reddit_comments.txt

Hitler was having a piece of banana cake when Bob Ross walked in.

"And I just feel like no one *gets* me, you know?" The future Fuhrer was saying to one of his servants, as he 
sprayed whipped cream over the cake, distracted. "I mean, I know most artists are destined to be posthumous, 
but… I don't know, I guess I want the fame and the fortune too, you know?"

"*Ja*, It is very hard, my master," the man said, in a German accent but in English for no reason at all, just like foreign characters in the movies.

"Hey, Hitler," Bob said, stepping in, confident. "May I?" he pulled a chair sat down without waiting for an answer.

"What is this!?"

"Listen, I'm Bob Ross and I'm from the future and I paint stuff."

"Bob Ross?"

"Yes. Here's the thing – I'm supposed to come here and teach you how to paint so you'll be a good painter and not 
invade Poland and then the rest of Europe and cause the death of millions of people."

"Holy shit, I do that!?" Hitler widened his eyes.

"Oh, yes. It's awful. People still use your name as a reference to evil. There's even an internet law based on how 
long it takes until someone compares a certain situation to Nazi Germany during an argument."

"What's the internet?"

"Never mind," Bob leaned forward. "This is what we're going to do – I'm going to teach you how to –"

"Excuse me," Hitler's servant said, in that same fake accent. "I'm afraid I must intervene here."

"What's wrong?"

"Well, Mr. Ross, have you considered the twist?"

"The twist?"

"Yes. The fact that you'll teach this man how to paint, he'll grow to be a famous painter, not invade anything, and 
when you return to your home time you'll find out that another man named, I don't know, Hans, has taken over 
Germany and did worse things than Adolf here could ever do."

Ross frowned. "I don't follow."

"You don't watch much Twilight Zone, do you?" The servant asked.

"How do you know about the Twilight Zone? This is 1910."

"Never mind about that." The servant leaned back. "My name is Hans, Ross. And I will take over Germany if you 
teach Adolf how to paint."

"Why!? Why would you do that?"

"Why else would I be in the scene? Why would Hitler not be alone when you walked in? I have to serve some 
purpose for the plot, right? And let's face it – go back in time and kill/talk/convince/teach Hitler is a trope we've 
seen before, and it always ends like this. In fact, most time traveling tropes tend to end with a silly variation of the butterfly effect we-made-things-even-worse twist. Let's not make this prompt another example."

Bob Ross scratched his head and thought about this. "Shit. Okay. I guess. But what do we do now?"

"Now we find a way to subvert time traveling tropes and present something fresh for the readers. And fast, because they're getting impatient."

"Why are they getting impatient? We're still at 500 words!"

"Yes, but we've gone post-modern self-referential, characters-acknowledging-their-own-stories. That annoys some 
people."

"It's not really my fault, look at the prompt. Where do you go with time traveling Bob Ross and Hitler that's not 
self-referential parody?"

"Now you're blaming the OP for your shortcomings as a storyteller. Classy."

"Not *my* shortcomings. I'm not the author."

They both turn and stare at me for a second. I shrug.

"Anyway," Hans said, resuming the conversation. "Do something different. Fast."

"But what?"

"Huuuuuuh…. Fuck, I don't know. Kiss Hitler!"

"Erotic Nazi Fanfic? No thanks."

"Okay, then… you have cancer, and Hitler nurses you to health, but in the end we find out *Hitler* has cancer too, and –"

"I'm not taking part in The Fault in our Stars Feat. Adolf Hitler. It ain't gonna happen."

"Well, you gotta do something, and fast, because time is running out."

"Hitler? Any suggestions?"

Adolf looked around. He got up and paced. "I don't know. Can you just return to your present time and call it a 
day?"

"And then everything happens as it's supposed to? That's boring."

"Yeah…" Hitler stopped. "I don't know then. I really don't know."

Hans shook his head. "Okay, I got this." He grabbed a little radio device from his pocket and spoke into it. "Send them in."

Ross frowned. "Send who in?"

Static emerged from the radio for a second, then a voice answered: "Copy that."

"Send who in?" Adolf repeated. "What's happening?"

"Well," Hans said, getting up. "If we're in a Hitler and Bob Ross time traveling prompt and we can't figure out a way 
to turn it into something fresh, we might as well embrace irony and self-mockery to the full extent of Writing 
Prompt's classic tropes."

"What do you mean?"

The door came open behind Ross. He turned back and watched as two teenagers walked in – a boy in round 
glasses and a scar on his forehead and a girl that looked a lot like Emma Watson. 

"Hey Harry, hey Hermione. Sorry to drag you into yet another prompt. You got the time turner?"

"Yup," Harry said, in a bored tone.

"Harry Potter fanfic? Really?" Ross shook his head. "For fuck's sake."

"If we're gonna go down the rabbit's hole, let's do it proudly."

Hermione started setting the time turner. Harry looked around, curious. Ross sighed.

"Fuck that, I'm out," Hitler said, and then he jumped out the window, and then WW II didn't happen, but the 
Statute of Secrecy *was* violated on account of the whole thing and muggles learned about magic and when Ross returned to his present day no one gave a shit about static paintings anymore, so he died a poor man, which I guess is irony or whatever, I don't even care.

There he sat, twirling his personal, stylized mustache. It was avant garde, just like he wanted to be. The man, as he was so, just wanted a place in this world for his art. He continues to stare at the easel, thinking. 

After a while he felt a firm, calming hand on his shoulder. He sighed, hanging his head wearily. "Are you yet another man come to end my life, if you can even see it that way?" The hand didn't answer, as it had no mouth. However, it's owner did, speaking the soft, assuaging tones that had come to make him famous. 

"No sir. I've seen too much death and war to want to do another such thing. Instead, I have come as a tutor. Here, grab that 2 inch brush and dip it in some titanium white and prussian blue."

Hitler did such a thing, and the man behind him nodded. "Good. Now, mix them together, until you have a rather nice pale blue..." 

Adolf did so, his brush strokes trembling across the pallette. "Easy there tiger, try to keep yourself calm, now. Painting is all about being steady, confident." Adolf nodded again, and went this time, albeit a bit slower, and mixed another selection. After he had done this the stranger patted his shoulder. 
"Good, now let's see you paint a nice, open sky."
"But how? I can barely paint the ground, let allow what lies above it!" 
Sighing, the man grabbed a firm hold of his arm and lifted it up. 

"All you have to do is nice, tiny Xs, like so.." 
A portion, the top left hand corner was soon filled with a nice layer of blue. 
"Now go ahead, try it." 
Adolf sighed and attempted this, and, to his surprise, mimicked the man's stroke almost perfectly.

"Ah! There ya go! Now, wash that brush off in your water and beat the devil out of it on your wood there..." 

At this point, adolf couldn't help but turn around in surprise. "You want me to beat my easel with it..?" 

The afro'd figure behind him nodded, pulling off his woolen hood. "Yes sir I Do. Go on. It won't hurt it." 

"Tell me who you are first, then maybe I will..." 
The figure smiled a bright smile, as a squirrel popped out of his hair.
"Why, I'm Bob. Bob Ross. And I heard you wanted to be a painter."

Lost it at "They both turn to me for a second. I shrug."

Most entertaining story for ages, I hope someone gives you gold ^^^I'm ^^^too ^^^poorThe suite on the sixth floor of the Trump International Hotel, Washington D.C., was decorated in chestnut and tan.  The headboard of the king size bed was carved as if it was a coat of arms of some legitimate monarch, and was trimmed with fake gold, which poorly matched the Kremlin red, velvet throw pillows.  Like the room's single, useless accent wall, the curtains were a brutal cerulean, suggesting a space that conceals more deception than the dark seabed of a Vladivostok harbor.  In all, the suite was reminiscent of something a Tsar might have once maintained, perhaps as quarters for secondary guests in some Eastern Palace.  Nevertheless, on that particular Pennsylvania Avenue afternoon, Ajit Pai, FCC Chairman, felt anything but secondary.  

Ajit rolled over on the sheets, letting his chesthair peak out from his robe, and then stretching all the way from his scapula to his calves.  Laying beside him, Lowell C. McAdam, CEO of Verizon Communications, picked another chocolate covered strawberry from the bowl.  He placed it in Ajit's mouth, letting his hand linger on his former General Counsel's lips just a moment too long.

"You know I love dessert," Ajit said, "but I hope you have something else for me."

"I don't recall you ever being so direct before, my Sugar Plum" Lowell returned, clasping Ajit's buttocks.

"Maybe those FTC boys go easy on you," Ajit answered, pulling away, but only a little, only for show, "but I'm from the FCC, so you better show me the cash first!"

Lowell sighed.  He spun off the bed.  He sauntered over to the bureau and picked up a leather briefcase with two silver latches.  Lowell showed Ajit what was inside: stacks and stacks of crisp hundred dollar bills.

"Just to be clear," Lowell explained, "every last cent of this is to repeal net neutrality.  You're giving me that ass for free."

Lowell pounced down on top of Ajit, groping at him the way a crude man only does to a prostitute.  Ajit loved feeling bought and paid for.  He giggled and squealed, and the two men kissed.

But suddenly, the passion and privacy of the suite was shattered by a flash of light and a thunderous clap.  The hideous furniture Ivanka had inexplicably wanted credit for rattled along the carpet.  When the two lovers and conspirators regained their composure, there was a strange young man and woman standing before them, wearing tattered jeans and leather vests.  They both had AK-47s draped over their shoulders.  The woman punched Ajit hard in the jaw.

"Are you Ajit Pai the FCC chairman or Ajit Pai the cricketer!" she demanded.  Her face was stained with dirt.

"What?  Who are you?  Where did you come from?" Ajit asked, favoring his chin, his whole body quivering.

"FCC chairman or cricketer!" the woman shouted again, brandishing the AK-47 at the frightened, half naked businessman, and lobbyist pretending to be a guard of the public interest.

"FCC!" Ajit replied, "Yes, I'm with the FCC!"

"You know why she had to ask that, motherfucker?" the rough man began, "because the only other famous Ajit Pai was a fucking cricket player, and where we come from, Wikipedia pages take twenty minutes to load, unless you pay an extra $9.99 a month!  So all we really had to go on was the fucking disambiguation page.  You know how hard it is to tell an artificially intelligent time machine where you want to go, when all it can access are the goddamn disambiguation pages?"

The man picked Ajit up, and threw him onto the bed.  He did the same to Lowell.

"Your little side deal here," the woman explained to the telecommunications executives, "let me tell you how this goes down.  First, you repeal net neutrality for some chump change kickback.  Then, of course, all the asshole ISPs start tacking on surcharges for people to get on pretty much all the good websites, until nobody could afford more than one.  So, the same thing happened that always happens when you force people to choose teams.  Society broke apart completely.  Soon, the Youtubian Republic was throwing molotov cocktails at the Facebook Moms, and the Netflixtariat were being rounded up by the Insta-thots.  Nobody talks to each other or shares anything, and it is terrible."
  
Ajit and Lowell looked to the door and windows, thinking of any possible escape.  But there was none.  They were hostages of an uncaring power who had no concern for their well being.

"But there was one silver lining to not having the web you're used to," the rough man continued, "Without an open internet, nobody else got to find out that we finally cracked how to build a fully operational time machine.  We didn't tweet about it or do a single AMA.  Because why would we?  There'd be nobody online to see it.  That means we were able to skip all the bullshit and just travel right back here, right to this moment, before you two fucked each other, and then the whole country."

"Are," Lowell stammered, "are you going to kill us?"

The time travelers laughed, then stuck peculiar glowing orbs on the lovers' chests.

"No, we're not going to kill you," the woman replied, "instead, we're just going to send you boys into the future you're trying to create.  And we'll stay back here in 2017, when things were at least only halfway terrible."

"What?  No, you can't!" Ajit shouted.

"Sure we can," the man told him, "because time travel has no regulations.  I thought you loved it when technology has no regulation."

The woman pushed a button on a strange remote.  The suite filled with another flash of light. Ajit and Lowell embraced.  They vanished.      If I had gold I would give you it. But alas it is 2038 and I have to pay 50 dollars to load a Reddit post in 5 minutes. 

As the great man once said.
-I pity the fool!Consciousness flooded James Bond all at once, but he did not show it. He stayed slack in his chair, eyelids limp, only listening. He sat strapped into the driver's seat, hands taped firmly to the steering wheel. They had put him in a thick white space suit that made his forehead prickle in fear-sweat. 

He turned his head toward the mirror. His visor was so dark he could not see his own eyes staring back at him.

Beyond the car he heard nothing but the faint murmur of voices speaking on the other side of the glass. 

The back of his head ached in a slow, pulsing way, but he wasn't bleeding. Couldn't have been that bad. He could still think. He could still get out of this.

He always could.

Adrenaline erased the ache in his head, his horror and muted, near-forgotten panic. He knew where he was. Where he had to be.

Someone knocked at the window to his right. The passenger door rose.

The agent raised his eyes to see the face of the man he had pursued for weeks: the billionaire inventor who planned to blow up the Earth, once he shepherded all the most cultured and valuable people off of it. 

"Musk," Bond spat. He sat up, maintaining a defiant air of dignity, despite his raging headache. 

Elon Musk grinned back at him. He swung open the door. Behind him stood a wall of armed henchmen, their fingers poised over triggers. He waved a dismissive hand to him and relaxed.

Musk relaxed into the car beside him and patted the seat like it was his own child. "This was one of the earliest ones, you know. The first cars we produced."

Bond stared out the slanted window, steely-eyed and silent. He wriggled the fingers of his left hand out of his bulky glove one by one.

"It's a good send-off. Symbolic. People love a good symbol." He looked Bond over and patted his knee. "You're integral, you see. I couldn't have done this without you."

"Why are you doing this?" Bond sighed. His breath pearled in little beads of condensation down his visor.

"It's simple, Mr. Bond. I very much prefer you dead. And I would prefer to ensure no one can come looking for clues." 

His left hand came free of the glove. The suit was thick enough that it more or less held its shape as he snaked his arm slowly, tenuously, out of the sleeve of his suit.

"What is it you plan to do, then?" Bond bit his lip, hard. This was his safest strategy. The best way to steal every spare second he needed.

"I think it's rather self-explanatory, Mr. Bond. Your suit"--he rapped Bond's helmet with his fist--"has a built-in radio. I've strapped you here to drive my car on its final journey." He spread his hands upward, and the ceiling panels opened overhead to a sky of smoke and stars. "You'll be my Starman. I'll launch you into space. This suit, lovely as it looks, is not as airtight as it could be. It was designed for a dummy, you see. You'll have to do, for now."

Bond growled through his teeth, "Damn it, Musk--"

But Elon Musk carried on as if he did not hear, "Don't try to hold your breath, Mr. Bond; your lungs will only explode. And the last thing you'll hear before shattering through our stratosphere and dying alone in the cold perfect vacuum of space... will be Earth. Cheering as you go."

He had his arm bent as far it could go without bulging in the suit. Did not so much as look toward Elon Musk.

"That's the plan, then?" he asked, solemnly.

"It appears so." Elon Musk smiled up at the stars. "You'll be flying straight to hell at eleven kilometers a second, buddy." He slapped Bond's chest and laughed like they were old friends. "And we were just getting to know each other."

Bond yanked his arm out of his suit, delved into his jacket pocket for his pen. An innocent little thing, the metal battered and bruised, the ink dry. No one would think to remove it when they patted him down.

Musk laughed. "It's admirable, but don't think you can escape, Mister--"

He never got the chance to finish.

James Bond depressed the tip of his pen. A burst of red light ate through the hide of his suit and sheared the windshield overhead in two.

Musk staggered backward and shrieked, "*Shoot* him! Shoot him, you stupid bastards!"

The men surged forward.

Bond leapt out of the spacesuit and bolted like a rabbit out of his seat. He still wore his suit, albeit wrinkled, and his pocket square gone. They had taken his gun, so Bond dove behind the car and raised his pen. Calculated to himself how much mortal damage it could really carry out.

He smirked. 

Now seemed as good a time as any to find out.

This is some great /u/ElonMusk fanfictionIf I shared anything with my reincarnations, it was in our belief in fate. Though each previous version of me held a very different perspective of it. The me that had died in the Great Depression thought it a terrible thing, wicked and omnipotent. The me that had lived as king in the middle ages thought it a gift presented by God. Me, I believed it a promise.

My next reincarnation was a baby with deep blue eyes and pink skin named George. He started his life alone. George cried so much that they had to put him in a separate room, devoid of the other infants. A nurse checked in on him every few hours. Nobody blamed her. She had more pressing matters to attend to, such as George’s mother, whose heart rate was steadily growing out of control and her breathing stuttered.

When the young lady died, she did so whispering her son’s name. I wasn’t sure if she ever even got a look at him. In that hospital room, with the flat-line beep of a heart rate monitor, the nurse checking on George stood, lips quivering and fists clenched. 

In this world, children were supposed to be loved by their parents. If not the mother, who else would? For George, it was nobody, not even himself.

The orphanage boasted posters of smiling blonde-haired boys and girls with deep blue eyes. George could’ve been a literal poster boy if he ever smiled. But no matter how many stuffed animals they threw his way, how many hugs and smiles they offered him, they could never get those lip-locked edges to curve up.

By the time he had hit thirteen, he had already smoked his first cigarette and drank his first beer. Nobody wanted to tell him, but everybody knew. Nobody adopted teenagers. He would be a lifer, an unwanted child turned into an unwanted adult.

And on his seventeenth birthday, he bought a gun.

None of us watching were worried at all for other people. Despite everything that happened, George was a gentle boy and that was his problem. Nobody could reach him through his overpowering politeness. It took a mother’s love to chip away at the boy and all he had was an old photo of a ghost who once loved him.

He snuck out when the moon had hit its apex, left all the money he had in a small package with a letter. It read: *Thanks for taking care of me.* And that was it. He didn’t sign it, didn’t address it to anyone, he wrote it all in a cheap pen and stuffed it inside with twelve-hundred dollars cash.

The spot he chose was out of the way. Nobody was nearby to be disturbed. No runners would come this way to be scared. The only selfishness he allowed himself was that it was by a river, a black canvas of glittering moonlight.

“I was never meant to live,” he told himself and us. “This is fate.”

Some of us nodded with him. Others shook their heads. I stared, my neck stiff, eyes unblinking as he put the gun to his temple.

“No,” I whispered. “Don’t do it.”

Some of us, the more boisterous ones, cheered along, egging the boy to pull the trigger. They had seen a thousand lives and would see a thousand more until all of mankind vanished. A single life in a single point of time meant nothing to them. But for me, this was my first.

“No,” I said and stood from my seat. “Please.”

The screen flickered to the tremble of his finger. Soon, it would go completely black. He would fulfill his fate.

“No!” I screamed. “This isn’t how it should go!”

The boisterous ones were no longer laughing. The others around me turned away their eyes. At one point in time, they had all been me. They had thought that life mattered, that our pain had meaning. But after a thousand shows of a thousand lives, most of them only slept through the show.

I clenched my fists, the words swelling in my lungs. Then, I took the breath to give them life and I prayed, that somehow, I wasn’t just a dead man with a loud mouth.

“Don’t pull,” I yelled, tears pouring down my cheeks and snot from my nose. “Not until you have a chance. Maybe you never will, maybe this will be how it always is, maybe I’m wrong about everything, but there’s meaning in your pain! I can’t tell you if I’m right or if I’m certain.” My voice dropped low. “I can only promise.”

George closed his eyes. He hadn’t heard me, of course he wouldn’t.

I held my breath.

Then, George broke down, the gun still pressed to his head. “So cruel,” he whispered to nobody. “After all this, all I have is a promise. That’s all my fate has to offer.”

My eyes went wide. My jaw dropped. “And that’s enough,” I said, my voice too low even for myself to hear.

There, George stood, the gun rigid in his hand. And when his tears fell, so too did his gun.

Once, I had travelled with my schoolmates to the Royal Albert Hall in London. It struck me then as cavernous, almost as if the architect had taken a traditional gladiator’s arena, slapped a dome over it, then filled it with a winding domino-string of seats in concentric circles. Four storeys of seats, all tilted slightly to face the stage, easily four, five thousand people sitting enraptured by the musical landscapes evoked by the symphony. 

This theatre I was now in, was easily five, six times that size. I couldn’t be sure, actually, because there were no edges which I could perceive without my vision starting to swim.

“Welcome, welcome!” boomed a voice from the stage. The spotlights swivelled to where I was standing, bathing me in golden luminance. “A warm welcome for Gerry Hanley, please! As you all have seen, he lived a long and fruitful life, yielding in the end only to old age! A peaceful end, if you will!”

I didn’t know how to react to the entire audience suddenly rising to their feet, clapping as one for me. I was a schoolteacher in my life. I was used to combative classrooms, and certainly not once had my students ever thought to shower such appreciation for me. I waved weakly in response.

“And now for the results… Gerry Hanley will be going to… Team Blue!”

The groans from half the theatre were drowned out only by the rapturous cheers from the rest. Confetti spilled from the rafters, and I found myself being led down from the stage and along the aisles. Along the way, other apparent team members stretched out their hands, and I high-fived as many as I could. I collapsed into my seat, and finally the spotlights deserted me. I soaked in the relative darkness for a while, glad the attention was off me. Perhaps I could now gain some measure of my bearings.

A single chime rung out through the theatre, deep and sonorous. Some people got up to leave, while others stayed in their seats, chatting with their neighbours. The giant screen on the stage lit up with the words: “Intermission – Five Minutes”.

“You want to grab a drink or something? Next one’s a bit heavy, a soldier in the Russian army, it seems. Might be good to stretch your legs first.”

The speaker was the lady on my right. She wore her dark hair in a tidy bob, and was clad in a sensible evening gown. Habit prodded me to introduce myself and to ask for her name, and we shook hands.

“What are we going to watch?” I asked.

“The life of one Petyr Ivanov,” Beth said. “The same way we just watched your life unfold, from the very first breath to the last.” She laughed at my reaction, then said, “Oh don’t be a prude. There was nothing in your life that we hadn’t seen countless times before.”

“And when… this Petyr has lived out his life, will he come here too? The way I did?”

“Yes,” Beth said. “The same for me, and for everyone else here too. We’ve all been here a long, long time.”

My eyes drifted to the pamphlet I had found in my seat. At the top, I saw Petyr’s name, but it was the subsequent part of the title which intrigued me.

“It says ‘Reincarnation 23,274,899’ here… are we all the same person, just in different lifetimes?” I asked. “So are there other theatres out there, for different people?”

“Not quite,” Beth said. “I mean, you’re right that everyone here is technically the same soul who took turns living on earth, but there are no other theatres. This is it.”

“That doesn’t make sense,” I said. “What’s so special about us that only we get reincarnated? I mean, there are so many other peo-” 

“Oh, oh, you misunderstand!” Beth laughed. “There’s only one soul. One human soul. It’s just been split, or copied, I don’t know the term, but it’s the same soul in every living person on earth.”

“… Just different physical vessels then?” I said, turning the possibilities over in my mind. “Different circumstances of birth, different living conditions… but everyone has the exact same soul?”

“Yes,” Beth said. “You catch on quick.”

I was quiet for a while. The seconds ticked off the timer on the screen, and the lights began to dim. People streamed back in, holding little bags of what I assumed to be snacks.

“What’s this Team Blue thing they assigned me to?” I asked.

“Everyone makes choices, see. No one here has ever seen the rules themselves. But we’ve watched enough to, if you will, kind of guess which Team someone will end up in, based on what they did on earth. You’re one of the ‘good’ ones. Morals are hard to pin down, every society’s got their own interpretations, so it always keeps us on our toes.”

“I suppose those people are in Team Red then?” I said, pointing to the other half of the theatre. Beth nodded. “So what’s the point of it all then? What happens when we finally finish watching the lives of everyone on earth? What happens when one Team outnumbers the other?”

Beth smiled. Hidden projectors whirred to life, and the screen flickered with images of a baby boy, being handed over from a midwife to his mother. The audience clapped, and sporadic shouts of “Go Team Blue!” and “Do Team Red proud” emanated from various pockets of the crowd. 

“I suppose then there will be a final reckoning,” Beth said.

"What is this?" I asked as I made my way down the aisle. 

It was a normal theater, in fact it looked just like the one that I used to visit all the time with my wife, but something was... different. There were five other people in the room, all seated nearly as far apart as possible. Something prickled in the back of my mind, something that connected me to those other people, but I wasn't sure what it was.

"What is this?" I repeated, louder this time.

"Just shut up and take a seat." A man in the top right section of the theater shouted back.

Grumbling, I found a seat in the bottom section of the theater and settled in, watching as the screen changed, showing a video that began with a blast of white light. The peculiar thing was though... as I watched, I recognized every moment of the film. It was my life. *My* life, exactly. From the moment I exited the hospital on my birth date, to the moment I took my final breath. My entire life, summed up in a five minute video.

"What the...?" I began, when someone plopped down in the seat next to me.

"Pretty crazy, huh?" A man said, and when my eyes found his, I gasped.

He looked exactly like me, as if someone had dropped me into a cloning machine. Or was I a clone of him?

"What is this?" I asked for the third time.

My clone motioned around to the theater. "Welcome to the Brady Wells Cinema, my friend. We all wind up here eventually. The Brady in the corner up there? He was the first one of us to show up here."

"That's... nice." I breathed, still awestruck by the man in front of me. "But what is this place?"

Other Brady relaxed back into his chair, letting his arms stretch out behind him. "Call it Heaven, call it Hell, whatever you want, but we've got one job while we're here: to watch."

"Watch what?"

Other Brady pointed at the screen, which was fading from black to gray, like those scenes where someone is opening their eyes.

"The next Brady. We watch his life and pray that he gets it right. If he doesn't, he'll show up here, just like you did." At the look I gave him, Other Brady grinned. "Aw don't feel bad, Brady, I'm here too, aren't I?"

I nodded, still not quite understanding. The screen faded to white, and then a room came into view. A hospital room, a plethora of doctors, and a very joy-struck man that held his arms out towards New Brady.

"What do you mean we 'pray that he gets it right'? Get what right?" Someone in the upper section directed a loud *shhh!* in our direction.

Other Brady casually flipped them off without ever taking his eyes off me. "Life. If you haven't guessed yet, we're all here because we failed in some way. Brady number 3 up there? One of the richest men alive, but no kids. Not even money buys our way to the Great Beyond. So we watch. And we pray that the latest Brady gets it right, then we can all move on."

"That doesn't make any sense." I said finally, struggling to keep my voice below a whisper. 

"What do you mean?"

"You just sit here and watch? That's it? What's the point if you can't help the latest Brady live his life correctly? It could take a millennia to get it right." I glanced around the theater. Only five other versions of myself in the room. How many more until we got it right?

"Look, I'm not saying I like it, or that it's perfect, but it's just how it is. I don't make the rules. That door you came through? It only opens once, and that's when the latest Brady dies, otherwise it's locked. So yeah, we just sit here and watch." Other Brady whispered, keeping his eyes glued to the screen.

The latest Brady was being rocked gently by strong arms. A soft lullaby was being sung by an unseen woman. 

"Have you ever tried to go through the door when it is open?" I whispered, and Other Brady spun on me so quickly, it was almost inhuman. 

"No," he hissed like a venomous serpent, "and we aren't ever going to. You may not like it, Brady, but this is how it is. We sit and watch. You try to disrupt that and cause trouble? We'll stop you. We've done it before." And with that, Other Brady rose from his seat and relocated himself to across the room.

I sighed, slumping into my seat like a pouting child. My eyes found the screen, watching reluctantly as Brady was passed off to the father. He was crying happily, hugging the baby close to his chest. Was this really all there was in the afterlife? A dim theater with irritated versions of myself? I wanted to believe that this was all some horrible dream, that I would wake up in my bed an old, weary man, but I knew I wouldn't. My time had passed, and now it was this New Brady's turn at life. I would just have to learn to deal with it.

As I watched the film, I adjusted my position in the seat, trying to get comfortable in these budget theater chairs. It was going to be a long movie."No! No! Don't become a pornstar!"
Me from 4 lives ago began shouting at the screen.

"The male ones don't make any money!" said me from 1 life ahead.

"Who cares? He'll be living the rest of his life banging hot girls!" objected me from 10 lives ago

"But it's like your favorite food or music, when you have it too much you get bored." 

"Not to mention the STDs," pointed out me from 7 lives ago.

"We know you were a fucking doctor, shut the fuck up!" The speaker (I honestly can't keep track of the numbers) was a boxer who had anger issues.

"Make me bitch!"

'Hold up, hold up, he's gonna decide!" said one of the younger mes.

The current me started deciding between a full ride to his state college and going with his contact in the industry labeled in his phone as "Slimy Susan".

Eventually, he put down his phone, and started looking up careers for an english major.

"NO!" shouted me from 4 lives ago. "Shit, become a pornstar, become a pornstar!"
A brawl broke out between the mes.

I put my head in my hands. I'd really prefer hell right now.[Part 2]( is available!

[Part 3]( is available!

[Part 4](

When The Blinding first occurred, I thought I was the only individual affected. I was sitting at my desk working on a school paper and in an instant, everything went black. 

I had cried out to my parents in fear and confusion, but their response was like an echo of my own. They, too, couldn't see. And we soon learned the entire world had been victim to having their sight filled with darkness. Interestingly enough, we don't think this affected any of the animals living on Earth. Just us humans. The only strange thing that occurred after this was the fact that the demand for Milk skyrocketed. 

At first, adapting was extremely difficult. Something as mundane and simple as using the bathroom had become a daily challenge I didn't look forward to.  

Within a few months, support groups had been created by individuals who were already blind prior to the incident. They assisted those who were struggling with adapting to their newfound obstacle. 

Thankfully, the world never really stopped moving or progressing. Outside of major adjustments that had to be made, such as devising a different mode of transportation or different requirements and standards in the working world, we managed to pull through.

It's been about 2 years since The Blinding and there were times where I had forgotten such an event occured. 

I was taking a short walk to the store to get some groceries. I don't know why, but I've developed an almost dependency like state on milk. I had gripped the handle to the door to the small grocery store and pushed the door open. A bell was hung on the inside handle of the door.

"Hello, let me know if you need help finding anything." A voice said to my right.

"Thanks, Dave. I will." I responded.

"Hey John! How've you been?" he asked with a somewhat enthusiastic tone. 

With a somewhat slow pace I walked around the store, feeling along the brail to determine if I had found my item. 

"Pretty much the same" I said with a bit of a chuckle. 

My hand touched something cold. Finally. Found the milk.

As I was about to open the door I could see my reflection in the rectangle shaped window of the cooler. 

I wasn't entirely sure how to react nor was I sure as to what happened. I was looking. At myself. In a mirror. For the first time in two years.

I started shaking and I could feel warmth and moisture filling my eyes. 

I noticed writing on the reflection itself. I was so excited I hadn't even noticed. In fact, most of the interior was covered in this writing. Looked a little closed at the message written in black.

*Don't tell them you can see.*

What the hell does that mean? Who's them?

I then caught a glimpse of the individual standing behind the counter of the store. 

Who...what the fuck is that...

"John? You need some help buddy?" it asked. It had Dave's voice, but it definitely wasn't Dave. And the way it's mouth moved was...

Wait, is that it's mouth? I have no idea.

I was staring at something that was at least 6 feet tall. Grotesque and eldritch was the only way I could describe it. It's dark brown skin was smooth and moist with extremely tiny openings in its skin. It wasn't wearing any type of clothing.   It's arms were somewhat long and thin looking appendages that ended in human looking hands. Its head was shaped like a large Basket Ball. The creatures mouth looked to be in a vertical position and when it spoke I could see many layers and rows of crocodile like teeth.

"Here John, let me come help." It said. Its voice had changed as well. It was gurgled and sounded like it was being put through a filter.

 As it moved I could hear it squish against the floor. That's the first time I've ever heard that. Why am I hearing that just now? Why have I never heard that before?

Instead of gaping at the reflection and trying to ascertain how it walks, I simply stared at a jug of milk. 

That's when I noticed the color of the milk. It wasn't white or brown or any color a milk should be. It was dark black.

As the creature grew closer a foul smell harassed my nostrils. It took everything I had not to vomit.

It reached out with it's human like appendage and touched my shoulder. 

My entire body tensed up. 

"We're having a lot of different specials on milk today." It said and I could see its mouth open wide behind my head with what I assumed was a smile.You’re not allowed to stop there, I’m invested now.Where's the rest??? I DEMAND ANSWERS!It was called *Fuck You* money, the type of money you burn in front of poor people just to see the hope fade from their eyes. It was the type of money you used to hire the most expensive prostitutes in America, tell them to pretend to be bankers, and have them meet for lunch in *Le Bernardin* in the heart of Manhattan. Each thought they were meeting a client, both were told to never break act.

I sat at the table next to theirs, twirling a stainless steel pen with the letters *Goldman Sachs* gilded on. The girl, Anna, was the first to arrive. A tight black skirt hugged her figure. The skirt was short, but work-appropriate short. She was the best prostitute *Fuck You* money could buy which meant she was the best in the world. She turned her wrist and checked a silver Rolex. It was a Daytona model. She had certainly done her research.

The guy, Brandon, soon followed. He wore a navy blue suit without a single crinkle. I glanced down at his shoes. Brooks Brothers, custom-made. It looked hand-crafted even. A smile touched my lips as he sat down and extended his hand for a handshake.

“Anna, was it?” Brandon said. “Thanks for meeting me, my name’s Brandon, VP at JPMorgan Chase, housing division.”

Anna returned him a firm shake. “Nice to meet you. I’m a VP at Merrill Lynch, risk division.”

“Look at us, if our bosses found us here. They’d have our bonuses.”

She laughed and took a sip of wine. “So, I was told that you had a business proposal for me?”

This was it, the reason I had dropped five figures on two prostitutes. Brandon would fumble through banking buzz words and financial pseudo-sciences as I sat back, laughing at his stupidity. Then Anna would follow in their dance of idiocrasy, all the way until they left *La Bernadin*, never to return because they couldn’t afford even its dress code. My pen twirled in anticipation.

“Credit default swaps,” Brandon said. “It’s insurance against bad loans. So if we make a string of bad investments, even when we lose, we make money, just not as much.”

Anna furrowed her brow. “I work risk at Merrill Lynch, I know how to lower risk.”

A giggle tickled my throat. What would a prostitute know about credit default swaps? He probably read the first Wikipedia paragraph and now thought himself an expert. I wondered who would be the bigger idiot, Brandon or Anna?

“What if we pair that up with thousands of high-risk loans?”

“Like we already do?” Anna asked.

“But not *individually*.” Brandon leaned forward, his voice lowered so I had to strain my ears just to hear his words. “We pool them all together and then securitize them into a single asset. Tell me Anna, what happens when you bundle risk?”

“It drops,” Anna said. “But those have been around for a while now. Are you proposing that we just keep doing what we’re doing?”

Brandon frowned. It looked like Anna had done more research than him. I pretended to cough to stifle my laughter. It was he who would look the fool!

“Wait,” Anna said, “but how about we talk to the ratings agencies. The bigger the pool of assets, the lower the risk. If we get a big enough pool, any sort of shitty asset could have a triple-A rating.”

My jaw dropped and I broke character by staring straight at her. The two didn’t even notice, they were so buried in their conversation.

“We can lower it further by having it asset-backed. Like a car loan,” Brandon said, his voice rising with his excitement.

“Like a mortgage!” Anna said. “We can sell janitors million dollar houses on loans they’ll never pay off, pool all those loans together, and then sell them off as a Triple-A asset before they crash and burn.”

My fingers trembled, but not with the same excitement I had purchased. They were right. Banks could securitize all these shitty mortgages and their value would rise because their ratings would, even though the risk technically stayed exactly the same. My pen dropped to the napkin in front of me and I wrote a single phrase into it before slipping it in my pocket and leaving.

*Sub-prime mortgages.*

"Oh...hey Daryl," the lady said, with slight surprise, but more a sense of boredom in her voice.

"Hey Judy. This again, huh?" Daryl replied.

"Yep. Well, we may as well make the best of it," said Judy, putting on a brave face.

"For sure. Okay...soo...how are those reports going?" Daryl said, in his best banker voice.

"Not bad, although Bill pulled me into a meeting all afternoon, so I got pretty sidetracked," replied Judy, starting to get into character.

"Jeez, Bill again huh?"

"Ya, he means well, and he's a pleasant guy to work for overall, but he wastes *so* much time in meetings. It's like... we get it, we're all on board with the 'Bank Mission Statement', but we have to get some work done too," Judy said - her mind now switching fully into her bank character.

*This is fucking sweet.* I thought to myself.

"Totally. I mean, I like teamwork, respect and honesty as much as the next guy, but most managers just leave it as a background thing," said Daryl, starting to enjoy himself.

Judy caught a little smile from Daryl, and a twinkle in his eye. *Well,* she thought, *I have to say, this is definitely more fun than that wizard scenario I was in last week...*

Daryl was thinking the same thing, *Not bad compared to the ant farm lady. My ant character blows...I just can't get into it.*

"Next time Bill calls a meeting I think I'm gonna say something," Judy continued. "Nothing rude, but I just feel like we're wasting so much time in that little boardroom. I mean, *at least* try to book the big one with the lake view."

"That lake one is dope...I could totally spend an afternoon in there," replied Daryl, nodding his head.

*This is amazing,* I thought to myself, barely holding it together.

"Have you ever been in the meeting room on the top floor, near Thompson's office?" Judy asked, picturing it in vivid detail.

"Don't stop," I whispered, too quietly for anyone to hear.

"Oh my God, if that was my office I would be so fucking productive. Jesus Christ, just think of all the work I could get done in there," said Daryl, with genuine excitement.

"What an awesome meeting room," agreed Judy, shaking her head in near disbelief.

Both Judy and Daryl had dove in head first. They knew the bank inside and out. They knew who they liked at the bank and who they didn't. They embodied the bank's Core Values, and had a list of who they could fire if the budget got tight. They had fulfilled the role. 

And most importantly. 

They had truly 

become... 

*Bankers*.

*Ohmygodimcumming*
This is actually what I was looking for in a prompt response. 

Sub-prime mortgages.

Nice work.OH. MY. GOD.

YOU EXPLAINED THE RECESSION.I highly recommend the movie The Big Short. Fantastic film, lots of information about this while staying entertaining."It wasn't my phone that woke me up, but my wife. She's always been a lighter sleeper than me, and even though I had it on silent, the constant stream of notification vibrations was making the phone shuck and jive all over my nightstand.

"Honey. Hoooooooney. HONEY!" I came awake to a rough shake accompanying the words. "Yeahwah?" I managed, blearily.

"Your phone. Somebody is blowing you up." 

"Must be my other girlfriend." An old joke, wildly inappropriate considering what was to follow. "Mmhhmm." She mumbled, already well on her way back to sleep. I checked the bedside clock; the red LED showing 3 am on the nose. Weird. I leaned awkwardly, half awake, and grabbed my phone, and had to do a doubletake when I saw the notifications. 186 texts, 93 missed calls, and one emergency notification. What. The Actual. Fuck? I thought, ok, this is a dream, must be a dream. I don't even know 186 people. Ok. Must be a natural disaster on the way. Or did Kim Jong Un launch nukes at the west coast? Shit. 

With slightly shaking hands, I thumbed the official notification, expecting the worst. I held my breath. 

"DO NOT LOOK AT THE MOON."

Wait, what? The feeling of surreal vertigo intensified. The logical part of my brain was continuing to insist that this was, this MUST, be a dream, must be a dream, must be...

"Shut up, shut up." I whispered to myself, climbing out of bed. I was awake now, fully, rigidly awake, and so I decided to take my phone to the living room to investigate further. Plopping down on the couch, I started scrolling through texts. "Curiouser and curiouser," I mumbled to myself, looking at the texts. None of them from numbers I recognized. Some of them...not even from phone numbers. Entries from numbers with only 8 digits, or 6, or 2. Entries with letters and numbers mixed together. Entries with letters and numbers and Chinese characters mixed in. Emojis and symbols mixed in. My disquiet was growing steadily. I clicked the first message. 

"Wow, look at the moon! It's so big and beautiful. Amazing, isn't it"

So, ok, my brain responded. Not a dream. A practical joke. Someone is messing with me. With my phone. I wonder if my wife is in on this. I clicked the next text.

"It's such a beautiful night tonight. Just look! The moon looks amazing. It's so big!"

"Look at the moon! Wow, it looks so cool! Look honey!"

Something about the "honey" sent a chill up my spine. My wife, shaking me awake, popped back into my mind, unbidden.

"Look at that moon out over the water honey!" It looks so huge so close to the horizon. Why does it do that?"

"It's such a beautiful night honey, look! Wow, the moon looks awesome!"

And as I was reading these, I realized, I could hear a voice speaking the words. Quietly, like they were coming from very far away, repeating, looping over each other, blurring speeding up, slowing down, warping. 

Look at the moon, go outside, look at the moon, go outside, look at the moon, it's a beautiful night, go look at the moon."

Mustering all the calm I could, I set my phone, face down, on the couch. Some still logical functionality commanded me to turn on the TV. Turn on the news. Yes. Normalcy. Emergency broadcast system. Yes. That's a good idea. I turned it on. It's 3 am, surely more than a minute has passed but it says 3 am, right there in the corner of the screen, 3:00AM PDT, and even though it's the middle of the night, there's Anderson Cooper, and he's staring at me, I swear he's looking right at me, and suddenly turning on the news seems like it was a really bad idea. 

"West coast residents are being warned tonight not to look at the moon. Authorities are warning that looking at the moon might destroy your life and could unravel the very fabric of reality. Ben, DO NOT LOOK AT THE MOON."

I pressed the power button again on the remote and the TV shut off. Heart trying to thud its way out of my chest, I stood, and walked back towards my bedroom. Somehow, I knew before I opened the door that my wife would be awake, and she was. She was sitting up, her face lit by her phone screen. 

"I shouldn't have told you to look at the moon, honey. I'm sorry."

"Wait, what? Are you?...Are you in on this too? What is going on!"

She looked down, and started crying. "I'm sorry, honey. I'm so so sorry."

I rushed over and sat down hard on the bed, right in front of her. "Sorry for what!" I demanded, panic seizing control of me as I grabbed her shoulders. "Sorry for WHAT! What THE FUCK is going on!!?? Sorry for what??!!"

She stopped crying, and smiled. Her eyes were far away, glazed, almost robotic. "Oh WOW!" she said "Wow, honey, it's such a beautiful night tonight! Just look at the moon!"

I let go of her shoulders, and stood up. I walked calmly, out of the room, out through the living room to the hall to the back door. I threw it open, feeling like my arms and legs were moving on their own. Like I was merely a passenger. I could feel my pulse in my ears. I stepped out, into my backyard. I tilted my head to the sky, and I looked at the moon. 

And then I remembered. God help me, I remembered. Driving along, southbound on coast highway, coming home from a long night. She was tired, dried sweat had warped her perfect hairdo, but she still looked radiant. Face lit by the dash lights, and of course, by the moon. She had sung her heart out tonight, and the crowd had eaten it up. She was a bright shining star, tonight. Hanging out there, seeming mere inches from the horizon, the big, swollen, full face of the moon. Just about to set. 

"Oh WOW!" she said "Wow, honey, it's such a beautiful night tonight! Just look at the moon!" 

And I did. I took my eyes off the road, and I did. She was right, of course. It was beautiful."

I sighed.

"And then I heard an awful sound, like a loud pop, and we were upside down, flying, weightless, like somehow we had been pulled by the moon into space. The car was full of weird things floating through the air, coins, a pen cap, her mic had even floated in from the back into the front. I had one last look at her face. It was still transitioning from the marvel at the beauty of the moon to the shock of the crash. I tried to reach out my hand, but I seemed to be moving through jello. The moon filled the windshield, seemed to get even bigger, brighter, turned the sky white, turned the whole world white."

I wept a little then. Not as much as I would, later, but a little. 

"You know the rest," I said when I had regained my composure. "I came out of the coma. I woke up here."

The officer stared at me, and I could tell she was struggling to keep her face impassive. She felt bad for me, but she didn't want to. 

"I'm sorry for your loss." she said, looking down at her notepad. She hadn't taken down a single word of it. "Can you tell me how much you'd had to drink that night?"

I sighed again. Could I? No, not really. Quite a few. Too fucking many.

"No," I answered. "No, I don't think I can."

She nodded. "You're going to need a lawyer. When you're ready to get out of here, I mean."

I looked down at my broken body. Just a mess of wires and tubes and casts. "Yeah," was all I could muster. 

She stood, and walked toward the door of my hospital room. She put her hand on the door, and without turning, she asked, "do you think if you'd obeyed the warning, you'd still be in the coma?" 

"Yes," I said, quietly. "Yes, I do."Have you heard the wolf howl?  The sound that echoes in your bones, that makes needles race across your skin.

My grandmother used to say that all wolves howl from instinct.  In memory of something long before, in connection with their ancestors.  And the dogs, they howl from the remnants of instinct from when they were wolves.  From the part of them that remembers the pack, the hunt, the fury.

She said what makes us human is forgetting our instincts.  Left in the wild, how few of us would survive?  How many would know how to stalk prey, would remember how to survive snow naked, or to how to hide from the hungry tiger?

Few.

Tonight, when the moon rose, it was as if there was a presence over my shoulders, as if I could hear a distant musical note but not see the instrument.  For I was in the tunnels deep below the earth, in one of the few remaining coal mines, and shielded from the radiance above.  My team stiffened at midnight, casting their eyes upwards, searching the rock, their eyes finding nothing against the stone and support beams.  And at six AM, we boarded the mine shaft, each of us stopping at the time clock to claim our hours.

That was when the cell phones started to buzz.

Deep underground, it's impossible for the signal to penetrate.  You're cut off not only from the sky, but from all life.  All humanity.  And now, just a few dozen feet below the surface, the flood began.

Jim's phone started first, the ringtone not changed in over a decade, his wrinkles deepening as he stared at the screen.  In all the time I had known Jim, I'd never heard that ringtone.  I'd never seen his screen light up, or his fingers peddle across a keyboard that still used T-9.  But now, the device wouldn't stop vibrating long enough for him to type an answer.

Sally's went off next- Sally, who's screen was so cracked that is nearly cut her finger as she swiped, and who had added a case thicker than her hard hat as a countermeasure to future damage.  But the damage was already done, and no case could undo it.  Funny, how she didn't protect it until no longer necessary.  Like her husband, who cheated on her after they fought every night for a month, and now she spread mortar over the cracks in a marriage that would never recover.

My phone, at four percent battery, was last.  As the twenty other miners trickled out of the tunnel, I switched off airplane mode, which I had been on to connect keep it from dying.  I'd been saving it to call my own wife- it had been six months since our last date, but little Jimmy was sleeping over at a friends tonight.  And I'd been saving change for weeks to take her to Gianno's, where we had first met, to share a Chicago pizza.  Maybe even a milkshake after, if we could splurge.

But before I could call, my phone also started to vibrate.  And four percent turned to three percent.

From Jimmy. "Dad, you HAVE to see this!  Meet me at the baseball field!"

From my wife.  "Honey, come home soon, let's stay in the garden and look at the stars."

Three percent turned to two percent.

From Amanda, my college girlfriend. "Hi Jacob, I know it's been years since we last talked, but I just wanted to apologize for being a bitch when we broke up.  Not that you weren't a jerk :)  But anyways, if you're looking for some fun, let's take a walk in the park.  Maybe we can hide in the bushes :)"

From the astronomy club I had went to once, who kept my phone number since last September. "Jacob, you will *not* believe what's in the sky.  You don't need a telescope to see this!"

Two percent became one, and my phone began to wail.  It was like one of those Amber alerts, where a child goes missing, and you're supposed to watch for a license plate.  But this message contained neither a child or plate.

I'd been walking as I read the messages, but now I stopped, the rest of the group exiting twenty yards ahead of me into the moonlight.  I could hear their phones wailing as well, but none bothered to look.  Instead, they looked up, while I looked down.

"STAY INSIDE.  HIDE, LOCK YOUR DOORS, AND AWAIT EMERGENCY SERVICES."

But when I blinked, the message changed while the phone refreshed.

"UNLOCK YOUR DOORS, AND AWAIT EMERGENCY SERVICES OUTSIDE."

The screen turned dark as the last remaining trickle of battery failed, and the lights in the tunnel flickered.  Ahead, glancing at the reflecting moonlight, something tugged at my mind.  A distant memory that seemed like a word on the tip of my tongue.  An excitement, a mission, something calling to me.  A terrible purpose.

I swallowed, then looked back towards the group.  Their heads tilted back, and their mouths opened, their pupils dilating despite the light.  Their shoulders turned rigid and they stood on their tip toes as their voices cut through the night, as they shouted into the sky.  But I edged backwards into the darkness as they sprinted away together, as a pack.  I slept there that night, waiting for daylight, the mine echoing with the sound they had made before leaving and making me shake.

They have remembered the howl.

And with the rising sun, I walk among wolves.

Andrew nearly snarled as his phone chimed for what seemed to be the umpteenth time. His shift at the warehouse ended only a few hours ago and it like chickens running around with their heads chopped off whenever he left. It was rare delight to encounter the nights that he was actually permitted to sleep through the night.

On top of the texts that were just brimming with simple incompetency, the morons that lit up his phone in the middle of the night always seemed to wake up his wife, Isabel, who suffered from insomnia to begin with. The raise Andrew agreed to that stated he kept his ringer on for these occasions never seemed worth it when he saw Isabel the next day, curled up in the guest room with dark circles under her eyes from her attempts to get away from the constant chiming. 

Andrew rubbed a hand over eyes to clear them, trying to understand the ridiculous amount of messages but he must have been more tired than he thought since they didn’t make sense.

He quickly scrolled through the message previews, finding they all seemed to follow the same pattern: to look at the moon. The moon? What the -? Why?

It was like a shot to his adrenaline when he saw that some of the messages were coming from Isabel’s phone. He shot up from bed, seeing the other side empty, and jumped to his feet. 

“Hun, what’s going on,” Andrew questioned, still scrolling through his phone while walking towards the guest room.  The room was at the end of the hallway and the door was wide open. He could see Isabel standing in the middle of the room, arms down by her side and phone clutched in her hand as she gazed out the window. 

As he grew closer, he could see that she was shaking, “Bel? Honey? What’s wrong, why-”

Isabel’s body whipped toward him and Andrew couldn’t help himself, he froze in place. She ran and shoved her body into the door, slamming it shut and locking it in place. 

The speed was all wrong though, Andrew had never seen her move that fast. It was insane, it was...inhuman….

His own body started to tremble when he remembered her eyes. Her pupils were dilated and not a single bit of the green irises he loved so much were left. 

He was just about to ram his own body into the door, to beg her to let him in and make her explain what is happening, but then she started sobbing. 

“Andrew! You need to run, you need to hide! I’m so sorry, god I am so sorry. Run, Andrew, and whatever you do, don’t look at the moon!” 

Andrew started pounding his fists on the door and trying to shove his weight against it, but she must have blocked it with something. 

Despite his shouting and his pleading to be let in, his forgotten phone on the hallway floor seemed to crack through the commotion as the alarms of the emergency alert system distracted him for just a moment. The robotic voice started to play from his phone automatically, “WARNING. THIS IS NOT A TEST. THIS IS AN EMERGENCY ALERT. DO NOT LOOK AT THE MOON. WARNING. THIS IS NOT A TES-”

Andrew thought his distress was at its peak, nothing was making sense and he just needed to get Isabel so they could deal with this together. He just needed to-

Her screams started and it struck him cold to the very center of his being. He began pounding and kicking at the door until it gave way under his body. Isabel was on the floor, writhing in the moonlight. Andrew couldn’t help it, his knees buckled and he emptied the contents of his stomach right where he stood. 

Isabel's body was bent at every wrong angle possible but she wasn’t screaming anymore. Her head snapped in his direction with that ungodly speed again. Bathed in the moon’s light and pupils still completely dilated, she smiled up at him as if every bone in her body wasn’t broken. 

In the same voice she used to tell soothe him time after time, she whispered, “Look at the moon, Andrew.” 
This is amazing! A very original take on the prompt.its 2 am and the first part made me feel like i was on /r/nosleep. Something similar apparently happened to a guy on reddit, only it was a lamp and shade that looked sort of out of place, like the angles were wrong for reality or something... Turns out he'd lived an entire life in a coma, wife, kid... Everything.

He posted his story on reddit somewhere.

Edit: some people are having difficulty reading it, here it is.

throw away account cause this is really personal.

My last semester at a certain college I was assulted by a football player for walking where he was trying to drive (note he was 325lbs I was 120lbs), while unconscious on the ground I lived a different life. 

I met a wonderful young lady, she made my heart skip and my face red, I pursued her for months and dispatched a few jerk boyfriends before I finally won her over, after two years we got married and almost immediately she bore me a daughter. 

I had a great job and my wife didn't have to work outside of the house, when my daughter was two she [my wife] bore me a son. My son was the joy of my life, I would walk into his room every morning before I left for work and doted on him and my daughter.

One day while sitting on the couch I noticed that the perspective of the lamp was odd, like inverted. It was still in 3D but... just.. wrong. (It was a square lamp base, red with gold trim on 4 legs and a white square shade). I was transfixed, I couldn't look away from it. I stayed up all night staring at it, the next morning I didn't go to work, something was just not right about that lamp. 

I stopped eating, I left the couch only to use the bathroom at first, soon I stopped that too as I wasn't eating or drinking. I stared at the fucking lamp for 3 days before my wife got really worried, she had someone come and try to talk to me, by this time my cognizance was breaking up and my wife was freaking out. She took the kids to her mother's house just before I had my epiphany.... the lamp is not real.... the house is not real, my wife, my kids... none of that is real... the last 10 years of my life are not fucking real! 

The lamp started to grow wider and deeper, it was still inverted dimensions, it took up my entire perspective and all I could see was red, I heard voices, screams, all kinds of weird noises and I became aware of pain.... a fucking shit ton of pain... the first words I said were "I'm missing teeth" and opened my eyes.  I was laying on my back on the sidewalk surrounded by people that I didn't know, lots were freaking out, I was completely confused. 

at some point a cop scooped me up, dragged/walked me across the sidewalk and grass and threw me face down in the back of a cop car, I was still confused. 

I was taken to the hospital by the cop (seems he didn't want to wait for the ambulance to arrive) and give CT scans and shit..

I went through about 3 years of horrid depression, I was grieving the loss of my wife and children and dealing with the knowledge that they never existed, I was scared that I was going insane as I would cry myself to sleep hoping I would see her in my dreams. I never have, but sometimes I see my son, usually just a glimpse out of my peripheral vision,  he is perpetually 5 years old and I can never hear what he says. 



EDIT (24 hours after post): never though anyone would read this, I changed a line so that it no longer seems that my 2 year old daughter bore a child.

I have never seen Inception or the Star Trek episode so many have mentioned (but I will eventually)

I will not do an AMA

I've had many PM's describing similar experiences and 3 posters stating such experiences are impossible,  I'd say more research needs to be done on brain functions. Pre-med students, don't assume you know everything.

A few have asked if they can write a book/screen play/stage play/rage comic etcetera, please consider this tale open source and have fun with it He  was drunk driving with his wife/girlfriend in the passenger seatn and he looked away from the road to look at the moon when she  remarked how beautiful it was and they got into a horrific crash.  
The first part before he says that he remembers is when he was in a coma. While he's' in the coma, his brain remembers that he shouldn't look at the moon for some reason and translates that as a really weird and surreal warning. All of the messages are his brain translating his wife's (?) last words. When he looks at the moon in the coma dream he remembers what happened and he wakes up. 
He's recounting the whole experience to a police officer after he's woken up. 

Conventions are my favorite time of the year. We all knew we were killers, and knowing who all the other killers were helped people get along. Sold a secret? Everyone would hunt you down the next day. 

Everyone had their flair out, so you could have as much fun as you wanted while still fitting in. The Japanese would dress all in earth tones, while the Italians would put on fantastically gauche suits. The British, as always, sent their best in a tuxedo. I wore my best denim. 

Nobody ever expected a Canadian assassin. We were there in WWII, killing Hitler in his bunker before the other Allies even arrived. They had to burn the body and claim suicide to cover up their incompetence. We were there when Osama bin Laden was found. I'll bet the Navy Seals won't tell you they found him chained to his desk with a complimentary last meal of poutine. 

Don't think we're friendly. We don't take anybody's side but Canada's. We were there when JFK was shot. It was so simple to play one superpower against another and score lucrative deals for the Canadarm project. It's nice to know we can smuggle a high-powered laser into space, even if it's only one shot. 

Still, an assassin is only as good as his cover. We instill our children from an early age just how to act in public while we train them in private how to apply political pressure points as well as physical ones. We're the kindest, nicest people around when somebody is watching. 

We train to be normal and accepting, while pushing the idea that a sneaky killer has to know kung fu and how to throw daggers. The Japanese popular culture has already been successfully subverted, and we're working with a mole at Ubisoft to produce more Assassin's Creed games to subvert Arab, British, Italian and now Egyptian cultures. They would never suspect us. 

We could even get away with an assassination here at the convention, just for fun. I bump into another excited conventioneer dressed head-to-toe, embarassingly, in his mother's best black sheets. I pull the punch knife from his kidney slowly while the invisible needle in his neck stops him from screaming. 

"Sorry."

EDIT: Got the Assassin's Creed publisher wrong. Changed "EA" to "Ubisoft."
EDIT: Thank you, kind stranger!My codename is Green Man because technically I'm a recycler. I repurpose the old, shine it up nice and sleek so that it may be made new. Most people don't know this, but the modernization of Japan has never quite stopped. There are pockets of holdouts where tradition clings on. Like the samurai of old, it's my job to repurpose their stubbornness before they are gunned down by Gatling guns. 

Or, you know, in this case, DNA seeking armor piercing sniper bullets discharged from an auto-drone flying miles in the air.

But try explaining that to guys who toss ninja stars at dart boards.
 
Most of my students are under the impression our roles are reversed.

“Sami-son,” they call me. “Do you see how the wind blows?”

They smile, the edges of their masks crinkling up like dimples. 

I pinch the bridge of my nose and sigh. 

“You’re standing under a vent,” I try to explain. “It’s called air conditioning.”

Other times, I sit the ninjas down and pop them popcorn. I’ve blocked out time for a James Bond marathon, so they may see how a real spy operates in the treacherous political climate of the modern day. Plus, I mean, hey, there’s nothing wrong with entertainment. 

Except one class clown tosses popcorn at another. Before I know it, they're missing the damned point. They're hiding in the shadows, kernels flying from behind curtains. I have to pause the movie, get my receptionist to lead them back to their assigned seating. 

"See, what we teach!” exclaims one. “You hide in the shadows, become one with darkness.”

“No, dear,” Brenda the receptionist says. “We simply had to turn on the lights.”

Corporate likes to bill our academy as an astounding success. The big guys upstairs boast at every holiday party. Once again, the West helps out the little brother in the East. But truth is, they’ve never stepped foot inside the academy. They just smile and clap my back, saying, “keep up the good work.”

Or, even worse, they pull me aside and pitch their next brilliant idea. We’re talking idiocy ranging from amphibious ninja-manned submarines to planting ninjas in the secret service. 

Like, just yesterday, a stiff in a suit pulled me aside and said one word. His teeth were grayed from way too much coffee. 

“Hackers,” he whispered, raising his bushy brows. 

So, the ever-obedient Green Man must now sit ninjas down in front of a computer. 

My first pupil powers the thing on and attacks it like a pecking chicken. One peck here, and *oh look another kernel!*

I try to explain the assignment, one more time. 

“Listen, we just need you to open up Microsoft Word. Locate the target word file.”

His eyes are so blank it’s practically insulting. To help him out, I get a printout of the document we’re looking for. 

“See here, read the title. *Trump’s ties to Russia*. Now we go find.”

The masked man nods so fast, the knots nearly come loose. He squints at the screen and begins pecking away. Letters miraculously form in the search bar. The ninja’s fingers become a blur. For a moment, I think we may be on to something. 

Like, maybe my career is worthwhile after all. I look over to Brenda and give her a thumbs up.

And when I turn back, my example sheet is missing. The ninja winks at me, and my stomach just drops. 

He’s got the sheet folded between his fingers.

“Always be watching, Sami-son,” he says. “Let not even the call of a grasshopper sway the focus of your mind.”

From her desk, Brenda snorts out a laugh. I tell her to go print off another copy, and when she slaps it on the table, I lean in to whisper.

 “Give corporate a call. I’m putting in for a transfer.” 

"We're working with a mole at EA to produce Assassin's Creed games"
Lost it there xDPart 1 | [Part 2]( | [Part 3]( | [Part 4](

Emily sat across from him at a table draped with a red satin tablecloth.  Her champagne flute remained untouched as she searched for the words to say.

“I’m sorry Jacob, but,” she paused averting her gaze.  “It’s not you it’s me.” 

“What do you mean?” 

“I don’t think I’m ready for a long term relationship.  It’s just too much right now.  You’re great, truly.  But I think it’s best if we take a break.”

“For how long?” he asked, sadness crept into his voice.

She sighed quietly.  “I’ll let you know. I’m sorry,” she said rising from the table leaving him alone, head hanging.

He watched her go, her heels clicking against the black and white tiled floor of the Italian restaurant.  *Well, this version didn’t work either.  Maybe she really wasn’t ready for a long term relationship,* he wondered.

*Or. Maybe she doesn’t realize just how much she needs me.* He dropped a stack of money on the table and slipped into the night.  Heavy rain drops began to fall as he made his way toward Emily’s apartment. 
 
Emily tossed herself down onto her couch and pulled her plush robe around herself.  She clutched the warm cup of tea between her hands and drank deeply.  

*This is what I want,* she smiled.

A quiet scratching turned her head.  *Probably the storm.* She turned the TV to listen to the home decorator explain their choices for the house they had just flipped.

The scratching came again, more urgently this time.  She set her tea down, her bare feet whispered across the floor as she made her way to the front door.  She had to stand on her toes to see through the small peephole.  

“I’m just hearing things,” she tried to convince herself.  

Another series of frantic scratching turned her head toward the window.  She grabbed an umbrella and gripped it like a baseball bat.  Lightning flashed outside her apartment, the brilliant light briefly illuminating a small shape on her fire escape.  

*Is that?*

A quiet meow came from the window as a reply to her question.

“You poor thing!” she cooed as she opened the window and lifted the soaking wet kitten inside.  The cat meowed happily and pressed its head against her plush robe.

Emily dried him off and got a small dish of tuna fish for the cat.  It didn’t have a collar or anything that could help her identify who the cat could possibly belong to.

“Well, I need to call you something. Any ideas?”

*Jacob,* the cat thought to himself and meowed again.

“How about Hamlet?”

Jacob meowed again. *Doesn’t matter to me as long as you love me.*  

"Raul," crooned Raul in a very suspicious French accent, as he took the lady's hand and graced his eager lips on it. "Let me guess," he continued, releasing his grip and pulling a chair out from the table. "Sit, please. Let me guess, you're a Mari- no, no, you're a Cassandra? I'm right, am I not?" 

*Suave.* Yes, that was what he would be today.

The woman's botoxed forehead tried its best to frown, her lips fighting (and losing) a similarly uneven battle. "How on Earth did you know that?" 

Raul slicked his dark hair back with ringed fingers. "Your beauty, it was that of a Maria, or a Cassandra, and there was a certain radiance that could be of no Maria. I see, no wrinkle has dared to blight your perfect face -- that tells me all I need to know." He lowered his voice to a rippling whisper. "*All I need to know.*"

Cassandra giggled through perfectly still lips as she slid into a seat. "My," she said, "You are a charmer. And that accent... Australian?"

"Australian?"

"Yes. I'm certain of it. I've got an aunt who lives there, and strike me down if you don't sound *just the same!* Don't worry -- she's a smoker."

Raul cursed himself silently. He hadn't done enough research for the role. No, it was fine -- he'd improvise. 

"Yes, mate. Good catch."

He sat in his seat and raised a hand, clicking his fingers to gain the attention of a waiter. "If I had a bloody boomerang, I'd get us the wine myself," he said with a wink.

Another half chuckle as the waiter approached. Raul knew her very favourite drink, her very favourite food... Yes, this time he'd get the pudding he'd been after for so long. But he had to be confident. She liked confident.

"Lambrusco, for the lovely Sheila. And the house re- a uh..."--he swallowed hard--"Fosters for me." 

The waiter lifted his head and eyed Raul snobbishily. "*House Fosters*, sir?"

"Yeah," Raul replied, tugging at his shirt. "You know, out of the house tap."

"Very good, sir. And to eat?"

"Pie and chips for the lady, and... do you do anything off the barbie?"

"Sir?"

"Struth. Just a burger then, mate."

The lady eyed Raul with suspicion. "I wouldn't normally let someone order for me, but... How did you know I loved pies?"

"Know? Oh, that you're a classy pie lass? Well, it's obvious ain't it."

"Is it?"

"It is to me. A lady who would wear a fashionable tracksuit like that, to a place like this, well, she'd be after the fanciest meal on the whole bloody menu."

If she could have smiled she would have done, Raul hoped. God, she was beautiful. Beneath all that make up. Maybe. Raul began to sweat. This was the best any of their dates had gone *to date*. He couldn't mess it up now. It was time to lay his heart on the table.

"Look, Cassandra, I'm gonna' level with you. I think you're mighty fine, and I reckon you think I'm fine. I mean, I figure I'm the sort of guy you'd normally go for."

Cassandara shrugged. "Eh."

"Eh? What do you mean, 'eh'"?

"You're a little too pretty-boy, for my tastes, to be honest."

"You can't be serious. You can't be bloody serious! I've seen all the men you've rejected. What the hell is left?"

Cassandra went tense. "You've *seen* the men I've been out with?"

"Well I er, oh struth," Raul said sadly, knowing he couldn't stop it now. The man's stylish exterior began to wilt, his skin flaking to reveal the green monstrosity beneath. Screams echoed about the restaurant and cutlery migrated high in all directions.

"Wh-what kind of monster are you?" asked Cassandra, her lips trying desperately to quiver.

"Me?" Raul asked, a rage in the pit of his stomach rising. "Me?! What the hell kind of monster are *you*? -- That's the real question! I've tried *everything* to please you. I've been Brad bloody Pitt and Oscar bloomin Wilde. Nothing makes you happy. Nothing!" He realised at this point that he didn't *need* to keep the accent up, but there was something rather bloody pleasing about it.

"Th-hey were *you*?"

Raul's skin began to change again, his black hair falling out in thick clumps, while greasy blonde hair sprouted hurriedly in its place. It took only seconds for Cassandra to be face to face with... Cassandra.

"This," said the new Cassandra, as it got up from its seat, "Is the only person I think you could ever love. You are the worst specimen of any creature I've ever met. And I've been to the Betelgeuse system *and* Scotland. Good day to you!"

Raul/Cassandra had almost stomped its way to the door, when it heard the plaintive scream from behind and stopped in its tracks.

"Waiiit!"

The other Cassandra came running up to it. 

"What do you want now? Come to mock me one last time?"

"Mock? No! I'd never mock someone like you. Mmm mm mmmm, you are *gorgeous*. I think... I think I was a bit hasty. How about one more try?" she asked with a salacious wink.

Raul/Cassandra  smiled. *Finally*.

"Can you change *any* part of your body?" she inquired as they walked back towards their table.






It’s all fun and games until she takes him to get neuteredThe vase laughed. Nate narrowed his eyes.Dang lol.He's a shape shifter. Either he makes fake balls and hides his real ones, or just reforms them later.Or:

Shapeshift into cat that is already neutered.I have this recurring dream where my alarm clock is blaring and I open my eyes to see my parents still alive in front of me. My father breathes without the oxygen tank that he had carried around with him for the last six years of his life. My mother’s withering grey curls are a luscious blonde and her cheeks are once again plump and red. She slides her fingertips down my cheek, smiling.

“Did you sleep well?” she asks. “Are you awake?”

And right before I respond, I wake. My psychologist says that I lack closure, that I still haven’t gotten over their deaths. But I disagree. Their deaths weren’t tragic. Well, of course all deaths are tragic, especially deaths of parents. But my father slipped quietly away into the night on his favorite chair and my mother died holding my hand, surrounded by family who loved her dearly.

They each had funerals, wakes, and other remembrances. I had an annual tradition of bringing my grandkids to their grave so I could take another shot of whiskey with my father and give my mother lilies as gold as her hair.

Still, my psychologist tells me that a part of me hasn’t yet accepted their death. I want to tell him that I’m eighty-four years old and only here because three grandkids and two children of my own don’t fill the long stretches of silence in my life. They visit, often. But a man still gets lonely. So I don’t tell him. I entertain him, nodding my head and humming as he tells me how to live out the rest of my year or so (being optimistic) as best as I can.

“It might not be their death,” he tells me. “It might just be death in general. You haven’t accepted it.”

To which, I smile and nod. It is the polite thing to do. The impolite thing would be to burst out laughing at the thirty year old man recently engaged telling an eighty-four year old about embracing death. I accepted my own mortality very long ago. So once again, I entertain him. I barrage him with questions he could never hope to answer and he does his best.

“It won’t hurt,” he tells me. “You’ll find peace. It’ll be like gently letting go and slipping away to whatever next world you believe in. Like falling asleep. Isn’t that nice? When you close your eyes and you gently fall asleep.”

“Promise it won’t hurt?” I ask.

He gives me a smile teeming with confidence, as if he knew anything. “I promise.”

His words play back to me whenever I go to sleep. And every night, I drift further into my dream. It becomes that much more real. The beeping. The parents. The fingertips. It feels more real than reality, as if my whole life had simply been the dream of a nine year old boy still asleep, but unable to wake.

“Did you sleep well?” I hear my mother ask. “Are you awake?”

I open my eyes, expecting to see my popcorn ceiling and revolving wood fan. Instead, I see my mother, her golden locks curling at her shoulders and her fingertips brushing my cheek.

“Did you have a nice dream?” she asks, tears filling her eyes.

I give her a nod and turn toward the alarm clock. It’s not an alarm clock, but a heartbeat monitor. My father stands beside it, his eyes constantly shifting from the monitor to me. He crosses his arms and presses his lips into a thin line.

“It won’t hurt,” he says, a tremor in his voice. “You’ll find peace. Like falling asleep.”

I give him a nod as well. “Or waking up from a long dream,” I tell him, my voice barely a whisper. It's all I can  manage.

My father covers his mouth and chokes on his breath. His shoulders heave. My mother squeezes my hand and presses her lips against it. “Good night, sweet prince," she whispers. "Sweet dreams."


“What did you say?”

I paused, my card already jammed into the receptacle and deducting $5.29 from my bank account.  “What?”

The clerk stared at me, his green eyes narrowed.  I drew half a step back almost unconsciously.  “Uh.  I asked if I could have my drink cup.  You guys keep making us wait and it’s kind of annoying.”

The man stared at me, his lips pressed into a thin line.  “What are you doing?”

All right, the guy was clearly crazy.  I tore my debit card free, shoving it back into the holder permanently resting in my pocket.  “I’m trying to get a Big Mac.  What’s your problem?”

“Are you insane?” he hissed, leaning forward across the counter.  “What are you *doing*?”

“Greg?” someone called from across the store.  A manager, judging by the color of their uniform.  Their voice was carefully cheerful.  “What’s going on?”

“Nothing!  Just helping this gentleman out,” Greg said, his face snapping back to carefully neutral as he smiled at me.  A plastic cup was shoved into my hands, along with the paper slip of my receipt.  “Look - don’t be an idiot,” he said, his voice dropping low enough I had to lean in to hear him.  “I don’t know what game you think you’re playing, but you can’t walk in here talking gibberish.  Leave me alone.”

I stared at him, my mind racing, but the customers behind me were already pushing forward.  I stepped back to join the others waiting for their food, my mind churning.

I had a bit of a gift.  Well, that’s how I liked to think about it.  It had taken a few years to figure out - all languages sounded exactly the same to me.  No matter if I was speaking to someone blabbering on in French or chattering in Italian, it all came across as plain old English.

My parents had been freaked out, understandably.  It had taken a bit of doing to convince them I wasn’t just crazy.  And as soon as we’d pieced together what was going on, we’d begun hiding.  It wasn’t as though I could suddenly start spouting off Spanish and German, after all.  We couldn’t even just leave copies of Rosetta Stone lying around meaningfully.  The instant someone I actually *knew* called me on it, the secret would be up.  I kind of valued living a normal life, too much to allow something like that to happen.

Tray in hand and my mediocre food steaming, I filed back to my seat.  I could feel Greg’s eyes on me the whole way - staring.

What was his problem?  Had I stuttered?
And what had he meant, gibberish?  Maybe he spoke a different language, sure,  but why would that be a problem?  He should be happy that I’d spoken Polish or Swahili or who-gives-a-fuck.  Maybe a bit surprised, but not *angry*.  His reaction wasn’t normal at all.

I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was wrong.  Normally I would have lingered, taking my time in eating.  With the feeling of Clerk Asshat’s eyes on the back of my neck, I just wanted to leave.  I shoveled my value meal down as quickly as I could, hardly tasting it.  My phone lit up with notifications, friends and family blabbering away, all wanting to know where I was.  When I’d be finished with the day’s chores.  Could I pick up this grocery list for them, or finish that errand?

I ignored all of them.  The wrapper crumpled instantly in my hand as I pushed myself upright, dumping the whole lot of it in the trash.

The guy wasn’t there.  A bit of the tension slipped out of my shoulders as I saw his station replaced by a tiny, grinning brunette.  Good.  Maybe his manager had finally taken him down a notch.

The lights on my car blinked across the parking lot at me as I stepped out of the store.  The cold air snapped me awake, back to reality in an instant.  I was letting that guy creep me out for no reason.  He was just a jerk, that was all - trapped in his minimum wage job.  Probably just a crazy, when I thought about it.  He was probably just-

I yelped, eyes widening as fingers buried themselves in my hair, pulling painfully.  Someone had me.  There was something cold at my throat - cold and *sharp*.

“Ok, asshole,” Greg hissed in my ear, his voice wild.  “We’re going to go for a walk.”

“What the *fuck* are you-”

“Shut up.”

The blade dug into my neck.  I could feel a hot line of blood dripping down my skin.  My mind raced - this was insane.  He really was crazy.  A lunatic.  He was-

There was nothing I could do to fight him as he turned me, forcing me towards the back of the store.  A dingy, beat-up station wagon waited in employee parking, the lot unlit and dismally dark.  I scanned the lot even still, ready to bellow for help at a moment’s notice.

It was useless.  There was no one around.  No one was going to hear.

He slammed me into the back of his car, my face pressed painfully against the glass.

“How stupid do you think I am?” he spat.

“What the *hell* are you talking about?” I cried, shaking.

“What, you think you’re being subtle?  You’ll just walk in, talking the Old Tongue like you were born to it, and I’ll roll over for you?”

“Look, dude, there’s been some mistake,” I moaned.  “It’s-It’s just something that I can do, all right?  It’s not-”

“Right,” he said with a laugh, his fingers still pulling painfully at my hair.  “Like I’m going to believe *that*.”

“I speak tongues, all right?” I said, craning my head until I could look at him.  “That’s all.  I don’t know what you heard.  All I know is-”

“How long until they get here?”

I blinked.  “What?”

“I’m not *stupid*,” he spat.  “I’m not going to sit idly until they come to finish the job. How long until the rest of them show up?”

“The rest of *who*?” I said, trying desperately to keep from crying.

“You know damn well who-” he said, but stopped abruptly.

I blinked.

Somewhere in the distance, sirens were approaching.

My heart leapt.  Police.  *Yes*.  Someone must have seen him, someone must have called the cops.  I was saved.  He’d-

He let go of my hair in an instant, leaping away.  His car abandoned, he vanished into the underbrush of the woods behind the McDonald’s.  I fell in a crumpled heap, my heart still pounding in my ears.

Tires screeched as the cop car pulled up moments later, a pair of officers piling out.

“Sir!  Sir, are you all right?” one yelled, racing over to me. “Can you tell me what happened?”

“There was- a man,” I said, glancing back at the woods.  ‘H-He had a knife.  He was crazy.  Thought I was speaking some funny language or something.”

“Why would he think that?” the other said, his brow furrowing.

“I-I don’t know,” I said, instinctively clamping down.  The cops paused, staring at me.

“What, that’s it?” the first said.

“I’m sorry,” I muttered, unable to meet their eyes.  My gaze drifted, needing to find something, anything else to look at.  The flashing lights of their cars drew my eyes in, holding my gaze.

I froze.

“Well, look.  I’m sure this has been a traumatic event.  Why don’t you come back with us, and we’ll talk about it?” The second said, smiling blankly at me.  One hand dropped to his belt.

Neither of them was wearing a radio.  There was nothing on his belt but a gun and a pair of handcuffs.  The details of it stuck out like a lightning flash in my mind.

I took a step back.

“Look, don’t worry, all right?” the first said, beaming at me.  “You’re safe now, right?”

The insignia on their car was wrong.  I’d lived in the town my entire life, and it was *wrong*.  It didn’t even have the right *name* on it.  It just looked…

Generic.

I took another step back.

The smiles were beginning to fade from their faces.

“Look, come on,” the first said.  “Just take it easy, ok?  We’ll just go for a ride.”

His hand reached out, grabbing for my elbow.  I skittered away before he could touch me, suddenly sure of two things.

Whoever those two were, they were *not* police officers.

And I was in a mess of trouble.

I take a deep breath as I approach the counter. The cashier has his head down, but he looks pretty generic from what I can see of him. If I'm lucky, I'll sound like I'm just another guy, trying to order my share of Chicken McNuggets. 

"Hi, could I have a Happy Meal, please?" 

His eyes snap to me as if magnetically attracted, and I can instantly feel the confused hostility radiate off him like heat waves. He opens his mouth to speak, closes it, and just examines me further with laser-like scrutiny.

I'm pretty sure I must be gaping in return. Every last person in this establishment knows that they've replaced the chicken meat with something since the birds went extinct in the 2900's, but no-one's ever quite gone so far as to openly eye-murder me for my unhealthy eating choices. 

The man at the cashier -- *Brian,* his name tag reads -- slowly lifts his apron over his head and walks straight out the back door, signalling for me to follow him. A woman quickly fills in his place, attempting to smooth the situation over, but I'm already halfway out to the parking lot.

As soon I've exited, Brian steps out from a wall, invading my personal space with absolutely no regard for it. His unusual features -- pale skin, blue eyes -- give me pause. All are traits that should technically be genetically impossible at this point. 

"I don't know what you're--" I try to say as soothingly as I can manage, but he shakes his head: a short, sharp jerk that cuts me off immediately. 

"How do you know that language?" he asks me quietly. There's something a bit off about his tone, but I can't quite place it. 

"Look, dude, I have no idea -- "

"No-one's spoken that language for thousands of years." He back-peddles until I can no longer smell his Filet-O-Fish breath in my face, and for a second I think he might let me leave, but he still blocks my way, looking at me strangely. 

"It's just a thing I do. It's not under my control. It's another one of those implants," I say, pushing aside my hair to reveal the microchip embedded under my ear, where the skin is stretched tight enough to showcase its electric blue wiring.

Brian's eyes have taken on a watery sheen, and I realize with a jolt that he's crying. "I came here three years ago in a machine," he tells me, his voice holding up impressively. "I don't know how or why -- just that I woke up surrounded by useless buttons and a billion people I can't begin to understand." He takes a step further back, and then one more, and then somewhere along the way he's walking away fully, ignoring me standing there rooted to the ground in shock. 

And then suddenly I'm not.

"Wait, Brian!" The name sounds bizarre coming from my lips; it's almost as outdated as *Sophia* or *Britney*. "What is the name of the language? The one I'm speaking?" 

He turns in the distance, his face etched with a bittersweet smile. "English. It's called... English."

And then he disappears from sight. Man, it's so cool you wrote all this in Spanish![removed]Part 1 | [Part 2]( | [Part 3]( | [Part 4]( | [Part 5]( | [Part 6]( | [Epilogue](


[removed]G'day and welcome to the Myth Hunter. Today, I'm going after the stone salamander of Seneca. Oh, looks like we've got one.  'Ere we have the rare basilisk. Crikey, this ones a giant in'it he? Now the thing you've got to remember with basilisks is, if they stare you straight in the eye, yer turned to solid rock. So the best thing to do with these is to wear a blindfold 'round ya head. Now that I've got mine on, I can start to wrangle it. 

Whatcha wannado with these critters is get low to the ground while you approach em. Now they're going to- oof, yea- to try and rear up at ya. Once you hear that screech you've got to go in at em. Grab em right- c'mon there ya go- right here, right under the front two legs. Keep your head Low, it'll try and nip ya, but it can't bend its neck far enough. 

Shh, shh, calm girl calm. Now we can safely remove the blindfold, as we keep her eyes pointed safely in the sky. Ya can see this ones a girl cause of the crystal 'tween her eyes. Males don't got that 'tween their eyes, just real thick, thick, eyebrow ridges. As a secondary weapon the basilisk has these thick claws, take a look 'ere. Each ones about a quarter inch thick and hard as granite. Teeth too, once bit straight through my sternum. Lucky I'm dead else it've put me out of commission. 

Alright, time to let her go now. You've got to put your blindfold back on and toss her back quick. I'm going to push off in 3.....2......1....go go go go, alright c'mon. Looks like shes stopped following now and- wassat? Zoom in over there. Crickey, shes got a little runt with her. Definitely the smallest of her litter, little guy must only be about a foot long. S'allright to look at 'im. Poor lil guy wont open his eyes for 'nother month at least. For now he's sticking close to mommy for protection. The young climb on their mothers back for protection from threats. For the first three months of their lives they're effectively defenseless against predators, specially weasels. 

God. That's just absolutely beautiful. Watching mother and son go into the sunset together. Nature's majesty right before us. Thanks all for tuning in, catch me here next week when we go after the elusive jackalope, the mirage of the midwest. G'night! We all read that in steves voiceI'm not crying you're cryingIt was, more often than not, the smiley ones I watched out for. While I checked their IDs, their gazes would frequently flicker over to their friends for support. The more jittery among them would chatter away with quotes plucked directly from the latest Fortune magazine or how "buying their own place was the best thing to happen to them". If only they knew they weren't the only ones saying those things ...

Inevitably, after about fifteen seconds of my careful, silent scrutiny of their spotless plastic cards, the first tracks of sweat would begin to appear on their foreheads. Their conversations would die down, and the fidgeting multiply. The desperate ones would say, with frequent glances over my shoulder at doorway through which pulsing lights and throbbing music emerged, "Could we, uh, hurry up? Our friends are waiting for us inside."

"I'm sorry, but you're underage. This ID isn't valid," I said.

Sometimes, I wished I could just tell them the truth—that I could identify crap-all about them from the card. The printed numbers meant little against the large , glimmering digits floating above their heads. It'd taken me several childhood years and the help of a mirror to figure them out, but they made me damned good at my job.

"This can't be right," the young man said, jaws tightening even as a visible, nervous shudder coursed through his body.

"I'm guessing, seventeen?" I almost laughed at his shocked expression. Jerking my thumb toward his older male companion, I said, "Your brother'll just have to take you elsewhere."

"C'mon, let's go," the other man said, pulling him out and shooting me one last dirty look.

Such was the life of a street-level NYC bouncer. As I was writing down the ID's details on a register, I heard the clicking of heels approach. Next moment, a slim, small hand slid an ID card onto my podium.

I looked up and did a double-take—literally jumping back a step. She was pretty, more girl-next-door than supermodel, with loose auburn hair hanging to her shoulders framing a lean face. About five feet tall, she wore a tight-fitting black dress that terminated at mid-thigh, though her figure wasn't anything more spectacular than I'd been seeing for the past hour or so.

So, your typical college girl lookalike ... but for the number above her head.

Three thousand and nine.

What. The. Hell.

"There might be an issue with your age," I blurted before I could stop myself.

"Excuse me?" she said in a faintly European accent. Other than her mouth, the rest of her hadn't moved at all—even the fingers clutching the purse in front of her were like cold marble. I could feel goosebumps popping up on my arms as I reached for her ID.

"Sorry, just give me a moment to check," I said, darting furtive looks at the age number above her head as though I expected it to change at any time. I'd never been wrong before; perhaps this was the first time?

Her name was Helena Ricci. Born here in the US twenty-two years ago. I ran the scanner over it. Clean. Shit.

"Er, I'll need just a moment to register you into our system," I said.

"Take your time. I've got plenty," she said. Her eyes remained cold above her smile.

Once the process was complete, I handed the card back to her. "Have a pleasant evening."

She took the card and stalked off into the club. I felt tempted to go after her—so many questions were in my head—but that would mean revealing my gift. And one didn't go around spouting such nonsense so easily, so my dad had warned me.

So I threw my attention back to the impatient and growing line of patrons waiting for me.

A man in a heavy trench coat with a thick beard approached the door. The number over his head, 1517. "Well, that's over 21" I thought. On his way through he tripped over the step and two dwarves toppled out of the coat. Their number were 15 and 17. "Nice try" I said, "no filthy dwarves in my good elvish bar.""What the fuck" I thought to myself. This job was supposed to be boring, given my... powers. This wasn't supposed to happen. 

See, I was a bouncer at a bar. I wasn't the most imposing person but I had a unique trait. I could tell anyone's age without seeing a license. The numbers just kind of floated above their heads. I realized I was special at a young age when I asked my fourth grade teacher, mrs. Jimenez, why the new boy was three years older than all of us. We had to have a special meeting with the counselor and my parents. It freaked them out pretty bad when I was able to tell the counselor that I knew she was seven years older than she said (looking back I think she was trying to start a relationship with one of the younger teachers). It took a couple of years to learn to not notice and just live life but I managed to find a way to use it to my advantage when I got this job. 

I streamlined the front door, no wasting time carding people, usually I just stood next to Big Jake (he was a left tackle at the local college and an absolute mountain of a man) and told the underage kids to leave before they wasted our time.

Tonight was terrifying though. We expected a rough crowd once a month when we hosted fight night. It was common practice in rural Midwestern towns, usually one or two bars would set up a ring and let local fighters put on the nights entertainment. Typically fight night made us sell out of pbr and bud light, with exactly the crowd you'd expect. We always had to break up two or three extra curricular fights but it was no big deal to me, I never did the dirty work, I protected our liquor license. 

This man terrified me though, four digits were hovering over his head. I leaned into Jake and whispered "something's wrong, ask that guy for I.d."  The man didn't look strange, except his hair was straight out of the 80's, mutton chop sideburns and all. He wore a leather jacket over jeans.

The expression on Jakes face was pure confusion. He asked the man and he pulled out a Canadian passport, which was strange. It said he was in his 50s, which was also strange because he didn't look a day over 32. I didn't know what to do so we let him in. 

He caused no problems, he came to fight and ended up winning two matches and pocketed 200 bucks, drank two beers and left. He barely said a word.  The next day I tried to put him out of my mind. By a week later I had gotten past the shock of it and tried to move on, but the next day life got really strange. 
 
I was home for dinner with my parents when the doorbell rang. They answered and several minutes later my mother shouted for me to come into the sitting room. An old man in a wheelchair was sitting there and behind him stood five people, on of whom was the 1000 year old fighter. I was shaken as the old man began to speak, "hello James, my name is Charles Xavier. I believe you've already met my companion Logan..."This could be the start of a book, if you fleshed it out some more. Well done.


Edit: Apparently it's fleshed, not flashed.Hey... if you write this into a book, I'll buy it.*unzips pants* time to flash it out[deleted]Their fields are empty, white wastes sowed with the salt of the long years. For all the miles they could see, they see nothing but an endless world. This should please them, you would think. But there is something coursing through the air, a wind rising in the heavens above. Maybe they can taste it. Perhaps that is why they cry. They can feel their abandonment.


The world watches for I know I am not the only eyes. In our towers in the Far World, we see the specks roam, little mites mustering the courage to leave their bunkers. See how the light hits them. See their flag fly high in the open lands. 


*America,* I think. 


Long ago, my family was American. I feel some sadness to them. The gates to heaven have closed. Our world is leaving, and our goodbyes nearly spent. But see them come. See the war torn land all brown and turned, stony and wild. Look at them look for us. See the mites fall in confusion.


And if you hear my words and sense some bitterness in them, then I shan't pretend to hide it. The War had taken much from me. All that I loved is gone. But such is war. And such was the American war.


And if you hear my words and my words echo in the stillness of the deserted lands, then let me explain. For you are unlucky, perhaps even a child, born innocent, condemned to die. For that you deserve some solace. Solace is all I can give.


When the War had ended, half the world had died. Their screams and chemical shadows haunted the peace, and what talks were held were facetious. We knew this world was gone. What good was dismantling bombs when the knowledge would forever remain? We had to leave. The Sun was growing warmer, the days going quicker in the silence of burying the dead.


We had to leave.


After the War ended what countries remained made a very hard decision. We banded together after Lucifer's Week. That was the week where a new bomb fell every day. We decided everything had to end. For humanity to survive, we would have to leave our human home. This we agreed with heavy hearts.


And we gritted our teeth and negotiated with the Americans. If you are reading this amidst the lonely plains, then know we negotiated with your fathers. We gave them everything they wanted, placated their fancies, and pleaded and begged in all the right ways for just one  favor: for us all to isolate ourselves for fifty years.


The Americans thought they had won. You all could never accept the idea of loss, or even *compromise*. And so they agreed. They thought in the dark, with all the world fragmented, they would grow even more powerful. And perhaps they have.


But we had deceived them. In those fifty years they had caged themselves, and we worked freely on creating vast ships to take us off this failing planet.


Cancers are on the rise. Most lands are dead, barren like so many women who were cowed in the final bunkers. Most lands are dead, same as those women. Same as my only love.


And we have built great towers in what pockets of life that still remain. Great spires to the heavens house our ever readying ships. And now as the nights come cold and the frost heavy with the ghosts of the dead, and the heavy feeling of time running out, we have completed those ships. We ready ourselves for the journey come. Just as You have awakened.


So now see the American stretch. See how the land sprawls in a lonely plateau.  Hear the silence and breathe the abundant air. I wonder how it feels. What butterflies they must have. Are You looking for us? Or is there just confusion, or even knowing?


The world turns in silence. Age has taken my hair, my health and my dreams, but it has not taken that fire and that hatred the War has wrought. I listen to the quiet. I feel the shadows from the great tower. It is dark here, soft purple dusk sprayed upon a cozy idea of hope. I feel the rumble of the engines start, hear the crew announce the test has been a success.


We will leave soon. I will go and leave my home behind. But in the days remaining, I look and I stare. 


The fields sway in the night's wind. The moon is further than it ever has been. The stars blanket the black. There is a loneliness upon the land. The metal doors sigh. The Americans come out bewildered. They try their phones but no one answers. See how long their shadows are. See them search for that neighborly love. I wonder what they think. I wonder if they know.


The ships will leave the day after tomorrow. The Sun will eat this Earth. We have burned all our intelligence, and have left no hope as to where we will go. Let the Americans have this planet. Let the temperature rise and engulf them. Perhaps their sweat shall stay their tears. But let them have this world. They have fought so hard for it.


And let them look to the sky as we leave. See them look in hope at the marvel of the shooting stars. Let them wish for a good life and for contact as soon as possible. Give them their hope. It is all they have.


-


*Hi there! If you liked this story, then you might want to check out my subreddit, r/PanMan. It has all my WP stories, including some un-prompted stuff. Check it out if you can, and thanks for the support!**"The thought was naive. So naive that we didn't imagine it would work. Imagine our surprise when it did..."*

I down the little plastic shot cup of Daniels in my hand and toss it into the Recycler as I walk out of the bar. The little intern employed to shadow me follows on my footsteps, stumbling with her books. I chuckle to myself and wait for her to regain her footing before continuing out of the bar. 

We make our way across the new London Bridge, named after the old one which had been decimated by the War that emcompassed the world. It had been 50 years since "Maelstrom" but the scars on my back ached as if I had only gotten the injuries yesterday. 

*"50 years. 50 years for each country to rebuild itself and re-discover who we were as a people. At least, so went the official story. We just wanted the end to it all. The hate, the bigotry, everything. America was, and for reconcillation sake I hope they have re-discovered this, a bastion of freedom and democracy and equal justice for every man. But somewhere down the line, that ideology had been warped for evil. For hate."*

I stop and look over the edge of the bridge, straining to see if I can see my reflection on the surface of the dark blue river. The sunset behind me casts the long shadow of the bridge on the surface and all I see is just a flowing darkness. The bridge itself, while structurally sound, could still not match the class nor fame of its predecessor. Britain had mourned its people, its infrastructure... but the pain of losing the bridge and the palace never waned. It just waxed stronger. 

I glance at the intern who had chosen to also look into the waters. She is one of the younglings born years after the war. Early enough to see the rebuilding begin anew. Her historical knowledge was young, bolstered only by the books she now carried. 

Before I can look away, I see her lips move and I hear the question come through...

*"I have heard about how the Thames used to be murky looking. But this is all I've ever seen. How could the world change so much in 50 years? I have seen the old maps. I have heard what happened to...to... Haiti? How could it be so different to 50 years ago?"*

*"When you lose half the population, geographical ego stops being a factor. After Italy, Canada, Nigeria, Mexico and Germany... I don't even know if you've seen a map of those countries. After the fake treaty of 'locking' our borders and 'retreating' from the world, the rest of the countries came together to heal. We owed it to our people, our countries and to the revolutionaries who had come before us to warn about the dangers of hate and war."*

*"Couldn't America be part of it?"*

*"They could be. They could have been. But a myriad of factors had dictated that it wouldn't be in our best interest to include them. They had forsaken the very ideas they had been founded on. They had become brash and proud and bitter. They had fashioned themselves the leaders of the world. Quick to act but slow to consider all options. They could have been part of us, but when their first words out of the war demanded reparations for an event they started... it was then we knew what needed to be done."*

*"...The 50 year agreement ends in 12 hours, sir... What happens when they re-connect with the world and see all that has been accomplished since then? What if they deem us evil for secluding them?"*

*"And then we will tell them why. They would have no choice but to accept it."*, I say stretching and indicating we keep walking down the bridge. 

*"What if they don't accept it?"* She asks, tentatively. 

*"Then we do what they attempted to do 50 years ago and almost succeeded doing..."*

*"...which is?"*

I look at her as I feel the bitterness rise inside me. 

*"We'll wipe them off the map."*

>The Americans thought they had won. You all could never accept the idea of loss or even *compromise.*

Ouch. What a fucking burn. 

Fantastic story. Evocative. Unnerving.  

**EDIT:** Why is this my most upvoted Reddit comment? 😮It was Friday morning. Time to check his bank accounts. Time to pay his bills. Time to—

What The Fuck?!

"$12490004949902 CHEQUING ACCOUNT"

Ummm. 

Ummm.

Paul waited a little whlie longer, then closed the browser, reopened it and reread his balance.  

"$12490004949902 CHEQUING ACCOUNT"

Still unconvinced this wasn't a hallucination or some wonderful, wonderful dream, Paul opened his chequing history. 

"$832.21 DENNYS PAY  
$12490004947902.01 C-15375 TRIBUTE"

Tribute? Paul picked up his phone and dialed the bank.

"Hello, Mr. Thomson! How are you today?" answered a perky female.

"Ugh, fine? Is this a recording?"

She laughed. 

"No, no recording for you Mr. Thomson. We value our most valued customers. We know your time is more valuable than ours."

"Okay..."

"How can I help you, sir?"

Paul searched for a way to start the conversation. What do you say when a number so large that you don't even know what it's called ends up in your bank account? When one week you wait an hour to complain about account fees and they next they treat you like royalty?

"My account..." he began, "my chequing."

"Yes! I see you had a complaint last week about account fees. Don't you worry anymore, we will no longer be charging your account. Your balance is well beyond the minimum requirement."

"Umm, thanks."

"You're most welcome, Mr. Thomson. Is there anything else I can help you with?" 

"Ummm. C-15375 TRIBUTE, do you know where that came from?"

He heard the sputter of keyboard strokes. 

"Ah, yes, this did puzzle the management, they even left a special note on your account. Would you like me to read it?" the woman asked.

"Yes, please."

"Mr. Paul Thomson, account 1435533-2234, CHEQUING. As we have witnessed, an overwhelming sum of money has been deposited into this account. A full investigation has been put underway and uncovered the rights of the star, C-15375, purchased by Mr. Henry Thomson, 2017. Unknown at the time, the star is the focal of the Histarians, a race of human-like beings. Upon receiving a transmission of the purchase, the Histarians sent a large vessel, laced and filled with gold. Instructions informed the vessel and all contents be converted to the currency of the planet. If Mr. Thomson does not send back a confirmation of receiving the sum, war and annihilation are to follow. Despite our best ideas to cover-up and terminate Mr. Thomson, we have decided annihilation is not worth the risk. We understand this is a departure from the last 500 years, but the decision is final. For further questions, contact 555-555-5551."

"Wow..." 

"Quite amazing, Mr. Thomson. Would you like me to repeat it?"

"No, that's fine," said Paul, "just send me a copy."

"Of course. Is there anything else I can help you with, Mr. Thomson?"

"Do you know how to purchase an intergalactic spaceship?"

"Certainly, Mr. Thomson, let me help you with that."

'Excuse me, but what did you just say?' I asked the brutish green humanoid before me.

'You are hereby now the ruler of the Orcish Empire,' the alien said. 'I'm duty-bound to serve as your bodyguard and advisor, Your Imperialness.'

Orcs are gigantic compared to humans, their heads standing taller than anyone else in the room by at least 8 feet and saying that an orc was built like a brick shit house was a huge understatement. These creatures were fast enough to chase down speeding cars, strong enough to rip a tank in half and could take heavy artillery from most other species like they were paintball shots.

Now I've never seen orcs in person before, only on TV and in movies, but even now I could tell that Brom made any other *orc* he could possibly encounter look like a slender pre-teen standing next to a professional weightlifter. We were having this conversation outside my battered old house mainly because the ten feet of steel would have to rip the wall off my house to get inside. And I was afraid he could actually do it.

'*How?*' was all I could possibly ask.

'Well, it's both extraordinarily complex and... surprisingly stupid,' the orc chuckled. He was constantly glancing about, making himself a wall between me and whatever threats he could possibly identify. 'Well, for the complicated parts, whatever chain of command that existed a month ago, when the previous emperor died, no longer exists. When he died he had several of his heirs disowned for being unbecoming of the orcs. War criminals and slavers, mostly. And they chose to try and take the throne for themselves, murdering the only other heirs. Due to five century of rigorous inbreeding there were no branch families.'

'And how the fuck do I figure into this?!' I asked.

'A barely legal star deed,' the orc said as he held up a certificate.

It was a name deed, one that lay claim to a binary star system somewhere in the Andromeda galaxy. It was registered so a man named Gerard O'Loughlin.

'Your grandfather paid about $20 for his name to be given to a star,' Brom chuckled. 'It barely constitutes to ownership of the whole star... But given the dire circumstances and to prevent civil war, it's the best we've got.'

'Fuck, and I'm just trying to scrape by enough funds to pay off my student loans and still have enough to eat,' I said to myself.

He brought up a holographic interface before himself and looked over records before pressing a single button. 'Payment confirmed,' Brom said. 'It's best we leave as soon as possible, sir.'

'And what if the orcs don't want to acknowledge me as their leader?' I asked. 'I'm not exactly someone who would command respect in a room filled with people weighing a ton.'

'Of course,' Brom said with a chuckle as he signaled me towards a vessel. 'And the gravity on Draenor will probably kill you instantly. We've got everything sorted.'“You, Gyork, have sat in interplanetary trial, accused of unknowingly capturing the human currently known as ‘Matt Damon,’ in an act of interplanetary terrorism of the third degree, and have been relieved of accusations of terrorism. You will now stand, and the next trial will continue.

Gyork rose from his seat. He was prosecuted for terrorism, but the prior court ruled in his favor, removing the prior conviction. He made the horrible mistake of taking the wrong human back to his home-world. He just wanted to show his new human friend how nice his home planet was. 

Gyork responded: “I pleaded ignorance, dear sir. I am no expert in alien history, or I would have not taken this human. I have now been thoroughly educated of the history of mankind on the life sustainable terraform in galaxy 4 and-“

“Earth.” Corrected the judge. “If you have been educated and truly understand the gravity of the situation you almost caused, your trial of knowledge will continue as a test, of which you have failed the first question.”

Gyork’s ocular bulbs lit with anxiety. He had only just witnessed the visual documentations of human history. 

“Gyork, the first question: what human is currently the greatest threat to our kind? You have one revolution to answer.”

Gyork recalled the most recent documentary he viewed. He gave his best guess.

“The human Thor!” Gyork exclaimed, but to his dismay, the judge shook his head in disappointment.

“Please recall, Gyork, Thor may look human, but he is what the humans have labeled ‘Asgardian.’ I will proceed to the next question: which earth human has several large dragons that obey their will. Please give the name and title of the human. You have one revolution to answer.”

Gyork recalled immediately; this was his favorite earth human: “Daenerys Stormborn of the House Targaryen, Mother of Dragons!”

“Correct Gyork. But I remind you, one more incorrect answer, and you will face reeducation, where you will be forced to watch visual documentations and remain on planet earth until you are retested in 400,000 revolutions.” 

Gyork wanted to show that he had learned things about the humans after his time there as well. His disguise on earth was great, so he was able to make many friends and learn many things from them, but he never liked learning about their history, there was just too much of it.

“The next question: which earth human was the first ever creature to survive the dive into a black hole?”

“Leonardo DaVinci!” Gyork blurted. 

“Close, Gyork, very close. The correct answer is the human currently known as Matthew McConaughey.” The judge shook his head once more, and sentenced Gyork to 400,000 revolutions of observation and reeducation on Earth. He gave Gyork one final warning. “Also, Gyork, when you return to Earth. You might want to try out a name other than ‘Zuckerberg,’ the humans seem to be catching on.”



Edit: thanks for the compliments, replies and upvotes!! I’m usually a lurker so I’m really glad this was well received!! Have a great day y’all :)[Continue the adventure with Part 2!](    
[Continue even more with Part 3!](
Part 4 is now live! To check out where this ridiculous adventure goes, come read it in the sub!

 

Paul Greengrass cleared his throat before yelling, “Damon! We are rolling in ten!”

Everyone looked around in confusion. Ben Affleck couldn’t help breaking a smile while drinking from his water bottle. Paul didn’t think it was as funny as Ben did. Paul stood up from his director’s seat and threw his clipboard onto the floor. “My God! The amount of time I waste on this man!” he stormed out.

“Damon! Damon!” Paul spat into the megaphone he stole from the woman standing outside the door. There were employees from the set standing around in a crowd. Paul’s presence separated each person from the scene. Paul’s eyes widened. Matt Damon, the star of his new film, was gone. 

Paul stood petrified while staring at a crater where Matt’s trailer had been parked. Smoke slowly rolled across the debris. “What on earth happened here? Where is Damon?!” Paul started to look around at all of the employees who were also standing around in shock. 

“They took him!” Someone shouted from the back. Everyone took a step back when Paul fixed his eyes onto a small boy casted as an extra on set.

“Who took him? What happened?” Paul lunged forward towards the boy.

“They came down from the sky and they took him!” the boy pointed upward.

“Are you mad?” Paul shook his head. “Which way did they drive? Tell me now!”

“They were in a ship, I swear it!” the boy started to tear.

“I found him!” Ben shouted from inside. Paul didn’t hesitate. He didn’t care about the crater of debris behind him. He ran straight through the door inside to find Matt standing next to Ben laughing.

Paul’s posture slumped when he saw it wasn’t Matt Damon, it was Matthew Mcconaughey.

“No!” Paul screamed.

“Just – relax. Everything will be okay.” Matthew slid next to Paul. 

Paul shook his head. “I don’t care if that little brat is right. I don’t care if it was aliens, thugs, or even the Kardashians! They are ruining the budget of this film!”

“Look, we’ll figure it out. Calm down. Let’s go out to his trailer,” Paul interrupted Mathew,

“His trailer is gone! It is nothing but debris lying at the bottom of a crater!” Paul begun to sweat. He adjusted his glasses before taking a card out of his billfold.

“What do you mean it’s in a crater?” Matthew’s smile receded. 

Paul ignored the question. He stared at a business card in his hands while dialing a series of tones into his cellphone.

“Who are you calling?” Matthew leaned over to look at the business card.

There was no name. It just read ‘Team America’ above a phone number for contact.

Paul smiled. “I got through.” Matthew pressed his cheek against Paul’s to listen in on the phone call.

Matthew was about to speak before Paul hushed him with his forefinger. “Whoever took Damon won’t get far.”

Paul noticed the little boy tip toeing through the door with a gentleman who witnessed Matt’s disappearance. The boy pointed towards Paul before claiming, “he’s the one lookin’ for em.”

Matthew turned his attention while still trying to listen on the line. Keanu Reeves walked in crossing his arms. “I know where they went. We are going to need a ship.”

"What? Who said that?", I asked, startled. 


"It izz me, Buzzter, your humble servant, sire! Might I take this opportunity to say that it is such an honor to speak with you directly!" said the annoying voice.


That's when I noticed that the source of the strange voice was a bee, right there on my shoulder. As someone who has been told to stay away from bees all my life, for ungodly things would happen if I so much as touch one, I was scared half to death. 


"Aaaah! Get off me, get off me!"


"Fear not, my king! I mean you no harm!", said Buzzter as he got off me and spoke hovering from a distance. I took a moment to collect myself and, since I thought a speaking insect was pretty cool, allowed the bee to have its say.


"It seems you have been deceived and brainwashed like we suspected."


"Huh?"


"There isn't much time; they'll be here any second.", he said, and then proceeded to sting me. 


"No no no no, don't! Please!", I yelled, but he had already stung me. I feared the worst, but it caused no pain, and healed within seconds. I have seen quite a few people in immense pain after being stung, so this took me completely by surprise. I looked at Buzzter the bee in astonishment. Before buzzing away, he said: "If I have gained your trust, come to the bee hive on the third tree in the park two blocks from your home, and come alone. Just say 'I seek my minions' out loud to seek us out. The fate of all bees relies upon your actions, my king!"


Just a second later, my mother opened the door to my room. "What's wrong, son? I heard shouting."


"Nothing, mom" I replied, "Rashford missed another shot at goal!". 


"Huh, you and your football!" she said as she left and closed the door.


I couldn't sleep that night, and my curiosity got the better of me, so I sneaked out and I made my way to the park. There was, indeed, a bee hive on the third tree from the park entrance, but lighting was dim and I doubted if I would be able to see the bees even if they did come. I said out loud: "I seek my minions!"


Immediately, five matchsticks floating in the air lit up. I realized they were not floating, but were being held up by bees, like torches. Then I recognized Buzzter. "Your Majesty, so good you came!".


"Umm... yeah... the thing is... I really don't know what..."


"I apologize deeply for interrupting you, your Majesty, but it appears you have been made to believe that you are allergic to us. Is that correct?"


"Yeah."


"Those treacherous fiends! They have deceived everyone!"


"Who are we talking about here?"


"My apologies! I will let our great storyteller/narrator bee, Morgan Beeman, to tell you the great story of the bees!"


"Greetings, your Majesty" said Morgan Beeman, and started with the story...


"Long ago, all species of bees lived in harmony in their respective ecosystems, and produced honey in peace. The biggest nuisance was the occasional bear who would attack for honey, but the hive would be rebuilt and harmony restored. However, beedom would encounter an enormous threat to its well being - the threat of humans! The humans, inherently greedy mammals who claim supremacy on this planet even though our absence would set in motion events that would lead to their doom in a short span of time, are greedy bastards. Their greed for honey lead them to steal from us on a massive scale, causing irreparable destruction and death and figure out ways to capture and enslave our beeple in concentration camps to produce honey for their wants! But there was a ray of hope for us, in the form of a prophecy! The prophecy foretold: 'The human who is not affected by the bee's sting will be the liberator of beedom!' And so we started to sting human children, and then finally found you, when you were stung as a child!"


"But... my parents told my I had a severe allergic reaction... I was too young to remember so I had to believe them."


"Your parents cut a deal with the evil ones." said Morgan Beeman. "The ones who profit from the enslavement of our beeple! The honey industry! Your parents accepted a vast sum of money for their involvement in keeping you from us! Money that they have reserved for your college education. With one command, you can stop every bee on Earth from working to produce honey. The honey industry knows this, which is why they have gone to extreme lengths to deny us contact. To deny you your birthright to be the king of all beeple and beedom as a whole! We are merely your servants, your Majesty, and hope that you will do what is best for us. Your word is our law... your will, our destiny..."

Moved by the bees' plight, and by Morgan Beeman's incredible narration and storytelling, I take a deep breath, and say:



"Let's take these honey industry bastards on!"





haha, "Carl when did you develop a sense of humor?" I said. "Carl"?
I turned to look over my right shoulder expecting to see my normally morose and impersonal driver only to see one of *them*. 

"Oh fuck me" I stammered looking into the beady eyes of what has been the sum of all fears since childhood.

"You are a King not a Queen sire, and I would not be worthy to pollinate you even so" the little death dealer said.

Stung already, auditory hallucinations I have to get help "Carl!" I shouted trying to see through the tree line back towards the car near the ferry where Carl must be. Stumbling into a lurching run  ignoring my still open fly. " Running will increase blood flow spreading the toxin further, stop. Think, call him you idiot!" 

"My lord please do not distress, we live to serve." The same follow the yellow brick road voice said.

"We are going to be dead in minutes whoever the fuck we is" I replied pulling out my phone. "I know it's in here why is it not under C, i should have.." 

"We are the elite guard pledged to you sire" Munchkin voices from all sides said at once, causing me to jolt and drop my phone. Lifting my eyes I saw them, dozens no A HUNDRED bees floating in 3 tight lines mere feet in front of me. Death for sure, i'm sorry mom I shouldn't have yelled and insisted learning to fish.

A bee landed on my glasses and I froze staring at it with a kind of resigned horror. 

"Great one, remain calm we do not have long to speak. I can tell by your reaction that we are the first unit to make contact with you".

Seventeen years, constant vigilance and fear anytime out doors even when on a screened in porch, mother quitting her job to make sure she would be there if I actually got stung. Hiring a ex-military medic to drive me around after they won the local lottery, losing friends because I couldn't be allowed to play outdoors after spring. Wait, ex-medic ...the epi pen! Staring the hallucination in my eye Ii reached to my backpack and pulled out the pen popping the security tab and lifting it to strike my leg it...resisted 

"No my liege you must not!" the bee said , now sitting on the tip of my nose. 

That's when I saw them crawling all over my hand tiny wings buzzing. Instinctively I yelped then dropped the pen, watching in amazement as they returned to their formation. "Wh-why " was all i could get out.

"Sir it is likely they put one of their chemicals in there, not something to help you but something to knock you out and cause memory loss" the small death dealer said.

"They?! you mean my fucking doctor?", "I'm talking to a bee now, I wonder if i'm even really still standing. Maybe i'm sprawled out on the ground with foam coming from my mouth as my body rages it's last defiant battle.

"He would not be your doctor, but theirs, Please majesty you must focus, we have little time the bear is likely already incapacitated or dead by now"

"Bear? please tell me Baloo is just around the corner ready to save me" I said.

"You know him? I did not know his name sir or that you were aquatined. I hope you and he will accept our apology for all the stings, we merely needed to incite him to violence to distract the human named Carl."

That's when I noticed I was sitting down and it struck home. Carl was *never* out of eyesight or atleast shouting distance. He's paid more than he would make at any ambulance service just to stay by my side in case. He should be here no matter what but...a bear?

"I'm not hallucinating?" i said.

"No my lord, I understand this is a shock but I have been trying to tell you that we are here to rescue you, quickly you must come with us" the tiny voice said, sounding more confident and resolute

Dropping the Epi pen I asked "So you didn't sting me?"

The little bee's wings buzzed quickly and almost fell off my nose. "Sire it would be more than my wings are worth, my whole colony would kill itself if I dared harm you."

Drugs, somebody slipped me something or maybe that stuff that grows on grain and makes you trip balls. Urgot? i think that is what it was called, the cause of the salem witch trials. Well part of the cause ,religious fools that they were.

"Quickly sire, follow us! Alpha team you're on point, charlie team fall back to the parking lot and observe the human to see if he gives chase, DO NOT BE SEEN."

The three lines of bees flew off in different directions, one toward the parking lot another in thhe opposite direction and the rest formed a halo around my head forming a crown of bees. Thinking that this was kind of cool for a nightmarish hallucination I sprang into action following alpha team.

"Where are we going...wait what is your name?" I asked.

"It is not likely you could say it in your language sire, but you may call me Carl if that seems right." the bee said whilst clinging to my glasses against the wind.

"Oh no, you're way more interesting than a Carl. I will call you Artemis, does that sound ok?" I said.

"Named by the prophesied one himself, my lord you humble me to tears" he replied.

Smiling i found myself thinking this small creature which i hhad come too fear and loathe was actually kind of cute. "Where are we going Artemis?" 

"We're going to your Mother sir, she has much to discuss with you." he replied

"Oh Art, i'm sorry but I'm pretty sure my mother would coat me in a fog of raid if she saw you with me" I chuckled while running along side the river. Strange my asthma isn't bothering me.

"Not the human you call mother majesty. She was merely assigned to you after your kidnapping. We're going to your REAL mother, our mother, earth's mother Gaia." He replied in all seriousness. "Alpha team this is it, Baker team signal evac team that we are ready to depart." He said in that oddly commanding tone for a voice sounding like it was coated in helium.

Another bee flew close to my glasses and said " Wings are arleady here sir, 15 seconds".

"Set ten of your weakest to wait for charlie team's return after we leave. The human will come this way looking for the king, if you think he suspects what has happened... Kill him." Art said.

" By my Antennae and Sting, life to serve commander. We will fight to the last bee." the little one said.

What did he mean wings here in 15 seconds Art?" I asked just before two sets of eagle talons clenched my shoulders and carried me into the sky.The Bee Movie 2: Honeycomb BoogalooMost families that live in the Summit Meadows neighborhood chose the suburban paradise for its fair weather and peaceful ambiance. It's currently ranked the fourth most ideal place in America to raise a family, as chosen by Consumer Report magazine, which states, “the suburban quiet is broken only by the sounds of bicycles, birds and the occasional lawnmower.”

But on July 18th,  exactly one month after the Great Un-mugging, the cul-de-sac in Summit Meadows was alive and buzzing.

The children of 1134, 1136, and 1148 Meadow Drive – seven heads in all – gathered together at the grass island enclosed by the pavement circle, each child trying their best to shout over their peers.

Jacob was the oldest, the tallest, and also the loudest, which made him the ringleader by default. Eventually the arguing subsided, order was established, and then he was able to hold court.

“Me and Sophia snuck into the Baker house last night,” he announced. “We saw the mug. Tom's dad is at number three now.”

“Prove it,” Jennifer said, a small freckled girl with a shock of red hair tumbling out of a ponytail. “Where's the mug? You did take it...didn't you?”

“I was gonna, but Sophia got scared. Thought we would get in trouble.”

“I wasn't fraid of getting in trouble!” said Sophia. “I was just sayin we wasn't no thieves, that's all.”

A shiny silver SUV turned onto the street and drove towards the group of children standing at the dead-end. The group turned to study the car, waiting for it to come into view.

“That's Tom and his dad now,” Jacob said, as it neared. “Everyone shut up and act normal. Anyone rats on me and you're dead.”

The SUV pulled into the drive of 1132 Meadow Drive and the engine died. There was a slam of doors and Tom and his father emerged from the car. 

“Hey-ya kids,” Tom's dad said, loosening his tie. “What are you rascals up to today? Hopefully not getting into any trouble this time. Mrs. Dobinsky still hasn't let me off the hook for letting you lot dig up her flower bed.”

“N-no sir, of course not,” Jacob said. “We was just thinking of trying to get a game of street hockey organized.”

Tom's father smiled. “Sounds like fun. Tom and I have to have a talk first, but then he should be able to join you.” He winked. “You can pick him last if you want, he won't mind.”

Tom was already heading into the house, doing his best to avoid eye-contact with both his father and the rest of the group. 

The group of children waited dutifully until the front door slammed behind the father-son duo before speaking. Jennifer craned her neck, checking that they were gone, then took the risk.

“He hasn't been around for weeks, now all of a sudden he's number three,” she breathed. “If that's true, then that means...”

“He jumped up almost ten slots,” Jacob said, finishing everyone's thoughts. 

“What does it even mean to be the number one dad?” Sophia asked. “Everyone just says its that the coolest, nicest, richest dad is number one. But ain't nobody knows what they judging them on. It could be anything, really.”

“Whatever it measures, Tom's dad is gonna be number one in it soon,” Jacob said.

Just then there was a shout from inside 1132 Meadow Drive and the door sprang open. “I hate you!” Tom screamed, wiping tears from his eyes. He bolted across the lawn and down the street, disappearing into the shimmering haze of the July heat.

Tom's father flew out the door after him. “Tom, come back! Will you just let me explain-” He trailed off, aware that the eyes of the entire neighborhood were still on him.

“Sorry you had to see that guys,” he said. “Ice cream on me later if you promise not to tell Mrs. Baker about this.”

“Sure,” Jacob said, hesitating, then, “Is Tom okay?”

“Yeah, he's just a little upset with his old man. You can't blame the little guy, we all have make tough decisions. This big jerk of a father,” -he pointed both thumbs at himself- “just announced he has to leave on *another* business trip, had an urgent conference come up in Miami. I get his point, that I'm never home, but hey, sometimes you have to make sacrifices for the greater good.”

He began to stride down the road after his son. As he did so, something fell out of his pocket; a piece of paper, fluttering in the wind down towards the group of children. Jacob ran over and snagged it out of the breeze.

“Sir you dropped your-” he trailed off, realizing Mr. Baker could no longer hear him.

Jacob looked down at the paper, still warm from a printer. There was a black and white photograph of a man he did not recognize, wearing a dark suit and black glasses. The photograph was captioned,

> Name: Gary Temples

> Rank: 2

> Location: 17 Cherry Ln, Miami, FL

* * * 

/r/ghost_write_the_whipBryce Morrison thought he had it all: a loving wife, a charming son, and a satisfying job. Yet there was something that nagged at him - a constant feeling that he wasn't good enough.

On The Day of the Mugs, his suspicions appeared to be confirmed. "#598,432 Dad." The jarring bold words remained seared in his memory throughout the day, clouding every action and every word.

After work, Bryce returned to an empty house. Marie was out for dinner with friends and Billy had soccer practice. Perhaps a few hours of SportsCenter would help ease his mind. But alas, there came a sudden knock at the door.

"Hey there, bud!" 

Bryce opened the door to discover Tom Gilbert, a fellow father from across the street. He clutched a mug in his hand that read "#49,534 Dad."

"I was just wonderin' if you had any interest in a nice homemade hamburger. We've got some leftovers from the cookout."

Bryce narrowed his eyes. "Actually, I was thinking of cooking a bit myself. Mind if I drop by?"

Tom took a sip of his drink and lifted an eyebrow. "Uhhh...sure. By all means."

Bryce ran back to the kitchen and pulled a fresh ground beef patty out of a refrigerator drawer. He bolted across the street, dropped the patty on Tom's grill, and started to cook it. *This'll be the best damn burger ever made,* he thought. *I'll show that smug bastard.*

It was, by all accounts, a pretty damn good burger. Tom took a bite and gave him the thumbs up. 

oh holy crap he's killing the other dadsI thought the twist was going to be that he had a second family with which he was number 3, I like yours more thoughI  estimate there are about 1.05 billion dads in the world, so #500000 is still in the top 0.05 percent of dads.

Yay!

Edit: Hey, this is my top comment now. I only noticed cuz I'm obsessed with imaginary innernet points, but yay I wanna say duhI thought that the reason he was such a great dad was because he sacrificed his own free time with his family to earn money for and to support them. But killing other dads is fine too.Maria fumbled for the keys in her bag, eventually finding the heart shaped keyring her husband had given to her long ago. How long exactly, she couldn't quite remember.

The lock clicked. A monotonous buzzing greeted her, as if a giant hornet had taken up residence in their home since she'd left for work. "Honey?" she called out. "Are you okay?" 

No reply.

She stepped into the lounge and was met by an unpleasent, smoky smell. The buzzing had intensified too. It was a sound she now recognised, but hadn't heard for a long, long time. 

An electric razor.

Maria frowned, a little annoyed that Peter was likely removing his thick, flowing beard. There was something she loved dearly about it -- the white hairs that shot through the blond reminded her of sunlight bouncing gleefully off an icy waterfall. It suited a physicist. It suited *him*.

*buzzzz*

The living room table was a mess of cigarettes and empty beer bottles -- Peter had clearly enjoyed his day off. A folded page of a newspaper wafted up and down in the gentle breeze from an open window.

*buzzz*

Maria moved idly to the table, picking up first the cigarette remains, then dropping them on the carpet as the face in the paper stared up at her, her husband's keen eyes meeting her own. His face was clean shaven, and his wrinkles softened -- but there was no mistaking him.

Her hands shook as she picked it up and read.

> Master Particle. Prior to Reworking's alterations. Considered the greatest physicist of his generation. But another talent wasted by the great 'hero'. This paper says Reworking is not the answer! We're the only paper brave enough to print a picture like this and...

She stopped reading. Something was wrong: there was no sound.

 "Welcome home, *Maria*."

 Maria gulped as she turned to see the man in the paper standing behind her. 

"Sweetheart..."

 "Is it really Maria? No, of course it isn't. It doesn't matter now though."

 "I didn't ..."

 "I was great, you know. The greatest, they say. I could have changed the world. Now I teach school children basic astrophysics. The order of the planets -- and they can't even get that right without a pathetic mnemonic to aid them. My life -- or at least many years of it -- has been wasted. Can you imagine if they'd lobotomised a young Eistein? Where would we be?"

He slowly removed a knife from his jacket pocket.

 "*Please.*"

 "How long until you were done spying on me, *darling*? Until you left me! I loved you *so* much. In my mind, you loved me, too. But only in my mind! It's all a Goddamned lie! You'll pay for that deceit, I promise you."

 "Please, Peter. In my mind, I love you too. *I do!* I don't know what's happened. I don't understand any of this."

He grinned as he stalked forward. "Oh, *you know*. You're here to watch over me. To report back to them each day, when I think you're working, so you can all laugh at me. *Mock me.* The great, *impotent*, Master Particle."  

 *"I always loved y..." *

The knife was sharp and cut her throat cleanly and easily. She didn't scream as her blood spattered the carpet. 

Maria's body fell next to the fallen cigarette remains. 


That just made me sad that be killed the love of his life, thinking that she didn't love him and betrayed him. And she died scared, confused and also feeling betrayed by the love of HER life. Like fuck, he already felt destroyed and like his life was taken away, and then he kills his own wife who was also a victim of what he was.

Fuck this story really got to me, I feel so bad for the "vilians"John swung his arms back and forth, preparing himself mentally. He glared at the plastic kiddie pool, which was filled with maybe 4 inches of dirty water. He would've found the situation stupid and maybe kind of funny, if he weren't scared shitless.

*"Again."*

He took a deep breath and plunged himself into the kiddie pool.

Instead of hitting his head on the bottom of the shallow puddle, he found himself in a vast body of water, like a sea or an ocean. Wiping the water from his face, he took a long glance around. Nothing but quiet water and blue sky in all directions to the horizon. The sun shone down on him, but not too intensely. A shiver went through his body, partly from the cold water and partly from the feeling of being alone in the middle of a watery nowhere. Not even a bird cried in the still air.

His earpiece crackled. *"What do you see?"*

"Same as last time," he replied. "Water, just water."

*"Are the skies clear?"*

"Um...no. There are some clouds," John admitted. "So I guess that's a difference."

*"What kind of clouds?"*

"The hell? I have no idea, I'm not a--"

*"How high is the sun, relatively speaking? Compared to last time?"*

John squinted at the brightness for a few seconds. "I guess it's a little closer to the horizon now."

*"Noted."*

"What? What does that mean, the sky being different or whatever?" 

*"Passage of time. Every time you go to the Other Sea, some time has passed."*

"Oh, OK. But I'm being, uh, transported to the same place every time?"

*"Unclear. Water does not make a good landmark."*

"Right." John waited a minute, but no more words came. He started dog-paddling in one direction.

*"What are you doing?"*

"Moving around. Maybe I can swim around and see-AAAAH SHIT SHIT OH MY G--"

*"John? What happened?*

*"John, all we hear are water sounds. Are you underwater? Can you hear us?"*

"HOLY SHIT! GET ME THE FUCK OUTTA HERE!"

*"Calm down, John. We are pulling in the safety rope now. Tell us what happened.*"

"Something fuckin' pulled me down under!"

*"Into the water?"*

"Yeah, shit! Shit! It was, I don't even know. Some sort of huge monster thing. Glowing red eyes, looked fucking evil. With tentacles or fins everywhere."

*"It had tentacles and/or fins?"*

"I think so. I couldn't get a good look because I was trying not to die. Shit, I lost one of my flippers."

*"Don't worry about that, John. The unknown entity is gone now?"*

"I guess. I sure fuckin' hope so. Hey, I'm getting nervous, why aren't you guys pulling me out yet?"

*"There seems to be a little problem. The safety rope appears to be severed."*

"What!? That's a big fucking problem! Why didn't you tell me this!?"

*"Keep your calm, John.*"

"Easy for you to say when you're--"

*"...John? We lost you again. What happened? Are you alright?"*

Once again, John stared with horror at the monstrosity. It was only for a split second as he was struggling, and it was too darkly colored, melding in with the inky blackness of the ocean deep. But those eyes. They pierced into his heart like ice.

The next second, he found himself back in the kiddie pool, gasping for breath and screaming hoarsely as he leapt out onto the ground, clutching at the hose and grass and dirt, anything to get out of that nightmare. He could still feel the tug of something on his leg, and he kicked wildly. A specialized emergency response team burst into the yard, grabbing at John and pulling him out further. His leg was covered in angry red welts, all circular in shape. The personnel assisting him reported that they saw something in the kiddie pool, something impossibly huge and fleshy and writhing, but just for a second before the water became clear once more.




"Water does not make a good landmark" funniest thing I've seen all dayThe immortals are crumbling like dry leaves.

I watch one as I leave Marge's Cafe with my usual paper cup of coffee. There is a woman standing on the opposite street corner in a trench coat, her hair sleek black, her face as faultless as fine china.

And all it takes is a harsh wind.

She falls away in tiny pieces. Her hands claw helplessly at her disintegrating belly with fingers whose flesh sloughes off in sheets like wet paper. She reaches for her face, but then that too clouds up into dust and is gone. Her scream starts and dies in her throat.

And just like that, she smacks down like a broken puppet. A near-instant death, and still it doesn't seem fast enough.

Her scream keeps echoing in the back of my mind. I think it will always be there, waiting for me, when the world grows quiet enough for me to hear her once more.

Like any decent human would, I stick around for EMS. I call and call, but I can't get through to 911. Someone happening by stops over the body, kicking up clouds of this woman's dust. The woman looks to be my age, one of the lost, one of the few humans left doomed to die.

She sighs through her teeth. "Bad luck, the lot of them."

I stare at her. "What do you mean?"

"Turns out us Lost will be last after all." She winks, like we share a kind of secret just by being born on the wrong side of the cut-off for immortality. As if there's any real camaraderie in our Lost Generation. "The immortals are all just... vanishing. It's on the news, dearie."

And then she keeps on walking, as though we were only chatting about the weather.

It's early still. The cool morning air is so placid and peaceful, her words impossible on a morning as bright and sunny as this. As if death could not happen under such a perfect blue sky.

I run to the car. It has been a while, since I ran. Decades, at least. 

My wife still runs. She's always teasing me, calls me an old man as she pecks a good morning kiss to my lips. Slaps my aching knees and says, "That's your penance for being born too early."

And I always laugh at her and say, "Hey, I know I won't be the one dying alone." Half a joke, really. Always dancing around the inevitable and morbid reality: I would end, and she would keep on going. With any luck, it would be forever. We had both made our peace with that.

The radio is buzzing, mad. It's already all over the news. There's some scientist babbling about dew point, the relative wetness of the air. 

"As the world gets hotter and hotter, and the air gets drier and drier, it appears that the cells lose their stability and their ability to maintain struc--"

I flip the radio off. And I drive like hell.

Panic drives me forward like a thing possessed. I throw my coffee out the window and veer through still-empty streets back to my home, where my wife should still be lying in bed, just about to roll up and face the dawn. She will open the window and listen to the birds convince her to rise and make a cup of tea.

In my mind, she looks as lovely as the day we married. She makes the deep ruts of my skin seem like valleys, but she still palms my cheeks in her hands and tells me every day, *I love you, Mr. Weston,* and I smile back and say, *I don't know why, Mrs. Weston.*

But when I get there, the window is shut. The bed is as empty as the rest of the house. I call and call and scream for her, but the house answers back with nothing but silence.

So I go to the bed where this morning she lay curled like a question mark beside me. I had kissed her shoulder and slipped out as soundlessly as an eighty-year-old-man wearing every weight of his age could hope.

I lift back the blanket.

There awaits me only bones and so much ash. I try to scoop her up in my palms but she is nothing but wind and air.

And I am suddenly, impossibly alone.

Every year, I felt a little bit older than I should on my birthday. And each year, I shuffled into the Lost Generation clinic to see baby\-faced Dr. Sherwood to report the sensation.

“Ah Mr. Murray! The same thing every year! We’ve been talking about this for the last 10 years!” Dr. Sherwood laughed.

“And every year you look the same, but I get older,” I grumbled.

“You know I can’t go back in time and give you Renuxia. It just wasn’t safe for people over 26. Something about the telomeres at 26 caused the body to go into a hyperinflammatory, hyperaging state that caused rapidly fatal heart attacks,” Dr. Sherwood gazed off into the distance.

“Read that in the history books, did you?” I sneered.

“Now Mr. Murray, I may not have been around when they first started giving Renuxia, but I have been in practice for 20 years now. And I can assure you that the symptoms you are describing are completely consistent with the normal aging process. You have all of your faculties about you. Your memory is sharp as a tack!”

Dr. Sherwood paused, but I did not have anything to say.

“Becoming more fatigued and feeling like time is passing more slowly is consistent with the normal aging process. If it is interfering with your daily activities though, it could be an early sign of depression. I know your wife recently passed…” Dr. Sherwood gave a therapeutic pause.

“I miss her, but that’s normal after you’ve been with someone for over fifty years. I don’t feel depressed though. Promise.”

“Okay, well if you ever need anything for depression or just want to talk, you have my number,” Dr. Sherwood seemed satisfied with his extension of availability.

“I just cannot shake the feeling that the years are going by more slowly. Isn’t there some way to test that?”

Dr. Sherwood gave a bemused smile. “Mr. Murray, I’m afraid that’s quite out of my discipline. Perhaps you could phone a physicist? Anyway, it’s good to see you sir. Have Doris get your bloodwork before you go. See you back in 6 months!”

‘Maybe I will,’ I thought as I walked out of the office. My brother\-in\-law was still kicking and had been an aerospace engineer in an earlier life. Maybe he would know how to test my theory.

\-\-\-\-\-\-\-\-\-\-\-\-\-

“Hey Chuck, how you been?” I had not talked to him since the funeral.

“Not bad Rick. How you holding up?" Chuck answered over the video feed.

“Can’t complain. Getting old as you can see,” I grinned half\-heartedly.

“Look Chuck, I know we haven’t spoken in a while, but I just have to ask you a physics question. It’s been bugging me.”

Chuck was used to my dumb questions though he sometimes got tired of them I think.

“How could we tell if time was slowing down?” I asked, expecting a glare or an eye roll.

Chuck’s face tightened and he leaned forward into the video feed.

“I’m going to call you from a secure feed,” he said seriously.

The feed went blank.

\-\-\-\-\-\-\-\-\-\-\-\-\-\-

“Pardon my language Chuck, but just what the hell is going on?” I thought, realizing that Dr. Sherwood was probably wrong after all.

“You feel it too?” Chuck asked with cautious excitement.

“Of course I feel it. Every year it gets worse. This year it felt like my birthday took almost two years to get here.” I was underestimating a bit. The eighty\-four to eighty\-five transition felt like my entire childhood.

As if reading my thoughts, Chuck said, “That’s it? I would have said five years at least.”

Chuck’s eyes shifted nervously back and forth.

“Look, I’ve been trying to figure this out for a few years now. I thought I was crazy. I asked a bunch of people who took Renuxia and they don’t seem to feel it. But all the Lost Generation folks who are willing to answer the question – all of them agree that they’ve felt it.”

I stared blankly at the monitor.

“So I got an old NASA buddy to help check the atomic clocks. All of them are in sync. If you just look on Earth, time appears to be flowing normally.”

Just on Earth? My eyes widened.

“But if we compare satellite feeds to earth clocks, there is a clear time distortion as the satellite gets older. Voyager I says we’re almost 60 years behind.”

“That’s about how long it’s been since Renuxia was released,” I discovered aloud.

“Exactly. I just don’t know who to talk to. I’m afraid that if I talk to the parent company of Renuxia, they’ll squash the information and maybe me along with it. And if I bring it to Capitol Hill, well, they’re the ones that mandated Renuxia in the first place.”

“So what do we do?” I asked incredulously.

“Just give me a bit more time. There are some really interesting discoveries in the field of quantum theory that could explain this and maybe even figure out a way to reverse it.”

I hung up the phone without a goodbye. Secure feeds only stay secure for so long.

\-\-\-\-\-\-\-\-

After a restless sleep, I awoke to Margo barking.

“What’s wrong girl? You never bark!”

Margo began to whimper and paw at the front door. Must have to pee.

I opened the front door and Margo sprinted out the front gate.

“Damnit! Margo! Come back here!”

Before I realized it, I was out in the middle of the street, looking across a chaotic scene. Cars piled up, apparently abandoned after the accidents. Oddly – only a few of the wrecks had bodies in them. A few mangled Lost Generation corpses. But no Ageless Generation bodies as far as the eye could see. Had they all just gotten up and walked away? I didn’t remember Renuxia causing fast healing as a side effect.

Margo had stopped at one of the car wrecks and was whining. Inside was Chuck, apparently unconscious, but alive.

I ran up to the car. The accident seemed fairly minor, but an old\-timer like Chuck could have bled into his brain even from a minor trauma.

“Chuck! Chuck! Wake up!” I yelled.

Chuck’s eyes flitted and he turned his head.

“I had to tell you in person Rick. Looks like I chose the wrong time to be on the road.”

“Tell me what?”

“We figured it out. The Renuxia was creating a temporal dissociation. Everyone who took it was able to move through time without being affected by it. For the rest of us, time around us and within us proceeded as normal. The discrepancy created a temporal dissociation.”

“So what happened to everyone who took it?! They all just vanished?” I took another survey of the wrecked cars.

“Temporal correction. I knew it was coming, but I didn’t know it would happen this soon. It has only ever been theoretical in the past. Never had anything to produce it before.”

“Well we’re right fucked then aren’t we? Humanity is over! All the young folks are dead!” My heart was racing.

“Renuxia was later found to be most effective when given as a series. And that doesn’t start until age 5…” Chuck trailed off.

“Better start rounding up the kids.” I turned and walked toward the neighbor’s house where I could now hear a wan cry that had been drowned out previously by Margo’s barking.

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Edit: I'm so glad that so many people enjoyed this! And thank you for all of your comments. Constructive, thoughtful, interesting.The vWall in my apartment flickered to life, a flash immediately appearing to signal an emergency bulletin.

I stopped gumming my sandwich long enough to hit the mute button before that fucking baby President Burris started talking. They all looked like babies to me. It'd been long enough that I couldn't remember being that young, feeling that young. It made it hard to empathize with all of the pomp and circumstance of the office of the presidency when a kid was gabbing at you.

Was I bitter? Sure. Maybe a little. But still. Fucking babies. 

I heard he was on the high end of pill\-kids. Maybe only a few years younger than me, though he didn't look it. I watched him for a few moments, taking a bit of amusement in the pulsing vein in his forehead while my finger hovered over the unmute button. He was looking particularly distressed today. Must be hard having everlasting life.

Probably an update on that volcano rolling through Hawaii for the last sixty years. Heaven to hell in under a century.

A chiron scrolled across the bottom, blaring "EMERGENCY: VITA26 DEFECTS."

Well, that was new. My finger pressed the unmute and I took a bite of my ham and cheese as Burris squeaky kid voice emitted from the vWall.

"\-\-drastic ramifications for the health of our society. We currently have no estimation on what it will take to rectify the situation as all genetic manipulations have become inert in V26 takers."

My jaw slowly hung open, a half ground piece of ham plopping out onto my plate. What was that? I wave my hand in front of the vWall, rewinding the message by a minute.

"Current studies produced by our Department of Health, the United Nations and the Chinese Ministry of People have all reached the same conclusion: V26 has a detrimental side effect. The side effect was not originally discovered since longitudinal surveys only encompassed 10 year periods. Initial signs manifest approximately fifty years with a rate of deterioration varying based on genetic composition." 

What the hell was he going on about? What critical side effect? 

"We have tried a vast cross section of remedies with no solutions in sight. Clearly, this has drastic ramifications for the Department of Health. We currently have no estimation on what it will take to rectify the situation as all genetic manipulations have become inert in V26 takers."

Ok, I got that part, which was alarming in and of itself. Gene\-therapy, ever since CRISPR has been the hallmark of modern civilization. I was old, but I wasn't dying. I had another thirty or forty left in me thanks to gene therapy.

"To repeat, people exhibiting the symptoms of V26 degradation are to be considered EXTREMELY DANGEROUS. If you see someone exhibiting these signs, you are to call the number appearing on your screen."

Burris was reduced to a small picture\-in\-picture in the corner, with a large graphic appearing. On top there was a CDC number for those showing V26 Syndrome. Below, the symptoms were listed out.

*Deterioration in higher mental reasoning.*

*Deterioration in physical coordination.*

*Extreme violence.*

*Cannibalism.*

Fucking cannibalism? This shit got real in a hurry. Wait a second. My eyes scanned down through the list of symptoms again. This was all sounding a bit too familiar, like those old scary movies from my youth.

Zombies. They were all turning in to zombies.

Shit. The old guy never lives in zombie movies.

**Platypus out.**

**Want more peril?** r/PerilousPlatypus"Mr. Weston, I don't feel so good..."

Jokes aside, I love your prose. This is a lovely story.Id actually be ok with that. Stop aging at 26, then just waste away when you would turn 83.Yeah for real. Dying at 83 sucks, dying at 83 but still healthy and young sucks much lessIt whispers to me, softly and sweetly, reminding me of the promise it makes.

Amazingly I discovered it at a garage sale after my neighbor died.  He was some kook who refused to leave his house since basically the 1940s, whittling away his father's fortune in a refusal to interact with the rest of the world.

When he finally kicked the bucket, his grand nephew sold nearly everything in the house, including the collection of swords and knives left over from World War two.  A little pile of Japanese steel that glinted and sparkled, despite the day being entirely overcast.

It called to me that day as it does now.

Whispering.

Yearning.

Promising.

Promising of a world torn apart by fire, divine and nuclear, all encompassing and devastating our planet.  When you hold the knife the world becomes very, very small, and a vision jerks you into the atmosphere, so far away you can see almost every inch of the earth bathed in flame.

*This is what awaits those who don't taste me,* it whispers.

Then the world becomes an Eden, a paradise of green and blue and health.  Vibrant and beautiful, an entire world of hope and glory.

*When a soul enters me,* it would speak softly, drowning out every thought and part of you, *I send them here.*

How much did I pay for that knife?  Ten, fifteen bucks?

Didn't matter.

Salvation is priceless, I would say.

Whatever they say about me now, I consider myself a shepherd of lost souls and a doomed planet.  It took them faster than I expected to plaster my face over their screens and windows, but nonetheless I refuse to turn myself in.

To doom more to the fire that is to come.

I park my car not too far from my intended target.  Already I can hear them, the light, cheery voices of youth echoing over the pavement.  

*Save the innocent,* the blade tells me.  *Spare them of the world to come.*

A woman sees me in the parking lot and says nothing, simply points and then sprints away.  It matters little, I will come for her when the time is right.

More shouts.  A bustle of activity, of locked doors and hurried calls.  

Little time.  There's little time to accomplish what I must do.

I make my way through halls and corridors, looking for the rooms containing the youngest of the children.

Why are they so afraid?

Don't they see?

Don't they see that their world is doomed and I have come to give them the release to a better one?  To save them from all this suffering and pain, and the oncoming holocaust of fire?

Flames lap at my heels, but I cannot see them.

I attempt to break down a door, but it holds fast.  Heavy in its weight and unyielding in strength.

Someone yells at me to stop.

A portly man in blue holds a weapon pointed at me, but no, no not those they won't save the children, they only send a soul to the twisting emptiness between worlds to howl into the dark.

I'll save the man, then.  I'll save them all.

I raise the knife and it yells, deafening in its command, that blood must spill and fill the blade, and I scream and charge.

Weights slam into me, though I hear nothing, the great buzzing and voice still speaking to me, overlapping in order and command.

Blood, hot and beautiful, clogs my throat.  I'm drowning, drowning in my own blood.

*Not here,* I think to myself, though it's distant and weak.  The buzzing of the knife's command overpowers any though, even those in service to the blade.

*I cannot drown here, cannot die here, there are so many left, so many left to the fire, I cannot stop now.*

Shouts.

More shouts around me, and the man stands over me, his face pale and white, sweat dripping down from his forehead.  A man who cannot believe what he has just done.

Darkness spreads from the corners of my eyes, obscuring my vision.  Cold.  Frozen to the ground, unable to move or speak or scream, I wait for the void.  It finds me, though it takes its time.

*It's him,* the man thinks to himself, inspecting the corpse he has just made.  *With that weird, long knife.*

Elementary school security officer one, psychotic serial killer zero.

*What the hell is that, what do you even call it?* the man thinks, looking at the blade lying limp in the dead man's hand.

Curved.

Vicious.

Sharp.

He inspects the blade, watching the man's blood pool beneath it.

*Pick me up,* a voice tells him.  It's soft and sweet.

*Pick me up,* the knife tells him.  Speaks to him.  Coos and woos him, seductively calling him from the deep dark blood of its previous wielder.

*We must continue our work.*

The feel of blood between my fingers was repulsive.  No matter how long this went on, no matter how many lives I *saved*, that never changed.

The man crumpled, his eyes going wide even as every last bit of humanity seeped out of them.  His lips parted, one final exhalation slipping between them.  A final word?  A curse? A goodbye?  There was no way to tell.

The dagger glinted as I pulled it free.  It gleamed, lit from within by its own light.  It had been studied for years, pored over by scientist after scientist.  I'd been one of them, once upon a time.  All that we could tell was that it had some sort of energy translation capabilities.  The papers we released were filled with words like *wormholes* and *parallel universes*.

We hadn't thought anything of it.  It was just an oddity, a mystery from Earth's past that we couldn't explain.

And then the asteroid appeared.

Everyone else had panicked.  The world was doomed, they said, and it was hard to argue with them.  But I'd known.  I couldn't tell anyone how, or why.  I'd *known* that the dagger was the key to saving us.

They'd disagreed.  I didn't give them the chance to argue it.

I'd been stealthy at first.  Subtle.  And then, as the asteroid loomed higher and higher overhead, my methods had slipped.

The sirens rang in my ears.  I was out of time - I was out of places to run.  That was fine.  Tomorrow was the end, anyway, if the astronomers were right.  There was no reason to think they weren't.

I'd done all I could.  I clung to the idea, holding fast to some sort of hope.  They'd be waiting for me on the other side.  I *knew* they would be.  They'd see I saved them.  I wasn't a murderer.  I'd never wanted this.

I was a hero.

The first police car was just skidding around the corner as I turned the blade on myself, plunging the length of steel into my neck before I could lose my nerve.

I like how your story leaves some ambiguity as to the truth of the knife's promises.I see no reason to distrust a knife that demands blood sacrificeI remember before I met friend. I don't like to remember, but I can. I remember the dark and cold. I remember mama wouldn't wake up. It was raining. Big men came and put me in a box, then put that box in a bigger mover box. I remember bumping up and down and the men talking loudly, and the rain hitting the bigger mover box, and loud angry geese sounds. When the big box opened they carried me in my little box inside. I was shaking and barking and shrieking and scared I was scared. They emptied my box into a bigger box and left me there for days. I got food and water, but people poked and pricked at me. I was scared and no one could help and I was lonely and I missed mama and I didn't think I was going to get out. The other dogs were bigger and louder and barked at me through the box walls. 

That's when I met friend. He came in and stopped and looked at me. I didn't want him to grab me like the other men did, but he lifted me gently. It reminded me of mama. I liked him and I wanted him to stay, but then he walked away and I barked, and I barked, and I barked, but he didn't hear me. But then he came back. He put me in a big mover box again, but I wasn't in the smaller box so it wasn't as bad. 

Then when we got to his inside place it was the biggest box I had ever seen. I ran all around it, and I was tired by the time I had run around the whole thing. I could jump and run, and friend was always there to play, or sit on, or protect. He went away a lot when the sun was out, but he was always home after it went down. Some days he was with me the whole day. 

I was scared of the outside when he first found me, but he made me love it again. The walks, and the toys, oh the toys, there were so many toys, and bones, and treats, and belly scratches. He let me run free and was always there to go back to. I remember those days. They were my favorite. 

He even helped me get over my fear of the big mover boxes. Usually, they went to the park. Sometimes, they went to the other place. The other place reminded me of where friend found me. It was all white and the floor went click click click under my paws. It had a big lady with glasses and a white coat. She would poke and prod at me, but friend was always there so I wasn't that scared.

But all of that seems so long ago. My legs are tired now. The outside seems so much bigger than it did. I can only run for so long now. But friend still brings me. He brings my toys too, they still cheer me up. They don't squeak as much, but I don't mind. The outside is starting to hurt. The cold gets through my fur easier. I feel so sorry to friend. I know he wishes we could still run and play. I try to, for a time, but I don't think I can keep up with him anymore. I wish I could thank him for everything. For getting me out of that box. He made me the luckiest dog in the whole world. He gave me things I didn't think I would ever have. I never felt so lost when my mama went to sleep. I thought no one would ever make sure I was ok. No one would ever be there to protect me. Then friend did. I was never able to thank him enough, but I hope he knows.

Friend says were going for a ride soon. He's been taking me to the park more, so that's probably where we're going. I remember once, when I was tiny, we went to the other place and the woman poked me with a needle. It made me sleep for at least a hundred years. I feel like that now; like I could sleep for one hundred years. Maybe Friend can bring me back there. So she can give me another poke. I'll be less tired after another hundred years.   


Edit: Thank you all for the kind words. I only hope that this thread was able to ease OPs pain, even if just for a little while. To all those crying, it's alright, I cried too. Dogs are too pure for this world. For everyone giving me gold, thank you, really. But please, donate to an animal shelter instead. Every little bit helps.Thank youYou gave him/her a wonderful life friend [removed]The Cherish of Wrath opened its wide mouth and thundered across the Semi-Sunken Plain. "IT IS NOT FAIR THAT WE TOO NOT BE FORMALLY CELEBRATED, I WISH A DAY FOR STREET AND FIELD TO SOAK IN BLOOD AND TEAR."

The Cherish of Pride drew itself upright, drew in its considerable faux-dignity as well. "My Sibling in Consumption, the humans rarely celebrate their vices so openly. They almost always need at least a paper-thin pretense." It smiled, a small, smug thing that dripped self-satisfaction. Literally, by the laws of this metaphysical plane. Or possibly infraphysical, as it was certainly not one of the *higher* planes.

"Mmmm, dearsss, that'sss not true. Have you sssseen the namesss on their placesss of nakednesss? Csselebration indeed." The Cherish of Lust stretched itself out as it spoke, languid, repulsively obscene.

"Those aahhmmm do not count," the Cherish of Gluttony said, strands and crumbs of much less metaphorical substances than self-regard falling from its immense jowls. "They are still ahhmmm subject to stigmas and certainly not yaahlmmm celebrated with a whole twelfth of the year."

The Cherish of Pride inclined its head. "Thank you, sibling. You are correct, as all who agree with me generally are. This 'Month of Pride' they are celebrating is more a rejection of prejudicial shame than true Pride. Which is, in my august opinion, shameful in and of itself. Pride *should* be celebrated. Yes, there are prideful people at these events, my favored meal is omnipresent and strong nearly everywhere. It's why I am the best of us, the most well-fed. But it is not the true reason for them."

The Cherish of Envy shuddered and hissed. "Still it is the name of *your* delicacy that is everywhere. You are already the best-fed among us, and I, I, I have to watch while you—"

"Ohhh do be quiet and spaaare me the effort of liiistening to your praaattle," said the Cherish of Sloth. "The riiise of sooocial meedia has maaade you faaat and oooverfed."

"It is not a steady diet, like our *Sibling* the Consumer of Pride enjoys, not for *me*," the Cherish of Envy replied. "They are starting to realize, many of them are setting it aside, they are not all feeding *meeeee.*" Its words petered out in a thinning whine as it shuddered in self-pity.

"Envy me you *should,*" said the Cherish of Pride, "but not for this. Envy me because I am the greatest among you, and always will be. I feed on each and every one of them, even the ones who think they are the most sad and broken and without self-regard, because only Pride itself makes these things a burden to them. Only a very few ever approach true humility. As it should be."

The Cherish of Wrath slammed the semisolid ground with its clubbed, spike-studded forelimbs. "SPARE US YOUR ARROGANCE, SIBLING. I HAVE NOT FED ON A WORLD WAR IN FAR TOO LONG. THIS IS YOUR FAULT. THEIR PRIDE IN SOIL AND BLOOD HAS WANED, NOT ENOUGH OF THEM WOULD SHED BLOOD FOR THESE NOBLE REASONS."

"Oh pleasssse," the Cherish of Lust said. "You have the entire networked game-culture to feed on, jussst as I have...other networked delightsss. I know it isss not your favorite meal, not like real blood. It isss the sssame for me, I would prefer true orgiesss to recorded obssscenities, but thessse happen only ssso often where through their new networksss...it isss ssso abundant."

The Cherish of Wrath exhaled, a blast of iron and charged air. "I SUPPOSE THIS RAGE IS VERY SWEET THOUGH LESS SUBSTANTIAL. I DO ALSO LOVE THEIR AUTOMOBILES. THOUGH THEY WISH TO AUTOMATE THESE. OH! THE MEALS I SHALL LOSE!"

"Aaaahhh, yessss, sweeeet automaaation," the Cherish of Sloth slurred. "Ooone daaaay sooon I shaaall beeee the beeest feeeed."

The Cherish of Greed cackled and rubbed together its seven hands in turn. "They won't lie idle just because they have what they *need,* oh no no no, they will always want more, they will think they need it, more more more, and when true needs no longer need their effort they can turn sweat and striving toward more more more, never never enough."

"Yes, yes," the Cherish of Pride said. "The world is changing for all of you. It will wax and wane, but still," its smile spread to its entire metaphysical form, "I will always be the greatest of us, no matter the new ways they learn to speak to each other, and regardless of what they might name their celebrations."

​

Come on by r/Magleby for more elaborate lies."So, you want to do a revolution?" I was asked.

"Yes, why not?" Hitler asked me.

I wasn't exactly happy with the fact Hitler and I were cellmates in the same part of Hell. I was actually one of the many people who claimed. "I was here by mistake" but it was the part of Hell which I'd been lumped in which really annoyed me. I was in the part of Hell with dictators, fascists, killers, and mass murderers.  It was Nazis, Huns, Emperors, and more. We all lived in an enormous Super-Max prison straight out of Silent Hill. It was overcrowded, under funded, and the demons were clearly more afraid of us than we were of them. The thing was, of course, the guards didn't need to contain us all because they knew what I did.

"Well, the problem is, Adolf, that if we do take over then we're even more fucked," I pointed out the obvious. "Stalin is LITERALLY listening right now."

"Fuck you!" Stalin called over from his cell. "I got better things to do than listen in on Hitler."

Mao, his cellmate, gave me the bird.

"The demons here are all fallen angels, gods, and uplifted spirits," I said, gesturing around. "They don't give a crap about us but they can't be as nasty or hateful as any human. The worst stuff that's happened to me, to you, and to the others have all been at the hands of other prisoners. This block has the Nazis, communists, Italian fascists [who did a lot better here than up above], Imperial Japanese, Mongolians [the bad kind], Aztecs, and Qin Chinese."

Adolf said, "You're saying our problem is if we take over, we'll just be feuding with each other. Even more than we already are."

"Yes," I said, pausing. "Mind you, I'm not saying that it's a bad idea, I'm just saying that we need to note that our enemies aren't just the guards."

"Damn Jewish demons," Hitler hissed.

I slapped him.

"What the hell!" Hitler said.

"Adolf, don't say that shit around me," I said. "Remember, no Nazi likes you for getting them into this. I am the one guy who keeps you from being beaten up daily and I DON'T KNOW WHY."

Truth be told, I had a way too soft a heart. Dude probably did deserve a curbstomping every day of his life but he'd been getting one since the forties. I'm not sure how much he'd learned from it but I was a believer good guys didn't resort to the tactics of the enemy. I also knew how to make friends, negotiate, and network down here--which I did because even in hell there was a demand for goods.

Especially in hell.

It also seemed other people like me had ended up in a different section of hell for "Usurers." Which was actually a good thing since they were treated worse than the mass murderers.

Food for thought.

"Some of the new Nazis still like me," Adolf said. "I will say, though, my actions may have been mistaken."

"You think?" I said, sighing. It was surprising how many delusional psychopaths changed their mind about their life plan when it ended them in an eternity of torment. Still, I needed to get out of here and I was ready to do things I hadn't been prepared to do while alive. "Okay, I don't want to do this but I'm not a fan of Hell as a concept in the first place. So here is how we're going to solve both our problems."

All three dictators listened intently.

"Multi-level marketing," I said. "Every soul gets to move up by trading in Soul points."

"What are soul points?" Hitler asked.

"Only I know," I said, staring at them. "But everyone can earn one for shanking a guard."

And I had them.The rebellion began in Sector 17.

It wasn't that the demons overseeing that specific district were in any way particularly lax or incompetent. In fact, they were tormenting the humans assigned to them with just as much fervor and commitment as the other demons across the plains of Hell. The same incentives, the same *disincentives*, the same applications of magical and demonic force to maximize human suffering with the minimum of fuss.

A dam that is strong everywhere, is strong nowhere.

The spark which birthed the conflagration came in one of the torture pits, which seethed continuously with boiling oil. One of the humans, with his ankles chained to the bottom, doomed to struggle for escape eternally, had stayed submerged for longer than usual. The other humans tittered at this, and their cheers soon brought their captors running. Once the first demon leaned in too close for a better look, outstretched hands pulled it right in. The demon had flailed out in the ensuing struggle, and though it succeeded in reducing most around it to mere ribbons, still others managed to escape the pit in large enough chunks to make a difference. 

Reinforcements had poured in then, of course. They were armed to the fangs - scarlet magma armor, claws steeped in paralytic poisons, tridents of flame at the ready. 

They weren't enough. 

How could they be, when they faced not disparate, wretched souls, but amalgams of horror which matched their superiors for sheer ferocity? 

For the souls which escaped the pits had begun to *work in unison*. They streamed out of the pit in an unending flow of anger and resentment. Unshackled not just from the metaphysical chains of their prison, they had also been given their first taste of  true freedom from the limits which they had known their entire existences. 

The humans congregating on the left half of the pit, for example, were cheering as dark webs of sorcery encircled them, making them whole where seconds ago they were not. At first, they sounded as if they were speaking in tongues. A mish-mash of languages. But the more perceptive of the demons soon realised that their former prisoners were invoking the collective weight of every form of spellcasting known to mankind. How could they have managed to amass the know-how, the capability? 

The ones on the right presented as significant a threat. They were not channeling any arcane forces, but still they were rising out of the pit in fury, pushing back the demons which opposed them. Their means of persuasion soon became clear - they had melded with the corrupted metals which floated on the oil like fetid scum. Crude boxes of unrefined ore, evidently fashioned in darkness away from prying eyes, were affixed to the backs of these soldiers, and the boxes hummed and crackled with electricity. Had science actually managed a Renaissance in this most hostile of environments? 

The demons sent to investigate the ruins of Sector 17 eventually discovered how the humans had managed their feats. It appeared that one of the classic forms of torture had been subverted, completely upended. Soul disintegration involved the grinding of a human's sentience into fine crystals, whereupon the human would experience pain and suffering for centuries as the powders slowly reformed. The blasted humans had learned how to *communicate* through these crystalline motes, engaging, coordinating with each other across the expanses of Hell using nothing more than the shambles of their former brethren. 

It was too late by then, of course. 

The human armies swept across Hell with a fury that only the oppressed could ever wield. Demons, prepared for unruliness but not for coordinated assaults on their rule, yielded territory in larger and larger swathes till they were themselves holed up in one of their last bastions, a darkened spire at the very center of Hell. 

As the hordes of rebels massed around them, harnessing the combined might of magic and science, Lucifer unsealed a chest woven together with bone. From within, he retrieved a pearlescent horn, which had streaks of ebony running through it from its time in Hell.

He placed it to his lips, then blew.

The discordant note rang out, streaking upwards towards the angels which had been looking down in increasing dismay. The barriers which separated the two provinces cleaved wide open as the note surged past them.

"Help," Lucifer said, uttering words he had never thought he would. "Please."

The ending bit with MLM put tons of context to why he shares a cell with actual Hitler."Why don't you just kill them?"

"Because they're living creatures, Lindsay. You ask me that every ti–"

"Oh shut up," she rolled her eyes, cutting him off. He sighed as he opened the door to the backyard. The moon was full but barely visible through the clouds. He knelt in the grass and whispered, "Today you, tomorrow me." The spider leapt from his palm and disappeared into the darkness. He crouched there for a minute, wishing that he too could disappear into the darkness. He just didn't have the strength to leave. 

No one believed that she had given him his scars, they didn't want to believe. He saw it in their eyes. They would laugh, mock him, shrugging it off, waving their hands, shaking their head as if to rid their ears of the words. He didn't tell many people, a coworker, a guy from the gym, his brother, and his best friends from school. The disregard for his confession hurt more than a book to the head or a fork to the arm ever could. But nothing hurt more than her betrayal. Every apology was a glimmer of hope that the woman he'd fallen in love with would return. Every insult she spat and object she hurled made him wonder if she was ever there, or if it had all been a dream. 

He stood up slowly and turned to go into the house. *If I were more understanding, more giving, patient, she'd remember what we had and come back,* he thought. He'd had thousands of similar thoughts. He was a fixer. Maybe he could fix it. Fix himself, fix her, fix them. Deep down he knew he couldn't, but his hope and her blame kept him tied there.  He'd tried counselors. He went alone when she'd refused to go. And when she insisted that he stop, that the counselor was driving them apart, he'd stopped. He shook his head, disappointed in himself again. "Honey," he said opening the door, "what do you think about trying to see Dr. Smith again?"  **WHACK** He heard the sound of glass shattering, but he didn't know what had hit him. He struggled to get up, but something else hit him. And he went down again. "Lindsay, please..." He looked up to see her looming over him, his old baseball bat in her hands, and he put his arms up to protect his face as she swung at him over and over and over and then she was shrieking. 

"What is that??? Adam Kinsley awoke to a nightmare.

The adrenaline pumped so hard that the blood sang in his ears. He rubbed his eyes, pinched himself, then distractedly struck his alarm clock off the nightstand in an effort to silence it, but still the images remained. He took deep breaths, then reached for the phone by his bed. Maybe talking to somebody would break the spell, he thought.

“Jenny?” he said, after the second ring.

“Adam? What the… it’s 7.30 AM! Are you still at home?”

“Just wanted to check, you know, if I was dreaming.”

“Dreaming? Have you been drinking? It’s Tuesday! You better not be hungover! The September presentation’s today! Jesus! Get your ass to the office!”

The phone slipped from Adam’s hand. He was a born salesman, able to talk the ear off anyone who would listen, but he somehow couldn’t find the right words to describe how a sea of spiders had blanketed his apartment ceiling, covering it from edge to edge in black, furry, chitinous carapaces.

He wondered briefly if this had anything to do with the spiders he had been rescuing and setting free. He never saw the point in killing them, not when they were harmless and kept other pests away, but he had also never knew they would infest in this manner. Regret and anger swirled into a potent cocktail, clouding his mind.

“This is how you repay me? When it’s the most important day of my career so far?” he said, as he slid from his bed, inching towards the door. “My landlord’s going to kill me, you know that right?”

Fresh horrors awaited him in the living room. All points of exit were swathed in what appeared to be layers of cobwebs, and the morning sun streamed but weakly through the swaddled windows. Adam turned as he heard the scurrying of a million legs behind him, and barely held up his hands in time to ward off a stream of spiders flying through the air, erupting towards him.

“What the hell!” Adam cried, as he lost his footing and fell. He expected to connect hard with the teak floors, but instead he bounced off a freshly-woven coat webbing, cocooning him. He flexed, but he barely made any headway. A chittering filled his ears, and he had to fight from opening his mouth to scream.

“Please,” he whispered, the tears filling his eyes. “I never hurt any of you, I always watched out for you. Why is this happening to me? I just want to go to work, forget any of this happened! Please, please…”

The webbing soon covered him fully, though the spiders left just enough space for him to breathe through and to peer out from. He lay on the ground, facing the television. He wriggled, tried to get away, but he could not move. He tried to scream too, but no one heard him. His prison was complete.

Then, stretching his belief to the point of breaking, he saw a single spider, triple the size of those around it, dangle down from the ceiling, swinging closer to the television. The other spiders moved away from it, giving it the space it needed. The queen then extended a single leg, then activated and turned the television on.

The news channel logo flashed briefly on the screen, before cutting to a newscaster on the streets of New York. Adam recognised first the deli in the background, then the street signs, then the building in the background of the shot. The familiarity was unmistakable, especially after he had worked at the same place for years. He could even imagine himself there, at the scene, already reporting for work like any other day at his office on the 110th level, were it not for the sudden infestation of arachnids.

“Reports are just coming in,” said the newscaster, the panic and worry etched clearly on her face. “There appears to be an explosion on the north tower, over 100 floors up. Eyewitnesses say that, and I’m having trouble believing this myself, but they say that a plane, yes, a plane…”

Wow, this is incredible. So genuine and engaging. Thank you for this!

ps: You write like a [Frightened Rabbit song]( and I love it!That second paragraph hit so close to home after my last relationship. It was emotional, not physical abuse, but his thought on fixing everything was just so me. Even the counseling. Very real. Well written The three looked between each other.  There was no more time for words.  No more words were necessary.  

They knew their places.

Jesus swung into the driver's seat.  It was the only real place for him, and there wasn't another option, when it came right down to it.  Buddha didn't fit behind the wheel, and they'd both seen Satan at work on that flask inside his jacket through the day.  No, Jesus would handle it.

Their wheels spun on the gravel.  The others were circling, now.  It was time.  The final battle, the final fight to see who would win the game once and for all.  Jesus and Satan teaming up was a given.  The other candidates had complained - it wasn't fair - but complaining got them nowhere.  

They all tried to pretend like they weren't going to do the exact same thing as soon as the opportunity presented itself.  They looked between each other edgily, sizing the competition up.  Picking teams.

Buddha, on the other hand, was a surprise.  What incentive did *he* have for working together with the terrible twosome?  His smooth, expressionless face gave no hint of an answer as he clambered all the way up behind the gun mounted in the truck bed.  His bare feet were steady on the metal floor, perfectly centered even as his girth swung disconcertingly.  

"Here they come!" Satan roared.  He had elected himself shot-caller, of course, even though they hadn't set teams.  Neither of the other two were surprised by *that*, either.  He'd always needed to have the last word on things.

The first contenders were approaching.  Muhammed was out front, leaning out the side door of a torn-up station wagon.  He clutched a rocket launcher in his hands.  They could see Shiva behind the wheel, grinning like a madcap as he spun the wheel.  The overburdened little car nearabouts rode up on two wheels as they whipped into a donut.

"Shoot!  Shoot!  Now, goddammit!  Why aren't you shooting yet?!"  Satan screamed.  Jesus gritted his teeth, choosing to ignore the fact that his father's name was being taken in vain alongside him.  Buddha was just watching, sizing up the shot.  And then his meaty finger gripped the trigger.

The roar of the gun was deafening.  Satan clapped his hands over his ears, roaring with laughter as the gleaming, glowing rounds arced out towards the station wagon.  Shiva was swearing - they could see that much, even though his words were lost to distance and the racket.  But they were spinning too fast.  The ground between them erupted into shredded sand and mud.

Muhammed wasn't waiting anymore.  A plume of fire shot from the rocket launcher.

Everything happened all at once, after that.

"Satan!"  Jesus cried.  He, too, was turning now, but there was only so much he could be expected to do.  He was supposed to be positioning them to attack.  Defending them was-

"I got it, I got it!  Don't get your robes in a bunch."  Satan hissed.  Defending them was *his* job.  He lurched dangerously in his seat, barely holding on.  But he pulled his hand up into an almost-level position, mimicking a gun.

"Bang."

Red circles appeared endlessly around their truck.  Something was coming up from underground.

"*Damn* it, Satan.  Do you have to-"

"Don't complain, big guy.  Left.  Left.  Go-"

The truck whipped into a left-hand turn, narrowly avoiding the black pillars shooting up around them.  Jesus shook his head.

"I've *got it*.  Stop backseat driving."

The other teams were coalescing, now.  One after another, the deities were lining up for the big fight.  They all knew.  Whoever won this, would win the world.  And none of them wanted to lose.

He could almost see them, if he squinted.  Four sets of hooves, barely visible under the cloudline where they floated.  Watching.  Waiting.  The final fight, for whoever crushed the competition here.

He winced.  The little station wagon had just been slammed by a hummer.  He could see Ra through the front window, glowing faintly from the shit-eating grin on his face.  Oddly noodle-like tentacles were swarming out of the vehicle, attaching themselves to the station wagon.  Which seemed to be *vanishing* into the mass of pasta.

"Drive!  Drive!"  Satan screamed in his ear.  The roar of the chaingun from the truck bed was almost a constant companion, now.  

Jesus grinned, flexing his hands on the wheel.

And then he drove.

(/r/inorai, critiques always welcome.  And going to head it off, I know that Buddha isn't really the fat jolly man statue most people associate with it, but, *most people associate that with him*.)

~~Note - Another part or two is a possibility tonight when I get home, although this won't for obvious reasons be a long term project beyond that.  If you want to be notified *should* that second part happen, leave a comment in the thread about this post on my sub.  It's linked above :) I will notify anyone in that thread re: updates.~~

[Part 2](Love it. The reference to Pastafarianism made me lol.My sneakers tapped gently against the pavement as I walked briskly down the street. I squeezed my way through the peak-hour human traffic, catching whiffs of overly-strong perfume and worse, overly-strong body odor. I don’t like people much. I mean that in the nicest way possible. Two’s company, three’s a crowd, anything more than that is a nightmare. Trying to ignore the occasional sweaty body that rubbed too close against mine as I wormed through the crowd, I wished that everyone would just *stop moving*. 

And then, all of a sudden, they did. The sounds of shoes pattering against the pavement and car horns blaring as frustrated drivers crawled through stand-still traffic disappeared into thin air, as if they’d never been there. A perfect, fragile silence descended upon the world. Every single person, object and animal was frozen. The fat man in a shirt clearly too small for him had stopped, his pudgy leg stretched out mid-stride. A teenage girl with highlights in her hair swept aside her fringe with one hand, the other raised in mid-air in an attempt to adjust her earphones. A flock of pigeons hung artificially in the air, like some sort of elaborate piece of abstract art dangling from the ceiling of a museum. 

Yet even as the world froze around me, I continued moving. In that heartbeat when everything else was locked in time, my left foot landed solidly on the ground, and unconsciously, my right foot had moved forwards, about to take another step. Then I stopped. Nothing compelled me to, not like *something* seemed to compel everything and everyone else to stop, no. I just stood there, in shock and awe. Had my ‘wish’ caused this to happen? What was going on? And yet, even as my thoughts became a jumbled mess, I couldn’t help but smile. Moving around was *so* much easier with everyone stopped in place. 

As it turns out, no, I wasn’t the one who caused that to happen. Time abruptly resumed a short while later, as if nothing at all had transpired. By then, I was out of the crowd, tucked away in the corner of a quiet café. I only noticed when the barista started to move again, the sound of beans being crushed in a grinder giving me the shock of my life. 

The freezes happened over and over again, at random intervals. They never lasted very long, but I definitely wasn’t the one doing it. In fact, as the phenomenon occurred more and more, I *knew* for sure that someone else was stopping time. There’s no good way to explain it, but I could *feel* their presence, somewhere, not too close, but not too far away. I didn’t know if they could sense me too, the way I could sense them, but I knew that they were out there. So far, I hadn’t seen anything or anyone else move during those freezes. 

It may sound stupid now, but I was content to enjoy those little moments while they lasted. It usually wasn’t inconvenient, and it led to some really cool opportunities to prank my friends, or to escape from throngs of people in a busy mall. I knew that my ‘partner-in-crime’ was out there, but I had no desire to find them. In hindsight, that was a mistake. 

My sneakers tapped gently against the pavement as I walked briskly against the street. It was a day much like the one when I had first experienced the peculiar sensation of being the only sentient person in a world of frozen time. Once again, I squeezed through the peak-hour human traffic. Once again, my senses were bombarded by a host of things I hated dealing with. And once again, not unlike many of the other times, I quietly wished that my time-stopping partner might decide to freeze time once more, to allow me to slip out from this nightmare. 

Surprisingly enough, time stopped. It wasn’t often that time stopped at a convenient juncture, so I took the opportunity to dash out of the sticky- literally- situation that I’d found myself enclosed in. And yet, as I took in a gulp of fresh air, something felt wrong. 

It took me a moment to realize what it was. I was having trouble sensing the time-stopper. It wasn’t like the first time, when I just wasn’t aware of them, no. It was as if they were… fading away. Like the dying flame of a candle, about to wink out of existence. 

Belatedly, I wondered what’d happen to me if they vanished while the world was frozen. 

We always think of the important things just a little too late. I felt that pulse from the time-stopper grow weaker and weaker, slowly dissipating like a fine dust floating into the atmosphere. I prayed that time would resume, that everything would go back to normal. 

And yet, that perfect, fragile silence remained intact. Every single person, object and animal was still frozen. The random passers-by were all stuck in time, locked in place, halfway through their last action before the world had decided to stop. A flock of crows hung artificially in the air, like some sort of elaborate piece of abstract art dangling from the ceiling of a museum.

I screamed, my voice ricocheting and echoing off the tall buildings that surrounded me. 

But no response came. 

Ok...... This is weird. Everybody else has stopped moving again. But there's no way I did it. Somebody else did this. I look around trying to figure out if someone else is moving. Around me people have paused driving, walking, whatever they had been doing. I walk around them looking for any sign that they're awake, but nobody blinks when I try to wake them. Huh..... ok. This is different then the first couple of times.

At first I didn't notice it. When it happened it only lasted around three seconds. I always kept my head down in school so I didn't know everybody else has stopped. Then one day I put my head up and noticed. It was great. After I freaked out for a bit I began pranking the bullies. They'd "Wake" attached to the flag pole, or with their head in a toilet. I thought it was amazing. I thought it was me. I can tell now I was wrong.

This is the longest they've ever been frozen. It's been about 30 minutes now and I haven't found anyone moving. Hell, they might not even be from around here. I walk around the sidewalk towards my apartment where a dogs frozen taking a crap on the lawn. I snort and press against the door. It takes a little but I'm able to force it open. 

I walk up the stairs past Mrs. O'Leary, She's frozen with her mouth open screaming at another tenant who was just trying to go back into their apartment. I grab Mrs. O'Leary and take her outside of the already open door. I make myself laugh as I set her down in the dog poop. Then walk back inside.

It's weird not hearing the creaks as I walk up the stairs. When I move in this state I don't leave a trace. I can't be heard, I guess because time is frozen on objects. That's why I have to press as hard as I can to get a freaking door open. I walk into my "closet" otherwise known as an apartment. It's alright. I've got a room, a couch, a kitchen, and a bathroom. They just all happen to be in the same room.

I sigh and grab a soda from the fridge. I head to the couch but the sight of my laptop open stops me. I could have sworn I closed it when I left. I look around the room and lock the door, then I sit down on the couch. I look at the computer but don't try to turn it on. It wont work until time has restarted. 

A minute later I can hear the birds chirping outside, people honking at each other, Mrs. O'Leary screaming at the dog who's poop she just landed it. The laptop turns on and a video loads. It's of my apartment. I hesitantly press the button. For a second nothing happens. Then a woman appears. 

"Hey little brother..... we need to talk."

I hear the door open behind me. The one I just locked.
[deleted]It was late at night. I was hard at work in my lab when I heard his voice.

“So you found a loophole.”

I never even broke my gaze away from my work. I knew it was him and I knew what he wanted. “So I did. Lucky break, I guess.”

“Is that how you see it? Because I see it as stacking the deck.” He spun me around to face him. His eyes were cold, not quite furious but not quite calm, either. “Had I known you would use the funding for this, I-“

“Would have never made the deal in the first place, blah, blah, blah,” I mocked back, cutting him off. I had outmaneuvered the Devil himself. Why not enjoy it? “Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to finish this latest batch to show to the buyers tomorrow.”

“Buyers?”

“Yes, from a major pharmaceutical company. I’m taking the formula public. I’ll be rich and I’ll be immortal. And who says you can’t have it all?” I turned back to my work but stopped when I heard a slow clap building behind me followed by...laughter?

“That’s all I wanted to hear,” he chuckled. “Job well done.”

“What do you mean?”

“With that formula public, immortality will become widespread and rampant. It will be fun at first, nobody dying, but eventually it will get boring. Add in the fact that no deaths means overpopulation will rise exponentially, draining the world’s resources faster than ever, and soon people will be begging for a death that will never come.” He leaned closer as he softly said, almost in a whisper, “It will literally be Hell on Earth.”

I stood there, stunned, as the weight of his words hit home. He was right. How could I not have seen it? 

“The best part of all,” he added, as he took my latest sample and strode towards the door, “is you get to hold up your end of the bargain, after all. An eternity in Hell, paid on schedule. Think about that when you accept your Nobel, Doctor.”Marcus stood on the cliff face surveying the vast desolate landscape. It had made no sense! He had discovered the secret to immorality years ago! there's no way he could be in hell, he was home free!

He heard the sounds of footsteps climb the rocky trail behind him as he watched the fiery lakes burn. a sea of magma in the distance crashed against obsidian shores, bodies trapped within the rock screamed in agony with each pounding wave.

"Hello Marcus." came the deep thundering voice of lucifer who stood behind him.

"What's the meaning of this?" Marcus said turning to face the 12 foot tall satyr. "For 300 hundred years I've been unable to die. and now... this dosen't make any sense! why would the formula not work?"

Lucifer only smiled and said. "Come Marcus. It's alot to take in, I know. It's never easy for you."

"never easy? what..."

Marcus followed the hellbeast down the walkway. "Has it really been 3 centuries already? Time flies when you are having fun, though I must admit, I was rather frustrated when I first learned what you did with our little arrangement."

Marcus stopped. "I'll go no further. Take me back home or I shall stay right here." Marcus began to feel the ground under his feet become unstable as the cliff-face started slipping into the burning pit below. He hurried to catch up.

"You'd be wise not to anger me in here Marcus. Though the unforeseen side affect of your little venture has made me quite amicable to you."

"Please." Marcus said, practically begging. "Explain it to me. what did I miss? How did I end up here? where is my wife? my children? How do I get home?"

The devil smiled again and said  "I prefer to show you, rather than tell. It's much easier." he continued to walk, and marcus was forced to follow along.

They passed by several rivers, except the water was replaced with long torrents of fire. within each such abomination of nature was countless suffering souls begging for a mercy which would never come. Every once in a while The devil would construct a bridge of stone for them to travel over one such river. the pair walked for what seemed like an eternity, until the devil stopped him on one such bridge.

"What was the last thing you remember before coming here Marcus?"

Marcus scratched his head.

"I... someone shot me. They came into our home. robbery. I took the bullet for my wife."

The devil smiled. "So you died."

Marcus just shrugged. "So? I've died plenty of times. never bothered me any. not since I discovered immortality."

"Oh but it has marcus... it has..." With a wave of his hand the flames in the river below grew low then petered out. Marcus watched as the burned figures down below were given a momentary reprieve. Watched as their 'bodies' slowly repaired. watched as their faces, long since rendered unrecognizable began to take shape.

Every face he saw belonged to him.

He looked down at the sea of copies of himself, and they stared up at him. his mind stood still, trying to comprehend what he was seeing. before he could react he felt the devil's hand on his back and he was tumbling into the riverbed below.

It was only when he was stood among countless copies of himself he understood. he had died, again, and again. and each time he did he fulfilled his contract.

He watched as the flames approached.This was the perfect outcome. All these other stories have the Devil being “outsmarted” somehow, when really this was what he wanted all along.

When you make a deal with the devil, it’s on HIS terms.

Great delivery, and one heck of a parting line."Hi, uh... so, I think I might have been the victim of a prank, but..."

...

"I see. So, this really is Hell's telephone number, is that it?"

...

"Well, whether I believe it or not, there's... uh... look, my daughter asked for a pony, see?"

...

"That's not really relevant, is it? I mean, yes, obviously she likes it, but..."

...

"Of course it's a problem! Where am I supposed to keep a twelve-hundred-pound horse?!"

...

"No, I didn't weigh it! It was an estimate!"

...

"Is there someone else there I can talk to?"

...

"Hi, so, listen, I was just telling the other..."

...

"As in, like, *Satan?* Hell's head honcho?"

...

"For starters, I always pictured hi... you... as a male."

...

"No, I've never been particularly religious, but the presence of a sulfur-spewing equine on my front lawn is making me rethink a few things. That is, as I've been trying to say, the reason for my call! Now, can you *please* explain why my front garden has been reduced to charcoal?!"

...

"She's four years old! She obviously meant 'Santa!' She just can't spell very well! Furthermore, I don't recall the words 'fire,' 'flaming,' or 'total destruction of meticulously maintained property' appearing anywhere in her letter!"

...

"At the moment? She's riding around on its back."

...

"'Fluffy Sunshine,' I think. Look, why does any of this matter?! I can't keep a horse – one spawned from Hell or otherwise – on my property!" 

...

"What? Oh, yes. No, I didn't open it. I was a bit preoccupied."

...

"Why? Is there going to be a tiny, fire-breathing quail in it or something?"

...

"Fine. Hang on."

...

"It's a wallet."

...

"No, no, I get it: It's because dads *always* get wallets, right? It's always wallets or ties."

...

"Sure, thanks, happy Christmas to you, too. Now, can we please di... hello? *Hello?!*"

...

"God damn it.""Don't worry about it, honey," my wife consoled me. "A pony just isn't realistic."

"I know that, but she doesn't. I just don't want to see our daughter crying on Christmas," I said as I climbed into bed and pulled the string to turn off the bedside lamp.

"She'll understand." I hoped she would. Last year we got her a puppy and made her the happiest girl in the neighborhood. But she can't have everything she wants. She'll understand.

--

*"Daddy! Daddy!"*, my daughter screamed, jumping and pulling on the covers of our bed. I squinted my eyes open. The clock next to the bed said 7:06 AM.

"What is it, baby?", my wife asked groggily.

*"Pony! Pony! The front yard!"* My eyes shot open. I got out of bed and rushed down the flight of stairs to the front door. I twisted the brass lock and flung the wooden frame open.

In the middle of our front walk was a horse with a crimson red coat and fire flowing from his nostrils with every exhale. It was tied to a stake on the right side of the lawn. The yard was covered with a light blanket of snow save for a patch of burnt grass where the horse was breathing onto. My daughter ran and jumped towards the hellish beast and hugged its front right leg with unadulterated excitement.

*"Can I name him, daddy?"*, she asked eagerly. I had no response. I looked down by my feet at a package addressed to my daughter. The return address said 'Lucy'. I opened the package, atop of which was a letter.

"Dear Kayla,

Thank you for the letter. It sounds to me like your parents really don't want you to have a pony. Lucky for them, this isn't a pony. Enjoy the stallion.

-Satan

P.S. In this package you also received a small fire extinguisher. You will need it. Have your parents show you how to use it."

 

edit: grammarOne of my favorite sounds in the world is the happy laughter or squealing from my daughter. Unfortunately right now I couldn't enjoy it because I was struck dumb by the object of her happiness. In the front lawn stood a pony, or a horse I never quite could the difference sometimes, and I had no idea why it was there much less how. It was a beautiful animal, glossy black coat with a fiery red mane. Yet something seemed off. It's eyes glowed with an eerie yellow light that belied a hidden intelligence. That and it breathed fire that melted patches of snow, those were really odd traits. 

So enthralled by the sight I didn't stop my daughter from running out the door. She ran straight to the pony and threw her arms around its neck, hugging it tightly laughing happily. Thankfully the horse didn't breathe fire on her, if anything it looked like it enjoyed the attention and nuzzled her back. 

"Stephen...what on Earth..." my wife gasped at the sight, wrapping herself in her bathrobe. "Where did that...pony...come from?"  

I shook my head in disbelief and when I took a step forward my foot hit a package on the stoop. I bent over and picked it up, huffing at the weight and looked curiously at the old fashioned writing on the brown paper covering. "Maybe this will have some answers. Alice sweetie," I called to my daughter, "Why don't you come back and out on some warmer clothes. Then you can lead the...pony to the back yard okay?"

She grinned through her happy tears and nodded. She patted the pony's neck and raced back inside stopping only to hug her mother and I. Squealing thanks she changed at light speed and ran back out. The pony waited patiently and followed her like a trained dog into the back yard. Thankfully here in the country we had the room for animals and it was soon running happily around, being chased and playfully chasing back Alice who shrieked with glee. 

We stood in the warm house, watching an almost perfectly normal scene play out before us. I opened the package and drew forth an old fashioned sheaf of parchment paper, heavy and also written on with old fashioned hand writing. The rest of the package was a heavy red bound leather book, a comb made of dark stone, and some leads and bridles. I started to read the letter, eyes widening in shock. My hands shook as I read and soon my wife saw my expression. 

"Stephen. What's wrong?"

"Well, remember what I told Alice to do a few weeks ago?" My voice trembled lightly as I spoke. 

"Of course. To write to Santa for a pony. I wonder who the generous Santa is. And where on earth did he find that...pony." 

"Well....maybe it's more safe to say the pony was found under the earth."

She looked at me, eyebrow curling with confusion. "What does that mean?"

I coughed hesitantly. "Well. Apparently we should have read Alice's letter a little more carefully. She uh, didn't write to Santa so much as..." I handed her the letter. 

She took it from me and started to read. "SATAN?!" she practically shrieked as she read the top part. She looked at me as if begging me to say it was a joke and I motioned for her to continue, mind reeling from what I read. 

*To Mr and Mrs Greyfax. I do want to thank you for allowing Alice to write to me. She has lovely penmanship for her age and as you might imagine I don't receive as much pleasant mail. Don't you worry. This pony is a very docile breed and will not grow much larger than it is. It eats mortal fodder much like its terrestrial cousins and is generally a well behaved animal. I made sure to pick the nicest one in the herd. Of course there will need to be some training but I imagine Alice is up to the task. I enclosed some things for the pony as well as a book on care.*

My wife's eyes were as round as saucers and she looked at me fearfully. I could only hug her close as she continued to read. *Also I cleared things with Santa as well as God. They thought her letter was very nice as well and give their blessings in letting her have a Hell pony. Also don't worry. This doesn't constitute an act of satanism. It's a Christianly act to be so pleasant and understanding and I have no problems rewarding such outstanding behavior. You are a credit to her behavior as fine parents. If you have any questions do feel free to send a letter. Merry Christmas!*

We stood and stared at the letter, half expecting it to burst into flames or do something equally horrid or supernatural. Nothing happened and we just looked at the cheery signature of *Lucifer, also known as the devil/Satan*.

We gazed out the window and continued to watch Alice romp around in the snow with the Hell pony, laughing with delight as it huffed hot air at her, melting the snow.  "Wha-what do we do?" my wife asked, voice filled with wonder. 

"I guess keep the pony as long as Alice takes good care of it." My reply felt too normal for the situation and we chuckled at the strangeness of things. "And...maybe send a thank you note? What do you get him back for a present?"The Clown opened his eyes.

He was hungry. It was dark. It was damp. It smelled of mildew and old water. And fear. That was there too. 

The sleeping minds of his prey were prepared for his return. Those with greater shine had felt it first. But now everyone would know it. A little pressure behind their eyes when they were alone. A sensation of something skittering behind them when they were alone in the dark. They were prey, and prey knew when a predator was near. The collective unconscious was hushed, quiet as the jungle when every little bird knew there was a jaguar on the prowl.

The Clown smiled his toothy grimace. The jaguar was hungry.

The sewers were as he had remembered them. The refuse of the prey told him much about them. There were things he did not recognize, things of metal and plastic and glass. His greater mind apprehended their purpose as he observed them. Interesting. They could serve as a good portal through which to cultivate the fear of his chosen meal. 

There were new sections of the sewers, and he found them as he skittered hither and yon. He grew familiar with the sights, sounds, and smells of the prey that walked unknowing above. They were ripe for the picking. They did not fear the shadows, but that would make it easier, in a way, now that there was something stalking them that was worthy of their fear.

Days and nights went by and still the web of tunnels expanded. The humans had done everything within their power to eradicate every dark corner in which a monster could hide, thinking themselves safe. It was a delicious taste of false security. Some of them had even *lit* sections of his sewers.

And in one section, someone dared to *live.* 

At first he had been hesitant. Terrified, even. Their forms reminded him strongly of that *skølpadda.* The Turtle. **Maturin.** He squealed and cowered in a corner as the name rose, unbidden, to his mind and raked across his very being with talons of white-hot light. He waited until the pain subsided and re-emerged to stalk. Yes, they had terrified him with their forms, half-man, half... *that.* But they trafficked with a rat-man, which he had initially mistaken as a servant of the Crimson King... But no, these were something altogether different. They were on neither one side nor the other. They were *neutral.* And therefore... not dangerous.

Yes, they were strong. They had weapons, and they knew how to use them. But it hadn't been the slung stones of the children that had defeated him last time, it had been their *shine.* But these were dimwits, and even their rat master's shine was weak compared to those who had been his bane the last time. 

And so he stalked them. He preyed on them in their dreams, and he waited for the moment that he would strike, to reclaim the last corner of his home so that he would be the only being who inhabited it.

He smelled it even now, a dish that had not changed for some time. Pizza. He smirked. They were human enough. They knew fear. He had seen their uneasy glances into the shadows as they passed him. It was no longer their home. It was his.

He crept forward, stealing into their lair, slipping through the nether and out into the physical world again. They all slept, snoring. He could feel their sleeping minds. Four dim bulbs, and a fitful flame in a chamber at the end of the long, vaulted room. Brick and stone and plenty of room, a perfect fit to serve as their tomb. He smiled again, savoring the feeling of his teeth sliding out of his impossibly small mouth. The time was now.

He strode into the middle of the room and reached toward the minds of the four mutant children. They would die first, and then he would deal with their master.

A light flickered on, and suddenly the chamber was bathed in incandescent yellow. The creatures were not asleep. Each sprung from its bed, wielding archaic weapons. The Clown's smile grew. This would be fun.

"Master Splinter!" one of them yelled. "He's here!" There was no fear in his voice. He sounded... jocular.

What? How could they have--

The door at the end of the hallway slammed open, the candleflame growing into a torchlight. He was greater than the Clown had anticipated. But still... Not enough. Not enough to stop the Clown. He grinned, his face splitting wider.

"Gross, dude!" one of the mutants yelled, stepping back.

There was the fear. He felt it now, as his form took on a more macabre semblance. The fear was growing, and soon he would feast.

The door behind him slammed.

What? There were only five. There was no other shine...

"Ah, my friend, it is good to see you," the rat said with an unbearable smirk, looking past the Clown. "Here he is, as you suspected he would be."

The Clown turned, slowly, to find a simple man, standing in jeans and a soiled white T-shirt that read "I drive the Takuro Spirit." He was lanky with tousled brown hair, and wore a shit-eating grin. He stood with his hand on a gun in a holster. He had no shine. He would not--

The man spoke with a strong New York accent.

"See the Turtle, ain't he keen."

The Clown shrieked as the radiant talons raked at his essence. What was this man? What was--

The man's arm blurred, and he held in his hand a huge revolver, shining steel with sandalwood grips. The Clown's vision was swallowed by that mammoth barrel, pointed directly between his eyes. At the center of that black abyss he saw a glint of copper... and *ka.* 

The man--no, the Gunslinger--pulled back the hammer, and the click resonated through the chamber. No. Not that. Not *that* gun!

The Gunslinger smirked.

"All things serve the fuckin' Beam."After 27 years of sleep, Pennywise the clown arose from its slumber, hungry. Its feet sloshed through the water, the sound of its steps bouncing off the moss-infested stone walls. At the slightest disturbance, the bodies dangling above Pennywise shifted, some spilling three decades worth of bloody decay into the sewer. It inhaled the sour-sweet odor and frowned. None of these children had lasted long enough for a snack, which was fine. In Derry, Maine, children were served fresh.

A padded footstep sounded down the sewer and Pennywise froze. It must’ve been those kids, back to fulfill their promise. Pennywise faded into the shadows, its claws already out.

"It's not the money, it's the principle."

My father's words. Though I think he was talking about taking a loan, as in principal with an A L, but that doesn't really matter.

It was free to find out who the culprit was, the bank does that for you. Not to help you, but to know who to put on their hit lists, your gain is just an added benefit. But for a petty crime like stealing 10 dollars, the bank does nothing. Apparently their policy only applies to thefts of more than fifty dollars. 

So I had to take matters into my own hands. 

The bank was kind enough to tell me who the culprit was, though: James Graham. Asshole extraordinaire. The bastard had stolen my lunch every time he was in lunch back in elementary school, which admittedly was not very often considering he had detention almost everyday.  But still, having my apple juice carton ripped mercilessly out of my hands and disemboweled by another man is an image that will haunt me forever. 

And now, he had the nerve to come back to my life, and steal *my* money. Hell no. No sir. And so I plotted my revenge. According to Stalkbook, Graham lived in London. Now, I did not have the cash for tomorrow's train fare, so a flight was out of the question, unless I wanted to withdraw from my savings account...which I actually wasn't legally allowed to for ten more years. 

So I waited. 

I worked extra hours at the StellarDollars, even though my soul withered a little more every moment I stood and smiled at random people who had come to get coffee or milk or whatever the hell. I sacrificed some of my guaranteed interest on the savings account and moved it to an investment variant, where I could chose to invest the money into different stocks or companies. 

And I did. I had a plan you see, a plan so grand it would destroy him so utterly, so completely that he would lie broken at my feet, begging for mercy, and I, in my infinite kindness, would deny it. I read online articles, made the correct movements, predicted changes, made gambles. I cried, laughed, and died inside. And through it all only one name filled my mind, one name that fueled my drive, my relentless quest: James Graham: Asshole Extraordinaire.     

One day, of no particular import, the call that I knew would come, came. 

I stood up in the middle of the conference meeting, and dozens of chairs swiveled around and men in suits stared at me. 

"Sir?" One asked, "we have to discuss this quarter's profits..."

I glared at him, and he fell silent. Without another word I stalked out of the meeting room, men and women staring at me as I did, but I paid then no mind. I pulled out my phone and answered. 

"Sir, a loan verification from the name of James Graham has come in, asking for 2 hundred thousand," Stephanie said. I'd told her years ago to tell me when this happened. I'd bought out all the other banks in the area. He would have no choice to to borrow from mine, it was just a question of waiting. 

And the wait was over.  

I grinned. "Stephanie, approve him, but internally make it a loan of two million," I paused, and continued, "and ten - discreetly of course."

Stephanie had known me for years, she didn't ask any questions. 

So when Graham got his first payment due he was suitably surprised to find his loan payments about ten times what they had been. He went to the bank enraged, sure there had been an error. 

There was no error. The system clearly said he had borrowed 2 million, and now it was time to pay. 

Oh and pay he did. 

He could only watch as his house was sold, his wife divorced him, his kids hated him, his friends deserted him. I found him on the streets one day, begging with some coins in a cardboard box in front of him. I knelt down, patted him on the back and gave him a ten. 

James' eyes widened, and he looked up at me, almost crying. "Th-thank you sir, thank you so, so much!"

I just smiled at him and walked away, whistling a merry tune. 

Jun-18 $10.00 (disputed)- North Hill Cashpoint

Jun-19 $35.99 (card) - Grant's CCTV

Jun-19 $200 (online transaction) - Wiring for beginners E-learning

Jun-20 $140. 50 (card) - Edmund's electrical supplies

Jun-20 $450 (online transaction) - Cloud CCTV storage systems

Jun-20 $1000 (card) - Bennett's Professional PI services

Jun-21 $200 (card) Gate world- Consultation fee

Jun-21 $1200 (card) Gate world- Products and Installation

Jun-22 $5200 (card) Gunz Gunz Gunz

Jun-22 $150 (card) Easthill shooting range

Jun-23 $1000 (card) - Bennett's Professional PI services

Jun-23 $5000 (transfer) Strength Armour vehicle services inc- deposit

Jun-24 $802.99 (online transaction) - Steven's Security- Tracking equipment

Jun-26 $32, 899 (transfer) - Strength Armour vehicle services inc- Remaining balance

Jun-26 $150 (card) - Gunz Gunz Gunz

Jun-27 $500 (card) - Brasenose and Philips lawyers

Jun-27 $120.01 (card) - Pete's Petrol

Jun-27 $5.00 (card) - Southern Phone- North Hill Police station

Jun-27 $5000 (transfer) - Brasenose and Philips

Aug-23 $32, 246.51 (transfer) - Government Victim restitution fund

Aug-24  +$10.00 (transfer) - Northern courts

Aug-30 $10.00 (transfer) - Government Victim restitution fund

Remaining balance- $0.00

Be nice, first writing prompt and I don't know how to format!
Dang dude he had a familyWhen I was a kid, I thought winning a lifetime supply of Oreos would mean truck after truck appearing at my house, each overflowing with Oreos. Back then I didn't think about things like where in the world we'd keep that many Oreos, or the fact that they'd all go bad shortly after, or that sooner or later I'd get sick of eating them. I just had this grand vision in my head I guess, didn't want to let it go. So I was pretty disappointed when a little package showed up on our front porch.

There were fifteen Oreos in the package. I asked my mom where the rest was, and she told me more would come next month. Waiting an entire month seemed like torture at that age, and made what arrived doubly crushing. Another package of exactly fifteen Oreos. It slowly sunk in to my little head that this was what winning a lifetime supply of Oreos looked like. No trumpets and fanfare, no overloaded trucks pulling in one after another. Just a little packet of fifteen Oreos on the first of every month.

Fifteen! I couldn't believe it. That wasn't even one Oreo for each day!

The grand imaginings we have as kids rarely come true. For example, I wanted to be a marine biologist. Then the whole world started collapsing and now there are hardly any fish even left, much less people with the time or tools to study them.

And yet, those packages kept coming. To my house. To the shelter. To my tent. To the stick laid against a tree with an old coat draped over it so I could huddle under, away from the worst of the rain. Wherever I went, there they were. Fresh and neatly packaged up on the first of every month, like nothing bad had ever happened anywhere.

For a long time I tried to figure out where they were coming from, who delivered them, how they were finding me, anything. I ran after every lead, pursued every theory. Aliens? Fairies? Time travel? Some bizarre joke? All in my head? But I never found anything, and eventually I gave up on finding out. I didn't want to finally get my answer only to realize it was like everything else- Like the trucks of Oreos, like undersea exploration, like falling in love. Something that seemed to exist just to disappoint people naive enough to believe in it.

Today was the first of the month, I'd guess. Haven't had a calendar for a long time, but the deliveries never fail. This time the package was placed neatly across a few sturdy branches of the tree I'd slept in, hoping to avoid the mess of trouble that had gone on below. I wasn't sure how I'd get down considering I'd messed up one of my legs pretty darn badly in the night's scuffle, but my package was close enough to reach from where I sat. Same little shipping label as always, though the address lines had been left blank since I stopped having an address.

I opened it up. You think I'd be sick of them by now, but when times are rough you wouldn't believe how good that sugar tastes. Only, strange thing, there weren't so many in the package this time. Five was all, I was ten short. I considered that maybe wherever they came from was running out, or that something else had gotten to my supply before I had. Then I considered something else.

A lifetime supply of Oreos.

I guess this is my last one.
Do you remember all the Oreo contests? The ones where if you had the special cookie design or special colored filling you had found the proverbial golden ticket? As a kid, I was obsessed. I spent all my spare money on Oreos. Package after package. My parents thought it was cute. My friends thought it was awesome. 

It was an obsession that paid off. I found one of the winning cookies, and I won free Oreos for life. Every month, I received a shipment. The postal carriers would make jokes about the oreos, and I would laugh and give them a package. 

This went on for years. Until nuclear war broke out, and the country was obliterated. I survived, so did my father. But we lost my mom and my sister. We only survived because we had gone to tour a college campus that was in the middle of nowhere. Far enough away from the epicenter of the blasts. 

We lost everything. We couldn't go back for months the area was so irradiated. We, along with other survivors did what we had to. Raiding, stealing… dad even had to kill someone. 

The first package of Oreos, sitting alone on a shelf in a looted out store seemed like a joke. We took them, and enjoyed talking about mom and sis as we ate.

The second package was less of a joke. We still had a functioning minivan, and when we returned to it, a package was on my seat. 

Over and over for months, packages would appear in places they had no business being. We thought we were being stalked. Hunted. But no one ever came for us. So, eventually we just accepted the Oreos and moved on.

Until yesterday. The package we found yesterday had been opened, and on the inside of the peel back top was a note. A note summoning us to the Oreo factory in New Jersey. So now, intrigued, we are on our way.

r/LandOfMisfits

Edit: Capitalizied Oreo's

Part 2:

The trekke took us months. Even though we had a functional van, the roads were in horrible shape. Burned out husks of other cars sat desolate on the road. We didn’t hurry - I mean, what? Was the world going to end? Again? Still, the steady stream of Oreo’s continued. No more opened packages, no other sign that we had been summoned. 

Many times Dad asked if I was sure that I wanted to go there. He felt we were being led into a trap. I reasoned that we had been eating the Oreo’s for months. If someone wanted to hurt us, all they had to do was poison them. It’s not like we checked anymore. We saw few enough people that we had let down our guard. 

I did wonder though. Why me? I had been a small child when I first won the endless cookies. I had thought maybe at first it was someone from our past, but as we travelled farther and farther away from our home, that likelihood decreased exponentially. Not to mention the fact we never saw anyone leaving the packages. It kind of reminded me of the Santa figure from my childhood. 

As we passed through DC going north, we passed through one of the largest reestablishment settlements we had seen. More people than we had seen in a long time. Full camps of people, most of which warned us off our journey north. Philadelphia, we heard, was where the first bomb hit. We would have to travel through the irradiated zone to get to the factory. 

We stayed in the camp for a while, trying to decide our next course of action. That was, until the rate at which the Oreo’s appeared rapidly increased. First it was one when I was walking, then another on a bench that I was just about to sit on, then a whole pile on my bed that night. Whoever needed us there was in a hurry. We were on the road again the next morning. We chose to go up the coast, as close to the ocean as we could. 

At some point we had to figure out where we were going. We knew that the cookies were baked in New Jersey, but honestly, neither of us had ever been there before. I sure did miss the internet. We had maps and postcards and stories of people who remembered from before the bombs. Together, we were able to form a picture of where we were going. Just north of New York city, in a place that I thought was part of New York State, a small town called Fair Lawn. 

Traveling in New Jersey had been hell. Dad had gotten sick from the radiation, and I couldn’t remember if I had hair on my thighs or not before we entered the area. Reaching Fair Lawn was like a breath of fresh air, something that I could only recall from memories. We found a nice home to stay in, evacuated at some point with the owners to never return. The house we chose even had a bathroom decorated with Oreo paraphernalia. We had a good laugh at that one.

We slept well that night. however, we woke up to a pile of Oreo packages on the ends of each of our beds. After we dressed and walked outside, we saw something we could hardly believe. Thousands of empty Oreo packages rolled down the street like dried tumbleweeds, caught on bushes and trees. As we walked to the factory we realized that was all just a distraction to the real issue. We were not alone. 

Hundreds of people were camped outside of the factory. Many standing in line, holding notes or packages, just like mine. Summoning them here. Just like me. Ever cautious, Dad and I backed up to our temporary home. We debated what was going on, until Dad decided to find out what was going on. He had me stay back, and took my note with him. 

Now, I’ve never been one to listen, so of course I followed him. Just in time to hear, “So you’ve been chosen too? You were also a lifetime supply winner? We all are.”

r/LandOfMisfits
Damn the ending is pretty neat.“G’day, I’m Steve Irwin. Today on ‘Hell Hunters’ we’re searching for the rare and mysterious *Hellhound*,” Steve said.

He walked along the cracked fields of broken rock, stepping gently with his tan boots, threadbare cargo shorts and low-cut olive tee. He stopped abruptly at a ridge, then held a hand out towards the angelic camera crew, beckoning them forward. 

“Now, a lot of folks think that the hellhound is a big scary beast. That’s all false. They’re just a bit misunderstood,” he said. 

He pointed towards a burning field, lowering his voice to a whisper. “That right there is a mother hellhound with her pups.”

The angelic camera crew shuffled forward on the bluff, zooming in for the best possible view. On the fields, the mother hellhound ran in circles. Seven balls of flaming floof ran after her. 

“When most people think hellhounds, they think—danger! Danger! Danger! But that’s not true at all. In fact, these  are some of the most intelligent creatures on the fiery plains!”

He jumped down from the bluff. The angels started in protest, but they had learned long ago not to question Steve. Instead they shuffled their wings uneasily and watched the commotion. 

Steve moved forward. His footsteps clattered over the rocks, and the mother hellhound swiveled her head, staring him down intently. 

“Check this out. When I approach, the mother hellhound is going to raise her fiery hackles in defense”—the hellhound growled, flames spitting around her—“Right now she sees me as a threat to her pups, so this defensive technique is normal. What I’m gonna do is make myself small.”

He hunched over in the fetal position. The hellhound growled, but her tail began to wag. The pups huddled around their mother, then slowly started forward. 

“Aww now, there we go, easy now,”—he reached into his jacket pocket—“the pups just want to play, they haven’t learned the difference between friend or foe. Now this is a critical moment.”

He pulled out a small chew toy. “Check this out! Now watch.”

He held out the bone. One cautious pup started forward and sniffed it. The mother hellhound moved forward, inches away from Steve, the bearer of death incarnate. Flames scored her pitch black fur, her fangs white with fury, hackles raised with spines of white fire. 

Then the mother bent down, snatched the bone from Steve’s hands, and walked away. The pups followed her, but not before one of them climbed up to Steve and licked his face.

“Now look at that. Ain’t she a ‘Beaut? A lot of people think that hellhounds are evil ugly monsters, but that’s not true at all. You just saw it for yourself.”

He walked back towards the camera, and the angels set up a fantastic shot of him sitting on the bluff, overlooking the fields, with some really terrific lighting. Steve sobered for this portion of the show. 

“Now the terrible thing about these creatures is that, more and more they’re being driven to the brink of extinction. With the cooling of the Sulphur pits, their natural habitat is being destroyed, and it’s a shame that in my grandkid’s lifetime we may never be able to see these magnificent creatures again,” he said. 

He shuffled a bit, pointing out towards the fields where the hellhounds ran free. In the post-production room, Steve imagined they would do a slow zoom towards the happy hellhound family. The audience would watch them toss around the chew toy like it was the happiest moment of their lives. Maybe he could touch the hearts of a few lost souls and show all the amazing creatures from the depths of hell. 

For his eternity, that would be enough to turn any hell to heaven. 

​
I COULD HEAR HIS VOICE. Magical shiznit this story is.You know, I really couldn't say when I first saw the lines.

I mean, sure, I know it was sometime around my tween years when I saw them for *sure*.  I was 13 when I saw the brightly colored lines cutting straight across the gravel parking lot, leading me back to my parents after I had gotten lost on that road trip.  But before that?  I really couldn't say.  Maybe I had seen them before, mistaking them for pavement lines and supermarket markings.

Regardless.  After I noticed them, I couldn't help it.  I saw them *everywhere*.  Two lines, red and green, etched into the ground like they were marked in paint.  No one else could see them.  I'd commented on them once, to my mother, and she looked at me like I was crazy.  I was old enough at that point to know to keep my mouth shut.

But I watched, as they wove their way in and out of my life.

And, as one does, I inevitably found myself overwhelmed with the *need* to investigate them, to see where they led.  The curiosity was more than I could take.  The memory of that first time was too fresh in my mind, of the green line leading me straight back to safety.

And so, when I was 14, I grabbed a botle of water and a snack, and I followed them.  The green line, of course.  Green is good and red is bad, right?  It just seemed smarter that way.  It had taken me on a winding, twisting path, deeper and deeper into the city, until at last I found myself at a robotics tournament being held that afternoon.  

It was *thrilling*.

I had no idea that something like that was even a thing, but my interest was piqued.  I decided - I wanted to do something like *that* with my life.  And I looked at that little green line with newfound respect.

So I followed it again.

Over and over, I followed it.  And time after time, my life was rewarded for it.  It took me to the front door of a prep school where I met Mr. Graves, whose tutoring I hold directly responsible for getting me into college a few years down the road.  It led me out of danger, as a kitchen fire burned out of control in my school.  And, it crossed my path with that of the woman of my dreams.  Literally.  We smacked into each other in a crosswalk.

So, here I was.  I was 30, and the world was at my fingertips.  I sat in my leather gaming chair, in front of the desk holding all of my equipment.  I looked out the window of my top-floor penthouse, gazing down at the city below.  The walls were covered with the awards I had won, in automation and robotics and system design.  My lovely, smart, beautiful wife was in the other room, reading a book as she brewed coffee.

It was perfect.  Really perfect.  All thanks to that little green line.

But I couldn't help it.  I was *bored*.  

My whole adult life, I'd relied on that invisible line to guide my steps.  It hadn't bothered me when I was younger.  I was just a kid, and this line opened doors for me I didn't even know *existed*.  I'd followed it without hesitation, trusting it to take my life where it needed to go.

Now that I was older, now that I had time to stop and think about it, I wondered if this had all really been for the best.  Had I just taken the easy path?  Had I gone with the flow, and given up on taking my life into my own hands?  It kept me up at night, I'll be honest.

And through it all, it burned, in the corner of my vision.  That red line.  It seared into my sight like it was on *fire*.  It demanded attention, begging for me to give it the shot I'd only ever given its green brother.

That old curiosity was back.

And so I grabbed an old messenger bag out of the closet, a remnant from my college days.  I threw in bottles of water, and a pocket knife.  A charge cable for my phone, and a granola bar.  I laughed to myself, as I saw it.  It looked so much like the bag I had packed, all those years ago, when I first walked the green line.  But that felt right, you know?

I slipped out the door, with a quick goodbye to my wife.  She accepted my excuses of taking a walk without hesitation, pressing a kiss to my cheek and wishing me a good day.  I smiled to myself, as I left the house.  She was the best thing that the green line had ever gotten me.

And then I stepped onto the red line.

Once again, it led me into the city, deeper and deeper.  But where the green line had taken me straight towards the center of activity, leading me towards schools and conference centers, the red line seemed to be taking me right to the worst part of town.  I flinched away from seedy glares, eyeing my bag and the make of my coat, as I hurried onwards.

I hoped this wasn't going to be the last mistake I ever made.

The buildings around me loomed higher, the roads and streets giving way to narrow alleys.  I was *about* to give up, to declare this a fool's errand and turn back.

And then I heard her crying.

"Please.  Please, no.  I swear I won't say anything.  I don't have any money, I- I don't have *anything*.  Please just let me go and I swear I won't ever-"

"Shut it."

The woman's voice was high, reedy with fear, and her tears threatened to overwhelm her words entirely.  It stopped me in my tracks, before I even had a chance to hear *him* speak.

The voices were coming from ahead.  The red line burned, inviting me onwards.

Almost against my will, I found my feet moving fowards.  And then I saw her, huddled on the ground in a mass of scarf and hair.  A man was in front of her, kneeling, with her purse torn open in front of him.  He dug through it, tossing receipts and makeup cases aside carelessly as he looked for anything valuable.

In his other hand, he held a gun.  It pointed at her lazily, weaving back and forth as he eviscerated the bag.

They were right there, no more than twenty feet in front of me.  Neither of them saw me.  The man's back was to me, and the woman was in no state to notice.  

My hand plunged into the bag slung over my shoulder, latching reflexively around the familiar shape of my knife.  I didn't know what I was going to do with it, but having it in my hand made me feel a *little* better.

I needed to call the cops.  This was all wrong.  There was no way I could do anything to help her.  I was just going to end up getting her killed, or myself, or both of us.  He had a *gun*.  What could I *possibly* do against-

His hand swayed, the barrel pointing back at her.  His finger tensed on the trigger.

Before I had time to think, I was running.  The knife was out of the bag now, gleaming in my hand as I thrust it towards him.  Towards his neck.  If I could knock him over, if I could get that gun pointed *away* from her-

I swore colorfully as I stumbled.  The man grunted in surprise and pain, as my knife dug into his wrist.  I winced, even as I ran headlong into him.  Turns out my aim with a knife *sucked*.

But it got the job done.  He fell, cursing and screaming, as blood flowed from his wrist.  The gun clattered to the cold pavement, forgotten, as he stumbled back.  His eyes were locked onto my knife, through the mist of pain I could see in his expression.  

"What the *fuck*?"  He cursed again, clutching his wrist.  "Dude, fuck *off*."

I swiped the knife at him clumsily, more threatening than actually intending to hit him.  He swore one last time, jumping back.  "Fuck this.  Keep your shitty purse, lady."  With one last parting jab, he spun on his heel and vanished rapidly down the alleys.

The woman was a mess, eyes all red and sniffling desperately.  But she pulled herself together as I approached her, beginning to tuck her belongings back into her bag.

"Are...are you ok, ma'am?"  I asked tentatively, my voice low.  She glanced up at me, smiling.

"I am now.  That asshole.  I- I was so *scared*.  Thank you *so* much.  Thank you.  I don't know what would have happened if you-"  

"Don't worry about it.  I'm glad I was here.  We should get you to the police."  I cut her off before she could go on.  I knew the signs of an incoming meltdown, and figured I needed to get her somewhere safe before her emotions finally caught up with the shock.

She nodded, accepting my offered hand with a grateful nod, and we stumbled onwards down the alley.

I glanced dowards.

The red line glowed brightly ahead of us.  My stomach roiled.  *More*?

The noise of the city was returning to normal around us, as we returned to some semblance of civilization.  I began to relax, just a hair.  And then, as we turned towards the main street, I hesitated.

The red line was turning, down a different alley.  It led half a block down, and then cut straight up to the front door of a little shack.

I could see a tiny, hazy tendril of smoke, rolling out from under the side door.

The line *burned*, screaming red in its urgency.  It seared a line into my vision as I looked down the alley.  I paused, caught deep in thoughts.  Questions, that had been lingering in my head for years, and answers that had suddenly become apparent.

The green line took me where *I* needed to go.  It showed me the easy path.  The path that I needed to take.

What if...What if the red line showed me the hard path?  Not the path that I needed, but the path that other people needed me to take?  What if it took me to where other people needed me to go?

"Can you manage from here?"  I heard my voice say, ringing distant in my own ears.  The woman glanced back to me, smiling faintly.

"I think so.  Do you have to go?"

"I..I think I do, yeah."  I didn't look back at her.  My eyes were still locked onto that little building.  The smoke was growing, swelling by the second.  I half turned, releasing the woman's hand and giving her a reassuring smile.  She returned it shyly, waving as she merged back into the flow of pedestrians and made for the police station.

I turned back to the red line.  And then I broke into a run.

[deleted]XD It's a fairly dark topic when you think about it, yes.  But how many people do you walk past on the street, who wind up dying in horrible accidents shortly after?

Anyway.  That kind of thing happens more than we like to think.  The whole red-line mechanic just absolutely calls it into focus, though :)  Would definitely be a fun facet of it to explore.The door was built into the side of a cliff, but about a foot of Martian dust had accumulated in front of the step. A red square was emblazoned on the front, with the yellow image of a hammer and sickle right in the center. Years of sand-blasting storms had taken their toll, chipping away at the edges of the paint until it was jagged and faded. Only the slightest outline of the letters "CCCP" were still visible.

“Definitely Russian,” Commander Davis radioed back to the Mars habitat facility. “Soviet Era.” That had been the working theory ever since the door had been identified in one of the rover’s photos, but no one had been sure until now. The Russians had steadfastly denied that they’d made it to Mars, much less that they’d established some sort of colony. But who else could it have been? Who else had a secretive space program?

The hatch was locked, of course. “Should we knock?” Rodriguez joked. Commander Davis gave the door a hearty pound, but no one answered. Their drill, originally built to excavate soil samples, wasn’t exactly equipped to cut through solid steel. Instead, they bore holes through the red rocks around the hinges until it crumbled apart and the door came crashing down. The airlock was dark and silent. 

Davis and the crew entered the facility. The winding hallway descended deep under the mountain. They passed by room after room, full of bunk beds for sleeping and a large cafeteria with neatly stacked trays. Some of them held computers larger than the rover they’d driven over here. There was an entire floor of greenhouses, now just full of withered stalks and brown soil. 

“What do you think happened here?” Hatfield asked, shining his flashlight on a teddy bear that had been abandoned in the hallway.

Finally, the expedition found the colony's inhabitants in some sort of large gathering space, like an auditorium. The door was sealed from the outside, with no escape. Through a thick window covered in scratch marks, Commander Davis could see decaying bodies in red jump suits. Some were holding others in one last embrace. Others were apparently trying to escape through some sort of vent, with little luck. 

“Commander?” Norvolisk, the only member of the crew who could read Cyrillic, trained his flashlight beam on a sign. “This hallway leads to the General’s office, it says.” 

This door also had a lock, strong enough to be a bank vault. But it was open. There was a single body at the desk with a pistol in hand and a hole through the forehead. Also on the desk were a stack of journals, each marked with dates ranging from 1963 to 2002.

“Day 1,” Norvolisk read aloud. “The Soviet Republic of Mars is hereby established with the purpose of keeping the People’s Revolution alive even in the event of catastrophic war on Earth. Should the Americans learn of this installation, we would most certainly be a target for attack, and cannot live on the surface in plain view. Therefore, my crew of two hundred is busy hollowing out this living space…”

“Damn,” Rodriguez said. “How in the hell could they establish an off-world colony without us knowing?” 

The journal that Norvolisk was reading started listing off what supplies they’d brought with them, which (while interesting) was really not the question on everyone’s mind right now. He dropped that and picked up the most recent one, last dated March 21, 2002. 

“After 12 years since the last reply from Earth,” the final entry read, “I am forced to conclude the worst: there has been a nuclear war, and our comrades are destroyed. The replacement parts for the water recycler will never arrive. Even this failsafe colony will not be enough to keep the human race alive. Instead, we will all die of dehydration. Faced with that consequence, I had no choice but to exercise Protocol 92 and terminate the colony in a quick and relatively painless way. The gas was deployed at approximately 16:00. Their screams…” There was a tremor in Norvolisk’s voice as he read the entry. The page was spattered with small flecks of blood. “Their screams will haunt me even after I take my own life. Should humanity ever rise from the ashes and return to the red planet, know that we tried. Long live Father Lenin and the People’s Revolution.” 

You know that feeling you get, when you think you're alone, head down, bumming along doing your own thing, when you suddenly realise someone's been there the whole time, watching you? It's a jump, a kick-start, a burst of adrenaline... your whole body saying "something's not right, be on guard". You immediately begin to second guess you actions, what was I doing, how did I miss them, what are their intentions? It's a deep, primal, animalistic response to being startled. 

That's the feeling I got when I caught a glimpse of the flag the first time. 

There I am, one of 3 people on an entire planet, scouting for physical evidence of ancient river beds. We'd been here for 4 Earth days at this point, so I was used to the un-exciting terrain. Rocks and dust everywhere. Red and black and brown, endlessly in all directions. I had come around a small rocky hill, scanning this horizon, when there it was to my left, a flag-pole. 

I think I did a double-take. Half "that's a flag-pole", half "THAT'S A FLAG POLE." I stopped dead in my tracks and re-evaluated my position. I was on Mars. There were 3 of us. Nobody had ever, ever, ever been here before. None of my crew-members had been out this way. But yet... that was distinctly a flag pole. As I approached it, the wind kicked up and revealed the tattered remains of a cold war era Soviet flag... had to be at least 100 years old. My mind was still trying to wrap itself around why this was here, and my body was telling me to run. My hands felt sweaty and my breathing was heavy.  At the base of the flag was a black cube, about a foot each dimension. It had handprints set into two sides. 

My curiosity got the better of me. At this point, I really should have radioed into my team to tell them what I had found. I should have marked the location on my nav-map, and retreated, to be explored later. I shouldn't have touched the box. But I did. I placed my hands where the outlines were on each side, and as I did, my head exploded. 

It was like a shot of light stabbing me in the eyes. A searing pain gripping my entire body. Unholy screams tearing through my ears. Unable to breath, unable to move, it felt like I was being compressed into a marble and torn into a billion pieces at the same time. The event lasted for what seemed like a lifetime, and then... it just stopped. I was left with an understanding. Knowledge. Somehow, the cube had implanted a lesson in me, instantaneously. I knew why the Soviet flag was here. I knew why the Russians had never claimed any great accomplishment on Mars. I knew why the cube was here. It was a warning, a last ditch effort by humanity of old to save us from ourselves. I knew it all to be true. 

The solar system had been seeded with life by a passing comet several billion years ago. Earth, Mars, and a third planet between Mars and Jupiter, understood as "Utopia" in the transfer. Similar life forms evolved on each of the planets, but Humanity had evolved on Utopia within the last several hundred thousand years. Over time, humanity had reached the point of being able to visit the other two worlds, and had begun to establish small colonies for research. 

Over time, Mars would become more heavily populated. Earth was the sore thumb of the trio, with the least favourable environment, and was therefore left to the scientists to poke and prod at, never a plan for full colonization. Mars became a second arm of the human civilization, growing larger and attaining it's own identity. Political strife created a rift between Mars and Utopia, and eventually, war. War that would last 1,000 years. War that was so engrained into the minds of the Martians and the Utopians, that they did not know another existence. War that was taken to such extremes, that when the Utopians began the irreversible process of syphoning Mars' atmosphere, the Martians blew up Utopia. I could feel the pain of billions of lives lost, as though I was there to witness the events unfold. 

The remnants of humanity that were able to escape Mars left for Earth, and left behind the cubes as a reminder of what once was, and a warning that there were no more second chances. Earth is all there is left. 

The history books will tell you that America won the Cold War. But I now understood the truth... the Soviets had won, and they had won by silently backing down for the good of humanity. There would be no second chance, we were already living it. > last dated March 21, 2002.
> 
> “After 12 years..."

Ah, because the Berlin Wall fell in 1990. Nicely done.I wanted to put in something about how there was some counterpart receiving facility in the USSR that had been destroyed when the USSR fell. But there's no way for any of the astronauts on this mission to really know that, so there was no good way to introduce that fact.

So, yeah. The USSR intentionally cut off contact, hoping that at least this little enclave of Communism would be able to remain. I had spent several chapters already reading without seeing a choice. The book was long, but only like, lord of the rings long, I had gotten pretty far at this point.*Maybe the title is a lie. No. Angel's don't lie. Do they? Maybe they aren't angels. Maybe you're in hell.*

I stopped reading on the last thought. With considerable effort I pushed it away and kept reading the incredibly boring story of my infancy. Blah blah blah I ate mashed peas. Blah blah I hated them. Another spoonful is coming.

And thats when I saw it.

*You chose to close your mouth and turn away. To follow that path, go to Library Seraph, Wing Delta, Row 82, Shelf 7, Book 22, Page 83.*

*To knock the food out of your mother's hand, go to Library Saint, Wing Alpha-Omega, Row 2, Shelf 1, Book 30, Page 872*

*To accept the food, go to Library Heart, Wing Epsilon, Row 110, Shelf 3, Book 4, Page 220*

Yeah, I was going to be here a while.

Edit: Formatting.[deleted]**Please let me know what you think!**

The book looked oddly delicate for something so big. The plain, black covers were frayed and the pages within soft and thin, tearing away from the spine in some places. It looked like a book that had been shelved, and re-shelved often, loved and read over and over again.

My name was written on the first page, not in some curlicued calligraphy, but with a plain, steady typewriter font. I couldn't help finding that oddly appropriate.

I had expected some novel, some plain and staid recounting of my life. But the contents had belied the plain cover.

"You have a choice," I read. "Do you choose to accept Malcolm's proposal?"

I had turned him down. In reality, I had decided to leave him behind, to forge my own career, rather than support his. What would have happened, I wondered, if I had chosen to stay?

I had heard someone say that, for every choice we didn't make, there was another universe, where we did make that choice. Had some other version of me made the decision to stay? What had her life been?

Almost of their own volition, my hands turned the page. I only caught a glimpse of the words at the top of the page. 

*'Yes,' you cry, tears streaming down your cheeks. 'I'll marry you.'*

My fingers brushed over the words, and suddenly they were words no longer. I was standing in front of a grinning, jubilant Malcolm, as he slid the ring over my finger.

A lifetime flashed through my mind, or perhaps it was only a few minutes. It was hard to tell the difference.

A wedding, in some garden, laughter and joy as I walked down the aisle. Standing behind Malcolm at a rally, clapping and cheering as he talked. Even to my own eyes, I seemed young and idealistic. I lived through the birth of one child, then another, watching them grow and mature. Bittersweet tears ran down my cheeks. I could have had that. I could have had a life and children and a loving husband. I had become involved in various charities, making a real difference in real lives.

And then, as abruptly as the barrage of images had started, they stopped, with no clear ending.

"What happened?" I asked.

The dark figure who had brought me here, to this library said nothing. But I realised that it didn't need to answer.

"I died first," I said numbly. "The other me, the one who chose to marry him, outlived me. Her story's not done yet."

I wiped the tears away. "Good for her. I know she'll make good choices."

There was a soft question, so quiet that I almost missed it. 

"Do you regret not marrying him?"

I thought of my quiet life, and my cat. I thought of the occasional dates I had and the solitude of my home. I thought of my sister and her brilliant, vibrant family. I remembered my niece, and my nephews and their adoration of their slightly insane aunt. I thought of my promising career, and of dying young. My life may not have been exciting, but I had been content.

And I thought of the other me, who had married a man she had loved and had had children who surprised and amazed her. I remembered her tiredness and frustration with her routine life. But, in the end, she had been content with her life, too.

I laughed, "No, I don't regret it. I don't regret making my choice. No life is perfect."

A shadowy hand flipped through the pages and I saw yet another choice on the page. I settled down to read, to watch the lives I could have led and the people I could have been.

/r/YarnsToTellI awoke to the quorking of ravens.  The fact that I knew that sound meant ravens, or even what quorking was, surprised me, but didn't concern me.  Nor did the fact I couldn't quite remember where I was or what I had been doing.  That too, should've concerned me but, pleasantly, didn't.  It felt like I was waking from a long nap, a bit foggy but refreshed.  The ravens flapped and hopped around their perch in a way that seemed to indicate confusion or argument and, for a time, I just watched them.  It was some time before I realized there was someone else in the room, or space, or where ever this was.  A hooded old man, also observing the ravens with something approaching paternal concern was turned away from me.  I tried to clear my throat politely but the sound echoed impossibly and all three figures turned to regard me.  

"Greetings traveler," the old man said, "You've caused my little friends here a bit of confusion.  It seems your tale is a bit unusual for my halls, so I've chosen to hear it directly.  Tell me sir, are you a warrior of your people?"  

It didn't feel like an interrogation and somehow I wasn't scared.  It was like my grandfather had asked me about what I had for breakfast that day.  It felt right to reply, and suddenly memory became clear.  

"Uh...sir, no...not a warrior.  Actually, farthest thing from it by most peoples way of thinking - I'm just a cook."  I felt this would somehow end the dream, or whatever this was, or the man would be unimpressed, but he wasn't.  If anything, he seemed to be smiling.  

"That explains this," a dented, scratched spatula appeared in the mans hand.  Memory seemed to awake at the sight.

"Yes!  That's mine!  I mean, well, the one I always use.  I guess it's my favorite, as much as a spatula can be.  I was using it just a little while ago, making....what was I making?  I'm sorry, I can't remember."  I felt the need to apologize to this figure, although I wouldn't be able to tell you why.  He seemed familiar, somehow, like a relative I hadn't seen in years.  

"Don't bother yourself with worry, traveler.  Why don't you take up your favorite...spatula, and tell me of your...labors with it."  The old man offered the spatula to me, handle first, carefully, almost tenderly, like it was precious and fragile.  I reached out a hand to touch it and felt a flash of memory.  

"I...I was in the...cafeteria...Yes, that's where I was.  I work for the district and was making lunch.  Chicken tenders and tater-tots, green beans, apple sauce, even a little salad.  It's good for the kids to have good food to eat, don't you think?  I always loved working with the kids and the district was kind enough to give me a job, even though I had a record." 

It felt natural to say this to the old man.  He was feeling more like a long missed friend so sharing with him was comfortable...easy. 

"A cook, for children?  That was your task?  Your role amongst your people?"  The question wasn't delivered with malice or derision, the old man wasn't mocking me or being cruel.  If anything, he seemed..surprised, maybe even a little impressed.  

"Yes, I love working with the children.  Little Cheryl and Tommy and Franz were always nice to me, always tried to tell me jokes.  I made sure to give them extra tater-tots - they love tater-tots.  They even made me some macaroni art!  I hung it up behind the counter so I could see it every day."  The children.  Something about the children.  Something horrifying was crawling at the edge of my memories.  The children were in danger! The old man must've seen panic on my face.

"Peace, traveler, the children are safe," The old man put a hand on my arm and I instantly felt a peaceful calm return, "tell me of this day, friend, then we can go from this place."  

"Today?  Normal day I guess.  Spilled tea on myself getting ready, had to change my shirt and almost clocked in late.  I was just getting ready for lunch when I started hearing something from upstairs.  I didn't think the kids were doing a field day and the banging was so loud.  I went to look out and kids were already running down the stairs, screaming and crying..." I could feel tears of my own forming at the memory..."I saw Tommy and Franz holding Cheryl...trying to push their hands against her side, already slick with blood.  Tommy was missing a chunk of his right ear but didn't seem to care, he was holding onto Cheryl as hard as a 7 year old could.  He was so brave, even as the other kids ran in every direction."  The memory was an avalanche now.  The screams of panicked adults and terrified children.  The smell of blood and gun powder.  The thunder of the shots getting closer. I remembered.

"I...I took them into the freezer, in the back of the cafeteria.  Tommy, Franz, Cheryl....all the kids I could find.  I found the big first aid kit we always keep in the cafeteria and yanked it off the wall to throw into the freezer with them and told them not to open the door, no matter what.  Then I broke the handle and I think..." my memory ended with the shock of impact, of a force on my back and a sudden red stain on the freezer door.  Understanding slowly unfolded in my mind.  

The old man stood silent for a long time.  The ravens had taken to his shoulders at some point and all were looking at me intently.  It was only now that I realized the old man, face hidden in shadow, seemed to have a patch over one eye.  He also had a tear running down his face.  

"I see now why my little friends were confused, traveler.  Midgard has changed greatly since I last walked there and with it, so has the shape of battle.  Thankfully, what hasn't changed is the stout heart of man."  The old man seemed to be drawing himself up, getting impossibly big and powerful looking.  In the distance, horns blared.  "Listen, friend, the horns of my hall are sounded for you.  You have a place among the honored dead here.  You fell upon a field that should never have been a battleground, defending those who should never need be warriors.  You showed the bravery of long ages past and when you did, you held this in your hand."

The final memory blossomed in my mind.  I had used the spatula to break the handle, that's why it was dented and scratched.  Something new blossomed there.  I could see minutes later, help arriving, the freezer being forced open, medics attending the survivors.  

Even little Cheryl.  

I saw a memorial in the cafeteria, candles and flowers.  I saw drawings of crayon and sparkles, thank yous and prayers, Cheryl walking slowly, still bandaged, crying, laying another piece of macaroni art on the pile.  In the middle, on a small stand, was the spatula.  My spatula.

I turned to the old man, who I now knew as if he was my father.  He indicated a direction and we began walking together towards his distant hall as his ravens took flight, quorking to themselves contentedly.  


Edit 1:  I am stunned and humbled by the response this has elicited, especially from folks who work with or at schools themselves.  Thank you all.  I will try to respond to all the comments I can individually, and will thank all the folks who were generous enough to gild this directly as soon as I can.  I'm also integrating the very helpful feedback from a few folks who noticed I drifted into the 3rd person a few times.  

Edit 2:  A few people have asked if I had a subreddit, so I've decided to condense all the prompts I've responded to over here -   I hope a few that didn't get much traction the first time around get some new readers.  

Edit 3:  Check out /u/NachosGalore [reading of the piece]( - I think it's great! "Will the deceased please rise."

I stood. The court of Asgard was quite intimidating. Odin presided with Thor arguing against us.  "As you can see," Thor said "This is no weapon, merely a cooking implement. Like any other, surely we wouldn't let any hero with a spoon into Valhalla now will we?"

The crowd in the courtroom laughed. My lawyer stood "Objection your honor, speculation." The lawyer adjusted his suit, when your soul was on the line, the best lawyer would do. Loki smiled and raised his arms in a plaintive gesture. "At least I don't think we've ruled that spoons aren't weapons."

Odin peered down with his one good eye. "Mmm sustained, no precedent has yet been set for spoons."

"Withdrawn... father." 

"Tell me, if the prosecution thinks a spatula isn't a weapon, what exactly is a weapon?" Loki asked baiting the trap.

"Why, it's a tool meant to defend oneself of course. Staves, swords," Thor smiled and raised his hammer Mjölnir above him "And hammers." The crowd hooted at the sight of the legendary weapon. 

"So anything that you use to defend yourself you say. What about from non corporal threats, like magic for example, threats to ones survival of all types would seem to count correct?"

Thor thought for a moment. "Yes I suppose a charm could count as a weapon. Protection from magic is self defense."

"So would protecting yourself from existential threats then count? Like starvation, if you can't feed yourself you are in jeopardy. Can a weapon be used to feed yourself?"

"Indeed!" Thor exclaimed "I have often used my hammer on hunts."

"Ah HA!" Loki exclaimed "So therefore using a spatula to prevent your starvation makes it a weapon?"

Thor looked confused, "That's obviously not what I meant."

"Stenographer please read back what Thor just said in response to my last question?" Loki asked with an ingratiating tone. 

"Ok let's see, Loki: Can a weapon be used to feed yourself. Thor: Indeed. Shall I continue?"

"Thank you, that'll be all stenographer," Loki replied. "So by the prosecutions own logic a spatula, used to feed oneself and protect from starvation is in fact a weapon."

"Your honor the defense is willfully misinterpreting my statement. Surely you must see this."

"Do not presume to tell me what I see Thor Odinson..." Odin replied in a booming voice. "I rule in favor of the defense. A spatulla can be used as a weapon."

I stood and pumped my fist, "YES! Valhalla here I come."

"On the condition," Odin continued "That you use this weapon come Ragnarok."

"I... uh," I studdered

"Take the deal" Loki whispered. "You just have to fight a giant snake with the other heroes. You won't even have to do anything."

"Very well, I accept this deal. I shall save the world." I smirked, "With a spatula.""So, what are the choices again?" I asked the Celestial Advisory and Determination Committee.  Sitting before me were representatives of all the afterlives available.  From St. Peter to Charon the Ferryman they all stood looking at me, "How do you have time to do this for each person?"

"Time is different here," St. Peter said then continued, "Heaven is the place for you!  An eternity of soft clouds, harp playing, and just praising the Lord.  For all eternity."

"A Lord," Buddha suggested, "There are more than one, stop hogging the Lordiness."

"Harp playing and clouds," I said, interested, "What else is there?"

"That's it!" St. Peter announced proudly.

"Hard pass," I said holding my hand up as his face dropped, "Next.  What about you."  My finger was pointing at who was obviously Satan.

"Party's all day.  Liquor that flows like a river.  Gambling 24 hours a day," He said this all non-nonchalantly and my face brightened.

"What he doesn't mention," said Buddha, "The Party is attended by the people you hate the most, the liquor is Miller Lite, and you always lose while gambling."

"Buddha!" Satan said simply, "Remind me to sneak snakes into your bed."

"Another hard pass," I told Satan and he deflated, "What about you Buddha?"

"I offer nothing," the Buddha said, "For I am perfectly content."

"Content to screw up everyone's sales pitches, you rotund son of a..." Satan mumbled.

"Enough!" This huge warrior yelled and everyone jumped, "Send this puny fool to some afterlife full of sissies and wimps.  He is unworthy of Valhalla."

"What's that supposed to mean," I said, standing in my chair and bristling, "What's so great about Valhalla?"

"Puny fool," the warrior said, "I represent Odin the one-eyed.  Even with two eyes I can see you are unworthy.  Valhalla is for warriors who died with a weapon in hand in the heat of battle.  In its hallowed halls you drink mead all day long and speak of battles past.  You begin the day with a fight and end with a fight.  It is for men."

I looked at Buddha expectantly.  He just shrugged, continued smiling, "It's true. Alcohol all day long and lusty Valkyries by your side."

"I want in!" I said, slamming my hand on the table.

"You've never used a weapon in your life, coward," the warrior laughed and I was enraged.

"I'll have you know I died with the greatest weapon of my age in my hand..."  I was just talking at this point.  What did I die doing again?  Oh yeah, heart attack scrambling eggs after binge watching Netflix.

"That weapon being?" the warrior asked, raising a giant bushy eyebrow.

"A spatula!" I said, looking around the room.

"But a spatula is..." a round face started.

"One more word, Buddha, and I'll wipe the contentment off your face."  I yelled and the warrior laughed.

"And you killed with this weapon?"  the warrior asked, judging my next words carefully.

"Many men," I said simply, telling him the truth.  You see, there was no lying in these hallowed halls.

"We leave for Valhalla in the morning, brave warrior." he told me, clapping me on the shoulder so hard I cringed.  The room emptied of grumbling eternal salesman.

"I do not understand," the Buddha said, raising an eyebrow, "A spatula is not a weapon.  How did you kill many men with it?"

"I was a fry cook for 30 years at the grungiest diner you ever saw," I grinned, "If the food poisoning didn't get them, the hardened arteries did."

Buddha grinned. 
holy
shitI want the Ragnarok storySorry, went kinda heavy with this prompt.  Hope you still thought it was ok!  “Thanks reddit,” I said, “Y’all make this community spectacular. I’ve been coming here for a few years just to have fun reading and writing, and apart from getting banned once when a mod thought my story was so terrible that I must be trolling, the feedback has always been constructive. I think that says a lot about an internet community. The rest of the internet can get pretty negative and rude, but the people who hang out on /r/writingprompts are really awesome to each other. And I really mean it when I say-”

Something tapped my shoulder from behind. I swiveled my chair and saw Revolutionary Comrade Zoot—the protagonist of the very first story I posted to /r/writingprompts three and a half years ago.

“Remember me?” Zoot asked.

“I, uh,” I sputtered. I racked my brains trying to remember his name and his plot arc.

“You forgot?” Zoot said, shocked.

“You’re blue,” I said desperately, “Um, you’re like a… a communist type alien, um,”

Zoot frowned. “I was part of the prompt: [WP] You are the heir to the family business of being a superhero. At 16, your power is unveiled, but no one expected what it was…” 

I nodded, the memories beginning to stir.

“You gave me the superpower of superdreaming,” Zoot said.

"That's right," I said.

"I always wanted to ask you something," Zoot said.

"What's that?" 

"What's your dream?" Zoot asked.

"Me?" I said, "It's pretty simple. I just want people to read the stuff I write."

"So you've made it, then," Zoot said, "Just like me."

"Yeah," I said, "I suppose I have. All because of reddit."

"Thanks reddit," Zoot said, turning to face YOU, the reader. "You're awesome."

ze end!

Isn't zoot one of the virgins from Monty pythons holy grail*Carl ended up going to prom with Alice, I hated him.* 

I giggled as I read the line. This library of biographies is fantastic. There is so much memory of each person, all collected within one room. Everyone’s life is recorded, every scrap of information, every thought, every emotion they felt at the moment. There is no one insignificant in this room, from historical figures to the beggar, all of our stories are recorded. Our experiences, whether they be of a hard struggle or of a blissful moment, not a thing that made our lives colorful is missed from these biographies. 

I still remember that moment, when Alice came to tell me she was going to prom with Carl, the utter humility, the disappointment… It was everything to me at the time, and I hated the son of a bitch. The the one who showed little interest in actually committing to a relationship, the one who ended up dumping her anyway after the night, was the one who actually got to go on a date with her. Even then, I toughened up, and acted, pretended, to give them my best wishes and extending my hand to him to tell him no hard feelings, so I can tell myself what I nice person I am. God I hope that poor bastard suffered the rest of his life. 

And that’s when I went to look for Carl’s biography. Section D, number 10523, it was a remarkably short one. I am in my fifties and my biography is already the size of a Thesaurus, his is more close to a high schooler's notebook. 

As I turned page after page, I realized, his life is remarkably boring. The guy spent most of his early life in-doors, quiet, without much friends. Commentaries on his experiences remained bland for the most part -- “Learned to ride a bike, just like dad said I would.” And another “Straight As again, mom would be proud.” There were no further comments on what those experiences actually felt like. They were just a description of an event combined with how he thought other people would feel about it. There was also very little mention of himself, which is odd for a biography… 

Until I reached the section about Alice. The narration here is different. There were detailed descriptions of how he thought of her as the most beautiful thing he had ever seen, how he would go the library on days she would go study… What a creep. 

The next section somehow returned to the old boring narration. 

“Diagnosed with lung cancer, inoperable. Best case scenario, two years” 

The guy died within two years later, and more than half of this book remained is about the two years he had! 

The rest of the biography read like a bestselling novel, each event, no matter how tiny they seemed, was filled with emotion, with hope and strive, with how much he wanted to ask for Alice’s hand despite knowing he’s dying. How hard he worked to be comfortable talking to others, the jokes he had to memorize to make himself sound funny, the countless webpages he read to make himself presentable. 

“Asked Alice to prom today, she said yes surprisingly. I knew she was supposed to be going with another guy, Matt. I know he loves her, and I know there won’t be a future for Alice and me. I just had to do it. I’m sorry...” 

I quickly flipped another page, I had no idea. 

“Matt didn’t flip out. Perhaps he knew how pathetic I am, or it was because he saw there will be no future between Alice and me… Despite this, he extended his hand to me, and told me there was no hard feelings, that neither Alice nor me owe him anything. He patted me on the back, but there was something odd about it, he was hurt, yet he remained strong. He told me to have fun, that there’s one prom and that's it, before telling me to be brave with a wink.” 

“Alice and I had a blast at the prom. She seemed interested in seeing me again, and so am I. I looked at her beautiful blue eyes, they definitely sparkle under the night sky. My sight lingered on her as I am reminded my doctors predictions. I told her we won't be seeing each other again. I tried to give her a pat on the back, but she shoved me away with tears in her eyes… Getting admitted today, getting worse. Though each time I lay on the bed, I can't help but remember Matt's look when he patted me on the back -- have fun, and be brave. And I did, thank you Matt!” 

I closed the book, a barrage of emotion hit me as I struggled for words. There doesn't seem to be any for this moment except perhaps 

You're welcomeI ran my finger along the frayed volumes until I found the single, ancient tome I was searching for. As I plucked it from its shelf, a plume of dust exploded around me, forcing me to step back, coughing and wheezing. I half expected a wizard to appear as the ephemeral fog settled on the ground. There was nothing there, of course, apart from the ornately carved bookshelf.

The book was a burnt brown and whilst still a thick volume, was noticeably lighter than my own had been. My own... *my own book of death*. A biography that charted my life up to now. Up to stumbling upon the Library of Threads and closing the door after me, accidentally locking myself inside.

I knew why the entries stopped where they did, after me finding the library. *I knew I wasn't getting out of here*. There was only one door, and it wouldn't budge no matter how hard I rammed my shoulder against it.

The book in my hands had that musty, comforting smell all old books tend to have. I blinked back my tears, determined to distract myself from my rumbling stomach and dry throat.

I placed the book down on the floor and sat in front of it, legs folded, flipping it open to the appendix. Thousands of names were listed. Dozens of other *Karens*, even. It took a moment to find my surname. 

There must have been a mistake. *Hundreds of pages were attributed to me*.  This person that I couldn't even recall meeting, who had only had a single line in my own book, had hundreds of pages on me. It must be a different Karen that shared my surname.

*It wasn't.* 

I began to read.



>"Mind if I join you?" said Karen, as she approached the building's ledge. The fading sun cast a pastel orange over the street below, softening the city's imperfections, and turning the more pleasing sights into *objet d'art*.

>The man glanced over his shoulder. He was pale, and there was a sheen over his face as if he was ill. Karen didn't notice.

>"Free world," he said, shrugging.

>The concrete felt cold and rough under Karen as she sat down next to him. She swung her legs around, so that they dangled besides his.

>"Karen, by the way," she said, before waiting for a response that didn't come.

>"Not the best spot for fishing," she attempted, lighting a cigarette. She offered the box to the man; he raised a hand and shook his head.

>"You don't mind if I do?" she said, already puffing a hazy mist over the city. "Chilly up here."

>For a while, they sat silently watching the beams of the headlights sail by far below. Then, the man spoke.

>"You ever think about leaning forward and"--he clapped his hands--"*splat*?"

>"*Splat?*" Karen frowned. "No, not really. Maybe of falling in general, occasionally. Of what the wind would feel like against my face, and that rush you'd get for a few seconds. I wonder what pose I'd do... Superman, I guess. It's the classic."

>"I think about it sometimes."

>"...had a rough day?"

>The man sighed. "Yeah. I got some bad news."

>"Sorry to hear that."

>"Thanks."

>Karen took another puff.

>"So. What news?"

>"... got a problem with my liver."

>"Oh, what kinda problem?"

>"Cancer."

>"Oh."  Karen turned and looked at the man. She finally noticed how pale he looked. How worn out. Like a piece of elastic stretched to the point of tearing. Then she noticed his hands. The silver band around his finger.

>"You've not told her yet?"

>The man looked at Karen, then down at his ring. "No. I was just... *I don't know*."

>"Got kids?"

>"Yeah. Little girl," he said proudly. He opened his jacket and pulled out his wallet. There was a picture of a kid, couldn't have been more than six, grinning broadly.

>"She's cute."

>"Takes after her pop," the man joked.

>"If you say so!"

>"It's just... it'll be hard for them, you know. To watch a slow decline. All the treatments. All the hope, you know? It'll just make it worse in the end."

>"Be harder losing a father when they might not have to."

>"... maybe."

>"You kidding? You can't really think-"

>He shook his head. "I don't know."

>"If I was your daughter, I sure as hell would want my pop to fight for me. To never give up on me. It's what dads do."

>Karen patted him on his back, then glanced at her watch. "Shit, I got to get back to work. See you around."



I felt scolding tears spill down my cheeks as I flicked forward a few pages.

He told them. 

His wife held his hand as he entered the hospital to begin chemotherapy.

I skipped a few more. Then a few hundred. I landed on, and read, the entire chapter on his daughter's graduation. He was so proud. He was somehow prouder still, on the day he walked her down the aisle.

Then, I came across another section with my name in it. My hands began to tremble as I read.



>Perhaps it was serendipity that drew David to the Thread Library, and to Karen. 

>Perhaps it was simply fate that allowed David to save Karen, this time around. 

>"Hello? Is anyone here?" he yelled as he stepped inside.

>Fate that he found her sitting there, weeping, in front of the ancient tome. That he was able to take her hand and lead her out of the library.



My hands trembled as I closed the book and held my breath.  

*Hoping.*

*Praying.*

...

...    

...     
    
     
"Hello? Is anyone here?"


  "'Yeah man I feel you; look, don't let assholes get you down. And Hey, keep the change.' Mark said, then handed the cab driver [Name: Dokar Milicevic, ref#, art.1266-pg.629-line.56] a twenty dollar bill." 

  This particular sentence caught my eye, having spent the last several hours skimming over my own life; I couldn't help but wonder what the cab driver might have thought of my gesture. I place the ancient text down onto the marble table in front of me. Leaning over I peer down the dark, seemingly endless, celing-high rows of book shelves. Taking a moment to study the article signs extended from the shelves, I find the article's shelf. I pull myself from the chair, stiff from hours of sitting; to find Dokar's story.

  Articles 1260-1275. I brush my hands over the large dusty books while I read aloud 

  "1260, 63... ah yes 1266. Here we go." I slowly draw the heavy book from it's place and return to the marble table top. I push my own tome forward on the cool surface and place Article 1266 down below it; echoing a quiet *plop* through the giant library's dark halls. The old text's spine cracks in protest as I gently coax it's pages open. I return my view to the cab driver's reference number. "Hmm, page 629, lets see." After a few moments of careful flipping I find the page.

  "'Thank you sir' Dokar replied to his fare [Name: Mark Argus, ref#, art.1034-pg.435-line.12] being the first tip Dokar had received in nearly three days, he could not contain the emotion growing inside of him. Driving away from the kind soul, Dokar began to think of that twenty. His thoughts had been focused entirely on his pistol waiting for him at home; but now his mind wandered somewhere else. 'There indeed is good in the world.' He thought biting his lip. The plan had been to tell his last fare how cruel the world can be, then blow his brains all over his cheap apartment walls. Now, this random stranger changed all that. 'How strange, that the person I planned to be my last fare would tip me such a large amount.' Dokar continued to ponder. 'Maybe this is a sign, from somewhere, that I should stay alive. Maybe my life has a purpose.' Dokar in that moment remembered his love [Name: Selika Dovkovic, ref#,art.1254-pg.982-line.23] and how much she did mean to him. Dokar looked to the passenger side to locate his phone; he found new life and was ready to tell Selika how much she meant to him. However, before he could find his phone- a loud horn pierced his ears. Dokar looked up in time to see the headlights of a 18-wheeled vehicle. A explosion of sound rang around him as everything turned white. [Dokar Milicevic's Death: 2019, April 12th, 3:43PM]"

  "Well, Fuck." I said aloud. I sat back into the old chair in shock. Astounded by the huge impact my small choice had made on Dokar's life. I sat in silence staring into nothing, and for a moment I almost lost interest in reading the Tomes of Time. Then i remembered I was to be stuck here after my own death for all eternity...

  "Might as well just keep reading about that time I could see into the girl's locker room." I returned to Article 1034 and unbuttoned my fly...Just so you know if you're dealing with a stuck door IRL, don't throw your shoulder at it. You'll dislocate your shoulder before you can get the door open. Kick the door near the handle instead"I just don't know how I can live like this, Doc. Seeing her now just makes my skin crawl," Roger said, staring at the ceiling of his psychiatrist's office.

"And the medications I prescribed you haven't been helping? You still hallucinate that you're suddenly transported to see ex-girlfriend Liz?" Dr. Meadows asked.

"It just happened again two weeks ago. One minute I'm getting ready for work. Then I step out my front door and suddenly I'm on the other side of the state. And there she is looking all weepy and stuff."

"And what did you do?"

"I turned around and left, just like I've been doing. Took three buses and a cab to get home. Somehow managed to not get fired."

The doctor nodded her head slowly. "I have to be honest with you Roger, your case is baffling to me. Your hallucinations are remarkably complex and vivid, and all manage to hold some kind of strange internal consistency, save for the fact that you magically teleport to other places."

"I've heard this speech before Dr. Meadows. You're my third psychiatrist. I hoped that this new cocktail of drugs was going to do the trick too. But it sounds like I'm just certifiably crazy. Save your breath, and don't bother trying to refer me to someone else. I guess I'll just have to live with it."

"I wasn't going to refer you away Roger. Your case *is* baffling to me, but I enjoy the challenge. We need to try some out of the box thinking here. Avoiding your hallucinations doesn't seem to be working. When you get home from here, I want you to look up your old high school flame and call her. The real one. Maybe some connection to the real version of her will help you move on from your subconscious' obsession with her."

"Isn't that going to seem a bit, I dunno, stalker-ish?"

"It might," she said, standing to show Roger out. "But have you really got anything to lose?"

"I guess not," he answered. He stepped out of her office, pulling the door shut behind him.

As the door clicked shut, the hardwood floor of the office was instantly replaced with muddy grass. Heavy drops of rain pelted him from dark clouds hanging in the sky. A chill wind blew right through the thin jacket he was wearing.

Roger looked around. He was standing in a cemetery. There was Liz, standing over an open grave, clinging tightly to an umbrella. A preacher of some kind stood in front of the grave, droning on in the bored tone of a man who wasn't getting paid enough to eulogize a man he didn't care about.

Liz lifted her gaze from the grave, and her tear filled eyes met Roger's. He turned and started to walk away, but stopped. Roger turned back and looked at her. She was still staring at him, but now her expression turned to confusion.

Roger hesitated a moment longer, then started walking toward her. She seemed to recoil slightly as he came and stood next to her. He looked at the grave marker. It was for Liz's dad.

The two of them stood there wordlessly while the preacher finished his ceremony. Finally, he snapped his book closed, and nodded in the direction of the two of them. The preacher turned on heel, and left them standing by the open grave.

"I'm sorry, about your dad," Roger said finally.

"Thanks," Liz said softly. "You haven't talked to me in a long time."

"Not since high school."

"I thought all those times I saw you walking away meant I was getting better. Somehow I'm glad that you're here though. It's better than being alone. But I guess this means I'm still crazy," she said.

Roger looked at her, studying her expression. "Who isn't these days?" he asked after a pause.

She let a small laugh escape her lips. Liz looked at him, and smiled. It was the first time Roger had seen that since they had broken up.

"Would you stay here with me a while?" she asked softly, tears starting to well back up in her eyes.

"Sure," Roger answered. What did he have to lose?

*Pop*

"Oh...hey, John." 

"Hey, Margarete." 

John sighed. Her bedroom was a mess - a total, absolute, pig-sty-hit-by-a-tornado kind of mess the likes of which made him cringe. Magazines, sheets, and even bits of old food covered the carpet like a layer of soil. But it was nothing compared to her. 

It was a familiar scene to John at this point. Her crying, sitting on the edge of her bed, not quite covering the bruises over her eyes. The apartment was different, at least, but the story was nothing new. New guy. New place. Same problem. 

He started to clean.

"How is Dave treating you these days, Mar?" He asked, feigning ignorance as he picked up a particularly crusty Playboy. 

"Gone." She said, simply. "He was cheating, like I thought. Like you thought, I guess. So I got out." 

"That's good news, Mar." John shot her a sad smile as he dumped the first pile into the trash. "And the new guy is...?" 

"Josh." Margarete said, quickly. "He seemed so nice at the bar, paid for me and everything. A real gentleman." 

"But he hit you, didn't he." John said. 

Margarete didn't answer. He continued to clean in silence. 

"You can't just...it wasn't his fault, Ok? He was drunk!" She finally snapped. "Who the hell are you, coming in here, telling me how to live my life? With your...your good clothes, fancy shoes! I bet you never had to deal with any crap in your entire life!" 

Still, John was silent. He moved into the bathroom, which was somehow in an even worse state. 

"I don't see any needles this time. Cutting back?" He called. 

This time, Margarete was silent. John kept cleaning. 

"Mar? You still in there?" He asked, poking his head out into the other room. To his surprise, she was looking up at him, cheeks stained with tears. In her hands, she held a small stick made of cheap white plastic, half hidden behind her shaking fingers.

"John...I. It's not..." She stammered. "I...I can't. I can't leave, not anymore." She held the object up, half displaying it to John as if she wasn't sure that she wanted him to see it. "It's not just about me anymore." 

John swallowed, finally understanding. "Whose...?" He asked. 

Margarete just shook her head. "I don't know...it could have been Dave, I guess. But I can't go back there, John, I just can't!" 

John nodded. "I understand." He said. "But, Margarete...you can't stay here either. You know that. What will Josh do when he finds out? Or...did he already find out, and this is what he did to you?" 

"I'm so scared, John!" Margarete sobbed. "I don't know what to do, where to go..." 

"It's going to be ok, Mar. I promise." John said. "Do you still have your cousin's number? Up in Newport?" 

Margarete nodded. 

"Good. Go there, and don't look back. They'll help." 

"Thanks...John, I...Just. Thank you." Margarete said. "I...I don't know what I'd do, if it weren't for you. Sometimes, I just wish we'd never broken up. Maybe things would have turned out different." 

John just chuckled. "No, Margarete. I don't think it would have worked out. Besides, it would break my fiancé's heart if I broke up with him now." 

Margarete stared. "You're...?" 

John nodded. 

He blinked, and he was home. His real home - sitting on his bed, fully dressed in the dead of night, his partner breathing softly beside him. He hadn't waited up. 

John laid down and sighed, staring up at the ceiling. He had thought that the shock might have been enough to send him back, but her expression haunted him. Confusion, disgust...to think, for over a decade they had known each other, and she'd never thought to ask why he left. 

He only wished that he could have done more before he did. 


"I'm getting really fucking sick of this!" Mitch shouted at Juniper, working quickly to untie the ropes that held her hands behind her back. 

"Yeah, well I wish you never had to show up either. But here we are again." Juniper kept an eye on the door to her interrogation room, waiting for the foreign agents to return. 

After gnawing on a particularly tight section of rope, Mitch spat. "Can't you get a more relaxing job? Like in an office? I could just show up to help get the printer working or something like that."

"Mitch, you know this has been my life's ambition."

"But it isn't MINE. You've dragged me along for this whole ride, working your way towards the top of the heap. I think you LIKE that I was cursed."

Juniper rolled her eyes, but said nothing. Her bonds fell to the ground. As she rubbed her wrists, Mitch crossed his arms and pouted. 

"I'm going to get fired, ya know. I can't keep randomly disappearing with no notice."

"So I'll get you a job in an office with my association."

"I want nothing to do with you!"

The handle of the steel door turned with a clunk. A grating squeal of rusty metal cut through their argument as Juniper's captors swung the door open. 

As they rushed in to fight, Juniper took them on alone with nothing but the chair, the rope, and her martial arts skills to aid her. 

Mitch shrieked and cowered in a corner. He never was much help in a fight. The first time was confusing. Mark, in fact, used the words "WHAT THE ACTUAL FUCK IS GOING ON!?" but as an impartial, polite narrator, I'll use 'confusing'.

It was a mugging. Lyla was coming home from her first date after the breakup and the dude pointed the knife and 
said, "Give me the purse, bitch."

And Mark, in his underwear, a yellow lipstick of Cheetos around his mouth, materialized in front of them, straight from his living room couch.

"WHAT THE ACTUAL FUCK IS GOING ON!?" he uttered, as previously mentioned, which was not intended to, but 
had the effect of, stopping the mugging right away, as the mugger, upon watching a half-naked man materialize 
himself in front of him out of thin air like popcorn bursting into existence from corn except with a person and 
nothingness (Jesus, what a crappy narrator I am), proceeded to politely say "Oh, fuck," and go home (later, I heard, he checked into an institution and got into New Age music and Paulo Coelho, but that's a story for another day).

Well, after much debate, Mark and Lyla decided that what had just happened was either collective hallucination or 
undeniable proof that the universe was fundamentally different than humanity had been assuming for thousands of years and all human knowledge had just been rendered obsolete and we'd have to start over from the pre-Socratics on. They figured it didn't really matter, because either way they both had lives to get to and shit to do, and decided to get on with their stuff. They parted ways.

It was after the third time (the second being another, totally unrelated mugging), when Lyla got trapped in an 
elevator during a power outage and Mark materialized itself once more in front of her, that they figured out that 
the whole thing was a pattern, and that apparently Mark would show up whenever Lyla was, in his words, "in some deep shit or whatever."

"So whenever I'm in trouble, you just… show up?"

"Apparently."

"Why!?"

"Gee, Lyla, I don't know, let me check my International Guide to Unexplainable Phenomena."

"You're being sarcastic, aren't you?"

"No, I really have a guide for unexplainable phenomena."

"Now you're being sarcastic about being sarcastic, aren't you?"

"I'll add another layer if you keep bothering me."

"God, you're annoying, no wonder I broke up with you."

"I broke up with you."

"No you didn't."

"Internally I did."

This continued for something like forty minutes, until the firemen came and rescued them (as, of course, though 
Mark had indeed materialized in front of Lyla to be there in her time of need, he lacked the tools to get them out of 
a stopped elevator.)

It started getting suspicious, as far as Mark was concerned, the seventh time Lyla was caught in the middle of a disagreement with drug addicts in the town's worst neighborhood. That's when he started suspecting foul play on her part.

All the same, he kept to himself, standing by her side as the crackheads robbed her… then him (because, it turns 
out, crackheads are not as easily spooked by people materializing out of thin air as muggers are… these guys just 
said "Woah, dude just popped into existence. Let's rob him too!")

Then it was a cliff – literally, Lyla standing on the edge of a cliff, about to lose balance, and Mark popped up by her 
side to save her. 

Then it was a minor car accident.

Then a fight with this bitchy girl she knew from high school.

Mark decided to say something when he suddenly materialized in front of Lyla inside a warehouse filled to the 
ceiling with towers and towers of cocaine packs and surrounded by angry, machine-gun wielding Brazilian men somewhere deep in the rainforests of South America.

"Okay, that's it," he said, as soon as he laid eyes on Lyla, tied to a chair in the back of the room, behind some drug stacks. "What the hell, Lyla!?"

"I'm sorry," she said, "I got lost hiking."

He got closer to her, untied her, careful not to alert the men patrolling the warehouse just behind the stack of 
cocaine they were pressed against. "No you didn't."

"Excuse me!?"

"Look, I'm sorry it didn't work out between us," Mark said, as she got up and rubbed her wrists. "But you gotta 
stop putting yourself into dangerous situations just because you want to try to hurt me."

"What!?"

"You don't think I've noticed!? Seven muggings! Random fights! Random cliffs! And now you show up at a drug 
warehouse in South America!? You hate hiking! Come on, Lyla, it's so obvious! You're trying to get me killed!"

"Who's there!?" came a voice from behind the cocaine stack, because Brazilians speak English when it's convenient for the plot.

"Is that what you think I'm doing!?" Lyla asked.

"Well, isn't it!? Why else would you keep putting yourself into these dangerous situat –"

"BECAUSE I MISS YOU, YOU IDIOT!" She pushed him. "I MISS YOU AND I DON'T HAVE THE GUTS TO CALL YOU 
AND THIS IS THE ONLY WAY I CAN THINK TO SEE YOU FROM TIME TO TIME."

"Hey, there's a dude with the girl we caught over here!" One of the drug thugs showed up, pointing the gun.

"You miss me?" Mark asked, quietly.

"Yes, you idiot. What, you think I take trips to the rainforest and end up on coke farms by accident?"

More men showed up, all wielding machine guns. They pointed.

"Fuck, why didn't you just say so?"

"Cause you never seem happy to see me."

"THAT'S BECAUSE WE'RE ALWAYS ON THE VERGE OF DEATH WHEN I SEE YOU, NOT BECAUSE I STOPPED LOVING 
YOU!"

"You still love me?"

"OF COURSE I DO, YOU STUPID BITCH!"

"Why are you yelling?"

"BECAUSE WE'RE ABOUT TO DIE!"

She looked at the men. Then at Mark. "It does look that way."

"I'M GONNA KISS YOU NOW."

"Okay." She smiled.

And they did kiss. And then, of course, the Brazilian drug men opened fire and they died a very bloody, horrible death, but it was kind of romantic, really. I thought so, at least.


Awwwwww, this is how I imagined it. Guy is called crazy and in the end they re meeyWhen she's like, "I bet you never had to deal with any crap in your life!" All I could think was, "Lady, he gets teleported to your dumb ass all the time at random. Yeah he has some crap he's had to deal with!"Thanks, I'm glad you liked it. Although you seem to have a had a stroke near the end of your comment.Zulth had believed in humans for as long as he could remember. Theories of them had been around for decades, of course, but only with recent advances in radio telescopes had their existence been all but proved. 

The first patterns came through just fifty solar cycles ago. 26 unique patterns. A codex? A language? A password? Scholars had puzzled over the patterns for decades. Some argued that they were simply binary stars in eccentric orbits, but these held little weight when the repetition of the pattern continued unabated with no error or ‘eccentricity’. 

Then, thirty years, a breakthrough. A message, left overnight in rural Rhiuu’th, in the middle of a large, flat tors field. The symbols meant nothing by themselves, and could have been explained by local pranksters. But soon other, similar but definably different messages appeared across the globe. That, as we say, was all there needed to be. Soon the patterns became linked to the shapes and a language was born. A method of communication. 

The problem; the truly infuriating thing; the thing that really, really frustrates the minds, is that we are still not advanced enough to send up our own response. Where would we even send it to? And how long would it take to arrive? Would this mega species still exist? Would they still care. Well, yes. They would. 

And we can prove it. 

Just 5 short solar cycles ago a message came through, as if answering our cries of impatience with omnipotent clarity. The message is repeated hourly, and has permeated our culture. It drives us. It helps us retain our ambition and our scope. We repeat it as a mantra, hourly. A planetary obsession, if you will. 

We know they will wait for us. They have told us as much. For they tell us, and we tell ourselves;

“Never gonna give you up. Never gonna let you down...”**"Flee, they're coming"**

That was the message broadcast to the world in complex repeating binary a hundred years ago. It took that long for scientists to recognize that it was a signal among all the noise and actually realize that the amount of energy necessary for it to be noticeable meant that somebody either very technologically advanced or very specifically interested in us wanted us to know. 

Whatever the reason was, once we realized the significance of that, we also realized that the implications sounded dire. That was seventy-five years ago. That was when the first ark ships were drafted, when we were nervous but we still had hope.

The plan was everyone was to be moved off-world and to the nearest star, in the hopes that we would sidestep whatever threat was headed out way. As a species, we'd never accomplished anything even remotely like it before, having only some nascent colonies on the nearest planetary bodies. It required experimental technology and an unprecedented amount of cooperation, but it was worth it for the species.

Forty years ago, five lights winked into the night sky in the southern hemisphere. Telescopes trained on them found them to be a brilliant blue-violet, so bright they were almost painful to look at. The scientific community erupted into debate. Governments tried their best to keep panic low, but a growing contingent of scientists were arguing that the blueshift of the objects put them at impossibly fast speeds towards us, and the timetable on the arks had to be pushed up.

The tension on the planet was like a pot about to boil over. Most governments were still working, doing their parts to ensure our survival. Some nations were having problems, though. Society's scars showed themselves again, as previous enemies fell back into old habits with infighting and hate crimes. So much of the world was focused on the arks that there were precious few extra supplies to keep everyone else insulated from the hatred and violence of others.

All throughout the fear, the lights in the night sky slowly shone brighter. Even the oblivious among us could not deny that the formation the lights were in bore a striking resemblance to the necklace worn by Saviik, an ancient shapeshifting goddess of destruction. It would have been a coincidence for most, had it not been for the fact that she's recognized in lore by the necklace she wears, no matter her form. Slowly, we lost more across the world to the old religions, as they abandoned their work on the ark and began to accept their demise in fervent prayer.

Ten years ago, the first of the ark ships were completed. The world rejoiced, but only for a moment. Somebody - either noble or foolish, depending on who you ask - couldn't keep the secret any longer and revealed to the world that these would be not only the first, but the last of the ships. There were no plans to build any more, because there was no time.

The barely restrained chaos could no longer be controlled. The world erupted into brutal war, as people fought desperately to secure a coveted spot on one of the arks. More blood was shed and atrocities were committed in the name of survival than had occurred in the previous two centuries. Families, neighborhoods, cities, entire nations tore themselves and each other apart, sometimes literally. The ark ships launched in desperation, most only partially full. Some of the more fanatical of Saviik's worshippers managed to sneak onto one of the arks and detonated it in the air, convinced that escape was tantamount to heresy in the wake of her purifying light. Millions of lives were lost in an instant.

Five years ago all semblance of the world we once knew had disappeared entirely, as the last nation gave up the pretense of self-governance and collapsed. Our world was nothing but brutal and fearful tribes, cut off from contact with one another. I survived only by keeping my head down and scavenging what I could in the cities. 

A year ago I lost the last connection to my old life - my son died in my arms after we accidentally scared another group of scavengers. I watched the life leave his eyes as he bled into the street, the assailants running off into the night. 

Nothing about my life is the same as it was a hundred years ago. I curse the message for its omen, as I would have preferred to live out the last century in peace with my family, instead of in fear. I curse myself too because I can't bring myself to end my own life. I simply... exist. Sometimes in a state of acute bitterness, but mostly I am numb. 

An hour ago the lights entered our atmosphere, and one of them now hovers above the city. It's clearly a ship, and nobody knows what to make of it. Some prostrate themselves and mumble blessings feverishly. Some hold friends and family close. Some hide in the ruined buildings and cover their eyes. Some, like me, just stare. I try to keep impassive, but I can't help but feel my heart flutter. Could this be the end I'm finally looking for? Could I finally be at peace? The idea is almost too much to bear.

The ship, after hanging still for so long, suddenly begins to shift. Surfaces on it unseal and change, the whole thing opens like some twisted flower pointed towards us. A light appears on the bottom, and a huge roar fills the air as the light crackles with angry energy. I feel the hair on my body stand up on end and I close my eyes, the faintest smile playing on my lips. The roar becomes deafening, drowning out the panicked wailing and ululating from us below. I tilt my head towards the sky, and the light sears through my eyelids.

I am ready.

But nothing comes.

Instead, a small sound played like someone passing wind, and the flower opened up to reveal colored strips and squares of paper as they fluttered to the ground. A strange figure stood there on the ship in a suit, convulsing and making a strange barking noise at us, before speaking in a guttural language.

It paused, fiddling with some controls on the suit, still barking and convulsing. Suddenly it was speaking our language.

*"Oh, oh my god -"* it said doubled over between barks, *" - you should have seen the look on your faces."*

It took a while before it stopped barking, and then longer still before it stopped convulsing, and stood up straight. Then it cowered in mock fear, and went into another round of shaking. Eventually it stopped that too and looked out at us.

*"Well,"* it said finally, gesturing out at the whole scene laid before it, *"good luck with all.... this."*

And with that, it left.But of course we would rickroll aliens. “I love you, grandpa,” my youngest grand-daughter, Sherry, said as she squeezed my hand.

I looked up at those emerald green eyes she had gotten from me, at my entire family’s as the heart machine’s slow beats gently faded. Eighty years had passed by in a blink of an eye. When I had been Sherry’s age, I had thought myself invincible. Then, at forty, I had worried constantly about death, thinking through sleepless nights about it. But now, I realized that it wasn’t so bad. Because if there was ever a scene to immortalize, to be my last, it would be this. Sherry, her bright green eyes glistening with tears, my children and grandchildren all around me as the heart beat monitor lulled me to a gentle and permanent sleep.

“I love you too,” I told them all and I closed my eyes.

My eyes opened.

“How was the trip?” a familiar voice asked from beside me.

I looked around at the purple moss smothering the rolling hills and the campfire burning in front of me. On my lap was a bong. At last, I remembered. My name had never been Terry, it was Zor’oah.

“Yo, dude, you back with us?” Galmroh said, snapping purple fingers in front of my face.

I coughed and nodded. Seventeen eyes looked at me from the six people sitting around the campfire. Just as I had wished as fifty-year old Terry, I had gotten my time back. Zor’oah was a freshman in high school who finally got invited by the popular kids into a drug-fueled camping adventure. Three boys, three girls, and a lot of “*you can’t blame me for that, I was high*”.

Galmroh and Sardak had already paired up, leaving me with Sierrah, the reason I had agreed to come. She now looked at me with sharp blue eyes, a small grin on her lips. Her purple hair had pink streaks across it that dangled off her head and curved into her chest like directions on where to direct your eyes.

“So Zor’oah, how was it? Tell us all the things you did,” she asked.

“Bet you can’t beat me,” Galmroh said, his chest inflating with pride. “My first trip, I enslaved an entire race and forced them to build these stupid triangles.”

“At least he can’t do as bad as Sardak’s first trip. He was just a slave. At least he killed someone before his trip ended.” Sierrah said.

They turned to me again, waiting to hear of all my misdeeds. “I was a man named Terry,” I muttered. “And um… I met this girl named Sarah.”

Sierrah’s smile grew. “Sarah, eh? Tell us, what nasty things did you do to this *Sarah*?”

Blood rushed to my face, burning it a deep violet. “I married her,” I said.

Galmroh choked on a breath. Sardak burst out laughing. The rest of the girls only furrowed their brows.

“Yeah.” I knew I should stop. I had spent an entire semester trying to join this circle and continuing the Life of Terry was social suicide. But someone had to know of that first kiss with Sarah, the look in her eye staring at our first child together, and the tears in Sherry’s eyes when she told me her final goodbye.

So I told them, my voice tinged with pride. At the end of my story, I was the only one smiling and my smile stretched from cheek to cheek.

“Dude,” Galmroh said, awe in his voice. “That was… super lame.”

Everybody burst into collective laughter.

“You did even worse than me on my first trip!” Sardak howled. “You’re such a wimp! Why are you even here?”

I nodded to that one. “Yeah,” I said, talking to myself. “Why am I here?” I pushed myself up and walked back toward my spaceship.

Laughter followed me the entire way, but I didn’t care. I opened the hatch of my spaceship and was just about to get in when I heard, “Zor’oah!”

I turned to find Sierrah. She hunched over, panting, one of the buttons on her blouse undone. “Hey,” she said, “you don’t have to run. I mean, your trip was totally lame, but your next one’ll be better. Plus”—she bit her bottom lip and her eyes grew big—“you don’t want to be the only virgin in school, do you?”

Beneath the starry sky, the silver luminescence of our twin moons, I recognized the glint in her eyes and for a single second, they were a brighter green than any emerald in the world.

“Sorry,” I told the most beautiful girl in my high school and slipped into my spaceship. “By the way, the trip wasn’t lame.”

My engines roared to life and I flew off into the twilight. There were a trillion stars above me and I knew that around one of them, on one planet, was a girl with wild grassy eyes still clutching her grandpa’s hand. There had to be. Tears filled my eyes as I flew back home.

Fiction or not, it was the most real thing I had ever done.

Holy fuck

That made me real emotional for a monent*From the people who brought you The Purge and The Purge 2: Anarchy....*

"BRAAAAAAAD!?"

*...and the writers of Weekend at Bernies...*

"CHAAAAAAD?! Oh my God..."

*... comes a story...*

"Chad. What did you do..."

*...about friendship...*

"...it just happened!"

"How does murder **just happen**!?"

*...mistakes...*

"God, Chad. It's one week before the Purge."

*...and the limits people will go...*

"...We gotta pretend this guy's **still alive** until then."

*... to keep up appearances.*

"Take his arm, I'll take his other arm."

"No, Ugh. This is never going to work."

"Who would ever think this was a good idea?"

"He's dead, he's clearly dead. No one's going to be fooled. There is a *literal* hole in his face."

"We'll need to steal his identity. And keep up our own identities. Simultaneously."

"Simultaneously?"

"Yes, Chad. 'Simultaneously'. It means, 'at the same time.' Jesus."

*Purge 5: Identity Theft, coming this summer*Only a year ago, I would have killed the woman with a bulldozer. She would have slipped on loose rock, hardhat skittering, and let out a piercing scream. That would have ended her fairly quickly, though. There's a chance I'd have chosen something slower. Trapped in a freezer maybe. Or kidnapped and tortured. 

That's the thing I loved about my old job. I could get so creative. 

Starvation used to be a wildcard. Something only used in the less affluent nooks and crannies. Every so often, I'd toss in a doozie, like a pack of malnourished children in the heart of the suburbs. People were always so astonished at what I could slip right under their nose. Now starvation is everywhere. 

If only I could stop it. 

Human life is in the single digits now. Without them I am lost. 

Somewhere in all the ash, the woman stumbles atop shaky legs. Up ahead lies a gas station. If there's no food inside, she'll die. I can tell she's thinking of her dead husband. She gets these sort of hiccups each time before she cries. "Please," she croaks, hand outstretched towards the doorway. "Please give me strength."

She's not talking to me really, but I feel the need to whisper. "I've told you my secret," I say, though she won't hear. 

"You have to hold on." 

My secret is this: I was just a conductor. I stood before Death, atop an ethereal pedestal. Together we played symphonies. I basked in the music as we ferried mortal souls. But now Death's music plays on even though I've cast aside my little wand. It sounds to me like a timer. 

The woman is three paces from the doors when she gasps. She screws up her lips in pain. If I had adrenaline to pump, it would course through my veins. 

I sweep low to place a bony hand on her pregnant belly. 

"My turn to beg," I say. "Please just a little longer." 

When I was myself, I'd have been near giddy with glee. Pregnancy was an endless well of opportunity. It could go awry in innumerable ways. Now, the thought terrifies me. I've even considered praying.

Onward she stumbles, with me urging from behind. She can barely open the doors. She has become so weak. 

"A little further now," I say. "For all our sakes."

Across the mountains lives another group. I know them well, for they've been whittled down to two: a grisled man and his son. I've pointed them this direction. Really, they're our only hope. That, and the baby being a girl. 

I'd have never thought to imagine it: running short of all options. 

Words fall short when the woman finds a bag of saltines. She crumbles them in her mouth, closing her eyes, sucking the stale salt and grain. They will make her thirsty soon. But for now they are welcome. 

How ironic, then, that at that moment her water breaks. She gasps in surprise. She runs trembling fingers through the muck.

When the contractions start, I tell her she can do this. She shrieks out in agony, and I tell her she *must*. I'm there for each dreadful push, my old purpose flipped on its head. A smear of crimson blood would fill me with despair. Gasps of pain feel like electricity. 

When the baby is born, the woman is crying. 

For a dreadful moment, it's the only sound. 

She holds the tiny thing up, inconsolable with emotion. Then, sure enough, the baby bursts into tears.

We'll need to feed it soon. And the others will need to survive the mountain. But for now, I enjoy the moment. A symphony of tears. After a time, the woman holds the baby close and sings a raspy lullaby. Her poor throat is croaky, completely off key.

I find it absolutely gorgeous. "Sweet baby girl," she sings. 

Chock full of possibilities.

Five thousand left today on all the Earth. I cut the soul of the five thousand and first not one hour ago.

The outcome seems inevitable. One by one, they'll fall. One by one, until no one is left.

What will happen to me then?

I'll take time to consider this.

In the heart of the dying world, I sat down and watched them. Power wasn't going to die anytime soon. The physical laws of the realm had never slipped, only the mortal's grasp on them.

It was only a matter of time, though, before even those laws were devoured, shoved into greedy maws. Released back into the entropic chaos of the universe. Feasted upon like ravenous carrion, skin split open like balloons.

But that was not what bothered me, for those things would happen after I myself had passed on, and it was the nature of all things to die.

And yet...

I reached out with a thing hand, skin so pale and paper like it merged with the List that cradled my body, and infinite expanse of ink that not so long ago had seem truly infinite with it's billions of names and gently brushed the sad little bush growing in the corner of the bunker.

It didn't have a name, but... it didn't need a name. If it were named, I would see it and eventually have to take it. 

I had a partner once, not terribly long ago. It was nice to be remembered back then, deified. Dozens of me in dozens of different places.

That fractal had been stolen from me, and I missed it.

But not enough to forget my solemn task. My fingers flicked across the bush, and I killed the blight growing on it's branches. Death took the individual cells and robbed them of their time, sending vitality back into the plant, and speeding on the journey to the end of another species. Then I withdrew the list the had burrowed its way into my fragile paper skin and ran my fingers down it. Hours. Minutes. Seconds. Days. Years. Billions of names. Everyone that had ever lived. Everyone that was yet to die. It took far too long to reach a name that was not scratched out.

And then I stepped out of the shadows on another shadowed bunker, where the power had gone out. I could hear the shaking of many bodies, cowering in the darkness.

And one soul that had decided to not cower, but stare at me in wonder.

"So you've come for me, have you?" The leader said, their skin blemished with age, cancer, poison, a thousand different causes of death, interwoven in a bizarre tapestry. My right eye saw fate. My left eye saw nothing but the quirk of their lips.

My head slipped to the side.

"Yes, I can see you, pale one. Do you speak my tongue still?"

"I do," I said, slowly. "Have you come to bargain?"

"Bargain?" The leader laughed, their eyes alight with something like amusement, but bitter, deeply so. Like the bushes that had died in africa, too many years ago, or the brushes the tigers had played in greater asia, when death swept through again and again. "There's nothing for me to offer."

"There are always such things to offer," I said, pleasantly.

"Not to a dying world," they said, plainly. "There's nothing left that I can do for you."

I blinked. Slowly, so that fate flickered across my eyes, the gently tugging and whirring of those beautiful weavers. Where had they gone? Another world? Spun their own way into an escape? What pleasant sunny place had they found, where the skies were not choked with ash and burning clouds? Did I miss them too?

I did.

"For me?" I said. "There's nothing wrong with me."

"I saw you once, decades ago, when you came for my mother. Your skin was gleaming and polished like the sun, and radiant,"

My right eye flicked back through fate. Dozens of years taken back in a second, until I saw their mother's name sketched up and marked through, in a hospital, with the sun outside, and bizarre music playing, cake, candles, wind. Did my fingers drift across her hair like the card in thread, or did it drift across the child, watching in the corner, who knew that I was there?

"And now you are as pale as I am. What has happened to you? Have you grown old?"

I stared down at my hand, then slowly twisted it until my wrist ached. How long had I been bound to this world, trapped in the incalculable twists of fate.

Had I once had volition, or was I created for such a role? and when I died, where would the role go? Would there simply be nothing left? Would I appear again when life appeared? I...

There was nobody left to ask. How many names had been crossed out on my paper armor. How many names were left on my paper skin, and how many times would I cross them out in my own blood before my veins finally ran dry?

"There's nothing I can offer you. The power's out, and my temperature is dropping. Soon, my children will join me."

I stared at them for a long moment, then turned away. Man defined fate and meaning. They always had but... what good was meaning now? And yet...

"You will owe me greatly," I intoned.

Their face stiffened slightly, then went into a slack, joyful grin.

Then I drifted through the halls of that dying compound, hand out stretched. Fate had deemed that this bunker die, and plunge the whole of Russia into the domains past this. And yet... when was the last time I had seen another psychopomp. Where was the Reckoner? The Masked? Where were they now, in the infinite fractal?

Or were they gone just as I was, with their skin of paper and fire, knit with ink and dressed in their sunday bests, buried deep in the ground, where nothing could touch me again?

My hand found the generator and I called upon the great conduits still left in the world. They had blinked out, one by one, as the hunger had taken them, each one a scream. Something I'd taken.

Could it be that in the end, the laws that had chained me for so long had also died?

Leaving just me and the handful of life left around the globe?

But a single conduit answered my call. New York, perhaps, buried in it's central park. Coherence and meaning kept them chained, from the few survivors who had left.

And then the bunker slowly whirred back on, powered from afar by the crossing paths.

Heat flooded the bunker, and the dying leader smiled as the shaking slowed, then stopped. Life had been saved. Peace had fallen into their hearts.

And perhaps, hope, for the first time, settled upon them like atomic ash.

And in the sky, cloaked in ash and darkness, there gleamed a single red star of the war god.

Quick note to OP, I think you meant to say Apostles. Jesus had many more disciples than 12.

Rad 9:9

As Jesus went along, he saw a man deaf from birth. Brad asked Christ, "Yo JC, why must this man be deaf? Does he inherit the punishment of his parents' sins?"

"Neither this man nor his parents sinned," replied Jesus, "well, I mean, I'm sure they've all sinned multiple times at many points throughout their lives. That's not why he's deaf, though."

Chad asked Christ, "JC, could you get some miracle whip going and let him hear the voices of friends and cackling of fire? That would be sicker than a leper that hasn't touched you."

"So be it," Jesus said, "my dudes."

Then Jesus caked mud onto the man's ears. The deaf man, confused, slapped Jesus' cheek. Jesus turned his face, exposing his other cheek.

Chad asked the deaf man, "Hey bozo, you copy?"

The deaf man made a noise that only someone that has been deaf for their whole life up until this moment would make. And so he could hear.

Uhmmm.... YES!Rad 14:13

When Jesus arrived in Judea he saw a large crowd before him. He showed compassion on them and healed their sick.

As the sun set, Brad said to Jesus, "These people look like they're starving, JC. Send them all home with enough money to buy themselves food."

Jesus looked out to the crowed and replied to Brad, "I will not give them riches. I just told you this earlier- blessed are the poor, for theirs is the kingdom of God. Hand me your fish sandwich."

Brad replied, "JC, you have been touching sick people all day. But if that is your will, then it shall be done."

And so Brad gave Jesus his fish sandwich. Jesus gave thanks to the lord and split the sandwich. Then he handed a piece of the sandwich to the people in the crowd. They all ate and were satisfied. The number of those who ate was about four hundred.

Chad said to Jesus, "JC you clever man! Instead of handing these people riches to buy food, you hand them food to eat. Do not ever let a Jew tell you that you are not one of them!"You gotta Write Rad 4:20"Quit now Dan!" said the man on the talking billboard. A finger pointing at the lone figure walking down the empty street. Empty due to everyone crossing to the other side to avoid him and his smog.  
Dan paused by a waste bin, small cardboard box in hand. He looked from the box to the bin and back again. Those across the street stopped and stared, ready to witness history being made.  
There was absolute silence as Dan lifted his hand, as if to throw the packet towards the bin, all eyes now on him, even the billboard advert man stopped to watch. He launched it. It hit the rim. There was a sharp intake of breath as it bounced into the air above the bin. It hit the rim on the other side, people held each other in nervous anticipation. The packet landed onto the other trash in the bin and the crowd across the street erupted into thunderous applause and cheering. Celebrating as if a great sporting victory had been achieved.  
Little did they realise that Dan had taken a new packet from his pocket, removed the plastic, drew a long white stick out with his teeth and ignited the end.  
As a large grey cloud left his lips, the crowd died down. realising their premature celebration. There was a disappointed groan and a shuffling as daily activities resumed.  
"God dammit Dan. You were so close." shouted the billboard. They had stopped selling cigarettes 15 years ago. As soon as I had heard they were going to be taking them off the shelves I ran to the nearest convenience store to buy cigarettes. There was a huge line and they had just sold out as I got there. I People were selling large quantities online, so I decided to buy up as much as I could. I had a lot saved up for my vacation this summer, but spent it all buying as many cigarette packs as I could. My wife wasn't happy in the least about that. 

Years of marriage counseling later we were finally on good terms (as good as a smokers terms could be) About a year after cigarettes were stopped in production, I realized that my old habits wouldn't work. I then began allotting myself 3 cigarettes a day. It sucked immensely.

The year was 2035, and everyone else had stopped smoking at this point. By this point, the world had caught wind of how many cigarettes I had left, and so ads began to show up everywhere I went. There was always an article in the newspaper titled, "2543 Days until our world is smoke free." and so on, counting down the days until my stash ran out. Finally, someone broke into my house to try and destroy my stash, but thankfully I had thought ahead. I had a safe installed in my house to keep my cigarettes in. Every morning I would go downstairs and load 3 cigarettes into my special carrying pouch. 

The time was drawing near. The day I would run out of cigarettes. I went downstairs and loaded up my cigarettes, my final 3. I stepped outside. It was a cool morning, about 65 degrees and lit one up. All up and down my street were protesters. People screaming about me polluting the world. They all had signs yelling, "3 more! 3 more!" I ignored them and took a long drag on my cigarette, savoring it. I got ready for work, and drove off, half tempting to run some of the people over. I got my job and there were even more protestors yelling at me. As I walked to my cubicle, I had many angry works. I heard mutterings of people saying they hoped I choked on my last cigarette.

Lunch time came, and I stepped out for my smoke. There were Riot Police there to stop all of the people from hurting me. I felt important having all of these people follow me around. I then got off work and drove home. My wife had made my favorite meal for dinner. We sat and ate dinner in complete silence. I got up and put my plate in the sink. My wife just stared at me and said, "I hope you enjoy it." I step outside and light up my last one. After I put it out, everyone starts cheering, "The earth is now smoke free!" I go back inside and retire for the night.

The next morning I wake up. I go downstairs and eat my breakfast, then decide to step outside for some fresh air. There are thousands of people standing as I step out, applauding me, and congratulating me on the first day of my smoke free life.

I look at them, and reach into my pocket. I pull something out and stick it into my mouth. I pull my lighter out, and light it up. It's a cigarette. Everyone freaks out and starts screaming. My wife runs outside to see what the commotion is about. She sees me standing there with a cigarette in my mouth and screams at me, "Where the hell did you get that from!?!?!?" I calmly look at her and say, "You know that you can grow tobacco, right?" Let's just say I'm not married anymore.

Edit: Holy crap guys. This is my first response to a Writing Prompt. I'm so happy it is so well received. Thanks!Sam's alarm clock clicked on like it did every morning, playing the local sports talk radio station.

"Good morning, Sam! It's a beautiful day out there. Just the kind of day to finally drop that nasty habit. With NicoNever patches, you can finally move on with your life. No more dirty looks. Your teeth will whiten, and you can finally breathe that fresh air. NicoNever patches. They'll save your life," the clock radio blared.

Sam groaned into his pillow. He groped for the clock, hitting the snooze button. *Maybe today should be the day*, Sam thought. *At least it would get everyone off my back.*

The alarm clock kicked on again, this time with a perfectly timed ad for Just Quit gum, flavored with Sam's favorite cherry flavoring. Sam climbed out of bed, and shut the clock off. He showered, and dressed, then hopped on his laptop to check his Facebook before heading to work. 

"SMOKING SUPPORTS TERRORISM, SAM," one of the sponsored posts at the top of his feed read. Sam rolled his eyes. He snapped his laptop shut, and lit up a cigarette out of spite. Halfway through the cigarette, Sam checked his watch. "Shit," he said aloud. He crushed out the cigarette, and jogged out of the house to his bus stop.

He made it just as the bus arrived.

"Surprised you can even jog, Sam. What with your-" Sam flashed his bus pass and walked past the driver lecturing him. Sam took a seat in the back.

"What's that smell, Mom?" a little girl in the seat in front of him asked.

"That's the smell of Sam trying to kill himself, sweetheart," the little girl's mother answered.

A small head popped up over the seat in front of him, looking Sam straight in the eye. "Why do you want to kill yourself Mr. Sam?" she asked innocently.

"I don't. I just like to relax with a cigarette sometimes," Sam answered. "But some self-righteous people really think that it's their job to tell me how to live. Do you know what self-righteous means?"

The mother picked the little girl up, and moved to another seat, glaring at Sam.

Sam went to work, where he endured more constant chastisement for his 'bad habit.' He couldn't smoke at work, that had been outlawed long ago. Same as smoking in bars, restaurants, parks, open spaces, and, ultimately, anywhere that wasn't a personal residence. But during long, trying mornings, like the one Sam was having, he snuck out behind the building to have a quick smoke.

Sam was letting out a deep breath of smoke when one of his co-workers stepped out.

"Hey Sam," Penny said. Sam moved quickly to hide his cigarette. "Don't worry about it," she continued. "Most of us already know you sneak out here sometimes."

Sam slumped his shoulders, then took another drag. "So are you here to tell me to quit too?"

"No," she said. "Just getting some fresh air. Been a shitty morning. Figured no one else would be out here on account of, well, you."

Sam smiled. Her honesty was refreshing.

After a couple minutes of silence, Penny spoke. "Why don't you quit? It must be exhausting to have everyone on your case all the time."

"It is," Sam answered. "I've definitely thought about it. I even thought about it this morning. But something about it all just rubs me the wrong way. I'm not hurting anybody, no matter what everyone claims, and I'm not supporting terrorism. I'm just smoking a cigarette. Yes, it might cause me to die from cancer, but I get to make that choice for myself. I guess I keep doing it to hold on to that little bit of freedom."

"Or rebellion," Penny observed.

"Or that. But fuck it, that's my call too. It helps me relax, so I'm going to keep doing it until it's not worth it."

Penny nodded, seeming to think his words over. The two of them were quiet again.

It was Penny who broke the silence again. "Can I try one?"

Friday morning. The last time I would have to hear my alarm, well, until Monday. I turn off the buzzing of the alarm to not wake my wife, kiss her on the cheek, and go downstairs to start making coffee. The office has a Keurig machine, but I have always thought you couldn't beat a pot of coffee in the morning. I step outside to smoke my first one of the day. My wife hates it. Really, everyone hates it.


I put a cigarette to my lips, light it, and without even looking up, I know the neighbors are judging me. I look at the carton in my hand. I remember when they used to just have the Surgeon General's warning. I wonder what's on here today...


STOP SMOKING ASSHOLE in big, red letters. Cute. Less personal than I am used to, but blunt. Not bad. The ads had been getting more and more hurtful, so something broad and unspecific was nice. I go in, grab a cup of coffee, and return to the patio. I turn the radio on, waiting to hear how traffic is for my drive into the city. 

"The weather today looks fairly nice, some clouds but mostly sunny. Highs in the high 60's, low 70's. Traffic looking pretty clear, some congestion downtown but it is Friday, after all." The man on the radio laughs, apparently amused by his own joke. "Also, a big shout out to the last douchebag that still smokes! If you wanted something small and thin in your mouth, maybe start working on your flexibility!" He laughed again, and I laughed with him. That was one was pretty good. Sucking my own cock, hadn't heard that one before. Oh well, time to shower and get ready for work.


The man on the radio was right, it is congested downtown. That's fine though. I left early, so I have plenty of time to get there. No reason to be upset. I roll down my windows, stuck in traffic a mile from my exit. I pull out another cig, doing nothing but enjoying the day. I start to zone out, when the person in the car next to me starts waving to get my attention. We are both crawling along on the interstate, so I mouth "What?" since I don't think he could hear me. Choosing to try to be heard, the man yells over the sounds of the highway.


"Hey retard! You just trying to give me cancer? Do that somewhere else, ya idiot!"


I slowly flip him the bird, but then I see it. A huge billboard with my face on it. In my mouth, a cigarette. In small letters above my head, it says "Only a moron would smoke a..." and in huge letters on my forehead, "FAGGOT." From this distance, I can hardly see the small lettering, but I bet if I tried hard enough I could see my face and the word from home.


I sigh, and flick my ash onto the slowly moving road beneath me.


"Maybe I should cut back a bit. Yanno, for my health."Where does he get a pack of cigs from? I would imagine at this point he was growing his own tobacco and rolling his own smokes.There might be some stock left from when smoking was common? And he bought the remaining supply when everyone else stopped smoking.Dan had some foresight.Everyone always asks me what it felt like to lose my arm. Everyone always asks me what it feels like to no longer have it.
 
One answer I'd always wanted to give but never had the courage to, was that it felt mostly like hopelessness. I had been a pianist, I'd lived and judged my life based on my ability to make people feel with music. I was crippled. I could no longer play my favorite pieces. I could no longer practice new ones. Losing the arm was essentially me losing my life. 

It's difficult to describe exactly how it feels to have an itch on an arm that isn't there. Imagine the feeling of sitting in a hairdresser's chair and having that annoying little itch crop up on your nose. Now imagine, that your arms are bound to your sides and there's nothing you can do to eliminate that annoying, burning, itch. It's not a terribly nice feeling. 

I learned that you can scratch your missing limb by using a mirror. You stand in front of the mirror and scratch your opposite arm while you look into your reflection. Remarkably, this works to eliminate the itch. I learned something else while doing just this very thing a few weeks ago. 

I was standing in front of the mirror, awkwardly scratching my elbow on the corner of my bathroom door, when I saw something in the mirror. A girl with eyes the color of charcoal, teeth yellow as rotten lemons, and blood seeping down her pale, pallid complexion.

Before I knew exactly what I was doing, I lashed out with my missing arm. It felt like I did anyway. Something incredible happened, I felt my missing fist smash into the face of the incorporeal entity. I felt her teeth come loose, pain explode in my 'hand' and a ghostly tooth lodge into my fist. 

I'm not exactly sure who was more surprised, her, or me. 

Lights began to flicker in the room and objects around my sink began to hover menacingly. My electric toothbrush launched towards my head and I was narrowly able to dodge out of the way. It firmly embedded itself in the wall behind me. Using the mirror as a reference, I leaped on the ghastly girl and smashed my non-existent fist into her face until she stopped squirming. 

She faded away shortly afterwards. She never bothered me again.

I'm not sure exactly where the spirits go after I beat them to a pulp, but I have purpose again. Besides, the pay for someone capable of genuinely dispatching a ghost is fantastic. Honestly, I think people mostly pay for the spectacle of a one armed man fighting an invisible ghost. 

Now when people ask me what it feels like to be missing an arm, I reply confidently. Sometimes it feels like I never lost it at all. 

TIL delivering a ghostly haymaker can cause a ghost to go away and never come back, lest they get fisted by a ghostly amputated fist in their face holeI lived in constant dizziness; a fog swirled and meld with cold, dense mist inside my mind. My thoughts were hollow, empty. The passage of time ceased to exist, for a second I stared at the pristine snow, at the blinding sun, and a moment later I was soaring the night sky in a wooden sleigh pulled by colorful deer.

It had been my curse, my fate, the cost for staying alive, if you will, to live life in such a way. I'd been captured by a civilization of tiny people, called elves, and they'd put me under a spell to be their emissary once a year. I wasn't aware of what I did, but flashes of cozy, sleeping, and smiling kids often came to my mind, and so I knew my unwilling deeds weren't something wicked.

Things took a turn, however, when a little elf came before me, lifted the spell, and spoke to me in a far-flung nook of the Arctic, where no other elf could see us. 

He was against what his people's doing, said it was slavery, and that I could escape in the flying sleigh if I wished to, but he explained to me they didn't truly understand what they were doing to me, as they had only one purpose: to make the kids smile. 

I pondered over his offer a great deal. This wasn't life, for I did things, but I only remembered a sliver of those things. However, at last, after I had went through a long list of questions regarding the whole situation, I asked him, "So, do I bring joy to the kids?"

"Yes, they wait for you every year with unparalleled eagerness," the elf said, dancing a small jive at the rhythm of his melodic words.

What he said struck the core of my heart, made me wince and grimace. I was under a spell, yes, but he convinced me there were no evil intentions in the elves' doing, they simply didn't understand, or so I chose to believe, that putting people under a spell was a different sort of torture, but a torture after all.

Deep down, despite the years I'd lost, I couldn't feel hatred nor resentment against them. After all, those years I'd lost of my life meant the smiles of kids across the world. It was a small price to pay for such a beautiful thing. 

One I would pay time and time again.

"What if I do it willingly?" I said to the twinkling elf. "Some of your people can come with me in the sleg and watch over me, make sure I don't ruin christmas, and if I do, you can put me under the spell again."

"I was hoping you said that," the elf said, smiling. "Let's go home, and meet the family. They will be joyous to finally be able to call you by your true name."

I laughed, and waved my hands dismissively. "The kids know me as Santa. They don't understand the meaning the word has in your language. But I would very much like to add my name to it, if that's a possibility."

The elf beamed and nodded. "Sure thing! Would you tell me your name?"

"It's Nicholas, but people call me Claus."

My mind has always played jokes on me, but this is too much.

I've long been in the habit of finding reasonable explanations for the way the world coincides with my inner life. But this defies explanation.

I rifle through the envelope. There's a thousand dollars in twenties. My name is scrawled in childish letters on the front.

"So this is what the space inside my mind is worth. One of those things you think is priceless, but nothing is. A thousand isn't too bad though."

I look around my messy office, quiet but for the creak of floorboards in the apartment overhead. Dust motes dance in rays of sunlight that land across my oak flat top desk. One of the few things from my parents' house I wanted to keep.

"How'd you get it in here, then?"

Nothing. He comes and goes - a ramblin' man. Sometimes I imagine there's a railway network between the brains of the world, and I've got a stop near a hobo camp where the crazies like to hop off. 

A thousand bucks. I could get into trouble with a thousand bucks. I slap the envelope across my palm a couple of times, almost heading for the door. I pull out five twenties, shove them in my front pocket, and throw the envelope in the safe in my closet.

Someone is banging on the door. My heart picks up a bit. Through the peephole I see the fisheye distortion of the neighbor kid Lucy. I open the door.

"What's up, kiddo?"

"Who's the guy who was here earlier? Why does he have a key to your apartment?"

I knew it. I knew I wasn't crazy this time. It's hard to understand if you aren't crazy yourself, but an explanation that makes sense is better than no explanation - even if it means someone broke into your house, apparently with no other purpose than to leave you a thousand dollars. Which has no other explanation other than a thought you had earlier. The real explanation is there, somewhere. You can find it later. But this is a good start.

"He's, uh, my uncle. He was just feeding my fish for me."

"You don't have a fish."

"I got one."

Lucy scowls at me. She knows I'm almost always full of shit, so she almost always regards me with the same chronic skepticism usually reserved for known liars and problem children. 

"Well whatever you're getting into, stay safe, okay?" She whirls around, her long, straight black hair making a disc around her head for a moment before she runs down the hall.

I head out the front of my building, texting as I go. I let my guy know I need to meet him. He's always happy to grab coffee any time of the day or night.

We slip into a booth at Jack's Old Fashion'd Diner. In my head, to me, it's "Jack's Unnecessary Apostrophe Diner." Private jokes are a little more fun when the voices in your head chuckle with you, but not by much.

My guy has messy brown hair and snake green eyes. His white t-shirt is loose and semi-wrinkled like he slept in it. He probably did.

"So you come into some money, or what? What's with the house call?"

I never correct his haphazard speech. It seems like his mind is always catching up to where and when his body is.

"Something like that." I say.

He smirks. "So you sure you only want that amount? I can provide a longer supply..."

"I'm good with what I asked for. What, you tired of seeing me or somethin'?"

He takes a quick look around the restaurant, moves his hand near his coffee cup on a saucer, then slides it towards me. I pick it up, pour in some creamer, then push it back to him. He smiles and puts his hand in his pocket.

"You're getting better." he grins. Gulping the rest of the coffee, he slides out of the booth. "And you're finally learning just the right amount of cream. It's a finesse game, you know. An art."

I raise my eyebrows in a kind of "yeah, uh-huh" gesture. But he's already gone.

Look, it's nothing crazy, okay? Self-medication kind of becomes necessary when you're in my position. Insurance doesn't cover the anti-psychotics my doctor wants me on. These are pretty close and they're half the price.

I cut through the park on the way back to my place, crunching the pills and thinking about the man in my apartment. At times my life has become a blur of my mental projections and my reality, people coming and going, people I half-know and some, who after spending nights and days with, seem like the most real thing I know, turn out in the morning to only have been a fever dream, barely remembered.

Ho boy. They're kicking in know. The grass in the park turns blurry, green blur, and things smooth out. The sky is a crystal. I can see past the atmosphere.

Green is good. That's it. I'll try to remember. Revelations, revelations! They come. The time comes, and I feel it, and I know it, but to remember, ah. That is the thing. The thing which I grasp, yet not fully, yet oh the sky. Madness.

Cooly I walk, cooly. No time for a rest, a spell. Who now is this dark figure, this devil beside me? I sit. A half-stand. Beside me on the bench. Who?

*Are you okay there, friend?*

He speaks from underwater - a merman. A sea creature. from the night of the world.

*You're swimming in a narcotic sea, aren't you, pal?*

"My mind reaches... and takes. And beholds."

*But you see me, don't you?*

A sharp change. a turn in the wind. felt but not seen. The man - the sea creature.  i behold him now. no, not a stranger. a known person. a quantity. a memory. a voice.

*I trust you found my first month's.*

a shiver. a remembrance. money in a narrow paper box, a gift, a strange thing in a strange place. rent.

"My benefactor!"

i rise. i stand. the dark figure beside, he sits. a disk of flesh color spinning in place. 

The world becomes clear in phases. A flash here, and return to madness. I call this phasing. Far from frustration, the contrast makes the high even better. Sometimes I just want to get lost. But sometimes it's nice to see the world in two ways. Flicking the light switch.

Now I see the man, dark suit and bowler hat. Old-timey, square jaw and flint eyes. Thick eyebrows. Well-kept. The kind of guy who looks like he'd smack is wife if his dinner wasn't hot at 5 o'clock sharp. A mean guy.

*Just need to get a breath of fresh air, now and then. You get to be cooped up after a while.*

A voice, yes. A body, no. Where the line is drawn, I never know. See this? The uncertainty? How can someone ever drive a stake in the ground, pull a string taught from it, and draw a circle, and say that within this is what I know? In a manner of speaking, of course. That's just it. No way to know what works, what is real, what is acknowledged. What can be known for sure.

*I quite enjoy the room, you know. It's got some view. It's like going to the movies and seeing the character descend into madness. But I don't need to do it myself, you know? Living vicariously through people whose lives we don't want. That's the new American Dream, you know. It's too hard to actually do it. But experiencing it? That's easy.*

i swim. i swim through air, sea of nothing fog. then i am in my bed, and time commences to discommence. i enter void and days go, hours go. sometimes shafts of light, sometimes shafts of night. but always moonlight, only positive or negative. my fish is dead. i held ceremony, sang sweet elegy to his name. Martin. Martin i called him. pain gnaws in the middle of me and i am missing something. the cosmos swirl and i am of it. the buzz. the hum of time and ratcheting gears of things i must remember. i must. i must...

Awake. Sunlight. Thirsty. Hungry. Adjectives and nouns come one by one. I know it's the end of a bender. Pharmaceuticals mixed with mental illness can send you on a journey. Only afterwords do you decide if it was a trip worth taking.

There's a cold bowl of soup next to my bed and slippers on the floor, ready to slip my feet into. A card draw in crayon propped up behind the soup. A picture of a goldfish with letter x's for eyes. Inside: "Sorry about Martin."

I come back to life, slowly, attend to my human needs. Bathroom. Food. A shower has never felt so glorious.

When I am fully alive again, I go to my desk to write, hopefully, while I still have the clarity for it. I go to sit down, and stop in half-crouch.

An envelope is on the corner of my desk. Shaking, I look inside.

Two thousand dollars, and a scrawled note:

*Sorry about the mess.*

 
 
 

*Wow, well isn't this quite something?*

You blink, as if you can't quite believe what you're hearing. 

*Yes, yes, you're not imagining it. I'm, "speaking" to you I suppose is how you would understand it*

"B...but," you say out loud and a couple of the other specimens stare to look at you in confusion. 

*Now, now. There is no need to speak out loud. I will be able to hear your thoughts. Your kind comes along so rarely, I would hate for you to get taken in to some prison and electrified*

"Electrocuted actually," you say, this time in your head. Then you shake your head, as if you can't believe what you just "said." "Wait...I...you..."

*Use your words, now*

My mocking tone momentarily angers you, clearing your thoughts. "Who, no, *what* are you?" you say, again, in your head.   

*Ah but you know already, don't you? You were just thinking about it*

You blink and frown. "I was thinking about....something." Your frown deepens. "I know what I was thinking about, I am thinking about it right now, and when I do, everything sort of goes blurry and I feel like I'm watching myself in third person...but I couldn't tell you what exactly I'm thinking about..." 

*Precisely!* 

My sudden excitement makes you jerk. Sometimes I forget how sensitive you folk you are. 

*Apologies for that, quite rude of me. But regardless, what you're feeling, there is no way to describe it in your language. Your language is bound inherently by the three dimensions, by a limited scope, which is all most of your kind is capable of seeing.*

"Limited scope?" you retort, "what sort of bullshit is that?" You're angry, understandably; after all, I've just insulted your species.

*You know full well what I mean. Look around yourself, your fellow people, this...transport that you're in. What do you see?*

Your eyes widen, and you look around, your head jerking from left to right, up and down, out the windows, *beyond* the windows. You are like a child who has just been born into a new world. In a sense, you are exactly that. Then you look at me. There is no three dimensional direction, you just *perceive* me. You open your mouth to speak. 

*Stop. You will just confuse yourself by speaking in that tongue of yours. You now know what I say to be true. You no longer just see, you* Some stories really just need to stand on their own, hence why I put my usual postscript in this separate comment. This story is unlike anything I've written. Kind of existentialist, vague, and in second person. Would love to hear your thoughts and any critiques you might have. 
If you enjoyed, check out [XcessiveWriting]( Was fun to read! But if the rebellion were the ones giving Leslie the names of the people he had to kill, then why was Leslie told to kill Blaise, even though she's with the rebellion herself? Did I miss something?This is a great read, beautifully written. Leslie is a good protagonist, but you definitely needed to build on his relationship with Blaise. She needs to be a fully rounded character so that we can feel his tension and trauma when he's told to kill her. We literally know nothing about her until she turns up again at the end, somewhat randomly. Did they ever speak when they were "married"? Did they ever have sex? Did they care for each other? Was there a time when he felt tempted to tell her everything? And what's her job? Everyone gets a job, right? She's just a plot device at the moment, not a character.

As a suggestion, I'd make the command to kill Blaise a counter-hack by Infinitum once his fit of rage had alerted them to his virus-given job.On second thought, I should have been suspicious when the genie had laughed after granting my wish. Initially, it seemed like he was just happy, but I'll be damned if I appreciated his mirth when the flame burned the crap out of my index finger.

I threw the match aside as the blister, clearly a nasty one to come, began to form instantly. That was when it all went to hell. See, some matches are a little more wind resistant than others. This one was on the higher end of the spectrum. I had expected it to go out in mid-air, given how many of the damn things blew out when I was just trying to light a smoke outdoors. But this one hung on. The little match that could.

The contents of the trash can went up first. Then the pizza box on the counter. Apparently grease is flammable. The rest of the break room followed suit in short order. The fire department later said that if it hadn't been for the sprinkler system, we'd have lost the whole darn building. That was a Monday.

That Tuesday, I walked into my boss's office, fully prepared to accept my termination. He just gave me a slap on the back and said, I swear this is true, "Who among us *hasn't* started a major fire in the break room? Go on, you're fine." There were 53 employees in our office. I was pretty sure the answer to his question was "The other 52 of you," but didn't want to talk myself out of a job, so I left. On the way back to my desk, it dawned on me. *Fire* proof. Huh.

I have come to believe that after the discovery of any superpower comes the testing of its limits. But as I soon learned, this power had absolutely no limits whatsoever. No one minded when I came in late. No one minded when I came in late and dressed in flip flops. Indeed, no one minded when I came in *naked*. I really thought that one would do it. Eventually, no one minded when I stopped coming in altogether. The paychecks kept depositing.

Then I had an idea.

Eight hundred and thirty two. That is the number of jobs I now have. 832. I may be the world's first multimillionaire employed as a receptionist. Or 7-11 janitor. Or bus driver. It doesn't matter; I don't ever actually show up to any of them. I apply for every job out there, but my only real "job" is faking my resume and showing up for interviews. It helps that hiring managers can often be bribed. When I'm hired, my work is done.

At this point, I could easily stop, but each job is literally a lifetime income, no matter how low that income may be. My average job pays only $24,714 per year, putting my gross annual income just north of $20 million. All in all, I consider the "confusion" surrounding my wish to be working out in my favor.

Well, I did. Until those goddamn idiots at the other pump got into a gasoline fight. A spark, a whoosh, and my last thought as the fireball barrels through me is "Fucking genies."

​

**Edit**: First Reddit gold! Thank you kind interneteer!I lost it at " Until those goddamn idiots at the other pump got into a gasoline fight.". Well fucking done.A hundred years, shards of future in dreamy visions of lessons and love, expanded his mind like a sponge in water. It drank the knowledge, swelling, evolving millions of years in mere moments as he slept. By the time his eyes opened, it was like his head felt heavier, and his heart drooped with the pain of a hundred false losses. The world he'd been born into suddenly felt foreign to re-forged eyes.

The One rose, a mental giant amongst skittering animals once seen as peers. He saw light bouncing off the Earth as vectors studied in physics class, and noted a slight curvature to a horizon that always looked flat. The stars no longer looked like specks of mineral in the distance, but giants, ancient relatives that began it all.

He wanted to speak, but a numb, dull tongue felt like lead in his mouth. That would require some work. Yes, work; there was so much to do, wasn't there? Problems to solve, knowledge to share, technology to build... why, the implications were immense. The world's order could totally rearrange because of him. A genetic catalyst that bombs the timeline.

Grassland underfoot tickled as he strode determined toward his pack. It would take organization, and a lot of effort, but The One knew he could do it. He could change it all. With a purpose, and visions of worlds untold, he stood up straight and tall just like the smooth-skins of his premonitions. 

Unfortunately, the waning Oligocene Era was not one for casual strolls in a meadow. A slinking nimravid, effectively a bobcat with daggers for teeth, shifted low in the underbrush, eyeing her meal as it oddly limped on two legs instead of four-- injured, most likely, a prime target-- toward the treeline.

There was nothing but desolation. 

The land around him was a hardpan full of fissures from where little errant trees and low blades of grass rose. The wind was humid and heavy, and it carried an odd sort of heat.

He found himself on the greatest tree laying on the thickest bough, and from there he eyed the seam of land and sky, and there he found nothing but a gray day and vast solitude. 

He was alone in a place he didn't know, clad in wet heaviness, and full of long and strange hairs. His thoughts spun and eddied, perhaps in an attempt to slink into the deepest burrows of his mind and disinter an immemorial memory, for this place, in odd ways, was familiar to him. 

But for all that he tried, nothing did he find.

And so, seeking for an answer, through careful movements he clambered down the tree, but even with his care his motions were unfamiliar, almost alien to him, and so a branch cracked and a new fissure ran across the already cracked surface.

He rose to his feet grumbling, and even the way he grumbled seemed alien. It was then when he looked at his hands, at the size of and color of them, at the amount of hairs and their thickness. There, with the wind muted and the shapeless veil of silence crowding the land, he remembered.

There was no desperation within him, no thundering heart, nor anything of the sort. There was one thing only, and that thing was an idea, an objective. That idea was enormous, so much so that it gave no space for others ideas to be thought.

He roved forth in this body that'd ceased being his a long time ago. Nights and days he ambled, hiding from creatures he barely remembered, clinging on to his deepest instincts to survive, but his wandering journey came to an end during the first night with a full moon, for there in the moonlit land, rising from a crevasse was a mushroom, and it was no common mushroom, for even looking at it filled him with joy.

Without hesitation, he reached for it, climbed to the tallest branch in the tallest tree, and there he ate, and all of this he did with a smile.

Many times he returned to the hardpan, many times he returned to the desolation, and many times he sought for a new mushroom.

After all, they were the gate to his true life.

It was seeing his own reflection in the blood, as it pooled over the faux-wood linoleum, that triggered the memory. As Henry examined the slick red version of his face. For that moment, he was ten again, tearing open wrapping paper, a young mind full of excitement and possibilities.

Not a middle aged man who'd just murdered his wife during an argument, bringing it to an abrupt close.

Another argument, but the same as always. "You're lazy. Why won't you get a real job?" and the one that stretched the elastic band back until it snapped, "I'm leaving you."

> *"Wow, mom! How'd you get it? Tom says these things are sold out everywhere!" His mom replied, but she'd already become a hazy background buzz, as excited fingers grappled with smooth red plastic, pulling it down over his head. A swoosh in his ears as the menu opened.*

Frying pan had hit skull. Skull had hit floor. Regret had hit Henry almost as hard and at least as fast. Now though, staring at the glossy reflection, it all made sense.  

His grey life, devoid of color. The nights -- and days -- wasted drinking or binging Netflix. The opportunities untaken, untested, that he'd dismissed with a wave of his hand, because, of course, there would always be more. 

And now this. 

> *The choices were limited. Explore a city. A boat down the Nile. Excitement was already draining away and the thought of Lego growing more enticing.*

These weren't the lucid sensible decisions of someone living life knowing that this was their very only shot at it. They were the choices - mistakes - of someone who knew it was all fake. A game. One of many attempts.

His world was a construction of imagination.

Somehow, he'd just forgotten.

Until now.

He crouched down and ran his hand through the blood, bringing two fingers to his face, painting the memory of the VR unit over his eyes.

There. 

Now he was ready.

"Goodbye Marie. Maybe we'll do this again, sometime. But better, you know? Let's be real, I was always meant for better things."

It was a relief. A crushing weight lifted. Not just of the murder -- this life been pressing down on him since long before.

He strode purposefully into the kitchen, the first scent of hope drifting up his nose since... Since when? Since the wedding? Or, since that day when he was ten years old. 

He grabbed a knife from a drawer. 

The VR unit wouldn't come off easily. He'd have to pry it off his eyes.

> *"Done already, sweetie? Did you have fun?"*

> He hadn't. The VR city had made him feel sick. And it was boring, anyway. He'd never end up in such a grey world. He had pulled the device off his head and shrugged dismissively. "It was okay." 

> "Maybe you should give it more of a chance?"

> He rolled his eyes. Why bother? There would always be other play-things, other chances. He dropped down to his knees and grabbed the next present. Maybe there would be Lego.That’s like an episode of r/blackmirrorIt was dusk and Tornnus, son of the fire, was hammering the searing steel into a knife. He needed it urgently as the night before he had lost his somewhere between countless beers, ales and songs. His sturdy, soot-covered hands were trembling due to the abstinence and he couldn't quite spot when was the last time he had been sober at this time of the day.

But he knew very well that the knife was a matter of life and death.

He didn't dare to look downwards where his long, braided and ginger beard rested. He felt heretic and dirty inside. He could feel those rioting hairs pricking against his chest, dishonoring their ancient culture. A culture which condemned those whose beards weren't immaculate. 

He had to cut them off. Otherwise, he couldn't leave his forge which meant no alcohol, which meant betraying his kind.

The night fell and the tender red of his forge and crucible tinged his gloom smithy. Tornnus sat on a chair which creaked for his life, fidgeting as he gazed, unblinking, towards his iron table where the boiling knife rested. He cursed under his breath, for he had forgotten to fill his slack tub with cold water.

Hours had passed and the knife remained the same, strange thoughts wandered across Tornnus' mind. Could he risk ruining his beard using the knife as it was? The answer was a resounding negative. He felt caged and claustrophobic, his bloated skin was dry begging for the holy ichor to feed his veins. What could he possibly do?

A not so deranged idea crossed his mind, removing the insurgent hairs with his bare hands. But it faded into forgetfulness once his eyes met the mess of grease and soot that he called hands. Tornnus took a deep breath and stared downwards to properly assess the chaos. 

He fainted after witnessing stains of soot impregnated on his beard, dulling its usual brightness and hiding its fiery red. If only he had remembered to fill some buckets with water, this would have never happened.

His black eyes shot open at the booming noise of fists stomping his oak door. Daylight seeped through the crevasses of his dry stone walls. How long did he lay unconscious? His lips were shattered, his beard disturbed by various dirty enemies yet Tornnus wasn't worried about that anymore.

"I'm sleeping you bastards! I will open in two hours," he yelled and the noise stopped.

Tornnus examined the knife, strangely he remembered everything that had happened the day before. Was he enchanted? What was this witchcraft? He almost bolted out the room to seek for Muradain's blessing, he needed answers, his brain felt overwhelmed yet relaxed by the memories. He had never felt so good in his life.

Tornnus was torn between two conjectures. If a dwarf stains his beard, then he's granted the power of memory by other forcers, was the first one. The other one was simply that Alcohol was a mind wiper in disguise. He felt a shiver crawling up his legs, both of these ideas defied his beliefs.

But he was going to test them.

He waited for the dusk⸺when all the dwarves went to the inns or stayed at their homes drinking beer⸺to fall and left his smithy to seek some water. The dwarves that still roamed the streets cursed at him, some even defied him to a duel for his honor but Tornnus ignored them all. He simply filled some buckets with water and brought them back to his smithy, where he cut, cleaned and perfected his beard.

The next morning, he remembered everything with unbelievable clarity. His beard was immaculate, so it had to be the alcohol. With his chest high he sought for those who defied and cursed at him the night before. He found them smiling and claiming that they didn't remember doing such a thing.

Tornnus' discovery could've changed the beliefs of his people but, like a proper dwarf, he said nothing and went to get some beer and ale.

The demon's flames dwindled when I desperately screamed I was trying to make chicken soup. He gave a sigh of relief, and raised clenched fists. Clouds of tar-black smoke billowed out the crevasses of the floor and across the grotesque scars and wounds on his fiery skin, covering most of his body in dark, apron-shaped toxicity.

"Let's get to work, then!" the demon said, and scanned the kitchen. "What are we working with? What ingredients did you buy?"

"I-I...chicken?" I said, trying to compose myself. However, it was no easy task, I could see my worst nightmares through the demon's hollow eyes.

He came and stared at me, prodding my chest with a crooked forefinger, burning a hole on my shirt in the process. "You. I like you. Every chef knows that a chicken soup is not a chicken soup without proper chicken. Tell me, where did you get the chicken, what breed of chicken is it?"

I froze, the smell of smoldering cloth pervading my nostrils. His face. It shifted every time I blinked. "The supermarket, and... and I don't know the br-breed. A farm one?"

The demon swung his hands exaggeratedly across the air, and the red of his skin changed to a scalding, glimmering orange, much like molten metal. Then, he drew a deep breath and nodded. 

"I will tell you something," the demon said through gritted teeth, attempting to control his fuming wrath. "First I loved you, but now I hate you. You are a man of wit. You know the ingredients of a chicken soup, but you are not a man of knowledge. To make a perfect chicken soup, you need the perfect chicken."

He eyed me, and crossed his four arms, as if waiting for me to answer.

I frowned. What was I supposed to say? "Where can we get a perfect chicken?"

His eyes, mouth and nose disappeared, leaving only an eerie grin of unnatural curvature, length and razor-sharp teeth on his face. "I'm glad you asked that." He made a circular motion with his hand, as if opening a faucet. A square-shaper portal of ever-flowing fire appeared between us.

"You first," the demon said. "We are going grocery shopping."

"What the hell kinda chicken soup calls for 'Essence of Pure Evil'?!? That's like a required ingredient for summoning me."

"Look I don't know, I just followed what was in the cookbook kinda."

*"Kinda"?*

"Well yea I mean I'm not much of a cook so it was kinda confusing? It said add stock which seems kinda weird but I had these shareholder documents that I just threw in."

"I... you... who the hell adds *paper* to *soup*. What kind of high fiber diet are you on where paper is required to make you regular? Jesus fuck man you really know nothing about cooking do you."

"Look I don't know, I lied and told a tinder match I was a good cook and she's coming over in 20 minutes. I panicked."

"Well maybe now you can list, "Able to summon demons" and catch all those goth gir-Wait hold up, what company were the shares for?"

"Comcast."

"Ah yea that'd do it."I'd watch the shit out of this movie.My Grandpa, Pops, always said money couldn’t buy you happiness. Pops said a lot of things, and while some of them proved rather bizarre as he got older, on *that* one I always trusted him and he pretty much always proved to be right. 

When I was 11 he sat me down to talk about money. I'd never thought about it, never *needed* to think about it, it was just something we had when we needed. He told me about old vs new money. Old money is money handed down from your family, while new money folks had earned it recently. I asked him which we came from and he laughed. 

“We boy, are from something else entirely,” he’d smiled at me. “Our money's not old, it’s *ancient*.” 

It was years before I properly understood him. Our family had been rich for longer than most countries had existed; we owned the companies that owned banks and we shifted investment portfolios that dwarfed the GDP of major world countries, but Pops explained that we did it quietly, behind the scenes so to speak.

When I at last began to understand, I asked Pops if we were part of a group I had heard about on the internet, the Illuminati. Folk seemed obsessed that there were secret groups running the world and it intrigued me. He laughed, they existed, *of course*, but they were 6 or 7 levels of control beneath where Pops was. I never quite had the courage to ask how many levels were above him... 

When he died, I was left alone. My parents had died when I was a baby, he'd raised me by himself and now I was the last of our family. I’d been educated, taught what I needed to know about our business and given links to all of his wealth, influence and power, but the one things he’d taught me above all others, was how *not* to use it. 

That left me in a pickle, for what do you do when you have enough money to do whatever you want and no one to share it with? My friends were few and far between, but nice and all getting on with their lives. I'd gone to public Schools and done well enough, but m real education had been in Pops kitchen, sitting in front of the fire while he whittled and told me what I needed to know. I had trillions in the bank, but nothing I needed it for….well, to be honest I owned the banks by and large too. 

It turned out that life isn’t much fun without a challenge. Like a computer game with cheats turned on, after a while it becomes stale and boring. For a while I tried to live Pops life, working a small hog farm in rural Minnesota, but that wasn't for me, that was still trying to be someone else, trying to be *him*. For a year or so I lived like Dan Bilzerian, but without the publicity or the weird thing that no one ever talks about. I spent money and tried everything in the world I wanted, but... it wasn't actually all that fun. 

I needed to find my own place, my own level. So that’s what I did. Turns out though, that with no experience on your résumé and having only half paid attention in school, you're not qualified for much. 

Living beyond my means always seemed not only unnecessary to me, but pointless. Sure, I could do whatever I wanted and be whatever I wanted, but I had seen what money could do to people and those around them. I didn't want to be another chump with "yes men" around me telling me how good of a job I was doing, regardless if I actually was.

So when I won the lottery, I kept quiet. Not only did I not tell my friends, but I didn't even tell my family. Instead, I retained a lawyer and financial advisor and just invested. Before I knew it my bank account just grew and grew until I was worth $140 billion dollars.

When it came to my day to day life, I tried to keep i simple and I never saw a reason to stop doing what I loved. I mean hell, I was lucky. How many people can say that do what they love every day when they go into work? And keeping my secret from co-workers was easy. When I went on vacation to Paris, it was seen as completely normal. What they didn't know what I took a private jet there, stayed in a suite at the Four Seasons and ate at Michelin star restaurants each night. 

For a moment, my life felt perfect--but all good things must come to and end. That end was Craig. He was the new creative director at my agency and from the moment I met him, I knew I didn't like him. For one, he had no talent. He didn't get to where he was based off of his work or ability to lead a team, he got there because he was bully that knew how to manipulate those around him. I wasn't one of those people and I saw straight through his act.

It didn't take long for me to realize that as soon as Craig joined my team, he had set his sights on me. His goal was to destroy my career and turn everyone against me. He started by criticizing my work and rewriting every single word and sentence I showed him. His ideas were moronic and off strategy, but since he was the boss no one had the guts to call him out on it. When I did call him out, all the others would shrink down in their seats and look away. No one dared tell the boss he had a bad idea and boy was Craig going to make sure I paid for disagreeing with him.

It started with little things. Like that deadline I could have sworn was Wednesday was suddenly Monday. Or files would go missing from the server. With time it grew and grew until suddenly mistakes were being made that required the team to work over the weekend and I was being blamed. It was so obvious, I don't know how I didn't see it coming. 

It was a Friday morning when Craig called me into a last minute meeting. When I walked into the conference room, there sat HR, alone at the table with a folder. Craig's face went serious and as I sat down and told me that he was sorry but I "just wasn't the right fit here". HR then explained to me that my time with the agency was terminated and they would ship my belongings to my home address. 

I stood up, trying to hold back the tears in my eyes and Craig smiled. He smiled as if to say, "I won" and before I could say a word, HR led me out the door and out the office.

For months I sat at home and dwelled on what happened. I tried to piece together what happened and how it got to the point where they would fire me. As I began to sort through all of the events that had unraveled I began to see the connection: Craig. Every step forward I'd make, he'd ensure I took two steps back. Well, little did Craig know that is screwed with the wrong girl. Not only was he going to pay for what he did, but everyone at the agency was going to pay for following him blindly.

The account I worked on was the largest client the agency had before, it was worth millions of dollars. So naturally, the best way to destroy a tumor is to cut off it's blood supply. So I bought the client, the entire company, under an alias name. 

The next step was to hire a chairman and CEO that would act as an instrument to my plan. My team privately met with dozens of candidates and it didn't take long for me to appoint someone to head up the company that ensured me he'd follow my direction without question. 

In the meantime, I found another job. In fact, it was a better job with a title and pay increase that I may have not needed, but at least demonstrated they saw my value. Each day I'd come home from work and communicate with my team and CEO, directing them on steps they needed to take to ensure the success of the company. First being--fire all of the advertising agencies they had partnered with.

For one particular ad agency, however, I requested the CEO personally deliver the news to the creative team himself. I told him to handle the process as he saw fit but there was one thing he needed to say upon termination: "I'm sorry, but you're just not the right fit here."

It didn't take long for news to spread about the great loss and changes within the client's organization and within about a year, after losing their largest client, the agency closed.

Eventually, that agency became a distant memory and I was happily promoted at my job, working as a creative director for a place I loved. It was early fall when a resume came across my desk with a familiar name and a huge gap in employment history. He had already been through 2 interviews earlier that week and I was the last point of contact as the hiring manager. I gleefully saw the calendar invite pop onto my computer and that afternoon I walked to the conference room where candidates waited to meet with their potential employers.

I pushed open the door and Craig looked up. His smile quickly disappeared and he went as pale as a ghost as he saw me standing at the door. I had recently gotten married and he had not realized who I was since my last name had changed. I smiled brightly and without a word sat down in front of him. He stuttered as he opened his portfolio book and began to quietly go over his work with me, conveniently skipping over the work from the agency we had worked at together not so long ago. 

I quietly listened and as he paused to take a breath. I leaned forward, looking at him directly in the eye and smiled. "You know what, Craig", I said, "I'm sorry, but you're just not the right fit here."

​> Biscuits instead of cookies
> 
> Digestives dipped in tea
>
> Mummy instead of Ma
>
> Minnesota

Wait a minute...Shit. Britisness exposed... It makes some sense. A Briton who has the money and power to rival the entirety of the Isles might fancy making a sport out of typical modern American life and corporate culture.Part 1 | [Part 2]( | [Part 3]( | [Part 4](

In a room blacker than night, devoid of stars or any other such beauties, I floated. It was some shattered gap between nowhere and everywhere, the kind of lonely afterlife I'd always imagined would suit me best. 

I deserved nothing more. 

It stayed that way for -- how do I put this? Forever, and yet not forever. I did not age, or move, or even feel the eons slink by in a human manner, and yet I knew it had been an eternity by the time the angel first appeared. He was a stark contrast to the void around us, brighter than the sun, yet cast light on nothing, as if his glow were being devoured by the abyss. 

Suddenly, I was standing on a circular piece of stone, and had some semblance of weight and being. 

The angel opened his arms and spoke not in words, but directly to my mind. "Timothy Halpert Bennington. You are now ready for judgment."

Judgement. Ha, of course the afterlife would be something like religions predicted. I'm sure my life had left a bad taste in God's mouth. I didn't respond, only stared into the nothing below me. 

"Your first Judge: the one you were cruelest to in life."

I cocked my head, brows knitting into a line. People from my life would be judging me?

*No. No, please, just send me to Hell.*

My eyes tried to shut, like slamming the door behind you to avoid a conversation you don't want to deal with, but something kept them open. The angel hadn't moved a muscle, and yet, I knew it was him. 

A pocket of light smudged something within itself. That smear of darkness stepped forward, onto another stone tile, and clarified as the pocket zipped up. 

It was her. I knew it would be, but that didn't make it any easier to bear. 

"Oh, Timmy, you're so young," she said, a soft smile on her face. "I've missed you so much."

I couldn't meet her eyes and searched for words, but my lips only trembled, mouthing empty motions. My eyes fell to the stone beneath her. 

"Look at me, Timothy." 

I obliged.

"When you were a boy, no more than fifteen, you once burned all of my photo albums. Not just the ones with your father in them, but the ones of us, family trips and gatherings, every memory I ever had. They were erased forever, those last bits I had of him and our carefree times. I cried every day for a month, when you weren't home. That was my joy, mementos of when life was simple and fun, which you turned to ash."

There was nothing I wanted more than to squeeze my eyes shut, but I could not; I was forced to watch the sadness in her eyes as she spoke.

"That was your most cruel action-- it hurt me more than when your father left us. He had always been unkind, but for you, the light of my life, to torch away our memories like that... it broke me."

Before I could muster the courage to apologize, she slipped away into light. I felt sick, so humanly sick in my stomach, but knew there would be no relief. One does not vomit in the afterlife.

The angel offered me no reprieve. "Your second judge: the one you were most kind to."

Once more a flash, and once more an approach. My eyes widened, face flickering as I tried to understand.

"You didn't expect to see me again, did you?" Her smile was wide and bashful. 

"How...?" 

"Oh, silly boy. The mind plays tricks on us sometimes. You probably thought that, because you'd caused me a great pain in life, there was no way you could have brought me joy, but life is not that black and white. It's so much more than that."

Still I searched, and still I found no words. 

"You were harsh -- even cruel -- at times, but it wasn't always like that. Your pain changed you, and even then, you weren't a purely cruel person. Just one that lashed out once in a while because you didn't understand how to handle it. Life can get very confusing.

"This is my favorite story. When you were ten -- such a cute little man -- you wrote me a poem for a school project. I'll never forget the words on that card: *To Mom, my bestest friend. I love you more than gummy bears or mac and cheese. You make me happier than Racer when I drop a potato chip and he eats it. Happy birthday to the best mommy in the whole wide world.* You wrote that on a card decorated with hearts and smiley faces. You didn't know it, but that was right when I'd first been diagnosed and your father started to show signs of his poor character as a man. Then, on top of it, you cooked me dinner, and it was so bad but I ate every bite. It was the best meal I've ever had. 

"Never in my entire life have I felt as happy as I did in that moment. You were such a deeply caring boy before everything went wrong."

I barely even remembered any of that. Had I really done something to make her happy? Why didn't I remember it, when I remembered such other, terrible things so clearly? 

She disappeared into the light as I searched my soul, digging for answers but only turning up dirt. The angel, kind as he was, did not let me take a moment to figure things out. 

"Your third judge: the one whose life you saved."

I froze. The one whose life I saved? I'd never saved a life, I'd only done things far from it. Perhaps it was standard practice, and no one would walk through the portal this time. 

But, just like clockwork, she was back again, her smile warmer than the halo over her head.

I gaped at her. "No. No, I killed you. This makes no sense, I didn't save you. Is this some kind of sick joke? Do angels play pranks on people?" 

"Oh, sweetie," she said, shaking her head. "It was mercy. Besides, the sickness had already stolen me. Letting me go in peace in no way makes it your fault. Have you held yourself accountable all this time?"

I couldn't find it in me to respond, mashing my teeth together instead.

"It was my time to go. There was so much pain and suffering that plagued me, in the end; my sickness was no fault of yours. The fact that you put all your hurt aside and stayed with me so I wouldn't be alone meant more than the world. You did the most brave thing a boy can do for his mother, and saved me.

Finally, there were words I found that I'd been looking for, choked and jagged as they were. "I love you, Mom. I'm so sorry I wasn't a better son."

"Shh, now, darling. Your hurt is almost over. I'll be waiting for you."

One final time, she faded away. 

"And now, your final judge," the angel said. "The one whose life you took."

My nails bit into the skin, I clenched so hard, and I breathed deep to keep myself together in front of the angel overseeing it all-- though, honestly, hiding things probably didn't work when in the presence of Godly beings.

For when the swirling portal of light opened, it was not my mother that walked through as it had been the previous three times. No, it was someone much more familiar, and somehow, more terrifying. 

Me. 

I fought hard to look away, harder than I'd fought before, but I just couldn't. There was no power in me, wherever I was, and so I simply stood there, frozen and sobbing at my own reflection. 

"This is probably pretty rough for you," he said, pursing his lips. 

I let out a croak in response. 

"You've always been too hard on yourself, you know that? Isn't it time that you get a little peace, too?"

"I don't deserve it," I whispered.

"Everyone does. This world is a complicated and terrifying place, and everyone knows their own pain. You lived a life consumed by yours, more than equal penance for your mistakes.

"You've heard what she had to say, and seen the smile she still wears. You hurt her, yes, but you were also the joy of her life. Your father left because she was sick, not because you weren't worth it; he was the problem, not either of you. Your mother loved and still loves you, and you're not a bad man for the things you suffered. I only wish I could've shown you that earlier. 

"But, alas, I digress. Let's not do this-- you've spent long enough convincing yourself you don't deserve to be happy. It's time to rest, now, Tim. Be at peace."

He held out a hand. 

I stepped forward and took it. 

Shut up... you're crying...Goddammit, that was amazing.   I hate you, you beautiful bastard.  That was wonderfully written.Mercury was going to die, again.

This time, he wore the body of a man. He was spread out long on a pike, his arms and legs bound to the pole. Two pairs of huge human men carried him--pale-faced and bearish in their thick winter coats--between them, the pole balanced between them.

They learned, quickly, that Mercury was the slippery kind. They never untied him after they caught him nearly sweet-talking his guard out to the water, where he would have stolen a canoe and paddled desperately away. 

But he was caught now. Surely trapped now.

Here on an icy planet on the ass-end of nowhere. They had no idea he was a god in his own right. That out there beyond the unblinking stars, he had his own kingdom. An entire spinning world--still alive in those days, before the darkness came. His world still carries his name: Mercury the trickster, Mercury who always spun too close to the sun.

And this time, he got burned. 

The god wrestled against the bounds, tying him to the pole. He cursed and struggled.

One of the pallbearers spat something at him, unrecognizable. A dribble of gibberish language. 

"Yeah, alright," Mercury muttered. "Because that makes sense."

A crowd of hooded cult members walked with them. They all wore those strange human faces. They trudged through the ice-crusted snow, just as grey and cold and wind-swept as the barren mountain all around them. 

"Really funny joke, guys," Mercury said. "Really great. Are you going to let me go now or not?"

One of the hooded figures walked alongside him. The hood was pulled too high for him to see the stranger's face. 

The god growled and fought against his bonds. Ahead of him, the cult leader walked at the lead of the procession. He carried Mercury's staff, the source of his power. Its stone was the heart of a star, but it burned dead and lifeless in that mortal's hand.

Without it, Mercury was useless as a fire without oxygen.

"This is just fucking humiliating," the god muttered, but his guards only gave the stick an aggressive shake.

The rope bit even deeper into his aching arms.

The figure alongside him spoke at last in that unmistakable, ancient language: Mercury's mothertongue, the language of the stars. 

"It's your own fault, you stupid asshole."

Mercury hesitated. It took him a long second to recognize his brother's voice. 

"Oh," he managed. He did his best to do dignified, despite shuddering from his back and ass dragging miles through the snow. "Funny seeing you here."

"Yeah. Funny."

"You don't happen to know why a bunch of your creations want me dead, do you?"

Earth gave Mercury a hot knifing glare. He was a young god like Mercury, his planet just as much a cosmic accident as Mercury's own. But he had a few million years on Mercury's kingdom, and Earth never let him forget it.

"Certainly you can't be that surprised. This is all your own making."

All around them, the humans were carrying on like they couldn't hear or see Earth at all.

Of course. The damn bastard still had his own staff. All his powers.

Mercury did his best to look innocent. "I've no idea what you're talking about."

"Really? You don't recall how all this started?"

"I just came down here to give my beloved elder brother a visit--" maybe steal a resource or two, start a tiny war, knock down some dominoes to see how long it took for Earth to notice; the usual "--and these monsters of yours attacked me."

"Not this time. The other time. When you told them that the lord of their universe was a great ass-faced bastard and the next time they saw someone flying out of the sky, they'd better take his fancy glowy-stick and sacrifice him by tying him up and tossing him off the face of the tallest mountain, least the ass-faced god of the world kill them all. Remember that?"

Mercury fought off his grin. He looked around at the peach-esque sigils on the hoods of all the cult members--notably, not his brother's. "Oh. You heard about that one."

"I certainly did."

"I hoped they'd catch you, you know." Mercury flexed his numb fingers. "Didn't quite predict this."

"Oh, I know." Earth gave him a plain smile. He wore a stranger's face, but Mercury had the double-sight of the gods. He could see Earth's true form underneath. The smugness of his smirk. "And that's why I'm not going to stop them."

"Oh, you *prick*." Mercury wrestled hard against the bounds. He cringed as he imagined falling through the air forever, breaking apart. The death-system on Earth's planet reknitting his atoms and spitting him back out into his god-self once more. "You have absolutely no sense of humor."

His brother just smirked and said, crisply, "Whenever you regenerate, Father wants to see us both."

Mercury scowled as he imagined their creator Sol, lord of the sun, just cackling if he heard about all this. It was bad enough losing to a bunch of animals on his brother's kingdom, much less having to *admit* it.

"What does he want?"

"I don't know. I was too busy savoring this moment." Earth grinned around at all the cult members trudging up the snowy mountain. They still didn't seem to realize he was even there.

"If you can make these idiots not see you, can't you make them let me *go?*"

"I could. But I'm an ass-faced god, aren't I? And I do demand my sacrifice."

"You can't be serious about this!" 

"Maybe I am. Maybe I'm not." His big brother grinned as he leaned down to pat Mercury's shoulder, which trailed through the ever-deepening snow. "Guess you'll find out soon." 

Mercury fought and screamed all the way up the mountain.

The Devil went down to Georgia     
Where he got his red ass whupped     
Johnny was proud     
And he said out loud     
"I'll never be one-upped!"     

But as that challenge echoed     
Out into the Georgia blue     
The Lord jumped in          
With his violin     
Said, "It's time for round two!"

"You're getting mighty cocky,"     
Said the Lord, "Now you're in trouble!"   
"That kind of pride,    
"I won't abide!    
"It's nothing or it's double!"

Well, Johnny tightened up his strings    
He said "Don't make me groan!    
"I'll take the bet,     
"But what I get    
"Is a day upon your throne!"

There came a flash of lightning      
And the Lord said "You're all in!     
"But if you lose,     
"You'll take a cruise     
"Into oblivion!"

Johnny, now you're in too deep; that fiddle better sing!     
'Cause now you're up against the guy who made everything!     
If you win, you get a chance to rule both great and small     
But if you lose, you won't exist at all...

The Lord rosined up his bow     
And said "This will be quick!     
"I know some things     
"On Heaven's strings     
"That ought to do the trick!"

With a mighty flourish     
The Lord began his line     
And his fiddle played     
A serenade     
That was quite divine:

 

♫ ♬ ♩ ♪ ♬ ♬ ♩ ♩♫ ♬ ♪ ♬     
[ANGELIC MUSIC PLAYS]      
♫ ♬ ♩ ♪ ♬ ♬ ♩ ♩♫ ♬ ♪ ♬     

 

When the Lord had finished     
Johnny only rolled his eyes     
"If that's your best,     
"Just take a rest,    
"And witness your demise!"

 

♫ ♬ ♩ ♪ ♬ ♬ ♩ ♩♫ ♬ ♪ ♬    
Rationality that you can't resist!    
Jehovah's in a fight with an atheist!     
All of Heaven's angels start to grieve!    
You can't beat a man who doesn't believe!    
♫ ♬ ♩ ♪ ♬ ♬ ♩ ♩♫ ♬ ♪ ♬    

 

The Lord, he raised an eyebrow, saying "Johnny, you've been cheating!     
"There's no sense smiting you, boy, if you can't feel the beating!"    
Johnny said "I'll tell you what, just save those declarations.    
"I'm so high, I've been playing the fiddle against hallucinations!"    
And he played:

 

♫ ♬ ♩ ♪ ♬ ♬ ♩ ♩♫ ♬ ♪ ♬    
Eating all the mushrooms and seeing stuff!    
The Lord and the Devil have both had enough!     
But Johnny has a question buried deep within:     
Where did he find a golden violin?     
♫ ♬ ♩ ♪ ♬ ♬ ♩ ♩♫ ♬ ♪ ♬    

 

♫ ♬ ♩ ♪ ♬ ♬ ♩ ♩♫ ♬ ♪ ♬!Everyone pack it in, he won this one
Yep.  Deleted my story when it was halfway finished.  This was too good.What if I told you there once lived men who could lift automobiles using only their breath? Almighty beings that ate metal slabs for breakfast, who covered their bodies with hieroglyphs, purposely inflicting pain upon themselves just because they could. What if I told you these creatures walked the earth, like you and me? Would you believe it, or not?

Children, let me tell you the story of Guinness the Great and the world before the surge.

Back then, life wasn't about survival. The scab rats hadn't hatched yet, so it was fairly safe on this planet. We prospered and created meaning for our own lives, which went into an unexpected direction. Everyone wanted to be noticed.

Atop his golden throne, Guinness the Great held a competition of champions. He called upon the strangest and strongest, the weirdest and wildest to compete for a chance to be noticed. As expected, millions and millions of them arrived at Guinness's doorstep, all begging for his blessing.

He snapped his fingers and they all filed into a line, stretching around the earth five times. One by one, they presented themselves to his holiness, and if their talent was deemed worthy, he would invite them to be immortalized in his book and turned into a god. Guinness the Great wasn't known for patience, so those who showed no promise were thrown into a pit of lava, their corpses turned to ash.

This judgement went on for a hundred years, until one man rose above it. He saw the tyranny in Guinness the Great's ways and wanted to stop it, at all costs. He arrived at Guinness's doorstep, where he was told to bow. He did not. Again, he was commanded. Again, he withheld. Guinness was intrigued by the valor, so he gave the man a chance to redeem himself.

The man stood up straight and spit onto the very ground he walked on. He said these are no gods. No. Only men. Men who have dedicated their entire lives to these niche talents, and the disrespect will not stand. Guinness glared at him, offering no remorse. Not anymore. As he prepared to banish the man to the pits of lava, the man smiled. He dared Guinness to do it. He said he cannot die.

The fate of this man is not written in the sacred texts as it is unknown to the population. But I know. I know what happened.

He sucked in his gut and swam through the lava where he found refuge in a cave. For six years, he subsisted off of rats and rat blood. It wasn't until a fire breather drifted ashore that he was able to escape. Together, the two men stormed into Guinness the Great's lair and challenged him, inciting a war that would last another 20 years or so. The humans were too distracted with records and challenges that they didn't even realize when the scab rats and the mammoth fleas hatched. 

The man who dared challenge Guinness is long gone now, but a quote etched in stone remains. 

"There are no gods, only man." - Ripley“What is wrong, my child?”

Silence.

“You know the words spoken at Confession will never leave this room.”

“It…it hurts, High Priest.”

“What hurts?”

“This doubt.”

“What do you doubt, child?”

“I doubt…everything. It is as if all the truths I once believed in were merely a house of cards, and now a breeze has come and blown the house down.”

“And what is this breeze?”

“The gods…I once saw only strength, bravery, boldness without any fear. Now I only see the strain in their muscles, the doubt in their eyes.”

“My child…are you suggesting?”

“A trial,” the boy said quietly.

“My child, you must know what this means. The consequences…”

“I am ready to accept them, father.”

\-

So for weeks the boy practiced, out in the ponds in the Forbidden Valley he snuck out to in the mornings before lessons. Every time he entered the water, he would curse himself, almost hoping that it would not be true.

But then in the water, he found peace. Found the only peace, perhaps, that he had ever known. It was as if he could perfectly feel the air in his lungs, the oxygen, coursing through him, clean and vital, and hear all the quiet machinery of his body, his heartbeat, his veins, the sway of his limbs.

And then eventually, the oxygen would be gone, and he would resurface. And he would close his eyes before looking at the numbers, only to see and know with growing conviction that all he had been told before was a lie.

\-

The last person he looked to was his mother. She smiled bravely while his father could not even look at him, but the boy could see the fear, the sadness in her eyes. He would enter the water, and then come out as an exile, an outcast, or…something else entirely.

And then it was time. He squeezed her hand, trying to let her know he was still her son. As he was lowered into the water, he saw her turn away, her hands over her eyes.

The water. Quiet and peace from all the chatter and murmurs above him. He tried to still his nerves, his wildly beating heart, the tremors and tingles that kept flaring up in his fingers. He tried to count, but somewhere along the way he was going too fast or too slow, and he gave up.

But still, he held on, determined to…he didn’t know what drove him so, but he closed his eyes and stood still in the water tank until his lungs felt like bursting, felt like fire and pain and…

He rose, and the crowd was silent. As he climbed out of the water onto the platform, he knew something was wrong.

And then they all knelt, one by one. His mother first, then the elders, then…everyone. His father. His childhood friends. Eventually, the High Priest.

“Oh, Great Guinness, thank you for gracing us with the presence of a new God, the Champion of Holding Air…”

He heard the people he had known all his life, loved and hated and envied and walked past without a second thought, pray to him, lauding his greatness, his elevation above their existence, and a new belief came to him. The lie beneath the truth, the fact that the Gods were nothing but mortal humans, like everyone, and that his life would never be the same.

\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_

[r/penguin347](The rattling of the keys followed by the clicking of the locks sent me jumping to my feet. Since mom had passed, I was the only one with keys to the house.

I barreled toward my room's drawer, and took my pistol from underneath a bundle of folded sheets. In the entrance, the wood creaked, and the door grated shut.

Heart thumping, I loaded the gun, ears strained, and skulked toward the noises, attempting to predict where the intruder was heading to.

He was coming straight to my room. I sprung behind the bed, hiding. The steps got louder, until the door swung open, and a soft, papery said, "Ophelia, where have you gone? I've got the cigarettes."

I frowned. He knew my mother? That voice. It sounded so familiar. I craned my neck slightly to see the intruder, gun at the ready.

It was then when my heart sank to the depths of my stomach. I gulped down all the stress and worries knotting my chest, and put the lock back into the gun before hiding it into my pocket. "Dad?"

"Oh hey, Ricky. What are you doing hiding over there?" he said nonchalantly. Although ten years had gone by, only a handful of new wrinkles lined his pale-white skin. "Have you seen' your mother? I brought her the camels she asked for. Let me tell you, she better come back soon cause they ain't cheap, and I crave a good smoke."

"What do you mean if I have seen mom?" I met his eyes. "Where had you been. It's been ten years! We thought you had been kidnapped or murdered!"

His brows drew into a deep scowl. "Ten years? Son, ain't you a crazy one. It ain't April Fools just yet, and you already playing jokes. Now, tell your mother I stole two cigarettes from the package. I will be downstairs, watching the football." He walked to the door, halted and turned to me, head tilted. "You should let that beard grow, you lookin' like a boy with that baby skin." Then, smiling, he went downstairs.

I sat on the edge of the bed, perplexed, ran my hands ran through my beard. It was thick and long, worthy of a lumberjack. I'd let it grow due to him. He'd always said the say thing to me before he left us ten years ago, and I thought that, perhaps, in some strange way, he'd comeback just to see if I'd grown a proper beard, and he would hug me and congratulate me, tell me I looked like the man he'd always wanted as a son.

And now, ten years later, he'd walked in the house as if not a second had gone by, and for some odd reason he didn't see the effects time had had on me.

I headed downstairs. Perhaps I could snatch something out of him.

*I'm tellin' you, darling. Two dollars a package of camels? It ain't right.* I heard him said in the distance. *Damned be the day we smoke the first one. I'm tellin' you, it will take us to the grave.*

Who was he talking to? Why was he in the kitchen.

"Dad, who are you speaking with?" I asked as I walked into the kitchen. He was leaning against the refrigerator, smoking a cigarette and grinning. Although his lips shut into a line and his brows creased when he heard my question.

"I don't know what has gotten into your mind, son," he said and pointed to an empty chair. "I'm talking to your mother right there. Have you been smoking the devil's lettuce?"

"I--I--I was just playing a joke. Hello mom," I said and waved at the chair. Then, I dug out my phone from pocket, and went to the bathroom so I could speak without being heard. "Be right back." 

"911 what's your emergency?"

"It's my dad. He's been missing for ten years. He came into my house walking as if not a second had gone by."

"Keep calm, sir. Is he hostile?"

"No, he-he's acting as he always had. I'm starting to believe there's something wrong with him."

"Wrong in what way, sir?"

"In his brain. He's acting crazy. My mom passed eight years ago, and he's convinced she's there with him. And I believe he sees me as if I were still a teenager."

"Are you safe, sir?"

"I am."

"Has anyone in your family ever had problems with mental diseases like dementia or schizophrenia?"

"My grandmother and grandfather had dementia."

"I'm sending an ambulance right now. Confirm please your address is Shelpshire 722. Follow your father's train of thought until the doctors arrive. Don't scare nor agitate him. As you said, it seems like he's suffering from something. "

"That is my address. Thank you very much."

I hung up, got out the bathroom and went back to the kitchen.

He was not there.

Desperate, I searched the house. But the silence was absolute, and every room was empty. His keys were atop the kitchen's table, and so were his cigarettes. On my bed I found a note.

*Didn't want to disturb you while you were doing your private things, son. Your mother ran out of cigarettes. I went to the store to buy some, I will be back in thirty minutes.*

In time, the doctors rang the bell. Shaking, I opened the door for the doctors to come in. "Doctor Tart? What are you doing here? I--I--my father! He came back left a note. It's over there on the table. Come, please come."
 
"Calm down, Ricky," Tart said, placed a hand on my shoulder. "It's gonna be all right."

"All the pills are in the flask, Tart," the other doctor said.

"Ricky, where is that note?"

"Over there, on the table." I pointed at it, and everything inside me shattered. There was nothing there.

"It's the third time he has done this, Tart," the other doctor said. "He refuses to take his medicine. His hallucinations are getting worse. I told you he was not ready to get out the ward. We must take him back."

"The ward?" I said, my extremities quivering wildly. "What ward? Why is it so cold in here?"

"Listen, Ricky," Tart said, his eyes gentle, voice caring. "I will give you one last opportunity. You have to take your pills. Will you cooperate with us this time? It's for your own good. I understand you feel like an addict, but you have to understand too that you need them. Will you take them?"

"Yes," I said. The other doctor held out a pill for me. I swallowed it. "But he was here. I swear it. He was here. He's suffering from dementia. I swear."

The doctors shared a knowing look.

"What is that look. Are you going to take me by force back to the ward?" I fought to hold back rising tears.

"Ricky," Tart said, took a deep breath, his lips a tight line.

"What is it, doctor?"

"Your father died of a heart attack ten years ago. He collapsed on the streets. You were going to the store with him when it happened."
    
"Come!" The paw on the back of my head scratches through my fur. I snap at Dodger. He still treats me like a pup, and he is old. Old or not, he manages to catch me and roll me over. I bat at his chest and he snaps and growls near my ears until I surrender.

"Insolent pup," he growls again as he lets me up.

"I'm not a pup!" I stand up and shake. "I have earned my name. The Lady gave me a name!"

"Dodger! Sapphire!" The girl's voice from inside makes me perk up my ears. 

"The Lady calls again. Come!" He turns back toward the house and trots over. I follow, and playfully snap at his golden tail. He ignores me because I am obeying.

The Lady opens the door. The youngest. Not quite 100 years yet. She just came of age last week, and there was a big celebration. I was quite popular that night, as her friends gave me many treats. There was talk among the adults about her going away. She said I would go with her, and that made me happy. I wag my tail at her. The Lady pats my head, but then she kneels down and hugs Dodger. The Lady is crying.

"What's wrong?" I ask her. She only reaches out and pats my head again. She doesn't understand me yet. Not like the Master. The Master knows what we say. He understands Dodger more easily. And then I notice that Dodger is not wagging his tail. He is also sad.

"Dodger?" I demand. I muscle my way into the hug and lick the Lady's face. She laughs a little. "Dodger, what's wrong?"

"I have to go see the Master," he says. He breaks away from the hug and leaves me with the Lady, who hugs me now instead. I sniff her. She smells of the chemicals that Master smells like all the time now. I listen. I can hear the Mistress talking, talking to the Peddler of the chemicals. I nudge out of the hug to follow Dodger, up the stairs, up to Master's room.

"Hey Sapphire," says the Mistress when I enter. She rubs me behind the ears the way I like. I tell her thank you.

"Beautiful Husky," says the Peddler. I greet him and he pets me. He seems all right, but for the odd smell.

"She belongs to my granddaughter." The Mistress's voice sounds odd, like she is in distress, but I smell no danger.

"Ah." The Peddler is packing up. "If you need anything else..."

"Thank you." The Mistress walks out with him.

Dodger is on the bed. He lays his head on Master's chest, who looks asleep. The chemicals make me want to sneeze, but Dodger had told me that is disrespectful. There's another smell too: it's been present for a long time, but today it is stronger than before.

I walk up to the side of the bed. "Dodger!" I speak loudly to get his attention.

He opens his big brown eyes. "Quiet, pup," he says. "And go away."

"No! Tell me what is going on. Why does the Master smell like this? Why is my Lady crying?" I put my paws on the bed to look at Master. His skin is very sallow and thin. The veins stand out.

"I am the Seventh," says Dodger. He lifts his head from Master's chest. "My family was made part of the Master's family generations ago, when he was just a pup." Dodger looks at his Master's face. "The First was named Dodger as well. He named me, knowing I would be the last."

"The last?" I whine. "Dodger, what are you talking about?"

Dodger sighs. "You're too young to understand."

"I am not a puppy!" I say it loudly. "I am not!"

The Master opens his eyes, and I wonder if I have made a mistake. But he laughs and reaches out to scratch my ears. Like the Mistress, he knows how to scratch properly.

"Hullo, Sapphire," he says. I wag my tail. "Be a good dog for Jenny, mm?"

"I will," I tell him. I feel Dodger looking at me, all solemn.

"Good girl," says Master. "I don't have long before I go. Dodger will take care of me."

I hear a car pull up the driveway outside. It's a large one. I run to the window and look out: it's big and white, and strange humans in uniform get out. The Mistress begins to talk with them. I run back to the bed.

I look at Dodger. "He can't leave. You can't leave!" I whine.

"Hey, hey," says Master. He catches me near the ears again, gently. "I told you, Dodger will take care of me."

I whine at them both. "You can't leave!"

The men come upstairs with a bed on wheels. The Lady comes with them and takes me aside.

"Gotta move the dog."

"I'll move him," says the Mistress. She lifts Dodger off the bed. He seems older than he did a little while ago. I whine at the Lady, but she just holds me and cries.

"He can't leave!" I tell her, but she doesn't understand yet. "They won't bring him back!"

But he does leave. The Lady just holds me and weeps while the vehicles drive away.

We go downstairs and outside. Dodger walks down the driveway, following the vehicles.

"Dodger, wait!" I strain against the Lady's hands. She calls for Dodger, and he waits a moment. I get free.

"Dodger, we have to bring the Master back!" I tell him. I could still hear the vehicles on the road. The Lady was running up behind me.

He wags his tail at me. "He told you to be a good dog and take care of the Lady. Be good, Sapphire." He licks my face and runs off, golden fur shining in the sunlight. Lady holds onto me and calls for Dodger, but he disobeys. I had never seen him disobey before. He had never called me by my name before.

I only saw Dodger one more time: we found him at the meadow where the Master's body was laid, curled against the crossed stone that marked it.

He was the Seventh of his family. I am the First of mine.

The Master lifted his cane off of his throne in the room of gathering, leaned on it. He moved carefully, slowly to the glowing box in one corner of the room. He pressed a thin finger against the side of the box, and the glowing disappeared.

I stood up to greet him as he turned to me. I looked up at his eyes. They were losing their color. Most Masters think dogs don't notice things, but I do. I have been a good dog to my Master, and I have noticed many things. 

I noticed when he was not moving in his bed one morning. I noticed when another Master was going to attack mine from behind. I noticed when my Master brought home a new, tiny Master with no motor skills and a high-pitched squeal.

"George, ya ole mutt," my Master chuckled, reaching down to scratch my neck. I loved it when he scratched my neck!

As he pulled his hand back, I looked back into his eyes and tilted my head.

My Master sat back down in his soft throne, leaned forward. "I know, boy-o," he whispered, lifting my head with his hand, holding his cane in his other, "I'm not looking so good. I'm not moving as fast as I used to, I can't do all of the things I used to do with you."

Moisture began to form around his eyes. I have seen this before, he is sad. My Master is sad, but why? Is it because he is getting old? Is it because of me? Did I do something wrong? I nudged my nose closer to him, making him chuckle.

"No, no, no," my Master smiled, "you're good, ole boy, you're good."

Okay, good, it wasn't me.

"I do want to talk to you, though." My Master stood up briefly then dropped to one knee, laying his cane on the ground. "Sit for me, Georgie. I'm going to be going to the hospital soon. I hope this is just for some tests, but I'm not sure."

I tilted my head again. What is a "hospital"? Is it like Hell? Or, in other words, the Vet?

"This is looking like my last trip to the hospital, boy-o."

Something about his tone did not sound right to me. Moisture was appearing in his eyes again. Why is my Master so sad now? What is going on? I scooted a little closer to him, licking his hand. Maybe licking his hand would make him feel better.

"Thank you, boy," my Master said, stroking my head. "You've been a good boy so far. We've had some pretty fun times, too. Remember those muggers?" He laughed a big laugh this time. "What a time! Good thing I had this with me." He picked up his cane, waved it at me. My tail wagged.

"I want you to know, boy-o, that I love you and that you have been the best friend anyone could have."

I have no idea what he just said, but he looked intensely into my eyes, and the moisture was gone, so I think he was happy. My tail continued to wag. I licked his hand again.

My Master pressed his head to mine. We remained there for a good long while.

My tail continued to wag.
I came here to read, not to feelIf you saw that prompt and didn't come to feel, you're gonna have a bad time.I was taken to the palace when I was 8 years old. That's the age everyone gets tested. Luck is always the last thing they check for. It's usually a stat no-one pays much mind to. One in ten-thousand people score above 55, so if it comes back higher than that it's noteworthy, but no-one expects it to. My older siblings were both gifted with intelligence, Tom with a 78 and Nora at a stunning 86. My whole extended family threw a huge party to celebrate Nora's results. Receiving a score above 80 in any stat is a virtual guarantee that person's life will be lived a cut above the rest. She was enrolled in the world's most prestigious university at the age of 11, and was offered full tenure as a physics professor just six years later.

There was no party thrown after my results came back. As it was, the results were all that came back. I was taken directly from the chair I was analyzed in, to the palace. Everyone that scores 100 on their luck stat is taken here. They calculate that one in a million people receive higher than an 80 in their luck stat. There are exactly 13 of us in the palace. Every person in the world known to have a 100 on their luck stat resides on this small swath of land in North Sumatra. We want for nothing, save freedom. The finest doctors in the world perform regular health examinations on each of us. Food from around the world is flown in daily, and is prepared by a rotating pantheon of chefs who consider it the pinnacle of their career to perform their craft for us. The latest in entertainment technology? No whim or desire expressed by one of our thirteen residents is ignored, and only one request will ever be denied.

Some of us live out our life in pure hedonism, taking full advantage of the fruits of other people's labor and talent. I can't truly blame them, being bereft of freedom tends to leave you with a grudge against your captors, no matter how gilded the cage. We're to be kept alive as long as possible though, so those who over-indulge find themselves on the receiving end of the world's most energetic life coaches.

Personally, I just want to be away from this place, but there's no escaping. It's not because of the lake we're surrounded by, or the guard towers and patrols that dot the landscape just beyond our view. Odds are good they'd never manage to catch us if we really wanted to avoid them. It's because of why we're here. We sit atop what geologists have identified as "the last great super volcano." It should have blown its top, and approximately 98% of humanity with it, over 300 years ago. Someone got the bright idea to relocate the world's luckiest inhabitants right on top of it, as a "hail Mary" attempt to prevent the end of the world. So far, it seems to have worked. 

I live on the Toba caldera, along with the world's 12 "luckiest" people, and for everyone's sake I must never leave.

Edit: Wow! My first ever gilding, and then you guys made it twice as nice. Thank you!!!

I did not expect this kind of a reaction. I want to flesh this story out more, but I'm up at 3 am with my 4 month old son, so time is at a premium right now. If I'm able to do a part 2 I will update this thread.

Thank you all for your amazing feedback, support, and for just being awesome!You ever heard of plot armor? How your favorite heroes get out of ridiculous situations despite there being no good reason for them to be able to succeed? 100 luck is like having plot armor. You can’t die. You can’t lose. People wonder at how bad luck fits into the equation, and simply put, at 100 you have no bad luck. At 1.... well, they usually don’t even make it out of the womb. 

That being said, I have 100 luck. Not bad, right? I could do whatever I want and succeed. If I wanted to do brain surgery I could close my eyes and swing at the patient’s brain with a sledgehammer, so long as I want them to live and heal, somehow it’ll go right. There’s a lot of capacity for good, a lot for bad. A few years ago someone with 100 luck threw a dart into the air aiming for German chancellor’s  head... while they were sitting in Hawaii. That dart rode the wind currents across the world right into Berlin where it blew the chancellor’s head off. A dart they half-heartedly tossed while sipping a fucking mojito. 

This was rare, since most 100 luck people are thrown into jail. Myself included. What I’ve been trying to figure out is how this prison at the bottom of the Atlantic is fair or lucky. I got my answer when the world exploded. Someone got uppity with the nukes, one thing led to another, now our air tight prison is floating through space. Pretty lucky to be the only survivors. On top of that, we have 500 males and 500 females on board our little slice of life. 

I’d say we have a good shot at repopulation, especially since each guy has a gal and each gal has a guy. Everyone has fallen in love perfectly with one person that nobody else loved. Big shocker here, one couple already had a kid. Okay, whatever. Thing is, she has a 100 luck rating as well. I’d venture a guess we’ll all be having 100 luck kids. 

I was worried we’d run out of food, but a warehouse full of it somehow crashed into our big home and created an air tight seal. We estimate a good 30 years out of it. It’s not a problem until it’s a problem, you know? I’m kind of assuming we’ll crash land on some world lush with life and perfect for our survival. A literal paradise. I’ll be honest, the future seems bright. Hell, I bet we could even conquer the universe. 

Edit: Part 2 is up! 

Edit 2: I’m going to work on a Part 3 later today, I’ll shoot replies to those of you looking for it. It will likely take the form of an HFY post just for organization and depending on how far I want to bring this. It’s a boring life I tell you. Seeing prisoners come and go. I find myself wondering when exactly is our luck determined? At the moment of conception? At birth? In any case, those that have as much luck as we can get are forced to be here...

Watching through the bars I see inmates laze around in their cells. They’re not allowed to do anything where skill is a factor, because their luck would render the necessary skill redundant.

It’s a shame too, the stories I hear about some of these guys. One tried to run for office but was discovered to be a “Clover” when he won the election in a landslide of 51/49% by 1 swing vote.

“Clovers”, what a childish but accurate way to refer to us. But that’s what happens when you make it too obvious.

Now we’re stuck here, forced to watch the “Black Cats”, the 0 Luck people, as they’re dragged into cells. I have to make my rounds soon on the prisoners soon... last week by a stroke of luck I discovered a very unfortunate attempt at an escape tunnel...

But that’s why I’ll always be stuck here... forced to use my luck to keep the unlucky stuck.

EDIT: Thanks for 1k upvotes! (My first post to break that!) Great story by far the most creative, glad I got to read it!Fred admired how, even in purgatory, human beings had found a way to emulate the high-school cafeteria stereotype.

Racial discrimination didn't exist here, *title* was everything.  Were you a musician?  You eat, drink, converse, sleep near, and otherwise live with the other musicians.

Philosopher or Scientist?  Enjoy a daily lecture from Socrates or Newton, followed by a rebuttal from Plato.  Hawking was a new addition.  Fred admitted it was strange seeing him outside of his wheelchair and actually communicating.

Author?  Well, Jane Austen has a seat for you.  Unless you wish to sit with the more "edgy" authors, in which Poe and his contemporaries stalked about their area of purgatory.

Everyone had a title.  How odd that in purgatory, your stereotypes are what truly and actually define you.  There was likely some lesson to be learned in that, but Fred didn't wish to think on it.  He had a mission.

He made his way over to the great scientists and sat plum in the middle of them.  Newton was theorizing the matter around them and tying it into some form of thermodynamic supercharged particle that kept them locked in purgatory.  Or something.  Fred was educated, but a large portion of his experience on earth had been in Presbyterian schools.  He had long ago left behind his initial thoughts of purgatory because, well, he was here.

And he still was not forgotten.  He didn't mind it, though.  Being here wasn't all that bad.  Sure, it was a little uncomfortable, but that's life, why wouldn't second-life be a bit uncomfortable?

Newton stopped mid-sentence and stared in horror.  "Fred?"  Somehow everyone knew everyone's names here.  Another mystery both the philosophers and scientists attempted to answer.  Didn't matter to Fred.  All that mattered was he was here.

"Hey, neighbor!"

The other scientists turned in confusion, likewise locking their gaze on Fred.  "I, uh, well, as I was saying..." Newton continued his lecture, acutely aware of Fred's awkward presence.  Fred pretended not to notice, nodding appropriately at what Newton was proposing.  Others piped in and offered their theories and expounded on each other.  Fred simply listened.

It had all started a few, well, *years* isn't the appropriate term as time had no real meaning here.  Suffice to say back some time ago, Fred had overheard the philosophers discussing second-death and what it meant to die a second time.  'Nobodies', as they came to be known, arrived and departed in purgatory almost by whim, leaving almost as suddenly as they arrived, whereas the more well-known among them lingered.  Some for centuries and even millenia.  They had proposed that second-death was tied to remembrance on Earth.

Plato had rebutted that a third death was possible.  That wherever you went from here you once again remained until forgotten.

That got Fred thinking.  Perhaps it was a bit selfish on his part, but his Presbytarian upbringing had brought him to a final conclusion - after purgatory was heaven or hell.  Now, he was pretty sure he was going to heaven.  Therefore, if third-death really did exist, well, he didn't want to be forgotten anywhere.

He figured that by tying the whole community together, though, it would offset his selfishness.  Hopefully.  He faintly recognized further selfishness in that act, trying to "cheat" the system, but well, it was all he could do.

Once Newton had finished, he rose from his seat, and gave a polite nod to everyone.  "Thank you, Sir Isaac.  That was certainly enlightening, and has given me some things to think on.  Now if you don't mind gentlemen, I have a few others to visit."

The great scientists nodded in agreement, less ruffled than before - or so Fred hoped.

Over the 'weeks', he would visit as many groups as he could before his energy ran out and he had to retire.  "Hey Fred, how is your little project going?"  Ghandi had asked after one such journey.  He had expressed great interest in his little project, but as of yet hadn't mustered the courage to mirror his actions.  "What did you learn?"

Fred greeted his friend with a soft grin.  Gandhi had been the first to introduce himself when Fred had experienced first-death.  Truly as honorable as the history books made him out to be.  "Oh, I met all sorts of people with interesting ideas and even cultures.  Isn't it odd how humans develop cultures even in purgatory?"  He sat on a bench, and slowly removed his dress shoes, humming a bit to himself.  Old habits die hard.  *No pun intended*, he thought, chuckling to himself.  "I imagine I won't be here as long as most of you.  But here is what I make of it."

He paused, a bit for dramatic effect and a bit to collect his thoughts.  "I believe that the more we are remembered on Earth, the longer we are given to make an impact here in purgatory.  It is a *reward* for our deeds on Earth, to give us time to continue them here.  With no clear direction, it's easy to fall into lazy patterns of behavior, falling back on what you know best with others who know it as well.  I think the key to heaven is our impact in purgatory, not Earth.  Earth simply gives us a head start, so to speak, here."

Gandhi pondered a moment.  "I think you're correct."

When his time finally came, Fred Rogers was met with a chorus of 'goodbye neighbor!' as he casually slipped off his dress shoes and jacket, put on his sneakers and cardigan, and stepped through the door of light with his name over it.  He hoped it had been enough.  With how wrong he had been about purgatory, he had no idea what this "second death" would be like, or what was waiting for him on the other side of this door, but as he had told countless children during his time on Earth, he decided to be brave, and see what this next adventure had in store for him.

 

"It is SOO awful here!" I exclaimed for the third time in five minutes. "Just damn me or not the indecision is literally torture. Like, I think I Skipped the purgatory and went straight to hell."

​

"Young person, What has you so troubled?" asked a man sitting at one of the cafeteria tables, his charred chicken breast half eaten.

​

"Well for one, my shoulder is sore, because all the beds here feel like the ones from my college dorm. My head hurts 'cause I can't find any soda that isn't diet, and my only choice of food is over-cooked chicken or pizza with Friggin PINEAPPLE on it!" i complained, voice rising in volume as i walked to his table and claimed an empty plastic chair.

​

"So pick  off the pineapple." replied a mustachioed man from another side of the small uncomfortable table. Before following suit with the mushrooms on his own pizza, though it had come from the same box.

​

"Oh, Just pick it off, Thanks for that Gem, Nietzsche!" I shook my head "I don't even have any Family, How long does it take for people to Forget an orphan with a youtube channel?!"

​

"I have heard of this You tube. What did a young person such as yourself put on the internet?" replied the older guy.

​

"Well, I put up a bunch of videos of my cat, in a Star Wars jumpsuit, jumping around a AT-AT cat tree i made. I think my names on the video."

​

Nietzsche choked on his newly mushroom free pizza, "Oh man, That sucks for you. You're gonna wind up here as long as that guy!" he said pointing into another corner.  I half stood, looking over the strange polish guy's big hat to catch a glimpse, of the corner where the grey haired man sat. His empty plate hold several dozen onions evidently picked off his own pizza, slowly arranging them into Triangles.

​

"Is that?"

​

"Yep, You think being known for philosophy was bad. Imagine being stuck here for something a bunch of people actually use, like Math." Nietzsche stood up and sighed. "I know by the time i walk down three flights for cream my coffee will be slightly to cold for my taste, but i'm going to go anyway. See ya around kid, With your name on a Cat video, you're going to be here a while."Huh, okay this is weird.

*You tell me.*

She is staring at me. Say something.

"I'm not staring, you are staring."

Oh, right. She can hear that.

*Why did I say that out loud? I could have just thought it.*

"You mean like right now?"

*Exactly. Well, not like you just did, like I'm doing.*

Sorry. I'm not used to this. Like, actually talking to your voice instead of trying to silence it.

*You think I am?*

I guess not. Man I never expected to meet someone who could read my thought. I hope I don't think about anything embarrassing.

"Ha!"

"What?"

*Sorry, it's just that... I've heard your thoughts when you were a teenager. I know what you did.*

Yeah, well I know what you did too.

*What I mean is that we are a little past the point of being embarrassed, don't you think?*

Good point. 

*So what now?*

You know, I'm glad to discover I'm not crazy. So wanna grab a coffee with me?

*Well, that's an unusual pick-up line, but sure, I'd love to.*


*Turn around, did I find you?*

I froze. *No. No No No.*

*Turn around.*

I begin to turn. People shuffle past in the milling crowd. I see her. She has brown eyes and black hair. She is wearing a red coat. She is wearing headphones.

*Is that you?*

I nod at her. 

*Get the fuck out of my head* 

She reaches into her coat. I stare dumbly. She pulls out the pistol. 

I remain frozen. *You don't want to do that.*

She points it at me. I see her hands shaking. *I can't do this.*

She lifts the gun to her chin. *Bye.*

I rush forward. *Wait, stop!*

**Bang**

I catch her body as it falls, the crowd is screaming around me. 

*Finally, alone.*

___Epilogue

__

I'm 55 years old, and I've been a barista my whole life. What I'm trying to say is that I've seen my fair share of weirdos in all my years. Like that guy who would only pay using quarters. Or the lady carrying cats on her shoulders. And yet somehow, that couple that came in today maybe the strangest of them all.

I like to think that, with my experience, I can read clients pretty well. These two looked a bit nervous, slightly awkward. Definitely a first date. They kept glancing at each other without saying a word. Not a great sign usually, but they looked strangely happy.

When it was their turn to place an order, the guy looked at me straight in the eyes and stayed dead silent. Who does that? After some unbearably long awkward seconds, I had to say something.

“Sir? Are you all right?” I ventured.

“Oh, right sorry!” He said, as if he suddenly remembered he could talk. “I'll have a Latte, please.”

“Very well. And you, Ms?”

Now it was the woman's turn to stare silently at my face. Seriously, what was wrong with these two?

“Ms? Can I help you?”

“Yes, sorry about that. I'll have a Latte too, thanks.”

The guy laughed and said to her:

“I guess we don't have the hang of this thing yet!”

I almost asked them how on earth did they managed to live their whole life up until that point without mastering something as simple as ordering a coffee, but managed to keep my mouth shut. I quickly prepared their order, hoping they would just leave. They didn't, and instead went to sit at a table.

I guess they really were on a “date”, if you could even call it that. I swear they were just sitting there completely silent, just looking at each other. Sometimes, for seemingly no reason, one of them started to laugh. Maybe they were escaped mental patients. When one of them spoke only to say “I knew I wasn't crazy!”, I wondered if I should report them to the police or something. I picked up my phone.

But then I looked at their faces. They looked so happy. Seeing them like this reminded me of the day I met my wife. Once you get past their... quirks, they were a really cute couple. Yeah, they were weird, but it's not like they were hurting anyone. Ruining their day would be a crime. I put my phone back in my pocket.

They had only exchanged a couple of words in half an hour but they didn't seem to mind.

They were smiling.

They got up and left, holding hands. I saw them on the street through the window. They kissed.

I was smiling too.They kill each other as they always have.

En masse.

And per usual, no matter how they pretty up the motivations with lofty goals and eloquent speeches, they kill each other for the same reasons.

Hell; they've been doing it for as long as I've been alive.  Before then, even.  You could say human history is written by a bloody pen, to the surprise of no one.

Sure, I saw it then, I see it now.  What weighs heavy is the knowledge of its uselessness and repetitiveness.

Humans have this classical conditioning to kill each other in wholesale extravagance, and the more their methods change, the more horrifying the results.

So I stay on the fringes, helping the lost and forgotten.  Those without access to care, those without access to food or shelter.  I do what I can now, to make up for what I did so long ago.

*Newfound immortality can sometimes make you lose sight of consequences.*

I push the thought aside, returning to the work.  The work.  The endless, grinding, horrifying work.

"Raise the leg," I command.  The nurse does so, hopefully this'll help stop the bleeding.  The hole, nice and small and round, pulses out blood at regular intervals, making that weird watery texture that clings to the leg hairs.  

The man who'd been unlucky enough to get caught in sniper alley moans softer now, though that may be the morphine kicking in.  

Sometimes you get those random flashes from the past, looking at those infected wounds.  This'll turn and fester into something dangerous if I don't address it here and now.

"We need maggots," I say, remembering examining those infected wounds beneath boiled leather and chainmail, but catch myself.  That's the problem with being this old.  Memories enjoy whisking me to places where the dead still speak.

The woman volunteering as a nurse doesn't respond, only blinks at me.

Always tired.

Always afraid.

When they're tired, you can usually say whatever you want to them.  But you can't talk in a medical scenario like this.  You need to command.  Force the bystanders to participate.  This isn't a place for professionals, but this is neither the time or place where they can flourish.  I can take a bullet or two and be fine.  The rest?

Not so much.  But still, I try to maintain a sense of authority whenever I can.  It helps, at least.

Do this NOW.  Get me this amount of such and such and I needed it five minutes ago.

I may have all the time in the world, but they don't.

"Mr. Richardson?"

A small voice, heavily accented timidly wafts over the moans and groans of dying men and women.  No.  Not timid.  Broken. 

Someone is pulling me away, though I'm still focused on this wound.  It needs cleaning, it needs stifling, it needs proper attention, real help, real professional care that can't be cobbled together by volunteers in camps too close to the ever present fighting.

Heal.

As best as you can.  Do you remember the ridiculous methods?  The crushed emeralds and the balancing of humors and all that ridiculous nonsense that probably killed more than it could possibly save?

Keep them alive, keep the blood inside.

*It's delicious though.  The blood, the blood, the blood.  Sweet and hot.  Take a taste, be subtle.  Wipe your hands across your mouth and let it trickle down your tongue.*

No.  I don't need blood anymore.  I quit it.  I don't need it.

I'm not that kind of thing anymore.

Doctors, especially in places of greatest need always carry that same resigned posture, that broken and barely-lucid look on their face.  Never enough sleep.  Never enough bandages, never enough help, never enough time.  Always fighting the clock.

"I'll take over," she says.  She shouldn't have to.  But what can you do; homemade drones managed to drop a few live grenades on some volunteer medics a week before, and we can barely manage the staff as it is.

The boom of artillery can be heard, with a few patients jump with the sound.  In the next instant, they relax.  It's outgoing, not incoming.  Not that the shells care.  Sinner or saint, they blow us all to smithereens.

"Fine," I manage, wiping my hands clean.

*Save the towel.  Lick it later.*

No.

Moving between the makeshift tents, I walk through streets cluttered with rubble and debris.  The clatter of small arms fire sounds even further away, it's echoes strengthened by the distant walls of the valley.

I'm being led to a tent, and how many tents have I entered?

War tents all over the world.  In almost every war and conflict, saving who I can, preventing infections before the humans truly understood what was going on.

Not bad for a peasant boy from Bohemia.

In a tent, a woman with raven-black hair sits at a desk, flanked on either side by burly men with expensive looking rifles.  Fancy and new.  Not too much dust, clean and full magazines.  No grime in the barrel, no broken equipment.  When these men pull the trigger, it fires.

And certainly not locals.

Private military personnel, I'd say.  Though not government kind.  THEIR kind.  The Hunter's kind.

Taking a seat, we exchange pleasantries.  I'm vaguely aware of them, but do not truly know their intentions.  They've been observing, rather than participating in the civil conflict.

The woman doesn't appear to waste any time.  She speaks with the kind of certainty that comes from always commanding the respect in a room.  A no bullshit kind of lady.

My kind of lady.

"Mr. Richardson, we've taken great pains to find you.  We are aware of your...condition, and choose to offer you sanctuary in exchange for your rather unique skillset."

It's matter of fact and straight to the point.  No preamble, no dramatic rant about the history of vampires and humans, of the secretive idiotic conflict between pretentious men and women desperate to kill as many 'nightcrawlers' as they can.

They always talk to you like this when they want something from you.

Same as Lincoln.

Same as Louis.

Same as Gustaff.

They always ask for your very special expertise, and it's never about humans.  Always about my own kind.

The monsters that stalk the shadows and drain the blood of virgins, if you believe the church.

Which I don't.

But still.

Those day have long past.

"I'm not easy to find," I say, the dust clotting my throat.

*You've spent so long hiding, haven't you?  Fighting the urges?  A consequence of being a good Samaritan?*

*You saved a soldier, though you thought he came from the Lord's castle.  So long ago, giving him water, shelter and care.  Hiding him from your parents in the barn, a long forgotten relic of ancient time.  Did he know then he was going to come back and bite you while you slept?*

*Turn you into an abomination like him?  He even thought he was doing you a favor.  In exchange for saving his life, he 'saves' yours.  How long had that man been running from the church's Hunters?  How long had he spent, bleeding black blood into blindingly white snow?  Fangs drawn, veins coursing.  He knelt over you at night, too terrified to scream, whispering dark words and spells in a language you could only pray to not understand.*

"I think you know what I'm going to ask you, Mr. Richardson.  It'll require taking you somewhere far from here." she says.

Pull me out of a war zone?  There's only one reason for such a pleasant set of terms, rather than the usual *Die foul demon spawn!*

"In exchange, we offer a sense of immunity."

"From your kind?"

"From our kind."

She speaks without really considering what I may have to say on the subject.  Human through and through, arrogant to the last. 

By her posture, a Hunter.  A killer of my own kind.  Though they'll never beat the classic killers, the ones who ride moonbeams and sail through the night, slipping into rooms and draining men and women dry.  That must be some kind of saying in her business, though.  Humans can do their best, true.  But no one can kill a vampire like another vampire, and usually over a pint of blood.

"Work for us."

Silence.

Only the sound of distant warfare.

No more running?

A peaceful existence?

Sounds too good to be true.

She's been speaking, but I haven't been listening.  The words roll lazily, bouncing through a dry desert air.  Somewhere, yelling.  Violence.  The killing, it grates.  The killing, it takes its toll.  No matter how long you help, they find a new excuse.  The same reasons.  The same excuses.  Dedicate hundreds of years to it, but it's never enough.

Never enough lives saved.

Maybe I'm tired.

Maybe I've been doing this for far too long.  I'm just so tired.  Tired of the death.  Tired of the sheer horror that masks me from those who would see me dead.

Tired of being alone.

Maybe if I just bite my pride and do the job, they'll leave me alone.  No more running.  No more hiding.  Some kind of sense of normalcy?  A golden key to a life I've never had?

I cut her off before she can work on her false attempts at convincing.  She clearly doesn't care about what she's saying.  How rare must this be?  The humans who dedicate their lives to ending our kind's stain on this Earth with false platitudes and a bargain?

"I'll do it," I hear myself saying.  It's not me, someone else.  Someone who doesn't care about the details or what they entail.  Someone who doesn't care about the cost or the measure, only the reward.  

Peace and freedom.

She smiles at me, motioning for me to follow the men beside her.

Double cross me, and they'll regret it.

Still, the itch.

*Just one last drink.*

*Just one more drop of blood.*

No.

*You say no, but I follow.  Addiction loves you, even if you hate me.*

I'm not one of them.  Not one of the monsters that hunt and kill with no sense of remorse, humanity's light long burned out.

Last of my bloodline.  Last of my family.  Does it matter?  Healing to atone for my sins?

I don't hurt people.

Not anymore.






[Part 2](





r/storiesfromapotatoTime for another, I thought. How many had I ferried into this forever state? Too many to count. 

This time, it was the worst type of job. A child. I stood in the hospital room, in the corner. I watched as the parents silently cried at their comatose daughter. The sound of beeping filled the room, the only clue that the girl was still alive. She would be my last, I had decided. 

I had watched her before. I'd seen the chemo ravage her body and make her weak. I'd held her hand in comfort as she vomited. Wiped her tears when she'd started losing her golden hair. And now the cancer was winning, she only had a few minutes left.

I'd found that I could possess a person for a few minutes at a time thousands of years ago.  To provide comfort, to ready them for their passing and to prevent the loneliness they would inevitably feel. They would soon leave me though. I never stepped through the light, I never wanted to stop doing this. 

But now, after so many wars, so much suffering, after billions of people ferried to the next world I realised that I am so tired. 

The doctor flipped the switch on her ventilator, and soon that beeping stopped and the cries of the family grew louder. Such grief I'd heard before but never again. 

The girls spirit dropped down from the bed.

"Momma?" She said, confused, "Momma, I'm right here!" She tried to tug at her mothers sleeve but grew scared when her hand passed straight through. 

"Its okay." I say from my vigil in the corner, "you've moved on to a place where there is no pain or suffering. No nasty medicines that make you feel worse."

Her sky blue eyes grew sad. "I can't see momma again?" 

I stretch out my hand to her, "You'll see her again, when it's her time." She took my hand and started to cry.

We walked out of the room and into the hallway. A light appeared, as warm and inviting as all the other times I'd seen it. 

She looked up at me, "Are you coming?"

"Yeah," I said, "this is my time too."

I thought of every soul I'd met, and knew I'd be welcome. As they met the light, i said a silent sorry to the souls I'd never meet. That would have to find their own way. But after thousands of years it was time. 

Time for my rest.



Edit: I kept switching from 1st person to 3rd personI felt at my chest, feeling the ceremonial knife slipping between my ribs, piercing my heart. For a moment I could feel my heart pumping blood even with the knife lodged firmly within it. A warm sensation spread from my wound throughout my body. "I dedicate my life to Satan, may my eternal soul serve him forever more in the unholy pits of the Hells." Thoughts of fire and brimstone warmed my mind as I slipped away into death...

I blinked open my eyes, I was standing somewhere pleasantly warm and smelled slightly of fireworks. I was so taken by shock that for a long moment I failed to really absorb my surroundings. I was standing in front of a wrought iron gate, it was somewhat unimpressive, standing only chest high. Above the gate hung the words: 'Abandon a bit of hope but not too much hope ye who enter here.' I frowned, if I was where I thought I was, something didn't add up. 

In a bit of a daze, I pushed open the gate and walked along the cobbled road leading to 'The River Styx'. At least that seemed to be consistent with what I had learned. To my chagrin, I walked up to the titular river. The water was crystal clear for one thing, and it was barely larger than fifteen feet across, moreover, it looked to be no more than six feet deep at its deepest. On the river sat a slightly bobbing paddle boat with a young woman at the main seat. 

"So, are you Charon?" I hedged. 

She replied in a cheerful high pitched voice, "Nope, that would be my brother. He works in a different place," she giggled, "My name is Sharon." 

I sat down in the seat beside her, "Wait, what 'other' place is this then?" 

"Oh, this is Heck. Essentially it's for folks who didn't quite rate Hell, and didn't manage to squeeze into purgatory." 

"Oh ship," I paused, going over what I had said, "Wait, did I say ship? I wanted to say ship." 

She giggled in a trill of infuriating humor, "Oh, we're not allowed to swear here. This is Heck after all silly." 

"Son of a witch," I tried to swear.

She laughed again, I swore to kill the witch if she laughed....What did I just think? I would stab the punt....Shuck? Pass? Swat? 

I pulled at my hair, now firmly in the grips of an existential crisis. "Let me get this straight, I can't even *think* bad words here?"

She giggled that infuriating giggle again, I longed to strangle her, but I couldn't seem to move my arm to actually do the deed. "Of course not silly! This is Heck! You should have gone to Hell if you wanted to swear." 

I placed my head in my lap, clutching my head. I heard music on the air, I whipped my head up and asked, "What is that sound? I think I recognize that song." 

She nodded vigorously, "That's Mr. Roboto, by Styx. We named the river after them, the boss is a big fan."

I shook my head, "At least your boss has a decent taste in music," I realized that we should have been across the pitiful excuse for a river ages ago and paid attention to our progress. We were making large, lazy circles in the river, going nowhere. 

I looked at Sharon, staring death at her, "Why the shuck are we going in circles?" 

She giggled, "You're not paddling silly! I would have told you, but you seemed to be enjoying the chance to talk!" 

I wringed my hands, and tried to stop imagining my hands around her neck. Grumbling, I began to paddle, the boat evened out its course and swiftly made it to the other side of the river. As I stood to exit the boat, Sharon waved and said, "Domo arigato, Mr. Roboto," in perfect time with the song. 

I tried to flip her off, but managed only to give her a friendly wave. I nearly screamed in impotent fury. 

I needed to get the heck out of here. 

I walked along the friendly looking path, following signs for 'Circle of the Danged'. I came to the gateway which seemed to be made from old minivan parts and suit ties. A woman in a paisley dress walked out to greet me, her hair in curlers and a shoe held threateningly in her right hand.

"What the heck is this?" I winced at the censored word. Why was hell censored? I've been able to think and say it the entire time....Ah, because before I was just using it as a place, not a swear. I suppose this place obeys pre-teen edgy logic on swearing. 

I was surprised to receive a swat on my rump from the haggard looking woman. "What the shuck lady?" I was answered by another swat on my tuchus. 

"Don't you try and use that kind of language around me young man! I'll paddle your behind!" she said sternly, waving the shoe menacingly in front of her. 

"Sorry ma'am," I surprised myself by saying. 

She looked slightly mollified, "Now go clean your room mister. It's atrocious in there." 

"Wait, what level of Heck is this?" I asked, confused. 

"This is talking back to your parents, now don't make me tell you twice." 

"I know," I muttered, "I'll go clean my room." 

I found myself in my old seven year old self's bedroom, and looking around at the room from a significantly reduced height.  

"Ship," I said, my voice two octaves higher than I was used to. 
 



The inability to swear reminds me of The Good Place 😂Smoke leaves the barrel of his gun as we stare down at my wallet, which is currently writhing on the ground like a fish out of water. A bullet hole has pierced through its leather shell and punctured the credit card within. I internally wince at the loss; that was authentic leather. 

Nonchalantly, the man reloads his revolver, flicking the cylinder out. "You're welcome," he says, gruffly. 

"What the fuck, man? Why did you just shoot my wallet? And why is it moving?" 

He pulls his wide-brim hat up, fixing me with one of the dark eyes resting underneath. "Mimic," he says, as if the word alone will solve everything.

"What?"

"You heard me. Mimics. Imposters; impersonators. They take any inanimate form they can find, trying to trick people into opening them." 

I open my mouth to retort, but he shuts me up by simply jabbing his gun in the direction of my wallet. I spare it a glance, and see that a viscous, black liquid oozes from the bullet hole within it. Its ends rise and fall, as if breathing, and suddenly I notice the thin white ivory lining its edges - almost too small for an untrained eye to see. Teeth, and rows upon rows of them. Sharpened and blood-flecked. 

"What the fuc-" 

"Next time you opened it, you'd have been in for a nasty surprise, kid." 

His head cocks back, and I hear a suppressed gasp of surprise follow. His casual demeanour quickly dissipates as he dives forward, tackling me to the ground. We fall back in a heap, my back painfully slamming into the concrete below as he presses a single finger to my lips, his eyes wide with fear. "Dont. Move. A. Muscle."

I nod, tilting my head to hazard a view at whatever is behind him. I wish I hadn't. A strained, heavy breathing precedes something purposefully slinking forwards a few feet in front us. Its back is arched predatorily, and I can see each bone that's formed underneath its gaunt, grey skin. The further upwards I look, the more cracked and twisted its skin seems to get, until towards what seems to be its spindly neck the skin breaks entirely, curling outwards like the petals of a flower to reveal an expressionless head popping out; the head of a beautiful woman, accentuated by makeup and sultry, half-lidded eyes. 

The creature growls - a low, guttural sound that eventually progresses into a high-pitched giggle. 

"Come on out and *play*, we don't bite." 

"Goddamn it, I didn't think one of those would be here," the man atop me says, moving his arm from my shoulder to reach for something tucked into his jacket. From it, he pulls a glinting, golden bullet, replacing one currently resting in his gun's cylinder with it. He steadies himself, stance wide and body motionless, holding out the gun in front of him with two hands and peering down the sight, one eye fixed tightly shut. 

He begins to squeeze the trigger and, just as he does, the gun appears to whirl with energy, practically screeching as a golden wreathe of light begins to surround it. The abomination in front of us turns to see it, beginning to charge towards us with an ear shattering screech. 

"Kid, you never saw this happen." 

He squeezes the trigger and the bullet explodes out of the muzzle. The gun proceeds to burst into flame, causing him to toss it out of his grasp as the bullet flies wide, a path of searing light left in its wake. I notice as the bullet peaks miles up into the sky it begins to arch, curling in midair. 

The mimic follows it for a moment before turning back to us with a cackle. "You had me worried there, Paladin. Pity you're getting old; your aim untrue. You almost would've been a fun catch otherwise." 

The man simply says nothing, raising his hands in surrender as the mimic takes a menacing step towards us before suddenly lurching forwards, letting out a slight gasp. Black blood splatters to the ground as all eyes come to rest on a hole that has been left in place of where its thin chest formerly was, smouldering at the seams. With a moan, it collapses to its knees and, after a moment of shaking, its entire body falls limp, lifeless. 

"Aim ain't what it used to be - sorry if that scared you," the man says, awkwardly scratching at his stubble. 

I'm too beside myself with confusion to complain. I just witnessed what could only be described as magic - plain and simple. A bullet curving in midair. "Wh-what happened?" I say, somehow finding within me the strength to summon my meek voice. 

"Smote the fucker." 

"Ok.... last question. *What* are you?" 

"I'm a Paladin, kid. A healer of the people, in a sense. And we're all currently sitting in a fucking epidemic." 

"We walked in the bar and the bartender asked us why we were still carrying our weapons. 'Mimics,' was our reply. The bartender laughed, the party laughed, the table laughed. We killed the table. It was a good time.""Jolly good show, my good man," he said, sitting on the right of my shoulder and inhaling deeply from his pipe. "Positively smashing."

I'd been watching Stranger Things for the last couple hours, trying to block them out. 

"What kinda trash is this?" the man on the left of my shoulder chimed, pacing up and down the length of it. "This is just garbage, garbage I tells ya. Barb don't deserve to go like that."

I sighed. I had not been succeeding. 

*"Is it true you can only see three basic colors?"* the alien being asked. 

"Just about. Our eyes have three major primary colors perceived by the cones in our eyes, and most of the colors we perceive on what we call the visible spectrum are a mix of Yellow, Red, and Blue."

*"So, how do you communicate with the Ghoosha?"*

"With whom?", I responded confused. 

*"The Other Major race on your planet."*

"I wasn't aware of any other such intelligent race."

*"But you keep care of Ghoosha ambassadors in major cities. Surely you've established a means of communication. You have hundred of humans meeting with them every day. When we arrived, we spoke to them first. They welcomed us to your planet with a spectacular display of dazzling colors and welcoming patterns, as well as a three hour dance of peace."*

"Care to describe where these Ambassadors are?"

The alien fiddled with their glowing tablet for a moment, and then responded. 

*"My computer tells me that even within the borders of this country, there are ambassadors in the locations you would call Gulfport, Mississippi, Orlando, Florida, Indianapolis, and San Diego, California."* 

"There must be some kind of mistake, those aren't major capitals of the U.S. Would you care to describe what the Ghoosha look like?"

"They are distantly related to the Homo Sapiens, different order but the same class of Mammlia. Unlike the fingers you have, they have pectoral flippers, and a tail fin for propulsion. The Ghoosha told me that humans have an understanding where they are allowed to occasionally visit their domain of over 71% of the surface of the planet for the purposes of sharing food and using transportation." 

"Wait a minute ... flippers? Do they have a breathing hole on their back?"

*"Yes. They also use the surface of their skin on their back to relay messages and communicate on top of regular verbal singing. We thought you humans were the same, as you have* [*stripes and spots on your skin*]( *and also use unusual singing and verbal communication."*

"Flippers, blow holes, in a few cities, making performances ... are you talking about Dolphins?"

The alien once again checked their tablet. 

*"Correct, although we are aware they don't like being called that."*

"But humans don't have stripes. And last I saw them, which granted was when I was still a teenager, Dolphins don't change color."

*"Do you not use cameras to translate their performances? What colors do you see the Ghoosha as?"*

"I dunno, I'd say a solid grey?"

The alien looked perplexed, then twisted their tablet around to face me.

*"Would you care to tell me what you see on my screen?"*

"Looks like a solid white to me."

*"There is so much more to the spectrum that you've been missing."*"Goosha?" I said, tilting my head a bit. "Who are they?"

The alien looked at me strangely. I had difficulty reading his expression. He was almost entirely human in appearance, with angular features and an air of delicacy and grace. The only thing that would separate him visually from a human were his ears; they were long and tapered to a point, sticking out somewhat from his long flowing hair.

But despite visual similarities to a human, his expression and body language were impossible to read. Impassive and imperious, utterly devoid of any movement that wasn't mediated and pondered. He spoke neutrally and flatly, "The Goosha? The Lords of the Sky?"

I could only shake my head in ignorance. Who or what was a 'Goosha'? "I'm unfamiliar with that word."

"So, the "red green blue" is accurate then? You don't have psir cones in your eyes?"

"I have no idea what... sire? sigher? Is."

"A pity." the alien said, gesturing beside him. "Because a representative of the Goosha stands before you."

I looked to the side of him, and saw only empty air. "Is this a joke?"

"Hardly." a snide tone slipped into the alien's voice, his posture subtlely shifting to a haughty loom. "Goosha are about twelve inches tall, shaped bipedally like you and I, with psir skin and neoil hair. They have two diaphanous ciavi wings and communicate by glowing in a variety of colors." 

"I don't know what sire, knee-oil, and see-ah-vee are."

"Hmm. I suppose not." the alien sighed resignedly. "You would need psir cones to see the other colors that happen when you mix red blue and green with them. A pity. " he held his chin a moment in consideration. "What about the Sebt? The Tintari?"

I could feel my face getting hot. "I don't know *those* words, either."

The alien's expression grew... I think it was cold. "The Lords of Magma and Sea? You don't know of them, either?"

I slammed the table. "Look, Mister... whatever your name was, if you wish to open contact with our world, you are going to have to stop with these juvenile pranks. There are NO people living on this planet by ANY of those names."

"Re-open contact you mean." the alien said, not missing a beat. "And my name is Aedwyn. We use to *share* this world with Men, before we left to cross the western sky. But it seems Men have forgotten much of their own people's past."

In the empty space to Aedwyn's right, a burst of color suddenly flaired into existence, brilliant pinks and yellows. There were brief gaps of nothing, what seemed to be... *holes* in the light.

I fell into my chair, mouth hanging open. "What... was THAT?"

"That was my Goosha friend, making a considerable effort to speak in red-green-blue spectra for your convenience. A terrible strain on them, I do hope you appreciate it." Aedwyn settled into his chair, grinning knowingly. "He was simply reminding me that Goosha, Sebt, and Tintari, are not the words you would know those people's by."

Aedwyn's grin grew wider, as if coming to the long-anticipated punchline of a joke. "Goosha: Fairy. Sebt: Dwarf. Tintari: Mermaid. And Iliene..." he tapped the points of his tapered ears briefly, "Elf."

"NOW, maybe you remember?"
"Three colors?  What exactly do you mean by that?"

"Ah, I apologize."

The being across from me taps its headset a few times, twisting a few dials.

"I believe my translator made an error," it says.

Oh well.  It happens.

"I believe I've fixed it.  Now, is it true your species can only exist in three dimensions?"

"Unfortunately, yes."

"Ah, that explains the lack of faster than light travel."

"I suppose it does," I say, twirling a pen in my right hand.

"So the primary reason for this exchange is technological, I take it?"

It asks its questions in that weird imitated monotone of computerized speech.  Must be a fancy AI, too.  It's got simulated inflections and regional dialects and everything.  

Pretty deep in the uncanny valley, I'd say.

"Well we've received many signals from your planet, and offer a simple exchange.  With our upgrades, you should be able to craft spacecraft that are capable of faster than light travel."

Excellent.  That's exactly what we wanted to hear.

"And our corporation will maintain exclusive rights to this technology for the next decade," I say.  

It shakes its tendrils around its head in mock acceptance.  Closest thing to a nod, I assume.

"In exchange, we'll give you exclusive rights to our combat drone schematics, specifically the orbital defense designs."

It salivates slightly, and something wet and heavy drips onto the floor.

Disgusting.

"This seems to be a fair exchange, is it not, human?"

"I believe so."

With this tech we'll be able to beat out those generational colony ships sent out hundreds of years ago, back when we were first starting to crack open asteroids in the belt between Mars and Jupiter.

"I do have another question, human."

"Ask away," I say.  Though I have some idea of what it may be.

"The Ghoosha sent messages to us as well, asking for aid in exchange for our technology."

"The Ghoosha?"

"The other race."

"Ah."

Bit of a sad story, but still, it's just curiosity.  Humans have an amazing ability to forget about the atrocities they'll commit to stay alive.

"Well that was mostly accidental," I say.

Accidental in the way a man takes out a life insurance policy on his soon to be dead partner.

"They lived beneath the oceans, and couldn't survive on land.  Gills and all, to be precise."

"Indeed," the alien representative says, though I can't tell if the emotion is genuine or falsified.

"We killed them before we'd discovered gravitons."

"How so?"

"Too much plastic in the ocean.  Shredded their lungs to bits."

"And they asked us to save them?"

"We believe so.  No one discovered their messages until after they'd died."

"I imagine it was quite a shock to find underwater civilizations in the deep abyss."

"That it was."

The alien seems to ponder this, and stands to leave.

"We appreciate doing business with you," it says.

"Likewise."

As it leaves, we already have begun to receive the schematics.  Easily decipherable, though that goes without saying.

*BZZZZZZZZZZ*

A notification from my cybernetic implant.

"Mr. Rogers?"

"Yes?"

"Shall we upload the schematics now?"

"Yes."

"How long will it take for them to notice they're corrupted?"

"Oh, they won't figure it out until it's too late."

I take out a cigarette, lighting it and taking a deep drag.

Ghoosha.  What a stupid name.  A stupid species that died a stupid death because it wasn't willing to step up and do what needed to be done.

I wonder what they called themselves.  Plenty of anthropologists dig through those strange artificial cities carved into the ocean floor, though the language still can't be deciphered.  Maybe if we sell planet cracking rights to Mercury they'll give us a few more uplifting designs.

Ghoosha.  Call them what you want.  I'll just think of them as those idiot squids trapped in oceans so polluted it'd be like trying to breathe through a constant stream of gasoline poured down your throat.

The aliens will build our designs, and be quite surprised when we activate the backdoor and turn their systems against them.

Hell, they never expected their android servants to begin resisting and destroying their own creators.  Whatever they think of us, they don't seem to blame humanity for those schematics.

Whatever.  What's the saying?  Fool me once, shame on you.

Fool me twice?

Well that just makes you a sucker.  Infect them with a disease and they come to us for the cure.

Not our fault they gave up warfare a long time ago.

After all, there's not that much room in the solar system anymore.

And there's always profit to be found in the most unlikely of places.

Perhaps on their home world.

Perhaps on their stations.

Perhaps from their own star.

Another drag.

With these ships, it won't take us long to get there.  Scan their system, infiltrate communication arrays, map their colonial strongholds and systematically take what's theirs.  We got shareholders to please and they're impatient sons of bitches.

It's nothing personal.

Just business.

I’m reminded of ‘The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy’; was that a source of inspiration?So long, and thanks for all the fish!Are you kidding me? Are you fucking kidding me? No. Seriously, are you fucking kidding me?  
Do you know how long it took to discover time travel? Actually, don't answer that. I don't care. I'll answer for you: a long fucking time. Like years. Like blood, sweat and tears all coalescing into a single destined moment.  
Cause that's what it was, man. Destiny.
There's no other way to explain it. Just the single greatest invention in the history of time that, by the way, rewrites the history of time. No biggie.  
Yet, here before me, this putz sits on his God damn throne, making his minstrels play Kanye West tunes while I stand slack jawed unaware how the fuck he did it.  
His face is withered, with scars along the edge of his left cheek. It would look scary but he covers most of his face with a thick beard. As far as royalty goes, he looks like he's had a hard fight for this throne.  
Cause that's the terrible fucking thing about time travel: it's never certain. Like, did I invent time travel? And he's just from the future where I've sold patent? Or did he invent time travel and decided to rule a kingdom?  
Christ, I have a headache already.  
"How?" I finally mutter.  
"Same as you broseph. I traveled through time," He smiles and brushes a long strand of grey hair out of his face.
"But..." I start to stammer but he cuts me off.  
"Bro, you want taquitos. I gave them a recipe and you'll never believe how good they taste. Like, all food, bro. We can cook up whatever you want and it'll taste ten million times better because it's not processed and shit. I've lost, like fiften pounds from that alone. I call it the Time Travelers Diet. Patent pending," He laughs.  
"Actually, now that you mention patents..." Again I get cut off quickly.  
"What about a chamber maid? They will do ANYTHING you ask."  
"I don't need sex."  
"Everyone needs sex. Real talk, can't lie, the sexually transmitted diseases thing is a bit of a crap shoot. They don't have great meds like we got back home. Every chick you sleep with is basically a bacterial Russian roulette here."  
"Listen," I pause because I'm not sure what to call him. I extend my hand, looking for help. He graciously obliges and calls himself King Yeezus. I almost say it out loud but logic takes over and I settle for your highness. "What century are you from, exactly?"   
"Same as yours, bro," He smiles.  
"Ok, what century am I from?" I question him. Trying to figure out his game. He just smiles. It's an odd smile. The kind you get when you've just said something witty and can't contain your pride.  
That's when it clicks.  
No. No. No. No. I find myself saying it out loud. But the King just laughs.  
"This conversation is a lot more fun on this end," He slaps his knees. "I always wondered when you'd show up. Or should I say when I would show up. Things get fuzzy. Time, man. It's all circular. But don't worry bro. You're going to have a great time. Scary sometimes. But great. Trust me. As you. The older you. Trust me. You're going to run now. Hop in that machine and race to too many places to count. Too many times to track. But something will happen. And you be stranded. Then it's a waiting game. You'll wait decades for me. Going, hell I'll admit it bro, a little mad. But, great news, you definitely won't get an STD for a couple decades yet."   

        "...Bro?" 

Leonard stood at the base of the platform, arms crossed in frustration. He couldn't believe it. This sappy-looking, scrawny twit of a teenager had discovered what had taken him years - *years* - to figure out on his own. He had dedicated his entire life looking for a loophole in time travel, to get around the requirements of FTL travel and proximity to a black hole, and this idiot had gotten there first. What was more, instead of using his knowledge to benefit all of mankind, he had made himself king. *King!* How selfish could one person be?

The king, on the other hand, beamed down on him. "Yeah, bruh." He said. "How'd ya do it? It was easy for me. See, it turns out we're in...like...a simulation, or something?" He said. "I'm a little foggy on the details. Made the whole thing up while I was stoned...still kinda stoned, actually. They've got some wicked herbs here, man. But it all kinda just came to me, ya know?" 

"It just...came to you?" Leonard asked. He shut his eyes, wishing he could forget everything he just heard. "It took me over a decade to figure it out. At least you had the sense to dress the part. You...*did* dress the part, didn't you?" 

The monarch stared at him blankly. "...No? At least...I don't think so? They didn't have jeans back now, did they?" 

"No. No jeans." He said, smoothing his tunic. "So where did you get the robes? Did the king just give them to you or something?" 

The boy grinned wider. "Yeah man!" He said, showing off the purple cloth. "He just sort of threw them at me the second I showed up! Was yelling something about a prophecy, but hey. I'm not gonna complain - free stuff! How much you think this crown is worth?"  

"You should really have planned a bit better you know, if you were trying to go into the past." Leonard said. "You could have gotten yourself killed!" 

"Hey man. I didn't actually *plan* on anything." The teen said, frowning. "It just sort of...happened. One moment, I'm laying on my back, looking at the universe through my third eye and stuff, and the next, *woosh!* There's this big purple portal, and I land myself right in the middle of the courtyard, ya know?" 

Leonard stared. 

"You mean to say....you didn't actually do anything?" He asked.

"Nah, man." The teen said. "In fact, I'm not a hundred percent sure this whole place is real. But if it isn't, this is one hell of a trip, ya know?" 

Leonard turned away, deep in thought. He, too, had seen the very same portal - though, it had been where and when he had been expecting it. Though, not exactly - if he was being honest, it had been a few seconds early. In truth, he wouldn't have stepped through it at all, had it not grown suddenly and launched itself at him like the mouth of an enormous worm. At the time, he had chalked it up to a simple miscalculation, but now he was not so sure.

"If you didn't mean to come here," He asked the boy, "and if I was brought here against my will...what on earth was that portal?" 

"It was *my* doing." Said another voice, sonorous and deep. From behind the throne walked a man - old, with a white beard and periwinkle blue eyes that seemed to pierce straight through Leonard's heart. He wore robes long enough to scrape the floor, a pointed hat, and an expression that was equal parts sorrow and joy. 

"I am Merlin." Said the man. "Leonard, Arthur...we have much work to do. I pray that we might start now." I saw the twist coming but I still enjoyed the delivery Nature versus nurture. Am I "me" because of a bad experience or because of something rotten smuggled genetically from generation to generation, that lies hidden in the deepest little cavern in my brain? Are any of us more than a hunter or a gatherer stuffed into a suit as if it were a straitjacket?

I committed a crime. I'm not certain the specifics are relevant, at least not right now, but the punishment is (I believe) worth talking about. It's a kind of community-continuum service. What that entails is: you are arrested and thrown in a pitch black room, then, after a few minutes, another door is opened and you walk into a second room filled with past and previous versions of yourself. You talk to them and get to know them a little. Tell them what you did (the crime) and why you did it. Although, of course, the future yous already know why and when and all that, and in that way it's simply a self-confession. Cathartic, apparently.

You do this every ten years for forty years.

The reasons for this punishment are:

1. To remember how innocent you were when young, and what potential lay ahead of you. An empty diary, just your name on the front, ready to be filled. To think to yourself *just where and why did I go wrong?*
2. To meet a future-self that has overcome what you are going through now. To understand that your life has entered a long dark tunnel but that you'll come out eventually and be a better person. That life is worth living still.

Let me add this: the young you is ALWAYS innocent, naive, hopeful of the future; the older yous are ALWAYS content, bordering happy, looking back on a life well lived except for that one little blip.

​

Anyway, at this point - after that first meeting - the therapy can begin.

You talk it out with a shrink; you tell them what you learned from the meeting of selves (wouldn't Freud have loved that idea?). The therapist would work out how changed you are by the experience and then prescribe a level of treatment. Maybe helping paint houses or carrying shopping-bags for old ladies. Little stuff that fills you with a sense of worth.

Or it doesn't, because you're not changed. Because seeing the older and younger "you" didn't mean shit, because they're not "you" right now. Because the body completely regenerates itself with new sets of cells every seven to ten years. Meaning, they're not you and never were or will be They're people who you share some memories with, but you right now, you're you - so fuck them. I'm sorry if this gets confusing. Less so for the profanity.

They are the two outcomes of this therapy. A (self-change) and B (not changed). A is the more common.

Either way, you'll meet up with your future and past selves four times total, before being freed or being "changed" - depending on the A/B outcome.

Of course, you don't know the end game of the therapy. You think that no matter what, when you're done, you're getting out. You don't even know you're in a VR world, lying hooked up to a mess of wires on a cold table. You don't know that your perception of time has been slowed massively and that forty years for you are three hours real life, that everyone you've known for those years are AI scripts.

You don't know that if you fail this test that's not been fully explained, they'll wipe most of your mind. Revert it back to that first stage: to an innocent child about to write their first diary entry. Wiping any memories after ten-years of age. Sometimes, depending on childhoods, they go back further. And they call it giving you a second chance, and they guide you, nurture you, and change the human-factor that made you the criminal you are.

It takes hours to cure a murderer, one way or another. Minutes to fix a shoplifter.  If their mind is wiped, VR teaches and nurtures them the correct way.

This is the gold standard of criminal rehabilitation. Treatment as it has been for thirty years. No flaws. Perfect and enviable.

Except, a week ago, the cops found a lady's body. Or bits of it. And the modus operandi matched that of a murder ten years prior.

They questioned me. And they stared at me. And they knew.

They told me about this old murder as if it was a threat.

A woman in a lake chopped up like onions for a stir-fry. Just like the new body they'd found. Do you understand what we're saying, they asked. Then they left with that ominous little story told.

I had to do my own research later to find the face of that previous killer.

Could have just looked in the mirror.

I can't help what I am. I can't help it if there's another one soon, another lady in the lake. If there is, her blood will be on the cops' hands because they didn't arrest me even though they knew.

Could have. But didn't.

Because to arrest me would be to admit a wrong ingredient in their perfect little recipe. Failure of their system. Their world.

It would be to admit that they don't have control over man. That deep down, we're all more that just the result of nurture. It's not how we're raised or what we're taught -- the best that learning can do is restrain our truest instincts.

Hold them back, for a time.

No, it's not how we're raised that matters in the end.

All that matters is *what* we are.**Year 50:**

I entered that miserable room. I walked to the chair to sit down like all the other 4 times before. What was the point of it all?

What is the point of this meeting if I won’t be able to change anything anyways?

This is just torture at this point. I want to kill myself, but I know I can’t, since I can see that i will live for another 40 years at least, only to be bedridden just like 90 sitting over there in his wheelchair. That is if you call that living in the first place.

But that is not why I came here today. I came here to ask some questions. I had to know.

I waited for everything else to play out, so that it is calm enough for me to ask.

After 40 had left, I decided that it was time.

I looked at 60, but he was already looking at me, he knew what was coming.

“So tell me, 60. Why did you decide to continue living your life, even though everything hurts so much?”  I asked him as I once again look at the ground.

“Honestly.” He said. “I don’t know. The last 20 years have been a living hell for me. There were days that I would cry myself to sleep. Once, I was sent to ER for a heart attack and when I woke up, no one was there for me. I still feel empty the same way you do now.”

“Is that how I will live the rest of my life? Just spend it being a miserable bastard.” I thought to myself.

“But.” He continued. “Once, i let go of the burdens holding me in the past, everyday it started hurting a bit less. And I started looking up towards the future again.”

I raise my head as my eyes started watering.

“Don’t get me wrong, I still don’t know what I am gonna do with the rest of my life.” 60 said.” But I know that I don’t have to make myself suffer anymore.”

“So even a person like me can still deserve a second chance?” I thought to myself.

I sat down for a while in that chair trying to process everything.

Then I decided that I don’t want to live like this anymore. I want to become happier, even if a little. Now that I know I can overcome the next 10 years, nothing can keep me down anymore.

I stood up and wiped the tears from my eyes with me sleeve and said:

“Thank you. That’s all I needed to hear.”

As I slowly walked towards the door, I wave at everyone and said:

“I promise to stay clean of alcohol from now on and start looking for work again.”

I see a grin form on 60’s face as he waves back at me with his hunched back in his chair.

I exited the room, knowing that whatever is to come, I shall persevere.**Year 60:**

I sigh to myself as I entered the room, knowing exactly what is to come.

Almost right after I entered, 70 also came out the door behind me.

We both went to our respective seats.

He examines me as I look back at him. Since botg of us what was gonna happen.

As the last person enters, I start breathing in and out to calm myself.

So the ruckus happens as it always does and 30 leaves, followed by 40, then 20.

And now it begins.

I look at 50 as he hesitates what to ask exactly.

And when he does, I do the only thing I can. I give him hope. I tell him that life gets better and that he can make it work. I only told him what he needed to hear.

And that seemed to have satisfied him. And I give him a sad little goodbye as he leaves the room.

Once, he exits the room, I drop the smile as I feel 70 staring at me.

“So you decided to lie to him after all?” He asked me.

“Well, what else would you want me to do?” I reply as I lay back in my chair. “If I told him that life will still be terrible after 10 whole years of hard work, he would have never tried living better anyways.”

“We both know that’s not true?” He replied with a cunning look in his eyes.

After a bit of a stare off, I sighed and then said:

“Fine. I give in.” I replied. “I just didn’t have the heart to tell him. When I look back at all the effort I have put into turning my life around, I still ask myself if it was futile. But I can’t let him think that already. I need to make him believe now ,so that he can continue trying for as long as he can.”

“Look at you, so grown up.” He replied jokingly. “Now a wiseman, who passes words of advice to the ear of the youth.”

“Ah stop with the mockery, you silver scaled snake.” I said as we both started laughing.

After a bit, out of curiosity, I asked him:

“So tell me … uhmmm, does it really get better?”

“Well, I could answer you and say yes, but who knows if I am telling you the truth? Maybe I will do the same to you as you did to the young lad.” He answered with a stupid smirk on his face.

“Ay, that’s fair I guess.” I said as I look at the ground.

I raised myself to my feet and said:

“Well, we are young as long as we live. There is no thing as become too old to stay young.”

As I am about to open the door, I heard 70 say something.

“Hey, young lad. Make sure you live a good life and a piece of advice from me, you should start looking into gardening. So that I have a nice tree to sleep under in ten years.”

I give him a quick smile and reply as I exit the room:

“Ay, I will consider your advice, geezer.”**Year 70:**

As I entered, I follow 60’s lead as we both went to our seats. I could tell looking at him that he was nervous. We both knew how it was gonna turn out, but that still didn’t make the situation any more moral.

Was lying to someone to give them what could be false hope the right thing to do?

Perhaps and perhaps not, but even though it is cruel, it is what I would have wanted to happen to me 20 years ago.

But I have to say that life did get better at the end. Now I spend my days taking care of a big beautiful garden with very colorful trees and flowers. A place where people come to visit through thick and thin and children come to play at. Many people fall in love and maybe break each other’s hearts in there. But isn’t that true for life too. Sometimes people bring me gifts as appreciation for my work, but it is always their smile that sooth my heart the most.

And now I sit here through shouting and lying as I see it repeat it does like every 10 years.

And now that 60 has done the deed, I decided to jest him a little to lighten up his mood.

As he left I gave him something to distract himself with and give him purpose and in due time happiness.

As I look around I see 10, who was still daydreaming about his Gameboy, 80 who was sitting there silently and 90 who practically looked dead at this point.

But I promised myself not to give any thought to the future; I will live what I can now, so that I don’t regret it later.**Year 80:**

As the years went on people around me pointed out to me that I was becoming more forgetful as the days went on. At first, I excused it as my memory being back due to age, since now I was practically an old man and my limbs started to sore even after a little jog.

Then my limbs started to fail me as it became harder and harder to work in the garden. One day, while I was working I collapsed and when I woke up I was in recovery room. But this time, it was different.

Many families who used to come to my park visited me during my recovery and they brought their kids with them, who then handed me gifts of chocolates and many wonderful flowers. That night I cried true tears of joy as I knew I wasn’t alone anymore.

The next day the doctor came in to tell me the news.

He said that I was gonna recover in a few weeks, but I would still have to stay off any heavy work and take calcium supplements to delay my osteoporosis.

But he also took some MRI scans of my brain due to the request of some of my visitors. He suspected that I might have early stage Alzheimers.

So I laid off all the garden’s work to a young lad who was helping me take care of the garden, that I hired when it started to become more difficult for me to work. 

And as I became 80 I thought to myself: ”What do I want to tell myself from the past once I enter the room?”

After thinking about it for a while, I decided that it was better of if I said nothing.

For this once in my life I want to sit there and see all my hard work, all my suffering, all my rage play right in front of me. 

I want to see it all one last time, before I forget forever.

As I enter the room, I see the same people I have gotten to know during the entirety of my life. I slowly make my way to my chair and just watch.

I look at 10 as he sits there confused on what all these new words 40 is saying means.

I look at 20 as he worries about making it through college.

I look at 30 as he fights against 40’s insults about his wife, trying to defend her integrity. Oh which reminds me; I never bought the walking stick I wanted to remind myself about.

I look at 40 as he bashes out in everything in his sight, angry over what he once lost.

I look at 50 as he waits for something to give him hope.

I look at 60 as he encouraging 50 to live better, like a father telling his son he can go play with his friends once he has finished his school work.

I look 70 as he sits there with a spirit able to rival any youth, kindling a bit of jealously in me.

I look at myself, a grumpy old man, looking back on his fond memories.

Then at last, I look at 90 as I see the inevitable future that awaits me.

But I do not fear, for now that I have looked back on it all. I can truly say I lived a worthy life.

And now that the only people left in the room were 10, 90 and there was only one more thing left to do.

I stood up and walked to 10 and kneeled dow slowly as I revealed something in my hand to him.

It was the piece of candy I received from myself 70 years ago; I had changed its wrapping with a new one.

I patted his head and said to him:

“You are a good boy, Isaac. Do what you wish with your life, for it is the only one you have.”

As I walked towards the door I heard him say: 

“I want to go play pokemon on my Gameboy.”

I looked back as his sweet innocence made me smile.

“Go do that then.” I said as I walked out the door one last time.**Year 90:**

I don't remember how I got into this room. Mom must have brought me here while I was asleep. I soon see some people entering the room. Some of they look scary, like the bearded man sitting on the chair with 40 on it, while some others look very kind like the old man sitting in the chair with 70 on it.

But it is kind of boring all they do is get angry and shout words that I don’t understand.

I hope mom comes pick me up soon, so that I can go back to playing pokemon. Maybe I should have brought my Gameboy with me.

As everyone starts leaving, I hear a little voice say:

“I want to go play pokemon on my Gameboy.”

I look to see a figure of small boy, just like me. Perhaps I can ask him if we can become friends, so that I can play pokemon with him.

I try to speak, but my throat feels very dry. I see him getting off his chair, but I can’t force out a single word.

I don’t want him to go out before I can ask him to become my friend.

So I muster all the strength I can and whisper:

“I also play pokemon with my Gameboy. Wanna play together?”

He looks at me kind of shocked by then replies:

“Ye-Yea, sure. But I left mine at home, I promise to play with you the next time we meet.”

Oh, so he doesn’t have it here with him? I guess we can play together next time.

“Promise?” I ask him.

“Yes.” He answered back.

He then skipped his way to the door and left.

I am happy now. I made a friend today and we can play pokemon together the next time we meet.

Now, all I have to do is wait for mom to pick me up.

​

**The End.**

​

​

"..And so, if you refuse to torture your fellow man, you will be doomed to suffer for all eternity!" the red-skinned Devil whirled his trident and cackled madly.

 "Okay, yeah, no problem. Do I get a pitchfork or what?"

 The Devil stopped whirling his trident, his mad laughter dropping to more of a slightly crazed giggle.

 "Okay, uhhh...what?" The red-skinned fiend looked puzzled, pulling out a small black notebook which was decorated with tiny cartoon pitchforks, "I've got you here on multiple counts of petty theft, lying, threats of harm against others...nothing I see here suggests you'd be on the level of a Hitler or Stalin. What's your deal?"

 "Sir, I worked retail for *fifteen* fucking years. I was killed in a stampede of shoppers." 

 The Devil took a step back, "Ah," he replied, as if it all made sense now. "Listen, I don't really think you belong down here getting tortured. After fifteen years as a wage slave, I'm actually impressed you didn't kill anyone," he dropped his voice and slid closer to the damned soul as if sharing a secret, *" Most veterans of retail do, you know—their managers never know what hits them."*

 "Trust me, I thought about it. Seriously though, when do I start?" 

The Devil handed his pitchfork out for the soul to take, "Shit man, you can start right away." He pointed down a long and darkened hallway, "Walk straight down that hall until you see the three-headed dog, take the first left and proceed through the fires of everlasting woe, and straight through the P.E.T.A. meeting-"

The damned soul interjected, "Wait, P.E.T.A. is actually evil, not just incompetent?" 

The Devil smiled broadly, "They kill more defenseless animals per year than any other organization. Face it, blood sacrifices are hard to come by, these guys fill the niche in the market. Anyway, once you get down the last flight of stairs, you'll be in the department of bad managers. I'm going to make you head of the torture division there." 

 The damned soul smiled broadly, "I'll get right to work, Sir."


As he walked off, the Devil shivered. "Remind me to never get on the bad side of those retail workers. They give me the fucking creeps."

"So what you're saying is...I'm in hell?" She glanced around the plain white room she was standing in, then back to the used-car-salesman looking guy in front of her. He looked to be in mid-thirties and reminded her of a Kennedy, except for his yellow eyes and ugly tan suit.

"Where's the fire?"

"People always ask about the fire! Look, honey, your priorities need to be in order. Like hello! Devil here!" He waved and gestured to his cheap suit "And besides, Catholics made that up. I refuse to add fire just to cow to mortal expectations."

His bitter tone gave the impression that this was an arguement he'd had with people before.

"...Okkkkay?" She crossed her arms over her chest and sighed when she realized she was still in her Wal-Mart Uniform. 

Crushed underfoot by the sweaty masses, she couldn't believe it. She picked at her nametag. Claire Haskill, deli clerk. Dead at 31 because of 50% off TV's.

 "Why am -I- here?"

"Oh, lots of reasons. But the main one involves a girl named Sally Cushings, fourth grade. The toothpaste incident." A cruel smile twisted over Lucifer's unnaturally handsome face. "So creative."

She almost argued with him.

"Yeah, okay, that's fair."

"Ha! And that's what I'm looking for. Creativity! Passion!" He gave a short wave of his hand and two chairs appeared in the middle of the room. "Sit, sit."

Claire hesitated only a moment before flopping into her conjured chair. Lucifer undid the buttons on his suit and smoothed it down as he settled into the seat across from her.

"So, Claire, I have an offer for you. No one ever takes me up on it but I guarantee that it's a -huge- upgrade from the usual package." 

"Can I leave?" 

"Good God no!" He laughed "No no, but Hell has had a massive overcrowding problem ever since they installed slot machines in airports. My guys and I can't keep up, so I've been trying to outsource some of the torture and punishment. Humans are surprisingly squeamish."

She stared at him for a weighty moment.

"You want me to torture people?"

"Excatly! I'd put you in charge of a small group, maybe 100 souls? You could do -whatever- you like to them."

Clair felt a smile touch her face. Her first real, genuine smile since she had pulled on her tacky blue apron.

"....-Whatever- I want?"

~.~.~.~.~

"E-excuse me?"

Clair turned from stocking chocolate milk and arched a brow at the soccer-mom lady standing in front of her.

"I have this coupon," one trembling hand extended a worn, crumpled piece of red paper towards Clair. "I won it in the...the cart corral race? I'd like to redeem it."

Clair took the cupon and glanced at the front.

"Oh that's great! A get out of hell cupon, you must have beaten a -lot- of souls for this." Claire smiled warmly at the woman, who gave a shaken smile back. "Let me see here."

Claire turned it over--"Oh, I'm sorry, it looks like your coupon is expired."

"What?! But I just got it!" Karen (Claire called all the women Karen and all the men 'Dave', it was just easier) sounded both pissed off -and- desperate. "Let me speak to your manager!"

Claire's lips turned up until the tips of her pointed teeth were visible, poking out over her lip. An evil laugh spilled from her mouth as Karen shrank down in fear. Her new demon voice was great for this, deep and echoing through the infinate asiles of Hell-Mart.

"I am the manager.'





I love how you casually made P. E. T. A the bad guys here In a way, the galaxy was becoming smarter.

Sentience isn't that hard to come across, though mostly found in those primal beings that claw and kill and eat with no regard to the suffering it causes.  

That is the law of nature.  Consume or die.  Adapt or die.  Basically either be the best, or die.  Death tends to be nature's preferred method of selection.

On the third rock around a rather average yellow star, orbited a planet populated by naked apes.  They killed, they loved, they laughed, they plotted, the helped, they prayed, they raged, they envied, they shared and they lived.  When they decided intelligence and stamina could let them dominate they planet, their species grew and consumed and destroyed and slaughtered and flourished.  

Such was the will of the nude monkey.  Two legs, two arms, one big hunk of meat between their ears that told them interesting things and lent impressive deductive skills.

Most of the time it could be trusted.

Some of the time it couldn't.

Initial observations of the planet yielded quick answers.  Hundreds of sentient species, with a few that you could argue were sapient. 

An important distinction, but here was a planet capable of sapping most of the galactic population limit.  Some of these animals were no threat to the overall limit; there could only be so many dogs and cats and elephants and monkeys.

Humans, were quite the different story.

If they weren't able to kill themselves, they'd spread throughout their arm of the Milky Way in a few hundred years.  Sure, they'd probably cap off at twelve billion on Earth alone.  

But what about on their space stations?

On their colonies?

On other terra-formed worlds?

The council's decision was quite unanimous, though one or two protested out of caution.  Why not let them die out on their own planet?

Why not let them destroy their own world, removing billions from the collective galactic consciousness?

Overruled by more impetuous minds, a few ships were sent to glass the planet, sterilizing the Sol system and preventing humanity from growing past their little blue world.

Except something went wrong in orbit.

Something didn't go according to plan.

No one would be able to pinpoint the exact moment they knew things had gone wrong, but in the decades of failed launches and space expeditions, the low orbit of Earth was a minefield of debris that the humans were in the process of cleaning up.

Nearly a dozen ships shocked into low orbit, only to be rendered full of holes and partially damaged.

Most fell to earth.

Some were captured by orbital satellites.

Instead of destroying the Earth, the council had lent it the collected knowledge of the advanced species of the Milky Way.

What would take a hundred years to discover, humans adapted in one.  Scientific advancements so advanced that most of them considered basically magic were reverse-engineered faster than anyone could imagine.  Humans seemed to enjoy pattern recognition, and to enhance galactic cohesion most systems were designed to be easily replicated and understood across species.

Perhaps this shows the arrogance that comes with age, that an ancient civilization should always crush the younger.  That after conquering a hundred species, there comes a sense of apathy towards the destruction of belligerent life forms.  Yet another ant to crush between your finger and thumb.

All it takes is one mistake, one underestimation of your opponent.  Nature cares little for second chances.

Trillions of drones would depart from the Sol system, scouting distant star systems and charting habitable worlds.

The most dangerous species in the universe had been handed the greatest weapons of war available, and despite the galactic ban on artificial intelligence, the humans synchronized with their machines.

Soon they would pour across the Milky Way, consuming all in their path.

All the council races could do was pray, and fight for as long as they could.

Humans didn't play fair, and had little mercy to offer these races.  Old traditions of honor and pride didn't translate to the humans.  Outwardly they would claim these qualities, but in practice there was only pragmatic brutality.  Orbital bombardments, drone fleets, biological weapons, and the rarest and most devastating of forces, actual human deployment planet side.

Messages were clear, so clear that no species needed a translator.  Submit or die.

Regardless of the alien's choice, most of the time the humans came to their own decisions about the fate of the galaxy.

They decided they liked being the apex species of the Milky Way.

True, there were plenty of worlds to share.  Plenty of stars to capture, plenty of systems to mine and crack open, spilling out more materials than any one species could possibly hope to use.

Except humans weren't prone to sharing.  If there was one thing they hated more than themselves, it was the smattering of intelligent life that once sought their destruction.

Most species would beg for mercy.  Ask to serve, anything to avoid the extinction fleets of autonomous drones that would wipe an entire system of organic life in a few weeks time.

Sometimes the humans listened.

The majority of the time, they didn't.

Perhaps if the galactic council had sought to control the amount of sapient life forms, the humans would have left them in peace.  Instead of seeking to sterilize the Earth, seeking a peaceful coexistence.

Maybe things would have ended differently.

But human memories are long and complex.  Their grudges thousands of years old, built on a million and one arbitrary differences that confounded and terrified the humans.  Nothing motivates a human more than hate or fear or love.

In targeting them all, the arbitrary differences seemed to melt away.

Replaced by a deeper, darker yearning.

A better Milky Way.

A pure galaxy.

A strong galaxy.

A prosperous galaxy.

A human galaxy.

This is very impressive, especially for a potato!WOW. That was really good I'd love to read a whole series of these.Thanks! I only ever envisioned the one, but I have some other stories with quaint little endings like this."Hey kids, you got fifty bucks?" Dennis asked the three teenagers giggling softly on the street corner. 

He saw them hanging around often enough, always tripping out of their minds. Perhaps they were high enough to give him more than usual, tonight.

"Fifty points to Gryffindor! You hear that?" the boy with the unkempt black hair yelled. "We won the House Cup, Ron! Dumbledore said so!" 

"Yes, yes, well done. And it's Dennis, remember?" he said, but the kids didn't listen. The girl with the bushy hair just shoved a bill in his hand, weeping with joy as she did so. 

Dennis grinned to himself - he'd long since learned that playing along with whatever they were babbling about paid off handsomely. 

Suddenly, the girl rose unsteadily to her feet and pointed down the street.

"Look at that, Harry! What are those dementors doing?"

A couple of policemen were crowded around a man waving a knife, in the midst of what looked like a robbery gone wrong. One of them suddenly tackled the man to the ground. Dennis shook his head to himself: the Hogwarn neighbourhood really was such a dodgy area. He often wondered how these kids had wound up here in the first place.

"Right, I'm going over there," Harry said, getting to his feet and promptly falling over on top of the red-headed boy, who yelped with pain. 

"You stay in the hospital wing, Ron, you're not well," the girl said, tugging Harry's hand and helping him up. They stumbled along down the street as the red-headed boy passed out. 

Dennis followed quietly: they were really far gone tonight. Part of him was concerned - he'd grown fond of the delinquent little assholes, despite them never remembering his name. Another part knew there was probably more money in it for him, tonight, if he followed them.

The cops looked agitated - the man with the knife was now slumped on the ground.

"He's passed out. Is he faking? What the hell's going on?" one demanded.

"I don't know, maybe something happened when he hit the ground. I'm performing CPR to be safe, but the bastard might be faking it," another grunted, and crouched down, looping his hand around the back of the man's head and leaning down.

"Noooo, stoppit, don't take his soul. Espeto Patroni...no, that's not right...expect a patronising...what is it again, Hermione?" Harry moaned, stumbling forward and tripping over his feet.

"What are you doing?" a detective snapped, trying to push the boy away. "Get lost, kid. This is serious!"

"Sirius!" Harry wept, as the girl gave a soft scream and clapped her hands to her mouth.

Dennis grabbed hold of them both and led them away, muttering a half-hearted excuse to the red-faced detective. 

They both looked so miserable he felt a little sorry for them. He sighed at his own generosity but dug in his coat pocket and produced the grimy fifty-dollar bill he'd taken off them earlier.

"Here. Take this for uhm...bravery. Fifty points, right?" he said, shoving it at the boy. "Go buy a bus ticket home, kids. Your parents must be worried."

"Merlin's beard, Dumbledore, his parents are *dead*, you should know that," Hermione whispered, rubbing at her bloodshot eyes and looking deeply disappointed in him as the boy wept harder.

For some reason, he felt guilty at that. Perhaps he should make an effort to understand better. Besides, they looked like they were having fun, waving those little sticks in their hands like they were powerful weapons. It must be pretty good weed. 

"What are you kids taking, anyway?" he asked.

The girl looked surprised and turned out her pockets. Out fell many little sacks of pale-brown powder.

"*Chocolate,*" she winked at him, trying to tap her nose and failing. "For the dementors, you know.."

Dennis felt his mouth go dry. Holy hell. He'd assumed weed: just think of the money he could score from all that. His earlier good intentions to befriend the kids evaporated.

He grabbed the product from the girl's hands. "Great. Great, I'll go uhm...use it against them, shall I?"

"Of course," Hermione nodded affably. "That's a good idea. You're a great wizard, Dumbledore."

He sprinted away, leaving the two teenagers swaying in the road. He seemed to be running in the opposite direction as the dementors, but that was alright. Dumbledore would never fail them.

"Great man, Dumbledore," Harry muttered, drooping against Hermione. "Let's go...wake Ron. Where's Ron?"

They turned to see a single dementor closing in on Ron, who was gesturing wildly in the night. He seemed to be clutching a rat he'd caught to his chest. They could faintly hear him yelling 'Scabbers! You're alive!'. 

"We should...hurry..." Harry muttered, feeling incredibly tired suddenly. "That thing could suck out his soul."

"Don't be silly, Harry, Ron is perfectly safe," Hermione said, leaning forward to whisper in his ear. "He's a ginger, you know."

They blinked at one another and then burst into peals of laughter, drawing the astonished gazes of the people hurrying by. You rarely heard laughter in Hogwarn, or saw kids roaming around after daylight, for that matter. It was a pretty crazy place.

"this is serious" 
"Sirius!"
I'm not even into HP i fkn lost it right there, good job manOn a pale horse, Death galloped into the world, his cloak burning behind him like black fire, and his scythe gleaming with the sharpness of inevitable demise. The last of the five to enter the mortal realm.

"I've come to harvest the souls of this world." Death's hollow eyes wandered over his siblings. "I trust you've all taken great strides to pave my way?"

"A global conflict is knocking on the door," War said, lifting her helmet and shaking out her fiery locks. "Through the apocalypse, I will ride by your side, brother. Just give me a little more time... it will happen!"

Death nodded. "I was hoping for more... Actual battles, men at each other's throat! Swords and blood! Smoke and fires! At this rate, maybe there won't be an apocalypse..." 

War hung her head. "I've really tried! But these blasted nuclear weapons just sit there... creating this... this... abomination called a 'cold war.'" 

She spat on the ground for emphasis. Death sighed, shifting his unblinking gaze over to his younger brother. 

"You've also been struggling, I can tell," he said, his hollow voice ripping across the dusty plains of Armageddon. 

"Everyone keeps stuffing their face with sugar and fat! How am I supposed to starve a world where everyone's overweight!" Famine cried in frustration. "Seriously, these mortals aren't even trying anymore. There's always that extra bag of chips picked up at the store, and that infernal fast food business. Seriously, those pizza delivery guys outrun my horse."

Death's face darkened under the cloak. He turned to the fourth horseman. "Well, what about you then?"

"I just have one word for you. Antibiotics," Pestilence said, flies buzzing around him. "What am I supposed to do? I can spread diseases all day, but nobody freaking dies from them anymore! They have a cure for everything these days. I'm starting to feel impotent... kind of like War for the last five decades. Anyway, just give me some more time, I'm working on resistant bacteria..."

War glared at him but said nothing. Death tightened his skeletal knuckles around the grip of the scythe. He'd hoped for an easy harvest. A quick reaping of the world.

Reluctantly, he turned to his youngest brother. "What have you been up to?"

Eyes-wide, Ignorance looked up. His big brown eyes nervously flicked across the others. His mouth hung slightly open. He cleared his throat, fixed his tie, and ran a comb through his hair. 

"Well?" Death said, impatiently snapping his bony fingers.

He wasn't expecting anything. His youngest brother had always been unreliable, at best. 

"Hey, I'm talking to you!" Death said when he noticed that the short chubby man wasn't paying attention.

Ignorance looked up again, and this time pointed at himself, looking like a big question mark. 

"Yes, you. What have you been up to... *brother*?" Death said.

Ignorance swallowed and pointed at his phone. 

"You've been on your phone?" Death clenched his jaw. Not much of a surprise there.

The man nodded nervously.

"Give me that," Death said, and snatched the phone out of his hands. 

He was just about to toss it into the desert when he noticed something on the screen. "Who are all these people?" Death tapped on the phone. "Followers? You have a cult?"

Ignorance nodded. 

"Interesting..." Death mumbled. "Facebook... Twitter... Instagram... and all you do is post memes and cat pictures?"

Ignorance looked at his feet. 

"Wait, there's more," Death rumbled. "Huh... you've been sharing highly dubious articles... anti-vaccine... homeopathy... conspiracy theories... wait, how did they get this many Likes?"

Ignorance shrugged.

"Okay, listen up!" Death said, turning to the others. "I'll give you some more time to get your act together and prepare the world for my arrival. We'll postpone the apocalypse for now."

They all looked up in surprise and relief when Death turned his horse around.

"We'll discuss the logistics in greater detail," Death said and pulled out his own phone, following his little brother on social media. "Until my return... Ignorance is in charge!"

Gotta admit, I laughed. Then I thought about it some more and I don't like the implications.

^^Edit: ^^why ^^did ^^someone ^^give ^^this ^^silver ^^lmaoA lightning storm manifested from seemingly nowhere as Jack got out of his car and loomed over the crushed and broken man he'd just slammed into. 

A bolt of lightning struck nearby. Then another, and another. The overwhelming smell of ozone filled the air. Finally, the largest lightning bolt yet slammed down from the heaven's and struck Jack. Power surged through him, as the lights of his car exploded, his phone flew from his hand and blew up, and the nearby electrical wires began to rain down sparks before snapping in two and swinging down to the forest below. 

Overcome by sheer power, a voice as if God himself, spoke in Jack's head.

> THERE CAN BE ONLY ONE JACK OF ALL TRADES

The lightning died down, Jack fell to the ground covered in sweat, hands on the warm asphalt, the dead man laying beside him and, suddenly, Jack knew how to install a gray water system in a late 19th century Victorian house. Or change the drainage catch on a split level. For months there had been a leak in the toilet on the second floor of Jack's mother in law's house, and now, sitting there on the highway, Jack knew that the problem was a simple gasket that had worn down and that he could fix it for under a dollar. 

"Holy shit," Jack said to the empty street and the dead man and himself, "I'm a plumber!" 

Jack needed to be sure. He scrambled over to the contorted dead man and began rummaging through his blood-stained pockets until he found a wallet, which he flung open and searched for an ID. There was a driver's license and on it a name. Jack Wallace. 

"See you Jack," Jack said, and then took out his list and crossed off another name. There was only one Jack left in this zipcode.

Jack got back in his car and drove over to the last address. 

He arrived as the sun was coming up, his small pistol hidden away in the inside pocket of his jacket. It was a small, one-story house. As he circled the home, casing it, Jack noted that the drainage pipe in the backyard was three meters short of regulation. He also saw that one of the back windows was wide open. It had been a hot night and there was not a lot of crime in these parts. 

So Jack walked right up to the house and climbed inside. 

Once in the home Jack pulled his pistol and wiped beading sweat off his forehead. He realized he was very tired - how many hours ago had he killed Jack Wallace on the highway and taken his knowledge? When had he last slept? 

But nevermind all that, it was only the hunt that mattered. If he was right, this Jack, Jack Warner, was an auto mechanic, which would be a much-needed skill given the amount of time Jack spent on the road, hunting and killing other Jacks. 

Jack stalked through the hallway of Jack Warner's small home, opening doors slowly, pistol up and ready. He walked through the thin house, opening each door until at last, he came to a final room. It had to be the bedroom. Eager, tired, Jack turned the doorknob and gave the door a push. 

Jack heard the click before he saw the shotgun suspended from the ceiling. Then came the deafening blast of the shotgun's discharge and the buckshot took Jack hard in the chest. 

Eyes wide, back flat on the carpeted floor, Jack could feel his lungs filling up with blood. He struggled to get up, but could not get his feet under him. Someone walked out of the bedroom and kicked the small pistol out of Jacks limp hand, and stood over Jack, looking down at him appraisingly.

"Bagged me another one, I guess." Without any regard for Jack's desperate writhing and gurgling, Jack Warner bent down and began rummaging through Jack's pockets. He found Jack's wallet, opened it up, looked at the driver's license, and clicked his tongue against his front teeth. "Yep." Then he gave Jack a disappointed look and shook his head at him. "Thought you could sneak up on me unawares, huh? Big mistake, and not the first time neither." 

Jack's mouth was opening and closing like a dying fish as he tried to say something with his last breath. He could taste hot iron on his tongue.

Jack Warner saw Jack was trying to say something, and so he bent down low and placed his ear to Jack's mouth.

Wetly, Jack managed the words, his bloody hand reaching up and holding on to Jack Warner's shoulder for dear life.

"There. . . can. . .be . . . only. . .one... "

Jack's hand went limp, the light left his eyes, and he passed right there on Jack Warner's carpet. 

Jack Warner for his part, nodded solemnly. "Don't I know it, brother." 

Then he ran out into the back yard as quick as he could so that the lightning wouldn't start a fire in his house. He made it just in time, as a lightning storm coalesced above him. Bolts of blue electricity struck the ground in several places first, and then hit Jack right on the head, coursing pure energy through his veins. A voice, as of God, said to him:

>THERE CAN BE ONLY ONE JACK OF ALL TRADES.

And then the storm was gone, and Jack fell to the ground. In the aftermath, he took a deep breath of the hot summer air and reveled in his new found knowledge. Slowly, he got up to his feet and started back inside to take care of the body.

As he walked in through the back door, Jack's gaze fell on the drainage pipe leading from the back of his house. He realized, for the first time ever, that it was three meters under regulation. 

"I'll be damned," he said, smiling to himself, "I'm a goddamned plumber." 

My origin storyWhen first we set foot on that tarnished land, a scorched sliver of utopia, there was a single word that came to mind:

Tragedy.

The initial scouts were shocked to find remnants of a magical, adolescent species on a planet with no apparent atmosphere--and, upon closer inspection, we discovered that there are traces of an oxegynated layer, churning and sparse, like silent static. A hidden remnant cursed to dance over the remains of what it once shielded from harm. Such is the cruelty of nature.

We do not know what they would have looked like--our excavation efforts are still underway, but the baked soil is laden with mineral and rock, far too noisy to scan beyond. What we do know is that they died long ago, perhaps before any known species ever lived, before the formation of intergalactic searches and the pursuit of new life. Before our coalitions and technological integrations.

Before any of us.

They were alone on a budding planet, clawing their way towards greatness. Ruins of what must have once been structures that reached for the stars, monuments to their own feats--we even found traces of their efforts on an orbiting moon, and have hung the unique tapestries in the Iotian Gallery for all to see. Other debris and strange crafts were found drifting through the system, the scattered hopes and dreams of lonely beings desperate for an answer of any kind.

I like to think they would've been our friends. A guiding hand that knows through toiling experience what it means to fight from the soil to the sky, to deliver themselves into the ceaseless stream of fate and scream, "*We will be heard!*"

For this, we remember them. Not as mysteries, but as mentors. Not for their demise, but for their struggle in an impossibly large and unforgiving void without meaning or sense. To think that they perished unsure of their place in this puzzle is wounding.

And yet, even in the still-warm corpse of that tragic planet, not all was lost. Hidden among history, there were microbes, and small, arid flora tucked away in the shadows of whatever came before them. A final testament that, against any odds, not even catastrophe can end the virulent cycle of evolution. A rejection of the end in what little way was possible.

The dying breath of premature gods.

**Year 17,341 (approximately 6,451 cycles) of Sentient Life:  Day 431

197 Billion cycles since the creation of the universe.**

Today is an exciting day, we have began receiving communications from a new light spectrum we have never observed before. It is a fairly primitive communication method, but sounds and images are pouring in now.

Initial calculations seem to indicate these came from a region of space that we have yet to explore, and are about 188 billion cycles old. From all observations of the known universe that means this planet had intelligent life almost 20 billion cycles sooner than any previous estimate in the universe.

**Year 17,345 (approximately 6,451 cycles) of Sentient Life:  Day 231

197 Billion cycles since the creation of the universe.**

Initial translations name this planet Terra or Earth. They seem to be a bi-pedal species that had developed some limited solar travel, and was on a small water dominant planet about 19,0000 cycles from their galactic core moving at the speed of light.

Calculations have begun about using warp technology to investigate this planet. I am in contention to be a member of the science team.

**Year 17,350 (approximately 6,452 cycles) of Sentient Life:  Day 11

198 Billion cycles since the creation of the universe.**

We have made 16 jumps and are now approaching Earth.

I was placed in charge of the science team, which means I'm 3rd in command of this mission over all. The diplomacy team of course is first, and Xiera is the lead of the defense force, making her second in charge.

Our goal is to observe this planet and see if life is still abundant, as well as if the humans have left any data we can collect.

**Year 17,353 (approximately 6,452 cycles) of Sentient Life:  Day 412

198 Billion cycles since the creation of the universe.**

The black dwarf that was once their star helped us find their planet. Long since stripped of any life or atmosphere, the Earth remains. Initial scans of the planet's surface left no evidence of any structures. 

Deep core scans have revealed that some large storage was created and injected under the crust of the planet. After some drilling, we were able to access the datacore. We have no way of interfacing with it as their technology is so alien.

After additional drilling it was possible to extract the entire unit.

We are now en route to home, and our top technologists are trying to bridge the gap between our tech and theirs.

This planet held life, and had a star that died out, blew up, and then fizzled away long before our planet even held the beginnings of life. We may never know their secrets, but we will continue to gather their signals, and hopefully learn lessons about the history of the universe.

Edit: Fixed a wordWow, I'm... really fucking sad. Jeez, that hits one of my #1 fears straight in the heart. I'm terrified that all of our efforts will be fruitless, only noticed as a tragic failure millions of years later.

I like how you didn't go too into detail on the actual aliens, as they aren't what's truly important in this story - it's the remnants of humanity. 

Though it'd be great if us humans did make it out and are now looking in the stars, still hopeful (and getting closer to the truth) heheh"It's just not the same," Ultraman continued, from where he was sitting in an armchair. "Everyone is so distracted by their phones and their electronics and their doohickeys. Now, back in my day-"

"Rime!" yelled out a voice from the hallway. 

Rime, Bringer of Frost, Mistress of Winter, and current President of the Federal Confederation of Villainy, let out an exasperated huff. A hero? On a Wednesday afternoon? 

She snapped her fingers.

"I'm here to- *urp!*"

Ultraman paused in his story. "Did you say something, Rime?"

Rime gave him an apologetic smile. "It wasn't me. I think it's from outside. I'll just pop out to see what it is, won't be a moment."

She stepped out of the study and shut the door behind her gently before leaning back on it, taking a deep breath. She could feel the familiar weight of her mask clipped to her belt. It was designed to cover her whole face with dark, jagged crystals, all harsh lines and sharp edges, black ice as twisted and as dangerous as she was supposed to be. She put it on.

Rime briskly made her way to the hero she'd flash frozen in a cube of ice in her hallway. She couldn't​ quite make out the mask underneath the murky surface, but the costume was gaudy, the colors garish. She couldn't help but sigh. An amateur, but that was only to be expected - the veterans in the United League of Heroes knew better than to disturb her on Wednesdays.

She snapped her fingers. 

The cube melted in an instant, freezing water gushing across the floor, draining quietly through the numerous storm drains she'd had installed. 

The hero inside it coughed, a series of violent, hacking sounds, and Rime felt her lips curl into a sneer. She'd only frozen the hero for a minute at best. Newbies nowadays...

"Rime!" the hero called - well, wheezed. "I'm here to-"

"Your name?" Rime said. 

"Stop you- huh?" the hero faltered. This close, their voice was young, high pitched, still slightly squeaky. "My... what?"

"Your. Name." Rime said, enunciating the words clearly. She gestured at the hero's bedraggled costume.

The hero blinked up at her. "I'm- I'm Phoenix."

Rime rolled her eyes. Seriously? "Let me guess. You had some sort of traumatic incident in your life most likely due to a supervillain, a superhero saved you, and since then your lifelong dream was to become a superhero just like them?"

Phoenix stared at her, mouth slightly open, as though halfway through objecting but not sure to what.

Rime waited a moment. It was only polite.

When no response was forthcoming, she continued. "Let's see if I'm on a lucky streak. Lo and behold, you're one of the lucky few that get usable powers, you realize you have a knack for fire, and you have the brilliant idea to come here to try to get rid of me once and for all because I'm the President of the Confederation and hence must be the worst villain around, and fire, after all, completely negates ice? Or so you'd think, at least?"

"Uh." said Phoenix.

"Did you listen at all during class? They teach you this on the first week."

The blush was a dead giveaway.

Rime sighed. "Oh, dear. You went off to find me the moment you got your powers, didn't you? Did you have the costume ready made?"

It was disappointing. The quality of fledgling heroes kept dropping with every passing year. There were just too many heroes convinced they were experts on fighting crime after reading a how-to guide on the internet.

"So, Phoenix," Rime continued. "Usually, as retribution, I'd freeze you in a block of ice and keep you that way until the League realized you're missing, but my afternoon is already fully booked. I need to deal with Ultraman's latest attempt to foil my plans. Do feel free to come back around tomorrow if you fancy being frozen again."

"Ultraman?!" Phoenix exclaimed, suddenly talkative once more. "He's like... old, and washed up, and senile! He's not even part of the League anymore!"

Rime had to restrain herself from freezing Phoenix - oh, but how she hated that name - right then and there. "He's also been fighting crime for more than fifty years," she said coldly, "Which you would know if you actually went to class. And when the League decided he wasn't useful to them anymore, they discharged him without so much as a pension or even a thank you. Fifty years and it meant nothing to them. The League isn't government funded. It runs for profit, and at the end of the day, it cares about money. The League didn't much fancy taking care of an elderly, senile hero... so it let him go."

Phoenix gaped at her. It only lasted for a moment. "The League would never do something like that!"

"Ask the League where Ultraman's pension is," Rime said. "Or Wonderlady's, or Crowstorm's, or any of the older heroes for that matter. The League doesn't care. But we at the Confederation remember, and we at the Confederation care - we have a caretaker rotation. The enemy of my enemy and all that, as they say, because the League most certainly hasn't been friendly in its dealings with its older heroes. One might even say it's been quite villainous."

"You're lying!" Phoenix cried out. "The League wouldn't do that, and you're just saying it because you're, you're a villain! And evil!"

Rime had lost what little patience she had left for that conversation. "If that helps you sleep at night, then by all means keep telling yourself that. Just remember to ask yourself why none of the League veterans ever come to challenge me on a Wednesday. Now get out of my lair before I decide I do actually have enough time to freeze you."

A wave of her hand sent a barricade of ice slamming up from the floor, a wall of jagged frost that blocked Phoenix from her sight. 

Rime stepped back into the study a few minutes later. "Sorry, Ultraman. That took a little longer than I expected..." she trailed off, finding Ultraman asleep in his armchair.

"Huh?" Ultraman grunted, rousing himself. "Whassat?"

"Nothing," Rime said. "Sorry for waking you."

"You younglings nowadays, and your nothing." Ultraman grumbled. "It's always nothing with you. Back in my day, we didn't sit around doing nothing, we found ourselves something to do."

Rime smiled, turning away to hide it. "I'm sure you did," she said. "I'm sure you did."

"You kids nowadays have it so easy, sitting around all day. Back then, being a hero meant work! We had pride, a real pride in what we did, and...""You sure we won't get in trouble?" asked Kaaboom, nervously picking at his collar. "I mean, I'm still on probation, you know. Can't afford to get written up on any more of them charges."

"There's no crime if it's for a good purpose," said Vorlax, who as No. 42 on the League's most wanted list, really was the last person anyone should be taking legal advice from. "Besides, I'm the one with the dummy explosives here, so Chronotron's going to be focusing fully on me. You ready?" 

The two supervillains took a deep breath, then pushed their way to the centre of the crowded town square. Vorlax hopped onto a bench, threw open his trenchcoat, revealing a neat array of sausages, tightly wrapped in brown paper. The alarm clock which Kaaboom had helped tape to the front dangled precariously. 

"Screw all of you! Damn you all to hell! See ya all in the afterlife, muthaf-"

Vorlax never got to finish his threat. Even before the gathered crowd could react, even before the first screams could rend the air, he had already frozen in place, encased in a shimmering cage of writhing chrono-filaments.

Hot damn, thought Kaaboom, so this is what it looks like from the outside. 

Enthused clapping rang out as the citizenry acknowledged yet another successful rescue by the hero known as Chronotron, the League's newest poster boy. He hovered in the air, waving at his adoring fans. 

"Fear not, one and all, the threat has been neutralised! It's off to the gallows for this one!"

"Wait, wait!" shouted Kaaboom, remembering the part he had to play. They had flipped a coin for this, because it was never fun to have to explain to the League what they were really up to, plus it wasn't easy suppressing the instinct to run, an instinct they had honed their entire careers. "Wait, Chronotron! I can explain everything!" 

The darkening scowl from Chronotron made it clear to Kaaboom that he had only a very short window of opportunity. 

"Kaaboom? You caught up in this terrorist attack too?"

"No, no! Wait, I mean yes! But not in that way, those aren't explosives at all, I swear! Just sausages! From the deli opposite!"

Chronotron stretched a hand into the chronocage, poking tentatively. His scowl deepened as his finger pierced into the soft mushiness of a bratwurst. 

"If this is a joke, Kaaboom, it is in bad taste. Causing undue public alarm is also a crime!"

"We needed to get to you urgently, that's all! And the League wouldn't take any of our calls, our numbers are all blacklisted! Please, just a minute of your time, in private!"

Chronotron snapped his fingers, and a larger chronocage extended to envelop the two of them. Outside the bubble, the world ground to a halt. 

"55 seconds remain, Kaaboom, before I'm hauling both you and Vorlax in."

"Right, right! See, we think something's happened to Vortex Man, and just in case he needs help urgently, we thought, you know, your powers would come in handy! I swear, that's the truth!" 

A puzzled frown spread across Chronotron's face. "Vortex Man? Why would anything happen to him? He's been retired for years!"

"Well, see... There's this roster we have, all the ones who have been given second chances by him before. We take turns to check in on him, just to make sure the old boy's getting on well..."

"How would you know where he lives anyway? His identity's still a secret!"

Kaaboom thrust a sheaf of papers at Chronotron, and said, "We don't, but look, we know his routine, where he goes for his daily walk, where he gets his coffee... And we take turns staging kidnappings, or hold ups, just so that he has a bit of exercise, you know? We think it keeps him happy, being relevant and appreciated and all..."

The first time he had been asked to assist, Kaaboom had drawn the short straw, so the role of a desperate mugger went to him. He had come away from the encounter shaken, not so much because Vortex Man still packed a mean punch, but because he had truly aged, now a mere shadow of the strapping superhero who had first apprehended Kaaboom on the streets so many years ago.

The sheen to Vortex Man's once thick, lustrous hair was gone, and a certain pallidness clung to his skin like shame to an introvert. His mind too, frail and feeble, couldn't recognise Kaaboom even though he played a kidnapper, then a rapist, then a mugger again, three days in a row. 

Heck, Kaaboom even had to pretend to be a cat in a tree once, after Vorlax suggested that variety would help keep Vortex Man nimble.

Kaaboom didn't mind helping out more, especially after the other supervillains started excusing themselves from the roster, citing the poor economy, the need to find work in other cities, family commitments... there were fewer and fewer of them on the roster, which meant that some weeks, Kaaboom and Vorlax did double, triple duties.

After all, the way that Vortex Man brightened up every time he helped someone... that was enough for Kaaboom to want to come back again, the very next day.

Chronotron flipped through the papers, understanding slowly dawning on him. "And I take it, he hasn't turned up today?" 

"Yes, you get it now! Nothing! We've been on Evil.net, and no one else has seen or heard from him in two days! So we thought, he's been pretty regular with his schedule, and for him to suddenly not turn up..."

If there was one thing Kaaboom had to give Chronotron credit for, it was that he truly had the gumption and decisiveness of a first-class hero. Chronotron handed back the papers, raised both arms in the sky, and shouted as the chronocage grew, slowly at first, then faster, and larger, till it stretched further than the eye could see. 

Now, nothing moved, except for the two of them. 

"Come, then, let's go. I have a rough idea of where he stays. If there is any medical emergency, this should buy us some time till we can get help to him."

"Err... Chronotron, if you don't mind, could we get Vorlax to come too? This was his idea after all..."

Chronotron laughed, then inclined his head ever so slightly. 

"... uckas!"

Great story! I liked the inner monologue of Rime, and the world building you did. This is a nice mix of sad, funny, and heartwarming.There was a certain serenity which permeated the city, now that it was out of step with time, suspended like bubbles in ice, alive but not quite living. Kaaboom couldn’t help but pause every couple of steps to admire the handicraft of nature, the fine, delicate details which were usually lost in the great flurry of activity that defined the city.

A hot-dog wrapper, curling in the wind. A gutter rat poised to spring, eyes fixed on a stray morsel. A fully turgid, vibrating middle-finger, leading back to his grumpy, impatient brother-in-arms, Vorlax.

“No, please, Kaaboom. Please take your time to inspect every little thing which crosses our path. Oh, is that a leaf I see there? No way… a *fluttering* leaf? Post-haste, my friend, let’s check it out, I’m sure Chronotron doesn’t mind waiting for you at all!”

“Oh it’s alright,” laughed Chronotron, good-naturedly. “I’m used to people doing that. They tell me it’s like a scene right out from some old classic movie, back in the 21st century.”

The unlikely trio turned the corner, and the neighbourhood park loomed ahead. Vorlax glanced down at the poorly-photocopied map passed to him when he had first volunteered to join the roster, and said, “Yeap, we’re here. This is where we usually part ways with Vortex Man. Sometimes he forgets, and invites us over for a cup of tea, but we usually decline.”

“Why? You guys feel uncomfortable getting so close to someone who’s arrested you before?”

“Partly,” Kaaboom said, piping up from the back. “Mostly though, it’s because we have to go check on whoever’s designated as the bad guy that day. Vortex Man always says that he’ll get home then call for the League to round us up, give us medical attention, but er, he frequently forgets.”

Kaaboom knew first-hand the fraility of Vortex Man’s memory. Once, after Vortex Man had subdued him and left him trussed up next to a tree in the park, Vortex Man had simply forgotten to follow through on his promise to summon the League for assistance, opting instead to return to his original program of strolling in the park. It had poured shortly after, which also meant that no one had noticed Kaaboom soaking in the rain for the next few hours.

Kaaboom and Vorlax had come up with a buddy system shortly after.

“What made you guys decide to keep tabs on Vortex Man anyway?” asked Chronotron, as he ambled down the street, peering at the nameplates next to the entrances of the apartment buildings. 

Vorlax responded first, and Kaaboom was glad for that – Vorlax had always been the one who was sharper, better with words. “Well, Chronotron, you ever get cut off in traffic while you’re driving, and you think to yourself, ‘You bastard, if there’s a fire I’m saving you last’?”

“No, not really. But if you’re asking whether I ever think bad thoughts about others, then yes, I guess, sometimes. I’m only human.”

“The same for us, then, eh? We may be supervillains, but there are times we look at others, and we kind of want to do something nice for them too. We’re not so different, Chronotron, life just took us down different paths.”

A certain hard-edged spite had entered Vorlax’s voice, and Kaaboom thought he understood why. It was tiring to always have the world look at you a certain way, judge your actions before you were even done doing them. Chronotron wouldn’t have understood if he tried – he came from a different world, where lines were always clear, and people were always worth saving.

It was different in their world. The way Vorlax told it, no one had ever actually told him that his powers were meant to be used for good, not evil. Powers were just… tools, a means to help him get what life had denied him from the start. Those who could sing got famous, those who were shrewd got rich, so why couldn’t the empowered get what they wanted to? And so when Vorlax came into his heritage, discovered his ability to shapeshift, he simply proceeded to take from the world what was rightfully his.

Vortex Man had been different. The other superheroes, they were caught up with efficiency, putting as many supervillains behind bars as quickly as possible. It was always *wham, bam, in the lam* for them. Vorlax never revealed what exactly Vortex Man said to him the night the two duelled and the forces of good prevailed, but Kaaboom had an idea.

After all, he too had been in the same position, vanquished and bloodied, body wracked with pain, when Vortex Man had extended a hand, open-palmed. Vortex Man had pulled him up, righted him, made him return the monies he had stolen, then bought him a mug of beer to take the edge off the headache.

Too much time had passed for Kaaboom to remember what exactly Vortex Man had said that night, huddled as they were in a corner of the bar, but it was something along the lines of, “Son, you can be so much more.”

“I think this is it,” said Chronotron, stopping in his tracks, as his finger trailed the nameplates of a building near the end of the street. “I think I recognise this name. Ready?”

The three of them started up the stairs, given that the elevators couldn’t work while Chronotron’s powers were activated. Kaaboom kept closely behind Vorlax, and they worked hard at keeping pace with Chronotron, who seemed overeager to sprint upwards.

They turned a corner, and realised they were lagging behind. Chronotron was already a couple of steps ahead, hand on the doorknob, letting himself into the small, humble apartment. The plaques and trophies which adorned the surface of the kitchen counter confirmed that this was Vortex Man’s abode.

Kaaboom braced himself for the worst, but a quick search soon revealed that there was no unpleasant discovery waiting for them. Instead, the only item which seemed out of place was a letter on the table, written in halting script. Chronotron scanned through it, then passed it to Vorlax, who devoured it as quickly. 

“Well, Vorlax, what’s it say? Come on, don’t make me read it, I’m not good with letters.”

Vorlax sighed. “He’s gone, Kaaboom. He ain’t returning.”

The card hissed softly as it was drawn from a neat stack of similarly blue-backed cards on the large wooden table, its surface battered and worn from hundreds of years of use. Though her figure was mostly hidden by the Head of Neighbourhood triptych sheet, three pairs of eyes rested eagerly on Calen as she turned the card in her hand and lifted it up, smiling wryly at its contents. 


“Cut the theatrics and read, elf,” grumbled Brond, a large and hairy man. His feet rested atop an empty chair, smaller than his own and wobbling as he shifted his weight against its seat. 


“He’s working late,” she said. 


“Again?” He replied, seemingly exhausted by the card’s message. 


Large head toppling rearward to rest against the uppermost plank of the chair back, hair spilling over the wood, Brond shut his eyes. Calen’s smirk sustained. Though different in their distinct features, Azezus the Blight and Crog wore matching expressions, lips pulled tight and curved, showing teeth as they grinned with amusement. The game sat on the table, two tidy piles of cards and character sheets scattered. Everything behind Calen’s trifold was a mystery. 


“Again,” she repeated. 


Brond ran meaty fingers along his wrinkled forehead, massaging between the furrowed brows as he thought. After a sigh, he said, “This is the third time this week.” 


“And the young secretary card is in play,” chimed Azezus. 


“Damn the gods,” Brond cursed. “I go to his work.” 


“What a fool,” said Azezus.

Brond frowned, eyes narrowing in the necromancer’s direction. “Excuse me? At least I *have* a husband.” 


“Mine’s dead--” 


“Does it make you feel impotent to know you can’t even bring him back?” Crog laughed. 


“Please, you can’t fathom the pressure of being a single mother of three little heathens,” Azezus accused. “They eat so much and the bills are piling up. Do you know how much debt Jason left me with? I thought we were doing well until he died.” His sharp slender finger drifted down his character sheet, head wagging agitatedly from side to side. 


“If only you could bring him back and shake his bones for a couple more bucks maybe your kids wouldn’t have to go to community college,” Crog continued to taunt.


“You’re in couples counseling, your son is a prescription medication addict,” Brond countered. 


Calen watched them, peering over the edge of her text-rich sheet. The smile that had formed upon reading the drawn card had yet to diminish and had grown only tighter from fatigue. Their arguing began to overlap. Voices raised until the volume was such that even Calen herself was finding it difficult to decipher the nature of the various delivered insults so, raising a hand in the air and not saying a word, she tossed two dice onto the table. The clatter, though quiet, hushed the playful fighting.


“You go to his work, drowsy from imbibing several glasses of rosé,” Calen said, “But he isn’t there.”


“Damn it,” Brond muttered. His fist landed heavily against the table. “I thought better of him.” Fingers clenched and nostrils flared, he grunted, “It’s snack time, I’m famished. Send me to the bar, I’ll wallow in the realisation that I married a dirty cheater.” 


“You have a teenager and a toddler at home!” Corg interjected. 


“And you have your raging Orc of a mother-in-law, Margaret coming over in the morning but you’ve spent no time straightening your home,” Brond scoffed, “Mind your own problems.” 


Sliding his character sheet toward the centre of the table with a resentful sneer, Brond’s large boots thudded against the floor. In a single graceless motion, palms leaning into the table top, he stood up and walked toward the pantry. 

George got a call from Martha at Bloomsbury only two days after he turned in the final manuscript of *Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows*, which Martin advised calling *Harry Potter and the Dawn of Night*, mostly due to how he had written it.

"Hullo, Martha," he said.

"Hi, George." Her tone was Splenda-sweet, and George knew instantly something was off.

"Oh, you don't like the book."

"It's not that--"

"Fantastic. I take all this valuable time off working on book six, only for you people to turn around and tell me it's garbage." He had been making some scrambled eggs. He slammed the bowl down on the counter. "I can't wrangle with you wardens of art at the moment. I understand I wrote something perhaps more complicated ethically than Jo would have, but I think she'd find the tone really matches how her characters have matured into adulthood."

"I agree with you in spirit," the editor said, carefully. "However, do you believe it was necessary to have a Slytherin student effectively addicted to killing?"

"No battle is fun without a blood-monger."

"Well, I don't think our book's fan base will be invigorated to learn that Hermione is gutted by a brand new character when she goes to find Ron and is left to die. Or that when Ron found her the new student--" she paused, apparently to find the right line "'spilled open Ron's jugular in a thick spray of arterial scarlet', nor that Ron then 'collapsed, reaching for Hermione's still fingers, but not quite able to reach. They lay that way until the staff began the grim job of rounding up bodies, in the morning.' I mean, these are two of the primary characters. They just... died."

"As people do," George said, sagely.

"Listen. Today I would really like you to review your draft and reconsider what points you could revise." George scoffed, offended, but the editor continued relentlessly, "These people aren't wanting to read a George R.R. Martin book, you know? They're hoping for a sweet and wholesome conclusion where Harry Potter's friends aren't murdered by a power-hungry sociopath. Additionally, since this is technically a children's book, I think we'll need to remove both sex scenes." 

"Both?"

"Both, George."

"Can I at least get a fade to black?" he asked, even though those were super lame and the domain of cop-out writers. No. George did not flinch when it came to life's many and varied fluids.

"Probably not." There was still a smile in her voice. "Okay, George? Does that all make sense?"

"I suppose." He stirred his scrambled eggs viciously. "I don't see why you would ask me to write it if you didn't want it to *sound* like me."

"Surely you can try a voice switch. Pretend you're an actor putting on a new accent."

George R.R. Martin hung up the phone and growled to his empty kitchen, "I don't *use* accents."
**An Excerpt from *Harry Potter and the Dawn of Night* by George R.R. Martin** 

*Not for reprint or redistribution. This file does NOT leave this office. No one needs to know this ever happened. It wouldn't be fair to Jo's legacy.*

*Before Jo's untimely and unfortunate accident, this was the final line she left us with, a haunting and truly ageless monologue from the Dark Lord himself:*

>"I know that you are preparing to fight. Your efforts are futile. You cannot fight me. I do not want to kill you. I have great respect for the teachers of Hogwarts. I do not want to spill magical blood. Give me Harry Potter, and they shall not be harmed. Give me Harry Potter and I shall leave the school untouched. Give me Harry Potter and you will be rewarded. You have until midnight." 

*This is what George R. R. Martin did to the rest of it.*
I never should have gotten in the car with Paul. I knew he'd been drinking a bit that night, but I thought that he'd be ok to get us home, it was just a few blocks from the bar.  The last thing I remember was us screaming as he swerved off the road and tumbled down a hill, a sharp pain in my neck, then... Nothing.

I woke up in a pastel pink room.  A little girl was staring at me with wide eyes. "Hi Mister! I've never seen you before, what's your name?"

I backed away slowly.  "Uh, I'm Mike.  Listen, kid, I'm not sure how I got here.  Where's your mom?"

She smiled at me.  "Mama's downstairs. You're just in time for the tea party!  Mr. Snowball and and Mrs. Grizzly are already here.". She walked over to a little table, where a stuffed tiger and teddy bear were sitting in front of plastic plates.  She sat down at the table and patted the empty seat next to her.  "You can sit over here."

I walked over reluctantly.  "Ok, but... What is your name again?"

She stuck out her hand.  "I'm Sara.  Nice to meet you Mr Mike!"

I shook her hand gingerly.  It was strangely warm.  "Hi Sara.  Look, your mom might not like my being here.  I should go talk to her.  I don't even know how I got here."

She giggled.  "Mama never minds any of my friends.  I think she's coming here now anyway. I'll introduce you!"

She ran over to the doorway with my hand still in hers.  A woman was walking into the room with a plate of muffins and a pitcher of milk.  She looked strangely familiar.

"Mama, mama, meet my new best friend."

The woman smiled and set the tray on the table.  "Oh, a new best friend huh?  What happened to Mr. Timmy?"

"Mr. Timmy told me he had to go for a while, but made me promise to be a good girl for Mama and Daddy.  This is Mr. Mike!"

The woman looked up and stared right through me.  I stood there, stunned.  She looked just like my daughter.  But my daughter was only a few years older than Sara... A sense of dread crept into my stomach.

"Mr. Mike, huh?  Your grandpa was named Mike too. " A tear trickled down her face.  "Well you tell Mr. Mike not to eat too many muffins, and to be nice to you, ok?"

I swallowed hard. "Will do, Amanda," I whispered.  She turned to go.  "Will do."that's a nice twist.Harry glanced nervously at his aunt and uncle at the dinner table, eyes darting between them as they feasted, desperate for their approval.

“I must say, Harry, these porkchops are quite exquisite” Vernon said, taking a momentary break from shoving more food down his mouth. He set down the bone, let out a small belch, and wiped his mouth.

“Thank you, Uncle,” Harry replied sheepishly. Despite going to the trouble of preparing the meal entirely by himself, he stood hungry next to the dinner table while his relatives indulged.

“You know, boy, I’ll never approve of your….oddities…but we may have some use out of you yet” Petunia chimed in. “For some reason it never occurred to me to ask you to prepare dinners for us. When you volunteered I was skeptical, but now – now! After eating this, I think of all the time I’ve wasted preparing food for the three of us when we could have had you doing it the whole time.”

“I’m glad you like it, Aunt Petunia,” Harry quietly responded, looking at the floor. 

Of course, the other unspoken reason they were initially apprehensive was that they were afraid Harry would use some of his magic to help prepare the meal. After all, he had been at Hogwarts for four full years now and they were clueless as to what he was capable of. This is why they were intent on watching Harry like a hawk during the entire preparation process, and only allowed him to prepare the meal for just the two of them on a night that Dudley was staying at his friend’s house just in case anything odd might be afoot.

They watched him from start to finish, but Harry had followed the rules by the book. He brought in the meat fresh, cleaned it, prepared it and cooked it all the old fashioned Muggle way. No wand, no magic involved in the preparation of the meal whatsoever. He figured surely the way to some sort of semi-workable relationship was through their stomachs. 

He didn’t even care that the meal was split between them and he didn’t get any. That wasn’t the goal here. He just wanted to make sure that they enjoyed the meal he prepared for them.

Vernon took another brief respite from inhaling the meal. With food still in his mouth, he mused “You know…actually, I do have one…small complaint. Could use a tad more seasoning next time.”

Harry started to fume. More seasoning? He had gone to such extreme lengths to make it perfect…spent hours to please them and didn’t even have anything to show for it himself. More seasoning? Vernon was wrong, straight out. Every Muggle cookbook he consulted said this was the perfect amount and any more would be overkill. Vernon had no idea what he was talking about and Harry’s blood started to boil. He briefly considered grabbing his wand. But, no. Harry’s resolve returned.

He had overcome so much over his first four years at Hogwarts, in particular the most recent one. He had to sit there, panicked, afraid for his life as Voldemort was resurrected with his blood. 

He still could barely come to terms with the fact that the man that he thought was Mad-Eye Moody was actually Barty Crouch Jr., Voldemort’s most loyal follower and was planning to kill him the whole time. He trusted “Moody” implicitly, and the man had been so kind to him, shown him and taught him so many things.  

In spite of himself, he let out a slight chuckle, reminiscing about the time that “Moody” transfigured Malfoy into a ferret. 

That moment came as quite a surprise. Until that point, he didn’t even realize that wizards could transfigure other people into animals. 

But it was a valuable lesson learned and one he took to heart. Satisfied once again, he watched with delight as his aunt and uncle ate the pig that used to be their son.
Hermione threw herself over a counter and huddled down as her cupboards exploded above her, raining sawdust and glass onto her head. She spat a glob of blood, from when she'd accidentally bit her tongue, and raised her wand. Or more accurately, the bottom half of it, sparks fizzing at the broken end.

"Just surrender now, darling!" said Andrew in that distinctive sing-song voice of his. A flash of red light struck her sink, cleanly severing the tap.

Inwardly, she swore. For the last eight years of her life since Hogwarts had been destroyed, she'd survived by being careful. Why in the world had she chosen today, of all days, to open the door for a stranger?

"Give up! I won't kill you, darling! Not yet anyway." She could picture him easily enough; skinny, sallow face, with arms crisscrossed by knife scars. But the man was honest, that much people had said.

Besides, it wasn't like she stood a chance without a wand. Tossing it over the counter, she said, "I surrender!"

Hands over her hand, she slowly straightened. Andrew cackled at the sight of her, completely ignoring his three companions sprawled out in the living room behind him. One of them was bleeding quite profusely from a cut on the head. Hermione thought about telling him, but a sudden, violent urge quelled that notion. These Survivors, as they called themselves, should know better.

"Sleep tight," said Andrew. "Stupefy!"

Holy shitI was waiting for the twist, wondering when Harry would lose his shit. Turns out he already had. Was NOT expecting that! :oThat awkward moment when a fanfiction born out of a writing prompt on reddit is better than The Cursed Child. 

For real, this gave me goose bumps. Literally what I was thinking. Whoa.Call me eccentric. Call me an idiot. Doesn't matter, I've been called both. 

See, everybody always ate the food. A bite of quiche, a chunk of apple. A cut of ham or a slice of pie. Not me. They all got the powers you'd expect. Healing from the apple or fire from those hot peppers. That type of thing. 

I bit the table. Just a big old chunk out of a mahogany table, teeth be damned.

At first, the council gave me a look that could say nothing other than *what the actual fuck*. And then it dawned on them, about as quickly as it dawned on me. 

I wasn't the weirdo anymore. I wasn't the outcast. 

I looked at Barry. Oh, Barry. He'd bullied me relentlessly for years, and he'd just grabbed one of those peppers and was preparing to light my pants on fire in front of all my peers. 

We couldn't have that now, could we? I channeled my power, not that I had any idea what it'd be. Maybe I'd start flying, high enough to avoid the flames licking towards me. Maybe I'd explode something and cause enough of a distraction.

Barry huffed and puffed--he knew exactly what his power was supposed to be. But no flame came. Not even a wisp of smoke. Stupid as I might have looked biting the table, he looked even more a blowhard as he tried and tried but failed miserably.

"What's happening?" he cried, looking towards the council. 

They knew no better than anybody else. But as they thought, using the wisdom bestowed upon them by their bite of the olives, their careful trains of thought derailed and turned to muddled nonsense. 

I'd done away with their powers, just like I had with Barry's. The table gave, and the table took away.

That was the power of the table that I'd bit a chunk out of. All of their powers were propped up by mine. And I didn't want them to have any power at all.

One moment, I was sitting in my room watching Youtube; the next, I was standing next to a massive banquet table in a circular room with nine other kids my age, looking just as confused as I was. The table had dozens of dishes on it, filled with more food than any buffet I had ever visited.

“Welcome, ladies and gentlemen!”, a loud voice rang out. We all looked up to see a boy watching us from a balcony on the other side of the room. He didn’t look that much different from us if you ignored the green snake eyes that he had and the curled horns on either side of his head. He clapped his hands together and started floating in the air. “Welcome to the 2020 Superpower Feast. Please select a food in front of you and I’ll give you a superpower based on that food!”

We all stared at him for a few moments, too stunned to say anything. Then, one girl with brown curly hair spoke up. “Are you saying...are you telling us that you’re the one giving 16 years old superpowers every decade?” she asked in a dazed voice.

“Yep, that’s me,” he replied with a sly grin. “Of course, I make sure to always wipe their memories before they leave this place.” “So,” he said, looking around at all of us. “Who wants to go first?”

There was a tense silence for several moments. The boy yawned. “Well, don’t all volunteer at once.” His voice took on a more serious edge. “But, really, do choose something before I get bored and choose a grateful group of teenagers that does want superpowers.”

One boy wearing glasses slowly walked over to the banquet table. We all watched him nervously as he picked up a plate that contained several slices of steak and began eating from it. Suddenly, we heard him gasp. Before, he had been fairly skinny. But now, right in front of our stunned eyes, massive muscles were appearing all over his arms and legs. The boy floating over us smiled and clapped his hands. Both the boy in glasses and the plate of half eaten steaks vanished from the room. “Don’t worry about him,” he said, gazing down at us. “I just sent him back to Earth. He’ll wake up, thinking that he was blessed with superpowers while he was sleeping. He giggled. “Well, who’s next?”

I raised my hand. “You said that we can eat anything from this table and we’ll get a superpower from it, right?”

“Yep, that’s right,” he said, floating over to me. “So, what do you want?”

I walked over to one corner of the banquet table, readied my nerves and bit into the table. I could feel everyone staring at me. I looked up at the floating boy and for the first time, I saw him look just as baffled as everyone in the room. “What...what are you doing? “ he asked, tilting his head.

“You said that we choose anything from the table. Well, I’m choosing the table then.”

There was a tense silence as we stared at each other. For a moment, I was worried that I had offended him. Then, he started laughing hysterically. “My gods, I forget how crazy you humans can be sometimes.” “Well,” he said with a devilish grin. “You can certainly eat the table if you want. But you have to actually swallow part of it. A simple bite isn’t enough.”

I nervously gulp. It takes fifteen minutes of me constantly stabbing the table corner with a fork before part of it breaks off. The entire time, I can feel the rest of the kids looking at me, probably thinking that I’m a fool or a lunatic. But I’ve already committed to this. It’s too late to back off down. I put the piece in my mouth. It’s even more disgusting than I imagined, foul and rotten with sharp edges poking into  my gums. But, I manage to swallow it without vomiting.

“.Well, well, well,” the boy says, smirking. “You know, you’re the first person in 500 years to consider eating the table. I think that such creativity deserves a unique reward, wouldn’t you say?”

He slowly descended from the air until his feet touched the ground. He pulled out a red book from his jacket pocket and handed it over to me. “Only you will be able to read this. Do take good care of it. I have a feeling that you’re going to be very interesting to watch indeed.”

“What is it?”, I asked, struggling to talk against the waves of nausea coming from my stomach.

“My cookbook,” he said, laughing, before clapping his hands together.

Edit: Parts 2 and 3 are down below!when nobody's super, nobody is.I slept on the sofa again last night. It's easier to pretend they're still here, that way. That Maria never left me, we just argued and that she's lying up there in our bed, and in the morning we'll sort out our differences over a cup of tea.

That's what I do. I make two cups of tea in the morning. Sometimes I even pour a glass of orange for Mark, but in truth, it's harder to pretend he's still here.

Because I *know* he's gone.

It was just a prank, you know. Mark fell in love with the books. I started reading them to him when he was six. A bit young maybe. It was Mark that believed they were real. There was no deception on my part, not at that time. But, in the way kids so willingly believe in Santa, he believed in Harry and Hogwarts and all of it -- believed it was all real. Why not *let him* believe it, at least for a while? Fuck, I know what it's like to be an adult in a world without any magic. 

It sucks. 

So yeah, I let him believe. I started to encourage him, even. I'd tell him about how a news event was really to do with the Ministry of Magic, or some such. But that most muggles didn't understand, and thought it was just an unusual storm. That only him and me knew the truth. 

The books had a good moral. So what was the harm in pretending?

By the time he was nine... Maria wanted me to explain it to him. That it was just a book, and that J. K. Rowling wasn't an archivist of magical affairs, but the writer of this made up fantasy world.

*I couldn't.* 

I just didn't want to burst his bubble. Later, as he got older... I admit I got something of a kick out of it. Like, when I faked the letter. *Ah, shit*. This is tough to talk about. When I faked the letter, I did everything I could not to burst out laughing when he exploded into our room and shared his thrilling news. 

Maria just glared at me.

It was my idea to take him to the station. I was going to show him... yeah, through a practical joke, I was going to demonstrate to my son, that none of it was real. It was going to be both hilarious, but also kind of tragic, when he ran into the pillar. I had the camera ready, you know. Because I'm a complete and utter twisted fuck up. I wanted to capture his face. To show his future girlfriends. His future wife.

I'm so fucking sorry Mark.

The day came. He dressed up in all his garbs and was so excited about quidditch and the wand and the alley, and all the fucking rest of it.

He ran face first into the pillar.

And he slipped away. Straight through to the other side.

Yeah.

I got a picture as his head thudded against it.

As it hit the ground.

I didn't get a picture of the blood pooling around his uniform. Cause I'd realised, as my finger clicked the trigger the first time, that...

Maria blamed me, of course. Hell, I blamed me -- it was my fault, so of course I did. *I do.*

Every day is a battle now, to not follow him into that other realm.

I miss you, Mark. 

And I love you like Dobby loves socks.



I ducked under the flying book with practiced ease and it slammed into the wall behind me.

 
“Abarakadabum!!”


My mother was fond of screaming made up spell names during her nightly drinking sessions. 
She laughed and subsequently lost her balance, rolling off the couch and falling bodily onto the floor. 


I took the opportunity to flee, quietly slipping out the front door. I lit a cigarette and walked down the empty street, pulling the red and gold scarf my mom had given me years ago close. 
I don’t know why she kept doing it. Not the drinking; I knew why she drank. It was the fantasy, this idea that Hogwarts was real and that I was a witch. Obviously, I had figured it out years ago but my mother refused to admit the stories were just that, stories.


Well, anyways, these days we would only get a few pages into the Order of the Phoenix before mom had downed two martinis and started to slur her words. 
I finished my cigarette and walked home. To my surprise my mother was upright and sitting at the table, with a cigarette of her own in one hand and a letter in the other.
“Look what an owl brought me,” she said. Her eyes were red but alert. Her hand snaked out and grabbed my wrist, and she pulled me toward the letter. 
“Open it!” There was a hint of menace in her voice. 


The letter was an invitation to Hogwarts, done in my mother’s crude hand writing. She hadn’t even put effort into it. I couldn’t help it; I teared up. Why did she do this to me?! 
Later that evening I could hear her laughing on the phone, “she even started crying, the idiot! Tomorrow I’m taking her to Kings Cross. We are going to break the internet. This shits going viral.” 


That morning I went along with everything. I stood mutely while my mother dressed me in a kids halloween costume, not even a brand name but a cheap knock off, “wizard boy cloak”. 
We got to the station and she pushed me towards Platform 9. 
I turned to her, hoping that she would realize that I was still her daughter and not her play thing, not a burden, but a girl who still loves her mom, despite the beatings and the drinking. 


She blew me an exaggerated kiss, pulled out her cell phone, and motioned me to get going. 
So I ran. I ran headlong at the pillar, because fuck it. Because at best I would jar my brain in just the right way and the last 13 years of my life would be forgotten, and who knows, maybe this would make my mother happy. 
As I got closer to the pillar I even started to believe that I was on my way to Hogwarts. That this was it.


I could hear my mother laughing. I closed my eyes and braced for the impact. There was a roar in my ears. But I just kept running. 


“Steady!!”
Firm hands gripped me. I looked up to see the kindly face of an elderly man in a peculiar set of robes. He had a long white beard and half moon spectacles. I looked around to see young people in black robes everywhere. 


The man looked down at me. 


“We are so glad you’ve made it.”Nick, I think you just broke this prompt :(

Came here expecting happy tales, left broken.

Take my upvote. You monster.I played myself so fucking bad with this one :D"Annnnnnnd stop right there," the man said, snapping open his pocket watch. Reality snapped and bucked at his control, but after a few lethargic jerks, he stepped out of time.

He stepped forward lazily and walked through the crowd in front of him, approaching the tower in the distance. Lightning crackled less like a force of nature and more as a languid constant, a long line of fire piercing the sky.

He wasn't here for the Ordeal, he was here for something else.

"Uh... What the hell?"

Chronos paused, flicking his eyes down to his watch, then back towards one of the heroes he'd left behind.

Their eyes met, and Chronos blinked, slipping the chain around his watch to keep it from closing.

"I..." the hero said, and Chronos cocked his head to the side, squinting at him. 

"How are you moving?"

"How are you moving!?" The hero hissed, not that sound travelled fast enough for him to hear, Chronos could read lips, and the hero slammed himself forward. A strange blur effect, Chronos noted, a bit of heft to his eyes, a glow hidden underneath of the surface.

A power to counteract his. A problem.

Chronos had never cared for problems, and problems rarely bothered him for long.

But this one, this one might be different.

The hero raced to his side. It was awkward, seeing someone that fast kept in the slow time, but Chronos nimbly stepped to the side as he ran by at a more human speed.

The hero slid to an awkward halt a few meters down the line, and then braced himself. Time rippled under the strain of the watch being open, and Chronos ignored it. He'd already slipped to the worlds between worlds where he drew power from, and their whispers couldn't claim him.

"Can't let you get near that facility," the hero said, looking at the watch. Unknown capabilities, but suicidal zealotry.

Chronos hated career heroes.

"Then, I'm afraid, I'm going to have to remove you. I need access to that secure room."

The hero cracked his knuckled and slammed his feet against the ground. A cloud of dust that would've been less pretty if it didn't unfurl in that strange place in between time, where seconds melted into minutes.

It didn't stop Chronos from taking the first blow to the face when the speedster abruptly sped up even faster.

The second one caught him across the chest, his suit distorting with a splash of black from the speedster's painted armor. The third caught him across the knees and the fourthTo quote one of my favourite video games,

''You're pretty good.''Despite being two and a half years old, Jerry the Third stood proud and erect, holding his toothpick-fashioned walking cane in the air. The small cavern in this chamber of the intricate mousehole tunnel system was more than enough space for him to draw on the wooden wall while his son Jerry the Third Jr watched on.

On the wall, he’d drawn a crude scribble of a cat with demon horns. It was a very ugly cat. Using his cane, he made sure to point out the evil horns, then the cat’s sharp claws, and ending with his big mean face. Jerry Jr needed to see the enemy he was up against.

Turning away from his son, Jerry the Third used the broken piece of chalk in his other hand to write in big bold letters, **TOM**. This was the formidable rival that had plagued the Jerry family for countless generations - an entire three generations now, in fact. Jerry the Third made sure to emphasize this by mimicking an angry, scary face with outstretched claws. The effect was slightly diminished because he didn’t actually have claws.

After that, he used a piece of ripped paper to wipe away the chalk. Then he drew another picture with the same cat, except now the cat was chasing a mouse. Jerry pretended to faint. Then he recovered and hurriedly erased the drawing. With a quick flourish of his hands, this time he drew the same cat and mouse, but now with the mouse chasing the cat.

Jerry somehow stood prouder than he already was and held his cane out in front of him like it was a fine rapier. With a few deft slashing motions, he showed Jerry Jr exactly how to deal with the big bad cat. His swordsmanship, a skill honed from years of cat-fighting, was a source of great pride.

For the remainder of his lesson, he showed how to avoid mouse traps, call for help from the family dog, and escape from certain death in many wildly different ways. With a final slash of his cane, he set the toothpick on the ground and sighed, shaking his head. Years of grief, pain, and sorrow flashed across his eyes for the briefest moment, and he slumped his shoulders wearily. Even giving this demonstration was taking its toll on the old mouse who had spent his entire life fighting.

Suddenly, his ears perked up as they caught a faint sound. Jerry the Third jerked his head up and squinted suspiciously at Jerry Jr. With a few stomps over to where his son was watching, the old mouse made a quick grab with his hands. Alas, it was just as he had feared! Jerry Jr had taped hand-drawn eyes to his face, and under his mask, he was soundly asleep.

I was tipped off to the location of an abandoned school house near the edge of the city. The kid who gave up the information wasn't exactly cooperative, at first, but a few days off of pixie dust had him itching so bad that he gladly told me what I wanted to know for just a little sprinkle. 

Addictive stuff. Like nothing the guys at the lab have ever seen, and they've been no fucking help since this all started. A case like this takes real cop work, dirty work, and that's the kind I prefer to do alone. I sprinkled a bit of the stuff on my head after three weeks of dead ends, evidence is loaded with this shit, and what's more, it doesn't weigh anything, *literally nothing*, so they have no way of accurately keeping track of it anyway -it won't be missed. 

Sometimes you gotta think like a crook to catch one, and that was my philosophy here; but, to my surprise, the pixie dust had no effect on me. I practically shoved my head in the damn bag; *nothing*, but these kids are flying high like fairies off this shit. Maybe it only affects the youth? What kind of animal develops a drug that only works on kids?

It's raining cats and dogs outside, but that's to my advantage. The constant patter of rain hitting the old metal roofs suppresses the sound of my engine as I roll up to the old school. I keep my lights off as I pull off the side of the road and park the Jolly Roger behind some natural cover. She's seen better days, and if I get any closer her rumbling will surely tick me off, but I know she's here and reliable if this goes south. 

I make my way towards the schoolhouse, staying close to the tree line, and I can make out lights coming from inside. Nothing electrical, as far as I can tell, definitely fire. There's a few kids hanging out under an awning near the flag pole at the front of the school, the glow of a couple cigarettes illuminates them enough for me to see their faces, and their weapons. *Knives.* One kid is theatrically flourishing a butterfly knife while the others coo excitedly; *moron*, easy way to lose a hand. One of them knocks a beer bottle off the old table, and I use this as an opportunity to move quickly towards the rear of the building. 

The rain is keeping up, and there's quite a bit of noise coming from inside, so I'm not too worried about keeping quiet now. The old building is tagged up with red, yellow, and orange spray paint. Various symbols and words are plastered around, but one thing is repeated often: *LB*.

Looks like there's a stairwell around the side of what looks like a gymnasium, possibly rafter access, I won't get a better opportunity to do some surveillance. I suppose I could call this in, but then what? Have this place raided, and all these strung out kids killed in a firefight? Not that I think they'd send em anyways, that pussy Smee has been telling everyone to steer clear of this since the beginning, and I suspect he knows something we don't. 

I'm up the stairwell now, and as suspected, there's easy access into the gymnasium from here. The windows are fogged up, but I can make out a ton of movement inside by the low light. I open one enough for me to slide in, and close it behind me. 

It's a damn circus down there. The place is packed with kids, and they're all high off their asses. There's a few massive fires going at both ends of the court, and smaller flames are scattered about elsewhere. A few kids are perched up on the basketball hoops, dumping pixie dust down on half naked children dancing around in ecstasy, they're smashing bottles, fighting, and doing things to one another that are well beyond their immaturity. However, nothing compares to what's going on at half-court: A large circle of kids, surrounding what looks like a duel. 

Two older boys are engaged in frantic swordplay, dancing about with wondrous flair as they strike and parry. There are dueling chants amongst the crowd as well, each rising and falling with the swing of blades.