, and monumental acts of daring filmed by spectators and uploaded to Youtube. My brother Ness was among the first in Toronto to try and climb the CN Tower with his bare hands, only to fall barely a hundred meters into the ascent. Poor bastard didn't have the Invicibility code yet, and suffered three humiliating weeks of respawning with 10% Health only to die of his injuries again and again, repeating the cycle every fifteen agonizing minutes. By the time Invincibility leaked and he was released from the hospital, the world was chaos and confusion. Most of the internet was shut down, key servers in the States unplugged to prevent DLC Torrents from spreading, but the damage was already done. Thousands flew across the skies, dozens dropping to the pavement from slamming into buildings or going too high and losing oxygen; the Breathing Underwater code was out, but not the No Air Required cheat. I picked my brother up from the hospital in my beige Pontiac Aztec, Anti-Gravity Cheat enabled. Tires spinning, we flew north while I caught him up on the news, barely out of the city when the DLC hit. All of Toronto and another three hundred square miles were overwritten by a Desert Canyon patch that erased eight million lives in the blink of an eye. Ness was horrified but I took it in stride. "That's maybe the hundredth city this week," I informed him. "Everyone will respawn eventually. Paris DLCs were downloaded on top of ten cities in India, complete with duplicate Parisians, and there's a new continent in the middle of the Pacific that's an exact duplicate of Germany. Nobody is claiming responsibility for anything, but the President said it was Anonymous Terrorists. Then D.C. got nuked, redownloaded by Government Mods, and nuked again; I'd stay away from the whole East Coast if I were you." "I need more codes," Ness grumbled, eyeing the thousand-foot-high Viking stomping across the horizon. "It's not fair that everyone else has more than me." I couldn't help but laugh. "Everyone has Infinite Money and it's made money obsolete; I tried buying a yacht last week and found out it was easier to steal one. It's not about having as many cheats as possible, it's about having the best ones. Here, take my Cheat Code list, pick and choose which ones you want." "You have a yacht and you picked me up in an Aztec?" "...It took too many Hadokens in a battle above Lake Eerie," I confessed. "It was shielded from physical attacks but not magical ones. Lesson learned, right?" "So where are we headed?" he wondered, studying my list of codes. "Greenland. I found a collective that's building a few thousand spaceships, we're heading off planet ASAP, I got us spots on the USS Enterprise. Well, one of the Enterprises anyways. The fewer people are around us, the safer we'll be." Below us the landscape shimmered and changed from a snowy forest into a tropical archipeligo, twenty thousand islands running to every horizon, each one ringed by sublime beaches. "Will there even be a Greenland by the time we get there?" Ness asked, entering the Weapons Pack 2 code. Twenty loaded guns spawn into the air (and through my windshield) around us, dropping on the dashboard, our laps, and the backseat. "Most of Greenland is being run by Minecrafters, so they've put up a good defense. But there's no way of knowing until we get there." Punching in the code for Invisibility, Ness suddenly vanished, his voice echoing from the open air as a gun floated off the floor to point straight at me. "Remember that time you slept with my ex-girlfriend Mandy?" There's no room for hesitation anymore, and no allowances for inconvenience. I hit a button on the steering wheel and activate the ejection seat, flinging Ness from the van to leave him falling in my wake. I'm glad he can't fly yet and disappointed that he's chosen petty revenge, but so be it. I'm a Level 70 Rogue now, and it's beneath me to take shit from a Level 2 n00b, even if he is my brother. If all goes according to plan, I'll be wearing a Master Chief skin and flying past the moon before nightfall, my trusty PokeDragon at my hip ready to unleash hell at the slightest provocation. This is how the world ends, not with a wimper or a bang, but in a mass PvP orgy. I just hope I can make it to Greenland in time.

She was the most exquisite love you've ever had -and her betrayal of you the most intricate and damaging.

Most people say they could never tell you what makes them love someone. I was never most people. And her? Even less. It was the smile. It was always bright, always warm, always there. It was something that was more than a mere showing of teeth. It was what made her entire face light up and shine. It was what led me through the dark so many times. Through sickness, through death, through grieving, it was there. That smile made even her already bright eyes warm embers that I could never help but shiver against. It was the look that melted every part of me, opened me up to every word she whispered in my ear. With that smile, she became to me a perfect sculpture, porcelain, a goddess. It became my obsession, my drive, my life to see that smile. To know it was just for me, caused by my simply being, that was what made me love her. It was seeing her face so joyed by my actions that drove me. It drove me to work, to succeed, to live. To me, it was all things. And then it was gone. So suddenly as I felt it appear, those smiles were gone. Replaced by tears, shouting, and a dead look. It was a look that destroyed me twice over. It was the look that held no joy, no warmth, no love. It was directed at me and solely at me. I had caused it, I had failed her. She was the same, she was porcelain, she was love. I was not. And like that, out of my life she went. I was lost. All those drives were gone. Replaced by a drive to drink, to forget, to fade. To me, it was the only thing. The true hurt though, the greatest pain, was not her being gone. It was something far more simple. It was spring. It was sunny. She wore her floral dress. He held her gently as they walked. And there that smile was. Not for me, not a sign of love to me, not a thing to keep me warm. It was for another. She was porcelain, I was not. She had another. I was no longer what she loved. Was I ever what she loved? Was that smile ever truly meant for me? Was I ever anything to her? All of me. She had taken all of me. And I was gone.

A man writes a guilty confession to something that isn't illegal or morally wrong, but he feels that it should be.

I was just walking, you know? Just walking. Trying to get home like anyone else, hunched in my jacket because it's freaking *cold*. You were ahead of me, maybe a dozen paces. I could tell by the set of your shoulders, or the way you adjusted the collar of your coat. Anxious. Sure, I was looking ahead. Nobody likes to bump into things. But until you messed with your collar and glanced back at me, I didn't really notice you, I didn't think there was anything wrong. Our eyes met, and yours widened, and you started walking faster. You were hurrying, and I just kept walking at my normal pace. This has bothered me all night. I'm so, so sorry. I was just trying to get home. We were just walking in the same direction, around the same time. I should have taken a different way home. I should have stopped, waited until you were out of sight. Or at least slowed down. Or ducked into a doorway and hidden, so you couldn't see me.

A child born and raised on a space station experiences gravity for the first time.

Growing up, my mother described it to me as the constant feeling of being pushed, by something you can't see, in every direction. I had never experienced gravity in my life. You see, my parents were the only two astronauts assigned to the Space Station Helios at the time of the Flash. Back in 2028 in the middle of a rebuild operation my mother had noticed a blanket of light cover the earth, that's how she described it anyways, and just as soon as it came it was gone. After that there were no communications from earth and the systems on the station appeared fine so they waited. They waited for someone, anyone to come for them, but they never did. Now, 18 years later and the computer systems are failing, one by one. My father told me that the only way we can survive is to attempt a crash landing and hope that the on board safeties will be able to hold us. As we plummeted downward I began to feel.....tight? I guess tight is the best word I could use to describe it. It felt as though I was trying to be squished into a space that I just couldn't fit. I held my parents hands, anxiously awaiting the inevitable. We crashed landed in a forest. I had seen pictures of trees growing up, but being right next to one in person, they felt so....powerful. They towered over me. After the initial shock and awe I began to notice the little things, new flavors in the air, new smells, the difference of seeing the sun without a UV Shield, and the pressure. It was constant but not uncomfortable, and it was all around me. This must be gravity, I thought. Mother did her best to explain it to me and she did well, but I think she got one thing wrong. It didn't feel like I was being pushed, it felt like I was being embraced. To me, it felt like the earth was hanging on. That it didn't want to let me go.

A father gets to write his childs' destiny and life. He is in a dilemma, from his horrible life experience, he knows how bad life can suck, but he knows it has its importance too. what does he do? how does he come to the conclusion?

*That won't do.* Jim thought long and hard about where his son would go in life. He thought about his childhood, his friends, his experiences in school. He thought about his love life, the women he would meet, the fun he would have. He thought about his career and his future family, the children he would father and the kind of father he would be. He thought about the pain and suffering that he could be responsible for preventing. He erased his most recent entry. *That's not going to work either.* Jim was having writer's block of the most dire sort: he could not figure out how his son's life would go. Still, there had to be a way; a way to avoid the terror of the unknown and the horrors that which life could bring. He thought long and hard about his own life. ~ "I can't stay here anymore, Jim," said Mary. "This isn't the life I want." "Mary...," Jim took a deep breath. "Y-you can't do this. Our boy is in the other room sleeping. This is our home. This is the life we made together." Mary looked toward the doorway to their son's room, her face scrunching up, trying to hold back tears. "I'm sorry Jim, but he'll be better off without me. And this disgusting apartment is hardly what I would call home. I'm sorry but I have to go." Jim reached out for her hand and began to beg. "Mary please. You can't go. You can't do this to me, to us. I can't do this alone, I need you." She looked at him one last time. Her eyes said "I loved you," but her voice did not. She left and never came back. ~ "Please, I don't have any more money. My son is hungry and I need to get him something to eat. If you would just leave a little for-" "Fuck off," said the bearded man. He held his knife closer to Jim as he sorted through his wallet with one hand. "It's only fifty dollars, pal. Hardly worth my time, but I'll make do." "No, please, you don't understand, my s-" The bearded man punched Jim hard in the stomach and knocked the wind out of him. He fell to the ground, dazed, as he watched the man run off with the only money he had that week. ~ *There must be something I could write. Maybe if he doesn't...no that won't work either.* Jim was stuck. He wanted the best life for his son, but he wanted to make sure it was perfect. He had to spare him of the pain and suffering that his son would have. That's when he decided. He would give his son the best childhood friends; kids that would look up to him and treat him as a leader. He would give him the very best education, for his son would be one of the most intelligent men alive. He would become the CEO of one of the largest corporations in the world, and he would be one of the richest men on the planet. He would have anything and everything he could desire. This was the life Jim chose for his son, and it would be the life of a king. Smiling, Jim set pen to paper and wrote and wrote and wrote... ~ Carson sipped on a glass of fine wine as he roamed his study looking at photos he had propped up all around the room. It was a twelve hundred dollar bottle, but he couldn't help but feel like it tasted the same as a local liquor store. For some reason he enjoyed it, but he hadn't the faintest idea why. He moved from photo to photo. One was of him and a great leader from the middle-east. Another had him shaking hands with the president. All of the photos depicted him with a partner in business or a person of power, but the photo he kept on his desk was most important to him. It was of himself and his father, Jim, from several Christmases ago; the last Christmas they would have together before he passed away. Carson looked intently at the photo. He thought about the life he had and how his father influenced it. Carson idolized the struggles his father had to overcome. He was proud of him, and wished that he could become half the man his father was. He thought about the good memories, the dreams he built, the world he helped create. Still, something nagged at Carson. Something just wasn't right, but he couldn't figure it out. He tossed the thought into the back of his head like he normally did when he had that feeling. Finally, he smiled at the photo one last time before muttering to himself, "I love you, dad." And though he didn't want to, he took a sip of his wine and headed off to bed.

The villain defeats the hero but the world turns out to be a better place because of his twisted views.

"Tell me, Mr. Curondo, do you think that the means justify the end?" Mr. Curondo, tanned, well-muscled, shirtless, and strapped to a tilted surgeon's table replied with his usual bravado. The laser was slowly sliding between his legs. "Evil is evil Raen. In the end, good always triumphs." The black cloaked figure replied in his gravelly voice whilst initializing his doomsday device, "What is good, what is evil? They are labels, like hero and villain. You think you know which of us plays our part. What of your masters? What of your purported Philosopher Kings? Are they truly wiser? Do they know best?" The laser inched closer, but Curondo did not flinch. "Who could know better? They've lived hundreds of years, they've outlasted nations. We have not seen a war in a hundred years, nor famine in fifty." "What of the Tithe then? What of the children they kill to maintain their peace? Is that good?" The sequence was initialized. In minutes, the Philosopher Kings would be burned to the ground, their black magic with them. Humanity would be free once more. Free to war, to learn from mistakes, to accept responsibility for itself. "Sacrifices must be made." With that, Mr. Curondo snapped the lock his fingers had been quietly worrying at. He spun off the table and landed with his fingers on Raen's throat. "So then, you condemn us to peaceful slavery?" asked Raen. Curondo crushed Raen's pale throat for answer. The villain won. Anarchy was aborted. Prosperity and status quo were maintained.

A man is driven to madness by his toothbrush.

The second shelf. That damned second shelf. Every morning, and every night, I put my toothbrush on the first shelf. And every day, when I reach for it, it's on the second shelf. It was maddening. Who was moving it? Who was tormenting me?! I didn't deserve this. And then, one day, I saw him do it. He looked just like me. He was living in the mirror behind the sink, disguised as my reflection. Only he wasn't my reflection. He was a bastard. He was the cause for my stress. For my therapy sessions I cut off, for my pills I stopped taking. He was the cause. One day, I put my brush on the shelf and waited. I waited a safe distance from the mirror, until I felt it was time, and I went to investigate. Like clockwork, he appeared. He moved my toothbrush to the second shelf again! I just became so...mad! I punched him, and he shattered. Or rather, the mirror shattered. He was still in the shards. But as I picked one up, I saw him in another. I saw the shard, *my* special shard, next to him, in *his* hand! No, not my toothbrush! I still controlled the shard. It was mine, not his! And so I dug. I dug into his neck. And dug and dug. And I woke up here. Everyone here is so nice. They understand how dangerous he is. They showed me a picture of him. They've put him in a special jacket so he can't move his arms.

Time freezes for all but one man, and does not restart. What does he do?

Chuck wandered through the countryside estate he most recently found himself in, the hallways and rooms silent and empty, abandoned and forgotten. It felt as if this place had been long ignored, and yet there was no dust, no sign of neglect. How many days it had been since someone else had walked these halls? Had the days turned into months? Did those words still have any meaning? There hadn't even been a day since the big stop, not a real one, anyways. The sun remained sitting in the same spot it had been, shining down onto the one poor soul who could still be warmed by it. Perhaps permanent day was better than everlasting night, but Chuck wasn't sure. There was something unsettling about the brightly lit cities now turned into eerie art shows filled with sculptures stopped while living normal lives. Chuck wondered if it would have been better if the big stop happened at night, at least then he wouldn't have had to see as much, to feel as much regret. Chuck had been mid-conversation when the world stopped. At first, he thought his friend had been playing some strange joke, but soon bemusement turned into genuine concern, and when Chuck realized the extent of the catastrophe, into pure terror. For a while, terror was all there had been, but those first few moments had been nothing compared to what had followed. For some time, Chuck had tried to reverse what had happened, dragging several people into his workshop, trying to think of ways to revive them. He still remembered how they felt, remembered how strange it was that they were still warm to the touch, that they still felt alive. But after one failed experiment after another, he came to accept that they were not, that the universe had decided to end, not with a bang, but with silence. And the realization that came next was the worst of all. The universe had ended without him. Only Chuck had been cursed with this fate, the fate of living alone in a world that was as alien as any Chuck had ever seen in a film or read about in a book. For some time after, that despair was all there had been for him. He would have given anything to be with his friends and family, to be frozen and ended like everyone else. Chuck had considered suicide, but knew that no matter his circumstance, he couldn't find the courage to kill himself, wasn't even sure if he wanted to. What would be the point of it? But then again, what was his reason for living? It took a while before Chuck found one. But while wandering the countryside he did. The sun perfectly framed this mansion and the grounds, and a family sat frozen around a pristine picnic table. A mother, a father, a little girl, and a little boy. Chuck sat beside them and saw in their silent faces the embodiment of joy and happiness. He saw that for these people, life had reached the best point it ever would. He looked around and saw the world not for what he had lost, but what it had been. The happy family, the beautiful day, and the mansion that sat behind them. These things were holy. And Chuck thought back on what he had seen in the city, the less than savory samples of life and crime which he had seen. Those things, too, were sacred. Echoes of the world that had been, of the people that had lived, of the times that were no more. Chuck finally realized why he was here, how he could keep on living until the universe finally decided to spare him. Without Chuck, all of what had been would be lost, the beauty of both good and evil would be gone forever with no one to appreciate it. Chuck owed it to everyone and everything. He would be the one that watched, the one that remembered. Though the universe had ended, through Chuck it would live on.

The day after a near-fatal accident you receive a letter from God, saying it was just an administration error, and he asks you politely to commit suicide within 30 days.

The words which seemed a farce were printed on clean, neat stationary that somehow shimmered with an ephemeral glow, lending credence to the preposterous words written on it. There's no way I could describe the message written on that letter, except maybe as impossible. But just as impossible had been my insane survival on the mountain some time ago. I could still feel the crushing wall of snow knock me over, could still see the light fade away as my entire view was shrouded in the darkness caused by the onslaught of cold. I could remember being forced into the deep crevice and buried alive in the heavy snow, and the only thing I could hear was the muffled roar of icy death. But by some miracle, I had survived. Not even a scratch on me. The snow had parted ways, leaving me with a clear sight of the way out. More than that, when the avalanche's wrath settled, I was left with a solid ramp of snow to lead me up and out of danger. I should have known there's no such thing as miracles. I read the words on the letter another time, and let them sink in. I would have thought it a joke, if I hadn't seen what I saw on that mountain, hadn't walked away from certain death. But reading this letter, I knew it was true. It was a letter from God, and it went like this: >Dear Chris Huntings, >We hope this letter finds you well. We are led to believe that the events you survived on January 25th were what most people would describe as miraculous. Indeed, we too find it surprising that you survived such an event. >As a result, an internal audit was launched to verify the validity of your claim, and we have come to the conclusion that no miracle should have been awarded to you at this time. We apologize for the inconvenience, and assure you that the angel responsible for your claim has had their position terminated. We hope this brings you some comfort. >Heaven, Inc. hereby requests your assistance in the following matter. As you have been erroneously awarded a miracle, please report to the place of said miracle within thirty (30) business days, so the error can be corrected. As a favor to you, our client, and as an apology for making the mistake, Heaven, Inc. will ensure optimal skiing conditions so that your death is at least a pleasurable one. >Questions and concerns can be forwarded to our customer support office via prayer and/or ritualistic sacrifice. Our customer service representatives would be happy to help you one day a week, most weeks of the year, plus appropriate holidays. > Best Regards, > *God* > CEO, Heaven, Inc. > A Parent Company to subsidiary Hell Co. I put the letter down, after reading it once more. It was all so surreal. Looking out of the window, I saw that it was snowing. . **[Part 2->](http://www.reddit.com/r/WritingPrompts/comments/1x9tj4/wp_the_day_after_a_nearfatal_accident_you_receive/cf9iuh7)** **[Part 3->>](http://www.reddit.com/r/WritingPrompts/comments/1x9tj4/wp_the_day_after_a_nearfatal_accident_you_receive/cf9nyz0)**

American Astronauts finally land on Mars, only to encounter a fully self-sustaining Soviet colony.

Commander Thompson sighed as she put down her binoculars. Flight engineer Wei Ping took them from her and carefully sat down on the martian soil, his helmet light illuminating the surrounding area where she crouched. "Houston, Jane here, we have a protocol 7 event I think," she said into her mic. Wei began videotaping. "Houston here, whatcha got," a man asked as the comm lights on their suits went red. "We've got a person here. Vintage spacesuit. Definitely Russian. He... no.. she is coming towards us. I can't make out a face." Jane looked at the woman again. Her spacesuit was a mesh of dozens of emergency patches and the once vibrant red plastic was faded to a pale pink. She walked with a limp and slowly. Her hand kept wiping dust away from her visor, the automated dust wiper long broken. "Holy shit," said Wei. "That's a cosmonaut!" Jane spoke to Earth as Wei watched her lips move. "Guess my pay grade is too low for this conversation," he said to himself. He sat back into the buggy and watched the cosmonaut walk towards them from a mile out. Jane walked over to the buggy and pulled something out of a sealed compartment. "What is that," Wei said, shocked. "Is that a... gyrojet pistol? Commander, with all due respect, that's a weapon. We're not allowed to have those." Jane shrugged, "Command wants me armed. Trust me, I don't want to use this. Can you get her on the radio?" "Think so. Just don't point that thing anywhere near me," he said with a smile. The radio crackled, "Hello, American ship. I am Valentina Merokosha. I am cosmonaut. Supplies are very low. Please follow to base." "Wait, when did you land? What supplies," asked Jane. The radio only gave static as they watched her turn around and walk away. A moment later she turned in front of a boulder and disappeared. Wei shrugged. "Okay, so we follow?" He watched Jane argue with NASA for several minutes. He saw her hit a button on her chest and his radio came alive, "Sorry NASA, you're breaking up. We'll try again in a few." "Fuck it, lets go," she said as she joined him in the buggy. "We'll patrol the area for a bit. I don't see her anymore." "Err, is that what they told us to do," asked Wei as he put the buggy in gear and drove. "Not really," smiled Jane. "They also didn't tell me to do this," she said as she put the pistol back into its compartment. Wei laughed, "I just remembered my training on this buggy. That compartment was for spare transmission fluid. Did they really expect us to change tranny fluid on Mars? Like we're some interstellar Jiffy Lube? I should have guessed." Jane chuckled. "Wait, see that," she asked. "Yeah, I'll pull close to it." They stepped out of the buggy and stared at the piles of wreckage at their feet. "I think we just discovered the lost cosmonauts of legend. Guess it was a failed Mars mission," she said. "I don't see how anyone could have survived this," said Wei. Wei kicked at the metal debris. He bent over and revealed parts of a human skeleton in a spacesuit. He pulled at the spacesuit. He illuminated its face with his headlamp. A skull with long black hair looked back at him. He illuminated its chest and read the nameplate outloud, "V. Merokosha." He shuddered. "A one woman mission to Mars. How... lonely," Jane said looking away. "I guess she wanted someone to find her." Wei shut off his headlamp and looked at Jane, "Someone finally did." They sat silently in the buggy for a short while. Jane's tears fogged up her helmet. "So lonely, so lonely," she said breaking the silence. Wei took her hand and smiled at her. "Its okay, we found her. We'll tell people about her and she'll find peace." He then closed his eyes and began quietly chanting a Buddhist prayer. "Yes... yes, we will," she said and began to radio Valentina's story back to Earth.

Two young men agree that if both of them make it past 90 they will try to assassinate the other to gain each other's inheritance.

Jon stared at the digital clock on his bedside. *23:59* it told him, the digits flickering gently in the dark of his room, the colon between the two numbers dancing its rhythm. "Tick tock, tick tock, goes the clock," he muttered, chuckling gently to himself, recalling the words his mother always used to say. It was all she *could* say, before she passed away thirty-seven years ago. The Alzheimer's had really hit her hard, coupled with the slight hint of autism in her. He wondered if it would happen to him. It seemed unlikely, he had already gone mad years ago. It just so happened that his memory had stayed with him. *00:00* it whispered. "Happy Birthday to me," grinned Jon, raising the whisky to his lips. Ninety years old. He really had done well. The liquor burned pleasantly in his throat as he swallowed. Like him, it had aged pretty damn well. The seventy years it had spent in his cellar had served it brilliantly. By far his favourite twentieth birthday present. "*Happy birthday, you sweet bastard*," said the faded label on the back of the bottle. Jon gave a hearty smile, he was looking forward to seeing Finn. Jon stood up from the plush leather chair, and stepped past his grand, four-poster bed. The soft carpet felt glorious beneath his feet. The whisky bottle in his right hand, he pulled open the huge oak door that marked the entrance to his quarters, and stepped out into the hallway. He fumbled for the heavy golden light switch, and flicked it down. The large glass chandeliers illuminated, revealing the vast corridor before him. Portraits of old men long passed hung on the wall, staring down on him. The marble floor stretched hugely towards a grand wooden staircase. Grinning from ear to ear, he walked, his velvet dressing grown soaking up the warmth from the gorgeous underfloor heating. He trotted down the stairs, giggling lightly. This was going to be fun. More portraits loomed over him as he descended. In his mind, they too were grinning, anticipating his next step. He moved onwards and onwards, finally touching down on the ground floor. He darted forwards, dancing through a grand stone archway. Laughing louder now, he leapt onto the red leather sofa, beaming at the flames waltzing in the fire place. He loved the way that they brushed so gently against each other. Finally, his laughter died down. His smirk dampening, he drifted back into the sofa, setting the whisky down on the glass table beside him, taking another sip from his glass. This was *bliss*. Smiling gently, eyes closed, he listened with euphoria to the footsteps crunching down the gravel path outside. As the noise got closer and closer, he got nothing but happier and happier. The footsteps left their crunchy state and became suddenly more firm and solid as they crept onto the porch outside, followed by a light tap on the door. "Come on in Finn, it's open!" The door slowly creaked open, the warm summer air creeping inside with the visitor. Eyes still closed, he smiled happily as the footsteps entered the room. "Jon?" "Good morning Finn!" beamed Jon, sitting forward in his chair. He looked Finn up and down, casually taking note of every detail, from the grey in his hair to the laces on his boots, from the gun in his hand to the moustache that resided under his nose. "You seem oddly... relaxed. To be honest I was expecting you to be hiding, judging by the fact that I'm about to take all this away from you," Finn explained. "Oh that is an outrageous statement indeed!" chuckled Jon. "You really think I'm going to give you all of this?" "I believe that is the case", uttered Finn. "I see you stuck to my promise", he said, glancing at the whisky on the table. "Oh I did! I always keep my promises!" "Then..." asked Finn, "why aren't you trying to kill me? Remember, seventy years ago today? Our deal? If we both make it past the age of ninety the man who kills the other gets their inheritance, surely your remember old man?" "Oh yes I do! I remember that fully!" he grinned, pulling out his .44 Magnum from under his dressing gown. "You sweet bastard!" laughed Finn. "I was starting to worry that you had lost it!" Jon laughed in a friendly way. "Oh Finn... you see, that's where you're wrong! I knew you were going to kill me, there was no fighting that! Me? I'm just a rich boy, raised by a rich family. You're a soldier, you know how to kill! I'd never stand a chance! It really appears that I remember our agreement more than you do, friend! *The man who kills the other gains his inheritance*!" "Exactly as I recall it Jon!" "You see Finn, I know I'm going to die today. There's no changing that. What I do have control over however, is who gets the inheritance!" "No... you're not saying that...", whispered Finn, raising his weapon to Jon. "Oh yes I am. I am saying *that* indeed, Mr Finn old boy." Finn fired, the bang of the gun echoing through the mansion. Only it wasn't Finn' gun that had gone off. And it certainly wasn't Finn that had been hit.

An aspiring writer just wrote his best literary masterpiece in /r/writingprompts. It receives no comments or upvotes whatsoever.

Clearest of skies, and bluest of seas, I poured my whole heart upon those keys, Leaves in the wind, those moments flew by, Beauty untouched like a summer's night sky, Refreshing the page, my mind set ablaze, Imagining the attention in so many ways, Love for my writing, compliments too, Yet I found my fantasies left untrue, The community I love, left my words unread, They might have been better to be left unsaid, Twas not cruelty of others, failure my own, Returning within my bitter shell with a groan, Dreams left shattered, unswayed Autumn leaves, Retreated behind my scarlet stained sweater sleeves, I downvoted everyone, simply out of spite, I'm a piece of shit, and my father was right.

A genie granted you immortality many ages ago. The last human other than yourself has just died out. What do you do?

It began millenia ago. How many I have long forgotten. It is interesting, really. When people think of immortality they think that they will simply live to be able to do anything they want – to experience everything and achieve a form of completeness. Yet, how many mere mortals remember anything that happened in their youngest years? Well, my first couples of thousand years WERE my youngest years. And I remember nothing. Only the Genie. Only my burning wish to live long enough to experience it all. I have a picture. It shows me with my arm around a woman. I look very in love. That is all I have that is more than a couple of decades old. At one point a government erased all the data I had gathered, thinking I was too dangerous, and the following government kept up that practice. That too, of course, was many millennia ago. Governments are history. But I never really started collecting data again – why should I? Nothing has been fun or meaningful for as long as I remember. For the last couple of years I have only had the old man. He was the last alive, and I knew that he too, would die. He is dead now. I am not even sad. Never knew his name anyways. Mortals really don't matter much to me. How could they? They live for only a blink. I am eternal. I might even be a god. If all gods are like me, I wonder why they are prayed to. We are nothing special.

You are a serial killer in a support group full of other serial killers discussing each other's "problem".

**Look out! The descriptions are graphic!** "Aw, man!" Zev says. "You know when you cut the head off and blood squirts out and hits the ceiling? Isn't that awesome? It's like a fountain!" The other people sitting in the circle nod affirmatively. A woman, one of the few there, leans forwards in interest. "That's actually a real thing then?" she inquires. "I normally burn my victims houses to the ground, so I wouldn't know." A large man a few chairs down snorts. "Oh, you and your husbands, Ella," he says, "You should probably branch out. Aren't the FBI getting interested about all eleven of your husbands dying after taking out life insurance?" Ella huffs. "Screw them. Cops are useless. But that's a good idea. It's just hard to make it look like an accident, you know?" Another man, an average looking one, turns to look at Ella. "Speak for yourself, Sweetpea. I done fifty-two and the cops haven't even realized that it's all one person, they're so different!" Zev stands up, waving his hands. "Come on guys, settle down. We have to keep this under an hour, remember?" Ella rolls her eyes and acquiesces, as do the others. Zev waits for a second in case anyone wants to say anything, but no one volunteers. He continues. "Right. Decapitation. You have to be a bit careful with this one, cause those arteries in the neck are like fucking fire hoses." A woman dressed entirely in hot pink guffaws. "You fucked a fire hose, Zev? That's a new one. Are you going for a record of 'most objects fucked'? Cause it sure seems like it." Zev turns bright red. "What I do and do not have sex with is none of your business, Dolores. And besides, weren't you complaining about how hard it is to find men with gigantic dicks the other day?" Dolores turns beat red, and apparently sensing an imminent explosion, Zev steamrolls over her. "Moving on. Acid!" The average looking man grins. "It's awesome! The best way to hide the body is if there is no body. You can even dump it in the river when you're done!" A tall, skinny skinhead jumps in. "Ah-ha, so it's YOU who's been poisoning one of Boston's water systems! I should let you know that it's getting very annoying, no one pays attention to me anymore even if it's a triple sex murder." He looks like he's trying not to cry. There's a long silence, and then someone ventures tentatively: "How did you do a triple sex murder? Find a threesome going on and kill them all?" "Yep, and I even nailed their heads to the wall when I was done! No one appreciates me any more." The skinhead sniffs miserably. "We appreciate you, dude," A handsome oriental man says. "I don't think anyone's even considered a triple sex murder before." The skinhead brightens. "Really?" The group nods, glancing at each other in a way that says 'humour the crazy person'. Zev takes a look at his watch, and stands up. "OK, guys, we're out of time for today. Next session's same time and place, but a wednesday. Everybody good?" They nod and stand, talking to each other as they walk out. Zev shuts the door behind them. He's going to love trying their techniques on them.

You step outside your apartment to find a package containing a loaded gun and information about a person. The package was meant for your neighbor of six years who is apparently a bounty hunter. You were just headed to his place for your usual Friday night beers.

-038 "Son-of-a-bitch," Waldo shouted, tripping over something outside his door. He sprawled, but caught himself, tucking his shoulder and using his forward momentum to roll himself across the hall and back to his feet. He came up wary and looking to run. His eyes slicing left and right in search of danger. What he found was a crushed gift box. He worked the hall, inching back toward his door; a white ape in a red and white turtle neck sweater. He scampered the last few feet, scooped up the package and darted back into his room, slamming the door behind him. He leaned against the door, slipping his hand to the waist band of his pants to grasp for the firearm that was no longer there. Of course it wasn't there. It was Friday night. It was his night off. His night to unwind. He'd been granted a little rest and relaxation tonight before having to head back into the field. He listened at the door, searching for proof he was being hunted, but there was no one there. Content he was a lone, he stepped back to investigate the package outside his door. It was a cheap dollar store wrapping paper. The bow was a stick on. He looked around the seams for tampering and checked the bow for a wire, but it was just what it appeared to be--a poorly wrapped gift. He pulled out a folder from his pocket and flicked open the six inch blade and cut through the paper, peeling if off carefully. Under it was a simple brown box with a lid. He probed the lids edges with the tip of his knife, but there was nothing. The box didn't seem to be a bomb of any sort. "Ha ha." Waldo laughed. It not being a bomb was a surprise. He'd been hunted by all kinds of spies. Agent Black and Agent White were constantly leaving traps for him and bombs and using elaborate disguises. If it wasn't for their hatred for each other, Waldo might have been dead long ago. Thankfully, their agencies almost always sent them on the same missions, and he'd been able to escape them time and time again because their cold war attacks on each other. Why they wore plague masks with their protruding beaks was beyond Waldo's understanding, but the long beak-shaped gas masks had become a dreadful thing to see. Seeing the spy verses spy games of cat and mouse had become Waldo's guilty pleasure. As long as they were hunting each other, he was safe. Waldo was no hero. He didn't like guns and suspected that if he slowed down, one would find him. He tried not to carry a gun. He tried to take only jobs he with low risk. He lived and learned. The big jobs were a death sentence. If he needed proof of this, all he had to do was look at Carmen. Carmen Sandiego had pulled the big heist. She was a sorcerer in the spy game. She could take anything and loved leaving taunting clues, but where in the world is Carmen Sandiego now? In a swamp somewhere feeding alligators. No one is ever finding her again. It was why Waldo tried to become invisible, blending in. His was a life of the chameleon. He lifted the lid off the box, and swore. He lifted the dark 9 mm handgun from the box. The gun oil wafted up to his nose. It was familiar. He hefted the gun and cursed again. He could tell by the weight that the clip was full. Beneath it was a manila envelope. Inside that was a dossier. In that were dozens and dozens of photographs of the same red and white turtle neck and black-rimmed glasses. Someone had found Waldo. He picked up the paper and found the card attached to the bow; Room 609. He looked slowly toward the door. It was the room across the hall. They left the package in front of the wrong door. It wasn't meant for him. It was meant for his neighbor. He flipped through the surveillance photos of him. If they hadn't circled his face in each one of them, he wouldn't have been able to find himself and he was the one attending the peppermint enthisiast gatherings. Where else would he blend in. He stopped. The last page was hand bill with his face on it and price underneath. Waldo laughed. The man wasn't an assassin. He was a bounty hunter. He slipped across the hall with the gun back in the box and the dossier inside. *They didn't know his neighbor was out of the business. How could they?* He knocked on the door and after lengthy wait, his neighbor opened it. "Hello?" The myopic old man greeted in a pleasant voice that reminded Waldo of a squeaky screen door. His jolly face and bulbous nose was a relief to see. Once upon a time, he had been one of the greatest bounty hunters the world had ever seen and Waldo knew this. But now, he was old, endearing, and nearly blind. "Hello, Mr. Magoo. They delivered a package to my door by accident." Waldo told him, handing over the opened box. Mr. Magoo blinked and looked inside then up at Waldo and smiled a pleasant smile. "They do that sometimes. They want me to find anyone notable this time?" Waldo shrugged. "Me." He replied. Mr. Magoo laughed. "Maybe after our beer and a short nap, me boy." The old man laughed, dropping the box in the hall closet atop a mound of similar boxes. Each filled with a dossier and an untraceable gun. "Hurry, me boy. Game of Thrones is about to start. He shuffled down the hall, and Waldo followed after, smiling warmly. It wasn't ever spy that got to drink beer with a legend.

"She was like the girl next door, if you lived next door to a whorehouse."

She was like the girl next door, if you lived next door to a whorehouse. Long thin legs that went up to Heaven, and skinny arms covered in discount tattoos. She held herself with pride, this little girl in a woman's body. She didn't let nobody fuck with her, that one. I'd watch her through my screen door, while she laid out in the sun with that fucking bikini on. Jesus Christ, that bikini. Why in the Hell she let herself go out in that animal print abomination, I would never know. I would watch her come home with different guys, all in fucking hip-hopper sweatshirts and gangbanger bandannas. Sometimes a girl would be with them and I'd watch the shadows fuck with smoke rollin' out of the window. The girl had taste in other women, at least. They'd look clean as a whistle with platinum hair and goddamn yoga pants. Nobody'd sleep over. She had a rule about that. She'd always sleep alone cause she *knew* you can't trust nobody while you sleep. Tough little girl. She knew I was watching her. She would walk out and raise that skinny little arm and flip me the bird. Peelin' out in her tricked out Saturn. Like you can make that POS look good. She wouldn't even look at me. Her own Dad. I moved in next door to keep a good eye on her and she wouldn't even look at me. Ungrateful piece of ass. I'll always find her. She's my little girl, and she's mine.

You die and go to heaven. Everything that you've wholeheartedly believed in, was completely wrong.

I've always believed I was a good person. I couldn't really go on thinking that after I got up to the pearly gates, large as life and twice as real, and they didn't open for me. "Hello?" I called out, a little nervous but rationalising that it was probably just some kind of mistake. Or maybe Saint Peter was on his lunch break. Something like that. Right? "Hey there, dude." I turned around and there he was, tall and kinda grubby. He looked like he'd just waded out of the ocean in southern Australia, and all he was missing was his surfboard. Curly blonde hair stuck away from his head, a Heath Ledger-like smile lighting up his face. "I'm Pete. Sit down with me, why don't you?" He gestures to a particularly fluffy bit of cloud. I perch, he lounges, then hands me a spliff. I get high with Saint Peter. "So talk me through it man." "Why aren't the gates open?" "Chill, we'll get to that later. I just want to hear about your life." He folds his hands behind his head and lies back like he's completely relaxed. "Er... well, I don't know. It wasn't all that." It's a sad thing to say about your own life, but it's true. "I followed the rules. I got married. I had kids, a job, a house." "Sounds good, dude. You enjoy it?" "Yeah, I guess so. It was good. I liked things how they were." "Sin at all?" "Depends what you mean by sin. I was good. I never did anything to hurt anyone." "Yeah, you were a chill dude, dude." It's not really how I imagined Saint Peter. Next thing you're going to tell me that Jesus is some kind of organic food loving hippy with a passion for potpourri and incense. "So do I get in?" "It doesn't really work like that." "What's that supposed to mean?" I ask, the buzz wearing off "Well, dude. It's not enough to not do anything bad. You have to actively do something good. There's a super rad poem about it too, if I could just remember it." "What happens now?" I'm afraid. "Whatever you believe happens now." Heaven is gone. Heaven is out of reach.

His super power is knowing exactly what he needs to say.

"We should just go home. It's my fault the girls bailed, man. I'm sorry. We'll never get in now." Enrique Delgado looked his friend in the eyes. "Peter, we can go home, have some beers, play some video games, like we've done countless times before. Or we can do something different, something risky, something fun." The words cut open a wound Peter was trying to forget. The whole point of this night was to forget his ex. But her voice was ringing in his head. *Do something different for a change. I wish you'd take a risk once and awhile. You're never any fun.* "I want to get into this club." Enrique smiled. A bouncer walking down the line passed them. "Excuse me," Enrique said. The bouncer turned around, emotionless. "My friend and I really want to get in tonight. I promise you, I'll pay you back someday somehow if you let us in. I promise." The bouncer was transported to his childhood. His father missing game after game after game. *I'll make it up to you someday somehow kid. I promise.* A graduation no-show, he ran away from home, leaving his father for good. A letter years later, the old man was dying. On his death bed, *"I'm sorry kid. I know I drove you to it and I sure as hell know I didn't deserve it but there isn't a day of my life I didn't wish you had given me a second chance to pay you back for being a shitty father."* The bouncer had tears in his eyes. "I don't normally do this okay, but I'm going to let you guys in." Peter fist-pumped the air. "Alright, you're the man!" ---- I really like this prompt. I could keep going with this but I didn't want to get carried away. EDIT: [Part 2](http://www.reddit.com/r/WritingPrompts/comments/1xezrp/wp_his_super_power_is_knowing_exactly_what_he/cfaueg0) and [Part 3](http://www.reddit.com/r/WritingPrompts/comments/1xezrp/wp_his_super_power_is_knowing_exactly_what_he/cfb9eph)

You are a pirate who's tormented spirit has been attached to your sunken ship for hundreds of years. One day the ship is salvaged by National Geographic.

"A fine vessel she was, the Cutlass. Terror of the East Indies during its heyday. I remember those days of plunder and villainy with a fond eye. We used to pillage the living daylights out of the Dutch and French Galleons that sailed the seas between Indonesia and Pondicherry. Made quite a bit of coin out of it as well, though I usually ended up spending it on Chinese rice wine and loose women. A good life it was, yes. Then the storm came. It looked like any other storm we've been through, when viewed from a distance; a few gales, a couple splashed of rain, some wayward waves. It wasn't nothing we couldn't handle. How wrong we were. It was the storm of a century. Winds strong enough to blow a man's clothes offa him flew around us, knocking sailers overboard. Waves bigger than the buildings I once saw in London as a lad loomed above us, like black walls slowly coming down. The rain was so heavy we couldn't walk through it; we more or less swam. And then it came. The big one. A wave bigger than any I'd ever seen in me life. Musta been a league high, I reckon, and wider than 3 Cutlasses laid in order. And it came on us, and crushed us without mercy. I don't remember much after that wave. It was dark, and cold, and it was hard to breathe. I tried to swim back up, but I couldn't. The water pulled me in, grasping for me. I saw sailors slowly die, writhing until their last moments. All I could think, all I knew, all I felt, was regret. These years of life, of crude love and drunkenness, ended by our misfortune of sailing into the wrong storm. And as the regret consumed me, so did the water. That has been my life ever since." Philip watched the specter carefully. The man speaking was dressed as a standard Indian Sea pirate; loose breeches, loose shirt, and small black shoes with no socks. He wore a handkerchief over his head, red as blood and slightly damp-looking. The man's face and skin were mottled, similar to fingers after a particularly long shower. He looked like a deckhand, a simple sailor, but he had an air of wisdom around him. Perhaps the quartermaster, or the first mate? In any case, he looked nothing like a ghost, aside from the small flickers in his image, like the discrepancies of a VCR tape. "So," Philip said slowly, afraid he'd anger the spirit, "This ship's name is the Cutlass." "As I've just told you, yes." "And what purpose did you serve on this boat?" The ghost scowled and Philip flinched. "This ain't no fishing boat, lad. This is a full-fledged weapon of the seas. A battleship. A vessel that could take the finest Dutch ships easily." The ghost seemed to puff up with pride. "She's my love and my life." Philip felt that he should have said something about that last remark, but thought against it. "You seem to be rather fond of this... ship." "Well of course. A captain loves his boat as if it were his wife." Philip was startled. "You... were the captain?!" The man laughed. "Don't look it, do I? I was never a man for theatrics. No, I sailed however I pleased. And in the end, it brought me here. One false slip is all it took." Philip thought for a bit. "What happened after you drowned?" "I stayed down there. I saw my body decay. I walked through my broken ship for what seemed like forever. Saw the bones get eaten by sharks, saw coral reefs rise and fall, saw more and more vessels float over me. Sounds of war, of loud cannons, and some sort of damned explosive blowing up next to me. I cursed at those bombs. Every single one that fell were a threat to my ship. Broken as it is, it didn't need any more breaking. Occasionally a body would float down. Some were Chinese, or some sort of Oriental. Sometimes it was my own countrymen, of pale skin and bright eyes faded by death. I watched them fall, but none ever joined me. Nothing much happened after those days. Just the occasional islander fishing boat looking for food. Until you came, and raised me out of the sea." Philip couldn't believe his luck. Of all the things to happen when looking for wreckage, not only does he find some, he finds a reliable historical record. He could make millions. The research itself would be worth more than his current net worth. "Oi." Philip snapped out of his thoughts. The man stared at him pointedly, flickering somewhat. "Y-yes?" "I know your type. You're one of them science types, yeah?" "I'm an archaeologist. I study the remnants of history left on our planet to deduce the past." "Yeah, a science type." Philip rolled his eyes. "Yeah, close enough." "I've got a favor to ask of you." Philip was a bit startled by the man's statement. "I don't know how to help a dead man." "Oh, I think it's simple enough. You see, I'm not as fool as you think. A captain's gotta be sharper than the sword he wields. I've been counting the sunrises and sets, and figure out that I've been down in the sea for over 2 centuries. You are the first person to hear my voice in 200 years. Now hear what I hope to be my final request." Philip swallowed nervously. He didn't like the sound of that. "I want peace. I've heard of stories like mine, of doomed men stuck on the ships they died upon for eternity. The only way out is to have their last request completed." The man paused for a second. "Back in me country, there was a small city called Crawley. It was where I was born, and where I intended to die peacefully. If you search the captain's quarters of the ship, you'll find a small silver locket. My bones are long gone, but that locket ougta be enough to represent me." "What's in the locket?" Philip interrupted subconsciously. It was a bad habit of his. The man glared. "Let a man finish his thoughts," he said sternly, flickering extra. Philip shut his mouth extra tight. "It doesn't matter what's in the locket. In fact, I don't know if what's in the locket is still there. But it represents me. I want you to take it and bury it in front of St. John's Church. That's all I need you to do. That should free me." "...Where is Crawley?" "In England. A little more than a day away from London by horseback. I'm sure you'll find it." "And what if I don't bury it?" "Though I may be a ghost, there's still a lot I can do. Whatever you try to do here, I will ruin. Unless you get that locket buried, and me gone, you won't be able to get anything done here. Swear on me dead mother, I'll see to it." "Well, how will I know you're gone?" "You'll know." And with that, the man flickered out of sight. But Philip could feel a presence, watching him still. A difficult decision faced him. As Philip walked out of the remains of the ship they pulled out, the cameraman walked up to him. "Hey, we're ready to start filming. You all good to go?" Philip looked at the cameraman. "Not quite, Fred." Fred looked surprised. "What do you mean? You've been in there for a good 40 minutes. What's wrong with it?" "It's nothing special. I couldn't find anything of importance. Let's lower it back into the sea and try somewhere else." "What?! Dude, do you know how much money we spent on getting this thing out of the sea? Nat Geo is gonna kill us if we let it go down..." "Trust me. There's nothing there. Let's just go." "Come on, man, what's going on-" "Look, I said what I said, and I expect you to listen. There's nothing there. Now drop the damn thing into the sea, and tell the captain to go." They argued for a while, but eventually Fred relented, though still thoroughly annoyed. They carefully lowered the ship back into the sea, where it once laid for 200 years. Philip watched impassively as the last bit of damp wood sunk under the water. He could still feel the presence.

You wake up in your favourite TV series. The protagonist needs your help. As you get to know him/her better, you start to root for the villain/antagonist.

I used to be a church going man. Not many churches left anymore. For the last year or so, I've been struggling to find God in the world around me. But I'll tell you, He hasn't made it easy for me. I know I'm not the last person left on Earth. Groups of survivors pass through this town every now and then. Another group, led by a sheriff, just set up camp on the far side of town. I'm not the last man alive, but I might be the last one who keeps a calendar. I could be the only Christian on Earth who knows that yesterday was Easter. I spent the day alone, praying. As I knelt there, conversing with the All-Mighty, I had a revelation. Why do we fear the walkers? Ever since I was a boy, I've celebrated Easter and the Resurrection of our Lord. Now, for almost a year, regular humans have had the chance to resurrect. People in my community who died years ago have walked again, just as Jesus Christ did. Could it be that this isn't a plague sent from God to punish us, but a chance for us to live in the image of his Son? Could it be that salvation has been staring us in the face for the last year, but fear has left us stagnant? Since the dawn of time, our existence has been temporary; a gentle candle that could be snuffed out by the slightest breeze. But not anymore. How could we all have ignored the signs? How could I have been so blind? How could I not have seen that He has finally given us the key to immortality? The walkers are the next step in our evolution. Through them, we become closer to God. I owe it to the Lord to speed his creations through this transformation. It is not a virus that has spread over our land, but the light of the Lord. These groups of survivors cower in the dark, afraid of the light, but I will show them the way. The sheriff and his group.... they are among the first that I will bring to salvation. (Cue Walking Dead theme)

A famous detective is actually a demon who solves murders by speaking with the dead.

Being dead and confined to earth ain't much fun if you're broke. But then, being broke is never much fun anyway. So could you blame me for starting a small business on the side? Just to drum up some capital, you see. Make myself comfortable until Lucifer let us know the apocalypse was coming. They say do what you know, and I knew a lot about being dead. In my opinion, that left me with two choices: a mortician, or a P.I. Let's put it this way; I'm not elbows deep in some poor sod's guts at the moment. So I got a nice office in the centre of London, which was good for one reason and bad for another. Good because crime rates in London are phenomenally good for business, and bad because I had to compete with Sherlock Holmes for cases. But I had one thing he didn't have. And no, it wasn't social skills. I could speak to the dead. Bit like Ned in Pushing Daisies, but with smaller eyebrows and I don't like pie or quirky girls. 'No murder left unsolved.' I used to boast, but 'no murder left unsold' would be closer to the mark. I was rolling in it. I swan into the morgue, sit next to the body, commune with the dead, etc etc, then go out and apprehend whichever sinner did it. (While slipping them my Boss' business card. Nothing wrong with a bit of recruitment for Hell, after all) I'd never met a dead person who's case I couldn't crack. Then June happened. June was a lovely young lady about twenty-three years old, who seemed to be absolutely wonderful in every way possible. Unfortunately, June had managed to get herself murdered. The press were having a field day. "MURDERED YOUNG WOMAN" The tabloids screamed, headlines unfortunately juxtaposed right next to the sleek and promising pictures of the ladies on page three. I was in the middle of eating a beef and pineapple sandwich when the news broke, because I'd read somewhere that all good detectives had a quirky habit, and I didn't particularly feel like learning to play the saxophone. I got the call and I answered it with my mouth full. "'Allo?" "Detective? Is that you? You sound funny." It was my informant and close 'friend' down at the station, Thomas Thomas. I swallowed the sandwich with a huge gulp. "It's me. What do you want?" "June Summers, sir. We want you on the case." I slung on my leather jacket, which I'd picked out only because Holmes looked better in a long coat than I did, and swept out of the front door in a way which should have really been caught on camera - so debonair and flawless was my exit. I arrived at the morgue after miraculously managing to dodge all of London's Congestion Charge areas, and even more miraculously, all of London's traffic as well. Thomas Thomas was waiting outside for me. He'd asked me to call him Tom on the first day I met him. I'd refused, of course. Thomas Thomas was just too good of an opportunity to pass up. "Where's the body guv?" I asked, grabbing the cappuccino he was drinking from his hand. "Through here. But you're not going to be happy, sir. Holmes has beat you to it." I threw the cappuccino in the bin, having remembered slightly too late that I didn't like coffee, or cardboard cups. "Holmes, eh?" "Yessir...." Thomas Thomas followed me nervously as I threw open the doors to the morgue in much the same way that Aragorn pushed open the doors at Helm's Deep. I was going to have to speak to someone about getting a movie version of my life (or afterlife, as it was) I cracked my knuckles as I approached the skeletal body with the brooding face and the cadaver. "I don't want you to be here." Sherlock Holmes said, cheekbones bristling in anger. "Ah, Sherley, you can't be serious!" I said, taking a look at June Summer's body. "I am serious. And don't call me Sherley." Utterly devoid of humour, as always. "Any thoughts yet, then?" "None that I'm going to share with you." "I'm sure I can manage well for myself." I concentrated rather hard and felt myself slip into the spirit world. "June, hey June?" The death was recent enough that her soul was still hanging round her earthy meat suit, waiting to be carried away by Death or one of his minions. "Hey there. Am I dead?" She asked, floating around like something that would float around. "Yep. No biggie. You got murdered. Can you tell me who did it?" Her pretty face scrunched up like she was trying to remember. "I don't know." She said eventually. "I couldn't see. They came at me from behind. I was in my flat..." But the rest of it I already knew, and I zoned out to find Holmes looking at me with a strange expression on his face. "It was done from behind. Strangulation, most likely." I pronounced. "How could you possibly know that? You haven't even examined the body!" Oh I loved making the big kid angry. I tapped the side of my nose. "I'll work you out!" He said angrily, but I laughed off the threat. "Sure you will." I cast over my shoulder. "Sign me out, will you Thomas Thomas?" I'd picked my own name when I'd become a P.I. Based it more than a little off 'Death' and french words, both of which seemed impeccably classy (which suited me perfectly.) Thomas Thomas obligingly did so and I left with Holmes still raging behind me. "I'll get you Moriarty! You see if I don't!"

A husband and wife are both secretly in online relationships. They finally arrange to meet their respective paramours and realize they have been cheating on each other...with each other.

"If you like Pina Coladas..." Nah, it didn't happen that way. In fact, when I saw her at the Mexican restaurant, the one we always said we would try out but never did because we were "always so busy", a feeling of dread washed over me. I could see that that same feeling had overcome her too, because she had become as pale as a sheet. Yet, oddly enough, she didn't run away like I would have. That's what I've always loved about her, her bravery. Instead, she calmly walked up to my table, pulled up a chair, and sat down. We didn't speak for a few minutes. All there was was the clinking of dishes and the commotion of the happy diners laughing and conversing. "You're winddancer492," I said finally. "Yeah. How long have you known?" Now, I could have taken this opportunity to turn this all on her, to make her out to be the one who was in the wrong, the one who slighted me. But I didn't. "I didn't, not until a few minutes ago." "You mean--?" "Yeah." She looked away, and I looked at my lap. The waitress came and went with our drink orders. I continued looking at my lap. "You know, you're the first guy on that site that I thought had a lot of potential to go past being a fuck buddy." "Really?" "Yeah. You reminded me so much of the way you were before Annie di--" She couldn't finish her sentence. Instead, she grabbed the folded napkin on her table and started dabbing the sides of her gentle brown eyes. She shuddered. "You had so much passion and drive, and the way you spoke to me was just..." She paused, as if drinking in and relishing all of the words I had messaged to her, all of the excitement I had for a woman that was new and alive, one I had hoped could help me dig myself out of the dark void that was my relationship with my wife, even if for a while. Then, she frowned. "And then I told myself that I couldn't live with you anymore. Our baby girl looked so much like you, Andrew." I forced myself to hold back the tears. "But here I am...with you. I don't know what to think anymore." "Maybe we really are meant to be together," I said. "Maybe, but not right now. I think some time apart is ideal. You know, to clear things up for ourselves."

You discover the message meant to be given to "The Chosen One" was wrongfully given to you.

Stan checks his watch, the little clock in the bottom-right hand corner of his computer, the clock shaped like a cat across the hall which Suzie brought in to help "break up the monotony" of the office, which only really served to make the place more office-like. It's five o'clock, still half an hour until he was allowed to go home. In one window on his computer was the actual work that he was supposed to be doing, and in the one that was actually visible was Solitaire. His eyelids started to drift, open, closing, closing, closing, then snap back open again before he could fall asleep at his desk and get another lecture from Charlie about how the whole office needs to have "synergy" and that he simply wasn't "a team-star". Charlie was the kind of guy who unironically had motivational posters in his office, the kind with a black border, a picture of an iceberg that has three quarters of it's mass submerged, and the word "Potential" written in Times New Roman with a dot between each letter. Stan was about to take a sip of decaf from his Disneyland mug, when an angel exploded through the ceiling. The seraph, wings made of golden sun, eyes burning with the fire of God, pointed his sword that must have weighed as much as Charlie's Prius at Stan. "Yea, so it has been prophecized that one such as you would bring forth all of his strength to help bring balance to this corrupt world, nay, the entirety of the universe! Doth thou accept this most noble quest? Or be thou a coward of the most wretched kind? Speak, o wielder of the destruction-globe!" Stan started to shake uncontrollably, his Disneyland mug exploded with the ecstasy of the holy word coming from the hallowed lips of one of God's chosen. His clothes flew off his body and disintegrated, replaced with shining golden armour. He started to float above his office, Terry from accounting finally had the heart attack that everyone in the office knew was coming. Stan started laughing with joy, his life finally having meaning. Yes! All these years of monotony were all just a lead up to his ultimate destiny of being the one who will redeem mankind! Charlie came storming out of his office, moustache fluttering with anger. "Goddamnit, why is there a hole in our roof and a giant winged man right under the hole? Stan! Why are you floating? I don't think you can reach your keyboard from all the way up there, Stan! And another thing, it isn't casual Friday, you can't wear golden plate armour to work! It's just not professional. You get down right now or-" The angel pointed a single elegant finger at Charlie, and his body splattered all over the walls around him, some hitting the new espresso machine that everybody was excited about. "Now that thine oppressor has been sent to the deepest reaches of Hell, where he shall be eaten by wolves every day for eternity, thou art free to follow thine most worthy goal. Dost thou accept?" "Fuck yeah I do! Yeah! Let's go stab some God damn demons or something, I'm fucking ready! Woo! God *damn!*" The angel's head cocked to the right. "Didst thou just take the Lord's name in vain?" "Well, yeah, those demons are, by definition, 'God damned' so I figured, hey, we're all on the same team, we can get pumped up a little bit!" He scratched his head and made a magnificent scroll appear in his hands. He rolled it out, shook his head, and chuckled to himself. "Oh, um, quite sorry. You're not John Krieger, professional demon hunter, are you?" There was a long silence, the only thing heard was the ambient holy choir that emanated from the angel. "Umm, yes?" "Shit." The angel collapsed on himself into a beam of light, and ascended through the hole in the ceiling. The armour disappeared off of Stan, and he crashed through his desk, stark naked. He brushed himself off, covered his shame with his keyboard, and went to cry in the bathroom for a while.

Two brothers go to war but only one comes back. What happened?

It's hard to explain, really, but when you leave home and go to war, home isn't home anymore. It just isn't. The people change, they treat you differently; they nod and they give their respects, they thank you for your service or they ask you what it was like over *there*. Sometimes I wish I could be back with my squadron, with my friends. Where I understood how everything worked. Jim isn't coming back. Every day that I wake up I am reminded of this fact. It doesn't bother me too much, and that's what scares me. Mother couldn't handle it and dad is quiet these days, and everybody expects me to be torn up about it, but they don't know what he turned into. He enjoyed killing. He would talk about those that he killed and even in my squadron, there were those who too enjoyed it. They lived for the days where they could kill. They took comfort in it. But even there, even among the worst of it, it was familiar, it was something that you could control. You lived every day with a plan for the day in front of you. You operated and acted like a well-oiled machine, and you didn't let the people like Jim affect you. I have the nightmares occasionally, the moments when Jim would scare me. He would talk about things that no person should talk about, and if mother and dad knew about it, it would kill them, too. I remember the day he died, too, how Captain Jenkens had brought me into his tent and told me the news. Jim had been out on a scouting mission when they were ambushed. I cried that night, but it was the first and last time that I cried over Jim. But I can't talk about it here, I can't tell people how Jim had changed, how lucky we were that he hadn't come back, because home has a way of changing. It has a way of changing when you're gone so that when you come back, you feel as if you are a stranger in a foreign land with foreign strangers who don't really understand, and I don't know how Jim would react to it. They say war is hell. No... home is hell.

An Evil prince/ess is kidnapped or caught by the Good Guys and its up to the Villain to save her.

I'm not saying that Truly was a great sidekick, or even a good wife. Hell, she wasn't even even a decent cook! But when someone insults the name of Evil... Well I, Dastardly, am not just going to sit in my throne of virgin's femurs and take it! It started off as an ordinary Tuesday morning. Truly was making me breakfast, I was contemplating making myself breakfast so that I could avoid having to eat the one she was currently decimating. I'd never seen someone add *quite* that much chilli powder to scrambled eggs before. I greeted her with the usual kiss on her cheek and loving slap on the arse, then settled down with my favourite newspaper; The *Evil Times* to wait for disaster on a plate to arrive hot and ready, the way I wish my wife still was in bed. But disaster struck in a way that I had not been expecting at all that morning. Instead being served breakfast by my lovingly mediocre wife, I watched in astonishment as my windows were blown apart and two men in tight, white lycra swooped in on ropes. They swooped down, swooped up my darling Truly and swooped back out of the window before I'd had the chance to get out from under the table, or even offer a witty retort. It was three times as much swooping as I'd wanted to experience that morning, and twice as much tight, white lycra than was *ever* really necessary. The swooping had been their undoing, however. Despite not leaving so much as a ransom note, or a word of explanation, or even a crudely drawn phallus and a smiley face, I knew exactly who my wife's kidnappers were. They were the Goody Two Swoopers - a team of brothers who worked together to combat crime and Evil across the whole of Bonnopolis. And the men who had been my tormentors through four years of high school. My story had been one of predictable tragedy, as all good villains' are. Unloved by parents who deserted me, slow to learn and quick to anger, I had few friends and many enemies. Meeting Truly had almost turned my life around. How often do you meet a woman whose name fits so perfectly with 'Evil'? It was like we were made for each other. Reminiscing on my past had made me determined to get my girl back and save the day, even if the day saving would only really be a day saver in my eyes and nobody else's. I donned my black cloak, pulled on my leather gloves and strapped two semi automatics across my back. "Alright." I said to no-one in particular as I left the house. "Let's go to war."

A dystopian sci-fi short story where spoken language evolved to use hashtags, memes and similar.

"Hashtag hey there swag!" Joanna sang out to her husband when she walked through the door. She set down her groceries on the counter. Her husband came through the connecting hallway, and helped her unload the groceries out of their paper bags and on to the counters. "Honey, why the fuck," he paused, indicated the break in text, "didn't you get the salmon? We have an official checking on us tonight." "OMG." Joanna shouted, shocked. "Prepare yourself. The official is coming." Their toddler, little Jeffery, waddled through the door. He pumped his fist in front of his face, giving a look of triumph. "I had secks," he declared proudly. Joanna whirled around to look at him. "Not sure if serious," she said, pausing, "or just being childish." Jeffrey hopped up on the stools near the counter and leaned on it with an elbow. "I don't always tell my parents I had secks, but when I do, I'm lying." Joanna broke out into a grin. Her husband gave a sigh of relief. The spam ads that showed up at kindergartens nowadays started the kids early. Joanna then remembered that the government official was stopping by in an hour and she had nothing in the oven. Her husband watched her frantically attempt to prepare a meal, only to burn a chicken and a turkey. He went to the freezer in their basement. If their meal didn't appease the official, they could be executed. "What if I told you," he called out to Joanna, "that I just made the perfect meal?" He brought in a gorgeously made pizza in twenty minutes, setting it on the table. It had all the qualities of a homemade one. Jeffrey toddled into the room. "Yeah," he sighed, pulling up his pants and hefting his shoulders, "If I could get a slice of that, that'd be greaaat." Joanna stared at the pizza in amazement. "False. You couldn't have done that." Her husband smiled and shrugged. Hours flew by, and the government official smiled and loved their pizza. Jeffery regaled him with tales from the backyard. When the official took a bite of the pizza, he shouted "The quality of this pizza," he continued, "is too damn high!" Everyone laughed. You had to. "How did you do this?" The official asked, breaking the meme rule. He could, he was of a higher power. The husband put up his hands and told him "Aliens." The official had a hearty laugh, and soon after, he departed them with a check-plus inspection rating, the highest honor. When the door closed, Joanna turned to him and said- "One does nolt simply make that good of a pizza. Did you get it delivered?" The husband smiled into the distance. "It's not delivery," he whispered, "it's DiGiorno." (I feel dirty writing that. Ugh.)

Write a terrible piece of emo fanfiction. Really make me cringe.

I stared into her eyes. They were black and unforgiving, and their gaze pierced into my soul like a samurai's katana. How could I be crying so much, and she not be? The girl was heartless — *heartless!* "Get away from me," she whispered scathingly, her tongue licking across her teeth like a scalpel across the skin of my naked heart. I fell to my knees and felt the rocks cut into them, but it didn't even hurt. She might as well have slapped me, stabbed me, left me to die on the floor of the high school gymnasium, left in a pool of my own sweat and blood and tears. "Please," I said. Her rejection was pressing me down into the earth. I wanted it to swallow me up and eat me up, to simply absorb me and hold me there for millennia. There was no point to my life, I didn't matter, she knew I didn't matter. "I didn't mean to," I said. "Ugh," she said, and walked to the other side of the gym. I collapsed into myself, regretting that I had hit her — the love of my life, my soul and sun, the meaning of my existence — with a dodgeball. I deserved everything I had coming to me. ...aaaaaaaand I'm going to go take a shower now...

Superhero with the dumbest powers does something more heroic than any hero with good ones.

They all thought he was lame. All he could do was change the TV channel with his mind. Can't find the remote? Or too lazy to get up and get it from the table? This was a problem he would never know. He was laughed out of super school for having the ultimate lazy man super power. They imagined he'd waste his life away on the couch, a TV remote always just out of reach but never an issue. They were wrong. Twenty years later crime had dropped. Graduation rates had increased. And nobody on the planet had any idea why. It was him. Whenever a child tried to watch a show way beyond his or her mental maturity, he was there. Whenever a youngster turned into a program with no educational value whatsoever, he changed it back. For twenty years, he controlled the televisions of billions of young minds, and in this way, impacted their growth, developed their intellects. He wasn't just the mind behind their TVs. He was their teacher. He was their parent. He was...The Remote Controller.

Facebook attempts to talk down MySpace from suicide. The ending is up to you.

F.B went to grab the door handle, but found the door already open, slightly swinging from the strong wind coming from outside. His hand hovered above the handle for a moment in confusion, but firmly pushed the door all the way open. He stepped into the dimly lit apartment, and made his way to Space's bedroom. His door was closed, but he could hear loud repetitive music coming from the inside. "Hey, man. You in there? What's on your mind?" F.B called out a little bit louder, "Dude, why do you always have to have that music on every time I come in?" There was no response and F.B decided to push his way open. Sitting on the bed was Space, hands on his head, staring a hole into the ground. F.B walked over to the radio and switched it off. Immediately the silence was threateningly awkward. "Uh, hey man. What's been up with you?" F.B's words punctuated the air. "You know I've been okay, just went to the gym. Had a sandwich. Pretty...uh, fun day." Space didn't say anything. He didn't look up. All he did was pull a gun out from under his pillow. F.B jumped back. "Dude! What the fuck? Get that out of here!" Space looked up at his old "friend". His voice was quiet, but firm. "Stop calling me "Dude", and "Man". We've never been that close. I've realized I've never been close with anyone. I have all these fake friendships. All I do now is listen to bands and pretend to be something I'm not." F.B kept walking backward until he hit Space's desk, knocking over some papers in the process. "Space, du-, Space. It'll be okay. We can get through this. Let's go get you some help." "It's too late," Space mumbled, putting the gun to his head, "It's too late for me." F.B's hands started to shake. "Space, really. What about all that stuff you're doing now? You know I noticed you got a new look, I like it. I would like it twice if I could." The finger inching towards the trigger stopped. "You...like it? You do? I didn't think anyone noticed." "Yeah man," F.B's sweat started to soak through his clothes. "Yeah, I like it a lot. Everyone's been talking about it." Space looked up at F.B. "I worked really hard on it, ya know? I didn't think anyone noticed. I'm a changed man, F.B. I could really be something if people gave me a chance." The hand holding the gun slowly descended, eventually dropping the gun on the bed with a soft thud. F.B sighed in relief, "Yeah man, come on. Let's go get a beer or something. We can talk about this some more at the bar." "I would like that," Space smiled, "I would like that a lot."

Two brothers go to war but three come back. What happened?

[WP] Two brothers go to war but three come back. What happened? *Dig, dig, dig.* That’s all William was told to do. The art of trench warfare relied on dozens of soldiers having the thankless task of burrowing into the unknown. Still, it was better than being above ground, only the dirt could kill you down here. William wondered what his little brother, Samuel was up to. William had sent him out to go get refreshments for them almost half an hour ago. “Poor Samuel.” thought William. It was William’s fault that Samuel was here in the first place. William had been drafted and Samuel had demanded to go as well; he hadn’t realised the reality of war, the bloody propaganda always worked too well. Still, they were both lucky, the Captain had been a close friend of William during their days together at university and as such, he gave them the easier the tasks. *Dig, dig, dig. Where was the little bastard? I’m being to feel…* William had hit a soft spot and felt the dirt give way. *Shit!* William scrambled to backtrack, but his trench was too narrow. After the dust had settled, William heard a cough from the other side. *Shit. Germans.* William tried desperately to rebuild the wall, so that the enemy couldn’t get through. He began spit on piles of dirt and clumping them together to form makeshift bricks. William approached the hole, flicked on his lighter and froze. Staring back at William was…himself? “Hello?” he called. “Hello?” a voice with a German accent replied. “German! Get back you Hun!” William tried kicking dirt at the soldier to force him back. “No! Stop! I will not hurt you!” “Liar!” “No. Stop! *cough* I’m. *cough* weapon less!” The German showed his hands. William stopped kicking. “Oh. Sorry about that old chap. Got a bit paranoid. Name’s William.” The German was still coughing, but managed to spit out, “Anton.” At that moment, William heard footsteps coming up behind him. He turned around and saw Samuel carrying water bottles. “Will! Sorry I took so long there was no water at the mess hall so they sent me to the kitchen and then… Who’s that Will?” “*Cough* Anton.*Cough, cough*” “He looks an awful lot like you Will.” “Yes. Here have some water, sorry about before.” Anton took the bottle and took a long steady drink. “Thank you.” He replied, as he wiped his mouth with a grey sleeve. Both men eyed each other carefully as the bottle was exchanged back. Only Samuel seemed oblivious to the possible danger. “When’s you birthday?” he blurted. “November 25th.” William drew a breath. “Year?” he asked slowly. “1894.” “No.” William whispered. “Hey what a coincidence, you guys have the same birthday! You could be twins!” danced Samuel. Samuel ran over to hug Anton. “I’ve always wanted another brother. Will doesn’t do a very good job.” he teased. “Samuel! Get back here!” William shouted gruffly. “He’s not even on our side.” “Aww, come on Will. He hasn’t killed us yet. Hey, do you have a picture of your mother?” “Yes. Here she is, with her husband.” Samuel looked at the photo. “She doesn’t look the same as our mother Will. Our mother has blonde hair Anton, your’s has dark hair. Plus our mother is much prettier.” “Samuel!” Anton laughed. “No, it’s okay. These are not my real parents. I’m adopted.” William inhaled. “This is my birth mother.” Anton pulled out a small brown, leather bound notebook and withdrew a pocket-sized photo. “I didn’t know her, but she is beautiful.” Anton handed the photo to Samuel. Samuel’s eyes widened. “Will.” he whispered. William snatched the photo from Samuel and stared. The photo was a portrait, of a lady with high cheekbones and porcelain skin. The sun was filtering through and dancing off her shiny, perfectly, coiffed hair. A smile played upon her lips, and her clear, intelligent eyes stared far beyond the camera. “It’s her.” William whispered. Samuel and William had both heard rumours of a possible sibling, but they were just that; rumours. They had never dared to ask their mother or father if they were true, Samuel had tried once, but their mother had fled into her room and shut the door for a very long time. William stared at Anton and Samuel. “Anton, how do you feel about meeting your birthmother?” -041

Describe falling in love without involving looks, sex, nudity or mush

Let me tell you a little something about myself. I like sleeping. I like sleeping a lot. Even my nightmares are nice compared to what's waiting for me when I wake up. At least in my nightmares, I can get out of them whenever I want even if it's into a worse universe full of things I hate. I hated waking up. That was who I was two years ago before I met her. We meet together twice a week for classes and now I love waking up. Every night I go through is another day closer to when I can see her again. Every time I wake up it's alright because yeah, my life is pretty shit but at least I'll see her again. Waking up isn't so bad now.

The world is at end, and there is one last ticket to Mars,a prostitute,with no family,argues with a scientist why she should get the ticket and not the scientist.

**Edited to include proper ending.** The day I found out the end was near, I had a panic attack. They said it would happen within two years, and that they were creating a program to transfer several people to Mars. The best and the brightest would be given priority, they said, along with their families. Then, there would be a lottery for regular civilians. Of course, that was a lie. I know this because my client, Dr. Arthur Sellars, told me. Arthur was brilliant. He was a botanist intent on finding plant life on Mars, or the possibility of growing any. He was also lonely and a bit narcissistic, and since he had no one of the lowest common denominator to brag to except for me, I drank in all the glory and pain and suffering and success from his lips. He thought he could make it seem as if he was the most brilliant of all the scientists on his team. Considering that half of his coworkers were also clients of mine, I knew better, but I also knew not to take him down a few pegs if I wanted to be paid as well as he paid me. When he told me about the Mars Program, he was elated, finally having the chance to be where he wanted to be: a planet that had not been fully explored quite yet. I listened intently until he confessed to me about the supposed lottery. It would definitely be rigged, adding more political, scientific, and entertainment figures than what was originally announced (along with their families), ensuring that civilization would be more brilliant, creative, and beautiful. There was no way in hell that I would be included in there. I was only slightly above average even with make-up on, and I had no other qualities except for being someone's fuck buddy for the evening. I had money, but no amount was enough to include me in what they were ensuring was a fantastic gene pool. I was determined as hell to get on one of those ships and start over. This was my chance. So I did what many of the other whores did: I tried to seduce my clients. One by one they declined, and eventually catching on to what I was doing. At some point they stopped contacting me. I was getting restless and scared. At that point, I hadn't spoken to Arthur at all, as he had been busy preparing for his flight. I had almost forgotten about him until about two months before the flight, when he called me for company. He wanted to celebrate with someone. I didn't decline. I knew my approach would be wrong, and I knew that what I'd be doing wasn't honorable, but then, what of my profession was? He took me out to a lovely dinner, we had plenty of drinks, and we went back to his hotel room. It was the usual routine, only it was more intense, and our time together was a little more passionate than usual. He asked me out again a month before the flight. After our sex session I did my best to convince him to get me an extra ticket. He told me he couldn't, that there was only a set number of tickets and that there just couldn't be two people per one ticket. I saw the look in his eyes, there was concern, sympathy. I realized he did care about me, and I felt horrible for what I was planning on doing. He decided to leave on the day of the last flight. He told me so, and, being a bit of a scatterbrain, he got there at the last minute, claiming the very last ticket available. I was there, I was waiting. "What the hell are you doing here?" He whispered angrily at me after he dragged me behind a wall. "Dr. Sellars, I'm so sorry, but I need to be on that flight." He frowned, the wrinkles in his eyebrows deep from several years of concentration. "Do you think that after all these years of studying and working I'm just going to throw away my life for some...for you? Go to hell, Sarah." He started to walk away. My heart punched my ribcage. I almost didn't spit it out. Almost. "I'm pregnant, Arthur." He stopped. I saw him breathe for a few moments before turning to me. His expression had softened. He calmly walked up to me, gulping. "I don't believe you." "I can prove it to you. I have a pregnancy test on me, and I can take it right now." I opened my bag and showed him the unopened box. I looked at him, giving him the best puppy eyes I could muster. He was blinking a lot and he began breathing heavily. He brought his hand up and made a shooing motion. I went into the bathroom and ripped open the test. My friend had managed a flight a few days before. She actually was pregnant but I told her my plan. She gladly gave me a sample of her urine. I used it on the test. Don't ask me where I hid it. I handed him the test. He brought his palm up to his mouth when he saw the plus sign. His breathing became even heavier. Suddenly angry, he threw the test at me. It hit me in the chest. "How could you fucking do this to me?! This is all your goddamn fault. You deserve what you get for not protecting yourself. Jesus! Fuck you, FUCK YOU!" He started to pace back and forth, combing his fingers through his graying hair. I gently grabbed his hand. He flinched and pulled away. I grabbed him by the arms, this time more forcefully. "Hey!" I looked him dead in the eye. He wouldn't get away so easily. "Don't put this all on me, it takes two to tango, buddy! Besides, weren't you the one who was terrified of not having an heir to your greatness, your intellect? Didn't you cry on my shoulder when you told me you feared not having a child, a son or daughter to have pride in?" "I can have whoever I want on Mars. Any woman there could give me a child." "Oh yeah? All those people flying there, all those people that are there now...they were here once, yet you never made a move to speak to them aside from greetings. The atmosphere isn't going to make you any braver or any less introverted. Arthur, I am giving you the chance of a lifetime. Even if you don't have the chance to live, you can at least know that your child will. You will live through them, I will make sure of that." He pushed me off him and started pacing again, breathing ragged. He pulled out the ticket finally and threw it at me. "Get out of my sight, bitch." My heart continued to pound. The adrenaline pulsed through me. I had to ball up my fists in order to stop the shaking. I couldn't believe it worked. I clung to the ticket tightly and walked to him, holding my breath, hoping he couldn't smell the lie still lingering on my lips. I held his face in my hands and brushed my lips against his one last time. He didn't fight it. It was the worst thing I had ever done. I sentenced a man to his death, and convinced him it was the right thing to do for a child that didn't exist within me. Yet I would gladly do it all over again if it meant ensuring my survival.

You develop the ability to speak with Animals, however they don't listen / like it and instead taunt you.

"That fat fuck jerks the yerkin off to the creepiest shit, man." Jason first heard the voice when he had just clicked away from his favorite special website, something involving feet, tentacles, and petite Asian chicks. It startled him, and also scared him on a deep level. To most everybody out there, he was Jason McMannis, mild mannered drug smuggler and gun runner, but on the inside he was a freak with strange desires when it came to the bedroom. If that secret got out, it would harm the careful image that he had spent years honing, and he couldn't allow that to happen. He grabbed the little Derringer that he kept in his back-left pants pocket (which were rumpled on the floor beside him, coincidentally) and listened hard for the voice. "What the fuck is he doing, now?" said a different voice. "I don't know, I'm kind of worried about him. Ever since Tina left him, he's been on a slow decline, I tell ya. Honestly, we should probably start thinking about bailing sometime soon. This phase will not end well," the original voice hissed. Whoever these people were, they had been quietly keeping tabs on him for quite some time now. Tina had cheated and left him some 8 months ago, and those months had been full of drug and alcohol binges that sometimes lasted for days. The strangest part to him wasn't that the voice seemed to be coming from 20' away in the kitchen, which he was slowly stalking towards. The strangest part was that these people, who were so clearly professionals, allowed themselves to be detected after so long a stakeout. He rounded the island counter top in the kitchen and drew the Derringer up low on the floor where he thought he had originally heard the voice. Sitting there were his two portly tabby cats, Francis Bacon and Ms. Precious Perfect. "Augh! He's pointing his little faggot gun at us! This is it! Oh, God!" said . . . *said one of the cats?* "Just what in the hell is going on here?" stammered Jason. "You . . . you can understand us?" asked Ms. Precious Perfect. Jason didn't move, but bizarrely kept his gun firmly trained on the cats anyway. "Man, this is some horseshit," seethed Ms. Precious Perfect, "The jig is up and the first human being in history to understand us is our fat, lazy, drug-addled, worthless owner. This probably means I'll need to pipe down when I 'clean' myself, huh? Fuck that." "Hey Jason, I took a dump on the floor that smelled better than you. You should really start taking care of yourself. Maybe start by taking a shower, eh?" hissed Francis Bacon. "Since we have this moment, I feel like I should tell that I spit in your mouth while you sleep. I purr while I do it, too." admitted Ms. Precious Perfect. "Yeah, I scratched Tina to get back at you for locking us in closet while you two went to dinner. Bitch deserved it," said Franicis Bacon, "And I also hold in all of my kitty farts until you're around, and I bet those gaseous releases are banned by the Geneva Conventions, too. I hate you so damned much." Jason, still in shock, staggered backwards. "Christ, don't you guys have anything nice to say? I've been feeding you and changing your shitbox everyday for years now." "Well your farts don't smell so terrible ever since you lost twenty pounds through meth-related weight loss.

Pick your favourite fantasy universe. Write about what it looks like centuries later, after entering the modern age.

Everyone says that this is the best time to live. We have heat, cities, peace, infrastructure, mass transportation, water, easy lives. You ride to work, write out copy after copy, go home to a meal and a warm bed. Honestly, I'm always sweating. People barely believe in the past anymore. Wizards and dragons and elves and leprechauns for Gandalf's sake. Even just saying "for Gandalf's sake," makes some people snicker like you're a true believer. That they know the real history of Middle Earth, one that doesn't involve deus ex machina eagles and magical rings. Entire university history and social science departments are dedicated to undermining the old tales. And then the linguistic departments argue back, discussing language and grammar use and syntax and loan words we might possibly have gotten from eagles. It's a mess. Excavating the Old Places doesn't help. Excavators actually found Bilbo's goblins! They surveyed and dug and had geologists come in. "Rocks!" They proclaimed! "Nothing but rocks." To which the counterargument was, "of course, they're rocks. That's what happens to goblins exposed to the sun. They turn to rocks." To which the biologists tossed in, "That's the daftest thing we've ever heard. Organisms don't turn to rocks." "But what about fossils?" And so it went on. Even with that academic fighting, people are still claiming Hobbit ancestry even though they're the same size as humans with just some slightly harrier feet. Truth be told, I've seen Hobbit men with less hairy feet than my own. They hold contests, you see. Something to do with cultural pride and Remembrance Days. I look at the feet during the pageants (not in a fetish way, just more curiosity), compare them to my own, and I don't see much difference. I'm not complaining nor am I romanticizing the past. But I'm bored and feel soft. I just don't fit. Physically at least. I'm 6ft 5, red as the sun, scare all of my coworkers, and always running into things, breaking them. I once broke a doily. Picked up a teacup, accidently shoved a finger through a tatted hole and ripped it bigger. Of course, I paid for it, took it home, and put it on my table. My personal pendant dedicated rampant destruction. I'm still not sure if I did it on purpose. As a scrivener, I copy papers and contracts all day. But I have these fingers, you see. They're massive. To the point where I had to have pens specially designed for me with tiny nibs on them. As I sit here, writing out the Coolador-Minuvue contract for marriage and divorce subclauses, all I want to do is break some heads. Not in a serial murderer kind of way, but I want to feel what my ancestors felt. That running for miles then getting into a fight or an argument or something. My legs ache from inaction, and it's hard for me to sit in so much heat. I've thought about joining the military, but they've moved on from men like me. I stand out, a head above everyone else, and that is not a good quality to have when people are shooting at you. Not that there's any shooting right now, but it's still a valid problem. So I sit here, wait for teatime to arrive, and dream. Reading the stories again, feeling that gut ache for travel and discomfort and pain.

the story of humans first contact with extraterrestrial life from the perspective of the life that we visit.

With a shaky hand, Zeblong handed the letter to Zongleb. "To be frank, it doesn't look too good." As Zongleb read the letter, his eyelids folded themselves up his grey brow and revealed the gentle pink underside; the thin line of his mouth moved further to the foot of his round face, making way for the trembling eye. A beam of blue light started flickering down his translucent vertebra, ending in a jet of sparkles coming from under his elongated toenails. The visible sadness of his kinsman hurt Zeblong deeply; but there was nothing he could do about it, for the decree was final. At the gathering, Zongleb and Zeblong transmitted the terrifying message to the otherz: "Hello, Your life-form is not developed correctly. Please consult the Terrestrial office for extraterrestrial life for further details. The Creative Mind of the species should always be in [square brackets], which in your case wasn't. You don't need to delete your life-form by yourself - just remember in the future to tag your outposts, making your presence more visible for our sentinels. (This is an automated post.)"

You have just feverishly written down three hundred pages-worth of writing in a language you do not understand nor remember learning. Could they be from above, a new testament revealed? Are you a prophet? Are you insane? You need to find a translator. You need to know what you just wrote.

'Ah!' exclaimed the short, be-speckled man before me 'The Cosgrove passage. I haven't seen such a complete version in years!' I had expected ridicule, disbelief, hopefully even fascination - what I had not prepared myself for was recognition. Hell, it apparently had a name already. I placed the glass of water I’d been offered upon entering the office down on the walnut desk to my side. 'Excuse me?' I asked 'This isn't by anyone called Cosgrove. I wrote this, three nights ago, and it's been driving me nuts ever since.' The old man, Professor Voynich according to the sign on his office door, removed his glasses and began cleaning them. 'Tell me' he asked 'Did you happen to have a particularly restful night's sleep before writing this?' 'Well no,' I replied 'as it happens I didn't sleep well. I was dreaming of-' 'Dreaming of a small room' he shot back, cutting me off mid sentence 'with a small wooden table at its centre. Outside, the alley was lined in cobblestone, and the street ran long and straight before disappearing in fog. You probably wrote on every inch of every object in that room before you were done, correct?' I had no reply to this. He was right, down to the very last detail. 'There was also a strange light to the place...' I recalled lamely. 'Orange, yes?' he queried. I nodded. 'That's the dream alright' he began 'a classic Cosgrove. Here, take a look at this if you like.’ he passed me an old and well worn book from the shelf behind him. Opening it, I found a long academic text full of phrases such as ‘mass delusion’ and ‘feminine hysteria’. Alongside the words were images, old faded plates. Where the images were clear, I could make out, written by hand, recently familiar letters - inscriptions I had been living with for three days now. ‘This..’ I stammered ‘This is not exactly what I expected. How is this possible?’ ‘No one quite knows.’ Voynich replied. ‘Some people just seem prone to dreaming up these words sometimes. It’s happened for as long as we have records, but was formally identified by William Cosgrove in 1876. At the time there was a lot of excitement, but nothing ever really came of it and it has since passed out of public interest. Since no one has ever come up with a good explanation, it’s been relegated to a fringe area of study. Some suggest it might be a sort of mass delusion, or some kind of shared genetic memory. Honestly though, no one really knows.’ I considered my position. For three days now I’d been convinced something exceptional had happened to me, something incredibly unusual and unique. Instead I find I’m just one more in a series of individuals to have such an experience. I felt… disappointed, to be honest. I tried to temper that emotion with interest in the text itself. ‘So there’s nothing that special about this?’ I asked ‘Nothing terribly strange or out of the ordinary?’ ‘Well, the text is of course somewhat strange in general. But your particular iteration of it? I’d have to study it further, of course, but I’d say no. It’s quite a complete version, as I said, but other than that quite unremarkable.’ ‘Oh’ I replied. ‘I see.’ Thinking for a moment I asked ‘Well at least people must know what it says then?’ ‘Oh no, not at all’ replied Voynich. ‘No one has ever translated it. The language is incredibly obscure, perhaps something along the lines of ancient Sumerian. But overall, an extremely opaque mystery I’m afraid, and one which I can personally guarantee promises much but delivers very little satisfaction.’ *** I left Voynich’s office feeling acute dejection, but as I wandered through the sunlit halls of the University my mood began to improve. Yes, I had thought my life had taken a turn for the fantastical, which had ultimately not been true, but overall I was no worse off than before that strange dream. Such mysteries, I thought, were best left to the professionals and dusty old academic types such as Voynich. I had a life to live, and as I passed beneath the arch of the Aula Maxima, I allowed all thoughts of the last few days to leave me, and turned my mind instead to the weekend ahead. In the distance, beyond the park, I heard birdsong. *** Voynich allowed himself a moment of calm before making the call. The phone rang no more than once before it was answered. ‘Yes’ came the voice on the other end of the line, its tone curt. ‘Another one this morning’ said Voynich. ‘I haven’t read the whole thing yet, but surely 98% complete. Richard, this is the single most complete text this century. You know what this means.’ It was not a question. The line hissed in silence. ‘Richard are you-’ ‘Yes I’m here’ snapped the hurried voice. ‘Did you… take care of the author?’ Voynich was quiet for a moment. ‘And if I didn’t?’ he asked. ‘Don’t screw around here, Voynich. You know very fucking well what if-you-didn’t. You know what these people can become, who they answer to. Did. You. Take. Care. Of. Him?’ He enunciated the words slowly and deliberately, as though Voynich were a child. ‘Of course I did.’ answered Voynich at last. ‘He drank the whole glass, he’ll be dead before he speaks to another soul.’ ‘Good’ came the voice. ‘I’m glad we're still on the same page.’ ‘Are we winning this thing?’ asked Voynich suddenly. ‘Tell me this is all worth it Richard.’ There was no response. The line went dead. Voynich sighed and put down the phone. He picked up his own glass of water, the one he had deliberately swapped time and again with the young man’s so that in all honesty he didn’t know which had held the poison in the end. He swallowed it, then downed what remained of the other glass as well for good measure. ‘What the hell’ said Voynich to no one in particular. ‘We’re all getting off at the same stop anyway.’ As darkness began to fill the edges of his vision, Voynich wondered what the young man would do with his weekend. Would he appreciate it, treasure it for what it was? Or was he already falling into unconsciousness in a gutter beyond the university grounds. Voynich realised he really did want to know what would happen to the dreamer, but it was far, far too late for that now.

You wake up in a drawer at the morgue.

I didn't have the energy to be surprised. Unfortunately, my predicament was predictable and I had predicted my predicament long before it was predicated. I'm lying on my back in the dark, utterly naked and I know, with a grim sense of satisfaction at knowing my own luck so well, that a beautiful lady (or man) will not be lying beside me when I wake up. I can feel a name tag on my toe. I wonder what they've written on it, since even I don't know my own name. "Devilishly attractive male. Mid thirties. Dark hair, blue eyes. Cutting cheekbones..." Three of those things are true. It had started off innocently enough. I'd woken up, had a cup of coffee, read the newspaper. Then I'd had a second cup of coffee because the first hadn't done anything. Then a bunch of Estonian arms dealers had knocked on my door, knocked me out and now I'd woken up in a drawer, in a morgue, probably downtown. And I wasn't sure what the worst part of that was. Looking back, I realised that the only innocent part of my morning had been the coffee, and I'd shoplifted that. I shuffled round in the dark and moved the sheet off my head. I considered breaking out, or at least making a very loud noise, but decided that I was doing pretty well for the time being. Most people might think that getting in with Estonian arms dealers is not the wisest plan in the world, but with all the Belvedere I could drink and all the women (and men) I could fuck, I was having a great time. It wasn't until later that I realised that I'd promised them nuclear weapons *and* taken their money. There were two problems with this. The first was that I didn't actually *have* access to nuclear weapons (come on, who did?) and the second being that I'd already heavily invested the money in something that my broker had assured me was 'sure to rise.' So essentially, it was gone. I lay back in the dark and thought about how much it would cost to change my identity and move to the Caribbean. I mean, the Cayman Islands account was still secure. I'd have to get clothes, and a wallet. It all seemed like a big bother. I was quite comfortable, here in the dark. Five more minutes wouldn't hurt.

od finally patches the mana leak that has been plaguing the earth for centuries, and manually spawns some of the creatures that rely on it - Dragons, unicorns, etc.

>Attn: > >To users of system: Sol 2.1.4 > >Subject: software patch w/ updates > >We would first like to take this time to say thank you all for taking part in our Beta release. We realise that there have been some glitches with the system and our developers have been working hard to fix them as they arise. You will recall the last patch came shortly after the respawn bug along with liquid identity, hyper buoyancy, and food quantity bugs were exploited by the hacker "Jblaze420" or as he was known in your system "Jesus". We apologize for the delay in adding additional content to your system as our developers have been working around the clock to fix similar bugs around The Universe's main server The Milky Way. > >The new patch will allow the creature pack "mythological" to run seamlessly along side creature pack "basic". This wildly popular creature pack includes 7 types of dragons, 3 types of unicorns, 9 new horse based creatures, 6 new feline creatures, and many more. This patch includes the new "mana" system that will serve to support the new creatures in the existing ecosystem. This will hopefully prevent further extinctions due to limited resources. > >We have noticed that some users are using or destroying current resources and other users unnecessarily and we would ask that you refrain from doing so as this could cause planet Terra to crash again causing another reboot to be necessary. This would lead to a mass loss of user data such as that seen during the games original "lizard mode". This version is more stable than lizard mode but we still depend on user cooperation to maintain proper functionality. > >As we finish out our Beta phase we expect to add additional content including special user abilities, interplanetary play, the long awaited "Paradise" mode, and with many other features. > >We appreciate your cooperation with this project and look forward to another 4 billion years of Terra user enjoyment. > >-Universal Arts co.

Everything's for sale!

In the bazaar you may buy laughter, whiskey breath, a Lilac breeze, or sunshine, but the compliments are free. You can buy lies, and slander to your benefit, but you should remember it's a seller's market. They sell jokes at a high price, and one liners fetch a pretty penny. They sell sorrows and woes and tears by the bottle. Perched along the racks you may find the glimmer in your father's eye. You may also find the dullness of coal. They sell air in bags, bottles, breaths, and gasps. Music comes in sheets, faint hummings, songs, and fleeting instances of delicious nostalgia where the lyrics tickle the tip of your tongue without rest. For a paltry fee you may find sensation in all varieties, to include abnegation and general apathy. Oddly enough the market for apathy is on the up-slope. Interest rates in loans for apathy are at an all time high. The sense of the uncanny costs $13.50 on a good day. Insults may be purchased for about $43.19. Backhanded compliments may be bought or traded for, but trades are preferred. I've seen a goldfish's first burp sold at the bazaar. I once saw an eye of newt/ sound of boiling water/ malicious cackle combo pack. Once, I saw an exclamation point sold at a discount. You can buy freedom there, but it's not free. Anyone can buy faith there, but they don't make it like they used to. You can buy love there, but that doesn't spend so well or accrue in value over time unless you tend it well. In the back corner of an alley off the bazaar is a green glass door where they sell balloons, glasses, and cigarettes, but they do not come with air, frames, or fire. Behind the green glass door they sell plenty of umbrellas, but not a single parasol. You can't buy everything behind the green glass door, but you can buy it all. In another alley you can find unmentionable things that defy language and the imagination, though the pricing for such items is fluid and unreliable. The last time I paid a visit, I bought five minutes there, but it cost me ten. I can't tell you where my favorite alley is, but you will know it when you see it. There they sell the secret things. Whispers come a penny a dozen. Thoughts are twelve times as expensive, of course. They sell it all. If you can imagine it, you can purchase it there. It may take some looking, and it might take a bit of luck but I promise you your brightest nightmare and darkest dream may be found in the Len'gua Bazaar.

You die and go to heaven. But when you get there, you realize that your heaven is someone else's hell.

I'm *lavacious* I'm *rapacious* Oh baby, I'm delicious and you know it I wanna just... *oooh* right there yes, baby Right there I think I've died and gone to heaven It was a quarter past seven An' I been hit by a bus Up I'm floating Cause damn I was devoted I'm met on the door by ten thou girls and ten thou more With bodies so hot and pussies galore But my boner died the heat cooled from inside When I saw the look in their eyes The pain and their cries Heaven's no fun When it's only Heaven For one

Make me hate you.

I'm the guy who'd steal candy from a baby. I care not for who you are. I most likely hate you, or will make a case to hate you. Unless, of course, you're rich and white. Then I'll treat you to a drink. The holy book is my moral guide. It's words are unflappable, exempt from criticism. I hate our president. He's black and illegitimate, and the true color of success is white. I store my millions, all of which I EARNED myself, unlike this lazy and good for naught generation, in a business where I launder it. Why should the government take my hard earned work. I did it, no one else. Talking about this generation, what's with this gay, racial, LGBwhogivesafuck equality movement? That's not the way the REAL world works. And by the way, immigrants shouldn't be allowed here, and illegal ones should be kicked out or locked away. Oh, did I say my name? I'm Mitt Romney, former US Presidential candidate, and former Massachusetts governor.

me love the person you love

She is the worst cook you ever met. I'm sure she would burn water if given the chance. She refuses to pick up her messes and prefers the grime. Hurricane Irene could be a cleaner housemate than her. She has a habit of getting in to things, finding every nook and cranny of your personal life with her sneaky little eyes. Even Sherlock knows how to leave some space. She demands your attention constantly, always whisking you off on new adventures on the dime. It's exhausting really. But when she presents you, a badly cut paper heart covered in glitter and macaroni with the words TO DADY, you know she's the perfect valentine. The one to make every day seem worth it. Now if only we can convince mom to clean up the mess she made at the table.

A lottery exists claiming to give immortality to one winner. A man or woman loses or gives away the winning ticket.

"Damn ticket," said Stanley Peterson, yanking it off his windshield. He sat down in his car, his boss' screaming on repeat in his head. He needed to think of something happy. He shut his eyes. Childhood. He's running in a field with a stick in his hand, his German shepherd just behind him. He trips and the game of tug of war begins. That was enough. Stanley opened his eyes. He smiled. He missed that dog. "Hey kids," Stanley said walking past the den where they sat staring at computer screens. He put his briefcase down and entered the living room, where his wife stood frozen in front of the TV. "Hey hon. Today was brutal. Honey are you okay?" She held out her hand. In it was a ticket. "We won," she said. "The lottery." Stanley sat down in the armchair. "Are you...serious? We're rich?" "No. It's the Forever Life lottery." "You mean we're going to be immortal?" "One of us will be. It can only be one." Stanley leaned back in the chair and tilted his head to the ceiling. He was too focused to notice the scratching against glass. "Well it can't be me. I'm not worth it." "Oh don't say that Stan. But obviously it should be one of the kids right?" "And how do we choose? How do we tell one child they're going to live forever, that they'll outlive everyone they love? And what do we tell the other? You weren't good enough so you're going to die like the rest of us?" Stanley pinched the skin between his eyes, the beginning of a headache. "Stan, I think maybe we should give it to someone else, like an artist maybe, someone who really contributes to society." "Oh, thanks hon. I'm kidding, I know what you mean. But who? Who would give the most to the world? A scientist right? Or some young entrepreneur? Someone with a truly brilliant mind." "On second thought, does it really matter? I mean, think about it Stan, don't *brilliant* minds usually do most of their great thinking while they're relatively young? They challenge old conventions and change the world to fashion their views. But once their old and their ways are the norm, they stop being relevant as a force of change." "I just think we-" "Hold on." Stanley's wife walked into the kitchen and opened the door to the porch, where their golden labrador had been scratching to be let back in. As soon as the door opened, the lab ran into the living room and jumped onto Stanley's lap and lick attacked his face. Stanley tried to shield himself. "Woah, hey I knew something was missing when I got home." He smiled. "Alright, it's your turn." He got off the armchair and rolled the lab over and began scratching her belly. He looked at his dog. She was the happiest thing he knew in life. He said, "You will bring us joy for the rest of our lives. You will bring joy for the rest of eternity."

You're standing in your kitchen holding a glass of water when all of the water on Earth suddenly disappears. Everyone on Earth is now aware that you have the last glass of water.

What an absurd situation I thought to myself. All the water on Earth gone apart from this tiny glass here in my hand. How did I even know all the water had gone? If it wasn't for the title I would have had no idea I was in possession of the most precious material on earth. What I was holding was more valuable than any gold or diamonds, it was even more precious than love. And everyone knew it, once again thanks to that damn title. I mean how is it even possible that everyone on earth became suddenly aware that I was in possession of the last glass of water? All 7 billion plus people from 206 different countries spread around the earth. How absurd. Whatever the reason for the sudden disappearance of water was of no importance to anyone. There was mass panic, like nothing you've ever seen before. People, looting, raping, murdering, doing whatever the hell they liked. As for me, well I was in the thick of it. There was on pint of water left on this entire godforsaken and it was in my hand. At first there was a knock on the door and it was Bob, my neighbour, asking if we could share the water, we both lived alone in small flats on the outskirts of London so he didn't have any family to worry about and neither did I, which considering what happened next was a good thing. I told Bob that he could have a small sip of the water, I was quite fond of Bob as was happy to share some of the water with him. I poured a small amount into his glass, he thanked me and went back to his flat locking his door behind. Good luck were his last words to me. I guess he must have know what was coming next. I went back in, Locking the door behind me, and contemplated this whole ridiculous situation. "What in the hell is going?" I asked myself, not least to break up the block of text above. "Why me? For what reason do I have the last glass of water left to sustain all life on earth?" It was a very confusing time. I was nothing special, in fact quite the opposite. I was a mediocre as they come, average and everything I put my mind to, no special skills, a minimum wage job, very few friends. I was in no position to be in possession of such object. The last glass of water to ever grace the earth and it was mine. If someone had told me this would happen I would have laughed and laughed until my lungs hurt and it was a struggle to complete such a simple task as taking a breath. Yet here I am in that exact situation. Funny how life works out sometimes. After no more than a few minutes alone with all these thoughts fluttering through my mind did I start to hear all the commotion outside my flat window. My flat is of the 6th floor, and the doors and windows are thick - as a result of a string of robberies a few years ago, but that's another story - so it came as quite a stock to me how well I could hear everything. It was loud, very loud. There were people screaming and shouting, smashing things to pieces, fighting each other, all with the intention of getting to me first, or more precisely getting to my water first. "What the fuck do I do?" I said to myself, once again partly to break up the large body of text that had been forming. "They're going to kill me" I had to think quickly, which I was incapable of doing, partly due to the stress but mostly due to my being of average(or below) intelligence. So what I did was probably not the wisest thing, nor am I proud of it. I opened the window and proceeded to shout down to the mass of people who had formed below -by now everyone within a 10 mile radius had gathered and there were smartphone cameras recording everything minute, from every angle. "Is this what you want?" I shouted, holding the water in my had as if it were some prize, like a soldier presenting the head of his enemy to strike fear and respect into his peers. All of a sudden everyone's attention turned to me and my water. Thousands of eyes fixed upon me, waiting on anticipation of what would come next. It was then that I did, looking back on it as I write this I realise just how stupid I was, but what else was there to do? It was then that, in front of all those people and all those smartphone cameras that I held the glass of precious water to my lips and proceeded to drink it, every last drop. For a moment there was silence, people staring in disbelief of what they had just witnessed. Then it turned to anger, they wanted revenge, they water my head. the events that followed were horrific and I will not describe them in any great detailed. I will leave it to your imagination. All I will say is there was carnage, more than I would have ever thought possible. But what of me you ask? What happened to your humble narrator, who didn't ask for any of this, who was throw in at the deep end with nothing? Well that would be telling wouldn't it?

A new drug hits the clubbing scene - cheap, very addictive, a great high and seemingly safe.

My friend died of an overdose. It wasn't really a *death* as such, just he flopped down next to me in the evening as a smooth skinned fourteen year old and downed the bottle so he could sleep. In the morning, he was nothing but a damp stain on the mattress. Kind of more an *unbirth.* I'd heard about these side effects, but never seen them happen. Ageing is a slow process, even when it's in reverse. When they started asking me for my ID outside clubs and bars again I was first flattered, later worried. I'd look in the mirror every night and smooth back the crow's lines by the sides of my eyes. But it was incredibly cheap, and it made me feel on top of the world. You could drink on it and not get a hangover. You could dance all night and not get tired the next day. It perked you up, made you happy and friendly. Kinda whipped the fog away and made you in the bright, happy person you knew you were supposed to be. What was the point in stopping taking it? I was old when I started. Past my prime. They shouldn't have let me into clubs, but I hung on to my glory days with two hands, tight. And one night the pill was slipped into my hand and the world changed. I was reborn. It turned out just like any other drug, didn't it? I lost my job because who employs a clear-skinned eighteen year old with long legs and green eyes as a head of management? My income dried up. My landlord terminated my lease and told me to go back home to my parents. Both my parents had been in the ground for many years. I was fifty years old and I could twist men round my fingers again. It is glorious to be young. You can't stop taking it. The day he died I woke up, lounging on a greying mattress. Squatting wasn't glamorous, but at night I could be anyone I wanted. I lit up and inhaled slowly, trying not to think about the fact that after tonight I'd have to ask someone else to buy my fags for me. I kept a shard of mirror under the pillow. Funny how vanity stays with you even when you're brought this low. I didn't want to look in it. I had the physical appearance of a sixteen year old; my gangly limbs folding around me like a young foal's. My skin would still be clear, despite the horrendous amounts of cigarettes I smoked and what I drank every night. He was asleep next to me, a fifteen year old curled around the filthy blanket like a teddy bear. Muscles ran under his smooth skin. He'd stopped having to shave his face three weeks ago. Soon even his leg hair would drop out. "Hey, Yan. Wake up." I stubbed the cigarette out on the concrete floor and sighed. Luckily for both of us, there were plenty of people willing to pay for experienced adults with the bodies of quasi-children. He yawned and turned over, wide eyes blinking themselves awake. I'll never forget those eyes. You can't bury a wankstain. I'm in a children's home now. I'm writing this with crayons on paper. My hands can't get the letters right and it's frustrating. My legs swing above the ground on this pink chair. One of the Sisters have tied my hair back in pigtails. I think it's shepherd's pie and carrots for dinner. I wish I could reach the stove, because I don't like either of those. I couldn't stop. I couldn't stop. As soon as I'm old enough I'll start again. If only to be young again.

escribe a space battle between two massive alien fleets from the point of view of a lost cosmonaut who has passed beyond the point of no return to Earth.

Log Entry - Day 732 Calculations suggest that the *Sergey Illyushin* will indeed escape Saturn's orbit despite previous concerns. A quick check confirmed that the reflector is still fully functional. The craft should get close enough for me to take some good photographs of the planet. Log Entry - Day 733 Conducted routine inspection. The thrusters remain as unresponsive as on the day of the asteroid collision, as do the communications relays. All life support systems remain fully functional. 323 days of food rations remain. Emergency beacon still functional. Log Entry - Day 734 Infrared sensors are picking up strange, sporadic heat signatures around the dark side of the planet. Equipment may be faulty but I will confirm with the reflector if the anomalies begin occurring on the light side. Log Entry - Day 735 Infrared sensors were not faulty. Reflector observations confirm the presence of several unidentified objects in close orbit around Saturn. The objects resemble asteroids in size and coloration but are too regular in shape to be naturally occurring. The objects seem to be holding a definitive formation, suggesting that they are utilizing some form of propulsion in a coordinated manner. This is difficult to comprehend. Will move up my mental self-evaluation to later tonight. Log Entry - Day 736 Mental self-evaluation results are positive, Repeated observations are yielding the same results. In face of the overwhelming evidence, I have to report that I am making humanity's first observation of an alien civilization. The alien spacecraft have remained in the same position as yesterday. Will archive collected data and photographic evidence. Log Entry - Day 737 More thermal signatures have appeared on the dark side of Saturn. These new spaceships are observable with the reflector as they glow blue in color. Their shapes are distinct from the spacecraft I observed earlier; they seem to have a more smooth, oblong design. It is unclear if they belong to the same alien civilization. Log Entry - Day 738 The two alien fleets seem to be engaged in a battle. They are firing multicolored thermal weapons at each other. My best guess is that they consist of high powered lasers or plasma. Both fleets are suffering heavy casualties. I have not been able to spot any alien bodies in the wreckage. The ships may be automated, or their bodies may have been disintegrated completely by weapons or exposure. Log Entry - Day 739 I am very close to the battle as it dies down. The aliens with the blue spacecraft seem to have won, but not by much. They are surveying the wreckage, possibly for survivors. Considering my proximity, it is possible they will find me as well if they haven't already. Will prepare for extreme circumstances. Log Entry - Day 740 They have found me. They are attempting to break open the hull. I have donned my spacesuit in preparation. Am unsure of their intentions. In the event that they are hostile or unwilling to permit me to communicate with Earth, I have attached all evidence as will as my log entries to the emergency beacon. I will proceed to eject it from the ship as discreetly as possible. It may be intercepted but it is my only chance to ensure that this information finds its way back to Earth. Tell my family I love them. Goodbye. ~Taken from the log of Commander Alexei Stukov. Russian Federal Space Agency Confidential Files [CATEGORIZED ABOVE TOP SECRET]

Death and Santa are bored of their jobs. They swap roles for a few days.

The ethereal plane had never been a terribly comfortable space for Santa. Other, as most called it, was a place of crossing. A nexus of energy, from the familiar energies like heat and kinetic that seem to follow in the wake of passing mortals to the metaphysicals that make religious faith, scientific theory, and the even more ephemeral things like the human soul or the inexplicable mysteries in nature. Santa shook the non-specific chills from his mind and looked around. That much energy building, flowing, and colliding in the same space always created disorientation. It was part of the reason he did most of his work there on one night out of the year, rather than several like Death. The workload became unbearable here. The noise was terrible. Even focusing on finding his path, phantom sparks danced across him, cold breezes tickled across his throat, and shadows jostled. Color and sound flirted with his senses, teasing him with the smell of strawberries instants after a frosty exhale congealed into the taste of sewage and rot. Even as he walked, he'd get lost in the desperate panic of a car wreck and the explosive heat and compression of some earthly weapon. After what felt like hours, he found himself drifting in the direction he had meant to go. Every second in the Other was at the intersection of millions of thoughts, but they're no more than fading memories, dropping away like a dream. With another minute or two of travel, Klaus found himself in the sterile, cream-colored walls of a hospital. There was a table of black marble set up in the middle of the room. Despite the copious lights and lamps humming around them, the room was in a perpetual state of ambient light. The hammer blow of the nearby clock's second hand crashed into noise. Simultaneously too loud, and distant, as though the sound hadn't fully elapsed. The spectre of the man in the hospital bed was sat opposite Klaus at the marble table, comfortably sat in the an office chair, a mirror of the one he had in the frozen north. The man looked maybe 60 or 70, but his eyes betrayed a deeper weariness. Despite that, he sat very confidently in the chair. At peace, perhaps. When he spoke, it was in Russian. At first glance, Klaus had expected a bit of rasp to the voice, something more suited to a man who'd spent years coughing and smoking. But when the comfortable stranger spoke, it came out a rich baritone, cultivated by a practiced diction. "Good evening, old friend." Klaus sat in his own chair, opposite the table, and rested his hands on the polished marble. "Joyous day, old friend." Klaus began, realizing belatedly that he had answered as Saint Nick rather than Death. "I trust you know why I'm here." "Certainly, we are here to play the wager on my life." "It is your time, yes, but is it truly the wager on your life?" "That is how it goes, yes? We play to see whether I win life or lose it. That is, by definition, a wager." "Perhaps, but it is not you who chooses when and how. To me, that qualifies as a distinction." The man shrugged, as if discarding something irrelevant. "It is largely semantics in all cases. I am here to win my life or lose it, what it is called seems no more relevant than how we got here, or why it's happening this way rather than another." "Fair point," Klaus ceded, straining his memory briefly to recall his training with Death itself. "Have you chosen your game?" The man smiled. "I have. I went on a cruise in '97. An American family had invited me and my brother to join them in a game of Scrabble. I have not played it but that once, and wish to play it again." "You want to play a game, for your life, that you've only played once?" Klaus, asked, perplexed. Death had told him his satchel would retrieve for him anything he would need to play whatever game the deceased chose. He was, however, unprepared for the wash of feelings therein. In an instant, his arm felt like it was being submerged in ice and electrocuted at the same time. It was accompanied by the feeling of pins and needles up his arm. All at once, he had to suppress the sudden urge to giggle, panic, and scream. However, when he withdrew his hand, a 1938 printing of the board game came with it. The material all looked brand new, as though printed at that instant. Klaus set it on the table and began arranging. After setting the tiles and board, the two began playing in earnest. Klaus passed the intervening time talking. "So tell me, why choose a game you've only played once?" "We cannot choose what happens today or tomorrow. We cannot control how life will go. Yesterday, I was relaxing with my brother, his wife, and their son. Today, I am in a hospital bed, playing games with Death himself. In that, attempting to control everything is futile." The man reached across the table, placing moderately sized word across the middle, then pointing at the board. "But this, this I can control. Whether I win or lose isn't relevant in this decision. If that choice was my last conscious choice, why not play a game I enjoy and want to play, rather than one I believe I can win, but not necessarily enjoy as much?" Klaus played similarly, matching the word's score almost exactly, but across a double letter score position for a lead. "Don't you feel an obligation to family to play your best?" "Always someone better," he said honestly, playing off of it with a short word that made him smile. The distant brushing of warm sun, a cool drink, and laughter danced by Klaus's senses. "It is hubris to assume one can best Death always. So, today, I do my best against Death. I do not know if it will be enough, but it will be pleasant. That is enough." Klaus mulled over this, his fingers idly rearranging the tiles while playing, revealing sequences and words he hadn't noticed before. He played a word that reminded him of candy canes back home. The Russian responded with a word on the same vein after a moment, as though he'd felt the memory with its passing. "How about yourself, Death. Do you do what makes you happy?" "I always have," Klaus answered immediately, as Saint Nick before remembering to stay in character, answering in a way he thought Death might. "Every life has its moments, and this too is just another moment for some. Important for everyone, and just one. These moments are what life is all about." Instead of mulling too long in-character, he thought about children and laughter. "This is true." The Russian said, placing a word that evoked another memory. This one felt cool to Klaus, the low light of a dark stage and the familiar cadence of a favored monologue. "Though there is not just these moments in life man finds important, but also those important to man. Friends, families. Is all part of life, even if man misses those parts until later." "Someone who values family as much as you," Klaus said, playing another high scoring word. "Many would see you and think you would play harder to keep that rather than risk death on a flight of fancy, no matter how pleasant." The man places another word, this one invoking the memory of a spring breeze and the smell of baked bread. Klaus thought immediately of picnics. The man smiled, "It is perhaps a different philosophy. Death isn't exclusively something to mourn. Like you said, it is a moment in life. The final note of a classical symphony isn't a sour one. It is, like all those that came before it, a part of something bigger. Many people in the walls of this very hospital suffer from disease, destruction. It tears them apart, it puts strain on their families. Many who recover from near death find new purpose in life. Some leave behind suffering they do not deserve, and may find solace in what comes beyond. To me, it seems the same hubris to assume one can definitely best Death. Perhaps it is something new, something better. I will no more abandon my philosophies here and now than I had in my life before. Perhaps I will find something great, win or lose." "Very well said." Klaus looked down at the scorecard. He will ultimately win. Which, to him, seemed a sad fate for someone so wise. His next play cemented the win, hitting both a triple letter score (with a Q) and a double word score. "It seems we are at the end game." "Or just the beginning of another," The Russian replied, playing a word that flooded Klaus with memories. Sudden warmth, familiar laughter, the distant taste of a good, expensive vodka. Champagne. The fleeting taste of wedding cake. Then, finally, a sensation not at all dissimilar from the room they were in now. Bright yet bleak. Ultimately cold. The haunting sound of the passage of the second hand on the nearby clock came to a halt. Another would follow shortly, or perhaps not. Time seemed irrelevant here. "It has been a pleasure to play you, sir." Klaus said, placing his final tiles on the board. Even without subtracting the Russian's tiles, it was clear who the victor was. "And you," the Russian said, standing. "What now?" "Pick a door," Klaus said, gesturing. Behind him, worked into the wall and window of the hospital room were two unmarked doors. The Russian approached a door, turned the knob, and turned once last to thank Klaus for the game. "It was a wonderful play, and I appreciate the chance to play it once last. Perhaps try not to dwell on the fact that death is so final, or at least, that this finality is not terminal. And you'll find more joy in your work." With that, he closed the door behind him, and everything faded. The final noise before Klaus found himself back in the Other was the cataclysmic noise of another second passing, followed shortly by the frantic beeping of the heart monitor fading into oblivion. With that, Klaus frowned pensively into the catastrophe of sense and noise that made up the Other, and went to find Death to ask for his job back. He respected Death for what he had to do, but perhaps his was not so bad after all.

Write a hero story entirely from the sidekick's perspective.

"Hey! Listen!" I feel like I have told him this a thousand times now. "Hey! Listen!" It doesn't make any sense to me. He has thrown hundreds of other peoples jug viciously for wealth. The moon is nigh, but this apparently isn't an issue to some of us. "Hey! Listen" Five....six....seven bushes chopped to bits. When will this madness end?! I've overlooked this boy too long for him to be aimlessly meandering through our soon-to-be-damned world. I watched his hubris almost get the best of him once, can I withstand it again? Seconds turned to minutes, minutes to hours, hours to days. All it has consisted of is the utter destruction of another ones belongings. The Tree gave us specific, sophisticated instructions, none of which have been followed. What does that Princess see in him anyhow? Better yet, what does he see in that Princess? Something about his silent ways intrigues me. So much is said by simply saying nothing at all. Maybe it coincides with all the time spent gazing at the illuminated night sky on the back of his steed. Or could it have been how effortlessly he unsheathed his blade when I felt the most minuscule hint of fear? Whatever it was drove me up the walls. All I could ever say was "Hey! Listen!" The attention gained from this was short lived, he could silently return to slashing his way through shrubs collecting rupees or showing our enemies their certain doom. Was our enemies doom more certain than ours though? The moon practically lay upon the soil, and we are here breaking jugs. "Hey! Listen!" Suddenly, it all faded. No more moon, no more steed, no more jugs to smash. I woke up in the wake of the wind, afloat upon a red ship. A fierce lion manned our vessel, but was somehow one with it. I looked around to see the life I now lived was more surreal than the one before. "Hey! Listen!" Not to my surprise, again, no one listened.

In this world, you can instantaneously teach somebody a new skill and trade or give them a precious memory of yours, but once you give it away, you lose it yourself.

I’m old and my time is coming to an end. The Department of Traded Skills has advertisements everywhere, targeted at people like me. *Sell your experience on the DoTS market! Apprentice and Journeyman rates comparable to your experience! Master rates pending evaluation!* *Don’t want to wait for those drum lessons? Shred like Neil Peart in a fraction of the time!* In the fine print it reads: *Results not guaranteed to make you a rock star.* Somewhere out there Mozart still composes. A new Rembrandt is commissioned from the inheritor. Shakespeare’s quill still scribbles away. Some of my work is on those advertisements. Some is on display at the finest museums, and in the galleries of the rich and famous. My father gave me his skill with a brush when I was twelve, as my grandfather gave it to him. My monetary inheritance was substantial, but the memory and skill I received at twelve was the real inheritance. I hold a photo in my hands. It is old, creased and weathered like the hands that hold it. The smiling faces look up at me and I feel nothing; I sold my memories of them long ago, the happy and the sad. Memories have emotion attached to them. A sociopath who cannot feel purchases grief and heartache like an addict buys heroin. My sorrow is his completion. I cannot remember the feel of my wife’s lips on mine, nor if we ever kissed. I can’t hear my daughter’s laughter when I close my eyes. I can only pretend. There is no family to bequeath my talent. My wealth of knowledge and material cannot benefit those I loved, that I believe I loved. Lawyers come and go, some requesting and some threatening. The rich beg me to sell, and the poor beg me to give. Preservers of history, art, experience, and knowledge implore me to think of the greater good, that it would be a terrible tragedy to lose my skill out of some selfish desire. But I have no desire left in me. All I have are holes where memory used to live. If there is an afterlife, will they be waiting there for me? Will I remember them then? Can they love me if everything I was to them is missing, sold or given away? If consciousness persists after death, and memory is tied to consciousness, Heaven must be lonely, stagnant. I hold the faded picture in hands too weak to paint. A smile creases my lips; I close my eyes, and drift away. My brush will paint the Heavens. **Editor's Remark: I edited this and put it on my blog, so I thought I'd go ahead and put in the edited version here as well.**

villain concocts an elaborate plan while overlooking a much simpler, more obvious, and elegant solution

He rustled about in his giant blueprints of ginormous plans to conquer the lesser known world with an sinister grin and an maniacal chuckle. His wiry grey strands of hair swim about in front of his face. "Aha!" This is the one. His greatest creation, the epitome of everything that could be, will be, or is evil. Even his greatest influences would have been at marvel with his devious wit and cunning connivery. He picks the giant scroll out of the bin with his long and gnarled index finger and his plump thumb taking every caution in this monumentious moment beforehand. He dizzingly takes the scroll back to his seat and candlelit table. His eyes never leave the plan clutched in hands as he makes his way back. The devious grin seems to be permenently engraved on his face. He sits down with another hearty chuckle that seems to come from the most evil pits of his stomach. This is his plan that will take him to the top. The Holy Grail of hellish undertakings. He ever so gently places the parchment down onto the table. He unties the the string holding it in place and begins to flatten it with the precise caution. His ghastly boney hands make it to the edges of the paper and he lets it go. The scroll springs back to it's original form in from. The mad genius unravels the parchment again. Once his hands leave the paper it pops right back again. He stands up disheveled. He must not lose focus now, not when his greatest moment stands before him! He sits down, composure regained and spreads the scroll once again. He holds his hands on opposite sides in the middle. The corners fold themselves in towards the middle obscurring the master plan. He grimaces and begins to utter curses to himself whilst holding his position. Every move he attempts to make has an opposite effect on the scroll that he is so desperately trying to flatten. He gets up in utter frustration as the scroll snaps itself back together with such force it leaves the table momentarily. He strokes his grey chin in a scheme and he finally sets into motion. He stretches out the parchment for the final time. He grabs a human skull and places it on one corner. He finds an inkwell and places it on another. An old stone for another. All he needs is one more weight to finally put his ploy into motion. He looks around his barren workplace and finds nothing. Only a single lit candle stick in its holder. "Aha!" He zips around grabbing the candle. As he moves over to the corner with nothing there, the bottom scrapes the edge of the inkwell and ink cascades onto his greatest work. He gasp in terror, drops the candle swiping away the ink with his hands, all the while the candle slowly eats its way into the parchment unbeknownst to the mad-man. He scoops off the rest of the ink in dissatisfaction and places his hand on hips. Maybe he could redraw the rest from memory? He sees the shadow of the skull jumping and dancing around on the table. It brings him back to reality when he realizes that one half of the parchment is engulfed in flames. He screeches in terror and immdiatly begins to smack the flames with his tatty and worn robe. The flame begins to smother and he is left in darkness. He sinks into his chair in silence. He lets out an eerie gitty laugh that drowns out through the night. MY first writing attempt i hope you enjoy! I'm open to honest criticism and compliments!

There is a demon that lives in the corner of your eye, which only you can see, and all it does is stare at you.

Okay, look. I get it. You're very menacing and mysterious, and you know for a fact I've lost some sleep trying to figure out where you came from and what your plans are. And those horns - Are they horns? Or are they spikes? Well, they're pointy and disturbing and give you plenty of demon cred. Very impressive. And I don't mean to tell you how to do your job or anything, I know I get more than enough of that at work. You probably do too. You saw that time when he said 'front-load our back-end' right? Bet you liked that too. Little slice of home, am I right? Guy's a natural. You're probably scouting him for talent right now. He's a diamond in the rough where the insidious torture biz is concerned, and that's a fact. Can't think his way out of a wet paper bag, sure, but that's not so bad. I bet Hell needs middle management too. It's probably *all* middle management, really. Except you, obviously. No idea how you got stuck with this job, but you've got my sympathy. I get bored enough seeing what I see, and at least I get to interact with it. I don't think coffee is very energizing to look at. I mean, do you even like coffee? Do you sleep at all? You didn't get tired last night, that's for sure. Then again, you didn't laugh once through all of Fraiser. Maybe you just sleep with your eyes open. But hey, that's your thing, right? Staring. And you're dedicated, for sure. Never even seen you blink. Demon of the Month right there. Maybe Demon of the Year. All those hot shot demons brokering the big deals for souls and whatever probably have it easy. Just have to show up and say 'hey, want everything for nothing?' and bam, job done. But this. This takes some dedication. Now, again, I'm not trying to dis you or anything. You've got your job to do, and I respect that. And you're doing great. It's really fantastic customer service you've got here and I'm proud to be a part of the team. Unwilling, but proud. You've really outdone yourself. Pretty much raised staring to an art form here. I'm impressed, and duly disturbed, and everything. Very scary. But I'm trying to take a shit here. And you're making it real difficult. So could you maybe... not?

Every time someone wishes upon a star, that star is actually a satellite, and that satellite assigns an agent to fulfill that persons wish.

"Coffee tastes like shit today." "You say that everyday, John." "Coffee tastes like shit everyday." My name is John Macintosh. And I fulfill wishes. Now before you start going off about how I'm some prancing fairy, my job is very technical. A satellite goes over some kids house, he or she states their wish, and, as long as it's feasible, we get it done. No matter the cost. Don't ask me why, I'm sure it's just another way for the government to reassure themselves that spying is good if good comes from it. Anyway, it pays the bills. "Oh it looks like I got one." Mary says as she looks at the quote and description of the child on her watch, "Aww little Janie wants to find true love." "Good luck with that one. How old is she?" "Ten... Yeah... I know it's a little young, but I think I might end up taking this one." "Well, be prepared to..." My watch began to ring. That noise keeps me up at night, both literally and figuratively. That damn happy little tune. Jimmy Klein. Eleven. Williams, CA. The quote: "I want to be happy." The hell is that supposed to mean. Too vague. This one is going down the pipes. And del- "Oh no you don't." Ted, my overseer, said with a watchful eye, "I don't care if that says 'I want a unicorn!' You WILL NOT be deleting another message." "Yeah..." I said with great disdain. I guess it wouldn't hurt to check this kid out. Knock. Knock. Knock. No answer on a Wednesday afternoon. I knock again, this time a little louder. One more time, a little louder. In a last ditch effort I bang on the door as loud as I can, just in time to hit the little bastard on the top of his head as soon as he opens the door. "Jimmy Klein? I'm John Macintosh." "Man, that hurt! Aren't you going to say 'sorry?'" "Well if you had answered on the first few knocks that wouldn't have happened, would it? Where are your parents?" The boy led me to his living room with his mother passed out on the couch and a rubber tube around her arm. I knew who she was the moment I saw her. She was my mother, my father, their friends, their dealers. Scum. "You're from that shooting star I wished to, aren't you?" "No, I'm just here to help, kid. Come on, lets get you somewhere else." And so I did. And it was both the easiest and hardest job I ever had.

bulbs have gotten efficient enouh to last thousands of generations. Effecient enough that humanity has forgotten how to change a liht bulb. A light bulb has gone out.

It began as a whisper, no louder than the rustling of leaves signalling the quiet before the storm. Men, women, parents, children, all over the territory came the same murmurs. Nobody ever mentioned it aloud, but it occupied the minds of everyone, from construction droids to lawyers to gynecologists to astronauts. "How many Earthlings does it take to change a light bulb?" The orbs of light lasted thousands of generations, a standing testimony of greatness to the ancient Man. A small filament of tungsten, a glass shell, and some copper wires could, in combination and in theory, never burn out. Even though humanity has invented more luminous and more durable objects since the light bulb, it hearkens back to a simpler time. The light bulb is an anachronism, much like the Gravipack or the iPad Air. Yet, the question remained a valid one. The hushed mumbling did not stop, nor did it stop when the first 5 light bulbs went out. Then 10 bulbs stopped emitting light. Then dozens all over the planet succumbed to darkness. The phenomenon soon spread to Mars, to Triton, and soon people found themselves asking the same lingering question. "How many Martians does it take to change a light bulb? How many Tritons does it take to change a light bulb?" Researchers, archaeologists, librarians, translators, scientists, all poured over the ancient texts for a method. Surely, the reasoning went, the Earthlings of time immemorial knew how to work their own inventions. Surely this primitive race had more understanding of their own materials and had cataloged its use in a decipherable seepage or a netsite. But to our frustrations, the findings seemed to mock our collective efforts. We found many scenarios similar to our own, but all involved a cultural punch line or *non sequitur* that gave no practical assistance. For example, the ancient people of Mexico had the greatest advantage; one of their citizens' names was Juan. In another retelling, Vietnam veterans knew how to screw in light bulbs, yet they refused to divulge the secret on account of listeners "not being fucking there, man." Software engineers claimed never to fix light bulbs, suggesting instead that it "was a hardware problem", and a group called PETA failed to change anything, including light bulbs. The ancient texts claimed that 5 managers could screw in a light bulb, provided that they all had access to telephones and willing subordinates. It required 37 sorority girls to change a light bulb, with 36 of them creating items called t-shirts that somehow assisted their task. These reports confused and frustrated our best scholars of ancient humanity. Like all riddles, these statements must have a shred of truth to them. Perhaps if we reanimate one of the humans from that ancient time, it could perform the task for us? Reanimation has happened before for different purposes, in the Fifth Andromeda War, for example. The process is expensive and legally questionable. Are light bulbs worth the risk? I knew we should have listened to Al Gore! I jerk off to pictures of him every night, he's so sexy. That's what we all do in the future, by the way. Masturbate to Al Gore...

The disappointment at finding out what actually happens after death

"So, this is it?" "Yup." "We just float around?" "Yup." "What the fuck? That's dumb. This is dumb." "Calm down. It gets better." "Can I eventually control where I float around? Or have a body or shape? Or like, interact with anything or anyone, or affect anything at all ever?" "No. Nothing like that. But after a while you get used it." "You just give up? You just watch life go by powerlessly?" "Kind of. But, it's not as depressing as you make it sound. You'll see a lot neat things. Some bad things too, of course, but you'll come to see the good outweighs the bad. Beauty is everywhere when you have nothing but time to look for it." "Yeah? Well, right now it sucks. I can't see my family. I don't get to go to my own funeral? There's no fucking heaven! And now I get to spend eternity floating around the intersection where I died." "Oh, you'll drift far enough in time. Look, you're already almost on the sidewalk. Looks like you're headed south. Lots of beautiful trees out that way." "How long have you been drifting? I'm Jack, by the way." "Ha, 'Jack'! That's a good name. I've lost my own. I've lost my age too. It all runs together eventually. It's quite relaxing." "Where is everyone else? How come you're the only one I hear?" "Oh, they're everywhere! A lot of 'em don't say much anymore. Not too much too say after you've seen as much as most have. But there's plenty of talkers too, they're probably just being polite. Say 'hello' guys!" "Hey!" "Hi" "Hello!" "Hi!" "Hey!" "Hello!" "Hi." "Hi." "'Sup." "Hey!" "Wow! This is fucking weird." "Yup. You get used to it."

The moon is an egg, a shell containing a single, massive organism.

They were halfway through a pocket of Ummanote when the drillhead broke. The force of the snap blasted three workers off their feet, and a rush of broken rocks buried them a second later. Dead, Himo knew; their suits would've been crushed like bubble wrap. The drill's support cage leaned sideways, teetering drunkenly on two bent legs before falling over. Himo felt the crash even through the insulated soles of his suit. He reached up and thumbed the side of his helmet, opening an emergency line to Command. "Emergency GMC line. State identity and crisis." "Officer Himo Yarnis, tag 957," he said clearly and calmly. "Supervising at Drill G-8. Reporting drill malfunction." "Accepted," the flat mechanical voice replied. "Please hold." Not a moment later, a gruff voice replaced the automated system. Himo recognised the rough, no-bullshit tones of Commander Mat at once. "Yarnis. You'd better give me a damn good reason why my brand spankin' new baby G-8 is *malfunctioning*." "Actually, it broke. Clean in half." The dust was beginning to settle, and Himo squinted at the scene from where he stood on the smooth white metal of Landing Pad G. Two rovers were racing towards the wreckage like hungry ants. He studied the mangled end of the drill, pointing sadly up at the stars within its nest of bent metal. "We were harvesting Ummanote—tapping that huge deposit Larayi was so excited about. The drill went in around halfway. It crunched a bit—like that time B-3 hit that huge vein of sodium—but it stabilised itself. A minute later, no warning, the whole thing veered around a full circle like it got completely stuck...and it snapped. Three guys went under. Half of it is still in the ground." "What do you mean, snapped?" Mat sounded skeptical. "The drills don't break like that, Yarnis. Even if it caught on a rock and it had the entire machine's force against it. It would just separate from the tower and cost us a fuckload of money, but it wouldn't *snap*." "Yes, I know that," Himo said. "I—" The ground trembled. A quick shudder, stronger than the force of the drill collapsing—this time Himo felt it through his shins and knees. He almost stumbled. His earpiece fluttered with static, and Mat's voice returned brokenly. "—What? You broke up for a s—there—you copy? —arnis?" "...Moonquake," Himo muttered softly, mostly to himself. *Impossible*, he thought automatically, but it was precisely a quake. He knew intimately what they felt like, from the gentlest tremors to the most violent. He had gone through hundreds of simulations during his geological training—it came even before the astronaut stuff. *Impossible*. There had been no true moonquakes since they'd built the magnets to power their equipment, stabilising the slow churning currents deep beneath the crust. The satellites orbiting them were more than capable of deflecting any oncoming meteorites of significance. *Moonquakes are impossible.* That was fact. Science. Himo had seen many things during his seven years of deployment on the Moon. He had gone through the cycle of awe and homesickness and Earth-appreciation and boredom enough times to ignore it by now. He had witnessed miracles buried underneath this cold, dusty place; unknown elements and mysterious objects and rare gases. He had suffered oxygen crises, equipment failure, crew malcontent, and even once helped solve a murder over at the E base. Nothing had truly frightened him, though. He had an engineer's level head and an almost obsessive trust in logic, science, and technology. All problems could be solved. New equipment could be built to test unknown substances. And always, there were a concrete set of equations and laws to fall back upon, laws that would never change. No matter how big the mystery, they could all be solved starting from those laws. It was like having a springboard there to kick-start you whenever you went to climb a new mountain. From then on it was simply a cycle of testing, recording, and re-testing. Elegant and reassuring. But then the ground shook again, and for the first time in seven years, a thread of true fear went through Himo's heart. He lost his balance with a gasp as a third quake followed without pause—two long strides got him upright again, but soon there was no respite in the shaking. "Yarnis?" Mat was repeating in his ear. "Yarnis, are you there? What the fuck is wrong with your line? You keep—" "*Moonquake*—" he said again, yelling it this time. The ground slammed up to meet him, bouncing him helplessly along the landing pad like a fish. The ruin of the drill was a cloud of grey dust by now. A drawn-out, raspy noise echoed through his helmet, some huge sound picked up by the audio sensors in his suit. Himo watched, eyes wide and mouth open, as something huge erupted from the surface of the moon, nudging the broken drill aside as if it were a toy car. "Suit 957," he uttered, his voice sounding tiny to his own ears. The noise came again—no, it wasn't just a noise, it was something *roaring*—he sucked in a small, terrified breath. "Begin video r-recording on all cameras. Patch all d-data immediately to Command." "Suit 957 cameras activated: helmet, shoulder left, shoulder right, infra-red, ultraviolet. Confirm patch to emergency GMC line?" "Y-yes. Confirm," Himo squeaked. As he stared, he caught himself wishing that the machine's voice wouldn't be the last thing he heard before he died. Mat had long since disappeared into steady static. *Die, why would I die?* he thought hysterically, but as he stood transfixed, frozen like a rabbit, the answer came to him, a terrible non-answer with no reasoning behind it. He just knew he would. Dust was everywhere, but spreading fast, thinning out to reveal the thing that was still rising slowly from the Moon's surface. It grew thicker as it emerged, cracking apart the rock around it effortlessly. Himo couldn't tell if it was the head or tail or limb or tentacle. All he could do was stare. Amazingly, he felt no urge to run. His legs wouldn't support him, anyway. He stood there, recording what he saw. *Test, record, re-test.* Yes. He could help do that. One day they would solve this. Use the springboard, climb the mountain. One day. *Oh, god.* An immense burst of noise took out his audio sensors in a flash. The horizon exploded. From the grey pockmarked expanse rose a smooth, curved, shifting section of what was obviously an organic creature, its hide gleaming and raining rocks. Black chasms opened up on the Moon when it reared towards the sky; one of them raced towards Himo, blasted apart the buildings behind him in a puff of debris. Within it, another appendage emerged, a line of glowing lights flickering through the haze of dust. Himo took a single step back, fell, and couldn't get up again as gravity lurched and skewed, ground beneath him shuddering and breaking, sending him tumbling around and around. Something jagged caught on his suit, tore apart its outer layer of insulation. A rock smashed into his shin, breaking it into a hundred pieces. He screamed, in terror and pain and confusion and denial, a childlike part of him waiting to wake up from the nightmare. Everything lifted up when the creature unfurled, the entire Moon well and truly destroyed now, pushed along the thing's impossible girth in several thousand pieces. And Himo was lying on one of those pieces, on a little patch of what had once been Landing Pad G. The realisation made him laugh thinly with the last few breaths of oxygen left in his leaking suit. He caught glimpses of the creature, spiky here, smooth there, with those rows of lights like huge fireballs set in walls of granite. *Was it here all along? Did we wake it up? Were we hurting it? Does it matter?* No, Himo decided, it didn't. It was here now, and mankind would solve the mystery as always. And he would've helped. He'd recorded everything. He had done his job, was still doing it now on his deathbed. The cameras were still on. Command was watching it all along with him. They would be proud of him, they would talk about him and remember him. He wasn't alone after all, no...as long as he kept recording... Himo could no longer breathe. Darkness was closing in around him, along with a strangely warm sensation, stealing up his numb arms and feet. The creature shrieked and twisted and undulated all around him. With the final dregs of energy, he turned his head away. Through his scratched helmet, he saw the starry expanse of space...and Earth. A sphere half-dipped in light and colour, no larger than a tennis ball from this distance. Beautiful. It peered at him through the cloud of broken rocks, and the swirls of white upon its mottled blue surface seemed to smile and beckon to him. Telling him to come home. His vision blurring with tears, Himo Yarnis closed his eyes for the final time, and his world went black and silent.

You are Cupid. You hate your job.

It's hard being me. I mean, for one thing, I've been trapped in a two year old's body for an infinite number of years. It's hard enough to pick up chicks when most people don't even know you exist, let alone when you're a *cherub.* And telling them I'm Cupid just makes it worse. Sure, okay, sometimes the job is funny. Like that one time I made a guy fall in love with a tree. When I used to do my work properly as well, I had some good moments. You'd just catch a couple that was absolutely meant to be. But now I get the most ridiculous messages. "There's a girl down in Brooklyn who needs her class mate to fall in love with her. She's done all the usual offerings. Go and shoot him." My heart shaped pager would blare messages of this ilk day and night *sans cesse* (Of course I know French, I'm fucking *Cupid* aren't I?) And invariably, when I got down there, it would be some lovesick teenage girl with too much eyeliner and pictures of One Direction on her wall. It wouldn't really be love, it'd be infatuation, but I'd have to sit down and have the chat with her about the dangers of summoning a love god for a fanciful crush. They'd usually freak out at the sight of a naked two year old in their room, and I got more black eyes than I could really count. The mass production of love has really done me a disservice, as well. There's that old saying "Why buy the cow when you can get the milk for free?" It rings fucking true here, ya know. Porn. I'm talking about Porn. Someone things they're in love, they rub one out and discover that it was just lust after all. So between the porn addicts and the lovesick teens, I'm really having a rough time of it. "You shouldn't be drinking that mate." Gabe was a good mate of mine. Kept an eye on me as I spiralled slowly into despair. He took the bottle of scotch from my chubby fingers. I blearily looked at him. "Pass me the cigs, would you? Be an angel." That made us both laugh. I lit up, fiddling with the lighter. I'd had to get it specially adapted because my tiny fingers weren't strong enough to flick it. The heart-shaped pager lay deserted next to me, still beeping messages from girls who desperately needed Justin Bieber to fall for them. "You need to clean yourself up a bit." Gabe cast a scornful look around my apartment. Despite it being Heaven, it was a tip. Overflowing ashtrays were scattered between piles of dirty children's clothes. Several empty bottles of scotch lay near empty takeout boxes (you'd be surprised how good the pizza was in Heaven.) "What's the point?" I growled miserably. "No-one falls in love like they used to any more. Where are the grand sonnets? Where are the poems and the plays and the acts of chivalry? The waiting in a bower for true love to return. I mean! Come on..." "You're drunk, Cupid." Gabe muttered, trying to clean up a bit. "I'm not!" He raised an eyebrow. "Okay, maybe I am a little bit. But tell me it doesn't annoy you too? Where is 'shall I compare thee to a summer's day?' Where's *Romeo and Juliet?* Where's Beatrice and Benedick? Where's Sonya and Rashkalnikov? Alberad and Heloise? Orpheus? I mean, when's the last time someone went into the Underworld to find their dead love?" I flopped down on the sofa. "That's the problem." I sighed. "No one has time to love. Not any more."

After generations of space travel, humanity has found a perfect planet, almost exactly like Earth. An underground species who cannot survive sunshine studies these new radiation-immune monsters in secret.

"Activity in sector seven." "Pull it up now!" Across the brightly lit room, a screen as thin as paper materialized and began streaming video feed of a blue, cloudy, and peaceful sky. A shadow began to move across the land, and a vibration shook the soil down to the bedrock. The desks and chairs in the underground cavern began to tremble, its inhabitants grabbing hold of their strange cups with an even more absurd variety of liquid inside of them. They looked again to the screen as a massive metal sword struck the clouds, slicing them in two. Everyone gasped, "We are under attack!" The order came from the being that commanded the sector in question to be raised on the thin projection screen. "Raise the battlements and secure the breach gates", people began to rush around this small room, running into corridors and passages that led deeper into the earth. The white, metallic walls with its beautiful architectural design, hid that they were even underground. The only way it was noticeable was the slight increase in temperature the lower you transcended the levels. As the inhabitants of the caves ran to weaponize themselves, the commander looked on, hard pressed to this projection screen. The camera's that gave feed of the world above, giving them information on weather and game migration, fed the image of this massive ship coming down in a sweeping green valley nicknamed Bjolminer. "Weapons ready sir', a man with a clipboard was gripping the commander's armchair with white knuckles. "Proceed to blast gates" "Yes sir" "Bring me the box as well" "The box? Sir," "Enough, bring me the box." "Yes sir." The young being motioned for two guards, who left the room. "Sir, we haven't used the Metas since Top Flash, you know, with the guireldeckies?" There was no response from the commander as the two guards returned with a small black briefcase. His thumbs dug under the edges of two black hatches and the top popped and folded open mechanically. The commander pulled a key from his neck, inserting it into the module for arming. He turned it clockwise and the system came to life. The small screen on the back now projected to the large screen in the room. It was a feed of the ship, with outlines of gold and blue frames giving options and readouts. The commander broke a sweat, his hard visage softening as he recalled the last system war. His finger moved over the button. Even a small pressure would release hell on not only the invaders, but also their civilization. It was a means to end, but not without great cost, and the commander would rather face the destructive power of the Metas rather than endure centuries of conflict yet again. "Everyone is in position sir." The man with the clipboard was now visibly shaking, as the guards took two steps back. His finger relished the feel of the button. Its smooth surface, shining in the artificial light. He sat and took in this last moment of calm and peace before he unleashed the hellish demons among these monstrous terrorists. His finger began its decent and the pressure that was exerted forced the button to give way. Thats all the button wanted to accomplish anyways, to be pushed. "WAIT!" The clipboard wielding warrior struck the box out of the commanders hands. The guards quickly jumped and suspended the man in air. A complex technique of holds would make him immobile. "What the fuck are you doing!" The commander thrust his face into the assistants. "Look", just barely audible, the assistants eyes where locked on the massive screen. The commander shot his glare to the screen and his face, one of anger and malice, melted way in disbelief. He stumbled back into the chair. Upon the screen, the beings began to emerge, and there in the middle of the field, was a small girl with dark black hair. She was picking flowers and skipping as her parents embraced and smiled. Tears began to stream from the commanders face, "That looks like endyln. How could she be in the sunlight?".....

Your Reddit username is your superhero name. What are your powers and what do you do?

A lot of people claim that my powers are useless; the tabloids tend to describe them more as “powers” than *powers*. It’s funny how mocked you are when you’re not needed, but how quickly they cry for you the moment they need a hero. I’m a lot like Spiderman, in a way. Hunted, mocked—the enemy, as far as the papers are concerned. Yet who’s name are they shouting every time something goes wrong? Not the mayor’s, that’s for sure. Not even the police. It’s always “Spiderman.” Sure, I may have a noticeable lack of webs and physical strength. And perhaps my reflexes and reaction time aren’t that great. And, yes, I don’t have a cool costume. Does that mean my powers are useless? Does that mean I’m not a hero? No, far from it. A hero doesn’t expect a red carpet every time he or she enters a room. A hero doesn’t expect praise or thanks. A hero is simply a hero, not for any other reason. I am a hero. For when someone is in trouble, who is the first to dive into action? The public? The police? No. It is me, it is ChokingVictim. And when I fall to the floor, gulping and grabbing for air as my throat closes against my control, who is momentarily distracted from their wrong-doing? The criminals, giving me just enough time to save the day (in 20-30 minutes, once I awake from my lack-of-oxygen induced blackout). Yes, perhaps I may have a 0% success rate and a 100% mortality rate in my heroic deeds; perhaps I haven’t been able to assist anyone in my tenure as a superhero, as I am always laying limp and motionless on the floor; perhaps I do block the doorway for medical and emergency personnel. Yet the day will come when this city recognizes me for the necessity I am, for the hero I am. The day will come when I dive into action, throat quickly closing on itself, body falling atop a quadriplegic criminal who cannot move my limp, unconscious torso. And on that day, I will be the man who wrangled the wrong-doer, who brought justice to the city; I will be the hero the city needs. I am the ChokingVictim.

In this world, everything is determined by the number floating over your head. Everything. And when numbers ahead of you die or get killed, yours moves closer to the coveted position of #1. You're number 22. For now.

They said Number One was on the run. She'd gotten away from her bodyguards and vanished. Number Two, and none of the rest of us have bumped up, and we hadn't gotten a ransom notice or anything. We are pretty sure she ran off on her own. I'd been Twenty-Two for oh, a year now. Being this high up, it's pretty good, and it's pretty stable. I was born Number 2401. Now, I'm Number Twenty-Two, small enough to spell it out in words. Before I hit 1000, as far as I can tell, only a few newborns were inserted ahead of me in the ranking. Or at least one. The current Number One was born 1556, when I still hadn't gotten out of the 2000's. She's twenty-seven years old now, she's held the rank for two years, and I've never met her person-to-person. We hear a lot about her. She sometimes gives interviews. Makes appearances. But they say she's shy. They say she's brilliant. They say a lot of things. I'd like to meet her, if they can figure out where she's hiding and bring her back. I'm on my way home from a meeting with the First Hundred Council, I've been in them since my teens. Me and Number One, we were the youngest for a while there, but she was always too far ahead of me for socialization, and her being a few years younger always felt like too much of a difference. Anyway, when we got home, the guards got out and escorted me to my building. Most of the team has been with me for years, their numbers are all in the billions, and they change hourly; calling them their number is stupid, so they still use names. I kind of miss having a regular name. We're friends, as much friends as we're able to be. I give them what help I can. The only way for them to get up is for billions of people to die, and none of them is genocidal like that, and working directly with a Hundreder gives them some tiny, side benefits that they'd otherwise never have a chance to see. I guess I'm kind of rambling now. I've had a few shocks this evening. You see, Bernita was opening my door, she's one of my guards, and the other guard that was escorting me inside, Hank, he told me "Hey, you went up to 21 now." Sure enough. I got a notification in my earpiece that Number One must have died, that Number Two had just gone up a notch. When I got inside, I sent Hank and Bernita away, started my evening routine. I keep thinking I should get married at some point, but you know, it's kind of hard to find someone at the right level for me. I'm pretty young, compared to the rest of the Hundreders, and they're about the only peer group I have. So anyway, I was just you know, puttering about. On evenings after a council meeting, I like to remind myself of how real people live, and make my own dinner, just have the house to myself. Some folk celebrate an upgrade. For me, it means one of my colleagues just died. I didn't know Number One, but I mourned the missed opportunity. Someone was in my house. She came out when I found my vegetables out of place in the crisper. I recognized her immediately from her interviews, from her speeches. "You've got to help me," Number One said. "I think ... something's terribly wrong." But she wasn't Number One anymore. A glowng Zero floated over her head. ----- **Bonus Content** This was stuff I cut, but the response has been positive enough that I'm going to just add it here at the end. ----- The number is not wholly random--genetic screening, astrology, magic? I don't know. We call it the System, and it's ancient. Whatever it is, it determines a person's "potential." Potential for what? We don't know. But those born with lower numbers seem to be the best and the brightest. The most capable. Going places. The First Hundred include brilliant scientists, political leaders, the bulk of our geniuses. And me. I don't really think I'm anything special. I had a lot of advantages, growing up. Got into the best schools, had the best opportunities, but I always seemed resoundingly average. Almost disappointingly so, according to my parents. I never cared much. I always wanted to be normal. When I hit a Thousand, I stopped being a person, and couldn't ever really be normal again. We're all just numbers, really, but when I was a 1001, people still called me by name. When I was born and 2401 appeared over my fuzzy baby head, my parents were surprised. They were in the ten-thousands, and babies are usually in the same range as their parents. But occasionally someone like me crops up. There are some people who think infants should automatically fall in at the end of the line. They think that they shouldn't have their "promotions" delayed so some dumb baby can skip ahead. Those people are idiots. Our entire culture is based on the fact that the First Hundred are, in some measurable, *quantifiable,* way, superior to the everyone else. I've been told that my entire life. Now that I'm one of the First Hundred, I don't really believe it. Most of us are certainly in the top percentile of *something* but that doesn't really make us *better.* There's jerks, there's assholes, there's stubborn, intractable fools among us, just like in any other set. The number isn't there right away, it only activates after the first hour or so. Our population has been stable in the ten-billions for generations, and there are always people coming in and out of the queue. The System waits for someone in the right range to die, upgrades a few thousand people behind that person, and puts the baby in at the end. This serves two purposes: One: the baby doesn't directly inherit the dead person's number. That's just grisly. Two: It safeguards against someone getting into the First Hundred while too young. Usually. The System might need to be adjusted, if anyone remembers how. Number One caused an uproar when she reached One Hundred at the age of thirteen. She was sixteen when I bumped up that far, and I guess things were hard on her during those three years. It was hard enough on me at nineteen; I don't know how she survived. ----- **Additional Comments:** The numbers: They're not actually there; it's an enhanced-reality projection. Everyone gets at least baseline-tier augmentation implants, usually around the time they start walking. The System takes its measurements throughout gestation and finalizes and assigns the baby's rank after birth. Also, there's some nanotechnology going on, and stuff like that, because you know, science fiction and all. The narrator isn't too clear on the details, just like the average non-parent isn't too clear about what goes on in a typical delivery room in modern times. He's also not too clear on how the System works, as a whole, for similar reasons. The System's inner workings are also kept secret to avoid manipulation. He's high enough in rank to learn more, if he wanted, but he kind of resents how he could never have a normal life, and how the System stole his identity.

On your deathbed you are confronted by the person you could have been

I had always hated hospitals. The sterile smell, the white walls, I found it all just so... blank? I'm not sure how I would put it. I had only really stayed in one once before, when I was a child. I had had my appendix removed. I remember waking up after the operation, feeling nauseous, a large, grunting nurse shoving a needle roughly into my arm, eating soupy applesauce and stale sandwiches. I had said to myself then I would never eat hospital food again, but for the past few weeks I've been eating nothing but those stale sandwiches, and the applesauce. I swear every bite I take I can feel them mocking me. But it's all as well I suppose. I've got maybe a few more days left in me, I suppose. Everyday I felt weaker, every time I lifted an arm I ached a little more, and if I had to have some little twenty-something year old intern clean my ass again I might just reach over and pull the plug myself. I'm sorry. You mustn't think I'm hopeless, or that I've given up. I'm just ready to go on. The cancer won the war a long time ago, and I'm ready. If you had asked me yesterday, I might have said I was scared, that I wasn't ready. But any fears I had about it had left with him. He came in the middle of the night, while the rest of the patients slept, I lied awake staring the blinking lights on the machines that invaded my veins, my nose, my dick. The door creaked open, I heard a person enter and quietly shut it. Without looking up, I closed my eyes and said, "I'm fine nurse, I don't need wiped right now." "Look at me, Nate." came a familiar voice, the voice of a man I turned my head to face the person and at once I knew he was. He looked more like me than my own son. But how, I couldn't imagine. I still can't. Before me stood myself, the spitting image of what I had looked like in my late thirties. I-he-wore a button up shirt with a red tie, sleeves rolled up, black slacks, done up hair. I looked him up and down, shaking my head. "Y-you... how-?'' "Because you should know." he said. "You should know. Everyone deserves to know what might've been, even if they don't like it." I tried to wrap my head around what I saw. The whole time I had been battling the cancer, I had never once been so weak that my mind was lost. Never hallucinated, never forgotten things. And he stood there, as solid as I was, with my eyes, ears, my face. I still just stared at him, jaw agape. If he noticed, he didn't seem to mind, as if he had done this a thousand times. "Mind if I sit down?" he asked casually. "Um.. no." I pointed to the chair by my bed. I reached for the little control panel by the bed and took the bed out of reclining position, sitting me up so I could face him better. He sat down, pulled out his cell phone, and started texting, paying me no mind. He did that for about five minutes until he put it away and looked back to me. "Sorry. That was important. Work stuff." I shook my head to show it was alright, still trying to grasp what I was seeing. "So... you're here to-?" "To show you what might've been. Yes. As I'm sure you've gathered, I'm you. So answer me a question. Are you happy?" "Am I happy?" "Yeah. With what you've accomplished. With what you've done. I suppose I should ask-what *did* you do in this life?" "I-I'm a free-lance writer. I made a nice living. I enjoyed it." "Yeah... I remember we did used to love writing. Ever get anything really successful? Did you write the next great novel?" "Well, I don't know. I got a lot of books published. You know, those fantasy stories I-I mean, we- used to work on. People like them, I think. I mean, they're not Harry Potter or... well, what do you do?" "I am a leader of men." he said smugly, with smirk on his face. "I'm a senator and I will become the President of the United States next week. I'll then get re-elected, and I'll be fondly remembered years to come." "President?" I asked, with disbelief. "I could've been the *President*?" "Yeah. If you had listened to dad when he suggested law school. Things would've gone a lot different for you. Instead, you're a writer... not as successful as you hoped, eh?" All of a sudden, I could feel him judging me, as if he was disappointed in his alternate self, unimpressed with a few published books. "Hey! I never once was struggling for money. I lived nicely, I had everything I needed and I lived in comfort. I was never unhappy!" "But were you ever *more*? I live on a senator's salary and soon I'll live in the White House, with all the comforts a man could ever want in his life. So really, how can you say that what you've done is *actually* significant?" I sighed, feeling almost a little ashamed. If this is what I could've been... how could I not feel at least a little disappointed? "I suppose John and Denise will like playing in the White House. I heard there's a theatre and bowling alley in there." He frowned. "Who's John and Denise?" he asked. I looked up at him, confused. "Your-our-children? Your son and daughter? They should be about five and three right now, considering how old you are." "I don't have time for children, Nate. I'm a busy senator." I raised my eyebrows at him, surprised. "Well, I guess Bonnie at least will like living in D.C." "Bonnie?" I was shocked. "Bonnie? *Our wife*?" "Oh. My wife's name is Teresa. I married into her family for money to help launch my presidential campaign. She's nice enough, I suppose." Suddenly, I didn't feel so low anymore. He may not have noticed, but I found myself looking down on *him*. Being president didn't sound so amazing, I suppose. He checked his watch. "Ah. Better be going. I have a meeting with my assistants." He said. He pushed aside the chair and headed towards the door. I stopped him. "Nate." I called to him. He turned and looked at me. "I really hope you're happy. I hope you change the world." I told him. He smiled and said, "Of course I will." And then he was gone. So no. I'm not afraid. I'm not hung up on what might've been. I'm not a leader of men, but I don't think I was ever meant to be. I'm more than that. I am content.

A mime discovers that whatever he mimes -- sword, gun, umbrella, putting a box around someone -- actually works.

The Emperor sat on an invisible throne, which all of the dignitaries and world leaders could only imagine being lavish. No one in the audience of at least three hundred people dare speak, unless they wanted to offend the Emperor. There he sat, face a pale incarnation of death, with a single black tear running down his right cheek, his black and white striped shirt, the colours contrasting and alternating back and forth like the ruler's mood swings. He chose not to wear a crown, but instead a beret. With a flourish, the emperor stood up and ran to the front of the stage, causing the first three rows to flinch. He put a hand over his mouth and pointed at them, laughing at them silently. The first lady of the Czech Republic fainted. The mime pressed an imaginary button on and invisible wall, and his right-hand man descended in a nonexistent elevator. The ambassador's eyes were wide, his face red, and his face coated in a sheen of sweat. He reached the bottom of the stage, and tried to walk out of the elevator, but his way was blocked. The door hadn't opened yet. He felt in front of him the next time, and exited. He walked to the front of the stage as his master appeared to ride a bicycle back to his throne. The ambassador wiped back what little hair he had left, and put a slightly open fist in front of his mouth. "Lesser powers of the Earth," He said, his voice echoing through the PA system, though it still cracked at points. "We have gathered you today for the annual day of tribute to our benevolent master, Pierre. In exchange for letting you have the illusion of control over your respective countries, you must-" "We all know what we have to do, we've been doing this for ten years, for God's sake! " An American general barked out, everyone in the theater's eyes bugging out at his outburst. "But I'm putting an end to it!" He took out a pistol from his boot and emptied the clip at the emperor, the bullets disappearing with a spark a few inches from his face. Before the general could move, the emperor pointed a finger at the general's head, put his thumb up, and flicked his hand back, showering all of the tuxedo clad Germans behind the general with blood, bone and brains. The blood-splattered leaders could not scream or show any disapproval of the action or they would be next. The only sound was a startled gasp from the general's wife, and that was almost too much. She could only look at the ground. The sweaty ambassador, though shocked, moved on with his speech. "...You must entertain our lord in the manner he sees fit. The first to entertain, as is tradition, is the President of the United States." The mime king started pulling on an invisible rope, and the President came out from stage right, wearing nothing but a tutu and a baby bonnet. He started pirouetting across the stage as well as he could with a body built for politics, face completely blank. The emperor sprinted up to him, and started dancing with him, jumping and jerking him around so much that it looked like he would cry. Across the stage, forward and backwards they went in a terrifying whirl, until the President slipped and crushed the mime's toe beneath his foot. "Ooh, *merdre!*" He said, the entire audience gasping. The mime king tried to make an imaginary anvil crush the President, but the spell was broken. All at once, the leaders of the world rushed the stage to rip their oppressor limb from limb, finally able to release the tension of tyranny, and having a good enough excuse to kill a mime.

The President of the United States has just contacted the Secret Service and told them to assault the Oval office and shoot the person sitting in the presidential chair.

"Jones. I need you to do something very important." the President's voice came through my phone, blaring into my ears. "I need you to kill the man sitting in the Presidential Chair." My mind went blank. What could he possibly mean by that? Is this one of his classic pranks? Or is there actually an impostor in the Oval Office? I start heading over to the Oval Office while the President explains the situation in more detail, his kidnapping, the doppel-ganger they created, and his escape from their prison. It sounded like he had been through hell. Readying my gun, I walk up to the door of the Oval Office. Phone still in my ear, I slam the door open, pointing my gun in the direction of the Presidential Chair. The President is sitting there, phone in hand, a wide grin on his face. For a fake, he looks surprisingly real. I fire; and hear the gunshot twice. Once from my gun, the other from my phone. . . .I just killed the President of the United States.

"Around the block I walked and walked, pretending you were with me."

Around the block I walked and walked, pretending you were with me. Through the neighborhoods we used to stroll through hand in hand. We got a couple slices. Just plain cheese for me, sausage for you. Our favorites. We petted Zeke's big mastiff, and Isaac's little pup on the corner of 18th and Frederick. Threw out our greasy pizza wrappers in the trash can, and watched them spill out onto the sidewalk. We even shook our heads and shrugged at each other in defeat as it happened. But we didn't make it back to our apartment. Back to the bed we sleep in every night. They came to take you away from me. They said you were dead, that I was sick and needed help. Threw me in a padded room. But I'll remember you, and I'll get out. We'll be together again. I'll take you to Paris like you always wanted.

- An assassin visits his therapist.

So how does being ordered to kill me make you feel? I don't know. I can't help you sleep at night if you don't open up. Well, I guess, it's just that. It feels like a normal day at the office. So I just feel normal, I guess. Go on. Um. I usually get amped up before an assassination. A lot of my sports-playing patients have some difficulty managing their testosterone. Yeah, maybe I do. I see red sometimes. Just like, I absolutely have to kill that person. It's not even about the money. I just want to feel their blood drip down my forearm. I love that moment of fear when they know they're about to die, but they don't know how. We're making great progress here. What's your normal spectrum of emotions during an assassination? It'll be easier if I demonstrate. Feel free to. Ok. Well, I'm calm when I walk in. Like I am now. As I get closer to the target, I start feeling this uncontrollable anger. I can see your arms shaking. Yeah. I know it's better to kill from afar, but once I feel the kill coming on, I can't stop myself from getting up close and personal. Right now, I can feel you breathing. I love that. Better image for when I make my move. You're doing great. Thanks. So, I take my assassination knife out of my pocket. If it's in a more public, easily discovered place like this I plan on going straight for the heart. I know I should use chemicals, but knives are more fun. Why do you jeopardize your safety to enjoy the kill? Well, see, here I am going towards your throat. You feel what your face is doing right now? It's contorted in absolute fear. Mouth's about half-open, completely dry, my eyes are wide in shock. Right, and as I get closer, there's a brief moment of acceptance. I can feel that. I know I'm going to die, and I'm not ready. It freaks me out. See, this is the moment I live for. My hand picks up in speed, like the fear is a magnet. And---- Guess I should go find a new therapist.

The rules have changed so that acting honorably extends your lifespan (and youth) indefinitely, while acting dishonorably shortens it.

It was so easy to see who wanted out. The cowards. The assholes. They were all selfish because they knew it would only be a matter of time before they'd be gone. I had heard about the old days, the days when people would brutallly murder themselves using knives, guns, and ropes. But now it was all too simple. Those who wanted to die acted as they pleased while those who wanted to survive had to act impeccable at all times. Some people thrived in this new way of living, opening doors for the elderly, allowing people to go ahead of them in line, always saying please and thank you. But I saw through it. They were all as fucking selfish as the rest. Most people would accept these honorable acts as gratuitious and kind, believing that people behaved that way because they truly cared. Well that's fucking bullshit. No one cared. No one gave a shit. They were doing everything for themselves, to live longer or to die sooner, as long as it was what they wanted. The other day, in the grocery store, I saw an old man lose his footing in aisle 3 right by the canned peaches and fall on his face. This man was a skeleton with loose skin clinging to his bones, his hands disjointed and immovable, the hair that remained upon his head was wispy, frail, and white. So as this old geezer is laying there having a staring contest with the floor up trots this lean, bronzed man who must drink a cup from the fountain of youth every morning with his wheaties. And this man tries to assist the mummy up from the floor only to recieve a loud grunt and mumbled obscenity. Know what he did? Fucking. Smiled. His plush lips pulled back to reveal award winning pearly whites. That is fucked up. Those two men were probably the same age, maybe the old guy was actually younger, who knows. But that's what no one sees. Society changed to weed out the assholes but all it did was make everyone crazy. You either were unhappy and dying or fake and living. It's all a load of goddamn bullshit. Want to hear the punchline to this joke of a world? I probably don't look any better than the guy in aisle 3. This world made me angry. This world is killing me.

Instead of being married by a judge, couples are married by a jury.

"It's going to be fine." My fiancée squeezed my hand and offered me a small smile. Her words resonate through the huge courtroom. I returned it weakly, staring at the six chairs that held so much presence in the room, even when empty. “I hope so. I promise I’ll try to not screw it up.” “I trust you. We can do this. It’s not a huge deal anyway, is it? Just a marriage thing, you know. ___________________________________________________________________________ The Department of Marital Affairs owned a large courthouse in the centre of the city. It fell short next to the tall skyscrapers surrounding it - a proud but dumpy building. A large dome was the glass canopy to the main courtroom; it sectioned off on either side into offices and smaller rooms. The whole structure was framed by a large metal fence - bleak rods of metal standing stiffly together. It ended in two pillars a width apart at the front of the building, fiercely guarded by two statues on each - a man and a woman, Zeus and Hera. They frowned sternly at the passers-by, protecting the sanctity of the courthouse from them. The main courtroom - where Beth and I sat now - was very grand. The sun spilt through the dome, oozing honeyed rays into every darkened crevice. The large panel of chairs stood up on a platform, overlooking the room. There were two doors on either side - the Deliberation room and the Officiation room. There was another room that branched off from the latter, known as the Cessation room - or the Cess Pit, as it was so affectionately nicknamed. It was the room that couples were led into and told in a gentle voice that a board of total strangers didn't think that they had a life together and that their marriage therefore isn’t approved by the state and we apologise but official processes must be started straight away. We had been waiting in there for some time. Our session was supposed to start at 5, but we hadn't even entered the room until quarter to 6. The woman that burst out of the room in tears was a tell-tale sign for what taken so long. The ticking of the wall clock resonated through the room. I couldn't even speak to Beth. There wasn't really anything to say. Talking would just make things worse. The proceedings were very strict; purposed to try and stop divorce from occurring in society. It was deemed a problematic issue that inspired too many murders and crimes, and therefore stopping it altogether was the way to go. Every woman looked forward to her session with the Board - she would squeeze herself into a fancy dress, make up her face and do her hair up all nice. It was just what happened. Less taboo than a wedding, but yet the same importance and position. If the Board deemed a couple worthy, they could go forth and be married. If not, the court would have to go through a process of relocating one of the persons - to cut off any lingering feelings and eliminate the chance of elopement. After what had seemed like ages, the door opened and the team of jurors walked out in an orderly fashion. They lined up behind the board and sat down, already looking us up and down. “This is the Court of Marital Affairs. Session number two-oh-five-eight, Mr. David Pike and Miss Beth Smytheman will now commence. You may now be seated.” We took our seats. My chair gave a creaking lament as I sat down. It lurched backwards slightly. “May you please confirm your identities?” The end Board member asked. “I am David Pike, born 5th June 1979 at Osstown, Delaware.” “Beth Julia Smytheman, born November 8th 1986 at Summer Hills, Delaware.” We had been through the practice drill hundreds of times - the answers came easily. “Mr. Pike, at what level were you educated at?” The first jury member asked pointedly. I couldn't see her eyes behind the gleam of her glasses, but I could feel them running up and down me inscrutably. “Tertiary. St. Mary’s Primary, Oak Bay High, Whitfield College. Graduated with a degree in law.” I shifted in my seat, feeling the chair rock forward suddenly. They directed the same question at Beth. She answered swiftly and ended with a wide, nervous smile flashed in the jury’s direction. Their focus settled on me again. “Your current occupation, Mr Pike?” “Marketing and Research team at Dole’s Pharmaceuticals.” She checked the form that we had handed her and nodded approvingly at my answer. My seat made an ugly sound as it moved once more. I bent forward slightly to see the issue ; one of the rubber stoppers wasn’t guarding the leg. I looked back up and noticed the second jury member look at me and scribble something on her clipboard. I moved forward in the chair, embarrassed. It screeched against the floor. “Miss Smytheman. What is your occupation?” Worry burdened her expression. “Unemployed. I graduated just six mon-” The fourth juror raised her hand to silence her. “Have you got the evaluation forms?” The evaluation forms were to test for compatibility. They’re bloody useless - based on some decades-old system that didn’t work properly anymore. I pulled my briefcase on the table and opened the locks with a loud click. Rifling through the papers, I found the forms. Standing up, I straightened my jacket and the stairs and handed it to them. I could feel their burning gaze at the back of my suit and became aware of my loud, clunky footsteps. I took my seat as they looked over the forms. “Please stand up for the board.” Hesitantly, I stood up and moved around to the front of the desk. Beth tucked her chair in and followed suit. Damn. She fingered her bracelet nervously as their gaze scoured us. The middle juror lowered her glasses. “Mr. Pike, it says on your form that you were in an accident in March 6th, 2004. May you please show us the complications of that accident?” Which was a nicer way of asking to see my leg - or rather, absence of one. I rolled up my trouser leg reluctantly, and let them take a good look at my prosthetic limb. It wasn’t really a bother anymore. It was only from the knee down, and worked perfectly fine. You wouldn’t notice it- there were no signs except a small limp from the dependence of that leg. It didn’t count towards anything - just another way for the Board to humiliate a couple, to prove their power. I let the fabric fall over the top of it without permission. The room was silent except for the soft scratching of pencil against paper. The second juror interrupted it with a dry tone. “The Board shall now retire for deliberation. We shall reconvene tomorrow at-” she briefly checked her watch. “Six pm. Thank you.” That was it. Sharp and sweet. We rose as they made their exit. As soon as the door closed, Beth’s posture dropped and her smile faltered. She hunched over the desk, supporting herself with her hands. “My god, that was scary.” “Hey. At least we’re done, right?” She looked up at me. “I’m so sorry. I knew not having a job would do it.” “Don’t worry about that- did you hear my chair? Christ, They’re going to think I’m some kind of imbecile now, stupid enough to be distracted by a chair, out of all things in one of the most important moments of my life. Fucking - some kind of brainiac, I am. And my leg, on top of all that.” She sighed and looked at me. “I guess all we can do is wait now. It’s only tomorrow.” I knew that she was running the session through her mind - picking out all her faults and the complications that they might bring. “It’s not like we can do anything anyway. It’s done. Don’t beat yourself up about it, alright?” “Let’s just leave before the next session starts. I don't think I can stay here much longer.” Outside the courtroom, a couple sat together, holding hands, rattling through masses of well-prepared responses. They were much better practiced than we had been. One answered the other’s question - rapidly but yet deliberately.They visibly flinched as the receptionist called their names and directed them to the last room. They were probably going to end up married. I desperately hoped that we would too.

A guy sits in a bar and jokes about North Korea. The story gets progressively darker as the guy starts to talk about the reality in NK

Morn joined us at the bar tonight. A stranger six months ago, he was now a fixture. My Trekkie buddies and I secretly called him Morn because no one knew his real name. He came in, sat down, drank for a few hours, then left. Never spoke a word to anyone but the barkeep. A real enigma, ya know? Average height. Average build. The only thing that stood out was that he was Asian. No one knew anything about him, but we all got used to seeing him sit quietly at the bar. Well, tonight, that was going to change. Tonight, I had about 5 shots and feeling particularly brave. "Hey buddy! How the hell are ya?" OK, note to self, I am past the point of volume control. Morn flinched in surprise, then looked at me askance. "I... am well. How are you?" He speaks! He had a bit of an accent, but hell, I was slurring my words too, so who was I to judge? "Well, buddy, I've got a problem. My friends and I, we've seen you come around for half a year now, but we don't know your name! My name is John. As in, John Luke Picard." I laughed at my own lame joke, but Morn was unperturbed. Must be that infamous Asian stoicism. "My name is... Also John." He hesitated to give out his name, like he had to think about it. "Well ain't that a hoot? Barkeep! Give my new friend John another one of whatever he wants." Why the hell not, finally got Morn... I mean, John, to talk. Time to celebrate. "John, tell me about yourself." I sat next to him. And, I noticed I had the attention of everyone at the bar. Apparently, I wasn't the only one curious about our new old friend here. John hesitated, and a haunted look flashed across his eyes. Poor bastard. Probably running from some she-bitch ex-wife. "I... Would you like to hear a joke?" OK, he didn't want to share anything about himself. Fine. I felt like laughing anyways. "Sure!" "What's the difference between a rat in America and a rat in North Korea?" "...got me. Shoot, tell us." At least he's telling a joke no one's heard before. "In America, a rat is a pet or a pest. In Korea, a rat is a meal for a family of four. Who are starving. In the camps. Because their great grandfather committed the great crime of sneezing during the inauguration of their Great Leader Kim Il Song." Silence. My alcohol fogged brain struggled to comprehend what was just said. "Uh. That... That's not a funny joke, John." "No? Forgive me, I must be doing this wrong. Let me try again: In Korea, a rat is the most well-fed creature because they can sneak into granaries to eat food reserved for our dear leader. In Korea, a rat has all of its paws because it has not suffered through frost bite. A rat did not have to witness his only daughter raped before his eyes before she was disemboweled. A rat was not forced to kill his wife to provide sustenance for his sons. A rat did not watch the effects of malnutrition turn an active boy into a listless living skeleton. A RAT is granted a mercifully quick death if it is discovered. A rat is the envy of my past." Abruptly, John stood. "Forgive me, I got lost in my memories." And with that, John left the bar. And I went home and hugged my family.

The Fashion Police are real and more powerful than any authority on Earth.

"Weeee ooooo weeee oooo weee ooooo..." "Oh for fuck's sake..." Winston murmured. "Weeee oooo weeee oooo weeee oooo...." the officer continued as he trotted down the sidewalk towards him, "pull over mister!" "I heard you," he cried, and stepped out of the flow of foot traffic and waited for his the officer to meet him. "Awful, astonishingly atrocious, absolutely abhorrent!" The officer cried, skipping up in his designer pants and form fitting leather jacket. "Just what do you think you're wearing, silly?" Winston looked down at his watch, and then down at his clothes. He didn't see anything wrong. "Look I'm late for work, I didn't have time to do laundry so not everything matches, I'm sorry." "Not as sorry as I am," the man lisped, "look at you, brown shoes and a black belt?! Are you kidding me? That's, like, fashion 101." "I know." "No seriously," the officer said playfully, "you should have learned about that in fashion 101, or did you skip your mandatory courses?" Winston played with the dirt, pushing it around with his shoes, "I may have missed a class or two." "Oh jeez," the officer gasped, "this is like, SUPES cereal, ya know?" Winston looked back down at his watch again, beginning to be impatient with this pull over. The officer jumped up and gasped, covering his mouth with both of his hands, "is that a digital watch?! Those are illegal for anyone over the age of thirteen, you know that right?!" Winston covered his eyes, rubbing his temples he tried to be patient. "I have grounds to arrest you right here and now!" the officer cried, flipping his hand limply forward, "if it weren't for your dapper-dan hair I'd slap some cuffs on those law breaking wrists and take you to fashion reeducation!" Winston's demeanor changed significantly, he felt no longer flippant or unappologetic towards the fashion-peace keeper. "I'm sorry," he urged the man, "it was on an honest mistake, it wont happen again. I'll go home and read the fashionista bible tonight, cover to cover and I'll match my clothing, I promise." He held his hands and knelt before the officer, "please don't send me to reeducation." The officer looked on him with scrutiny, hands were placed heavily on his tilted hips, "hmmmmmmm," he said through squinted eyes, "I'll let you off with a warning." "Thank you!" Winston cried, clutching the shirt of the officer, "thank you, it won't happen again!" "Well I should hope not! I don't want to talk to you again," he said, waving his finger. Something caught his eye behind Winston, "hey, you sillypants!" the officer cried across the street pointing at a woman, "Don't you know you can't wear white before labor day!" With his accusation he held up a flashing light and trotted across the busy intersection, "weeee oooo weeee ooooo weee oooo!"

The main character is the single witness to a murder. The witness doesent feel horror, but fascination for the killing.

Art is Art. A dance is art. A story is art. The creations of the mind are all art. Daniel wasn't an artist. He din't have the skill, or patience, or even the creative mind for art. He wasn't an artist at all, but he loved art. It was very late in the day, and Gas station Daniel worked at was finally closing up. He took the trash for the day and walked out back to dispose of it. As he opened the door, a splash of red pelted his face. He was awestruck for a moment, before realizing. In the faint utility light of the diner, he could see it. He could see art. The art of murder. He could hear the screams of pain, the blood paint, the shine of the knife, the dancing slashes. It was a masterpeice. She fell down. Dead. "What the, you were watching?" The killer said. He took a step towards the cashier. "Wait wait wait! Hold on!" Daniel begged. The man stopped only for a moment. "I don't care about people begging for their lives." He took another step. Daniel took a deep breath and finally screamed what he wanted to say out aloud. "Teach me to make art! Please!" The man with the knife smiled. "Okay. Lets dump the trash first, okay?"

A pilot floats alone, adrift in his damaged spacecraft and reflects on his life and situation as he watches his oxygen and power slowly run out.

I’m looking at the life support stats and I can still hear the computer’s voice in my head, even though I disabled it hours ago, it’s right there in red text and my mind automatically fills in the blanks, that gender-neutral voice, the matter-of-fact way in which it would read aloud to me, as if I needed a reminder, “Oxygen levels, twelve percent. Situation critical. Return to base immediately.” It’s one of these situations I’ve only read about in cheap sci-fi, but I can’t even panic anymore. That’s it. I’m like two days from the nearest base, I don’t think there are any other craft anywhere near this sector. I don’t know what to do. I got out the spacesuit, I hooked up the suit’s oxygen to the ship’s air supply. And what did that do for me, twenty minutes? I mean, I guess I could hold out hope that the monitor is malfunctioning, that maybe there’s more air in here than the ship’s capable of reading. But I don’t think so, and yeah, I went through emergency protocol, right, I did every step right? Is there something I’m missing? Because I don’t think so. I think … I turned the oxygen down, OK. That bought me an hour and a half, but I’m definitely feeling it, a little light-headed. What else? I did the spacesuit, right? Maybe it’s better if I just crank it back up again, I mean, what’s the ideal situation? Would I rather have three and a half hours of regular oxygen levels or six and three quarters hours of what it’s currently set to right now? Either way, I’m dead. And six and three quarters hours, it’s like, I don’t have a headache right now, but I’ll definitely have a headache by the end. I don’t think I want to go out with a headache. Maybe if I could get it to five hours. I won’t have to start really freaking out for another three. Shit, this is bad. I’m still trying to piece together what happened, autopilot was on, right, it must have been a really, perfectly timed piece of debris or asteroid or whatever. And why didn’t the computer seal the leak right away? I don’t know. I have no idea if there’s any justifying this. And I sent out the distress, right, but that doesn’t matter, they’re not going to get it until it’s too late. OK, I’ve got to stop freaking out here, I’ll have plenty of time to freak out when there’s no time left. What can I do for five hours? I’m not going to watch a movie. I guess I could watch a movie. Do I really want to zone out though? My last moments of existence? What should I be doing? Do I want to like reflect on life? I don’t know. I don’t want to get myself bummed out here. You know it’s like whenever this stuff happens in a movie, there’s always one obvious solution that’s never obvious until right when it looks like there’s nothing that’s left to do but give up and die. But this is worse, man, it’s like I almost wish that I could give up here, but I’m still stuck on that idea, like if I just keep looking through this emergency manual, something’s going to pop out at me here. I don’t think it’s going to happen. I wish once in my life I had watched or at least made an effort to pay attention to one of those artsy movies where nothing winds up working out in the end. But no, just blockbusters for me, and now I can’t turn it off, that never say die voice in my head, it’s crazy man, it’s like when I found my lock from high school, I was positive if I stared at it long enough, the combination would come back to me, and I’d start in with some random numbers, but nothing. Whatever was in there, that’s gone. I’m fucking dead. I wish I could override the computer and just get it over with, because I don’t know, I’m trying to stay calm here but I can’t do it, I wish it were at least cold in here or something, but it’s just the oxygen that got hit, not the heat, not whatever it is that powers this stupid monitor in front of me. I don’t want to keep staring ahead at the oxygen levels, it’s going down in real time before my eyes, but it’s so slow and I’m conscious of every second and … did I mention how I can’t get the computer’s voice out of my head? And it won’t let me just cut the air, I’d black out, I can’t believe there’s nothing stronger in this med-kit than ibuprofen and, fuck, am I getting a headache? Or is this just a freak-out headache? Maybe I’ll just pump it up, all the oxygen, whatever, an hour and a half, I’ll put on a movie, I won’t ever have to worry about how it ends, just get me nice and oxygened up here, ending are the worst part anyway, at least I’ll be comfortable, at least it’s warm in here.

A man escapes the banal reality of his nine-to-five cubicle job by internally pretending all of his interactions are in the middle ages in a land where he is a famous knight.

Sarah poked at the excel spreadsheet and tapped her foot impatiently as she waited for the helpdesk guy to arrive. Oh god, he's so creepy, I hope he can just fix this quickly. Her excel continued to blink on and off, caught in a loop. "Fair maiden, doth this foul spell vex you," Sir Alan asked with a deep bow. "Its locked up again, I'm so sick of this crap, when are we getting new computers?" Sir Alan shook his head, "Pardon me, fine maiden, please repeat. This old knight doesn't have the ears of youth any longer." He looked down shamefully at his body, staring at his khaki pants with the stain on them. "Good sir knight, I meant that awful wizard continues to jam my loom because I turned down his hand in marriage." She put her arms around herself defensively and raised her breasts a couple inches producing a clear view of her bosom. "Surely, a lass like myself shouldn't have to defend herself alone against such evil?" Sir Alan smiled, "Surely! It would stain my honor to let such proceedings occur uninterrupted by a just sword such as mine." He mashed the keyboard, clicked on the mouse, and waited. "Oh dear knight, you're so assertive and manly. This battle is too much for me," she said performing a mock faint. "I am only the King's humble servant," he added. "Ah see here, I have broken the spell, your loom is back to how it was." "My hero! The realm is lucky to have one such as you," she said as she gave him a gentle kiss on the cheek. "It is my..." Sarah cleared her throat, "Hey, so is it working? You haven't said a word in like 5 minutes. Its kinda creepy." Alan stared at his brown work shoes careful to avoid any eye contact. "Umm yeah, it was a bug with the VBS script. I just had to kill the macro. You should be good," he stammered as he quickly walked away. "Yeah, whatever, thanks," said Sarah distractedly as she went back to her work. She turned her head to make sure he was gone and added, "weirdo."

All of a sudden, Kim Jong-Un dies. Write about what happens to North Korea.

The generals were waiting around in the parlor, worried silent faces filled the room, occasionally interjected by a dry cough. The highly decorated men had grown old indeed. Tonight they had been called to rise immediately. The superior leader's cold had rapidly aggravated over night. It was the crack of dawn, the dying time for mythical heroes and half-gods indeed, but that wasn't an allusion anyone would dare to think out aloud: Kim had not fathered any children yet. Besides, his killing spree throughout the ranks of his military had certainly strengthened his power - or so they thought - but the new hierarchy was still delicate for the moment... All the old men were probably weighting it up separately but what would their conclusions mean? Then the oldest one entered the room. He read the two lines, slowly, his voice sounded dull and fatigued. "Your eternal leader commands you to go and die for our country, on the battlefields of glory, in a last thundering rise against the imperialist monsters! Tear their guts out and may Korea forever shine above all other nations, greater, brighter and forever unyielding!"

Being a shapeshifter in the military has its pros and cons.

Fear was the most powerful weapon that his country's military possessed. Invasions simply were not financially feasible any anymore. Imagine if the Galactic Fleet had to be launched every time some rogue corner of a distant planet in the empire decided they wanted to make their own flag. The coffers of the Treasury would run dry in a few decades! Far more efficient to let him destroy the enemy from the inside, particularly this enemy, a backwater planet, which inexplicably felt the need to rebel at least twice every decade. It would have been a waste to send a single destroyer to crush the uprising, in fact it probably would have flattered the rebels and encouraged them to make trouble faster next time. He hated busywork missions like these, but then again, he could have been assigned to fighting multi-system terrorist networks. Better stuck dealing with freedom fighters than any of that tricky business. The rebel soldier he was looking at now was a nobody, cannon fodder, the pawn of a pawn. For God's sake, the poor soul was carrying an AK-47, more of an artifact than a weapon. "Hello, are you a fighter?" The foot soldier, a young man with a handsome face and a deep olive complexion, swiveled where he stood to see who had called him. "I am... who are you, a traveller?" A traveller? Wondering around a military facility? That didn't even merit a response. He drew his weapon and fired a lethal pulse into the soldiers heart. Slowly stalking over to his victim, the shapeshifter bent over the body and looked into the young man's eyes. No fear. He'd died before he knew what was happening. He placed his hand right over the still fluttering heart of the dying rebel. Transformation was not just a physical sensation, it was a mental one. Just assuming the outward appearance of the enemy would have never helped much, to get anywhere important you needed memories. They felt like a cool, electric wave in his brain. New information sloshed around in his head, unintelligible and unfiltered, while his body writhed into the proper shape. He stood up over the body of his first Earth victim without making an effort to hide it. Some of his colleagues preferred to clean up, but he always left the first body behind. It was more entertaining when the enemy knew he was there, hiding somewhere just in sight, laughing at their fear. He walked toward the base that his victim had been guarding, carefully searching for the name and appearance of his immediate commander.

Mankind switch to birth by selection. Women can apply to carry out children like a regular job.

“Good afternoon madam, welcome to Genetrix, how may we help you?” “Good afternoon. I, um, have an appointment.” “Certainly madam. Name please?” “Amanda Smith.” “Thank you Amanda. Please take a seat. You will seen soon.” Amanda selected a slightly off white coloured plastic chair in the corner of the room. There was no need to be so isolated, there was no one else in the room, besides the blonde-haired, blued-eyed, brilliant white, shiny teethed receptionist. Amanda’s leg spasmed, as she skimmed the daily news on her iContact. “Was she really ready? Would she pass?” the thoughts had swirled around her head for the past four months. This was how long the process had been. She was now at the final stage, if the results came back negative, she could finally have a child. “Amanda Smith?” Amanda jolted awake from her thoughts. This was it. She wiped her hands on her neatly pressed skirt, straightened her blouse and followed the consultant. “Hello Amanda, my name is Dr. Richard Walters. Please, take a seat.” “Thank you.” “Now, Amanda, let’s get down to business. As you well know, this is the final stage. As we know, you have succeeded in improving that you are in peak physical health, with no future signs of serious disease, you are mentally healthy and physiologically sound. You have a steady income and a suitable saving account. You have a loving family with no signs of ill-health, a diverse set of friends and a caring husband. You display an exceptionally high IQ and EQ and your genes are perfect.” The doctor paused. “However, your husband has been tested positive for the MC1R protein.” Amanda gasped, “But… he must only have one copy…” “Indeed. You are correct. However, if your child has carries one copy and meets another person who has one copy, then their child may have the recessive trait. Technically, your husband shouldn’t even be alive.” “But can’t we try for a child and then you guys can test him or her later?” The doctor gasped in shock. “And then what? *Kill* the child?!” Amanda shrank in her chair. She had forgotten the Rules. “Sorry.” she squeaked. “Ahem, yes. Well.” the doctor returned to his professional manner. “The situation is Amanda, we forbid you from having a child with your husband. If you truly to wish to have a child, you must use the sperm of another man.” “What?!” “Yes. We have interviewed your husband and he is completely competent to become a father if he so chooses. However, you must use an anonymous donor, or find another husband.” Amanda was stunned. She had been so close. “I, err, think I need to speak to my husband. Thank you.” “Thank you Amanda. And remember, don’t try anything smart, your child won’t thank you for it.” -045

Write about a person who planted a small tree in their childhood, lived their life taking care of it, and is now choosing to be buried beneath it - from the tree's perspective.

Hello, old friend. It’s been a few sunrises since you last sat in my shade. I am glad to see you one more time, but sad to see you so. You look so serene, but so frail. Where have gone those strong arms that I remember? Where is that spark in your eye? Mother, but I miss it so. When you looked at your woman, when you looked at your children and their children, when you looked at me. I will miss it most, I think. I remember the warmth of your small hands as they cradled my seed. I remember your eager face and happy smile when my stem first broke the soil. I remember when you protected me from the animals and the winters. I remember when you relaxed in my shade, when you boasted about me to a succession of bored women, when you finally found the one that was as eager as you. And I remember you, an old man, spending every warm day with your back against my trunk, reading or playing music or thinking. I will not ever forget your strength and your kindness. I am young still, but I will remember you until I am old and the world or age or sickness breaks me. And now, you who gave me your heart and soul will now give me your body, to rest amongst my roots. I welcome you with open limbs. Now we will be together forever, my friend, my father, my love. Thank you, for everything. Now come. Let the soil embrace you. I know you’ll understand the appeal. ---- -040 | [more](/r/vonboomslang)

- As you die you hear "Death is only the beginning...."

He'd been this way for months. The hospitals could only do so much. The drugs had ravaged his body to a mere shadow of its old self. Was it really worth it for these few extra months of being fed through a tube and talked to like a child. Death would be better. No, death had to be better. It was happening soon now. He knew it. They knew it. The heart monitor sped up, his breathing became shallow, and then, ever so faintly, a voice fluttered into his ear "Death is only the beginning..." The man smiled, his lips cracking as he did so, a dribble of blood leaking out of his mouth. This was it. He was going to meet his maker. He was going to be free. He drew a final breath, sent a final stare, and was gone. Happy, rejoiced he prepared to enter eternal heaven. Paradise. He was ready. Blackness enveloped him and he thought no more. There was no more. The voice came to him again, softer this time, "I lied." And the man was dead.

- Last stand of a space cruiser/battleship/destroyer against overwhelming odds

Do you remember where you were when it came? I was in my office when I heard the noise. A terrible screeching followed by a wave that shattered glass and shook every building in the city. All across the city people heard the noise far above their heads, and thus their curious minds compelled them to look for the source. We certainly found what we were looking for, but not a single person liked what they saw. In our atmosphere there were well over a dozen.... spaceships. They looked like something straight out of some nerdy sci-fi movie. They were monstrosities of metal, dark gleaming skin forged to create the humongous beasts of war we saw before us. Each of them were huge, but one dwarfed all others. It was at the center of their formation, this...capital ship. I hesitate to even call it a ship, it seemed to me to be a flying metal island. It's intimidating metal hull seemed to go on forever, stretching far above us into the horizon. Cameras were being taken out all over town, each person determined to record this historic moment. It was actually because of all the pictures being taken that we can determine the exact moment they opened fire on us. The ships turned their noses down towards the city, aiming their thousands of guns toward our helpless, pitiless species. Then they unleashed the fury of the gods. The first volley destroyed the entirety of the docks and the boardwalk, along with most the west side. The second volley obliterated downtown. I remember cowering under my desk, praying to every god I knew to please let this nightmare end. It seems the gods decided to answer me for once. Right after the last of the second volley had hit their marks, there was once again a terrible screeching. I looked out my now destroyed window in horror, expecting the worst. Instead what I saw stunned me. Out of a rift in the sky came a magnificent pure white ship, bigger than even the capital ship of the enemies. It came out of the rift guns a-blazing, charging right for the enemy formation. Out of it poured our salvation. Thousands of missiles fired out across the sky, striking at the enemy ships, destroying half-dozen in one go. I remember standing up wordlessly, mouth agape, as I saw the brilliant explosions decorate our sky. After that it is a bit of a blur. I remember seeing hundreds of smaller ships blazing across the sky, I remember when the white ship leaped in front of the third volley, saving the lives of every person left in the city. And of course, I remember the end. The white ship was no longer gleaming, no longer pure, no longer invincible. The white ship had so many holes in it, it barely looked like it could fly, let alone fight. Yet fight it did. While the white ship was dying, the enemies still had three of their ships left, one of which was their dreaded capital ship. The fate of my world hung in the balance, yet all I could do was stare dumbfounded at the sky. I am glad I at least had the sense to stare, otherwise I would have missed it. The last charge. The white ship charged one last time at the enemy. It fired every last thing it had, tearing through one of the last enemy ships. They of course fired back, tearing into the white ship's glorious hull. Their shots ravaged the white ship, but it charged unfazed. It got within spitting distance of the capital ship before a massive shot from the capital ship's main cannon disabled it. All I remember is the despair I felt those few brief seconds it hung in the air, dead along with any hope for my planet. Then I heard the awful screeching one last time. A rift opened up in the middle of the white ship cutting it in half, it's front half falling down into the sea. But no one saw that. Everyone's gaze was up, for the rift continued to expand until it stretched across the sky. It consumed the last two enemy ships in a blaze of fire, saving my world, before collapsing in a thunderous boom. It's been ten years since that day, and we still continue to rebuild. Our species has grown immensely in the past decade, using the salvaged technology to build our own starships and colonize worlds in our system. Building resources to one day strike back at our despised enemies. Their doom is coming, and we will be sure to help them along the way. And what of our saviors you may ask? It has been ten years and we have studied every scrap of metal from their ships we could find. The eggheads think they have figured out their language. In fact, they just translated the ship's name. *USS Thermopylae*

The last man on Earth hides away from his hunters.

Lenny zipped up his thermo suit and pulled on his dark goggles. He lied down motionless next to a bush and made sure to breath down towards the ground. He felt the cold ground and began to shiver. His earpiece came alive with a click. "Uh, Lenny they're really nearby. Just lie still." "Its fucking cold." "I know but please lie as still as possible. Their sensors are very good at picking up motion." He nodded and closed his eyes as he heard the familiar thump of a thoughtbot. Its multi-legged insect body pounded the ground as it ran. Lenny felt the tiny seismic disturbance as it ran past him. He waited and turned his head to look around. "Are we clear," he asked then he felt dozens of robotic footsteps and tensed up. His hand went towards his maser pistol. "Just relax, let them run past you," the voice added. "Better to let them miss us than to get into a firefight." He waited as the hundreds of footsteps passed him. He held his breath as long as he could. "Okay, they're gone," said the voice. He gasped as he inhaled air. "Jesus, what is going on. I can't remember the last time they had so many patrols active," he said looking at his AI watch. The watched blinked an animated icon of someone shrugging. "Not 100% sure Len, they seem really rejuvenated lately. Others in the resistance have noticed as well. There are... theories on what is going on." Lenny sat up and unzipped the thermo suit. He quizzically looked at the purple liquid in his canteen and drank it. "Well, what is it," he asked wiping the liquid from his lips. "The enemy thinks you're the last human alive." Lenny stared off into space for a moment. "Yeah, I kinda figured that. Been, what, five years since I saw anyone. Doesn't really change anything does it? We're still on the same mission." He tried to smile but couldn't manage more than a lesser frown. He rubbed his eyes, "Right, same mission?" "Yes, same mission. Its just I wanted you to know that this is most likely true. Its important that the resistance doesn't hide anything from you," said the watch as it displayed an icon of a smile. "I know pal, you guys are straight shooters," he said. "You guys have kept me going this long." "I'm sorry Len. I guess we both knew this day would come, but our intel is better than ever for the mission." Lenny pulled a pair of binoculars from his backpack. He peered into the distance. "So that's the building. Don't look like much," he said. The watch blinked a smile again. "We are 87% certain there are frozen human eggs in there. We have the utmost confidence that if we can retrieve them we can artificially incubate several dozens of children using your sperm sample. We could grow them" "Raise them," corrected Lenny with a half-smile. "Yes of course, raise them, and keep all of you safe in our compound." Lenny laughed, "So I'd be a dad again, but this time to dozens of kids. At my age? Maybe I should just let the thoughtbots shoot me now." The watch gave off a simulated laugh. "Kids... again?" He stood up brushing dirt off his pants. "Its been, what, twenty or thirty years since I saw any kids?" He gulped, "I had kids you know. Two girls." The watch listened quietly. "I know Len, I know. I'm sure they were great girls." Lenny sighed and looked around. He listened intently but couldn't hear anything but birds chirping and the wind. He eyed the facility ahead for a moment and scratched his head. Overhead a drone flew. He squinted and recognized it. It slowly descended and dropped off a long package. He bent over to open it. "Do you like it? It took a while to find. Its pre-war but its operational. We sourced it from a uh... museum," said the watch. Lenny smiled as he held the sub-machine gun. He loaded the magazine with a click. "Armor piercing," he asked. "Yes. Should penetrate thoughtbot armor. In case of any resistance." Lenny drank again from his canteen and laughed. "You want a 60 year old soldier with a 100 plus year old weapon to run in there and grab frozen eggs?" He paused and practiced aiming the weapon. "A talking watch, me, and this relic are humanity's last hope?" He laughed again. He put the weapon down and sat. "I'm not stupid. Once I get those eggs your drone will take them away. You'll... grow those children, but there's no way you're getting my old ass to Australia or wherever this secret base is in one piece. We can barely walk in the wilderness without getting shot. Right? Those little drones are all you guys have. Heck, you already have my DNA and my sperm. I'm just a liability once I get those eggs for you." He threw the canteen on the ground. "And this crap you've been feeding me is full of stimulants and anti-depressants and shit." The watch blinked a question mark for several long seconds. "Yes, Len, yes. The chances of you making it are low. Not zero, but low. I didn't mean to mislead you. We see this plan as working to revive humanity, but we cannot guarantee your safety or longevity. I was hoping you'd understand. I've been trying to think of... other scenarios. Maybe hole you up in wilderness for a few years while the children grow. They could rescue you when they hit teenhood, but you will, of course, be in your mid-seventies by then." "I know, bud, I know. I kinda knew this was a one-way ticket. Just had hope, is all." "The resistance won't reallocate me. I can stay with you here in the forest. I can help you build a shelter or find an abandoned shelter. I can request drone drops for things we can scavenge. It won't be a bad life. I can even show you the children later. You can mentor them from here. Teach them. Be a sort-of father again." Lenny stood up. "I can... do that. I think. I mean, someone has to raise those kids. What do you AI's know about kids anyway." He wiped a tear away. "Alright, alright, enough about the future. We don't even have the eggs. When are we going?" The watch blinked a happy face, "Tonight." "Tonight," repeated Lenny with a smile as he felt the weight of the machine gun in his hands. "Tonight everything changes."

A prisoner of war somehow escapes a maximum security camp.

Ramsgard. The moment he saw the name three years ago, Larry knew his life had ended. There was no such thing as escape, no such thing as freedom, once you become a prisoner of Ramsgard. Parole had no definition, individual rights had no definition. The moment you stepped foot under the massive, steel archway, you were there for life. From the day he had first enlisted, Larry had heard muffled rumors about Ramsgard. He’d brushed most of them off as just that, rumors. Sure, he could believe that no one had ever escaped—many prisons can claim that to be true. But the belief—or perhaps common knowledge—among the servicemen that no one had ever even tried to escape? That seemed a bit too unrealistic. Surely, at some point, someone would have made a run for it? And why not? Every prisoner at Ramsgard was there for life, guaranteed to never lawfully feel grass on their bare feet again. Why would they not take the risk, do whatever it takes? And what about the myth of the guards? That they were all inbred—dumb as logs, but grown to be more sadistic, more cruel than any other men dare be. He’d scoff silently at the ignorance of the others, at how naïve they were. The day Larry walked into Ramsgard was the day he realized just how wrong he had been. The clarity—the empty, hopeless clarity—flooded his every cavity like a drowning child sipping his last watery breath. Every eye he passed was submissive, afraid, broken. They never looked at his face, certainly not at the guard’s. Their eyes would dance around the backdrop, focusing on anything that couldn’t look back. Their bodies were limp and skinny, evident of years of malnourishment. They looked more like caged animals, or perhaps Holocaust victims, than permanent prisoners of war. Each cell in Ramsgard was a tiny box no larger than five feet by eight feet. Thin metal poles marked what was the entry way of Larry’s new home, complete with a three-by-six mattress and a toilet that overlapped its edge. He quickly learned that he would not leave the cell but twice a week: once for mandatory inspection—in which the guards fumbled about like children pretending to look busy—and another fifteen minute period during which prisoners could, one at a time, stand by a metal-gated window. Any disobedience was guaranteed to result in violence, with fatalities a common occurrence. Those who so much as spoke without permission were beaten, their jaws often broken to teach a simple lesson. Some were killed on the spot. Larry watched, during his first month in Ramsgard, as a guard—wearing handcuffs as brass knuckles—beat and killed a prisoner for tripping and knocking into him. The guard walked off laughing and left the body where it lie for almost a week. However, despite their sheer brutality, Larry could tell that the rumors of their intelligence were undoubtedly true. More than once he had watched as they collided with each other in the wide corridor, or spent hours silently drooling without so much as blinking. Yet their ignorance only made them more harrowing and more unforgiving. Everything Larry had ignored, all the rumors, all the chances he’d had to escape his fate—to end his tour early, to opt out of following the invasion, to swap into a less risky position than spying—everything his life had been was now everything he had come to regret. Yet, for the last three years—three long, tiring years—he had focused on nothing but his escape. Yes, no one had even attempted it before, let alone made it out, but Larry knew that impossible always had a crack somewhere. And so he planned. Every night, laying on his stiff mattress, he’d mentally devise—and eventually study over and over—a plan for escape. During the fifteen minute window break, when he could feel the cool wind against his pale, thinned skin, he would slip away into the halls beside the window. They were always loosely covered, coated in a darkness he’d spent years training to conceal himself within. No one ever went down the hall; it had been out of use since the first month he had arrived at Ramsgard. In fact, he was one of the last prisoners brought in through that entry. Since that point, it had simply ceased to be used. For this plan to work, the guard would have to be facing away and mentally absent, of course. While the guards may have been dumb as rocks with severe mental disabilities—as one would need to be to have such little concern for his fellow man—they were cruel, violent, and utterly unforgiving. If he failed, he would likely be executed; yet Larry knew that even death would be more welcoming than another week in Ramsgard. Larry was aware the plan sucked, he knew it was flimsy and faltered everywhere that needed structure. He knew the chances of success were almost lower than the chances of a god damn unicorn crashing through the wall and carrying him across a rainbow to Valhalla. But it was a plan and he was more than ready to die. So it began, Larry waited for the knock of the billy club on the steel gates to mark the last day of his life. He made his bed as neatly as he could and placed what few items he had in an orderly fashion on the floor. Once the metallic knock pierced the air behind him, he stood and waited for the door to be unlocked. A guard entered, drool oozing out the corner of his mouth, and patted him down with the delicacy of a boxer on a punching bag. He then pushed Larry out the door. The two walked, Larry less than two steps ahead, the soft pressure of the club buried deeply between his shoulder blades. Another prisoner walked—or was pushed, rather—in the opposite direction, eyes locked to an invisible line on the floor, as he returned from the window. A cool wind slid across Larry’s cheek as a thin glimmer of light became more visible ahead of him. “Fifteen minutes,” said the guard, his eyes blinking without synchronization—one, then the other. He pushed Larry toward the window, stumbling and grabbing the bars to keep from falling forward. He straightened himself and stared down. It was beautiful out—even for the shithole of a country he’d called home for the past three years. The air was cool, he assumed it was Autumn. That had been his favorite season back home. He would go apple picking with his family, always picking too many and ending up tossing the rotten ones a month later. He closed his eyes and tried to remember the smell of an apple, the sound of his mother laughing as he’d pretend to throw apples at her. He smiled. Larry opened his eyes. He figured it had been about five minutes. Silently, Larry twisted his head so he was looking to the far edges of the window. The guard leaned against a wall just inside his peripherals. He seemed to be facing away, body slowly rising and falling with each elongated breath. Was he asleep? Larry counted the seconds between each exhale. One. Two. Inhale. He tried to mimic the breathing. It felt relaxed, light. If he wasn’t asleep, he certainly wasn’t staring Larry down, ready to pounce. His heart raced as he shifted to the left slightly and peered out the opposite angle. The hallway was dark, nobody visible within or around it. He felt his body begin to shake as his stomach became light. Slowly, Larry stepped toward the hallway. With each movement he’d shift his eyes toward the guard without moving his neck. Silent, motionless. He widened his steps and waited for the smash of the club against his ribs. Nothing. He slowly crept until the light from the window was replaced by the cool darkness of the hall. He slid into the shadows and glanced back. The guard had not moved, he stood motionless—save for his soft inhaling and exhaling. Larry turned back toward the darkness and silently moved, hand running along the wall as his pace quickened. An alarm shattered the air; Larry instinctively fell flat against the floor, concealed by the darkened hallway. The guard behind him was gone, his body was shaking uncontrollably. “What’s that?” shouted a voice from a nearby room. “Microwave?” replied another. “That’s not a microwave,” said a third. “That’s what my microwave sounds like,” the second said. “Your microwave is an ear-shattering alarm?” “My wife is hard of hearing.” “Do we even have a microwave here?” “We don’t have a microwave here,” said the first voice. “What the hell is that?” Larry lay as flat as he could, listening to the confused conversation. His eyes widened—they had never before heard the alarm for an escaped prisoner. “What’s going on here?” Shouted a deep, raspy voice. “Sir, we don’t know. It isn’t a microwave.” “I think it might be an alarm for wild dogs in the prison,” said another voice. “It’s not dogs,” said the deep voice. “It’s definitely an alarm, though. Are you sure it isn’t a microwave?” Larry stood back up and began running down the hall, foot slamming with each intervaled shriek of the alarm. He heard the stomp of footsteps as guards ran in every direction, searching for anything out of place. He followed the path he’d walked the first day he arrived, which had since stopped being used and replaced with another entry. Every fiber of his being hoped the door was still there. He felt the cold cement against his bare feet with every step, the ground becoming dustier and dirtier with each stride. The room was pitch black now, but his hand remaind his guide as it slid along the wall. Voices continued to shout in adjacent hallways and from behind. “It’s not wild dogs!” echoed a voice from behind. “Is it a riot? Are the prisoners rioting?” “Don’t be ridiculous. I think it might be a robbery. Do we have jewels in here?” “No, or at least I don’t think so.” Larry saw a thin line of light as he approached a corner. It grew wider with each step, spreading out from behind the angled wall. He turned, hand following the curve of the corner, and stopped. A massive metal door stood resolute in front of him. A big red button sat. A glass booth stared directly at the door, empty except for dust and cobwebs. It had clearly not been occupied in years. Larry ran to the door and pushed. It did not move in the slightest. He took a step back and stared at the button. He knew that—if it worked—it would produce an exceptionally loud buzz, just as it had on his first day in hell. He closed his eyes, heart racing, and thrust his fist into the button. The buzz echoed down the hall as the door clicked unlocked. He threw his shoulder against the door and fell forward into the cool autumn air. Voices echoed behind him, still searching for the root of the alarm. “What was that buzz? Is someone watching The Price is Right?” Larry peaked around the corners of the door. The guard towers had been deserted - likely in a panicked attempt to find the source of the alarms. No one seemed to be around. He took a step forward, expecting the crack of a rifle to finally strip him of his last hope. The cool air blew gently against his sweat-soaked hair instead. He ran toward the exterior fence and pulled open the gate. It was unlocked. Larry stood for a moment, in awe of the lax security that had held him and so many others for years. The tree line grew closer as he broke into a full sprint, throwing off his clothes and diving into the thick of the jungle. “It’s not a car alarm,” echoed a loudspeaker far behind him, almost completely out of earshot. “We don’t have a parking lot.” ______ If the ending cuts off abruptly, please let me know - this is over the limit of reddit's post, so I'm not sure if it fits everything. Last line is "'It’s not a car alarm,' echoed a loudspeaker far behind him, almost completely out of earshot. 'We don’t have a parking lot.'"

You awake to find that the clock has somehow been reset, and it's early on the morning of the day you met your long-time spouse/partner. Knowing what you know, what do you do?

"Claire, come on! You need to wake up!" "No, five more minutes. Let me sleep in for once, Theresa." "Who are you talking to? You're going to be late for class on the first day!" Classes? Wait, that wasn't my wife's voice. I knew it, though. I opened my eyes and saw my college roommate, not a day older than when we first met. I sat up quickly, taking in my surroundings. "Good, you're up. Class starts in fifteen minutes, I'm heading out." "Thanks," I muttered as I crawled out of the uncomfortable dorm bed. I checked my phone, surprised to see the date as my first day of college. I dug around in my dresser for a pair of jeans and a sweater, not taking the time to brush my hair. I took the seat by the window, as I always did, and contentedly dazed in the warm sunlight as students filed into the classroom. I saw my wife, as beautiful as ever, and I eyed her more than I had the first time around. She sat next to me, nervously looking around the classroom. I grinned. "You from a small town?" I asked. She jumped at the sound of my voice, and I knew I made the right decision. I wouldn't change a single thing.

r has won, WW2 is over. Write a story about what's happening in the U.S. and around the world.

Everyone thinks that if you want to change history you have to send someone back to do something impossible. "Assassinate Hitler," they said, and everything will be better. It's not like we didn't try but the man did survive a fair number of attempts on his life from his own time (and more than a few from ours). Leading one of history's most violent and bellicose powers will make you paranoid, I guess, which comes in handy when a fair chunk of future history is gunning for you. Of course, it took quite a while for the truth to come out. The Soviets were never much beloved and Hitler spent most of the 20th century celebrated as a hero by almost everyone who wasn't French or Russian. When Britain bowed out of the war after the BEF was smashed against the coast of northern France the Warmacht turned East towards Russia. With the full might of the Nazi war machine at his throat, Stalin fled. They found him hiding like a dog in one of his industrial cities East of the Urals -- Magnitogorsk or somesuch. There was a big trial at Neurrenberg and they stretched his neck. Japan's war in Siberia was what made the victory possible. When the US oil and rubber embargo threatened to force Japan into conflict with the United States the Germans were able to keep their Asian ally supplied around the horn of Africa. The Brits weren't about to let them use the Suez but a few centuries of protecting the freedom of the seas is a hard habit to break. Japan needed the oil so when Hitler requested the Imperial Army leave Mao and Chiang Kai-shek to fight over China and attack the Soviets instead he didn't need to ask twice. It wasn't until the mid 21st century that the German government government declassified its Final Solution and it was another half century before anyone really wrung their hands about the whole sordid matter. By then the Germans were appropriately contrite. They were a superpower, after-all, and it didn't look terribly good to go before the world condemning the crimes of some tin pot despot in South Asia or West Africa with the blood of a tens of millions of Jews, slavs, Roma, etc on your hands. So when a physics nobel lauriat started babbling on about time travel the historians and the human rights scolds started to speculate. When some tech enterpreneur in Tokyo worked out how to observe the past directly the speculation became rampant. Surely if we could see the past we could touch it. First they sent back a mouse. Then a cat. Then a person. By then the War was a few centuries in the historical rear view mirror. Some governments made their typically ham handed efforts to rig the past but to no avial. Assassins came and went -- the bombing at the Wolf's Den, an attempt at an airplane attack -- History proved itself to have incredible inertia. Indeed, it was that phrase "historical inertia" that gave us the answer. Changing the past is like deflecting an asteroid or turning an oil tanker: a tiny change applied over time becomes a tsunami. And so it was that the course of the Last Great War was changed when a single man stepped into 17th century northern France with an unobjectionable idea: what if we add breakwaters to the port at Dunkirk?

The United Federation of Planets has fallen..

We had finally achieved peace. Many thought it was impossible, especially considering how our ancestors could not keep harmony living on the same planet, much less a galaxy. We were all so different in thought, torn apart by belief and selfish desire, for the longest time the solution was violence or to force others to think as we. But the weakness to unified peace had also been its greatest strength. It was our differences that made us closer, instead of listening to the like-minded, we learned to work together for the common goal. Soon thousands of planets were united and in the first time of our history, all leaders shared the same world, exchanging wisdom instead of threats. Then he happened. It was ignorance on our part to think every creature shared our ways, one error of judgement cost us everything. To think an entire federation was ended by a single child, a child named Ender.

A suicidal person is robbed by someone at gunpoint. What happens?

"Your wallet and phone! C'mon, hurry!" The rag over the man's mouth muffled his voice, clasped in both hands was a revolver. "No." He stood there, staring at me for a moment. "What do you 'no'? You can't just say no, I'm robbing you!" "Well, I did, what are you going to do about it?" I said with a shrug. "I suppose I'll just have to shoot you then, how about that? Yeah, bet you wouldn't like that one bit, huh?" He breathed a sigh of relief, glad that we were once again on the same page. "Go on then. I was just about to do it myself anyway." The robber let the gun droop in his hand. "Well? What are you waiting for?" I spread my arms out to make his job a little easier. "I can't very well shoot a guy who was about to kill himself, can I? That's like, kicking a baby or something. It's just wrong, you know?" "What? It's nothing like that!" I found myself getting annoyed. "Unless maybe the baby was specifically asking you to kick it, which isn't bloody likely since babies can't talk, so stop acting like a wimp and just shoot me!" "Um..." The robber fumbled with his gun, almost dropping it. "I'm just gonna go find someone else to rob." He turned on his heel and ran, with me right behind him. "Come back here and shoot me, asshole!"

A married man comes to a shocking realization that he's been suffering from multiple personality disorder, and that his wife is the alter personality of him.

"How are you together all day, every day? If I was with my wife that long, we would have gotten a divorce during the first week!" This is something that I constantly heard from my co-workers. My response to them - we are best friends. It is true, though. We are together pretty close to 24 hours a day. We carpool together, we work next door to each other on same shift, have the same hobbies and are at each others' side whenever we aren't at work. We don't have any children, so there really isn't anything that takes our time away from each other. It's just always been that way. When we first started dating, our love swallowed us whole. There really isn't any other way that I know how to explain it. I met her through mutual friends, went on a few dates and the next thing I knew we were moving in together, and I was ecstatic. It took about a month before we decided to move in together. It was nice. We made our own little family - cooking together, doing chores together, playing games together, whatever. It was like playing house back when I was a kid. Fuck, we were just kids, even then. I just knew that my life was exponentially better when she was around. We were loners, but we were loners together, just us against the world. We got married five years after we met, almost to the day. A friend at work kept pestering me to meet my wife. Although she only worked down the street, her lunch break didn't coincide with mine, so we had to manage to eat lunch either by ourselves or with our coworkers. This was tough, but we managed. I know that sounds ridiculous given the amount of time we spend together anyway, but I often caught myself wishing that we could eat lunch together just to break up the monotony of the day. One night, I asked my wife if she would be able to talk her boss into letting her take her lunch early. I wanted her to come by my job to meet some of the guys there. I told her that I'd been talking her up for so long now that everyone wanted to meet my perfect, wonderful wife. She blushed and told me she would see me at 11 o'clock, but that I would owe her because she knew her boss was going to bitch about taking her lunch early. I made it up to her that night by doing the dishes while she took a bubble bath. I was so excited to introduce my wife to my friends at work. 11 o'clock rolled around and I waited at the doors so that I could take her to the security desk and get her clearance to come inside the building with me and go to the cafeteria. She didn't show up. I watched the clock, 11:30 rolled around and she still wasn't there. At noon, I had to get back to my desk. I was worried something was wrong, this certainly was not like her. When she made promises, she kept them. I explained to my boss what was going on and he let me go early. I immediately drove to her job, walked up to the counter and asked for her by name. I was told that no one by that name worked there. I panicked. I sped home, seemingly breaking the sound barrier trying to get to our townhouse as fast as I could. I unlocked the door, called out for her and the only greeting I got was my voice echoing back. I was disoriented. On my way to the bedroom, one of our wedding photos caught my eye - it was a picture of us cutting our cake...but there was something very wrong - I was the only one in the picture. I had a fancy knife in my hand, poised downwards towards the cake. I was facing the camera looking like the happiest man in the world, but I was the only person in the frame. How is this possible? I ran to the end table, picked up a photo album and flipped through pages of pictures of me and only me. Me at the fair, me opening presents at Christmas, me standing in front of our first brand new car we bought a few years back. I ran to our bedroom and it was a fucking mess. Old food, beer cans and dirty clothes were everywhere. The only living thing I found was a cockroach crawling out of a revolting Chinese take-out container. I threw up. I flung open the closet door and there wasn't a single clue to be found that reflected my loving wife. I noticed A pill bottle on the shelf above my head. I picked it up and it seemed full. It had my name on it, a prescription fill date and the medication was named Haldol. I have never seen this bottle before, but that doesn't make sense. Why was my name on this bottle? Who picked it up from the pharmacy? Was there someone out there, posing as me trying to score medication? I picked up the phone and dialed 911.

The Day Death Died

The day Death died was the day the world fell. I was in my History class, 10am on a Thursday morning and my professor had a heart attack. He clutched his chest, staggered away from the podium. One girl in the front row dialled the emergency services, choking with fear on the phone line. He fell to his knees and the class cried out. We rushed to him. His body had failed him before the paramedics arrived. They pronounced death at 10:25am and someone was sobbing. They loaded his corpse onto the metal trolley, went to draw a white sheet over his head and stopped. Emerging from his mouth was a pulsating ball of yellow light. It hung in the air above the dead man's face for a while, then ambled off. It kind of moved with a bob and a sway, the same way that our professor had moved when he'd been alive. The paramedics went white. Lucy voiced what they were thinking. "That's not supposed to happen." She said. "You've seen someone die before?" "My grandmother. I've seen that before." She gestured back at the pulsating yellow ball, now knocking against the doors of the lecture theatre. It was trying to find a way out. "It's not usually like that." One paramedic agreed. He couldn't keep his nervous eyes off the ball. "What is it?" I asked "That's the *animus*." Lucy replied. "It's supposed to be collected." "By whom?" But we all already knew. "By Death." The walls of the lecture theatre began to shake. The class scattered, books and papers left behind. The paramedics shot me a glance as they wheeled my dead professor out. "Good luck." They said, and then it was just Lucy and I in the empty theatre and the walls were thundering and the floor was pitching. "What's happening?" I asked, as she drew closer to one of the windows. "He's dead." She said miserably, looking into the courtyard. "What's going to happen?" "Look." Outside the window, all that could be seen were moving, swaying pulsating *beings* of light. Some looked more human that others, most seemed to be just balls with protrusions. It was like watching the life cycle of a tadpole - they became arms and legs on others, finally hands and feet, a finely defined face. There were some individuals of a striking golden beauty, floating inches off the ground. "*Jesus*" "They aren't being held any more. The *animi* have been released." "How do you know so much about it?" "I was interested in becoming a witch when I was younger. You have to learn how to trap them." "What's going to happen now?" "See the ones that look the most human?" I nodded. "They're the ones that have been dead for a while. They learn eventually how to shape their *animus* into what they want to look like. The balls are the most recently dead - they haven't learned yet." "What's your point?" She sighed and flicked her hair out of her eyes. "They've been dead for a long time. The afterlife isn't that fun." An alarm pierced the quiet air. Somewhere a window smashed. There was a roaring noise. A sudden pitch of the floor and Lucy and I were knocked off our feet. She growled and pushed up her sleeves. "There's going to be trouble. Are you with me?" The window above us burst out, spraying us both in glittering glass. "Yes!" I shouted above the noise, as she gripped my hand and drew me to my feet. "Good! Because I think things are going to get..." She lifted her hands up, fingers turning black in the light. She winked at me. "*Deadly*"