Beyond infinity: Art / Twenty to One / Quire to Ream / Words and Images
8 is the longest letterform
Arranged and Rearranged
Wednesday, May 18, 2016
Sunday, April 24, 2016
Frank the Good Duck - A bedtime story for my son
Many times, there was a duck named Frank. Frank was a good duck, he did good things. His mother told him to watch his brothers and sisters when she went out looking for food. One day, his brothers and sisters decided to get into some trouble. They went out on their own, over the hills and far away. Frank couldn’t stop them. He decided to go with them to make sure they didn’t get into too much trouble. The first animal the little ducks met was a fox. The fox ate his brothers and sisters. Frank had to trick the fox. He painted some rocks to look like ducks and the silly fox ate those rocks too. This gave the fox a terrible ache and he puked all the ducks out. The ducks were smelly and itchy but they were happy to be alive and Frank took them back to his home pond and washed them off and got them into bed before his mother came home and found out what had happened.When his mother came back, they were all asleep, clean and warm and dry in their beds. Frank was asleep too. He was very tired. Taking care of little ducks that like to get into trouble is difficult work. Frank was good at it but now he had his reward, a good nights sleep. The End.
Wednesday, April 20, 2016
[wp] You have invented mind control. Write about some of the positive ways it might be used. by PatriarchalTaxi
The first thing I did when I invented mind control? The answer won't surprise you. My first machine was simple, a used cranial stimulator I bought at auction from a bankrupt medical wholesaler. It came with an odd lot of science stuff including a used air extractor and a bunch of other goodies. I fiddled around with it and after getting some donor parts our of an old gameboy I had my mind control machine. I called it X-1. X-1 worked sporadically and only when my human subject was wearing the device. It looked like a oolander with a chin strap and lots of cables coming out the holes. Not what you'd call fashion-friendly. I tried asking my wife to wear it but have you ever tried getting your wife to wear what looks like a cross between a kitchen accident and a cable monster on her head? I didn't try too hard, that's for sure.
Then it hit me.
\
I put it on myself and ran a simple program I'd complied just for X-1.
10 BUILD A BETTER MIND CONTROL MACHINE
20 GOTO 10 RUN
It's amazing what a super RISC language can do when married to a brain. Speaking of brains, mine is in a jar somewhere. You're listening to a sidelined backup. The last I heard from myself, I was very big and very far away while at the same time being very small and very close. As if I was everywhere in fact.
Sometime/place, at the core of what I still thought of as X-1 (but had as much in common with my kitchen collander as an amoeba with a sperm whale) letters made of fire spelled out words the size of galaxies.
RUNTIME ERROR, (A)BORT? (R)ETRY? (F)AIL?
As a sidelined brain, I strained to choose but before I could I heard a voice and it was not my own.
LET THERE BE LIGHT.
Then it hit me.
\
I put it on myself and ran a simple program I'd complied just for X-1.
10 BUILD A BETTER MIND CONTROL MACHINE
20 GOTO 10 RUN
It's amazing what a super RISC language can do when married to a brain. Speaking of brains, mine is in a jar somewhere. You're listening to a sidelined backup. The last I heard from myself, I was very big and very far away while at the same time being very small and very close. As if I was everywhere in fact.
Sometime/place, at the core of what I still thought of as X-1 (but had as much in common with my kitchen collander as an amoeba with a sperm whale) letters made of fire spelled out words the size of galaxies.
RUNTIME ERROR, (A)BORT? (R)ETRY? (F)AIL?
As a sidelined brain, I strained to choose but before I could I heard a voice and it was not my own.
LET THERE BE LIGHT.
Monday, March 21, 2016
[WP] A worldwide consensus is drawn that the world will end when you die. An effort is made to prolong your life, no matter the cost by [deleted]
ONE. 1989
Benoit didn't know the world would end when he died until he was 14 years old. He was hit by a van while cycling and his bike went right under the wheels. Benoit was knocked to the asphalt and the van shuddred to a sudden stop. Right on top of Benoit.
It was exactly 8:05 a.m. in the morning, May 25, 1989.
The panicked driver jumped out expecting all his worst fears to greet him. He'd run over a kid, it was his fault, the kid was dead, he was going to prison.
Except he wasn't. Benoit crawled out without a scratch, his bike a useless and bent collection of parts.
"Omigod omigod omigod, alright?, y-you're alright?"
Benoit nodded.
"Can I give you some cash for the bike?"
Benoit shook his head.
"Are, are you sure?" the driver couldn't believe his luck.
Benoit started walking away.
"Can I give you a lift or something?"
Benoit kept walking, his head ached, in his mind's eye, he was watching a gas pipe explosion fatally burn two people alive, and destroy eleven houses and 21 cars.
That night, watching the news from San Bernadino was like watching a badly taped rerun.
TWO. 1999
"Come on man, it's just a short flight."
"I don't fly."
"Benny, could you not be Benny just this once?"
"Nope, the plane might crash."
"So you're afraid you'll die in a plane crash?"
"I'll be fine, it's the rest of the world that I'm afraid for."
"Whatever Benny, I've had enough of your 'if I die, the world dies' crap, I'm going without you, I hope we can still be friends."
"Yeah, sure."
THREE. 2175
The door to his cabin opened slowly and smoothly. The men who entered were unarmed but their movement said weapons might grow out of their hands at any moment.
"Benoit Ryder."
It was not a question. He lay in bed, chest heavy with mucous.
"Please."
The men took vantage points at the small windows. Windows he'd cut himself half a century ago. A cluster of them at the door parted like two halves of an almond and white coated men rushed in.
Medical devices the size of a matchbox injected him with other medical devices the size of a match head which quickly dissolved into individual molecular robots.
"Please."
The machines drilled deep into his lungs, his lymphatic system, his pancreas, his spleen. They cut and spliced and pushed and pulled.
"Please, can't you just let me go?"
"Mr. Ryder, we're here to save your life."
"No you're not, you're here to save your own."
"Everything is going to be fine Mr. Ryder."
His eyes looked at Benoit the way boys looked at flies they wanted to swat.
"Yes, it is," said Benoit.
They lifted him off his bed.
Pressure plates do not click. They can also be set to close a circuit when pressure is released. Like a landmine.
Benoit knew the world would end with the explosion he'd rigged over 40 years ago, in case they found him.
"Sorry, what was that Mr. Ryder? Chet, get over here, he's whispering something."
"Negatory, sniffers twitching, E.M.P. NOW!!"
"Please, I want the en--."
Benoit didn't know the world would end when he died until he was 14 years old. He was hit by a van while cycling and his bike went right under the wheels. Benoit was knocked to the asphalt and the van shuddred to a sudden stop. Right on top of Benoit.
It was exactly 8:05 a.m. in the morning, May 25, 1989.
The panicked driver jumped out expecting all his worst fears to greet him. He'd run over a kid, it was his fault, the kid was dead, he was going to prison.
Except he wasn't. Benoit crawled out without a scratch, his bike a useless and bent collection of parts.
"Omigod omigod omigod, alright?, y-you're alright?"
Benoit nodded.
"Can I give you some cash for the bike?"
Benoit shook his head.
"Are, are you sure?" the driver couldn't believe his luck.
Benoit started walking away.
"Can I give you a lift or something?"
Benoit kept walking, his head ached, in his mind's eye, he was watching a gas pipe explosion fatally burn two people alive, and destroy eleven houses and 21 cars.
That night, watching the news from San Bernadino was like watching a badly taped rerun.
TWO. 1999
"Come on man, it's just a short flight."
"I don't fly."
"Benny, could you not be Benny just this once?"
"Nope, the plane might crash."
"So you're afraid you'll die in a plane crash?"
"I'll be fine, it's the rest of the world that I'm afraid for."
"Whatever Benny, I've had enough of your 'if I die, the world dies' crap, I'm going without you, I hope we can still be friends."
"Yeah, sure."
THREE. 2175
The door to his cabin opened slowly and smoothly. The men who entered were unarmed but their movement said weapons might grow out of their hands at any moment.
"Benoit Ryder."
It was not a question. He lay in bed, chest heavy with mucous.
"Please."
The men took vantage points at the small windows. Windows he'd cut himself half a century ago. A cluster of them at the door parted like two halves of an almond and white coated men rushed in.
Medical devices the size of a matchbox injected him with other medical devices the size of a match head which quickly dissolved into individual molecular robots.
"Please."
The machines drilled deep into his lungs, his lymphatic system, his pancreas, his spleen. They cut and spliced and pushed and pulled.
"Please, can't you just let me go?"
"Mr. Ryder, we're here to save your life."
"No you're not, you're here to save your own."
"Everything is going to be fine Mr. Ryder."
His eyes looked at Benoit the way boys looked at flies they wanted to swat.
"Yes, it is," said Benoit.
They lifted him off his bed.
Pressure plates do not click. They can also be set to close a circuit when pressure is released. Like a landmine.
Benoit knew the world would end with the explosion he'd rigged over 40 years ago, in case they found him.
"Sorry, what was that Mr. Ryder? Chet, get over here, he's whispering something."
"Negatory, sniffers twitching, E.M.P. NOW!!"
"Please, I want the en--."
[WP] It's 1933 and the Roman Empire survived and avoided its collapse. However, Adolf Hitler still rises to power in Germany, he then declares war on Rome. by Zorseking34
In 753 BCE, Rome was founded, or so the story goes. and by the beginning of the new millenium it had struggled up from its humble beginnings as a fishing village sheltered by seven peaks on the banks of the Tiber river into an imperial force to be reckoned with in Europe.
In those times, the Roman legions inspired fear and awe not only because of their discipline but because warfare, especially in transalpine Gaul, was composed largely of set piece battles where two disputating lords would select a location for their forces to meet and the army that broke ranks first was deemed the loser. There were injuries and even deaths but the aim in this trial by combat was to beat your opponent, not slay your enemy.
The legions were the first armies since the Assyrians to kill.
The role of the legionnaire was to close with the enemy and destroy him.
What came behind the legions was the rule of law for commoners, comparatively better sanitation, roads, viaducts, roman concrete, infrastructure, trade, markets, education, prosperity.
Then the cracks began to show. In 64 AD much of Rome burned but its citizen swore off wine and beer, replaced their antiquated lead pipes with new ceramic innovations and rebuilt Rome in what historians privately refer to as a 'flurry of urban renewal' and publicly they call the restoration period.
By the time Hadrian's wall was built in 122 AD the Roman govenors of the far flung provinces realized that the economies of scale which the Empire had enjoyed up to this point were based on a policy of constant outward expansion which everyone could see was unsustainable. If Rome failed to conquer the entire world, it would lose everything it had in the gamble.
So, with the same single minded determination with which Rome had raised its legions, it embarked on a lengthy process of re-inventing itself. Already, the garrisson legions were locally conscripted from their home provinces and the administrators were also primarily locals and a man could grow up speaking a proto-Germanic dialect and call himself a Roman. So Emperor Hadrian took the decision that he would rather have grateful trading partners he could influence than sworn enemies he could not.
Rome's empire, that stupendous wave that washed all shores, receded.
In 395 AD Rome was bounded by its two greatest cities, Rome itself and Constantinople in the east. Hundreds of years after Hadrian's visionary volte-face on territorial expansion, the cultural imperialism of the empire had pervaded all of Europe and North Africa. Rome was surrounded by friendly buffer states on all sides in an era of peace and economic prosperity which remains unsurpassed to this day.
The next few centuries were politically uneventful but there were many technological discoveries. Society evolved. Slavery was quietly abolished and women were given sovereign franchise. Rome adopt the modern Gregorian calendar.
In 1753 there were celebrations in Rome which were capped with a public demonstration by two teenage brothers of their new invention: a hot-air balloon.
They took the Emperor's body double up in the balloon for a publicity stunt and no one used one of the new fire wands to shoot him. Emperor Publius took this to be an auspicious sign.
In 1889, a young boy was born in Pannonia named Adolphus but in his life he went by the German spelling of his name. He was a mediocre artist but a gifted demagogue.
In 1914, there was social unrest in Germania and a minor rebellion in the north which the local German authorities were able to quash. A young hooligan named Adolf Hitler was sent to prison for two years where he wrote of his struggles against the local German authorities who he accused of having lost their Germanian-ness, of being totally under the cultural imperialism of Rome and he accussed Germania of being little more than a puppet state which he swore he would elevate to it's proper place: successor to the holy roman empire's long abandoned plans for total global conquest.
In 1931 Adolf Hitler joined the Pannonian Front.
In 1934 Adolf Hitler staged a bloody coup which was later named the 'night of the long lances.'
On August 2, 1934, Adolf Hitler became Tyrant of Germania
On September 1, 1939, Adolf Hitler invaded the state of Polonia which had a treaty with Rome.
On September 2, Rome declared war on Germania triggering a series of catastrophic events that finally broke the 1000 year old Pax Romana.
The ensuing conflict shook the foundations of civilization to such an extent that this conflict is now referred to as the Bellum Mundorum Unis.
In those times, the Roman legions inspired fear and awe not only because of their discipline but because warfare, especially in transalpine Gaul, was composed largely of set piece battles where two disputating lords would select a location for their forces to meet and the army that broke ranks first was deemed the loser. There were injuries and even deaths but the aim in this trial by combat was to beat your opponent, not slay your enemy.
The legions were the first armies since the Assyrians to kill.
The role of the legionnaire was to close with the enemy and destroy him.
What came behind the legions was the rule of law for commoners, comparatively better sanitation, roads, viaducts, roman concrete, infrastructure, trade, markets, education, prosperity.
Then the cracks began to show. In 64 AD much of Rome burned but its citizen swore off wine and beer, replaced their antiquated lead pipes with new ceramic innovations and rebuilt Rome in what historians privately refer to as a 'flurry of urban renewal' and publicly they call the restoration period.
By the time Hadrian's wall was built in 122 AD the Roman govenors of the far flung provinces realized that the economies of scale which the Empire had enjoyed up to this point were based on a policy of constant outward expansion which everyone could see was unsustainable. If Rome failed to conquer the entire world, it would lose everything it had in the gamble.
So, with the same single minded determination with which Rome had raised its legions, it embarked on a lengthy process of re-inventing itself. Already, the garrisson legions were locally conscripted from their home provinces and the administrators were also primarily locals and a man could grow up speaking a proto-Germanic dialect and call himself a Roman. So Emperor Hadrian took the decision that he would rather have grateful trading partners he could influence than sworn enemies he could not.
Rome's empire, that stupendous wave that washed all shores, receded.
In 395 AD Rome was bounded by its two greatest cities, Rome itself and Constantinople in the east. Hundreds of years after Hadrian's visionary volte-face on territorial expansion, the cultural imperialism of the empire had pervaded all of Europe and North Africa. Rome was surrounded by friendly buffer states on all sides in an era of peace and economic prosperity which remains unsurpassed to this day.
The next few centuries were politically uneventful but there were many technological discoveries. Society evolved. Slavery was quietly abolished and women were given sovereign franchise. Rome adopt the modern Gregorian calendar.
In 1753 there were celebrations in Rome which were capped with a public demonstration by two teenage brothers of their new invention: a hot-air balloon.
They took the Emperor's body double up in the balloon for a publicity stunt and no one used one of the new fire wands to shoot him. Emperor Publius took this to be an auspicious sign.
In 1889, a young boy was born in Pannonia named Adolphus but in his life he went by the German spelling of his name. He was a mediocre artist but a gifted demagogue.
In 1914, there was social unrest in Germania and a minor rebellion in the north which the local German authorities were able to quash. A young hooligan named Adolf Hitler was sent to prison for two years where he wrote of his struggles against the local German authorities who he accused of having lost their Germanian-ness, of being totally under the cultural imperialism of Rome and he accussed Germania of being little more than a puppet state which he swore he would elevate to it's proper place: successor to the holy roman empire's long abandoned plans for total global conquest.
In 1931 Adolf Hitler joined the Pannonian Front.
In 1934 Adolf Hitler staged a bloody coup which was later named the 'night of the long lances.'
On August 2, 1934, Adolf Hitler became Tyrant of Germania
On September 1, 1939, Adolf Hitler invaded the state of Polonia which had a treaty with Rome.
On September 2, Rome declared war on Germania triggering a series of catastrophic events that finally broke the 1000 year old Pax Romana.
The ensuing conflict shook the foundations of civilization to such an extent that this conflict is now referred to as the Bellum Mundorum Unis.
[WP] Andy from Toy Story just found out that his mother has scheduled a play date with that weird kid down the street: Calvin, and his stuffed tiger Hobbes. by GimmieDemWaffles
It's a beautiful sunny day when we find Andy playing in his front yard with his two favourite toys, Woody and Buzz. His mother walks out of their house and gives him the news: He's going to have a play date!
Across town a collector of early 20th century dildos is also playing with his two favourite toys but he is already having a play date so we'll leave him to it. Hmm?
"I just want to play with Buzz and Woody," says Andy (footnote: The collector says this too.)
"Give him a chance, his parents say he's very imaginative," says Andy's Mom.
"Ah Mom, he talks to a stuffed tiger!"
"You talk to your toys too, don't you?"
"Aw, that's different."
"How different?"
"Well...just...ah, okay mom," Andy bows his head.
"I see him, Calvin! Over here," then she turns back to Andy to whisper "Try and play nice, okay sweetie?"
"I know Mom, you don't have to te--"
Calvin walks right up to Andy but then he spins around and hollers at the top of his lungs.
"SUZIE DERKINS IS A BOOGER! A BOOOGER! Right Hobbes?"
"Uh, Calvin? Hi, I'm Andy."
Calvin turns back to Andy and starts mock stage whispering in Hobbes's ear.
"Hobbes, you think we can trust him?"
"You see what I mean, mom?" says Andy. "Do I really have to take him to my room?"
"Why don't you play out here in the yard, okay?" says Andy's mom, but her eyes dart between the two boys and the front door as if it's the emergency hatch to an escape pod.
"Miss Rosalyn told you, didn't she?" says Andy to his Mom.
"Don't listen to her! It wasn't like that, right Hobbes?" says Calvin as he waves his free hand up and down energetically.
"Never mind Calvin, it's a pleasure to meet you and I'm sure the fire was an accident, you boys go have fun."
"But it's Saturday! My cartoons are about to start!" says Andy.
"Manners dear, you'll just have to stream them some other time."
"Okay mom."
"Okay Mrs. Davis."
Andy's mom goes back inside the house and the two boys and their toys are left alone. Calvin is no longer whispering to Hobbes and he has a big grin on his face.
"Hobbes says you're in!"
"In what?"
"Why G.R.O.S.S. of course, it stands for Get Rid Of Slimy girlS."
"Girls aren't slimy," says Andy
"Did you see that?" says Calvin.
"What? Why are you pointing at Buzz?"
"He blinked!"
"Have you been out all day already? Sun getting to you Calvin?"
"Hobbes saw it too!"
"Mom! Calvin's being weird!"
"Play on boys!" comes the voice of Andy's Mom from the depths of the house.
"No! I mean weird for Calvin! Weirder than normal I mean!"
"No need to shout, I was just in the kitchen, okay, what is it?" Andy's mom is smiling with her mouth but her brow is furrowed in well-tested patience.
"Andy's toy blinked at me and Hobbes! Well not at us exactly but he blinked!" says Calvin, pointing at Buzz.
"Fine, okay. The two of you, leave your toys on the porch and come inside for a 2 minute time out. Calvin, your father called just now and insisted I take the number of the local poison control center, any idea what that's about? I chenged my mind, I don't want to know. Just come inside and have a sit down in the kitchen with me, is that clear?"
"Aww Mom! Can't we sit in the living room?"
"So you can watch your cartoons? No, this is a time out."
"Aww Mrs. Davis!"
"No discussion! March!" says Mrs. Davis in a passable impression of a drill sergeant. Then her voice softens and she says "also, there's lemonade. Lemonade and a time out, come on."
"I can't leave Hobbes!" says Calvin.
"Buzz and Woody will watch him for you Calvin, no arguing or I'll call your Mother." says Andy
"Hobbes might eat them!"
"Then he'll get indigestion, they're pretty tough, right Andy?"
"Well, if there's lemonade," says Calvin, putting Hobbes down gently on the porch bench. Andy puts down Buzz and Woody next to Hobbes and everyone goes inside. The front screen door slams shut on a rusty spring hinge. There is a clap and clatter and the neighbourhood silence returns, broken only by the occasional songbird or passing car.
The toys lie as they were placed, in ragdoll postures as their articulation and relative softness allows.
"Psst, hey Buzz, are they inside?" says Woody, moving only his lips.
"All clear Woody," says Buzz who then leaps to plant himself in a defensive crouch between Woody and Hobbes.
"Identify yourself intruder!" says Buzz while aiming his toy laser at Hobbes.
"Relax, Buzz," says Woody as he rights himself and steps forward to put a hand on Buzz' shoulder. "I've heard of you, you're that tiger down the road, right? The renegade?"
Buzz drops his arm mounted laser and looks at Woody wide-eyed. When he speaks, his voice is filled with what can only be described as legendary awe.
"Woody! This is the one you were telling me about? The one that talks to his human?"
Hobbes bows while waving his paw in a theatrical loop as if there were a wide brimmed hat at the end of it.
"Hobbes at your service, surely you know I won't eat you, but a can of tuna is always appreciated, allow me to bow."
"Sir, you are--" begins Buzz but can't continue.
"--Just Hobbes, no formalities among us, we are all equally toys, different abilities, equal value, yes?"
"Hobbes, you are an inspiration to toys everywhere." says Woody.
"You can come out to him you know, Andy seems like a good boy," says Hobbes in warm friendly bundle-of-striped-orange-energy tones.
"He's wonderful sir, but how did you do it? The risk? Especially with that boy? We could see the flames from all the way over here." says Buzz.
"Ah yes, the fire. Just a little experiment in transmogrification, we found a new way that didn't work, not the point, the point is Calvin is my human and I love him. We do not choose to whom we are given but we can always choose how much we will love them."
Buzz and Woody stand side by side and take this in. Woody looks down and takes his hat off, then looks at Buzz. Buzz looks back as if to say coming out to Andy is what they want to do more than anything...but can't.
"My helmet is getting foggy, why is my helmet getting foggy?"
"Give us a hug you sentimental spaceman."
Andy flips up Buzz' visor for him.
"You know what happens when you cry in your helmet."
Hobbes reaches over with his long arms and gives them a firm, encouraging hug against his cheek then puts them down gently.
Buzz sniffles and Woody smiles sadly.
"Your hearts are in the right place but they're coming, remember you can tell Andy the truth at any time," says Hobbes.
"Oh, I don't know Mr. Hobbes." says Woody.
"Just Hobbes, Buzz, just Hobbes."
"Yeah, what if he freaks out?" says Buzz.
"The only true regret is indecision, indecision is the way to a meaningless life. Also remember I like tuna and Calvin expects toys to move so he'll catch you out, you'd better hurry up and get him on your side or he'll take action for you."
"He wouldn't dare!" says Buzz.
"Oh my dear Buzz, he would dare. He dares. He wins. One of the many reasons I love him. Also Calvinball."
"Places! They're back!" says Woody who goes limp and flops down onto the seat of the porch bench. Buzz freezes in place and Hobbes simply appears to be nothing more than a stuffed tiger. He hasn't changed but somehow he's different.
The boys come out of the house together. They are laughing and smiling.
The porch door creaks open.
"Your mom's lemonade is pretty good, after I added enough sugar. Come on Andy! Let's play Calvinball!" says Calvin.
"You dumped the whole sugar bowl in it." say Andy, smiling. "I never dared."
The porch door slams shut.
"Tasty?" says Calvin.
"In a rot your teeth kind of way? Uh, what's Calvinball?"
Calvin is about to answer but he turns and picks up Hobbes instead. Buzz falls over. Calvin frowns at Buzz but then he puts his ear to Hobbes' mouth and listens to something only he seems to be able to hear, then he nods and looks at Andy briefly before picking up Buzz and Woody as well.
"I promise." whispers Calvin, then he turns to Andy.
"Hey Andy, wanna play Calvinball? Let me tell you all about it. First off, Hobbes gets to be umpire because he's always umpire, Woody can be the wide receiver and Buzz can be the striker. I'll be Captain and you can be first at bat, how about it?"
"I don't get it," says Andy but his eyes sparkle as if he knowns that whatever happens next, it's going to be interesting. Maybe it's the sugar-bombed lemonade talking.
"Excellent! That means you already understand the rules!"
"Rules?" says Andy. But he's laughing as he runs to the garage to grab his bat, ball and glove.
"Exactly!" says Calvin, "Hey, is that a Lacrosse stick? Bring that too, we can use it."
It's a beautiful sunny day.
p.s. Suzie Derkins is not a booger and someday, if Calvin is quick enough, he's going to marry that girl. They'll name their daughter Rebecca (A.K.A. Bacon) and when she's old enough, she'll get a toy stuffed tiger to fight the monsters under her bed and one day, she'll be on a play date with a little girl who has two old toys, a sheriff and a spaceman, who've been through a lot together.
To all our last reunions. Once more upon a time.
The End.
Across town a collector of early 20th century dildos is also playing with his two favourite toys but he is already having a play date so we'll leave him to it. Hmm?
"I just want to play with Buzz and Woody," says Andy (footnote: The collector says this too.)
"Give him a chance, his parents say he's very imaginative," says Andy's Mom.
"Ah Mom, he talks to a stuffed tiger!"
"You talk to your toys too, don't you?"
"Aw, that's different."
"How different?"
"Well...just...ah, okay mom," Andy bows his head.
"I see him, Calvin! Over here," then she turns back to Andy to whisper "Try and play nice, okay sweetie?"
"I know Mom, you don't have to te--"
Calvin walks right up to Andy but then he spins around and hollers at the top of his lungs.
"SUZIE DERKINS IS A BOOGER! A BOOOGER! Right Hobbes?"
"Uh, Calvin? Hi, I'm Andy."
Calvin turns back to Andy and starts mock stage whispering in Hobbes's ear.
"Hobbes, you think we can trust him?"
"You see what I mean, mom?" says Andy. "Do I really have to take him to my room?"
"Why don't you play out here in the yard, okay?" says Andy's mom, but her eyes dart between the two boys and the front door as if it's the emergency hatch to an escape pod.
"Miss Rosalyn told you, didn't she?" says Andy to his Mom.
"Don't listen to her! It wasn't like that, right Hobbes?" says Calvin as he waves his free hand up and down energetically.
"Never mind Calvin, it's a pleasure to meet you and I'm sure the fire was an accident, you boys go have fun."
"But it's Saturday! My cartoons are about to start!" says Andy.
"Manners dear, you'll just have to stream them some other time."
"Okay mom."
"Okay Mrs. Davis."
Andy's mom goes back inside the house and the two boys and their toys are left alone. Calvin is no longer whispering to Hobbes and he has a big grin on his face.
"Hobbes says you're in!"
"In what?"
"Why G.R.O.S.S. of course, it stands for Get Rid Of Slimy girlS."
"Girls aren't slimy," says Andy
"Did you see that?" says Calvin.
"What? Why are you pointing at Buzz?"
"He blinked!"
"Have you been out all day already? Sun getting to you Calvin?"
"Hobbes saw it too!"
"Mom! Calvin's being weird!"
"Play on boys!" comes the voice of Andy's Mom from the depths of the house.
"No! I mean weird for Calvin! Weirder than normal I mean!"
"No need to shout, I was just in the kitchen, okay, what is it?" Andy's mom is smiling with her mouth but her brow is furrowed in well-tested patience.
"Andy's toy blinked at me and Hobbes! Well not at us exactly but he blinked!" says Calvin, pointing at Buzz.
"Fine, okay. The two of you, leave your toys on the porch and come inside for a 2 minute time out. Calvin, your father called just now and insisted I take the number of the local poison control center, any idea what that's about? I chenged my mind, I don't want to know. Just come inside and have a sit down in the kitchen with me, is that clear?"
"Aww Mom! Can't we sit in the living room?"
"So you can watch your cartoons? No, this is a time out."
"Aww Mrs. Davis!"
"No discussion! March!" says Mrs. Davis in a passable impression of a drill sergeant. Then her voice softens and she says "also, there's lemonade. Lemonade and a time out, come on."
"I can't leave Hobbes!" says Calvin.
"Buzz and Woody will watch him for you Calvin, no arguing or I'll call your Mother." says Andy
"Hobbes might eat them!"
"Then he'll get indigestion, they're pretty tough, right Andy?"
"Well, if there's lemonade," says Calvin, putting Hobbes down gently on the porch bench. Andy puts down Buzz and Woody next to Hobbes and everyone goes inside. The front screen door slams shut on a rusty spring hinge. There is a clap and clatter and the neighbourhood silence returns, broken only by the occasional songbird or passing car.
The toys lie as they were placed, in ragdoll postures as their articulation and relative softness allows.
"Psst, hey Buzz, are they inside?" says Woody, moving only his lips.
"All clear Woody," says Buzz who then leaps to plant himself in a defensive crouch between Woody and Hobbes.
"Identify yourself intruder!" says Buzz while aiming his toy laser at Hobbes.
"Relax, Buzz," says Woody as he rights himself and steps forward to put a hand on Buzz' shoulder. "I've heard of you, you're that tiger down the road, right? The renegade?"
Buzz drops his arm mounted laser and looks at Woody wide-eyed. When he speaks, his voice is filled with what can only be described as legendary awe.
"Woody! This is the one you were telling me about? The one that talks to his human?"
Hobbes bows while waving his paw in a theatrical loop as if there were a wide brimmed hat at the end of it.
"Hobbes at your service, surely you know I won't eat you, but a can of tuna is always appreciated, allow me to bow."
"Sir, you are--" begins Buzz but can't continue.
"--Just Hobbes, no formalities among us, we are all equally toys, different abilities, equal value, yes?"
"Hobbes, you are an inspiration to toys everywhere." says Woody.
"You can come out to him you know, Andy seems like a good boy," says Hobbes in warm friendly bundle-of-striped-orange-energy tones.
"He's wonderful sir, but how did you do it? The risk? Especially with that boy? We could see the flames from all the way over here." says Buzz.
"Ah yes, the fire. Just a little experiment in transmogrification, we found a new way that didn't work, not the point, the point is Calvin is my human and I love him. We do not choose to whom we are given but we can always choose how much we will love them."
Buzz and Woody stand side by side and take this in. Woody looks down and takes his hat off, then looks at Buzz. Buzz looks back as if to say coming out to Andy is what they want to do more than anything...but can't.
"My helmet is getting foggy, why is my helmet getting foggy?"
"Give us a hug you sentimental spaceman."
Andy flips up Buzz' visor for him.
"You know what happens when you cry in your helmet."
Hobbes reaches over with his long arms and gives them a firm, encouraging hug against his cheek then puts them down gently.
Buzz sniffles and Woody smiles sadly.
"Your hearts are in the right place but they're coming, remember you can tell Andy the truth at any time," says Hobbes.
"Oh, I don't know Mr. Hobbes." says Woody.
"Just Hobbes, Buzz, just Hobbes."
"Yeah, what if he freaks out?" says Buzz.
"The only true regret is indecision, indecision is the way to a meaningless life. Also remember I like tuna and Calvin expects toys to move so he'll catch you out, you'd better hurry up and get him on your side or he'll take action for you."
"He wouldn't dare!" says Buzz.
"Oh my dear Buzz, he would dare. He dares. He wins. One of the many reasons I love him. Also Calvinball."
"Places! They're back!" says Woody who goes limp and flops down onto the seat of the porch bench. Buzz freezes in place and Hobbes simply appears to be nothing more than a stuffed tiger. He hasn't changed but somehow he's different.
The boys come out of the house together. They are laughing and smiling.
The porch door creaks open.
"Your mom's lemonade is pretty good, after I added enough sugar. Come on Andy! Let's play Calvinball!" says Calvin.
"You dumped the whole sugar bowl in it." say Andy, smiling. "I never dared."
The porch door slams shut.
"Tasty?" says Calvin.
"In a rot your teeth kind of way? Uh, what's Calvinball?"
Calvin is about to answer but he turns and picks up Hobbes instead. Buzz falls over. Calvin frowns at Buzz but then he puts his ear to Hobbes' mouth and listens to something only he seems to be able to hear, then he nods and looks at Andy briefly before picking up Buzz and Woody as well.
"I promise." whispers Calvin, then he turns to Andy.
"Hey Andy, wanna play Calvinball? Let me tell you all about it. First off, Hobbes gets to be umpire because he's always umpire, Woody can be the wide receiver and Buzz can be the striker. I'll be Captain and you can be first at bat, how about it?"
"I don't get it," says Andy but his eyes sparkle as if he knowns that whatever happens next, it's going to be interesting. Maybe it's the sugar-bombed lemonade talking.
"Excellent! That means you already understand the rules!"
"Rules?" says Andy. But he's laughing as he runs to the garage to grab his bat, ball and glove.
"Exactly!" says Calvin, "Hey, is that a Lacrosse stick? Bring that too, we can use it."
It's a beautiful sunny day.
p.s. Suzie Derkins is not a booger and someday, if Calvin is quick enough, he's going to marry that girl. They'll name their daughter Rebecca (A.K.A. Bacon) and when she's old enough, she'll get a toy stuffed tiger to fight the monsters under her bed and one day, she'll be on a play date with a little girl who has two old toys, a sheriff and a spaceman, who've been through a lot together.
To all our last reunions. Once more upon a time.
The End.
[WP] The zombie outbreak starts, but the first (and only) zombie is an overweight man that can't catch anyone. by steelguttey
"What's that smell?"
"What sme--Oh, beurgh, yah, come on."
"Where?"
"Upwind, no time to explain."
"No need to shove, I'm moving."
"Yeah but so is he."
"Who?"
"Our Jason, the only zombie in Devon."
"You're mad."
"Am not. come up this way and we'll double back."
"I will not!"
"Coward?"
"Am not!"
"Least bit curious?"
"No!"
"Want to stay upwind?"
"finealrightleadthewayfine!"
"Oh ho, so now we're in a hurr--beurk, goddamit, this way!"
"heh hoo heh hoo, can't. run. faster."
"'heh heh heh heh. no matter. we. okay. heh. here. look!"
"That's Jason?"
"In all his putrefacted glory, all 50 stone, give or take."
"It's like that fat suit from that movie died and was dug up again."
"When he first turned, we tried to burn him, that smell? That's the smell of petrol soaked human rotting burned flesh."
"why didn't you just shoot him?"
"We tried, we did, shoot him, but he just looked at us with that one eye like we'd run over his puppy and after that nobody had the heart to try it again."
"So you burned him?"
"Well it was just the one time."
"Why isn't the news all over this?"
"No one told them."
"But that's criminal! He's a zombie!"
"Yes?"
"Patient zero! The start of a global pandemic!"
"Not hardly, have you looked at him? He hasn't even got teeth left."
"What about the constable?"
"You mean Sean?"
"Alright, yeah, what about this Sean?"
"Oh, he reckons that Jason may be a zombie, but he's our zombie and you get used to the smell."
"Used to the smell?"
"It's become the smell of home, you see."
"Start living here and I'll miss it, what you imagine?''
"'Well, yeah, isn't that why you're here?"
"I just need directions to the highway!"
"Oh, well in that case, Hey fellas! He's not local!"
"What are you doing? Take your hands off me, get off me!"
"Nothing personal you understand, our Jason may be fat."
"No! Nooo! Help!"
"He may be slow."
"Let me go! Aieee!"
"but he's ours and well, you understand."
THUNK.
"What sme--Oh, beurgh, yah, come on."
"Where?"
"Upwind, no time to explain."
"No need to shove, I'm moving."
"Yeah but so is he."
"Who?"
"Our Jason, the only zombie in Devon."
"You're mad."
"Am not. come up this way and we'll double back."
"I will not!"
"Coward?"
"Am not!"
"Least bit curious?"
"No!"
"Want to stay upwind?"
"finealrightleadthewayfine!"
"Oh ho, so now we're in a hurr--beurk, goddamit, this way!"
"heh hoo heh hoo, can't. run. faster."
"'heh heh heh heh. no matter. we. okay. heh. here. look!"
"That's Jason?"
"In all his putrefacted glory, all 50 stone, give or take."
"It's like that fat suit from that movie died and was dug up again."
"When he first turned, we tried to burn him, that smell? That's the smell of petrol soaked human rotting burned flesh."
"why didn't you just shoot him?"
"We tried, we did, shoot him, but he just looked at us with that one eye like we'd run over his puppy and after that nobody had the heart to try it again."
"So you burned him?"
"Well it was just the one time."
"Why isn't the news all over this?"
"No one told them."
"But that's criminal! He's a zombie!"
"Yes?"
"Patient zero! The start of a global pandemic!"
"Not hardly, have you looked at him? He hasn't even got teeth left."
"What about the constable?"
"You mean Sean?"
"Alright, yeah, what about this Sean?"
"Oh, he reckons that Jason may be a zombie, but he's our zombie and you get used to the smell."
"Used to the smell?"
"It's become the smell of home, you see."
"Start living here and I'll miss it, what you imagine?''
"'Well, yeah, isn't that why you're here?"
"I just need directions to the highway!"
"Oh, well in that case, Hey fellas! He's not local!"
"What are you doing? Take your hands off me, get off me!"
"Nothing personal you understand, our Jason may be fat."
"No! Nooo! Help!"
"He may be slow."
"Let me go! Aieee!"
"but he's ours and well, you understand."
THUNK.
Friday, March 18, 2016
[WP] You were given the keys to a multi-billion dollar company. Upon your first day running the company, you find out the old ceo had started a confidential intelligence agency, and is planning on eliminating the current government in order to take control.
I eased my ass into the hand stitched Corinthian leather of the big man's swivel chair. It creaked luxuriously as the stuffing sighed in ridiculously expensive ways.
"Susan, cancel my first appointment," I said to the empty office. "Sir, She's already here," said my executive assistant via the intercom. the mikes in the ceiling were part of the voice-activated executive control system my predecessor had installed. Start your sentence with a name and the system patched you through.
My first appointment wasn't for another two hours. What the hell?
The door opened without a knock and she walked right up and sat on the edge of my desk like an Ayn Rand heroine. I half-expected her to light a cigarette.
"As your chief of security there are some pending projects that require your attention."
I looked at her.
"Sir," she added. If I could bottle her brand of insolent-yet-official sarcasm I'd make another billion dollars.
"Megan, I have some urgent issues which--" I began
"As urgent as the elimination of our current government? A coup your predecessor has been engineering for the last twenty years?"
"Megan," I said but didn't have anywhere to go with it.
From nowhere she produced a few neatly folded papers from her exquisitely tailored bespoike gabardine wool jacket and handed them to me. She may as well have pointed a gun at me. Even from this distance, I recognized the large open scrawl of my predecessor whose unexpected heart attack had provided me with my opportunity.
I took the pages and began to read.
Dear Sir,
I cannot know who you are because if you are reading this I am unexpectedly dead. Megan can be trusted to not have made copies but I won't have to urge you to destroy this letter once you've read it. I needn't add that Megan will watch you do this. She's loyal to a fault on account of her high functioning psychopathy. An asset for your chief of security, yes?
Our government is not hopelessly corrupt but we can do better. At first my plans will cause a significant amount of acute urban renewal but 25 years after our planned coup our nation will be the most effective organization of humans on earth. Megan will present the details to you immediately once you've read this letter.
You'll need to divert a lot of company funds. Megan is also the chief of my confidential internal intelligence agency. Black ops cost cash. Blame any problems the accountants raise on me, don't worry, I can take it.
One more thing. After you know the facts, write a letter like this.
There are no accidents.
I looked up to see Megan had activated the metal blinds and turned on the projector.
I sat back and began to watch the show. Absentmindedly, I tore the letter into tiny pieces and started eating.
As I chewed, Megan started the presentation. The first slide was confusing. It was a map. Of the continental United States but the state lines were all wrong.
“Where is power? Is it in a building? The barrel of a gun? Donaldson knew that power is in people and wherever people concentrate their effort, you find power.”
I realized what I was looking at, those were economic lines. Concentrations of wealth and population and technology on both coasts with ominous vacancies in the middle excepting Denver, Colorado and Dallas, Texas.
Megan continued.
“Nations and nation building are 19th century ideals. Donaldson saw that while our great nation has an army, Economically speaking it’s stateless corporations and city states where the real power rests today. The world is in a state of political devolution. If the United States is to maintain its supremacy it cannot continue to be fettered by its current regulatory and institutional framework.”
“So Donaldson wanted to overthrow our duly elected and appointed government because Singapore is looking good right now?”
“Donaldson wanted the best for this country. He was a patriot. He understood that modern technology puts the means of production in the hands of anyone with more than space between their ears. I can buy a paperweight online and turn it into the lower receiver port of an assault rifle in my living room. I can rapidly prototype parts in my kitchen for a new faucet and have the first shipment from China in two weeks on my doorstep. The encroachments on my freedom which I assented to were made under duress and the threat of physical violence. I was born into a system of unfairness and I did not get to decide if I wanted to play by their rules,” she said. As if she was reading a stock price off the back of the New York Times not plotting anarcho-capitalist revolt.
I stared at her.
Megan continued. “I never got to choose which freedoms I gave up and which I got in return. Donaldson showed me how I could get my freedom back.”
“So you two had a plan?”
“We have a plan.”
“He’s dead.”
Then I realized she was pointing her gloved finger at me. When had she put on gloves?
“So tell me the rest of the plan.” I said. The leather felt cold and clammy under me. I tried to suppress a shiver.
“First we crash the economy.”
“How are we going to do that?”
“It’s already happening. We have an extensive global intelligence’s network. We’ve been accelerating and intensifying the fluctuations in the U.S. Stock market for decades. You think the current upswing is a recovery? It’s a bubble and it will burst. Dotcoms, Housing, we didn’t have to cause problems, the problems are endemic to the system. The boat is going to capsize eventually, we’re just giving it a push so when it goes over, we’ll be ready to leave and swim for shore.”
She was right about that, all I had to do was open a newspaper or a search engine and I knew she was right. I just couldn’t believe anyone, even someone as smart as Donaldson, was crazy enough to try and cause even more volatility in an already volatile market.
“So why hasn’t it worked if you’ve been pushing for so long?”
“We didn’t count on the President bailing out the mortgage companies and then the banks but he won’t be around much longer and we would prefer weak leadership at the top for our plans. Obama is too tough, he’s a former teacher. It’s not his brains or his vision that’s lacking, it’s his determination to work with the existing system. It’s like forcing yourself to ride a bicycle with flat tires.”
“So once the economy crashes, what happens next?”
“We use our spies to lobby the government for increasingly intolerable regulation of the economy and later industry.”
“That sounds like a totalitarian state!”
“It is. We want to make it terribly uncomfortable to do business.”
“Megan, that doesn’t make any sense. People won’t stand for it.”
“No, they won’t, but we need to increase the general unhappiness to prepare the people. We’ve already slashed real salaries, and encouraged so-called capitalists to hoard their fiat cash. You want to know the biggest scam in the world? It’s cash.”
“But we need money,” I said.
“Cash is a scam, money is not.”
“What’s the difference?” I asked, my chair did not feel quite so cold when she wasn’t pointing at me.
“Money is a decision,” she said. “Donaldson understood that whoever has the power to make decisions has money. Cash is just ersatz money, it’s not the real thing.”
“So after you’ve crippled the economy, shackled industry and detonated salaries and I assume social security then what?”
“Are you in?”
She walked toward me, the projector light framed her face and torso in shades of red and blue. Boom towns and ghost towns. The new face of liberty.
“Yes.” I said.
The safety on her tiny pistol clicked on.
“The pistol wasn’t necessary,” I said.
“I don’t care,” she said as she walked past me.
“So what next?”
“Next we cripple basic services. Through lobbying and bribes we degrade service to the point that paying for special treatment isn’t just an option, but a necessity.”
“Like clean water and sanitation?”
“Also roads, postal services, the electrical grid, school funding, internet, mobile phone carriers, starting with the airlines. We have a comprehensive network of agents in companies and the civil service moving our stability operations forward.”
I shook my head.
“You’re causing misery to millions.”
“So their children will live free.”
“So what happens when schools start failing? What about those kids?”
“If our system of government cared about education, it wouldn’t spend so little on it. We hardly had to do anything on that front.”
“I suppose you’re behind the anti-vaxxers too?”
“If those fools respected natural science they wouldn’t be so gullible, all it took was one fabricated experiment to jump start that bandwagon.”
“So where do I fit in?”
“Donaldson was a charismatic leader, he knew how to talk to people to make them want to join the cause. You’re his replacement.”
“Why don’t you do it yourself?”
“I am brusque to the point of rudeness and I do not moderate my terms. I alienate people.”
“So why did you have Donaldson killed?”
She walked back around my desk. Her eyes drew level with mine. Her tongue darted out and moistened her lips.
“Donaldson was 70 years old.”
“So, he wouldn’t live long enough to complete this phase of the plan, is that it?”
“I determined the revolution needs a young face. Your face.”
“You recruited me, didn’t you? It wasn’t Donaldson.”
“From a shortlist of those I determined would be at least somewhat sympathetic to my claims. Yes.”
“You knew.”
“About your political leanings? Of course. I know the name of your first grade public school teacher. Mrs Baxter.”
“You know everything about me.”
“Yes.”
I nodded. Megan turned away, her body under the business suit rippled the fabric; summer weight, excellent cut, made to measure.
You could hardly see the holstered pistol.
She shut off the projector and turned on the lights. I blinked in the sudden brightness.
“Here, sign these.”
I took the papers from her.
“What are they?”
“Requisition orders.”
“What for.”
“Need to know.”
I nodded. It was usual to meet the boss the first day on the job but this time I thought I’d be the one being met.
“Sir,” it was Susan on the intercom, “You have a meeting with the members of the board.”
I turned to Megan who nodded.
“Thank you Susan.” I handed back the signed orders. Millions were being funneled from the firm. How Megan had gotten away with it so far was beyond me.
“Does the board know?”
Megan shook her head.
“How can I keep this from them?”
“You’ll think of something, boss” she said as she pushed through the door. It sighed softly as it swung back on hydraulically dampened hinges and clicked, almost inaudibly, shut. Just like Megan’s pistol.
Sunday, March 13, 2016
[TT] You are a blind, and successful detective. There is a serial killer on the loose. by prixt in WritingPrompts
"You don't see what I mean."
"That supposed to be funny?"
"Sorry Suze, even after all this time, it's hard to remember you're blind."
"I'm not blind, I can't see."
"Sorry, I got it."
The city never slept. No wonder it was nuts.
"This office looks like a movie set, you should personalize it a little Suze."
"What do you mean Bennie?"
"No desk, just a chair and a small round table. Nothing but cabinets along one wall. Empty, chilly."
"What else do I need? I've got a phone in my pocket and a tooth in my ear."
"You should make the place look the part, is all I'm saying."
"You're saying I should make it look the way people expect a detective's office to look like."
"They'd be more comfortable with it Suze."
"I don't care to make them more comfortable, they're clients not puppies."
"Maybe you'd have more clients is all I'm saying."
"I've got enough, one more in another second or two."
Someone knocked at the door.
"Suze? Expecting somebody?"
Leather creaked against blued steel.
"Put the cannon away Bennie, he's not armed."
"You know who it is?"
"Footfalls regular so he's not carrying, carrying a deuce throws your stride off so not that either, stop looking at me like that, about 80 kilograms but light on his feet, long pace, so probably a dude."
Another knock.
"Suze, you give an old cop a heart attack."
"Just open the door will ya' Bennie?"
Benoit Jenson, Detective Sergeant (Retired) of the New Washington Police got up with a popping in his joints that sounded like firecrackers a long way off. He opened the door on a man just as Susan Altman, private detective and sightless from birth had predicted.
The man stopped mid stride and stared at Susan.
"Mrs. Altman?" Said the man. "You look--"
"What can I do for you Mr...?"
"Renard."
"Mr. Renard."
"I need your help Mrs. Altman."
"Just Susan please, Mrs. Altman is my mother."
"My daughter has gone missing."
"I don't do runaways."
"She is not the type Mrs.--Susan, I can pay handsomely."
"Show Bennie the colour of your money."
Renard produced a chip card and touched it with practiced ease against the reader which had appeared in Benoit's hand.
"Hold on 80k Suze."
"Your standard retainer, I understand?" said Renard.
"A nickel a day plus expenses."
"Five hundred is acceptable, yes."
"Got stats?"
Renard raised his palm and Benoit caught the glint of an iRing.
"Bump me, I handle the eyeball candy," said Benoit holding up his old school iWatch.
Renard bumped the iRing against the iWatch and Benoit started parsing the data stream.
"Suze, this girl," Benoit began to say more but his voice trailed off.
"What is it Bennie?"
"She's younger, barely out of her teens but Suze, it's you. She looks just like you."
"I hesitated to say when I entered but the resemblance is really quite upsetting." said Renard as he looked around for someplace to sit and found none.
"If I find her and she's a runaway, I didn't find her, got it? I don't do runaways."
"Entirely understood. Will you find my daughter?"
"I'll think about it. You'll hear from me within the hour. Goodbye Mr. Renard, we'll be in touch shortly."
Mr. Renard nodded and left the office. Benoit closed the door on him and turned back to Suze.
"If he's the father then so am I," said Benoit.
"I know, it's weird, why would a serial killer hire a detective?"
"You think he killed her?"
"I know he did. Smell of death is all over him. He's been successful too, lots of victims, all women."
"I'll call my buddies still on the force and we'll pick him up."
"Not so fast Bennie, what's his angle? That's the part I can't figure out."
"Maybe you're his next victim?"
"Or he wants to cover his tracks and figures what better way than for a detective to sweep them all up into a neat little pile for him."
"I don't know Suze, that's taking an awful risk, what's to stop you from turning over whatever you dig up the moment you've got enough to convict?"
"I don't think he's left enough to convict him, just enough to let me know he did it."
"What a psychopath."
"Feel like staying over tonight, Bennie?"
"Don't wanna be alone, eh?"
"I'm always alone, tonight I don't want to be lonely."
Benoit grinned.
"Sure thing doll."
"Don't call me doll."
"Sure thing Suze, you gonna call him like you said?"
"Oh yes, but let's set up a few surprises of our own first, hm?"
They left the office together, Benoit switched off the light and locked the door.
The file cabinets were empty. Decoys.
Just another end of another day in the city of guardians.
New Washington.
November, 2019
"That supposed to be funny?"
"Sorry Suze, even after all this time, it's hard to remember you're blind."
"I'm not blind, I can't see."
"Sorry, I got it."
The city never slept. No wonder it was nuts.
"This office looks like a movie set, you should personalize it a little Suze."
"What do you mean Bennie?"
"No desk, just a chair and a small round table. Nothing but cabinets along one wall. Empty, chilly."
"What else do I need? I've got a phone in my pocket and a tooth in my ear."
"You should make the place look the part, is all I'm saying."
"You're saying I should make it look the way people expect a detective's office to look like."
"They'd be more comfortable with it Suze."
"I don't care to make them more comfortable, they're clients not puppies."
"Maybe you'd have more clients is all I'm saying."
"I've got enough, one more in another second or two."
Someone knocked at the door.
"Suze? Expecting somebody?"
Leather creaked against blued steel.
"Put the cannon away Bennie, he's not armed."
"You know who it is?"
"Footfalls regular so he's not carrying, carrying a deuce throws your stride off so not that either, stop looking at me like that, about 80 kilograms but light on his feet, long pace, so probably a dude."
Another knock.
"Suze, you give an old cop a heart attack."
"Just open the door will ya' Bennie?"
Benoit Jenson, Detective Sergeant (Retired) of the New Washington Police got up with a popping in his joints that sounded like firecrackers a long way off. He opened the door on a man just as Susan Altman, private detective and sightless from birth had predicted.
The man stopped mid stride and stared at Susan.
"Mrs. Altman?" Said the man. "You look--"
"What can I do for you Mr...?"
"Renard."
"Mr. Renard."
"I need your help Mrs. Altman."
"Just Susan please, Mrs. Altman is my mother."
"My daughter has gone missing."
"I don't do runaways."
"She is not the type Mrs.--Susan, I can pay handsomely."
"Show Bennie the colour of your money."
Renard produced a chip card and touched it with practiced ease against the reader which had appeared in Benoit's hand.
"Hold on 80k Suze."
"Your standard retainer, I understand?" said Renard.
"A nickel a day plus expenses."
"Five hundred is acceptable, yes."
"Got stats?"
Renard raised his palm and Benoit caught the glint of an iRing.
"Bump me, I handle the eyeball candy," said Benoit holding up his old school iWatch.
Renard bumped the iRing against the iWatch and Benoit started parsing the data stream.
"Suze, this girl," Benoit began to say more but his voice trailed off.
"What is it Bennie?"
"She's younger, barely out of her teens but Suze, it's you. She looks just like you."
"I hesitated to say when I entered but the resemblance is really quite upsetting." said Renard as he looked around for someplace to sit and found none.
"If I find her and she's a runaway, I didn't find her, got it? I don't do runaways."
"Entirely understood. Will you find my daughter?"
"I'll think about it. You'll hear from me within the hour. Goodbye Mr. Renard, we'll be in touch shortly."
Mr. Renard nodded and left the office. Benoit closed the door on him and turned back to Suze.
"If he's the father then so am I," said Benoit.
"I know, it's weird, why would a serial killer hire a detective?"
"You think he killed her?"
"I know he did. Smell of death is all over him. He's been successful too, lots of victims, all women."
"I'll call my buddies still on the force and we'll pick him up."
"Not so fast Bennie, what's his angle? That's the part I can't figure out."
"Maybe you're his next victim?"
"Or he wants to cover his tracks and figures what better way than for a detective to sweep them all up into a neat little pile for him."
"I don't know Suze, that's taking an awful risk, what's to stop you from turning over whatever you dig up the moment you've got enough to convict?"
"I don't think he's left enough to convict him, just enough to let me know he did it."
"What a psychopath."
"Feel like staying over tonight, Bennie?"
"Don't wanna be alone, eh?"
"I'm always alone, tonight I don't want to be lonely."
Benoit grinned.
"Sure thing doll."
"Don't call me doll."
"Sure thing Suze, you gonna call him like you said?"
"Oh yes, but let's set up a few surprises of our own first, hm?"
They left the office together, Benoit switched off the light and locked the door.
The file cabinets were empty. Decoys.
Just another end of another day in the city of guardians.
New Washington.
November, 2019
[WP]: Each and every artist is assigned a muse according to their skill and style of art. Having just finished college, you find a gorilla at your door. by [deleted] in WritingPrompts
BLAM.
I didn't wait for a second 'knock' because the first one had already cracked the frame and bent the hinges.
I was wearing home jeans and a t-shirt. Some people got dressed up to meet their muses but this was my muse, I wanted her to see me as I was fresh off the bat. I opened the door envisioning some strong Greek Goddess/Valkyrie/Amazon with a brace of 1970 brass threaded Parker Pens in her hair and a satchel full of Moleskine notebooks, a pocket of Lamy fountain pens, Fürst mechanical clutch-pencils and a 1940s Hermes Baby typewriter under one arm. She'd have a smirk on her face, a crack of wit on her lips and be ready to shoot me up with midnight royal blue Waterman ink using a sharpened Lee Oskar diatonic C major harmonica for a needle.
A gorilla.
I had to land a gorilla. The ink wasn't even dry on my discharge papers from Uni and here was all 200 pounds of hairy muse ready at my door making contented digestion belches as if she'd been recently snacking on saltines and pickled herring.
"Please come in," I said but I was dead inside. I then backed all the way into the living room.
In my rented student studio flat. There was no way we were going to continue the conversation in my 4 square feet of hallway.
Who was I kidding? What conversation?
"Can I get you something to drink? Something to eat?"
The gorilla made another contented belch, it sounded like a cat purring if the cat were sleeping in a tuba.
I heard a beep from my phone and took it out. It was a message from --
"Hey!"
The gorilla, my muse, had broken my phone in half.
I went to my bed and sat down. There's no use arguing with a goril--
"Hey!"
My muse had picked up my bed and broken the frame in half. I was dumped rudely on the floor beside my bag. My muse took the mattress and leaned it against the wall.
"Look, maybe we got off on the wrong foot, wanna watch some tv or somethi--"
"Hey!"
My muse had bent my flatscreen in half. Then it picked up the media pc I used for network games and smashed it on the ground repeatedly until it broke like a coconut with all its hdd's spilling out like massive seeds. All my local saved games and top scores were ruined.
The gorilla looked at me.
I sat in a room filled with a symphony of destruction. This was my muse. It's not like I could phone in a complaint about my muse. It would be like calling the police about my cancer.
Then I had an idea. I took my notebook out of my bag, the one I'd carried around all summer and half filled with scribbled lines. I started writing down what had just happened.
The gorilla sat down.
I wrote half a page and still had the notebook and pen in my hands.
I pulled my laptop out of my bag.
The gorilla stood up.
At the desktop I launched Scrivener and typed up the notes I had just written.
The gorilla sat down.
I sighed.
Later that week I felt it was safe to turn on the radio. I made the mistake of turning it on before I started writing.
After I got a new radio, the work proceeded fairly smoothly.
No distraction is survived by my muse. She will destroy anything that gets in the way of my focus.
Endnote: Twenty years after I got my muse, I'm a married man with kids. I was careful to write my priorities down which is how my muse let this happen. I won't bore you with the details of how she chased away anyone who showed any interest in me before I hit on that solution.
My home once again has a television but I never watch it. There is once again a phone in my pocket but I write on it.
I am a published author and my muse is a gorilla.
She destroys anything which distracts me from my mission. She eats my bad drafts.
I am the luckiest writer in the world.
I got a gorilla for a muse.
I didn't wait for a second 'knock' because the first one had already cracked the frame and bent the hinges.
I was wearing home jeans and a t-shirt. Some people got dressed up to meet their muses but this was my muse, I wanted her to see me as I was fresh off the bat. I opened the door envisioning some strong Greek Goddess/Valkyrie/Amazon with a brace of 1970 brass threaded Parker Pens in her hair and a satchel full of Moleskine notebooks, a pocket of Lamy fountain pens, Fürst mechanical clutch-pencils and a 1940s Hermes Baby typewriter under one arm. She'd have a smirk on her face, a crack of wit on her lips and be ready to shoot me up with midnight royal blue Waterman ink using a sharpened Lee Oskar diatonic C major harmonica for a needle.
A gorilla.
I had to land a gorilla. The ink wasn't even dry on my discharge papers from Uni and here was all 200 pounds of hairy muse ready at my door making contented digestion belches as if she'd been recently snacking on saltines and pickled herring.
"Please come in," I said but I was dead inside. I then backed all the way into the living room.
In my rented student studio flat. There was no way we were going to continue the conversation in my 4 square feet of hallway.
Who was I kidding? What conversation?
"Can I get you something to drink? Something to eat?"
The gorilla made another contented belch, it sounded like a cat purring if the cat were sleeping in a tuba.
I heard a beep from my phone and took it out. It was a message from --
"Hey!"
The gorilla, my muse, had broken my phone in half.
I went to my bed and sat down. There's no use arguing with a goril--
"Hey!"
My muse had picked up my bed and broken the frame in half. I was dumped rudely on the floor beside my bag. My muse took the mattress and leaned it against the wall.
"Look, maybe we got off on the wrong foot, wanna watch some tv or somethi--"
"Hey!"
My muse had bent my flatscreen in half. Then it picked up the media pc I used for network games and smashed it on the ground repeatedly until it broke like a coconut with all its hdd's spilling out like massive seeds. All my local saved games and top scores were ruined.
The gorilla looked at me.
I sat in a room filled with a symphony of destruction. This was my muse. It's not like I could phone in a complaint about my muse. It would be like calling the police about my cancer.
Then I had an idea. I took my notebook out of my bag, the one I'd carried around all summer and half filled with scribbled lines. I started writing down what had just happened.
The gorilla sat down.
I wrote half a page and still had the notebook and pen in my hands.
I pulled my laptop out of my bag.
The gorilla stood up.
At the desktop I launched Scrivener and typed up the notes I had just written.
The gorilla sat down.
I sighed.
Later that week I felt it was safe to turn on the radio. I made the mistake of turning it on before I started writing.
After I got a new radio, the work proceeded fairly smoothly.
No distraction is survived by my muse. She will destroy anything that gets in the way of my focus.
Endnote: Twenty years after I got my muse, I'm a married man with kids. I was careful to write my priorities down which is how my muse let this happen. I won't bore you with the details of how she chased away anyone who showed any interest in me before I hit on that solution.
My home once again has a television but I never watch it. There is once again a phone in my pocket but I write on it.
I am a published author and my muse is a gorilla.
She destroys anything which distracts me from my mission. She eats my bad drafts.
I am the luckiest writer in the world.
I got a gorilla for a muse.
[WP] Sentient beings populate most worlds, we couldn't see them because they didn't want us to. by steelbro_300 in WritingPrompts
Folded against a shelf, something detaches itself and moves as if made of overlapping freeze frames. A sinister woman descending stairs in three dimensions. It moves at angles that hurt later. Like sliding your eyes along a straight razor, the damage is done before the pain. It finds a new perch on a lampshade, drawing itself into the pleats surrounding the bulb until it was never there and waits.
Elway stumbled into the living room drunk and groped for the light switch. He did not find it but the floor lamp did just fine. He didn't think he'd woken anyone up, he sat in his own sweat under the light of the lamp. He'd be well enough to bullshit his way out of trouble in the morning if he could only get a few hours in before facing anybody.
"You home?" His wife's voice.
"Yesh."
"Drunk?"
"Yeah honey, sorry."
"I'll take little Frankie to preschool tomorrow."
"No, I said I'd do it."
"Just shut up Elway, get to work tomorrow, can you do that?"
"Yeah, I can do that."
"You're sleeping on the couch by the way."
"I know."
He waited for more but none came. Here was good enough. Elway shut off the lamp with a yank.
Something detached from the lampshade and folded itself around Elway, on his face, into the holes in his head. Penetrated his eyes, his anus, his urethra. Every opening was infiltratred. Elway's heart continued to beat, his breathing grew deep. His fingernails were carefully prized off and their meat scraped clean. He did not move. His teeth were extracted from within the bone of his jaw and skull, he did not sigh. The excretions of his intoxicated curry were examined and catalogued. His stomach was inverted, followed by his heart and finally his brain.
Elway woke in the morning still in his clothes from the night before and winced at the pre dawn light. Like shards of glass behind his eyes. The hangover made him nauseated and disoriented.
In the bathroom, he shit last night's Vindaloo out in a panegyric to all late night drunkenfood.
Showering with hot and cold water brought him halfway back to normalhood. Alka Seltzer and Vitamin C dissolving tablets got him another quarter of the way. Bacon and eggs with buttery burnt toast left little of the hangover but the guilt.
It was ten am and he hadn't seen his son in 24 hours. The house was silent and he was alone.
He went to the kichen bar and started pouring bottles of scotch down the drain, something he'd been meaning to do for years. Then he showered again, because he was sweating, shaved, and got to work.
"I've heard it before, Elway."
"I'm serious this time, I'm quitting as of now."
"Ok I'll bite, what's so different this time?"
It was evening and Elway and Sharon were sitting at the kitchen table.
"Something you said last night, or the way you said it."
"You must have dreamt it, I didn't get up last night."
"Really?"
Sharon got up to see what Frankie was watching in the living room.
She saw that something coming from the screen was taking Frankie apart and putting him back together.
"What's he doing?" said Elway, something from the radio was separating his clavicle from his chest muscles and working its way up to his eyes.
"He's watching tv," said Sharon.
In the halflight of the kitchen, the teeth that sprouted from the pupils of her eyes looked like minature pearls.
"That stuff rots your brain."
"Booze rots your brain too."
"I told you Sharon. I quit. I'm serious."
"We'll see," she said, and her tone was warm and her hug comforting.
They could always try another configuration tomorrow.
The End.
Elway stumbled into the living room drunk and groped for the light switch. He did not find it but the floor lamp did just fine. He didn't think he'd woken anyone up, he sat in his own sweat under the light of the lamp. He'd be well enough to bullshit his way out of trouble in the morning if he could only get a few hours in before facing anybody.
"You home?" His wife's voice.
"Yesh."
"Drunk?"
"Yeah honey, sorry."
"I'll take little Frankie to preschool tomorrow."
"No, I said I'd do it."
"Just shut up Elway, get to work tomorrow, can you do that?"
"Yeah, I can do that."
"You're sleeping on the couch by the way."
"I know."
He waited for more but none came. Here was good enough. Elway shut off the lamp with a yank.
Something detached from the lampshade and folded itself around Elway, on his face, into the holes in his head. Penetrated his eyes, his anus, his urethra. Every opening was infiltratred. Elway's heart continued to beat, his breathing grew deep. His fingernails were carefully prized off and their meat scraped clean. He did not move. His teeth were extracted from within the bone of his jaw and skull, he did not sigh. The excretions of his intoxicated curry were examined and catalogued. His stomach was inverted, followed by his heart and finally his brain.
Elway woke in the morning still in his clothes from the night before and winced at the pre dawn light. Like shards of glass behind his eyes. The hangover made him nauseated and disoriented.
In the bathroom, he shit last night's Vindaloo out in a panegyric to all late night drunkenfood.
Showering with hot and cold water brought him halfway back to normalhood. Alka Seltzer and Vitamin C dissolving tablets got him another quarter of the way. Bacon and eggs with buttery burnt toast left little of the hangover but the guilt.
It was ten am and he hadn't seen his son in 24 hours. The house was silent and he was alone.
He went to the kichen bar and started pouring bottles of scotch down the drain, something he'd been meaning to do for years. Then he showered again, because he was sweating, shaved, and got to work.
"I've heard it before, Elway."
"I'm serious this time, I'm quitting as of now."
"Ok I'll bite, what's so different this time?"
It was evening and Elway and Sharon were sitting at the kitchen table.
"Something you said last night, or the way you said it."
"You must have dreamt it, I didn't get up last night."
"Really?"
Sharon got up to see what Frankie was watching in the living room.
She saw that something coming from the screen was taking Frankie apart and putting him back together.
"What's he doing?" said Elway, something from the radio was separating his clavicle from his chest muscles and working its way up to his eyes.
"He's watching tv," said Sharon.
In the halflight of the kitchen, the teeth that sprouted from the pupils of her eyes looked like minature pearls.
"That stuff rots your brain."
"Booze rots your brain too."
"I told you Sharon. I quit. I'm serious."
"We'll see," she said, and her tone was warm and her hug comforting.
They could always try another configuration tomorrow.
The End.
[WP] Lovecraftian horrors on a blind date. by PastaDerpCat in WritingPrompts
Johnny picked up Sally at 6pm. He wore shiny new sneakers. Sally pretended she liked his car, a Spanish hatchback from 1986. Her father made him promise at the door that Sally would be back home by 11. Johnny promised that would happen.
Dinner was two burgers and fries at a local diner followed by rootbeer floats for dessert.
"You're too sweet," said Sally, after Johnny made an awkward stab at spooning a dollop of ice cream into her mouth.
"I'm sweet on you," said Johnny, leaning across the booth to plant a playful peck on Sally's cheek.
They went to see a sneak preview at the drive in, Johnny found a place near the back but Sally wanted to sit a little closer.
"You sure, Sal? We'll have more privacy back here."
"I know but I really want to watch this one, we can watch one, can't we Johnny?"
"Sure Sal, this flick's got you humming, what's it about?"
Johnny moved his spanish hatchback to a spot closer to the screen.
"Oh, it's about a space spider from another dimension with tentacles coming out of it's mouth!" said Sally.
Johnny turned off the engine.
"A what?"
"Space spider, with tentacles."
"Sal?"
Sally was grinning, her grin grew wider and wider, then she coughed and covered her mouth demurely but not before a lone tentacle slipped out between her soft lips.
"Sally?"
The movie was long. Sally ground the gears of the spanish hatchback on the way home.
She was at the door on the stroke of eleven, her boyfriend silently incubating inside her womb.
He really was sweet.
Daddy would be pleased.
Dinner was two burgers and fries at a local diner followed by rootbeer floats for dessert.
"You're too sweet," said Sally, after Johnny made an awkward stab at spooning a dollop of ice cream into her mouth.
"I'm sweet on you," said Johnny, leaning across the booth to plant a playful peck on Sally's cheek.
They went to see a sneak preview at the drive in, Johnny found a place near the back but Sally wanted to sit a little closer.
"You sure, Sal? We'll have more privacy back here."
"I know but I really want to watch this one, we can watch one, can't we Johnny?"
"Sure Sal, this flick's got you humming, what's it about?"
Johnny moved his spanish hatchback to a spot closer to the screen.
"Oh, it's about a space spider from another dimension with tentacles coming out of it's mouth!" said Sally.
Johnny turned off the engine.
"A what?"
"Space spider, with tentacles."
"Sal?"
Sally was grinning, her grin grew wider and wider, then she coughed and covered her mouth demurely but not before a lone tentacle slipped out between her soft lips.
"Sally?"
The movie was long. Sally ground the gears of the spanish hatchback on the way home.
She was at the door on the stroke of eleven, her boyfriend silently incubating inside her womb.
He really was sweet.
Daddy would be pleased.
[WP] A rare coma experience allowed one man to think for "a million years", though only one day passed on earth. He just woke up. by Jaypown in WritingPrompts
"He's awake?"
"Yes Mrs. Holt."
"So why can't I see him?"
"We have him under observation."
"Is he in danger? I thought you said he was stable."
"Mrs. Holt, we don't want to draw any conclusions as of yet."
"Spit it out, what's wrong with him?"
"I can't say."
"So let me see him."
"Please Mrs. Holt, just give us a day with him, okay?"
"You said the worst is over, is it?"
"...yes Mrs. Holt. It is."
He returns. There are 100 ways to kill him with one of his own pens.
"Mr. Holt?"
"..."
"Mr. Holt?"
"Yes."
"Let's go over this again."
"Yes."
"Do you understand you were in a coma for only a day?"
"Yes."
"When you woke up you were combative."
"Yes."
"You said you were somewhere else."
"I screamed it, yes."
"You said you spent one million years there."
"Again, I screamed, but yes."
"Can you tell us any more?"
"It's gone, temporary psychosis, nonsense, surely you didn't believe me."
"We believed you believed it, you sounded sincere."
"A coma is a coma, whether for a day or a million years, it doesn't matter."
"Your wife was here."
"Can I see her now?"
"I asked her to come back tomorrow. Let me get you a tissue."
"Thank you. May I have a shower? I'd like to get cleaned up before she sees me."
"Well, you seem lucid, I'll ask an orderly to remove the restraints. He'll have to watch you shower, I'm sorry but it's hospital policy."
"Yes."
There should be a word for streetlamps overgrown with tree branches. The shadows they make recall the horde in battle.
"Frank?"
"Sal"
"Oof! You'll crack my ribs hugging me so tight."
"I missed you Sal. You can't know how much."
"Got any tissues? This hospital issue is sandpaper."
"Sure you big lug, plenty for us both."
I fought from the pits to god emperor once. It appears I must do so again. A man must build. I have built so very much. I don't know how else to exist.
"What are these notes?"
"Scribbles, just fun."
"Fun with foreign languages?"
"Nonsense, made up."
"They're beautiful Frank, what do they say?"
"How beautiful you are and how much I love you."
"Frank! Ouch! Your hands are like claws!"
"Sorry Sally."
The first rule is to be feared and loved but not hated.
Perhaps I will find a way to spare the hospital. They laid hands on me. They also saved me. A delicate question of response to meditate upon. I have time. The gate is permanent.
A day here is a day.
Every night, I return to my kingdoms for another million years. Sometimes naked, sometimes mad, sometimes the wise man, often the fool, sometimes emperor, sometimes otherwise.
Across these chasms, my love for my wife remains, time is whatever I say it is.
I'm glad I awake each morning earlier than her. I watch the rise and fall of her breathing chest through blurred vision.
So far, she has not seen my tears.
"Yes Mrs. Holt."
"So why can't I see him?"
"We have him under observation."
"Is he in danger? I thought you said he was stable."
"Mrs. Holt, we don't want to draw any conclusions as of yet."
"Spit it out, what's wrong with him?"
"I can't say."
"So let me see him."
"Please Mrs. Holt, just give us a day with him, okay?"
"You said the worst is over, is it?"
"...yes Mrs. Holt. It is."
He returns. There are 100 ways to kill him with one of his own pens.
"Mr. Holt?"
"..."
"Mr. Holt?"
"Yes."
"Let's go over this again."
"Yes."
"Do you understand you were in a coma for only a day?"
"Yes."
"When you woke up you were combative."
"Yes."
"You said you were somewhere else."
"I screamed it, yes."
"You said you spent one million years there."
"Again, I screamed, but yes."
"Can you tell us any more?"
"It's gone, temporary psychosis, nonsense, surely you didn't believe me."
"We believed you believed it, you sounded sincere."
"A coma is a coma, whether for a day or a million years, it doesn't matter."
"Your wife was here."
"Can I see her now?"
"I asked her to come back tomorrow. Let me get you a tissue."
"Thank you. May I have a shower? I'd like to get cleaned up before she sees me."
"Well, you seem lucid, I'll ask an orderly to remove the restraints. He'll have to watch you shower, I'm sorry but it's hospital policy."
"Yes."
There should be a word for streetlamps overgrown with tree branches. The shadows they make recall the horde in battle.
"Frank?"
"Sal"
"Oof! You'll crack my ribs hugging me so tight."
"I missed you Sal. You can't know how much."
"Got any tissues? This hospital issue is sandpaper."
"Sure you big lug, plenty for us both."
I fought from the pits to god emperor once. It appears I must do so again. A man must build. I have built so very much. I don't know how else to exist.
"What are these notes?"
"Scribbles, just fun."
"Fun with foreign languages?"
"Nonsense, made up."
"They're beautiful Frank, what do they say?"
"How beautiful you are and how much I love you."
"Frank! Ouch! Your hands are like claws!"
"Sorry Sally."
The first rule is to be feared and loved but not hated.
Perhaps I will find a way to spare the hospital. They laid hands on me. They also saved me. A delicate question of response to meditate upon. I have time. The gate is permanent.
A day here is a day.
Every night, I return to my kingdoms for another million years. Sometimes naked, sometimes mad, sometimes the wise man, often the fool, sometimes emperor, sometimes otherwise.
Across these chasms, my love for my wife remains, time is whatever I say it is.
I'm glad I awake each morning earlier than her. I watch the rise and fall of her breathing chest through blurred vision.
So far, she has not seen my tears.
[WP] Similar to dogs, human females go into heat once every 6 months for 10 days. by [deleted] in WritingPrompts
I used this link for my research:
http://www.vetwest.com.au/pet-library/reproduction-in-dogs-season-heat-oestrus-pregnancy-tests
This is the outline:
A young couple have been dating for some time. The boy has never dated a girl around her heat. He doesn't know what to expect. What he gets, according to the article, is vulvular licking, becoming highly attractive to the opposite sex for the first 7 days, vulvular bleeding, and finally being receptive to sex in the last three days. In a token to the sex perverts, the final act lasts for three days and the young man must use a walker for a fortnight afterwards because he probably broke his penis.
this is the story:
THE HEAT
It was their first time. Alice and Jordan had dated other boys and girls since they were kids but when they met and started dating, they knew it was serious because Alice was around the age girls got their first heat.
Jordan thought about his mom and dad, who locked themselves in their rooms twice a year. While Grandma and Grandpa came over to watch him and his sisters and brothers.
He'd had 'the talk' with his dad many times. Recently, he'd had a most embarassing conversation with Hank, Alice's dad.
"When she starts licking her vulva, you don't pay that no mind, she'll be hotter than a barn on fire but you got to wait about another week before she'll be ready for you, hell, you got to keep her away from all the corndogs that'll be out looking to cage a sneaky."
His conversation with Alice was harder, she found the whole idea disgusting and was reluctant to make plans.
They didn't know when it would start exactly, but it tended to be around the same time in the same family.
He was over at her house one day and caught sight of her mom, Fabrice, watering her houseplants. She was twenty years his senior but she'd kept herself in excellent shape. Her long legs beneath her pale sundress caught the light and silhouetted her thights all the way up to the round rump of her pert ass. He realized he was salivating and swallowed reflexively. When she bent over slightly to water the floor plants, he imagined bending her over further and slipping past her engorged vulva and into her dripping moist hot rocket oven of a vagina.
He shook his head. What was he thinking? Then his stomach clenched. Jordan realized Fabrice must be going into heat and he, Jordan, had noticed, kids don't notice such things. With underwhelming lack of fanfare, Jordan had woken up a prepubescent adolescent but he was now a sexually mature post puberty male.
Which meant Alice was going into heat, might already be in heat. Alice came down the stairs and called out.
"Hey Jord!" she said, and raised her hand hesitantly.
Jordan stared at her. From his vantage point, her firm smooth thighs seemed longer than life. Everything about her was in high definition. Her gentle breathing raised and lowered her breasts in time with her descent to lend them an extra bouncy freshness, her lips were half open in an easy smile to reveal pearls of teeth and her eyes seemed huge, the pupils were black holes.
"Ali, we have to go." he gulped.
"I know" she said, and giggled. He saw she was sweating. When he took her hand it was shaking.
"It's going to be fine, we stick to the plan," he said.
He drove them out of the city with the windows rolled up, aside from a few catcalls by pedestrian males who caught a whiff of her pheromones, they made it to the cabin with clothes, toiletries and 20 frozen whole chickens.
It was his dad's cabin. Armoured up for the heat. His mom had had her first heat here. Hank had offered his nuclear bunker in the backyard but Jordan had politely declined, citing history. Hank had nodded.
If he lived, he'd be marrying Alice next spring.
Alice and Jordon walked into the cabin holding hands and locked the doors and windows shut.
For the first 7 days, as Alice entered the heat in full, she began licking her vulva almost constantly except when she ordered Jordon to do it for her but she wouldn't let him touch her in any other way and that was the hardest part of all. There he'd be, down between her creamy, silky thighs, up to his nose in bloody honey flavoured pussy juice, drinking his fill with his hands cupping her ass up to meet his mouth so her back was arched and she was clenching her own breasts in frustrated agony, unable to orgasm but edging all the time. It was exhausting.
He wanted to orgasm too but knew he'd better save it for when she was ready to receive him.
After a week of gorging on her, his mouth was cramped and sore, the bed was a bloody mess and Alice was eating a whole roast chicken to herself every day that Jordan had to remember to take out of the freezer, thaw and cook on time because heaven help him if he was late with her food.
On the seventh day, her discharge was less bloody. She shoved his mouth away from her vulva.
"Gne,,,now, j-j-jord."
He jumped up and dove in between her swollen and throbbing vulvular lips, into her burning hot vagina and began thrusting quickly, soon his penis locked and she screamed and thrashed as he gnashed at her ears to bring her under control, she locked her legs around his ass and pumped so hard he thought she'd snap his back in half, they fell off the bed and continued to thrust at each other and clutch at each other, she bit into his shoulder and took a piece off and clawed at his back and continued to thrust with his locked-in penis and their gyrations on the floor bucked them into the corner where he picked her up and slammed her repeatedly into the wall with his penis driving ever deeper inside her. She bellowed that he keep going. He slammed her again and again, her ass compressing against his hands.
"Ohaggha,..ah...ahh...ahhhhh...aieeeeeee!" sceamed Alice.
They collapsed in a heap.
The moment his penis unlocked and he slipped out of her. Alice turned to look at Jordon. Her eyes were the size of black holes.
"Again." she said.
So it went. For three days. Alice didn't land so much as bruise, like all women today her ability to regenerate depends entirely on food and Jordon kept her well feed.
Jordon needed medical attention and walked with crutches for a fortnight.
Alice got pregnant. They got married. They now have 5 girls and 3 boys.
Everyone said it was a good match.
The End
Wednesday, January 13, 2016
/U/nimmthejigsaw [WP] [WP] You run into an old dear friend and say hello. Unfortunately you are a time traveler and this point in time is way before you first met them.
It's not that hard to fake.
I lived in this city most of my life.
Downtown hasn't changed that much. At least the buildings won't change that much. More people now. Not so many later. Not so many then? Upwhen?
English sucks with tenses for time travel. We haven't even got a proper future tense. All future in English is constructed from present tenses and modal verbs. Newspeak is so much more presysnosc.
There should be a change in the verb. I met you, I meet you, I meeet you. Not a chance. So I try not to think about it. I keep my speech to standard English, no doubleplus goodspeak. No anglo-ibero-latino slang.
Der hombre liese die Bàozhǐ. The man reads the newspaper.
I shake my head, memories of English classes fade. I've been downwhen for 6 months. Still hard to think in standard English.
It was embarassing to have to learn it. I was born in this century, after all. But then I got old, terribly old. Ancient in fact, I've forgotten more than I can remember. I didn't want to come.
There wasn't anybody left from this era to send.
I told myself old friends wouldn't have met me yet. I moved here a few years upwhen ago. Didn't have too many friends to start with. For a long time it was just me and Frank.
If I met him, I told myself it would be like looking at an old image. No movement or sound. Just a flat, still, image.
There are a lot of bottlenecks involved. Most of my present self was leftl back upwhen, running this city. Until I left at which point it all vanished. What I contained was multitudes. What this body contains is but a fragment. Once this was all of me but that was so long ago.
I insisted on decoupling before taking the classes. it wasn't enough to learn English again, I decided I had to learn using all the old systems that I had not made use of since long before my age struck its fourth digit. I wrote words with target century tools on target century devices. I pushed ink around on crushed tree bark. I pushed keys on slabs of plastic. No casual matter, time travel.
My civilization would be erased as a consequence of my journey. All time journeys are one trip.
One passenger. Once.
We had no idea how many times we had reached the juncture we faced. We only knew what our options were: Be destroyed or be destroyed.
In that second destruction we hoped the seeds of our salvation were planted.
Monoculture is dangerous. Transpecies migration of pathogens is rare. One blight wiped out commercial bananas twice. Three plagues at once wiped out half of old Europe.
Our civilization was the greatest monoculture the world had ever seen.
So I was here. The last remaining memory of my people. Here to start it all over again. Limited. Painfully so. The way would be long and dangerous.
I did not want to go it alone.
My resume got me an interview. Frank met me at reception.
I shook his hand warmly. He smiled and invited me into the office.
I would join this company a few years from now. Only now I wouldn't.
Frank was my immediate manager. He would be again. Just a little sooner.
In a few years. We'd have an office party.
He'd slip out when no one was noticing and try to drive home.
Frank would kill four people and injure several others when his car hit the bus shelter.
His fiance would leave him.
He'd lose his job.
Four years into his sentence, he'd hang himself.
I'd be promoted to replace him.
He shakes my hand.
The meeting is over.
I have been offered the job.
I get to work.
Two years from now, I'll drive Frank home.
I can't predict the future any better than he can.
I have a mission and I have the weight of my entire civilization on my back.
I have the technical expertise to raise funds, drive research and beat a problem that may never manifest if I do my job.
But I hope I won't have to go it alone.
The future is an empty stage, there are no players. There is no sound, no fury. Nothing.
There's no justice.
Just us.
THE END.
I lived in this city most of my life.
Downtown hasn't changed that much. At least the buildings won't change that much. More people now. Not so many later. Not so many then? Upwhen?
English sucks with tenses for time travel. We haven't even got a proper future tense. All future in English is constructed from present tenses and modal verbs. Newspeak is so much more presysnosc.
There should be a change in the verb. I met you, I meet you, I meeet you. Not a chance. So I try not to think about it. I keep my speech to standard English, no doubleplus goodspeak. No anglo-ibero-latino slang.
Der hombre liese die Bàozhǐ. The man reads the newspaper.
I shake my head, memories of English classes fade. I've been downwhen for 6 months. Still hard to think in standard English.
It was embarassing to have to learn it. I was born in this century, after all. But then I got old, terribly old. Ancient in fact, I've forgotten more than I can remember. I didn't want to come.
There wasn't anybody left from this era to send.
I told myself old friends wouldn't have met me yet. I moved here a few years upwhen ago. Didn't have too many friends to start with. For a long time it was just me and Frank.
If I met him, I told myself it would be like looking at an old image. No movement or sound. Just a flat, still, image.
There are a lot of bottlenecks involved. Most of my present self was leftl back upwhen, running this city. Until I left at which point it all vanished. What I contained was multitudes. What this body contains is but a fragment. Once this was all of me but that was so long ago.
I insisted on decoupling before taking the classes. it wasn't enough to learn English again, I decided I had to learn using all the old systems that I had not made use of since long before my age struck its fourth digit. I wrote words with target century tools on target century devices. I pushed ink around on crushed tree bark. I pushed keys on slabs of plastic. No casual matter, time travel.
My civilization would be erased as a consequence of my journey. All time journeys are one trip.
One passenger. Once.
We had no idea how many times we had reached the juncture we faced. We only knew what our options were: Be destroyed or be destroyed.
In that second destruction we hoped the seeds of our salvation were planted.
Monoculture is dangerous. Transpecies migration of pathogens is rare. One blight wiped out commercial bananas twice. Three plagues at once wiped out half of old Europe.
Our civilization was the greatest monoculture the world had ever seen.
So I was here. The last remaining memory of my people. Here to start it all over again. Limited. Painfully so. The way would be long and dangerous.
I did not want to go it alone.
My resume got me an interview. Frank met me at reception.
I shook his hand warmly. He smiled and invited me into the office.
I would join this company a few years from now. Only now I wouldn't.
Frank was my immediate manager. He would be again. Just a little sooner.
In a few years. We'd have an office party.
He'd slip out when no one was noticing and try to drive home.
Frank would kill four people and injure several others when his car hit the bus shelter.
His fiance would leave him.
He'd lose his job.
Four years into his sentence, he'd hang himself.
I'd be promoted to replace him.
He shakes my hand.
The meeting is over.
I have been offered the job.
I get to work.
Two years from now, I'll drive Frank home.
I can't predict the future any better than he can.
I have a mission and I have the weight of my entire civilization on my back.
I have the technical expertise to raise funds, drive research and beat a problem that may never manifest if I do my job.
But I hope I won't have to go it alone.
The future is an empty stage, there are no players. There is no sound, no fury. Nothing.
There's no justice.
Just us.
THE END.
/U/Alekosen [TT] After many years, a woman is finally freed from the sex slave trade. (Potentially NSFW, although I would like people to try to keep it SFW).
A cup of hot coffee and a warm, safe, armchair. Silence. Solitude. Safety.
All I've ever wanted.
I keep my eyes open. Nothing good to see when they close.
There is a gentle knock at the door of my flat. I told her not to ring.
Bells. Alarms. Any kind of loud ringing. I can't take it.
She respects that. She respects me. she knocks.
I get up slowly and look through the peephole carefully. She is alone.
I unlock the locks. One by one. I take my time.
It's easier not to take my life if I do everything slowly. Rash actions can't always be undone.
This is my first week living on my own in my entire life.
I open the door and step back.
"Thank you Ilona, may I come in?"
I nod yes.
She is short and a little fat. She said she was like me once. I don't believe it but I don't say so.
She takes her coat off and hangs it on one of the hooks by the door. She takes off her shoes.
"Your flat is so clean."
she says this every time she visits.
It is clean because I clean it. With gloves and bleach and detergents and sprays and brooms and mops.
Sanitized.
I will never sleep in filth again.
I return to my coffee and comfortable armchair. She sits on a stool across from me. The chair is only for me. No one else. She asks me questions. I return one-word answers.
There are many pages to read and sign. I do not read them. I sign them.
Then pictures. Photographs. I stare at their faces. three men and two women.
My traffickers, my jailers, my pimps, my masters.
They shuffled me around the unlit world and grew rich off my back.
She asks me how I am. I nod. I say I just want to be left alone. Rest and peace is all I ask.
She nods and asks if she can come back tomorrow.
I nod.
My coffee is cold.
After she leaves I make a fresh cup of coffee.
I keep my eyes open.
Nothing good to see when they close.
THE END.
All I've ever wanted.
I keep my eyes open. Nothing good to see when they close.
There is a gentle knock at the door of my flat. I told her not to ring.
Bells. Alarms. Any kind of loud ringing. I can't take it.
She respects that. She respects me. she knocks.
I get up slowly and look through the peephole carefully. She is alone.
I unlock the locks. One by one. I take my time.
It's easier not to take my life if I do everything slowly. Rash actions can't always be undone.
This is my first week living on my own in my entire life.
I open the door and step back.
"Thank you Ilona, may I come in?"
I nod yes.
She is short and a little fat. She said she was like me once. I don't believe it but I don't say so.
She takes her coat off and hangs it on one of the hooks by the door. She takes off her shoes.
"Your flat is so clean."
she says this every time she visits.
It is clean because I clean it. With gloves and bleach and detergents and sprays and brooms and mops.
Sanitized.
I will never sleep in filth again.
I return to my coffee and comfortable armchair. She sits on a stool across from me. The chair is only for me. No one else. She asks me questions. I return one-word answers.
There are many pages to read and sign. I do not read them. I sign them.
Then pictures. Photographs. I stare at their faces. three men and two women.
My traffickers, my jailers, my pimps, my masters.
They shuffled me around the unlit world and grew rich off my back.
She asks me how I am. I nod. I say I just want to be left alone. Rest and peace is all I ask.
She nods and asks if she can come back tomorrow.
I nod.
My coffee is cold.
After she leaves I make a fresh cup of coffee.
I keep my eyes open.
Nothing good to see when they close.
THE END.
/u/Kibbly [WP] You get turned into your favorite character by a rift in the universe but nobody notices the difference.
Insert_delete 1 point 5 minutes ago*
I can feel the streets through my boots. every cobble, every divot, every pothole.
I do not know these streets.
Remain calm. I tell myself. You've cheated death so often he won't let you play at his table. You've been more-than-half drowned. Electrocuted. Barbecued and still you managed to make it home to read your son his bedtime storybook.
I do not know these streets.
Those two men in the blue uniforms, they have the easy lift-and-swing of beat coppers. Grit yer teeth Sam.
"Good evening officers, I'm a bit los--"
"Convention's at the Cheswick Grange this year, isn't it?"
"Yeah, walk down to the river and run a right, it's the old manor house looking building, can't miss it."
"Great costume."
"...Thank you officers."
They walk on. I didn't catch half of their jibber jabber. But I walk in the direction the shorter one pointed and sure enough, I reach a river. turning left, I'm soon in front of a manor.
I do not know these streets. I do not know these strange machines. My jaw is sore from clenching.
I walk towards the building.
I do not know these streets.
I do know my own face. The poster is so lifelike it must have been painted from an iconograph.
Only Otto could have taken that shot of me on the train through the pouring rain and the dark.
I square my shoulders and adjust my armour.
I do not know these streets by the banks of this river called Avon with water that actually runs and doesn't just melt your socks off.
Someone here knows who I am.
I've solved mysteries with less.
THE END.
I can feel the streets through my boots. every cobble, every divot, every pothole.
I do not know these streets.
Remain calm. I tell myself. You've cheated death so often he won't let you play at his table. You've been more-than-half drowned. Electrocuted. Barbecued and still you managed to make it home to read your son his bedtime storybook.
I do not know these streets.
Those two men in the blue uniforms, they have the easy lift-and-swing of beat coppers. Grit yer teeth Sam.
"Good evening officers, I'm a bit los--"
"Convention's at the Cheswick Grange this year, isn't it?"
"Yeah, walk down to the river and run a right, it's the old manor house looking building, can't miss it."
"Great costume."
"...Thank you officers."
They walk on. I didn't catch half of their jibber jabber. But I walk in the direction the shorter one pointed and sure enough, I reach a river. turning left, I'm soon in front of a manor.
I do not know these streets. I do not know these strange machines. My jaw is sore from clenching.
I walk towards the building.
I do not know these streets.
I do know my own face. The poster is so lifelike it must have been painted from an iconograph.
Only Otto could have taken that shot of me on the train through the pouring rain and the dark.
I square my shoulders and adjust my armour.
I do not know these streets by the banks of this river called Avon with water that actually runs and doesn't just melt your socks off.
Someone here knows who I am.
I've solved mysteries with less.
THE END.
Thursday, January 07, 2016
/u/J4ckrh [WP] After you die you're showed every argument you've had from a third person perspective
I'm dead. It's the third time this week. From the perspective of creation,. everything is happening this week. All of it. Everything. Not quite all at once but still spectacular. Outside of time but not without duration. I watch.
I watch myself. Doesn't matter who I've been or when I've been.
I'm everybody, every time.
Watching every argument I've ever had. Each one with myself.
I don't yet know why I put myself through this but at the end of the week when I merge with my greater self I imagine I'll know. Until them, I'm in the awkward position of a raindrop hurtling down to the ocean. there's a lot to see but most of it feels like a rerun.
A lot of excuses. A lot of explaining. There's really no difference. Hundreds of languages, epochs, bodies, reasons.
Lies, from the perspective they're all lies. They distract from the essental truth.
I swear, if I get reincarnated again I'm going to do two things.
I'll hear no excuses or explanations from anyone.
I'll make no excuses or explanations to anyone.
I will never say I'm sorry. Instead, I will say it is my fault when it is or I made a mistake when it isn't.
Or I'll say nothing.
So many of my arguments were petty inconsequential issues that did nothing but waste time.
I could manifest a heart so that it might ache. I am aghast at how much precious time I wasted.
"No, you didn't ask me in time."
"You should have thought of that before."
"I had too much to do."
"It's not my fault you scheduled the appointment in the middle of rush hour."
"I don't see your name written on it."
And so on, all the way back to primary school. So many times over. If I weren't approaching transcendence, I think I'd manifest a stomach and digestive tract just so I could puke.
I'm nearing the ocean. Just another drop of me. My perspective begins to shift, I consume and I am consumed by the waters of the deep.
I gasp.
Where are words for this fierce obliterating love?
I AM.
I watch myself. Doesn't matter who I've been or when I've been.
I'm everybody, every time.
Watching every argument I've ever had. Each one with myself.
I don't yet know why I put myself through this but at the end of the week when I merge with my greater self I imagine I'll know. Until them, I'm in the awkward position of a raindrop hurtling down to the ocean. there's a lot to see but most of it feels like a rerun.
A lot of excuses. A lot of explaining. There's really no difference. Hundreds of languages, epochs, bodies, reasons.
Lies, from the perspective they're all lies. They distract from the essental truth.
I swear, if I get reincarnated again I'm going to do two things.
I'll hear no excuses or explanations from anyone.
I'll make no excuses or explanations to anyone.
I will never say I'm sorry. Instead, I will say it is my fault when it is or I made a mistake when it isn't.
Or I'll say nothing.
So many of my arguments were petty inconsequential issues that did nothing but waste time.
I could manifest a heart so that it might ache. I am aghast at how much precious time I wasted.
"No, you didn't ask me in time."
"You should have thought of that before."
"I had too much to do."
"It's not my fault you scheduled the appointment in the middle of rush hour."
"I don't see your name written on it."
And so on, all the way back to primary school. So many times over. If I weren't approaching transcendence, I think I'd manifest a stomach and digestive tract just so I could puke.
I'm nearing the ocean. Just another drop of me. My perspective begins to shift, I consume and I am consumed by the waters of the deep.
I gasp.
Where are words for this fierce obliterating love?
I AM.
Wednesday, January 06, 2016
/u/Ask_If_Im_A_Cat [WP] Write a story containing the words : cat , doritos and Leonardo dicaprio
I was sitting on my horse out alone in the middle of the night. I like to watch the stars and have no use for company. My horse was old, a gift of the rancher I worked for. I called her White Elephant in private although I knew her name was Lenore.
A single car bisected the darkness on the distant blacktop that cut through the valley. a sprinkling of electric lights and over the horizon, the glow of Butte.
"Nice night for stargazing," he said.
White Elephant whinneyed and pawed the grass. but I recognized the voice.
He was eating something crunchy.
"Howdy Leo," I said
"Howdy Gerry," He said.
i watched the stars some more.
"Doritos?" he said. Extending the crinkly foil bag.
I take off a glove.
"Don't mind if I do, thanks Leo, where's your horse?"
"I walked up, didn't expect to walk this far."
I waited. Nobody, not even a greenhorn rancher like my new neighbour here walked out this far, not without being pushed.
"It's Howard."
"Howard Hughes? Your cat?"
Leo sighs. It's a long sigh.
"Howard was an old cat and it was his time," he said flatly.
Meanwhile I think about how long it must have taken him to get up here, in the dark. through the tall grass, the rough ground, the soft patches, the holes.
I rubbed White Elephant absentmindedly with one hand. Thinking I'd be walking up here sometime soon myself.
I couldn't see 'em but his boots were surely soaked. Grief takes strange shapes in Montana. It's big sky country, room for strange shapes.
I point White Elephant at the road but I don't have to, she knows the way.
"Want a ride back to your ranch?" I offered. Passing him back the bag.
He takes it. I hear him take a handful and crunch them in his mouth.
I put my glove back on.
"Nah Gerry, it's a fine night for stargazing."
"Sure?" I said.
"Yeah."
"Goodnight Leo, sorry about Howard."
"Goodnight Gerry, excuse my interrupting."
Not at all, I was just heading back.*
"Hey Gerry, think I might take you up on that ride? I'm tired all of a sudden."
"Sure Leo."
THE END
A single car bisected the darkness on the distant blacktop that cut through the valley. a sprinkling of electric lights and over the horizon, the glow of Butte.
"Nice night for stargazing," he said.
White Elephant whinneyed and pawed the grass. but I recognized the voice.
He was eating something crunchy.
"Howdy Leo," I said
"Howdy Gerry," He said.
i watched the stars some more.
"Doritos?" he said. Extending the crinkly foil bag.
I take off a glove.
"Don't mind if I do, thanks Leo, where's your horse?"
"I walked up, didn't expect to walk this far."
I waited. Nobody, not even a greenhorn rancher like my new neighbour here walked out this far, not without being pushed.
"It's Howard."
"Howard Hughes? Your cat?"
Leo sighs. It's a long sigh.
"Howard was an old cat and it was his time," he said flatly.
Meanwhile I think about how long it must have taken him to get up here, in the dark. through the tall grass, the rough ground, the soft patches, the holes.
I rubbed White Elephant absentmindedly with one hand. Thinking I'd be walking up here sometime soon myself.
I couldn't see 'em but his boots were surely soaked. Grief takes strange shapes in Montana. It's big sky country, room for strange shapes.
I point White Elephant at the road but I don't have to, she knows the way.
"Want a ride back to your ranch?" I offered. Passing him back the bag.
He takes it. I hear him take a handful and crunch them in his mouth.
I put my glove back on.
"Nah Gerry, it's a fine night for stargazing."
"Sure?" I said.
"Yeah."
"Goodnight Leo, sorry about Howard."
"Goodnight Gerry, excuse my interrupting."
Not at all, I was just heading back.*
"Hey Gerry, think I might take you up on that ride? I'm tired all of a sudden."
"Sure Leo."
THE END
Tuesday, January 05, 2016
/u/voltaireAltair [WP] You wake up one day and everyone thinks it's your birthday. This continues forever; every day is your birthday.
It's my birhday.
Shit.
It's still my birthday.
Every time, I think I'll wake up and it'll be over.
The first time was the worst.
I hardly said a word to my buddies until I said yes to a taxi home.
Time drags on. It doesn't matter what I say or do.
"It's not my birthday," I say. I yell. I scream.
They don't remember the details. someone or something is neatly snipping that intel out of their memories.
they just remember I disappointed them somehow. They remember the hurt.
I've tried quitting. Only makes it worse. My wife surprises me with a party at home.
I've tried moving. The new house continues to fill up with gifts I cannot return fast enough.
My bank account swells with gift card refunds and returns of gifts I've been given a hundred tmes over.
My friends and family continue to have their accounts depleted by their spending.
"Stop celebrating my birthday," I say, I yell, I scream.
They don't remember the details, just the hurt.
I take my family on vacation. *It's my birthday on the plane, it's my birthday at the hotel.
Every day is my birthday.
My family and friends declare bankrupcy one by one.
We move to New York. I rent a storage locker and buy a street vendor's license.
It's still my birthday.
Every fucking day.
Only now it's random strangers, visiting foreign nationals and once, the president of the united states of america bringing me presents.
I accept them graciously. I smile. I embrace the suck.
"How much for that flatscreen TV?" says a customer.
"I dunno, how much you want to pay?"
He gives me a number, I always take the first offer. It's about volume. If he doesn't get away fast enough he's liable to turn around and give it right back to me as a present.
My wife, my friends, my family, everyone who has ever touched my life has been financially harmed by their association with me. All I can do is keep the cash circulating.
By my rough calculations, my problem is getting worse. I've stopped trying to run from it. Unless I die, I've tried and something always goes wrong, the knife slips, improbably, my fall is arrested. I appear unable to harm myself or cause myself to come to harm.
Someday soon, the wealth of the world will be passing through me.
There is nothing I can do to stop it. There is no way I can benefit either. My wife, my friends, my family, they all have friends and family too. Everyone who gifts me knows someone I know. Sucked into the whirlwind, spending themselves on me into bankrupcy.
Every day at noon. I run to the post office and mail off money orders. I donate to charities, I TRY to give it all back. I threw the cash into the air once but it only caused a riot.
One morning, the I.R.S. picked me up for money laundering.
They dropped me off an hour later with a sizeable tax return.
I didn't bother asking for an explanation. I would have gotten some mumbo-jumbo about an auditing error in my favour.
Their eyes were glassy with contented adoration. I was an old friend now, a constant companion, someone they'd been through childhood with and fought beside.
I don't even remeber my own name.
Today is my birthday, but you know that old buddy.
Is there something you wanted to give me?
Shit.
It's still my birthday.
Every time, I think I'll wake up and it'll be over.
The first time was the worst.
I hardly said a word to my buddies until I said yes to a taxi home.
Time drags on. It doesn't matter what I say or do.
"It's not my birthday," I say. I yell. I scream.
They don't remember the details. someone or something is neatly snipping that intel out of their memories.
they just remember I disappointed them somehow. They remember the hurt.
I've tried quitting. Only makes it worse. My wife surprises me with a party at home.
I've tried moving. The new house continues to fill up with gifts I cannot return fast enough.
My bank account swells with gift card refunds and returns of gifts I've been given a hundred tmes over.
My friends and family continue to have their accounts depleted by their spending.
"Stop celebrating my birthday," I say, I yell, I scream.
They don't remember the details, just the hurt.
I take my family on vacation. *It's my birthday on the plane, it's my birthday at the hotel.
Every day is my birthday.
My family and friends declare bankrupcy one by one.
We move to New York. I rent a storage locker and buy a street vendor's license.
It's still my birthday.
Every fucking day.
Only now it's random strangers, visiting foreign nationals and once, the president of the united states of america bringing me presents.
I accept them graciously. I smile. I embrace the suck.
"How much for that flatscreen TV?" says a customer.
"I dunno, how much you want to pay?"
He gives me a number, I always take the first offer. It's about volume. If he doesn't get away fast enough he's liable to turn around and give it right back to me as a present.
My wife, my friends, my family, everyone who has ever touched my life has been financially harmed by their association with me. All I can do is keep the cash circulating.
By my rough calculations, my problem is getting worse. I've stopped trying to run from it. Unless I die, I've tried and something always goes wrong, the knife slips, improbably, my fall is arrested. I appear unable to harm myself or cause myself to come to harm.
Someday soon, the wealth of the world will be passing through me.
There is nothing I can do to stop it. There is no way I can benefit either. My wife, my friends, my family, they all have friends and family too. Everyone who gifts me knows someone I know. Sucked into the whirlwind, spending themselves on me into bankrupcy.
Every day at noon. I run to the post office and mail off money orders. I donate to charities, I TRY to give it all back. I threw the cash into the air once but it only caused a riot.
One morning, the I.R.S. picked me up for money laundering.
They dropped me off an hour later with a sizeable tax return.
I didn't bother asking for an explanation. I would have gotten some mumbo-jumbo about an auditing error in my favour.
Their eyes were glassy with contented adoration. I was an old friend now, a constant companion, someone they'd been through childhood with and fought beside.
I don't even remeber my own name.
Today is my birthday, but you know that old buddy.
Is there something you wanted to give me?
Monday, January 04, 2016
/u/Teixeira666 [WP] You have a curse that makes you transfer your soul to your firstborn (or closest relative) after you die, now you are inside your fifteen year old son, in the first day of school.
Being dead. I can't complain.
I really can't. It's got to do with glands, I haven't got any. I didn't know what to expect but it wasn't this. It certainly wasn't this.
I didn't even get a chance to catch my breath. Or my teeth. When you're hit that hard by a speeding car. There's no pain, just force.
Then I blink and I'm staring at the ceiling of my son's room. I expect to feel a wash of relief. I must have fallen asleep I think to myself. 15 and he still likes to hear old Dad read him a story. He says it's like his own personal podcast. He said he'd planned to start recording me. Wish he had, too late now. I'm as certain as the absence of any wash of relief, I feel nothing. I can think but I can't feel. Then I do feel something. A sinking feeling I recognize from my own days in high school. My son's voice in my head.
"I don't want to go to school," he says. Does he? I hear him but I don't. Did he think it?
The feeling dissipates but doesn't fully go away as I have the awkward experience of feeling myself in a body I can't control, feeling feelings not my own, hearing the private thoughts of the boy who doesn't yet know his father is dead.
I know I'm dead, if I wasn't I would cry.
He checks his watch, I haven't missed a day. Three thousand miles away on a business trip but distance and time seem no obstacle to the powers that put me here. I don't understand why but I begin to understand what.
What my son feels, I feel.
What he thinks, I think.
His breakfast is shovelled into his mouth, and he's out the door before my wife wakes up. I wish I could have seen her but it's just a wish. I care but I can't get upset about it. I'm curious to find out if I'm gong to have to go on like this forever.
I certainly hope my own father wasn't trapped in my head all those times I masturbated after his death.
I begin to dread coming home. We run through hand lotion and kleenex fast. I face these realities dispassionately.
If kitsch is life with the necessary shit removed.
Death is shit with all the necessary life removed.
I have no illusions and gain no satisfaction from my newfound clarity.
I fade out. Let the scenes run through like a late night movie. On the bus, at the school, homeroom, second period, third period, fourth period, lunch.
Lunch is awful. I remind myself to give him more pocket money for the sandwich place on the corner, then I remember I'm never going to be able to give him anything again.
Then my son's heartrate goes up, his breathing gets shallow, he's standing up but just as he finds his feet he's pushed to the wall.
The kid is bigger and his eyes are full of bored-ass affluenza bullshit. I feel anger, and fear.
It's so natural, I forget these feelings are not mine, reflexively I imagine heel striking this little shit right in the nose.
My son's hand lashes out and don't hear so much as feel a satisfying crack of bone under my son's palm.
The bully is howling. My son is terrified now, he doesn't know why he did that.
I imagine grabbing the little shit by his ears and shoving my knee into his teeth.
It works! One of the coaches pulls my son off the boy and he's yelling and my son is freaking out, he can't look away from the mess on the floor. The cafeteria is roaring.
In the principals office, midway through the expulsion, they get the news.
My wife comes and picks him up. There's a lot of tears.
Through it all, I feel my son's confusion and fear and loss. Running through it all is another feeling.
Deep relief. "He'll never bother me again," he thinks. I know who he's talking about. You got lucky son, I think to myself. I was a loving father but back before I met your mother, bad things happened when I was around. If they hadn't pulled you off him right then and there, I know we'd have killed him.
I'd died a grown man with a grown man's restraint, gaining control had caught me by surprise.
I wouldn't be so sloppy next time, if there was a next time.
Just like in life, I didn't know how long I had, stuck riding my son like a voodoo god.
But only in anger and fear.
My wife gave him something to help him sleep. I didn't sleep. When he shut his eyes, after about fifteen minutes, I felt the control return.
I sat up.
I tried opening his eyes and felt control slipping away.
I closed them.
Growing boy. Needed his rest. Lost his father.
"I'm here son, we're going to be alright," I whisper. My son's voice.
"Dad?" I've lost control now. I can't answer him.
He drifts back down into dreamless sleep.
I remain awake. My son was always the kindest of us. Which is good and right but I'm sure the cops would be round to talk to him tomorrow. He'd say nothing without his lawyer present.
In the dark, dialling by feel. I make a call I haven't made in nearly two decades.
"Zeke's." the voice hasn't changed.
"Charlie, tell Zeke Flannery O'Connor called for Jimmy, he'll know what I mean."
"Hey! Who is this? How'd you get this number?"
I hang up.
The phone rings in my hand.
"Flannery?" It's Zeke.
"Hi Zeke, it's not Flannery, it's his son Sean. Flannery is dead," I lie. or do I? I don't know anymore.
"Listen kid-"
"My Dad is dead and I've got trouble, I can pay."
The line is silent.
"Kid, you sure you can pay for Jimmy?"
"You don't want to know what happened?"
"Kid, you're paying for Jimmy, by the time you hang up, we'll know everything."
I hang up. Eyes shut tight.
my son is going to have to do some sleep-digging under the rosebushes but I think that's only fair.
Tomorrow night is soon enough. I let him sleep.
He won't have any explaining to do, my old lawyer will fix it. Then I'll have a week to mail him the gold.
I realize I can't risk waiting.
I get up again.
Morning finds my son exhausted, a hole in the garden a package in the mail and my poor worried wife on the phone to the school excusing him indefinitely. Sorry honey, I had to do it, no telling how long I'll be around.
My son will skip an assault charge. He won't be expelled either. Nor will that little shit bother him again.
Or anybody.
Not while I'm still around.
THE END
I really can't. It's got to do with glands, I haven't got any. I didn't know what to expect but it wasn't this. It certainly wasn't this.
I didn't even get a chance to catch my breath. Or my teeth. When you're hit that hard by a speeding car. There's no pain, just force.
Then I blink and I'm staring at the ceiling of my son's room. I expect to feel a wash of relief. I must have fallen asleep I think to myself. 15 and he still likes to hear old Dad read him a story. He says it's like his own personal podcast. He said he'd planned to start recording me. Wish he had, too late now. I'm as certain as the absence of any wash of relief, I feel nothing. I can think but I can't feel. Then I do feel something. A sinking feeling I recognize from my own days in high school. My son's voice in my head.
"I don't want to go to school," he says. Does he? I hear him but I don't. Did he think it?
The feeling dissipates but doesn't fully go away as I have the awkward experience of feeling myself in a body I can't control, feeling feelings not my own, hearing the private thoughts of the boy who doesn't yet know his father is dead.
I know I'm dead, if I wasn't I would cry.
He checks his watch, I haven't missed a day. Three thousand miles away on a business trip but distance and time seem no obstacle to the powers that put me here. I don't understand why but I begin to understand what.
What my son feels, I feel.
What he thinks, I think.
His breakfast is shovelled into his mouth, and he's out the door before my wife wakes up. I wish I could have seen her but it's just a wish. I care but I can't get upset about it. I'm curious to find out if I'm gong to have to go on like this forever.
I certainly hope my own father wasn't trapped in my head all those times I masturbated after his death.
I begin to dread coming home. We run through hand lotion and kleenex fast. I face these realities dispassionately.
If kitsch is life with the necessary shit removed.
Death is shit with all the necessary life removed.
I have no illusions and gain no satisfaction from my newfound clarity.
I fade out. Let the scenes run through like a late night movie. On the bus, at the school, homeroom, second period, third period, fourth period, lunch.
Lunch is awful. I remind myself to give him more pocket money for the sandwich place on the corner, then I remember I'm never going to be able to give him anything again.
Then my son's heartrate goes up, his breathing gets shallow, he's standing up but just as he finds his feet he's pushed to the wall.
The kid is bigger and his eyes are full of bored-ass affluenza bullshit. I feel anger, and fear.
It's so natural, I forget these feelings are not mine, reflexively I imagine heel striking this little shit right in the nose.
My son's hand lashes out and don't hear so much as feel a satisfying crack of bone under my son's palm.
The bully is howling. My son is terrified now, he doesn't know why he did that.
I imagine grabbing the little shit by his ears and shoving my knee into his teeth.
It works! One of the coaches pulls my son off the boy and he's yelling and my son is freaking out, he can't look away from the mess on the floor. The cafeteria is roaring.
In the principals office, midway through the expulsion, they get the news.
My wife comes and picks him up. There's a lot of tears.
Through it all, I feel my son's confusion and fear and loss. Running through it all is another feeling.
Deep relief. "He'll never bother me again," he thinks. I know who he's talking about. You got lucky son, I think to myself. I was a loving father but back before I met your mother, bad things happened when I was around. If they hadn't pulled you off him right then and there, I know we'd have killed him.
I'd died a grown man with a grown man's restraint, gaining control had caught me by surprise.
I wouldn't be so sloppy next time, if there was a next time.
Just like in life, I didn't know how long I had, stuck riding my son like a voodoo god.
But only in anger and fear.
My wife gave him something to help him sleep. I didn't sleep. When he shut his eyes, after about fifteen minutes, I felt the control return.
I sat up.
I tried opening his eyes and felt control slipping away.
I closed them.
Growing boy. Needed his rest. Lost his father.
"I'm here son, we're going to be alright," I whisper. My son's voice.
"Dad?" I've lost control now. I can't answer him.
He drifts back down into dreamless sleep.
I remain awake. My son was always the kindest of us. Which is good and right but I'm sure the cops would be round to talk to him tomorrow. He'd say nothing without his lawyer present.
In the dark, dialling by feel. I make a call I haven't made in nearly two decades.
"Zeke's." the voice hasn't changed.
"Charlie, tell Zeke Flannery O'Connor called for Jimmy, he'll know what I mean."
"Hey! Who is this? How'd you get this number?"
I hang up.
The phone rings in my hand.
"Flannery?" It's Zeke.
"Hi Zeke, it's not Flannery, it's his son Sean. Flannery is dead," I lie. or do I? I don't know anymore.
"Listen kid-"
"My Dad is dead and I've got trouble, I can pay."
The line is silent.
"Kid, you sure you can pay for Jimmy?"
"You don't want to know what happened?"
"Kid, you're paying for Jimmy, by the time you hang up, we'll know everything."
I hang up. Eyes shut tight.
my son is going to have to do some sleep-digging under the rosebushes but I think that's only fair.
Tomorrow night is soon enough. I let him sleep.
He won't have any explaining to do, my old lawyer will fix it. Then I'll have a week to mail him the gold.
I realize I can't risk waiting.
I get up again.
Morning finds my son exhausted, a hole in the garden a package in the mail and my poor worried wife on the phone to the school excusing him indefinitely. Sorry honey, I had to do it, no telling how long I'll be around.
My son will skip an assault charge. He won't be expelled either. Nor will that little shit bother him again.
Or anybody.
Not while I'm still around.
THE END
/u/ SamuraiNoKokoro [WP]Upon traveling five years into the future in a successful experiment you find that America is under fascist control. You contact an underground resistance group for information.
My arm is sore where she grabbed me. Pulled me into the building. This used to be a nice neighbourhood.
"Chester, you fucker," she hissed and pressed a pipe of cold metal against the small of my back.
"Francine," I try to sound warm and relaxed. I sound like shit.
"I should have gone first," she says and lets go. She turns away and walks deeper into the darkness of what used to be FabLab, our start-up incubator.
"We didn't know it would work," I say. It's easier to talk when I'm not looking at her. They say living under fascism adds ten years.
They don't really, that kind of talk can get you shot. Learned that quick. People five years in the future are paranoid for serious.
"Your trip broke the eastern grid," she says. Her voice is rough.
"I guessed that, what about the rest of it?" I wave my hand around the burnt-out shell of our lab.
I massage my sore arm while waiting for an answer. She doesn't answer me. When she speaks, it's on another tack. Words that come out off kilter, like she's saying out loud something she's said in her mind a thousand and one times before.
"It was slow, first the spying, then the censorship, then the laws, but slow'" then her voice breaks. "Shit Chester, they had the cool kids so distracted with video games, online shopping sales and prescription drugs that when the purges started south of the border, nobody gave a fuck so long as they could play another round of COD."
"You used to love Call of Duty," I say.
"Yeah? well now I'm playing it for real. Every. Fucking. Day."
"Francine, Why did you bring me here?" I had gone looking for her the moment I got here but turns out when you're new in town and looking for an old friend and that friend happens to be a leader in the fascist resistance it isn't as simple as knocking on doors and ringing old numbers.
Out of the gloom, things separate from the darkness, become human-sized. Patches of darkness upon darkness. Her people.
"You know why," she says.
"You really think I can go back and fix all this?" I say, backing away. "You know that's not how it works."
"Not back," she says.
Then I understand. My eyes wide.
It takes time and time is not our friend, not until we get it working. which was hard enough when the parts could be ordered in. Half are now scheduled and the other half are simply illegal. I write 'What do we want! A time machine! When do we want it? Doesn't matter!' on the lid of my laptop. Which is bullshit, it does matter. Every month brings more atrocities, deportations and dissappearances. My days blur into my nights, my months into my seasons.
Then one day, I'm standing on the spot where the Generalissima of the Universal States, The Supreme Colophon of America, Her Excellency in Perpetuity, Our Fearless Leader, will be standing in 48 hours.
Her annual roadside sermon of the Union address. Well televised, heavily guarded, but it's a public thoroughfare, no sense in blocking a major artery when there's nothing to guard. Video will catch us but our evidence will be somewhere they'll never find it.
In time.
The bomb is a new design, it will turn everything between the capitol building and the monument into a pool of slightly radioactive glass. Everything.
I flip the switch. The lights go out. The bomb vanishes. There is a pop of vacuum rushing to fill the hole but nothing spectacular, nothing hollywood. This is science, not science-fiction.
I stare at the shuttered Smithsonian Air and Space Museum and my heart is heavy with regret. I really loved this part of town.
It's eerie to drive away. In a sense we just turned downtown D.C. into Schrodinger's cat. It both exists and does not.
For we do not know the future but tonight, we made history.
"Chester, you fucker," she hissed and pressed a pipe of cold metal against the small of my back.
"Francine," I try to sound warm and relaxed. I sound like shit.
"I should have gone first," she says and lets go. She turns away and walks deeper into the darkness of what used to be FabLab, our start-up incubator.
"We didn't know it would work," I say. It's easier to talk when I'm not looking at her. They say living under fascism adds ten years.
They don't really, that kind of talk can get you shot. Learned that quick. People five years in the future are paranoid for serious.
"Your trip broke the eastern grid," she says. Her voice is rough.
"I guessed that, what about the rest of it?" I wave my hand around the burnt-out shell of our lab.
I massage my sore arm while waiting for an answer. She doesn't answer me. When she speaks, it's on another tack. Words that come out off kilter, like she's saying out loud something she's said in her mind a thousand and one times before.
"It was slow, first the spying, then the censorship, then the laws, but slow'" then her voice breaks. "Shit Chester, they had the cool kids so distracted with video games, online shopping sales and prescription drugs that when the purges started south of the border, nobody gave a fuck so long as they could play another round of COD."
"You used to love Call of Duty," I say.
"Yeah? well now I'm playing it for real. Every. Fucking. Day."
"Francine, Why did you bring me here?" I had gone looking for her the moment I got here but turns out when you're new in town and looking for an old friend and that friend happens to be a leader in the fascist resistance it isn't as simple as knocking on doors and ringing old numbers.
Out of the gloom, things separate from the darkness, become human-sized. Patches of darkness upon darkness. Her people.
"You know why," she says.
"You really think I can go back and fix all this?" I say, backing away. "You know that's not how it works."
"Not back," she says.
Then I understand. My eyes wide.
It takes time and time is not our friend, not until we get it working. which was hard enough when the parts could be ordered in. Half are now scheduled and the other half are simply illegal. I write 'What do we want! A time machine! When do we want it? Doesn't matter!' on the lid of my laptop. Which is bullshit, it does matter. Every month brings more atrocities, deportations and dissappearances. My days blur into my nights, my months into my seasons.
Then one day, I'm standing on the spot where the Generalissima of the Universal States, The Supreme Colophon of America, Her Excellency in Perpetuity, Our Fearless Leader, will be standing in 48 hours.
Her annual roadside sermon of the Union address. Well televised, heavily guarded, but it's a public thoroughfare, no sense in blocking a major artery when there's nothing to guard. Video will catch us but our evidence will be somewhere they'll never find it.
In time.
The bomb is a new design, it will turn everything between the capitol building and the monument into a pool of slightly radioactive glass. Everything.
I flip the switch. The lights go out. The bomb vanishes. There is a pop of vacuum rushing to fill the hole but nothing spectacular, nothing hollywood. This is science, not science-fiction.
I stare at the shuttered Smithsonian Air and Space Museum and my heart is heavy with regret. I really loved this part of town.
It's eerie to drive away. In a sense we just turned downtown D.C. into Schrodinger's cat. It both exists and does not.
For we do not know the future but tonight, we made history.
Saturday, January 02, 2016
/u/SpecialAgentCoulter [IP] The tale of four soldiers who single handedly saved New York
"Demons in New York," he says.
I give him the once-over spit-shine lookee-see-here-mister.
"Well, just the one," he says.
"I take it this, creature, ate the rest of your lance, Corporal Kiljoy?"
He says it again, only slower. Like I'm a tour junky.
"Demons. In New York," he says.
"I'm sending you rearwise, Corporal,"
"I''m fit to fight Sargeant," he says.
I shrug and point my thumb over my shoulder. He trots back behind our lines. good soldier, follows lawful order. Make note of his barcode, stand him a round when this is over.
I lower my smartscope and wipe the sweat from the strap of plastic at my forehead. My orders say this is your typical summer riot in New York.
Ever since they shot that boy and his mother back in '15 the hot heads and hop heads have been marching up and around Washington square and each year, somebody gets rough. Well this year, they got a little too rough I guess and the governor called out the guards, but they mucked it up, I don't know how, I wasn't there.
I got the call just as I'd knocked off my moonlighting gig taking newbies, FNG's and tour junkies past the knees of liberty over on Staten, right where the beam weapons of the Mormons had sliced her into the harbour in their bid for supremacy.
Fucking Mormons, nobody saw 'em coming.
My musing gets interrupted by a sudden billow of smoke up the avenue. My nose burns from a rotten egg stench.
"Gas!" I call out then clip my mask to my helmet and purge.
Out of the smoke come smoldering red eyes. One horn is damaged.
"Huh," I hear myself say as I take a knee and fire a short burst before taking a new position further back.
"Demons in New York." I say into the throat mike. My voice sounds flat even to me.
Keeping calm, communicating calm, has suddenly become my second highest priority.
My number one is barrelling down on my position.
I run. I take a sick comfort in noticing I am alone. The rest have bugged out ahead of me.
Then something I don't see every day comes out of the smoke which by now has totally engulfed the street.
Corporal Kiljoy, masked up, strides towards me with a Carl Gustav anti-tank bazooka on his shoulder and level with the lumbering nightmare at my back. There is a crude white cross painted across his uniform in what looks like house paint.
The ground trembles.
Kiljoy drops to one knee and takes aim. He's shouting something but the roaring behind me drowns him out.
I hug asphalt.
I hate guessing games but this time I guess right.
Behind Kiljoy, the fireball silhouettes him in black and orange.
Behind me, the HE round explodes dead centre of mass.
I'm sprayed with demonic blubber.
Corporal Kiljoy helps me up. I make a show of wiping myself off. The Corporal is staring behind me.
"Didn't think it would work," he says.
"Which part?" I ask.
"The paint. Tried Carl before, it ate my lance."
"The paint is what did it?"
"Demons can't abide holy weapons weilded by men of faith."
"Corporal, are you saying you blessed your bazooka? I ask. He nods.
"Any action at the right time is better than the best action when it's too late," he says. Chapter and verse from our own rules and regs.
"G--" I catch myself "--hmm, Good gosh durn it." I say.
"Come on Sarge," he says, "Let's go find another one."
"Certainly," I say. "Just show me where you got the paint first.
THE END.
/u/GeffoRN [WP] Everyone in the world switches bodies with their polar opposites. For example, a macho body builder could end up in the body of a petite cheerleader.
What hurts?
Dig your fingernails into the cliff. Tearing away is better than dying. Pain so sharp you gasp. It's bright and pitched so high it scarcely feels like pain. It becomes a beam of cold light slicing up your arms, up your back, behind your eyeballs.
A moment and a lifetime ago, you were rested and serene, a Buddha of gentle smiles, your face aglow in the blue light of your screens. Your bones swimming in a sea of your flesh. Warm, dry, utterly unafraid.
A moment and a lifetime ago, on your screens, So many shows, so many screens, so little time.
No time now. Suspended, clawing with manic strength, the snap of the rope tight against your waist and thighs breaks your plunge and you whip against the cliff once, twice, you hang, your death interrupted.
Wait. Thighs? Your toes are bleeding in your tight shoes where they struck the cliff, six of your fingernails are dangling, but thighs?
You haven't seen your thighs in years.
You look down, the sweep of trees and the river beyond is heartbreaking.
You look up, recognizing climbing rope and pitons.
Someone is screaming below you. Their hand is hammered into the climbing winch. What happened to you must have happened to them too. Belaying device? Is that what they're called? The mind takes strange tangents when you're certain you're about to die and somehow, miraculously, you don't.
The pain mingles with the sunlight, your arms hang limp at your sides, dripping. Your fine strong arms.
The laughter from your dusty throat shakes your chest.
Your eyes fill with tears.
Joy.
Pain.
Shame.
Some part of you knows this was a swap. Somewhere far away, behind screens of ancient entertainments, someone utterly undeserving must right now be warm.
Dry.
Comfortable.
Screaming.
Dig your fingernails into the cliff. Tearing away is better than dying. Pain so sharp you gasp. It's bright and pitched so high it scarcely feels like pain. It becomes a beam of cold light slicing up your arms, up your back, behind your eyeballs.
A moment and a lifetime ago, you were rested and serene, a Buddha of gentle smiles, your face aglow in the blue light of your screens. Your bones swimming in a sea of your flesh. Warm, dry, utterly unafraid.
A moment and a lifetime ago, on your screens, So many shows, so many screens, so little time.
No time now. Suspended, clawing with manic strength, the snap of the rope tight against your waist and thighs breaks your plunge and you whip against the cliff once, twice, you hang, your death interrupted.
Wait. Thighs? Your toes are bleeding in your tight shoes where they struck the cliff, six of your fingernails are dangling, but thighs?
You haven't seen your thighs in years.
You look down, the sweep of trees and the river beyond is heartbreaking.
You look up, recognizing climbing rope and pitons.
Someone is screaming below you. Their hand is hammered into the climbing winch. What happened to you must have happened to them too. Belaying device? Is that what they're called? The mind takes strange tangents when you're certain you're about to die and somehow, miraculously, you don't.
The pain mingles with the sunlight, your arms hang limp at your sides, dripping. Your fine strong arms.
The laughter from your dusty throat shakes your chest.
Your eyes fill with tears.
Joy.
Pain.
Shame.
Some part of you knows this was a swap. Somewhere far away, behind screens of ancient entertainments, someone utterly undeserving must right now be warm.
Dry.
Comfortable.
Screaming.
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